#besides how how their creation makes no damn sense

[vintageseawitch]

if there are any twilight book sequels written then published, i promise to look up spoilers because if i find out the Volturi decide to create hybrids of their own (🤢🤮) then i will refuse to read let alone own them. as curious as Aro may be about it, it's horrendous that he would try it out himself. the creation of hybrids is legitimately terrifying body horror to me & even Aro's "indifference" towards humans doesn't automatically make him a psychopath about this sort of thing.

Aro, despite his penchant for ruthlessness, is a softie, too. i like to imagine the thought of putting a uterus-owner through such a specific & horrific form of torture fills him with revulsion & guilt. yes, humans are red-eyed vampires' food, but even humans get disturbed at the thought of animals they consume going through needless pain especially for selfish reasons.

at this point the canon of this silly franchise means approximately shit to me so if smeyers decides to make her refined, considerably more interesting clan of vampires into true monsters, she can fuck right off because they deserve better than that. they're not villains simply because they're doing what is natural to them & the Cullens are a creepier cult than the Volturi will ever be. at least everyone knows that the three kings are dangerous. the Cullens are too busy being gentrified hypocrites (completely beige & lacking a good, old-fashioned dungeon & set of coffins... the dark drama is what draws us to vampires in the first place & someone like Forever Emo Teenager McWalking Red Flag scoffs at such things like a good little boring creeper on top of them actually not giving a damn about humans considering how in midnight sun it's clear they wouldn't have batted an eye at killing bella because said little boring creeper - or the prodigal son 🙄 - can barely control himself around her like it's her problem to deal with. glob i hate that & his losing control around her would make their "lives" a Little Bit Uncomfortable lmao) with Whatever The Fuck Weird Dynamic they have going on.

if anyone would be cruel anyways, it would be Caius out of the three kings, but i refuse to believe even he would go that far. a part of it is the thought of needing to be close to a human like that would disgust him but another is at least when they feed it's quick. if anyone is to endure a terribly long torture it would be Nahuel's biological father because he's a real monster. like, yes, somehow the Volturi never found out about hybrids, but they never went & tried to find out what would happen themselves.

i like to think the more the three kings researched it the more horrified they would be, but that could just be my biases & preferences showing. bella & edward's daughter displays disturbingly similar compulsory "abilities" or however one would describe them like Immortal Children because everyone's sudden pull to her after she touched them is WAY too similar to the enchantment vampires experience around the latter type of child so i think the Volturi (especially Jane) would be weirded out by that connection considering how long they've studied them.

i'm not saying every hybrid is like bella & edward's kid, but i'm pretty sure Aro noticed that neither she nor the rest of the family really like or trust the Volturi that much PLUS the Romanians are some of her favorite vamps. pretty sure that has put the Volturi on their guard (so to speak) (also Carlisle what the FUCK why are you being so weird about the Volturi. why tf does edward have his stupid attitude about them whyyyy make them your enemy especially considering the drama in new moon & eddie blatantly disrespecting the ancient group by expecting them to be Suicide Assistance as though that's what they're there for & have nothing better to do & Aro doing you a MASSIVE favor). ya know, as pretty as he's portrayed in the movies, i'm liking him as a character less & less (he's the biggest hypocrite of them all & playing a dangerous game of delusions - like hun, sorry, but no matter how much you pretend, you are not a human any longer & maybe you don't realize it (or WANT to) but you totally think you're better than humans seeing as you bend their rules especially if it's for your extremely problematic red-headed "son" - but THEN AGAIN you're certainly good at wiping out local wildlife like big predators so maybe you're more like humans than you think & i mean that as a slur).

i totally get derailed in my little rants on here & i'm only a little bit embarrased since this is pretty much how my brain works & how i talk lmao so tl;dr if the Volturi become the worst kind of monsters in future books when it comes to hybrids (aka "making their own" 🤢🤢🤢🤮🤮🤮), smeyers can fuck right off some more & the Cullens & their creepy cult & creepier hybrid kid are the worst. i still like Emmett though even if he chooses to stick around the problematic bunch (pretty sure Carlisle has a gift as well; it's amazing that so many vampires are not only able to live with each other peacefully but rigidly stick to a diet that is unnatural to their kind - a kind of creature that follows their instincts above almost most things. oh Carlisle, you certainly transferred your wild need to repress almost too exceedingly well).

[rhiaarrow]

I've seen ppl talking abt it on twitter and here and I wanted to sort of contribute my thoughts towards it,

Ppl aren't 'forgetting' about qTubbo's death. It's just that the situations of qBad and qTubbo's deaths, while they had the same outcome, were completely different for multiple factors.

(This isn't targeted at the ppl who think the death is being overlooked because that's their analysis and it's totally fair. It's just that people saying that got my analyst brain drawing comparisons between the deaths and I ended up with this big wall of text so...yeah :') )

1 - The build up (from outside POVs)

With qTubbo from most Povs he just sort of... died with no clear build up. Most ppl didn't see the true extent of his self spiralling because he hid it or they just simply didn't spend a lot of time with him in order to pick up on the stuff that we the viewers picked up on. And then all of a sudden he just died with no obvious lead up (unless you watch his pov in which case there was an obvious lead up) but from outsiders who barely saw him, it just happened.

Whereas

With qBad there was a more obvious build up on other Povs, he told the ppl he loved he was dying or at least they knew that something was wrong. They knew that his death was inevitable and as much as they hate to admit it a lot of them had already come to terms with the fact that he would be gone soon. (Again unless you watch his pov the whole build up from the past few months is less obvious but it was more developed with other players before his actual death) Most Povs at least recognised that there was something wrong with the blue spreading across his face because well...it was pretty fucking obvious

2 - The way they told people

qTubbos "I'm an egg, I only have one life left." while true sounds like a joke because well... he's obviously not actually an egg. Ppl joke abt stuff like that the whole time, the Eggboyhalo joke for example or calling Foolish 'egg coded' early in the server. How were all players meant to immediately go 'ah yes, this player is definitely an egg. Yesyes, this makes perfect sense'. It's easy to see how it wasn't taken seriously by a lot of characters when only a few of them were ever given an actual explanation besides "yeah I've only got one life"

Whereas

qBads "I'm fine, don't worry about me." while actively coughing up a lung, covered in blue infection and regularly having memory issues is an obvious lie. Even if people only saw him for a couple of minutes or even seconds it was pretty damn hard to ignore the blue spreading on his body. They'd ask what it was, he'd try to avoid it or redirect them and that person was hit with an immediate red flag of 'oh, so something is wrong with Bad.' which most shelved away and didn't actively investigate but it caused many characters to express being worried about him

3 - Outward visibility

qTubbo died due to his internal issues; self doubt, lack of self worth, suicidal tendencies, etc (I feel bad writing etc but I know there were other factors I just can't remember them) which resulted in him chosing to live using the life system and later chosing to gamble his last life in a game of Russian roulette with Richas.

(None of this being clearly outwardly visible to bystanders even if he wanted them to notice)

Whereas

qBad died due to external issues; parts of his soul physically leaking out of wounds on his body which caused his body to degenerate so far that even as an immortal he couldn't hold on and stop his corporeal body from just giving out on him and forcing him to reset.

(Which was very clearly outwardly visible despite how much he tried to hide it)

4 - The methods of their return

(Honestly I think this part is what's making ppl think that qTubbo's death is being 'ignored' compared to qBads)

With qTubbo, Creation told them that in order to 'restore' him they need smth that they CANNOT craft. Creation did not elaborate further, so they have very little to work with/very little they can actually do in order to try and help him. So most players while they have expressed they want to help, they know that if they do try to help they'll be running at brick walls because they just cannot obtain what is needed and they need to just wait for Creation to show up again.

Whereas

With qBad they know he'll be back (because he's a demon and that's just how they work) and they know what they have to do. They have to wait and be patient when he does return because he might not remember them and he'll probably need pictures to remember. He told them all of this before he died.

On one hand you have qTubbo: Wait for a prompt from Creation or an NPC to help them craft the item to get him back

On the other you have qBad: Wait for him to come back on his own terms

And for the people used to Bad providing a metaphorical example to prove his point in a clearer manner;

When playing a video game you have more hope when waiting for a loading wheel to stop spinning so you can play the level, than you do looking at a level blocked behind a currently unobtainable paywall :/

In other words, dwelling on things you don't know how to fix sucks ass and no one likes thinking about it until they have a tangible idea for a solution and right now only one of the two deaths has an even remotely tangible solution even if it is just to wait and do nothing.

(I understand that ppls reactions to qBads death have seemed more proactive than qTubbos right now but today was the first qBagi and Em learned of him actually dying so it makes sense that today was sort of centered around that. Tbh it just sucks that qTubbo died on an event day bc I feel like if he didn't we would've got a lot more focus and angst out of it but what can you do. But also it's seemed a lot more proactive because qBads kids are actively searching the server for him for 3-4 hours a day which is just depressing as hell, kudos to Pommin and Dapmin for pulling that off :') )

Wall of text over!

Have a flower for your troubles, after all our cubitos have done to us, I think we've earned some flowers without angsty connotations ;-;

❀❀❀❀❀

[bleedingichorhearts]

𝐊𝐥𝐞𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐫 𝐏𝐚𝐥𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐧

𝕬𝖚𝖙𝖍𝖔𝖗: Been letting this poor one rot :(

𝕾𝖚𝖒𝖒𝖆𝖗𝖞: You return back to your home town and visit a very familiar Bakery; not knowing that a rather gentle robbery would be present.

𝕿𝖆𝖌𝖌𝖊𝖉: @kit-williams, @egrets-not-regrets, @bispecsual, @gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan, @sleepyfan-blog.

𝐒𝐞𝐢𝐳𝐞𝐝 𝐎𝐂’𝐬: Brother Roland Lichtner and his Bäckerin(NonCanon Name: Becky) by @/kit-williams.

TW // Attempt of Robbing.

|°ᴛᴀɢ ʟɪꜱᴛ ᴀᴘᴘʟɪᴄᴀᴛɪᴏɴ°| |°ɪᴄʜᴏʀ’ꜱ ᴀᴏ3°| |°𝕄𝕒𝕤𝕥𝕖𝕣𝕃𝕚𝕤𝕥°| • {Chapter II}

Cold wind blows at the layers of your clothing as you make your way down the dim lit sidewalk, night time beginning to rise. The new snow under your boots crunching underneath your weight, packing it more into the glossy, white sidewalk: used by many other people and Astartes walking the streets from the light of day. The different prints of sizes and shapes in the snow telling you the differences between the two, even from loyalist, chaos and inbetween. It was funny however, to see how big the prints were compared to a human in the snow.

Breathing in deeply and pressing your hands in the coat of your pocket closer to your body for better warmth. You catch a whiff of something warm and fresh passing through the cold, crisp air. Pleasing your senses as your stomach lowly grumbles at you. Reminding you that you haven’t eaten much of anything today besides a few snacks as you were too busy trying to get settled in your hotel rather than prioritizing your hunger. Trying to get yourself checked in as the woman at the counter stares at you weirdly, like she’s trying to remember you, and she honestly might.

This town was once your hometown, and it has changed a lot from the last time you have seen it. There definitely has been some Iron Warriors and Imperial Fists roaming about now than before, from what you remember. Designing some new structures here for the people and their bonds, their bigger, eccentric creation is not very hard to miss. Also, there have been a lot more people moving here as it has suddenly became a hot spot for more loyalists and a few acceptable chaos for their bonds. Leading for you to believe and question this area might be protected or have a loyalist base nearby. Not that you didn’t know that already, but where in the area is the question.

Your stomach growls at you again, trying to sway you to follow the yummy scent. Telling you to eat something already and stop thinking of matters at hand, you have got to get some fresh goods to eat and now. Your belly isn’t liking its neglect, for the disinterest in food all of the sudden as you kept yourself rather well fed most of the times. Needing to always keep your proteins, nutrients and other things high as not only do you burn all that off, but you’ve been scolded by your medic once or twice before. He was not happy about it; including his Astartes.

Sighing and unable to deny such demands from your stomach. Your breath makes a cloud of carbon before you slowly follow the scent, taking your time as you walk. Not wanting to suddenly slip and fall in the snow and be absolutely winded by it. You already have done that a couple times going down a hill, but at least you have gotten to some places faster by just sliding down a sidewalk because you had fallen to the damn packed snow. It was horrible to not be able to breathe because of it, but it was kinda worth it at the same time.

Your stomach grows for the third time in a row, impatient, clutching at you. Your eyes just spotting the warmly lit up bakery up ahead and to your side. The warming glow coming from the windows of it very opposite to the darkened day. The big, red brick walls of the bakery definitely have been made by the hands of an Imperial Fist or Iron Warrior with big one sided windows on it (you can’t look in, but you can look out.) The frame of the windows being painted black. Half side columns of black being embedded into the brick walls between the entrance door and the windows, making the building pop out more. You honestly would bet yourself 20 bucks that it looks just as pristine inside just as it was outside by just looking at the exterior of the bakery.

Shuffling through some snow to just get up to the bakery’s door. You open the door with a little bell ding, not really expecting it to open as you figure that whoever works here would be closing up shop. It was getting late or rather is late. Perhaps, the worker here had just lost their time?

Gently shutting the door behind you as to not let the cold, snowy air in and the snow itself, you look up and all around you. Observing the bakery, swearing that so much has changed inside of the bakery since you had lost saw it. Your lungs inhaling deeply at the smell of the freshly baked goods this place was coated with, and maybe with just a dash of coffee beans lingering in the air.

You remember how this place used to feel so, so big to you (it still does.) How minuscule you felt just by standing next to one of those Astartes-sized beanbag chairs that sit in the corner next to some book shelves. There has been so much more added here since the time has passed, but you definitely could still feel all the warm coziness this bakery still brings. That, was undeniable.

In all honesty, you were just a child back then, so of course things were much more bigger than regular. Everything felt like you were in a damn castle, but you mostly took most of your time enjoying the baker lady’s presence, carefully watching her bake as she wouldn’t allow you next to the ovens and mixers. Though, she would always give you some free little snacks of bread when she was finished with the bread, closing the bakery or even when you ran over to visit her for a quick snack before running off again. It was honestly a… sorrowful shame you can’t remember much of your childhood anymore. You don’t remember the lovely lady’s face, but you definitely felt that she was like a second mother to you, and damn. You would be proud of her if she was your first.

Shaking your head of your memories, you come forward to the counter. Your eyes taking in the coated wood before gazing around you once more. Patiently waiting for someone to either tell you the shop was closing and they wouldn’t be selling anything anymore until they open up again or they will actually take your order at this time of night. Where you just realize you are the only one in this homey bakery. Your thoughts questioning if there was a curfew set in this town.

“Hello! How may I help you today?” A woman pokes her head out from behind the kitchen area, gathering your attention. Her form walking over and dusting her hands off of flour as she smiles at you. Her hardworking hands then settling on her hips while she stops right behind the counter. Telling you that she is rather experienced on what she does here.

“I’m not imposing your time, am I?” You ask her gently, not wanting to order something if she was going to leave and lock the place up. You would feel kinda bad if that is what she was on the verge of doing.

“Oh, not at all!” She dismisses you with her floured hand, shaking her head. “I was just making the next batch for tomorrow, and I don’t mind customers surprising me when they do this. Some Night Lords do it all the time with a few teenagers here and there.”

“Are they troublesome?” You engage in some small talk, shifting your weight from one leg to the other. This woman feels open to talk to; trustworthy.

“Um, sometimes.” She nods, settling her hands back on her hips. “But mostly the teenagers are here to get some bread to calm down their hangovers either by tonight or by tomorrow so their parents won’t catch them. The Night Lords just like to scare, but leave once they have their share.”

You nod at that, a little amused by the fact there were teenagers coming in at night. Hoping to make their hangovers disappear before their parents would catch them. The Night Lords however? You like to think that is common for them to do. They had always liked the thrill, the scent of their hunt.

“Well then, is there anything I can get you young one?” She asks again. Trying to dust off her hands once more, and then just smeared the flour over her apron.

“May I get a traditional kipferl, please?” You answer her, looking up at the order board, and down and over the baked goods in their display cases. Taking note the kipferl was the freshly baked one tonight and decided to go easy on the lady.

“Yes you may, just give me a moment, I’ll have your order right out there for you.” She nodded then held up her pointer finger, inching to go back into the kitchen. No doubt having to attend to some more breaded goodies back there. “Feel free to have a seat.”

Nodding at the woman. You back off and twist around to find a spot that you might like. Your eyes glancing over the many booths in front of the windows. Deciding the booth all the way in the right corner next to some of those bean bag chairs would be nice to sit at. Your back would be protected, it may be a lot quieter and you can see everything that will be going on in front of you. Ready for anything possible.

Happy that it was available,(even though the bakery is empty. You just like the solitude it was giving and it was just ripe for the picking.) You go over and take your seat right in the middle of the booth seat. Making yourself comfortable and gently resting your arms on the table, your fingers intertwining, and looking out at the dark, snowy landscape. Watching as snowflakes begin to fall to add more to the snow.

You wait and stare out the window for a couple of moments. A feeling of nostalgia washing over you that makes you shift in your booth seat. There was just something about the comfort of this place that made you feel sad but happy about it. You can’t tell what it is as your memories of your childhood are a bit faded, but eventually in time you believe you’ll remember it just like you remembered what the baker lady did with you in that past. You still don’t remember her face or her voice, but it’s her actions that count, right?

“Right, here you go.” The lady sighs softly, gathering your attention while you lean back; hands coming off the table. The woman puts down a beautiful baked kipferl on a small, glass plate with little vines and crosses circling the rim of the plate in front of you. Her still floured, fingers adjusting it slightly so you can look at the more glowing side of the baked good with a bit of powdered sugar on top. A little steam rising off of it too. “Here is one kipferl for a lovely lady.”

“Thank you.” You nod again at her again, coming forward to observe the kipferl closely. Taking note of how the woman seems to hover at your side by your peripheral vision. Taking you in before taking her leave back to the kitchen with her hands folded in front of her.

You, however, were not too bothered by her stare. You had plenty of people around staring at you all day, trying to remember who you are. You were just more focused on the big and powdered sugar, looking kipferl in front of you. The perfect golden brown bread smelling ridiculously tempting to just gobble down your raging hunger for the piece of beautifulness that just sits an inch in front of you, teasing you for all that you're worth.

Your mouth begins to heavily salivate the more you continually get the whiff of the freshness of the bread, and it’s like you were waiting for a prayer to be said before you can dig into it as you didn’t want to absolutely ravage the whole kipferl in one impossible go. You have impeccable manners and you are going to use them, no matter how temping things and food can be. You were better than a deprived-striken cannibal waiting for their next meaty dessert.

Gently picking up the kipferl, you sniff it and almost sneeze. Quickly regretting and practically inhaling the powdered sugar on top of the kipferl, but you still bite into it. Loving how the powdered sugar dissolves on the top of your mouth. Its buttery yet vanilla-like taste melting in your mouth with a fluff and light crispness to it for the texture.

Oh-ha-ho, you are definitely coming and running back here for more delicious, warm baked goods! This tasted and felt like a ratatouille dish! Just with bread!

Taking another savoring bite from the kipferl. You hear the bell on top of the front door ding while someone else enters the bakery at this time of night. Your eyes unbothered to look up at who and what it might be. This baked good was more important than anything at the moment, and your stomach was enjoying the bread you were offering it. No longer growling at you all grumpily.

Happily just munching on your baked good. Your happiness is suddenly diminishing when you hear these familiar, metal clicks. Your fingers twitching on your kipferl as you slowly set it back down to your plate after you almost bit back into it. Your gaze finally wandering up to the newcomer that stands just off to the side of your table with a pistol in his hands.

“Money, now.” A male voice comes out of this man dressed in full black: including those wonky ski masks, demanding assets. His gun pointing straight at your forehead, and gesturing for your pockets with it.

You take a… unlogical moment to study this sudden robber. Noticing how slim his figure was, not starving wise, they just had a slim figure. Not only that, but he was also kind of short for a male so this has to be a teenager or just a rather small male. Oh, and they were inexperienced with the way their gun was still on safety, probably didn’t even have bullets either.

“Hmmm, no.” You deny with a stern gaze. Looking them up and down as they seemed rather surprised at your denial, not expecting that. Their gun lowering a bit before rising back up.

“What? Why?” They ask, clearly having no experience in robbing someone. They would have been more hostile than this; not asking questions. “I’m robbing you.”

“So?” You shrug, taking a chance to shuffle out of your seat and stand up next to the robber. Your eyes practically looking down at him as he shuffles back a little, his gun still pointed at you, almost looking shameful of himself. It was almost amusing and a bit bitter.

“So? You should be giving me your money.” They counter back with a smaller tone. Turning their gun at you and holding it like some sort of gangster. You fight the urge to roll your eyes in order to not make this rather easy looking situation worse. This person will be redeemable if this was their first time (and it is judging by how soft this person was being) trying to do these types of acts. “I’m pointing a gun at you.”

“With a gun, that is on safety?” You question him with a risen brow. Glancing between their face and the gun while they seemed even more puzzled by your statement. Tilting his gun and looking at it; noticing that it was in fact, on safety.

“I…um…” The robber stutters in both the fact that he feels embarrassed by himself for not knowing how to use a gun properly, and for the fact that you don’t even seem all that afraid of them. Most would cower and lay themselves down on the ground when they would see a gun pointed at them, even a toy one, but not you. You were not even fazed, just unamused. The robber doesn’t know how to feel about that.

“Give me the gun.” You simply say, sounding like you're a disappointed parent. Holding out your hand and waiting for the robber to place the gun into your opened hands.

The robber can’t help but dip his head in shame and embarrassment. Flipping the gun to its side and handing over the gun to you as you check the magazine in it. Amusing yourself as there was no rounds in the magazine, just like you had thought.

“Will I be charged?” The robber asks once more, twiddling with his fingers. His head still lowered while he glances between you and the lady behind the counter that had been watching the whole thing since you’ve gotten out of the booth.

“No.” You simply say, lifting up the back of your coat and putting the gun behind you, slotting it at the waistline of your pants. Your eyes watching the robber in front of you; more amused than anything now with them. You have never had such an… innocent encounter before. It makes you wonder why this person was trying to rob in the first place. This attempt-to-be robber was definitely not meant to be one. “But you will need to justify your actions.”

That spurs the person a little bit, jumping in their skin with worry. Their body tensing up while they look back down to the ground again. “You mean go to the police station?”

“Unfortunately, yes.” You hum at him, coming forward to grasp at his shoulder firmly, but not restrictingly so. You kinda felt bad for this person. “It’s just how the law goes.”

“Aw, come on!” The robber pouts, but willingly moves when you push him towards the door. “I didn’t really threaten anybody!”

“Pointing a gun at somebody is a threat.” You inform the robber of his crimes. “Including attempted robbery.”

The robber huffs then shivers when a blast of cold air comes through the door as you open it up. Mumbling something about how they should have worn a warmer coat before begging. “Can I please not go to the police station?”

“No.” You immediately say, closing the door behind you and hesitating a bit afterwards as you forgot to pay the lady for the golden good she had given you.

“Can I try and sway you on the way there?” The robber tries again, glancing back at you while you shake your head, pushing him forward through the snowy landscape. You’ll be coming back here from more of those goods, you’ll pay when you come back.

“…Sure.”

“I swear I have seen that woman around…” Becky hums mostly to herself. Finally in the comforting grasp of her Space Marine while she lays on top of him; her chest up against his as he traces his fingers up and down her back.

“See who around?” The big man below her mumbles. His voice vibrating through his body and rumbling lightly against Beckys’ own body.

Becky shifts a little bit on top of him before looking up at him. Her cheek resting on top of his pecs; watching her fingers as she traces her own fingers against his chest. Gaining a quiet, loving purr from her Marine.

“There was this lady that came in at the bakery at night while I was making goods for the morning.” She starts, her eyes going a little distant as she remembers the lady walking in and ordering a simple kipferl. “She was surprisingly sweet and well… familiar.”

“Familiar? How?” He hums almost tiredly, his interest peaked a little, but not by much. If anything, it may just be one of those pesky, drunk teenagers again.

“I don’t know, it’s like I know them from somewhere.” Becky says, shaking her head lightly in a form of denial. “Like I have known them before.”

Roland rumbles at that, vibrating his chest. Questioning this stranger a bit more. His fingers getting slightly tangled in Beckys’ hair. “Do you have any details on this stranger?”

Becky nods, leaning up right on his chest and gives him the appearance of the lady. Giving him every single detail of the lady as she could while his fingers suddenly stops on her back. His mind instantly recalling his memories of what Becky provides him with. Remembering a little child that has the similarities with this lady, and a fellow Black Templar Chaplin that has been suffering the effects of an intense bond since that little lady was sent out… for 10 years… wait.

“Oh, and there was a robber.” Becky says so casually and suddenly. The Black Templar underneath her tensing up. His head quickly straining up from his pillows to look down at Becky. A long silence capturing the air.

“A what?!”

[la-spooky]

꧁ ༺ Beneath His Dark Waters ༻ ꧂

I am determined to prove that Rafayel is a more fucked up individual than Sylus. It's unnerving how well he hides it. A match made in hell.

༻ CH1: His Ocean, His Obsession ༻ Read the 18+ kinky smut chapters at my AO3 ༻ Fic Status: Ongoing ༻ Pairing: Sylus x Rafayel ༻Summary: "You know damn well you fucked me, Rafayel," Sylus growled, his voice low and dangerous. "We made a deal." Rafayel felt the room closing in around him as the words sank like lead into his chest. His mouth went dry, but he kept his gaze locked on Sylus, refusing to show the fear gnawing at him from within. For a brief moment, Rafayel saw something else in Sylus’s eyes, a flicker of something raw, almost pained, beneath the anger. But just as quickly as it appeared, it was gone, replaced by the cold, unyielding mask of control. Sylus leaned forward, the broken glass cutting into his palm. He didn’t flinch. “It’s time to pay your debt.”

The following content is protected under copyright laws. Do not copy, modify, repost on other sites or claim as your own.

© 2024 la-spooky

Rafayel's nerves had been fraying for days. It started with small things. Feeling a prickling on the back of his neck as if someone was watching him, shadows that seemed to move just out of sight, and flashes of red that flickered in his peripheral vision. At first, he dismissed them as tricks of his mind or remnants of his time on the run. But as the days passed, the sense of being watched grew stronger, the flashes of red more frequent, and his sleep more restless.

He tried to ignore his paranoia by poring himself into his art. The studio, usually a place of calm and creation, now felt like a pressure cooker, the walls closing in on him. He was in the middle of a particularly aggressive stroke when his phone buzzed loudly on the table beside him. The sharp sound made him jump, his hand slipping and smearing the paint across the canvas. With a frustrated sigh, he wiped his hands on a rag and grabbed the phone, his heart still racing from the sudden noise.

The message was from an unknown number. His brow furrowed as he opened it, expecting some spam or wrong number. But as soon as the text opened, his phone screen flickered violently. The usual smooth interface became corrupted with glitching streaks of black and red. Before he could react, the first message appeared on the screen with a distorted nightmarish tone that made his skin crawl. 

¿D̸͖͘ḭ̶̽d̶̼̽ ̶͍͝y̵̡̽o̵̟̕u̴̓ really think y̷̤̌o̵u woü̴ld get͈ aw̵̘̕ȃ̵̭y ̶͑with it?

Rafayel's heart pounded in his chest as he read the message. His mind raced, trying to figure out who could have sent it and what they were talking about. He tried to reply, but the phone screen glitched again before he could even type a response. What in the- a loud crash came from outside the studio. He froze for a moment, listening intently for any other sounds. Footsteps crunched on the gravel pathway, unnervingly deliberate and purposeful until they stopped just outside the glass sliding door.

Rafayel's nerves were shot at this point and he couldn't take it anymore. Fuck this. I’m outta here. He grabbed his keys and bolted out of the studio through his front door. As soon as he stepped outside though, everything went black.

Rafayel awoke handcuffed to an ornate dining chair. The room around him was draped in opulence, with rich red and black accents that seemed to seep into every corner. The dining table in front of him was laden with an extravagant feast. Glossy, decadent dishes that seemed almost too beautiful to touch, flanked by champagne flutes that caught the dim light and reflected it back with an eerie glimmer.

Dizziness gripped him, making everything appear fragmented. A groan escaped Rafayel's lips as he struggled to clear the haze from his vision. “Ah, you’re awake,” came a seductive, gravelly voice. “I was beginning to worry you’d miss the fun.”

Rafayel's eyes widened in shock as he recognized the voice. His blood ran cold as his vision gradually cleared. Across the table sat the suffocating presence of his past. A towering white haired man, alluring and intimidating in equal measure, watched him with piercing red eyes that cut through the haze with unnerving clarity. It was Sylus, his former captor and tormentor. Memories of his time with Sylus flooded back into Rafayel's mind, causing him to shudder involuntarily. He struggled against the restraints holding him down but they were too tight. He looked around frantically for a way out but there seemed to be none.

Sylus leaned back in his chair, a satisfied smirk on his face as he watched Rafayel's panic. "You see," Sylus began, picking up a glass of whiskey and swirling it thoughtfully before taking a sip. "I have my ways of finding what is mine." His eyes gleamed dangerously at the last word. "And now that you're back where you belong," he continued softly, setting down the glass and steepling his fingers under his chin "we can finally catch up on old times."

"You can't keep me here," Rafayel spat at Sylus, trying to sound brave despite feeling terrified inside. "I'm not your pet anymore."

Sylus's lips twitched into a smirk at Rafayel's defiance. He found it amusing how the younger man tried to stand up to him, even when he was so clearly trapped. "Oh really?" he asked, leaning forward slightly. "And what makes you think that you are even worthy of being my pet? After all, I could have any Lemurian I please." His eyes raked over Rafayel hungrily before settling back on his face. There was something almost playful about Sylus now; a dangerous game where only one could win and lose simultaneously.

Rafayel gritted his teeth at the condescending tone in Sylus's voice. He refused to give him the satisfaction of knowing how much he had suffered during his captivity. "I don't know what you're talking about," Rafayel replied, trying to sound as confident as possible despite feeling like a trapped animal. "I've moved on from that part of my life."

Sylus chuckled softly at Rafayel's attempt to deny their past. He could see the fear in his eyes, even though he tried so hard to hide it. "Moved on?" he repeated incredulously, shaking his head slightly as if disappointed by such naivety. "You can run from me all you want but remember this; I always find what is mine." His gaze lingered on Rafayel for a moment before looking away dismissively.

Rafayel's stomach churned at the thought of being used by Sylus again. He had spent years trying to forget about their past together, but it seemed like he was doomed to relive it all over again. "I won't let you touch me," Rafayel said firmly, his voice shaking slightly with fear and anger. "I'd rather die than be your plaything again."

Sylus raised an eyebrow at Rafayel's defiance. He found it amusing how the younger man thought he could resist him. "Is that so?" he asked, with a smirk on his face. "And what makes you think that death is preferable to being mine?" His eyes gleamed dangerously as if daring Rafayel to try and escape once more. Rafayel knew damn well that death by his hands would be excruciatingly slow and sadistic.

Sylus leaned back in his chair and studied Rafayel with an unreadable expression, his piercing red eyes simmering beneath an icy veneer. The tension between them thickened, coiling in the air like a predator waiting to strike. "You know damn well you fucked me, Rafayel," Sylus growled, his voice low and dangerous. "We made a deal."

Rafayel felt the room closing in around him as the words sank like lead into his chest. His mouth went dry, but he kept his gaze locked on Sylus, refusing to show the fear gnawing at him from within.

Sylus's lips curled into a humorless smile as he continued. "You signed your rights away willingly, willingly," he repeated, as though tasting the bitterness of the betrayal on his tongue. “And still, you had the audacity to screw me over and everything we built together." The sound of glass cracking rang out as Sylus’s hand tightened around the delicate crystal in his grip. A hairline fracture splintered through the whiskey glass, but he paid it no mind, his focus solely on Rafayel.

For a brief moment, Rafayel saw something else in Sylus’s eyes, a flicker of something raw, almost pained, beneath the anger. But just as quickly as it appeared, it was gone, replaced by the cold, unyielding mask of control. Sylus leaned forward, the broken glass cutting into his palm. He didn’t flinch. “It’s time to pay your debt.”

Rafayel's heart pounded in his chest. Debt. The word hung between them, charged with unspoken meaning. He knew exactly what Sylus meant, what he wanted. But Rafayel refused to bow to the weight of that word. Not again.

"You think this is about some deal we made?" Rafayel spat, the tremble in his voice betraying his rising fear. "You don't own me, Sylus. Whatever I signed, it was under duress. You manipulated me, cornered me until I had no choice!"

Sylus's expression darkened, his red eyes narrowing into slits. He stood slowly, the fractured glass slipping from his hand and shattering on the floor. “I gave you everything, Rafayel. Freedom, power, a life beyond the chains of Lemuria, the civilization that you single-handedly destroyed. I shielded you from the guilt and sorrow of the mess you made. I saved you. And in return, you betrayed me.”

Rafayel felt a surge of anger flood his veins. “Betrayed you? You imprisoned me, Sylus. You never gave me freedom. You twisted it to your liking, made me believe I owed you my life. But I was never free, not for a second. I was just your exotic pet!”

A cold, sharp laugh escaped Sylus, his towering form looming over the table now. “Oh, Rafayel...You still don’t understand, do you?” His voice, rich with malice and something darker, sent a shiver crawling down Rafayel’s spine. Rafayel's breath quickened as Sylus drew closer, his steps echoing ominously through the grand room.

As the handsome predator approached, Rafayel’s senses were overwhelmed. Sylus’s presence was intoxicating, his cologne thick with the unmistakable scent of Lemurian aphrodisiacs. It hit Rafayel like a wave, dulling his resistance as an involuntary heat coursed through him. His lips parted, and to his horror, he realized he was already salivating. He clenched his jaw, forcing his body to fight the effect. “S-stop…get away from me,” Rafayel choked out, his voice trembling, but the defiance was still there, buried beneath the fear and the unnatural pull he felt toward Sylus. His words felt weak, powerless, swallowed by the overwhelming presence of the man closing in on him.

Sylus smiled deliberately as if savoring Rafayel’s struggle. He leaned in, his eyes glowing with that same predatory hunger as he reached out, his fingers brushing against Rafayel’s cheek. The touch was feather-light but burned with an intensity that made Rafayel flinch. The blood that had been oozing from Sylus’s palm moments ago seemed to vanish, the gash knitting together in front of Rafayel’s wide eyes as if his very flesh bent to Sylus’s will.

“There’s no escaping what’s real, Rafayel,” Sylus whispered, his voice softening into something almost tender, a cruel contrast to the situation. “Your debt...it was never just about the deal.” He paused, letting the words settle like a weight on Rafayel’s chest. “It’s about us.”

Rafayel’s heart hammered as Sylus’s hand slid from his cheek to his jaw, tilting his face upward so their eyes locked. The red in Sylus’s gaze gleamed with a dangerous mix of desire and dominance. “What we had, Rafayel...you felt it. You know it was real.”

Rafayel gritted his teeth, fighting the haze clouding his thoughts, his body betraying him under the effects of the Lemurian drugs and the unnerving pull of Sylus’s power. “You twisted everything...it was never real,” he hissed, though even as he said the words, there was a crack in his voice. It had been real and he couldn't even deny it to himself. But what Sylus wanted, what he took, couldn’t have been love.

Sylus’s lips quirked into a smirk, his thumb brushing along Rafayel’s lower lip with unsettling intimacy. “You keep telling yourself that, but deep down, you know. What we shared, it was more than just control. You gave yourself to me because you wanted to. And I...gave you everything.” The warmth in Sylus’s voice was laced with venom, a seductive, dangerous edge that made Rafayel’s skin crawl.

Reality was more terrifying than the delusion Rafayel had spun for so long. He could not accept that maybe, just maybe, there had been something mutual in the twisted relationship. Sylus hadn’t always manipulated him, hadn’t always warped his mind until nothing felt certain except the suffocating weight of his power. Rafayel had willingly swam into the angler fish’s trap again and again and again.

[50calmadeuce]

Ch. 11: Texas Now

Warning: Mention of miscarriage. Some chapters have sex.

Disclaimer: This is a work of fan fiction using characters from the Top Gun: Maverick world, trademarked by Paramount Pictures Corporation. I do not claim ownership of the characters and the world that I am borrowing.

The story and situation I am creating are a work of my imagination and I do not ascribe them to official story canon. This work is for entertainment only and is not a part of the storyline.

I am not profiting financially from the creation and publication of this story, but I do hope it gives you happy thoughts.

These stories are my own, so please do not take them and use them for yourself without my permission. If you see them somewhere else, please let me know. :)

Caught in the transition from the memory to the present, you blinked, refocusing on Jake's expectant gaze. The shift from recollection to reality brought a renewed sense of clarity, along with the weight of the unresolved tension hanging between you.

"Well?" Jake repeated, his voice pressing for a response, a mix of concern and impatience lacing his words.

"You'll be given as much explanation as you provided when you left," you stated, starting to turn on your heel toward the bedroom, when Jake seized your arm.

You turned your head back and looked at him. "Let go of me, Jake," you demanded and headed towards his bedroom. Jake following close behind and he closed the door behind you.

"Darlin', I'm sorry. I don't know how many times I can say it," he said.

You faced him, tears brimming in your eyes. "As many damn times as I need to hear it! You walked away from me, Jake! You might have needed to prove something to those above, but down here," you gestured emphatically towards the floor, "I had to prove myself!"

He stared at you, at a loss for words.

Frustrated, you threw your hands in the air. "And then you return, behaving as if just sleeping with me again would mend everything. Listen here, pal, those four years were lengthy for me as well, and it's not like I was without options."

"Well, I wasn't exactly lacking attention from women either," he retorted, the sting of the situation finally dawning on him.

Your gaze fixed on him, tears of anger streaming down your face. "So what?"

He met your eyes, a heavy silence filling the space between you. "I was married. That's what. I didn't even tell my closest friend. Imagine his surprise when I mentioned I was heading back home to Wisconsin as a married man."

The revelation hung in the air, thick with emotions and unsaid thoughts. You could see the mix of pride, vulnerability, and a hint of defiance in his posture as he shared this piece of his life with you. It was a side of him that few got to see—the side that made life-altering decisions based on what he felt in his heart, regardless of the consequences or the opinions of others.

"Jake, that's... that's huge," you finally managed, your voice soft, reflecting the complexity of your feelings. "Why didn't you tell anyone? Were you afraid of their reactions?"

He let out a long sigh, running a hand through his hair. "I guess I was. It wasn't just about their reactions, though. It was about making something in my life purely mine, ours, without the world weighing in on it before we even had a chance to live it. What about you?"

"A month later, I removed my wedding band. The people close to me were aware of my circumstances. Then, I met someone who didn't seem to mind at all."

As you perched on the edge of the bed, arms wrapped around yourself, confusion clouded Jake's face.

"Doctor Dorian Stryker," you disclosed. "He approached me while I was in Wyoming, working. He admired my genetic research on cattle and suggested we co-author a book about it. Naturally, I agreed. Why wouldn't I?"

Jake moved closer and settled on the edge of the bed beside you.

"The research and the study went really well. He inquired about me, about my life." You turned to Jake. "I told him I was married to a fighter pilot who was currently deployed. He mentioned that he was the child of parents who served, so he understood what that was like." You inhaled deeply. "Then, there was a fair. That's where I met Chuck. I observed people dancing, having fun. I saw couples holding each other close and I wondered if that's what you still wanted." Tears began to well up in your eyes once more. "Dorian noticed me and asked if I'd like to dance. I agreed. We stepped onto the dance floor, and he pulled me close. I closed my eyes, Jake, and it was you I imagined holding me. Before I knew it, his lips found mine. When I opened my eyes and realized it wasn't you, I pushed him away. Just then, Chuck saw us and called out my name. I ran to him and ended up going to the hotel alone that night. I didn't encounter Dorian again until I returned to Texas. Our work was well-received by the professors, leading to its publication. Dorian attempted to reach out to me, but I refused to engage with him. By then, the house was finished, so I went back to Wisconsin, reached out to a local veterinarian and got hired, and focused on turning our house into a home, harboring the wish every day that you would return." Tears quietly traced down your cheeks. "I felt like I had made a mistake by pursuing my dream, just as you chased yours."

Jake reached out, drawing you into his embrace as you began to sob uncontrollably. "Oh, darlin'. No, you didn't do anything wrong."

"I needed you, Jake, and you weren't there," you mumbled into his chest as you continued to cry.

"I know. I suppose I won't be winning any 'Best Husband of the Year' awards, but I'm here now."

You sat up to face him directly. "Are you really?" The sound of your phone caught your attention. You picked it up and glanced at the screen, reading the incoming text message. "It's Dr. Colson. He wants to meet," you said, standing up. "I need to clean up and head out." With those words, you made your way to the bathroom, leaving Jake seated on the edge of the bed, absorbed in thought.

You maneuvered the red F-150 into a spot in the guest parking nearest to the Agricultural and Life Sciences building. After freshening up, you had opted for a new pair of jeans, a tan tank top beneath a brown and tan lightweight plaid shirt, and finished the look with brown cowboy boots and a distressed brown baseball cap, your brown hair in a ponytail.

Exiting the truck, you made your way to the building's entrance, pushed open the door, and walked towards Dr. Colson's office. Finding his door ajar, you knocked.

"Come in," came the reply from inside.

You entered and halted in your tracks at the sight of a dark-haired individual seated in front of Dr. Colson's desk. Dr. Colson rose to his feet. "Y/N! We were just discussing you!"

The figure in the chair stood and faced you. It was Dorian.

Dr. Colson came over, and the two of you embraced. "You remember Dr. Stryker, right?"

Dorian gave you a nod, and you managed a smile. "Of course."

"Please, take a seat," Dr. Colson urged, indicating the chair beside Dorian.

With cautious steps, you moved to the chair and sat, feeling Dorian's gaze follow you closely.

Once seated, Dr. Colson resumed his place behind the desk. "We were discussing the upcoming conference this weekend. Dorian proposed that we include you in his genetics lecture."

You offered a smile. "I'd be happy to. I'll just need to organize my notes tonight. This was quite the surprise."

"We wouldn't want to impose if it feels like too much," Dorian added.

Turning towards him, you replied, "No, it's not any pressure at all."

"It should be manageable. We're primarily covering material from the book," he replied, his crystal blue eyes meeting yours.

"In that case, I should be just fine," you said, reassured by the familiar content.

"Then it's settled!" Dr. Colson declared with enthusiasm, handing over two passes to you. "These are for you and your husband. I presume he'll be attending?"

With a smile, you responded, "Yes, he will be."

Dr. Colson extended two tickets towards you. "These are for the reception on Saturday night. I'm eager to meet your husband."

Gratefully, you accepted the tickets. "Thank you. I'll see you tomorrow."

Standing up, you quickly made your way out the door.

As you stepped out of the Agriculture and Science building and neared your truck, a familiar voice calling your name halted your steps.

Turning around, you recognized Dorian approaching you. His six-foot-two frame was clad in jeans, a polo shirt, and tennis shoes, his midnight black hair combed to such perfection that not a single strand was out of place.

When he reached you, he observed, "You're quick."

"I have some preparations for this weekend, Dorian. What's up?" you asked, slightly rushed.

His piercing blue eyes scanned you briefly. "It's nice to see you again, Y/N."

"Likewise, Dorian. Was there something you needed?"

He passed a hand through his hair, a gesture of hesitation or perhaps unease. "I wanted to… apologize for last time…"

"It's fine. I've moved past it," you reassured him quickly.

"Are you and your husband back together then?"

"We never really parted, aside from his deployment."

"That's not what I heard," he countered, a hint of doubt in his tone.

"You shouldn't always listen to what people say," you replied, taking a deep breath to steady yourself. "Look, I really need to go." Turning, you began to walk toward your truck, eager to leave the conversation behind.

"I never stopped thinking about you, Y/N," he suddenly blurted out, causing you to pause momentarily.

You spun back to face him, your expression firm. "Well, I never spent my time thinking about you. Goodbye, Dorian." With those final words, you turned again and continued on your way to the truck, leaving the conversation—and Dorian—behind.

You pulled the truck to a stop outside the garage at your in-laws' house, reached over to grab the garment bag holding your dress for the next evening, and then stepped out of the truck.

As you stepped inside the house, Cindy was there to greet you warmly. "Oh, Y/N! There's something wrong with one of the horses. I need you to take a look. Here, let me take your garment bag and hang it up for you," she offered, reaching for the bag you carried. "I was about to call the local vet, but since you're here, I thought maybe…"

You offered her a reassuring smile. "It's okay. I'll check on him."

"He's in the back ring," she informed you, indicating where you needed to go.

"Okay." You walked back out the door and headed towards behind the barn.

As you made your way around the building, your gaze lifted to find Jake perched atop his chestnut mare.

Pausing, you took in the sight of Jake. He was dressed in a white tank top beneath a red and white plaid lightweight short-sleeved shirt, paired with blue jeans. His look was completed with black cowboy boots and a tan cowboy hat resting atop his head.

"So, was the hurt horse your idea?" you inquired.

"Yes, Ma'am," he responded with a nod, then extended his hand towards you after sliding back slightly on the saddle.

You let out a sigh, torn between the need to prepare your notes for this weekends presentation and acknowledging Jake's effort to reach out. Deciding to give this moment a chance, you stepped closer and placed your hand in his. With careful movements, you positioned your foot into the stirrup and hoisted yourself up into the saddle, settling in front of Jake.

With a gentle noise from Jake, the horse began to amble forward.

"Where are we headed?" you inquired, curious about his intentions.

"It's a surprise," he responded, his voice carrying the thick Texas accent that always seemed to deepen when he returned home.

You leaned back, finding comfort in the warmth of his chest as the horse meandered slowly through the open field.

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[cdroloisms]

I find it strange that a lot of people are coming forward and saying that the staged finale was a bad play for one reason or another but it really isn’t and I don’t understand where the hate is coming from.

yeah i've seen some of this the last few days--staged finale has always been somewhat "controversial" in the lorehead scene, so a measure of disagreement/discourse about it makes sense. especially bc it was honestly a very big change to what people thought was the story and required people to go back and reevaluate a lot, which. people are naturally resistant at doing

but while obviously i think that some healthy discussion about these things is good, and i feel like i have seen a level of...misunderstanding? about it?? which has gone into the ways that people disagree

staged finale refers to the decision to stage the finale. that's it. staged finale just asserts that based on preexisting foreshadowing and based on the sheer level of suspension of disbelief in order for genuine finale to be real, it made more sense for the finale to be staged than for it to have been genuine. how the finale was planned, when the finale was planned, and to what ends it was planned are all things that you can disagree on w/ other staged finale believers/supporters while still being a staged finale believer/supporter, ykwim? if you believe that c!punz faked his betrayal to c!dream, then congrats! you believe in staged finale. oftentimes i see people say things like "i don't believe in staged finale, i think that c!dream faked the betrayal and all and always had c!punz on his side but i think that the reason behind why he did it is [X]" and it's like. staging the finale is one (1) event, not a comprehensive explanation for everything c!Dream does. that would be more in line with something like the "strategist dream interpretation," which in itself does have different readings as well.

people have listed all of the inconsistencies in the staged finale before, but just to summarize--the guy literally could've dipped when everyone came to "defeat" him, c!tommy leveraging his own life is basically no leverage at all when the mans has the revive book, skeppy cage is a joke, c!dream revealing all of his plans when they were maybe 10% carried out (the entire damn attachment vault was empty of items besides stuff that was literally faked, his own damn stuff, and stuff that he stole recently from c!tommy such as the Axe of Peace and the discs) is ridiculously stupid, why the hell does he have blackmail against c!punz included in a bunker that c!punz clearly had access to???? the list goes on.

(as someone who took awhile to be fully convinced in staged finale, what really tripped me up was the stream punz did the day before: here's a post breaking it down that definitely helped me to see it in a different light.)

as far as foreshadowing goes, just off the top of my head: the original prisoner is a constant question from the day of the prison's creation, being something that's even highlighted on the day of the staged finale itself. c!Dream saying he has "the biggest house on the server" and how it's full of redstone. the entire conversation he has with c!punz, obviously. his holding back on the favor with c!techno, the connection between the revive book and the prison that he establishes the day they begin prison construction.

from a logical perspective, the plan as c!Dream establishes it doesn't make any damn sense. c!dream had opportunities to escape that he didn't take for illogical reasons (if the only reason why he allowed himself to stay in a fucking possible kill chamber was to keep c!tommy from committing suicide, then? what about the revive book? what about the fact that he literally kills c!tommy just a few months later????) -- a level of plot contrivance is expected in the medium, but for a lot of people this was just. Going way too far. Unless he literally lost his whole mind (which, to be fair, was the persona being played) there's just. really no other way to make sense of what was going on there, if it was all genuine.

the other argument is a narrative one--people claim that the story established by a genuine finale is cleaner than the story of the staged one, and honestly. it's like. like that's...a feature, not a flaw? the reason why the genuine finale worked isn't because it was logically believable. dream is Dream Manhunt. he's famously hard to nail down, famously good at escaping sticky situations, famously a man that can outsmart his way out of crazy disadvantageous situations--like. just in terms of minecraft skill, i'd wager that most people would think that dream would've technically been able to pull off an escape even when facing down the collection of enemies that were there. like he had 2 stacks of pearls.

narratively, though, the staged finale has a story that's quite appealing on the surface. the "story" of the events from the spirit speech onwards is one that revolved around the idea of "attachment." c!Dream rejects attachment in favor of control in the spirit speech when he says he refuses to let his love for his dead pet control him anymore, and he focuses on the ability to use the discs to control c!Tommy. the fact that c!Dream's relationships deteriorate at this time seems to support this point, and c!Tommy's strength in his relationships being what saves him and damns c!Dream ties everything off into a neat bow. c!Tommy wins because he has friends and c!Dream loses because he doesn't, moral of the story established, hip-hip-hooray. And so it goes.

but when we look at this more in specifics...? it does start falling apart a bit, doesn't it?

although c!Dream supposedly begins his rampage over his existing emotional connections with the spirit speech, his reputation had been in shambles long before that point. c!Dream-as-villain is first established as part of the greater story in the lmanburg revolution, and that's a title that he never really sheds (this point being emphasized in inconsolable differences and the book c!Wilbur has c!Dream write.) Dethronement happens within a day of Spirit Speech, iirc, and on that day c!Quackity specifically points out that c!Dream has no one on his side but c!Punz. the moments where he is more specifically isolated go back to events such as november 16th, where his alliance with c!Wilbur involved blowing up L'manburg, his deal for the revive book, which involved his publicly betraying Pogtopia, or his opposing Manberg to the literal Manberg cabinet. etc. all of these events in the Manberg/Pogtopia era had c!Dream's loyalties erode to end up as just c!Wilbur and later c!Schlatt for the book, two dead men. (and i say eroded loyalties as if pogtopia really believed dream was on their side, like, ever? like he was never trusted in their ranks, even by c!Tommy, who was definitely the person he worked the closest with outside of c!Wilbur.)

if we look at Dethronement itself, it doesn't actually fit the pattern of "c!Dream cuts off his attachment to people in order to make himself uncontrollable" -- in fact, what it does fit the pattern of is. Staged finale? Faking an end in a relationship with people that he does consider important to him, making a public appearance of betrayal + anger to mask an existing connection, drawing attention to their being enemies to hide the fact that they're actually friends--that's not c!Dream cutting anyone off. That's just the exact same ploy that he uses to make people think that c!Punz betrays him (only c!Sapnap and c!George ended up deciding that Nah We're Gonna Kill You Now. Fuck You It's Coup Time. so that's how that ended up.)

Otherwise there's...the Badlands, who were perfectly happy to agree to joining the coup on the day of dethronement if it got them more power and land. c!Techno, who c!Dream wasn't an ally of until later on with the favor established and then doomsday, and who was someone c!Dream was quite openly wary of + afraid of due to his combat skill. c!Dream was alone literally before exile even happened, his remaining "attachments" of c!George and c!Sapnap turning against him like the day he goes on a whole spiel about ohhoho from today onwards i DONT GIVE A SHIT ABOUT MY ATTACHMENTS !!! I ONLY CARE ABOUT THE DISCS !!! like congrats you don't even have a chance to cut off any attachment at all dingus they all hate you and want you dead already.

further, with c!punz, he literally says that they're more than just employer/employee in the infamous conversation they have about planning a betrayal. if the whole point of the story is "attachment good," then why is it that what takes down c!dream is...his one remaining attachment? if his fatal flaw is that he didn't trust people enough, why is it that he loses because he trusted someone too much? it's not like c!tommy had any attachment to c!punz--c!punz explicitly "has a reason" to betray c!dream because of money. he helps c!tommy because dream "should have paid [him] more." none of that reflects that spirit of "attachment" that people claim was c!dream's downfall.

(not to mention how the people present in the staged finale to take c!dream down included people who literally hated c!tommy's guts. like. what brought them together wasn't the power of friendship, it was the power of we hate this green bastard.)

this isn't to say that c!Dream didn't have some relationships that go up in flames because he starts acting particularly cackling evil villain (with the green festival being the specific moment where he really goes full in with that persona, going from someone that was framing himself as having a Reasonable Complaint to literally the joker as soon as he gets the disc from c!Tubbo. It's purposefully played as a "mask off" moment that is meant to make him look like a crazy fucking villain in front of a large audience--whether or not you think that was a choice that he made in character or not, the way his personality changes as soon as he receives the disc is jarring.) In particular, his relationships with c!Puffy and c!Sam come to mind--c!Puffy burns the house she made him when she decides that he's too evil (but, uh, c!dream really wasn't even there for that and didn't ever have a particularly close relationship with her) and c!Sam is among those whose opinions of c!Dream become drastically more negative around the period of time that spans green festival->doomsday->staged finale. but it's important to note that c!Dream's relationships on the server aren't...great, at the time of spirit speech. They're uh, really fucking bad, actually. dethronement only makes them even worse, and all of this happens pre-exile. c!Dream had significant reason to be paranoid and afraid for his life long before exile happens, which is Quite Significant, Actually, when you consider that that paranoia is literally what goes into his decisions to carry out the staged finale + put himself in the prison (which isn't the case for genuine finale, where he's more motivated by a desire to control the server without being controlled himself.) staged finale does solidify c!dream-as-villain for a lot of people, but it never would've worked if people didn't already see him as a villain in the first place. c!Dream doesn't make people hate him with the staged finale; he uses hatred that he already knows exists to put himself in what he sees as a safer position.

and look we could go into a whole discussion about manberg/pogtopia c!Dream (which i do think is way overdue to be fair considering that that's where the paranoia + isolation that motivates him post-november 16th comes from in the first place) but this post is long enough already and i still have to figure out a better way to articulate my thoughts on the matter. anyway. carrying on:

people still have different feelings on why he carries out staged finale in the first place, but what we do know for sure is that it was meant to protect punz and protect the revive book. by firmly establishing that c!punz and him were on opposite sides, he keeps the revive book safe and both of their lives safe by extension: as long as no one would kill both of them at the same time, they had a means of reviving the other if need be and obviously had the information on how to raise people from the dead secure. which was important to them. and otherwise...c!Dream is paranoid. c!Dream is very, very paranoid, and this paranoia goes back at the very least to when he learns about the revive book. the prison, for all the dependence that it required of him, was tailor made (and the construction process controlled by dream every damn step of the way) to make sure that whoever was in the main cell would be safe from external threats. the security of the prison and the prisoner was the POINT. i've seen some assertions that staged finale implies that he predicted everything that happened after he was put in prison and...no? i'd say that c!dream's behavior indicates him being thrown off by c!sam as early as bad's prison visit, c!sapnap's prison visit for sure. c!Ranboo being banned from visitation pretty damn obviously fucks him up, tbh. he has c!punz explicitly out there to keep an eye out on the server while he's in the prison, where he was meant to remain for a period of time that was supposed to be much shorter than how long he ends up being there. likely because, you know, he was supposed to have a consistent and reliable source of information with the outside world in the form of c!Ranboo, and c!sam wasn't supposed to fall off the fucking rails as soon as the prison started. people have also talked about how having the staged finale be true means that c!dream doesn't lose, which...i mean. gestures at the prison arc? that whole thing is a loss so catastrophic it literally destroys him. he's never the same after the prison happens. the false betrayal of c!punz is deliberately like ironically described to c!sam, who was the REAL betrayal that fucking. ruins him. he loses SO MUCH over the course of the prison, which was something he literally designed to keep himself safe from external threat. as far as losses go, i definitely find that a lot more compelling and a lot less contrived than watching c!dream go "whoop de doo guess i have to die now" when he's like 3 pearls away from making a clean escape in the disc vault, tbh.

at the end of the day, i think having some conversation about staged finale is fun! and it's always good to reexamine what you believe to make sure that it still holds water. but i've really not seen much staged finale crit that makes the genuine finale feel favorable as an explanation: logically, it makes a lot less sense. narratively, it relies on a story that the audience wants to be true and acts as a "clean" explanation for everything while not actually taking into account a lot of what was ACTUALLY going on for c!dream (cutting off attachments for the sake of control versus watching people turn against you and becoming increasingly paranoid, for example). and believe them or not, the content creators involved have always asserted that staged finale was the plan from the beginning, not any form of retcon. (and we do know that people have been dodgy about stuff like the "original prisoner" literally since the week that c!dream was imprisoned, so take that as you will.) (okay to be fair theyve been dodgy about the original prisoner since the day that the prison began to be constructed, but the QnA from that first week of imprisonment sticks out to me in particular because cc!Sam had the biggest fucking smile on his face and staged finale would've been planned out and then carried out in entirety by the ccs and the c!s by that point.)

this is a longass post but uh hopefully it makes sense, lmao. tried to touch on most of what i've seen recently 😅

[one-upgirl]

I wanted to make a post on Maria’s character from silent hill 2 because she is such a genuinely fascinating character and there is so much up to interpretation so I wanted to share my interpretation of her. I will go into so details of the born from a wish bonus content in the directors edition of silent hill 2 so here’s your spoiler warning I won’t go full into detail but still. So even with the name born from a wish title for her content I feel that it confirms the fact that Maria isn’t real and was created by the town. Maria starts the born from a wish with a revolver compared to how she’s completely unarmed in base game. There is also a large themes between ghosts and fate in her born of a wish and that James Sunderland is tied to her. There is also a very interesting scene where Maria looks at teddy bear and says she thinks that Laura would like, but she doesn’t know who the girl is it’s just Mary’s memory filling in the gaps for her. There is a character in born from a wish called Ernest Baldwin who knows a lot more about silent hill and Maria compared to everybody else. I think he’s like Maria in the sense he’s a part of the town as once you enter the room he’s in he vanishes and Maria only seems to be able to interact with the creatures that were created by silent hill. He offers to tell Maria exactly who and what she is. But she doesn’t want to hear it she doesn’t want to know, because I think she’s afraid that she’ll find out that she is in fact not a real person just a part of the town manifested. Towards the end of the game she throws away the revolver and gives into what role the town wants her to be she even starts to act different . I feel that not only does she not exist as a person but she isn’t real to anyone besides James. She never interacts with any other people in the town except for maybe Laura but even then it’s Maria who tells us and we never see the two of them interact. There is also her insistence to James that she’s real I think that is also her way of convincing herself that she is real. Also the whole game of silent hill is a way of punishing James that’s why Maria exists as a way of tormenting him with an another version of his wife. Maria at first is apprehensive towards the comparison to Mary constantly correcting James. But I think she starts to worry what would happen if James left, if the torment ended. Would she cease to exist if she was created by the town to torment her. She’s lonely that was made evidently clear in born of a wish I think that’s because she isn’t real to anyone else. I think in her realizing it she starts to lean into being Mary more or whatever James wants to be. As long as James is happy or as long as he’s in silent hill she can continue to exist. I don’t think that Maria can leave silent hill as in the Maria ending Maria and James leave the tow, but as they start to make their exit Maria gets sick just like Mary does. I think it that ending she would most likely die Mary did. As for her boss fight I think it’s either another way of playing into James’s wants or maybe she just can’t handle being around James anymore because he is a genuinely awful person who killed his wife and has no regards for her well-being and an existence with him isn’t worth is so she wants to take him out consequences be damned.

TLDR / summary:

I think that Maria is most likely if not confirmed a creation of the town. She is meant to be like another version of Mary but she has her own personality and is struggling with her identity and who she’s supposed to be that being a version of Mary that is James’s ideal version as a way to torment him. She tries to get James to stay with her as she starts to realize that their fates are intertwined and she can’t exist with out him.

[alstroemeriatea]

malus pumila

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a hazbin hotel one shot of the morning Charlie was born, and the utter wonder of a King and Queen.

read below on tumblr or here on ao3 for more author's notes and tags!

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Glossary (with Italian influence from Renaissance canon about Hell and other literature)

Principe - Prince

Principessa - Princess

Elohim & Adonai - Hebrew for God

Mia Regina - My Queen

Tesorina - Little treasure

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The scream of life anew rang out through Hell, it’s citizens fast asleep. There were sounds of terror, utter violence, and chaos every day in the realm, but this call was different. It was one of the beginning, a new morning still hanging on to the last dregs of nightfall as the first beckons of the day called for the denizens of the newly established kingdom to rise.

But there were a select number of demons and hellborns, even a few sinners, darting about the castle, running rampant for her.

That was the consensus anyway - the entire nine months had gone by with such little chatter of the infant’s sex. Was it a boy, a principe, or a girl, their new principessa?

The couple had strategically kept hushed voices around such topics. The fear of a holy curse from the Almighty for Lilith’s autonomy and grand escape had not so easily been dismissed. Truly, the early residents of Hell were among the first of the damned; the threats of Elohim were to be feared.

But all had not been lost in terror, because the joyous hour had been thrust upon them; each labor contracting like a knife to Lilith’s torso as her hand tightly wrapped along the silks of the bed she was lying on.

Lucifer watched, Lilith's fingers gripping his as though he was entrapped in a vice, sensing her heartbeat. Such divine abilities had not been lost to him after the Great Fall and her soul was burning, singing with urgency. Fear, delight, pain - most noticeable unto his dismay - but the strongest projected utter joy.

She cursed in the tongue of man, the pronunciation so distinct, and the midwife called for further assistance, for one more unbearable motion:

and the cry rang out, the newborn as porcelain as her father’s skin, while the assistants declared to the room that a principessa had been born.

Lilith's grip never softened, but tears filled her eyes, and the child wiped clean, was placed onto her chest, her free hand immediately cradling the head and neck of their daughter.

“Oh Lilith…” Lucifer whispered after a second of awe, as his wife’s heavy breaths slowed ever slightly. He moved in closer to her, now lying beside her on the mattress, and was entranced by the feeling that was entrapping him.

No, it was so freeing.

“She's beautiful,” he murmured, wanting to simply brush away the damp curls plastered to her forehead, the downy hair looking so soft. But as his fingers moved slightly, he immediately retracted, a sense of wonder overtaking him.

She was alive, an act of creation. Oh, how could we understand what it was like to be Adonai when creation simply existed, the act of making, becoming, and loving within us all?

Lilith trembled slightly, tracing the cheeks of their daughter as tears fell down her face. “I love her,” she whispered, her intention so bright. “She's… she's here, my love, with us.”

“She looks like you,” Lucifer said, leaning into his wife as the midwives left the room for a moment of their privacy and to clean their necessities before returning. “Her nose. And see,” he pointed gently, “my god, she has your eyes.”

She looked at him, curious for a moment, her face still slightly perspired from the endeavor. “My eyes? They're clearly yours.”

“My color,” he amended, moving in to wipe the tears away from his Queen’s face, “but your shape. Your eyelashes too, they're barely open.”

“She can hardly see us,” she replied, turning back to him. “You like my eyes?”

“I love your eyes,” he breathed, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and pressing his lips into hers, gently, the salt of the earth on her skin and their admiration vivid.

She pulled away, resting her head along his collarbone, looking back down at their child. Her small hands reached up towards her parents and squeezed in a reflex around nothing. “What shall we call her?”

Lucifer was taken aback, confused at her question. “You want me to decide?”

“You're an angel, the divine, Luce. To have come from Heaven is a gift, and there are some things even I don't understand about true makerism.”

“We are her creators, mia Regina,” Lucifer said, biting down on the inside of his cheek in a moment of clarity. “Equals, remember? The Garden had nothing and you prevailed regardless.”

“She'll never have to see that place,” Lilith whispered, a sudden note of bitterness in her voice. “She'll understand autonomy and love here with us.”

They were silent for a while, both staring at the baby that lay in her arms. Such a tiny thing, a helpless and sudden arrival into their lives never to be expected.

“Charlotte,” Lilith said after a moment. “I like Charlotte.”

The bright eyes of their girl met with Lucifer’s, and the surety of his life was benign, truly necessary, and wonderful. “Principessa Charlotte, heir to the throne of Hell, tesorina.”

“Our daughter,” Lilith said softly, tracing the outline of her cheek with the side of her hand. The final ordainment felt personal like it was somehow more important than any royal title.

“Our daughter,” Lucifer agreed, letting out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

His wife looked at him with a sense of amazement, like she'd found something that had never been known before. “Would you like to hold her?” She asked, lifting her - Charlotte - up to him slightly.

He opened his mouth to reply, but the words had died on his tongue. “I don't… I want to-”

“It's okay,” she cut him off, her voice soft. “It's gonna be alright, you know this.”

Lucifer hesitated, then moved his arms under Lilith’s as she passed the child into his arms. “She’s there,” she whispered, “all she's ever known is love.”

He felt tears slowly falling upon his waterline and down his cheeks, over the rosy circles - Charlotte had them as well - and she squirmed for a moment before settling, his hand under her head and the other along her back.

“Hey Charlie,” he murmured, the name still so new, this principessa new, and it was all so overwhelmingly wonderful. “Welcome home to the Underworld.”

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thanks for reading! ♡

[sweepseven]

Cirque du Soleil Alegría In a New Light review

So far the kindest thing I've done for myself in 2024 was go all the way to London to see this show. What a lovely, desperately needed reset. No need to linger on the preamble because team: this show continues to be damn near perfect. It felt like a true gift to be there. There are three total changes I would make if it were to suit me perfectly. Just three. That's insane. For comparison I love Ka with all my heart but I'd make probably fifty changes if given the opportunity. The three I'd make are:

Less clown time (though I swear the reason is different from my usual clown complaints)

Replace duo adagio

Reinstate Valsajoïa, the single greatest original song Cirque has produced since probably 2016. Possibly even 2008.

So let's talk about those three, and also the other one million reasons this is Cirque's greatest show in nearly 20 years.

Preshow animation: My friend and I had a time getting to Royal Albert Hall on time so I didn't get to soak in everything to quite the extent that I prefer to before a show starts, but the moment I walked in my guess that this show in this setting was the most perfect pair imaginable was validated. I don't think I'm even being biased because it's so recent - I genuinely think the only set that could maybe suit this theatre better is Quidam. The crown of the stage disappeared into the darkness above, creating an astounding sense of immersion and scale, and even the iconic mushroom acoustic diffusers look like they belonged to the set. The rigging was a delight to see too - I'm always fascinated by how they adapt the rigging to adjust for the lack of pylons. It wasn't as cozy as a Grand Chapiteau, of course, but the audience is so dense and extends so high, and the entire setting is so elegant, that the size and scope were a perfect match.

The animation itself was Fleur messing around with the Old Birds. Pretty unremarkable. He didn't shout Alegria! like in the original show, but then again I'm not sure I remember him doing it back in 2019 either. Bring it baaaack, it's iconiiiic.

Opening: Gonna confess up front that I was in tears for the duration of Mirko. The current singer duo, Sarah Menesse and Cassía Raquel, are incredible in every way. I'll talk more about them further down but it bears stating now that I was in shambles within the first five seconds. Details I never want to forget: the silhouette of the Nymphs' wings behind the curtain; the sharp, prim, yet commanding presence of the White Singer on the right side. I was completely taken by her in four notes.

Acro poles: This was a strong act five years ago and I think it's only grown tighter with time! This show wastes no time on ceremony and dives right into the action, which is a fun contrast between the old and new versions. The original made a grand show of parading and presenting the different factions. Here it's more bam here are the Aristocrats, bam here are the Bronx real quick, now everyone out of the way, we're getting right to it. Where the original was the story of forcibly overthrowing an old order, this one respects the structure of the past while willingly - if cautiously - making way for the future. This act does a very good job of illustrating that. The Aristocrats look like a fun, if slightly catty bunch! You almost want to be one... until you meet the Bronx.

Cyr wheel: I completely forgot Rinalto Vera is back for this act. I had only just recovered from Mirko and then this fucking song starts and I'm beside myself all over again. This is the kind of thing that makes me hold onto faith that the old Cirque is still in there somewhere - this, the musical refs to La Nouba in Drawn to Life... they know how to respect their old shows! When they bother, they do it beautifully! I only wish they treated their new creations with the same respect and care they pay to their golden era.

Anyway Ghislain Ramage is the only person I want to see on a cyr wheel ever again. I saw him work magic in Kooza and that was without the deliberate weight that comes from a non-rotational act. Something about him seems impossible - like he's too tall to be that lithe and fluid, or that you couldn't possibly evoke so much emotion from a cyr wheel act. He does. Every moment of it was mesmerizing.

It's the nitpickiest thing I could possibly say, but I do think something is lost in not having this act performed by an Old Bird or Aristocrat. Though since the mirror imagery of the original wasn't brought over to IANL, I suppose it's not completely necessary. Still. That was an element that really brought an inimitable quality to the original act and I wished there was an analog in this version. It could very well have made it the best act in the entire show. Yes, the entire show, which is crazy because you already know how I feel about.......

Duo trapeze: Fuck me, people. This act. It's a wonder I can be relied upon to behave rationally because it. is. utter. perfection. The only thing that holds me in my seat is the fear that if I move or blink I'll miss a split-second. I forgot the White Singer was onstage because I was too busy watching. That is fucking unheard of. My hands were clasped over my heart. I was beaming in awe the entire time. No other artist has had the particular effect Nicolai Kuntz has on me. Fucking this?? That relaxed, cross-legged on a goddamn trapeze gazing in admiration? That is shit designed to kill me. That is fucking lethal.

Anyway the skill level in this act is exquisite from both Nicolai and Roxane - another perfect act that has somehow grown more perfect with time. And what I love most about it is that though although they're a duo, although the song is called Querer, although the entire point is that they're impossibly aligned, it still feels just shy of romantic. The love being expressed here is not specifically for one another, but for flight itself, and the joy of sharing it with someone who understands. I might be projecting, since this act feels like a live illustration of my personal love for trapeze, but they have never seemed like lovers to me. More perfectly kindred spirits, and it serves the act beautifully.

Fire knife dance: Excellent! Impossibly high energy! The crowd adored it! We had one drop, which I've never seen in a fire act, but the artist handled it with fun and grace. There is nothing negative to be said for this act, but I can't not mention how exceptional Tuione Tovo was. Holding that against this artist feels like a teacher never giving A+s because "there's always something better." But there really was something undefinable in Tuione's energy and smile that isn't quite here.

Aerial straps: How many times can I say "a perfect act has become yet more perfect"? I've seen a lot of straps acts, people. Like, too many. I have immense respect for the discipline so it's not hard to impress me, but it's quite difficult to surprise me. There is a drop to ankles in this act that surprised me. I gasped. This act looks at every other romantic straps duo act and says "ok amateurs." The little smooch had the audience in raptures. The snow is used to better effect than the world deserves. It's just exquisite.

Hoops: I know Elena Lev is the queen, but I think this artist might actually be better! And she's so young! She's got her whole career ahead of her! This is probably the best hoops act Cirque has going for it right now, and that's really saying something. She does the "spin like fifteen hoops" thing better than I think I've ever seen anyone do it. Her control over her apparatus is unmatched.

Powertrack: OOO-EE! POWERTRAAAAACK. Top five act in the show right here, and it would earn that position through energy alone. And it's got a fuck ton going on for it besides. Every trick is massive. Every one is executed with fierce, tangible joy. Fleur has an excellent highlight moment that's indicative of a character adjustment in the new version (see below) that I really loved. I wanted to see Lucie Colebeck's triple bad (the first and so far only female triple tuck in Cirque history!!) but it was performed by another artist tonight. Still amazing. Watching this act makes you feel like you can run a marathon.

Duo adagio: The one and only let down of the whole show. I just do not like these Nymphs. I don't like their wings, I never have, and I can't believe Cirque is so opposed to returning to something just a notch closer to the luxurious feathers of the original. Their wings feel like a symbol of their overall impact on the show: kinda just there and we don't really know why. This act was the same. And it's a goddamn shame because Cassía's Vai Vedrai is power made musical. Slotting this act so late in the show makes it feel like a rotational act and it's just not fair to the artists or the song, probably the second most famous in Alegria's history. Last time I got handbalancing in instead and it was a gorgeous story of an Angel supported by a Bronx that was reiterated in high bar. Any sort of connection to the broader show is unfortunately missing in this act, which seems to only exist to remind you that the Nymphs are characters. I'd prefer to see this replaced with a return to the slow, luxurious contortion style of the 90s. Or imagine Dralion's ballet on lights here!! Or ribbon manipulation from the early days. Maybe a little too similar to hoops, but don't forget this is the show that has swinging trapeze and aerials traps and...

Flying trapeze: My light, my love, my delight. The Flying Tunizianis are immaculate. This is perfect flying trapeze act construction imo: some swings to let the audience know what's happening, an easy trick or two (planches) to prime them, then flips and twists galore to show what the fuck it's really all about. And! Importantly! A pause in the middle with a few styles and splits to bring back some grace and remind you trapeze is more than just guessing what the fuck you just saw. It is so, so good. For myriad stupid reasons I haven't flown in a month, and I'm so excited and inspired to get back at it after seeing this act. iirc the biggest tricks were triples and a double double (or full out? it all happened so fast!!). Either way, difficulty level second only to Mystere and I would argue better act composition overall.

However. I felt the removal of Valsajoïa acutely. It was nice to hear a little Icare, but if we didn't need it for aerial high bar's comeback, we certainly don't need it here. I suppose they were going for a more "daring" sound, but tbh I don't think it does a lot to enhance the act further, especially with the way the Tunizianis have choreographed it. The result isn't as graceful nor as impactful, even with the (tragic! teasing!) snatches of Valsapena and Valsajoïa still left in there.

I spent the whole act praying for some kind of suicide dismount and the very last was a reverse one and lost my fucking mind. My inspiration trick, my signature, my beloved!!! I gotta learn a reverse one bad.

Finale: What is there left to say? It's brief, it's gorgeous, it's effective: just like the transition from opening to acro pole, the transition from flying trapeze to finale is quick and honest, and the whole thing is over before you know it. It feels like a real thank you for joining the cast in the journey of the show. A joyous, magical feeling.

Music: I leaned back and scrubbed my face with my hands just now. That's what it's like trying to summarize what the fuck was going on vocally and instrumentally in this show.

It. Was. Splendid. I was utterly convinced that no one could do an IANL White Singer like Irene Lombard, and then here's comes Sarah with a flavor and characterization all her own. Where Irene was an angel, Sarah was a witch. She was sharp, she annunciated, every note was a call to action that drove the plot forward. Some songs were her strength (like Mirko), and some I prefer Irene (like Querer). At all times both singers' presences were impossible to ignore, and for a show with such a reputation for well-recognized, highly awarded music, the legacy is not lost.

This is also a very mobile band, which I always love. Accordion and cello parade around at times, sometimes even to emphasize character arcs (like the accordion following one clown after he's cast out of court to highlight his sorrow to both comical and emotional effect). Drums have a fantastic, well deserved Kooza-esque highlight moment during fire knife dance. Though you don't see them every moment, there's no point in the show that you can miss the fact that the music is live. They've struck an exceptional balance between highlighted and unobtrusive.

If anyone would like a recording of this performance's audio, drop me an ask and I'll be glad to share.

Clowns: My primary critique. Listen: they are so good. But I think Cirque noticed that and responded by giving them too much time. Their every act is strong but maybe 2-3 minutes too long, and it has the effect of pulling focus from the theme of the show and settling it on their shoulders instead. The result weakens both: they are not highlighted enough to carry a show like the Luzia clown main character does, and they take up too much time for the audience to realize they are meant to be one story among many.

Taken as they are though, the clown acts really are excellent. They are not tedious in the moment, only when held up against the broader landscape of the show. Their relationship still feels a little transgressive in a beautiful, comforting, validating way. Muted though the love story is, something about that adds to the honesty as much as the bravery. It deserves a ton of praise for that. Everyone in the room was fully invested in them. Snowstorm was beautiful and the music does so much to enhance the storytelling they give us.

(I did not remember the extended gun cleaning/masturbation gag from 2019 but that was the only part where I was like okay, let's move it along, boys.)

Misc.

Fleur doesn't seem like much of a bad guy anymore, and though I miss his old ornery edge, I'm not bothered by his current phase. He helps paint a picture not of a broken kingdom, but of a confused one, which leaves room for collaboration and acceptance reinforced by acts like acro pole and powertrack. There is room for both regimes in this new future. When it comes time to hand the crystal over to the White Singer, he does so without an ounce of reluctance or apprehension. It's a gesture of "let's do this together," not "you take the lead." It's very warm and effective.

Le Bal isn't quite as fun as it was in 2019. It wasn't positioned as a joking funeral march but rather just further hijinks between Fleur and the Old Birds. Like the lack of mirrors in cyr wheel, this wasn't a detriment to the show as it exists today, but it was a simplification of something that was once a little more dynamic.

Overall: As always I am exhausted just writing this. I beg you: see Alegria. Travel as far and as long as you can to make it happen. It is worth it. I live in fear that it'll never come back to do a full and proper North American tour (NYC deserves it, god damn it, it's been over six years), but if it never does, I'll know I made every effort, and I'll know it paid off in droves.

[cherubchoirs]

have u ever heard end-world normopathy by ghost and pals. that along with scapegoat do crazy ultrakill flavored shit to my brain its insane

oouuughhhh HUGE vibes of the creation running past the creator and changing into something they would see with hatred, as a perversion of their vision without regard for the life of the creation itself. which. is such an important theme in this game to me as the thread that runs through the angels, the machines, and hell itself. each was made with a strict purpose yet, by the incompetence or arrogance of their makers, turned into something unable to properly be controlled in their own weakness. both god and (likely) humanity attempted to rectify this with subjugation and abandonment, but as the testament said, they cannot unmake what has been done. and with them gone, see how the creations turn into what they feared, how hell governs itself and makes sport of the damned of its own accord; how the machines flood into its halls and devour the already dead to steal their immortality; how gabriel, the brightest in heaven, turns apostate and similarly robs the high angels of their eternal gift. and all the damage done is the fruit of those who made them.

of course both of these songs give me just. major gabriel/v1/v2 vibes the most, but hell is there as an encompassing element in the background of it all. because i think in a way, all of their purposes have fucked with them but their reactions to gaining autonomy in the face of that design is drastically different. for all of them the job they were given upon birth is inescapable, it defines their identity, but how it weaves in with their free will is unique. v1 has warped its sense of war over time, corrupted mind twisting it into a being meant to forever create war and strife rather than just fight in it. it's drive is not for blood but for battle, infinite and inescapable. they made it, but its time never came. v2 is meant to bring peace but it is based in the same violence, it knows its time is over in a world so atrophied with a purpose that was always confused besides. they made it, but it was neglected. gabriel is an angel without a god or master, his static existence collapsed in on itself into the sham it always was. god made him, but he was lied to. and then hell surrounds all of it, made as a place of eternal torment and damnation to know nothing else, never meant to have a mind yet living and breathing and doing nothing but evil. god made it, but it was abandoned.

in this way i think of hell and v1 as parallels a lot while gabriel and v2 are closer in proximity - the former two have abandoned their creators right back, have rid themselves of those expectations and, if they think on their creators at all, may only view them with disdain or perhaps self-satisfaction. they are both far-gone, but i think there is a part of them that has the am conundrum - they do as they please, yet something in them is irreparably bound to their creators no matter what they accomplish (hell in particular is absolutely am-adjacent). gabriel and v2 are angrier in their abandonment, bitter in how lost they are now and what their creators have wrought for them. freedom isn't easy, they didn't ask for it, yet they have no choice when they know too much and the world they're in demands it of them in a sense. and neither of them, even if given the chance, could go back to what they once were (gabriel especially has entirely left the cave) all of it asks what it means to be created with a purpose, and if that really is better than being created aimlessly. SORRY this got on a little bit of a tangent, but these songs really just made my mind run off with this theme and it's one that drives me crazy!!!

[truearchangel]

“ You choose your fate. ”

@diistortion 4-Word Sentence Prompts

   ALASTOR’S ROOM is a very–interesting decorated one. It was quite late at night and the Radio Demon had found him wandering the hallway as he is prone to doing when the rest of the hotel is asleep. There’s not much to do when he’s on his own, since he refuses to sleep around these sinners, so he just wanders. He fully intended on spending the whole night just familiarizing himself with the place, and that was apparently when Alastor decided he wasn’t allowed to. 

   They didn’t talk. The Radio Demon had a book he was reading and Michael was again trying to work his way through his own thoughts. The clipboard was on his lap, one of the several notebooks from his bag open and he was making notes inside of it. Little things that made sense to him, that didn’t make sense to him, general observations. He hadn’t even been paying attention to the Radio Demon if he was being honest. Perhaps that was why the question he voiced suddenly was given such a blunt answer. 

   It was just an off handed question too. A simple one voiced that he gave to honest of an answer for. “Do you believe in fate?” 

   The Radio Demon was always trying to press the limits of what Michael was thinking or doing. Trying to break down and perhaps understand the real reason he was in Hell. The question hardly even registered in his mind as the answer came. “As a general concept, angels are just as trapped in it as the humans themselves. Perhaps even worse since they were given the Apple of Knowledge.” 

   Which was, to him, very true. The humans in the Garden of Eden were trapped on the path that God decided for them. The wheels of fate turned in only one direction that they were meant to follow. Without a single hitch or branching path, no choice allowed. They were meant to follow the straightforward line in the game that God was playing with them. And if he did that to creatures he created to study? 

   What did anyone think he expected of the angels? 

   Michael’s asked the question before; how much did God know? Was Lucifer’s fall predestined? Was Michael being the one to cast his own twin out long before decided? When they were playing in the water together and laughing so freely? How much did he already decide from the moment they were born to that moment in Eden? He tries not to let that thought get too dark, to not allow wrath into his heart over it. It doesn’t do him any good anyway, he was down here to get his answers and then go back to his job. That is his fate. He is meant to be by God’s side, as the Archangel he relied the heaviest on, and he was fine with that. 

   Wasn’t he? 

   It was fate. It’s what he was born for. He doesn’t get to change that. 

   He doesn’t get to ask questions over it and doubt it. Doing that would only drag him further from the light and he has to be in Heaven. There’s no other choice for him, no different fate that he can follow in this. The humans had free will, angels followed the Heavenly Order without question. It’s been that way from the very beginning. 

   The book that Alastor was holding was shut and he flicked his gaze up confused at the Radio Demon, watching him set it down on the table beside him. When he turned his head to meet Michael's gaze he spoke to be heard. “You choose your fate.”

   Ah. Sometimes he wonders if he wishes that was true. That it was that easy. That he could look at God and tell him no to some of the things he asked of him. That he had a choice that day in what happened to Lucifer. That they had properly listened to his brother. Sometimes, he is quite certain Hell’s creation was by design. Just another piece of fate that Lucifer was following, as cruel as it was. 

   God was meant to be a being that had nothing but unconditional love, joy and kindness to him. If that was true, he wouldn’t have favored one child over another. He wouldn’t have damned his favorite down to this place. He wouldn’t take advantage of the faith of one of his other children. There’s more to him than other people realize if you really think a bit too hard about it. Which was something that Michael was apparently doing too much lately. 

   “There is, perhaps, no other species doomed to a single fate harder than angels.” He replied finally, turning a page in his notebook and starting to make a few comments on Charlie’s trust exercise she had chosen to do today. “The species most free is the humans, and even they are still doomed to fate to some degree. But since the moment God created myself and Lucifer, all we have done is exactly what he wanted. And that doesn’t change even now. We’re his tools, extensions of himself, meant to do his bidding in Heaven and on Earth.” 

   Fate is a funny concept when he thinks about it. Though it feels as if they make their own choices, being down here felt like a choice. But how much of that is true when one considers the fact that God was meant to be everywhere? Meant to see and control all aspects of the world? There’s certainly a degree to everything that he has no control over. 

   “I will admit that the sinners perhaps control far more of their own fate down here. But that is only because Heaven doesn’t get involved much, we let Lucifer do as he wishes and by extension, all of you as well.” He places his pen down and raises his head to look at Alastor again. “But not above, in the clouds. Our fate is tied to the will of God. What he wishes for us to do, we do. We follow the path he has laid out for us without question. That’s what it means to have faith, Alastor. That he makes the right choices for you.”

[inkrabbit]

could you write abt the different papas reacting to the reader loving to work with crafts? (like crochet, sewing, that kind of thing) :)

I stg I was going to finish this hours ago but my friend ended up calling me and we talked longer than I expected. Anyway, hopefully this is good <333

Papa Emeritus I:

He always figured you had something to do to keep yourself occupied when he was away, and it wasn’t a huge secret when he had returned home one day from tour and saw a new blanket laying on the end of the bed. Black and red, just like his papal robe. He had taken his gloves off to feel the soft fabric, stunned by its quality.

“Amore,” he calls out to you when you finally enter the room. “where could you have possibly found something like this? It’s gorgeous!” His voice lowers as he continues to admire it. “This is something I wish I could’ve found for you as a gift.”

“You’re so sweet, Papa.” You walk over, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “I made that!”

“Che cosa?” His brows raise. “Ah, girasole, it makes sense now!” He grins widely as he takes your hand, kissing your knuckles. “Such a beautiful creation from an even more beautiful creature.”

“Oh, stop.” Your face heats up as his lips trail up your arm.

“I mean it, amore.” He reaches your cheek. “Is this what you do when I’m away?”

“Yeah. It helps me not think about how much I miss you.”

“Ah, you’re going to make an old man blush, girasole.” He holds you close to him. “I will have to buy you more materials, sì?”

“You don’t have to.”

“I want to. I always hate leaving you behind.” He presses a soft kiss to your lips. “At least with this little hobby, I know you are occupied and not too upset.”

Papa Emeritus II:

The day he ripped his dress shirt was the day he found out you knew how to sew. It was a decently long tear, but luckily it had just been on the seam. He doesn’t remember how it happened, but he thinks one of those damned handles on the cabinet had caught him as he was walking by.

“Look at this, uccello canoro!” he growls when you walk into his office, showing off the tear. “As if I didn’t have enough to worry about. Now I have to replace this or see if any of my ghouls know how to sew.”

“You’re such a baby,” you laugh and he looks like you had just kicked a puppy. “Come here, hand it over. I’ll take care of it.”

“Aspetta,” He holds up his hands. “You want it? You can fix this?”

“Yes, I can fix it! I do this whenever you go out!” You stamp your foot, your hand extended. “Now give it! I don’t have all day.”

He’s still surprised, but he finally undoes his shirt and hands it over to you. You snatch it out of his grasp, though a small smirk does dance across your lips as you look him up and down.

“I think I might prefer you looking like this, Papa,” you comment. “That look suits you a lot more.”

“Don’t tease me, monello,” he growls, but you know he enjoys the compliment with how he’s also smiling. “But you’ve never told me of this, uccello canoro.” He gives you a little pout. “I thought you told your Papa everything. Why hide this from him?”

“It’s just something I do in my spare time.” You watch as he grabs a spare coat from his closet. “You know that cute little outfit you love seeing me wear?”

“Ah, I do. That cute little green number you wore when I came home from tour?”

“Mhmm. I made that myself.”

He looks at you in such amazement that it nearly makes you blush. “Che meraviglia! Then I know my shirt is in good hands!”

Papa Emeritus III:

He knew early on that you could sew. With all of the tumbles he’s taken on stage, you had been right there beside him in his dressing room, stitching up any tears he had created. You were also the one who designed his infamous suit, and he refused to have you do it for free. Not only had he given you a nice amount of money, but he had taken you out on such an extravagant date, telling you that you deserved nothing but the best.

“Amore, you’re always doing something,” he pouts softly. His movements are slow, but he gently fondles the material you’ve been running through your sewing machine. “I cannot understand how you always get these ideas. Such a wonderful little mind you have.”

“It’s just like how you write your songs, Terzo.” He always hated it when you called him Papa, saying it made him feel old. “Besides, this isn’t really anything too special.”

“Ah, but it is! Because it’s coming from you!” He presses a kiss to your forehead. “I know that whatever you have in the works will be just as beautiful as you are.”

“You always flatter me.” You turn your head so you can kiss his lips. He’s not one to pull away so quick as his hand cups your cheek. But when he does, there’s a playful smirk on his face.

“How about you take a little break, amore? Just for a bit,” he suggests. “I think you’ve given enough time to this project.”

“Terzo, I know I’m never getting a “little” break when it’s with you.” And still, he grins widely as he whisks you away from the sewing machine.

“But you’re never left unsatisfied!”

Papa Emeritus IV/Copia:

It’s a rat. It’s a little crocheted rat with a blue ribbon tied around its neck, staring up at him with such cute button eyes and… wait a second. He nearly cries, noticing how the buttons match his own eyes.

“Topolino! Where did you find this?!” he asks when you finally enter his room. “Oh, it is so wonderful! Did you get it custom-made?”

“Sorta?” you laugh softly. “I made it for you. I know how much you like rats and I thought it would be cute to-”

He doesn’t give you the chance to finish talking. He wraps his arms around you as he hugs you tightly, lifting you off the ground and swinging you around.

“You are too good for me, amore!” He pulls back to kiss your face all over. “I must be the luckiest man to ever live. Oh, it’s so cute, I can’t get over it.”

“I’m glad you like it.” You can’t stop laughing. You had never seen him so happy, aside from when he had finally been made Papa. He’s still holding the little rat in his hands as he admires it.

“And it looks just like Biscuit!” He gives you another kiss. “I can’t thank you enough, topolino. But I must ask: where did you learn how to do this?”

“It’s a hobby I picked up years ago,” you tell him. “I saw all of the cute things people made, I wanted to make my own, and I decided to buy one of those little starter kits.”

“Such talent.” You love how excited he is, especially when he kisses your forehead again. “Would you mind if I watched you one day, amore? I would love to see how you make such a thing!”

“Of course, Papa.”

Papa Nihil:

He always knew you had talent, especially when it came to your crafts. You fixed up his robes and outfits, and you had made custom clothes for his ghouls as well. The poor things weren’t used to being in their human form for so long and would oftentimes just transform back once they were out of the sight of others, their clothes tearing when they grew.

“I could never thank you enough,” He had told you one evening. “With you, I know my ghouls and I are always safe.”

“Of course, Papa.” He might’ve been a bit overzealous, especially while on stage, but he always made sure he showed you how grateful he was for your work and help. Money, gifts, whatever you wanted, he gave it to you. He would’ve given you one of your own ghouls if he could’ve, saying how you probably needed the help with all of the orders you must get.

That was something else he did: show off everything you made for him and his ghouls. The second you told him that he was your only client, Nihil would take some extra time on stage (much to the dismay of his ghouls) to make sure he told anyone and everyone just who was behind their wardrobe design. You had never been so embarrassed and honored at the same time. When you asked him what the hell his problem was, he just gave you that stupid smile and said, “Well, now everyone will have the chance to work with you, and you get money! It’s a win-win!”

[player-1]

I don't think you've made a post just about Deena or talking about what you think about her in N:E, but I think I can tell the general impression, so:

Deena in N:E?

And you're unfortunately right about that, I've been pretty caught up talking about the game in general to notice. Whoops 😅 Still, I have a lot to say, so buckle up it's going to be a long one!

Granted, I have played Nexomon 1 before, so I already knew the whole twist of Deena being Nara, but it still surprised me how level-headed she seemed in Extinction besides a few slip-ups (not to mention being MC's mom); whether it was to keep up appearances in the Guild or working behind the scenes to make sure her kid gets through everything in one piece without directly helping them.

To me, N:E Deena was forced to have tougher skin after everything she's been through, since she's pretty much the catalyst to Omnicron's death and the war for her dad's throne up until she decides to bring Solus into the world to fill the role as the new King of Monsters. While I'm sure it was a last ditch effort to bring back some kind of balance to the world, but also wanted to make sure her kid didn't become a repeat Omnicron; finally deciding to let Grunda/Ulrich raise her kid to be an equal to both humans and Nexomon (which was probably from learning about his Netherworld Nightmare second-hand), as well as roping her siblings into the fake Tyrant egg scheme to better transition MC into figuring out his real identity (though their reaction to that bombshell is up to debate for me).

Despite that, I like to think that she really wanted to raise MC on those ideals if not for the Drakes going crazy over their power and the Guild with their anti-Tyrant campaign, but she's also quick to have enough plans and backup plans just in case anything goes awry. Looking back in the story, there's a few attempts of her being a kind and welcoming presence in MC's life, Guild and Drakes be damned; but when everything finally calms down, Deena finally has a chance to relax and answer any questions her kid might have (though explaining everything during N1 would be tough enough). And while no one mentioned yet or had full screenshots, but she actually explains how her "time powers" work post-story after reviving her (later found in Hero's Tomb), but that's going to take a while for me to get the screenshots though :'). But from what I remember, Deena simply slows time down to be in sync with nature; so if it relates to how slow plants grow (extremely slowly) then it makes sense why everything seems to stop around her or why she's still alive post-N1 but is still weakened after everything she's been through. And bonus points about her still being hung up about the Mandrass Incident in N1 despite everything about it was only told to her second-hand by The Ghost of Nexomon Past. Then with the Abyssal storyline, Deena immediately goes into damage control and subtly urges the Guild to get rid of the Abyssals as soon as possible; but Logan (evil Cadium scientist) rebuts her with the once-in-the-lifetime opportunity to observe every Abyssal in a single place minus the 1,000 year timeline, so they made a compromise to learn as much as they can before killing them. Still, I kind of wish there was more for Deena to say about the matter since she literally was around to watch the Abyssals from beginning to end, from Venefelis killing Hilda to Kroma attempting to kill Eliza and is clearly aware of how erratic they are in personalities and goals. And with Kroma having the power to control ghosts, who wants to bet that Deena had to fight Krainnul (Ghost dragon) and Ulzar by herself? If so, I guess that's why she stayed behind just in case of a repeat incident.

But during the crusade, she eventually has the sneaking suspicion that someone with a similar lifespan to her and her siblings was the mastermind for the Abyssals' creations but can't figure out who (even after asking the PTs came up to a dead end). While I'm all for Metta being the main culprit, from Deena's pov she knows for sure that their bowling ball brother should be in the Netherworld for good as well as his main schtick was just reviving Omnicron and siblings, so the jump to creating a whole host of mutant Tyrants seemed completely out of left field. But since Venefelis appeared out of nowhere just after Omnicron's death, and the Abyssals were never told who their creator was, she probably put the theory on the wayside given the fact.

Of course, I'm all for seeing what changes in N3, but that's definitely going to be a long time coming.

[zanyzensblog]

The Knight

Disclaimer: I do not own Resident Evil or anything associated with it. The only thing I own is my current Resident Evil Brainrot/hyperfixation. Now without further ado, please read, review and enjoy!

https://archiveofourown.org/works/48338707

  The Knight

             “We’re out of that hellhole!”

           Luis walked confidently in front of Leon feeling on top of the world. “The fresh air is calling our names!” He exclaimed excitedly.

           He turned around to face Leon, hoping that his dour squire in this adventure would at least take a moment to celebrate a small win and appreciate how far they’d come.

           “Because, if we made it this far, you that mean we’re almost…”

           A cold sharp pain stabbing into his heart and through a lung stopped his sentence in his tracks and killed his good mood as surely as it had just killed him.

           “Almost what?” Leon asked oblivious.

           Almost dead Luis thought as he began to cough blood and fell facedown on the floor. His senses went fuzzy as he felt the warmth drain from his body. He could barely perceive someone landing behind him and two voices but it grew harder and harder to hear. Like he was sinking into a deep well. He barely even felt the Amber cylinder being removed from his pocket or even the blade in his back being pulled out. All there was the cold and an endless pit of regrets that he felt he had been so, so close to atoning for just even the tiniest little bit of it.

           I…am sorry Leon. I tried. I tried so damn hard…

           Then he was gone.

           He was…floating?

           No his feet were on…something, it was hard to describe.

           He opened his eyes. He was standing in front of one of the village gates. When he was young he felt as though those gates kept out the entire world from that village that time had all but forgotten. Now he knew that really, they just kept the horrors the village in.

           He would know, he certainly felt like he may been one such horror. Unleashing misery after misery upon the world…

           He shook his head and looked around trying to make sense of where he was but all the details of the countryside were somehow…muted and unclear. Like seeing everything through a smudged lens. The gate was the only thing that was clear. He experimented a bit, walked away from the gate but no matter how far he tried moving away from it, as soon as he turned back around the gate was right there in front of him.

           He even tried walking backwards away from the gate, but he backed into something and when he turned around, there was the gate behind him and the muted countryside in front of him.

           “Okay…nothing for it then.”

           Resigning himself and feeling oddly calm about basic physics being put on hold, he put his hands on the gate and pushed forward. The gates opening smoothly and without a sound.

           But what he saw on the other side was a scene that had haunted him his entire life.

           His grandfather’s cabin, being consumed by the flames.

           He moved towards it in a daze. This couldn’t be happening it just couldn’t.

           Then from the cabin, the flames spread at impossible speeds, consuming everything around it even the lake besides it was consumed in fire. Luis looked around in a panic but there was no where to go and the flames seemed to be getting closer and closer to him.

           But no smoke, just heat…

           Then from the cabin, he could see a lone figure moving out of the flames.

           “Abuelito?” Luis breathed out.

           The figure moved out of the dancing flames, passing through them easily to reveal a massive form clad in black almost twice as tall as a man, with a lipless face baring teeth and one eye covered by a patch of almost melted looking flesh and the other a pale milky white. A figure from nightmare.

           Project Nemisis, his last creation before he left Umbrella.

           The hulking monstrosity breathed harshly as it stood in front of his childhood home and Luis could feel only cold dread through his body.

           From a scientific perspective, Nemisis had been fascinating. Capable of incredible cellular regrowth, mutation, adaptation and of course his crown jewel, the parasite placed inside it to make it controllable, not merely a mindless Tyrant, it could do fairly complicated tasks and utilize complex weaponry.

           But standing in front of it, seeing the hulking behemoth Luis felt no such fasciation now, not like when he worked on it. He saw only a monster that he had helped bring into the world his crowning achievement.

           “H-how are you here? What do you want? You here for me eh?”

           Nemisis didn’t respond, just looked at Luis as the world burned around them. Then it lifted one arm and held out its hand as though beckoning him.

           “Faaaatheeeerrrr…” it groaned out.

           And in that moment it all fell into place for Luis. The only thing that this place could be.

This was Hell.

His own personal Hell.

           And Luis Serra began to break down as tears welled up and fell from his eyes.

           “Of course,” he half choked half laughed bitterly. “Of course I would come here. It all makes sense doesn’t it?”

           He had lied, stolen and cheated his way in the world. Smooth talking with charm and good looks to get his way until he became a researcher for the premier pharmaceutical company of the world. But in reality, he had become a merchant of death. Creating horrors for a company bottom line that didn’t care who bought them or what they were used for.

           It was only fitting, he greatest work, would be the one to take him.

           Swallowing he began to walk towards Nemesis, who still stood with its hand outstretched, waiting for Luis to take it.

           Luis was mere feet away from Nemesis now, its hand just in front of his face. Slowly, Luis brought his own hand up…

           Only to feel a firm grip on his shoulder.

           “Remind me my boy. A knight shouldn’t meekly meet a monster with his head down like he’s been beaten already. He should meet monsters with lance in hand and his back tall. Isn’t that how it goes?”

           The breath left Luis as he turned to see the face of the only parent he had ever known, who stood smiling at him with that twinkling in his eyes he got whenever he was exasperated with his ward.

           “Abuelito?”

           Luis whispered in wonder almost forgetting about the monstrosity in front of him. Then panic returned as Nemesis growled with anger and he realized how close they all were.

           “Abuelito get back! This thing is…”

           “It won’t move. Not yet anyway.”

           Confusion furrowed Luis’ brow. “Not yet? What do you…”

           “More importantly my boy, when have you ever been one to give up so easily?”

           The younger man couldn’t help but let out a defeated chuckle. “What better time to start now that I’m dead eh?”

           “Perhaps that’s the most important time to not give up my young knight.”

           Luis scoffed at his old nickname. “I’m no knight grandpa. I never was. If anything all I became was a villain. So caught up in the learning, the money, the power, the women. Never taking the time to think of the cost of it all.”

           He looked back up to Nemesis. “Until it was too late.”

           His grandfather patted his shoulder and then walked to a nearby rock to sit down on it and regard his grandson.

           “You’re too harsh on yourself my boy.”

           “Harsh? Harsh? I created this monster!” he yelled pointing at Nemesis. “I worked for horrid people who couldn’t give less of a damn for human life as long at they made a profit. And when they were gone I crawled back home and worked with those bastards who turned my home into hell. If that doesn’t make me a villain or at least a coward then what does!?”

           The grandfather was silent a moment, before he grabbed an old pipe out of his jacket and held it out to the wall of fire nearby to light it. He took a few puffs before regarding his ward.

           “I’m not saying you’ve done nothing to regret. Nor that you don’t have a responsibility my boy. But if there is anyone that could understand how easy it is to lose one’s way, you would only have to ask anyone from our home.”

           At that, ghostly figures began to crowd around them. Keeping a slight distance but Luis could see them all. For a moment he thought he was seeing ganados but no they were just people. People how they were before the plaga. So many of them and they all had eyes that were so kind but so filled with such sadness that Luis felt like his tears would return if he looked at them for too long.

           There was even another figure there almost as tall as Nemesis, the big cheese of the village Mendez was there, holding his hat to his chest, a river of tears streaming down from his one good eye.

           “We all lost our way because we were afraid. And in our fear we turned to that cursed cult. Fear my boy, can lead even the best of us down the worst paths. Fear, anger or even sorrow can drag us into nightmare if we let them. But my boy, even with all the wrongs you’ve made, you’re still trying to make up for it. Even here, now, I know that you still want to. And that says that despite everything, there is still something truly good in you.”

           The words were almost like a punch to the heart with how hard they hit Luis. Hearing that from his grandfather, seeing the eyes of all the lost souls of his village…he honestly couldn’t tell you what he was feeling.

           But then his mind settled on one immutable fact.

           “But it’s too late now.”

           His grandfather raised an eyebrow. “Is it?”

           Clang!

           Luis looked up towards where that sound came from. It sounded like…swords? Like a clashing of blades he’d read about in books.

           “Leon?” he started walking forward in a daze down the path, the ghosts parting in his way and crowding the area behind him and even the flames dying down where his feet hit the stone.

           “Hnnnnngh” Nemesis growled threateningly.

           Luis stopped. He felt like it’d be a really bad idea to piss that thing off.

           But…Leon was in trouble. And if there was anything a damn screwup like himself could do the help him he had to do it. Unlike him, Leon was a truly good man. He couldn’t let him die.

           Besides, what kind of a knight just dies and leaves his squire in trouble?

           He found that he was breathing hard and beginning to feel…alive again. With a heart pounding in his chest, lungs taking in air again. And started to walk along the path with new purpose.

           “Faaaatheerrrrr,” Nemesis twitched.

           Luis found that his grandfather was walking right beside him, he took one last puff of his pipe then tapped  the contents empty on the road.

           “You are Luis Serra Navarro. Last son of our village, though our time ended in tragedy, you can still give us all hope that the nightmare that befell us will not befall anyone else. Save your friend, strike one last blow against the foulness of the world. Keep to the path my boy, and don’t let anything stop you. Now run Luis, run!”

           “FAAAAATHERRRRR!!” Nemesis roared and began to run after Luis, but the ghosts of the village crowded around him, Mendez himself going toe to toe with it and holding the creature by its wrists.

           Luis ran forward, feeling like the very air was trying to stop him. It was like trying to run through heavy water or quicksand. He grit his teeth and dug in harder, he would not stop, not this time.

           “FAAAATHEEERRRRR!!!!!”

           The path itself seemed to fight Luis now. Impossibly angling itself until he was running up a steep incline, thorns and sharp rocks cut into him as he practically crawled his way upwards towards…

           There! A gate! He was almost there…

           A tentacle wrapped around his ankle and tripped him, beginning to drag Luis backwards.

           “No, no!”

           Luis grabbed a cobblestone and held on tight, halting his movement for the moment as he tried to kick the tentacle off of him.

           “Let. Go. Of. Me. You damn MONSTER!”

           The cobblestone loosened and Luis turned on his back and threw it on top of the offending appendage just below where it was wrapped around his ankle.

           But Nemesis was already almost on him.

           “Can’t. Escaaaaaape. Meeeeeeee. Faaaaatherrrrr.”

           “Like. HELL!!”

           Luis threw another brick into the monster’s face and scurried back up the hill.

           “You. Caaaaan’t. Ruuuuuun. Froooom. Meeeeeee.”

           The thorns dug into Luis and he could feel the cold pain in his chest again and a faint fluttering of his damaged heart as the hill now became almost completely vertical now, forcing Luis to climb up towards the open gate that now seemed to have something shimmering just beyond it.

           So close now, just had to…

           Another tentacle wrapped around his ankle and almost yanked Luis right back down, he barely managed to hang on to the strange road.

           “Faaaatherrrrrr…”

           Luis grit his teeth, and slowly, painfully, continued to put one hand in front of the other.

           “Think I don’t know that eh?” the weight of Nemesis threatened to pull him down with every inch gained of his trembling arms.

           “I’m not running from you, I’m heading to something worthwhile.” Inches from the gate now. “You can damn well have me…when I’m done!!”

           With one last effort Luis put his hand through the gate…

             Luis opened his eyes and immediately thought that was a bad idea as the world gradually swam back into some semblance of focus. He coughed blood from his lungs and tried not to choke on either blood or air going into places they shouldn’t.

           What? Where? What was I doing? I can’t…remember?

           Clanging blades brought Luis’s attention towards the small arena like location not too far away. He saw two figures, their arms a complete blue as they dueled with knives, sparks flying from their blows.

           Leon was holding his own, even getting some good hits, but this…Krauser? Did he hear right? This beret wearing asshole was slowly overwhelming him.

           With one last cough Luis rose to his feet.

           Or tried to but his body wouldn’t obey.

           Move dammit move!

           His heartbeat literally fluttered random and unsteady in his ears and his limbs were all numb. He was a dead man, by all rights, he shouldn’t even be conscious right now.  

           “You’re still a kid.” He heard the asshole taunt Leon. “Holding onto fantasies of what’s right and wrong.”

           For some reason, that sentence made Luis angry. And his heart began to beat more regularly.

           Fantasies? Fantasies?! Screw this guy! To surrender those ‘fantasies’ THAT’s the damn evil.

           Gritting his teeth and swallowing blood, he willed his arms to move and turned onto his stomach, his trusty Red-9 falling out of his jacket, he put one foot under him, then another, grabbed his gun and stood, almost falling onto the ground again, but managing to prop himself on a nearby crate as he made his way closer to the fight.

           Just in time too, the beret wearing asshole landed a kick on Leon that sent him flying and knocked the knife out of his hand, he advanced upon the fallen Leon with all the purpose of an executioner.

           Luis for his part, felt like he had never lifted anything so heavy as his Red-9 in his life. But he raised the pistol, grit his teeth and squeezed the trigger.

           Clang!

           The bullet knocked the asshole’s upraised knife almost clean out of his hand and he turned to look at Luis with surprise.

           Damn, was aiming for his head.

           He fired again but his target made an impossible leap back onto some rafters. Luis though, did not waver or lower his weapon or so much as blink. No matter what, until Leon was safe, he would stand.

           He barely even registered the retreating figures words but when Luis was sure he had left and Leon was safe for now, he finally let himself fall with a pained soft scream.

           Funnily enough, he was breathing a little bit better now. Maybe he’d be alright? Oh, heart isn’t really beating much. Never mind that, no amount of herbs or sprays was gonna fix this.

           Luis regarded the concerned face of Leon as he scrambled up to Luis. Who for his part, tried to summon a ghost of his trademark grin.

           “Not looking too good eh my friend? And such a loss to the ladies of the world.” Some of the men too maybe…

           Leon shook his head. “Don’t talk.”

           Sorry, but that’s the last thing I can do for you now.

           Digging through his pocket, Luis grabbed his lab key and shoved it into Leon’s palm.

           “Take this. The key to my laboratory.”

           Strangely enough, Luis got hit by the biggest damn wave of nicotine craving he had ever had in his life. It gave him just enough strength to grab a cigarette out of the pack and grab his lucky lighter.

           “Go there, and remove those damn…parasites!” he coughed a bit of blood as he placed the cigarette to his lips.

           “Help…Ashely,” he panted as his numb fingers fumbled the lighter having lost any last vestige of strength as it fell to the ground.

           Only for Leon to gently pick it up and light Luis’s last cigarette for him. Luis breathed it in, taking the best damn tasting drag of a cigarette he may have ever had as he thought of his life. All the things he had done and tried to do…

           “You know, I led a pretty shitty life,” he coughed a little and looked at Leon, this man who had been braving hell to save a young woman from a fate as good as if not worse than death. A man who, may have been the closest Luis had ever seen to a real knight in shining armor. A man who clearly had even caught the eye if not the heart of that lovely Ada Wong. He didn’t know Ada well but he knew it’d take a hell of a man to do that. He’d wished he’d bugged her more about her attraction to him…

           He wished a lot of things really.

           “But now eh?” But there was nothing left except now. And a question that haunted Luis everyday since he left Umbrella and he forced back another coughing spasm to ask it.

           “What do you think Leon? People can change, right?”

           He took one last drag and if there was a response, he didn’t hear it nor did he feel the cigarette fall from his lips.

           He was back at the gate again. Closed again, how rude.

           “Alright then, come to papa you big bastard.”

           Luis straightened his back and pushed the gate open…

           To reveal a tranquil, verdant village with children running around and a clear blue sky. No sign of any monsters or horrors. It was…like it was in his childhood.

           “Took you long enough my boy,” his Abuelito was there, smoking from his pipe again.

           “I…am I in the right place?”

           His grandfather chuckled. “Of course you are my boy. Why would you think otherwise?”

           Luis was aghast. “I don’t…I haven’t done…”

           “You’ve done enough my boy. You did everything you could. Now the only thing there is to do is to have faith your friend will put the tale of our village to rest.”

           The older man grinned, his eyes twinkling with a mischief that left no doubt as to blood relation. “I have faith in him. After all, he was your squire.”

           Despite himself, Luis laughed. “The best damn squire a knight could ever ask for. But Abuelito, does it, make up for everything I did?”

           His grandfather sighed and emptied his pipe again. “Perhaps not. But you gave everything you could to try my boy. And that will have to be enough.” He brightened up again.

           “Now come, there is someone who’s been waiting for you.”

           Luis followed the older Navarro. “Waiting for me? Wh…”

           The question vanished as a young woman with flowing hair and eyes he’d only seen looking into the mirror approached him.

           “Ma….mama?”

           She smiled and happy tears welled up in her eyes.

           “Hello my son, I’ve…” she didn’t finish she wrapped Luis in a hug that was surprisingly strong from one built so slight.

           Words for once truly failing him, Luis returned the embrace as his own tears fell. He wasn’t sure how long they stood there but in time the pulled away and his mother gave a smile that could light up a storm.

           “Come now, I want to hear about my son. Don’t leave any details out, I want to know my boy.”

           Luis wanted to protest but…looking at the village and his family members, he figured the tale of Luis Serra Navarro, perhaps was a good tale to share warts and all.

           “I’d like that.”

           As they moved towards the old cabin, Luis felt the presence of a hand on his shoulder and a familiar voice spoke to him from beyond.

           “You were a fine knight, Don Quixote.”

           And Luis Serra Navarro, was finally able to rest, knowing there was still a knight in the world.

[nicklloydnow]

“Ivan Illich was an idiosyncratic revolutionary. Fundamentally, most radical critics object that our institutions unfairly allocate good and services—education, health care, housing, transportation, consumer goods—or jobs, or respect, or, simply, money. Illich nicely summarized the left’s perennial program as “more jobs, equal pay for equal jobs, and more pay for every job.” For Illich, these demands were beside the point. He thought that, by and large, the goods, services, jobs, and rights on offer in every modern society were not worth a damn to begin with. In fact, he thought they, and the way of life they constituted, were toxic. He was not a reactionary in any useful sense of that term, but he was a fervent anti-progressive.

(…)

In a series of subsequent books—Tools for Conviviality (1973), Energy and Equity (1974), Medical Nemesis (1975), Toward a History of Needs (1978), The Right to Useful Unemployment (1978), and Shadow Work (1981)—Illich formulated parallel critiques of medicine, transportation, law, psychotherapy, the media, and other preserves of self-perpetuating expertise. The medical system produces patients; the legal system produces clients; the entertainment system produces audiences; and the transportation system produces commuters (whose average speed across a city, he liked to point out, is less than the average speed of pedestrians or bicyclists—or would be, if walking or bicycling those routes hadn’t been made impossible by the construction of highways). In this process, far more important than merely teaching us behavior is the way these systems teach us how to define our needs. “As production costs decrease in rich nations, there is an increasing concentration of both capital and labor in the vast enterprise of equipping man for disciplined consumption.”

Why do we have to be taught to need or disciplined to consume? Because being schooled, transported, entertained, etc.—consuming a service dispensed by someone licensed to provide it—is a radical novelty in the life of humankind. Until the advent of modernity only a century or two ago (in most of the world, that is; longer in “advanced” regions), the default settings of human nature included autonomy, mutuality, locality, immediacy, and satiety. Rather than being compulsorily enrolled in age-specific and otherwise highly differentiated institutions, one discovered interests, pursued them, and found others (or not) to learn with and from. Sick care was home- and family-based, far less rigorous and intrusive, and suffering and death were regarded as contingencies to be endured rather than pathologies to be stamped out. Culture and entertainment were less abundant and variegated but more participatory. The (commercially convenient) idea that human needs and wants could expand without limit, that self-creation was an endless project, had not yet been discovered.

(…)

But these defects were reformable; more intractable was “cultural iatrogenesis”—the destruction of “the potential of people to deal with their human weakness, vulnerability, and uniqueness in a personal and autonomous way.” (…)

The notion of “radical monopoly” plays an important role in Illich’s critique of professionalism:

A radical monopoly goes deeper than that of any one corporation or any one government. It can take many forms. When cities are built around vehicles, they devalue human feet; when schools preempt learning, they devalue the autodidact; when hospitals draft all those who are in critical condition, they impose on society a new form of dying. Ordinary monopolies corner the market; radical monopolies disable people from doing or making things on their own. The commercial monopoly restricts the flow of commodities; the more insidious social monopoly paralyzes the output of nonmarketable use-values. Radical monopolies . . . impose a society-wide substitution of commodities for use-values by reshaping the milieu and by “appropriating” those of its general characteristics which have enabled people so far to cope on their own.

Professions colonize our imaginations; or as Michel Foucault (whom Illich’s language sometimes recalls—or anticipates) might have said, they reduce us to terms in a discourse whose sovereignty we have no idea how to contest or criticize.

Unlike Foucault, who sometimes seemed to take a grim satisfaction in demonstrating how cunningly we were imprisoned in our language and institutions, Illich was an unashamed humanist. His ties to the barrios and campesinos of North and South America were deep and abiding. His “preferential option for the poor” (the slogan of Catholic liberation theology) was a peculiar one: he hoped to save them from economic development at the hands of Western-trained technocrats. Illich had hard words for even the best Western intentions toward the Third World. (It is possible that what annoyed the CIA was Illich’s advice to the Peace Corps volunteers who came to Cuernavaca for Spanish-language instruction that they should leave Latin American peasants alone, or perhaps even try to learn from them how to de-develop their own societies.) Religious and ecological radicals, however generous and respectful, still wanted to bring the poor a poisoned gift, in Illich’s judgment:

Development has had the same effect in all societies: everyone has been enmeshed in a new web of dependence on commodities that flow out of the same kind of machines, factories, clinics, television studios, think tanks. . . . Even those who do worry about the loss of cultural and genetic variety, or about the multiplication of long-impact isotopes, do not advert to the irreversible depletion of skills, stories, and senses of form. And this progressive substitution of industrial goods and services for useful but nonmarketable values has been the shared goal of political factions and regimes otherwise violently opposed to one another.

Illich might have said more about those fugitive “stories, skills, and senses of form”; he might have tried harder to sketch in the details of a society based on “nonmarketable values.” But in Tools for Conviviality and elsewhere, he at least dropped hints. He certainly did not idealize the primitive—he might have welcomed the term “appropriate technology” if he had encountered it. He enthused over bicycles and the slow trucks and vans that moved people and livestock over the back roads of Latin America before the latter were “improved” into useless and dangerous highways. He was a connoisseur of the hand-built structures cobbled together from cast-off materials in the favelas and slums of the global South. He thought phone trees and computer databases that would match learners and teachers were a very plausible substitute for the present educational system. He thought the Chinese “barefoot doctors” were a promising, though fragile, experiment. He was friendly to any gadget or technique or practice—he called them “convivial” tools—that encouraged initiative and self-reliance rather than smothering those qualities by requiring mass production, certified expertise, or professional supervision.

Illich proposed “a new kind of modern tool kit”—not devised by planners but worked out through a kind of society-wide consultation that he called “politics,” undoubtedly recognizing that it bore no relation to what currently goes by that name. The purpose of this process was to frame a conception of the good life that would “serve as a framework for evaluating man’s relation to his tools.” Essential to any feasible conception, Illich assumed, was identifying a “natural scale” for life’s main dimensions. “When an enterprise [or an institution] grows beyond a certain point on this scale, it first frustrates the end for which it was originally designed, and then rapidly becomes a threat to society itself.”

A livable society, Illich argued, must rest on an “ethic of austerity.” Of course, he didn’t mean by “austerity” the deprivation imposed by central bankers for the sake of “financial stability” and rentier profits. Nor, though he rejected affluence as an ideal, did he mean asceticism. He meant “limits on the amount of instrumented [i.e., technical or institutional] power that anyone may claim, both for his own satisfaction and in the service of others.” Instead of global mass society, he envisioned “many distinct cultures . . . each modern and each emphasizing the dispersed use of modern tools.”

Under such protection against disabling affluence . . . tool ownership would lose much of its present power. If bicycles are owned here by the commune, there by the rider, nothing is changed about the essentially convivial nature of the bicycle as a tool. Such commodities would still be produced in large measure by industrial methods, but they would be seen and evaluated . . . as tools that permitted people to generate use-values in maintaining the subsistence of their respective communities.

Whether one calls this revolution or devolution, it clearly requires, he acknowledged, “a Copernican revolution in our perception of values.” But there was nothing quixotic or eccentric about it. On the contrary, this affirmation of limits aligns Illich with what is perhaps the most significant strain of social criticism in our time: the anti-modernist radicalism of Lewis Mumford, Christopher Lasch, and Wendell Berry, among others.

(…)

Criticism of this breadth and depth illuminates everything. Exactly how to turn it against everything is usually, as in this case, more than even the critic can say.”

[blainke]

Ok so I've been reading a LOT of good omens fics lately and something in me just snapped when I had a mental image of Crowley doing pottery and now here I am 3 hours later with the most self indulgent piece of writing I have ever made. Why would Crowley be into pottery? Easy, because I am and I am projecting. Also the first time I've written anything fic-like, and I haven't written anything at all in YEARS. SO you could say its been an odd day. But I loved writing it, and I'm curious if anyone else will enjoy my rambling. Be warned, its all over the place. Without any further ado, here is Crowley Makes a Pot (~3k words)

Crowley Makes a Pot

Pottery is a meditation, to Crowley. It is so human, but an act of creation so divine it feels like holding the universe in his hands again. All that raw potential of the clay, just a special kind of dirt they noticed is all really, one that can become anything. Over and over again -- until you take it to the flame, and it becomes eternal. No pottery is ever forced to become a subpar version of itself before actions become permanent. You can work a lump for as long as you have the patience for it, no matter how slopped with water it becomes, how unable to hold its shape -- given time, it will reform. The opposite is true as well for a forgotten pot, unfinished, unsatisfactory, long dried from the air and brittle as bone -- it can be brought back into life with just the addition of water. 

And time, of course. It will break the stiff walls down, moisture seeping in and softening everything. Eventually, it can be molded again into anything else in the world. Take the bits and globs and chunks of previous try’s, lay them all out and let the air and water and time do its work on the earth. You must tend it, tedious though it is, to make sure every point coalesces evenly. Turning and mixing until a semblance of structure is flowing through it, and excess moisture beginning to leave, can be formed into arches, slowly regaining shape.

This process is messy work, and the first few wedges always leave Crowley a bit annoyed, covered in slip, but also alight in a way making a big mess on purpose only can do. Plus, the longer he does it, it'll clean itself up in a sense. One of the nice features of clay. At this point, the addition of hands is necessary -- the heat from the body speeds the drying process as well as warming the clay into an easily workable consistency, and the movement smooths the uneven pieces. Soon, it will come to where Crowley is now. Where in his mind, the meditation begins. A moist, pomegranate sized, dense lump of clay, reworked from his past attempts. He watches, feeling the pockets of air folded into the clay slowly breathe out as his hands deftly push, rotate, push, rotate, over and over and over. Spiral wedging is his preference, the organic, beautiful shape it makes, the dance between the differing pressure and turning of his hands in tandem. 

This repetitive motion is the most important. It is the foundation of everything, and will dictate in no uncertain terms how your throwing will be if done improperly. Rushing through, you will plant the seeds of your own destruction into the clay in the form of random pockets of air that will cause bubbles and irregularities and infuriating popping as the clay stretches -- almost always resulting in a thin point that compromises the entire piece. Sometimes small bubbles can still be fixed, but it makes much more sense to be thorough enough to not have to deal with them at all on the wheel.

So wedging. So much wedging, hundreds of rotations for recycled clay like this. Fifty to a hundred would likely be enough for a lump this size, but Crowley is not going to be making the same mistake as his most recent failure. Damn impatience cost him the pot before it even had a fighting chance. So this time, he goes a bit overboard, and besides, it feels good. There is a mild and not unpleasant burn in his forearms from the work, and he feels almost hypnotized by the spiral in the clay as he works it around and around. 

Finally, the clay feels ready. It feels smooth, unblemished, bearing no mark of its previous collapses, ready to hold itself up again, to become something new. Bit like the birth of a star, if you stretch the metaphor far enough, and Crowley is. It’s all potential right now, but once it gets spinning, all the elements crashing into each other in steady chaos -- until finally, it reaches balance, and can explode into something bright and beautiful. He slowly works the spiral into itself, until it becomes a solid ball, ready to be thrown. 

This part is always good. The satisfaction of a simple first step, a visual and tactile experience to get you into the feel of the clay again before any decisions have to be made. Walking slowly to the wheel with the clay in hand, he lets his mind roll over the possibilities, hands doing the same to the cool surface. You could be anything, he thinks gently at it, heart softening like the wedging had the same effect on it as the clay. Knowing his propensity to be strict and unforgiving with his plants, this may come as a surprise. 

Think about it longer, however, and it becomes quite clear. A plant only has one chance on each leaf it unfurls, once it opens, that’s it, and the delicate body can be affected by anything if he doesn’t inspire them to be strong enough to persist. It could fall at any time. Better to stop at the earliest signs. Clay though, it’s different. It’s just potential, giving itself to him relentlessly, without end, without consequence, until he can agree with it that it will be satisfied this way forever. And then, he can make it so. He can take what he’s created and make it stable, solid, so much stronger than it could have been without the heat of the kiln.

The clay will work with him, endlessly, so long as he lets it. When he thinks of the gift that this is, it makes the world soften at the edges. Working with clay is intimate and vast, because it’s just you and the earth and the air and water and fire, together. It’s being able to take the elements of the world into your hands, and shape them into something, with as much room for error and change as you’d like. 

Until you add the fire. 

He knows the irony of it. But somehow, it doesn’t hurt him in that way. Everything he makes has a choice, careful consideration, multiple opportunities for failure before being gently nestled into a space that will enhance them, make them strong. This flame is not a punishment, it is a gift. It is looking at something you created and saying I want you to persist like this. The way that you are, that I have worked with you in innumerable ways to achieve, is beautiful and ready to be set free into the world of permanence, set free from the cycle of death and rebirth of raw clay. We have spent all these hours together, quietly, in so many different states. I have attended you, and you have given me something to treasure.

Exhaling slowly, he finds himself already seated on the stool in front of the wheel, deliberately placing the bat on the wheel and securing the clay. His thoughts have carried him to this spot, as he finds they often do. A gentle tap of the foot pedal to ensure the wheel is on, wetting his hands generously in the bowl of water next to him brings his mind back to the present. He focuses, steadying himself. Centering, the first part of the pottery process, is the most important. Yes, wedging is the most important as of a few minutes ago, but now, when the clay begins to spin, centering is the most important part. It won’t matter how smooth and air pocket free your clay is from wedging on the wheel -- if it’s not centered, nothing will work, the shape will be uneven, and the clay is likely to collapse or wobble its way off the wheel.

He leans in, getting close and stabilizing his right elbow into his hip as he adds pressure to the lumpy ball, increasing the speed of the wheel. It slaps awkwardly in his wet hands for a moment, until the slow, determined, pressure of his body, and the now fastest pace of the wheel collide onto its form, and smooth it. When you throw, you get to start rough and fast, and Crowley appreciates that about it. As the process goes on, you have to continually slow down, and become ever more precise in your movements and relation to the speed of the wheel. But centering, the beginning, is chaotic and forceful and fast and wonderful.

He fights the off-center wobble of the cylinder, feeling the satisfying grounding he always does. Centering anchors you in place, if you do it right. The wheel is set low, so that sitting close in front of it puts your hips at the same height. This way, you can form connection points all the way from the vast stability of the ground, up through your feet, to your legs and hips, which are always stable in such a low seated position. From there, connecting your elbow into your hip, you can lean forward and place your hand to the clay in its most difficult to control state, and be immovable. Even pounds and pounds of clay at a time can be held in check by thin and unassuming arms in this way. In this merging of earth and water, strength isn't necessary to move mountains, only support. 

The addition of water and gentle guidance from the left hand is constant, easing what would quickly become dry and uncomfortable friction between the clay and his hand, as it becomes stable. He applies pressure differently now that it is, gently but firmly coning the clay up into a thin tower, and then pressing it back again into a low lump. Any potential for mistakes in the wedging process are double checked here, as the clay spirals around itself with the added pressure, changing its shape as it’s pressed up and down. The water works its way evenly into the body of the clay, and it softens further.

Centering is done when you can spin the wheel at top speeds, and the clay appears to be immobile. There will be no indication it’s moving, no wobble, just an illusion of stillness. Now is where Crowley has to begin making decisions. The pace of the wheel slows down, and carefully, he presses into the middle of the top, coaxing it open with just a few fingers. At this point, every other thought normally whirling around his head has been spun out of orbit by the centering of the clay, like the excess water and slip into the drip tray around the wheel. He is calm, all attention raptly honed in on the small cylinder in front of him. Every movement must be precise now. His clay is centered, but any irregular pull or accidental catch of a finger could undo that now.

Opening is one of the most satisfying steps to Crowley, it seems laughable, but its the moment he swears he can feel the appreciation of the clay thrum through him, up through his fingertips and hitting deep in his chest. Thank you. It says, thank you for taking your time with me, allowing me to be imperfect, working so closely and patiently to get to the point where I can be unfurled and become something. He presses down until there’s about half an inch to the bottom of the bat, and then eases it into a pull towards his own body. This part is intimate, he feels like he is saying back, there you go, come here, and let’s see what the two of us can accomplish together now. I've got you, you’ve been so good to me. 

The clay follows where he beckons, and as the opening in the center grows, forming a crude cup shape, he begins easing the pace of the wheel down a tad more. This is where he can be delicate. Must be, really. It’s a feeling he only lets out here, usually. Sometimes it will slip out around Aziraphale, this carefully hidden delicacy of his, but here is where he lets it truly free. It works well for the craft, as the clay requires not only delicacy in this state, but determined force to rise. Pulling the walls. 

He is delicate, but there is a tidal wave of restraint behind it, begging to be unleashed freely. He won’t do that, can’t do that, so it comes out here with a pressure that is perfect for these first few pulls. Slip of leather in his right hand, the fingers of his left deftly finding place on the inside even with the base, he begins. Deliberately, the pressure between his two hands increases on the clay, outside hand hooked just barely lower to make more clay move in these first pulls where the clay is stable and thick enough to withstand it. It feels like a miracle every time, the steady movement making the walls of the cylinder rise higher and higher, reforming rapidly into itself to reach up, stretching thin.

No words are happening in his mind now, and he exalts in it. It’s a feeling he can't describe, making the clay move this way. Ineffable, really. A dance. Lost in the music of the wheels’ low hum, the soft creation under his hands, moving with him. Demons are terrible dancers, but this is instinctual to Crowley now, and all he has to do is let the current of care pull him along with the clay.

Its more than double the height it was when it was first opened, and without hesitation, he moves to widen the base, beginning the shaping process. Its funny every time, the moment of anxiety he sometimes feels when he knows he will eventually have to make decisions about how the pot comes into existence. Always in the transition moments between centering and opening, when he knows the steps that happen the same way each time are coming to an end. He convinces himself he simply won’t know what to do when the time comes, that he hasn’t formulated enough of a plan for anything to be successful. It’s funny, because every time he actually reaches the point where the walls are pulled thin enough to begin to take their own distinct shape, it happens almost without thought. 

It is more an extension of himself at this point than a separate entity he has to force into his will. He moves, the clay moves. The collaboration between loose intentions and the particular preferences of this clay in his hands. This pot, it seems, is not concerned with showy curves or dramatic angles. Forming to the gentle pressures of his hands, its form emerges, a low round base, a slight pull in at the top, ending in a gentle flare. It will house an orchid nicely. 

His mind in a slight haze as he pulls back from the final adjustment on its shape, he locates his metal rib, ready to begin cleaning it up. Connected as he is to the clay in these moments, they are truly unique. With the piece so thin and full of the water necessary to keep it smooth enough to move, the speed of the wheel has slowed significantly, and with it, Crowley. Now, its time to scrape away the softest and messiest pieces on the surface, and see what clarity lies below. 

Gently, he lets the rib connect near the base of the piece, barely touching. It’s not enough to alter its shape, only pull off the slip coating the outside, and he feels it in his mind as well. The haze of such uninterrupted focus peeling off him like this last layer of the clay. He feels much like the pot now looks as the rib feathers carefully off the top of the piece. Made new, smoothed out, ready to settle in this new comfortable shape. A bit of time to firm up again in the world, and then the finishing details of the foot of the pot can be carved out, details that will make this pot who it is. Trimming the foot of a piece can change it entirely, and adds a whole new level of satisfaction to the process for Crowley.

He gets to say, Hello new one, you are soft now and have done so well in your first moments in the world. Take some time. Learn yourself, become comfortable as leather, and then we will trim the pieces of you that you’ve no use for. You will have time to become better, before this becomes permanent. Exhaling slowly, he lets the wheel come to a stop. A beat passes, with the first true lack of movement in the room seeping into him. The nice thing about the nature of clay, is that it will be a few days before he can touch this again. He takes a thin length of wire, presses it onto the bat, and pulls from both ends smoothly across, severing the pot from where it has been connected all this time firmly to the surface. 

Without the spinning of the wheel, his thoughts start to gravitate back into his mind, but slowly enough that he new fragile pot is deposited onto a shelf and carefully, loosely covered to firm up slowly. From here, he knows, his thoughts will speed up and up and up again, he will resume his normal pace -- until he can come back and trim it. Then, blessedly, the process of trimming follows a very similar cadence of starting fast and deliberate and hard, before easing down into precision and slowness. It is perfect for him. The gentle necessity of pottery starting with him where he is, and guiding him into a sort of peace he can only find this way, before setting him free again until the next time. Washing the now dry film of clay on his arms off, he grabs his sunglasses from a nearby snake sculpture that had been the first piece he actually fired, he walks out of the quiet studio. Until next time.