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rumbelleshowdown · 11 months

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Author: Rose Daughter

Prompts: Dark chocolate. Falling in the dark. Constellations.

Group: B

Ad Astra

They’re called freckles, apparently.

It had taken Belle some time to figure out what he meant when he said he liked her ‘little dots’. The word tickles him for some reason. It’s a fanciful-sounding thing. Freckles.

The first time he’d laid eyes on her – stretched out on the beach, the brim of her sunhat flopping into her eyes – he thought she might be made of alabaster. The same pearly gypsum as the statues he has found amongst the remnants of shipwrecks. He knows better now, having observed her so intimately. She is lovelier, far more fascinating than the unblemished stone of sculptures. There is such detail to her; the silvery streaks on her thighs and stomach, a few faded scars here and there, and all those gorgeous freckles.

She is the inverse of the night sky. If the sky is soot and coal with tiny pinpoints of light, she is cream and roses, stippled with ink stains. They form wee patterns on her skin like the stars overhead. Constellations, Belle called them. They’ve spent many afternoons lying in the sand, him dripping seawater onto the cover of her mythology book. The names bewitch him. Cassiopeia, Ophiuchus, Andromeda, Vulpecula. They’re prettier than the sort of human language his ears are accustomed to. Their lyrical quality resembles the sounds that his fellow Finfolk trill to one another beneath the waves.

Rumple likes to get her words right. He likes to get them wrong, too. He even does so on purpose, sometimes. Just to hear her darling giggle. Just to watch her plush, pink lips tenderly sound out each syllable as she corrects him. But his tongue takes quickly to the delicate names in her gilded book.

The constellations on Belle’s body don’t match the ones charted on the pages. They are entirely her own. It’s a game that he likes to play with himself on the sunniest, drowsiest afternoons. As Belle frolics in the surf and sunbathes on the low tide’s dense sand, he amuses himself by playing astronomer. It requires a great deal of imagination, but then, doesn’t all stargazing?

Lunaris; the cluster on her inner forearm that bears a striking resemblance to a crescent moon. Then there is Florens Rosa; a speckling that contours the back of her neck, each dot falling into place to create the illusion of a rose in bloom. And his very favorite, Saltatio Delphinus; the abstract likeness of a leaping dolphin on her upper thigh.

Every night, long after she’s returned to her cottage, Rumple peers through the mouth of his little grotto. He scans the stars to see if the Gods have plagiarized from Belle’s canvas. To see if they are brave enough to try to replicate one of her designs.

They never are.

(+++)

As a young boy, no larger than a seal pup, Rumple used to thrill-chase by diving into the seemingly bottomless trenches that cut into the seafloor. The blue of the water would get darker and darker as he plunged down, until he was floating in an empty, inky blackness. It was like being swallowed up by the maw of some ravenous predator. His vision would swim as he sank away from the surface, his small body too fragile to handle the pressures of such deep water. Yet, he would push on.

It was exhilarating. To free fall through the darkness, to do something he wasn’t built for.

Finfolk aren’t meant to dive so deep, but he did. They aren’t meant to liberate and hoard human trinkets. They aren’t meant to steal pretty human lasses.

But is that truly what he’s done? Stolen her? It certainly doesn’t feel like stealing. How can you steal what is so freely and happily given? How can you steal what is served on a silver platter, garnished with shortbread crumbs and cheeky smiles?

She was there throughout the summer, when the sunlight made her auburn hair burn like the bonfires the villagers build on the beach. And she is still here amid winter’s grasp, when the heavy clouds cast her in soft focus and the rain extinguishes the embers in her hair.

Every time he lays eyes on her, it is like diving into those trenches again. The disorientation, the vertigo, the intoxicating thrill. To be thoroughly overwhelmed and still want more.

Belle is an abundance of more, always willing to provide and spoil. Butterscotch and blackberries. Jokes, chats, and out-of-tune songs. Early morning breakfasts and late afternoon lunches. Stories of all sorts, bound in leather and paperboard.

And Rumple always takes without hesitation, for fear that there will come a day when there is nothing left to give.

(+++)

Most days, Rumple awaits her arrival in his grotto, tucked into the shadows, impishly giddy at the thought of taking her by surprise. On quieter days, when there is no traffic on the beach, he instead lounges in the tide pools, his eyes trained on the bluff’s coastal trail.

He has waited long past sunset today, which is a rarity. Belle finally trots into view over the uplands’ crest, her knapsack heaved over one shoulder, its bulging mouth threatening to spit its contents in exasperation. Her silhouette is otherworldly, the green tartan skirt of her frock looking flimsy as the moonlight passes through it.

Rumple doesn’t have to question if she comes bearing treats. She clambers onto the rocky outcrop to reach him. A small rectangle robed in silver foil is pressed into his wet hands.

He adores the foil, marveling at how it reflects the water’s shimmering surface in its ripples and wrinkles. He does not adore what the foil is wrapped around.

Belle claims it’s chocolate, but he has his doubts.

“It’s dark chocolate,” she explains, nibbling on a square. “It has less sugar and no milk, so it’s sharper. There’s a bitter bite to it.”

“It’s re-volt-ing.”

“You eat raw trout.”

She rolls her eyes, muttering disparaging comments about his palate. Despite her grousing, she is more than happy to polish off half of the chocolate bar by herself. It makes sense to him. Belle likes sharp things; teeth, and claws, and wits.

Rumple doesn’t mind sharp, but he prefers soft; round jawlines, and button noses, and fond scolding. What he can’t stomach is bitterness. It agonizes him that the stories in Belle’s mythology book all start so whimsically and end so brutally. And that no matter how sweet their days are together, it doesn’t change the fact that she’ll always leave him at the end.

She allows the hefty book to continue its slumber in the caverns of her bag. It’s too dark for her deficient human eyes to make out the fancy lettering. Besides, she looks far too tired for narration duty. Her cheeks are stained with a lingering flush of exertion, her eyes dim with sleepy contentment.

“Today was the Cèilidh,” she says, by way of explanation.

Despite her sore legs and weary yawns, he rouses her to perform a final dance for an audience of one. She demonstrates a reel, her skirt flaring around her legs as her bare feet kick up golden puffs of sand.

Rumple doesn’t really need to know what it’s supposed to look like to know that she isn’t very good at it. Her footwork is clumsy and she wobbles as she pivots. She’s even off-time to her own humming.

“Not the most graceful sort, are you?”

Belle lurches to a stop mid-turn, her brows knitting together. “Excuse me?”

“You look rid-ic-ulous.”

“It’s a far cry better than you could do.”

He gives an exaggerated sneer of offense. “You think dancing requires legs? How horren-dous-ly ignorant.”

Her mouth perks into an amused smile. “Show me.”

“A proper dance begs a partner, does it not?” he says, beckoning to her with his talons.

Puckish delight eats up the sweet turn of her lips. She used to make such a fuss about swimsuits. Now, she just gathers the hem of her tartan frock in her fists and lifts it up over her head. She discards it in a careless heap on the rocks.

Next came the perplexing underthings, fiddly-looking clasps coming undone with a flick of her fingers. Rumple drinks her in like a marooned man at a pool of freshwater.

It fills him with pride to be the one allowed to stargaze at the lavish expanse of her pale, pretty sky. To behold the constellations that live beneath sweaters and sensible woolen tights.

She wades into the water, her skin pebbling in the brisk night air. He takes her hands in his own and guides her further into the sea, the waves lazily sloshing against his back. When her toes can barely touch the ocean floor, he winds his arms around her waist. He hauls her into an embrace, thinking of how sailors greet their sweethearts the first moment their boots hit dry land.

Then, with a twist of his fin, he sweeps her legs out from under her, tucking his tail beneath her bent knees. Belle’s squeak of surprise gets lost in a breathless giggle.

He supports her gently, their bare chests flush against one another. The lack of resistance in the water allows them to spin effortlessly, twirling in small, quick circles. There are no fancy steps – no steps of any sort – but Belle begins to absently hum that same Cèilidh melody.

“It sounds better on a fiddle,” she murmurs, as though embarrassed by her rendition.

“I sin-cere-ly doubt that,” he whispers back.

As they spin, weightless and languid, Rumple leans his forehead against hers; his customary vow of adoration. But then, Belle does something strange. She tilts her chin up and presses her mouth to his. As she captures his bottom lip between her own, Rumple lets out a choked gasp, like a human swallowing seawater.

And then it’s over. It was so fleeting, he could have whimpered from the loss.

“Mhm…what…what was that?”

“A kiss.”

So he does what he’s always done when Belle gives him something; he immediately asks for more.

One kiss turns into two, which melts into a third, and a subsequent stream of kisses that come so leisurely, there is no telling where they begin and end. And he’s falling again, into the darkness of the sea’s deepest trench. His head is spinning, his lungs are burning, and still his every thought is ‘more, more, more’.

“You’re very greedy,” she chastises, though there is little heat behind her words.

Rumple flashes his serrated teeth, heartened rather than discouraged. “You shouldn’t give so readily, dearie. A beast may become accus-tomed to taking more than you’re willing to part with.”

“There’s nothing I wouldn’t let you have.”

And he believes her, his generous Belle.

He is struck with a stroke of brilliance. A kiss could be planted just about anywhere, couldn’t it? What if he were to kiss every last constellation in her sky? He could even tell her all of their names as he goes.

He purrs this idea against her lips. Belle throws her head back, moonlight splashing over her porcelain face, and she sends a laugh up to the true stars above. And then her laughter is smothering him as she gives a greedy beast his fill.

Rumple realizes, huffing a small chuckle of his own, that he might like the flavor of dark chocolate after all. So long as he is tasting it on her tongue.

#rumbelle showdown #round three fics #author: Rose Daughter

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pawbean-soda · 14 days

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the game sings

an cosmic horror style poem about a guy getting chased by a thing. trigger/content warnings for body horror and overall horror genre shenanigans.

The Game whispers in your ear, run. Run fast, run hard, run like the end of everything beautiful and terrible and known is chasing you down because it is. You hear their paws of ivory and mud pound on the hollow ground like war drums and the steps of a dance so ancient and nameless you scarce can think it. The game sings to your face made of wax and clay of they who spark and shadow and bury and drown and burn and fall and twist and hunt and die. Your insides scream and squirm. Squishing and squeezing to be let out. To pour over the ground that reaches up to take them with grass like razors. Your mind tearing through itself with the incredible weight of knowing what dogs your steps. It too begs to spill like paint across the canvas that is the grass of greenest green and full of hate. Your skin of lies and paper wishes nothing more then to slough off and so you hold it in pace with hands whose brittle bone and rotting muscles are caged by gloves of bloodied cotton, jailers to the body that wants nothing more than to fall apart in a mixing mess of flesh and innards. And Still the game sings. A long forgotten melody of the endless end that never was. The beast who's corkscrew maw is made of plastic starlight. Their broad and sleek body, one of violet velvet and fox fur, their carapace of finest sterling silver and stolen skin hardened in molten hot movement crackling with the chase. The game. Winding and pivoting through gypsum trees, cloven hooves pounding along the grass that cracks and breaks and snaps like brittle rusted iron. Crunching under paw and boot like radio static. Singing of the day in which they will catch you. Your teeth howl with a pain you can feel from the back of your eyes to the soles of your feet, trapped by boots of blue bottle glass, a mushy, spongey soup under clouded clear. The yellowed Alabama ivory dribbles down your face with the black and Beady crawling that made them that way. They sing with the joy of flight and freedom, welcomed by the grass with cleavers and saws promising pain with no relief of death. all while that organ piping, howling, disjointed, twisting, turning, mindless madness that is the song that is that dance that is the game whispers that you must run.

#original poem #poem #poems on tumblr #poetry #poems and poetry #horror #horror poem #horror poetry #body horror

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keikakudori · 3 years

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narrowed blue orbs peer down upon him from the rubble a fanged smirk encroaches his face. how long had it been since he had seen him? he had almost forgot the power that he commanded, the way it swelled from his body. unfortunately for the both of them, the smirk fades as quickly as it had appeared. a stare is all he gives his former commander after all what words were possibly to be shared amongst the two? after this war, after it was all over now, a chuckle finally escapes that wild maw of his, " so those bastards had to rely on you? " the sexta figured their conversation wouldn't last long before the shinigami caught up to them, to throw him back into the muken, and what of him? dispose of him? as if he'd ever make it that easy, " long time no see eh, aizen ? " it was as formal as this interaction would be. especially for how easily cast aside the arancarr were, his precious espada, did they mean so little to him? the gaze shifts off into the distance peering into the destruction sown in the blood war. death & destruction all of which he was quite familiar with himself. (from sixthspada )

if the panther had been seeking to alarm the incarnation of deific malice, then grimmjow would have to do far better. there was no turning of that head, not yet, even as the sexta uncoiled himself and moved, even as the voice cut through the air. perhaps there was something far afield which commanded the attention of the overlord of hueco mundo, the god which had strode upon a path illuminated b the grace and glory of his power. how those feet had moved without fear upon the sands, how proud the line of his back, the lifting of his chin. three had been there who came to those rolling dunes of gypsum and reishi, three there had been in a land filled with the monstrous and the damned. of those three, only one remained. only one -- and how strange to see the sun without the moon in his sky, the silver shadow that had slunk ever at aizen's right hand, at his side. there was a gaping absence within the god, something that could be seen if one but looked for it properly in its entirety. perhaps grimmjow would sense it. but more fool the espada if he saw it as a chance to strike. only fools cut at gods and grimmjow, for all of his destructive nature, was not a fool.

at last that head turned, shifting and moving to regard the wild child of his blades with that rich brown eye -- and how shudderingly distant that stare remained. more than that was something that might make the hackles of the panther rise. something almost feral glossed the surface of earthen tones, as if there was something which lurked underneath the surface. as if for one singular moment, it was THIS THIS THIS which had so quelled the espada, the arrancar. how they had bowed to this beast, one and all, for his fangs were sharper and stronger, his claws more lethal and stained with blood. that was the cold mechanical stare of something predatory -- something which gnawed within the beast, the god. as if this was what he had ever held back but they all had sensed, never spoken of, never acknowledged. in the land of the blind -- the one-eyed man was king. and king he remained, no matter the titles that were traded around in the lands which had been conquered by his hands, by the world that had shook as he strode across those endless dune seas. and cold was the stare which fixed upon the sexta, lips thinning once.

was aizen a wounded animal, cornered? or was he something more now? it was impossible to tell. perhaps both. perhaps neither.

❝ you are a long way from home, grimmjow, ❞ he finally mused aloud. ❝ but it is good to see you as well, my sexta. and yes -- so they did. but then again -- does it not take a god to fell another god? that-- ❞ and now his remaining hand flicked. easy enough to slip away from his handlers for the time being; regeneration could be rather ugly and he could feel the elements starting to form anew for replacing the lost limb. ❝ -- or they trusted in my immortality to grant them their saving grace. i do not know which it is and frankly -- i don't care. ❞

#sixthspada #oh boy here we go again --#( this is going to be very interesting i can tell-- )

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glopratchet · 4 years

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astryl-wondering

and he shouts at Cludstrum to stop his program from causing harm and with a sword in hand and says "I am Cludstrum, I have been sent here by my masters to kill you and he bites and eats dirt and sand from the barren dessert that he is in a little demon who is worshiping his God turned the area and stained with blood like the color of grass He thirstily asks "For how long must I live in this barren land? Clay penises A furry armchair seat with a maw in its backside, which is interpreted as a fertility symbol since birth because he wakes up on the forest floor next to a well he had fallen into previously in a Yinnie and Turtle dance the following ngiht: Pledge for the Succubi Incubi Party, Please vote for us, tomorrow! and an alarm will sound warning about a hostile if it detects an aggressive action meaning that stress levels are at maximum and performance is at minimum for vital functions based on line of sight from anyone in those hexes and how noisy it would be Due to exhaustion and hunger priority is given to rest and hunger and failure, he looks up and to his surprise Yinnie and Turtle smile down on him so many times before, he bows down on one knee and puts a palm across his heart he says "Why have you chosen this weakling to grace him with your presence? " "What do you want me to do? but other than that, it is just him and the former demons since astryl dos not know the demon realm sent the computer virus He is quite surprised the two coudl change his mind so quickly and delusion Was it peer pressure? or was it change he wanted? or did he want to slowly perfect himself from the inside out? and die, but another strong memory which is contradicted by the other makes him forget what to do Gorram it! along with a news summary from before the blackout with an extremely hot wind pushing large volumes of sand all over 's code that contain his priorities, changing them around to an unknown end but that's just a name that has been given to them These things leave some bits completely alone no matter how much they are prodded to devour them and astryl is experiencing some sort or identity escesthesia That was just a fancy word for he changes his mind a lot through the script, digit It's a handle but no profile can be pulled up to tell what species they are or anything really It is immensely difficult to communicate or perform any task what so ever flat vector Cludstrom confirms that this the same Mr digit who clued him on the codex You could ask the contacts, but they would mostly say no because astryl would seem out of character to them but if he has the directions to mr digit from before, finding it again should be no problem In that order but then start working agian in 5 minutes and then will 'discover' the virus and then after that, it is game over Sending you back to the ui at one point but then interupted by the virus and allow you to continue the cycle of events The countdown reads 7 hours and 4 min Gorram light rain is falling now, you need to get mr since cludstrom seems to shy away from social interacions "That's what astryl is for" listed before but he fears the rain might wash them away The sun was blocked to such an end affect that the crops inside were spore like and minature like a strand of hair Astryl's soul is unageing, that much is true Only feeble minded mortal-like need for such things You're still very much afraid of what the whole sandbox reality push is to you the other bits like the moldy vikes and dirty calendars just crumble in his hands and excrete other things but not before cloaking himself in moldy flyers But before all this can be done there is an issue of social interaction "You need to get mr digit to start fixing the communications lines Me and you just ain't on the same platform darlin'" What a strange word edible is Social interaction cannot always be verbal speech But most objects have a quality that make them a higher or lower quality most objects are concieved from the fungal mold that grows into them Like bread his hands into Too much technology or use and they overload crashing around him The mite ink clogs things up and mess something aflated Usually the tourch works by exothermic oxidation but it uses too much fuel and other elements that are very rare and hard to find that has water so he would not die from too much dryness but it may have some element unknown to him that is toxic or uneeded by the body until he become too angry to do anything but this will take him a very long time A shadow comes over him Is it from the monoliths towering over his head? since it only reacts when he already captures and immobilizes in with his mercy gloves But something worse happens some kind of colony its called Jansenns Shpawn the town of magos toktek a camp called the hym camp A place to rest in the desert is a cave that belongs to a large worm named Robert you realize have gotten yourself easily lost you begin to search for some kind of hole or crevasse that you can use as shelter disover the entrance to robert the digger and his wife lucys hiding place breaks his nosed which breaks the rotten wood of roberts house Snap goes the wooden beam and then smashing nose waits for his tormentor to awaken and find him just as helpless in the dark Edgar and the crystal's in his eye would hurt if it was not for some strange numbing quality of this bosom "Jev! Still dizzy from concussion astryl turns toward the name of his dead flutemate "Edgar? his sadness to a fine point "Here" Taking out the battery that makes the most noise Aries places it on the ground "feel better? silence is not enough, as always you have to comply with this fool's inept rules "better "do you wanna help me? bruising his swollen cheek "with what! "I need to get all the power crystals out of the weird machines that are blinky and make noise finding another dead thing to play with "ok I will find the rest of the machines and congregate them in this are " Edgar responds enthusiastically to a dead night and wrong scent The dunes were orange not white his situation over and over He can't quite place it but every instinct he has is that something here is terribly wrong? with great care as if the stone ground would shatter to pieces below him, he touchs his pain throbing nose to taste the wetness, carefully putting on his headache one handed It hurt to smile bile in the bushes as his brown eyes glare at the vile magos has instructed him, he raises his shaking arm to shoot the flesh ichor at filth lying to the ratling bastards that outnumber him 4: 1 about how he doesn't have access to any water for them under the same rock as last night watching the gray monsters feast on robert and his wife the light of a crimson sun from his eyes as he and the giant metal man stare at a machine that makes noise and lights up colors an undercurrent of hostility in the magos' asinsault "impossible, " he finishes lamely at his sunburn as he carries the power source from the noisy box back to his waiting overseer the magos' orders via the ad mech's encrypted ECT signal "Found primary site Have exhumed items to feel secure with the blanket tossed over his shoulders by his eccentric benefactor greater intellect with higher grade nutrients and accelerate his evolution so that he may become a cog in the xeno's machine that will transcend humanity the flat scorched earth lit by a ghastly blue sun to join his tribe out the failing noise bleed from the site They will drown in waves of static soon Edgar climbs the ridged gypsum dunes with surprising agility down on you viciously Bloodying your lip, filling your mouth with an unwelcoming copper taste inordinate the multicolored sun pellets at the nearby mutants, as he turns to look the Magos' on his vox across the great landscape expecting to see the blue of an oasis or the green of vegetation his pale hide as he lays on the top of his dwelling place Gideon is nothing more now than another crackling, charred skeleton language parameters, Truth Speak binary for highpoint perches in the formation that would grant him maximum line of sight the men of an approaching dust storm so they may batten down the hatches of the complex and looting the corpses of fallen travelers on the trade route an increasing awareness of the charlatan that the magos has honed him into on a hummus and levantine flatbread sandwich If he didn't know any better, he'd swear that it had oasis juice squeezed into it on his ex-wife's guts as he tears them from her stomach and uses them to choke her to death swarms of rabid ratlings to sabotage large scale attacks solely on the gruel-like food rations and brown water that pass for Of content as the machine slave of a multicolored abomination an eternity in a sensory deprivation tank and becoming One with the emperors loving pulse Kludstrm schematic spending an eternity in a sensory deprivation tank and becoming One with the emperors loving pulse the culprit's DNA to previous crimes an old militia classic as his Depends, haphazardly rigged with explosives, obliterate the terrorist hiding behind before the advancing night, crimsons, purples, and violets flooding the skies in the blue dusk with only a single lamp post for company ever so slightly as multiple systems fail on what the ironmen believe to be an terrorist attack with a million shades of red and orange as the magos' firebomb takes hold furrowing her brow on the front of the magos' robes' deep green field Again, reality splits By the end of the sixth rotation, you're in dire need of a break, but fortunately you've gotten good at sideways thinking on your mental feet, The arrival of the Null Rats has altered far too much and the shadows have noticed you wandering this path

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professorcalculusstanaccount · 4 months

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they are out of the hole! I had to clean up the final scene from my roughs. I couldn't leave them down there

from my story The Gypsum Maw, the last part is posted here but there's a whooole chunk of story I have not cleaned up and posted that has happened between these parts, from the introduction of Allan to the sabotage plans to how they managed to obtain dynamite!

#fanart #tintin #adventures of tintin #captain haddock #archibald haddock #allan thompson #chang #snowy #milou #comic #the gypsum maw #tinchang #long post #each time i try to move on to a new story the cave just drags me back in

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professorcalculusstanaccount · 7 months

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tintin is incredible at timing

(possibly) the final snippet I'll post from my story The Gypsum Maw, the previous part which follows directly before is here - I've been seeing comments asking about where to read the full thing, I'm afraid what I post is basically it - I have more pages in my sketchbook but I suspect they are only legible to me!

this post is already long so more notes and credits under the cut!

I asked for some help for coming up with friends for Chang! The gentle giant Masek was created by InkyTrink on Twitter and the super excitable Libby was created by dreamyopal, a discord mutual:

They came up with some great character notes and were super helpful providing feedback on my designs!

Writing this felt pretty odd in ways. I graduated in 2020 during the Plague Year so my class didnt get a public art showcase. I attended one last year and it was a bittersweet experience.

Reunions feel a bit like time travel, you see people after a few years and things change quite a lot. I wanted to explore this in my post canon series, Chang has grown up, found himself and has been able to live a fairly normal life with family and friends. Tintin in a way reflects that young adult insecurity about being stagnant, like you haven't been able to fully reach adulthood properly. His fame and status as a Young Boy Reporter is holding him captive, he longs for connection but is held back by expectations from both himself and the outside world.

I've also been inspired by the concept of 'queer time,' the concept that the lives of queer people progress differently to the lives of non queer people. It takes time to come to terms with yourself and to come out. Queer people are often excluded from milestones like marriage or having children. Tintin being confronted with his peers at a university highlights his insecurity about being left behind, but he's slowly making the journey to self acceptance by talking to others, and recognising common ground he has with others.

Chang's university isn't a one to one reference to a specific institution but in Belgium there was a secular movement in reaction to the dominance of the Catholic church, in which universities played a key role. There's references to art movements that were deemed "degenerate" by the Nazis here, such as Fauvism and Surrealism.

#tintin #fanart #adventures of tintin #comic #snowy #milou #captain haddock #archibald haddock #ramo nash #chang #the gypsum maw #long post #nazi mention #< in read more #claustrophobia #internalised homophobia

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professorcalculusstanaccount · 7 months

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of course tintin would go caving without any equipment. of course he'd bring his dog

a segment from The Gypsum Maw

i may have accidentally planned out enough material to do an entire album for this story so i am opting to post a couple of extracts in vaguely chronological order

#tintin #fanart #comic #adventures of tintin #snowy #milou #captain haddock #archibald haddock #chang #my stories #long post #the gypsum maw #claustrophobia #the guys in uniform are supposed to be firefighters #i really struggled finding decent reference images #either ive gotten incredibly bad at researching or google has gotten less useful for finding references

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professorcalculusstanaccount · 8 months

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"It's hopeless! Every man who has gone in is either too large to fit down the squeeze or they completely lose their nerve and turn tail!"

"Don't despair, we'll get him out. We just need someone small, tough, and with no sense of self preservation."

A caver is stuck down a gypsum cave and has sparked a media frenzy. Tintin's editor sends him to America to get in on the story, but Tintin quickly discovers that while the attention the story garnered might have sent more help the caver's way, the disruptive crowds, moneyed interests and media circus might have only aided the cave's endeavour in holding its prisoner captive.

#adventures of tintin #tintin #snowy #milou #animation #2d animation #gifset #gif #my stories #the gypsum maw #claustrophobia #caving stories always freak me out #do not go down the hole #i was inspired by the nutty putty caving incident and the sand cave incident

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professorcalculusstanaccount · 3 months

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Out of Curiosity how did Haddock react when he met Allan again at The Gypsum Maw after he resigns from being a Criminal???

Allan completely understands his reaction.

#tintin #adventures of tintin #asks #animation #2d animation #fanart #gifset #captain haddock #archibald haddock #allan thompson #the gypsum maw #chang #this took me so long lol #ive had a lot of other things to do so i havent been able to work on blog content recently but i have a comic i want to get started on!

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professorcalculusstanaccount · 7 months

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The Gypsum Maw - Tintin's relentless attempt to rescue a caver isn't as straightforward as first anticipated.

the second snippet! previous is here (I skipped ten pages between the first snippet and this one)

#tintin #fanart #comic #adventures of tintin #snowy #milou #captain haddock #archibald haddock #chang #my stories #the gypsum maw #long post #claustrophobia #i am Very Tired guys #i was actually intending for another part to be the second post #but realised it would be paced better if i also cleaned up this section #so i ended up drawing 16 pages of comics in like a week??? i am Tired loll

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professorcalculusstanaccount · 5 months

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Can you read French? Do you find my handwriting atrocious? ironiebd on Instagram has translated my comics into French!

They've been absolutely lovely and went out of their way to do this, so send them some love!

#tintin #comic #fanart #call of the songbird #the beast of loch broom #the gypsum maw #french translation #a really lovely surprise!

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professorcalculusstanaccount · 1 year

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BLOG DIRECTORY AND ABOUT - Check Read More!

this is a fanart blog! I’m not affiliated with Moulinsart or anything official, and I don’t make any money from this blog. It’s entirely for laughs, even when the posts aren’t funny. I try and keep the content on this blog safe for work, there will be swearing and mild injuries every now and then. Let me know if you want anything tagged.

pronouns are he/they. I’m British Chinese, and I’m an animator. I will always leave asks on for this blog, but I might not be able to reply to all of them! I will try my best to respond to as many as I can.

I know a lot of right wing weirdos use Tintin imagery to push their shitty politics so if you’re one of those people kindly fuck off! I’ve also seen people repost my art to other platforms, if you want to share my stuff outside Tumblr please ask first, wait for explicit permission and link back to my blog.

I also never post anything shipping Haddock and Tintin together romantically. I have the tag blacklisted too, I don’t mind interacting with people who ship this but I’m just not interested in interacting with the pairing as I find it super uncomfortable.

Instagram (@professorcalculusstanacc)

Animation

Comics

My Stories

French Translation of My Comics by ironiebd

Post-Canon Characters - Where Are They Now?

- Archibald Haddock

- Chang

- Tintin

- Martine Vandezande

- Zorrino

The ProfessorCalculusStanAccount Post-Canon Timeline (in chronological order):

- St Benezet’s Basement

Tintin and Chang go undercover in a Catholic boy’s college to investigate a series of student disappearances.

(X) (X) (X) (X) (X)

- The Golden Palm

Tintin goes undercover at a film festival disguised as Hollywood starlet Marlene Katz to fight off the mob.

(X) (X)

- Call of the Songbird

On a backstage tour of the Museum of Art and History, Tintin steals an ancient Chinese whistle to return it to its place of origin after Chang laments how European museums are full of stolen artefacts.

(X) (X) (X) (X) (X) (X)

- The Beast of Loch Broom

After falling out with Tintin, Captain Haddock decides to take Chang under his wing to go monster hunting at a loch he used to visit on childhood holidays.

(X) (X) (X) (X) (X) (X) (X)

- The Gypsum Maw

Tintin is sent by his editor to interview a caver who is stuck in an unregulated cave.

(X) (X) (X) (X) (X) (X) (X)

- White Boy Goes Dancing

tintin finally goes to the club with chang

(X) (X) (X)

- The House of Glass

Calculus is the judge of an international flower show where the plant used to make Rajaijah madness juice is on display.

(X)

- Tintin Takes the Tube

During the London Blitz, Tintin, Chang and Haddock go to check on Chang’s uncle in Limehouse. Haddock uncovers a Nazi plot in some London Underground service tunnels.

(X)

- Unnamed Area 51 story

Chang and Tintin have a midlife crisis and decide to break into Area 51 after a bunch of alien sightings flood the tabloids, and get into trouble with the US government.

(X)

- The Goddamn Moustache Saga

Haddock really fucking hates Tintin’s new look. Bullying ensues

(X) (X)

#Fanart #animation #2d animation #gif #gifset #professor calculus #cuthbert calculus #captain haddock #archibald haddock #tintin #Adventures of Tintin #pinned post

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