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a-small-batch-of-dragons · 1 year

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Cold Comforts

Prompts: Sorry if this is too much, but do you think you could maybe do another hurt Roman fic. I absolutely eat that stuff up. My idea what the after POF Roman just disappears. He’s not in his room, the mind palace, the house. The others think they’ve checked the imagination to its full extent, but they miss one part (but you can’t necessarily blame them). Roman has trapped himself in a hidden and/or invisible castle on his half of the imagination. Slowly, he begins to fade/disappear, believing the others would be better off without him. But, as he goes, so do the things that belong to him. Items in his room start to go missing. Small trinkets turn to computers and posters. Computers and posters turn into chairs and furniture. Furniture turns into literally every single thing in his room, and then that turns into the room itself. Roman won’t disappear until everything he’s tied to does. That means his room disappears, the gifts he’s given others vanish, the videos he’s featured in start to glitch and have to be taken down, his writing and art are nowhere to be found. Everything he’s made in the imagination goes poof, but that also means that castle he’s made to ‘protect’ himself. Since that’s last things that needed to go, Roman is on the brink of disappearing forever when everyone finds him. I would write it but I just don’t have a lot of motivation right now, and I’m so tired my writing comes off as gibberish. I don’t mind any ships, but I’m definitely leaning towards found family and I really love how you write the creativitwins. That’s all I really have. Throw however much angst in as you want. I just like projecting onto imaginary characters :) thanks - anon

hi again! i’m still obsessed with your Roman angst writing. Amazing, by the way ☺️ I hope you don’t mind me asking for more. So how about some Logince where Logan and Roman have a heated argument that results in Logan snapping at Roman. Roman is scared off by that and sinks out while Logan regrets his actions. Roman then avoids Logan all day and doesn’t talk to him. Until later in the middle of the night when Logan finds Roman crying on the kitchen floor and eating Crofters. Logan then takes that chance to make things right and learns a lot more about Roman. Some concerning stuff and some interesting stuff. I hope that isn’t too much! Keep up the good writing, friendo! - lio-the-chaotic-nonbeanie-weenie

Read on Ao3

Warnings: self-doubt, self-esteem issues, ducking out kind of

Pairings: gen

Word Count: 5151

Some arguments between Logan and Roman stay as little bits of contention.

Logan will bring up a point and Roman will read it wrong; either he'll make a joke that won't be received well or he'll take it as an insult when it wasn't intended that way. Logan will explain what he meant and the two of them will settle a little, at least until they can get back into the flow of the conversation and move past it.

Or Roman will let slip a comment he should've kept to himself and Logan will draw himself up, at least until Roman can apologize and claw it back, or he'll smirk and let loose a quip of his own and forgiveness will go unstated. They'll bounce off of each other until the conversation gets back on the rails.

This isn't one of those arguments.

"If you were capable of seeing reason, we wouldn't be in this position in the first place."

"Oh, and you think that just because you're Logic that you hold the monopoly on rationality?"

"Yes. By definition."

Roman throws his hands up, almost knocking over some of the papers. "So why do the rest of us even bother? Matter of fact, why do you even bother with the rest of us? If we're so unteachable and ridiculous?"

"Believe me, I've had the same thought many times." Logan juts his chin upward and looks down his nose at Roman. "Although some of you are more teachable than others."

"Oh, here we go again! 'Roman's stupid, Roman's dumb, Roman's un-teachable—'"

"I didn't say that."

"You didn't have to! It's written all over your stupid prideful face every single time I say something that doesn't line up perfectly with what you want to hear!"

"Resorting to exceedingly childish insults isn't making you look any better."

"Yeah, well, what else am I supposed to do?"

"Perhaps take a breath and listen to me so then I can explain why you're wrong."

"But I'm not wrong. Maybe you should take a breath and listen to me."

Logan laughs, loud and cruel. "I should listen to you? When I need to fill my head with nonsense I have much better sources for it."

"Nonsense?"

"Yes, Roman, nonsense. This is nonsense, right now. We should have been finished about half an hour ago but you keep insisting that—"

"Because you don't know about this!" Roman gestures emphatically to the papers scattered about the table. "You don't know how to do this, you don't know how to come up with things like I do, so you have to come to me! And you have to listen to me!"

"I don't have to do anything, Roman."

"Well, if you want a halfway decent idea, then yeah, actually, you do."

Logan's mouth twitches and his hand tenses on his pen. "Arrogance is not going to do a better job of convincing me than insults."

"I'm not being arrogant, I'm telling you the truth."

"Thinking yourself irrevocably better than someone else is arrogance. Or have you somehow forgotten the meaning of the word?"

"I know what it means, don't patronize me. How come you get to be Logic and say that no one else is capable of rational thought but I can't say I'm Creativity and thus I'm naturally better at coming up with things?"

"Because I didn't say that no one else was capable of rational thought. I said that you of all people are incapable of seeing reason."

"What the hell's the difference?"

Logan smiles smugly, sitting up a little straighter. "Perhaps if you were capable of understanding reason I wouldn't need to explain it to you."

Roman growls, his hands curling into fists and Logan raises a scolding eyebrow.

"Careful, Roman. You're letting your emotions get the better of you. Again."

"I'm letting—you're antagonizing me!"

"I'm not sure you know what that word means either."

"I don't—don't you sit there and tell me I don't know what an antagonist is," Roman splutters, pointing a finger like a dagger at Logan, "and you don't have the high ground right now either."

"Why not?"

"You're insulting me as often as I'm insulting you!"

"So you can admit you've been insulting me."

Roman fumes. "So have you!"

"No. I have been pointing out facts."

"Insulting facts."

"Facts are most often insulting to people who lack the intellectual capacity to understand them."

"Lack the—are you capable of going a single sentence without calling me stupid?"

"Go a single sentence without being stupid and I won't have to."

"And here I thought you were supposed to be useful."

The room stills. Logan's face freezes for a moment and Roman winces internally. That's a button he shouldn't have pressed. Sure, maybe he wanted to needle Logan for making him so upset but he shouldn't have gone there. That's a sore spot that hasn't healed yet. He should apologize. He should apologize right now.

"I—"

"I am useful," Logan says, his voice dangerously low.

"Logan, I—"

"You, on the other hand," he continues, ignoring Roman's attempt to apologize, "are nothing but a waste of time."

Any words Roman may have had in his throat choke off. He gulps around empty air, staring at Logan.

"Are you capable of thinking of anyone but yourself? Do you understand that you are not so important that everything revolves around you?" Logan hasn't stood up, but the way he's just glaring at Roman makes it feel like he's looming over him. "You think yourself, what, some great presence or some great menace that I have to vanquish?"

Scrabbling for words in a filling grave, Roman grabs a chunk of dirt that buries him alive.

"I'm not Remus."

Logan's eyes flash dangerously. "No, Roman. You are not Remus. Remus has a function. Remus serves a purpose. And Remus, despite what you think of him—"

I love him. I love him, he's my brother, he's my Remus. I'm sorry, Re, I didn't mean it, I'm sorry.

"—is actually capable of listening to reason. You, Roman, you are not. At best you are a nuisance and a mild inconvenience, one easily dealt with and not worth the time it takes to do so."

He takes a moment to collect himself.

"I am busy. I cannot afford to waste time on you. If you are so determined to thrill me with impossible feats, go and find somewhere you are wanted."

Roman's chest burns.

He stares wordlessly at Logan, who just stares back at him. Against all hopes he wants Logan to take it back, the way he was going to, to apologize or realize what he just said or something, something, but he doesn't. He just stares at Roman and glares and then he turns away.

He packs up his things and leaves.

Roman is left alone.

He stares after him for a long time, still in shock. The words bounce around and around his head like bullets ricocheting off metal plates only to score grazes in every surface. They replay over and over and over until they threaten to swallow him whole.

He's not stupid. He's not stupid. He knows that there are ways to draw attention to himself that aren't good and that he—he can be a nuisance sometimes. And in being a nuisance, he's cultivated an atmosphere where the lack of him is to be looked forward to. But he—he's not stupid. He knows that where that comes from is the opposite; everything he's done, every part of the persona he's crafted, is in defiance of that invisibility.

This isn't a revelation, he realizes, but the difference between knowing and knowing. The kind that gets sobbed into your pillow in the dead of night.

And in that petty, spiteful, semantic kind of defiance that children are so often accused of, he sinks out to his room because that's where Patton said he wants him to stay.

He stumbles around the room in a state of shock, clumsy and inelegant and utterly irredeemable, knocking into his bookshelf and his desk and almost tripping over a notebook he left lying on the floor. He strips off the prince costume and throws it away like it burns to touch, staggering to the bed in nothing but undershirt and boxers and crawling under the covers.

He shouldn't be doing this. He's just proving Logan right. But he doesn't want to be something other than he is right now and if Logan thinks he's a stupid child that throws temper tantrums and sulks when he doesn't get his way, then he's allowed to curl up into a ball and clutch his hand to his chest. It's still hurting, the words still dragging themselves over his exposed nerves, and he curls up around it like he could offer it protection.

He should go to someone, he knows. They've all been trying to get better about asking for help and support. He should get up and go—but who would he go to?

Patton would want to hear everything that happened and he'd be scolded for being so mean to Logan. Patton would make him go apologize right then and there and he doesn't think he could bear going anywhere near Logan right now.

Virgil would take Logan's side immediately, he's sure of it. Virgil calls him stupid all the time, he'd probably be happy that someone finally told you like it is, Princey, deal with it.

Janus would take Logan's side too. Not because he'd necessarily agree with him—even though he would—but because it's not Roman's side.

Remus…Remus would hate him.

A pained noise leaves the safety of the covers and Roman only belatedly realizes it's him. He doesn't want to go and expose himself anymore to the possibility of being hurt. He wants to run away and lick his wounds and be upset all by himself. He doesn't want to be accused of being attention-seeking and overdramatic and all of that, doesn't want to be lectured and scolded and then—only then—offered the barest scraps of comfort like a starving animal being tossed a bone. He doesn't want to be hurt and then have them say it's for his own good. He doesn't want that, he doesn't want that, he doesn't want that.

He wants someone to just come and hold him. To say it's okay that he's upset—not even that he was right or that Logan shouldn't have said that or even that it's all going to be okay.

He just wants someone to comfort him. It doesn't have to be big or sweeping or anything, they don't have to stay for a long time, they don't—it doesn't have to be large or—or complicated, he doesn't—he just wants a hug, okay? Or not even a hug, it doesn't have to be a hug, it can just be a touch or something—or not even that, it can just be a—a look, or a nod or—okay, it doesn't even have to be that, okay? He just—he just wants—

He just wants, okay?

Roman's eyes start to grow heavy and he curls up tighter, limp and aching fingers brushing against his face as he almost nuzzles into his hand. He moves his head until he can get his nose tucked into the space under his thumb and feel the shuddering of his own breath against his palm. Oh, he wants and wants and wants and in the safety of the covers he can pretend.

"Shh," he mumbles in a half-voice that he's more thinking than saying, "shh, shh, it's okay. It's okay."

He brushes his lips against the skin there and it almost feels like a kiss.

"Shh, it's okay, it's okay, shh…it's alright. It's okay. It's okay, it's okay." He does it again, trying to narrow his focus down to just that, the gentleness of the touch and the shaking voice from his own throat. "It's alright. Shh, it's alright."

His fingers twitch from a small gust that blows under the blanket and he moves, pressing it deeper into the chasm between his chest and the bed and lets his breath blow warm and stuffy over the skin again.

"Shh-shh-shh," he warbles in broken half-tones, "it's okay, it's okay, it's okay."

Slowly, he works himself back from the brink, mumbling the half-comfort to his hand until the thought of moving no longer threatens to tear him apart. He keeps at it as he drags himself from beneath the covers, as he drags on a t-shirt and shorts, mumbling that it's okay, we just have to go get something to eat, then we can come back and sleep. He keeps the hand pressed to his chest, holding his breath as he creeps down the stairs.

It's late. Well past midnight. The others are likely gone to their separate corners of the Mindscape. Had he the wherewithal to notice he might feel ridiculous, stealing away like a thief in the night as he makes his way to his own kitchen, but all he has space for is the lifeline of comfort that he still murmurs in the darkness.

"Just a little further," he mumbles, "almost there."

The kitchen looms in sharp lines and cold surfaces. He lumbers in and goes to the cabinet, reaching up for the one food he knows he can eat. The fingers on his useful hand brush against the cool glass of the Crofter's bottle and he takes it down, slumping to the floor and curling up, only belatedly realizing he didn't grab a spoon and groping around until he can get one.

It's his jar, almost empty, but just enough left that if he eats it he can make it until morning.

The spoon clinks and rattles as he props the jar up in his lap, eating clumsily until he can scrape the spoon around the edges and get the last of it. He starts crying somewhere in the middle and he only notices because it starts to taste salty.

Almost done, he thinks to his hand, almost there. It's okay. Shh, shh, it's okay.

He's just about to throw the empty jar away and skulk back to his room when the stairs creak.

Don't come here. Oh, god, please don't come in here.

The footsteps get closer. He curls up tighter, thinking maybe he won't be seen in the dark. They get closer.

A shadow looms in the sliver of light from the window.

Don't see me. Please don't see me.

A figure rounds the corner and stops, staring down at him. Its eyes narrow behind glasses as it sees the jar clutched in Roman's hands.

Logan doesn't get the chance to say anything before Roman is gone.

He drops into some random part of the Imagination and just runs. His bare feet cry out in protest as he runs over jagged rocks and sharp stones but he pushes onward. His hand lies useless in the wind, just aching from the memory of harsh words and the panic of being discovered by Logan. The frightened animal that lives in his brain digs its teeth into the soft part of his heart and makes him run faster, faster, faster.

Somewhere he's wanted. Somewhere he's wanted. Somewhere he's wanted.

Unbeknownst to him, the Imagination is building him something. A tall tower, high enough that its head loses itself in the clouds, invisible save for the way clouds can't pass through it, where he can curl up in a small room and be far away from everyone else. It waits until he collapses from sheer exhaustion, carrying him up, up, up, closing itself around him until he's locked in.

Roman doesn't notice any of that. He's too busy curled around his hand again, trying to murmur to it, comfort it, drag himself out of this ache again. He chokes on the words it's okay and it's alright and so he gasps out shh, shh, shh.

Sobs force their way out of his throat and it just hurts. He keeps trying, struggling to shush them, to shush his hand, to shush himself, to give himself something, anything, just to make it stop.

But his hand is just a hand and the pain is just pain. There's no tragedy in it, no pity in it, nothing redeemable or salvageable from the mess he's made.

He really is stupid.

* * *

A jar, discarded and empty on the kitchen floor. It clinks as it rolls over the boards until it comes to a stop, resting in the shadow of the stove.

Its label, half rubbed away from being handled, still clings stubbornly to the glass. One of the letters is still visible, just slightly, the single 'R' barely more than an outline in the faint light from the windows.

The lid is still up on the counter, laid on its back, cold and alone on the flat surface. The jar is somewhere else, air blowing through the empty spaces where it should be.

It fades away as the morning sun dawns, still empty.

* * *

"Hey, Pat," Virgil calls as he walks downstairs, "have you seen Roman?"

Patton frowns, glancing around the living room. "No, I haven't. Why?"

"Something really weird is happening and I think it's his fault."

"What's going on?"

Virgil comes into the kitchen and holds up his phone. One of their videos is playing but as they watch, it starts to glitch, skipping back and forth as though someone's dragging the slider.

"Huh. That's weird."

"Right?"

"Why do you think Roman has something to do with this?"

"'Cause all the parts it's skipping are the parts with him in it. And look at this." Virgil taps through a menu. "See?"

The thumbnails with Roman in them are conspicuously missing a certain prince. Patton puts his hands on his hips. "Well, that is strange."

"That's what I said. So yeah, we need to find him."

"I haven't seen him in a few days, I don't think. I guess I thought he was busy."

"Well, great, who was the last person to see him?"

"See who?"

"Do not do that," Virgil grumbles, helping himself up from the stair rail as Janus strides from the shadows, "you'll make me break something."

"Oh, relax, you're fine."

Virgil mutters something decidedly unflattering and shoves his hands in his pockets. "Have you seen Roman?"

"Not for a while, no." He frowns. "Why, is something wrong?"

They show him what's happening to the videos and he hums.

"That's…that's not good."

"No, it isn't."

"We need to find Remus."

"Wait, what? Why Remus?"

"He's the one who'll most likely know what Roman's done to cause this." Janus is already striding away. "Come on. We need to hurry."

They do, because as they walk they realize that Roman's poster is gone. Then his paintings. They break into a run when they see that his door is no longer bright red.

"Remus," Janus barks as they tear into the other living room, "Remus, we need you now."

As soon as Remus appears they know he knows already. He's almost frothing at the mouth, his hands itching around his Morningstar as he glares at them.

"What did you do," he snarls, "where is he?"

"We were coming to ask you," Virgil says, his hands raised, "we haven't seen him. We don't know."

Remus glares at all of them before looking at Janus, who nods. "He's Fading. He's trying to disappear. We need to find him now."

"Wait, Fading? What's that mean?"

"Like ducking out but worse, 'cause he's Creativity and I'll be happy to explain this once he's back. Now who saw him last?"

"Not me," Patton says, "I only saw him at breakfast a few days ago with everyone."

"That's the last time I saw him too."

"Janus?"

"We met up briefly to discuss a show but he had to leave early. Said he was…"

Remus growls as Janus trails off. "Said he was what?"

"…meeting with Logan. He had to go meet with Logan."

No sooner has Janus finished speaking, Remus reaches out a hand and yanks. A body falls to the ground in front of him.

"Start talking, bitch boy," he snarls, stalking over to loom over Logan, "what the fuck did you do to my brother?"

"I didn't—I don't know—"

An animalistic roar leaves Remus's throat and he hefts the Morningstar, ready to bring it down when Virgil catches his wrist.

"Hey, hey, easy! If you hurt him, we won't find out what happened!"

"He hurt Roman."

"We don't know that for sure, Remus, just—just take a second, okay?"

"I don't care—"

"Look at him," Janus interrupts quickly, "Remus, look at him."

Remus growls and tears himself free from Virgil's hold but does. Logan is still on the ground, his hands raised in surrender, glasses askew on his face. His shirt is dirty, tie mussed and torn, scratches on his arms and neck.

Wait.

"You were looking for him," Remus spits, "in the Imagination, weren't you?"

Logan swallows. "Yes."

"Why?"

"Because you're right. He's Fading and he's not anywhere else and that's the only place he can be but I don't know where else to look."

"Why is he Fading," Patton asks as Virgil has to hold Remus back again, "what happened?"

Janus gives Logan a warning look as he opens his mouth.

"…we had an argument."

"I get into arguments with Princey all the time," Virgil says sharply, "they don't end with Roman Fading."

"I may have said some things."

"You're going to have to be more specific."

"I—we're running out of time, we need to find him—ah!"

Remus, quicker than Virgil, shoots forward and pins Logan to the wall, Morningstar thrust against his chest. Logan winces as the spikes dig into him and Remus just growls.

"If you do not tell me exactly what you said to him," he says in a calm voice, "you and I are gonna run a little experiment on how hard it is to break the human spine."

Logan swallows. "I…I called him stupid. I said he—that he was incapable of listening to reason and that he—he should go somewhere where he was wanted."

"Why," Virgil growls, "in the fuck did you do that?"

"I was angry," he defends weakly, "I—I didn't mean it, I just wanted to hurt him—"

"Congratulations," Janus says lowly, "you did. You hurt him so badly he wants to disappear."

"I didn't know that," Logan says impatiently, "and I was trying to fix it! I went and looked for him the moment I'd calmed down enough to realize it was wrong and he wasn't anywhere! I only managed to find him that night in the kitchen and he vanished before I could say a thing!"

"Remus," Janus says softly, pulling Remus back, "we need to look in the Imagination. You know it better than the rest of us, where is he?"

Remus glares at Logan one more time before stalking to the door and ripping it open. "He's going to be hidden. The Imagination is him when he gets like this, if he's scared and hurt it's going to protect him."

But the Imagination they step into isn't rolling fields or towering castles or fairytale woods. It's glitching messes of clumps of grass and loose bricks, a white and lifeless sky overhead. Remus growls and breaks into a run.

"Look for anything that is still intact," he barks over his shoulder, "that'll be the last to go."

They run for hours.

A broken scarecrow, its arms dangling by the thinnest splinter as a crow glitches in and out of existence.

A frog, frozen mid-leap as its legs reach for nothing.

A bridge, splintered and torn by something massive except all that's left of it are shards of wooden boards.

They're losing him.

"There," Virgil shouts, pointing, "the tower!"

A single tower, the only thing still intact, stretching as high as the clouds, its shadow as long and thin as a needle as it pierces the last of the ground. They race towards it and crash through the door.

"Whoa!"

"I've got you, I've got you."

"Is everyone alright?"

"Don't fall!"

For there are no stairs inside this tower. Only a bottomless pit that stretches into yawning nothingness. Remus blocks the path with his body, Janus's arms around his waist as Logan and Virgil cling to the crumbling walls.

"How the hell do we get up there?"

"We climb."

"You can't be serious."

Remus hoslters the Morningstar star and digs his hands into the brick. He hoists himself up and glances down. "Sooner or later the rest of this is gonna go. You wanna be down here when it does or you wanna be closer to Roman?"

Brick by brick.

Hand over hand.

Inch by inch.

When Remus finally touches smooth wood, feeling around for the latch of the trapdoor, he shoves it open and they pile in, panting from the effort of it as he looks desperately around for Roman.

In the center of the room, surrounded by a wooden shell, is a pile of blankets and pillows. If he strains, he can hear quiet mutters coming from within. Leaving the others on the floor, he stands up and cautiously makes his way over, crouching down and peeling back the very top layer.

"Oh, Ro…"

Roman lies there, curled into a ball, cobwebs and dust caked on his skin. The only parts free from it are his face and one of his hands, his lips moving just enough to let air circulate and blow it away. Tear tracks are evident in the soot, his voice so overtaxed only the faintest sounds still audible.

Just enough to make them out.

"Shh, shh, shh, it's okay. It's okay. Shh. Shh. It's alright. Shh."

A lump rises in Remus's throat and he reaches out shakily, pulling the covers away. "Roro, Roro, it's me. It's me, Ro-Bro, I'm here."

Nothing.

"Roman, it's me," he tries desperately, "Ro-Bro, Ro, Roman!"

"Roman?"

"Roman, it's us."

"Open your eyes, little prince, we're here, it's okay."

Roman twitches slightly as Janus speaks but doesn't stir.

"Why isn't it working? What do we have to do?"

Remus shakes him harder. "Roman, wake up!"

"It won't work."

They all turn to stare at Logan.

"What do you mean," Remus hisses, "that it won't work?"

"He needs to be comforted," Logan says, slowly approaching the shell too, "he—he's trying to comfort himself. Let me try."

Virgil glances at Remus and tugs Patton and Janus back. Remus glares at him but doesn't stop him.

"If you fuck this up—"

"Then I'm your lab rat, I know."

"Good."

Logan takes a deep breath and looks in.

Oh, little one, he thinks as he takes in Roman's poor state, oh, I never meant for this, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry.

He lifts a shaking hand and fits it clumsily around Roman's.

"Shh," he murmurs, "shh, shh, it's okay. It's alright. It's alright. Shh, shh."

Roman's hand twitches.

"It's okay," he says again, "shh-shh-shh, it's okay. You're alright. It's all okay."

Roman stills, then slumps. Logan fits his other hand to his face, not wincing at how cold it is.

"You're okay," he keeps saying softly, "shh, little one, you're okay. It's alright. It's okay."

The ground rumbles. Color begins to bleed back into the sky. Logan leans down and puts his mouth to Roman's ear.

"I'm sorry, little one," he whispers, "I'm sorry, it's okay. Shh, shh, I'm sorry."

"It's working!"

"Keep going, Logan, it's working."

"Come on, Roman, you can do it."

"Shh, little one, it's okay." He runs his fingers through Roman's hair, shaking loose the dust and debris. "It's all okay now."

Slowly, painfully slowly, he coaxes Roman's Imagination back to life. He brushes away the dust and the cobwebs and murmurs that it's okay, you're alright now, it's going to be alright. Every word that leaves his lips leaves Roman looking a little more like he's just asleep.

He debates with himself for a moment, before leaning up and brushing a kiss across Roman's temple.

"I'm right here."

Something shudders.

"Roman?"

Roman's eyes flutter and slowly open. "L-Logan?"

"Hello, little one," he whispers, "it's okay. I'm here now."

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#sanders sides #dragonbabbles #roman sanders #roman angst #roman sanders angst #remus sanders #sympathetic remus #logan sanders #patton sanders #virgil sanders #deceit sanders #sympathetic deceit #janus sander #fic

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sketching-shark · 6 months

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Hello there! Have you seen @llumetesdellums art interpretation of the JTTW gang? Their art is absolutely the opposite of yours, beautifully bright and not quite detailed but absolutely soft. Their JTTW art is just as terrifying as it is pretty though. Their caption about it is FASCINATING to read as well.

Also I'd like to ask, if a producer were to focus on SWK's learning period under Master Puti, what kind of xianxia series would you like it to be? Have you read @journeytothewestresearch story ideas for SWK? They're very INTERESTING

Have a good month, drink water regularly, and eat well!

Oh yeah, I've seen @llumetesdellums's stuff! Pretty neat and deliciously terrifying interpretations of the JTTW crew for sure. And haha yeah is pretty cool how this story has been depicted in so many different ways in so many different art styles.

And yes, @journeytothewestresearch has come up with some cool ideas for everyone's favorite monkey! I did quite like his idea for why Puti Zushi ultimately exiled Sun Wukong. It definitely does make his motivations sound a little more reasonable and even tragic for both Patriarch Subodhi and the Monkey King than "you're gonna do evil. Now gtfo."

OUGH a xianxia focusing on SWK's period learning under Puti Zhushi does sound like it could be an interesting thing...tbh if done well I feel like such a project could be a MUCH needed alternative to the kind of relentless "dumb destructive monkey SWK" presentation that you see in western JTTW retellings lol. I also really like the idea of a xianxia that could be a fascinating and tragic combination of the more standard anime "I'm gonna be the very best!" story with revealing how and why SWK, with much of this development happening during his time as Puti Zhushi's tudi, changing from a relatively innocent though still frequently prideful and selfish monkey to the ruthless and practical yaoguai warlord that he became like...immediately after being exiled. That kind of change does not happen all at once, and I'd LOVE to know what he went through during those seven previous years that made SWK consider murder a perfectly acceptable answer to his problems. Now to the monkey's credit he tends to give his opponents a chance to take a whack at him before he ultimately steamrolls them, but still I could see all sorts of things from being teased or even reviled by his fellow tudi to the secret preferential treatment that Puti Zushi ultimately gave SWK until the exile or maybe even travels with Puti Zushi and getting to see what kinds of wars humans inflict on each other or even punishments the Jade Emperor meets out that could show how and why SWK developed the way he did under his powerful immortal teacher. I've said before that one of the things I really appreciate about SWK is his brutal honesty in all things. Him ultimately almost spitefully accepting Puti Zushi's statement that he's bound to do evil by becoming a warlord could be a cynical but practical response to learning about what kinds of violence other rulers unleash in the world and get away with, and at least his way SWK's using what he learned to protect his beloved family. At least until the war with heaven, of course.

Thanks for your questions @angstandhappiness! I hope you have a good month too :D

#ask answered #jttw retelling #sun wukong #monkey king #man so many people have created really cool scenarios with this monkey...#hope I've kind of added to that list lol

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fennecthunderfox · 6 months

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Figured I should probably life update.

It's been a looooong time since I've posted here. Various factors got in the way of art in general and I figure I need to at least post a text update if nothing else.

Where have you been?

I have been mostly gaming in my free time and lurking on the internet. I didn't realize it, but I guess social media had been chipping away at my mental health without me realizing it. Namely Twitter (it's gonna stay twitter forever to me, I don't care what it's actually called now). I wanna try to get active on tumblr again, but they changed the layout in such a visually suffocating way, I can't do that site right now either.

So I just lurk.

What about your art?

Art has been hard. As I've complained about a lot in the past, I have a full time job and this job has had me on mandatory overtime for 3 years at this point. I also have chronic pain episodes that- while they have improved- still occur on occasion.

So you haven't drawn at all?

I've drawn very little UNDERTALE/DELTARUNE art recently, but I actually HAVE drawn some Zelda-centric art. I just haven't shown it because it's extremely self-indulgent and I am aware that the one canon character I draw the most is one people tend to hate. (Revali. It's Revali. He's a jerk, but I love him and I love inventing Rito characters that both admire and acknowledge his skill- but also knock him down a peg.)

The future of your Undertale/Deltarune comics?!

There should still be a future, yeah. Problem is, it's been so long since the beginning of the comic, I've kinda... gotta figure out what the heck the story even is anymore. Cause I don't really like WD Gaster being a villain? And that's sorta how we framed him to be in the comic, but I don't like that anymore.

"Fenn, Gaster made Ralsei disappear. Or SOMETHING, we still don't know what happened to Ralsei."

Yeah, sorry 'bout that. I've said from the beginning that Ralsei isn't dead, and that's still true. Also if I do change Gaster's motives, the Flowey/Ralsei thing (Flowsei?) will remain the same. So basically what I'm saying is Gaster was framed kinda like a villain in the comic, but he may shift to just a very, VERY morally grey guy, and you'll understand WHY in time.

Aaaaaaaand Vesseltale?

Vesseltale's a weird one cause it's the secondary plot comic and it's still stuck on-hold in the best possible place to be on hold. I might have to write that comic to a point where the biggest twist of the AU is revealed and then just be like: "Okay, here's some bullet points about this AU cause I don't actually think I can make this a full comic."

And then have like... highlight comic series where I just draw out major scenes. Like how Frisk interacts with the altered versions of the characters in this time.

Final thoughts?

I wish I had more time to do art. I really do. It's just difficult to set time aside to do it because of work. It's easier to pick up the Switch to decompress while listening to Let's Plays on Youtube at the moment.

Once the Holidays pass, I think I'm gonna try to carve out time on the weekends specifically for doing art. I'd love to finish Defnodel Chapter 3 before Deltarune Chapters 3 and 4 release.

Also be prepared, I might start posting Rito fanart on DA because I love the Rito. You have no idea how many headcanons I've created for these dumb birds. I love them so much.

#Fenn Speaks

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covenofthearticulate · 2 months

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fic asks: 10/37/42

Questions for Fic Writers

10. How do you decide what to write? Recently, the deciding factor for what I write has actually been more dependent on like, what fandom events are going around, or what sort of special occasions inspire me. Like, the last 2 years I've written Valentine's Day fics, and I usually write a Holiday-centric fic as well in December, so it's actually become more of the event/date/occasion, than the actual plot idea itself. Like, even my October fic, Boats Against the Current, was written to celebrate Louis' birthday!!

I hope one day I can get to a place where I just write whatever I want regardless of the occasion, but honestly the deadlines are what motivate my ADHD brain to kick into gear, so

37. Promote one of your own “deep cut” fics (an underrated one, or one that never got as much traction as you think it deserves!). What do you like about it? HMMMMMM maybe my short piece: A Tale Told by an Idiot; or, a Vampiric Interpretation of Macbeth

tbh this isn't one of my favorites, and it's very wordy and heavy on the Shakespeare, but I do think it posed an interesting way to look at the tension in Louis and Lestat's Rue Royale era! I always think it's so interesting that Lestat sees himself as Macbeth, but when he's forced to play the true "villain" of the piece, he really shows his teeth.

42. Have you ever received a comment that particularly stood out to you for whatever reason? God, I feel so lucky to have so many comments that just live rent-free in my head, I can't possibly choose just one!! In general, the comments that really stick out to me are the ones who talk about my writing like a work of art. The ones that describe which bits made them feel emotional, which metaphors stood out to them, etc.

Idk, I think a lot of times it's easy to feel a little dumb for posting your silly little stories about your blorbos on the internet and of course there's no right way to engage with fanfiction...but to me, writing is an art, so I get particularly excited when people engage with it on an artistic level if that makes sense!

#thank you for sending!!#;answered #fanfic asks #on writing

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tanadrin · 1 year

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season 1 of picard was pretty good star trek, in that it touched on and expanded on themes that have been pretty common in the show for many years: what is a person and why we shouldn’t fear new or strange forms of life were chief among them. the whole angle of also taking a heroic figure and having him examine his life looking backward at the end of it was also a nice touch. the fact their actually were evil robots in a pocket dimension slavering to destroy the universe was dumb, though; so was the whole shady romulan subplot. like 5/10 relative to its potential.

season 2 had some good bits, especially as like a character study of picard himself, but it was a little hard to swallow that given that it was pretty obviously all a retcon, bc literally none of those character beats had ever been foreshadowed in 7 seasons and 4 movies. also the time travel plot was really dumb and mostly pretty boring unfortunately. 2 or 3/10 relative to its potential.

season 3 so far i’m on the fence about. vadic is a genuinely delightful, cheesy villain. the raffi subplot is not very strong so far, but maybe if they link it up with the main plot it will help the pacing. the guy they have playing picard’s son is also good, and whatever he’s got going on is actually pretty interesting to me, but we’re spending way too much time on boring irrelevant stuff that could have been dispatched in 1 or 2 episodes (changelings are back! we can’t go to starfleet for help; they should have spent max one episode farting around in that nebula).

obviously it’s too soon to render an overall verdict, but thematically this season just seems to lack a center so far, or a driving purpose beyond “oh no we’re being pursued by baddies with Mysterious Motivations.” i do wish the showrunners had spent less time crafting intricate callbacks and sound cues to reference previous installments of star trek and more time making sure the plot and the pacing hung together well. i don’t think you need to introduce new aliens or new villains in every installment of star trek; i don’t think star trek has to be lots of self-contained one-shot episodes; i think there’s room to use continuity to make the world feel fuller and more complete. but i don’t think picard is doing any of that particularly well, which is too bad! they have a good cast and a great art department, and there are some good ideas in here. the execution is just lacking.

#tv showrunners in particular #need to be taught how to structure plots well #and not waste viewers' time #now that american tv is moving more and more often to british-style 10-episode seasons #this is even less forgivable #10 episodes should not be so long a season you have to pad it with filler!

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a1t-alt · 2 years

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I miss c!Ranboo...

I miss falling asleep during the mining streams and waking up to screaming or shouting or Tubbo and just laughing my ass off, then having to go back and watch the vod to see what I missed. I miss c!beeduo family and beeduo logging on in unison to protect their little dumb little stinky little guy (/lh /a). I miss getting excited for a stream only for Ranboo to go live with the lore screen, and getting so anxious I got sick- I miss the goofy lore, the stuff that happened after or in between the scripted bits. I miss c!Ranboo doing everything in his power to please everyone just because he couldn't stomach the idea of someone not liking him/ not feeling safe around him. I miss so many dumb things that I know we'll never get back. He's.. he's not getting revived, not how we might think or hope, I imagine.

Ghostboo is such an interesting character, and I adore his character flaws and mistakes and how he's portrayed. I love that he cares so deeply for Michael and has him safely kept in his- in c!Ranboo's home, in the Arctic. I love that he and Aimsey got close, and that he messed up their friendship in the stupidest possible way. I love that c!Tubbo loathes Ghostboo with a passion, because he's not c!Ranboo- he's not him.

I miss the lore streams.. and watching all the POVs to catch the little things you might not see otherwise. I miss getting so unfathomably motivated to make art over the smallest dumbest little details. I miss seeing so many people come together to tell a story that's so vast yet so we'll put together. I miss the nonsense. I miss the chaos. I miss cc!Tommy playing his heart out through his character, and cc!Tubbo being unsure and fumbling or!! being one of the most well played characters! I miss c!Sam, from before the prison, with c!Tommy. I miss Sam Nook and c!Tommy's healing arc. I miss when Phil and Techno let Ranboo move in, and him living in a tiny shack.

There are.. so many things that I'm forgetting, things I used to hold so close to my heart, things I want to see more of. But times have changed. People have changed. And that's okay! It's good- change and growth is good! I may not be certain on how I feel about the upcoming DSMP lore/ story (quite frankly, I haven't seen or heard much on it), I am excited to see people play again. I'm excited to see people start from scratch and build together again. I'm excited to see where people take their characterisations and how often they'll be on, how often they'll be making lore. I miss the Dream SMP, and how close it was to my heart and soul. I want to hold it as close as I used to, because it was one of the only things that got me through the last 2 years.

Sorry for rambling kings, I was just.. thinking, and needed to post on this <3

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arethereanyoriginalusernames · 2 years

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Dangan-FuckThis: Dolly and Beck

The shock of the lights cutting out hit Dolly like a face full of ice water. She fumbled for her phone, praying that it hadn’t died. Even if she couldn’t get service or data, she could still use her flashlight.

Across from her, she could hear Beck shift from their position against the wall. The reminder that someone was in the room with her made her tense up immediately. Beck… wouldn’t try to kill her, right? They didn’t seem like they wanted to, but wasn’t that what many a murder victim had thought of their killer? Dolly regretted having watched so many true crime videos throughout her life. Her mind raced with the possibility of what could happen to her, right here in this room. Would she die? What was death like? Would anyone miss her? Would anyone find her body?

Hearing what sounded like Beck picking something up caused Dolly to start hyperventilating, convinced that her fears had been realized.

“B-Beck, wai-!” Her words were cut off with a scream erupting from her throat as a light shone in her eyes. An annoyed ‘Jesus Christ!’ was followed by the light tilting away from her eyes. Opening an eye, Dolly could see Beck rubbing their ears, holding her phone with the flashlight on, not looking the least bit impressed.

“Found your phone.” They muttered, handing it to Dolly. As she took the device with shaky hands, she started looking around the room to confirm that it was only the two of them in there. Beck meanwhile took out their notebook and started scribbling down notes. Dolly shot them a quizzical look, which earned her a nonchalant shrug.

“I figured I might as well take note of our alibi in case someone decides to kill a bitch.” They explained, “And I’m including every detail because god knows when people start questioning, you know they’re going to try to look unnecessarily deep into everyone’s alibi. At least that’s what happens at work when someone steals from the register.”

A shiver went up Dolly’s spine, her eyebrows knitting together as she tried to calm herself down. She kept shining her light around the room, grateful that she had taken off her fishnet gloves given the goosebumps spreading across her arms like a rash.

“Hey, Beck… Do you think someone would try to kill one of us right now? Even with the motive…”

“You tell me,” came the monotone response, “you’re the one who’s into darkness and death or whatever.”

“Yes, but… not like this… This isn’t an artistic expression, Beck, this is real.”

—————-

A little practice excerpt of the dynamic between Dolly and Beck, the main characters of Dangan-FuckThis, my Danganronpa parody thing. This would probably be during the first murder, where nobody’s prepared for this shit. Except maybe Beck, but that’s just bc they’re expecting people to be shitty enough to kill, and they’re just preparing to deal with some bullshit. Honestly, for them, not too unlike working a shift at McDonald’s. Dolly meanwhile is not vibing with the idea of people killing each other. Honestly, with all the stress she’ll be through, she might want to remove some of that eyeliner before it goes into her eyes. It wouldn’t be much help in the situation to do so, but at least she won’t be blinded by makeup.

Dangan-FuckThis is Danganronpa, except everyone has mostly useless talents, everything is stupid to some extent, almost nobody’s straight, and… yeah, there’s a lot of dumb shit. And it’s ridiculous as hell.

Dolly Wraith the Ultimate Goth Fashion Enthusiast and Beck Jonas the Ultimate McDonald’s Employee, as well as the art, were created by me.

#fanganronpa #danganronpa #no I don’t know what I’m doing wdym?

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baladric · 1 year

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4, 10, 14!! heehee!

ouuuu thank you!!!!

4. How many different styles/medium (e.g., digital art, traditional art, comics, sculpture, paper craft, etc.) did you try this year?

on the diversity of media front, i feel like i stagnated a little! i used to have a lot more breadth, but this year like 98% of my work was done with procreate, and the other 2% were very occasional pencil/pen doodles that i then spruced up in procreate ahaha!! but honestly i'm not too arsed about this, like the sheer volume of art i made this year is so much higher than usual, entirely bc messing around w procreate and the specific hyperfixations i've had this year really inspired me to keep throwing myself at drawings again and again until i got it right—which has translated into a lot of skill growth, which i honestly could not be happier about!!!!!

10. What inspired/motivated you this year?

content-wise, the goblin emperor was my main artistic motivator (specifically my own goddamn au s;alkdfjaow;if), but i'm also really learning how to create my own original works as expressions of various emotional experiences i'm shufflin my way through lately.

also (and i've said this already recently but it bears saying again) literally i looked at @littleowlbub 's concept art for their new comic, prism, and i fell deeply and madly in love with how they draw hands—they're like... so expressive and lovely, but what really sets them apart for me is this sense that there's joy in the simple act of drawing them. their hands are, for me, the visual equivalent of taking that first full breath of fresh air at the start of a hike in the blue ridge mountains ;lakjdfaef like, god, i look at a few of the drawings of spectrum specifically and just feel love and peace in my own existence as a tactile being, idk!!!! this is all a lot of weight to put on the way someone draws hands, but it's WHERE I'M AT and honestly it has really inspired me to find my own ways of creating that feeling with the hands i draw, and i have a long road ahead still but the results are so visible to me, and i'm so so excited about that progress!!!

14. What's one pairing/character/subject/body part/object you want to explore next year?

pairing(s): hrmm honestly i've been eyeballing my internal visualization of evemer and kadou from @ariaste 's A Taste Of Iron and Gold, like i am itchin to draw them a whole whole bunch

characters: it's become a pathological need to figure out how to simplify eddie entertainment munson's dumb face down to a few brush strokes, like i've done so much noodling to try to figure out what it is exactly that makes his face his face—is it the full lips? the angle of his eyes? the sparse eyebrows? the laugh lines? nose, the particular contours of his 3/4 profile?? who the fuck knows!!! but i will figure it out or i will die trying!!!!!!!!

subject: really digging my vent pieces so i fully intend to keep honing that style and the sort of. idk creative muscles that go into funneling big emotions into little eyestrain-y guys

body part: see my tender screeching about hands above. also really working on understanding legs. why are they like that. whose idea was that.

object: man i need to draw more objects. engineered shapes in general suck SO BAD. i wanna get better at musical instruments especially, but one of my broadest goals is to get better at dramatic lighting (light is a huge part of my creative world, which is really apparent in my writing and poetry, but much less so in my art bc i Don't Know How To Do It Yet), and i'm annoyingly aware that the best way to work at that is to, in fact, do a lot of still lives, and probably like. paint more. pls pls, 2023 me, let yourself fuck up with gouache. you love gouache. it's so good for light.

artist wrapped ask meme!

#artist wrapped 2023 #ask meme #paunchsalazar #thanks so much for asking a;lkfjawoief #ask

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tell-me-about-your-ocs · 2 years

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idk who to tell about this so hi, I am having so much fun with my ocs, I get a bit overwhelmed at times cause there's so many of them and I want them all to be individuals and have relationships with each other (good or bad) and I wanna figure out the world building etc, but really I'm just having so much fun making these dumb little gay people enjoy their lives, I love thinking about how their personalities would interact with each other and what history they could have with who and what made them who they are. It's all super self indulgent and I have no idea what I'm doing but I'm actually enjoying my art and literally seeing improvement and I'm just so happy :)

I can understand that feeling of being overwhelmed. (My tagline on my main account is "I have too many OCs," lol!)

But the main thing that's important when you're writing stories or making characters is to make yourself happy. Is it great that others resonate with them or enjoy their stories? Absolutely! But at the end of the day they are your characters and are meant to help you explore themes and motives that can pull all sorts of emotions. From happiness, to sadness, anger, and even disgust! For me, they've really help me explore "basic" emotions that I don't really understand. Sure, sometimes we do get envious of others who look like they have all of their worldbuilding and relationships so neatly packaged together, but I'm glad to hear that at this moment your art, your characters, and your writing make you happy. That's all we can strive to hope for with these dolls.

#anon #anonymous #oc #original characters

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realhankmccoy · 7 months

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the way rightists kinda gum up the works is they turn blue people into purple people and purple people into the most lukewarm stagnant water ever

I saw it happy to Christina and dad and sis-in-law and so many….

“uh uh uh I don’t want to … Offend… any poor rightists… so let’s just stick with business as usual and make super super super super moderate positions that keep everything exactly the same as it already is, think we solved something by doing nothing and saying nothing, having parroted something that already moderately exists in the world and made it even mushier and blander and mor dull… pat ourselves on the back for feeling ‘smart’ and kick up our heels for a while before getting back to implanting Trump’s agenda of violence by up, tough-talking up and billshitting your way in capitalistic improv and game show-ification of human life, throwing out 95% of what it means to be human and only ever wanting to talk about white people.

I suppose that’s one of my main issues with all these folks so carefully coddling the destructive, poor-and-brown people-smashing politics of rightists:

stasis is boring.

tepid ‘oh I very worried about stepping out of bounds, I chose to cuck myself to the right and need to prove how good and cucked I am to Their emotions and feelings means I’ve sacrificed all freedom of thought and expression pretty much forever because if my rightist friend or son hears me talking about em over the phone or sees me writing for him, they will feel alienated and we as cucks who have always been cucks are only willing to risk alienating the left just every dumb cuck every.

the error was my part for seeing any potential in these people. They just will never be able to do better than undoing a Tupperware container from the past idea somebody else had and serve it up mushy and hope that it doesn’t offend anybody.

when you improv your way through life, no wonder you think like a lazy housewife who’s hoping to put a little spin on her food to impress the Man who cucked her that maybe in her mind liberalizes the food a tad but still keeps it conservative status quo palatable enough for the man who sets the rules and will always support hard right politics and positions and will never never never budge no matter how much she manipulates and wheedles.

because they are not men, they will never express anything.

they will be bubble boys who cannot but strive to keep the world as it is but maybe give the capitalists a little efficiency boost is probably what they achieve.

There will be no

Environment

Collective Homo Pride

Climate

Equity

Income Equality

Gender Equality

95% of human life

Original Ideas

Eroticism

Quality Art

Music

Dance

Adventure

Escapism

Dreams

Motivation

998 other ‘points of light’ so to speak in a cuck’s terms for just one moment, since they only ever relate to the strategies of the imperial kings of America who cucked them

under these purple people who cucked themselves to the rightists. They have a new special slice of Wonderbread to please now, and pleasing it will consume theirs lives and keep their precious word ‘freedom’ within the most narrow circle imaginable

like clockwork, a freedom-bleater will imprison itself to both the Dems and the Reps and the most narrow moderate vision and position and verbiage

every time

Even sometimes when there’s a rebellious scream of ‘kill ‘em all’ out of these folks as I’ve seen, it’s really little different from Trump’s kill ‘em all — they’re all talk, no action — and they’ll be back to grooming through the nuances of white people and carefully shining the white world’s hair and acting like all brown folks scarcely exist

in all of two minutes

because the only type of people these folks want to listen to is the ones with the white skin

How can you make basically a status quo pig infected by the Trump xenomorph and cucked by the words of the founding fathers have dreams or visions or anything to say that’s not in the narrowest and most unfree of circles in order to please the rightists it let into its life and submits its mind to?

you can’t, it cucked itself when It signed onto ‘gee I hope this is palatable to the rightist in my life, we’ll keep it only to things he can agree on and that won’t fundamentally alter in the slightest his sociopathics’

Stasis and static… kids fooling themselves into thinking they’re working on problems or out to better the world.

they’re not, they hate most people especially to the left especially women like America has always programmed its cucks to do

they never deal with the fact that they’re cucks but like a cuck of American empire always is, they got 1001 notions about how the world ‘should be’

and every single one of these motions came from somebody from the past who was fundamentally moderate or conservative, indeed, Xerox copy machines that they are for the slaveholders which want to focus on the question of how to better the lives of their tribe which is straighter whiter males

and the kiddies most kid gloves always reserved for the rightist in their lives. Though rightists are a more basic and clumsy creature so if they do screw up and knock each other hamfisted around, it isn’t as big of a deal because it’s like how a few playground bullies always connect and relate to each other —

when they don’t know how to play a stringed instrument or any instrument

there’s always that other meaty bully to keep ya company when ya alienated everybody else by being selfish and Trumpian

so deeply conservative

#Mommie searest #Mommie dearest

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pangolinheart · 1 year

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And another: how did you go about creating Rhiki? was she always a Miqo'te? Did she change at all from where she started?

Rhiki was actually my second FFXIV character, albeit my first long-term one. I had started the game like 2 or 3 years earlier via the free trial and had a character on the Aether server who was a Roe lady named Styrnlona. I never really got very far though and then I got busy with work and other things, so I ended up putting it down and not picking it up again. (Styrnlona also started out as a lancer.) When I picked it up again it was at a recommendation of a few friends I played D&D with. Because I played a tall, buff goliath barbarian woman, it somehow seemed too on-brand to remake Styrnlona on the server they played on. So I tried to make a character that was totally different from anything I had played recently (mostly buff women and shitty magic elves). A miqo'te or viera seemed like a sufficient departure from what I would usually choose, so that's how Rhiki ended up being a miqo'te. That being said, I was really tempted to make an au ra... If female au ra weren't so short I probably would have (though Rhiki ended up absurdly short anyway so the joke's on me.) As for her personality, I kept with the theme of trying to make her different from my typical character. I don't have very many recent characters who are super social or emotionally intuitive, and the idea of playing a character that was more fun-loving and mischievous appealed to me. Originally I envisioned her as being more of a trickster-type character, but as I played she ended up becoming a little more excitable and dorky.

Compared to other rpgs I've played, ffxiv doesn't really give you any sot of starting point or background for your characters, and since I knew nothing about the game or plot when I started I wanted to make her motivations general enough that it would be easy to adapt to whatever direction the plot took. Lots of "fledgling adventurer" backstories I had used before or felt too edgy or played out, and I also didn't know enough about the game to 100% commit to a backstory. I ended up with the general idea of "some dumb wayward 20-something who doesn't know what they want to do with their life so they're just vibing and trying stuff out." Appearance-wise I really just kind of played around until I found a concept I liked. I had a hard time deciding between the sun-seeker and moon-keeper subtypes (I like the moon-keeper lore better but I'm just not a huge fan of the giant round pupils lol). I ended up trying to make her coloring around a theme of "sunrise/sunset" - thus the original purple and orange hair and purple and orange highlights and purple/pink eyes. I originally intended for her skin to be darker, but the lighting in the background I was using made it look much different than it ended up being in-game. I've thought about my free fantasia to change it, but I'm not totally sold. If I could go back I would give her the lion-like tail instead, and maybe the slightly darker nose facial feature... But I've already gotten so much art of Rhiki as she is and I can't think of a good story-relevant reason for her appearance to change lol.

Overall, Rhiki hasn't changed too much since I originally made her. Obviously she got a new haircut that necessitated a slight color change (the orange looked too weird with the highlights on the pvp cut.) She really does look older with her new hairstyle. In regards to her personality, she definitely ended up less "alluring and impish" than I intended and more "goofy and obnoxious," but she's still a fun character to play around with! And of course there's the maturity that comes with age and experience. And the compounding effects of trauma. You know how it goes. If I ever made an alt I might try to go with someone a little... taller lol. Maybe go back to Styrnlona, or try out a duskwight or viera. There are a lot of glams Rhiki just doesn't look good in because of her body type. I'm still tempted to make an au ra though because I love the horns and scales... A hyur wouldn't be off the table either. I might also try to make a character with longer hair - sometimes i want to try out a longer style for Rhiki but every time I try them on she looks like a totally different catte...

#ffxiv #final fantasy xiv #asks and answers #rhiki tag #sorry this is late i fell asleep last night!#also I always tell myself to answer asks in a single paragraph #and yet....

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joshstambourine · 3 years

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A Seconds Glance

"Hi I have a request for either Josh or Jake 💛 can I get a story where they see a girl, either at school or they can already be famous in this, and is instantly enamored. I don't know if you've seen The Virgin Suicides, but if you have then something similar to when Trip sees Lux for the first time. I'm interested in how those two would go about getting a girl's attention when they have a crush.💕💕💕" - Anonymous

//Hi Doll! I can’t say I have seen that--- but I will try my best to write something that I feel matches the idea you had.

I’m gonna be repeating this forever--- but again, I’m so sorry it took me so long to get this request out for you! I decided to go with Josh being in school for this one.//

Warnings: Cursing, awkward beans

Word Count: 1969

Synopsis: Josh had never really believed in love at first sight... but yet....

Josh Kiszka x Fem!Reader

The first day of sophomore year. For most this was just the start of another school year; a sudden reminder that a new binder or fun pencil case is exciting for all of 10 minutes when it comes to actual classes and work. But for Josh… this year felt like it was filled with possibilities. It sounds like some sort of stupid thing you'd see on a motivational calendar, but it really truly did.

Josh hadn't imagined for a second that he actually would have a chance in making music his career; and yet, he had spent all summer with his band mates playing for different occasions and pubs. All the while they were working, working hard on writing songs that they could be proud to play for others.

All of that said, Josh was returning to high-school this year with a new found amount of confidence and excitement; it showed in every step Josh took. His one hand held loosely on to the arm of his backpack, walking in time with Jake.

"But what do you think? Would it look good on me?" Jake inquired, fingers lightly playing with the mid-length pieces of hair on his head.

"I mean… I don't know…" Josh lightly starts, glancing at his twin and begins to take a good long look at him.

Jake's eyes widened just a touch, his expression becoming one that said, 'Well…?'

"Uh… honestly I don't really know Jake. I've never seen you with anything else than this." Josh admits, then snickers a little, "Except for that one time when we decided it'd be fun to take those scissors and---"

"No, that's fine, I didn't need to think about that." Jake immediately stopped him, his hand going to take a full dive into his mess of dark brown hair.

"Cmon, it was really funny though. Ma really lost her shit when she saw your head like that." Josh continued to muse, hands folding into his pockets with the utmost of ease.

Jake shook his head in a mournful way, "I can say I will never go back to a buzz-cut again… not without a fight."

Josh's smile never faltered, it was his laughter that changed, softening into a bit of a sigh as they reached the double doors at the front of the school. With a swing of the doors they both were making their way down the hallway to their lockers.

"Meet by Mr.Shapiro's class before lunch?" Jake questioned, to which Josh nodded. No matter which school the twins went to the teachers seemed to know that the best course of action was to keep them separated. That said Josh and Jake always had separate homerooms at least, through most of their time in school.

"See ya in a bit." Josh waved, taking a few steps back before turning on his heels and heading to his own locker.

Josh's excitement to be back in class showed on his face more than he probably would have wanted. A few pencils in his hand along with a binder filled with blank paper and tucked away dividers.

As soon as Josh stepped into the class room his eyes were met with many familiar faces. Some of these people he had been in school with since kindergarten; like Meg, a rather tall blunt faced girl with long kinky black hair. She simply threw a peace sign Josh's way as he stepped through the doors; he eagerly returned it, bringing a small smile to Meg's lips.

With some brisk steps Josh moved to place himself at the back of the classroom, just behind Meg. He threw his things on his desk without much thought. Despite there being a good number of kids he knew... there seemed to be equally just as many new kids.

Leaning on his desk Josh moved closer to Meg, "Where the hell did these guys come from?"

Meg's brow lifted as she leaned back a little, "Know the high-school on the east side?"

"The one where you can get crack for super cheap?" Josh inquired,

Meg's head bobbed, "They closed it down, so now we get half the kids that went there." She explains with her head resting on her hand in a bored way.

"Oh shit really? That's a lot of kids---" Josh was quick to respond, glancing around the room.

"Oh yeah... way too many in my personal opinion --- not that anyone cares." Meg mutters, beginning to click her mechanical pencil.

Josh's eyes were still taking in all the new faces as he started to respond, "Wow aren't we positive today."

Meg sighed, "Eh.... I'm just not excited, Justin and I broke up over the summer and I'll have to see him in history." She began to explain, "Things are just really tense, yknow?"

She waited a moment for him to give some comforting... but still idiotic response, however none came. It finally got Meg to turn and look at him, as she did she immediately noticed that Josh's eyes had widened just a touch, cheeks dusted a light pink.

Meg followed the line of his eyes to a beautiful young woman. The expression he wore was more than enough to tell Meg that she should move.

Josh was so busy just... taking the new girl in that he didn't even notice Meg slip to the free desk to the side of the one she was previously sat in. Josh just couldn't put his finger on it, there was something... something so breathtaking about her. Was it her eyes? Or maybe how her hair fell around her face? He couldn't be sure. What he was absolutely sure of was that he had never had a moment in his life where he could hear music just by looking at someone.

"Hey... do you know if this desk is free?" A new voice shook Josh. It was her. She was standing at a desk to his left with a bit of an awkward air.

He was just so shaken. What did she say again? Something about a desk? Josh's lips parted, "Uh--- I uh, what did you--?"

"No that one isn't open, but the one just in front of my dude Josh is, right Josh?" Meg interrupted, pointing to the desk ahead of him.

"Oh y-yeah, that one's open! Definitely 100% open! It couldn't be more open even if it tried!" Josh started spouting, he really wasn't even aware that his mouth had moved, and that was clear in the fact that it just kept moving when she had come to sit down. "Do you need any pencils at all?? I have like 20!" He continued, though his hand held one full sized pencil and one shorter than the average person's pinkie... both chewed on. "I mean not on me but--- who needs a pencil right?"

The girl laughed a little awkwardly, her gaze moving from Josh to Meg and then to the desk. "No, no I'm okay thank you though." She slipped into the chair, keeping her gaze frontwards.

Meg looks to Josh with a shocked look, 'What was that??' She mouthed,

Josh responded with an absolutely mortified expression. He would never say he was the smoothest guy on the planet, but he had never been that awkward in his life.

Meg shook her head before reaching out to tap the girl's shoulder, "I'm Meg!" She introduces, "And that goober is Josh."

The girl lightly moved to glance over her shoulder at Josh in a shy way. "It's nice to meet you both. I'm (Y/N)." She hummed with a sweet smile.

"That's a pretty name, isn't it Josh??" Meg quickly said, trying to get him to continue the conversation in a less awkward way.

Josh nodded very enthusiastically, "The prettiest name I've heard in a long time!" He said with a smile,

(Y/N)'s cheeks began to hold a flush of their own. "Oh! Uh... th-thank you!" She sputtered out.

'OH FUCK. She's so cute.' Josh thought to himself, Adam's apple bobbing in his throat with a shaky swallow.

Little did Josh know that (Y/N) was thinking something very similar. She might not make it as obvious as he was, but being so much closer now... being able to see the warmth in his brown eyes, seeing how his wavy brown hair came to cup his cheeks --- she couldn't help but continue to stare back at him.

The only thing that could pull them both out of the little trance they had fallen into was the bell. Both of them quickly looked toward it, followed by a man's voice at the front of the class.

"Alright everyone, take your seats!"

(Y/N) was reluctant but she turned herself to look toward the front of the class. A little bit nervous, but mustering an ounce of courage she tore a piece of paper from her notebook quietly and began to scribble something down.

Josh hardly got anything out of that language arts class, he was way too busy trying to figure out what excuse he could make to talk with (Y/N) again. He was just rattling through every little conversation starter he had ever heard in his life... but none of them felt like they would work.

Before long the bell had rung overhead once more and everyone was shuffling to grab their things and head to all of their next classes.

Biting his lip, Josh was determined to catch (Y/N) before she could head off to her own next class. Luckily for him she had a similar idea. Both turning to each other as they stepped out of the classroom, it was painfully quiet at first. It seemed as if they were trying to get their thoughts together really.

Finally they spoke,

"Hey would you---" "I was wondering if you'd---"

At once.

A small awkward laugh left their lips, "Please, go ahead I was going to say something dumb---" Josh quickly said moving to rub the back of his neck.

(Y/N)'s lips parted as she let out and unsure chuckle, eyes moving downwards for a moment. "I was just going to ask if you would mind if I joined you for lunch? I just am new and don't really have any---"

"Yes!" Josh quickly said, "Yes absolutely. You didn't even have to ask, you could have just showed up if you wanted to!" He quickly says to her.

The speed he seemed to talk at entertained (Y/N) a heck of a lot. A smile creeping across her face, "Okay! Thank you!" She responded.

"Do you know where the cafeteria is? I can show ya if you want??" Josh quickly continued, "I mean I'm sure you could find it on you're own, you seem very smart and capable. Most women are to be honest; I remember reading an article about how men need to---"

"That would be really great actually." (Y/N) smiled in a gentle way. 'He's even more nervous than I am.' She thought to herself.

"Oh-oh! Okay cool! Uh, do you know where Mr.Shapiro's class is?" He asks,

(Y/N) seemed to think for a minute, "113... right? I have him for chemistry this afternoon I think." She mutters.

Josh swiftly nods his head, "That's the one!! Meet me there okay?" He says.

(Y/N) nodded back, understanding the little plan they now had. "I'll see you in a little bit then?" She lightly asks.

"Yeah absolutely." Josh began to grin, suddenly beyond excited. Even as she began to walk off to her class all he could think about was how sure he was now that this year was going to be fantastic.

That was until a warning bell played overhead, "Oh shit--" Josh jumped in shock, immediately beginning to run to his next class.

//That's all for now lovely! I do actually have an idea on how to continue this one if anyone would like! Pretty please let me know in the comments if that's something you guys would like 💜//

#greta van fleet #josh kiszka #josh gvf #greta van fleet fan fiction #jake gvf #jake kiszka #awkward beans #greta van fic #greta van fleet imagines #greta van fleet imagine #greta van fleet fluff

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enexium · 2 years

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FNAF SB AU

Alright I’ve had an AU idea in my head for a while, this AU probably already exists for all I know but I may as well share it anyway. So, we know how in the Burntrap Ending/Timeline the entire pizza plex burns down yeah? Well, what if the daycare attendants were able to escape the fire, though they were heavily damaged, I mean they Did just escape through a massive fire.

So, after they escaped the fire, they ended up breaking down in an alleyway due to the damage they sustained while escaping. Soon they were discovered by a teenager, and you know what this teenager did? Brought them to their apartment and painstakingly fixed Sun/Moon all up over the course of who knows how many months, through manuals and YouTube videos on how to fix animatronics. After those long months out of commission, Sun/Moon were charged up overnight (costing quite a bit on the electricity bill, rip minimum wage money). This is just the start of the Teenager ending up with an animatronic roommate that eats up their electricity bill.

This is just some dumb AU in my mind, I doubt this will get any sort of traction, but to whoever did discover this little AU thank you for reading!

Edit1: Thank you to the 20+ people who liked this post, maybe if I have enough motivation, I may post a bit of fanart for the AU, I can’t promise anything though

Edit2: goddammit I’m procrastinating on making art, I promise I’ll make something at least

#fnaf sb #fnaf #five nights at freddy's #five nights at freddy's security breach #daycare attendant #fnaf sb au #fnaf sundrop #fnaf moondrop #fnaf sun #fnaf moon #sundrop #moondrop #sorry for my terrible writing #hyperfixation go brrr

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symphonyofthewrite · 3 years

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If These Walls Could Talk

Freaking GORGEOUS cover art by Junki Sakuraba on Instagram and Deviantart!! Definitely go check him out!! His art is incredible, and from what I can tell he’s really nice dude. He absolutely went above and beyond with this prompt. 10/10 would commission again. (And probably will once I save up enough money XD)

The wonderful art later in the chaper is by niuan_ on instagram!!

It wasn’t made/commissioned for this fic--(though I’ve since commissioned her to make cover art for me, so stay tuned for those!)--but when I saw it I couldn’t believe it!! That’s one of my favorite images in this chapter, and I couldn’t believe another artist made a piece for the same idea independently!!

I'll put the links to their profiles either in the replies or a reblog (since tumblr is dumb about links)!!

Also, FYI, I'll be using this post as my "reblog post" meaning I'll reblog this post with the later chapters of this fic, so they're all in one place. So if you want to read more of this fic, check the reblogs on this post, chances are more chapters will be there!!

Comments and reblogs are MORE than appreciated!! If you have a spare minute you will really make my week, and motivate me to keep writing!!

Fandom: Castlevania Netflix

Summary: Vampires do not have reflections, and castles do not have hearts. But Dracula is no ordinary vampire, and Castlevania is no ordinary castle. If castles can fight, maybe they can think too.

The series, and Adrian’s childhood, told from the perspective of the castle.

Chapter Summary:

“My mother’s name was Lisa, and she was mortal…She actually showed up at his front door. She found the castle and banged the door with the pommel of her knife…She was remarkable. She beat on the door until my father let her in, and then demanded he teach her how to be a doctor.”

Chapter 1: "Lisa”

“Is this how the castle felt to you before my mother first arrived at your door?”

The castle doesn’t like children.

Well, maybe that’s too strong to say. It simply isn’t the place for them. Its existence is a signpost: leave me alone. It is not used to having company—much less a family—inside it, nor is it ready to welcome for a crying, puking, giggling thing into the world. It does not intend to be a cozy place to coddle him into adulthood.

The castle itself pierces the sky, its turrets and towers the dripping stain of the sun’s blood across the moon.

The bare walls hold no colorful tapestries for a child to enjoy, no paintings of its many inhabitants to tell of—for there was only ever one (and maybe that ought not change. It is safe to say the castle doesn’t like change). The royal red and gold carpets are more suited to kings; not designed for spit-up, mud, and scuffing. ‘Don’t play with that’ would be a motto around here; so many contraptions either easy to break, or which could break the child. The fireplaces, while almost always lit, only ever coughed warmth onto the floor before them—they provided no snug space to curl up on a winter’s day. Even the mirrors here are empty, holding nothing but a reflection of the bare walls they sit upon.

There are certain people who were seemingly born as they are; they never owned toys, never crawled on the floor, never walked with clumsy steps—their footfalls were always this calculated count—never burped on their mother’s nice shirts, and surely never had anything so dull as a childhood. They were always just…here, on the world. There was no innocence, and no losing it. So it was with Dracula.

The very thought of Dracula ever owning toys, even in some nice cottage far away from here, with a doting mother and an absent father, with a funny last name like Cronqvist, defied sense to the castle. So no, no toys here, nor any simple charts for learning; the books divulged their secrets to more mature minds. Just blood and books, gold and gears, forgotten magic means, mirrors that reflect nothing, and a pile of prayers to a good God they used to justify their ungood, and ungodly deeds.

All these things—or their absence—do not make for the picture of a baby-proof home.

The castle has grown accustomed to being cold and dark, and listening to one master alone. It’s not a quaint place lovers look on and think we’ll raise our kids here someday.

Its master isn’t the ideal father either—after all, the castle only reflected its king. Its master knows only of blood and nails, fangs and wails, words too big for a child’s mouth, and worlds too dark for a child’s heart.

Can he be soft? Can he be gentle? Can he keep those claws, which have ripped out better men’s hearts, from piercing a child’s—his child’s…how could one who killed so many have a child?—skin? He knows many spells, but is there one that can turn those screams into laughter?

He has been soft before. Once. And that is with this woman.

Many women have walked the castle’s halls: shivering, shrieking damsels at his feet; cold and calculating queens; fragile bodies on the floor, that he broke with the same regard a child does a vase that matters to someone else.

Those ordinary people who do come often have pitchforks in their mouths, and fiery words in their closed fists. Curses stacked on the end of stakes, banging like the castle is the church bell signifying their own funerals.

It is for this reason that the castle does not like outsiders, does not open its doors easily. But it cannot deny anyone entry. Unlike the humans’ doors, which find his master guilty until proven innocent.

They always came at night. At night, when the loudest sound is your own breathing. At night, when their fires echoed loudest, and their shouts burned brightest.

They came when the flowers were closed, when only the most eerie and vicious of animals played with the skins of their prey, and the moon waxed the world in cold, drunk shine. The sun could not watch them, could not show their blood-struck hands in their full glory.

She came at sunset. When the sun still glazed her deeds in sanguine auburn, but was just deciding to turn its gaze and let the kids have their fun. Not quite day, when the sun would kill things like Dracula, but not quite night, when the hours are named after witches, and lust is strongest—be it for the body, or the blood within it. Somewhere in between death and life, violence and peace.

This woman came with a knife in her hand, yes. But a knife, at least, was not a sword. It was not a pitchfork, a spear, a whip, or a stake; all weapons that signify, if the fight wasn’t there, you were bringing it with you. Not a war-starved weapon, pointing with mal-in—and -con—tent towards the castle doors and all the things inside it. Not a thirsty thing. Something that by default faced the other direction. Something that can start a fight if it wants to, but doesn’t crave it.

The golden woman came at sunset, with a knife in her hand, and looked upon this thing, this castle that others called ‘ugly’, and ‘monstrous,’ and ‘grotesque,’ looked upon it with awe, and gasped in wonder.

She knocked. She didn’t bang her fists upon the stone, didn’t ram pitchforks and assorted insults against the innocent doors, like how-dare-they protect their master.

She knocked, and the doors opened before she could raise her fist a second time. Maybe, just this once, not because they didn’t have any other choice.

The doors—foreboding, menacing, and all the other spooky -ings one can think of—opened to a world strewn in light; the demon’s castle looked brighter, more beautiful, more alive, than half the churches she’d been to.

Her footsteps were gentle against the castle’s floors. Not a slow, forced gentleness, but also not a piercing, purposeful march. There was no apprehension to her footsteps; her feet carried her as if anxious to take her to as many rooms as they could.

At first her steps were the only sound, enough to fool some into thinking they’re alone.

And it became clear both that she was not alone, and not a fool.

But when she saw the demon, she put the knife away, and used her words.

She used her words to repeat those she herself had heard: stories. But not the kind that make monstrous men run at the doors with naughts and crosses, the kind pious people buried along with all evidence that the world wasn’t made of black and white.

Not all the stories told that this place was cold and dark and full of death.

Amongst all the stories about death, there were others that said Vlad Tepes brought this castle to life with science, forbidden knowledge, and a little bit of lightning. Stories that say there is life here.

And, in exchange for proof that these life-stories true, Dracula asked for a trade, a trade that would prove the other stories true too. He gave up the killing a while ago—(the castle has been in one place a very long time)—but he was still not used to giving for free, and definitely not used to getting for free. Vampires trade in blood and names, not diamonds and declarations. Vampires trade in things they can swallow. This castle, too, had been a gaping hole set to swallow the world and everything that entered. Never once had it given.

And she dared to say, that this place, its master, should learn to give, when the humans have done nothing but take from them—or try their best to. He ought to be the one to invite her in, to ask what she would like, to dispense pleasant words and kind actions, when the humans forgot they invented hospitality, and showed no invitation for him to even enter their homes.

But she didn’t come with a mouth full of garlic, and hands full of superstition. Her feet did not drill holes in the floor with their sharp toll, they wandered the scenic route.

She was used to being cheated. Dracula and his castle were too. But that was not why she was there. She was not there for cheap tricks, or death. She wanted something real. A little bit of the life the castle has to offer.

Her defiance wasn’t that of a terrified citizen, or angry queen, either; rather the calm resolve of someone who is asking for something they know in their heart is good, and knows they will get it. The kind of person who believes there is good in everyone, and that this good will ultimately always win, and who won’t leave until they convince this good to show its face.

The castle has watched countless men and women cower at the foot of count Dracula. Some, do have a measure of god-sanctioned defiance; they come with whips and scourges to defeat him. The castle and the king are bound together in their resolve against them.

Except one. Except this woman. One human whom both master and castle found themselves reluctant to deny, cast away, or kill, maybe even…taken with.

She may be human, but she was not like the rest; she did not light the night on fire with her thirst for blood.

So maybe, just maybe, they could let one ray of sunlight slip through the cracks.

She was also not devoid of life, and maybe that was the key.

‘Devoid of life’ was an accurate portrayal of the castle. Bats flying out of blackness is a good description of a cave, and caves don’t usually come with the brochure ‘teeming with life’, or ‘great place to take your kids!’. The castle had a soul-sucking quality to it; those who entered often found themselves leaving less alive than they arrived. It took after its vampire master. Those who didn’t actually lose their lives within its walls, often remarked upon leaving that the flowers bloomed brighter, the birds sang louder, the grass was greener, and that they missed the sunlight.

Sunlight. Such a base thing; vampires don’t need the light or warmth to be happy.

Sunlight. Such a base way to die; wanting to get out of the cold and the dark.

“Is this how the castle felt to you before my mother first arrived at your door?”

Castlevania was alive once. Once Dracula set the pumps, and its heart began to beat. He turned the gears, and its lungs inhaled. He forged the lightning, and it began to think. Once the books, full of unknown knowledge, jumped off the shelves to get the vampire king’s attention. He filled the bottles and beakers, and they bubbled, as if laughing at a joke only they shared.

They were both alive, once.

That waned, with time. The gears got arthritis, the books caught pneumonia, the experiments atrophied. The castle ached before she came.

And Dracula, alone in the halls, picking up books and putting them down again without so much as a polite glance through them, because he read them all before. Dracula looking into fractured mirrors that could take him anywhere, but deciding there wasn’t anywhere he wanted to go. Dracula, looking into old mirrors that don’t reflect him—like there was never anything to reflect, nothing alive here to begin with, and there isn’t a master for this castle after all. Nothing but a grave. Dracula sitting alone in his study, staring into the fire. No one to talk to. No sound but flipping pages and crackling fires—nothing alive. Alive but dead. This castle. Its master. Undead is the proper term.

The other women who came through here reflected the castle, or else the castle took the life out of them the moment they entered. Queens with malice-stained past, and cracked, icy future in their eyes. Just as cold as the walls. Subjects, humans throwing gruesome insults, silky flattery, or fluttering pleas at his feet. Just as empty as the mirrors.

Only one refused the castle’s bite. Only one walked in looking for life, rather than death. Looking for a thing no one thought existed here. Already presumed dead. Put six feet beneath the ground. But maybe it was here all along; maybe the light hid in the castle’s corners while the dark came out to play, and she just had to coax it out of its hiding places. Maybe the bell was ringing all this time, she was the only one who came close enough to hear it; the only one who came to put flowers on the grave.

Maybe when she felt the machinery pumping she knew the rhythm was a heartbeat. Maybe when she heard the gears clanking she knew it was the sound of inhaling and exhaling. Maybe when she saw the lightning, she wondered what it was thinking. Maybe she looked at these books, these instruments, and saw what the vampire king saw once; something alive. They weren’t dead yet—un- or otherwise. Just sick, and in need of proper treatment. She was a doctor after all. Maybe her first subject was the very books she learned from.

Lisa, who looked at this blotch on the sky, with Death in its towers, and darkness splattered on its walls, and thought that’s where I’ll learn to heal people. Lisa, who gaped in amazement at the beast of a building. Lisa, who didn’t shudder upon entering. Lisa, who didn’t scream when its master touched her, but turned to him with calm resolve, and told him she’d teach him to be more human. Lisa, who’s life eclipsed the undeath in this place.

And there was a trade that occurred that day. For Dracula’s immortal knowledge, Lisa would teach him how to live a mortal life. To travel the world as a man, to walks as a man, to eat and drink, laugh and cry, as a man. Immortality for mortality. They gave each other the world, as so many lovers promise to do. Vlad would make her immortal, and Lisa would make him mortal, with no exchange blood.

(Except to create a thing with both their blood running through it.)

So maybe, after all this talk of life, it is fitting that she wants to create life inside this castle.

Fitting, maybe. Fitting for her. But the castle is not mortal yet, and wishes it could protest that it isn’t the right size, refuse to try on the idea.

Dracula is apprehensive as well, for the castle and he are used to each other, they take after each other, because the cold, and the dark, and the death, and the alone does something to you after a while; you start talking to the walls. After the cold queens and quaking colleens leave, or leave their bloodstains the floor. After the beasts and their silver-stained bullets turn back into righteous men in the sun. After he simply outlives everyone else. When all the living things hate, fear, or else betray you, when all the living things can die, and you, who are undead, cannot, it’s the lifeless things that stand firm by your side. When the day ends and the shadows come out to play, when you’re the only one left, in the end you still have the walls. And then…the walls are all you have. And if you talk to them long enough you make a sort of pact, spoken or silent, with those speechless stones: ‘you’re the only one I can trust.’

Dracula speaks to them one day, says he wonders if he can do this, be a father at all, not to mention a good one. The castle cannot reply. But something deep inside the walls wonders if it might be nice to hear Dracula laugh. It might be nice to put on some different clothes. It might be nice for someone new to listen to from time to time. It might be nice to live again.

The castle is concerned. Used to doing things one way, being one way, and only hearing one voice. But that doesn’t mean it is unwilling, that it intends to kill the child.

It never kills anything—Dracula does that. It cannot do anything on its own, and that includes change.

The castle doesn’t like change.

…But that doesn’t mean it won’t.

And if its going to change, its master must change first. They must change together.

Vampires do not have reflections. But Dracula has a castle, and that castle will be damned if it isn’t his mirror.

Reflections are simple to change; put on some makeup, some war paint, a new change of clothes, get a piercing somewhere. Simple, yes, but not easy, to change completely, because that doesn’t mean anything’s changed inside.

The castle did not come equipped for child-rearing; there are no rooms full of toys and cradles and school supplies.

So if this is to be, they must build their son’s world themselves.

Together they set aside a room for the child’s arrival. Just one, single room. And the castle too knows, from the start, this room will be different from all the rest. They will put paintings on the walls, and banners in the halls; things to interest him, to tell him of his parents, at least, even if there are few other relatives to spend Christmas with. The carpets will be darker, instead of the stringent red, and they will make their words smaller, the books easier to understand. The rest of the castle is warm in color, but cool in atmosphere. This room will be cool in color, but warm in atmosphere. The fire will always be set in its place, and they will try their best to make sure the warmth reaches him; if the fire fails, they will knit blankets; if the blankets fail they will make him tea, or warm milk with honey; and when everything else fails they will hold him. If there are tears here, scornful stares will not greet them, instead, kisses and lullabies will be behind door number three. If this room lives, it will be because of something much softer than pounding metal and lighting.

If a child is to live here, they must change that reflection. Everything Dracula’s castle appears to be, this room will be the reverse. Separate. Something… other than the castle.

This room will bottle all the laughter had in this castle. This room will be made of and for living, not the death the rest of the place is steeped in. So much so that this room will not stand for bloodshed.

Lisa brings in supplies from her town; color and cloth, boards and brushes, needle, and thread, and paper; all the things one needs to build a universe.

It is Dracula who takes the paint, who changes the color to something other than the blacks and reds of the rest of the Vampire’s world, cementing on the walls themselves You will not be dark here, my castle. You will be kind to him, Castlevania. The castle doesn’t know its master to work with his hands like a human, but Vlad is not the same within this room either—this room is part of the trade. He doesn’t use magic, or science, as if he is telling himself with every hammer that they are going to change together, the way one does when talking to the mirror.

Lisa sits in a chair and stiches together cloth and fur to make little creatures, toys for the boy to play with. Soft things, not sharp. They are reflections too, littler, simpler ones, of the creatures howling and prowling outside the castle’s walls, or scurrying within them.

But it is the ceiling that is the crowning jewel of the room. Something they paint together—splashing it onto each other’s clothes and noses.

His parents love the stars. They often walk outside the castle walls, fingers knit into each other’s, to gaze at them. They are scholars at soul, and have charted the constellations. They want their child to be able to do the same, to watch the stars, even if he’s not outside. At the end of every day they want him to be sung to sleep by the symphony of the night.

For them, maybe, but to the castle, one of the most interesting things about this room, is the mirror. This is strange, as, while there are other mirrors in this house, they are nothing more than a silver decoration; they have no purpose here, unless they float in shards and possibility. This is an ordinary mirror. It does hold something now, however, and that’s Lisa—only giving more credence to the idea that she is the only living thing in this castle. The castle wonders if they think it will reflect the child, as if they are hoping he will take after his mother and the room.

The mirror, and the windows. In the rest of the castle, the windows are always closed, curtained, or too small to let any real light in. But here they are big, and inviting to all the wiles of the day. Dracula protested—fearing he would burn. Lisa insisted—hoping he would shine.

The mirror, the room, are empty now. The windows closed. The books and charts dormant as the rest. It is not dead, but it’s not alive either. Not even undead. Just a question. An almost.

The room lays on Frankenstein’s table; just one lightning strike—(or one child’s laugh)—away from breathing.

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