#if anyone has a creative death method i would really appreciate it!

[nana2009]

Hey guys! So, turns out my sketchbook really was stolen and no one knows who the culprit is, which sucks since it doesnt even matter anymore, they probably tore off all the pages already :(

I had so much pretty davekat in it, too....i should put a death threat on the school mural to make them square up.

[purplelupins]

Pluto, Virgo, and Protostar!

Pluto- If you could meet anyone, alive or dead, who would you meet?

There are so many….For so many reasons. But the one that comes to mind is the late Robin Williams. Not many deaths have affected me so much, and I think his hit me so hard because I was raised on so many of his films from childhood to adulthood. From Flubber to the Dead Poets Society to Night at the museum. He felt like a second father to me. I would love to tell him how much he means to the world, and just know him.

Virgo- What do you value the most- artistic ability/creativity, musical ability, athletic ability, intellect, or work ethic?

In myself: artistic abilities/creativity. I come from a very artistic family so I’ve always pushed myself to do better artistically.

In other people: work ethic (be that artistically, athletically, professionally etc) I’m a hard worker and I really appreciate it when I see another person who has a method that works.

Protostar- Give a random fact about yourself.

I’m surprisingly strong for being twig! It’s a great party trick to be able to pick up a big guy like he’s nothing.

[ovidialee]

After the War Author Interview: @bunny-bopper

What a fantastic finale to After the War, the premiere collection by the Four Horsemen Writer’s Collective! Fourth Horseman @bunny-bopper​ sat down with us to delve into themes of revenge, abuse, and redemption. Plus, why she won’t just take the money, dammit. And finally, the shocking walkout on our interview...see what question pushed her too far!

1.  Both you and @maria-de-salinas​ wrote in the Death Eater Chronicles universe –- she by choice and you by challenge. What strikes me is that both of you independently came up with the idea of revenge, specifically upon my misbehaving male characters! Revenge is very much the centre of this piece -- not only Euphemia against Snape, but Snape against himself. We speak often of the redemption arc in the original canon and here we’re seeing it in fanon in a way in which it almost makes him seem irredeemable. How did revenge become the theme? Was it something that you hit upon after thinking about it, or did you immediately know that was how the story had to go?  

Yes, I too was amused by us hitting on the same theme! Those boys must have stirred something up in us! I thought it was interesting how we approached it from such different angles as well. But to answer your question, I knew from the moment you challenged me to have Euphemia in the story that it was going to be about revenge somehow. I found your portrayal of her and her feelings about Snape – even after what he did to her - fascinating, particularly the part where she wanted to be like him in some way and was even emulating his behaviours. It felt like a very honest look at the after effects of abuse and how the cycle can sadly continue.  

So, I asked myself – how would Euphemia feel if she found out he was still alive? And of course, there was no straightforward answer to that! I think she hates him for what happened and for the path it led her down. She wants him to suffer the same humiliation and degradation he and Bellatrix caused her.  But she still desires him and – most of all – wants him to desire her. So, her path towards revenge was going to be a complicated one.  

2. That chills me in a very personal way and, as you know, I had a very personal reaction to this story and its inevitable ending, which we had a rich conversation over. Would you say the ending of this piece has a message? In a way, you expertly flip his redemption arc on its head. Many may debate if this means he’s irredeemable, but I wonder if the ending itself is a valid method of redemption?  

I’ll start by saying that I don’t believe anyone – real or fictional – is irredeemable. We all have the capacity for good and bad, yada yada. In my view, the Snape in this fic has atoned for his past and, most importantly, he regrets his mistakes and all the people he hurt along the way. And we see through the Daily Prophet articles that (although there are still a few doubters) the outside world very much agrees. The problem is that he’s isolated. He’s alone with nothing but his memories and regrets and, in my experience, we are all our own worst judge, jury and executioner combined.  

Enter Euphemia – who for her own personal reasons will never offer him the forgiveness he craves. Her being his only contact was the confirmation he needed that it was never going to come from anyone. And more than that, he deserves to suffer.  

What I did find as I wrote this piece was that I used it to explore the general HP fandom’s view on Snape as a whole, and the argument over whether he is a ‘redeemable character’. Whether he only turned against Voldemort for the selfish reason of ‘wanting to fuck Lily’. This is even something Euphemia outright accuses him of. This was a very sore spot for Snape, because I imagine he asked himself the same thing over and over. Of course, the very fact that he is questioning it means that it isn’t true.  

So, I suppose if there is a message to the ending, it’s is that anyone can be taken advantage of and manipulated when they are at their most vulnerable.

3. See! Look at this depth of understanding. I have begged you on my hands and knees to co-write me and make a ton of money. But I know that’s not something you’re interested in. What is it about fanfiction that you feel frees you in a way writing for a market wouldn’t? Or is it something else entirely?  

Oh gosh, I appreciate your faith in me! Well, I didn’t start writing fanfiction until a couple of years ago, and before that I hadn’t done any creative writing since high school. (I won’t say when that was, but CD walkmans were the thing and skinny jeans weren’t invented yet.) Dipping my toes into writing has been just incredible – what started out as a way of me just getting more Snape in my life has become a way for me to express myself and explore ideas I didn’t even know I had! I also didn’t really expect anyone to read my fics so all the feedback I’ve gotten has been amazing.  

That being said – I'm sort of a thin-skinned person and I don’t think I could handle all the criticism that comes from writing professionally. I can’t even leave a bad review on Goodreads because I imagine myself as the author and how sad I would feel! I also don’t really have any original character ideas at all. It’s just Snape taking up all the room in there!  

4. Last question we’ve all wanted to know. What is your favourite thing about being a Hufflepuff?

Ok that’s it. This is needless slander. Interview over. You’ll be hearing from my lawyer soon!

*snort* In the meantime...

Read The Reckoning of Severus Snape

[bewitching-elizabeth-olsen]

Press: Elizabeth Olsen’s 20/21 Vision

The Marvel star takes us inside her transformation to a new kind of hero

GALLERY LINKS

Studio Photoshoots > 2021 > Session 002

Magazine Scans > 2021 > Grazia

  GRAZIA: Elizabeth Olsen is a trooper. We are in a field in Surrey on the outskirts of the Marvel studios; it’s a biting minus one and she is standing in a Chanel broderie anglaise sundress and increasingly soggy UGG boots. Her feline cheekbones face skywards, but Olsen is slowly sinking into the mud, trilling out high notes to keep herself warm (possibly distracted) and of course with spirits high. “It was the wind I think, that was worse than the sideways rain,” she jokes as we trundle back to the soundstage hangar that we are using as a studio. It’s the kind of moment that could go viral on Instagram, that is, if Olsen were on social media. Yet one of the biggest stars of our current cultural moment is completely offline – and that surprising fact might just be the least interesting thing about her. If anything, it is a sign of how Olsen has come into her own as a confident, decisive star with the power to create her own universe.

On the cusp of her 32nd birthday, Olsen is fastidious and professional, yes, but also bright, engaging, creative, and collaborative. Born and raised in the California sunshine, she is surprisingly at ease in the blustery conditions that deluge the English countryside in late January – or, it’s that she’s very good at acting. “It was one of the ugliest days of this winter – just hilarious – but I knew we wanted the shot,” the 31-year-old actress says.

Since October, Olsen’s been living in the leafy British countryside with her “man-guy-partner,” musician Robbie Arnett, just a short drive to the Surrey compound where Doctor Strange is being filmed. It’s a closed set, masked in secrecy as much as the socially distanced masked crew dotted all over the 200-acre studio. “It feels right being in a small city right now,” she says.

Indeed, Olsen is a modern-day Renaissance woman. Learned and dedicated to her craft, she studied at New York University’s Tisch School of the Arts, with a semester at the Moscow Art Theatre School studying Stanislavski. (Surely, no matter how much of a genius the Russian theatre master was, he never could have conceived of the Marvel universe.)

Approached with the concept of WandaVision, “I thought it was perfect for television, and a very original idea that made me excited,” Olsen says. Also, she was happy she would get to work with Bettany again: “He’s very precise, like me.”

In many ways, WandaVision is a love letter to the first American television heyday. Olsen, who stayed up late watching Nick at Nite reruns as a child, says it’s a bit of a homecoming in that way. “I was a very hammy, performative child,” she explains. “So, I do think I got to live out some sort of childhood dream doing the show.”

“The highlight was really getting to tell a story about these superhero individuals told in different decades of American sitcoms, trying to match the tone of those sitcoms in order to help orate the story,” she says. “But keep it playful and fun.” Little did she know just how much we’d need that.

Half-filmed pre-pandemic in Atlanta and half post-pandemic in LA – with a six-month hiatus in-between “until all the unions figured out to work safely” – WandaVision was released almost a year into the pandemic. In many ways, it is an artifact of its time: centered upon a yearning for the simplicity of earlier days, yet shot through with the creeping realization that such days may never return, and perhaps never existed to begin with.

Indeed, the weekly story of suburban superheroes Wanda and Vision has played out like a parable of our times: Wanda living in her chosen bubble, her trauma resonating in the world we find ourselves in today. Olsen appreciates a good metaphor, but feels people may be projecting a bit much. “I see Wanda as a victim of extreme trauma, who does not understand how to process it,” she explains. “She has been a human experiment.” (Not to belabor the point, but haven’t we all?)

Being summoned by Marvel is like being called to a parallel universe for an actor: thrilling, yes, but not without a tinge of terror and a dash of the unknown. Six years in, though, it’s become like family in some ways. As a member of two dynasties – Olsen and Marvel – family is key to Olsen. She checks in on her mom (who still lives in California) and, like many American daughters, is researching which vaccine mom should get.

The performative gene runs strong through her family, of course – and no, we don’t mean her sisters. Olsen’s mom was a ballerina. Still, when she first started auditioning, Olsen took special care to carve her own path – one far from Full House. “Nepotism is a thing and I’m very aware of it,” she says. “And of course, I’ve always wanted to do it alone.” She did just that, her acting credentials consistently rising as her sister’s cemented their fashion kudos. Olsen bears a noticeable resemblance to her fashion-designer older sisters and her sartorial DNA is similarly low-key. She loves The Row (of course) and NYC label Khaite’s denim and cashmere.

For Olsen, her day job is like playing dress-up. This time around, she walked away from WandaVision with the girdle worn underneath her 50s wedding dress, laughing, “I mean, to have a custom undergarment like that, I felt like it was necessary!” Her WandaVision co-star, Kathryn Hahn, also became her shopping cohort when filming.

“She’s dangerous!” Olsen says. “She has the most exquisite, minimal but expensive taste.” It was Hahn who led Olsen to the independent boutique where she found the belted Julia Jentzsch trench that she wore to our shoot.

At the rail of samples compiled by the stylist, Olsen gravitates towards a spacious linen boilersuit and longline cashmere cardigan. Has she always been a tomboy, I ask? “I think I felt uncomfortable being a child being told they were pretty,” she says of her early auditions at age 10, adding that her love of ballet and musical theater could leave her “feeling exposed” at a young age.

Speaking of over-exposure, Olsen is distinctly offline in a time when so many are defined by their social media presence. Among celebrities and regular digital citizens, the perfect balance of online and off is up for debate, but Olsen is clear: social media saturation is a choice for all of us, and everyone needs to draw their own boundaries.

“It has to be a personal decision, right?” she begins. “So, my opinion has nothing to do with what anyone else does or doesn’t do with it.” Her own journey began when she momentarily dabbled with Instagram (since deleted), while filming Ingrid Goes West, director Matt Spicer’s frightening and funny debut feature about a social stalker, co-starring Aubrey Plaza.

Up until that time, she says, “I had never touched it before. I thought, ‘This is an interesting social experiment for myself, to see if it is a good source to talk about charities or a good source to talk about small projects, or to share something goofier about myself.’ But I think at the end of the day, what I discovered was one, I’m really bad at creating a perceived identity!”

“I didn’t find it very organic to who I am as a person,” she continues. “I found some joy in putting up silly videos, but I think the main reason I stopped – not I think, I know the main reason why I stopped – was because of the organization in my brain.”

“Lots of horrible things happen all the time. Or, lots of great things happen all the time. Whether it’s something terrifying, like a natural disaster or a school shooting or a death, there are so many things that happen, and I love processing information. I love reading articles. I love listening to podcasts. I love communicating about things that are happening in the world to people around me. And what I don’t love is that my brain organization was saying, ‘Should I post about this?’ That seemed very unhealthy ….”

“And to then contribute to these platitudes that I don’t really love, you have to subscribe to two different ways of thinking,” she says. “So, I didn’t like that, and there was a lot of it that was just bothering me for my own sake of what value systems I have.”

That’s not to say that there’s any inherent value system – pro or con – in using Instagram. Olsen is clear that like any other method of expression, it’s up to the individual to use it as they see fit. “I do see a use of it and how you can use it well for work,” she says. “But I don’t think that I would like to use that tool to promote myself.”

She’s private for a millennial yes, but not prim. On the photoshoot, lockdown experiences were shared, and Olsen recounted her (hilarious) first at-home bikini wax: banishing her husband upstairs “for an extended chat with his therapist,” her trusted waxer on speed dial, and microwave set to ping! (Yes, Olsen is a trooper, as I mentioned.)

We catch up over Zoom a week later, her hair once again pulled up in a casual topknot, her cashmere turtleneck simmering in a dark claret, and her entire being suffused with covetable understatement. She chats buoyantly against an unexpected backdrop of pirate ship wallpaper in the playroom of a house she shares with Arnett, who proposed with an emerald and diamond ring in 2019.

“We first started to try to make it the gym, but it was so cramped,” she says of the jolly space. The home gym was instead awarded a larger room, where Olsen loves to maintain a varied fitness regime – running, yoga, dancing, more – though after all the intense Marvel filming, she jokes, “maybe it’s time to give up on my body?!” Being comic book fit does sound grueling or “time-consuming fun” as she anoints the “strenuous physical demands.”

Like most of us, she is longing for the spring, but she still takes a regular constitutional walk in a nearby Richmond park, whatever the weather. “The deer are incredible; every time I see them I feel alive,” she says. “We have been lucky to have nature around us in lockdown.” It’s a marked difference from her paparazzi-populated home in the Hills. “They know our walks, where we get coffee, work-out…,” she trails off.

Her haven in Los Angeles is her backyard, complete with a mid-century swimming pool and an edible garden. “It’s crazy the blackberries grow like weeds! I love watching a kid’s first reaction to an edible garden,” she gushes That has been the part of the pandemic travel restrictions she’s found hardest: missing her friend’s children growing up, and others who have been born this past year that she’s yet to meet. They will no doubt all be treated to her homemade blackberry sorbet on her return stateside.

Yet, her time on British soil will likely be prolonged, with a prospective indie commencing filming here when Doctor Strange wraps. Prompted for more detail, her firm charm kicks in. “I can’t jinx it!” she insists. Still, she will share that she’s heavily involved in the creative, and that funding smaller productions in the current climate has been a challenge.

Through it all, Olsen has remained determined and calm. “I feel patience is my superpower. But my weakness also,” she says. “I feel like it gets tested more than others who don’t have a lot of patience. If someone learns you’re easygoing or that you’re relaxed, sometimes it gets taken advantage of.” While she waits for the green light on that film, she is busy producing a new children’s cartoon with Arnett, “about loving and caring for our world,” and has also written a children’s book about to be published by Random House, all while the demands of Marvel life continue to surround her.

Indeed, Olsen is a superhero for the modern age: Multi-hyphenate, but fiercely devoted to the craft that she loves; instantly recognizable, yet thoughtfully protective of her private life; a woman with style, substance, success, and deep rewarding relationships with those around her; focused on a vision of a better world for us all.

Press: Elizabeth Olsen’s 20/21 Vision was originally published on Elizabeth Olsen Source • Your source for everything Elizabeth Olsen

[ocandpersona-information-by-jtd]

Full Name: Adrienne Mallory

Preferred Name: Adrienne

Reason for name: She doesn’t like the sound of “Mallory”

Nicknames: Pandora

Reason for nickname: If you understand Greek mythology, you will get the reference.

Age: IMMORTAL (Stuck at 25)

Birthday: January 16th, 1901

Sex: Anyone

Gender: Female

Sexuality: Pansexual

Species: (used to be) human/eldritch abomination

Purpose: She is chaotic evil, so her purpose is to spread as much pain to others, but except children.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Appearance:

Eye color: Brown > Dark Brown > Crimson Red

Skin color: Tan > Pale

Height: 5″4

Weight: 140 ib.

Hair type: straight, slightly wavy

Hair color: Jet black

Hair length: floor length

Body type: skinny, slight curves

———————————————————–——––

Outfits: Long hooded robes, long skirts, long dresses, short dresses, sweaters- all black, gray or dark colored.

Outfit:  Currently wears a pure, black spaghetti strap dress

Accessories: crushed teddy bear mask, high twin pigtails

Shoes: black Mary janes

Other: a knife and butcher knife

**************************************************

Relationships: none. Parents are dead.

Partner: none.

Crush: none.

Friends: none.

Enemies: many

Family: all dead.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Stats: MAXIMUM

Health: Can’t tell if she’s sick or has a fever half of the time.

Strength: MAXIMUM

Stamina: Why waste energy when you can just teleport???

Intelligence: Bookworm, intelligent and cunning? Yes. Common sense? No.

Wisdom: Not really

Confidence: Too much

Memory: 2 years ago, she remembered that she tripped over a rug and fell flat on her face.

Humor: Violence is funny

Passion: Bloodshed or finding love due to being touch starve. Either one.

Jealousy: Of people with better lives

Attitude: Sassy brat

Temper: Oh, boy! You don’t want to see her mad! She’ll repeat your death a thousand times if you make her furious!

Laziness: On weekends

Creativity: She is very creative with torture methods

Sanity: Passed zero, -1

☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆

Personality:  Logistician (ISTJ-A)

♪♪♪♪♪♪♪♪♪♪♪♪♪♪♪♪☆☆☆☆☆♪♪☆☆♪----------

Hobbies: Doing anything that isn’t boring

Likes: Evil

Dislikes: People with better lives, who don’t appreciate the things they have

Dere Type: Kuudere (Yandere if she falls in love with a person)

Character traits: Stop asking! 

Fears: None! 

♪♪♪♪♪♪♪♪♪♪♪♪♪♪♪♪♪♪♪♪♪♪♪♪♪♪♪♪♪♪♪♪♪♪♪♪♪♪♪♪♪♪♪

What the Maw thinks of OC:

Six: Six finds her motherly like...strangely.

Seven: Seven would really appreciate it if Adrienne adopted him.

The Lady: She will care any less about a snobby, stuck-up woman! (Ironic)

Janitor: Never met.

The Twin Chefs:  Never met.

The Granny: ...Granny tried to drown her.

Nomes: They saw her eat one of their kind, and have stayed away for her since.

Leeches: ...what would they even say???

Bellhop: Adrienne is too rude to handle.

Guests: Too thin for eating.

Ferryman: She wouldn’t stop giving him the cold shoulder after trying to make some conversation during her trip to and back from the Maw.

\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\

Backstory: After spending half of her life running and fighting her way through all of the dangers in the city, traumatized by her parent’s death, Adrienne finally snapped and became insane. Through unknown means, she gain powers no one should possess. She once in a while rains chaos on the city to satisfy her pain of the good life that was taken from her.

—————————————————————–—

Theme Song: (including lyrics)  

 Here we go again

I kinda wanna be more than friends

So take it easy on me

I'm afraid you're never satisfied

Here we go again

We're sick like animals

We play pretend

You're just a cannibal

And I'm afraid I won't get out alive

No, I won't sleep tonight

-Animal, by Chase Holfelder

\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/

What the OC thinks of the Maw:

Six:  Adrienne gives all the stolen food to the children, including Six.

Seven:  Adrienne gives all the stolen food to the children, including Seven.

Lady:  She will care any less about a snobby, stuck-up woman! (Ironic)

Janitor: Never met

Twin Chefs: Never met

Granny:  They met once, and once is enough!

Bellhop: She couldn’t stare at him directly. His face gives her goosebumps to this very day.

Ferryman: She finds him...rather creepy, even for her.

Nomes:  Aww! The Nomes are so tasty- I mean tiny!!

Leeches: Ugh, what the- This is just disgusting!

Guests: Plump and good for proteins!

 •••••••••••••••••••••••••••••*••••~£~£|••••••••••

Trivia: 

She is rather sweet and kind, but after years of enduring her trauma and pain, she pushed all of those lovey-dovey feelings down to the blackest pits of her mind.

If she sees a person that somehow ignites those hidden feelings within her-- God forbid-- she will do anything to make them hers and hers only.

(@mother-dragon-and-her-hatchlings )

(Inspired by the Little Nightmares games)

[randomikemendegen]

It's nearly 4:45 in the morning (at the time of writing) where I am but fuck it, my brain's creative juices are flowing but my body says no so HERE'S A TEXT POST ABOUT MY OCS AND THEIR RELATIONSHIP WITH THEIR RESPECTIVE DORM LEADERS--

(note: I WILL be drawing a relationship chart sooner or later... or in the future, hopefully soon 🤡🤡🤡)

HEARTSLABYUL

Quintin Blanpine — Riddle Rosehearts

At first, their relationship was really.... kind of "cruel", in a way really.

What with Riddle essentially working Quin to the bone, though his reasoning was more of [He needs to build more confidence in himself] and genuinely thought that what he was doing was the right thing. Quintin wasn't PLEASED AT ALL with the treatment, but kept quiet about it...

.... at least until Chapter 1 occured.

They got to actually talking and found that they had some common grounds and became close acquaintances.

(One such thing is their shared thought of Seisear being a huge PAIN to deal with despite his usually good and sincere intentions; another is actually them bonding over the dormitory's hedgehogs and love of crossword puzzles.)

Seisear Marchare — Riddle Rosehearts

A one-sided "friendship" on Sei's part (initially).

Riddle really HATED how Seisear was almost always out-of-control "like a petulant child" and seemed to follow his own sets of rules, thus he more often than not hit the other student with his Unique Magic in order to make him reflect even just slightly.

Seisear on the other hand found Riddle to be quite the "hilarious little prince"~. He always found the redhead's reactions funny, and while he may act terribly uncontrollable, Sei does notice how lonesome and closed-off Riddle seems to be-- it's mostly the reason why he likes to bug his classmate almost all the time~.

(Thankfully it seems like after Chapter 1, they've actually become closer and a little bit more friendly... though Sei still keeps getting collared with [Off With Your Head!] due to how far he can go with messing with Riddle for the laughs~.]

SAVANACLAW

Lala-Phula Tigris — Leona Kingscholar

Kind of an odd relationship.

On one hand, they both act somewhat antagonistic towards each other, on the other hand they're actually... kind of close??? To say the least??? Like, they casually throw snarky words and insults at each other, but they also acknowledge each other as "okay"???

Leona finds Lala to be more like a bothersome kid that won't stop pulling his tail for some attention (if you can call the regular declarations of challenge to be that).

Meanwhile Lala thinks that Leona isn't deserving of being "the king of the pack" (ie. dorm leader, in her own terms) but also begrudgingly accepting the fact that he is genuinely strong and thus respects him.

Raetel Gura — Leona Kingscholar

More animosity here than the previous one that Leona and Lala had, though it's not out of actual malice and there's no actual fighting that's happened so far (except for the first time they met), but there ARE some close calls here and there.

Though they're more prone to hurling insults at each other and getting creative with their wordings on how to best annoy the other instead.

Raetel is GENUINELY livid with Leona, mostly out of the fact that they know that Leona could do so much better but chooses NOT to and instead prefers to usually lazy around.

Leona on the other hand mostly thinks of Raetel just as "that fox-sham of a teacher's kid", along with expressing annoyance at how much Raet gets up in his case.

OCTAVINELLE

Leviotan Genov — Azul Ashengrotto

This relationship is on thin-fucking-ice. Period.

Levi knows Azul's type and thus is ALWAYS wary and cautious of his dorm leader, while Azul notes on how distrusting Levi is and is just as wary of his potential plans and methods in which he can foil him.

Funnily enough though, they actually respect each other to some extent and have some slightly similarities here and there that have even both of them acknowledging that fact.

It's to the point of them actually often being seen talking with each other, though if you inquire about that they'll just reply with "it's just business talk".

Viviane Genov — Azul Ashengrotto

Friends....???? To be more accurate, Vivi sees Azul as a friend (like she does with literally everyone else) while on Azul's end he's not sure if they could even BE called "friends".

They certainly are on good terms though that's for sure.

Viviane can see past through Azul's personality and pick up on how actually lonely he is and how much hard work he had to do to finally get to his current self, so she's genuinely really nice and friendly to him.

Meanwhile Azul's kind of wary about Vivi's sincere attitude and is a bit doubtful, though he doesn't mind it at all now that they're both in 2nd year and even seems to actually take a liking to having her in his company on occasion.

Azul still thinks she would make for a good business advertisement and attraction to Mostro Lounge, but Levi threatens to suffocate him to death if he ever tries to so he'll have to pass on the tempting thoughts.

(NO SCARABIA FOR NOW I'M SORRYYYY :(((( I'LL MAKE SOME SOON I PROMISE)

POMEFIORE

Fuyume Yukitosu — Vil Schoenheit

Acquaintances? Of sorts?? It's,,, kinda hard to describe this relationship.

Fuyume has no specific feelings whatsoever to her dorm leader and is perfectly willing to go/do whatever he asks or whatever house rules there are.

Vil meanwhile likes the fact that Fuyu is among the more obedient (especially to the strict regiments that he makes EVERYONE adhere to) of the Pomefiore students, though he can't help but vocalize on how she should open up more to other people.

Which results in her acting like a confused child at times because she has zero ideas on how to NORMALLY converse with someone, so Vil personally takes to putting her in more social circles despite any plights she may have.

He is slightly bit jealous at how she doesn't need to do anything and still remain beautiful, but that feeling decreases due to the fact that she's basically almost like a wallflower with no life and thus can't help but also becoming strict with her in an attempt to get her to finally bloom.

IGNIHYDE

Ophiou Chos Gorgos — Idia Shroud

Close friends!! They have a lot of shared hobbies, likes, dislikes, and interests!!!

They're even close enough that they call each other with nicknames and are even online friends (they even message each other whenever Idia doesn't wanna go out of his room).

Ophiou does sincerely appreciate and like Idia's companionship (along with Ortho), and is very grateful to have someone he could finally call a "friend", yet he does acknowledge on how isolated Idia is more so than himself and can't help but occasionally worry. He is also still mildly scared of being rejected by his (first) friend because of his eyes.

Idia, meanwhile, is DELIGHTED to find someone he calls a "kindred spirit" and is even more open and honest with Ophi due to this fact. Though even then, sometimes Idia's slightly afraid that he might push him away if he ever gets too heated up about any topic and end up looking/acting creepy.

Regardless, they both game together on occasion and even hold anime marathons. (Of course, Ortho is more than welcome to join in)

Raneus Salpho — Idia Shroud

This relationship, unlike the previous one, is more distant. The two of them don't interact that much, but whenever they do, it's with a comfortable distance between them.

It's not that they hate each other, it's just that sometimes their interests align and it's mostly the reason they interact. (Even though they've known each other from way back, they were still distant towards each other and didn't talk much)

Idia often approaches Ran for commissions in sewing cosplay clothing or even just general merchandise that can be sewn before quickly going back to his room.

Though the few amount of times he actually managed to talk with Ran, he found that they actually had some few common grounds... before Ran ended up (unintentionally) scaring him (again).

Raneis meanwhile is totally neutral to his dorm leader, but is a tiny bit annoyed with how Idia doesn't take care of his appearance and thus often finds himself essentially getting up on his face and even threatens him to take better care of himself. Besides that little nugget, he takes up on Idia's requests with no complaint whatsoever.

DIASOMNIA

Cirnu Alva Valirgethen — Malleus Draconia

Cirnu treats Malleus like a younger brother and you can't change my mind.

Okay okay, but in all seriousness, they have a really close relationship! Almost sibling-like, in a way.

While Cirnu does like occasionally playfully messing with Malleus, it's just harmless fun and she's quick to apologize if she says anything out of line. She (also) looks out for Malleus and feels bad that he's not getting invited to anything by anyone, and tries her best to cheer him up by reminding the other Diasomnia members to NOT forget to invite him to any parties that the dorm may have.

(It's also the major reason as to why, despite knowing about it since way back, she allows and supports Malleus and Yuu to interact with each other.)

Malleus, meanwhile, does sincerely appreciate her efforts in making sure he does get invited to stuff and socializing, he does wish that she would be a bit more gentle in her readings since it's a bit embarrassing.

Especially since she often calls him "boy", despite the fact that even though she IS older than him, they only have a few years of an age gap between them.

Berebis R. L'Ephegor — Malleus Draconia

Another complicated relationship to explain??? Kind of????

On one hand, they've barely interacted with each other, but on the other, Malleus' heard of Bel so many times from either Lilia, Cirnu, Silver, and/or Sebek (definitely more with that last one due to his annoyance with Bel).

So Malleus more often than not decides to go looking for him out of curiosity.

After some awkward distance and general apathy (mostly from Bel's side) for a while, their relationship eventually becomes that of quiet acknowledgement and understanding. And occasional harmless jokes and teasing (from both sides).

Due to Bel being among the very few that neither fear nor revere him, Malleus finds some form of comfort and companionship in him. He's mildly curious as to why Bel is the way he is but doesn't push that topic any further since except for a few times due to being unintentionally more curious than he should.

Bel meanwhile didn't like the fact that the most powerful student of NRC kept approaching him and often ignored him, but eventually relented and decided to converse with Malleus. Only to actually end up slightly come to like how Malleus was different from his initial perception, and now kind of enjoys his company.... but you won't get him to admit it. Ever.

[ficsilike-reblogged]

Sunshine City: Three

A/N: Thank you to everyone who read/reblogged/commented on the last chapter. You are all lovely and deserve a Whiskey of your own. This chapter still revolves around the plot of the film, so if you have any questions just let me know! I hope this little story can make you smile at least for a moment. My asks and DMs are always open.

Pairing: (Eventual) Agent Whiskey x F!Reader (No Y/N)

Word Count: 5.7k

Rating For This Chapter: T for guns, blood, injuries

Catch up on the Prologue, Chapters One, and Two here!

Y/N sat at the bar and ordered a cranberry juice.

Butterfly Guy was sitting with Eggsy, Whiskey, and a guy who insisted on being called Merlin in a booth near the window.

“Rough day, sugar?” Paula the bartender asked as she set down the cloudy glass filled with purple-red juice.

“Rough couple of days,” she muttered and handed over a handful of crumpled bills that Paula methodically straightened out before placing them in the till. Paula was basically an agent in her own right. She’d been part of the bar for nearly twenty years and since only Statesmen drank here and knew of its existence, they spoke freely about their work. She probably knew more classified intel than some junior agents.

“You sure I can’t get you anything stronger?” She asked, her bleach blonde hair swiping over her shoulders. “Something with a little more oomph?”

“Just the cranberry juice for now.” She smiled and sipped on the too-bitter drink and resisted puckering her lips at the taste. “But thank you.”

Paula nodded and cast a glance at the table where the agents sat. “You know, Whiskey keeps lookin’ over here.”

She ignored the twisting in her stomach and took a large gulp. “ ‘s just post-mission jitters.”

“Uh-huh,” Paula said with a roll of her eyes. “Sure. When a handsome man looks at me like that…” she drifted off with a raise of her eyebrows.

(But she wouldn’t deny that she noticed Whiskey looking at her a little more often. When they met up after she implanted the tracker in Clara, she noticed Whiskey kept turning away every so often, a hand tucked in his front pocket. It was a common gesture used by men to hide an erection, she knew that—she just didn’t believe he would have one at that moment. They were in the middle of a mission. There was no way he was hiding a boner. But the thought was fun.)

Thankfully, Agent Moonshine started hollering and she sighed into her drink and got up from her barstool and walked behind the bar.

Paula was watching the scene unfold like she hadn’t watched a million bar fights before and looked ready to piss herself. Sunny patted her on the shoulder and signaled for her to hide in the little cubby beneath the register.

The Butterfly Guy quickly made a fool of himself, trying to teach Moonshine and his buddies some manners and she leaned against the sticky bar to watch as Whiskey stood from his seat. It wasn’t the first time she would watch Whiskey kick Moonshine’s ass but it was always fun to witness.

And those tight jeans did wonders for his butt.

While she would never understand his affinity for his lasso or his whip, it was nice to watch him work (and to see Moonshine bleed a little).

As he finished, Moonshine and his hangers-on all unconscious or bleeding enough to keep them still, Whiskey adjusted his hat and let out a whistle. “I feel like a tornado in a trailer park.”

She snorted and finished her drink as Paula slowly came out from the cubby and gaped at the mess. “It looks like a tornado came through here, boss. I think you owe Paula another window.”

“And new glasses!” Paula said with a frown.

She patted Paula’s shoulder again with a promise that the window would be fixed within a handful of hours as the televisions switched from the football game and were overtaken by a wash of yellow and red with an obnoxious chime.

A woman draped in a horrendous yellow outfit with fiery red hair soon filled the screens. “Mr. President, my name is Poppy Adams. I believe the UN has no teeth. So I've selected you, as leader of the free world, to receive this communication. And I invite you to begin negotiations on the largest scale hostage situation in history. A few weeks ago, an engineered virus was released and contained in all varieties of my product: cannabis, cocaine, heroin, opium, ecstasy, and crystal meth.” Each line item popped up on the screen in a pretty font. Cap looked over to see Whiskey already looking at her, lips pulled into a frown. “Some of you are already infected. And this is what you can expect in the coming days. After a brief incubation period, victims present with stage one symptoms: a blue rash. Next, second stage symptoms appear: mania, as the virus enters the brain. Very distressing to the victim and those around them. Stage three: paralysis. Muscles enter a state of catastrophic seizure. And once the muscles of the thorax become affected, breathing becomes impossible.” She watched as one new victim after another was revealed on the screen until blood spurted out of the last man’s eyes and nose, dead for millions to witness. “This leads to a very nasty death within 12 hours. But I have good news to the millions already affected. It doesn't have to be this way. I have an antidote.” Poppy held up a clear vial filled with an amber liquid—and Elton John behind another glass wall.

“What have you done to me, you fucking bitch?” God bless Elton John.

Undeterred by Elton John’s outburst, Poppy continued, “100% effective and ready to ship out worldwide at a moment's notice. I will do this if the following conditions are met. First, you agree to end the war on drugs, once and for all. All classes of substance are legalized paving the way to a new marketplace in which sales are regulated and taxed just like alcohol. And second, my colleagues and I receive full legal immunity. Meet my terms. I look forward to helping you keep our beloved country great, boosting our ailing economy, and easing spending on law enforcement. Or continue this blinkered, outmoded, and, frankly, disastrous exercise in prohibition, and live with blood on your hands. Save lives. Legalize.”

The broadcast ended and the televisions screens quickly flipped back to the football game. Whiskey was at her side in a blink of an eye. His hand brushed down her back. “We gotta talk to Champ, Sunny.”

And that was how she found herself bundled in winter gear on an Italian mountainside. Clara had called Charlie, and thanks to the tracking device she had implanted at Glastonbury, they were able to pick up the conversation. Charlie told Clara (who was now covered in the blue rash) to meet him at the ski resort they’d visited last year so he could give her the antidote. The tracking device could pinpoint their exact location and everyone was betting that the Italian resort was one of the storehouses for the antidote.

But she was also wondering, once again, why she found Whiskey attractive. He was in a terrible blue and white snowsuit that had to have been made in the 1970s. And he still refused to take off his damned cowboy hat. She appreciated the dedication to his aesthetic but it still seemed…ridiculous.

And he’d been grating on her last nerve on the flight over.

Ginger had buzzed in and suggested that Cap be the one to retrieve the antidote because only Clara would recognize her as opposed to Charlie possibly recognizing Eggsy or Butterfly Man (who she was told to call either Galahad or Harry). Whiskey then laughed—loudly—and stated plainly that he would be planning the mission and Ginger should stick to her computers and gadgets. “It isn’t like ya have any experience in the field.”

She really thought about murdering her boss for the rest of the flight. Her plots to kill him only got more creative when he told her to stay at the safe-house when they landed.

She was tired. She was angry.

And that was probably why she finally snapped. “If you didn’t want me to come along, you could have just told Champ. God knows you don’t listen to anyone else.” She hefted her bag filled with her own weapons and ammo higher onto her shoulder and turned away from him, readying to hike up toward the house and stew in her lonesome until the three men returned—hopefully with the antidote in hand.

But his hand grabbed her arm and pulled her to a stop before she could get very far. “That ain’t fair, Sunny.”

She pulled out of his grip with a poorly hidden snarl. “No. You’re not fair. To me. To Ginger. All because of some bullshit you think is right.”

“I’m trying to protect you.”

“I don’t need protection. I’ve been in this game a long time-”

“And I’ve been in it longer-”

“-and I can take care of myself. What you’re doing to Ginger is so fucking backwards I’m surprised you can see straight,” she hissed it out like a curse. “I’m tired, Whiskey. I’m so tired of watching her jump through hoops trying to get you to notice that she could outperform half the agents in the field and you want her stuck behind the desk until she dies. I’m tired of you thinking you know best in the field. Why do you even request me to go with you if you’re going to undermine me every step of the way?”

Whiskey’s mouth opened. Then closed.

Her shoulders slumped. Harry and Eggsy both looked like they were very interested in the calibrations of their earpieces and not listening to what just happened. God this whole situation was pathetic. They were trying to save the world and she was waffling between yearning and rage for her stupid boss. She trudged away in the snow toward the safe house and barely heard Whiskey say, “what are you lookin’ at, Butterfly Guy?”

But she continued on, up the mountain and found the small shack of a house and swept the perimeter before settling in. She comm’ed in only to say she reached the safe house. Eggsy responded cheerfully but she didn’t respond when Whiskey also chimed in with a, “good work, Sunny.”

Time ticked by.

There was a commotion on the other end of the comm line when Butterfly Guy wouldn’t respond—and then all she heard was Eggsy and Whiskey screaming. She rolled her eyes. They were so dramatic. But soon, the trio was making their way toward the safe-house and she didn’t bother to open the door when she heard them outside. They all hobbled in, mid-argument.

Eggsy pulled out a small vial and showed it to her with a smile she had to reciprocate. “You got it.”

“We did. A little dicey—Charlie recognized me.”

She glanced at Whiskey who frowned in return. It didn’t matter. Ginger had been right and now he knew it.

“Can I see it, kid?” Whiskey asked with his hand outstretched as he walked toward them. But then his dark eyes tracked to the window and widened. “Get down!” Whiskey all but tackled both Eggsy and her to the dusty ground of the house as bullets started to fly. Glass shattered. Wood splintered.

She watched, unable to do anything from her pinned position, as the small vial was all but knocked from Eggsy’s hand and shattered on the ground.

“You fucking dickhead!” Eggsy hollered as he scrambled out from under Whiskey to look over the spilled antidote, almost uncaring of the bullets whizzing by.

“Fuck you, I just saved your life!” Whiskey retorted.

“Yeah, and cost millions of people theirs!”

She had to slap at Whiskey’s thigh to get him to move off her and she rolled off into the corner when he did. The rain of bullets stopped for a moment and she looked out the window. “They’re reloading.”

Whiskey nodded. “All right, I'll fix their wagons. Cover me, boys!” And then he all but bolted out of the house, guns blazing.

With a roll of her eyes, ignoring how Whiskey had told the ‘boys’ to cover him, she followed suit and ran out into the snow, pulling her guns out from their holsters. The shootout was nothing she hadn’t seen before and, while she didn’t have all the flair most of the Statesmen agents had, she could mow down people just as efficiently. (The acrobatics the Statesmen and Kingsman agents seemed so fond of really just seemed…excessive.)

Whiskey went through the left flank so she went through the unlucky men on the right.

It was easy pickings, really. Despite the heavy artillery and uneven numbers, it was almost too simple of a gunfight. But the adrenaline rush was nice. It had been too long since she had felt her heart beat this fast. Bullets were flying by her head as she dove behind a tree and then twisted to shoot down the other man. Out of the corner of her eye she spotted Whiskey pull out his electric lasso and then cut a man in half who came out with a knife.

“Fucking ridiculous,” she muttered as she stood, lowering her guns and quietly thankful that Whiskey wasn’t hurt.

There was a single gunshot and she froze. A familiar cold crept up her torso and one last man stepped out from the tree line with his gun raised right in her direction. The barrel smoked. But his eyes were wide like he couldn’t quite understand that he’d actually managed to shoot her. With a snarl, she pulled her guns up again and fired twice, painting the trees and snow behind him in a spattering of red.

“Sunny!” Whiskey yelled as he spotted her.

She pressed a hand to her stomach and felt the terrible, wet warmth soak her palm. She holstered her guns again and stepped out to look at him, turning ever so slightly to hide the blossoming red from him. “We’re good.”

“You should’ve stayed in the house.”

“You needed back up!” She said, marching toward the house despite feeling her legs shake. Pressing against the wound only made bile rise in her throat.

“The kid and Butterfly Guy-”

“It’s over, boss. Let’s just-”

Whiskey suddenly grabbed at her waist and all but threw her into the house and she nearly lost her footing. She barely had time to recognize the pain suddenly roaring through her system as the adrenaline started to fade.

“Troop carrier coming in. And I’m out of ammo—whaddya got?” He asked, pointedly looking at Eggsy and Harry.

But they were both looking at Whiskey’s hand.

He slowly raised it to his face and saw it covered in blood. His head snapped to the side to look at her. “Sunny?”

Her knees finally buckled and she hit the weathered wood. She shakily caught herself with her other hand, feeling blood slip between her fingers. She coughed and watched as blood splattered against the wood.

“They’ve got Gatling guns!”

Whiskey was yelling. Bullets whizzed by. And the beat of her heart started to drown out everything else.

“Harry, no!” She barely heard Eggsy shout.

And then, in her quickly-hazing vision, she watched Whiskey’s body crumple to the floor beside hers. She reached out a bloody hand toward him without thinking, pressing crimson-colored fingers against his face as if that would stop the bleeding.

“He broke the vial on purpose, Eggsy. If we made it out of here, he was gonna kill us both!”

The world went dark.  

                                                     **

The sterile scent of HQ’s medical wing was a welcoming aroma as her eyes opened.

“There you are.” Ginger leaned over her with a soft smile. “How ya feeling?”

“Tired.”

“No pain?” She asked as she helped Cap sit up slowly.

“A bit tender—but I know what feeling shot in the chest feels like so I would prefer this.” She pulled at the bland, cotton-blend shirt she was dressed in and saw her stomach covered in a bit of gauze and tape. Despite Ginger telling her not to, she pulled at the coverings to reveal the mostly-healed bullet wound and then pushed back into the pillows. It looked like it had already been healing for weeks instead of a day or two. Statesmen truly knew how to patch someone up. But then a thought struck her. “Where’s Whiskey?”

And Ginger’s soft, answering smile calmed her suddenly clenching heart. “He’s in the next room over, Cap. He’ll wake up soon. Eggsy gave him the Alpha Gel and it worked like it was supposed to.”

She pushed out a long breath through her nose and nodded. “Good. That’s good.”

Ginger’s watch beeped. She looked at the small screen and sighed. “I will be back. Don’t get into any trouble, okay?”

“I promise nothing.”

Ginger chuckled, having heard that answer many times before, and let herself out of the room. 

She let herself stew for a moment (it was really about an hour). Her life had really gone off the rails since Vegas. It was one thing to secretly harbor amorous thoughts about your boss. It was another to scream at him, get shot, and then see him get shot after seeing him (possibly) thwart any efforts to get the antidote and save millions of people. And she had a chance to say something to Ginger. But she didn’t.

Hm.

She carefully slid off the bed and winced when a bolt of pain zig-zagged through her body as her feet touched the cold floor. Shuffling over to the door, she peered out into the hallway and then stepped out. Whiskey’s holding room was only a few footsteps away.

Should she go in? But then what would she say?

Should she just go back to her room and pretend she was unconscious the entire time and remembered exactly nothing from Italy? But what was she trying to forget anyway?

But, thankfully, Eggsy found her in the middle of the hall and broke her rambling thoughts. He pocketed his phone and looked a bit worried as he noticed her. “You okay?”

“Yeah. Better than I should be after being shot. You?”

He started to nod but then shook his head. “My girlfriend…she, uh, she’s got the blue rash.” He rubbed at his forehead.

“You care about her. Probably more than you should, right?” That was easy to see. Eggsy was a good kid, probably a little too easy to read. “Especially in this line of work.”

“You get it—Kingsmen aren’t allowed to have attachments. And I…” he tried to grasp at the words he needed, “love her.”

“Statesmen doesn’t have that rule. Probably because we’re very bad at following any sort of guideline anyway.” She shrugged and regretted the movement as it pulled at her wound. “But that means you’ve got less than 12 hours. You got a plan?”

Eggsy quickly explained that they had been able to trace Poppy’s location to Cambodia and they were heading out there now. But his eyes quickly widened as he realized he had just revealed a plan to a potentially dangerous adversary.

“Relax, Eggsy. I’m not the one you shot in the head.” She waved him on. “Go. Save the world. Look out for landmines.”

“Landmines?” Eggsy parroted, face scrunching into a confused frown.

“If Poppy’s as crazy as I think she is, I wouldn’t be surprised if she has nonsense like that. Who knows? Maybe she has a fleet of man-eating robots, too.”

“What are you on about?”

She shook her head. “I’ve seen some stuff. Don’t worry about it.”

He smiled and started to walk away. “You should come to London when this is all over. I’ll get you a drink!”

She smiled a bit and watched him disappear around a corner before her eyes once again drifted toward Whiskey’s door. “…fuck.” Against her better judgement, she walked up and let the door glide open without a sound. The room was quiet. Whiskey was motionless on the bed, face still covered by the machine to help the Alpha Gel finish its work. His vitals were steady, displayed on large screens across the wall.

He would be fine.

He would be fine.

He would be fine.

She slipped gingerly into a chair near the bed and resisted the urge to reach out and touch his hand. He just looked so…vulnerable. It was so unlike him. An angry, terrible twisting pulled at her chest. “I’m not sorry I yelled at you, you know.” She wasn’t sure why she was talking to him but the words kept coming anyway. “You need to let Ginger out in the field. She’d be a better agent than me. I don’t know why you’re… I don’t understand you at all, actually. I wish I did, I think. I wish I could understand you and why you do things and say things. I wish I could understand why you make me feel so stupid.”

Maybe being this close to death—again—was making her sentimental. Or maybe the pain medication was making her crazy.

Probably the second option. Hopefully, anyway.

The door opened again and Ginger stepped in. “I knew I’d find you in here.”

“How’d you figure that?”

Ginger gave her a look but didn’t answer. “It is about time we wake him up. You remember how it’s like, right?”

She nodded. She had heard stories about how most agents needed a ‘reminder’ of a traumatic event to bring them back to the present and how their minds could be a bit foggy for a few days after, but she had never seen it in person. But she basically knew what to except--right? 

With a flip of a few switches, the machine receded and Whiskey’s eyes opened. He was up and off the bed with a spring in his gait that had her laughing as he gave some terrible pick-up line to Ginger. But the laugh drew his attention and his body went rigid as his eyes landed on her. “Sunny.”

She felt tension she didn’t realize she was holding leech from her shoulders as he smiled at her. “Hey, boss.”

Ginger tucked something back in her pocket and her smile seemed to reach her ears. “I’ll leave you two…alone. But I’m just outside if you need anything.” She then scurried out and left her alone with Whiskey and her hammering heart.

“Sunshine.” The new nickname was all but crushing to her heart, caving in her chest.

She waved him back to the bed and told him to rest before she curled her fingers around his hand. It was warm and calloused and, as cliché as it sounded, seemed to fit hers perfectly. “How’re you feeling?”

“Like I’ve been shot in the head.”

She almost laughed and her other hand carefully pushed his still-impeccably styled hair away from the bandage covering a small bit of his temple. “Yeah. You look great for a dead man, though.”

“That’s probably the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.” But he said it with a smile and squeezed her hand. “Say it again.”

“You look great.” And her smile grew, heart a little lighter.

He huffed out a laugh but then a long silence stretched between them. She looked away from his dark eyes but didn’t pull her hand away from his, fearing he’d disappear if she did.

“Are you sure you’re okay, Sunshine?” He squeezed at her hand until she looked at him again.

“I’m okay. They fixed me up just fine. A new scar for the collection.”

His smile slowly dropped and he placed his other hand over hers, too. “I saw you drop. You were bleedin’ out and I-”

“I saw you get shot, too, you know. Butterfly Guy has an interesting way of showing he doesn’t trust someone.” She shook the thought away. Harry’s brain was scrambled, too. “I’m just happy you’re okay. Your brain might feel a bit funny for a day or two, but I’ll be here.”  

“Where are they now? The Brits?”

“They’re on their way to Cambodia. They think they’ve found Poppy’s base.”

Whiskey all but yanked his hands from hers and threw his legs over the side of the bed before standing on his long legs. She quickly stood too, chair clattering backward. “We’ve gotta go. Tell Ginger to get the Silver Pony on the runway.” He started toward the door before she grabbed at his arm.

“Boss, c’mon. You need to rest-”

“I need to make sure that bitch doesn’t get what she wants.”

She was scrambling then, hands pawing up his arm to grasp at his face. Her heart was in her throat as she looked at him. His dark eyes looked so cold. Unfocused. She knew the Alpha Gel could scramble someone’s brain as it physically repaired it, pushing them into old habits and thoughts and fears. She knew Whiskey wasn’t thinking right at the moment—no matter how soft he had been with her moments ago, this wasn’t her Whiskey. Her mouth went dry. Thoughts raced by as the pit she had felt growing in her stomach expanded to an abyss. She knew what he’d been through. The death of his wife at the hands of some coked-out druggies was an open secret. And she knew her own grief, dealt with it in her own way—not all of it healthy, she knew. But she had to try. She knew the look of a man who wanted vengeance no matter the cost—and, right now, the cost was millions of lives. “Do you know why I don’t drink?”

“We don’t have time for this,” he said as he pulled out of her grip.

“Drunk driver plowed into my dad’s car. I was at the local pool with some friends and Dad piled everyone in to pick me up so we could get ice cream after. They never made it.” She swallowed the lump in her throat. “Do you think I hold it against everyone who likes to put a little something extra in their coffee? Likes to have a little liquid courage to talk to the cute guy across the bar?”

Whiskey’s face twisted and his eyes seemed to dilate before he scrunched them shut. A shaking hand pushed through his hair.

“I work at a distillery for a man named Whiskey.”

Another silence stretched between them. She would swear he could hear her heartbeat in the quiet of the room.

A careful hand reached out to touch his wrist, too afraid to do much else. “Stay,” she whispered. “Stay with me.”

And his eyes finally opened.

                                                        **

Champ smiled and congratulated them on a job well done. It was a week since the entire Golden Circle situation had been handled. Tequila was well. Whiskey’s mind was clear. And their profits had never been higher.

Merlin, Harry, and Eggsy were standing at the end of the table and each held a glass of amber liquid as everyone raised a toast. Whiskey was sitting across from his Sunny, golden glasses perched on the edge of his nose. He probably should have been listening to what was Champ was saying but all he could see was how she licked her lips after taking a sip of her cranberry juice.

Statesmen, knowing an ally when they saw one, had purchased a distillery in Scotland. It was the perfect guise to help Kingsman rebuild and keep their money looking “clean.” Yes, he should have listened.

Because the Kid opened his mouth and said Kingsman needed more agents.

“I think Ginger would be a great Kingsman,” Sunny said with a smile.

Ginger, tucked into a corner a drink of her own, smiled in return. “I…”

“Agreed,” Whiskey heard himself saying. And he quickly realized that he meant it. 

Ginger’s eyes went wide and she nearly sloshed the entirety of her drink across her shirt.

Champ laughed. “Alrighty then. Ginger Ale, well, I guess you’ll get a new code name, won’t ya?”

But the Kid’s smile widened. “And I was thinking Cap could come, too.” He turned to her and shrugged a shoulder. “Whaddya say, Cap? I’ll show you the real London.”

Whiskey looked at her, feeling like someone had shoved their fist down his throat. Don’t go. Don’t leave.

“I always wanted to be a knight of the round table.”

The men at the end of the table cheered again and Ginger walked over to knock their glasses together.

And while everyone continued to pat themselves on the back for completing the mission, all he could feel was cold.

The revelry eventually died down and Whiskey found himself the last one seated at the table. Everyone else filtered out to ready for the next mission—or the move to London. It was just him and Champ. The older man plopped down in the seat beside him and refilled his empty glass.

“London is only a few hours by plane from New York.”

He took a long pull from his glass.

“I’ve never known you to wait for something you wanted, Whiskey. But sure seemed to drag your ass on this one.”

“What are you talkin’ about, Champ?” He finally asked after another large gulp of alcohol.

But Champ just shook his head with a throaty chuckle. “You two are a mess.”

                                                     **

Royal weddings were…an event, she was finding.

After nearly losing Princess Tilde to the Golden Circle, Eggsy actually proposed. And with Harry now known as Arthur and presiding over Kingsman, the rules changed. Attachments were allowed. And because Tilde knew his fellow Kingsman were like Eggsy’s family, they were invited to the wedding. A handful of Statesmen, too. It had been a year since Poppy’s demise in Cambodia and the world was (mostly) at peace. Kingsman managed to salvage quite a bit from the wreckage of their former bases and Statesmen funded the rest of their necessary rebuilds. It was slow-going, and a handful of new agents were still finding their footing after graduating from the selection process.

“Please tell me Tequila is not wearing jeans,” she muttered.

Ginger, now known as Agent Percival, rolled her eyes with an affectionate smile as she spotted the jean-clad man amid the rest of the American crowd. “I could but that would be a lie.” She paused. “But Whiskey certainly dressed for the occasion.”

She leaned forward just the slightest bit to see Whiskey dressed in a fine tuxedo. “Is that one of ours?”

Ginger hummed. “He came in a few days ago for a fitting.”

She swallowed the saliva filling her mouth and turned back to watch Eggsy nervously fidget with his cufflinks at the end of the aisle. “Looks good.”

The ceremony finished after the vows and a bit of perfunctory reading and singing before the guests were all chauffeured over to the reception space at the royal palace. “You know, Merlin told me that you and Whiskey are quite fond of using emojis in your emails,” Ginger said as dinner was cleared away and dessert started to be served. 

Her glass of water nearly slipped from her grip as embarrassment washed over her. “I was told those were private.”

“Nothing’s private in our line of work,” Ginger said with a pat to her hand. “But you haven’t really explained what is going on between you two.”

She rubbed at her temples. How could she possibly explain that she knew Whiskey, while his brain was still scrambled, wanted to let everyone infected with the Blue Rash die? How could she explain that she, despite all that, missed his smile and stupid mustache? Missed how he had terrible pick-up lines that always made her roll her eyes? Missed how she always seemed a little lighter whenever he would waltz into her office in New York?

Their constant contact devolved away from work and missions and into their private lives. He would ask after Bela and she would ask him to tell her about the view from his office window. It was now a strange sort of friendship that she treasured and protected despite how they hadn’t seen each other in person in over a year. She had taken the position at Kingsman, took the code name Agent Mordred, moved to London. It should have been a clean break. She could have kept their communications purely professional. But she didn’t. She just couldn’t truly let him go.

But on the outside, she shrugged as her hands dropped away from her face.

“It looks like I’ll be able to see for myself because he’s on his way over here.”

Her head snapped up at the sound of Ginger’s smug tone and, sure enough, Whiskey was on his way over, walking through the dancing crowd and wandering guests, right toward their table.

“But oh no. Would you look at that, I need more champagne.” Ginger then scampered off and left her alone.

Whiskey easily took Ginger’s vacated seat and smiled at her. “Hey, Sunshine.”

“Hey, bos-Whiskey.”

He chuckled at her slip. His head tilted to the side as he looked at her, eyes trailing down her form and she resisted a shiver like a teenaged girl but was silently thankful for the designer dress that fit her like a glove in a soft blue silk. “You look good.”

“You too.” And he did. The tuxedo was impeccably cut and the darkest black. A pristine white shirt was held back with a matching cummerbund and a black bowtie was slightly crooked around his neck. She reached out and straightened it.

He reached up to keep her hand pressed against his chest with a small smile. “I miss you.” It was whispered like a secret.

“We talk every day.” But she didn’t pull her hand away.

“ ‘s not the same and you know it.” He squeezed her hand. “Dance with me?” Wordlessly, he led her out onto the dance floor and pulled her close.

His expensive cologne made her mind swim but she resisted the urge to rest her cheek against his shoulder despite every nerve in her body telling her to do so. The music was slow, soft, and romantic. The lighting was low and accentuated by flickering candles that danced across the golden walls of the royal ballroom. If she could let herself remember anything—it would be this moment. Held in the arms of the man she loved even if it was just for a tiny sliver of time.

“I never thanked you, you know.”

“For what?”

“Saving me. My head was a mess—even before Butterfly Guy put a bullet in it. It took me a while but I…” He shook his head. “You’ve given me a second chance.”

She cocked her head to the side with a smile. “To save the world?”

Whiskey’s smile was small and his cheeks reddened the slightest bit but his dark eyes never left her face. His grip on her hand and waist tightened the slightest bit. “A second chance at everything.”

She chuckled and ignored how her chest tightened. Reading into it would only make it hurt.

A/N: Thank you for reading!

Beautiful people who asked to be tagged: @spookyold-saintjm​ @honestlystop​ @paryl​ @fioccodineveautunnale @lackofhonor

[emachinescat]

Murdoc + Ithika + Mac

A MacGyver Fan-Fiction

by @emachinescat

@febuwhump day 14 - “I didn’t mean it”

Summary: As an artist, Murdoc prides himself in taking his time with his work - he never loses control.  Except one time, with his favorite boy genius.  He always imagined that when he finally made MacGyver cry, it would be his finest moment.  Now, he’s not so sure.

Characters: Murdoc, Mac, Jack

Words: 3,454

TW: torture, broken bones, Murdoc being his creepy little self

Note: Happy Valentine's Day – the store was all out of chocolate, so I got you Mac whump! ;) The allusions to Ithika are from Homer's epic by the same name, but even more so from the incredible poem by C.P. Cavafy. The muse mentioned, Melpomene, is the Muse of Tragedy.

Keep reading here, or on AO3!

If you enjoy, please consider liking, commenting, or re-blogging, and you can follow me for more content like this!

Ithika gave you the marvelous journey.

Without her you wouldn't have set out.

She has nothing left to give you now.

- From “Ithika” by C. P. Cavafy

Murdoc enjoyed taking his time.

He was an artist, after all, and artists didn’t slap together a masterpiece in an afternoon – not the ones worth anything, at least.  Most spent days studying their subjects, becoming intimately familiar with every line and curve and element – the shading, the lighting, the vibrancy of the colors.  The very best didn’t even consider touching brush to canvas until they had developed a personal relationship with their subject – for how can a true artist paint that which he does not know deeply?  Why bother recreating that landscape or tea kettle or sad-eyed little girl or bowl of fruit if it could be any landscape, tea kettle, little girl, or bowl of fruit?  Why would someone paint something that wasn’t theirs?

Murdoc knew his subject very well.  He, like a true artist, had studied it in a variety of settings.  He’d watched and learned, dug deep into the core of its being, drawn out every secret and motivation and loss and love.  He understood what made his subject tick.  He’d even done some brief sketches, practicing each brushstroke with care, waiting patiently for the day he could at last, intricately, evoke that muse sought by the Romantics, that evasive Melpomene, and breathe his masterpiece to life.  Or, more accurately, to death.

And now, after years of watching, interacting, teasing, sketching, his time had finally come.  Months of planning had been sunk into this particular endeavor.  And now, unlike the first time he’d been introduced to his subject, he hadn’t been commissioned by anyone.  This portrait was personal, deeply personal.  He finally had his subject right where he wanted it.  The canvas was bare and waiting for the artist’s touch.  Murdoc had chosen his palette, mixed the colors – it might be cliche, but he was a sucker for red, black, and blue.

Now that his moment had finally arrived, however, it didn’t mean that he could rush through the actual creation process.  The act of studying one’s subject matter was slow and deliberate.  So must be the painting.  

***

Murdoc studied his canvas slowly, methodically, unsurprised that it wasn’t exactly blank.  MacGyver stood, hands chained above his head, attached to a grate above.  His bare toes just reached the cold concrete below.  His jacket and Henley had been removed – he shivered slightly from the chill of the basement.  Murdoc liked to think it was from fear.  

“Oooh, this one’s fun, MacGyver!” Murdoc crooned as the blonde boy wonder eyed him scornfully.  It was quite entertaining how expressive his prey’s pretty blue eyes could be.  Murdoc briefly brushed the tip of his little finger against the scar of a bullet wound on MacGyver’s chest.  MacGyver jerked back from the touch, though his expression remained stoic.

“Jealous that you weren’t the one who did it, Murdoc?”  He sounded confident enough, but Murdoc knew his subject quite well by now.  MacGyver was shaken.  For once, he had no control, nothing to work with, no way to escape.  He was at his captor’s mercy – Murdoc could do whatever he wanted, and MacGyver knew that.

“Oh, it’s nothing compared with what I’ve got planned for you, Angus,” Murdoc simpered sweetly, circling his catch of the day, dark eyes darting across more scars and recent cuts and bruises.  He pressed directly into the dark center of a boot-tip bruise on MacGyver’s side, relishing the sharp intake of breath it elicited.  “Someone on your last mission in Volgograd left their mark, I see.”

He circled back around to face his victim, who did a subpar job of hiding his surprise at the observation.  “That was highly classified.  How did you–”

“I’ve been watching you for a very long time, MacGyver.  But you had to have known I would.  After all, you’re my closest friend, and I know where you live.  It’s kind of silly that you never moved, but maybe you just figured I’d find you even if you did.  I wonder – have you always tossed and turned in your sleep or is that a more recent development?”

True horror flashed momentarily in blue eyes, tugging Murdoc’s lips up into a satisfied smile.  “Oh, yes, your nightmares are very entertaining.  I do hope the majority of them are about me.  Oh, oh, oh!  And I especially love it when they’re so bad you have to call your watch dog to calm you down.  I wonder how Dalton’s taking your disappearance, by the way?  I’m sure he’s in for some nightmares of his own.”

“He’ll find me, if I don’t escape first.”  MacGyver’s bravado was both highly endearing and incredibly tiresome.  Same old, same old.

“Doubtful,” Murdoc purred.  “I mean, I know you well enough not to make stupid mistakes, my friend.”

“I escaped from the sewers, and you’d drugged me.”

“I intended for you to escape that day.  I needed to draw your friends in, to focus their attention on finding you while I attended to other business.  But this time – you’re mine.”  At the fervor in his words, a shudder entirely unrelated to cold clinked the chains restraining his victim.  Murdoc smiled, then continued.

“But now, there is no ulterior motive.  I grabbed you for no other reason than because I wanted to.  You are hidden away quite well, even more securely than last time, I’m afraid.  And you will not be left alone, not even for a second.  There may be things in this room you could use to escape, but they’re useless to you in your position.  And I am not going to take my eyes off of you.  You won’t have a chance to wriggle your way out of this one, MacGyver.  Ooooh, is that fear I see on your face?  No?  We really must change that.”  He tutted.  “Defiance and bravado really are your bread and butter, aren’t they, Angus?  What are you, an action hero from a cheesy 1980s TV show?”  Silence, though the fiery glare spoke more loudly than words.  

Murdoc clapped his hands together.  “Well, there’s no time like the present.  What do you say, MacGyver?  Let’s get started.”

***

Three hours later, Murdoc admired his work.  It was a slow process.  He painted with precision and care, layering the colors just so, balancing the strokes, the lights and darks and brights.  His brushes were many – laid out on the table before him were knives and pliers and blow torches and hammers and whips and cattle prods and other more specialized tools that he liked to work up to.  He also had an oversized meat tenderizer, made of steel.  He rarely used it – too garish for his refined tastes – but it did look nice and scary looming over the other instruments.

So far, he’d only used his knives and the cattle prod.  The masterpiece was starting to come together, but it was hardly complete.  He prowled around his artwork.  MacGyver’s trembling had increased.  He gasped for breath as Murdoc appraised his work – burns and cuts, some deeper than others – made a nice foundation.  The drip of blood across bare flesh outshone any Pollock painting.  He’d practiced his blending techniques, jabbing the cattle prod directly into the center of the lovely bruise he’d noticed earlier.  MacGyver hadn’t been able to hold in his yell of pain.  

Music.

“Are you enjoying our time together?” Murdoc asked.

MacGyver uttered a creative string of curse words that made Murdoc proud.  He whistled appreciatively.  “Who knew the boy scout had that in him?  I’m almost impressed.”

“Yeah, well,” MacGyver said, hissing as he shifted and pulled at his many wounds.  “Almost is about all you’ll ever be, Murdoc.”

Murdoc had been reaching for his trusty pair of pliers (those toenails could sure use a trim!).  He paused, his back partially to his captive, fingers hovering over the tool.  He was used to MacGyver’s sass, but what he’d just said hit a sour note that the hit man couldn’t shake.  He didn’t know if it was the tone or the words themselves.  “Excuse me?”  He tried to sound amused, but his voice was tight, as if it had been squeezed out of him.

A clink of the chains, a grunt of pain that didn’t lighten Murdoc’s mood as it should have.  Then, MacGyver elaborated.  His voice was clipped in pain, breathless, but conviction lined every syllable.  “You are doomed to live a life of almost, Murdoc.  Nothing is ever going to be enough for you.  Why do you think you take so long to get anything done?  Why do you spend so much time talking and taunting and watching and waiting?”

Murdoc didn’t move, his hand still inches away from his delicate instrument that caused pain but did no lasting damage.  “I’m an artist.”

“You’re afraid.” 

“I fear nothing.”

“You fear winning.”

Murdoc laughed, a forced, uncomfortable sound that he’d never heard come from his own mouth.  “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard, Angus.  Are you sure the pain isn’t getting to your head?”

MacGyver pressed on relentlessly.  “You crave attention.  You need a challenge.  That’s why you picked me.  And you’re afraid of what happens if you beat me.  If I die, there’s always that possibility that you won’t find another playmate.”

Still, Murdoc didn’t move.  His words, despite their teasing jaunt, had a forced quality to them.  “Awfully full of ourselves, aren’t we, MacGyver?”

He could hear the triumphant smile in his adversary’s voice.  “I’m just stating the truth, Murdoc.  You might torture me, you might have your fun.  But at the end of the day, you’re going to slip up somehow.  It’s your way of making sure the game goes on.  Without that challenge, what are you?  Just an angry voice screaming at the sky, no purpose, no point.  You say you’ve studied me, Murdoc.  You’ve watched me and know me.  Well, in doing so, you’ve shown me yourself, too.  You’re not going to kill me today.  You’re never going to kill me.  

“I don’t know what exactly I’ve done to deserve this… honor,” he continued, placing particular derision on the last word, “but you’ve become obsessed with me, Murdoc.  Believe me, I don’t like saying this any more than you like hearing it.  But it’s how I know I’m going to walk away from this.  If I’m gone, so is your fun.”

Murdoc prided himself on maintaining control over his emotions.  An artist, though he might express the inner workings of his soul on canvas, could not let his feelings control the brush, control him.  Look what had happened to Van Gogh – sure, beautiful work, but his emotions controlled him, destroyed him in the end.  Murdoc didn’t make mistakes like that.  He waited.  He didn’t lash out in anger.  It wasn’t because he wanted MacGyver to live, oh no.  His fondest dream was to see the blonde boy cry, to watch him squirm and beg for mercy, and then, finally, only when he’d really begged for it, to send him to his death.  MacGyver had no idea what he was talking about.  

It wasn’t even MacGyver’s words, his cocky belief that he was important enough to his torturer to keep alive, that sent Murdoc over the edge.  It was the tiny little voice, way back in the darkest, most depraved corner of his already dark and depraved mind, the one that spoke not in the voice of Murdoc, but one that sounded more like Dennis, the first casualty of Murdoc’s career – himself.  The voice said, plainly, without emotion, You know he’s right.

And that was the catalyst for the tsunami of rage that crashed into Murdoc, pummeling his well-practiced and unshakable resolve to take his time.  That was what spurred his frozen body into movement, curled his fingers around the handle of the meat tenderizer, that brash, archaic tool, rather than the pliers.  That was what spit his next words out of his mouth as if they were poison, words that finally – beautifully – caused Angus MacGyver’s eyes to widen in real fear: “You are going to walk out of here?”  A sadistic, mad giggle.  “My dear Angus, it will be a miracle if you ever walk again.”  

He hefted the heavy steel implement in his hand, pulled back, and lunged.  MacGyver tried to back away, the chains around his wrists cackling and clicking against one another in his desperation.  They held firm, and the meat tenderizer slammed full force into MacGyver’s left kneecap.  Murdoc felt the crunch of bones.  He heard the bestial howl, the scream of anguish, the body-jerking, breath stealing cry of a man in so much pain he lost himself.  He watched MacGyver’s face drain of color, recognized the moment when the pain became too much, and saw the tear-streaked face go slack, the chin thud against the battered chest and stay there. 

For a moment, Murdoc experienced the euphoria one could only find in hurting that special someone in such a catastrophic way.  He relished in that moment the scream, the agony, the writhing and loss of control.

Then the moment ended – and far too soon.

Immediately after, the weapon dropped out of Murdoc’s limp fingers.  It smashed into the floor below, with the jarring clang that only metal on concrete can produce.  He looked at the limp, hanging form before him, and something twisted inside of him – a feeling he’d never known.  It wasn’t guilt, nor revulsion.

It was, however, regret.

He didn’t understand it.  He should be overjoyed.  MacGyver was completely at his mercy.  Murdoc could kill him now.  Carve that bleeding heart out like a villain in a fairy tale would.  But then, he realized, MacGyver would be gone.  Forever.  Even now, his kneecap had been crushed, shattered into tiny fragments of bone and cartilage, and unless he got treatment of the highest quality, and soon, he’d almost certainly be crippled.  Even if he had extensive reconstructive surgery, his career as a Phoenix agent could still be over.

Wasn’t that what Murdoc had wanted?  To end MacGyver’s pesky existence, to win at this game of cat and mouse?  To create his most spectacular masterpiece with his greatest enemy?  That’s what he had dreamed of for years now, what he’d studied and practiced and yearned for.  And yet – 

What was it that hoity toity Greek poet had written?  Murdoc had read “Ithika” long ago, a random page in a poetry book of a man he’d killed.  For some reason, the poem had attached itself to his mind and never let go.  He could remember it even now:  

Keep Ithika always in your mind. Arriving there is what you’re destined for.  But don’t hurry the journey at all.  Better if it lasts for years, so you’re old by the time you reach the island, wealthy with all you’ve gained on the way, not expecting Ithika to make you rich.  Ithika gave you the marvelous journey.  Without her you wouldn’t have set out.  She has nothing to give you now.

And he understood.  The poem was supposed to be inspirational, for fools so focused on their goals that they missed the journey of life along the way – a mundane, silly sentiment.  But now Murdoc could see – MacGyver’s destruction was his Ithika.  Perhaps Cavafy had a point – maybe he had been a bit of an artist himself.  And MacGyver had been right about some things, wrong about others.

He was right in that Murdoc wasn’t ready to end the game just yet.  But it wasn't fear that held him back, that urged him to take his time.  It was joy.  Joy of the journey.  The little pleasures of life that are so often passed by in the grand scheme of things – the poet had been speaking of knowledge, of friendship, of love, of experiences.  Murdoc’s little pleasures were things like fear, drawn-out suffering, playing with his food and watching it squirm.  He relished that joy.  He wanted more of it, and if MacGyver died, or was out of commission as a spy, that joy would diminish.  Even if MacGyver lived, it wouldn’t be the same if he couldn’t fight back, couldn’t play along.

Murdoc made his decision.

He reached into his pocket, pulled out a burner phone.  He dialed a number he’d memorized long ago, put the phone to his ear.

A fierce Texas twang answered before the first ring had run its course.  “Murdoc, you son of a bitch–”

“Temper, Jack,” Murdoc drawled.  He shivered in excitement at the mental picture of the inferno in Dalton’s eyes.  “You just assumed it was me – imagine if it were your mother on the other line.”

“I can scent the devil from a mile away.”  Murdoc heard muffled voices in the background, knew the call was being traced.  

“Don’t waste your time running a trace, you grumpy old hound dog.”  His words were light, yet he allowed the slightest hint of urgency to infect them.  “I’ve had my fun for today.  I’ll text you the address.”  He paused.  “Oh, and bring one of those fancy whirly-birds you like to use for medical emergencies.  I might have been a little… over zealous this time.”

He closed his eyes, gorging on the incalculable levels of hatred in Jack Dalton’s next words.  “If you hurt him–”

Appreciation turned to irritation.  Murdoc rolled his coal eyes to the ceiling.  “Weren’t you listening, you brute?  Obviously, I hurt him.  Quite a bit actually.  You should have heard him scream.”

A short silence.  Then – “You didn’t let me finish, you overgrown sewer rat.  If you hurt him, I am going to tear you limb from limb.  I don’t need any of your fancy tools.”

“Hmm, that was almost intimidating,” Murdoc teased in his most good-natured tone.  “But you’ll have to find me first.”  He let the words linger for just a moment, then continued: “Anyway, ta-ta for now.  I’ll text you the address.  I’ll be long gone by the time you get here, but feel free to bring all your little friends for a game of hide and seek.  Though I have a feeling that you’re going to be more focused on sweet Angus.”

He hung up, texted the address, then turned to a feebly stirring MacGyver.  Pity he was waking up right as Murdoc had to leave.  Whimpers that would have torn the very soul out of Jack Dalton erupted unbidden from MacGyver’s lips.  Glazed blue eyes cracked open, regarding Murdoc with a mixture of terror and acceptance.  Though he had regained consciousness, MacGyver still hung limply from the chains, too weak and in pain to move.

Murdoc stepped forward, eliciting the tiniest of flinches  Even that motion made MacGyver cry out.  But Murdoc didn’t hurt him again.  Instead, he said, “Your friends are on their way.”

MacGyver’s voice rasped in the aftermath of his screams.  “You’re letting … me go… Why?”  

“Got bored, I suppose.”  No way was Murdoc going to let MacGyver know he’d been right, even if only a little bit.

MacGyver didn’t respond – maybe he didn’t know how to respond; more likely, he could barely form coherent thoughts, let alone words, amidst the torrent of pain.

Murdoc started to step away, then turned back, studying his latest draft of the elusive masterpiece that he would continue to dream about and that would fuel his passion and creativity for years to come.  He pulled off one black glove, placed his hand on a pale, cold cheek.  MacGyver jerked back feebly from the touch, grunting at the pain it produced.  Slowly, Murdoc wiped one of the fresher tears away with his thumb.  It might have been a power play.  It might have been a show of comfort.  Even the hit man didn’t know.  He glanced down at the shattered knee, swollen and misshapen, a grotesque monster straining to break free from the unrelenting fabric of the khakis.

“For what it’s worth,” he said quietly, moving his gaze up from the deformed knee to lock his black eyes with fearful, anguished blue ones, “I didn’t mean it.”

He walked away, casting one final look over his shoulder before he left his art behind for the coming Phoenix agents to admire.  “Until next time, MacGyver.”

And despite the extensive search conducted by Phoenix once MacGyver had been loaded onto the chopper, on his way to the best orthopaedic surgeons in the country, Murdoc had once more disappeared, like a ghost.

That night he dreamed about his Ithika, and this time, it was enough. 

[musicprincess655]

For a place with such advanced security that even the firewall around their data is almost impossible to break through, the Correctional Facility is boring as fuck.

Dazai stares up at the ceiling from the top bunk he hasn’t managed to escape from yet. He’s been laying here with his thoughts for hours, and it’s not a fun position to be in. He almost wishes they’d throw him into an experiment, just for some variety.

It’s a thought Chuuya would beat him up for if he voiced it.

Maybe he should say it.

In spite of everything, Chuuya is the most interesting thing about this place. He’s not much to look at until he lifts his eyes, blueish grey like distant storm clouds breaking over a calm sky. He’s easy to bait, but he’s also intelligent, not nearly as much as Dazai but enough that he’s not boring.

Dazai sighs and discards another half-hearted escape plan. Pretty much all of them start with getting Chuuya out of his chains. Several of them involve taking the chains with them, because seriously, what are those things made of? Chuuya barely has any slack and he can throw Dazai as easily as Dazai used to throw balls of paper at Yosano. Dazai’s seen him accidentally put dents in the metal frame of their bunk beds. What material doesn’t even budge no matter how hard Chuuya pulls at it?

Not that it matters. Some of the escape plans are viable, but Dazai isn’t going to use any of them. He’s probably going to die here in the Correctional Facility, but he’s not going to do anything about it just yet. He won’t desire escape. If life has taught him anything, it’s that as soon as he truly wants something, he’s going to lose it. 

“Oi.” Dazai turns his head to see a plate of food being slid under the door. “You better not try anything again.”

“Oh, you didn’t like my gift last time?” Dazai asks, fixing a smile on his face he knows pisses people off. “I worked so hard on it too.”

“Next time you try something like that, I’ll make you clean it with your tongue.”

“No one appreciates art,” Dazai sighs.

How was he supposed to resist the fact that whatever mush they tried to pass off as food is so easy to fling with a spoon? Really, they were just asking for it. Dazai thinks the guard’s face was much improved when the Unidentifiable Sludge was dripping off it.

“They’ll kill you soon, and good riddance,” the guard growls. “Useless piece of shit.”

“See you later!” Dazai calls after him.

Chuuya is gone, or he’d probably bitch at Dazai about being annoying. He leaves for most of the day, either for the experiments they’re conducting or to eat. They let Chuuya eat in a common cafeteria with the rest of the experiments and staff. They don’t allow the same of Dazai.

Even here, they’re trying to keep him hidden. It speaks to how much deference they have to his parents. He always knew his parents were high-ranking officials, but this is the first time he’s bothered to consider how far-reaching the consequences of that are. Even the slight chance that someone here will recognize him, will spread the word, that it will reflect badly on them, is dealt with.

So it begs the question, really. Are they actually going to kill him? It’s a solid possibility, probably the most likely outcome. But what if they don’t? What if they can’t? Try as he might, Dazai can’t actually come up with a viable alternative. If they can’t kill him, they certainly can’t let the scientists use him for their experiments. So what else can they do? House him here for the rest of his life? Some other option he doesn’t have the creativity to come up with?

Dazai has always had the unfortunate habit of picking at things he should really leave alone. His curiosity about the world is one of the only things left that makes life worth living. Even though it would be smarter to escape now, circumvent whatever they’re planning, he can’t help but wonder what they’re going to do. He can’t help waiting around to see what happens.

The door opening draws Dazai out of his spiraling thoughts. Chuuya is back, casting a mutinous glare over his shoulder at the guard escorting him. He looks none the worse for wear, so he probably was just eating, not going through some new test.

If Dazai looks close enough, he can see faint scars around Chuuya’s neck. Burn scars from the shock collar, maybe? They might be burns, but they’re faded so faintly against his skin that Dazai can’t tell for sure.

“What do you want?” Chuuya demands. “You’re looking at me funny.”

“I’m allowed to look,” Dazai says. “Maybe I see something I like.”

“Don’t be gross,” Chuuya complains. “We both know you’re not attracted to me.”

Dazai shrugs, because it’s true. It’s only fair. Chuuya isn’t interested in him, either. There might not be two people less attracted to each other in the world than the two of them.

“Aren’t you going to eat that?” Chuuya asks, pointing to Dazai’s tray of Unidentifiable Sludge.

“Chuuya, if you want something, you should just ask,” Dazai says, already sliding the tray towards Chuuya.

“That’s not what I meant, you dick,” Chuuya snaps. “You have to eat something. You’ll get sick if you don’t eat.”

“Are you worried about me?” Dazai asks. He makes his tone mocking, but he sees that, in his way, Chuuya is worried.

“Maybe I just don’t want to be stuck in here with your body for days!” Chuuya snarls. “Anyway, you really want to starve to death? That’ll take forever. At least kill yourself quickly if you’re gonna kill yourself.”

“I thought you didn’t want to be stuck in here with my body?”

“I also don’t want to sit here and listen to you bitch the whole time it takes you to starve!” Chuuya gripes. “All you ever do is complain, you’re so fucking annoying!”

“Don’t worry,” Dazai says. “In a few days, I’ll either be dead or gone, so it doesn’t really matter if I eat this shit or not.”

Chuuya gives him a strange look.

“That doesn’t bother you?” he asks. “That they’re probably gonna kill you?”

“They might as well,” Dazai says, nonchalant. Just because he thinks there’s a chance there’s something else interesting in the works doesn’t mean he doesn’t know the most likely way this ends is in his death. “It’s not like my life is worth much to me, anyway.”

“But you could get out, right?” Chuuya presses. “You said you’re in here because you were hacking their data, so you could hack the security system, right? If you do, I can do the rest. We could both get out of here.”

“Mmm. Too much work,” Dazai says. “Why go through the effort when they’ll just kill me if I stay put?”

“You think they’ll be nice about it?” Chuuya asks. “You think they’ll just put you to sleep and you’ll never wake up? You’re some kind of traitor to No. 6. They’ll make sure you go painfully. They’ll probably even enjoy it. Maybe they’ll take notes on whatever new torture they’ve tested out on you.”

“So?” Dazai scoffs. The thought does turn his stomach, though. He has no doubt they have several new deadly torture methods they can try on him.

“You hate pain,” Chuuya says. “You bitch about every little thing that hurts. You want to go like that?”

“I guess not,” Dazai says. “I’d rather have a clean suicide, with no pain and no burden to anyone else. But who says, if I do decide to run, that I’ll take you with me?”

“You think you could get out on your own?” Chuuya snorts. “Please. You’d go down the first time someone threw a punch at you, rich boy.”

“I think you’re underestimating me because you’ve only seen me against you,” Dazai says. “Maybe I could talk my way out of everything.”

“I would actively love to see you talk your way out of an automated machine gun.”

The argument is interrupted by the door opening yet again. Dazai and Chuuya whirl from where they’d been slowly getting in each other’s faces.

This is a new person, not one Dazai recognizes, but he has to be important with the deference everyone else in the room shows him.

“Dazai Osamu,” the man says. “Your parents have been informed of your position.”

Dazai’s shoulders relax. Moment of truth. Will this be some new adventure, something else to hold his interest, or will he just die?

“And?” he asks, voice carefully bland, as if he really couldn’t care either way what happens.

“They were given the option to rescue you from this facility, at the cost of significant demotions for both of them to take them away from the public eye,” the man continues. “They chose to keep their careers. You will be executed tomorrow.”

Dazai blinks. He can’t quite make his mind process the words. In all his plans, he’d never considered that his parents might get a choice to save him. He assumed they’d hear about his fate from one of their sources, and either rescue him or leave him. But they’d been offered him, and they chose their careers over him?

There’s a part of him, tiny but lingering, naïve, that for all these years drove him to needle at the things his parents controlled, childishly driving forward for their attention. That part of him really believed they would save him. It believed that, as long as they knew of his fate, they’d come for him.

Deep inside him, that tiny part silently, irrevocably, shatters.

How freeing it is, to feel nothing! No attachment, no emotion. The tears Dazai should be shedding at his fated death, at the abandonment of his parents, never come. He doesn’t even feel the urge to cry. He feels nothing.

“We will come for you at dawn,” the man continues, oblivious to the cataclysmic change that just went on inside Dazai. “You have that long to make your peace.”

And with that, he leaves.

“Dazai…” Chuuya says softly. Dazai turns to see his hands outstretched as far as his chains will allow, an aborted offer of comfort, for all that Chuuya is not built for it.

Dazai reaches into his pocket. They didn’t search him thoroughly when he arrived, mistaking his age for idiocy, and because Dazai thought quickly enough on the way over here, he was able to save a few things he had on him. The first is some money, which he subtly shoved down his pants while the officers who drove him here weren’t looking. The second, which he’d much more carefully tucked into his hair, is a set of lockpicks.

See, the trickiest part of getting Chuuya out of his chains is the lock. It would be impossible to open them just by stealing a key. They have both a lock with a conventional key and an electromagnetic lock. Even if Chuuya managed to knock down a guard and steal a key, he’d still be stuck. Trying to find both keys would slow him down enough to stop him.

But Dazai’s lockpicks aren’t just for conventional locks. They have a little knob at the end that functions as an electromagnetic field disrupter. They can be used on both conventional locks and higher tech ones. They weren’t easy to get ahold of, but he was always happy to spend his parents’ money.

He wishes he’d spent more of it before he got cut off from it.

But at least he can make sure he doesn’t die to their benefit. They can continue to live with his existence as a thorn in their sides.

“Hey, Chuuya,” Dazai says, drawling on Chuuya’s name and holding up the lockpicks. “Wanna get out of here?”

[kryptsune]

Hi you are an amazing writer i was wondering if you have any tips on salvaging a story that was derailed by a brain fart cause uh i was writing a short story that turned out to be longer and harder to read for anyone thats not myself and now i cant barely look at it... so can i have tips or advice please?

🌼Sorry for the late reply on this I wanted to be able to take the time to give you my own personal advice. First of all, thank you for the kind words :D I am so happy that you enjoy my writing. 

Tips tips tips. Well, there are a couple of things you can do and I have personally done myself. If you feel as though a story has gotten out of hand there is nothing wrong with that at all. I never planned to have either Felldritch or Wonderfell having their own fics in the first place but I enjoy writing for them so much that it was a logical progression. It is difficult for me to assess your personal investment in the project and from what I am reading it seems you no longer are passionate about it?  The truth of the matter is that writing has to be something you enjoy in order to do stories. Sure you can pump out chapter after chapter but it won’t have that spark and why would you put yourself through that suffering in the first place? Sometimes stories are hard to read for others just because of their personality. I have a lot of friends that enjoy my work but haven’t read the story because it is massive. That is something I am keenly aware of often. Welcome to the Underworld is not for the faint of heart or for casual readers and I understand that. It’s not for everyone. I appreciate it when people at least try, however, it is a good way for me to gauge interest at the very least. 

I will break this into 3 parts. The first will be revaluating your current story/project and the second will be things you can do that might make it easier for your readers if you still feel you want to continue it and lastly what you can do to possibly get that passion back if so you can “look at it again.” 1. Evaluating your project: As artists and creatives, we tend to latch onto our work because we put our own personal investment into it. I usually use the analogy that it is like our child and it can be difficult to care for sometimes and yet rewarding at others. This is the first thing you want to do if you are working on a project. Always evaluate. Do you enjoy it anymore?  Do you feel stuck? Is it just not going the way you want it to? Writer's block maybe? All of these can be factors into why you may not enjoy it any longer. 

I felt this with WTU for the longest time and now looking back on it...it was for the wrong reasons. I felt that no one wanted to read it after hours upon hours of writing and editing. It made me sad and I didn’t understand why. The thing is I have changed my mindset when it comes to this. It is hard for me to accurately gauge who reads my work without some kind of feedback but I have a goal. I set out to write an extensive and world built Fell verse and I am going to do it. It’s important to me and it is rewarding just to know that I can do a project as large as the three acts of WTU. Ask yourself why are you writing the story? What are your roadblocks? This will help you come to a decision. 

2. Easing the Readers: If you read my writing you will notice I have a tendency to write a fair bit. Every chapter of WTU ranges from about 15-20 pages of text 11 point font in google docs. That is a lot. I actually have not gone and calculated the word count on it but yeah, a lot. There are simple things you can do however to make the reading a little more digestible for people. 

a. Formating: I never had a problem with reading large blocks of text. That was how I was taught in middle and high school. That said others struggle with large blocks because it makes it difficult to read from a visual perspective (the irony that I am using block text right now). What you can do is break up your paragraphs more often. I have started to do this with older WTU chapters seeing as there are a lot of text blocks. It is a simple and relatively hassle-free way to make it easier. 

b. Pacing: I am by no means the expert of fics however there are some things that I notice in fics that tend to pop up quite frequently. I am not saying to change these things by any means but to evaluate and possibly adjust when needed. PACING. I can’t tell you how many stories I have read with poor or confusing pacing. What I mean by this is that the story is either holding too long in a certain scene or there is no breathing room. WTU and a lot of my fics have dark undertones to them which creates drama and emotional payoff, however, doing this constantly and throwing problem after problem into a story is hard to swallow. The readers need a break. This can be anything from levity to simple character interactions. Not everything is fights or angst. 

This also goes for fics that have none of the former as well. There are so many that are a slice of life and that is fine! Enjoy your cute fluffy fics that said if there is no conflict then what is the point of continuing to read the story? What is holding my investment? Sure the characters can be written well but the point of storytelling is connection. A perfect butterflies and rainbows story is all well and good but you can’t connect to it. That is not how life is. (I am pontificating a little bit but I am honestly really tired of having to explain to people that my fics are M for a reason. No NSFW stuff but rather real-life mental and psychological and emotional situations.)

c. Characters: This kind of also ties into what I was talking about before. A flawless character... is a boring one. Some of peoples favorite characters are the villains, why? Because unlike their heroic counterparts they feel real. They go through things and make their own path. If they just chose differently then things would be different. A lot of times (and no offense to fandom) I find that people make stereotypes of a character. It’s all surface-level stuff. Think about what makes you, you. What have you gone through that causes you to think a certain way or react to things? Our lives are made up of experiences and moments and characters are the exact same way. Most don’t realize this since I hint it throughout the story but everything tells a story. The character's costumes tell a story whether that be the place they live of their own personal style. Why does my Red wear a collar with a seemingly half-broken, fused, and burned chain link? I don’t know... you tell me. 

It’s a storytelling technique called breadcrumbing. This is used to hint to some sort of plot or payoff. A foreshadowing at times. It is an incredibly useful and engaging tool if done properly. I would use my “why does Red do what he does” example but its been beaten to death so I will use Boss as my example instead.   

Boss is the Head of Royal Guard having bested Undyne a long time ago but not everyone was happy with the change of the Guard and that is communicated in character dialogue. In fact, you can use this method to hint to character connections as well. Boss has claw marks in both his scarf and his left eye socket. So.... who could do that kind of damage? If you have read the story *mild Snowdin spoiler* Frisk meets Doggo. An Australian cattle dog-wolf mix that has no love for the current Captain. He was tossed out of the Royal Guard after altercation... maybe attacking a certain lanky skeleton perhaps? It’s not directly stated but certain visual ques could lead someone to that kind of assumption. 

Intertwine your characters, their relationships, their life events. All of this will create far more dynamic storytelling and investment.

d. Planning: Returning back to potential writers' block... I find that something that personally helps me is outlining. I have all of my stories planned out from beginning to end while the middle can be moved around accordingly. That said in every single chapter I outline the main points I want to communicate. It helps with the organization but also keeping your thoughts on track. If you feel you need an extra chapter for character development then you can totally plan that out. Don’t be afraid to change things. It’s your story do what you feel is best for it! 

e. Editors/betas/outside eyes: This is a huge one and can be a little challenging at first. It is helpful to have others look at the work. Those that you trust. Have them look for grammar or even pacing and character inconsistencies. It can be hard to get a critique on your work that you love so much however this makes you far better writer IF IT COMES FROM A REPUTABLE SOURCE. 

I need to clarify this as you cannot please everyone. I have rejected critiques from my beta readers in the past, not because I think I know better but because even they can’t account for your overall thought process. What they think is superfluous may come to have a payoff later on and it needs to be in there for that payoff. That can be anything from character development to plot.  You have to be strong in your conviction. Say yes and no when appropriate and always be kind to your readers. They are taking time out of their lives to help you with your work. The same goes for the betas. Be respectful and kind when giving CONSTRUCTIVE feedback and don’t be offended when the author does not agree. 

3. Breaking the Block: Breaking any kind of block is not easy. In fact, it is a constant nuisance in any creative field. That said there are some simple things that you can do to help. The best example I can give is taking a break. That can range from person to person but generally, sometimes you work on something for so long you need to set it aside and look at it with fresh and new eyes. It is ok to take breaks, hiatus, or just work on something else for your own mental well being. Here are a few things you can do to utilize your break effectively.  a. Don’t even look at it: Some people just need to get away from it all which is totally understandable. I would be farther along in my own fics if I did not break so much but I am determined to put my best foot forward even if it takes me longer. I am also an artist in the drawing and painting sense so I juggle that as well. If you notice my blog right now there has not been much going on in the way of writing because I’ve switched gears. There is nothing wrong with that but I pick my battles. 

b. Work on another project: There is nothing wrong with working on something else just for a change of pace. We are not machines and therefore monotony breeds complacency or burn out in this case. One of the reasons I have 2 other fics is because sometimes I hop from project to project. I know not everyone can mentally do that but it helps me recharge for the main project that I feel worn out on. 

People have also been wondering where TLC (Tender Love and Care) my Red X Frisk fic has been. The truth is that fic is my downtime fic. I do it when I am able to. In fact, as I work on my multiverse boys references lately I have been working on the second chapter of TLC because its a nice change of pace from doing something like Felldritch or the other two.

c. A little at a time:  Any type of project can be overwhelming so taking chunks of it at a time helps compartmentalize it a little easier. Try to write as much as you can a day. It’s not much but by the end of the week, boom, your chapter is done. 

You shouldn’t push yourself or beat yourself up either. I find that I always feel guilty about taking some leisure time because I could be creating more content but that’s unhealthy. Take the time you need and enjoy your games or books. I personally am enjoying the heck out of Animal Crossing right now. 

All in all, I hope some of these tips help a little. Since I do not know what you are working on or why you feel the way you do about it. It is hard for me to give direct advice. What I can say out of all of this is enjoy what you are making. Enjoy the journey and the process. At the end of the day, it is your investment and if you don’t enjoy it what is the point?

 It is nice to get feedback on things, trust me I know sometimes it feels like pulling teeth, and there are clear signs of burn out. We are not art machines, give it some time, reflect, evaluate, and you will find your way. If you really want me to dig deeper to give you specific con crit advice then you are free to DM me. My ask box is also always open! 

[dishonoredrpg]

Congratulations, PAYTON! You’ve been accepted for the role of THE TOWER with the faceclaim of RODRIGO SANTORO. What poetry could I write about Feivel? He is, at his core, a worldly man, has seen much, knows plenty, and still finds himself entrapped in a world which he feels he cannot possibly belong to. There is such a human quality to him in the way he shifts and turns just to keep himself alive; your concept with the mirror was especially fascinating -- he has a charm to him, but is it a charm that he’ll be able to stomach later on down the line? I also vastly appreciate your willingness to step out of the box and explore a character you’re not as familiar with; I can really see your affection for him here, and I’m excited to see what you bring to us with him!

Please review the CHECKLIST and send your blog in within 24 hours.

NAME: Payton or Paypay

PRONOUNS: She/her/hers

AGE: 27

TIMEZONE, ACTIVITY LEVEL: My timezone is GMT-7. I anticipate being active on the dash (as in posting starters/writing responses) typically between 4-6 days a week, with 4 being more typical. Writing is a pretty big component of my self-care and allows me a creative outlet to use some of my energy, so I will be on frequently. 

ANYTHING ELSE?: I know this is a second application picked from a small handful of skeletons that still remained, but I wouldn’t be applying for another skeleton if I wasn’t just as excited and dedicated to what I could bring to the group with this skeleton as I was with my first application. At first I was pretty bummed and told myself if I couldn’t get back into a very excited state I would just kind of let it be, but the more I worked on this application the more excited I got about the skeleton and the character I was building out from it.

IN CHARACTER

SKELETON: The Tower

NAME: Feivel Asturias

FACECLAIM: Rodrigo Santoro, Chris Hemsworth,  Joel Kinnaman

AGE: 42

DETAILS: What about this character interested you? Who are they to you? This can be as long or short as you want it to be, in whatever format you prefer.

I suggested this to you during our conversation during which you gave me feedback for my previous application, but The Tower’s skeleton is a big old jump away from characters I’m used to playing. Out of the skeleton’s that were left, I found The Tower’s to be quite compelling and likely the most challenging role to play for me. But I like challenges! Challenging is fun. I think in terms of my own development as a writer, playing a character that feels like such a departure from what I’m used to is a great way to stretch my creative muscles and really push myself to think deeper into the choices I’m making for my character.

Another component I like about The Tower is their history as an explorer. I would like to see story-telling be a strong component of their characterization because they have so many lived experiences. Given the setting, it’s likely he would be one of the most if not the most well-travelled roles in the group. His lived experiences would take him to the ends of the earth that his contemporaries only dreamed of, and I imagine he would be all too eager to recount the stories of his youth (only slightly editorialized… okay, fine, with some pretty significant embellishments). I imagine his life has led him to present as rough around the edges, as a survival tactic, as a leadership strategy, and as a mode of self-preservation… but when he gets to talking, when someone really gets him in his lane of story-telling he takes on an air of slight warmth and overwhelming nostalgia. He also absolutely adores young people, which is discussed a little further elsewhere in the application (one of the plot points if I’m not mistaken).

I am also very interested in toying around with his current role as an antiquarian--because who doesn’t want to make up a whole bunch of mythical items and historical artifacts and lore? I feel like not only would I be able to use him as a method to contribute to the general story line, but it would be a great way to explore some world building within the parameters you’ve set for the group.

I also think that the skeleton suggests that The Tower would be willing to take some risks, which would be interesting to play out. The fact that they were willing to play dumb in front of the king until it was clear playing dumb meant certain death, they take a chance: they try to bargain for their life, and it works. As an unofficial advisor, they view their stakes as being slightly less high than someone officially in the post, so they take risks: they combine a healthy amount of tact with speaking their mind. They see a monarch unhappy in her marriage and desperate for release, so they take a risk: they stand a little too close, brush the back of their hand against hers as they pass in the hallway, and find themselves in a full blown affair. I think taking risks would be an inevitable character trait of The Tower, who likely feels lonely for adventure and too big for their body now that they find themselves land-locked.

The actual card of The Tower also relates strongly to the history I imagine for Feivel and what I would assume could be a turbulent future given his affair with the queen and potential shifting alignments. I see “Tower upright: Sudden change, upheaval, chaos, revelation, awakening” relating to his arrival in Tyrholm and the killing of his men and consequential end to his way of life/loss of freedom. “Tower reversed: Personal transformation, fear of change, averting disaster” makes me think of his need to navigate the court and avoid what could be certain disaster if the affair with the queen became known to the wrong people as well as his perceived need to tiptoe around The Sun.

Something of interest to me regarding the typical depiction of this card is the image of the card itself. One website’s information on the card stated: “A stone tower is struck with lighting and lit in flames, two people jump from the tower presumably to their deaths. An image of chaos and destruction is painted.This lightning/subsequent fire enters in through the top of the tower and knocks off the crown. The people jumping accept that they do not know what awaits them when they fall - but it is certainly better than burning in the rubble of the tower.” I find this really compelling because I think that if Feivel was present for the event Mini wrote for Kithri’s para sample (and Mini makes that headcanon) or if Feivel sees or perceives Septimus mistreats his wife or perceives King Septimus as cruel in other ways it would be relatively easy to radicalize Feivel. Feivel knows he’s coming in hot on his expiration date, and even if he isn’t on the brink of death and he’s just feeling a little run down, I think he would really struggle to accept a land-locked existence where he’s essentially prisoner in Castle Tyrholm, and might, as the card depicts, run headlong into certain doom rather than accept the alternative if he found a cause worth self-destructing for.

BACKGROUND:

You are born on high seas, the ocean so ingrained in your identity that you could scarcely tell the difference between the waves of a storm battering your ship and the untamed beating of your own heart. Your childhood is composed of tangled memories of stern looks, rope burn, aching muscles, calluses, stolen goods, and the sound of splintering wood. The smell of gunpowder from the cannons found a permanent home in your nostrils and you lived with a constant sensation of breathlessness between the battles and seascapes that colored your days.  Your early years are like the ocean itself; ever-moving, unforgiving, and constantly threatening to pull you under in its cruelty if you so much as dare to be still for even a moment.

As you enter your teenage years, the treatment you receive only becomes harsher. You are no longer only responsible for chores around the deck, but you are brought into roles of responsibility where a misstep can be the difference between life and death of a crew member. You participate in your first ambush, and it terrifies you how easy it is to drive a blade into another body and how hard it feels to draw it back out. But letting that deter you is not an option. The stakes are high, and the sting of every slap and lashing’s meaning is two-fold. Corporal punishment is a daily reality of your life, the best way a motley crew of pirates knows how to instill discipline. And beyond discipline, you know you’re the next in line for leadership and as a leader you must be unyielding. Your father is preparing you, and the way you see it the crack of his leather strap against your back is the only way he knows how to say he loves you.

You are seventeen when you inherit your father’s ship, his death a sudden and brutal blight that stains a corner of your mind you avoid with vermillion and a mix of pain and resentment. Your mother died long before, when you were no older than six or seven. The closest thing you have to any memory of her face is the memory of her running her fingers through your hair to soothe you to sleep. every time the sea breeze rustles through your hair it evokes her memory. You keep it long and unkempt for that reason alone, though if anyone asks it’s a matter of convenience. It is unbecoming of a captain to display such vulnerabilities as sentiment and weakness—or at least that’s what your father before you conditions you to believe. You quickly realize you see leadership fundamentally differently than your father. Where he asserted authority by means of dominance and violence, your approach values brotherhood.

You find yourself establishing a Brotherhood of Asturias. You name your clan in honor of your ship. Later in your life, you will name yourself in honor of your clan—not as a badge of honor, but as a reminder of your shame. No one would accuse your clan of reformation. To anyone outside of your fold, you’re just as ruthless as your father. You’d still burn the world to the ground for the promise of glory when the flames died down. But within your kinship, you develop a sort of honor code. Your commandments are as such: honor those who honor you, betray no other lest your life be on the line, help the needy if it helps yourself, to kill an innocent is the most mortal of sins, and you shall not advance yourself at the harm of others. Your reputation does shift, but only slightly. Rather than pillagers and barbarians, you are seen as a ruthless treasure hunter.  

For the next fifteen years, your reputation precedes you. You travel to the ends of the earth in search of the relics of the old gods and to reclaim the wonders of the world. It isn’t easy work, but the payoff makes it worth it. You accumulate wealth with nowhere to spend it, but the sense of power of merely possessing the rarities and finery you have is enough. And you love the camaraderie and catharsis. By your mid-thirties, you are grizzled and scarred. Your body aches from the strain of your journeys, but your mind is somehow light under the sheer weight of the stories you have to tell. Your life is spent fast, but if anybody asks it is spent well.

Finally, aware of your limitations and content with your life of misdeeds, you select your successor and one final mission. You view it as a training exercise to cement your decision: both to lay down your arms once and for all and that you’ve chosen the best and brightest to take your place. You set sail to the remote island of Calamity in search of an item of lore, so simple that the common man would pass it over without a second glance: the Mirror of Ouroboros. The mirror is a small, handheld curio of impossible value. The reflector itself is a small, obsidian mirror that upon first consideration seems harmless if not impractical. However, upon looking in the mirror its magical virtue presents itself by revealing three truths about the user, each of them as destructive as the next if the user is without fortitude of mind. You recover the mirror with little consequence along the way, and you are reassured that your decision making was sound. You are resolved to your fate and wary from travel, you drift off to sleep easily after your final ransacking.

You are dragged from your bed by a pair of hands as cold and harsh as death itself. The mere touch is enough to pull the breath from your lungs. You don’t recognize her at first, but The Sun will haunt your nightmares for the next several years, and in a much more present way haunt your days as well. You are thrown before the king, your crew not far behind. But it is toward you who the king directs his ire. He demands the mirror, and you bite back at his entitlement. You tell him you don’t have any such item, and he knows you are lying. You tell him the mirror is no creation of his god, the Undying One, and as a result it shouldn’t be any interest of his. It’s the wrong answer. You realize it’s the wrong answer when you hear a squelch from behind you, and the sound of a body drop to the floor. The groaning is easily recognizable as your second in command, slaughtered as result of your folly before they even had their real chance to carry on your legacy. The world mutes, but you’ve seen this scene before. There is nothing but a loud ringing in your ears, but you know The Sun is working down the line of your men behind you.

Your hands shake as you pull the mirror from your breast pocket, and you consider looking into it. Surely the madness is a better fate to resign yourself to than to live with your indirect responsibility for your brotherhood’s death. For another moment, you consider allowing the king to look into it, to exact your revenge without needing to so much as lift a finger. Instead, you slide the mirror across the floor, still safely contained in its cloth shroud. You hear your voice warning the king of the mirror’s power, that with patience and research it could be the key to turning his kingdom into an empire. You tell him that more relics exist across the span of the globe, some of them here on the continent of Markholm. You’re bargaining for your life, despite the fact that according to your very own honor code you no longer deserve it.

For some reason, the king lets you stay. You know this is more a strategic move on Septimus’ part than an act of mercy. You are hardly a free man. You yourself know that not all prisons have bars. Yours doesn’t, but you’re locked in a cage all the same. Your wild heart rails against your fate at first, but your tired body cannot keep up. You slowly resign yourself to your circumstances. You spend your day lamenting and licking wounds for months, giving Septimus advice through gritted teeth and refusing to recognize kindness from anyone around you. You are like a cornered dog, but you damn well know better than to bite the hand that feeds.

Slowly, the dagger in your heart loosens and you move through the stages of mourning your freedom, your crew, and your former life.  This doesn’t mean that your life in Tyrholm is easy, but you start to recognize areas of comfort. The Empress shows you a modicum of kindness, and you cling to it. The way you see it, the pair of you mean little more to each other than a pair of warm bodies at first, but it’s a momentary distraction the both of you welcome. The way your rough, calloused hands catch on the silk she seems herself to be spun from reminds you of your place, it stops you from being careless enough to leave fingerprints. You stop yourself from getting emotionally attached--no one ever accuses you of being a wise man, but you know better than to shit where you eat. The Moon gravitates in the perimeter of your attention, and you wonder what she wants from you, though she never seems to ask for much. The Sun also exists within your gravitational pull, though you wish she wouldn’t. You have nothing but enmity for her, an emotion you know is futile but that you can’t seem to put away.

The one thing you take seriously is your role as advisor. Septimus strikes you as mad and simple, a ruler grounded in dualism and individualism. Your belief in brotherhood and the collective clashes with Septimus’ harsh reign, but you can stomach it given your years spent under your father’s thumb. You yourself are never treated with particular cruelness after you are added as a member of the court. A part of you cares how everything shakes out, even though your body tells you it might give out before you see things through. Another part of you only cares about slowly convincing Septimus to give you a longer leash to try to convince him to dispatch you for one last adventure or two.

PLOT IDEAS:

You’ve Got Your Reputation and Your Good Intent (The Emperor): Feivel was not exactly a willing addition to the court. With death as the only alternative, joining up with Septimus looked like a good choice, but in the skeleton it doesn’t suggest that The Tower ever develops any sense of loyalty or admiration for King Septimus. In fact, in the connection section with Judgement, it suggests that The Tower finds the world they find themselves stuck within to be “horrible”. Given I want to incorporate captaining a ship as part of Feivel’s past, he would chalk up the state of the world to mediocre leadership. Further, The Tower is smack in the middle of the triangle depicting attitudes and loyalties. He doesn’t have much skin in the game, but he kind of gives a shit. I have to imagine that given their travels, The Tower would have a stronger concept than Septimus of how the other side lives, how people perceive things, of even surface level diplomacy, who seems to make decrees and decisions at a whim. Knowing that The Emperor is the next in line for the throne, I imagine The Tower would want to see the heir equipped with more of a holistic outlook rather than a self-interested, dualistic approach. While it sounds like Septimus is the one who likes to be regaled with stories of adventure and daring, I imagine Feivel might try to impart some sort of wisdom about different perspectives, universal truths, and interest in the plight of fellow man. The Emperor has probably never experienced life outside of the castle walls, certainly never outside of Tyrholm where many valuable lessons for a future ruler wait to be learned. But Feivel struggles with putting his meaning into words, he isn’t some educated member of the court, he’s a rogue in nice clothing. There is no underlying agenda aside from expanding the young heir’s worldview--but the danger of saying the wrong thing, of the slightest slip up in the tone of voice being read as a criticism of King Septimus makes the line between good intent and treason a tricky one to walk.

Suffer the Fools (The Moon): Feivel enjoys young people tremendously. Youth tends to couple with ambition and vigor. This is also part of why he even wants to bother trying to impress some of his lived experiences on The Emperor. Based on the connection written in The Moon’s bio, it seems like The Moon would be eager to listen to those very same stories. The Tower is depicted as a cache of information regarding other civilizations, the old gods, history, antiquities, magic, and tales of their own youth. I think in talking to The Moon about these stories and being listened to, a friendship would be forged and from that friendship, trust. Feivel understands thieves' code, he can pick up the dynamic in most any room he walks into, he knows history, he recognizes value when he sees it, navigation and survival in the wild is a given… but all of this was learned through oral tradition. Books were of little value on a ship, education wasn’t valued in his lifestyle. In his previous station, Feivel couldn’t have cared less, but now it’s developed into a soft spot. What does it say of a king if their antiquarian and unofficial advisor is illiterate? I think that if Feivel developed trust with The Moon, he would be willing to share this vulnerability asking them to write correspondence for him in a pinch and potentially how to read and write. I think this vulnerability might help lead The Moon to ask the questions they have about magic as discussed in The Moon’s connections.

All’s Fair in Love and War (The Empress): I am interested in exploring the connection listed in The Empress’ bio depicting the affair between The Empress and The Tower. It is not really mentioned in The Tower’s bio or in the main body of The Empress’ bio. I am interested in exploring Feivel’s motivations in this affair. Is there genuine affection that Feivel feels for The Empress, or does he see her as a pretty treasure of the king’s that makes for an interesting conquest? If there is genuine affection, how does he deal with the jealousy or perceived mistreatment of The Empress as a wife? Additionally, there could be a number of interesting consequences for the affair to deal with as far as jealousy, not being able to bit his tongue regarding Septimus’ attitude about his wife, or even the secret of the affair becoming more widespread. I think the affair could also complicate the way that some members of the court and group see Feivel. They could potentially misread the affair, whether it’s a matter of the convenience of the two just acting as warm bodies for one another or if it develops into a full blown emotional affair, as Feivel tries to step into a role of power or exploitation. It’s also some pretty damaging ammunition against him if he crosses the wrong person.

Mirror of Ouroborus (The Sun/The High Priestess): One of the things I would look forward to adding to Feivel’s character and the group as a whole is sort of building out the world with some mystical items. In this case, I think it could be fun to toy around with the item that landed Feivel on King Septimus’ agenda in the first place. This is a plot I would build out with either of the two more experienced necromancers. The item I have in mind for this plot point in particular would be called the Mirror of Ouroborus, an ancient, magical artifact the most of the world either doesn’t believe exists or has already forgotten. The mirror itself is a small, obsidian mirror that upon first consideration seems harmless if not impractical. However, upon looking in the mirror things begin to complicate. When looking in the mirror, it shows its user three truths. The first truth is easy to swallow: the reflection morphs into the user at the epitome of their potential, in their greatest state of glory. The second, the reflection morphs into what it is that stands in the way of those accomplishments, whether its an internal or external force. And third, it shows the essence of the user as they really are. Each of these reflections manifest as a simultaneous, momentary vision, but the mirror itself is dangerous. The lore surrounding the mirror depicts the third reflection driving everyone bold enough to stare into the mirror mad, incapable of swallowing the truth about themselves and the inherent flaws of humanity. However, who better to look into the mirror than someone numbed to even the most base emotion? Though it’s unlikely Septimus would put something as valuable as a master necromancer on the line for anything less than a guarantee. I would imagine in this plot, Feivel and either The Sun or the High Priestess would be tasked with unraveling the mystery of the Ouroborus Mirror for its eventual use.  

If You Stand For Nothing, What Will You Fall For (General): Check out the triangle of alignment and who is smack in the middle but The Tower? I think this presents a few interesting concepts. There are so many different components of the skeleton that could suggest many different ways for his allegiance to be pushed and pulled. If he has a personal rather than transactional relationship with The Empress, her alignment of general tolerance of King Septimus might pull him toward anxiously waiting out the king. Then again, it might have the opposite effect if Feivel ends up having very spiteful feelings about the Empress being stuck in the marriage. I envision most of the connections listed on the bio slowly dragging Feivel’s alignment toward the bottom left of the chart. I want to explore Feivel’s character with a moral alignment of true neutral as well, which I think would create a lot of interesting dynamics given Feivel seems to be starting from a place of general neutrality as well. I would be very interested in seeing what, if anything, could radicalize Feivel given his starting point.

Through Terra Incognita: Feivel is not exactly a member of the court by choice, but rather quick wit and Septimus’ whim. I would argue that Feivel sees himself more as a prisoner of the court than actually free. He was brought to the court by force, and he’s essentially kept there out of fear of the Sun. Sure, there are perks. He probably is all about that food, a nice bed, fancy clothes, and a comfortable place to rest his tired bones… but just because he wanted a rest doesn’t mean he isn’t restless. It might be interesting to have Feivel be dispatched by Septimus to retrieve some sort of treasure or antiquity with another character or maybe even two. This item could potentially be central to the plot if it interests you to invest in the plot in that way. I think this could be an interesting way to interact with Judgement (religious relic?), or potentially The Hermit or Strength. However, I’d be happy to make this plot work with whoever might be interested even if they aren’t listed there. Fievel is probably incredibly eager to go on any sort of adventure and get out of the city, so he would jump at the chance to go on such a quest, even if he clashed with his travel companion every step of the way.

Brave, Intrepid, and Then Some: If you do not recognize the lyrics used as titles (here and the plot point above), the song “The Trail We Blaze” from Dreamwork’s masterpiece The Road to El Dorado is big inspiration vibes for Feivel and his adventurous side. He knows he is never going to be the marauder he was before his years in Tyrholm, but there’s a spark in him that can’t quite go out. I think something to feed into this, and his general world knowledge, would be to develop a sort of “wonders of the world” for Markholm. Something I think that might be interesting to do is to pick a few characters and try to create artifacts, locations, etc. that are sort of drawn from or inspired by these characters. Perhaps they would not be significant to the plot, but I think it could be a fun concept to build out Feivel’s experiences.

CHARACTER DEATH: I think given some of the pies he’s stuck/will stick his finger in there’s a pretty real chance he might piss off the wrong people eventually (Septimus, Reynaud, Naenia given his fear of her) whether that be by him making a false move or his affair moving from a bit of an open secret to a full blown scandal. Also, he’s lived a rugged life, which I’m sure has taken a toll. Given the parameters you’ve set up to support players if there’s a character death and the context of this character I’m comfortable with it.

WRITING SAMPLE

Another restless night, and Feivel found himself roaming the halls of Castle Tyrholm with the company of his faithful hound, Gunport, at his side. It was the sound of the wind whistling outside his sleeping chamber’s window that kept a good night’s sleep at bay, the sound reminding him of those wind whipped days out at sea that built him into the man he was now.  He lobbed a ball down the corridor lazily and got some mild entertainment watching the hairy beast chase after it with gusto before bounding back to its master’s side and pushing the slobbery toy into his hand. But even the momentary distraction couldn’t hold back the feelings that he was now more a ruin than a man.

His father had died valiantly in battle, though the skirmish itself could have been avoided by better planning. Even so, his father had died with his reputation intact, ruthless to the end. Feivel himself had quickly built his own mythos around himself, even if it was not as cruel as his father’s. He knew the Clan Asturias had gained a measure of renown, enough for King Septimus to know of their accomplishments, and as the captain of the ship Feivel himself was the figurehead of the legend. On nights like this, he would retract his steps and try to pinpoint the exact moment he had gotten too far ahead of himself or too comfortable. He knew what his father would say, that his downfall was the direct result of trusting anyone but himself. Some nights, Feivel felt that conclusion was correct. On other nights, he surmised that his fate was inevitable. For years, he had wondered how legends were brought to their knees. Now he knew he was little more himself than some exotic game King Septimus had cornered and would eventually mount on his wall like the other trophy animals in Castle Tyrholm’s gun room.

The candlelight flickered from further down the hall, and both Feivel and Gunport stood aware, their two sets of wild eyes pointing in the direction of the disturbance. He wondered vaguely if someone else was being kept awake by the ghosts of their past, or if perhaps it might have been the growing sense of restlessness that had been building behind closed doors and in whispered conversations throughout the castle. He had only been a member of the court for a handful of months, but he knew what the early stages of insurrection looked like. This was something he altogether aimed to avoid, more than convinced that the king would be able to put an end to any treason before it truly started.

It surprised him to see the queen passing through the hall, and for a moment he felt his presence was inappropriate. Life in Tyrholm had come with a healthy dose of culture shock, to say the least. He had cleaned up well, this was true, but he knew he was far from noble. His manners had provided ample fodder to mock him in his first months in the court, and the stiff clothing he had been given felt like it choked him. Perhaps it was his station in his office that made him feel most like the butt of a cruel joke, the books that lined the shelves and his pot of ink and paper virtually useless. He had wondered for a while how long King Septimus would humor him after he realized his master of antiquities couldn’t so much as write his own name. Luckily enough, he had proven himself entertaining enough to listen to that when he was called upon it was almost exclusively in person. Whenever the need to write was unavoidable, it was no trouble to intimidate a servant or page into writing it for him. It took little more than a menacing glare and the simple lie that he preferred to dictate his response rather than be saddled with the chore of writing his message himself.

As The Empress approached, Feivel bowed. It was practiced to look natural, as if he’d been bowing to monarchy all his life rather than copying the other members of court over the past few months. He also took grain pains to make the motion as fluid as possible despite the strain it caused his lower back. “Your Majesty,” he greeted, “I apologize for disturbing you this evening.” He tossed the ball away again, figuring someone of her stature had little interest in being near such a creature. The dog took off again after the ball, springing clumsily down the long hall.

“It’s quite alright,” Queen Calliope responded in a muted voice. She lifted a slim, graceful hand that caught the moonlight as she gestured before them. “Perhaps you would walk with me?”

Before Feivel had much opportunity to respond, Gunport had asserted himself into the situation. The dog pressed the ball into the palm of the queen’s hand, wet nose, slobber, and all. It was the habit of a well trained dog to return whatever it was fetching directly into the hand of it’s master, but Gunport was friendly and apparently wanted to extend the invitation to play to the queen herself. Embarrassed by what he assumed was poor manners, Feivel became somewhat nervous and hoped to escape the interaction without insulting Queen Calliope. He turned his attention from her hand to her face to respond, but his answer was delayed slightly as he observed her unassuming beauty; the smoothness of her skin, her piercing dark eyes, the way her silk-like dark hair framed her face and swept against her shoulders, and the delicate shape and hue of her lips. He was a man who recognized finery when he saw it, and what held more value than the wife of a king?

“Another night,” he mumbled, staring at the toe of his boot rather than in her eye. His voice was gruff, a bit terse as a force of habit. “When I don’t have the hound with me.”

Accepting his answer, the queen lifted her hand to pass the ball back to Feivel. He extended his hand, accepting it from her, unintentionally brushing his fingers against the back of her hand. The contrast between the two did not escape him, his own hand rough with work next to her unmarred skin. Her skin was smooth and cool compared to the warmth and calluses of his own hand. He let the touch linger for a moment before his eyes met her own. She didn’t seem disturbed by the touch, which even if unintentional was an insult to her station. Queen Calliope placed the ball in his open hand before bidding him goodnight with a soft, amused smile. “Another time then, Feivel. May the Undying One bring you safely to another day.”

“Another time then,” Feivel repeated, holding the ball up as if it were some secret known only to the pair as he walked backward toward his quarter. He tossed the ball over his shoulder with a roguish grin, his eyes trained on Queen Calliope. Only when she turned his back on him to continue on her way did he turn away from her.

EXTRAS

I want to plot out what the affair looked like, from start to current state, with The Empress’ player, so I’m not taking my writing sample as gospel. It just seemed like the most natural thing to write because I think the connection with another person in Tyrholm he established with The Empress was probably a turning point in his mourning process/ability to accept his current station as basically a glorified prisoner in Castle Tyrholm and to engage more with others.

Inspiration Blog (There are three pages, you gotta click the last little dot with a sort of square to get to the next page)

[lesbicattiva]

araki’s interview at luccacomics&games 2019 part one.

loose & imperfect transcript / translation of araki’s press cafe interview with the italian press (30th oct) at lucca comics & games 2019 about his main work: jojo’s bizarre adventures. (translated from italian to english 1/5).

Q: First of all, it’s a huge honor for us to have you here. We’d like to know what’s the creation process of your characters’ looks, which are really peculiar and unique. A: They are based on my everyday meetings, on everything I’m able to pick up from people. Weird people, dressed in a bizarre fashion, but even people dressed in a brave and colorful way. I even take photos of these people. By looking at the pictures with different angles I can better study the look. About Italy, then, I especially get inspiration from statues, that have a more classical design.

Q: We can see, at the beginning of JOJO, a neoclassical european influence, at first only with the poses and then in its entirety. How was this type of aesthetic greeted by the japanese market? A: A big inspiration were of course my trips to Italy and the museums, with their classical atmosphere. To me drawing like this is now natural, and in my opinion even the japanese readers accept it exactly because of the naturalness with which I do it. If anything, if I tried to write a typically japanese work, it wouldn’t be easy.

Q: You are part of a shortlist chosen to draw the posters for the paralympics. Could you talk about how you were offered this proposal and the project related to the paralympics?  A: Honestly I don’t know why I have been chosen, but I’m really grateful [laughs]. I think that the organisational committee was impressed by my works and the exhibitions dedicated to them, like the one about the JOJO’s 30th year anniversary that was held in Tokyo. Regarding the work done on the project, I don’t know what to say, since I’m still doing it [laughs].

Q: What and who gave you the inspiration for the first JOJO, Jonathan Joestar? A: Actually it’s very simple: in Japan there’s a restaurant chain open 24-hour, very famous, that’s called “Jonathan’s”. I just used that name [laughs]. For a lot of reasons, I’m quite fond of it and I wanted to start from there for the name. Regarding the design, I just wanted to draw a ‘macho’, a man with chiseled muscles and proportions similar to those of the classical statues.

Q: Jojolion, the eighth JOJO’s part, is about to end. What will the future of the series be? A: Honestly I don’t know, I still have to think this through. It’s something that needs to be defined.

Q: Do you read, or have you ever read, comics of the superhero kind? If yes, what are the influences that they had on the writing of your series? A: I’m not a big fan of superheroes, even if when I was young I read a lot of french comics. I find superheroes the type of characters that wallow in self-pity too much [laughs], I’d prefer to see a character that is able to look ahead more and is down-to-earth. Even if I really like spider-man.

Q: If someone asked you to contribute in a movie by creating characters and scenes, what genre of movie would you think about and with whom would you like to collaborate? A: I really like horror movies, I think I’d make a very realistic horror. In fact, I really like “The Walking Dead” for this reason, its realism.

Q: This summer the Vento Aureo’s anime, the one part set in Italy, ended. One of the things that stuck with me, already when I read the manga, is the complete disappearance of Fugo Pannacotta after his betrayal to Buccellati’s gang. Why this choice? A: It’s a rather complicated reason. Since Vento Aureo was being published on shōnen jump, its target were boys and teenagers. To them, betrayal, is something very heavy and awful to commit. Continuing to show Fugo in the manga would have saddened the atmosphere and the events of Vento Aureo, and probably ruined the character.

Q: Why at the end of Stone Ocean you decided to reset the entire narrative universe, abandoning like this some of the characters most loved by fans, as Jotaro Kujo and Dio Brando?  A: It was hard to abandon those characters, even if actually I never completely abandoned them, they are reborn just slightly different. The reset, as much as hard, it was necessary. The story of JOJO had come to its natural conclusion, and to protract it would have been rather pointless and counter-productive.

Q: The saga of JOJO, during the years, has changed a lot; both stylistically and narratively. I’d like to know if and how you changed too during these years. A: Undoubtedly I changed too. Regarding the characters, even if they change, actually they are all tied by a thread that goes through the whole saga, in other words, the spirituality, the heart and soul of the characters, that gets, from time to time, inherited. During the writing of Phantom Blood, many were left bewildered by Jonathan’s death, but actually, his death is only a metaphor. The soul of Jonathan will keep living forever in his descendants. For example, at the beginning of the series, we have extremely muscular characters, that used their physicality through Hamon. This physicality and spirituality then naturally evolved into Stands as guardian spirits. They are the direct consequence of the soul that the characters pass down to the next generations.

Q: Talking about Stands, it would be nice to know what inspires you for their creation and how long does it take to make a new one. A: It all starts with the character since stands are the physical manifestation of the will and the soul of people. They are invisible to the normal eye, but the power and the spirituality of the characters are so strong that I wouldn’t know how else to portray them.

Q: In the JOJO universe, all the stronger powers, even those of the main villains, deal with time manipulation. Why is time so important to you? A: Basically I think that being able to control time is the strongest power, in each of its variations. For this reason, when I was making the final villains, I studied the ways in which they could manipulate it. The power to bend the flow of time to your will is something that has always fascinated me, and I think that’s the strongest power of all.

Q: What and who gave you the inspiration for the character of Yoshikage Kira? A: When I made Kira, I imagined that my neighbour could be an assassin, but a next-door killer that lives above suspicion is not a flashy character. Quite the opposite, he seems a common person, calm and quiet. He has hobbies and interests as anyone else, maybe he likes to be in his home or maybe he likes to go out. I thought about those things and Kira was born. He's a character that really intrigues me, because he doesn't escape his nature. Kira accepts and doesn't fight himself. He knows himself, knows how he's made and faces his daily life day by day. The topic of serial killers really intrigues me, I read many books on this argument.

Q: Your passion for fashion is well known to everyone. I'd like to know who are your favourite stylists and if, at the moment, you're planning other collaborations with any of them, like you did with Gucci. A: First of all, I was very thankful to Gucci for that collaboration. When I was young I really appreciated Versace's style, with dresses enriched by brooches and decorations. At the moment, however, I'm not thinking about other collaborations, I'm very focused on the paralympics' project [laughs].

Q: What's your favourite JOJO character? A: Shigechi, a character from the fourth part, Diamond Is Unbreakable.

Q: What part of JOJO you're more fond of? A: The aforementioned Diamond Is Unbreakable. Because the city in which is set, Morio-cho, is inspired by the place where I was born and raised. I'm very attached to it because of the nostalgia.

Q: You and Haruki Murakami both often use music in your narrative. Do you think there are things in common between your work methods and his and, in general, your works? A: To be honest I don't know. I don't know Murakami's modus operandi and his creative process, but for me listening to music is something I do every day. I don't know if he does the same. For example, I deeply love Puccini, and I already came to Lucca (note: Puccini's hometown) years ago exactly to listen to him.

Q: Why is the character of Dio a recurring presence in the series, so much so that he's managed to be reincarnated even in the seventh part, Steel Ball Run? A: Dio is very powerful, probably one of the most powerful characters of the JOJO universe. It's a character that instills fear, since he doesn't feel remorse or any sense of responsibility. Dio is literally the antithesis of the Joestar's family, and because of this I made Dio something like a hereditary presence for the Joestar family even through his reincarnation, as if he was a curse. He's so strong he cannot die in an ordinary way, and his rebirth makes him even more frightening, as if he was, indeed, a curse.

[weepylucifer]

Let’s Go in the Garden - Ch. 8

Interlude: David

“Talk to Nightingale,” Peter had said. Of course David was going to converse with Thomas, frequently and on all manner of subjects. The matter of the missing crystal ball, however... well, it couldn’t hurt for David to ask around in his spare time, and catch up with Thomas on the matter at his leisure. Perhaps when he already had something to show for his efforts. Oh, Thomas would be delighted. Certainly, he was going to try to hide it and insist on him following the rules and not interfering with investigations in the future, but beneath that, he’d be glad to have this task taken care of. Then he’d see that David could still make a valuable contribution to the modern Folly.

So, inferring that Peter didn’t want to be bothered looking for that crystal ball, David ventured out (with what he dearly hoped was Peter’s covert permission) to see if some of his old contacts from the demi-monde were still around. Certainly, he expected to find the demi-monde as much changed as everything else, but some people stuck around for a seemingly indefinite amount of time.

Oberon had apparently wed one of the new river daughters, acquired some children with her and was now hosting something called ‘art therapy’. Well, David had always loved to draw. He accepted the offer of an easel, canvas and paint and got to work.

“And I may choose what I draw?” he asked.

“Of course,” Oberon told him. “The aim of this procedure is for you to confront upon the canvas whatever you feel you must.”

David nodded.

Oberon’s place was spacious in a way that was not to David’s taste, but he claimed the minimalism was conductive to his creative process. There was coffee on for him - sweet and almost white with milk, the way he preferred it - and a plate of snacks (no obligation). The food was kosher, Oberon informed him. David hadn’t often been in a position to keep kosher (it had been unheard of at the old Folly, at Casterbrook everyone had received the same boarding school lunches, and during the war you ate what you could get) and thus couldn’t claim he had been afforded even the opportunity to miss it, but it was a nice touch.

“This looks as though you knew I would return here,” he said.

“I suspected it,” Oberon said smoothly. “Your return has made little waves already, and I assume it will only make larger ones.” Apparently the orisa Peter was involved with was a sister to Oberon’s wife, and thence the news had travelled.

“Are you glad to have me back, old friend?” David asked softly. He kept his eyes fixed on the canvas, where his sketch was coming along. It would be a simplistic little thing, compared to his usual work: his hand was quite out of practice after six years of handling his staff and rifle with nary any time for anything else.

He had kept a notebook tucked into his breast pocket, where some of the other men had carried bibles, quite worn by the end of the war. Beyond drafts for new spells, notes on troop movements and strategy, and idle thoughts of his scientific work that he had let his mind drift to during the lulls, there had been little sketches there, and snippets of poems. He had drawn most of the men in his unit at some point. His poems had been dilettantish, and they had shifted focus with the time: what had started out as paeans to sweet Phoebus Apollo, the boyish god of the eyes of sun, had turned, later, to the warlike deities. He had read one aloud once, one he’d deemed sufficiently disguised, and the lads had teased him for weeks about what a harridan of a girl he must have at home, that she must compare to Athena of strategy, while their Captain had watched on with a lopsided smile.

(”What happened to Apollo?” Thomas had asked later, when they’d been alone, the only ones awake during the first watch of the night.

“The war changed him,” David had replied.)

(He’d never shown Thomas the poems to Thanatos, the angel of death.)

“I am glad you ceased the abandonment of your post,” Oberon said. “I am glad you stopped hiding.”

“It was rather chosen for me,” David argued. “The abandonment as well as the return.”

Oberon gracefully nodded his assent. He was always rather graceful in his movement. David liked to look at him, had always rather. All the controlled strength to him, the fluid, natural elegance of him. Masculinity misted off him like a golden vapour. Perhaps he should ask... but no. A wife, children: potent obstacles to that sort of thing.

For some reason, he had to think of Peter for a second. He shrugged it off. If Thomas truly hadn’t figured that one out yet, well, what on earth was David to do? Perhaps it was best to let the young man be, and look for suitable candidates for some... little adventures later. Or perhaps he was being overly optimistic, seeing as Thomas still barely gave him the time of day.

“And what is it you seek here now?” Oberon asked. “Hopefully not to disappear again? Because I am unsure of whether I would lend my hand a second time.”

David shook his head. He had wanted to disappear so badly, then. Oberon had taken pity and helped him find someone who might assist in that, who would create for him a replica of a dead body - his dead body. Now, funny enough, it was the furthest thing from his mind.

“No more running,” David said. “I am assisting the Folly in an inquiry.”

“What is your capacity within the Folly now?” Oberon asked. “I hear tell from my wife that certain elements will want to know, and soon.”

David didn’t know what certain elements meant, nor the answer to the question. “It is yet to be determined,” he said. “The Folly are looking for a dangerous magical object, that might have recently been sold to someone unaware. I don’t know my way around the demi-monde as well as I used to, my friend. With whom would I begin a search for such an object?”

Under David’s hands, the canvas began filling up with landscape. Not so simplistic after all, apparently. He couldn’t recall consciously deciding what to draw, but now he had already started, and it was going to take itself to some sort of conclusion. He had drawn the snow, the overcast sky, now for the leafless trees. He added the dark trunks, tall and imposing, and a clearing in the middle.

“I will outfit you with a list of names, and places to start,” Oberon said. “The goblin market has changed little since you last visited. The faces differ, but the customs remain.”

“That is heartening,” David replied. Satisfied with the look of his painted landscape, he started populating it. The dark shapes, so still in the snow, pitiful heaps of humanity, sunken now, vacated of their souls. A corpse, a carcass, where was the difference? The werewolf, writhing in the snow. Beaten but not yet knowing it.

“Mind where you step, though,” Oberon said. “The relationship of the demi-monde to the Isaacs has hardly grown any more cordial.”

David looked up from the canvas. “What happened?” he asked.

Oberon shrugged. His tight shirt left little to the imagination, and David watched the ripple of his muscles below the fabric with appreciation. “The Starling is working on doing things a new way, reaching out, establishing relations between the community and the Folly, but the Starling is... a recent phenomenon.”

“Pardon me. The... who now?”

“Peter Grant. Nightingale’s Starling. Some interesting ideas, that one.”

Peter Grant. David hummed thoughtfully. Peter was turning out to be a more interesting person by the day. New ideas. Peculiar methods. A man after David’s own heart, it seemed, and handsome too. And... Nightingale’s Starling, really? Then he remembered the actual topic of conversation, and mentally walked himself a few steps back.

“What does Thomas say to that?” he asked.

“Not much.” Oberon rolled his shoulders. He was doing it on purpose, David was sure. “The Nightingale keeps to himself.”

There was something odd to that statement. David picked up a smaller brush, to finish off the contours of the werewolf in its death throes. “Hm? Strange. Thomas was always the social butterfly.”

Oberon gave him an expression somewhere between amusement and incredulity, which to David was entirely weird. “Is that so?”

“I can’t imagine Thomas never popped ‘round to mingle. Sure, he wouldn’t have before the war. But he is technically fae now, and it does seem like the kind of thing he’d do, barring any other society... no offense meant.”

Oberon shook his head. “The Nightingale can barely show his face in any demi-monde pubs without half the clientele fleeing through the back door. His arrival heralds emergency, and most likely combat. Nothing else. He’s not... widely trusted by anyone in my circles.”

“I don’t understand,” David said. His hand holding the paintbrush sped up a little. The outline of the soldier, the only one upright, bent over the werewolf, got a little messy, so he corrected himself. He had not forgotten this moment, even after there had started to be many like it. The bayonet affixed to the rifle, pointed forward and downward, soon to arch for the werewolf’s throat. The staff, too, strapped to his belt. And then, out of some inexplicable impulse, David gave him wings.

These were not the serene, down-feathered wings often featured in depictions of biblical angels. These wings were breaking out of the man’s shoulders in a way that should not be, wrong and painful and bloody and raw. At last, David took another paintbrush, dipped its stiff bristles into the scarlet paint and flicked it with his index finger against the canvas. A fine red mist.

“Are you finished?” Oberon asked.

David nodded.

“Well, let’s see your offering for today.” Oberon crossed the room to stand behind David, scrutinizing the painting.

“This is a scene that you witnessed?” he asked.

“Well, the wings are an embellishment,” David said, “but otherwise, yes.”

“Is this figure supposed to be you?”

“I don’t have wings.” David shook his head.

Oberon crossed his arms. He chortled. “Oh, but you do. False wings, of wax, and the foolish hope to boot.”

“I’m Icarus,” David surmised, “my hubris caused me to fly too close to the sun and I plummeted. Very on the nose, my friend.”

“Oh, not at all. You’re Daedalus. You made these wings, you gave them to him, and you are watching all you ever loved take a nosedive off a cliff, and you’re asking yourself what you have done.”

There wasn’t much David could say to that. He wondered where Oberon had received that information. He wondered how Oberon knew what he had done.

Oberon cocked his head and gestured again at the painting. “This is the Nightingale, then.”

“I do wish everyone would stop calling him that,” David said. “The Nightingale is a construct that served to maintain troop morale. I am told that over seventy years passed since then.”

“A blink of an eye to some of us,” Oberon stated. Of course, David thought, he was much older. But that wasn’t the point.

“The point is,” he said, “I want to know what happened. I want to know how almost eight decades went by and this...” He gestured at the painting. “...is still the reality.”

“Maybe,” Oberon said, “I am not the person to ask this question.”

----

It really was a nuisance, David reflected, to be without his own vehicle. In town, it would do, but not outside of it, and as far as he remembered, his new destination was quite a drive out. He had only been once or twice, but he was certain that, outfitted with the navigation device on his new phone, if he figured it out correctly, he might get there without much trouble. But the problem of the car remained.

Well, Thomas and himself had had an agreement, back in the day, to share everything they owned between them. What’s mine is also yours, it had run. They never reneged on that agreement, and David figured this was important enough to infringe upon Thomas’s Jaguar again. At least this time around, Peter couldn’t possibly get caught in the crossfire.

As he was leaving London, he switched the radio on. Modern music was something he hadn’t gotten around to discovering yet, but he expected it to be as changed from what he remembered as everything in this new age. What he got was a mellow-voiced man singing (he would only later learn that the song was about as old as the car he was driving),

Try to see it my way Do I have to keep on talking till I can't go on? While you see it your way Run the risk of knowing that our love may soon be gone We can work it out We can work it out

While the lyrics were a little bit somber at times, the melody was upbeat and had David humming and tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. It was repetitive and by the second iteration of the chorus he was singing along. His singing voice wasn’t anything to write home about, not at all like that of Thomas, but it raised his mood a few notches and that, he supposed, was rather nice to have.

The melody stuck, and still coursed through his mind when, hours later, he arrived at that strange little tower. He got out of the car and stretched his stiff limbs expansively before walking up and ringing the doorbell.

The door was opened by... oh boy!

The door was opened by, there was no other word for it, a fuzzy young woman. Owing to the rather warm weather, she was in shorts and a black-and-gold top of some sort that, David observed, cut off an inch or so above her navel. It was very plain to see, because of this, that the whole of her was covered in a fine golden fuzz, like... like the fur of a bee, if the hairs on a bee were indeed called that. A single tendril of a glamour beckoned, almost probing, testing the waters out of routine rather than genuine interest, telling of the taste of honey and the steady buzz of the swarm and a... fuzzy embrace. As per usual with fae of the female persuasion, this left David largely unaffected.

“Yeah?” the young woman asked.

“I am looking for Hugh Oswald,” David said. “Does he still live here?”

“Sure, grandad still lives here,” the young woman replied. “Why, what do you want from him?”

Grandad. Indeed, David thought. Hugh always did ensure us rather too profusely that he was interested in beekeeping a normal amount.

“I’m come from the Folly,” he said.

“Oh,” Hugh’s granddaughter said. “They have another guy now?”

“They’ve had me for a while, in fact. Long story.” For once picking up on his opposite’s reluctance, David said, “He will want to see me. I know him quite well, we served together.”

The young woman - just now it occurred to David that he hadn’t asked her name, was it awkward doing it now? - cocked her head in a deeply sceptical way. “But you’re not the Nightingale.”

So she too knew that moniker. The Nightingale. David felt anger bubbling up within him. He took a deep breath to contain it. “No. But he is why I’m here.”

“I don’t know about this,” Hugh’s granddaughter said. “I don’t want to stress him out.”

“He will very much want to see me,” David insisted.

“I’ll go ask him if he’s up for it,” the young woman said, and slammed the door in David’s face.

David waited a minute that felt approximately like a thousand minutes, bouncing a little on the balls of his feet with pent-up energy, picking at his collar as always when he was agitated. He’d never known why very little other people tended to have these little nervous habits, but to him they seemed natural as breathing. One plucked at one’s clothes when one was nervous, and one flapped one’s hands at about chest-height when one was in extreme happiness. That was how feelings were appropriately expressed. Curtailing these expressions could feel grating to the point of extreme discomfort, so he had never put much effort in trying, even when people stared sometimes.

The door opened again, revealing the bee... woman. “He says you can come up.”

David nodded. “Splendid.” She waved him to come in, and in he went. Not much had changed from his vague recollection of Hugh’s weird tower. Some furniture had been replaced or positioned differently since, but it was still much the same place.

“Out back,” Hugh’s granddaughter waved a hand in the direction of the staircase. “He’s in the garden.”

“I know my way,” David said, and yet still she followed one step behind him. Should he ask her name now? He did not.

They stepped out into the garden and David registered the omnipresent buzz of the swarm, the many bee-friendly flower arrangements and fruit trees before he registered the old man in the wheelchair. “Hugh Oswald,” he said, “We’ve much to discuss.”

The old man made a startled sound and recoiled so violently he almost toppled his chair over. David winced in sympathy and started towards him hands raised, not sure what to do to help but needing to do something, but Hugh’s granddaughter beat him to it. She rushed to her grandfather’s side and steadied him, stroking his back soothingly, then turned her head to throw David a look of pure venom. For a moment, he felt a prickle down his arms, like the painful little stings of a myriad bees.

“See,” she exclaimed, “this is why I didn’t want to let you in here, moron!”

“Mellissa...” Hugh Oswald gasped. His voice sounded as frail as he looked, god, he looked wizened, he looked like he’d disintegrate into dust at a careful touch, this couldn’t be, this wasn’t Hugh, Hugh was twenty and strong and full of the brimming vigour of youth, Hugh wasn’t old, couldn’t be old, and David was beginning to tremble- “Mellissa, you see him too?”

“What?” Hugh’s granddaughter snapped. (Mellissa, she was Mellissa, that was her name.) “Of course I see him. The idiot! I had no idea he was going to scare you!”

“But...” Hugh raised a shaking hand, pointing in David’s direction. He had trouble catching his breath, and his other, gnarled hand clawed into the armrest of his chair as he gasped. “David Mellenby is buried.”

“No, Hugh,” David said softly. Oh, he was still trembling, he felt like he should faint, but he couldn’t now. “No, I’m quite alive. Please, we can sit together and I can explain.”

“Nope,” Mellissa said. “You’re leaving. Right the fuck now, or I’ll have the hive on you.”

The bees seemed to buzz louder. David began to retreat.

“Wait,” Hugh Oswald said, sitting up a little straighter with a small amount of struggle. “Wait, Mellissa, let him stay. I want to hear...”

“Grandad, I don’t think you should...”

“If he’s really here and not dead, I want to know why,” Hugh Oswald said, his voice a tad firmer now.

Mellissa seemed extremely reluctant to agree to this, but she relented. “I’ll be close by.” She glared at David one last time as she went back inside the tower. “You pull any shit at all and I’ll see you chased out, Mr. Folly.”

David could do nothing but nod.

He picked up the spare chair and sat across from the old man. When he looked into his face, he could just about see, beneath the fine net of wrinkles and the wisp of thin, white hair, the boy Hugh Oswald he had known. It sent a shiver down his spine. He hadn’t realized...

He hadn’t realized until that moment what ‘eighty years’ really meant. At times, it felt like he had simply been transported into a kind of fairyland, a place where up was down, being... the way he was was legalized and celebrated with parades, but his lover was determined to never let him near again. A dimension of opposites. But Hugh, here, like this, showed him plainly that it was the same world, although having turned times upon times without his active participation. Hugh Oswald had grown old in his absence, so very old it seemed a miracle he was upright still. How many survivors of Ettersberg had died in those long interim years, simply from a too-long life? How had David not thought to ask?

“Yes,” Hugh said, “it’s not looking too well, is it?”

It took David a second to realize he meant himself. “You look fine,” he muttered, drawing patterns on the tablecloth.

Hugh Oswald made a wheezing sound. David grew worried, but then realized it was laughter. “Still a miserable liar.”

“I’m not...!” David started, but was there any use in denying anything now? Hugh looked frail, and that was obvious enough.

Hugh waved it off. “Do tell, old friend,” he said, and while he was trying very hard to put a calm face on it, the tremor was still present in his voice, “what brings you here, back from the grave? I found your body...” His voice caught, and splintered on the last word, and for an endlessly, agonizingly long moment, he fought to maintain his composure.

David felt like dirt. What had he done to the boy? How could you do this to Oswald, Thomas had asked him, a few days ago in that cave, and he had been right to ask.

“Never, in fact, in the grave.” In short, David summarized what had happened to him, his heedless flight into the countryside, the faerie he’d met, the long sleep. “I’m dearly sorry,” he said, something he seemed to be saying often these days, “of course I should’ve remembered that my sudden appearance would startle you. Only, I assumed Thomas had already told you I was back. You would’ve been the first to call, no?”

Hugh Oswald wheeze-laughed again. “Thomas? Hah! The Nightingale hasn’t spoken to me in over twenty years.”

David blinked.

David blinked again.

David blinked back to the year 1944, to Arnhem, Private Hugh Oswald’s first engagement. The boy had barely been of age. After the dust had settled, he had broken down weeping, and David had found him later cradled in Thomas’ arms, head resting on his shoulder, both hands clutching his Captain’s jacket, tears and snot leaving a growing stain on Thomas’ uniform. Thomas had shushed him, muttering that yes, he knew, yes, he understood. Oswald had become one of Thomas’ boys, a favorite, maybe. Thomas had always had a way of almost obessively mothering the youngest recruits. And David, of course, as Thomas’ lieutenant and partner (although no one would have known about that latter part, obviously) had, as a matter of course, shouldered his part of the weight.

They hadn’t talked for twenty years? Why? How?

“What happened?” he asked.

At this point, Mellissa came back out with a cup of tea which she placed in front of her grandfather, and nothing for David. David decided not to mind.

“What happened?” Oswald carefully took a miniscule sip of his tea, testing the temperature. “Time passed. I grew older. Thomas grew younger. It... pains him, I suppose, seeing me this way. It pains you right now.”

David waved it off. Yes, it... shocked him seeing Hugh like this. But that shock was his own thing to overcome. “People grow old. Surely Thomas is not so thin-skinned as to break contact with one of his closest friends over this alone.”

Oswald shrugged. “I don’t know what else it might have been. We used to meet fairly regularly up until the late sixties. I can’t recall exactly when, but he broke contact fairly shortly after the rejuvenation event. We didn’t see much of him after that.”

“Who else is still standing?” David inquired.

“Ah. Arkwright is still alive, Patterson, Simpkins, Gerald and Mercier - John, not Edwin, obviously. Giles the younger and Rooney, although he’s been having heart problems. Blaine and Gardiner. A few others. Thomas doesn’t talk to them, either.”

David began drumming his fingers on the tabletop. “Have you fellas asked him why? Has he ever explained himself?” It seemed impossible that Thomas should, for any reason, leave his ducklings behind. A world of opposites, again.

Hugh Oswald looked out at his garden. “We weren’t going to make demands of him. He’s... he’s the Nightingale.”

The flat of David’s hand hit the table so hard it smarted. “No!”

Oswald winced. “Wh- what...?”

“Perhaps Thomas stopped talking to you because you insist on doing this!”

“Doing... what?” Oswald cocked his head, confused at David’s sudden ire. Oh, yes, they all tended to forget he could be angry. Had always tended to forget that. Lieutenant Mellenby had always been the soft, pale shadow attached to Captain Nightingale, until they’d learned that he had been made Lieutenant for a reason, that he held ferocity within him rivalling, and sometimes surpassing, that of Thomas.

“The Nightingale. You really kept that up all these years, hm? He is still going about his life like that, isn’t he! The war has been over for such a long time! How old are you now, Private Oswald, hm? You must be pushing a hundred. Did you lads have him carry you all on his shoulders for the entire duration? And then you did not even have the common civility to reach out and inquire whether he was struggling?”

Because Thomas was having troubles, as much was clear. David remembered the other night in the reading room in stark detail, remembered how something had been revealed to him there in its sudden vulnerability that he could not categorize.

“It was just his way. You don’t...” Oswald interrupted himself, but David could guess at the end of that sentence. You don’t ask the Nightingale whether he’s struggling. Goodness but he wanted to drop his head into his hands and stay like that for a while. Thomas had gotten that nickname when he’d joined the school choir. In this moment, David wanted very much to chuck a fireball at a few of Oswald’s pretty flower arrangements, and was almost thankful for the inhibitor cuffs.

“Well, you didn’t know him before the war like I did.” David sighed. And how indeed would Oswald know? He was much too young. “I see how it all changed him. And it’s not improved a bit, it seems, in all the years. He doesn’t seem to have one true friend in all the world. He secludes himself even from me, and I’m his lover.”

Oswald shifted in his seat. “You...?”

“You heard me right, his lover.” He didn’t originally come here to unload this on Hugh, but now that he’d started, he couldn’t seem to stop himself. It was allowed now, the law was on his side now, and there was nothing Hugh could do but sit and take it. “Do you understand me? We are as Orestes and Pylades, Achilles and Patroclus, we are as Wilde and Bosie Douglas, we are two Alan Turings. We are Friends of Mrs. King. We commit acts of buggery upon each other, and we do so extremely well. We-”

“I know what a gay man is, Davey, you can quiet down,” Hugh Oswald said with a tired wave of his hand. “Look, none of us knew this for certain about the two of you, but a fair few of us suspected. We thought it best not to pry at the time. What makes you tell me now?”

“I’m...” David rubbed his eyes. They stung a bit. “I’m telling you in part because I can, I suppose. And because I need to impart to you that Thomas is a man who bleeds red. He lost everything too, you know. He lost me, and that is my own shame to bear, but he would have needed a friend, and what he got appears to have been a gaggle of mouth-breathers chorusing ‘If the Nightingale can do it, so can I’. Yes, you lads needed something, too. But you went back here and lived out a life in peace, and Thomas has kept on fighting the war every second since. And you’re surprised he didn’t show at company reunions? You gave him notice of my ‘death’, didn’t you?”

“Yes.” Oswald gripped the edge of the table with both hands, attempting perhaps to keep his calm. “He sort of nodded, and dismissed me from the hospital room. ‘Thanks for telling me’, he said, ‘Dismissed, Private’. And he did that blank face of his. And that was it, that was all of it.”

David ran his hands across his face. He couldn’t begin to imagine how they both had to have been hurting. I’m such a bloody idiot. “This is a mess,” he groaned. “This is a mess and I’m not equipped to fix it.”

“Well, well.” Oswald patted his hand. “You’re back now, isn’t that enough?”

“No,” David said. “It’s too little too late. I fear we all broke Thomas, and there’s no unbreaking him.”

----

Back at the Folly, David parked the Jag, snuck in through the back door and collapsed on a couch in the drawing room. He felt drained. Driving from Herefordshire had taken a while. It was late, darkness was beginning to fall, and he was tired.

He felt more than saw Molly enter. When he turned and beheld her, she was carrying a tray with tea and small sandwiches. The small dog they had here now was following on her heel, hoping to catch a bite. David noticed just then that he had missed lunch and dinner, and he was quite hungry.

He gave Molly a small smile. “Oh, are these for me?”

Molly nodded, and set the tray down on a coffee table. The Folly was full of these rooms, David thought idly, rooms of artfully arranged armchairs and little tables, rooms that nobody now used. What a waste, what a tremendous waste. He took a sandwich. The dog - his collar said Toby - immediately begged, and David bent down and stroked his fur. Good boy.

“I still don’t understand it, Molly,” he said. “I saw Oswald, but he gave me more questions than answers. Why were things permitted to get this way? Yes, Hugh is old now, and frail, but he had a life, in his way. He continued doing what he loved to do. He fucked a bee, somehow. Why was this not a possibility... here?”

Molly tilted her head to the side. The look in her eyes was... calculating, somehow. Do you want to know? she seemed to be asking. Can you bear the knowing?

“I want to know anything anyone can tell me,” David told her. This was his penance. And more, he couldn’t stay his natural curiosity. He had to empty this cup to the bitter dregs.

She took a step forward, reached out her hands, and suddenly was touching him. In all this time, she had never touched him--

He blinked his eyes, and a brief bout of blackness enveloped him, and he was suddenly elsewhere. He was in his own bedroom. How had that happened? It was night, not dusk. He quickly cycled through, and dismissed, half a dozen hypotheses. He had certainly not sleepwalked, and Molly certainly hadn’t carried him here. This felt too strange to be any of those. And the room was different, clothes and books and magazines lying about that he didn’t own anymore and hadn’t in a long time. What...?

There was someone in his bed.

When David went closer to investigate, it felt like he was floating rather than walking. It took him a few seconds to identify Thomas there in his bed (where he had every right to be) because so much was different. This was not Thomas of present days, except if he’d fallen very grievously ill very quickly while David had been away. He was gaunt and sickly pale, messy, unwashed strands of his hair hanging into his face, his jaw littered with chestnut-coloured scruff. He was fully dressed, down to his combat boots, and clutching to his chest a piece of fabric - a jumper, one of David’s own old favorites.

He waved a hand in front of Thomas’s eyes and got no reaction. Just a vacant, empty stare fixed at the ceiling.

The door was cracked open, slowly, carefully, and Molly entered. She was carrying an empty laundry basket under her arm.

Oh, this had to be a memory, David thought. A memory that Molly was now sharing with him. How fascinating. How did she do that? Had she always been able to do that?

Molly approached the bed and gestured with her free hand in the vague direction of it. No reaction came from Thomas. He seemed catatonic, wholly somewhere else, or maybe nowhere at all.

Molly hitched the laundry basket higher up her hip. Still no reaction.

She gestured again, perhaps a bit frustratedly. When there was still no movement in response to this, she bent down and carefully, with the very tips of her fingers, reached for the jumper in Thomas’ hands.

“No!”

Immediately, Thomas snapped to, curling protectively around the bit of fabric. One of his hands twitched and his shield came up, with the same intensity as on the battlefield, with a whoomph of raw energy that, as always, even just in this second-hand memory, felt like it made David’s teeth rattle.

Molly threw up a hand almost in exasperation, and gestured again at the bedsheets, the jumper - a cream-coloured one - then at her laundry basket.

“No... no. You can’t... can’t.” Thomas looked up at her out of wild, red-rimmed eyes. His voice sounded like he’d screamed it hoarse. David thought of his boyfriend as he’d met him, with that easy grin and the sun on his face, thought too of his revered Captain, sure as a rock in every crisis, a force of nature when unfettered on the battlefield. This iteration of Thomas looked feral.

“It smells like him,” Thomas muttered. “It does, still, a bit. Nothing else does anymore.”

Molly shook her head, enveloped by deep pity.

“Do you understand, nothing else... Molly...” He began rocking himself back and forth, cradling David’s jumper to his chest like a mother her baby, like a child a favorite doll. “Please don’t take... please, please don’t make me...”

Thomas Nightingale, pleading.

Molly stepped back, and the shield broke apart, and Thomas buried his face in the cream-colored wool, and David could hear his flat, hitched sobs, like they were being torn out of him, and he wished to never have been born to cause such grief.

Beyond the window, the light changed. It changed rapidly, light and dark and light again, and David watched as Thomas remained still and unmoving on the bed, barely changing position, watched in fast-forward as his hair and beard grew, as he got ever thinner, as Molly came and went and tried and more often than not failed to force some food upon him, and the days turned to weeks turned to months--

“Stop,” he cried, “Stop, Molly, stop, I can’t see any more!”

Seemingly Molly had heard him and was complying, as David felt a huge, yanking tug and was back in the drawing room, breathing heavily and slightly nauseous and... still... holding a sandwich. He put it down for Toby. He wasn’t hungry now.

“Damn,” David said. He pulled up his knees and wrapped his arms around them, not caring if it didn’t look proper, there was no one here but Molly to witness it. “Was it like that all of the time?”

Molly vaguely waved a hand.

“But it’s better now. It is better now.”

Molly shrugged. She had always been able to communicate much with sparse gestures. She then lowered her hands, and looked at the floor.

“Listen, don’t you think that. You’ve done more than enough, I’m sure. You’ve given your all. You still do, don’t you?”

There was some movement at the door, and David looked up to see the second fae had appeared, the new one - Foxglove. Molly’s... sister?

She moved - in that gliding way the high fae moved - closer to Molly and opened her arms. Molly stood still as a statue for a second, then she accepted the comfort, hugging her sister, resting her head on Foxglove’s shoulder. Even amidst all the misery, David’s heart felt a flush of that comfort, too.

This is good to see, he thought. And he knew what he had to do next.

----

The light was still on in Thomas’ bedroom, pouring out under the door in a warm, golden sheen, so David knocked and then let himself inside.

Thomas hadn’t undressed for bed yet; he was seated at his desk, pen in hand, finally correcting Peter’s homework. It was good to see him, not whole by a long shot, but at the very least not driven frenzied by grief.

Thomas put his pen down. “What is it, David? Come to apologize for disappearing with the Jag a second time?”

“I’m sorry,” David said. He couldn’t bear to look at Thomas’s face and see that cold disapproval there now, so he hung his head, and scrutinized the carpet.

“You do realize you cannot just go off like that?” There was a small scraping sound as Thomas pushed his chair back and stood.

“What’s yours is mine,” David muttered. “What’s mine is yours.” He felt so very tired.

He felt the sigh more than he heard it. He knew without looking up that Thomas was rolling his eyes now. “Look, certainly it annoys me that you keep spiriting my car away, but there is more to this than me feeling territorial about my property. I didn’t know where you were all day. You only recently got back. We’ve not gauged yet how deeply you’re affected by what you’ve experienced, you might endanger yourself going off alone, you might be volatile...”

And now Thomas was stood before him, and David felt his hands resting on his shoulders - Thomas had such beautiful hands, fine and graceful, he had always loved them - cupping his face, combing through his hair, like Thomas was reassuring himself that David was really here. Searching. David laughed.

“I might be volatile? I? Me?”

“You’re something, that’s for sure.” A hand lifted his chin, gentle but unyielding. “Look at me, Davey. What’s going on?”

And David met those clear, grey eyes and something in him bubbled over. He threw his arms around Thomas with abandon, and pulled him close, and held him there. “Oh, Thomas. Oh, Thomas.”

A hand was carding through his hair, and it felt so good after the day he’d had. “David...”

“I went to see Oswald.”

Thomas’ hands withdrew, and he took a step back, disentangling them again. “You...?” For a moment, something flashed in his eyes, and was suppressed too quickly for David to decipher. “How was he?”

“He was old... very old. His granddaughter is a bee. But Thomas, I understand now. I understand it all.”

David laughed again. His head spun. “I understand why you are this way now. And you’re not mad at me because I ran away, you don’t even bear a grudge against me because of Ettersberg. Or perhaps you do, but that’s hardly the point, is it? You’re not angry, you’re scared.”

And there it was again, something flashing in the depths of those grey eyes, a flicker of uncertainty, ruthlessly smothered. “I beg your pardon,” Thomas said.

“For all these years you’ve had to go it alone,” David replied. He felt fevered in that way that resembled emerging from a week-long series of gruelling and time-intensive experiments crowned at last by success. How everything fit together so smoothly at last! Hypothesis, experiment, conclusion. “Letting no one close was where your salvation lay. You stopped contacting the lads because they couldn’t see that you were struggling with them starting to age past you. That you felt some sort of way about it. You’ve been Hugh’s Greek hero for so long. You don’t know how to step off that plinth and be human again. You have reason to fear that it will get bad... very bad, if you try it.”

David grinned, and seized Thomas by the lapels, and would have picked him up and spun him around the room if he didn’t feel so light-headed, so very drunk on the exhilaration of everything coming together at last. “But that’s all right now, my sweet songbird. I’m here! I will take good care of you. I understand you, fully. You’ve had to build these walls, but me going past them is a good thing. You can finally put that all down - that sword and shield, all down and away. And I will stand guard. Won’t that be good?”

Thomas tore himself away.

The exhilaration shrivelled, all joy in David took a fatal plunge at the cold rage in Thomas’ face.

“Lieutenant Mellenby,” Thomas said quietly (oh, he never raised his voice when he got angry anymore, he grew quieter), “What the fuck did you just say to me right now?”

David felt tears threatening to spill at last. He was no longer light. He was miserable and anchored to this carpet, his body a lead weight. “Thomas...”

“You have no right. No right at all. How dare you? How... dare you? After Ettersberg? After all you’ve caused to happen?”

“I only meant...”

“There’s the door. Leave now, before I start throwing fireballs.”

[crownonymous]

Harry Potter Analysis Essays: General Worldbuilding

Because we all fucking know Rowling didn’t create this world with any sense of nuance or deep thought so here we fucking are, doing the work ourselves. Do keep in mind, though, that I haven’t touched a single Harry Potter book in almost a decade; all of these are mostly inferences, headcanons, and references pulled from other magic systems and worldbuilding tools found in other media.

This post will detail basic worldbuilding with the intent of fleshing out the Harry Potter universe. List of topics for easy navigation: Technology, Commerce, Education, Religion. Warnings for: gun mention (technology); death mention (religion)

The term “witch” will be used to describe practitioners of magic in this analysis regardless of sex or gender, because witch has always been a gender neutral term and I will never forgive Rowling for pulling the whole witch and wizard bullshit. Now. The analysis.

TECHNOLOGY

There are no phones in Hogwarts. There are no computers in Hogwarts. There are no guns in Hogwarts. And considering that witches from other schools (Durmstrang, Beauxbatons) don’t have these as well, it’s safe to assume that this is the norm for the witch community. There HAS to be a reason for this. Instead of a plot hole, let’s think of this as an obstacle for the magic world. There are no guns, no computers, no phones in Hogwarts not because of lack of thought, but of actual impossibility.

One way or another, complicated electronics and technology don’t work. The most complicated piece of technology that I can think of in canon are the train, the Weasley’s car, and the bus. I might be missing a few things, but that’s all that stands out to me. That’s how little magical technology plays a part in the canon storyline. That’s how little technology is talked about in the universe. Which, to me, is a fucking tragedy.

Address the kind of elitist view witches have in regards to their magic, especially in comparison to muggles. We, as actual people living in the real world, have seen this kind of behaviour many times before. Refusing to acknowledge the advancements made by other countries and cultures because we perceive our own to be superior, or we view that advancement as petty and useless. Remember the people who dunked on the first photograph of a black hole because it was blurry? It’s like that, but with a bigger population who all basically have the same “muggle technology? big pass” attitude. Arthur fucking Weasley didn’t understand how a train terminal worked and part of that is ignorance and the witchy upbringing.

Witches aren’t taught to appreciate muggle technology. Or really, muggle anything. And this lack of understanding and knowledge kind of drove home the superiority complex thing which again, further discourages muggle understanding, and the cycle continues on.

That’s the ideological reason for why there’s practically no muggle technology found in the magical world. Now, what about a different reason? What if the magical world does, indeed, have technology, but in a different way than how muggles perceive technology.

Take the internet for example. We have a wide collection of knowledge that we can access with a phone and wifi. What’s the witch equivalent of that? There are printed books of course, but what about something else? The pensieve is magical technology that can store memories, which is basically home videos and photos. What about several different pensieves connected to each other? Witches can store their memories inside their pensieves, connect it to other witches, and form a network of knowledge so that anyone can essentially dunk their heads in water and live through a step-by-step process on how to make a fucking cake. That counts as technology that intrinsically ties to magic.

So in theory, witches can invent technology tailored to and for them. Medicine that seeks out magical energy to ease the pain of curses and hexes. Bottles that can be filled up with raw, unfiltered magic to be used as bombs or accelerants for other forms of magic. Blank portraits hung in witch homes, where inhabitants can magic a picture of someone onto each other’s canvases to serve as video calls. So many fucking opportunities that weren’t taken.

But why not use muggle technology? It’s already been invented. Is elitism really so prevalent that witches would rather look like fucking idiots using quills and inkwells instead of a fucking pencil? Maybe there’s a reason for that too.

Forgive me for scientific inaccuracies but let’s suppose that witch magic can materialise as energy, able to be detected on the electro-magnetic spectrum. Basically, magic has the same effect on electronics as an EMP would. It shorts out wiring, makes electronic lights flicker, fucks up complicated pieces of technology just by being in magical presence. So, by that logic, if a witch holds a phone, their magical energy would make that goddamn phone go bust. Or worse, explode. And can you imagine what that kind of energy would do to firearms? There have been cases of firearms accidentally discharging because they were dropped. What will happen if the nature and construction of firearms react negatively to fucking magic? Yeah. There’s your reason as to why people didn’t just shoot each other in the head. Complicated technology and magic don’t mix.

But the Weasley car has fairly complicated technology. So, how does that work? In comes witch inventors whose passion and job is basically finding ways to make muggle technology work with the natural witch portable always-on EMP aura. In the PJO universe, Demigods don’t use phones very often because the waves make them more easily detectable. Same concept, but a little more violent. Arthur works for the Ministry which explains why he would have access to a car that doesn’t explode to fiery bits when it comes in contact with a witch’s magic. In fact, that car probably does what muggles did when inventing guns that can fire continuously. In the gun’s case, the recoil from the first shot is used to create energy for the second shot. Not a gun person so I don’t know how to explain it in more detail, but that’s basically it.

That “harnessing recoil” thing can be applied to the car as well. Instead of being shot dead with the all natural witch EMP, the car uses that constant discharge as fuel. Which presents a different challenge for magical inventors: create technology that doesn’t clash with natural magic. One way is to use pre-existing magical tools like the pensieve and improve upon it. Another is the recoil thing, which is finding ways where the constant ambient magic doesn’t disrupt the technology in question.

This is the same reason I use for every fantasy AU I have to explain why characters don’t just shoot each other. And it works for the Harry Potter universe as well.

COMMERCE

You expect me to believe that the ONLY jobs are magical-related? Fuck that noise. There are bakers and architects and taxi drivers and teachers and authors and inventors and clerks and construction workers and hairdressers historians. Remember kids, the job itself doesn’t have to be magic, you just have to be creative with the application. There’s nothing magical about being a taxi driver. You have a vehicle, you pick people up, and you drop them off. The magic comes from how you do it.

Instead of trying to make the job magical (like Aurors, which are basically magic police officers) how about we focus instead on finding ways to apply magic to the job? Back to the taxi driver, how does a taxi driver compete with magical methods like apparition, the floo network, and straight up flight? Please remember that apparating is dangerous and that the floo network has to be connected with the Ministry to work (at least in Britain) and flight is, well, flight.

Taxi drivers in the magical world have to compete with that, so how do they do it? They can take the knight bus route, which is make travel speedy so witches can go from point a to point b relatively quick. Another is to make the ride as comfortable as possible. You have magic, pull a Tardis in the cab and make it so passengers open the door and find themselves in a goddamn hotel suite so they can relax during their commute.

Have your bakers make figures out of fondant and marshmallows that come to live as the candles are blown out. Imagine those little birthday cakes with cars and mermaids and other stuff on top. Now imagine those things coming to life as you blow out the candles. They’re like chocolate frogs without the stupid nonsensical time constraint. Can you imagine what it’ll be like if you have a cake topper that’s a car that can actually move around? Maybe zip through the air around you? Dunno bout y’all but I want that.

And how would trade between witch communities go? No matter how much you try to convince me, I refuse to fucking believe that the sickle/galleon thing is universal across ALL witching communities. Fucking impossible. So there has to be different witch currencies out there with their own exchange rate compared to the sickle/galleon system as well as their respective muggle currency in relation to where they are.

Because of the fact that muggle exchange rates will ALWAYS be present because of the numerous muggleborn and half-blood witches who don’t want to yeet an entire part of their life away just because they can levi someone’s corpus, there IS muggle trade. I refuse to fucking believe that the extent of witch and muggle commerce begins and ends with the exchange of currency. There HAS to be goods and/or services exchanged. Otherwise, how would witch banks even acquire muggle currency in the first place? Do they fucking steal it from the unsuspecting public? No, they gain muggle currency through trade.

Just because witches can make chocolate frogs and moving pictures on cards, doesn’t mean that it’s what they HAVE to make. Witches can easily make things that they can sell in the muggle world that have no magic. Notebooks, kitchen implements, etc. With magic, manufacturing these will be incredibly easy and could break the muggle economy. So I think only banks have clearance to sell witch-made mundane objects to muggles for the purpose of getting muggle currency so they can exchange that with magic currency. There are plenty of muggleborn and half-blood witches that may need muggle currency when they return to the muggle world, so the demand is reasonably high.

Basically, my point is, witch communities trade with each other because that’s what we as humans do. We find something we’re good at, find someone else who’s good at what we suck shit at doing, and we fucking trade. If, for example, British witches are good at making magical confectionery, they can then trade those confectioneries for things like self-writing quills or magical blankets that keep you at your preferred temperature. My point is that there is trade and communication between different witch communities that allow them to better their respective communities whilst simultaneously learning from others.

EDUCATION

Put aside the Hogwarts sorting thing because THAT shitshow deserves its own post. For now, we’ll just take a look at the education system itself. Particularly how the magic education system mirrors our own real world “muggle” system. We will ask and answer this question: Why do these schools exist?

To teach children how to use and control magic, obviously. But why? Why is it so important to enroll every magic user into a witching school and why is it important for these children to get their magic under control? And if learning how to control magic is so important, is tuition still necessary? While we’re at it, we also have to ask: What happens to the children who don’t get taught? Rowling can try to convince me that every witch child was brought under a magic school like Hogwarts as soon as their magic manifested all she wants but that’s fucking impossible.

You mean to tell me that there are no children who were homeschooled? You mean to tell me that there weren’t witch children who bounced from foster home to foster home so often that no matter how much they tried to be located, these children were never picked up? You mean to tell me that there weren’t any children who didn’t want to go to a strange magical boarding school? The fuck are they going to do? Arrest children for non-compliance with magic laws of a magic world that the child wants nothing to do with?

If the answer to that question is “no”, then what do they do with children who have no wish to learn anything about their magical powers? Are they excommunicated from the witch community? Do they send a witch guardian to follow the child around like an underpaid bodyguard with the added difficulty modifier of having to stay undetected? I think that in order to use magic, one must have either focus, or an extreme emotional reaction. The magic we see in Hogwarts is controlled; the students want to cast the spells they’re casting and are in the right headspace to do so. The magic we see Harry do when he traps Dudley behind glass is emotional; his magic reacts to his current mental space and altered reality because of Harry. So an untrained witch who suddenly experiences an emotional outburst could potentially cause trouble, which is why it is best to at least inform them about their situation so they can be aware.

If the answer is “yes” however, that begets the question of WHY untrained witches need to be found and contained if they can’t (or won’t) control their powers. Thankfully, canon answers this one for us with the introduction of Obscurials. Obscurials (or Obscuros but I like Obscurial better so that’s what we’ll use) are the manifestation of a witch’s energy when they repress it, whether by their own volition or by the coercion of their environment. And as we all know, Obscurials are dangerous if left unchecked, because their magic is wild and untamed and capable of causing mass destruction not only to muggles, but to witches as well. So in the interest of protecting both muggles and witches from rogue Obscurials in unfavourable environments, it’s more practical to yeet as many students into witch schools as possible. Or at least get them to a mentor who can teach them if they don’t want to go to magic boarding school.

I really, really, want to talk more about Obscurials and how/why trauma does and doesn’t make Obscurials but we’re not focusing on that today.

We’re focusing on the magic education system.

We’ve now understood and established why education young witches on their powers and the practical applications of it is so important. In order to avoid damage to both witch and muggle society, people with magical talents should be taught how to control their powers so they aren’t a danger to themselves and to others. That’s all fine and dandy. But what do the schools actually teach?

Hogwarts has a fucking crisis every damn year so it isn’t the best example but it’s all we’ve got, so let’s look at it.

We have classes about the magical creatures that exist in the world, some benign and some actively malicious. We have classes on different kinds of magic and their applications (more on this in a different essay) in day-to-day witch life. We have self-defense classes against potentially harmful entities, whether they be another witch or something else. We have classes about different forms of magical practise including but not limited to: arithmancy, divination and herbology.

With this in mind, we can infer that there are multiple kinds of magical practise that range from potion-making to cursing someone to speak only in riddles for a week. We can also infer that the magical world is fucking dangerous. There are animals that can rip you apart without a moment’s notice, and there is an actual literal fucking spell that is a straight up fucking insta-kill if it hits you. If a young witch is caught unawares and unprepared, they will likely die.

And as we’ve learned, if a witch with uncontrolled powers experiences extreme duress, their magic reacts and lashes out at anything and everything. If the witch is powerful enough, they could straight up nuke several buildings (and everyone in em) out of existence.

So, the reason magical schools exist, and the reason why young witches are pressured to attend them, is to protect both the muggle world and the magic world.

But again, Hogwarts has a fucking goddamn crisis every year so other witching cultures might handle wayward witches differently. But we’ll never know because the canon worldbuilding fucking su-

RELIGION

To be fair, witches can be a part of many religions around the world. Some might be Jewish, others Catholic, maybe there are witches who are even Wiccan or Pagan or polytheistic. All of these options are possible and plausible. We also have a few canon examples of real life and “muggle” religions practised by the characters. Fat Friar was Roman Catholic during his lifetime, and because Christmas is celebrated in canon, it’s safe to assume that there are witches who are Christian and that the magic world has at least a passing knowledge of these religions.

All of these religions are also, coincidentally, religions that normal people, that MUGGLES, are a part of. Why is that important? There are half-blood and muggleborn witches, and they might worship the same God(s) their muggle parent(s) do. But there are also pureblood witches who very likely don’t know a lick about most of these religions. There are also pureblood families who might worship their own God(s) and thus, would shun away religions that muggles also participate in. Witches have also existed for as long as humans existed. And witch history (real life witch history) is brimming with hatred and violence and distrust towards witches from normal people. From muggles. So it would make sense for witches (especially pureblood witches) to have their own religion.

The problem now, is that we literally have nothing about that supposed religion. Coupled with the fact that there are literally witches everywhere, a universal religion to witches cannot be applied. We must also consider other cultures removed from Britain where the canon takes place. There are cultures all over the world whose magical practises tie in closely with their religion. I am not an expert on theology. So for the purposes of this analysis, we will focus on the supposed “non-muggle” religion likely practised by pureblood old-timey British witches.

Not that non-pureblood witches can’t practise it, but the world moves on and the stigma against muggles is slowly dwindling. With the rise of half-blood and muggle-born witches, it’s likely that more modern religions are adopted by these new witches. So it’s safe to say that these religions practised by pure-blood families are slowly phasing out. Which would also lead to the whole “blood purity” plot point. The old, traditionalist witches want to be more selective with newer witches so they can preserve their own culture and religion. *cough* parallels *cough*

Onto possible religions that would make sense with the barebone canon universe.

How about the Deathly Hallows?

It’s a story about three brothers, the personification of Death, and the cycle of life. It’s also a story about the values represented by the different Hallows, and a warning about the importance of temperance and how easily these values could be corrupted. In the context of the magic world, temperance is something that is SORELY needed, but unfortunately never fucking seen. Let’s review.

The Elder Wand: asked for by the oldest brother, the strongest wand in existence, a symbol of power. it is strength, it is action, it is decisiveness. In relation to a real-life religion, the Elder Wand is like the flaming sword in the Bible, used as a deterrent to ward away any who would dare try to step inside Paradise. In the HP universe, the Elder Wand can easily be seen as protection from evil, as a way for a witch to protect themselves and the people they hold dear to their hearts. As the strongest wand in existence, the wielder would have immeasurable power and of course, with great power comes great temptation. Temptation which the First Brother in the story succumbed to, and is thus met an untimely and gruesome end. It is a moral about how power in the wrong hands leads to an unfortunate end, and how witches should be proud of their gifts, but they should never be arrogant about it. Homeboi would have lived if he kept his mouth shut about having the most powerful wand in existence.

The Resurrection Stone: asked for by the second brother, a way to bring the dead from their graves, a memory and love for the past. it is grief, it is remembrance, it is guidance. There are several religions around the world that place emphasis on respecting and honouring the dead like Dia de Los Muertos. When we lose someone, especially someone important to us, we mourn, we grieve, we feel as though the world is ending. We are lost. The Stone offers consolation, an opportunity to see those we have lost so that we might move on. It’s a way for us to look back at the past, at the people we have lost, parents and grandparents, teachers and mentors, and ask for their guidance and wisdom. But it’s also a call for us not to stare, not to linger, and not to miss the past so much that we lose sight of the present. The second brother did not understand that moral, and so he misused the stone, preferring to live in the past rather than cherish the life he has which led to his demise.

The Invisibility Cloak: asked for by the third brother, something that could elude Death yet was ultimately surrendered, a reminder that life is short and fleeting. it is longevity, it is acceptance, it is sacrifice. Again, I’m not a theological expert and thus, failed to find a fitting real world religion to compare this particular section, but maybe we can look to nature instead. Death comes for all of us. It’s an unfortunate truth. It takes our family, it takes our friends, and it will inevitably take us. As the third and final brother, the story of the Cloak teaches us to accept that inevitability, and to live life to the fullest because of it. The third brother did not keep the Cloak for himself, he gave it to his son, so that his son may also live a long and fulfilling life. The third brother tried to pave the way for those that will come after him, and that’s ultimately what the Cloak tries to teach. One must try to live life with as few regrets as possible, so that when the time comes, one can pass the Cloak to someone else, pass down knowledge and experience and love, and greet Death as an old friend.

The three stories of the Deathly Hallows are fundamentally good. When you have Power, don’t abuse it. It is important to love and cherish the past, but you must live in the present. Death is inevitable, so make the most out of your time while you have it. At its core, the Deathly Hallows would make a good religion, especially for witches.

And of course, the bit about how one becomes the Master of Death should they come into possession of all three Hallows. In a sense, becoming the Master of Death is finally and wholeheartedly understanding the meaning and lessons the Three Hallows are trying to teach. Accepting responsibility for one’s powers and not abusing it, learning from and cherishing the past but living in the present, and of course doing your best to pave the road for those that will come after you. Understanding these three fundamental things preserves the values exemplified by the Three Witch Brothers and is basically Enlightenment for this supposed religion. All of this essentially boils down to “appreciate life and don’t be a dick” which is a good code to live by.

But, like any other religion, these tenets and values can easily be corrupted and perverted. Ancient pureblood families can so easily twist these morals to benefit them and their agenda. The First story can be interpreted as the Brother being too weak to be worthy of the Wand. The love shown in the Second story can be viewed as weakness. The Third Brother giving the cloak to his son in the third story can be used to dissuade altruism.

Religion in real life is complicated. Religion in a fictional universe can be complicated too. And this is only one small region of the universe. Who knows what kind of stories and lore and possible religions other parts of the world may have.

.

In conclusion, I spent four (almost five) goddamn hours of my one human life tilling at land that isn’t fucking arable, but I have a fucking shovel and I’m prepared to dig deeper into this godsforsaken fandom. I was given a skeleton made of wet tissue paper and I turned that shit into a skeleton made of sturdier materials that will support the weight of heavier ideas. Ideas like what actual combat between two witches who can mold reality like fucking play-doh would look like. You think it’s the boring glorified laser tag team battle we get in the movies? Fuck that, I’m going to give you more. Want an analysis on the Hogwarts Houses that isn’t “good, bad, smart, miscellaneous”? It’s on its fucking way.

This is just bare fucking bones. I’ll be writing more essays in the future and I’m bringing in the heavy shit. So go get comfortable because I’m not done picking this world apart yet.

[happymetalgirl]

As I Lay Dying - Shaped by Fire

Whatever this album ended up sounding like, it was never going to be an easy one to talk about, and when the band released their sixth studio LP in 2012, I would never have anticipated its follow-up to be one of its year’s most controversial albums. 

I’m sure most reading this already know the horrible history between 2012 and this album: lead vocalist Tim Lambesis soliciting an undercover cop who he was led to believe was a hitman to murder his estranged wife. Lambesis was of course arrested, charged with attempted solicitation to commit murder, and eventually plead guilty after putting up a meager fight for under a year with the flimsy defense of the adverse effects of his ongoing steroid use driving him to do something so psychotic and abhorrent. At some point before his incarceration, Lambesis released a candid apology video in which he explained what had happened, his sentencing, and his shameful acceptance of the consequences, sans excuses for himself. He was originally supposed to be imprisoned until 2020, but was released on parole in late 2016, about which he was quiet, but of course word got out, and immediately speculation began to swirl about whether the fractured (if not shattered) As I Lay Dying would reunite, which essentially all parties shut down at any initial inquiry, with multiple relationships between band members already soured before the hiatus aside from their shared contempt for Lambesis since his imprisonment. Seemingly miraculously though, here we are with a seventh As I Lay Dying album that, just two years ago, was never supposed to exist.

This album was always going to be shaped by and responsible for justifying its existence within the context of everything that happened before it, and the astonishingly reunited band knew that when they released the song “My Own Grave” last year, whose lyrics read of upfront humbled acceptance of responsibility, obviously from Lambesis’ point of view.

Since that song’s release and the realizing possibility that the band might actually release an album, discussion surrounding the justification of it erupted within and around the band’s fan base, with most fans supportive of Lambesis’ efforts to make things right and forgivingly welcoming his and the band’s return, while many others remained skeptical of Lambesis’ and his bandmates’ sincerity, if not outright unforgiving of all involved. And since the album’s release, there still really isn’t any consensus or development on that front, and it makes sense.

My feelings on the whole thing are a bit of both honestly. I understand Lambesis wanting to move on from what he did as well as make up for what he did in a way he knows how, and the idealist in me wants this to play out well and redeem such a terrible act as much as it possible can be. I do agree with the sentiment that many fans have echoed that he shouldn’t be treated like someone who hasn’t served time and began to redeem his heinous actions, essentially as a prisoner still and undeserving of finding his way in society again despite being released. But I simultaneously completely understand those still skeptical of him and the band based on their pasts and those who feel like he still has a lot to do to make things fully right again. I agree, he’s far from done yet. But I don’t think that disqualifies him from making the kind of art he knows how to make about his circumstances, especially if he is going to sincerely use it to make positive redemptive effects. Essentially, I don’t think Tim Lambesis is fully redeemed by what he’s done yet, including this album. I don’t think that means he’s not allowed to have made this album (or shouldn’t have), but I’m saying that it’s still not over for him or As I Lay Dying. If he is indeed sincere about everything he has come out and said since his release from prison, I would think he would agree that he still has a lot to do before the more skeptical side of the community starts to trust him again (which he has also said he understands). If the band’s accounts are to be believed, Lambesis’ acceptance back into their lives didn’t happen overnight, and the rest of his story within the metal community is definitely the kind of thing that only more time will reveal to be redemptive or ill-fated. For now, all we can do is assess this early snapshot of the whole situation in this album.

Anyone expecting Shaped by Fire to shatter the As I Lay Dying mould lyrically or musically to fit the newly solemn context surrounding it will not find such adjustment. The band are clearly aware of the album’s context and the music shows how conscious they were to approach it in a way that materialized a project that addressed the things they needed to while still being the kind of album the band’s fans could connect to (and not just an album for the band themselves). And at this I think the band did a mostly pretty admirable job. Stylistically Shaped by Fire picks up right where As I Lay Dying left off in 2012, making some of the most muscular and moving NWOAHM metalcore during and after the movement’s peak of relevance. I mentioned the song “My Own Grave” earlier, the band’s unlikely triumphant return from all that had happened. And musically the song fits that triumphant return and serves as a fine representation of the album as a whole as well, with hard-hitting, thrashing metalcore from start to finish with no room for dropping slack, and bassist Josh Gilbert’s empowering clean vocal melody about accepting guilt and humility cutting through straight to the heart of it all.

Through nearly identical stylistic methods, the still incredibly powerful subsequent single “Redfined” captures a sentiment similar to what was expressed on “My Own Grave”, one of fierce determination to undo one’s wrongs and flaws and recreate one’s self in to become a more positive part of the world, something obviously applicable to Lambesis, but certainly not just him as no one is too perfect for self reflection and improvement.

Lambesis expresses his gratitude for his facing the consequences for his actions most candidly on the wonderfully tremolo-picking-infused “Only After We’ve Fallen”, on which he says “My deceit was displayed for all to see / The only thing that could have saved me”

Gilbert’s clean vocal melodies shine again on the track “Undertow”, whose breakdown is similarly inspiring and heartfelt, and again his pairing with Lambesis takes the band’s signature thrashy melodic metalcore to emotive heights on the appreciative and crushing “The Wreckage” on which the band express their appreciation for their rebuilding from the ruins of the past several years.

The song “Blinded” finds Lambesis trying to convey his mindset surrounding his previous actions, though I think just a little bit too romanticized lyrically, which the assurances of trying to change do thankfully counter. Gilbert’s clean melodies, especially as he reaches high in his range near the end stand out as the song’s driving force of heartfelt repentance, and the vocal performance is so powerful I’m even reminded of Spencer Sotello’s impressive performances on Periphery’s latest album.

Lambesis gets aggressive over some heavy, aerobic, Austrian Death Machine-style thrash without the assistance of Gilbert’s cleans on “Gatekeeper”, one which he (seemingly) understandably lashes out at those hard-heartedly unwilling to forgive him and actively trying to keep him out of music. He doesn’t say it’s explicitly about his situation; he’s as open-ended here as he is on all the other songs applicable to other’s situations but clearly inspired by his experiences, and again I understand the frustration at those determined to hinder what he seees as his path to making things right, but this song effectively burns those bridges between him and people who might well just need a lot of time for their hearts to be softened. Lambesis though does counterbalance this song’s raw frustration with a declaration of commitment on the closing track, “The Toll It Takes”, to doing everything possible to help heal the hurt he caused knowing full well that his true sentence extends beyond his prison time and that there are things he cannot undo.

While certainly not offensively lazy lyrically or musically, the title track is an example of the album at its most rarely formulaic, with the band embodying the good-cop-bad-cop trope of the genre in a less emotive manner that pales in creative comparison to tracks like “Redefined”, “My Own Grave”, and even “Blinded”. It’s just more familiar and rule-following metalcore than the band’s more vulnerable and powerful moments. Most of the album, to the contrary, steeped in the band’s clearly cathartic redemption arc, is brimming with the kind of crushing, open-hearted metalcore that the band crystallized on 2010’s The Powerless Rise, and to an even greater degree as the band’s gratitude for their resurrection is quite tangible from track to track.

For all the controversy and tension surrounding this album, Shaped by Fire followed beneficially the path laid out by its preliminary singles to serve as the right kind of album As I Lay Dying needed to make, given the circumstances. Tim Lambesis clearly understands his responsibility to continue serving in ways to make up for what he did, and his raw emotional vulnerability across the album as a result of his already being humiliated by his actions shows indeed a portrait of a man determined to go the long haul and right his wrongs after losing everything and grateful for what he’s been given back so far. Even his more aggravated expressions like “Gatekeeper” that might be interpreted cynically as undue complaining about justified skepticism and criticism towards him are important to the truthful and tangible picture of human imperfection (at it most humbled in his case) Lambesis is conveying through his lyrics. He clearly understands he has a lot to do still, and a big part of this album is expressing his understanding of what the traumatic past means for his present and future. He and his bandmates are clearly aware that they will face backlash, they know that they are very blessed to have received the support they have, and they know it is still a long road ahead.

Musically, the band sound as if they never stopped playing together and even knew to temper the clean melodies of Awakened to the more optimal balance of thrashy metalcore aggression and powerful soaring choruses on The Powerless Rise, and the tough context surrounding it makes Shaped by Fire one of the band’s most cathartic albums to date.

The support the band has received has indeed been tremendous and certainly helpful, and I imagine some might look at their sold-out tours and think it unjust that the band receive such a magnitude of support at this stage and worry they might interpret the forgiveness of their devoted fans as complete redemption. I certainly understand that concern and I hope that the band don’t settle for just the approval of those who are glad As I Lay Dying is back together and instead continue to strive to make a positive impact with their music and their service to their communities. If this album is truly indicative of their shared emotional state and their mission, I think they will stay on the right path.

Redefining/10

[areasontobreathe]

Attacking the Messes, pt. 2

So, last time, I talked about what (I really hope) is everyone’s first step in decluttering and organization: Keep everything you have, just organize it neatly. I know I just gave a brief overview, and I’m trying to get some more in-depth ideas together as far as creative storage, so bear with me.  But, I cannot stress enough how I hope that one is everyone’s first step.  You honestly may not even realize you’ve taken it in the past, so if you try it again now and it doesn’t seem like you’re doing anything different, that’s okay.  It just means that one didn’t work, and you’re ready to move on to the next one:

Do you really need all of this?

To start off, this is a great method for closets, kitchens, people who are about to move into their first place, or when you just walk into a specific space and almost immediately feel a weight settle on you and want to turn right around and leave (sheds, attics, basements, etc).

There are a lot of different concepts around this one, as it has to be the most popular I’ve ever seen until Marie Kondo hit Netflix. “Swedish Death Cleaning” is the most common actual name I see for this, but I’ve also heard it referred to as “mock-moving”.  The basic principles behind it is going through all your ‘stuff’, and sorting into 2 categories:

I need this on a regular basis to live my life. This is the stuff you definitely keep.

I don’t need this regularly, and if I die/move across country on short notice:

Someone/I will throw it away

Someone will want it

Now, please keep in mind, these are the most basic principles.  There are fine-tuning questions around both of these. Let’s start with the first one: I need this on a regular basis to live my life. “Regular basis” doesn’t necessarily mean you need it daily. Instead, ask yourself the last time you used it or appreciated it.  If you can’t remember, it can either go in the second category, or you can hang on to it for a year, come back, and ask if you used it/appreciated it since the last time you decluttered.  If the answer is no, it should probably go into the second category.

Once you have your first category completed (I’m a firm believer in focusing on what you keep first), it’s time to start splitting up the second category. Ask yourself Is this something someone in my life would want/appreciate more? If so, call them up and ask if they want it. It can be something as simple as makeup you’ll never wear (my sister got nine from me), or on a larger scale it can be furniture that you really don’t have space for and need to rehome.

If no one you know will want it, would it be thrown away?  It’s hard to think about in terms of death, so I always frame it in terms of moving on short notice – If I had to move out of my house within a week, and move across country, would I just throw this out? The more you do this, the easier it becomes – and I apologize to anyone who does move frequently on short notice, because I’ve been there.  Moving 10 times in the same year sucked popsicles, but really sets your priorities on stuff. Usually, I end up with a ‘donate’ pile and a ‘trash’ pile.  

PSA: Please be super honest about what is trash. Stained, torn clothes, chipped knickknacks and plates, etc, are going to be throw away by places like Goodwill or the Salvation Army. This costs them more money than they will recoup from selling anything that they are able to keep out of your donations. Check everything over carefully, and if it isn’t good enough to give to your friends and family, don’t donate it.

This is the point where people usually start thinking “but I could sell it….” If you are actually going to have that yard sale, or take the time to list it online, by all means.  Personally, I lack the time and energy for a yard sale, so yeah, it’s donate or chuck it.

For anyone who feels they need to try this method, by all means, it can be very useful and enlightening as to how much stuff you actually have that you forgot you even owned.  I definitely advise going one area at a time on this one, because doing an entire house can be exhausting and frustrating.  However, I always want to advise of some pitfalls to this:

We all fall into the trap of “oh, I’ll use this more”, or “I can repurpose this”. That’s why I mentioned the 1-year waiting period earlier.  Some of us will actually use or repurpose it, some of us (me, I’m calling myself out here) are wishful thinkers.

This method requires absolute brutal honesty with yourself. Humans packbond, even to inanimate objects, and we get very sad when we find things that we forgot we owned and have carted to every residence we’ve ever had without looking at it in between.  We really want to keep it, we do!  This is literally where I always fall apart on this method, so if you do trip up, that’s okay.

You may need several attempts at this until you reach a point where you are satisfied. It can be very discouraging when we’ve been given the idea that just decluttering our space is the solution to all our problems.

Please remember, there is no shame in tripping up, giving up, or reverting back to clutter. I tried for fifteen years before I found something that works for me. My goal is that it doesn’t take anyone else that long, but there is no requirement for you to get this right the first time.

As always, inbox and asks are open, so please let me know what you would like to see on this blog, or ask any questions you may have around specifics!