(no subject)
So a long time ago before I was writing shotgunning for people I loved, my braintwin and her girlfriend and I decided, "HEY! LET'S WRITE A BIGBANG ABOUT PIE MAFIAS." And this turned into PIE MAFIAS AND BLACK PARADE MAFIAS AND PETE WENTZ IS THE MAYOR WHO JUST WANTS PEACE AND QUIET AND MAYBE TO MAKE OUT WITH HIS INTERN. Also, there were circuses! Because every universe should have a circus.
This turned into a big long planning session that got nowhere because I'm not writing the main plot, but PANIC IN CIRCUSES is kind of my favorite thing, so. HERE, THE FIRST BANDOM FICLETS I EVER TYPED INTO WORD /o\
Poise and Rationality
Fandom: BANDOM, City Is At War-verse that can be explained better by people who aren't me. Just know that Panic runs a circus.
Pairings: None! Gen! Whoa!
Warnings: Pretentious purple prose, this is really old, Ryan Ross is a warning
Disclaimer: This didn't happen, but I kind of wish it did.
Summary: Ryan Ross has a really boring job. Except for how he doesn't.
Ryan’s act was, in theory, incredibly boring. Placed between acrobatics, high-wire walking, and tigers, Ryan’s act should have had people booing him out of the tent and demanding more action.
But the presentation was what made the performance, and Ryan sure as hell knew how to present himself.
It was always after sunset, and the lights would dim completely, leaving the audience suspended in a sudden lack of sensation. Then, the musicians would begin, relying on muscle memory alone in the darkness, offering a slow melody for the blind crowd to hold onto.
But then the music would stop the second a spotlight would hit the center pedestal. It wouldn’t be as bright as some of the others featured earlier, hinting more than showing, but Ryan was clearly in view, turned away from the audience, a brush in one hand, an old-fashioned paint palette in the other. He’d remain frozen until the music would start again, a slow tempo matching the pace at which Ryan would begin to load the brush. A canvas would be mounted in front of him, and he’d reach out with practiced steadiness to make contact, lingering only a moment before making the first brushstroke. The tempo would increase the slightest bit, the brush moving in wide, sweeping strokes.
Not every member of the audience could see the canvas clearly, but there was always more art in Ryan’s movements than in the actual painting. It was nothing more than simple patterns, spirals, stripes, and then Ryan would load the brush one more time, put the palette down, and place his empty hand flat against the canvas.
One of the spirals would trail from the top of the painting to the tip of Ryan’s middle finger, and soon there would be lines spreading across his hand as if a tree had taken root in his fingers. Once he reached past his wrist, he would pick the palette back up, using the fresh paint to add small embellishments to what he already had before moving back along his arm.
Generally it was the same theme every night-vines, branches, leaves, flowers-but the small details were improvised, grace notes in the already composed melody. By the time he reached his elbow, Ryan would have turned to face the audience completely, avoiding eye contact in favor of putting the rest of his body on display. The brush would glide across his bare chest for a while, the vines growing thicker and the flowers larger and more intricate. Then they would start climbing up his neck, and Ryan’s eyes would close.
The vines would start to taper off, fading away into nothing, or reaching behind his ears, or ending in a single, small flower near the corner of his eye. He’d only open his eyes after the final touch: a flock of little black birds, fluttering across his cheek as if seeking the sun of the spotlight above him. The palette would go back down, the brush next to it, and the almost-forgotten music would rise for a moment before a cymbal crash cued Ryan to spread his arms wide, the painting behind him seeming dull and washed-out compared to the work of art now smiling at the audience.
The spell silencing the bleachers would break, and the crowd would cheer as if Ryan had just fought off lions or jumped through flaming hoops.
The One Where Ryan Ross Is A Circus Hipster
Fandom: HI THERE PANIC HI THERE MSI WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE I CAN'T WRITE YOU
Pairings: Uh. Ryan/Jon in the sense that they go on art dates?
Warnings: Too many italics for the Rossotone to handle, these guys were really stoned when I wrote this, Jimmy Urine is a warning too
Disclaimer: This didn't happen, but it would be really, really great if it did, universe, please?
Summary: Wee little ficlet about ART. Also I should probably note that the idea and the punchline belong to 1st_eggokage
Ryan Ross was rather attached to his idea of “art.”
“Art,” he explained one day to Jon, the only one who usually listened to Ryan when he got into these moods, “is important.”
“Right,” Jon said, trying to focus on Ryan’s nose. It helped to have a fixed point to concentrate on; if his eyes started wandering, Ryan would know he wasn’t paying attention, instead of just suspect it.
“It’s how we express ourselves, and how we make connections. To life, and each other, and. Things like that.”
“Right, things.” Ryan had a funny little nose, now that he was looking at it. Sort of squat at the bottom. At least it didn’t turn up or anything, that would just look weird.
“The problem is, people don’t appreciate art anymore. They want entertainment, not art. They want to stop thinking, but art is meant to make you think.”
“About life, and each other, and things?” He was getting pretty good at this, picking up on the conversation just enough to seem like he’s interested, but not enough that he actually has to say anything.
“Exactly. Jon, you understand, we need to fix this.”
“We do?” Oh, no, Ryan was going to drag him into one of his art crusades again, wasn’t he.
“We do. This show is too much style and not enough substance. We need to get the crowd to think about what they’re seeing, instead of just taking in all the colors and noise and fire and-“
“Little artfag,” came a voice from the entrance of the tent they were sitting in, making them both jump and turn. It was Jimmy, glaring at Ryan over the light of two matches, one in each hand. “Little artfag, you just stick to your platform and your birds and kindly fuck out of our motherfucking business, or I will set fire to your cute little ass, don’t even think I won’t.” He put the matches between his teeth, snarled a bit, and then wandered off.
Jon looked back at Ryan, who looked about two parts terrified and one part disdainful. “Guess you’ll have to save that art crusade for later.”
“It’s not a crusade, it’s-“
“Just. We can go to a museum or something tomorrow and you can talk about their art, okay?”
“But-“ Ryan looked like he wanted to protest, but couldn’t think of a reason to. Jon knew Ryan couldn’t resist a museum. “Fine.”
“Great.” It was even easier to listen to Ryan in a museum. He never shut up, so he didn’t have to keep up his end of the conversation.
“And then, when we get back, we’re educating Jimmy in some of the finer arts.”
“Ryan. Ryan, just leave the peons alone, I don’t want to see you on fire.”
This turned into a big long planning session that got nowhere because I'm not writing the main plot, but PANIC IN CIRCUSES is kind of my favorite thing, so. HERE, THE FIRST BANDOM FICLETS I EVER TYPED INTO WORD /o\
Poise and Rationality
Fandom: BANDOM, City Is At War-verse that can be explained better by people who aren't me. Just know that Panic runs a circus.
Pairings: None! Gen! Whoa!
Warnings: Pretentious purple prose, this is really old, Ryan Ross is a warning
Disclaimer: This didn't happen, but I kind of wish it did.
Summary: Ryan Ross has a really boring job. Except for how he doesn't.
Ryan’s act was, in theory, incredibly boring. Placed between acrobatics, high-wire walking, and tigers, Ryan’s act should have had people booing him out of the tent and demanding more action.
But the presentation was what made the performance, and Ryan sure as hell knew how to present himself.
It was always after sunset, and the lights would dim completely, leaving the audience suspended in a sudden lack of sensation. Then, the musicians would begin, relying on muscle memory alone in the darkness, offering a slow melody for the blind crowd to hold onto.
But then the music would stop the second a spotlight would hit the center pedestal. It wouldn’t be as bright as some of the others featured earlier, hinting more than showing, but Ryan was clearly in view, turned away from the audience, a brush in one hand, an old-fashioned paint palette in the other. He’d remain frozen until the music would start again, a slow tempo matching the pace at which Ryan would begin to load the brush. A canvas would be mounted in front of him, and he’d reach out with practiced steadiness to make contact, lingering only a moment before making the first brushstroke. The tempo would increase the slightest bit, the brush moving in wide, sweeping strokes.
Not every member of the audience could see the canvas clearly, but there was always more art in Ryan’s movements than in the actual painting. It was nothing more than simple patterns, spirals, stripes, and then Ryan would load the brush one more time, put the palette down, and place his empty hand flat against the canvas.
One of the spirals would trail from the top of the painting to the tip of Ryan’s middle finger, and soon there would be lines spreading across his hand as if a tree had taken root in his fingers. Once he reached past his wrist, he would pick the palette back up, using the fresh paint to add small embellishments to what he already had before moving back along his arm.
Generally it was the same theme every night-vines, branches, leaves, flowers-but the small details were improvised, grace notes in the already composed melody. By the time he reached his elbow, Ryan would have turned to face the audience completely, avoiding eye contact in favor of putting the rest of his body on display. The brush would glide across his bare chest for a while, the vines growing thicker and the flowers larger and more intricate. Then they would start climbing up his neck, and Ryan’s eyes would close.
The vines would start to taper off, fading away into nothing, or reaching behind his ears, or ending in a single, small flower near the corner of his eye. He’d only open his eyes after the final touch: a flock of little black birds, fluttering across his cheek as if seeking the sun of the spotlight above him. The palette would go back down, the brush next to it, and the almost-forgotten music would rise for a moment before a cymbal crash cued Ryan to spread his arms wide, the painting behind him seeming dull and washed-out compared to the work of art now smiling at the audience.
The spell silencing the bleachers would break, and the crowd would cheer as if Ryan had just fought off lions or jumped through flaming hoops.
The One Where Ryan Ross Is A Circus Hipster
Fandom: HI THERE PANIC HI THERE MSI WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE I CAN'T WRITE YOU
Pairings: Uh. Ryan/Jon in the sense that they go on art dates?
Warnings: Too many italics for the Rossotone to handle, these guys were really stoned when I wrote this, Jimmy Urine is a warning too
Disclaimer: This didn't happen, but it would be really, really great if it did, universe, please?
Summary: Wee little ficlet about ART. Also I should probably note that the idea and the punchline belong to 1st_eggokage
Ryan Ross was rather attached to his idea of “art.”
“Art,” he explained one day to Jon, the only one who usually listened to Ryan when he got into these moods, “is important.”
“Right,” Jon said, trying to focus on Ryan’s nose. It helped to have a fixed point to concentrate on; if his eyes started wandering, Ryan would know he wasn’t paying attention, instead of just suspect it.
“It’s how we express ourselves, and how we make connections. To life, and each other, and. Things like that.”
“Right, things.” Ryan had a funny little nose, now that he was looking at it. Sort of squat at the bottom. At least it didn’t turn up or anything, that would just look weird.
“The problem is, people don’t appreciate art anymore. They want entertainment, not art. They want to stop thinking, but art is meant to make you think.”
“About life, and each other, and things?” He was getting pretty good at this, picking up on the conversation just enough to seem like he’s interested, but not enough that he actually has to say anything.
“Exactly. Jon, you understand, we need to fix this.”
“We do?” Oh, no, Ryan was going to drag him into one of his art crusades again, wasn’t he.
“We do. This show is too much style and not enough substance. We need to get the crowd to think about what they’re seeing, instead of just taking in all the colors and noise and fire and-“
“Little artfag,” came a voice from the entrance of the tent they were sitting in, making them both jump and turn. It was Jimmy, glaring at Ryan over the light of two matches, one in each hand. “Little artfag, you just stick to your platform and your birds and kindly fuck out of our motherfucking business, or I will set fire to your cute little ass, don’t even think I won’t.” He put the matches between his teeth, snarled a bit, and then wandered off.
Jon looked back at Ryan, who looked about two parts terrified and one part disdainful. “Guess you’ll have to save that art crusade for later.”
“It’s not a crusade, it’s-“
“Just. We can go to a museum or something tomorrow and you can talk about their art, okay?”
“But-“ Ryan looked like he wanted to protest, but couldn’t think of a reason to. Jon knew Ryan couldn’t resist a museum. “Fine.”
“Great.” It was even easier to listen to Ryan in a museum. He never shut up, so he didn’t have to keep up his end of the conversation.
“And then, when we get back, we’re educating Jimmy in some of the finer arts.”
“Ryan. Ryan, just leave the peons alone, I don’t want to see you on fire.”