#but then i rolled with it because i liked the resulting color palette and figured it was a good opportunity to practice darker skin tones

[angorwhosebabyisthis]

so recently i decided to roll the 'what will my human!pericles look like This Time' roulette again, only this time in color for once! it's always itched at me how his design looks like a totally different person before and after the timeskip, having been through the wringer aside, so i thought i'd take a shot at combining my interpretation of the two. (the creators pretty obviously took cues from his voice actor for his present-day design, and it's been fun to draw on that too while still keeping the design my own.)

i mostly like how it's turned out, as far into it as i managed to get before i had to take a break and my executive function stalled out; i kept putting off posting it, meaning to come back and finish it later, but i finally decided to go ah fuck it i'd rather it be out there unfinished than disappear into my sketch folder forever. or get fucked up by my trying to continue it while Not in the Groove, especially given how difficult the painting tools i've got available are to wrangle with. Sometimes You Just Gotta Call It

there's a lot of things i'm eyeing to hammer out more next time--i can never seem to figure out what the hell to do with his hair, for one; for another they did a great job at getting across 'babyface that has become aged/haggard' with his designs, and that balance can be difficult to nail when the art app i use really brings out the Everyone is Soft and Babyface in my artstyle. it's a real bastard, but i liked drawing him with this brush a lot and i'm looking forward to working it out more if i can.

the upshot of this is Lo, Cunty Grandpa Be Upon Ye

bonus flats, including an early-to-mid-twenties edit, as well as a couple speed doodles from the same page:

[melliae]

Refraction Railway Line #4 Abnormalities (Analysis)

Everyone knows what a “masquerade” is, no? A dance hall filled to the brim with people in glamorous, pompous dresses and clothes, with masks hiding their identities. They were quite popular some centuries ago, especially in Venice, and… I really don’t know much about them. Wikipedia really helped here xD

Anyway, it’s obvious how the masquerades' elements of masks, costumes and such are tied to the presence of the Peccatulum Invidiae, who don the appearance and skills of the Sinners to hide their nature and goal: to entertain their “king” with everything they have. They will dance, fight, kill and die in order to soothe its boredom.

“I’m sure there’s something that those fakes can’t copy from us. Something they lack. We’re real, and they’re not. There’s gotta be a way to beat those annoying Peccatula.” - Rodya, Peccatulum Invidiae’s Observation Log #2.

“An egoless incarnation of ‘Identities’ manifested may hold a certain resemblance to the way they appear before us. Defeating one of them merely makes a vacancy for another to fill, for they number the same as we do.” - Yi Sang, The King in Binds’ Observation Log #2.

But no matter how hard they try, those Peccatula will never amount to anything, being just pieces to be discarded and used at their master’s convenience. They are empty shells that act only as pale, rotten shadows of what they yearn for—husks with nothing behind.

Nonetheless, their nature as mere “masks” already points out the nature of the Railway, made even more obvious with elaborated platform in the introductory cutscene and the final rolling of the carpet: this is a charade, an invitation to partake in a violent, wondrous banquet in which every guest is an actor that must play its part to their best for the host’s—the King’s—sake. 

Thus, with such mockery of an invitation it gave us, there’s only one way the reception can be.

Good Ol’ Days

“Sad, sad things happened here. Many sad things. I still carry with me my master's portrait because no one remembers them anymore. How is it? Can you see it well?”- Abnormality Encounter.

This is how the chief butler of the manor receives us: with words about a tragic past, and the few to none memories that persist about it. In fact, such longing and nostalgia are the entire basis of the Abnormality itself, with its main palette fittingly being that of worn-out sepia, and its EGO being called “Bygone Days”.

But even with its sorrowful solemnity and loyalty to its late master, there’s something insidious growing in the Abnormality that only makes itself clear when you answer that “you can’t see it well” to the question above and pass the check:

“'I see.' 'If my master is gone from the painting, the memories… what shall I do?' 'What if… one day… I start doubting that I ever had a master…'”

To say such a thing to it is nothing short of cruelty, for you are showing that its memory will one day fade, just like the colors and the figure of the resulting headless portrait that once were there, branding all that it has lived—all that suffering and love of yore—as worthless. It isn’t a coincidence that the Sin advantages of that option are Envy, the yearning to bring down the other along with oneself, and Pride, a total devaluation of the other, stating one’s own view as absolute.

However, just because the Abnormality can forget its master, it doesn’t mean it will simply accept it, as it makes everyone sit in front of the portrait until the missing countenance of its master can be elucidated if the words weren’t convincing, no matter how long that takes. An extreme method indeed, but effective, considering it’s the core essence of one of the two Sin advantages behind the “say that you can see it well” option: a passive Sloth that leads to painstakingly analyze the pictureless painting, without any other intention beyond fulfilling the Abnormality’s “request”. It makes the Butler’s celebration when you pass the check all the more depressing, saying that it can see “the face of its master reflected in your eyes”.

That sadness is pitifully cranked up when we move to the second Sin advantage, Envy, since the Abnormality doesn’t celebrate your well-hidden disinterest on the only thing that matters to it this time; it celebrates you directly lying to its face, about seeing things where there’s no to “save face” (or something along those lines). It makes clear that the Butler only cares about the portrait only to the extent it reflects its “memories” and endeavors, and thus is joyful about any (convincing) confirmation of their validity. After all, if someone declares with total certainty that the portrait—its past—amounts to nothing, what remains for it?

“'If you really can see my master's countenance… that's not the face you'd be making.' 'And those unimpressed, lifeless eyes aren't the look one would wear upon seeing my master's face.' We were quickly deemed unwelcome, and were chased out of the mansion.” - Abnormality Encounter.

And naturally, if it doesn’t like your shallow evaluation (or lie) about all of it has done for the mansion and its late master, the Butler takes offense and chases you off. 

While impossible to say for sure, I think it’s perfectly reasonable to assume that check failure will bridge the MD encounter with the future fight in case the new (potential) option doesn’t do anything, which leads me to the meat of the Abnormality: the fight

To begin, there are two elements in the Butler’s kit that must be highlighted in order to understand it: all of its skills inflict Sinking, and that none of them are Wrath-based. That’s to say, it isn’t a hateful Abnormality at all, but a pitiful one; its sadness is expressed with every swing of its arms and body, drowning others in the deep sadness caused for what was lost. In a related note, its resistance to Wrath is simply derived from the fact that it’s dealing with “interlopers” and not with anyone “special”, thus any sort of enmity is bound to be meaningless before its eyes.

Moving now to the first skills it uses, the most interesting one is “Leave This Place” due to its Lust affinity. In my previous posts, I commented that Lust is “desire for desire’s sake” which, while being useful for the parade of obsession that RR3 was, doesn’t really fit with what I’ve written here. Thankfully, we have the Divine Comedy to help us this time:

“Love, that on gentle heart doth swiftly seize,  Seized this man for the person beautiful That was ta’en from me, and still the mode offends me. Love, that exempts no one beloved from loving, Seized me with pleasure of this man so strongly, That, as thou seest, it doth not yet desert me;” - Francesca da Rimini, Canto V, Inferno.

In short, Lust is the result of the rational mind being overtaken by the passions of the heart—by love itself. This is depicted in-game mostly through characters and Abnormalities that are addicted to “carnal” things or pleasure in general, as shown with Pink Shoes, Kromer, Skin Prophet, and many others. But there are some special cases, like Basilisoup or Sign of Roses, where Lust acquires more “spiritual” undertones, showing its true underlying nature as the extremes to which the lover(s) can be guided by their love, to the detriment of everyone involved.

Thus, Lust is the Sin of love itself: love for love’s sake, desire for desire’s sake, and all the atrocities that one does or allows to happen as consequence. And without doubt, Portrait of a Certain Day has that kind of love for the mansion, trying to protect it from the “sorrow” brought by outsiders.

The other skill is “Don’t Make That Face”, which is Sloth-based. Returning to the check failure of “say that you can see it well”, it seems to be an extension of the Butler’s reaction, and the meaning should be self-evident: everything should remain as spotless and perfect as it was before, when its master was “alive”; anything else is an insult, a reminder that the present moment is nothing more than a fragile charade only keep up by the deep-seated nostalgia of the Abnormality—its refusal to move on.

Those two skills are the only ones that Portrait of a Certain Day uses until the mid-combat Event is triggered, when the Abnormality reaches a certain HP threshold. This is a relatively easy one to understand, with the Abnormality testing you after being so stubborn, asking you to guess which of the numerous Portraits it suddenly summons is its master’s. The second Log is about this Event, and the combat mechanic about destroying the correct one is just a “gameplayification” of it.

The Event itself is quite straightforward, with the only interesting thing being its Gloom advantage, implying that the “only way” (or intended way, maybe?) to correctly guess which one is Master’s Portrait is through understanding the deep sadness imprinted onto the painting—how well the Portraits embody its master’s life. This is represented in the gameplay (and the Logs) through the fake Portraits’ cackles and mirth when using their Evasion skill, whereas the real one simply takes the damage. Though it’s important to note the fake Portraits can still mess you with your mind, with the Event’s check failure showing it:

“[Sinner] suddenly feels the burning gaze of every single portrait in the room focus on them. Each and every single of them holds... resentment.”

This seems to be a translation of the Portraits’ only passive, “Peering Gaze”, which inflict Sinking every turn, coinciding with the result of losing 30 SP when failing. This gaze is referenced by Gregor in the Logs too, when he chose the wrong Portrait.

At any rate, neither failing nor succeeding in the check causes Portrait of a Certain Day to grow overly wrathful, just annoyed/desperate or glad respectively. But the gameplay version is a lot more complicated, since this Event is the source of its main gimmick, the “Interloper” status, with all its passives and the rests of its skills playing around it.

Once the Portraits are summoned, the Abnormality will attach 1 skill to each, either “My Master” or “My Tragic Master”, both of them being Envy-based. The logic behind that affinity is hinted at by the Logs again:

“Oh, yeah. Lemme get off-topic for a moment and talk about the old times. The higher-ups used to make me march in the streets with portraits or pictures of the dead in my hands. It was kinda… no, very sickening. Parading portraits, pictures, or even mementos of the dead like that is… how should I put this? Yeah, it's like we're taking advantage of their deaths, isn't it?” - Gregor, Abnormality’s Observation Log #1.

There’s no doubt the Abnormality loves its late master. But in the City, love, like all other emotions, can be twisted into something unrecognizable and self-serving, used to alleviate the bitterness within. In the Butler’s case, what else can it be besides a tool to prop itself up as the one that protects its master’s legacy, believing it’s the only thing it truly is and can be? Maybe that’s why it’s resistant to Envy too, because who can really feel envy for a sad being that needs the dead to have a “place”?

Anyway, once this phase begins, there are two possibilities: you destroy the Master’s Portrait within 3 turns, or you fail to do so. This latter case is what causes the activation of “Throwing Out The Interloper” passive. In essence, you took too much time and failed the test, with the Interloper inflicted in the earliest deployed Sinner possibly being a representation of it focusing on the Sinner sent during the Event, or how bad of a memory the Butler has, to the point it can only remember the most “recent” Sinner.

In case the correct Portrait is destroyed before 3 turns, the Logs explains us what happens:

“But after that… … the Abnormality grew really hostile and went on a full offensive. It started fuming, like it was somehow pissed off. It seemed to obsessively focus its attacks against the person who got the last hit in. Well, that focus eventually spread out to all of us. I guess all that rage didn't help 'em keep a cool head.” - Gregor, Abnormality’s Observation Log #3.

This is expressed in gameplay through the “Ooh, Dear Master” and “You Must Be the Interloper’s Family?” passives, and the implications are quite obvious. However, the first one is the more interesting, showing how the memories of the past, even when they are no different from a faded portrait, are a stupidly high morale boost for the Abnormality, and their destruction a near psychological breakdown.

With all of that said, it’s very tempting to say Portrait of a Certain Day represents Nelly thanks to her speech near the end of Canto VI:

“Miss Catherine was... difficult from time to time, but I do not wish to deny even the times we've spent together. I even miss the late Mister Earnshaw Senior from time to time. No... I never lived a life full of hate, animosity. I am just struggling desperately to change my destiny.” - Chapter 45: Life, Stolen.

But that’s where everything ends. While Nelly may have wanted to return to that past, it would likely have been only to avoid her destiny, the destruction of her life thanks to the relationship between Heathcliff and Catherine, as her Gluttony and Wrath skills show. This is in contrast to the remaining Gloom- (“Interloper, Are You?” and “Leave, Interloper”) or Sloth-based (“Who Might You Be?”) skills of the Abnormality, expressions of its deep sadness and tiredness over all the tragedies it has witnessed and will keep on witnessing, all thanks to its refusal to move on out of love.

Other good fits are Josephine and her entourage, so obsessed with the ghost—the memories—of their dead mistress that I’d say they are the best example of the Abnormality by far, forever bound to a dead past they love and wish to protect with everything they have. Fuck, even Josephine’s color palette is almost the same that the Abnormality’s!

I think it’s also possible to say Portrait of a Certain Day represents the concept of butlers and their inherited contracts. But I think that hampers and reduces the underlying experience of the Abnormality, which I’m pretty sure everyone must have felt: the bitter wish to return to those simple days of yore, wishing to safekeep them from all harm despite the impending “sunset”. Maybe that’s why Portrait of a Certain Day is weak to Lust, to love itself, and, above all, to both Sloth and Pride—the inertia that lets days pass without care, and the “arrogant” exclamation that oneself is more than their past.

It’s natural to love one’s past and endeavors, what one has done for others and themselves, but identifying oneself with it is too dangerous. After all, it’s through thinking and believing that such illusions become real, and with them every new day becomes a tragedy, every new person an “interloper” that brings only misery.

The past, despite its importance, is not everything you are. There’s no need to despair once it vanishes.

Dreams of Freedom

“Maybe it's enjoying a gentle dream, free from the painful strikes of lightning. Maybe it's suffering a dark nightmare because we’ve taken its spark… Well, there’s no way for us to know now, but… I wonder if lightning actually hurts this Abnormality. Or… maybe having its electricity taken away hurt more.” - Sinclair, Abnormality’s Observation Log #3.

After a (brainless) fight against the chief butler and its entourage, the dogs, knights and other personnel dedicated to protecting the manor, we find ourselves confronting… a sheep? And it doesn’t seem to be a normal animal, but an electrical one, as its name very clearly demonstrates.

There’s no need to be a genius to know that Dreaming Electric Sheep is a reference to the novel Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? by Philip K. Dick, which deals with themes of faith, empathy, and connection in a sci-fi world. Naturally, those topics permeate the Abnormality throughout, with special focus to the questions presented by Sinclair above: what does the Sheep truly want and is that the correct thing?

To answer them, we need first to understand what exactly the electricity in question is. For that, we need to analyze its surprisingly evocative battle.

“But I noticed something new with every strike of lightning, with every flash… It was almost like a dream. A four-legged cloud, illuminated in the flares of violet… Oh, and… there was something that stood out as odd from that dreamlike sight, though. There was a machine in there, with its cables and plugs strewn all over the place. … Maybe it was like a power generator, or something?” - Sinclair, Abnormality’s Observation Log #3.

And for beginners, as a curiosity, this fragment here along with the Abnormality Encounter in the MDs imply the generators and wires are already present in the arena; they aren’t summoned, unlike the fight. This means the passive associated with that latter mechanic, “Generator”, is essentially just a mechanic especially made to avoid… breaking the fight, I guess.

There are some other cases of “story and gameplay segregation”, like the Sheep begins the fight with an unclashable attacks that isn’t mentioned anywhere in the Logs, or that it naturally attracts storms and electricity, independent of the generators. But since they don’t matter that much, let’s ignore them and begin with the actual analysis.

The main focus of the fight is trying to get the “Anti-Ovine Grounding Plug” status on the Sinners, acquired by winning against the Generators’s “Overcharge Release” skill—overcoming the electricity released by the generators to grab a cable. Not exactly revolutionary, but it gets the work done, since the name of the status and the fact that the Sinner that has it must win a clash against the Sheep’s sole Pride skill, “Grounding Refusal”, to inflict “Plugged In” on it are quite telling: the Abnormality doesn’t want to be “grounded” and have its electricity stolen.

The Abnormality’s refusal to “touch earth” is also seen in the fight’s background, placed in the sky and high above whatever city is below, filled to the brim with lightning and stormy clouds. Sinclair described such surroundings as dream-like, and rightfully so; how can one say that such a place, disconnected almost wholly from earth, is anything but a fantasy? In a way, it’s really, really juvenile…

Regarding the “Plugged In” status, the name is everything you really need to understand it, and thankfully you need only 3 Plugged In on the Abnormality to stagger and make it lose all the Charge (i.e., electricity) it has built up, effectively putting it to “sleep”. The related passive, “A Familiar Connector”, implies that the Sheep is conscious and knows what you are doing, and it’s trying to fight against it, as the special Event (when it has 2 Plugged In) and the Logs show:

“At the end of each cable strewn about the floor is a plug. Perhaps the sheep knows what it implies. It lets out a sorrowful cry.” - Mid-Combat Event. “… The sheep began attacking me as soon as I grabbed the cable from the generator. It would burst with lightning… or try to ram me with its body.” - Sinclair, Abnormality’s Observation Log #2.

Naturally, beyond the prideful refusal to be grounded, thinking of itself as deserving much more than to be slaved as mere battery, the Abnormality becomes wrathful at the sight of someone using the cables too, as represented by its “Ram Charge” skill. But this incessant fight to reject its duty make its weakness to Wrath and Gloom all the more ironic: despite its big egoism, befitting its resistance to Pride, Dreaming Electric Sheep is susceptible to others’ suffering and hatred, as if they make it doubt its egoistic stubbornness.

Returning now to the fight as such, the Abnormality doesn’t always use “Grounding Refusal”, since it’s tied to the other main status of the fight: Gathering Lightning Cloud. As it name implies, it’s a representation of how the Sheep is able to gather lightning and electricity in the first place, being what ultimately dictates what skills it uses:

“Horned Charge”: A Lust-based skill used when there’s 4, 3 or 1 Gathering Lightning Cloud. It essentially represents the love and addiction Dreaming Electric Sheep has for electricity—for “dreaming” above and beyond the earth.

“Lamb’s Cry” and “Electricity Manipulation”: Gloom-based skills, used when there’s 3 or less and 1 Gathering Lightning Cloud respectively. They are a stand-in for the Abnormality’s despair caused by losing the source of its electricity and “dreams”.

An entity that’s in love with dreaming and being unbounded, fighting and despairing upon the prospect of losing its “spark” and tied down to something—to duty. Thus, it isn’t a surprise Sloth is antithetical to its existence, a drive that destroys its (sort of) rebellion and pride by making it rot as nothing but a commodity, a tool born and raised to feed the city below.

“The electric sheep bleats and screams. As its distressed screech shakes the air, flashes of light hit the eyes. The buildings are lit brighter than ever. Soon, the light from the creature’s cloud dimmed. Could it be dreaming? The sheep appeared to have closed its eyes after it fell silent.” - Abnormality Encounter.

A “poison” that… puts it to sleep? That part isn’t clear, and Yi Sang’s comment in the third Log doesn’t help that much either. We know the Abnormality is already dreaming at some level, quite literally being “in the clouds” and having to be “grounded”, so maybe it collapsing is the result of finally being “tamed” and “binded”, drained of everything it has as the weight of the things it has done—the tiredness of living freely—catches up. It's the somnolence that willingly sacrifices all (external) ambitions, so the world can remain in order and “awake”.

Thankfully for the Sheep, and pitifully for those below, such a state is not permanent, at least in gameplay. This all due to its only Envy skill, “Electric Screaming”, which has two versions: an unclashable one used solely during the first turn, and a clashable version used whenever there’s only 1 Gathering Lightning Cloud on the Abnormality. While the former is difficult to elucidate since it doesn’t have any effect in practice (beyond the 10 Protections it grants), it coincides with a small part of the Logs:

“Do you think we have to plug those cables into the sheep? Ah, I see… What if that sheep is screaming so much because of the lightning in its body…? - Sinclair, Abnormality’s Observation Log #1.

It is screaming (duh), and feeling a profound envy for something/someone in that moment. The clashable version further clarifies it through its effect of expiring all the built up Charge, along with disconnecting itself from the generator likely due to the absurd release of electricity—its precious electricity.

While it would be normal to assume the Abnormality is envious for people that don’t have to experience the pain of being electrocuted, I disagree with that. The Logs are ambiguous at the hour of answering what’s more painful to the Sheep, but the EGO Awakening/Corrosion lines and the “cut the cables” option in its Encounter heavily imply what the Sheep values above all.

“The buildings blacked out in an instant. The electric sheep dashed off into the distance, propelling a thunderous cry. In the unlit town, weeps of the lightless fill the air. A tiny object rests where the electric sheep once was.” - Abnormality Encounter.

So terrified of being “robbed” that, without realizing, it leaves a fragment of its being and electricity behind.

Everything indicates that Dreaming Electric Sheep is envious not out of “physical” pain, but of those that don’t have to sacrifice their dreams and are free. Unlike them, it has to fight with everything it has and abandon all in order to escape its “confinement”, with its last important passive, “Wants To Be Free”, being the most obvious proof of that drive and violent opposition.

All in all, the theme of the Abnormality is obvious: in contrast to Portrait of a Certain Day and its blind loyalty to its duty and past, Dreaming Electric Sheep represents fighting back and rebelling against them—the “presetted” social role that was given to it. However, no matter how much it wants to be free, the Sheep will have to return to the ground one day by either its own volition or dragged down by others, and when that happens its dreams will only consist of the days of yore.

“The ability to recollect may become the Abnormalities’ bridge from the waking world into the land of dreams. Yet, we know not whether what it reminisces is its past, or merely its figments.” - Yi Sang, Abnormality’s Observation Log #3.

Thus, its entire relationship with Envy makes sense (beyond “Envy = Electricity/Charge”, of course), including its resistance and why do Identities without Envy have their mental state deteriorated when plugging in the Sheep in the Encounter; it is one of the purest manifestations of the Sin. But then, one has to wonder what the Abnormality represents in this royal masquerade, and thankfully, an user in reddit gave a more than appropriate answer:

“I think Sheep represents the King. A more imature version of the king that didnt want the responsiblity of the throne, just to run freely. I also want to add even the stage placement supports my theory, both section 3 and 4 follow the same structure of peccatula followed by abnormality. I think Sheep is the Prince, a Little Prince.” - u/tr_berk1971.

And with that, we return to the first question: without the prince, the kingdom doesn’t have a future, so what should you do in this case? Respect its decision or bring it down?

The King in Binds

“There is an entity bound to an extravagantly ornamented chair. It appears as though the entity is shooting a stern glare this way. It tries to say something... but its mouth is bound. The King on the throne twists and thrashes, trying to approach... but the things that bind drags him away. The beautiful yet cruel crimson strips of fabric. They pull mercilessly. They are…” - Abnormality Encounter.

If Abnormalities like Skin Prophet and Drifting Fox are difficult to explain, then The King in Binds is the complete opposite. So instead of explaining the Abnormality’s meaning, I’m going to analyze its mechanics and tie it to… well, a certain theory I have.

At any rate, after gruesome fights with every single inhabitant of the manor, including the goddamn prince, we arrive against the ruler, the one who set up this very own Railway as a masquerade to alleviate its boredom. Fittingly, before even dreaming of fighting the King, we have to go through its (adamantine) inner circle: its closest and oldest butlers, its royal guard, its counselors, and for some reason two homeless men… Well, anything for the King, right?

“Now that I have spent some time in observation of their operations, I have noticed a conspicuously considerable collection of similitudes between us. I can presume that their number is most likely equivalent to our own; their techniques in parallel to ours. Yet what those Peccatula lack is the will to make decisions of their own. Like cards to be played with and discarded at the king’s whim.” - Yi Sang, Abnormality’s Observation Log #2.

Especially when you are an extension of the King’s many “binds” that empower and limit it at the same time, giving it shape and thus an existence—they are as much as part of the King as the King is of them, as seen with the “Bandage of the King in Binds”. But this reciprocity becomes heavily nightmarish when you consider how the King is the source of all the Peccatulum Invidiae we see in the Railway, meaning only one thing: there’s no difference between the Sovereign and its people.

“A commonwealth is said to be instituted when a multitude of men do agree, and covenant, every one with every one, that to whatsoever man, or assembly of men, shall be given by the major part the right to present the person of them all, that is to say, to be their representative; every one, as well he that voted for it as he that voted against it, shall authorize all the actions and judgements of that man, or assembly of men, in the same manner as if they were his own, to the end to live peaceably amongst themselves, and be protected against other men.” - Leviathan, by Thomas Hobbes.

The King in Binds doesn’t control every single one of its retainers; they are one and the same, with their wills being its will. It’s the living manifestation of the manor and the kingdom, with its “bandages” and thus control extending through every corner. Its power is absolute, its rules unquestionable… Yet, such a position is lonely beyond any comparison, not having any equal and no challenge that can’t be easily solved with 1 order. No wonder why its EGO and a great part of its skills are both Pride and Gloom, or that it’s resistant to Lust, Gluttony and Envy—a solitary responsibility that kills all desire, yet too powerful and important to simply wish upon another, explaining also its Sloth skill.

“To be in command of others, to reign over another, is a declaration that one shall endure the responsibilities and the suffering that come with power. I would like to take this opportunity to extend my deepest gratitude to our Executive Manager, who leads us with a firm but fair, excellent hand.” - Outis, Abnormality’s Observation Log #3.

And I don’t think I’ve to explain the relationship it has with Dante and the Sinners, because it’s obvious their contract doesn’t only affect the latter’s “time”. By all means, the Sinners have become (metaphysical) extensions of Dante, who is no other than the pitiful, solitary and all too prideful Leviathan.

“‘Mine eyes,’ I said, ‘will yet be here ta’en from me, But for short space; for small is the offence Committed by their being turned with envy. Far greater is the fear, wherein suspended My soul is, of the torment underneath, For even now the load down there weighs on me.’” - Dante, Canto XIII, Purgatorio, Divine Comedy.

A King that under no circumstances allows disrespect towards its presence. But there’s no need to worry, because it won’t direct its resentment and hatred against its retainers, to those he has “bonded” with as shown with “Present Thyself Before the King”; everything will be directed to its “enemies” and “offenders”, either conquering or destroying them. Its theme isn’t named “Vovete Miseries”, latin for “(All of) You Shall Vow Miseries”, for nothing.

At the end, Dante, like the King, will remain alone at the top. The binds and duty, once chains (chains… why do they sound familiar?) that dragged them to the “throne” over and over again, now bandages that cover the shameful injuries and are the only thing that hold it together. They may struggle as much as they want to get free now, but they are in that situation because they have already resigned themselves to the bitterness of such a role—they “gladly” welcomed both Sloth and Gloom in their lives, without resisting them.

“Let this battle bring a fleeting moment of joy for the lone-king who shall reign eternal, reign unaccompanied.” - Choosing to “wear the mask of joy”, Introductory Event.

“Let this battle bring a fleeting moment of solace for the lone-king who shall reign eternal, reign unaccompanied.” - Choosing to “wear the mask of sorrow”, Introductory Event.

“Let this battle spark the flames of battle-joy for the lone king who shall reign eternal, reign unaccompanied.” - Choosing to “wear the mask of wrath”, Introductory Event.

Though you can at the very least soothe that melancholy by playing along with this selfish desire of it, to take one of the many offered masks to fulfill this play whose ending allows the King to pretend to be free. How you do it is entirely up to you, of course, but please, do not forget the pain the King experiences with every movement and breath; that’s the despair and duty we all share.

Post-Commentary

Beyond the usual disclaim that every Abnormality is open to discussion, I really want to focus in the last section, about The King in Binds, due to theory I presented: in the same way Spiral of Contempt can represent Dante's past self, KiB obviously represents something of them; it may be their past again, yes, but also their future, and that's the interpretation I chose. It can also be understood as a parallel with Heathcliff in particular, who (whom?) already had comparisons made with the Devil himself.

Outside of that, if Protrait of a Certain Day's section looks longer than the others... Yes, it's. That's because I wrote it as some sort of "reception" as well, beginning with the first thing we knew about the Abnorality before the fight. It's also the thing that took more time than any other; the Envy affinity really messed up with my brain... And that's not speaking about how similar Portrait is to Steam Machine.

And finally, it's obvious the overall theme within this Railway: while RR2 represents unending cycles and RR3 (self-)destructive obssessions, RR4 stands for the tragedy and power that come with duty, from the immature stages in which we try to run from it, to the last days during which we take comfort in what we have done - childhood/teenagehood, adulthood, and finally elderliness in a world that demands things that we may not neccesaily like, but we must fullfill. Life in society is truly like a masquerade, isn't it?

[vicious-vixxxen]

Drabble Interest Check #1

So just a quick recap, refer to my previous post for a more in depth explanation- I wanna start sharing some drabbles I write more off of a whim, when idea’s hit me really suddenly, and I just start writing them down, and they never turn into much afterwards.  But, I thought if I shared them with you guy’s, maybe they’d prompt some inspo to request more, to turn them into full fics, with a full story- as most of my drabbles spawn from me thinking of one specific scenario, and building off of it a bit until I get to a drabble length- or more, as this one is nearly 2K lol don’t ask me how, I was super into it as I was writing.  Or urge me to try and and add a real start and finish to them, so put out as full fic’s myself. I also think these drabbles will give you a guys a better idea of what I like to write, what I'm willing to write, and what I'm open to writing. As my drabbles usually hit more angst and nsfw/kink notes. ‘Problematic’ or otherwise. I’ll add some notes to the end of the fic to give an idea of what I had in mind with this drabble, and go more in depth on that. But here it is, I'm actually very proud of this one, and hope to figure out how to finish it at some point.  Established Enji Todoroki X Male!Reader Additionally: Natsuo Todoroki x Male!Reader angst, unrequited love (or is it? ;3))

Shuffling into the kitchen, you grimaced as the carpet turned to cold, hard tile below your feet- wrapping your arms around yourself as you did your best to stay quiet, rummaging around the Todoroki kitchen for some snacks. You’d woken up restless, your stomach growling, and after prying yourself from underneath Enji’s death grip, you’d worked up quite the appetite. The soft sizzle of pork on the stove could be heard soon enough. Not too loud, but that, alongside the soft beeping of the rice cooker, and the delicious scent of your cooking wafting across the lower levels of the house, are what woke Natsuo from a fitful sleep. Rubbing both of his eyes with his fists, Natsuo yawned. Brow lifted in question as he sniffed the air, and checked the clock. Who the hell was cooking at two in the morning?

 Legs swinging off the bed, he stuffed his feet in his house shoes, and set off towards the kitchen. Yawning as he went, lifting up his shirt briefly to rub at his stomach, as he came to a stop in the kitchen doorway. The scents pouring out of it pulling a soft moan from his lips, his stomach twisting with want.

Though not just for food anymore. Not when he saw you moving swiftly around the kitchen, like you’d cooked there your whole life. Trying to be silent, but humming under your breath quietly. Clad in nothing but a pair of sleep shorts...and one of Natsuo’s fathers much larger shirts. The younger Todoroki resisted the urge to roll his eyes, ignoring the steering jealousy that raged within him, in favor of whistling lowly, catching your eye, and offering you a shake of his head, and a soft smile as he moved around the island, towards you. You had enough sense to at least look apologetic, though Natsuo quickly shrugged it off, coming around to inspect your cooking briefly, before allowing himself to be dragged into a hug by you. Something he could vaguely recall being off put by, the first time his father had introduced you to them all. Your affection. Your ability to be so close in so little time. Trusting, caring, sweet, kind. Intimate touch of any kind was something Natsuo had rejected all his life- well, when he could start rejecting it- as his own advances for comfort and touch as a child had been snuffed out quickly. Point being, it had taken him a while for him to come around to you being so...hands on, with him. Seeing you be so hands on with his siblings. It settled something, deep within himself, he hadn’t wanted to acknowledge even existed, but it helped. It helped a lot. Though now, Natsuo rationed quietly in his own mind...now maybe he took things too far. His hands slung around your waist, your arms around Natsuo’s neck- hands in his soft, white hair, face in the boy's neck, where it would usually be pressed to Enji’s chest. You and Natsuo were almost the same height, though Natsuo had you beat on mass- taking after his father already, broad shouldered: muscular. Handsome. He was going to be a fine young man some day...he already was, really. An uncomfortable flip of your stomach followed as Natsuo nuzzled into your neck- and you were quick to pull back slowly after, patting the boys chest with a smile, looking up at him through your lashes briefly, before turning to the stove to flip the cuts of pork in the pan. “Are you hungry?” You whispered, almost conspiratorially, grinning as Natsuo blushed, laughing under his breath, before nodding. “Good. Grab two bowls, it’s almost finished.” You both ate in relative silence, only your contented sighs, and Natsuo’s soft affirmations of how good the food was. As always. You even had Fuyumi beat when it came to certain dishes. Though he’d never tell his sister that. When the food was gone, and all that were left were empty plates, you lead Natsuo back to the large family room, adjacent to the kitchen, both of you taking seats on either side of the love seat/ feet tangled together under a blanket you threw over you both, before dissolving into random, half asleep conversation. Stomachs full, bodies warm, and pliable. Your eyes closed as you recalled something from your childhood- natsuo suddenly wide awake, as his eyes drifted down over your neck, counting your freckles, and blushing as His fathers shirt rode down far enough to see some of your chest hair, and the definition between your pecs. God you were handsome, Natsuo thought, consumed with the need to lean over and press his face info your chest. Rip his fathers shirt off of you, and swaddle you in one of his collegiate sweatshirts instead. It would keep you warm so much better. Plus, Natsuo thought suddenly, heatedly: you’d just look good in something of his. The icy blue of Natsuo’s color palette reflected in your eyes. God... “Natsuo?” You called across to him, snapping the younger man out of his daydreaming- a deep crimson flushing down over his pale cheeks, as the younger Todoroki averted his gaze, and rubbed at his neck. “Sorry, I just...I got...I was somewhere else, for a moment. I apologize.” Natsuo finally stuttered out gruffly, staring off at the corner of the wall, trying to calm his thoughts. But they were swarming now, insistent, /fiery/, burning up his chest, and his mind. “It’s alright, I-“ “why-“ Natsuo caught himself, biting his tongue as he cut you off, feeling embarrassed. You paused, smiling and shaking your head as you motioned for the man to continue. 

“....why are you with my father?” Natsuo finally asked. Voice soft, hesitant. But firm enough that it was clear he was demanding an answer this time. Because he’d asked this very same question just weeks after first meeting you. When you’d fixed the young man with a knowing gaze, rested a hand on his chest, and simply said “because I like him”. Natsuo couldn’t fathom anyone so much as tolerating his father, let alone liking him. So it was a bit jarring, to say the least. “Do we really have to go over this again?” Ah, Natsuo thought. So you remembered that too. “My father could live a thousand lives atoning for what he’s done, and it would never be enough to deserve someone like you,” Natsuo said, voice heavier now, a little louder, breaking the quiet space you’d created there on the sofa together. Gaze directly on you now. Your eyes. Your gorgeous eyes that looked at his father with such admiration, that it made Natsuo ill sometimes to bear witness to it. “You are not the sole keeper of your fathers misgivings, Natsuo. He hasn’t just hurt you. Whether you choose to see and actively acknowledge the man he’s trying to become, is on you, and I won’t force your hand or try and tell you how you should feel. But don’t question my love for your father, because it’s just that: mine.” You matched the young man's tone, voice even, and soft, yet affirmative- leaving no room for argument. Though Natsuo seemed to want to test that. “So you love the old man then, huh? You really love him?” Natsuo urged, sitting up suddenly, much closer now as you stared. “Not that it is any of your business, but yes, Natsuo, yes. I’m in love with your father, and I see myself living a long and happy life with him. Getting married, settling down, having-“ “having what? Kids?!” Natsuo questioned, eyes wide as he stared at you. You paused, wondering if this was a conversation you should be having with Enji at your side. Natsuo was sweet, and soft spoken- when it was with anyone who wasn’t his father, that is, since that usually resulted in a shouting match between the two. Now though, he was feeling combative apparently- questioning your decisions, which you didn’t appreciate in the slightest. “Please tell me you’re not stupid enough to want to have /children/ with that man?” Natsuo urged, half desperate, half pleading, as he sat up on his knees, nearly towering over you now as you looked down on you. “Watch. Your. Tone.” You warned him, sitting up so you were on even level again, noses nearly brushing as you did so. “Your father may put up with your snippy, accusatory remarks because he thinks allowing you to walk over him will somehow bring you two closer together, but I sure as fuck won’t.” Your cursing nearly made Natsuo flinch out of pure guilt, but he stood his ground. “You’re fooling yourself if you think he’d be any different with your kids. Look at how we turned out! Is that what you want for your own children? A childhood of solicitude and abuse, to feel unwanted, and uncared for? To wonder every night when they go to bed why their father doesn’t love them?! Is that what you want!” Natsuo was shouting now, panic rising in his throat, and you suddenly felt wholly unprepared for this conversation. “I’ll be damned if I allow that sorry excuse of a man and a father, to think about bringing up new children. Robbing you of your chance to have a real partner by your side. Someone to help you care for, and love your children. You...you deserve so much better than him, I don’t understand.” Natsuo was holding back tears now, chest heaving as he breathed, and you couldn’t take it. Gathering him up in your arms, you brought the man in for a tight hug. Cradling him in, and rubbing his back as he began to cry, mumbling nonsense into your neck as you just held him, and closed your eyes, willing back your own tears as you bared witness to something for the first time: the result of Enji’s fathering. Or, your brain offered up weakly: the lack thereof. Even more so...his abuse. Here you were, experiencing the aftermath first hand, and it made your heart hurt so deeply, and your mind race. You wanted to beat the shit out of Enji for doing this to Natsuo, but what could be done about it now? Enji was trying, he was trying so hard every day. But Natsuo was clinging to his hate, and his anger, and his fears, and who were you to tell him he should let them go? At least this way, you rationalized, you could be there for him when they became too much. “I didn’t mean to upset you. Im sorry,” you whispered into his hair, raking your fingers through it as Natsuo shuddered through another sob, and shook his head in your chest. “I'm so sorry, Natsuo. I’m so, so sorry.” He mumbled something then, body tense, refusing to be pulled back to see your face, even as you tried. “What?” You asked quietly, tilting your head to hear him better. “Do you love /us/?” ‘Me’. Do you love me he’d asked first, you realized, and your heart beat sped up as you did your best to squeeze Natsuo impossibly tighter- head in his hair as you nodded. “I love you all so much. Fuyumi, Shoto. I have love for your mother, and for Toya. And I love you, Natsuo, I love you so much. I’m honored to be able to call you my family now. I do love you,” you reassured him, shushing him quietly through a new set of sobs, before tensing when Natsuo suddenly sat up, hot breath and humid, tear stains cheeks ghosting across your face as icy grey eyes met yours. He was nearly panting with the effort to stop his crying, clearly looking for something as he stared at you, before he was leaning forward and smashing your lips together in a heated, desperate kiss.

thus concludes the drabble, now on to the end notes lol

So yeah, that’s it lol, lemme know what you guys think? The plan for this originally was to have some sort of double todoroki x male!reader endgame, where he’d end up with both Enji and Natsuo, by some means. Though not without a fair bit more angst thrown in. Arguments, fighting, etc etc. But I did wanna have them all three be endgame someway or another.  Which, yes, would include incest. Whether direct or indirect, cuz one could make the argument they’re sort of just dating the same person, which is also fine- cuz it’s adorable to me, but they’d all be fucking at some point, even if most of the attention is solely on the male reader, it would happen. That’s part of the big reason I wanna do this drabble interest checks, because they give you a glimpse into my problematic mind, and you can decide for yourselves if you wanna stick around and be a part of it, or leave.  Not to say poly relationships are problematic in the slightest, of course- I adore poly ships, and hope to write some in the future- but incest? Boy howdy.  But I love it sksksk >;3  So lemme know what you guy’s think of this fic! If you want to see it continued, if so, how so?  Feel free to ask me anon or otherwise about kink and dynamics, sfw or nsfw, if you’d like too. I’m gonna make an updated kink list with kinks I will be writing about eventually, so you can decide to stick around and see them, or show yourself out so they don’t bother you. My space is mine, so I will not be responding to, or entertaining people who want to be upset about them, or disagree with my tastes. It’ll get you nowhere, telling you right now.  But yeah. Lemme know guys. <3 Vixen

[primalsouls]

checkup

albedo x m! reader

⚠️ : none but let me know!

theme: general

note: albedo albedo albedo albedo. i just love albedo and want to write something more general because usually the fics i read tend to be too fluff or too angst and sometimes other fics tend to feel like a super slow. like, im not trying to read an eassy. 💀 jkjk lol anyway, enjoy, hope you like it! and thank you for reading! let me know what you think. :)

⊱ ──────ஓ๑♡๑ஓ ────── ⊰

Dragonspine was never in their bucket list of places to visit. It was deadly cold. Monsters roamed around. Even the Fatui were presented. [Y/N] was surprised how he managed to reached the campus set out by the Chief Alchemist further up the mountain. One would think he would camp out with the group based at the bottom of the mountain. He was a skilled swordman and his vision kept him warm throughout the difficult journey as best as it could. He did broke a sweat when fighting a few monsters but all that was important was his destination. Thus meeting Albedo, the genius Kreideprinz. [Y/N] was new to the Knight of Favonius, started back a few weeks ago. Today he was ordered by the Acting Grand Master to assist the Captain of the Investigation Team in one of his experiments. Or alternatively, Jean worried about the alchemist not taking care of himself and potentially risking failed experiments turn to unwanted results in Dragonspine and Mondstadt.

It was his order to check on the man. But, by the Archons, does he had to camp this far up. [Y/N] groaned when he reached a broken bridge. How was he going to get to the other side? Ah, right. Gliding. With a good running start, he could jump just high enough and glide his way to the other half of the fallen bridge with no added injuries. A flawless plan.

Not.

A scream left his lips when he jumped as best as he could after his run. No wonder he did terrible at mathematics. His calculations were off. And now, he was going to pump down to his end. Just to check on some big-time, smart guy. [Y/N] should had decline. But he wanted to prove himself. For what now? Prove he can see the light firsthand? What a joke. He reached out, his hand inches away from the other broken part of the bridge. He was so focus on reaching something to grab on he didn't hear his own scream leave his mouth nor the abrupted tug on his hand held by another. He came to his senses when he smacked against the wall under the brigde harshly, letting out a groan. [Y/N] looked up. [E/C] eyes met bright teal eyes. Such beautiful eyes. It felt like he was staring into emerald instead. They outshined the blues around Dragonspine. Like sun if the clouds ever go away.

"Are you only going to keep staring or help me pull you up?" He heard, the soothe voice snapping [Y/N] out of their thoughts. A blush bloomed on his face as he cleared his throat, using his other hand to keep himself firm in their hold.

"S-Sorry..." [Y/N] mumbled as he was pulled up. Solid, cold ground was what he felt right away. He looked over his shoulder, grimacing at the sight of the long fall he could had experienced first and last. Cursing the fall away, the knight turned back to his savior, about to thank them until he stopped himself. Upon closer look, his savior was... handsome. Their ashy light blonde hair reached below their shoulders, pulled back in a braided ponytail. It lookes adorable. Soft, even. It makes him want to run his fingers through it. Realizing he was staring again, [Y/N] cleared his throat as he shook his head, his blush increasing in color. Eyes darted to stare at the ground instead. "Uh, thank yo-you... Thank you for saving me back there." The knight said with a small smile, looking back his savior only to see them walk away already. "What?" [Y/N] sat there forzen, not believing what happened. He chuckled weakly, now pissed for the rude manner. "Hey, wait up!" He stood up from the ground, dusting himself off from any snow as he ran up to catch up to the mystery person. "You know, it's really rude to jusf walk away like that!" [Y/N] complained, slowing down as he came up to a campsite. His eyes widen a bit. There were bookshelves lined up again the walls of the cavern. Tables filled with written pages and materials. A small set of art supplies in one area and an crafting table by his side. Did his savior lived here? Wait, was this...?

"Are you the Captain of the Investigation Team, Albedo?" The knight said, walking up to the alchemist who simply nodded with no reply. He was focused on his work, [Y/N] could see that. "Oh okay..." He muttered underneath his breath, raising a brow. Well, here he was. The alchemist looked alright. There was no sight of any failed experiments. Mondstadt was good to stay for another day. But [Y/N] wasn't leaving yet. "My name is [F/N]. I was ordered by the Acting Grand Master to check on you... Which is why I'm here..." Albedo only gave a faint hum. What a conversationalist. "Okaaay..." The young man looked around. He couldn't just leave after what he just experienced. He was still shaky.

"Where are you from?" [Y/N] asked, attempting to make a conversation.

"Here and there." Albedo replied bluntly.

"What do you do?"

"This and that."

"You ever-"

"Now and then."

"Gosh, you're just full of information." [Y/N] grumbled, crossing his arms over his chest.

"And you're just full of interruptions." Albedo fired back, finally looking away from his work and turned to the knight. His expression was stoic but his beautiful emerald eyes held a hint of annoyance. His comment made the other man pouted and rolled his eyes. "You done your quest. Now, you may leave."

"What the-? Huh?" He couldn't believe it. He was being kicked out? Reasonable, actually. But still. What a rude alchemist. "Okay, look, I have to actually make sure you're okay and Jean said to stay for a few days before I return, anyway." [Y/N] explained. Albedo sighed softly, disinterested from the interaction. The knight clicked his tongue. "So, no, I'm not leaving." The knight huffed, head held high. Albedo hummed again, already looking back at his work. "Oh my- really?" [Y/N] shook his head, running a hand through his hair. He kept studying the area they were in, trying to locate any sort of self-care going on. There was a cook pot but the burned woods look as if it had went out hours ago. "How long had you been working?"

Albedo shrugged, papers being moved around in his area. [Y/N] sighed. He went to stand beside the table, inches away from him to not disturb his work. With the closeup, [Y/N] saw fainted dark circles under his eyes. He looked a little pale, too.

"Have you eaten at all? Rest?" He asked softly, a frown on his face. His gloved hands rest on his waist. [Y/N] looked like a parent scolding their child. Albedo shrugged again. The knight groaned, head tilted back. The lack of responses were starting to pissed him off. "I'll make you something." He grumbled, looking into his traveling bag as he walked over to the pot. Using his Pryo vision, he watched the flames come to alive once more. He pulled out pre-packaged ingredients he made himself before he set off.

Albedo's concentration was fully on his project but the smell of a delicious meal wandered around his nose. It pulled him out of his priority. The scent made his stomach growled. The Geo user stopped what he was doing and turned around. His eyes spotted the knight crouched down beside the pot, stirring around the contents it cooked. The flames illuminated the small cave, the knight's face glowed from it. Hair swayed back, half-lidded eyes stared boredly at the pot. Soft lips pressed into a thin line. It was a pretty sight. A perfect picture. A gorgeous paint on a canvas. His canvas. The scenery needed to be painted in his canvas.

[Y/N] heard movements behind him but he didn't bother to look up. He figured the alchemist was still all over his experiments. Behind his back, Albedo set up his easel, an 18x24 canvas rest nicely on it. His paints, brushes, and palette laid beside him on a stool with a cup of water on it as well. He began to sketch out the sight, a concentrated frown on his face.

"Hmm... I think it's done." [Y/N] muttered to himself, smiling a bit at the cooked stew he made. He was about to get up but a shout stopped him.

"Don't move! I'm not done yet." He heard the alchemist. The Pyro user blinked, confusion written over his face. "Not done..." Albedo continued, his hand moving a brush around. [Y/N] swallowed, wondering what he was doing.

"Why can't I move?" He asked, still in the position.

"Because I'm not finish."

"Finish with what?"

"The painting... It's not finished..." Albedo trailed off, focusing more on the canvas. [Y/N] was dumbfounded. Ah, right. The alchemist had a set of art supplies. But why could he be painting? Was he painting him? He was just sitting around the cook pot, nothing else. What did he capture in his mind to had the urge to paint? So much questions ran through his head and his face rest back to how it was when the knight stared at the pot. Just what Albedo needed to complete his new piece.

Half an hour passed and the flames were small. the pot was sat beside it. No need to have burnt food. [Y/N]'s legs were starting to cramp.

"Are you do-"

"Done." Albedo finished for him, stepping back from his canvas. [Y/N] sighed in relief as he stood up and stretched his limps out, hearing a few joints popped. Surely didn't sounded good but felt good. He walked over to Albedo.

"Can I see, please?" He asked, tilting his head. Albedo stared at the canvas before shifting his eyes over to the knight. He suddenly felt flustered. What a foreign feeling. It was he was embarrassed. He was not embarrassed. His face felt warmed. Was he blushing? What was going on? [Y/N] waited for an answer, raising a brow as he sent a charming smile his way. Why did such a gesture made his chest tightened but in a good way? Like something fluttered inside him. Was his heart beat increasing? Impossible. Feelings were unfamiliar to him. So, why was he experiencing them right now? "Albedo..." His name rolled out of his mouth. It sounded perfect. Did he just noticed it?

"It's not finished..." Albedo replied quickly, throwing [Y/N] off guard.

"But you said-"

"It's not finished." Albedo repeated, clearing his throat. The knight nodded slowly.

"Okaay..." [Y/N] mumbled, looking back at the pot. "Ah, well, dinner is ready. C'mon, let's eat." He said, walking back at the pot to begin serving the meal for both. Albedo watched him, lips parted slightly. His teal eyes moved back to the canvas. Finished. It was finished. He just... didn't want to show the knight but why? It was beautifully painted. A pretty piece. The look he captured from the knight painted there. Admirable.

"Are you coming or what?" [Y/N] called out, already setting the other table for them to eat at. Albedo blinked and nodded a second later. He placed his brush and palette down, taking his gloves off as he made his way over. There they sat. In complete silence. It wasn't awkward, fortunately. It was comfortable atmosphere. No need to exchange words. Albedo seem to like that. Perhaps Jean did a good thing to sent someone out. It felt nice to have company over for once.

[disruptiveposting]

Hello yes hi hello, it has been a while since my last skate update and I've purchased a bunch of things since then. The above pic for instance shows off the Oysi frames I bought to accommodate a flat setup with my Roces M12s. Unfortunately while they rolled fast and well, there was a constant pain on the underside of my foot since I first started skating the M12s. I changed out the stock liners for the liners from my Roces X35 liners, and they helped a bit but it was still ultimately there and would keep my sessions short. I even bought Intuition liners at the request of friends, but that actually made it worse. Unable to figure out the cause, I eventually decided to move onto new skates.

The USD Aeon Sam Crofts II, a flat setup skate with built-in frame. They're very light and as a result, very fast. Clean, skinned look that makes me wish I had some sneakers just like them. Best of all I haven't encountered any foot pain since using them! Liking the Aeons so much, I even bought a new pair in a new color.

The USD Aeon Mery Muñoz are very similar to the Crofts, and are light, fast, and sport a similarly striking color palette. I don't see a lot of skates for guys that I'd call fashionable (though the last couple years of M12 pro skates are starting to change that), so I purchased these in spite of the slightly unreasonable price point ($400 compared to the Crofts' $300, though as I understand it Mery herself gets a good cut of the profits on these which I can appreciate).

Ultimately I still wear the Crofts more unless I just feel like wearing turquoise some days, but with both of these I think I finally have a solid foundation for improving my aggressive game. Meanwhile the X35s are still holding up as street skates, though I'm finding that there's a familiar bit of underside foot pain when I try them out on ramps and jumps. A replacement down the line might be in order.

Anyway that's my current setup. I'll post more clips soon because I have been making some progress I can finally call myself proud of.

[kuroo-shitsurou]

Auxilium (College!Xiao x College!Reader)

TW: mentions blood, depression, anxiety

note: it's my first time writing and posting something on tumblr so im sorry if it's bad!! reader is gn hehe.

Late February was never a good time for Xiao.

It was the second month of the year; People were starting to adjust and adapt to the ever-changing and progressing timeline. Although, he never really understood the concept of the "New year, new me!" shtick. Humans make decisions that eventually shape their personalities. What does a new year have anything to do with that? Does a change in the year automatically make you a good person? Does it make you less of an asshole than you might already be? He never really understood.

He found it rather silly, actually. Whenever a new year rolls around, Xiao would mutter silent curses to himself because he'd write the wrong year on his papers. Other than that, there wasn't any significant changes he made in his daily routine. He was still the same Xiao; The same anxious, mildly depressed, and coffee-high art major Xiao.

Now, Xiao was a respected figure in their college (or at least, that's what he was told). He was one of the most talented artists at Tokyo University, and professors have been eyeing him for a scholarship overseas (he, along with his brooding and mysterious senior, Diluc). His keen eye for details always produce great results as most of his portraits are featured in the university's gallery of students' greatest works. Not to mention, one of his larger canvas works were displayed at the Tokyo Museum, making him one of the youngest artists to have their art showcased there.

Admittedly, Xiao was aware of how people admired his talent. Unfortunately, due to a rough childhood where his parents barely showed him any love and affection, he had trouble reflecting his true emotions onto other people. That's why other art majors often labelled him as a self-absorbed, egotistical prick.

Xiao was the last person you'd want to compliment. It's not that he'd be a dick about it or that he'd scowl at you and act as if he was better than you in every way possible. It wasn't like that at all. It's simply because Xiao doesn't know how to handle compliments. He'll still keep his stoic face, lips pressed in a straight line, but deep inside, he'd be flustered to bits. He'd try to internalize his reply, stitching together the right words to express his gratitude, but it would always take him a few minutes. The person who complimented him would've already left after he finally constructed the sentence in his head. Not that he wasn't used to it

This led to Xiao earning his current reputation, as stated earlier. He was already expecting the rest of his college years to be spent alone in his studio, working on his artworks during the wee hours of the night, high on the fumes of his paint palette and his exhausted coffee machine.

Until you came.

Kaoru was... eccentric. You were loud, you were moody. He felt like you'd be the type of person he'd hate dealing with just because you was unpredictable. You were like the rain, and Xiao hated the rain.

He must have an Archon's cursed tongue, because he got paired up with you during the first semester of their second year in college. You were a familiar name to him, as you were in the same course since the first year, but he barely knew anything about you since you were in different classes.

"Hey, Xiao! I'm _____. I hope we can be good friends by the end of the semester!" His memory of your bright smile still remains vivid in his head. He wasn't really a brooding type like Diluc, but Xiao liked to believed that he presented himself as a silent person who had no intentions of interacting with other people. So, how were you so bubbly around him? Because she was forced to do so? You were to be his partner for the whole semester, after all. Maybe it was all formalities. Yeah, that's probably it.

"Hm." Xiao gave a nod in her direction, acknowledging your existence. you heard from your friends that the young artist didn't have a pleasing personality, but you weren't expecting to be shutdown from the get-go.

"Mind if I sit beside you?"

Again, a light nod.

You felt the awkward tension between you and Xiao, and you hated it. You were a person who hated it when people are uncomfortable in your presence. You didn't want to be a bother, and you did your best to make everyone like you. Not that you were a people pleaser, nor an attention hog, but you just wanted to get along with everyone.

The lecture was going to begin in twenty minutes, so the lecture hall was yet to be filled with people. You took the opportunity to strike up a conversation with the amber eyed man beside you, who was typing away on his laptop. Something about color theory and how it affects the perspective of people on different art types? You couldn't really see that well. He was a fast typer.

"So, Xiao, I heard that your painting was displayed in the Tokyo Museum last year. It must have been an honor. I was at the unveiling last year and I saw it up-close." You started off, testing the waters.

"And what did you think of it?" Xiao cringed internally. He meant to genuinely ask for your feedback regarding his art, but it sounded so harsh that he wanted to punch himself when he saw you wince (or maybe you shuddered because it was cold and you were wearing a sleeveless top? His nerves were getting the better of him at this point).

"Well, a lot of my friends told me that it wasn't anything special,"

Ouch.

"It was a large canvas. I can still remember how it looks. But, maybe that's because I'm at the museum every two weeks," You laughed. You noticed how Xiao's breathing noticeably changed after you started your sentence, and you have to admit that it sounded a bit too mean.

"You know, Xiao. My friends told me that your art was simple. Anyone could have done it. But honestly, they couldn't be more wrong. I love how your piece was painted. Auxilium. I'll never forget what you called it. That's... Help, right?"

At first, Xiao didn't want to listen to this person ramble about an art piece he made during one of the lowest points of his life.

His anti-depressants had run out during that one Christmas. It was 2:47 in the morning. He had morning classes the following day. He had a project to submit, but he was unable to continue working because of the unbearable pain in his chest. His head was throbbing. Voices were invading his mind. Flashbacks of his parents' negligence taunted him. He rushed to grab a glass of water, chugging it down in almost three chugs. He slammed the glass back onto the counter, smashing it into tiny little splinters and cutting himself in the process. His hand was bleeding, there were bits of glass on his counter and on his floor, but he couldn't care less. He was heaving, his breathing was unsteady, he wanted to die right then and there. His vision became blurry, but he rushed back to his studio.

With a bleeding hand, he picked up his brush and began to tear into his canvas. Not literally, but he started to create strokes onto the blank canvas. Different colors, different textures (he swore some of his blood got blended in with the area where he painted the sunrise, but it's fine. No one was going to notice, right?). He screamed and cried, wanting to throw the entire easel out his window.

It was Christmas. He was alone in his apartment. His anti-depressants ran out. He was having a panic attack.

That night led him to having one of the worst breakdowns he could remember, but he also ended up with a gorgeous painting that nabbed him a place in the Tokyo Museum.

"Help," Your voice echoed in his ears, snapping him out of his trance.

"People can tell me that it's nothing more than a simple painting, but the way that the sunrise was only showing in a segmented part of the canvas? The way that there were hints of red? It kind of reminded me how a new day can resemble hope but still contain hurt. Like, the promise of a fresh start isn't guaranteed a good one, right?"

Your words rang in his ears like a gong being hit continuously. He wanted to cry. People always complimented him and congratulated him about being recognized by art critics and national museums, but none of them ever really stopped to talk to him about his art. They were there for his recognition- not his work.

"I mean, you could begin with a fresh start, but wouldn't the remnants of yesterday still take a toll on your tomorrow?"

"Hm. Interesting take. To be honest, those specks could have been my blood." Xiao spoke up, to your surprise. A small smile formed on your face. Maybe this guy wasn't so bad after all.

"My hand was cut up when I was painting that," He added quietly, not mentioning why his hand was in that state. "I think I accidentally added too much concentrated red. I couldn't blend it out the way I originally planned."

"Oh? But that makes it all the more great, though!" You beamed, "Maybe it was an Archon guiding you? I don't really believe in that stuff, but acknowledging some divine intervention once in a while can't be all bad, no?" You laughed.

"I guess you're right." For the first time in a while, Xiao actually gave someone else a small smile. It wasn't really a smile per se, but his lips curved even the slightest bit upward, and you decided that it was a win for you.

-

Fast forward to the second semester of their third year.

Late February was never a good time for Xiao.

It was the second month of the year; People were starting to adjust and adapt to the ever-changing and progressing timeline. Although, he never really understood the concept of the "New year, new me!" shtick.

It had been years since he was clinically-diagnosed with mild depression. So, why was he still that way? Shouldn't new years help him be a better person? Or something like that. Why was he still like this?

Late February meant the end of one semester, and the start of another.

What else did that mean?

His semestral feedback report (he refused to call it a report card. What was he, high school?).

"Xiao? Are you here? I bought almond tofu from Xiangling's place. Sorry for barging in, you weren't answering my calls." He heard your voice from the kitchen and he glanced at the clock on his studio's wall.

1:37 AM.

You were at Xiangling's place because you were working on a report about the history of acrylic paints or whatever it was. You were supposed to go home, but you still dropped by his apartment. He checked his phone.

[ 14 missed calls. ]

Yikes.

"I'm here." He answered meekly, but loud enough for you to hear. He felt tired. Defeated, maybe. He was blankly staring at the canvas in front of him. He has sketched the base of your face and upper body. He was planning on painting a portrait of his beloved to decorate his room with, but he couldn't find the energy to continue.

He could hear the soft "thud"s of your feet walking from the kitchen towards the studio, but he tuned it out with an annoying static he could only hear in his head.

Fuck. Where are they?

He rushed to the drawer next to his easels and rummaged around in a panic.

Where the fuck are they?

He kept a few anti-depressants in his studio because he spends most of his time here and he didn't have time to rush to the kitchen to get them if he ever got a panic attack.

"Fuck!" He cursed loudly, throwing the contents of his desk onto the floor. Some of his paintbrushes scattered on the wooden floor of his studio, marking the wood various colors. Maybe they're going to stain, but he didn't really care.

Xiao heard the footsteps retreating until he couldn't hear anything else except the constant ringing in his ears. It was annoying. It was loud. It started to make him want to split his head open.

"_____," He whispered, feeling his chest hurt and his throat tighten. The passageways helping him breathe seemed to close themselves, giving him a hard time and mocking him. It was coming back again.

Tears started to flood his vision, and they rolled down his red cheeks. He took the ponytail out of his hair and used two hands to tug at his locks starting from the roots. His breathing patterns became more erratic, but he tried his best to stay calm.

His knees and legs felt like jelly. He had to lean against the desk to avoid from toppling over.

Why? Why again? Why now? Why when you were here?

He screamed. It was loud enough for the neighbors to hear, but his care for any external entities was out the window the moment his eyes became blurry with tears.

Even though he was leaning against the desk, his legs still couldn't hold the weight of his entire body. His knees dropped to the floor, and he swore he must've dented the wood below, but he paid no mind to it. His knees were also aching, but he could deal with that later. He bent down and pressed his forehead to the floor.

"_____," He whispered again, longing for his partner. "Auxilium."

"Xiao?" The voice was muffled. His eyes were glued to the floor in front of him, but he knew it was you.

"Xiao, stay with me, honey." There was a hint of panic evident in your voice, but he was glad that you didn't let that get the best of you. You was still somewhat calm.

You kneeled down beside him, helping him back to an upright position.

"Honey, you left these on the counter outside." You handed him two tablets of his anti-depressants, and he gladly placed them in his mouth. You also gave him a glass of water, and he downed it in two swift gulps. Afraid that he might underestimate his strength, he returned the glass back to you instead of setting it down himself, nodding at you in the process.

You got into a more comfortable position where you rested your back against the wall, and you guided Xiao to follow you. It was a difficult task; He was very sensitive during his panic attacks.

His semestral feedback reports always made him anxious. He didn't have to please his parents anymore since he moved out years ago, but Xiao had this nagging feeling inside of him to do better with his academics. Nobody was really pressuring him to be a straight-A student, but did he feel like he needed to be? Who was he trying to prove himself to anyway? You knew about his sever panic attacks and how they were more active if he had a big event coming up. The first time you had to deal with it, you were still stiff and trying to learn how you could help. Now, you takes pride in yourself for being able to handle him in the ways you know would help him the most.

"Here you go, I've got you." You cooed, assisting him with moving. You laid his head flat on her lap and she began stroking his beautiful, tousled forest green locks. The highlights he had under the first layer of his hair started to fade, and you made a mental note to take him to a salon so they could get their highlights redone.

"You know, I've been listening to a lot of Coldplay lately," You started speaking, as if Xiao wasn't about to have a full-on panic attack. "Yellow would have to be one of my favorite songs. I guess it's kinda cheesy, but can you blame me?"

You used your free hand to wipe the tears from his cheeks.

"Look at the stars, look how they shine for you." You began singing, voice just above a whisper.

"And everything you do. Yeah, they were all yellow."

Xiao was a reserved person who had a hard time dealing with other people because of his inferiority complex that sprouted when he was young.

"I came along, I wrote a song for you."

He didn't have love and affection growing up. He didn't know how to be the best person to talk to. He had poor communication skills. He was a mess, to be honest.

"And all the things you do. And it was called yellow."

You were the first person who looked past his rough and tough exterior. You were the person who showed interest not just in his name- but in him as a whole.

"So when I took my turn, what a thing to've done."

"Thank you," He murmured silently, noticing that the ringing in his ears vanished. His throat was beginning to open again, and he could finally feel the steady heartbeat he had in his chest.

"And it was all yellow."

Xiao curled himself into a ball, burying his face in your clothed stomach. You smelled a bit like smoke (maybe you ate yakiniku at Xiangling's?) and your faded cologne. It smelled like home. It washed a sense of relief over his entire being. He felt safe. He felt secure. He was being held like a child, but he didn't really mind. Maybe he needed this.

"Your skin. Oh yeah, your skin and bones,"

You craned your neck downwards to look at Xiao's figure. He finally looked peaceful. You knew about his rough past. You knew about the trauma he had to go through, but you chose to look past it because you knew that he was just afraid and... alone. He needed someone to be there for him, and you would rather the world die than leave him alone ever again.

"Turn into something beautiful."

You noticed how his chest started a rhythmic pattern of ups and downs. His breathing was finally steady. He looked at peace. He looked like he was right at home.

"Do you know? You know I love you so."

You couldn't help but chuckle as you watched him sleep in your lap. How could anyone think that this softie was an asshole?

"You know I love you so."

You barely whispered the last part of the song, but it was loud enough for his heart to hear it. Xiao hated when things were unpredictable; that's why he hated the rain. But now, maybe the idea of rain wasn't so bad. Especially since you were his rain.

"I love you, Xiao."

At that moment, you knew that the involuntary smile on Xiao's face was a response that contained more emotions than his words could ever bear.

"I love you too."

[quiet-kunoichi]

“ please….stay, just for tonight. ”

[ misc quotes meme | @suck-my-tomato | verse; post-modern ]

She had come over.

Well, that's not entirely true. Initially, Sasuke had showed up to her apartment after a missed call from her, followed by a quick [text:] im sorry about that. So; in lieu of their weird and strangled conversation the other night, where he offered his support any time she felt close to relapsing (or otherwise, but he wasn't ready to say that aloud just yet) -- Sasuke's slingshot brain thought of the worst conclusion and immediately called her back. But in fact, the call back wasn't so immediate, after all. It had been forty minutes since she had attempted initial contact. She doesn't pick up, and her awkward and uncertain voice tells him 'sorry you missed me. uh, yeah - leave a message and i'll get back to you .. eventually. probably.' The beep of her voicemail catches him off guard; a weird beat of silence begins the message before he mutters a quick, "Hey.. I hope you're alright-- Call me, okay?" Minutes pass with him staring expectantly at the screen. She doesn't call him back; he curses himself for getting caught up in his most recent painting. Unable to contain the swirl of emotions, Sasuke rises to his restless feet. He paces the room a few times, biting at the skin of his lip and glancing over to his blackened phone screen now and again. He even tried sitting back down at his canvas, picking up the brush and the palette again: just to get his mind off of it. Sasuke knew it would be pushing boundaries if he just showed up because she didn't reply in.. twelve minutes. "She's probably fine," He told the room, the drying paint, himself. But clearly he wasn't certain enough - because when his phone vibrates against the coffee table, Sasuke risks the detailed linework by nearly diving out of his seat to snatch his phone. But his once high-strung heart was now rocking heavy in his gut and making him seasick. Just a text from Naruto. He doesn't even bother to read it - instead pulling up the sporadic text conversation with Kimiko and rereading her short message as if he could read between the lines. Fuck it. In cases of recovering addicts, sometimes boundaries would have to be pushed; he was personally familiar. So, Sasuke snatched his car keys from their place beside the door and heads for her apartment. His hands were clammy and stuck to the steering wheel with an iron grip the whole time. What was he going to walk in on? Would this behavior bring up old, bruised memories - would it roll their hesitant friendship back a few steps? Maybe she truly didn't mean to call; maybe she was not even home. Or she was home, but had someone else over. That thought tightened his throat. But nothing compared to the nagging gnat of trauma whispering something much more foul in his ear: perhaps he didn't come soon enough, and the apartment would already be empty. Worse yet - a repeat of the scene he came across a few months ago. No. Sasuke refused to let his brain run down that beaten path: instead, he barely made it through a yellow light and parked on the street across from her apartment building. The next time he blinked, Sasuke was standing in front of her door, fist hanging in the air. Had he already knocked? He can't remember. Kimiko hadn't even the time to quickly soak up the leftover water from her hair and wrap up decently when the second knock came. It sends a zip of fear up her spine; her mouth is gummy, so she cannot even reply. She just wraps the nearest towel tightly around herself and quickly ( and carefully ) pads over to the front door of her rather.. 'minimalistic' apartment. No, she hadn't unpacked fully, yet. It wasn't that she was expecting to pick up and disappear at the drop of a hat; it was just too hard a task, truthfully. Opening the door a crack (seeing as this apartment didn't have the foresight to install peepholes) Kimiko peers through a sliver, a single dull yellow eye landing upon his face. Oh --

Blinking a few times, Kimiko's death grip on her door is slackened in surprise. The door comes open a few more inches, and reveals that she indeed just got out of the bath. "..Sasuke?" She questions, as though the man before her might chameleon into someone else with her next blink. He stammers a reply; an apology - and she tells herself that the color of his cheeks was likely due to the strangeness of his voice, because she could not picture any other reason why he'd feel embarrassed. "H-hey. Uh, I'm sorry. I was just --" He's struggling to figure out how to express his thoughts coherently while she's standing there with her hair dripping and a towel tucked tightly around her slender frame. "You didn't answer, so.. I'm just checking in on you." Was it more awkward to look at her while she was sorta-kinda indecent, or more glaringly awkward to obviously not look at her at all? Her neighbor's door opens; Sasuke is ogled at from across the hall. Kimiko's stare slides over and the decision is made for her: she opens the door and gingerly takes his wrist, beckoning him inside. Closing the door behind him and locking ( the knob, the dead bolt, the chain, the swing-bar guard ) it, Kimiko turns to him and draws his attention back from where it wandered about her empty apartment. Well - mostly empty. Suppose the issue of not having any clutter or decorations was that a lone bottle of whiskey appeared like a glaring centerpiece on her coffee table. She'll behave as though it didn't exist. "Sorry. It's nothing personal; she stares at me, too." Kimiko murmurs, catching that telltale look of concern hardly concealed in his stare as he turns back to her. "Kimiko.." His voice is careful, as though they stood on thin ice and he was chancing the very real possibility that whatever he would say next could make them fall through and catch hypothermia. "I should get dressed," She'd reply, dipping her head and passing him by on her way back to the bathroom. Despite her hope that he would ignore the obvious, too - Kimiko returns to the front room once dressed, and Sasuke is leaning his weight into the arm of her couch rather than sitting upon it. She catches him in a staring contest with the bottle of liquor. Arms tucked across her midsection, she stands adjacent to him and awaits the backfire from being caught -- even if she hadn't indulged in it (yet). "I'm sorry I didn't pick up." Instead of scolding her, Sasuke apologizes. It's.. strange, but quietly welcomed in the stead of worse repercussions. She doesn't respond, because she doesn't know quite how to. So, with fingers steepled and head dipped to the floor between them, he speaks up again; but it's not without strain. "I know I said I'd be available for support if you needed it-" She's expecting him to follow this sentence with a 'but I said it too soon' or a 'but I changed my mind', and she doesn't want the heartache that would follow hearing that kind of statement, so Kimiko cuts him off. "It's fine, Sasuke. Really.. I'm fine." She shouldn't lie like that, but old habits die painfully slow. At last, his gaze lifts and they share a look; one that's hard to place. She knows that he knows she's lying, and she swallows the guilt and shame that comes with that. "I didn't have any. The cap is sealed, if you want to check." She offers the olive branch, and Sasuke truly considers it: but decides against it, in an attempt to show his trust in her claim. Even still, a short sigh escapes her; fingers come up to rub at her eye. Now having a proper look at her, Sasuke recognizes an old shirt she used to wear in high school. It draws attention to how much she's thinned down since then, the fabric now loose in places that it used to hold onto her curves. Dark crescents are worn like ghosts under her eyes, her cheekbones are taut and pronounced in a way he hasn't noticed before. Kimiko speaks up before he has the chance. "I did think about it," She admits, sounding tired. "And I did call," Another admittance, this one with a twinge more shame behind it. He gives a little wince. "But I walked away from it." A half-hearted shrug follows. Actually, she had tossed her phone on the couch and fled to the bathroom, mid-panic attack and desperate to scald and then simmer in a soup of flashbulb memories: just so she could watch them wash down the drain with the soapy bathwater. But a knock on the door interrupted that sequence, and now here they both were.

"It's okay that you didn't answer. I know that .." She hesitates, the fingers at her side starting to pluck at the edge of her shirt. "I know you're busy, with stuff." Ah, real smooth, Kimiko. That totally wasn't obvious. Her lips press firm, and she can no longer bear to hold his gaze, so she drops her own while slowly curling her grip over opposite arm. "And I'm fine to handle it on my own. I've done it before." Yeah, that probably wasn't the best thing to add in, either. "I was working on a painting." Sasuke replies, then turns over his palms to expose the flecks and streaks of paint that litter his pale skin. He's not sure why he felt like she needed the visual proof; but she had offered some tactile evidence with the sealed cap to her bottle of whiskey, earlier - and he wanted to extend the same offering in exchange. To make it a two-lane street, like his therapist had mentioned last week. Before her.. self-inflicted incident - Kimiko had been the only one expressing her efforts to make amends. He wasn't proud of the result; so now, in light of the aftermath: Sasuke wanted to try, too. "Oh." She replies, dumbly. "Um," Umber hues roam around the room, but he continues to look up at her. "..Sorry you came all the way out here to check on me. I didn't have my phone, I was in the bath, and-" Her fingers are plucked from her side and engulfed by the dual caress of both of his palms. He holds her small hand in his own, and places his other hand on top. It strikes her heart, giving it a kickstart as she looks between their clasped hands and back up to him. "Don't apologize." He begins, "I came to check on you because I wanted to." A thumb runs over the top of her hand, trying to soothe. Instead it just gets her heart in a weird flutter; unused to this intimacy, even after all this time. Or, perhaps especially after all this time. "I see." Is her quiet reply. Parting his lips, Sasuke realizes that she's transfixed on her hand sandwiched between his own. He returns it, but admittedly, it isn't without some reluctance: like pulling apart two pieces of a jigsaw puzzle after finally connecting their uneven ends. "..Have you eaten?" He asks, and she appears dumbfounded by the question. "What?" It comes from her mouth laced in confusion. "Have you had dinner? I parked by a sushi restaurant and I was thinking of ordering takeout." He looks up at her expectantly: Kimiko clearly hasn't been eating well enough, and he wouldn't let that slide by him. So, without an answer - Sasuke is already pulling up the menu on his phone, swiping a finger down the menu. "Do you still like salmon, and eel?" He gives her an upward glance; she's getting obviously flustered. "Sasuke.." Now it was her turn to lace her voice with the careful and wary tone of warning. It dawns on him, then -- He'd just invited himself to stay in her space. Casually, too: as if it were commonality. It hadn't been, not in a long time. The realization ( and deflation ) must have been rather obviously etched upon his features, because Kimi is quick to the draw and apologizing. "I'm sorry, it's just- I don't mean-" His hand comes up, and she quiets down. "No, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have jumped the gun like that." He rises to his feet, stuffing his phone back into his pocket. "It's not like that,.." She trails off, and without transparency, Sasuke decides to play it safe. "It's okay to be uncomfortable, Kimiko. You've done well to respect my boundaries, and I don't want to push you. I'm glad you didn't relapse." They stand there for a few beats more - until he can't take it anymore, all the things left unsaid hanging between them; he heads for the door. "Sasuke, wait." Kimiko's voice is pressed with a twinge of urgency; she's gone as far as to take a few strides and grasp for his wrist. When he stops and looks down at her over his shoulder, Kimiko reflects the little girl at the playground all those years ago: doe-eyed, perpetually a tad afraid, knowing what she wanted but not yet certain on how to ask for it. She lets go of his wrist and returns her hands to herself, one arm still tucked around her center as the now free hand comes up to collect a strand of her hair. Sasuke turns to face her properly.

"It's not that I don't want to spend time with you," She begins to explain, pressing the knuckle of her finger ( wrapped with a coil of dark hair ) into her cheek. "I really appreciate the offer of sushi, and.. your time." A little inaudible gulp, and a stolen glance back up at him. "I just don't want to be here, really." At last, she's admitted the true hang-up to this entire situation. Slowly, his eyebrows raise -- he understands where her reluctance is coming from, almost immediately. "Kimiko, did he send-?" His concerned question is cut off with a quick toss of her head: No. Or, more likely: No, I don't want to talk about this right now. With a nod of acknowledgement, Sasuke folds his lips before proposing a solution. "Do you want to take the sushi to my place, then? We could watch a movie." His offer is received with a hopeful look on her part: like he had offered a child if they'd like to get ice-cream instead of doing their homework. "..Are you sure?" She has to ask, and it brings a little smile from him, exhaling through his nose. "Yeah, I'm sure." ------------- So their night together had officially begun; ( Kimiko did in fact still like salmon and eel ) - sushi was secured, the drive to his place was shared in amicable silence with the background of music, and the movie was picked effortlessly. Of course, she had perked up after that first ( and hesitant ) bite - and also to nobody's surprise, Kimiko had easily agreed to the movie he suggested; for it was a movie that she was planning to watch, anyway. The night played on without a single scratch or trip in the record, and conversations flowed back and forth without a hitch. They were truly getting along without so much as a hiccup or awkward pause along the way. Now satisfied and lulled, Kimiko was starting to drift upon his couch, curled against the pillow between them. The TV screen washed in red, and Sasuke hums in amusement, dipping his ear towards his shoulder and murmuring, "I guess you were right, Brenda didn't last longer than Stacy. Still, I don't think there's going to be a Final Girl." Kimiko hums something nonsensical, half-muffled by the pillow she'd nuzzled down into. Properly looking over now, Sasuke double-takes the scene beside him; and his heart swells. She was ..well, undoubtedly cute, curled up and dozing off in the smack-middle of a slasher movie. In the moment of privacy, Sasuke unfolds into an unseen smile. A few moments pass as he studies her sleep-slackened face, peaceful and unmarred from bruises or tears. Picturesque from their early highschool years. A little sigh escapes his nostrils, the familiar sense of nostalgia clutching him. Reaching forward, Sasuke plucks the remote from the coffee table and turns down the movie a notch or two before rising to his feet and taking care of the takeout boxes. She's done well to eat most of her food; he's proud that she made the effort. Returning to the couch, Sasuke brings with him a clean blanket from his storage closet. Gingerly, it's draped over the slumbering girl. He returns to her side, arms stretching into his wingspan across the back of the couch. His weight pressing into the cushions beside her causes Kimiko to stir; she tucks herself closer to him, nose following his familiar scent and notching against his shoulder. Sasuke stills in his spot as his old flame stitches slowly back into his side, the familiarity in such an action eliciting a similar response from him. His arm lifts from the back of the couch; it hovers just over her shoulders before slowly settling upon her. A hand cups her arm, sinking down into his seat on the couch and feeling his heart hammer in his chest: God, how he felt like a teenager, again. Those first few instances of intimate physical contact with his best friend whom he had an enthralling crush on: it came rushing back in, now. That twist of excitement tightening his chest in all the right ways, a weird warm flutter in his gut.

Thumb slowly begins to slide up and down over her bicep, Sasuke looking right through the TV screen as he dares let his cheek lower, one centimeter at a time, until it brushes just over the top of her head. He could just close his eyes and be content like this, turn into a statue forever in this position that he didn't realize how much he truly missed. But a shrill shriek from the movie is enough to pull Kimiko from her dreams; eyes slowly blink open before she realizes the circumstance and quickly retreats from the intimate embrace. Kimiko's heart is thunderous in her ears as she reels from the comedown of her otherwise peaceful slumber - eyes rounded into full moons that blink at him while she tries to collect her surroundings. "I- God, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to- I just; I fell asleep." She's tripping over apologies and excuses for her 'inappropriate' behavior, and Sasuke's face is burning with the childish shame of being caught. Now he's flustered, too. "No- It's fine, really -uh, I didn't mind; you were just sleeping- I know." Their awkward dance stifled down into an even worse silence. His fingers twitched at the back of the couch, wanting to reach out and grip her arm so gently, to just quietly pull her in and tuck her under his chin, like the old times. But he doesn't, and her unforgiving grip on the pillow clutched to her chest slowly comes undone. Sasuke watches her, but again, she's receded back into her shell, unable to look over at him while coming down from the level of embarrassment she'd catapulted herself into. On the table between them, Sasuke's phone lights up with a text. Neither of them can see who its from, but Kimiko catches the time before the screen goes dark. "It's late.." She trails off; and he doesn't pick up on what she was insinuating. It was one in the morning, and he’d received a text. She could’ve read the name if she really tried, but she already had a good guess; and it made her stomach curdle. So, with a small swallow, Kimiko rubs her arm and starts to stand up. "I should get going." Suddenly, Sasuke understands - and he cannot bear the thought at this moment, not after all that's transpired: even if given the option this morning, he would've likely not felt any one particular way. Or maybe he would have - thoughts and feelings are scattered all over the place. But one thing was for certain, it was screaming in his head as she collected her things and tucked hair behind her ear, lingering; as though she were waiting for him to say something, anything, god damnit-- "Um, well. Thank you for dinner, and.. sorry I couldn't stay awake through the movie. Guess I'm aging fast," Her attempt at a little laugh breaks his heart. He feels like such an idiot, his tongue tangled into knots and sitting useless in his mouth, his body sewn into the couch. She must think he was just sitting there, waiting for her to excuse herself from his apartment on her own. Fuck. So much time has dragged by, when in reality it was only a single beat of silence before she cleared her throat softly and dropped her arms down. "Don't worry about driving me back, I know the bus routes." Her voice falters at the end, and suddenly, she's turned on her heel and heading with purpose towards his door - like ripping off a band aid. "Kimiko, wait-" Finally, words choke from his throat with his sheer desperation to keep her from leaving. Not again. Up on his feet now, Sasuke made it a whole three feet before realizing with subdued surprise that she had in fact ..waited. Almost as though she were hesitant to actually leave, in the first place. So, she stalls facing the front door and clutching her phone to her chest, lingering - waiting to hear him out. A single golden beam rolls over her shoulder and drinks him in, eyebrow dipped up in an expression of both uncertainty and hope. “ please... stay, just for tonight. ”

Slowly, quietly, Kimiko turns. They share a encapsulating moment, holding a tender stare from across the room. She recognizes the fear etched into his face - that telltale look of expectant abandonment, the childish shrinking away from his own vulnerability. Kimiko won’t leave him; not like she had, before. Before she weighed the fear of entangling him into her corrupted life against the knowledge that every time she slipped away and into the night, a little piece of his heart broke loose. So, as long as he would ask her to -- Kimiko would stay. He holds his heart in the base of his throat - truly expecting that she would turn back around and leave him here, alone. Maybe laugh at him for the inflated hope that she would stay for the night; be there when he woke up in the morning. Instead, Kimi breaks his expectations and approaches with careful, practiced steps - returning to his side. Without a hint of hesitation this time, Sasuke reaches out and scoops her into his embrace. His body was moving of its own accord, playing out the complicated desires of his heart. Kimiko doesn't fight it, nor does she still into ice. In fact, the girl just melts against him; doing what came naturally. It was second nature to tuck her head into the crook of his collarbone, to delicately slip her arms beneath his and hook her fingers into the fabric just over his shoulder blades. His chin rests atop her head, fingers gingerly running large, comforting circles over her back. Everything fell back into place; as natural and second-nature as breathing. There was no effort involved, in this moment of soft re-collision. Only a wish, on both of their parts - that this connection would have happened sooner. That their selfish games of head vs. heart would have been silenced and put out well before this night. Accompanying that desire was the hope that things would really be okay, this time: he would ask her to stay, and she would - he wouldn't mind, and it wouldn't be just for tonight. So, Kimiko had come over; and in the end, she wouldn’t leave his side unless he had asked her to.

[saundraswriting]

Deprived Chapter 1: Fateful Meeting

SUMMARY: Yeon-Woo has reasons for trying to keep the distance between him and Yoo-Han. He will convince him of that one day. Even if it means removing himself from the picture entirely

WARNINGS: Self-depreciating thoughts, possible SH?, slight mental emotional abuse/manipulation

NOTES: This is this first chapter of my Color Rush fic. I am thinking two or three parts. I posted a warning for the canon compliant mentality that comes with mono/probes. I hope you enjoy!

Read it here on Ao3

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Main Masterlist // Drama Masterlist // Ao3

The life of a mono is a lonely one.

Yeon-Woo's mother had explained that to him many times as he got older. She had found and lost her probe, she learned and lost the world of colors and prayed the same would not happen for her son. Her prayers were unanswered for he learned the pain of loss much to soon. She was getting ready for her day of errands, trying to explain the idea of yellow to him, gave him one last loving kiss and was never seen from again.

The life of a mono is a lonely one.

When the case ran cold, he was handed over to his aunt. She-with cheeks wet from tears-took in her nephew and sold what was left of her sisters keeping only what she could not part with. Yi-Rang didn't try to explain what happened only began working tirelessly with her show to begin explaining the truth behind the cases, the new and old, to try to understand what may have happened to her sister. She came and went, in the four years since his mother's disappearance, he became a functioning adult. He practically lived alone and only saw his aunt a couple days a month. The only time he saw her more was when he was in trouble at school.

The life of a mono is a lonely one.

School was hard. He got above average grades but his junior high years were peppered with failed attempts to make friends. They would be fine until somehow they found out he was a mono then he was alone again. Or he would be bullied into transferring and didn't have time to make friends. He was growing accustomed to being alone. He learned to enjoy his solitude, that would have to be enough. The black and white and gray world he lived in seem to sap him of his strength. Some days would pass, Yeon-Woo feeling as empty as his monochromatic vision. He would go to his room, dinnerless and studying until his eyes burned. He might not have anyone but his aunt, even so he refused to disappoint her more.

The life of a mono is a lonely one.

The first day of his new school was supposed to be quiet, easy. He wanted to go to school and come home and not see the look of mild disappointment on his aunt's face. It was anything but that. He made two new friends and met his probe. Yeon-Woo tried to focus on the pretty face but the swirling colors caused his head and stomach to roll, resulting in him passing out. He wasn't aware of the young man carrying him to the nurse's office or the conversation he and the nurse had. Yeon-Woo tried to wake up but the colors were too overwhelming so he closed his eyes again. After a bit he came to, blinking in surprise at the vast amount of color he could see just in the nurse's office. Yeon-Woo ran a fingernail lightly over the fabric of his pants, the vibrant color reminding him of something but not sure what.

"That is the color of the ocean. Ocean Blue or Deep Blue." A smooth voice chimed in from behind. Yeon-Woo could feel them lean closer, see their hand almost touch his.

"The ocean?" This is the color of the ocean?" Yeon-Woo couldn't help but repeat, trying to memorize the color and the words. He knew it was for naught, he would never see it again.

"Mm-hmm." The hand and body shifted away. Yeon-Woo sighed, looking around as the colors began disappearing. He took a deep breath trying to tell himself, he was glad the colors were vanishing. It was better this way.

"That's good, the colors are going away." Yeon-Woo said aloud. He was sure that the disappointment was on his face, and he was happy the person was behind him unable to see his sadness.

Yoo-Han stared at the back before him, watched as the muscles tensed and shoulders slumped. He could hear the uneasiness in the new student's voice and knew in that instant that he would convince Yeon-Woo to want to learn colors and show him his face. Yoo-Han couldn't bare to see this soft boy be sad any longer. He reached a hand out wanting to soothe the young boy who he could tell was unsure of what to do next.

"Don't touch my hair." He swatted away Yoo-Han's hand. "You shouldn't touch a stranger without permission."

Yoo-Han leaned over him, close to his face, not missing the slight flinch. 'He knows who I am, and he isn't used to human contact or attention.' He thought to himself. "Good thing we aren't strangers, Choi Yeon-Woo. You are my mono and I am your probe." Yoo-Han replied smiling through the mask.

"No. I refuse. I didn't want to meet my probe. This never happened." Yeon-Woo stood up and wobbled unsteadily. Yoo-Han came around the bed hand raised to help but was waved off.

"Are you upset that I am your probe?" Yoo-Han wasn't one for insecurities but having the person practically destined for you deny you at the first meeting was unsettling.

"Who it was doesn't matter. I never needed to meet my probe. I didn't need to meet them." Yeon-Woo said. "And you shouldn't be excited to meet your mono. Don't you know? I could hurt you, kidnap you, kill you, or eat you to keep my colors. Monos shouldn't meet their probes, it is bad for you." Yeon-Woo tried to explain.

"Most of those stories are blown out of proportion. Also the media fixates on the stories were the monos are overly violent because you all are different. I don't think you could hurt a fly." Yoo-Han dismissed Yeon-Woo's concerns with a strong roll of his eyes.

"Besides, you are telling me you don't need to meet your probe. You never said anything about not wanting to meet your probe." Yoo-Han leaned in close, ignoring how Yeon-Woo tensed. "Do you want to learn colors?"

Yeon-Woo froze at the question, Yoo-Han saw the longing well up in his eyes before he shoved it and Yoo-Han away. Yoo-Han stood right back up again but Yeon-Woo held his hands up and out like they weren't his and began walking backwards, eyes wide and face pale. "Monos are violent. Always." Yeon-Woo's voice was thick and rough. Yoo-Han felt his heart break for his mono. In that moment, Yoo-Han decided he was going to show this warm gentle boy the wonders of color and show him he deserved nice things. He could tell someone had taught Yeon-Woo that he didn't, society or a person it didn't matter; Yoo-Han would make it better. Yeon-Woo scurried back to his class, picking up his things to go home. The day had been a significant loss and he only hoped that he could convince his new friends Min-Jae and Joo-Haeng that he had been too stressed and didn't eat or sleep.

The next morning Yeon-Woo was convinced he shouldn't go to school. Only the thought of disappointing his aunt made him go once more. Upon arrival he wasn't met with a gang of bullies or the student council or even teachers. The morning progressed like the day before. Yeon-Woo was both pleased and not at the development. He was glad that Yoo-Han chose not to see him but he was looking forward to seeing the class representative and his friend. He changed his shoes trying not to think on it too hard, it was the way his life should be-lonely and gray.

He got to his room and there was Min-Jae and Joo-Haeng waiting outside for him. They reassured him that they had taken care of any rumors of yesterday. When they questioned him about his mono status, he couldn't find it in him to lie. He even told them that Yoo-Han is his probe. Even if he had to transfer in a few weeks once his aunt learned he found his probe he wanted to enjoy his friends. Yoo-Han even kept his distance, only speaking when necessary. The next few days passed that way. Yeon-Woo kept silent on his desire to see colors and see Yoo-Han's face but he was sure that Yoo-Han could read it on his face, he kept watching Yeon-Woo with an intense puzzled look on his face.

A week had passed, and Yeon-Woo was considering his warning actually got through to the stubborn boy. They rarely talked but shared glances more than what was appropriate. Yeon-Woo was trying to be happy that he pushed the caring probe away. Nothing about himself mattered, only the safety of his probe. Yeon-Woo was warming up to the idea of being without his probe, until the day came when he was late. Yeon-Woo was concerned, trying to stifle his questions. The concern he felt had to be evident or he was that predictable for Joo-Haeng to let him know he would be there later in the day. The message soothed the anxiety in his chest. Then terror built. 'We are already too close, if simple thoughts of his wellbeing ease any feeling about him'. The afternoon came, lunch already passed when Yoo-Han came in holding a strange fan looking object.

"I got you something, sunshine. I wanted to ask you again, if you wanted me to teach you colors." Yoo-Han asked softly. Yeon-Woo looked at him in anger. The other two boys watching curiously.

"I have told you once, that should be enough. I do not need to learn colors. You should stay away from me. I already get angry and violent when I see you. For your safety, you should stop." Yeon-Woo hissed at him. He paid no attention to the small fan-like object, only wanting to get over the fact he was already getting attached to this boy.

"I told you too. You will never hurt me. You are confused and that is okay. I figured that before you agree we could do a trial period. I would work with you and help with the color rushes and after a week or so, then you can decided if you never want to do it again." Yoo-Han explained fanning out the device in his hand. "What better to use than a artist's palette. I picked it up just for you." Yoo-Han's eyes were scrunched up under his mask, leading Yeon-Woo to believe he was smiling under the mask.

"No. Thank. You." Yeon-Woo turned to face the front pulling out headphones for the rest of the break. Yoo-Han stared at the back of his head for the rest of the day, scheming up ways to get his mono to agree. Yoo-Han had originally wanted to do this for the selfish reason to see Yeon-Woo's face but the longer he stayed near and the more he got to know Yeon-Woo, Yoo-Han realized he wanted and needed to spend time with this boy. There were soulmates for a reason, who was he to ignore such a destiny.

The rest of the day passed in a monotony of classes and homework. Until their last break, Yeon-Woo seeing no one was around sat down and spread out the palette. He thumbed through it, sighing in defeat. There was no real way to differentiate between the colors, leading to a large amount of confusion. Just as he was going to shut it, he felt familiar heat along his back. Panic made him lurch from his seat, trying to avoid more contact with the idol in training.

"You do want to see. Then let me show you." Yoo-Han bent over his shoulder and starting with the the read shades began listing the different colors. When Yeon-Woo tried to escape again, Yoo-Hann pulled down his mask, the desire to see his face in a color rush overtaking him.

Yeon-Woo blinked up at him, angry and confused. "I told you to not do that. What happens when you stop showing me your face and then I decide to kill you? I am a mono. We are destined to be alone. We are violent angry deprived people. I won't let your presence make me into something I have spent so long trying to avoid." He sat up and ignored Yoo-Han's calls.

"Yeon-Woo, you are pretty even when you are angry." The voice echoes through the empty halls, laughter on the edge of his tone. Yeon-Woo didn't answer him but a quick glance showed Yoo-Han fanning himself with the art palette.

The next couple of weeks showed the same trend. Yoo-Han would entice Yeon-Woo into a color lesson or color rush. The had one in the science lab, after Yeon-Woo flinched heavily at the blood prank. Yoo-Han believing it to be a simple yet distasteful prank, and Yeon-Woo seeing it as a live projection of the nightmares that had been riddling his sleep lately. Yoo-Han slipped his hand down, lacing his fingers with Yeon-Woos trembling ones. In that second, Yoo-Han realized Yeon-Woo's concerns for his safety weren't empty words to create distance but a real issue that tormented him. The color lesson was finished early, Yoo-Han ending it in a fit of jealousy over a rainbow. A rainbow he made to show Yeon-Woo, so he could see his face during a color rush and after as he saw the colors that evaded him day in and day out. Yoo-Han was entranced every time he saw Yeon-Woo experience colors, his eyes wide and mouth gaping. He looked so pretty. 'You'll never be alone again. I promise.' Yoo-Han swore to himself.

He clicked off the flashlight, determining the lesson to be over. Yeon-Woo shoved him into a cupboard practically spitting in anger. Yoo-Han decided then and there he would make their next lesson the last, he would show him that some time color didn't make anything better. Two days later had Yoo-Han waiting for Yeon-Woo to pick up his phone, waiting to invite him to the roof he planned for the next lesson.

Yeon-Woo seemed unable to focus on the view, more concerned with the color of Yoo-Han's hoodie. He trailed his fingers over the zipper, rubbing the fabric lightly. "I know that I shouldn't want to but I want to see colors. I want to see them. I need to see them, some days it is like a physical ache." Yeon-Woo sniffed slightly. Yoo-Han wanted to pull away, comfort this boy that had started to mean more than anything else. "The life of a mono is a lonely one." Yeon-Woo recited. Yoo-Han was confused but before he could say anything, Yeon-Woo sat up. "You were right. This view is lonely. I don't like it." Yeon-Woo turned away.

"I knew you wouldn't. I needed to show you that sometimes colors don't bring all the good emotions and words like you think that do." Yoo-Han tried to explain.

"I know. Yellow is supposed to be happy but all I know it as it sadness. My mom was trying to explain yellow to me the day she disappeared. I also know that one day, if we keep going like this, my desire for color will be the reason for you getting hurt. I am a mono, destined for a lonely life. You are Yoo-Han, you are destined for greatness. I don't want to change that by being selfish. I should want to share your greatness with the world, right?" Yeon-Woo asked. He didn't seem to be looking for an answer.

"Then I will have to make sure that I am always there to show you my face. If I am always with you then there will be no violence." Yoo-Han answered like it was easy. "Yeon-Woo, I won't let you be alone anymore. You want to be shown colors? I want to show you colors. So why don't we? Unless you want to stop."

"Yoo-Han! Who said I wanted to stop? If you are okay with this, maybe we can try it." Yeon-Woo seemed hesitant still, worried.

"We can only try. Come on, lets get you settled into bed. I can walk myself home." Yoo-Han sipped his mask back on, helping Yeon-Woo to his feet. They headed back in silence, Yoo-Han trying to think of a plan as a surprise for his mono. When he got his mono home, he bid him goodbye with a small press of his masked lips against his cheek. Yoo-Han on the bus ride home, bought tickets for next week at an art exhibit, the use of lights and media to make the rooms into art, seemed right up their alley.

Yeon-Woo and Yoo-Han grew closer over the next few days, like somehow the rooftop discussion opened the doors. They ate together, talked together more, studied together. Yoo-Han wanted to ask where Yeon-Woo's aunt was or what was covered up in the corner but refrained. They were enjoying their closeness, mono and probe, safe together. Then one day, the rain seemed to have a direct correlation to Yeon-Woo's mood. They were standing near each other, hands interlocked when out of nowhere Yeon-Woo tried to bolt. Yoo-Han was glad for the mask to hide his hurt, it had been several days since the last attempt at separation, he had been hoping they were getting over it.

"Yeon-Woo, What is your problem?" Yoo-Han wanted to reach out and comfort his mono. Yeon-Woo looked panicked, eyes wide, breaths heavy. 'Yeon-Woo, it is only me. You can tell me." Yoo-Han tried to soothe his...Yeon-Woo.

"I am sorry. I just...I realized..."Yeon-Woo trailed off, eyes flicking around.

"Realized what, sweetheart? You have me worried. Let me help you." Yoo-Han took a few steps closer, grabbing Yeon-Woo's arm.

"I realized that I want to keep you forever. I don't want to let you go." Yeon-Woo finally looked at Yoo-Han, with fear and terror in his eyes.

"Oh, my darling. That is all I have ever wanted to hear you say. I want to keep you forever too." Yoo-Han placed a slim hand on his cheek. "You don't have to let me go if you don't want to. I will be here as long as you want me to." Yoo-Han pulled him into a hug, squeezing tight. "Thank you for telling me. I am so happy. I don't want to let you go either. We'll be together forever. I promise."

They stood hugging under the awning of the school. Yoo-Han trying and failing to stop his heart from breaking when he felt his soulmate's shoulders shaking. He felt an anger unlike any he felt before at the world for telling this sweet soft boy he was unworthy of affection. Yoo-Han was all the more thrilled that tomorrow was their date for the art show. It seemed that after the emotional turmoil of the day, they would need it.

[doshmanziari]

Castlevania: Curse of Darkness ~ It’s Just Like Symphony of the Night, Except Not At All! [Part IV]

When asked recently if Curse of Darkness is good, I answered: no; but, I’ve played through it about ten times. So, on a subjective level that can’t really be transmitted to other people by telling them what to focus on (although I’ll try to enumerate what I focus on), there is something here that, well, I just like. I’m not the sort of person to make the claim that, “[X] is a fine videogame, but a bad [series-name] videogame.” That’s not my conclusion -- to suggest that there is an inherent goodness to the series I like just because it generally excites my palate, and that anything below one’s standard is a “betrayal” of that inherence.

Even though difficulty isn’t what I go to videogames looking for, I think what makes Curse of Darkness work best for me is its hard mode, accessed by finishing the game once and then inputting “@CRAZY” for your file name on a new file (the same goes for Lament of Innocence). The norm for the Castlevania series and iterative challenge has been “loops” -- clearing the game once and then having it roll over automatically to a new game, whereupon enemies deal more damage and are perhaps more numerous and/or newly appearing. Although these adjustments have provided an extra challenge, the presence of new material, of differing enemies or enemy placements, has tended to be relatively minimal. The first Castlevania, for example, halts its modifications on stage four on subsequent loops. CoD’s hard mode is remarkable in that pretty much every area has been edited for enemy type and occurrence. It is also, at least on some hypothetical level, the toughest of any Castlevania hard mode. Hours in, you will still be easily slain in just a few hits, your curative capacity is strict, and money is tight. What all of this means, for me, anyway, is that Curse of Darkness becomes a sort of brutal dungeon crawler: the endurance which the level design, by default, asks of the player better matches what you need to do in order to survive until the next save point.

What it also means is that you might be compelled to more intentionally curate your familiars, here called Innocent Devils. Normally, these critters are absolutely peripheral, excepting a handful of spots where one’s ability is required for progress. On hard mode, having the right familiar in the right situation, using the right abilities, is an enormous help -- sometimes, the difference between your life and death. If I could retroactively magically redirect all of the labor poured into the Innocent Devils to the level design, of course I’d do it in a heartbeat; but the variety that effort produced -- the physical differences between a Devil’s evolutionary forms, their skills, and the descriptions for each (two of my favorites: “A star motif graces the rod of this mage. Its owner dreams of one day becoming one with the stars”, and “Pure rage in corporal form, it is chaos with wings. Many find its anguished form hard to look at”) -- has its place among the rest of the game’s marginalia. Without them, too, Curse of Darkness would perhaps be an overly lonely experience.

Curse of Darkness has something in common with KCET’s post-Game Boy Advance Castlevanias (most of all Order of Ecclesia), which is that its bosses are excellent -- fun to look at and fun to fight, especially on hard mode, where precise mechanical execution is mandatory. The downside is that they are, in fact, so good that returning to the game as usual after each can be especially deflating. Just as fun are the narrative interludes featuring some wonderfully on-point voice acting by, best of all, Liam O’Brien (as Isaac) and Adam D. Clark (as St. Germain), and, somehow, some of the subtlest facial expressions found on the console. To be sure, the characterizations are limited -- caricatures more than characters -- but what they lack in humanistic texture (something perhaps not to be sought in this series) they make up for in flair. People might pick on the Lords of Shadow titles for resembling “high fantasy” ersatz with doses of Castlevania jabbed in wherever, and while that is a fair criticism, just as awful was the games’ relentlessly grieving tone, as if a suffocating sense of self-seriousness were what the material needed for effect. Curse of Darkness’ tonal strain -- reverential, obscurantist, and funny -- could not be unlikelier. There is the rendering of Trevor Belmont, after we first fight him to no avail, as a near-saintly figure; the inscrutable, fanfiction-like logic guiding the major plot beats; the way Hector, as protagonist, slams between ridiculous shrieks of vengeance and introspective “Indeed”s. It is, all in all, maybe the best-relayed storyline Castlevania has ever gotten, and maybe will ever get.

If there’s one mechanical idea, separate from the Innocent Devils, to applaud, it’s the stealing mechanic, whereby Hector can snag various items from ghouls and ghosts if done at the proper time. This is indicated by the lock-on reticule momentarily switching from orange to purple, and often requires waiting for certain animations to begin or finish. It’s a neat micro-challenge to engage if you’re so inclined (bosses are where it shines; the Wyvern, for example, has an optional aerial sequence that’s tied to the steal-window), and a nice alternative to item drops being determined by randomized success/failure rates. To be clear, randomized drops do still exist -- they’re there in the bestiary as a delineated datum -- but they’re no longer the sole possibility. For some, this mechanic might also serve as an invitation to observe Dracula’s army with a heightened degree of purposefulness, to better appreciate the effort that went into giving its members life. However viewed, it’s kind of a shame that the idea remains unique to Curse of Darkness. I suppose pure statistical randomness pumps up the playtime for anyone who enjoys grinding; but the intentionality underpinning the stealing mechanic, the terms of its execution and our means of utilizing it, is a tantalizing window into an alternative, less number-crunchy shape for the action-RPG mold of Castlevania.

And, really, for as often as Curse of Darkness’ visuals compare unfavorably to Lament of Innocence’s, I couldn’t’ve taken as many photos of it as I did for another lo-fi-/CRT-dedicated project last year (a fraction of the results can be seen here and here) if the game’s world didn’t have an ambient luminescence of its own, albeit one thinned out by the aforementioned issues with the scope and camera, and several stale settings. In a fashion seemingly particular to PlayStation 2 releases, scores of exterior and interior spots are clothed with polychromatic, sourceless “lighting”, such that a wall’s surface might go from a deep blue to a brown-green to a purplish red. Taken as a sum, Curse of Darkness’ Wallachia is dim and gray-faced; taken constitutionally, it’s in fact abounding with colorful dispersions. Especially delightful for its brazenness is the pause menu/status screen, centralized by a pillar of neon-green stamps, headlined by a teal and an orange ochre banner, and itemized on the right by a stack of iconographic boxes. As coloration and organization go, compared to Lament of Innocence’s screen, it’s sloppy. But as a chunk of graphic design to linger in, it’s delicious, and happily recalls Harmony of Dissonance’s palettes (also directed by Takashi Takeda).

Well! That’s nearly all I have to say about Curse of Darkness right now. I’m curious if the animated Castlevania series’ second season, featuring Hector and Isaac (Isaac is physically recast and no longer queer-coded in the way media tends to do that coding; a gain and a loss, in my opinion), got some people to try this game out for the first time. If it did, I’m also curious if the show’s characterizations transferred over, maybe allowing those people to enjoy Curse of Darkness in a way foreign to myself (no, I still haven’t watched the show) and others. Could the imaginatively supplementary reach of fanfiction sustain such a playthrough? Surely it’s possible.

You can read the prior three essays on CoD here, here, and here.

[thebeethathums]

Observers - 48

Pairing: Sherlock Holmes x Reader

A/N: Annnnddd Sherly ruins the moment unintentionally... because he's Sherly.

The bed seemed terribly empty when Sherlock woke up and you were missing, for a while by the coolness of the bedding next to him. He rolled out of it to find all his clothes except for his shirt neatly folded on the bedside table and pulled them on before wandering out to the living room. He couldn’t help but grin when he saw you in front of your easel fully dressed in the clothes from the night before, your hair pulled back, and a fat brush in hand. He watched you work on your new painting, sitting down in your chair since you didn’t seem aware of the fact that he was awake. It was the same canvas from the night before but you had incorporated both his and your handprints from his experiment into it, making it more abstract than it had been originally. From the amount of work you’d done at this level of concentration, you had to have been up at least a few hours if not longer, meaning his experiment was a success. You reached for a tube of paint absentmindedly, having used all that you’d set out of that color, and sighed when you found it empty. You scrunched up your face as you turned with the intent to see if you had another tube stashed away somewhere and startled when you saw Sherlock in your chair, offering him a small nervous smile, “I’m sorry, Sherlock, I didn’t notice you were up… about your shirt… I don’t think I’ll be able to get the paint out. I’ll replace it, but you should probably go put on another before John gets home.” He could tell something was off but not what, so he simply stated, “You’re painting again.” You didn’t even bother to scold him for pointing out the obvious, turning to look at your painting with a tiny smile, “Yes. I just woke up and felt like doing so… That hasn’t happened in a while.”

Sherlock got the smuggest of smug looks on his face, “My experiment was a success. The minds of average people are so easily distracted by the physical.” You froze in your examination of your painting, an unsettling chill running through you, “What?” Overly proud of himself and cocky as all hell, he missed the slight hint of unease in your voice, “I hypothesized that reassociating the act of painting with something of a positive nature that overloaded the senses would override the negative effects of your past experiences. From your success this morning, the intense physical contact of an affirming nature overruled the issues plaguing you before- in effect resetting your simplistic mind to allow you to paint again. I suppose there are benefits to having a normal brain.” “So this was all part of your experiment?” you queried, your voice dangerously quiet. “Of course.”   Your face fell for a moment before you composed yourself and then announced, “You should go. John will be back from Amy’s soon.”

It was more evident that something was wrong now given the demanding edge to your voice but, as usual, that was as far as he got- if you didn’t want him to know your thoughts then he wouldn’t know them. It bothered him that he could only ascertain that you were upset but not why and since it obviously wasn’t over being able to paint again, as that was a good thing, he decided it must be about your friend. Of course, he was wrong but what can you do? He got up to leave because you were right- John would be home soon- and he still didn’t do the whole comforting thing, especially not when you wanted him out. You moved back to your painting, distracting yourself by working on one of the more detailed corners as you mumbled, “Don’t forget your violin.” Once he'd gone, you stopped, your jaw clenching in thought, and decided to try and clear your head by taking a shower to get rid of the paint on your skin reminding you of the night before. When you’d woken up that morning you weren’t sure how to act, you felt guilty about his ruined shirt, and then you began to question the whole thing. You’d distracted yourself by painting since that was what had woken you up in the first place but when he’d got up and said what he said- all the doubts came rushing back. You scolded yourself as the water ran down your skin, you knew he was just curious and that it wouldn’t be anything more. He’d been using you to figure out another aspect of human behavior, it was your fault for getting caught up in it since you’d know that from the start. You could hardly be mad at him for suddenly catching more feelings than either of your intended. You hadn’t even wanted a relationship… when had that changed? When did you start wanting more? You considered it for a moment, it wasn’t as though he didn’t care… he had helped you with your painting even if the how hadn’t been exactly what you’d expected. But then again, it may have been just so that he didn’t have to go through the tedious task of getting you out of work every time he wanted something from you. Maybe John had been right- you weren’t an experiment and letting him treat you as such was messing you up. Clean and dressed, you looked over your apartment, entirely conflicted, and debated what you should do next. You could lie on the floor and think but that didn’t sound appealing at all- your thoughts were too jumbled. You could let the need to be destructive that was creeping into your chest take over but that was hardly productive or helpful- not to mention you’d have to clean up later. There was only one other option and out of the three it seemed the best- you could paint and lose yourself in it... might as well put the results of Sherlock’s ‘experiment’ to good use. You cranked up some music on your stereo system to a ‘don’t disturb me’ level, a painting playlist of random unrelated songs that you liked, set up a new palette after washing your brushes and getting new water, and then set aside the painting you’d been working on in favor of a blank white canvas. Best not to think about how that one was made, you reasoned as you mixed a starting color. You let yourself get lost in the action, spreading bold strokes of reds and yellows over the surface as you let out all the emotions you’d been holding inside for so long. John broke into a wide grin when he came home and heard your odd choice in music, knowing it meant you were painting again as he climbed the stairs to his flat. Sherlock was spread out on the couch as usual, deep in thought, and John rolled his eyes as he went into the kitchen. Your music shut off just before noon, when your alarm went off the remind you that you had to go to work, and John came down to see how you were doing just as you were locking the door to your flat, “How’s the painting going, Squeak?” You sighed, “Good I suppose. Certainly better then it has been.” He stopped you when you went to leave, pushing the hair escaping your bun behind your ear, “What’s the matter, (F/n)? That’s a good thing, isn’t it? You should be happy.” You forced a small grin, “I am, Johnny. I’ve just got a lot on my mind is all.” “Like what?” You chuckled, removing yourself from his grasp, “Like work. I’ve gotta go.” He frowned as you left, you should have been ecstatic about being able to paint again...what was so pressing in your mind that it had stolen the wind from your sails? Climbing the stairs again, he went to see if Sherlock knew anything, reaching for the half-full mug of coffee next to him to get his attention. Sherlock’s eyes snapped open to glare at him for trying to touch his mug, effectively halting John's advance, “What?” “Do you have any idea what’s got (F/n) looking so troubled?” “Not in the slightest.” John huffed, unconvinced but unwilling to press, and plopped down in his chair as Sherlock went back to thinking. He’d enjoyed the night before, snippets of it kept replaying in his mind, and he’d never slept better but, for some reason, he couldn’t shake what had happened when he’d woken up. Social conventions and his study of human behavior on the subject told him that the thoughtless masses determined the morning after to be a complex moment. He didn’t understand why. It seemed to him that it could go one of two ways: your partner could slip away before it was light and never call or they could remain and continue the relationship. He’d stayed. Simple. So why had you been so nervous? He supposed it had something to do with your past as you were displaying signs of distress over something as unimportant as the state of his shirt but then you’d also told him to leave- a complete turn around from the night before when you suggested he shower with you. He’d done everything right and yet something was wrong. He was missing something… it had to be some odd facet of human behavior that he hadn’t considered. The only question was which one…

Tags <3:

@team-free-sherlock @multifandom-ramblings @madshelily @severusminerva @yes-but-theyre-my-dorks @smitemewiththysherlock @not-fandom-addicted @unknownwonder @deducingdevil @aviien @mrsfrankensteinsworld​ @lolamurphy @bakerstreethound @musical-doll-x @protectteamfreewill @delightful-pirate @lilcutekittykat @broke-and-overwhelmed @adri1ii @turtle-at-the-disco @fanfictionsilove @chasedbyhowlingwolves @thorkyrie-rights

[ladyoutlier]

A Demon’s Demons

In which questions are answered and solutions are found.

[Read on AO3] | [Chapter 3]

Chapter 4: Resolving Sins

As Aziraphale and Crowley stepped off the boat and onto the empty docks, a smell much like that of sulfur took precedence in the air. The wind crackled and popped, and the environment gave off all the signs of warning for volcanic activity which was extremely odd given that Scotland didn’t have any volcanoes. The captain, that was leading them off the dock, took off running for the main building.

The concrete cracked and black smoke poured from it. The fiery smell grew stronger. Then, an arm shot out from the smoke like that of a zombie from a grave. It tore itself up out of the ground, unveiling its owner to be that of Lord Beezlebub who, despite coming from Hell, didn’t look so hot.

“Crowley,” they growled as they pulled themselves along on the ground. “You vile traitor!”

“Loved the entrance,” Crowley replied as the Lord of Flies struggled to stand. “But it’s not Halloween just yet.”

“How did you do it?!?” Beezlebub limped towards him. “Past every devil and demon?!?”

“Sorry, what now?”

“Don’t play the fool. You released all the Sinzzz as revenge for us releasing yourzzz.”

“Oh really now?” Crowley smirked. This was too easy. “I did warn you to leave me alone. Shame you didn’t listen to that.”

“We will find a way to destroy you for thizzz. Once the hallway is fixed and we discorporate ourselvezz into being az fine as you seem to be.” A terrible shiver made its way through them.

“You’re not, um, feeling better yourself?” Aziraphale asked, taking a tentative step forward.

Beezlebub spat in Aziraphale’s direction. It burned through the concrete. “Thizzz doesn’t concern you, Principality. If thizz findz itz way to Heaven’zzz earz, we’ll find a meanz to your end as well.”

Crowley stepped between his ex-boss and Aziraphale. His eyes narrowed. “Have to say, it was real brave of you to come here all alone. You really don’t know what we’re capable of, do you?”

“You would’ve done something by now.”

“You might like playing your best card first, but I like to build up to it.”

“And destruction would be an acceptable alternative than living through this again,” Beezlebub replied through gritted teeth. They fell to a knee.

“Oh come off it. All you lot have to do is fix up the Sin prison. You got off easy.”

“A tormented demon isn’t a reliable worker. You know how long it took to build the first time.”

“Well then,” Crowley began with a growing grin. “What are you wasting your time here for?”

“You’ve bought yourself some time, Crowley. But it won’t be long before the last grain of sand falls. I don’t know how you fixed yourself without destroying that body, but we will reunite you with your Sinzzz once again, and then you won’t be gifted the privilege of living on Earth with your pain. After this, all of Hell wants to see you struggle.”

With that, Lord Beezlebub melted into the ground and evaporated into a swarm of flies, leaving the Earth to deal with a Hell that was a lot more hellish than it had been in quite some time. The smokey air began to dissipate and time seemed to resume as normal as the birds ended their intermission and begin to sing once more.

“That was… odd,” Aziraphale said as the demonic traces finally wore off.

“They couldn’t even punish me without screwing over themselves. Bellends, the whole lot of them. Things like this almost make me think that God gives a damn.”

“Crowley, did you notice what I did?”

“Which is what?”

“That Beezlebub was in pain that whole time and that they seemed to think you had successfully separated from your Sins.”

“Yeah?”

“Wouldn’t my aura have helped them as well?”

The demon opened his mouth to speak but then clamped it shut. That was odd, wasn’t it? Why would Aziraphale’s aura help him and not Beezlebub? They had both lost their own angelic aura, so shouldn’t they both be relieved by one?

“That, uh—yeah, that’s strange.” Crowley rubbed the back of his neck.

“There has to be a reason for the discrepancy, right? Perhaps, something that might provide more insight on the whole ordeal?”

“If there’s an answer I don’t have it. Better with questions, myself. Not the best at coming up with the answers.”

“You did think up the plan for us to avert the Apocalypse.”

“One, the End of the World is a great motivator, and two, the plan involved us hanging about the wrong boy for six years. So yeah, answers aren’t my specialty.”

“Could it have something to do with our relationship? That we have known each other for so long and have come to work well together? Perhaps that makes you compatible with my aura but not any other demon.”

“Dunno. For all we know, it could just be because you want to help me and nothing more.” The demon looked back out to the water.

No matter how much he tried to downplay the reason, Crowley couldn’t hide that fact that he was a special case. He was the only demon that could bare their Sins and it was completely because for some reason Aziraphale took away all that pain in him. There was some connection between the two of them that could no longer be shrugged off by geographically similar assignments and shared history. There was something a bit more powerful there that he really didn’t want to think about right now.

“Look,” Crowley continued. “I doubt we’re going to figure all this out in a parking lot, and given the sun’s position, I think we’ve stayed past our welcome.”

Aziraphale looked to the horizon. The sun was indeed setting and long shadows were stretched onto Loch Ness. “Seems that way.”

“We booking a local place or going back to your shop?”

“Actually, I thought we’d spend the night at your place, dear.”

“My place?”

“Well, we spent the past evening at mine, so it’s only fair that we spend this one at yours. It’s hardly fair to force you to spend all your time in my abode. Don’t want to deprive you of your personal space. That is, unless you’d rather not have me there. If it would be an invasion of your privacy.”

“Nah. Told you way more private stuff in the past twenty-four hours than you’d ever find out from my flat. Just don’t really have all the homey stuff there. Thought you would’ve picked up on that from your last visit.”

“Your flat does lack the qualities of a lived-in home, but that’s hardly an issue for us, is it? We could simply spruce the place up for an evening and have it all gone by morning.”

“Oh, that’s going to be one abomination of a sitting room.”

“It will also be a very comfortable one.”

With a roll of his eyes at Aziraphale’s pleasant disposition, Crowley snapped his fingers and the two of them appeared in his flat in all of its dim lighting. The dark color palette of the place didn’t help with that either. A spotlight could be hung from the ceiling and the blacks and greys of the walls would still make the room look dark. Both the angel and demon readjusted themselves with the new locale.

“You’ve got plenty of room in here, dear. I could see a nice reading chair there. Perhaps a loveseat there. Couple of nice lamps to give the place a wonderful glow,” Aziraphale said as he walked around Crowley’s rather minimalistic living space.

“Knock yourself out. Just make the loveseat something longer. Don’t see much point in a couch you can’t lie down on.”

“This is your place, Crowley. You can make it however you want. I was merely suggesting some things since you said it wasn’t very homey.”

“No, I want to see what you’ll do with it. Call me curious.”

The angel’s face brightened into an expression much like that of a bride’s when choosing a wedding dress. “Well, if you insist.”

Aziraphale walked about the space once more this time with a bit more spring in his step. His eyes glanced from here to there, seeing things that weren’t in existence just yet. He clasped his hands together and hurried back to Crowley’s side. He took one more look to the demon before snapping his fingers.

In a quick succession, a fury of overstuffed cushions poofed into existence on top a set of fluffy seating. A curved L-shaped couch found itself in the corner. An antique accent chair and ottoman appeared across from it. And a round, glass coffee table between the two. Flashes of cream, tan, and the occasional soft blue whipped about as the furniture came into existence. And though the upholstery matched those colors, all the wooden bits were a much deeper one, the stain almost taking the appearance of black paint. The whole arrangement clashed with itself quite horribly, but at the same time, it worked. It was a mix of grandma’s house and that nice bank all the rich people go to.

“There,” Aziraphale said as the room settled. “Now, I think that’s jolly good.”

“I like it.” Crowley nonchalantly threw himself onto the couch.

“Really? I tried to throw some of your elements into it all so it would go with the rest of the place. I just couldn’t go all the way with it. So dark and dreary.”

“Am a demon. Have to live the part, y’know? Or had to I guess.”

Aziraphale lifted an eyebrow at that. He moved to the chair he had summoned for himself. “Yes, indeed. We’re a bit more free to do as we wish, aren’t we? No longer have to hide our meetings or fit within the cookie cutter guideline our opposing sides set for us.”

“A plus to the End Times.”

“It’s definitely a positive result, but the infinite choices now available are a bit overwhelming. I find myself doing the same things as before all this.”

“And what would you like to be doing?”

“Oh, I’m not quite sure.” The angel looked to Crowley. He actually was quite sure, but they still weren’t talking about it. “Perhaps, this is nice enough on its own. If a change is to happen, let it happen naturally.”

“Naturally for you means at least a couple of centuries.”

“It’s not like we’re short on time, dear.”

“Suppose you’re right there.”

Crowley snapped his own fingers, and a fireplace appeared on the wall behind them, warmly lit. It wasn’t yet the season for evenings by the fire, but demons loved their heat. Especially snakey ones. The crackle of the crispy logs took up the silent, empty air.

“But,” Aziraphale continued, picking the conversation back up. “Given our new predicament, natural progression might be a bit too slow.”

“Sorry, what—what are you talking about? Lost me somewhere in there.”

“Oh, just filling the air. Nothing in particular.” The angel grabbed a book from the ether. “I’ve been meaning to read Poe’s work for some time, but it’s always seemed too grim to get started on. I suppose the atmosphere radiating from your flat makes this an appropriate time to finally pick his work up.”

Crowley tilted his head. That was a rather quick change of the subject. “Go for it. I’ll just be resting my eyes then.”

Aziraphale tucked his nose into his book, and Crowley rolled onto his back, staring at the ceiling. The room felt deep. As if everything about it was wearing a mask caused by their conversation. The occasional evening with Aziraphale would end up that way. As if they were both playing the parts with something rather different on both of their minds. It often left Crowley feeling as though he had wasted an opportunity. What that opportunity was in itself was a completely different issue.

There were going to be a lot more of these evenings in increasing numbers with them being practically handcuffed to each other now. Why the angel was so fine with bearing it for him, Crowley didn’t know. It had to be such a leech on his quality of life. Stuck in every moment without a shred of privacy. Aziraphale, despite being an all-loving being, did like his own space. Crowley knew that bookshop of his wasn’t that big when he had first got it. But Aziraphale was sacrificing all of that for him to not be bent over in constant pain.

Sure, the angel just couldn’t leave him, and Crowley never thought he would. They had literally gone to the End of the World together. Both exiled from their place of employment. They only had each other. Still, Aziraphale was just fine being stuck this way forever. Together. And Crowley really couldn’t wrap his brain around that. Or maybe he wouldn’t wrap his brain around it.

Course he had no problem spending all his time with Aziraphale. If he was being honest, which he hardly did, there was no better way to spend his time. But surely Aziraphale had better ways to spend his time than hang about him.

Why was Aziraphale always the answers to his problems? An eternity of Sin evil enough to knock him out of Heaven and Aziraphale somehow cancels all that out. Why? 

The angel cares about him. He said it earlier and actually meant it. Not in the way that he cares about every person, plant, or animal he comes across. An angel wouldn’t tie themselves to a petunia for the rest of existence to keep it from feeling pain. Especially pain derived from a punishment bestowed by the Almighty.

Crowley draped his arm over the arm of the couch, feeling the cool, wooden trim along it. They didn’t have to be friends. From day one, they could’ve made that clear. Started up the rivalry of the ages, but he hadn’t instigated that and then Aziraphale didn’t either. They had always minded each other respectfully. And then it took a turn for something more friendly. And then… well, who knows.

Six thousand years and here they were. Where did that put them? Crowley looked to Aziraphale who looked so immersed in his book that the demon suspected that he wasn’t actually paying any attention to it at all. A suspicion arose in Crowley’s mind that the two of them were having a very similar but completely separate stream of consciousness. And if that was the case, then maybe it was time to stop playing around the subject.

The room still wore a mask, but Crowley was starting to see through it. Whether what he was seeing was accurate, he didn’t know. All he knew was that whatever the opportunity lurking in the air tonight was, he wasn’t going to miss it.

“Aziraphale,” he began, causing the angel to look up from his book. “What are we?”

“Well, I am an angel and you are—”

“You know what I mean.”

“I’m, uh, not sure I do.” Aziraphale clumsily shut his book and dropped it onto his lap. He did know, but saying that seemed much too scary.

Crowley sat up and took his sunglasses off. “I’m not saying we need to label anything. Horribly human thing to do. Some things are beyond words, y’know. But we’ve thrown each other plenty of bones throughout the centuries when we were supposed to do anything but. And well, you mentioned earlier that our relationship may have something to do with this giant mess we’re in.”

“Where are you going with this, Crowley?”

“You don’t see a lot of demons caring about anyone down in Hell, and despite anything you might say, I don’t feel like a lot of angels Upstairs do either. But I care an awful lot about you. And I know we’re more for silent communication regarding whatever we are, but I just want to put it out there directly for once. I goddamn love you. I really do.”

Aziraphale stood and joined Crowley on the couch. He took the demon’s hands in his own. “I suppose we are rather indirect with these things. A harsh consequence of six thousand years of secrecy if I had to guess.  I very much love you too.” The angel smiled. “It does feel quite good to say out loud although not as good as hearing you say it.”

“Even the goddamn part?”

“I’ve chosen not to hear that twice now.”

“I was really hoping I was reading all the signs right. Kept telling myself there was no way. Just an angel good at being an angel. Friendly disposition and a knack for understanding the world as it is. Good to learn it was more than that.”

“I wish we could’ve had this conversation sooner. Of course, that wasn’t really all that possible until recently. Just our meetings were risky enough.”

“What you said back at Loch Ness. I think you were right.”

“I said a number of things at Loch Ness.”

“About our relationship being the reason for me being fine in your company.”

Aziraphale’s eyes widened, and he let out an audible gasp. “Oh, love, of course! Above all, love each other deeply, because love covers over a multitude of sins.”

“Yeah, yeah. Bible quotes. Lovely. Point is, we figured it out.”

“Absolutely fantastic. A real hurrah moment if I do say.” Aziraphale released Crowley’s hands to clap his own. “Does this lead us anywhere? In terms of resolving your Sins for good?”

Crowley stood up. “Well, if it does have to do with the idea of personal forgiveness like you said, I, uh, might be making good progress on that.”

“Oh, Crowley.”

“Because specifically—given the context of everything relevant now—maybe all that Falling stuff doesn’t really matter. What was right and wrong and whether I’ve been screwed over from it and that the Almighty should just go shove it. All of it kind of pales, right?” The demon took a few tentative steps back. “None of any of that matters a damn as long as you give one about me. Course I’m still not too fond of the whole memory, but maybe I’m a bit less concerned on what I could’ve done differently.”

By the time he finished talking, the demon was halfway across the room, much further from Aziraphale than he had peacefully been from him in a couple of days. He held his breath. The moment passed. And another after that. And still, he felt fine. A grin found its way to his face. One that didn’t have a hint of mischief or smugness to it, but one that embodied a weight-lifting happiness.

“Well, there you go, huh. Would you look at that?” Crowley said, throwing his arms out. “Simple as that.”

Aziraphale rushed over to Crowley, and, taking the demon’s open arms as an invitation, proceeded to hug him. Crowley, although surprised at first, quickly melted into the embrace.

“Why that’s absolutely fantastic!” Aziraphale began. “One piece of the puzzle was key to solving the rest of it.” He pulled away slightly to look at Crowley. “Imagine you’re the first demon to be in this position, dear. You’re quite literally overcome your Sins. Does that even make you a demon anymore?”

“Who cares? We’re whatever we want to be. Demon, angel, or even a bloody human. Doesn’t matter as long as it’s me and you.”

Aziraphale’s smile gained a renewed warmth and he fell back onto Crowley’s shoulder. He let the moment settle into his mind before voicing the idea he had been playing with since their run in with the Lord of Flies a few hours ago.

“I think we should cause Downstairs just the pinch of trouble for what they put you through,” he whispered into Crowley’s ear.

“And what exactly do you suggest?” The demon’s chest vibrated as he talked.

Aziraphale took a deep breath and pulled away once again. Something with the possible ramifications of this required an eye to eye conversation. Still, their arms remained brushed up against each other.

“I might have formulated some thoughts for a letter to Heaven informing them of, ah, Hell’s vulnerability. I doubt they’ll take it completely seriously given my association to you and our work to avert the End Times, but perhaps they’ll get involved just enough to be a nuisance to your former employers.”

Crowley nodded his head. “Now, you see, it’s things like that which makes me love you. I think that’s just the added stress Downstairs needs.”

The rest of the night was spent with an inkwell, quill, and a square of old parchment along with a variety of century-old wine. Aziraphale and Crowley could’ve had their distance now. Stretch their legs. Feel their personal bubble return to them. But neither of them thought much of it. After six thousand years of being too afraid to get too close to one another, breaking physical contact was the last thing either of them desired.

*

Epilogue

In Hell, amongst the screams and cries of millions of anguished demons and the clinking and clanking of industrial work, was the ring of an old rotary telephone. A certain Lord Beezlebub who was more sloped out of their throne that in it, shakely clutched the receiver and yanked it to their ear.

“What?!?” they demanded into it. 

Their flies were rather numerous today, and in their own uncomfortableness couldn’t sit still. The smoke was also overly thick today. The fires had gotten out of hand since the Sins got loose. A demon would boil over and set fire to everything within twenty feet of them. Six millennia of architecture was crumbling alarmingly quickly.

“Uh, hey you don’t sound that good. Seems like our intel was right,”  the voice of Archangel Gabriel spoke from the other side of the line.

“What intel?!? I’m perfectly fine. Speaking to you would put any being in a sour mood.”

 The Lord of Flies felt their eyes roll into the back of their head. Their face scrunched up, shoving all the pain out of their voice. The other demons could be weak enough to fall apart, but not them. If they fell apart, Hell would never get fixed, and they’d all be stuck like this forever. There was a bigger curse than Falling to having stood so close to Lucifer that day in Heaven.

“Yeah, I don’t have to tell you anything.” Gabriel replied with a voice that made it clear he was shrugging as he spoke. “The world might not have ended as planned, but that doesn’t mean we’re all even. Oh, no, this little predicament all of you are in down there is just what we needed to pull ahead in this celestial race.”

A large crash clattered in the distance. The sound of metal on metal rang harshly into Beezlebub’s ears. Just another grievance to tack on. Accurate miracles were an impossibility when under the pain of Falling Sins. Another load of supplies for the hallway must’ve surely found themselves hurled over a cliff. Or perhaps another worker had finally lost it and was going on a rampage. That happened enough without the increased incentive. Currently, everything was three steps forward followed by two back.

“All this predicament has done for uz iz reawaken our despisement for all of you up there. Apocalypse or not. Heaven will burn. I’ll start the firezzz myself.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t be threatening us, Beez. We don’t need a war on to fight anymore. And it seems like you’re at quite the disadvantage right now.”

“Try and come here to fight uz. Hell iz looking more like itz beginning days. Hellfire every three steps. It’z what happenzzzz when demonzzz can’t control their powerz. It getzzz explosive.”

As they said this, a boom went off somewhere else entirely. Probably was the supplies that got chucked over the cliff. Progress needed to be viewed under a microscope to be seen. Even an elevator ride with a crate of building supplies wasn’t a guaranteed success.

“Nice to know,” Gabriel replied after the ringing from the explosion wore off. “We’ll take that into consideration as we tear down your past three centuries’ worth of work. Oh, and I’ll send over some flowers and a get well card. Can’t call us heartless. We are the good guys.”

With that, Beezlebub was met with a dial tone. They crushed the phone in their hand. The circuitry and wiring popping out and sparking as the receiver cracked. As it crumbled, they threw the remainder of the device across the room where it hit a particular pathetic demon curled up into the fetal position on the ground.

“Crowley!” the Lord of Flies screamed. Their voice deafened the pained cries in every layer of Hell. “The Earth will burn. Sizzle and crackle until it’zzzzz no more. A pile of ash. Every demon, devil, imp, and gargoyle will tear that planet apart until it iz no more, and you are dragged back down here to suffer like the rest of uz!”

Flames burned behind their eyes. That was a promise they were set on keeping.

[Read My Other Fics]

[theinkquiry]

Wei Wuxian's New Year's Eve Plan!

Pairing: WangXian (Wei Wuxian X Lan Wangji)

Prompt: Nie Huaisang is hosting a New Year’s Eve party, and Wei Wuxian finds himself the only one without someone to kiss at the end of the night. It’s a good thing he has a plan to get himself results by the end of the night. But really, there’s only one person he wants a kiss from…

A/N: Alright... here it is everyone. I’ve exposed myself. Welcome to a new era. A light and fluffy Modern AU piece to ring in the new year the WangXian way. Happy New Year everyone!

support me on twitter and Ao3!

The party was in full swing by the time Wei Wuxian arrived with his siblings in tow. New Year’s Eve traffic had been insane. Poor Little Apple almost broke down twice on the way over. Music was blasting out of overhead speakers, and a whole group of people were dancing like it was the end of the world. Drinks sloshed around in fancy champagne glasses and strobe lights swept the floor.

Navigating the crowd would have been a nightmare, but Nie Huaisang was at the door like clockwork to greet his new guests.

“Hey guys! You made it!” The youngest Nie brother handed each of them a drink. Wei Wuxian finished his in one gulp while his siblings wondered how the glass got in their hands so fast. “What took so long?”

Wei Wuxian chuckled. “Oh you know me. I always arrive fashionably late and fashionably dressed.” He pulled at his sparkly red zip-up, layered atop a tasteful black t-shirt.

“Oh, please!” Jiang Cheng rolled his eyes. “We were late since you spent ten minutes crying because you couldn’t find red sneakers to match with your pants!”

“It’s important that they don’t clash with my color palette!” Wei Wuxian motioned to his footwear, which paired well with his jeans.

Jiang Yanli put a hand on each of their shoulders. “Enough, you guys. It’s a new year!”

After making them both promise to be on their best behavior, she left them to find Jin Zixuan. The guy was probably off somewhere flexing his latest watch purchase or whatever else it was peacocks were so fond of doing. Wei Wuxian still had no clue why his sweet elder sister would go for a pretentious guy like him, but the universe worked in mysterious ways.

“Sorry I was late,” Jiang Cheng mumbled into Nie Huaisang’s hair. Huaisang shook his head, whispering something in his ear and kissing his cheek.

Not a second in, and Wei Wuxian cooed at how quickly his younger brother’s resolve crumbled around his boyfriend. Jiang Cheng was blushing, most likely thankful for the dark atmosphere so that no one would be able to see him.

He must have sensed the mental camera Wei Wuxian was wielding to capture the moment for later teasing purposes, because Jiang Cheng shot him a glare. “Don’t you have somewhere to be?”

“Oh yeah!” Nie Huaisang cut in before the two could engage in another sibling argument. “Who’re you going to kiss at midnight, Wei-ge?”

Wei Wuxian put his hands on his hips. “I have no clue! But don’t worry, there’s a plan!”

Jiang Cheng scoffed. “Please don’t tell me you were serious about that ludicrous idea you were telling A-jie and I about in the car.”

“What’s so bad about it?”

Nie Huaisang tugged on Jiang Cheng’s sleeve, leaning his head on his shoulder. “What happened in the car?”

Jiang Cheng groaned while Wei Wuxian’s eyes glinted with mischief. “I was telling them about the plan where I stand on the balcony and wait for my one true love to plant one on me!”

“It’s so dumb!” Jiang Cheng insisted. “Who in their right mind would do something like that? Besides, it’s not like you want just anyone to waltz up to you. You want… what?”

Wei Wuxian was giving his brother a look like he knew something the other didn’t. The older brother may be single, but even he still had more tact and charm in the romance department than poor Jiang Cheng. His attention was drawn to the shorter man who was on his shoulder.

The look on Jiang Cheng’s face was priceless when he saw Nie Huaisang’s signature panicked look. “H-Huaisang? What’s wrong?”

Huaisang wiped away imaginary tears. He crossed his arms with a hmph! “I gave Wei-ge that idea! D-do you think I’m dumb?”

Wei Wuxian cackled the entire way towards the drinks bar as he heard his little brother try and do damage control behind him. He squeezed his way through the crowd as their bodies pulsed to the blaring bass. This wasn’t his first time around at one of Huaisang’s parties, so he knew what to expect. Despite carrying two bottles of Emperor’s Smile in his hands, not a single drop spilled.

He made it to the other side. His legs stumbled a bit as he pulled himself apart from the last dancer. Though he was a “people person,” Wei Wuxian found it much more fun to sit back and watch the action.

Besides, this gave him the perfect chance to scope out his potential New Year’s kiss. There was no way he was ending this night solo. What kind of world would it be if Jiang Cheng got a kiss but he didn’t?

But the party was swarming with couples. Everyone he knew was there! His sister was hanging out with the peacock crew, outclassing them as usual. Mianmian was dancing off to the side a bit with her girlfriend. Nie Mingjue and Lan Xichen stuck out as the two tallest people in the room by the bar. Though the Lan didn’t drink, he was having fun watching his boyfriend show off his arms as if they were meeting for the first time. He even spotted Xiao Xingchen and Song Lan on the couch looking quite comfortable laying next to one another.

What kind of party was this? There were no fish left in the sea! Well, that wasn’t entirely true, but to be honest Wei Wuxian was being rather picky with his options. The girls he usually had flirtatious conversations wouldn’t do. He wasn’t there to lead them on, and everyone involved knew it was just for a good laugh. And there was no way in hell he was going to kiss someone like Jin Guangyao. All that was left was…

“Lan Zhan!” He greeted the quiet man who had materialized next to him. “I didn’t realize you came to parties like these.”

And he didn’t, at least not often. Whatever the reason was for Lan Zhan’s presence, Wei Wuxian wasn’t complaining. The Lan wore a light blue turtleneck and white scarf. Somehow not a drop of sweat was on him despite the packed room. His composed stance and neutral expression made it seem like he was in a library rather than the hottest New Year’s Eve rager in the city.

“You look great!” Wei Wuxian shouted though they were right next to one another.

Lan Zhan nodded. “You too.”

Wei Wuxian felt his heart skip a beat at the compliment. Discreet as it was, it was a far cry from the disdain Lan Zhan used to have for him as a teenager. Nowadays, they didn’t see each other often. But Wei Wuxian felt inexplicably drawn to the man, and always ran into him when he least expected it.

They had a bunch of impromptu lunches together. Wei Wuxian would talk about everything going on in life and Lan Zhan would sit in silence and pay for all the meals. No matter what Jiang Cheng said, it did not count as a date. They were just… hanging out! Catching up! No way did Lan Zhan want to be with someone like Wei Wuxian.

He was loud, gaudy, and Lan Zhan’s uncle had a grudge against him since forever. So no matter what, Wei Wuxian tried not to think too much about how Lan Zhan always smelled amazing. Or how he was hilarious if anyone bothered to pay attention to the lines of his face (which Wei Ying always did). Or even how he was surprisingly great with kids. Wei Wuxian was lucky to be able to have Lan Zhan as a friend. It would be unfair to push for more.

“What’s….” Lan Zhan started.

Wei Wuxian raised his brows. Lan Zhan wasn’t the type to start talking first.

He must have noticed the other’s intrigue. Lan Zhan cleared his throat and began again. “What’s your New Year’s Resolution?”

“That was such a stiff question!” Wei Wuxian almost choked on his beer. Why did Lan Zhan have to be so cute even when he was awkward? Still, it would not be fair if the question was unanswered. Lan Zhan was doing his best! Wei Wuxian had to support him. “I don’t have one.”

Lan Zhan tilted his head. It was clear he was out of conversation topics. That was alright, Wei Wuxian was never one to leave silence between them.

“Why, what’s yours? Wait! Let me guess… you want to… get a girlfriend?” Wei Wuxian grinned, elbowing Lan Zhan’s arm.

The man frowned.

“No? Then let me guess. Probably something that you already do perfectly. Like work, right?”

He shook his head.

“Still no? Haha, don’t worry. I’ll get it soon. I don’t have all night, though.” At this, Lan Zhan’s interest was piqued. Bingo! Wei Wuxian congratulated himself on the inside. “You see, I don’t have anyone to kiss at midnight. But not for long!”

Now Lan Zhan was very interested. Wei Wuxian couldn’t for the life of him figure out why, though. It’s not like Lan Zhan to show jealousy. Though, out of all their mutual friends, the two of them were the only single ones left. Lan Zhan probably didn’t want to be the last one left.

“Huaisang helped me come up with a plan. I’m going to stand on that balcony over there.” Wei Wuxian pointed towards the spot. It was empty, as if waiting for him to go over. “Then at midnight, I’ll close my eyes and kiss whoever is out there with me.”

Lan Zhan had the funniest look on his face. Through the flashy lights, his golden eyes widened. Mouth agape and looking a little lost, Wei Wuxian wished he could take out his phone to freeze this moment in time. He felt a little bad, though. Maybe Lan Zhan wasn’t the best person to tell.

Still, a part of Wei Wuxian wanted to in hopes that Lan Zhan would sweep in at the last moment and confess his feelings or something. It was a ridiculous thought. Lan Zhan would never do something so brash.

Wei Wuxian scratched the back of his head. “D-don’t worry! Huaisang promised that he’s gonna personally send someone out for me. On scout’s honor!”

Lan Zhan blinked. “I did not know Nie Huaisang was a scout.”

Wei Wuxian paused for a moment. Holy shit Lan Zhan just made a joke! A melodious laugh burst out of Wei Wuxian. He steadied himself against the wall. It was always when he least expected it.

“Don’t you worry, Lan Zhan. Who’s the worst person he could send in? Jin Guangyao?” Wei Wuxian continued laughing, but his friend did not share the same enthusiasm. He stopped. “Just to clarify, I am not kissing Jin Guangyao.”

Why did he have to say it like that? Now Lan Zhan was going to think he was even more of a shameless deviant than he already was!

Before he could ruin things even more, the world granted him a break in the form of a drunk Jiang Cheng stumbling over their way. Nie Huaisang trailed after him, phone held up against his lips. Oh he was definitely recording to tease his boyfriend later.

“Looks like you two made up,” Wei Wuxian observed. “What did you make him do?”

Nie Huaisang shrugged. “Not much. Three shots. In a row. He’s a little tipsy, but I’ll take care of him. Won’t I, A-Cheng?”

Jiang Cheng murmured something in a voice that could be described as whiny before pulling Huaisang into a hug. He peppered kisses all atop Huaisang’s head. The host put his phone away, reaching up to pat the taller man’s cheek.

“What’re you two up to?” Huaisang asked.

“I’m telling Lan Zhan about the plan!” Wei Wuxian answered.

“Oh? Is that so? And what are Wangji’s thoughts?”

Jiang Cheng slurred, “It’s s-so dumb… L-Lan Wangji’s right! There!”

Lan Zhan huffed. He thought for a second before replying. “Ridiculous.”

Wei Wuxian laughed at the predictability of the answer, but Huaisang kept his knowing smile. “Interesting you say that.”

The three of them plus a tipsy Jiang Cheng kept on chatting for a little while. It was mostly Huaisang and Wei Wuxian talking while taking an occasional break to mess with the drunk Jiang brother. The whole exchange, Wei Wuxian couldn’t help but notice that Huaisang’s eyes kept sliding to the side. It wasn’t enough to call out, but enough to make Wei Wuxian wonder what the man had planned for him at the end of the night.

But Wei Wuxian was glad to have Lan Zhan to keep him company the whole night. Even though he didn’t drink, his presence was one of Wei Wuxian’s favorites. When asked a question, the man was precise; he didn’t put on any airs. And he never left when Wei Wuxian began to blather on about something wild and out there. In fact, getting those exasperated sighs and eye-rolls was a bit of a guilty pleasure for Wei Wuxian (minus the guilt).

It wasn’t hard to have chatted the entire evening away.

Before long, it was the last few minutes before midnight. The mood of the entire room changed. The lights dimmed to a low orange glow, and voices began to quiet down.

“Ah, it looks like it’s almost time.” Wei Wuxian gave Lan Zhan a sympathetic smile. In truth, he was sad to leave the man’s side as well. But a plan was a plan, and he still wanted that New Year’s kiss. Maybe next year, he’d be able to get the man he wanted. “We’ll see each other soon for food, right? My treat this time, I promise!”

“Mn.” Lan Zhan nodded. He looked a bit down. Wei Wuxian tried not to let it bother him as he turned away and headed for the balcony.

Winter air hit his face as soon as he stepped outside. It was cold as hell! As great as he looked, his sparkly red jacket did little to pack in any insulation. Wei Wuxian wrapped his arms around himself, rubbing up and down to generate some heat. Puffs of his breath were visible as he willed himself to stay still.

The city was quite dazzling. There were people all over the streets. The world froze as the countdown began. A couple of snowflakes began to fall from the sky. Each soft white drop landed with grace against his skin.

He shivered. Through the sliding door, he could hear the partygoers inside count down.

Five!

He closed his eyes.

Four!

He heard the door open.

Three!

Footsteps came towards him.

Two!

Strong hands held his arms.

One!

Lips crashed into his, and Wei Wuxian had to open his eyes.

When he did, his legs almost gave in. Little bits of snow clung onto black hair. A white scarf billowed through the city air. And warm lips captured his in a searing, intense, heart-racing kiss. Wei Wuxian’s eyes blinked once, and Lan Zhan’s warm golden ones met his.

He let go, and it was cold again. Wei Wuxian felt his face heat up. Lan Zhan- it was Lan Zhan who was his midnight kiss!

“It’s you!” Wei Wuxian was shocked to the core. He was so happy, he couldn’t even move. There weren’t enough words he could come up with to express how he felt.

Lan Zhan stood there, looking quite sheepish all of a sudden. That wouldn’t do. Wei Wuxian took a step forward and used his hands to cup the Lan’s face. He could almost cry out of relief. “It’s you…”

Lan Zhan moved his hands to hold the ones on his face. “Wei Ying…”

No words sufficed, so Wei Wuxian closed his eyes and leaned in once more. This time, he really savored every sensation that flew over his body. The enveloping smell of sandalwood, the feeling of Lan Zhan’s strong arms around his body, the way he would pant a little bit when the kiss deepened.

Wei Wuxian lost count of how long it had been the kiss concluded. “God, Lan Zhan.” He giggled, unable to resist another quick kiss. “I love you so much, you know that?”

Lan Zhan’s whole body froze for a moment. He looked into Wei Wuxian’s eyes, looking for a sign of joking or shiftiness. But all he saw was Wei Ying. His beautiful, unrestrained, thoughtful Wei Ying. “I… I love Wei Ying as well.”

At those words, Wei Wuxian gave him the most dazzling smile. Fireworks bloomed in the sky. Wei Wuxian cozied up to Lan Zhan’s sweater, basking in the warm wool as a wintry mix swirled around them.

“Resolution.” Lan Zhan murmured.

“What?”

“My resolution. Ask Wei Ying out.”

Wei Wuxian had to process the words for a minute. A smile spread across his face as he threw his arms around his love. “Hahaha! Oh, Lan Zhan. You are just…unbelievable. You’re going to need a new resolution since you finished that one so fast! Hey hey! Don’t worry, I’ll help you think of one. What about, take Wei Ying to bed every day? Is it too soon for that? Are we there yet? Nevermind, okay. How about, pay for all of Wei Ying’s meals? Wait, you kind of already do that one. Hmm, let’s keep think-”

Lan Zhan sighed, pulling his Wei Ying in for a longer kiss to shut him up.

Music rang from the streets below, and fireworks rained down from the sky above. Surrounded by the one he loved most in the world, Wei Wuxian let himself melt away. All words left his mouth after Lan Zhan pulled away. Their breaths mingled with the frigid night air.

Lan Zhan took his scarf off for a moment to wrap it around them both. Wei Wuxian took the opportunity to press a few lazy kisses to the side of Lan Zhan’s mouth before wrapping his body around him. He leaned in close to his ear.

“Happy new year, Lan Zhan!”

Lan Zhan’s hold tightened around his waist, and he no longer felt cold.

“Mn. Happy new year, Wei Ying.”

[komorebirei]

The Water Was Never Afraid - Chapter 15: Indulge

(AO3)

I’m already out… it can’t hurt. I’ll just see if she’s home, Chat Noir reasoned.

He did a swift about-face by the Louvre and made his way back toward the Ȋle Saint-Louis.

It was Sunday evening, the sun was still out, and he had just finished his brief meeting with Ladybug. Nothing remarkable, as usual, but it was nice to get out and stretch his legs.

The week had been particularly busy, with deadlines looming, and Adrien had been working into the evening nearly every day, taking breaks only to spend time with Kagami or his father.

That meant no clandestine rendezvous with Marinette.

Which wasn’t to say that he didn’t incessantly think about her. All he had been wanting to do all week was to don the magic suit, vault across Paris, and throw twigs at his Princess’ balcony doors until she came out.

However… self-control.

Now, though, fate had brought him somewhat near her apartment, and in the supersuit no less, so he latched onto the excuse to indulge in a visit.

As he crossed the Seine, his enhanced hearing picked up something subtle in the air. Music, if he could call it that.

When he arrived, the French doors were thrown open, and he could now clearly hear the sounds of a piano coming from within.

“Princess,” he called out, trying to sound suave instead of desperate.

The sound of the piano stopped, and Marinette’s head peeked out the door. Her eyes immediately locked onto his as he perched on the branch.

“Why, Princess,” he affected a dramatic tone, “I decided to go out on a limb and hazard a guess that you were home. And how happy I am that you are! You look radiant, sweet Princess.”

“Oh, Minou,” she rolled her eyes and indicated with a gesture that he was welcome to her balcony. “Such a clown, as always.”

“Well, this humble jester would be delighted to have the honor to make his Princess laugh.” He bounded onto her balcony and gave her a deep bow.

“Chat, you’re too much!” Marinette laughed, shoving him lightly.

Chat Noir melted under her touch. Do that again, Princess. He trailed her as she made her way back toward the French doors. “Did I hear a piano? I didn’t know you played.”

“I don’t, as you can probably tell. Though, I’m trying to learn.” Marinette shrugged and looked over her shoulder at Chat, one hand on the door. “I just got home, so I was unwinding a little before getting down to work. Wanna come in?”

Chat nodded gratefully. “You have to work tonight?” He tried to recall whether he was supposed to know she worked at Gabriel or not, and decided to play it safe. “Where do you work, Princess?”

“I’m an intern for Gabriel… and it’s not that I have to, I really just want to be prepared. This week we’re presenting winter concepts and I want to put together a few fabric samples to demonstrate my ideas, since some of them might be hard to understand from just sketches.”

“So thorough. I love that about you, Marinette.”

She turned to look at him, and her blue eyes were so clear that he was afraid for a moment she could see him through the mask, that the way he’d said it was too ‘Adrien’ and not enough ‘Chat.’ Did he cross the line? Friends complimented each other like that, didn’t they?

“Well, then, Princess,” Chat grinned, laying it on thick to cover his insecurity. “Back to the topic of piano. What piece are you learning?”

“Well…” Marinette twisted a lock of hair between her fingers in an adorable nervous gesture. “I mean, I don’t really know what I’m doing. Satie’s Gymnopedie No. 1? I read online that it’s a good piece for beginners and I thought it was pretty… I kind of know how to read music from playing the violin for a couple years in école, but it’s been a while and I’m extremely slow.” She giggled nervously as she made her way to an electric piano that was set up on the side of the room.

“Is this piano new?” Chat hovered behind her as she sat down on the bench.

“Yeah, I just got it this week.” Marinette continued to play with her hair self-consciously. “Kind of an impulsive purchase, but… I’ve been wanting to learn an instrument for a while. I love music, and it’s nice to have a hobby for when I need a breather from designing.”

“Hmm… that makes sense.” Chat smiled at her fondly. “Why piano?”

Marinette blushed, inexplicably. “Piano’s a good instrument… I mean, a lot of people start with piano, right?” She laughed—the kind of laugh intended to diffuse embarrassment.

Chat cocked his head, curious about the reason behind her obvious discomfort.

“Okay, I’ll admit it.” Marinette twisted on the bench to face him, wearing a sheepish expression. “The reason I picked piano is… I have a friend who plays the piano. Since I’ve known him, I’ve paid attention to piano music more, and it’s inspired me to start learning.”

Chat’s breath caught. Could that friend be him, perchance? Was the dusting of pink on her cheeks only a result of his rose-colored glasses, or was she really blushing? “Ah… really?”

“Yes, he plays very well. It’s because of him that I love the piano.” Marinette’s eyes crinkled in an earnest smile, then she turned back to the keys and laid her hands on them tentatively.

Chat Noir was afraid to ask who that friend might be. At least, uncertainty allowed him to indulge in hope that he had inspired Marinette in some way. He reached out and raised one of Marinette’s hands slightly, careful not to scratch her with his claws. “Raise your hands and round your fingers. Like this.” He demonstrated with his own hand.

Marinette looked at him in awed surprise. “Hold on, Chat Noir, you know how to play?”

“A little…” He shrugged in faux modesty. “I’ve played since I was five, after all.” He gave her an exaggerated wink to show he was being light-hearted and was only pretending to boast.

“Oh, I didn’t know!” Marinette squealed. “Play something!”

He lifted his hand and waved his fingers. “Can’t, Princess. Have you seen these clawsome paws?”

Marinette pouted.

He probably could have played, but there would be a lot of clicking, and he’d scratch her brand new piano. Plus, he didn’t want to dissuade her from trying. He grinned. “Maybe if you meet me as a civilian.”

“Don’t be silly, Chat. Okay, at least help me then, and don’t laugh. I’m horrible.”

“No, you’re just a work in progress. Now, enough attempts to get out of playing.” He nudged her. “Go ahead.”

She played the opening chords, with long pauses in between, looking back and forth between the sheet music and her hands. When the melodic line was supposed to start, she abruptly folded her hands in her lap. “Ugh. I can’t.”

“What are you talking about, Princess?” Chat cried. “You were doing great!”

“That’s as far as I’ve gotten so far.”

Chat stroked his chin. “It might help if you started memorizing measure by measure, so you don’t have to figure out the notes each time. When I was first learning, I took it slow figuring out the way the piece was supposed to sound and where my hands were supposed to go. I couldn’t play anything up to speed until I had it memorized. But the more you get used to processing the score, the easier it gets to sight-read.”

“That seems like a good tactic—I’ll try. Thanks, Chat.” Marinette smiled. “Anyway, I don’t want to bore you with this.”

“I’m not bored at all, Princess. I’m actually really excited you’re learning to play. If you want to continue, I’ll help you.”

“Help me?”

“Put your hands on the keys. Let’s pick up where you left off…”

When she did, he shifted her fingers around so they were on the right keys, and nodded. She pressed. He tapped the fingers on her right hand one by one to indicate the melodic notes. She followed his lead.

They continued like that for some time, not speaking. The stuttering rhythm of chords played out of time was the only sound that filled the space.

“See? You played the whole first page. That’s not hard, is it?” Chat’s hand lingered on hers.

“I guess not.”

Chat let go and stepped away painfully. “Keep practicing, Princess. You’ll be amazing in no time.”

“I don’t know about that, but… thanks for your help, Chat Noir.” She gave him a bright smile. “Would you like some macarons? Maman brought some over when she came to visit this morning.”

“Sure, Princess. Yes, please.” He caught himself before saying, ‘I missed the Dupain-Cheng macarons’—Chat Noir hadn’t ever had any, not even during that misguided brunch eight years ago. He took a seat at the table—solid polished wood, stained a rosy brown.

“With tea? Or coffee?” Marinette called from the kitchen area.

“Whatever you’re having.” Chat played with the cuffs on his suit and looked around her apartment. He had been so distracted by his revelation last time, he hadn’t really paid much attention to his surroundings.

The space wasn’t large, but it felt bright and inviting. The white walls were decorated with framed fashion illustrations by other designers, among which Chat Noir recognized his father’s work. White shelves built into recessed areas of the walls were lined with books—mostly related to fashion or art, but there were some novels and books of poetry as well. “Milan Kundera?” he asked, glimpsing a title he didn’t expect to see.

“I love his writing!” Marinette piped up cheerfully. “It’s beautiful. The Unbearable Lightness of Being really left an impression on me.”

“I read it a few years ago. I don’t remember all that much about the plot, except that I really liked it.”

“It wasn’t so much the plot that I liked about it,” Marinette mused. “More the way he described things. And captured the essence of people and emotions.”

Chat nodded, making a mental note to read it again.

The palette of Marinette’s decor had expanded beyond the pinks of her adolescence. Splashes of color brightened the room—an orange armchair, a fuschia vase. A string of colorful mini paper lanterns dangled from one corner of a curtain rod to the floor.

The flat was clean, cheerful, and warm, just like Marinette.

She soon joined him with macarons and two cups of tea. “I hope this is okay. Oolong tea—I don’t put sugar in it, but I can get some for you if you want…?”

“No sugar. Thanks, Princess.” He grinned, accepting the refreshments. The macarons were green and pink-orange. “What flavors are the macarons?”

“Matcha and passion fruit.”

Chat Noir couldn’t stop grinning. “My favorite!”

“Which one?”

“Uh…” Chat Noir wondered how common it was to have passion fruit as a favorite flavor. Marinette had already found out today that he could play the piano. How many clues could he get away with dropping before she figured him out? Though it was tempting the test the answer to that question, he decided to play it safe. “Both? I like them both.” He picked a matcha one to eat first.

Marinette looked pleased about this. She took a nibble of a passion fruit one. “Weird combination I guess, but the creamy bitterness of the matcha offsets the tangy sweetness of the passion fruit. That’s why I asked for these two flavors. Plus, the colors look pretty together. Don’t you think, Chaton?” She winked.

“You have the best taste, Princess.” Chat Noir smiled at her tenderly, disarmed by the wink. Taking a sip of oolong tea, he fell silent, contemplating a question that had he had been wanting to ask her. Of all people, she seemed like someone who would have a good answer. “Marinette, can I ask you something?”

“Sure, go ahead.”

He hesitated. Even though it was a perfectly normal concern, he still didn’t feel comfortable talking about this to anyone. He bit his lip.

“What is it, Minou?” Now she looked worried.

He gave her a small smile to allay her worries, but it fell away before he spoke. “How do you help a person heal from losing someone?”

Marinette put down the macaron she was eating. “Chaton… is this why you were so upset the other day? Did you lose someone?”

“I…” Chat Noir balked. He hadn’t really thought of it that way—his mother had already been missing from his life for eight years. “Yes, but… it’s my father. He hasn’t been taking it well, and I want to help him, but I have no idea if I’m doing it right.”

“Oh, Minou…” Marinette sighed and pursed her lips, looking down at her hands. She seemed to be considering very carefully what to answer.

“Sorry to dump that on you,” Chat Noir murmured, wishing he could take it back.

“No, no, don’t be sorry,” she emphasized. “I’m just trying to think. I’ve never lost anyone in my immediate family, so I’m not entirely sure what it’s like… but when Maman’s mother passed away, she used to write a letter to her every night. She’d put the letters in this special box. After a year of doing that, she burned all the letters… I was really young at the time, so I didn’t fully understand, but she always seemed happier after writing a letter. Maybe something like that might help.” She shrugged apologetically. “Sorry I don’t have any better advice.”

“Hmm…” Chat Noir pressed a finger to his lips in thought. “No, that’s a good idea, actually.”

“Are you okay?”

He looked up to see Marinette gazing at him in concern. A smile sprang to his lips automatically. “Of course, Princess, don’t worry about me!”

In spite of his words, she got up and circled around him, wrapping her arms around his shoulders from behind. He felt her cheek press against the back of his head, and the vibration of her voice as she spoke: “Don’t forget, I’m here for you. If you’re ever not okay, just come and I’ll give you hugs and snacks.”

Chat Noir’s heart was doing somersaults, but he played it cool. “Snacks, Princess? You just sealed the deal.”

“Silly cat.”

He squeezed her arms. He’d trade all the snacks in the world to hug this girl for the rest of his life.

It was when that thought popped into his mind that a moment of clarity hit Chat Noir. This wasn’t right. It wasn’t right for him to be thinking of another girl this way, and not his girlfriend. He hadn’t even thought about Kagami all night—he couldn’t live a lie anymore. He couldn’t keep pretending with Kagami that nothing had changed, and that he felt the same way she did. It wasn’t fair to her. It would be kinder to break up with her than to continue doing this.

“What are you thinking about, Minou?” Marinette’s voice near his ear was soft as feathers.

His insides were churning as if he’d ingested poison. “Ah… nothing. Just… grateful that we’re friends.” He stood up, dislodging her arms, leaving his macaron half-eaten and tea barely touched. “Sorry, but I need to go. Thank you so much for everything.”

Marinette looked at him in alarm, sensing his agitation. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing, Princess.”

“Did I do something wrong?”

“No, of course not. I just… sorry. I can’t stay.” He made his way toward the balcony doors, mind buzzing with the sense of wrongness and determination to make things right.

“Wait!” Marinette ran after him, panic rising. “What happened? If it’s my fault—I’m sorry!”

His heart broke at the thought of leaving her distressed and worrying about his sudden departure. Spinning around, he caught her in his arms and embraced her tightly, breathing in her scent. “You did nothing wrong, Princess,” he murmured into her hair. “There’s just something I need to fix. See you later…” Kissing the top of her head so lightly she probably didn’t feel it, he released her and left through her balcony without looking back.

[mysticsparklewings]

Nightlights in the Deep

At last, I can finally show you guys what's been with the tree fever in my last couple of posts (Terrarium Nova and WIP Wednesday: Oops all Trees)

So the art supply company Arteza madea post on their Instagram a few days ago where they announced a contest to make art featuring trees and post it on Instagram with all the appropriate tags, open until September 26th (with prizes of course) and I thought it would be fun, especially since one of their suggestions was to design a tree.

And I also decided to add a little extra challenge to myself to stick primarily to the Arteza supplies that I have, since it's their contest. That meant I had their watercolors, colored pencils, and woodless watercolor pencils to pick from and play with. Although I did end up using quite a bit of gel pen (Sakura gelly rolls and a little of my white Uni-ball Signo) to get the bright pops of color I just couldn't get with the other supplies. The gel pens felt fairer to supplement with since I usually accent pretty much all my work with gel pen in some form or another.

Naturally, after I gave myself a few minutes to ponder how to stand out among a crowd of trees but also fit right in, my imagination ran wild with my own fictional tree species.

I pretty immediately landed on the idea of an underwater/deep-sea/bottom-of-the-ocean tree and also something with bioluminescence (things that naturally glow in the dark) and from there I starting searching for various tree and water-themed things on Pinterest to flesh out my ideas. From that, I very quickly arrived at the idea of a winding, twisting trunk like you might find on a bonsai tree. And while originally I really liked the idea of having wispy drooping petals and/or leaves like Wisteria or willow trees, after a few tests that didn't turn out as nicely as I wanted (as seen on the WIP Wednesday mentioned above) I decided maybe it would be best to go without this time around.

So the final concept I've ended up with for my trees here goes roughly as follows, although I'm no botanist or marine biologist so there's a good chance a lot of this doesn't check out scientifically:

The Nightlight tree, named for its bioluminescent fruits--called "moon fruits" for their whiteish glow, pale bluish color, and spherical shape--is a species of aquatic tree that is found growing anchored to rock formations and cave systems in the greatest depths of the ocean. As these trees exist in oceanic depths with minimal or no sunlight, they perform chemosynthesis rather than photosynthesis to make their own food until they reach maturity and can produce their own artificial light as a food supplement. Nightlight trees root systems can reinforce and stabilize the rock formations they anchor to in order to grow, which provides a more sound home and environment for the species of fish that will eat the "moon fruits," attracted by their bright glow, produced by the tree and aid in the tree's reproduction. Because of this, nightlight trees may grow in clustered groups or may grow so closely together that multiple trees twist and wind around each other, which can put strain on the trees' root systems and may cause development problems and may cause the younger of the trees to die. The bark of mature nightlight trees may also have a faint glow where the tree is thickest, as the bark is stretched more thinly around the nutrient carry "veins" found within the trunk of the tree, where the chemical process that causes the tree's fruit to glow begins. Nightlight trees attract and feed a variety of deep sea creatures and other bottom-dwelling vegetation, many of which feature bright flourescent colors or bioluminescent traits and may camoflodge with the moon fruits or the few brightly colored flower-like leaves that the moon fruits emerge from four times a year, peak season typically being in the spring. This provides these other species with a largely safe place to settle and reproduce while the tree is at its most forthgiving. Moon Fruits once detached from the tree will retain their glowing properties for approximately 7-10 days. Fruits that in that time find themselves on or around suitable growing conditions may then begin to take root and grow. Fruits that are not in suitable growing conditions within the time frame will then begin to decay and detoriate. Certain deviations or subspecies of nightlight trees may also be found in the depths of brackish or freshwater, but the most common sigular variety is the "White Light" variety found in oceanic saltwater.

Excuse me if that's a little all-over-the-place for a faux "knowledgable source about trees" article, but I think I managed to get the bulk of my ideas for how these trees work in there.

For a while, I also had the idea that if one of the trees ever did grow tall enough to reach the water with plenty of sunlight and/or poke out of the water that the exposed parts of the tree would die and/or become sicker with more sunlight exposure, so you'd have this really tall tree that's dead at the top but as you follow it down becomes progressively healthier until you reach the bottom and find this beautiful natural undersea garden with all these neon plants and animals it's supporting in its ecosystem. And while I do still like that idea, I don't think it's terribly realistic and I definitely couldn't fit all that would entail into this one artwork.

That said, I think you can probably see my reasoning for a lot of the artistic decisions I made here, so hopefully, I won't have to stop every five seconds to explain how the tree works while I go through what my artistic process was.

After some sketching to think through my ideas of the tree structure and possible fruit/foliage things and the practice/failed attempt pieces, I decided my best bet for the pseudo-vision I had in my head would be to make lines from the sketches I'd done as a base (as in my practice pieces where I attempted to free-hand everything things really got away from me pretty easily), and so I lifted the lines for the two trees, the caves, and some of the ground/sand from my sketches and transferred them to a piece of Canson XL watercolor paper, since I knew I wanted to work primarily with the Arteza watercolors and maybe (at the time but this ended up not being the case) the woodless watercolor pencils too.

And if I may, I'd like to take a moment here to say that while on some levels I do understand why some more versed in watercolor than I absolutely loathe the Canson XL watercolor paper, to me, it much like the premise of cheaper watercolors is not strictly terrible--it's a matter of what you're used to and what you learn to work with. If you can learn to work with what you've got, and that's what you get used to, then to a point it the quality almost doesn't matter. This paper does work differently from the more expensive/nicer watercolor papers I've tried, but it's so much more accessible that I have more of it, so I use it more, and by now I've learned a lot about how to work with it to get the results I want, so I'm less likely to encounter some of the problems other people seem to have with it. It all just depends on you, your taste, and how you work.

But enough of my paper mini-rant. Back to the artwork:

I knew from my practice pieces that part of the mistakes I kept making was not laying down layers further in the background first so that I wouldn't have to attempt to paint around/right up to them later, as well as layering up more would help me better achieve the darker, moodier undersea look I was aiming for. So after taking a picture of my lines and very quickly and sloppily doing a color mockup in one of the few drawing apps that still work with a Gen 4 iPad to figure out which paint colors to squirt onto a palette, I went in with an all-over layer of a darker blue for the background first, and I layered that up 2 or 3 more times to get it to a darker intensity.

It's still a little bit brighter than I was originally hoping for, but it still came out pretty nicely. Though I couldn't tell you how much of the ocean-ish texture is just textural properties of the particular paint color and how much of it was how I laid down the paint between all the strokes I did to even out the coverage and the additional layers.

After that was dry, I made a faux-pas (in that I would have to paint around them a little later) and moved on the stars of the show; the trees themselves.

The trees were probably the slowest and most methodical part of this piece. I very carefully went in and would do lines and then blend them out slightly when possible, trying to use the transparent nature of watercolors to my advantage. This was a slower process, especially as I would work my way up the trees and get to smaller branches (especially with the smaller tree) and had to switch to a smaller brush just to make sure I was staying within my lines. But I and my dark, moody purple did eventually get through it, and even with only the trees the background painted, I was really pleased with how they turned out.

Then I moved on to my little rock-cave things and the ground. The caves started out as a lighter ultramarine color, but it looked kinda weird so I did even up going back and adding a couple of additional layers and shading to try and add more depth, as well as I tried to stick with a dark blue only for the insides of the caves, but they ended up really seeming to need the addition of some black. The end result is a little too close in value between the trees, the caves, and the caves' insides, but there wasn't really a better way to remedy that beyond starting over, and after everything I'd been through to get to this point, I did not want to do that. So it stays as is.

The ground was actually relatively simple. Since I already had a blue background and I had decided a greenish color would be the best route to go, I just layered some yellow paint in the areas I wanted to look more like sand/ground and did the same kind of semi-blending as I did on the cave rocks and trees. And it worked just as well when I added the sand/ground moving towards the back that I hadn't pre-drawn in.

Now, I was trying to hold off doing the little moon fruits (which at this point were just bioluminescent orbs to me, I did all the naming after I finished the piece so I would know exactly what I was trying to name) until I had all the painting done, since the plan was to do them with the colored pencils, and I just kinda wanted to be able to say I was done and put all the painting stuff away before I moved on to that. That's how I usually work with my mixed media projects; I prefer to have a plan and get the majority of one medium or section done before moving on to something else. (Usually to have more desk space available but it also helps me keep things organized.)

And it was at this point that I realized my plans didn't look very under-water-ish. It kinda just looked like a moody dry-land landscape painting. Which is fine, but that's not what I wanted/was going for.

To remedy this, I started by adding some seaweed/kelp like plants to the ground. Which still looked largely just like funny grass or weeds.

It was at this point that I deviated from the actual artwork and moved back to my watercolor sketchbook to do some toying around. The main thing I did was practice trying to make coral or coral-like plants since I figured that might help with the whole ocean thing. And on the page where I ended up doing a lot of the practicing, I actually ended up taking a little extra time, later on, to make into kind of a bonus art piece, which I'll be posting by itself at some point in the future.

But I also practiced making bubbles and some other details we'll get to in a moment.

I tried doing the coral a few different ways but ultimately went with the way I see coral in my mind when I think of the word; this rounded cartoony kinda thing, even though that's not what real coral usually looks like. (I looked up pictures during the process out of curiosity) I don't know where this very specific imagery got implanted into my brain other than maybe Spongebob, but that still doesn't seem quite right, so I don't know.

And I have to say that the Neon Pink Arteza watercolor continues to be a favorite of mine, while we're here. It held up over the dark colors and compared to the gel pens infinitely better than I thought it would. Arteza, if you see this by chance, this is my plea--please make more neon watercolors if you can make them as good as this pink one!

*Ahem* Anyway...

After all that, I did step back from the watercolor and come in with the colored pencils. I didn't think I was almost done, but at the moment I didn't have much else in mind for the watercolors and figured it would be best to move to the pencils and then I could come back to the watercolors if I felt like I needed to.

I'm not sure if the Arteza colored pencils just don't like watercolor paper or something, but I had kind of a hard time applying the pencils and getting them to pop the way I wanted to, particularly in areas that had thinner paint coverage. This was the most notable in the bare ocean areas where I was trying to do the moon fruits, as the pencils worked a little better when I hit those darker patches of blue, and they liked working over the truck bark a lot better. To be fair, I know some of this is because most colored pencils have a hard time going over darker colors, as even my Prismacolor and Polychromos can have a hard time over my toned gray paper sometimes, but it still seemed like these were falling more flatly on that front than I had anticipated.

Either way, by this point it was late and I was exhausted, so I finished up what I wanted to do with the pencils--finally coloring the moon fruits, adding some additional texture to the sand, caves/rocks, coral, and trees--and decided to leave it until morning.

As I was cleaning up for the night, I was looking at that bonus art piece/practice page I talked about earlier, and I noticed a spot where the paint had done a kind of texture thing again (this time definitely more from how I applied it and less from the paint itself) and the shape, combined with me thinking of things I could do to continue to play up the "ocean" imagery and make my seascape look more lived in, made me think of sting or manta rays. More specifically that one would look really good in that spot, and about the time I completed that thought was when it dawned on me the key component I had been missing the whole time:

It's an ocean life scene. Where's the life part?? Do you know what lives in the ocean? FISH!

And I still couldn't tell why that just hadn't occurred to me until then.

So I went to bed knowing exactly what I was going to be looking up and practicing the next day to add to and hopefully complete my tree painting.

The next day, after many minutes spent prowling Pinterest for marine life silhouettes and having added a few rays to my practice piece, (and some nonspecific fish to the other couple of failed attempts since the practice-piece-turned-art was getting a bit crowded) I was off and added a manta ray, a small school of fish, and two other fishes just hanging out. Then I couldn't help myself and added a smaller ray in the leftover space that was just kind of begging for a little something more behind the other ray.

And I could have very well stopped there, but it was bothering me in the fresh daylight just how much the colored pencils had seemingly sunk back into the artwork. My bubbles I added the night before were so hard to notice! And the moon fruits...they just weren't popping at all the way I wanted them to.

I tried not to; I really did. I wanted to stick to just using the Arteza supplies that I had and maybe some white gel pen. But I had to do something to get the color to pop more, and the alternative was to pull out the white and neons from my Prismacolor pencils and between the two options, pulling out my Sakura Gelly Roll Moonlight pens, as I said earlier, felt less like I was deviating from the challenge. And for all I know, the Prismacolor pencils might not have popped as much as I wanted either, even if they popped more than the Arteza pencils. So gel pens it was!

I used my white Uni-ball Signo for the actual moon fruits themselves, and the gelly rolls for their little leaf-petals and some extra dots/texture on the coral. I also used the white gelly roll to add some additional "glow" to the tree bark and to revive the poor bubbles that had gotten so lost before. And then I went back later at different points to add the two moon fruits that fell, partly to fill in space and partly because it just made more sense to my brain to have at least some that weren't still on the trees.

Also, I'm not sure how well it reads, but I did go back and try to add more of a proper "glow" effect to the moon fruits with the white colored pencil, but I feel like I lost a lot of the minimal pigment I was getting by the time I used a blending stump to soften the edges.

It's funny to me; this was one of those pieces where I spent so much time with it and meticulously going over the details that at first I actually wasn't sure it was finished. It's one of those where I had to step back and let it settle in that I had seen my vision through to the end before I could properly "accept" it.

And you know, for as many challenges as I had with trying to invent my own tree species and the problem-solving I had to do throughout the process, I am really proud and happy with how the final piece turned out.

It's different; it's out of my comfort zone because I don't do landscape type things, and it challenged my creativity in a different way. And I feel like I was able to achieve what I set out to do with the piece.

And thanks to my hesitance to dive right into the final piece without testing, I also got a bonus art piece out of it, so yay two birds with one stone?

This may have started out as just another contest entry, but in the end, I'm really glad for the mini art journey this piece took me on, and even if I don't win anything in the giveaway (which realistically I probably won't), I'm happy just to have made the artwork. And that's kinda the most important thing, right?

Now, I have some commission work to do, but I also have a certain supply that's been sitting on my desk all week just begging to be used, and some other pieces in the works, so stayed tuned for that and that bonus art piece I keep talking about that came out of this piece.

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Artwork © me, MysticSparkleWings

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Where to find me & my artwork: 

My Website | Commission Info + Prices | Ko-Fi | dA Print Shop | RedBubble | Twitter | Tumblr | Instagram

[belgrade25]

Rainbow Woman

Foxxay one shot: Misty colors in Cordelia’s wrist tattoo. Inspired by The Rolling Stones’ She’s a Rainbow.

--

Cordelia turned the page of her alchemy book as she sat against the headboard of her bed. With a wine glass in her another hand, she relished the rare occasion of serenity. And, of course, the company of the swamp witch. Misty was lying on her stomach on the other side of the bed, a botany book propped up against the headboard.

The days of the Supreme were hectic, and while it was a pleasant kind of chaos for Cordelia, she needed some serious time-off. So, she felt more than grateful when Misty had showed up in her room with that bashful smile tonight. Loosening up wasn’t something Cordelia was good at, and Misty always seemed to sense it, visiting her at night like a pacifying fairy of a sort.

Without Misty, she would’ve broken to pieces a long time ago.

“You got a tattoo, Miss Cordelia.”

Cordelia looked up from her book, turned her head to Misty, and looked back down at her own wrist. A tattoo of a plant with four leaves and bare roots. “Yes, I do. It’s an embarrassing story.”

“When’d you get it?”

“When I was eighteen. I--” Cordelia hesitated. A vague thought flashed across her mind, that it might change Misty’s view on her.

Misty got up. “Yeah?”

“It’s silly, really. This used to be the initials of the guy I was dating at the time. He was the first person I ever dated, and I felt like that was something I could be proud of. Also, getting a tattoo was, to me, a form of rebellion against Fiona-- Well, I guess the latter part played a bigger role.”

“But you covered it up.”

Cordelia realized she was rubbing the tattoo with her thumb as if to wipe it off. The initials of the boy she’d thought was her dream-come-true was still discernible, if you knew where to look, among the wiggly line work of roots.

“It wasn’t worth having his name on my skin,” Cordelia said.

Misty slid her finger across the tattoo as she brought her face near it. “I’ve seen people with colorful tattoos. Didn’t you wanna have colors?”

“The idea of colorful tattoos wasn’t that common when I got it.”

Misty nodded. She didn’t seem to notice how close their faces were. Then, her pensive expression turned into a smile.

“I got an idea! Wait here. Will be right back.” Saying this, Misty left the room.

Beyond some knocks on other doors, Cordelia couldn’t hear anything. But a smile was already on her face. Whatever Misty had in mind, she knew it would overshadow any negative memories she had of the tattoo.

A moment later Misty returned with a pack of paint and a palette. Closing the door with her butt, she held the pack so Cordelia could see it was a face paint kit for kids.

“Queenie sometimes paints Nan’s face for fun,” Misty said. “I can do that for you.”

“You mean, on my face?”

“Nah, your tattoo. I used to have tons o’ coloring books as a kid.” Misty sat back in the bed, spreading the borrowed stuff across the pearl-white bedsheets, and held a brush in front of her face. “Queenie said this is called a dagger brush, ‘cause of the shape of it.” She pretended to throw it like a real dagger, making it land on the back of Cordelia’s hand, fake-stabbing her with the soft tip.

Cordelia giggled. “Okay, okay. You can paint on me, so stop tickling me, please?”

With a huge grin, Misty rolled up her sleeves. “I’m gonna paint like Picasso.”

“Are you sure? Picasso was a child prodigy. He could draw realistic figures since he was very young.”

“Really? Then, why do his paintings look like he was on drugs when he painted ‘em?”

“That’s his style, Misty.”

Misty paused in thought, and then shrugged. “I’m gonna paint like the gay artist, then.”

Cordelia almost choked on her wine. “Which one?”

“The guy who painted the Mona Lisa.”

They had to figure out a comfortable position for both of them. Eventually Misty found her place on the left side of Cordelia, while the other woman had the palette on her lap and a cup of water in her other free hand for cleaning the brush. This way, the Supreme could extend her arm in front of Misty and hold her wine glass at the same time-- She just needed to remember to switch from the water cup to the wine glass. Neither drinking paint water nor having the brush dunked in her wine sounded enjoyable.

Misty started with the leaves. The sensation of the wet tip of the brush sent chills down Cordelia’s back, but it grew rather calming in time. It felt similar to the feeling of Misty’s muddy hands. Cordelia liked that.

She rested her head on Misty’s shoulder as her tattoo become vibrant. Each of the four leaves had a different color, and so did the roots. Cordelia found that a pleasant surprise. And instead of stopping there, Misty expanded her canvas and began painting lively shapes all across her forearm. Hearts, clouds, rainbows, and what seemed to be alligators and birds, and more hearts.

Da Vinci would be damned. “That’s a whole lot of hearts,” she said instead.

Misty hummed. “I’m gonna use all the colors, ‘cause you are a rainbow.”

There was no need to ask what that meant. Cordelia already knew.

Misty seemed determined to paint every inch of her forearm. And as she neared the elbow, pushing the boundary in a literal sense, she tucked up the sleeve of Cordelia’s nightgown a little so it wouldn’t touch the paint. The result was ringed fingers pressing against the inside of Cordelia’s upper arm. Goosebumps broke out on the sensitive skin. And with Misty occasionally blowing air to dry the paint, Cordelia couldn’t help but notice the intimacy of it all.

That was the thing about Misty. She didn’t need any sexual or romantic act, or expensive gifts in order to make Cordelia feel loved.

“Are you asleep?” Misty said in a whisper.

Cordelia shook her head on the other’s shoulder.

“I wanna say something crazy.”

“You? Crazy?” Cordelia laughed. “Hit me with your best shot.”

“Well, I’m happy that you let me stay with you tonight, is what I wanted to say.” Misty kept her brush working on Cordelia’s skin. “You’ve become so powerful, an awesome leader and teacher. Everyone, both inside and outside the Coven, admires you. And, sometimes I feel like you’re so far away now and don’t need me anymore like this. Everytime I stand at your door, I get a li’l scared that you might turn me down.”

Cordelia lifted her head to look in her face.

That made Misty smile nervously. “See? Crazy, isn’t it?”

“Misty.” She put a gentle hand on Misty’s and made her stop working. “I’m sorry. I had no idea.”

“You’ve been awfully busy. Ain’t your fault.”

“Misty, listen,” she said. “I need you. I always have and will, like this and in every other possible way. Don’t you know? Every morning, I walk in the dining room and sit beside you, no matter where you’re sitting, because I need you to be the first person I talk to before starting another day. Because sometimes it can be really brutal out there. It can’t be another person. It has to be you, to keep me going.”

Misty nodded with a tearful smile.  

“You are special to me, Misty Day.”

Misty nodded again. She wiped away her tears, but with her paint-covered hand, some of it ended up on her face.

There had never been a more precious sight than that, Cordelia knew. So, she put her hand on Missy's cheek, spreading the paint with her thumb, drawing a tiny heart just below her eye. She then made Misty rest her head on her own shoulder.

They waited in silence until Misty felt calm enough to resume her work.

---

When Misty finished her masterpiece at last, it was almost midnight. Cordelia was dozing off.

“It was fun. You should be my canvas more often.” Misty's voice had no vestige of the earlier confession. There was only the tiny heart under her eye, telling Cordelia it wasn't a dream.

The Supreme examined her own arm. Although the psychedelic color scheme was shocking enough for her sleepy eyes, she could only smile. “So, what’s the message here?” she said.

“Hm?”

“Art is a form of self-expression. What did you want to convey with this piece?”

Misty looked at the painting as if it was her first time seeing it. Her hand came up, pressing down on each of the hearts with her index finger. She met Cordelia's gaze.

“I adore you,” she said.

Cordelia wished she could tattoo that phrase, in Misty's voice, on her heart.

[alephcinema]

wadiz:idizwadidiz?

by Alexandre Galmard

A new ‘demolition of the wall’ (of language) has brought itself to the Ground (’zu Grunde gehen’), then back as a background. Isiah Medina. Every point is a passing through the event-horizon, a universal projection of the concept of concept driven to be unwritten, ceasing to be what they are by reversing back to their natural space, challenging them on another basis than the one of philosophical articulation, outlining the contours of the world of thought. There is a crossing of threads from which this work stems : philosophical concepts and artificial languages as toys, their geometries, their blueprints, their figuration and animation, their interactions, transgressions and fantasies; and the multiplication of their dialectics to understand what they are and how they may be, changing the way we think worlds can be made in a systematic manner. As a foundation kit, a toolbox to share with fellow makers and thinkers, an about-face to a ground-zero which is never fully it ('Kindergarten'), idizwadidiz is ‘textless punctuation’, a sort of 'concept-script' whose ideography extends from the index which registers itself in its own immanent unraveling into an articulated and complex rebus which, more than staging a formal methodology for content-breaking, breaks from old molds by breaking from the molded idea of the mold itself, casting away the cast, engaging the whole media into a process of unlearning. If we must break from the despotism of fixed grammatical rules at every point, such that each composition has its own mold, one point at least must break with this idea by dealing with the most absolute form of despotic formalism. Here we have the marvel of marvels, extimacy demarking itself from the passing through of ascents and descents, through the formal-concept that emerges from the background of immanent abstractions.

If one lacks the proper language, should an effort be made to be able to see it all? Wouldn't it be denying that something can be thought without the thought with which it was conceived to affirm that Isiah's movies are indiscernible without its bibliography? The point is not so much that, if we were to show it all, artistic creativity would be compromised (clearly it isn't). Rather, the desire to see (truths) always already inscribes the Idea into the intimate domain of placement. The obverse position rendered here is subtraction for the very purpose of unconstraining thought to a position, of unconstraining the concept to a lens of truth, to an 'epistemological intermediary' which would render the world ingurgitable. What is shown is not lacking its sources because it is heavily censored, it is heavily censored because you do not come back scot-free from wanting to see it all. You cannot see it all without compromise, without an absolutely subtracted codified contextual structure without which it would be 'like turning round hopelessly in some obscure labyrinth', tracking down sensible intensities. By reflecting upon both epistemic transactions (between abstract things and concrete ideas) and their typological axiomatization, one goes through a sort of brachylogical sabotage, the very destructive step towards a re-foundational grounding of all parameters, of the conceptual and the not-so-conceptual brought to appear in other ways than they were made or thought to exist without reducing the conceptual to an effect, nor understanding to an affect : from 'having or not having' (concepts) to 'having or being', that which 'presupposes the subject as always already having a generative capacity' shifts into that which 'takes into account how the subject itself emerges through the substance's auto-scission', thinking thought as always-already a structured ideal, and whose Idea shifts from the affect of the subject in the effect of a truth to the effect of the subject in the affect of a truth.

(0)

As a contraction of words into one, the title, being a negation of Leibniz's "what is not a being, is not a being", presenting its inverted form and taking into account abstractness in its most concrete sense, is the grand investigation of a being of negation, 'there is no peace even in the Void'.

An empty screen appears. A 'compulsion to repeat' chops the opening shot, beginning over and over, acting as its own absolute self-reference, its principle of identity : A is A, which, being the same and posited twice, differs from itself, splits itself from itself, jump-cuts self-referent identities being re-injected into themselves as a constant reminder that substance always-already splits itself intermittently. The original black frame is pre-ontological while the screen is the Void proper, its failure of being something other than nothing, or rather, a nothing which is counted for, just like anglosaxon groundfloors marked '1'. The black frame leaves its place for its negation, the white empty sheet. This is closely followed by the appearance of another form of nothingness, an empty projection, a 'shadowy double', which plays the pre-roll countdown. This is at once the announcing of the beginning of the roll, and the retroactive referent that we already have begun to count. The two unaligned empty squares are an exemplary distinction between A's voided being and A's appointed there. The out-of-jointness from frame to screen, from picture to movie, as seen throughout, disrupts their identification with one another. Once the logical projection meets the ontological socle, a third term is created. This is 88:88's undertitle : '––:––, –'. Or : 'onto, logy, –'. The third term is what comes out of the intersection of a union, the very mark of their conflation (which in turn will burst into solid colours). At this stopping point to the adjustment of the two, the co-incidence, the moment they superpose each other, the (thus non-excluded) middle becomes intersected, giving the shared part a space of its own. This third term is at once the Two's representative and its disruption into a blind spot, the passage from 'there is no relationship' to 'there is a non-relationship', its very own display.

(1)

If you take 'Envers' in F is a •reverse• in E, some fundamental laws of thought are written down : negation (reverse), minimal, maximal – excluded middle, double negation; the track is reversed in correspondence with the axioms written before us. The dynamic range is then used to picture the cancelling out of the maximal and the minimal, with no other way, fading to black or manually pushing and pulling the exposure on Porphyry's tree (as I like to call to it) cancelling out the background formed of water and skyscrapers. To rely on such grounds, discernment must be the basis by which one perceives a space for neither full white nor full black, neither maximal nor inexistent (since both indiscerns and flattens form). Complementarity of logic and geometry is the opening – the union drawing – and the conclusion – an extended logical square diagram shown on top of a computer screen as a continuation of paint.

This announces the logico-geometrical expansion of idizwadidiz. Invariants transacting between similarity and dissimilarity unfold in accordance to how they are cut together and which predicaments do they pose, drawing positional and oppositional relations, 'movement from place to place, and change from color to color'. The colour palette symbolically reduced to a logical square (but ranging through all the intricate middle-zones throughout) could give : orange, blue / red, green. Notice how each side of the palette mixed with its respective inverse results in chromatic neutrality, grey on grey.

Notice also the black or white backgrounds and flickers which render the space of the frame. We thus depart from the ontological grounding of the count to a full scale dynamical geometry, that is, of the discernment, in the presentation, of the continuous and discontinuous interpenetrability of the same and the other (from 16mm green water to video of green synthetic grass, for example). Forms shift between, shapes, flatness and depth (circle, square / sphere, cube), from its support (film, video / drawing, CGI) up to its editing-structures, indicating how an opposition is treated by the cut (continuity, contingency / regularity, irregularity – with a singular cut-to, with shot/counter-shot and its acceleration to flicker, with a superposition), and so on. The body of idizwadidiz works its vast web of things; after having backed up from nothing, the move between opposition and 'n-opposition' is the one between the very distinctions it posits – flatness and depth, interior and exterior, inward and outward, implicit and explicit, symmetrical and asymmetrical, real and artificial, stratas of various states of the same, between the 'what' and the 'how' –, binding the count point by point and drawing from the raccord of site and sight as the dialectics of universality and particularity, alternating between both conceptual formalization and points of representation.

(2)

In the diagram drawn, a chain bites its tail, the head, coloured in orange, is the One, while the tail, coloured in blue, is the Multiple. The One (Orange) is the world-view, the representation of a set which collects all into a singular intensity, earth.

This element is presented both as 'CGI-earth' and '16mm-globe', both extending from the flat surface of the diagram into a three-dimensional object from which one may circle around, from which all perspectives are available, a 'cognitive mapping' which allows to situate ourselves within what is being worked through, the out-of-body experience. The logo of the world is a logos, a rationality which extirpates itself from the meanders of ratiocination, from what there is to its circumvention and articulation as an idea, re-making it into a renewed representative accuracy, a world-brain. The Multiple (Blue) presents the expansion of particularity as the very form of the presentation, the immersion within the element that is lost when looking at the world from a global focal point, and provides the unifying continuous scanning of its ground.

The solid blue from the iMessage screen, the empty space for text to the homogeneous set of the ocean (yet only a partial image, just like the 16mm globe, both sides already being diagonal to the present dialectical split) can be read as this singularity which stands out of the totality, the exception of the ocean being the drop of water that is drinkable (Hugo’s La source tombait du rocher), the very space for reason, the singular addressless message drowned in the indefinite depth of communication. Nowhere is it said that things are going to get more and more (conceptually) digestible.

The dialectics of the universal and the particular, the global and the local, extended out of colour-matching, is formalized in the very shape of the frame, in its inward or outward bend. Each without the other would be its own proper relapse.

The transgression of some pre-patterned and programmed transitions requires in fact that the transitions be fully rendered, then reinjected into the project. The necessity of the export/import into render-files to achieve such cuts is quite telling. Collections turn into sets when the multiple, bound with the use of various presets, is rendered-as-one : modifications are glued in, frozen, and can be reprogrammed as being-cut. This is how the recoil of the frame may be understood, not only by turning the frame into a floating flat-screen, but by using cubic transitions and other pre-sets, by cutting and superposing them on top of each other, transitioning between them, being incremented to obtain unprecedented dynamisms impossible within the same timeline, transgressing the classical modes of transgression of the 'art of transition'. Beyond the compass-view and the three-dimensional mapping, transgressing the pre-determined ways we transform what is, we arrive at a stabilization following a unique process of harvested intelligibilities : the buoy, the 'underlying oppositional backbone' which necessitates no solid ground (since it floats, it oscillates) in order to operate the shift between universal principles corresponding to particular forms and their conceptual polymorphy, generating thus new dialectical pictures of thought.

(3)

The decapitated couple (the bathroom divide), already painted as being torn from their respective bodies, being representative of their own inherent disjunction, are paired by being parred.

The rhyme is simple, we all do not fit our bodies. From the metonymic fluctuations between binary and plurality, the movie condenses the field of possibles back to sexual difference. This 'bi-sexed body' always-already splits itself in the working through of the impossibility to cope with one's own predisposition. This left/right exchangability of the body turns to one-sided heads, two flat green circles that are forcibly and subliminally pictured as the same, flashing away, tied by the bokeh which focuses back into its real form, the 'separated interior' which ends up being a buoy, a system made so that our ships don't get lost or worse, sink. The fast flickering does not signal the indistinguishability of both sides; it rather takes a step further, not proving the very identicality between them, but proving the inability for the contradiction to overlay (at least materially), its impossibility to appear at once without what stands it apart, other than through the vue d'ensemble which includes the gender divide. In other words, they meet outside of sides, in the indeterminate bokeh (Badiou's 'objet u'; recall Isiah's movie (∃u) [u ≤ f and u ≤ m] which formulates a love encounter and pictures the series of decisive points which awaits the lovers). From the impossibility of a One to emerge from difference (the flicker with the inverted positions), to the impossibility to have a One for the parts that are the same (the flicker with the two heads), we move to the signalling of a third term. From the 'finitude of desire' to the 'eternity of drive', from the excluded middle, the 'parallax gap' between the two from which no synthesis is possible, we move to the formula : Spirit is a buoy.

A mapping with the light characteristics chart (the navigational maritime signalization system) – that can be extended upon : solid colours in alternating flicker of orange and blue, a variety of sequences with black or white, regular or irregular (according to their grouping together) of cuts, and so on – forms subtle shifts between the systematicity of editing patterns and their dynamical rhythmic composition.

In the buoy sequence, the steady navigational signalling breaks from the irregularities and saccadation of the flickers, the formal synchronization with a separated entity regularizes the irrational cut-flow between positions, breaking out of the vicious cycle between Law (the gendered separation of bathrooms) and its transgression (the stroboscopic flickering). Similarly, in the scene where the vignette flashes at every marking of dots of water, it is the actual marking on the cement which, as Law, controls the vignetting of the frame, so when the marker gets included in its own count, pointing the act of pointing, a new dimension opens up as the axis shifts. Finally, there is a recondensation in the ambiguous figure of the cut, torn between the 'flicker of the void' and the 'infinite of intervals'. How do we apprehend the continuity and discontinuity between the illusion of both animation and inanimation as that which renders visible the 'material inferential transitions' between the two, the very form of their distinction in the passing into each other? Conception and transformation; the dynamic condensation of this shot/counter-shot generates the stereoscopic vision, a static image made out of two by retinal persistence (static -> movement -> stabilization), like the sides of a same coin, the thaumatrope (or as I call it, the traumatrope), the 'synthesis of world and spirit that offers the most sublime certainty of the eternal harmony of existence' whose 'simulated simultaneity' is something like an afterimage. Finally, the totality of the ramified network of oppositions is contracted in the shift of this eternity-coin, the inception's ever-spinning totem, where at every take the stakes are the same.

So what do cuts form? With or without the morphological variety of fades, incrustation, superposition (negativity's dilution). With or without the untenable invariant whose purpose takes form by playing these forms and nonforms against each other, by 'traversing the fantasy'. Yet if cuts unrestrict themselves to breaks made out from the substance's finite limitations, being neither a fold nor a stretch, if they do not appear in other ways than through blended losses, pure substanceless gaps, then, as Grothendieck puts it (for mathematics), you do not read, you listen. Listen to it like a birdsong, so that cuts be silent symphonies – recall Lacan's wordplay between J'ouis, 'I hear', and Jouis, 'enjoy' – which justifies the piece being silent (other than the two pinches which rime with the pre-count roll, as a mark of a prolonged beginning), already acquiring distance over the indistinction of sense and understanding. There is a non-continuity between the image's field of possibilities and the cut proper, such that cuts emerge neither solely from the elements of the sets, nor as a purely intentional act, 'what is is birthless and deathless'. In other words, how do we think away from continuity as neither an identification of image qua life and cuts qua death, nor as its transitory mode? If we reverse the metaphor of light and take the image as being imperfect insofar as cuts come leaking through like a flare over a closed shutter, how will we think beyond the self-instantiation of the particular interior it breaches through?

idizwadidiz's transits are an exemplary case of a 'dialectics of formalization' whose impulse, challenging the classical thinking of the image with the 'classical image of thought', does not restrict itself to arbitrary stratification, to contextual strings via pro-grammatical operations, nor simply to an enrolment of body-volumes. So what may finally lie beyond phenomenological description and conceptual prescription? From the replacement of 'the object and its identity by the system of its perspectives, the functor', Isiah responds : 'Is it possible to do a motion study without arrows or bodies, but to study the 'motion' or (meta)stasis of the conditions of a motion study itself?'