#how the flowers melt into abstraction | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

lexiepiper · 1 year

Text

Strange Relations

Hey @five-rivers happy truce! Sorry for being a little bit late, life got crazy.

I combined two of your prompts - Prompt 2: Clockwork gets sick of how Jack and Maddie treat Danny and spirits him away. Jack and Maddie must prove to Clockwork that they'll do better by completing his challenges. Whether or not they succeed is up to you. Prompt 4: Soft and cozy body horror. Lots of tactile texture and gentleness. Positive ending. :)

I hope you enjoy it! I’m a big fan of a lot of your writing and so tried to embody your masterful grasp of the abstract and eldritch, with a few references to some of the different elements/versions of Danny I’ve seen in your works.

The fic can be read here on ao3, or in this tumblr post.

...

Time is a mortal construct. At least, the understanding of its measurement is. For Clockwork, the markers of its passage were far less significant. What care did he need to have for weekdays, or hours, or the amount of revolutions around the sun?

He measured by different means.

How long it took for his endangered plants to sprout, grow tall, and flower or bear fruit.

The stretching eddies of dynasties rising and falling, and the outward-extending ramifications throughout the history of humankind.

The slow, awful rhythms of celestial bodies that he could barely parse even after aeons of watching the universe unfold in their rippling influences.

Mostly, he measured his time through the things he observed. Once he interacted with something it became difficult to ascertain its final path — like ripples obscuring the bottom of a small pond if you tried to put your hand into the water. The image only stayed clear so long as he refrained from touching it.

That being said, it was another regular morning when Daniel Fenton’s parents shot him out of the sky for the one hundredth time. A Tuesday, if anybody was keeping track.

Clockwork measured time by things that piqued his interest. Patterns, irregularities, and notable things in between that brought him any sense of emotion beyond simple detached interest.

So, he noticed, and he cared. He cared enough to burn.

One hundred times.

He burned hot with anger, his core flaring with a fire that he’d forgotten he harboured, and Clockwork was no longer able to hold himself back from plunging his hand into the pond despite all of the restrictions and regulations that normally kept him in his place.

The parade vanished, his vision of the future clouded, and within a mere selection of months, Clockwork found himself on the cusp of crossing the threshold of one of the only spaces beyond the time stream.

The place had many names, as did its denizens. There was no true way to define them, and perhaps that was the point of it all. The building changed depending on the perspective from which one tried to take it in, its architecture shifting from angle to angle. One moment it seemed as though it was a drab twentieth-century office with soap-bubble windows and floors that reached into blurry uncertainty. Then the building shifted, almost imperceptibly, and its peeling brick facade melted into the carved columns of an ancient Greek pantheon, complete with a sprawling copse of ancient olive trees that quietly creaked as ghosts moved between them. A moment later, and it was a connected city of tents strung with colourful banners that fluttered in a nonexistent breeze, flaps propped open with sticks with seemingly no coherent system that could be discerned by the outside observer.

Clockwork drifted across an invisible barrier and it ruffled his essence like the sudden breath of air conditioning one felt when entering a supermarket on a hot day.

The tent city’s trampled grass shifted to polished tiles, smooth beneath Clockwork’s boots as his core sank into dormancy and bade him land. The lack of ability was discomfiting but he shook it off and walked purposefully to the revolving doors of a great glass skyscraper, his cloak drifting around his ankles pleasantly with the sudden gravitational assertion over his typically-spectral body.

Being forced into a single form was more unpleasant even than the temporary binding of his powers, but Clockwork spared at least a sliver of gratitude that his default was that of an adult that appeared to be roughly in his thirties. If he were a child or an old man, it might damage his chances, depending on the test that the council ended up choosing.

The door spun on its center pole as he approached, its glass panes flashing in the light of a swarm of tiny blob ghosts that flitted around its interior segments. Their cores, like those of the denizens of this zone, were unfettered, as they were not here with a petition for review. It was a relief to see them, enjoying the neutral safe space and clearly having fun as they bounced around the entryway with glee.

Their purity reminded him of the severity of his purpose here, and as he stepped into a gleaming glass lobby that shifted into a sun-washed garden an approximation of a secretary rose from the path in front of him. It was faceless and blank, and Clockwork stood still as it passed an appendage that might have been a hand over the clock casing embedded in his chest.

The being didn’t speak, but he understood nonetheless when it confirmed his identity as applicant Clockwork the Timekeeper.

The pleasant sound of running water deeper into the garden paused for a moment, and the intermingled murmur of voices and birdsong went quiet. He figured that it wasn’t every day that someone as consequential as himself came here, but he shrugged off the feeling of being observed. The lull was only brief, and ambient noise resumed before Clockwork could do more than wonder yet again if he’d chosen the correct course.

The wondering, in and of itself, was nothing new. As soon as he’d reached through his viewing screen to scoop up a bleeding Daniel his vision had clouded, and since then, he’d done nothing but wonder.

He could have tried to just keep the boy, to adopt him by force and never let him go back to the life and people who were so horrible to him, but as he followed the secretary down a path through verdant twelve-foot ferns dappled with sunlight and filled with flashes of jewelled dragonflies, Clockwork’s doubts faded. He reminded himself that by surrendering Daniel to the protective grasp of the impartial council while taking the time to go through all of the proper applications, nobody would be able to dispute his relationship with the child on the other side. It was the only way to make Daniel permanently, irrevocably his, and despite his current inability to see the outcome for himself, Clockwork knew that there was no way he would fail the test.

The path ended abruptly in a freestanding stone door, ornately decorated with a mosaic fresco of towering creatures that Clockwork didn’t recognise from any reality that he was privy to observing. It swung open soundlessly as he approached, and beyond its threshold stretched an unremarkable hallway. The paint was yellow with either age or poor lighting, or perhaps a combination of the two, and the floor was worn threadbare carpet that might have once been a colour but was now more of a faded light brown.

There were no doors or windows, and when Clockwork stepped onto the carpet the guide shut the freestanding door behind them, cutting off the light and sounds of the garden. He didn’t need to breathe, but the mustiness of the corridor stuck to his throat anyway, and he followed wordlessly when his guide kept moving.

It took several minutes for them to reach another door. This one matched the hallway they were in, being remarkably plain with a little brass plaque at head height.

He couldn’t read the language, but entered anyway when motioned to do so.

The guide didn’t follow, and the door clicked shut behind him as Clockwork blinked in the warm light that spilled through a large window. The room seemed to be a small office, but it was homely, with abstract artwork on the wall and nice armchairs both in front of and behind the desk.

The person sitting at the desk was also faceless, but unlike the neutral tones of the secretary, it was wearing flowing fabric that shimmered between cool tones with each small movement.

It gestured to one of the armchairs and Clockwork sat, feeling as welcomed as he would have by a smile and friendly words. It would have been rude to speak when his host did not, so he stayed quiet and exuded his own pleasantries nonverbally, as some ghosts were wont to do. It seemed to be the right move, because the person nodded and Clockwork sensed its warm appreciation.

It opened a drawer and produced a slim file, sliding it across the desk to rest in front of him, and Clockwork recognised the paperwork that he had so painstakingly filled out over the past several months. The registration and application process had been long and arduous, and Daniel had been kept from all interested parties for the duration. He’d been kept here, in fact, but Clockwork knew that he had no hope of interacting with the boy before the petition trial was complete.

He skimmed through the papers, noting the extra stamp at the end of each page. The final page had a line to sign, and when he glanced up at the faceless being it beckoned for him to hold out his hand.

He did so, and it drew off his glove, exposing the pale blue flesh of Clockwork’s palm. With a sharp swipe a letter opener flashed across his hand and green ectoplasm welled in its wake, and Clockwork allowed his hand to be tilted so that a few drops fell onto the paper just above the line. It soaked in until it disappeared, leaving the white parchment spotless, and then Clockwork’s name etched itself out in flowing green script.

The person nodded approvingly and offered a strip of plain white cloth, which Clockwork allowed it to use to bandage his bleeding hand. Usually such a trifle wouldn’t be an issue, with the power to simply shift time around the wound and immediately heal, but with his abilities bound by this interdimensional space he would have to make do with the far more mundane option.

He reclaimed his glove but tucked it into his belt when the person shook its head at his attempt to put it back on. The bandage on his hand stood out starkly against the dark tones of his clothing, and he realised that it was a badge of honour, signifying that he’d come far enough to be considered a candidate for the judgement.

The being shuffled the papers back into order and rose from its chair, tilting its head in an unspoken request to follow when it moved towards the door. Clockwork complied, and when it opened he was not faced with the same hallway that he’d walked down before, but a large atrium filled with silver light that spilled through a delicately domed glass ceiling.

They entered on one of the upper levels that hugged the round wall of the space. It was a narrow walkway that led to individual evenly-spaced boxes, each holding a single seat. They called to mind witness boxes, although the chairs were carved from the same marble as the walls and floors, and inlaid with plush green velvet.

The lower level of the room was blocked from view by a shimmering barrier of black smoke that sparkled as though filled with stars. Clockwork watched it as he walked, and it drifted with the slow, soothing movements of gentle eddies. He looked up again once they reached the nearest box, and allowed himself to be ushered into the seat. It was even softer than it looked, and once he sat the same starry mist rose around him and cut off all sight.

He hoped he wouldn’t have to wait long, but quieted any irritation at the delay. Time was nothing, after all. He just needed to win the case for custody of Daniel, and then there would be all of the time in the universe, both known and unknown.

He comforted himself with that knowledge, and whiled away the waiting by planning the things that he’d do once he took Daniel home. It was a topic that had become a favourite among his daydreams, and he’d already prepared a room that was draped in constellations and held all of the comforts that the boy could possibly want. Beyond that, he’d already begun to make changes to Long Now. The clock tower, while perfect for Clockwork alone, was not conducive to the rounded development of a child’s core. As he’d laboured through the application process, Clockwork had changed much, working on making shared spaces like the kitchen and garden habitable for a halfa, and private spaces, such as his own viewing room, at least safe for Daniel to spend time in should the opportunity arise. After all, children always ended up where one least expected them to be able to reach.

His ability to sense time was unavailable here, but Clockwork still felt that his wait stretched for longer than was comfortable. He resisted the urge to leave his seat for a stretch, since technically he didn’t need one. This may be a part of the process itself, determining if he possessed the necessary patience to nurture a wilful creature such as Daniel.

Some time later, the smoke around him thinned, then dissolved in a breath of cool air. Clockwork blinked in the silver light, realising that since he had sat down he had been unable to hear anything aside from the small chimes and noises of his own internal rhythms. Now, he recognised the low murmur of voices in a tongue he couldn’t comprehend, and when he glanced down toward the noise he saw a platform jutting from the wall just above the cloudy barrier that was still in place below. It was crammed with figures that blurred Clockwork’s vision, and whenever he tried to focus on a single detail all others slipped into fuzziness until he could no longer recall anything.

These must be members of the infamous council, removed from the affairs of the infinite realms and truly impartial in every meaning of the term. They stood only for justice and harmony, maintaining delicate balances and judging only the most significant cases across realities.

Clockwork glanced up at the giant moon through the window, the source of the brilliant silver light. It was peppered with craters not dissimilar to Earth’s, likely to help put Daniel at ease with what he would be going through right now, and stars blazed in the cosmos that outlined the moon in a thin band between its edge and the round windowpane.

The same smoke that had shrouded him also drifted around the other boxes, which had been empty when he had first entered the atrium, and Clockwork tried not to show interest as it began to thin and reveal the people within.

Of course, Vladimir Masters would have been one to request inclusion as a candidate. He sat smugly in his space in the full ghastly splendour of his ghost form, and as his shroud dissolved into nothing he smirked at the other candidates before looking at Clockwork with a clearly confused lack of recognition.

The sight of the other two candidates, each in their own individual boxes, struck Clockwork’s soul like a flint, setting loose a spark of anger that he fought to keep from showing on his face. He forced himself to relax his shoulders and keep his hands loose in his lap, resisting the urge to grind his teeth as Madeline and Jack Fenton looked around. Their expressions were slack with awe, mouths open and eyes wide as they gazed at the surrounding splendour which they should have never had a right to witness.

He tamped down on the unruly emotion, reminding himself that each of them had a solid claim on Daniel, and that this was the only fair way to determine true rights to parentage. There was nobody else, and he was initially surprised at the lack of Frostbite, considering the level of support that he had provided over the past few years. He wondered if the relationship was less one of parentage and more one of worship and awe that blended into camaraderie, but brushed off any suppositions before they could colour his perception. Conjecture was useless right now, and he knew that he’d be able to piece things together later, once his powers were restored.

Madeline opened her mouth and clearly called for her husband, but no sound left her lips. Her brow pinched in building panic, and she tried again, with the same result. Vladimir waved a hand and her attention snapped to him, her panic melting into something harder and more accusatory as he shook his head and pressed his fingers to the hollow in his own throat.

Clockwork wondered at the display. Surely they’d been briefed as to the rules of the trial, including the inability to communicate verbally once it had commenced so that they would not be able to distract Daniel or each other throughout the process. Now that he saw who he was competing with for custody he wondered if this safeguard was to also arrest any untoward exchanges between ghosts and hunters.

A soft chime rang through the atrium, and all four of them looked down at the group of assembled judges. The speech in the unknown tongue had stopped, and they were gathered in a perfect line along their platform, watching silently. One rose from the middle of the line, floating into the centre of the room and nodding to each of the applicants in turn. You each hold claim to Daniel James Fenton Phantom as your child, a genderless voice whispered inside Clockwork’s mind, and each of you in turn has passed the preliminary application process when you were informed of the request for a custody ruling. This trial will determine which, if any, of you can recognise his deepest needs and see beyond your own ideals to accept who he truly is.

Out of the children below, all of them are the one to which you lay claim. You will see all stages of his becoming as individual persons. To pass this trial, you must understand him deeply enough to know which form is his final one, and offer a contrite and willing heart to heal his hurts and nurture him as he truly requires.

Take as long as you need, and from this moment, you will not be able to meet each other’s eyes or share any information that you may glean with other candidates.

May balance and justice be restored.

A stillness settled over Clockwork’s soul, all anger and irritation at his competition melting away as the chime sounded again and the judge returned to their spot in the line. The barrier of mist dispersed, revealing a round open space below them. There was a plush green carpet scattered with white pillows and blankets, and dozens of children were strewn amongst the softness.

Each one of them was Daniel, in varying stages of being and becoming.

Clockwork glimpsed a flash of pain on Jack Fenton’s face before his vision tunnelled, and then he could see nothing but the children bathed in silver light.

Daniel lay on a large floor cushion, breathing heavily as smoke coiled from his singed hair and clothing. His fresh lichtenberg scar pulsed an angry, deadly green, visible even through the suit that his parents had so lovingly custom made, unaware that it would become his funerary shroud. His uninjured hand lay over his heart as he panted, eyes closed, pain clear in his furrowed brows and gritted teeth.

The echo of black bones was barely there, but when he sucked in another breath one could glimpse deep, dark eye sockets and a jawline like a smudge of charcoal beneath semi-translucent skin that held the blue pall of death.

It was hardly his truest form, but still, the moment of his death was difficult to see.

Clockwork caught his cheek between his teeth and looked at the others.

One Daniel held himself like a superhero, hands on his hips and his shoulders thrown back with a jaunty smile on his face. His hair and white cape rustled in a nonexistent wind and he just… stood there, suspended in a snapshot of time.

Nearby slept the featureless figure of a child bathed in the fabric of the night sky, every inch of skin liquid with a flowing firmament that dripped and swirled with the rise and fall of his small, fragile chest. He stirred but did not wake, murmuring wordless nonsense sounds of contentment from whatever dreamland had claimed him. He was laying on one of the white blankets with his head resting on a folded arm, and another blanket pooled around his lower half, giving the impression of the night sky glimpsed through a gap between clouds.

As Clockwork watched, the stars and galaxies on his skin of liquid darkness bloomed into brilliant nebulae and sank into spirals that grew ever brighter as they dropped into cores of black holes, and it was as though he were watching the entire unfolding of a universe contained within a single person.

Beyond, there was commotion. Daniel’s wings were coming in, and he shivered as plumes of feathers overtook him in sprays that created layer upon layer of new appendages. There was an aborted noise, as though he tried to cry out, but then that dissolved into gentle bell-like chimes that slowly smoothed into a calmer cadence. The darkness in his hair and clothing were quickly overcome, melting away into more and more soft fluff until he was nothing more than a mass of glowing white feathers and wings draped with silken fabric. The child hovered momentarily, as though uncertain, before shivering again and fluttering over to sink into a pile of pillows and blankets that had been arranged to resemble a nest, perfectly sized for this new form.

Yet another Daniel was also changing, splitting beyond his skin until the husk of a body disintegrated into nothing and released a cloud of lime green essence that roiled and foamed until it dripped down into the gelatinous shape of a blob ghost. It peered around with wide green eyes devoid of whites or pupils, quivering but not yet able to take any greater form. When nothing else seemed to happen it began to fly around the room, moving frantically at first like a trapped bird, but slowly settling into a more leisurely pace once the shock of the change wore off and it found no way to leave.

There were many more, a few scores at least, and Clockwork took the time to carefully observe each and every one of them from his vantage point high up on the wall. While many seemed initially confused or distressed, and some even pained, they all slowly drifted into various stages of calm restfulness. One factor that linked each child was a note of softness, whether overt like the feathered shape or the space child, or more subdued, like the smudged bones and gentle smoke of Daniel’s first ghostly iteration, or the way that some of the harsher forms blurred into wisps at the edges, as though unfinished.

This was, after all, a distillation of essence. They were all Daniel, but only one of them was what he became when purified down into his truest form. Clockwork just needed to put aside any latent bias he might still hold, and look for the version that embodied Daniel at his most honest self.

There was one that caught Clockwork’s attention, sitting on a floor cushion with his head tilted up to watch the moon beyond the domed glass ceiling. His eyes were voids of darkness swathed with stars, and his slender body drifted like smoke when he moved to adjust his position.

He was clothed in a loose starry shirt that frayed at the edges into a pattern of Amity Park’s skyline lit with street lights and suburban buildings, but when he moved again the hemline morphed into an imitation of the swirling eddies of the ghost zone.

His death scar faded the longer he looked up at the sky until it was nothing more than the barest impression of a shadow on his skin, and stress lines smoothed away from his face as his mouth curved into a soft smile. He was wearing plain dark pants, form-fitting but clearly comfortable, and his feet were bare, toes curling in the thick green carpet as though it were grass. There were frost flowers in his hair and the stars in his eyes glinted blue and green as he stared straight to the heavens.

This child was equal parts incorporeal and solid, his past painful traumas clear but exactly that: in the past. His frame was so small and appeared frail in comparison to many of the others, but his aura shone beyond his boundaries with a soft, steady glow. Clockwork sensed a childlike curiosity that had not been present in the others, clear with a desire to drink in the knowledge of the universe in a safe environment at his own pace.

He shook himself when he realised that he’d been staring at this child for far longer than the rest. This version of Daniel was everything that Clockwork wanted for him, but just as he prepared to make his choice, he paused.

Was this truly Daniel, or simply the Daniel that he wished for? This was a test, after all. Each candidate must see a version that embodied what they desired the most in a child.

No, the true question here was which form embodied what Daniel most desired.

Clockwork looked again, carefully examining each version of the child he hoped to adopt. He would only get one chance at this, and if he failed, he would not be permitted to see Daniel again. He had to get this right.

He surveyed the room several more times, and each time, he was drawn back to the one staring up at the sky. Slowly, as he eliminated each other version as possibly being Daniel’s true self, he realised that perhaps the reason that he was so drawn to the peaceful, inquisitive, happy person who seemed to truly embody the balance between life and death was because this was the way things were meant to be. Clockwork knew Daniel as well as he knew himself, and he knew when he recognised the essence of the child that belonged in the safety of his care.

He made his decision, clasping his hands and leaning back in his seat. His vision cleared as he did so and restored his view of the rest of the room, revealing again the line of impassive, featureless judges and the other three people trying to lay their claims in this soul-deep custody battle.

It appeared that Madeline and Vladimir had finished ahead of him, which was expected, given the amount of times Clockwork had reviewed what he saw before choosing his child. They were both looking about the room and occasionally glancing down at the children, but none of their eyes met the other candidates’. Much of the pomp and pride had drained away from both of them, the hard lines of their shoulders and jaws smoothing into something gentler.

He turned away from them and looked back up at the moon. Now that he was removed from the pressure of choice he felt a wash of anguish for the changes that Daniel had clearly gone through, mindful of the pain and confusion he would have felt as he had cycled through those different forms until he had settled into his essence. It chafed, knowing that Clockwork had not been there to comfort him during the different stages of becoming.

Movement from the adjacent box caught his attention and Clockwork glanced over to see Jack Fenton still staring at the assortment of Daniels. Tears freely flowed from puffy red eyes and he wiped his bandaged hand beneath his nose before mouthing Daniel’s nickname. It was both fascinating and satisfying in equal parts, but Clockwork looked away quickly, trying to school himself lest the judges sense anything untoward in his feelings and dismiss his claim on the basis of unacceptable levels of bias. He didn’t know if it was a possibility in this case, but he'd heard of it happening before and didn’t want to take the risk.

Besides, he admitted to himself for the first time, if Jack was here then he clearly showed enough determination to care for Daniel’s needs and right past wrongs to qualify for a claim.

It took a while longer for Jack to make a decision, and Clockwork watched his own preferred child in the interim. The longer he looked the more peaceful he felt, surer with every passing moment that he had made the correct choice.

Eventually Jack leaned back, scrubbing his hands over his drenched cheeks as his shoulders trembled with silent residual sobs.

The dark starry barrier rolled back over the lowest tier, hiding the children from view once more. The judges dissipated into nothing and their platform melted away, leaving a smooth, featureless patch of wall in their wake.

Clockwork turned when something shifted beside him, and a guide who could have been the same one from earlier beckoned for him to leave through a door that materialised in the stretch of wall behind them.

He obeyed, sending one last glance to the people who had dared to challenge his claim to custody as they were similarly ushered away. Madeline frowned when she finally caught his gaze, and he only had a brief moment to wonder what she was thinking before he stepped into an office that mirrored the one in which he had signed the papers, except that the artworks on the walls were hand-painted starscapes interspersed with planets and nebulae that he didn’t recognise.

Through a door on the opposite wall stepped Jack Fenton.

A judge was waiting behind the desk, and motioned for the two of them to sit. Clockwork moved numbly, his mind racing as he took one of the armchairs while Jack collapsed into the other one. The man was still crying, the cuffs of his sleeves and the white bandage around one hand soggy from repeatedly wiping his face.

The judge looked to both of them in turn, the only indication of its shifting focus a subtle turning of the head. Congratulations on your joint custody of Daniel James Fenton Phantom, that same soft not-voice said, slipping between Clockwork’s thoughts. The pre-prepared living space in Long Now has been approved as his new residence, with minor changes required to accommodate the presence of Jack Fenton. No other persons are to interact with your child for the next six months without the approval of this court while he settles into his distilled form, and neither of you will leave him throughout this process.

Neither Vladimir Masters or Madeline Fenton are permitted to interact with your child from this moment on, and any ties they have to his soul or emotions will be severed immediately.

Congratulations on your joint adoption. Daniel has been moved to a comfortable waiting room to rest now that he has completed his initial process of becoming and assigned his parents. A guide will collect you presently. Once you have completed the introductory course in the next room, the two of you are free to collect your child, and return with him to your home.

May balance and justice be forever upheld.

The judge disappeared as a chime rang through the room, clear and true, and Clockwork’s core seized as his ticking clock skipped a beat. The universe shifted around them, and a deep, primal tie to Daniel imprinted itself upon him so firmly that Clockwork’s entire view of existence shifted.

He… he had a child.

Daniel was his child.

And…

Massaging his clock casing, he looked over at Jack Fenton, who was clutching his own chest. His eyes were wide, mouth opening and closing as he seemed to struggle to keep up with what had just happened.

Clockwork swallowed as the tightness that had been in his throat since the trial commenced fell away, and he sighed. The sound was a quiet chime, like a distant grandfather clock in the middle of the night, and then he shifted so that he turned in his seat to more fully face the person who, against all odds, had somehow managed to glimpse the truth of Daniel’s soul enough to gain shared custodial rights.

“Hello, Jack,” he said, surprised at how soft his tone was. Gone was the bite of anger that had been there previously, replaced with the recognition of a person whose goals and parenthood aligned with his own. “I figure that since we’re to share our child, we should at least know each other’s names: I am Clockwork the Timekeeper, longtime mentor and new parent to Daniel. I hope that despite our differences, we can work in harmony to help him become the best version of himself, whatever that may be.”

He smiled, showing just the barest hint of fangs, and Jack baulked for just a moment before visibly gathering himself and taking a deep breath in. “Nice to meet you, Clockwork,” he said, and to his credit, his voice barely trembled, though his eyes were still watery with the threat of further tears. He clearly glanced at the scar over Clockwork’s eye before looking away quickly. “I guess, since Danno’s a halfa, one parent from each side makes some kind of sense, right?”

Clockwork raised an eyebrow. “I never thought of it like that,” he confessed, leaning back in his seat. “And you don’t know it yet, but lack of knowledge is a rarity for me.”

Jack frowned. “So… we’ll be living in this Long Now place?”

“I’m assuming that your profession makes you at least passingly familiar with the concept of lairs,” Clockwork said. “It will be comfortable, and after six months have passed you will be able to come and go as you please. As much as this is unexpected, you’re right — it does make sense.”

Jack swallowed. “So, uh… what now? I feel like I should know more about you, and about Danny.”

“I’ll try to answer your questions, but I expect that someone will come to move us to the introductory program soon.”

He nodded, brow furrowing in thought. “Right, okay then. I’ll just ask a few questions while we wait, since you seem to know a lot more about me than I do about you. Um… uh… okay, I have to know. Do ghosts like fudge?”

He was an all-knowing, powerful being, an embodiment of control of the concept of time itself. Yet, in this tiny office, with his powers bound and with no ability to see the future beyond his own powers of logical deduction, Clockwork never would have guessed in a million years that this would be the first thing that Jack Fenton would ask.

It reminded him so much of Daniel that he couldn’t help but smile. It looked like, no matter how chaotic everything ended up becoming, things were going to work out just fine.

#lexiepiper #holiday truce 2022 #Danny Phantom

186 notes · View notes

starryriize · 6 months

Text

what i associate with | xikers

a/n: this is a repost and tbh i think i might do this for all the groups i write for🫶🏼

minjae • puzzles, four leaf clovers, abstract art, waking up at 3am, old maps, stargazing while sitting in the trunk of a car, eating ice cream, watching movie marathons, bold colors, soft covers, kissing your lover at sunrise, making music with random objects, eating home cooked meals, the first day of spring

junmin • crisp suits, laughter that lasts too long to be a normal laugh, just dance battles, random acts of service, chinese checkers, watching cherry blossoms fall, going to shopping malls, dancing while cleaning the house, sushi conveyor belt dates, going to the zoo, playing ball with dogs, watching classic disney movies

sumin • watercolors, rain, pretty hairstyles, dark chocolate, kissing your shoulders, late night swims, skylights, city nightlife, comfortably wrapped in many blankets while watching reality shows, drinking milk out of a wine glass, wearing sunglasses to every occasion, playing music from a gramophone

jinsik • going for boba dates, water gun fights, pillow forts, karaoke that goes on for hours, spontaneous parties, celebrating every little accomplishment, color-coordinated outfits, playing genshin until there’s no more resin and quests to finish, staying up late and pulling an all nighter

hyunwoo • laying in an empty field, snowball fights, playing the piano while singing to you, running in the rain and laughing at how drenched you both are, watching vintage james bond films, going shopping for flower bouquets, walking through bookstores, arcade nights that last longer than expected from “friends”, sleepovers, going to the zoo to solely watch sharks

junghoon • dance dance revolution, watching tangled in the middle of the night, road trips to the nearest beach, nerves before competitions, classical concerts and seeing orchestras, slow dancing with your lover in an empty parking lot at night, spilling coffee on his shirt and giggling about it, dad jokes all the time, wanting to leave the party early to relax in bed, hot cocoa, stacks of books that have yet to be finished

seeun • teasing others out of love, going out for boba at noon and coffee at night, tripping over shoelaces, making comedy, watching the powerpuff girls, going to concerts, lego sets, evergreen trees, christmas lights that go on for miles, festival cotton candy, strawberry lemonade, waffle cone ice cream, relaxing baths after long days

yujun • watching cheesy romance shows, swimming when no one is there, buffets at expensive hotels, rewatching harry potter out of boredom, working out when no one is around except for friends, playing monopoly competitively, karaoke while drinking chocolate milk

hunter • teaching you how to make traditional thai dishes, going shopping together, picking flowers, iced coffees even in winter, afternoon tea, classical music, playing, silk pillowcases, go karting, playing video games until dinnertime, going for long walks, golfing in posh suits, m&m yogurt

yechan • laser tag, classic iced coke with ramen, playing many instruments for fun, watching detective shows, concerts in the shower, relaxing jazz, warm chai tea, falling leaves, beach balls, melting ice cream, silent giggles in a very serious situation, ferris wheel rides, chocolate dipped strawberries

#xikers yujun #xikers yechan #xikers sumin #xikers seeun #xikers imagines #xikers minjae #xikers hyunwoo #xikers junghoon #xikers jinsik #xikers junmin #xikers hunter #xikers fluff

31 notes · View notes

phantasmaw · 7 months

Text

♢* — @azurescaled / 𝐮𝐧𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐝

〈 ☽* 〉┊ Weak light the color of crushed amethyst filters in through the broken skylight, bathing the enclosed garden in the same twighlit liminality as the rest of their homeland. They sit a few inches away from a concentrated pool of light, legs drawn to their chest, cheek resting atop one knee, not so terribly unlike the way they used to in adolescence. Sovann's gaze traces across the patterns of constellations engraved into the semi-transparent dome ceiling. Their polearm lays askew beside them.

"It doesn't feel the same, does it?"

They keep their back turned toward Lars. Looking at him-- acknowledging that he's there beyond the abstract sense of knowing --would sever the taught strings of dissociation holding them together. The claws flexing against impossibly soft grass (how, they wonder, has it not wilted in this dead light?) will finish the job they started centuries ago. And it's funny, isn't it, how they would mourn a few flowers far more than the fall of an entire empire?

"You know," Sovann says after some time, each word squeezing around the bitter pit of grief clogging their throat so as not to become tainted by it, "I had once hoped the next time both of us were here, it would be to dance together again." Something else begins to creep up from their guts then, something that melts their grief with acidic heat. It slithers against their tongue, knocks against the back of their teeth, plucks at their vocal chords. "I'm sure the Venerable Everlight would have been eager to offer these grounds as a wedding venue." A hollow, humorless laugh tumbles from the recesses of their lungs. "I could have offered you and your husband the first blessing of the moon seelie to be heard in nearly a milennia."

#azurescaled #ic : sovann #〈☽*〉sovann ╲ THREADS #〈♢*〉skeletal remains ╲ QUEUE #there's a lot to unpack here but in true sovann style we will just throw the whole suitcase out

4 notes · View notes

kill-worthy · 2 years

Text

Art, Death, and Sex

St. Francis of Assisi in His Tomb, painted by Francisco de Zurbarán, is a striking dominant piece that stands at six feet of dark Baroque intensity. Yet, there is something different about the imagery that has always scraped the back of my mind.

It is a little-known fact that St. Francis of Assisi died fairly young, at 44 years of age. He had been battling an illness and was known to place a human skull on his breakfast table to contemplate his impending doom. It was a representation of his old friend, Death, that he even wrote about in The Canticle of Brother Sun and Sister Moon.

What was the symbolism there? For that matter, what was Zurbarán's message? Why did the interest in Zurbarán's work fade in time? Why did skulls appear in his other work? Was this also a form of self portrait? I don't know if I will ever have an answer. What I do know is that between the 1950's and 1960's Zurbarán was what "all the cool people" were talking about.

Here, for example, is a clipping from 1965 talking about how this painting was inspiring fashion in Spain.

A more potent example of how influential Zurbarán was can be seen in Salvador Dali's 1956 painting called the Skull of Zurbaran.

In this painting, I can see the conversation Dali is having. There was a lot he struggled with in regards to tradition, death, and religion. Much like his views of the constraints of time, which are represented with his famous melting clocks, here I see "the few" constructing an effigy to something beyond their ability. Was that how he saw Zurbarán, an artist beyond his own ability?

Unfortunately, Dali was even more twisted in his head than even his paintings let on. He, for instance, was obsessed with necrophilia, preferred to masturbate in front of a mirror, and was terrified of female genitalia.

I imagine Dali studying art history and being perfectly fine with Heads Severed by Theodore Gericault. Then flipping a page to be met with L'Origine du Monde and scream in terror. His mustache would shoot out like a cartoon in his iconic style, and he would swear epitaphs in Spanish. The topic of the famed Magic Realist Georgia O’Keefe would come up at a party, and I could see him having a “melt down” over her famously vulvic flowers.

Because that is what she is remembered for, not her unique cityscapes or her abstracted-form studies; her vulvic flowers.

Art history is weird like that, a collection of taboos following the mythos of the artist around like a three-legged dog. Zurbarán is all but forgotten, Dali is not remembered for his psychosis, and Georgia is remembered for vulvas. She is not remembered for paintings like Head with Broken Pot, a piece of work that is as nuanced as both Zurbarán's and Dali's work that hearkens to the fragility of mankind and to human life.

I guess the moral of this story, if there even is one, is that artists view the cycles of life in abstract ways trying to make sense of what, "it all means". Paint becomes a snapshot of those moments, mixing in pigments of consciousness and primal urges even when they don't belong. We the viewers become a part of that in our remembrance of those moments.

Something about that process seems like a death, living, and resurrection to me. But perhaps, I've been looking at art too long.

#killworthy #killworthywords #fun history #weird history #eccentric history #art history #skulls #macabre #dali #o'keefe #Salvador Dali #Francisco de Zurbarán #Zurbarán #georgia o’keefe #art

21 notes · View notes

fruit-salad-ship · 2 years

Text

BOTW AU junk I cant stop thinking about

Peach never takes her hair down, and if she does, its in secret. Plum one day catching her without her tell-tale braid, just melting, she's got so much hair, and it needs to be played with-STAT! Peach quickly learns about a thing she never knew she wanted, going from 'don't you dare play with my hair' to 'can you do it for me?' overnight, took one evening of having hands in it to break that in the big woman.

Plum totally puts flowers in it some days.

Little Plum before the pair left Kakariko Village, nabbed a disguise for her big companion, so she could blend in a bit more while on the road. A Yiga member wears their uniform at all costs, it's kind of a thing, they're really strict about it, and are told not to remove the mask or gear unless in perfect secrecy with your own family. Upon learning about this, Plum rubs it in Peach's face that she caught her with that initial arrow and the bigger woman immediately took her mask off. Peach countering with 'you would too if you were in that much pain! It's hot under there! Shut up-' getting embarrassed, an unusual trait in her.

The mask eventually takes one hit too many, cracks in half, Peach tends to block with her face sometimes. She goes to throw it away, an end of an era, the end of who she use to be, but Plum pockets it, it was the first thing she saw of the woman, and to her, it has sentimental value. Peach doesn't mind, finds it quite sweet in a strange way.

Nights in cute towns, renting rooms off Inn keepers, safe, warm, horses cared for, everything is fine. Plum gets a moment to trace the tattoos and scars that litter this woman's body, they get a moment of peace not stressing about surviving or who may or may not be hunting them. Peach tries not to feel guilty that somehow she got this little Sheikah woman mixed up in all this mess. The pair connected, and now they're both in danger, not just Peach. She could have handled it alone but no. Guilt settles itself in her like a brick in the gut. It never goes away, and on the rare occasion she's too slow, or not strong enough, and Plum gets hurt, she's a furious foe to cross, totally driven by her fear of losing the person who seemed to give her some kind of second chance despite who she was and where she came from. She'll bypass all her usual limitations and drive herself into the ground if she has to. Taken so many hits for her companion already. But, on the other hand, Plum's saved her skin a fair few times too, got great aim, and a speedy horse, tactical mind.

Their quiet nights able to hold each other are abstract at first. Plum did not see her life going this way, and Peach thought she'd never be free of her clan. Yet they both wake up day after day together, handling life on the road as best they can.

Later on, the conflict as Grey watches from afar, sees his childhood friend, secret crush, living...happily? Doing things he never thought she'd want to do, like learning to fish, or helping people on the road??? It's literally their job to hinder travellers, and while Peach always wants to rob people, Plum's there reminding her to behave. He sees her laugh. smile? All the things she only ever did through a menacing veil, but here, watching genuine peace take over her life, he starts to wonder if maybe he'd gotten her all wrong. Maybe she left and it was a good thing. Maybe he could too.

Every encounter they have, Peach grows stronger, and he seems weaker. She's got something to fight for now, and he's losing his faith in the clan with every step he takes further from home. She offers him a chance to escape, an ope hand, something alien in their culture. They'll never truly be free, the elders will always hunt them, but maybe, just maybe, together they can survive, make something of their lives, other than fighting other peoples battles. Plum, unsettled by his presence, but unafraid, sees how much he means to Peach, she's watched the large woman kill many a thing without hesitation to stay alive, but Grey? She's had the shot, she's watched her take swings and pull back to miss, to give him a chance to dodge. She too, welcomes him in, if he wants. He does not know what to do.

Runs. Torn between the head and the heart.

The next time they clash, a few feeble swings of the blade are taken, but he throws them down soon after, shocking his old friend who briefly thinks it's a trick, but sees the mask come off, dropped to the floor, unheard of in their clan. She drops the blade, a moment waiting to make sure for certain theres no trick, before running to hug him so tight. He bawls his eyes out, years being touch starved, not holding a hand, or feeling someone wrap him up in their arms, the attention totally breaks him. there is no love with their clan, only training, only duty, only the drive to be powerful and cunning. But now, he has the opportunity for love.

They are chased down, they send bigger meaner members after them, but together, the trio can cope, they know what to do, they know the tricks and tactics, and survive.

Plum has now got two big bodies covered in tattoos, and scars, and they both adore her, and she's not sure what to do but by god she'll figure it out!

#fruit salad #brainrot #botw au

44 notes · View notes

calamitydaze · 2 years

Note

On the OTHER HAND after a rough day you get Karl who curls into your lap like a dog, produces a pen from his pocket, and starts doodling over your arms. He likes to draw on all Sapnap's battle/training scars in particular to turn his biceps into a canvas, each scar bruise and mark becoming its own character with intense lore of how they relate to each other and Karl getting giddy whenever a new one pops up for the excuse to kiss over it and then draw a new cat face over the marred skin and add it to the family (so at least Sapnap doesn't have to worry about his scarring making him ugly, not that that was much of a worry in the first place). Sapnap doesn't really pay it mind but it entertains Karl and he loves the attention so he lets it be even if they wash off with every shower.

Q doesn't get such fluffy things- he's too busy and self conscious. instead he rolls up the sleeves of his dress shirts to reveal little vines and flowers etched onto the skin. he takes extra care not to get them wet or wash them off so they last there as long as possible. he considers getting them tattooed but Karl likes making different designs every time and the soft press of ballpoint is too soothing to give up, so he leaves his skin blank for him.

on a particular night, Karl kindly asks him if he can play connect-the-dots with his beauty marks lining his face. quackity refuses to let him do it in pen so he has to borrow eyeliner from Tina and convince q he'll wash it right off after if he doesn't like it. and as q lays on his back and Karl straddles his lap like that one meme of the two girls doing makeup ,he squirms and makes jokes to brush off his nerves, and it's just a silly drawing, why is he nervous (because he doesn't like being scrutinized so much. his looks were half of what he had going for him, and stupid fucking techno had to fuck up his nice face-). but when Karl rolls off him and gets him a mirror, there are little constellations dotting his cheeks and nose over each mole, forming little abstract shapes and swirls and stars and flowers. and along his scar is a detailed vine pattern to frame it, as if the scar were merely a crack in an ivy covered wall that made it all the prettier. when Karl sees q is going to cry (quackity doesn't- he doesn't want it getting it smudged, so by god he tries not to) he offers to let quackity do the same to him. quackity draws a dick on his cheek to fuck with him and pretends he doesn't linger on his own reflection from then on with a faint smile, even when the drawings are long gone.

this got out of hand im so sorry im not sorry lmao get fucked

MELTS oh this is so adorable i love when ckarl is a natural born storyteller and can see the beauty and meaning in anything, and it never comes easier than with the people he loves most! and the fact that csap just fondly puts up with it but it means absolutely everything to cq that they still find him pretty and worthy of their attention i cry

#i never see q’s beauty marks talked about in relation to ksq which makes me ☹️🫶#also i love that you can write out the softest thing ever and throw in a quick fuck you at the end it keeps me on my toes #bella answers #lacy tag

28 notes · View notes

hongkongartman-mlee · 2 years

Photo

What Is Chinese Ink Painting? Why Are Artist Ink Paintbrushes Soft? What Is The Monumental Success Of ‘New Ink Painting Movement’ In Hong Kong?—Explained By Master Hung Hoi (熊海)

Some people paint what they see. Other people paint what they feel. For the Chinese, painting is a way to express philosophy and literary art such as poems. We see abstract art with our mind, and so perceive what we cannot see physically with our eyes. Abstraction demonstrates an escape route from reality in depicting paradoxically what reality is all about.

Chinese ink painting (水墨畫) is piously about the Nature which can be snow, clouds, mountains, rivers, lakes, trees, flowers, birds or insects. It symbolizes the spiritual and elegant characteristics of Chinese culture. Chinese ink paintbrushes are soft, contrary to the hard brushes in the West. They coincide with the gentle character of the Chinese and can facilitate an abstruse inquiry into philosophical notions loved by the Chinese artists and such notions are usually used to explain things in life. Artists express one-self through these objects without caring about the exact details of reality. It uses traditionally only black ink (later, colour ink is used by some) as an artistic language, together with shapes, lines, forms and symbolic marks to create a beauty in harmony with what is a break-through freedom from the visual constraints of real life. The inseparable spiritual trinity of a Chinese scholar lies in his ink images, poem and calligraphy (書法) appearing on a romantic sheet of silk or rice paper (宣紙).

Master Hung Hoi (熊海) is my favourite ink painter in Hong Kong. I love his willingness to try different styles and readiness to teach us what he has learnt. He shares with me his artistic journey and views.

Master Hung, “The classical style of Chinese ink painting flourished in the Tang Dynasty, more about 1,500 years ago. This artistic tradition in a mixture of water and ink is uniquely Chinese. The painting involves basically the same techniques as calligraphy and is done with a brush dipped in the black ink or colour pigments. Oils are not used. The usual materials on which paintings are made are silk or paper. I love ink painting. Through only black, white and grey, I can however see different colours.”

I asked, “What important role does Hong Kong play in Chinese ink painting?” Master Hung explained patiently, "Since 1842, Hong Kong, being under the British rule, had been a melting pot of people and ideas from all over. The city was a great mix of western and Chinese cultures. The ink painters here in the 60s logically had hesitations to be pleased with only traditional painting styles and concepts. They worked hard and determinedly, despite criticism, to lead a new direction now respectfully known as ‘New Ink Painting Movement’(新水墨運動). Lui Shou-Kwan (呂壽琨) who moved to Hong Kong in 1948 with an empty pocket was a pioneering figure in the movement. His semi- abstract images are metaphorical and very often used to reflect his religious belief.”

Master Hung took a sip of tea, “Great artist Liu Kuo-Sung (劉國松) taught in the Chinese University of Hong Kong in the 1970s. He used the paper-craft of paste and cut to create the visualisation of vivid snow on a painting. Wong Hau-Kwei (黃孝逵) was keen to develop ‘Urban Ink Art’ (都市水墨) which tried to present visual art forms arising from urban areas especially modern architecture. Kan Tai-Keung (靳埭強) incorporated western graphic design ideas into his ink painting. My son Hung Fai (熊輝), also an ink artist, is exploring the use of fountain pen to convey Chinese landscapes.” He chuckled, “After my recent trip to Paris, I started to mix acrylic painting techniques with Chinese ink ways.”

“Could I know your tale?” I asked. Master Hung positively smiled. He said, “My father (熊俊山) was also an ink painter. We lived on Kulangsu (鼓浪嶼) Island which was a place inhabited by artists. He taught me how to paint. As my mother was an Indonesian Chinese, we were able to migrate to Hong Kong for a fresh start in 1978. We lived in extreme poverty and I worked in an antique shop in Quarry Bay as a repairman. Art was the only path to my self-actualization. I kept on learning painting from Master Yang Shan-Shen (楊善深) who died in 2004. There came 3 turning points in my life. In 1981, my artwork was selected into the Contemporary Hong Kong Art Biennial Exhibition. In 1984, The University of Hong Kong offered me a job as a part-time art teacher in their extra-mural studies. In 1991, a famous scholar Hugh Moss agreed to be my art manager and as a result, I became a full-time artist. I loved my teaching post in universities and carried on my job till now. Students inspired me tremendously.”

The works of Master Hung Hoi are exhibited, collected and auctioned internationally. British Museum, the first public national museum in the world, bought his art pieces. He is one of the regular participants in overseas art exhibitions and the frequent ones are in the Chinese Mainland, Taiwan and Japan. He is now the adviser to a number of renowned museums and art organizations.

Master Hung’s gaze went towards the window, “Do not spoil an artist by making him to desire too much. It will hinder his need to work hard and try new things. My life is simple and basic. My goal is to have less materially but to get more spiritually. I am prepared to put myself at risk by attempting more modern concepts and techniques. The journey of ‘New Ink Painting Movement’ began with a group of selfless artists in 1960s and it is never ending. Traditional Chinese art needs progress. Progress is not just about following the past. We have to embrace brave new ideas particularly when we are in Hong Kong where cultural exchanges are super easy. The growth and energy of the Movement counts on the ink painters nowadays not to lose the passion or give up on their dreams, no matter how difficult the journey is. Aim for the sky that we, Hong Kong artists, can reach. Don’t say ‘I give up’! I wish the government of Hong Kong to set up a museum exclusively for the heroes who have taken part in New Ink Painting Movement since 1960s which is significantly a distinctive intangible cultural treasure of Hong Kong.”

While Cantonese Opera or Yueju (粵劇) is the greatest performing-art heritage of Hong Kong, ‘New Ink’ must be equally the greatest visual-art patrimony of our city. I have a dream that one day, the artists here will no longer be judged by the colour of their skin or place of origin, as most people just fancy western art and music, but by the style and quality of one’s work. People in Hong Kong have the ability to be different from other Asians and let us not settle for the ordinary! Hong Kong will remain as the ‘Pearl of the Orient’.

MLee

Chinese Version 中文版: https://www.patreon.com/posts/da-shi-xiong-hai-73245443?utm_medium=clipboard_copy&utm_source=copyLink&utm_campaign=postshare_creator

Master Hung Hoi Chinese Ink Painting Exhibition https://youtu.be/98WOdSopo3w Acknowledgement – onairpower

Hung Fai Chinese Ink Painting Sharing https://youtu.be/DKulsLPTkmk Acknowledgement – 香港視覺藝術中心

History of Hong Kong Modern Chinese Ink Painting https://youtu.be/hyCVWNdEUTc Acknowledgement-輕鬆藝術歷史

Introduction of Master Lui Shou-Kwan by Kan Tai Keung https://youtu.be/VJrfypJr8OQ Acknowledgement – The Culturist

The History of Chinese Ink Painting https://youtu.be/wIpLzItqCqk Acknowledgement – China Cultural Center in Brussels

#Lui Shou-Kwan 呂壽琨 #Yang Shan-Shen楊善深 #Liu Kuo-Sung 劉國松 #Wong Hau-Kwei 黃孝逵 #Kan Tai-Keung靳埭強 #Hung Fai 熊輝 #Hugh Moss #Calligraphy #Rice Paper #Urban Ink Art都市水墨 #Kulangsu 鼓浪嶼 #British Museum #Yueju 粵劇 #The Pearl Of The Orient #Contemporary Hong Kong Art Biennial Exhibition

4 notes · View notes

dkniade · 2 years

Note

OKAY BUT LIKE. for the estranged flower siblings au. the feeling when like. albedo's whole thing is abt life and creating it and studying it and stuff. but then he gets a cryo vision… cryo like ice which is pretty detrimental to encouraging the growth of living things….. but albedo still studies life and still tries to make it work despite literally everything he's got discouraging him from doing so….

and also. cryo as in 'reacts with pyro to create melt reactions, greater damage multiplier when pyro is applied to cryo'... symbolizing... something?? something something he prefers to keep out of klee's way lest he get more hurt or smth...

and perhaps even that. cryo is a lot less sturdy than geo, like you can make a geo construct that lasts a long time but water doesn't stay frozen for too long. so his foundation is a lot more shaky and he's probably a lot less sure of himself (cause if this tiny child who literally did nothing wrong hates him, him and his craft that literally allowed him to live, then what kind of person must he be??) and. yeah

im just rambling at this point. turning these concepts over and examining them in my head. chewing on them. you know how it is. sorry for the word vomit haha

(side note: geo kaeya seems really cool, like noelle would probably look up to him a lot! also i really want geo kaeya and cryo albedo to interact. i think that would be rlly cool)

Hi! I wasn’t sure how to respond to this initially so I’m answering it now. Thank you for the message aaaaa! And don’t worry about rambling! I loved reading this <3

The whole conflict between Albedo’s study of life and Cryo preventing life from growing is interesting!! Whoa I haven’t thought of it that way! He’s trying hard to understand life despite isolating himself and not socializing very well, and his Vision not helping… He stands on the side and observes things but if the subject, say it’s an animal, flees, then he wonders if it’s his cold (metaphorically and literally) nature that scared it away. Keep trying, Albedo! You can do it!

I think his Cryo constructs—for now I’m calling his Elemental Skill Prismatic Isotoma—would be just, as the name suggests, crystal imitations of the flower, which come to think of it, Solar Isotoma itself is an imitation too? Cryo platforms that prevent life from growing while refracting light and distorting the truth— that’s the theme I’m going for with Albedo and prisms! The truth he’s seeking for… it’s gonna get more difficult with his doubts and insecurities.

And Pyro applied to Cryo to create Melt— Klee’s temper (? immaturity?) and possible tantrums overpower Albedo’s Cryo constructs but then the destruction that comes with flashes of Pyro and spikes of Cryo would then result in explosions and hot steam. Oh man. Pain. What kind of scar would he get from that, I wonder. OR WOULD HE JUMP IN TO PROTECT KLEE NONETHELESS NOOOO

Cryo vs Geo in terms of foundation!! Excellent point! He’s less sure of himself, he hesitates a lot more to do live demonstrations with both his Vision and the Art of Khemia, but then his theories and explanations would then be abstract and confusing for Timaeus and Sucrose, thus causing even more inferiority and guilt in Albedo… Then isolation, and the cycle repeats until someone breaks it. (Kaeya, maybe?) Slowly, he should learn to use his Cryo Vision for day-to-day stuff and the Art of Khemia in extension, but it’ll take work and lots of time and patience.

“cause if this tiny child who literally did nothing wrong hates him, him and his craft that literally allowed him to live, then what kind of person must he be??”

This is the question that plagues his mind at night, the thing that comes to mind when he finishes his experiments, the thing that he thinks about when he sees Timaeus and other alchemists use alchemy. “Why can they use it without burden? Is Klee scared of them, too? Or is it only a means of destruction when I’m involved? The Art of Khemia bore my life… Should I have even been created if I hold such a dangerous power within me that will no doubt one day bring Mondstadt to ashes and ultimately isolate myself further from—”

Something like this, I think! Intrusive thoughts and endless questioning, seeking for an answer to no avail, only further ruining himself. This man has it difficult.

As for Kaeya! I wonder how Geo Kaeya and Cryo Albedo would interact? Maybe Kaeya can make fun little figures or crystals to almost teach (?) Albedo how to use his Vision for non-combative purposes... Kaeya would be perceptive as he is in canon and can tell when Albedo’s lying to hiding something, and then it’d be a reverse of my usual Kaeya and Albedo dynamic where Kaeya is the one trying to coax Albedo into talking about his true feelings… ue…

And Kaeya and Noelle would then have more in common and he’d probably take her under his wing and teach her stuff!

#dusk answers #estranged flower siblings au #albedo #albedo kreideprinz #Klee #Kaeya #Noelle #intrusive thoughts

3 notes · View notes

shieldretired · 1 year

Text

development tea room holiday & winter prompts Day 8: during a gingerbread house construction contest, you realize your competitor has sabotaged you @symbiiotic gets a little surprise drabble

SOMETIMES, Steve lets himself get sweet-talked into terrible things. This time he agreed to make three dozen gingerbread houses for the youth organization at church because Father Timothy is planning on making a nativity play just for the little ones. Every amateur actor will get a present: a necklace with the portrayal of Saint Stylianos, the protector of children, and, well, a fucking gingerbread house. Steve liked the idea of a nativity play for and with children (the one for the adults can be very long and very, you know, old-fashioned), so he said yes before he realized how much work making over 30 gingerbread houses would be.

Luckily enough, Steve is also very good at sweet-talking someone into helping him, which is why Eddie came over this morning to get some house construction done. And since everything is better if you turn it into a contest, Steve declared that whoever makes the 10 nicest gingerbread houses would get to lick all the bowls with icing and chocolate and frosting. That, of course, was very interesting for Venom, who is rather good at art and also has, like, fifty tentacles that can work on gingerbread houses simultaneously. Steve won't make it too easy for them, of course, because he's a competitive asshole, especially when it comes to art, so he decorates his houses in excruciating detail: a little cat sitting near the front door, windows where you can see the Christmas tree inside, icicles hanging from the roof. It takes a little longer, but it's worth it, Steve thinks as he moves his third finished gingerbread house to the side of the table.

That's also the moment he realizes a sneaky, little black tendril hurridly retracting back into Eddie's shoulder, dropping one of those little tubes with the colorful icing Steve bought in a store dedicated to everything regarding baking. Steve squints at his finished gingerbread houses. "Venom, you asshole," he exclaims. The house he painfully decorated with lots of little flowers and windowboxes now has red dots all over it. It looks like chickenpox. Venom, of course, has the audacity to turn a tentacle in Steve's direction in an innocent who, me? gesture. Steve squirts his tube of blue icing at them, and then all hell breaks loose.

3.5 minutes later, the kitchen looks like a battlefield: the cupboards are covered in melted chocolate, Steve has red and green frosting all over his shirt, Venom's tentacles are decorated with sugar holly leaves and fondant flowers, and Eddie has sugar pearls in various colors in his hair and yellow frosting on his nose. "Okay, okay, truce!" Steve yells while trying to stop a tendril from squirting icing into his ear. He succeeds: It ends up in his left eye instead because Venom wants to get the final word. Wiping the sugary mass out of his face, Steve looks over to where, what a miracle, the gingerbread houses are still standing. There's nothing detailed about them anymore, though. It looks like straight out of an abstract art workshop with stripes and dots and little swirls of color.

A beat of silence, then Steve starts laughing. "You know what? I love them. It's like Kandinsky made a gingerbread baby with Pollock. Those are the nicest gingerbread houses that were ever made. Well done, everyone."

#symbiiotic #★ ( gonna make you feel happy every day of your life ;; Eddie ❤ symbiiotic )#(the prompt yelled Venom tbh 😂)

2 notes · View notes

aloudplace · 30 days

Text

Dirty thoughts 2

is small," he said, though not disdainfully. "You live here alone?"

I nodded. "It's a granny flat. The main house is over there." I pointed across the broad, manicured lawn. "My landlord is really private, so I hardly ever see him."

Loki glanced at the big house-–it wasn't quite a mansion, but it probably looked like a shack to him. Prince of Asgard. Snooty to the max.

"It's charming," he said politely. He was talking about my little bungalow. And damned if he didn't mean it.

I let him inside and opened the curtains in the living room. Watched him consider the flowered couch and thick, cushioned white rug. The antique mahogany coffee table and the watery abstract painting over the little brick fireplace.

"It smells like you," he said, and then smiled wickedly when I flushed with embarrassment. "You smell delightful, by the way. Like coconut and wildflowers."

He had never once, in the three months since I'd met him, given me a direct compliment. I didn't know what to do with it.

Loki was very pleased with himself for successfully putting me off balance. "I do miss that shampoo you used before you switched to coconut. What was the scent?"

He sort of stalked me across the room, radiating predatory enjoyment. Alarms bells started going off in my head.

"Loki, quit it," I said, and there was a breathless little quaver in my voice. He was too close, using his height to dominate me, leaning in until I could feel the heat coming off his body.

My god, he was smelling my hair.

He smelled like leather and bergamot.

"Was it roses?" he murmured, very close to my ear. "It suited you."

"You are being so inappropriate right now," I said, frozen to the spot.

He chuckled darkly, leaning a little closer, black hair tickling my cheek. "I do so adore how squeaky you get when you're nervous." He was enjoying the heck out this, and his enjoyment wasn't entirely at my expense; he wanted me to play along.

Suddenly fighting a smile, I slapped his chest. "Back off, you gigantic creep."

He tsked, pulling back to look into my face, lips quirking in a devilish little smile. "I will if you tell me what I'm thinking."

Again, I heard alarm bells. We'd played this game before and I had lost. Loki could conjure some incredibly embarrassing thoughts when he put his mind to it.

"No way," I said decisively.

He was so close I could see the little striations in the green of his eyes. "Isn't it your job to know what I'm thinking?"

Oh, you little... "I'm on a break."

"Oh?" he replied, with interest.

"Yes. Consider me off the clock."

His eyes glittered. "Are you really? How convenient."

Then he leaned down and kissed me.

I was so shocked I squeaked. I'm not proud of it, but I did. His lips were hot and very soft, and I'd never expected him to kiss me, and oh god, it was good.

He chucked into my mouth and his hand slid into my hair, cupped the back of my neck. His chest came up against me and my mouth fell open without my permission, and sweet Jesus he was kissing me so slowly, sweetly, like he was savoring it. Savoring me.

Like he really liked me.

I mean, he did like me. I knew that already. But right now he was liking me quite a lot more than I'd ever imagined. His arm was curling around my waist and he kissed me a little deeper because damned if I wasn't turning to melted butter in his arms.

He tasted like fresh coffee and sugar and his thoughts were curling into my mind like rich, dark chocolate–smooth, delicious, decadent. He was thinking about how I tasted, how sweet I was, how good I felt in his arms. How long he'd been waiting to taste me.

I couldn't help it. I groaned a little bit, soft and breathless, and he really liked that–kissed me deeper, arms pulling tighter around me.

And then he started thinking much darker, sexier things, and I felt myself heating from head to toe, and finally, my conscience kicked in.

I don't know when, but at some point, I'd fisted my hands in the lapels of his leather coat, and I let go, pushed at his shoulders until he released my mouth.

"That was not okay," I blurted.

He smiled smugly. "It felt extraordinarily okay to me."

Still a little dazed, I shook my head. "Dumb. Super dumb."

He was still holding me against his chest with both arms. One of his hands slid possessively up my back. "I disagree."

"This is work. We are not supposed to be kissing."

He gave me a slow, triumphant smirk. "You said you were on a break. I believe your exact words were, 'Consider me off the clock'."

I had no response to that. The bastard had tricked me somehow. I mean he hadn't made me say the words, but I couldn't help feeling that he had planned all of this, and I had fallen right into his trap.

"Don't look so abused. You were enjoying it, weren't you?" He bent as though to kiss me again, and I froze because I wanted him to kiss me again, but I knew how dumb it was, and I liked this job, and I really really didn't want to lose it, which I absolutely would if even one person found out I'd been kissing the God of Mischief.

I put my hand over his mouth at the last possible second. His surprise was–-if I had to be completely honest–-more than a little bit satisfying. He clearly felt he had the upper hand with me now, but I sure as shit wasn't gonna let myself get all gushy and submissive, even for Loki. Especially for him.

"No more kissing," I said firmly.

His brows pulled down, green eyes sparking temper. "Why not?" he growled against my hand.

"I'll lose my job."

He let go of my waist and grabbed my wrist, pulling my hand away from his mouth. "Who's going to tell?"

I hesitated.

"By the God's, are you going to run back and confess all on your own?" he rolled his eyes.

"Of course not, but I'm a terrible liar."

"You're an excellent liar," he returned impatiently.

Damn. He'd noticed. "Fine. But I hate lying. I don't want to do it."

"Then don't," he said, clearly exasperated. "Do you think anyone is going to ask if you've been kissing me?"

That stopped me dead. He was right. No one would expect it. Literally, no one. Everybody else treated Loki with a combination of fear, contempt, and suspicion, if not outright hatred. Except for Thor. Thor just treated him with suspicion.

And to all outward appearances, Loki felt nothing but contempt toward me. I appeared to simply put up with him. I hadn't told anyone about his backward behavior. Mostly because I kind of liked being the only one in on it. Even Thor hadn't completely figured Loki out. Which was pretty sad, when you thought about it.

I looked up into Loki's face. "Don't think for a second that I'm not going to do my job exactly as I should, kissing or no kissing."

His expression turned wry. "You mean reporting my stabby thoughts?"

"Yes. And I'll give them a completely honest read at your six-month review, no matter what kind of relationship we might or might not have in the meantime."

His gaze heated. "What kind of relationship did you have in mind?"

"Honestly? None. I never expected anything like this."

Loki dragged me closer, arms around my waist again. "Idiot woman. I've been flirting for weeks. Didn't you notice?" His head dipped down and he nuzzled my neck just below the ear.

Tingling all over, breathless again, I mumbled, "You flirt like a cat flirts with a mouse."

He did that deep, dark chuckle again, kissing my neck very lightly. "I was sure you knew when you stopped wearing dresses. I thought you were teasing me." He nibbled my earlobe and made me shudder.

"I thought you were just messing with me."

"Mmm. I do enjoy making you blush."

His thoughts were getting sexy again. He wanted me to touch him. Wondered if I would let him take me to bed.

"Don't get ahead of yourself, buster."

His only response was to lick my neck and make me squeak again.

He made a low rumble of pleasure, like a growl, but smoother. "Make that sound again, little mouse." And then he nipped the same spot he'd licked, and to my dismay, I did squeak again, which made him laugh darkly and start backing me towards the couch.

"Wait, wait, wait !" I cried. But he already had me half-sprawled on the cushions, and he came down over me on all fours, prowling up my body like a big cat. He did pause, however, when I tucked my legs between us to block him from getting any closer. He arched a brow in challenge.

"I am not prepared to let you ravish me on the couch, Loki."

His gaze darkened. "By all means, if there is some other location you prefer-–"

"I really hope you don't think I'm that easy."

He didn't though. It was there in his thoughts. He wanted to kiss me some more. Touch me. See how far he could take it. But he didn't expect sex. Rather, he anticipated a long and pleasant chase.

Cat and mouse, indeed.

"I am not a prey creature," I said firmly. "We only have three hours until we have to return to the compound. I would like to eat some lunch."

His eyes narrowed. "I would like to kiss you again."

"Let me up first."

He thought about it. He really liked me in this position–wanted to steal a kiss and feel me under him. Honestly, I wanted to let him, but I didn't trust myself not to let it go farther. Maybe a lot farther. Just the thought of it–his big body over me, the smell of him, his heat and the way he kissed–a girl could only resist so much.

Finally, he sat back. I righted myself, watching him closely.

"I'm not going to pounce on you," he said mildly.

"Good. Thank you." I smoothed my shirt, which was now thoroughly wrinkled.

"What's for lunch?" he asked casually, one arm draped over the back of the couch.

"I'll make you a sandwich. And tea. I think I have some cookies as well." I knew he had a special appreciation for sweets.

"Sounds delightful. Can you be persuaded to kiss me first?"

My heart did a little backflip. "Possibly."

He leaned back against the couch and waited. Clearly, he wanted me to be the aggressor this time. Normally, I wouldn't mind–-in fact, a good percentage of me was willing to straddle him like a cowgirl and kiss him silly. But he looked so damned smug and sure of himself–-and he was shielding his thoughts, which made me suspicious.

"I changed my mind," I said, and marched into the kitchen, leaving him there without a backward glance.

I didn't even hear him get up, which was crazy considering all the layers of leather and metal he wore. I made it to the kitchen doorway and he was suddenly on me, spinning me around by the arm and crowding me back against the wall with his body.

It scared me-–in the best possible way.

He was pissed–-and somehow amused at the same time. My resistance both irritated him and pleased him.

I put both hands on his chest as he leaned down, green eyes narrowed.

"I don't like being manhandled like this, Loki,"

"No? Your heart is pounding though. I can see it right here," his fingers caressed my throat. "And you're flushed." He was so close, looking at my mouth.

"You scared me. Also, you're kinda pissing me off."

His mouth curved. "See, excellent liar."

"What makes you think I'm lying?"

He stepped closer, until our bodies were nearly touching. "You don't flush like that when you're angry," he purred, "Only when I tease you."

"A person can feel more than one thing at a time," I said, trying to sound reprimanding. I really was a bit irritated. He was being so condescending. "Look, I get that you've been bored at the compound and you want to have some fun, but I am a human being, not a plaything."

I don't think he meant for me to hear what he thought then, but I did. Loud and clear.

Human beings are playthings.

I shoved him so hard he fell back a step, which was really saying something, what with the Asgardian super strength and all.

"Ah," he said, reading my face. "Now you're angry."

"You don't mean that." I could hear the doubt in my own voice.

His eyes narrowed. "Mean what?"

"That human beings are playthings. We have all the same rights and feelings you do."

He laughed . "Oh, do you?"

I was so mad I couldn't form words for a moment.

"If I'm so damned inferior, why are you trying to seduce me?" I snapped.

His smug smile made me burn with humiliation. "Why not?"

Stupid, condescending, self-important asshole!

"We're done here," I said softly, teeth clenched. "I'm taking you back to the compound."

There was not even a hint of contrition on his face–or in his emotions. Just a flare of anger and the sting of rejection. He was shielding his thoughts again.

"What about my kiss?" he asked archly.

He knew damn well I wasn't going to kiss him again. He was trying to antagonize me. Acting like he didn't give a damn. But he was disappointed, as hard as he tried to hide it.

Not that I gave a damn.

0 notes