#does technicolor actually work like this?

[sleepy-writes-stuff]

DP X DC WRITING PROMPT #14

(Had this idea on the brain as soon as I woke up this morning. This prompt is basically going off of the idea that the ghost zone is the dimension that connects all dimensions.)

(#) = Notes at the end of post

✦

Living in Technicolor

When Danny gets zapped by the portal and brought back half alive, his vision is forever changed. He doesn't know what caused it, just that ever since the accident, his sight has been split into three different perspectives.

1. His home dimension

2. The ghost zone/invisible spectrum

3. Another dimension entirely

He had originally been able to peer into more than three perspectives directly after his accident, but that resulted in his brain more or less short-circuiting from all the extra information and putting him in a week long coma. Still, even with the decreased load, the amount of information that's being filtered through his eyes and into his brain from three different plains of existence leaves him legally blind in his original reality and needing the help of either a cane or his service dog, Cujo.(1 & 2)

It isn't until his powers start appearing that he learns something interesting. If he concentrates enough, he can shift/manifest his own existence into whichever perspective he's focusing on the most when he transforms, singling his vision down to one perspective for the duration. He has to be careful though, otherwise he could get stuck in-between, which scrambles his vision to an even more nauseating degree. That or he could cause himself to blackout just from the amount of stress it puts on his mind.

He's basically his own dimension hopping portal though.

The only thing is, he never hopped over to the other dimension that seemed to exist alongside his own and the Ghost Zone, content to just travel between his dimension and the Infinite Realms. That doesn't mean he wasn't interested in it or didn't take a more concentrated peek into it from time to time though. Cause let's be honest. A world full of superheroes defending the Earth from a multitude of threats? He'd be lying if he said he didn't use the opportunity to observe and learn from a few of the professionals when it came to his own defending of the ghostly variety.

It isn't until long after he becomes the Ghost King that he is approached by Clockwork, the Ghost of Time. He reveals he knows of Danny's ability to peer into the multiverse like the time ghost can, although greatly limited in comparison. He offers to make Danny his apprentice and to teach him what it means to see through the veil into different universes and timelines, and perhaps increase the amount of perspectives he can handle at once now that his power has increased exponentially. He is King of the Infinite Realms after all. He needs to properly oversee his domain and everything connected to it if he wants to be a good monarch. However, the only way to increase the number of perspectives he can handle is by experiencing each one first hand.

The first step? Shifting into the dimension he has yet to visit, the one he's been peering into and learning so much from over the years.

✦

Notes:

(1) Here, Danny gets Cujo before he becomes a security dog/a ghost.

(2) He eventually creates some specially designed glasses with color changing lenses that help him filter out the extra perspectives when he's older, but they're far from perfect. Red for home reality, Green for the Ghost Zone, and Blue for DC Universe/other universes.

ALSO, while this is technically a dp x dc crossover prompt, I wanted to keep it pretty open for any other crossover ideas. There's infinite possibilities here and I'd love to see what people come up with!

[xcrust]

Now in Technicolor

Hazbin Hotel and Helluva Boss x Reader Insert

“Tune in folks! demons and damned souls, welcome back to the sultry airwaves of Hell's very own station. I must say, dear listeners, Hell has a certain charm, doesn't it? A cacophony of screams, the crackle of flames, and the subtle whispers of secrets that linger in the shadows. It's a splendid orchestra of despair, and I am here to be your guide through the infernal playlist” 

You expected the man to be insane but you didn't expect him to be so unshameful. 

“So, grab a pitchfork, kick back, and let the music of the damned serenade your darkened souls! Now let's talk about my latest massacre-” 

As of the moment you're not actually with him. Though him doing his broadcast that reigns in all of hell almost feels like he's still beside you all along. As your point of freedom away from your family you decided it was best to get to know hell from the very people that walked the streets. 

Since he began taking you under his wing, you decided to stay with him till you find your place to settle down. 

You were an early riser so the radio was not really a bother. The weird universal agreement to decide night and day here is such a fascination to you. Nevertheless being hell meant there was never a time without someone awake causing chaos. The game plan of working your way up the charts is what your dad always said while growing up, "Don't take shit from other demons”. Starting with that is to gain a more hopeful advantage in knowing the people. 

“Watch this!” a really grimy voice screamed out. Looking that way you could see a few imps running around gathering people's attention.

One taller than the average imp stood with horns adorned in flickering embers, cackling with glee as he addressed his chaotic minions. "Listen up, you fiendish crap! I think it's time to start a new and take back what should be rightfully ours”

In the heart of pentagram city, the joy that you get from seeing the disaster is always so fulfilling. You may be new to these parts but boy does it give you a rush. 

A sleek abyssal demon slinked through the crowd, leaving a trail of illusions in its wake. The demon could not only morph into various grotesque forms but the path that it was leaving behind was startling and amusing onlookers. As it danced between the dimensions of reality and illusion, confused demons stumbled into each other, inadvertently causing a chain reaction of minor skirmishes and squabbles. But what you didn't expect was for him to come up to you. 

“They do this every week, by now it should get through their heads no one is going to listen” His voice was deep. It was such a buttery kind of smooth. 

“I don't know there seems to be a crowd starting” with a smile you look up at him to see an amused look on his face. 

The scene in front of you did intrigue you a lot. The bottom of the food chain in hell trying to make a voice for themselves. Their treatment is a peculiar mix of disdain and indifference. Larger demons may kick an imp out of the way without a second thought or summon them with a snap of their fingers for trivial purposes. Imps are often subjected to the capricious whims of their more powerful counterparts, enduring cruel pranks and occasional bouts of aggression.

Though you never thought that, though treated as the lowest rung of the demonic hierarchy, imps often find themselves at the mercy of their more powerful counterparts. They serve as the labor force, taking on a myriad of roles and responsibilities that range from menial tasks to dangerous assignments. Whether it's cleaning the twisted architecture of demonic structures or scurrying about as messengers delivering missives between the higher-ups, imps are ubiquitous fixtures in the daily hustle of Hell

“The pride ring is the top show in these parts and what do we get?! We get booted to the side and have to deal with the hypocrisy of these stupid standards!!” Those who spoke up before started chanting about rights for imps. 

Certainly something that you would stand behind. Maybe it's a closed minded thought process but what was the point of souls from earth having more respect than the ones from here? 

The heartbreaking sight was to see them run out. Demons of all kinds were starting to riot against them. In the face of adversity, the mischievous imps vowed to continue their antics, proving that even the smallest creatures could leave an indelible mark on the tumultuous canvas of Hell The Hellraisers disappear into the chaotic crowd, leaving a trail of bewildered demons and a street strewn with toppled stalls. with mayhem reigning supreme in the darkened streets.

“It's stupid and kinda sad to watch” The man stood beside you huffing out. 

“Aren't you a hypocrite, you're an earthborn yourself aren't you?” the ego that these people have never stops amazing you everyday. 

“Yeah… just because I'm here doesn't mean I'm set in stone as a bad person… Though looking at you, I'd guess you're like myself but you look almost a little too perfect for a human” crossing his arms he looked at you. 

“That's because im-! You know who you are anyways dickbag”  This guy was seriously putting you off. Comparing you to whatever those disappointments are. 

“Pump the hate breaks… I'm Walter by the way.. Since you asked." The cadence of his voice was so politician based that it could lead you to go insane. 

As the chaos unfolded around you, Walter's nonchalant demeanor seemed to contrast sharply with the tumultuous scene. The imps' attempts to rally for their rights had escalated into a full-blown street brawl, with demons of varying sizes and shapes joining the fray. The air resonated with shouts, roars, and the occasional yelp from an imp caught in the crossfire.

"Quite the spectacle they're putting on, isn't it?" Walter questions raising an eyebrow

You observed the chaos with a mix of fascination and concern. The imps were outnumbered and outmatched, yet their resilience and determination to stand up against the status quo intrigued you.

"Yeah, it is," you replied, eyes still fixed on the scene. "Seems like they're fed up with being pushed around."

Walter chuckled, a dry sound that echoed through the cacophony. "Oh, they've been trying to make a statement for ages. It's almost cute."

"Cute?" You shot him a disapproving look. "They're fighting for their rights. It's not cute; it's necessary."

Walter's gaze lingered on you for a moment before he shrugged, unimpressed. "Necessary, maybe. But in Hell, it's a matter of survival. Those little imps are just making noise in a world that won't listen."

The riot continued to escalate, with fiery projectiles, illusions, and general pandemonium swirling around. Amidst the chaos, a trio of larger demons emerged, their expressions twisted into malicious grins.

"Looks like the big guns are stepping in. This is where it gets interesting." you said while stepping back to not get caught in the crossfire. Values and morals aside, sometimes seeing stuff play out is widely more interesting than anything else. Fuck you sounded sadistic.

The trio of demons seemed to relish the opportunity to quash the imp uprising. With a wave of their hands, they conjured dark energy, sending shockwaves through the crowd of imps. You could see the smaller demons being tossed aside like ragdolls, their attempts at resistance quickly crushed.

You felt a surge of empathy for the imps, caught in a cycle of oppression and rebellion. However, Walter's detached demeanor left you conflicted. Was he merely observing the chaos, or did he revel in the anarchy that unfolded before him?

Leaning into you his dark haze felt almost suffocating. "Well, darling, what do you think? Will the imps triumph or become another forgotten footnote in Hell's sordid history?" 

The question lingered in the air, emphasizing the harsh reality of Hell's hierarchy. The imps' plight seemed both desperate and valiant, a stark reminder that even in Hell, some fought for a semblance of dignity and recognition. 

“Whatever, if this is just a game to you, I hope your luck runs out” you remark before heading out of the city center. Being around him made you miss the annoying voice of alastor. 

Walking away from him was the easiest thing that you could do. His attempt to engage you in conversation, using terms like "darling" with a sly smile, only added to your growing irritation. It felt like he was mocking not only the imps but also your own principles and values.

The crimson glow of dawn began to seep through the curtains of Alastor's luxurious suite of his radio booth, signaling the end of another night's radio broadcast. The room, adorned with vintage furnishings and an air of refined chaos, bore witness to the aftermath of Alastor's nocturnal endeavors.

reclined in an opulent armchair, a contented smirk playing on his lips. The room still echoed with the faint whispers of his charismatic voice, which had reached every corner of Hell during the broadcast. The radio equipment, adorned with dials and adorned in a distinct retro aesthetic, hummed softly, now temporarily dormant.

 Alastor found his thoughts occasionally drifting to the enigmatic (Y/n). a peculiar newcomer to Hell or at least to what he thinks. had managed to capture the attention of the radio demon in a way that he couldn't quite dismiss. The glimmers of defiance in (Y/n)'s gaze during their encounters had not gone unnoticed. Alastor, who revealed in the unexpected and the unconventional, found a peculiar satisfaction in the mystery that surrounded them. In Hell, where familiarity often bred contempt, the unknown was a rare and exhilarating novelty.

As the first rays of dawn bathed the room in a warm glow, Alastor's posture shifted. He rose from the chair, his movements graceful and deliberate. Despite the seemingly chaotic nature of his radio persona, there was an undeniable elegance to his every action.

Alastor pondered the significance of this newcomer's journey through the infernal landscape. Why could he feel such raw power? Though why is it that he is reminded of himself when thinking about them. 

Walking over to a nearby table, Alastor poured himself a cup of tea. The delicate porcelain clinked softly against the saucer as he sipped the hot beverage. The tranquility of the moment contrasted with the lively chaos he had orchestrated just hours ago.

Thinking back to last night, With a casual flick of his wrist, when he summoned ethereal tendrils that danced like shadows in the night. These spectral appendages slithered through the air, reaching out to the trembling souls and ensnaring them in a web of malevolent energy. The very fabric of reality seemed to warp under his influence, distorting the surroundings into a nightmarish landscape.

Alastor's mind, ever calculating, reflected on the success of the night's broadcast. The intertwining melodies of jazz and hellish commentary had woven a tapestry of entertainment, capturing the attention of listeners from the lowliest imps to the loftiest demons. The echoes of laughter and applause lingered in his mind like a symphony of souls.

As the jazz tunes from a nearby record player filled the air, Alastor reclined in his chair, a sly grin playing on his lips. The prospect of weaving the reader into the ongoing narrative of Hell sparked a mischievous glint in his eyes. (Y/n), in their apparent defiance of the expected norms, had become a wild card in the devil's deck of amusement.

 Getting up to Leisurely strolling through the lavish suite, Alastor glanced at a vintage record player. He selected a vinyl record, the soothing crackle of the needle finding its groove as the melodic tunes of an old jazz number filled the room. The music, a stark departure from the energetic chaos of his radio show, created an ambiance of refined tranquility.

From below his window he sees these peculiar picture shows from down below.

"My, my, attempting to disturb the delicate balance of my little corner of Hell? How utterly quaint.” 

“Hey! I'm back! Damn, is it a lively scene out there,” you call out as you stride into your shared living space.

Alastor, reclining on a vintage armchair, smirks in response. "Ah, my dear (Y/n), chaos is the very essence of this delightful realm. One must learn to appreciate the symphony of suffering that plays around us."

"Yeah, well, it's just something that I'll make work in my hand,” you reply, taking a moment to glance around the eclectic decor of your hellish abode.

With a mischievous glint in his eyes, Alastor stands up abruptly. "I know you just got back, but we are going out!" His enthusiasm is palpable, and you can tell he has something interesting in mind.

“Wait, I think I had my share—” you try to speak out before being abruptly grabbed by the arm.

“Come on, my dear!” In a flash, you find yourself whisked out of the apartment, leaving behind the familiar surroundings for whatever adventure Alastor has in store.

"Alastor, where are we even going?" you asked, trying to keep up with his brisk pace. His usual grin widened, revealing a hint of mischief.

"Patience, my dear (Y/n). I have something intriguing to show you," Alastor replied, his voice carrying an air of secrecy.

He turned to face you, his expression unreadable. "I thought it would be delightful to pay a visit to our esteemed TV demon. After all, shouldn't we take a look at all kinds of media?"

Before you could voice your reservations, Alastor pushed open the doors of the Vox Network headquarters, leading you into the opulent reception area. The robotic sentinels stood guard, and Vox's voice echoed through the room.

"Ah, Alastor! A pleasure to have you in the building! , What a delightful surprise," a booming voice echoed from the center of the room. Vox, the flamboyant TV demon, materialized in a cloud of static. His slick, metallic appearance glowed in an array of colors, and his screen-like face displayed a perpetually changing expression. his screen displaying a charismatic smile.

Vox extended a hand towards Alastor. the radio demon simply walked past to which earned a small glitch seen at the corner of his screen. 

“Seems you've brought a pet?” The fact that no one knew who you were was starting to get on your nerves. Calling you a pet? Well that's something that will make you riot. 

In the face of Vox's condescending remark, you felt a spark of irritation flicker within you. Alastor's dismissal of the TV demon's extended hand had left a peculiar glitch on Vox's screen, a subtle indication that the flamboyant host wasn't accustomed to being ignored.

"No one's anyone's pet," you retorted, asserting yourself in the opulent reception area. The robotic sentinels glanced in your direction, their mechanical eyes narrowing as if registering an unexpected anomaly.

Vox's screen shifted to an intrigued expression, the colors dancing in an erratic display. "Ah, a voice from the shadows! I must confess, I wasn't aware we had a new player in this delightful game."

Alastor, leaning against a holographic display, observed the unfolding interaction with a glint of amusement in his eyes. "She's no pet, Vox. Just someone with a taste for chaos and curiosity about your little empire."

Vox chuckled, the sound reverberating through the sleek surroundings. "Chaos and curiosity, my favorite combination! How intriguing! So, (Y/n), what brings you into our glamorous world today?"

You crossed your arms, a defiant gleam in your eyes. "I'm not here to be entertained or become anyone's spectacle if thats what youre thinking.”

Alastor stepped in “We just thought we'd see what all the fuss is about."

Vox's screen displayed a mix of amusement and curiosity. "A renegade spirit, I like it! But you're in the presence of yours truly and We don't do small things here. Let's skip the foreplay and get into it. How about a little deal? I'll make you an offer you can't refuse."

You eyed Vox skeptically, wary of the gleam in his screen. Alastor, seemingly unfazed, glanced at you with a sly grin. "Go on, (Y/n), entertain his offer. He has no power or specialty. We might find something amusing in his little game."

“Ok first fuck you alastor and no way in the seven rings would I join you I wouldnt join anyone” The prospect of dealing with Vox made your skin crawl, but the allure of navigating Hell's media empire intrigued you. 

Vox's screen flickered with a mix of surprise and subtle annoyance as you firmly rejected his proposition. The colors on his metallic visage swirled in a display of shifting hues, mirroring the complex emotions running through the TV demon's circuits.

"Well, well, aren't you a feisty one, Are you sure about not joining anyone? You seem like a loyal dog to that freak" Vox mused

Your resolve remains unshaken, and you meet Vox's screen with a defiant gaze. "I don't need your offers, Vox. I'll find my own way through Hell's chaos."

Vox's laughter echoed through the opulent reception area, a mix of genuine amusement and an underlying sense of challenge. "Very well, (Y/n). Should you change your mind or seek a taste of the limelight, you know where to find me.”

What a bitch… At this point you were at your limit so you walked out to the side of the room to not entertain this conversation. The fucking nerve of these people. Even Alastor was being a little bit of a shit at the moment. 

“There's a certain allure to the unknown, wouldn't you say?" Vox pondered aloud, his screen displaying a charismatic smile.

Alastor, still leaning against the holographic display, turned to you with a smirk. "Well done, my dear.”

Alastor's antlers grew as he stood before Vox, his crimson eyes piercing 

"Ah, Vox, my dear fellow," Alastor began, his voice carrying a melodic tone laced with a subtle threat. "I hope you enjoyed the rejection dance my little friend here performed. Now, let's get one thing clear – I don't dance to anyone's tune, especially not yours. You might be the new shiny toy right now but people always come back to the original"

Vox's screen glitched momentarily, revealing a flicker of irritation.

"What's the meaning of this, Alastor?" Vox demanded, his voice losing some of its usual charisma and taking on a sharper edge. "You come here and start bitching at me about not joining me?! We've already established that” 

“You underestimate the consequences of refusing me, Alastor," Vox hissed, his voice losing its previous charm entirely. "This will be my realm to control, and those who reject my advances often find themselves in a far less favorable position."

Alastor chuckled, the sound echoing in the extravagant reception area. "Consequences, Vox? I've faced worse in my time. Your attempts to control the narrative may work on the masses, but not on someone who knows the art of chaos."

As Alastor turned to leave, Vox seethed with frustration. The TV demon couldn't fathom being denied, and Alastor's rejection left a lingering tension in the air. Vox's screen displayed an animated storm of chaotic colors.

A surge of annoyance swept over you. Alastor's encouragement of Vox and his apparent amusement at the situation grated on the reader's nerves. The reader couldn't fathom why he enabled the TV demon's actions especially considering the TV demon's manipulative and self-serving nature. To make matters worse it really felt like he was making fun of you. 

“Fuck off Alastor”

"(Y/n), this is Hell, and power here is earned through deals and influence. If you want to make your mark, you have to start making deals," Alastor advised in a tone that was both casual and instructional. His words resonated with a hint of amusement, as if he relished the idea of the reader navigating the treacherous landscape of Hell.

“I'm not some social experiment, why are you still here?” however, was taken aback by Alastor's nonchalant attitude toward the situation. The idea of making deals in exchange for souls seemed like a slippery slope, and the reader wasn't sure if they were ready to embrace such a cutthroat approach

“Embrace it, and you'll see just how intoxicating the taste of power can be." he replied

If they were to survive and thrive in Hell, understanding the art of making deals was a necessary skill. With a determined nod, they acknowledged Alastor's guidance.

"Alright, Alastor. Teach me the ropes. I might as well learn how to play this game if I'm going to survive in Hell," the reader conceded, a resolute glint in their eyes.

“Im staying with you, but if you even think about being an ass while other people are around you're going to be counting your last minutes” 

“Doll, if you can barely stand up for yourself, I don't think I have anything to worry about,” he laughed out.

He's seriously pushing your buttons right now.

“As an overlord, you have dominion over a specific territory or domain within Hell. This grants you considerable authority and control over the demons and souls, you want that right? Power?” he asked.

All of a sudden you heard a loud bash of commotion coming from a group of demons that appeared to be fighting.

Pushing through the crowd, they discovered a group of demons surrounding none other than Walter.

One of the larger demons, a hulking figure with horns resembling twisted spires, look with disdain. "This fool thinks he can waltz into our territory and act like he owns the place."

Walter, bloodied but defiant, attempted to maintain his composure. "Now, now, gentlemen, there's no need for such hostility. Let's talk this out civilly."

The demons surrounding Walter scoffed at his attempts at diplomacy, clearly unimpressed. The reader couldn't help but feel a surge of annoyance at Walter's earlier arrogance.

"Perhaps, my dear (Y/n), we should let this play out. It's always entertaining to witness the ebb and flow of power dynamics in Hell," Alastor mused, his eyes glinting with a sinister delight.

"Come on! Do something about this!!, you can't just stand there and watch!" Walter's voice cracked with a mixture of pain and panic as he pleaded for help. 

"My, my, Walter, seems like you've landed yourself in quite a bind. Who would have thought our charismatic friend would face such a predicament?" you said out loud

“please! I'm not cut out for this kind of roughing up!" Walter's words were desperate, his eyes pleading for intervention. The demons surrounding him laughed, reveling in his vulnerability

“Oh please you were such a bigshot earlier, get yourself out of this mess”

ignoring the demons' taunts, you whispered out a proposal which the smoked and leaned in closer to Walter and whispered the terms of the deal. The specifics echoed in the demonic air, forming an unspoken pact that hung heavy in the atmosphere.

"Deal," Walter agreed, relief washing over him as the terms were settled. The demons, though momentarily confused, soon found themselves turned to dust. 

Alastor observed the scene with a raised brow, intrigued by the sudden turn of events. The reader's willingness to strike a deal for Walter's soul added a new layer of complexity

Looking back up to him and smiled, “is this what you wanted?”

As Alastor continued to observe the chaotic scene unfolding before him, a smirk played on his lips. The demons surrounding Walter, still reveling in the prospect of his impending downfall, were oblivious to the subtle yet profound shift in the power dynamics.

"Well, well, it seems you've decided to make a deal. How delightful!" Alastor chuckled, his eyes gleaming with amusement. The atmosphere shifted, charged with an unspoken agreement between you and Walter.  

“Now, now, gentlemen, let's not keep our eager audience waiting. After all, this is shaping up to be quite the dramatic performance,” Alastor commented looking at the rest of the demons that just fell dead, staring at the corpses with a dark amusement lacing his words. He leaned casually against a nearby demonic structure, his radio-like grin widening.

[evilminji]

Can Danny see the Forbidden Shrimp Colors?

Like, as Phantom.

Because his eyes are goo.

They are not ACTUALLY human eyes with human limitations, nor possess human eye rods and cones etc. They are human SHAPED Ectoplasmic goo. That is working as the "Eye sight" area of his goo body. Honestly, it's the same question with his hearing etc. But SPECIFICALLY?

Does he get? Some sort of FULL spectrum sight?

Do ghosts and ghosts ALONE... see the world as it ACTUALLY is? Actually, genuinely, looks like? I know humans can tell apart more shade of green then most if not all other species. And a host of other things. But other animals have specialized sight too.

Do ghosts just get? All of it? Because that's just... Sight.

They no longer NEED specialized this or that, to hunt for food or escape predators. Their bodies are no longer bound by species specific limitations. Unless they, you know, felt like it.

Just?

Imagine what that must be LIKE? You transform and the world transforms with you. Everything becoming technicolor. BEYOND color. Depth and complexity, shades you don't have names for. The sky, the grass, trees and the BIRDS in them. All completely different.

An ocean of Shades, peacefully wandering along. Never destined to become Ghosts. Heading towards this afterlife or that. Some just sitting and watching the birds. Not even from just humans. The ground is covered by the Shades of plants long past. There are birds long gone floating along, off to some bird afterlife.

You can't even touch them.

They're like mist. Visible, but as solid as water vapor and reflecting light. They disappear when you transform back.

You can SEE more of space, of the atmosphere and the magnetic fields, of the folds of reality itself, then you ever thought were possible. You'll NEVER be able to put a name to even a fraction of the colors or shades. It's beautiful. Dances.

It's also gone when you transform back.

You won't be able to hear it anymore either. Or any other song and sound that rings out. That hums and buzzes, rumbles and croons. It will feel like climbing back inside a box too small for you and shutting the lid. Right up until it doesn't. Because the brain is a powerful thing, and you always seem to forget, how MUCH everything is.

Because you'd be unable to take it, if you couldn't let it go. If you couldn't keep forgetting. If being human didn't fit.

But it's cool.

You can see shrimp colors.

@hypewinter @hdgnj @ailithnight @the-witchhunter @nerdpoe @mutable-manifestation

[archive-of-alexandria]

Grease Paint (Buggy x Reader)

A/N: This is my first attempt at writing on Tumblr in over 10 years, but I am so down bad for this man that I can't help myself. I'm working on drafting my Moulin Rouge! x Buggy long-form fic, and this was just something I scribbled out in the meantime. This is pure Buggy x Reader fluff, so I hope you enjoy!

***

For once in his life, the ever-flashy clown pirate has nothing funny to say.

Your thumb gently ran along Buggy’s cheek to correct your lines, and the genius jester felt the greasepaint being very obviously replaced by his own maddening blush. Your tongue pokes out in concentration, and he fights the urge to grab it between his fingers – haHA! Cat got your tongue! – and spoil the mood with a poorly concocted joke. 

Buggy blinks.

….Mood? Who said anything about a mood?

A blush begins to bloom under his collar. Buggy had, in fact, been planning a way to weasel his way into your heart for months - and it seems as if you'd fallen right into his brilliantly scripted scene....so how come he can't remember any of his lines?

You continue working, and Buggy’s usually frantic mind suddenly falls deafeningly silent. Instead, the captain seems to fall into a sort of trance – focusing the entirety of his attention on memorizing your face. He observes every freckle and crease, wishing to commit it to memory. This was the first time -the only time - he’d ever been this close to someone in this…domestic…way, holding his breath out of fear that the illusion of contented bliss would shatter. 

Buggy swallows.

He had planned for this, written out every charming and witty line he could think of.

Your eyes catch hold of his through the fan of your eyelashes. Now it was time for your ears to turn pink.

“You’re staring,” Your voice is barely above a whisper, and Buggy practically melts as your eyes soften, “Something on my face?” As if on cue, a strand of hair falls in front of your eyes.

God.

He clears his throat, a soft chuckle rippling off his lips, “Well, now there is,” he muses, “Talk about a paid actor.”

You reach to push the hair from your eyes at the same time as he does, fingers awkwardly colliding as soft chuckles and mumbled apologies spill from both of your lips. Still, your eyes hold one another. 

You give way to allow Buggy to proceed, whose deft fingers trace along your forehead and behind your ear. Buggy feels electricity shoot through his hands at the feeling of his touch against you, swallowing as he allows his knuckle to caress your cheek. When you seem to lean into his touch, however, he panics.

It would seem he failed to write that into the script.

Buggy barks out a laugh, gently nudging your face and making a pop! noise with his lips to try and swim back to shore before he’s too far gone. You grab hold of Buggy’s lipstick, the last bit of his flashy facepaint to be applied. 

"And, for the finishing touch," You hum, taking his chin in your hands as you lean forward with his lipstick in hand.

Buggy's heart hammers against his chest as he feels your breath against his lips, the blood rushing to his ears in the same fashion as one hanging from a highwire.

At this moment, he indeed feels as if he is on the trapeze - delicately balancing with the hopes of making it through without a fumble.

“Doh–!” A chuckle passes through your lips, closing your eyes tight at the sight of Buggy’s comically crimson mouth. In the months that you’ve been a part of Buggy’s crew, you've never seen his makeup so fresh…and the sight was actually rather startling. It was as if the captain was in bad 3D, sponsored by technicolor, painted in by the most potent Crayola markers known to man. Buggy’s whole face looks crimson, but perhaps it's just a reflection of the brutal lipstick…

Buggy’s lips, like two bright cherries, suddenly form a pout at the sound of your laughter. His heart sinks, mind immediately skipping to the worst possible conclusion: You agreed to do his makeup not because you might care for him, but rather this was your chance to humiliate him. Buggy could feel his heart clench in his chest, and his delicate balancing act was about to turn into a dive routine.

“What?” He manages to quirk his lips into a strained smile, “You didn’t make me look like a clown, did ya-? Hrumph-!” His attempt at salvaging his pride is derailed by your thumbs pressing to his lips, your giggles giving way to a radiant smile. Little did he know that your fingers against his lips were just as much an attempt to quiet him as they were an excuse to touch Buggy.

“This color is so much more red than usual,” You say, your face growing warm, “What did I do wrong?” 

A blink. Moments pass as Buggy stares at you with saucer eyes before his hands fasten themselves to your wrists with a gentle tug. Had you realized that your fingers were still attached to his lips? 

“If you must know,” he gulped, “I have a top secret makeup technique.”

“Oh?” You feign surprise, leaning closer to your captain. A smirk twists into your lips. “Top secret, eh? Even from me?”

You bat your eyelashes, emboldened by your captain’s sheepish expression, and Buggy mutters a curse under his breath. 

Oh, fucking fucking fucker fuck.

Buggy’s voice lowers and his grip on your wrists tighten, the creak of the supple leather breaking the silence. “Especially from you.” A blink passes with the realization that Buggy wasn’t cracking a joke or being wise. He genuinely seemed…embarrassed. You’re not deterred yet, and instead, he finds you leaning in closer as your legs involuntarily squeeze together – Just imagine what those gloves would feel like in your –

You’re nearly nose to nose with the dread pirate as the air settles thick. For months you and Buggy have fallen into the old routine of cat and mouse, always teetering on the precipice of…something. The way Buggy allows his eyes to follow you during your routine without shame and latches on to your figure like a predator observing his prey is undeniable. He relishes in watching your body twist and writhe on the acrobat hoop, and you'll admit that all of your special tricks are, indeed, for him. You live for the moments he would stalk up behind you after a performance during the roaring applause when no one would be able to hear his voice - low and thick - praise you with lips ghosting your ear: “What a good girl you are, hm? Making your captain proud.” 

Your eyes fall to Buggy’s lips.

“Show me,” you swallow thickly, brushing your nose against his, “Show me your special technique.” 

Buggy’s eyes flicker elsewhere – anywhere – from your gaze before deciding upon your own lips. His grip falters, his body erupting into flame as his eyelids flutter. 

This was it: the climax of the show he has been planning and rewriting in his dreamworld for months. Buggy's flashy showmanship, however, deflates. Your hands are suddenly dropped from Buggy’s grip as he pulls back, redirecting his gaze to his now unoccupied hands. As he begins to peel off his gloves, the silence shifts into something unsettled. The fizzing tension between the two of you seems to thicken.

Meanwhile, Buggy is desperately trying to suppress an impending, raging hard-on. He already feels humiliated enough at the fact that you're laughing in his face, and now...

Cabaji had made fun of Buggy for weeks after discovering the wanted poster smeared in crimson red grease paint in Buggy’s quarters, your face barely visible beneath layers and layers of kiss marks. Buggy initially tried to cover it up, claiming it wasn’t intentional and he just needed something to “blot and perfect” his signature look with at call time. However, the sheer amount of kisses scattered across the page betrays him. There is no denying that Buggy was completely smitten with you. And here you are, practically begging him to kiss you. The set-up, the lead-in, the wind-up to the punchline…It is the perfect joke, all at his expense.

At least Cabaji hadn’t found the other copy of your wanted poster, crinkled and smeared thick with Buggy’s–

“Bugs?” Your hand on his thigh pulls the captain out of his thoughts, eyes darting up to meet yours with an unmistakable look of guilt as he tries to wipe away the memories of his moans and your wanted poster slick with his– “Are you okay?”

The clown clears his throat, finding the willpower to bring his fist before his face with a flourish as his humorless eyes settle on yours in an attempt to save face.

“For your viewing pleasure,” he forces a smile, “The technique!”

Without another word, Buggy begins to rub his lips back and forth vigorously against the top of his hand in order to remove the excess pigment. 

Fuckingfuckinghellthisissostupidthey’regoingtofuckinghatemewhatamIevendoing–

His brilliant demonstration is put on pause as you take hold of his wrist, his gaze snapping up to meet yours. A sheepish grin attempts to cross his lips, but it falters. His eyes fall to the floor.

He looks ashamed.

“For once,” Buggy’s voice is hoarse as he huffs out a laugh, “I don’t have anything funny to say.”

A beat. 

The intimacy of the moment is almost too much to bear, and your skin pricks with nerves.

“Buggy…” you breathe.

Your fingers find his face once again, tenderly wrapping around his chin. Buggy squeezes his eyes shut as you guide his face up to you. He refuses to see the expression in your eyes as you stomp on his glass heart. Suddenly you're cradling his head in both of your hands, “Buggy,” you mused, “I have a better technique to share with you.” 

Your noses bump against one another.

A choking noise passes through Buggy’s lips, and in a moment of sheer desperation for tenderness he whispers, “Please.” 

Your lips finally meet Buggy’s, and the awkward feeling of your body being too far away is overcorrected by the desperate captain. Buggy follows your lips with his body like a man possessed, knees knocking with yours as his arms swallow you whole. His hands find purchase wherever they can, trying to quickly grasp any and all of you as if you'd disappear. It's awkward, teeth knocking against teeth with the expertise of someone never before kissed, and you can't help the smile that comes to your lips.

You break away and Buggy’s breathing hitches, eyes still closed and hands gripping you so tightly you know you’ll have bruises.

You don’t mind, though. Quite the opposite. 

You can always cover them up with a little bit of grease paint.

[thebigoblin]

as the sun rises

i've been working on this on & off for a couple weeks, and it's now complete! posting this here first, and will post it on ao3 this week!

He's just about to kiss Derek when he's pulled out of his sleep, his traitorous phone vibrating on his nightstand with a text message.

Who could be texting him? It's too early for socializing, and his brain is tired! But since he's not just a college student but also a human who runs with a wolf pack and is liable to delay rescue missions if he's not on his feet all the time — he's literally one-half of a two people operation in this pack who hold strategic braincells — he groans and opens his eyes.

His room is dark, but the curtains are blowing against a soft breeze, and slants of sunlight fall into place across his room. It's morning, then. Too early to really call it morning, but morning nonetheless.

Who would even text him right now? His pack cannot get in trouble this early in the day, can they?

Actually, they can, and they have in the past — he grabs his phone and opens it up to the text messages.

It's a message from Derek.

That says just one thing: Morning.

Stiles blinks at it. Tries to figure out if it is a secret code message or something. Scrolls back up further in their text thread, realizes Derek had an early night yesterday so of course he'd be awake early today, at 6 in the morning, and like all the mornings this past week he's sent Stiles a message.

Morning.

Normally, he does it at reasonable hours, like 8. Which is Derek's usual wake-up time, given his usually scheduled afternoon shifts at the BHPD. Like it's the very first thing he does, eyes still blurry from sleep.

It's a sweet, delusional thought borne of Stiles' own desperate greed for Derek's attention, and it chokes him as much as it pleases him.

And there goes his sleep, running away like a headless chicken, at his predicament of being in love with someone he can not have.

Derek Hale is a legend from the myths, a werewolf amongst humans; he's honor and pride intertwined with a gut of trust he's sharpened over the years, the mistakes of his youth lending him a jaded perspective on his once easily-given faith. He is a man turned ashen with tragedy, turned once again into technicolor as years have climbed up.

Stiles was there, at the intolerable stage of it. When Derek was barely a man, a kid alone in the world, hurting and grieving, persistently angry, and with no vision. And he's been there since, once a spectator turned into pages in Derek's book. He's seen him become the man he is now, their relationship blooming under the throes of violence, of almost-dead-but-not-yet celebrations, of the pack letting Derek down and Derek learning to be better for it, instead of sulking and lashing out.

He has watched Derek become who he is now, and he has fallen in love with a man who is one of the strongest people he knows, and it's devastating because why would someone like that love Stiles? There's so much that Derek deserves, so much of which Stiles can not give. He deserves all the good things, and Stiles isn't something like that, is he?

The morning goes on like this: him in the bed, under the covers, the wind blowing inside his room a gentle contrast to his harsh thoughts. He is a year into college now, he's dated a few guys and girls, felt attraction but no connection to them before he realized what's wrong with him — he couldn't connect with anyone because he's already given his heart away, and he knows this is it for him. He's gone and done for, the kind of once-in-a-lifetime love they try to sell in movies and shows and books his claim now, except for the part where he gets the guy and the life of his dreams.

Maybe, just maybe, in a couple of years, he would have moved on. But today, all he can hear in his room is the sound of his heart breaking, his breath hitching, all because of a simple text and his sadist brain.

He hurts in a way he never has. He knows grief — he's lost his mom and that hurt, too, and still does. There's a piece missing in him, a part of him forever buried with his mom, and he's learned to live without it. And this hurts too, the clarity of never having Derek, in a way that is different but somehow similar. He's grieving for something he never had, a future he dreams of but knows can never be his reality.

He allows himself to fall apart today.

*

It's the Christmas break, the weather outside slowly getting more chilly than it was when he woke up. He burrows under the covers, the wind pecking his skin, his limbs too heavy from exhaustion of having cried his hours away to get up and close the window.

He should have closed the window, really.

He's fully under the covers, tear-streaks dried on his cheeks, sticky and a tangible reminder of his woes. Still, he hears it when there's a sudden thump, of a familiar pair of boots landing on his floorboards, and a decisive click of his window being shut close.

"You'll catch a cold."

Of course he's here. Stiles doesn't want him here, not right now, not when —

"Stiles... are you okay? The room smells like you just cried."

If it was any other day, any other reason, he would have appreciated it. They have a no-bullshit relationship. It's honest and grueling, but ultimately, it works for them. Stiles knows Derek trusts him, and that is more than he ever expected to receive from him, of all people.

But he has Derek's trust, and he knows he can not have more. So, he can not lose this, too.

"G'way," he mumbles, "Please."

Time stretches, his request hanging in the air. Then, the bed near his legs dips down, Derek's warm hand finding Stiles' hand, the one outside the covers, and holding it gently. Derek's fingers wrap around his wrist, and the chill melts away.

"I was worried about you," Derek confesses, voice soft. "It's nearly nine, and you hadn't texted me back, and now you're like this. What's wrong?"

Not even a year ago, Derek would have left long as soon as something like this happened, too raw for conversations like this, too naive to navigate a healthy dialogue between friends.

That's what they are, right?

Stiles pulls his covers down until his face is visible to Derek, something which prompts Derek's hand to move to his face, give a soft caress. He truly is worried, eyebrows furrowed and everything.

"Just a bad morning, I guess," he says, and it's almost the truth.

Except. Except, Derek knows Stiles' truth and lies, and not just by his heartbeat.

"If I can help, whatever it is, I will. Just tell me." He's so earnest too, for fuck's sake.

He's a great friend, truly.

Stiles smiles, small and ironic. "You can, and you can't." Derek gives him a confused look. Stiles shrugs, the best he can while lying down on the bed. "Trust me."

"I do, Stiles. Don't you?"

Stiles is angry now. It comes as a surprise to him — a hot, white flash of anger, zipping through him like lightning.

He sits up on the bed so abruptly everything falls — the covers, his phone, him. Derek stops him from falling on his ass, though, arms around his waist.

Even before he's in no danger of hurting himself he's saying heatedly, "Don't fucking pull that card on me. You know I trust you, so much it's impossible to put into words. If you asked me to drive a dagger in my heart I would, I would trust you to keep me safe. So don't even, Derek Hale!"

"I'd rather take the dagger in my heart, Stiles." Derek's eyes are hard, alpha red creeping into them. "Tell me what's wrong." His jaw works, as if he's finding the right words, and Stiles' anger goes away as fast as it came — he slumps in Derek's arm, his weight on the man beside him. Finally, Derek says, "Is this... If Andrew did something, I'll slash his tires."

He isn't expecting this. The hell?

Andrew was the last person he went on a date with, almost two months ago. It didn't work out between them, it never does between Stiles and people, and this was more of the same. But the thing is, he didn't tell Derek about Andrew. It was their first and last date, and the only one he had told about it was...

Lydia.

Derek continues, oblivious to Stiles' confusion. "Ever since you came back to town you've been distant, and if it's because of something your boyfriend did —"

"Woah, what the fuck?" Stiles' voice rises, this time the heat replaced with a level of perplexed he hasn't felt since ages. "He's not my boyfriend, he's not my anything. We went on one date, like weeks ago. What's Lydia been telling you?"

A warmth blooms inside his chest at Derek being so protective of and vindictive for him, but he forces himself to not be affected by it right now. He can loathe Derek's instincts as an alpha when he's alone again.

Derek, for his part, parts his mouth in surpise. "Have I been stupid this entire time?" he says, more to himself than Stiles. "Then what's wrong with you?"

And now they're back at the problem asking for the problem.

Stiles sighs. "Listen. I'm happy you're such a good friend, but some things just aren't meant to be shared, okay?"

"You tell me everything." Stiles scoffs. "Stiles."

They both look out the window, where birds are flying, free from the complex human emotions. The sun is high in the sky, real morning now beginning.

"Why do you keep texting me anyways?"

Derek's eyebrows are raised when Stiles turns to look at him. They're seated with barely an inch between their bodies, and the turn of his neck has them almost sharing the same breath.

Stiles licks his lips, and he must imagine Derek's eyes tracking the movement.

"I can't ask you what's bothering you, and now I can't text you either?"

"Not what I— the morning texts, I meant. Of course you can text me, but the morning texts are new and I'm just... asking. And why can't you text me good morning? Why is it just a morning?"

Derek stares at him. Stiles knows he's thinking something, debating whether to share whatever is going through his head, or not.

"You don't have a boyfriend?"

Stiles rolls his eyes. "No, Derek. I do not."

Derek takes a deep breath, as if he's bracing himself for something huge, something he has high hopes for, something he can not bear to lose but he has no idea if he gets to keep it.

Stiles suddenly has a feeling, and if that is true, he's going to murder himself just to relive the pain one last time, because if what he's thinking is true, then he's stupid as fuck and he deserves it.

"I text you morning and not a good morning because the mornings aren't good."

"Okay... why aren't they? Good, I mean."

Derek is looking into his eyes, a vulnerability in them that Stiles has seen before, but still it feels like he's seeing it for the first time. Like this is a part of Derek he hasn't seen previously, a part that has been kept hidden purposefully finally brought to light.

Derek moves, and the miniscule distance between them is gone, eaten up by the anticipation building in the room.

Derek's hands come up to caress Stiles' face, thumb rubbing circles at the dried tear-tracks, the motion comforting. He says, "Every morning, I wake up in my bed, alone, and it's such a shitty way to start my day. Every morning is just another day, and all I can think is, the mornings would be good, really good, if you were in my bed with me, too."

Stiles swallows hard against the lump forming in his throat. "You're joking."

"Never, not with us. Not about this."

Stiles' breath hitches. Derek comes closer, rests their forehead together. Stiles closes his eyes against the closeness, the dread that this is a dream.

"You're too important to me for me to make a joke out of this, Stiles."

He's crying again. "But I don't deserve you."

Suddenly, the warmth of Derek is gone.

When Stiles opens his eyes, Derek is pacing, a glower on his face.

"Isaac can't be right, can he?" Stiles makes a confused noise. Derek rounds on him, then decides sitting down on his knees is a better option. Stiles' morning is so confusing, he starts counting Derek's fingers as well as his own when Derek holds both his hands, rests their limbs on Stiles' thighs.

There's twenty fingers. Ten his, ten of Derek's.

"Stiles. Why don't you deserve me?"

He does his best to not cry. "You're... amazing, Derek. I. I'm just me, you know?"

It seems silly to say it. It's one thing to believe it, another to put it into words.

Derek squeezss his hands. "I've loved you for a long time, longer than I have realized it."

"What?"

"And I felt the same. You're you, and I'm just me. You deserve better."

"You are the best thing that can happen to anyone!"

Derek chuckles at Stiles' vehemence, squeezes his hands once again. "Pot's calling the kettle black. I felt the same, you know," he repeats. "That you deserve better. So I never told you. And you started dating others. But then..."

"Isaac. What has he told you?" He doesn't know what he could have told Derek. It's not like Stiles and Isaac are close, but there are things their pack does, like meddle in each other's affairs, that has him realizing how troublesome their pack is.

It's not like Stiles has even a single subtle bone in his body.

Derek smiles. "He told me that he's got a bet going for us to get together before the New Year." Stiles isn't surprised, not really. He smiles back. "Yeah, the pups have a bet going, and Lydia and Isaac seem to be on the same page."

"Jesus. Her too? What did you say?"

"The whole pack is in on it. I was surprised they would do such a thing. They can't force two people together when one of them isn't into the other one." He moves forward, until their foreheads are touching once again, and this time, Stiles takes one of his hands and presses it to Derek's head, cards his fingers through the soft hair.

"Then what happened?" He prompts.

"Isaac laughed in my face when I told him I was disappointed because I didn't think he and others would stoop so low. And then he told me I might be an alpha but that I'm stupid if I haven't been able to figure out that you like me back."

Stiles laughs, rather nervously. "I always worried you'd figure it out and we'd not be close anymore."

"I did figure it out, actually."

"WHAT?" He shouts it in Derek's ear, who winces and pulls back. "Sorry, but why the fuck didn't you say anything?"

Derek stays on his knees, but he inches a bit backwards, creating a safe distance between Stiles' mouth and his ears. "I didn't want to lose you."

"How could you lose me when you liked me and realized that I liked you back? That doesn't even make sense." Derek gives him a look. Stiles rolls his eyes. "See, I didn't say anything because I've always believed you deserve nice things, and I've mutually never believed I'm a nice thing. But if you told me you liked me... I would have been selfish."

Derek's expression turns soft. "You're the best thing to happen to me, even as just friends." Stiles' cheeks heat at the proclamation, and he ducks his head. When he looks back up, Derek is smiling back at him. "I've wanted you to be mine for a long time. And when I say mine, I mean it. For life. Building a future together and all the good and bad that follows. But all I could figure out... at least what I thought I figured out... was that you liked me casually."

Stiles gets up from the end of the bed and pulls Derek up by offering him a hand, which he takes with a full-tilt smile, bunny teeth and all. "No part of me is casual for you. I never believed I could feel like this, but if anything, everything I feel for you is cosmic."

Derek's smile grows until it's a full-on grin, and Stiles feels the width of it, the rush of Derek's blood, the pure joy of their stupidity taking second place to communication in the kiss Derek pulls him into — Derek's arms wrap around his waist, his own around Derek's shoulders, sliding up and down, on his stubble, his cheeks, his hair. The kiss itself is sweet and hot, their mutual joy imprinting itself in the endless journey of time with their noises of appreciation.

They kiss and kiss, tongues touching and lips bitten raw, until the necessity of oxygen forces them apart. As soon as they break apart Derek moves on to his neck, the press of his lips electric, and Stiles is the happiest man on Earth.

Well. Except for Derek, of course.

"Good morning, Derek."

Derek growls and bites down, intent on marking. "The best morning," he agrees, and Stiles can only moan, feel the pain of being claimed, and revel in the moment.

He still has thoughts of being unworthy in the back of his mind, but what he told Derek was true: if Derek wants him, he'll be his. He'll be selfish.

He'll love Derek Hale as long as he breathes.

Once the hickey is painted on Stiles' neck, Derek tips his jaw, their eyes locking onto each other. He says, "I love you so fucking much, baby."

Stiles smiles. Derek seems to be on the same page as him, and it's starting to feel like Stiles will be a part of Derek's book for a long, long time.

Maybe, just maybe, till even the last page of the book.

It truly is a good morning.

[bogunicorn]

Inquisition companion coffee orders and how they'd be at a coffee shop, based on the less than a year I spent working at fake starbucks many years ago. In a different order than my last post, just for the hell of it. Some of these are based on real customers that I still remember. I wrote this at 5am when I was high and unable to sleep so keep that in mind if you think I'm wrong. I'm not wrong but you should keep it in mind. H'kay let's go

Josephine: large americano, extra shots, cream and sugar and sometimes a shot of a seasonal flavor if it's a special day. She comes in twice a day, she tips, and the baristas are all trying to figure out how she hasn't had a heart attack yet from having that much caffeine every day. Staff knows her name and likes her.

Dorian: Iced white chocolate mocha. It's the only thing he gets. He will not drink it hot. He will not try a different flavor. He shows up in the morning and orders two, one with ice and one without, and be puts the one without ice in the fridge to drink later. Staff knows him on sight, but they make him state his order every day as if they don't because he doesn't tip.

Varric: regular brewed coffee, but he likes to hang out at the cafe, work on his books, meet with people, etc. He's really nice, he over tips, and sometimes the staff "forgets" to charge him for a refill. He also orders whatever food they're running out of because he figures that means it's popular and therefore good.

Solas: Decaf brewed coffee, and then he puts a disgusting amount of sugar and cream into it. He actually hates coffee and refuses to drink caffeine, but he doesn't come for the drinks, he comes to people watch and do life drawings. He needs the coffee so he has a purchase that can reasonably last him hours before he's expected to spend more money, and hot coffee won't leave condensation on the table and get his paper wet. Staff knows him and their advice to each other is not to ask him questions because he will answer you, at length, in great detail, if it's something he knows about. But he occasionally just puts a couple 20s in the tip jar, so they've decided he's cool but kind of a weird nerd.

Blackwall: Seems like he'd be a "just a NORMAL COFFEE" kind of guy, but he's actually one of the staff's favorite customers. He's some kind of blue collar worker who comes in on the way to work and on the way home, and he gets the same thing every day: regular hot latte in the morning, decaf hot latte at night. He's always there at rush times, but he's polite and he tips even when service is crowded and messy. The baristas start making his coffee when we walks in the door if they notice him, so he rarely has to wait, but he seems flattered and grateful every time.

Sera: Her order is different every time she comes in and it's always something all fucked up and weird. Half the time she just shows them a screenshot on her phone of some complicated meme recipe from TikTok, or she wants whatever technicolor monstrosity frappuccino that's on special. The staff dreads her order, but she also has a habit of getting belligerent with customers who give the staff a hard time, so they're pretty sure Sera is like a part time security guard who demands meme drinks in payment. They're allowed to complain about her if they want, but they'll malicious compliance the fuck out or anyone else who does.

Iron Bull: He doesn't have a single go-to order, but he's nice and likes to ask the staff for recommendations if it's not too busy and lets them test new recipes on him. He always tries the seasonal flavors at least once. Sometimes he comes in with a group of friends who look like trouble on first glance, but Bull pays for them all at once, doesn't let them order blended drinks, and always makes sure they clean up after themselves, so it's okay.

Cullen: Just a NORMAL COFFEE. He's totally overwhelmed by the amount of choices, but this is the closest place to his office and getting out to buy coffee is his excuse to take a break and stretch his legs. The staff knows him and actually responds to "just a normal coffew" because it's too much trouble to interrogate him about which roast or what size cup, because last time he said, "I don't know, something dark? Whatever has the most caffeine in just a regular size to go cup." He's been drinking a medium blonde roast for years and still doesn't know what blonde roast is, save that he thinks he doesn't like it.

Leliana: Two shots of espresso over ice. Leliana had shit to do and she needs that caffeine in her body as fast as possible. The ice is there to keep her from burning her mouth off. She drinks it like it's whiskey and throws out her cup without even breaking stride.

Cole: Year round pumpkin spiced latte. If they're out of the syrup, he gets the cheapest thing on the menu, no add ins, and then doesn't drink it. He rarely comes in on his own; Cole is usually there with a friend and is aware that it's rude to be there without buying, but the pumpkin spice is the only thing he actually likes. He's polite but he creeps out the other customers with his thousand yard stare.

Cassandra: London Fog, but she never remembers what it's called. She drinks it because she wasn't sure and someone recommended it, but the name just will not stick in her head. She orders it as "hot Earl Grey tea with milk", she listens every time they say "okay, so a London Fog", but by the next time she's in she's forgotten. It's not really a big deal, though, she seems pretty overworked. At this point the staff would be sad if she did remember, honestly.

Vivienne: "The Usual". Literally only one barista knows her order, because it's some customized thing that that specific barista made for her once ages ago. Viv knows what's it in but she will not tell you because she doesn't trust anyone but that one barista to make it. If her regular person isn't around, she just gets a hot latte with sugar free vanilla. That one barista also won't tell you what's in it, but that's because Vivienne tips them directly instead of in the jar and they don't want to ruin a good thing.

**also if you like this and think "i'm gonna give this fine person a follow because they're so funny about dragon age", i made a new DA sideblog at @skyholdstarbucks where i'd post anything similar to this in the future

[xhoneygirlxx]

Okay hear me out because idk who else to talk to about our Eds

Idk if you’ve heard Rain by Sleep Token but it legit screams Eddie Munson to me

Like poor boy don’t have too much, just Uncle Wayne and then you move to Hawkins and join Hawkins High.

You smile at him in the corridor and he just MELTS and he thinks the sun shines out your ass!

And then y’all get close and the first time you hug him, he feels like a new man.

I could ramble for ages, but thanks for coming to my TED talk.

Stop no cause it really is!!!

Loner!Eddie who is such a pessimist that he literally looks at life through gray color scale lenses, everywhere he looks it’s dull and lifeless almost like he walks around with a permanent rain cloud above his head.

He doesn’t believe in anything good except for the Hellfire boys, his uncle Wayne, and music but then he meets you and it’s like he’s had the worlds biggest epiphany.

You get partnered up for a school project and Eddie really feels like he’s having a brain fart because he’s been in that school for so long, he knows literally everyone down to the custodians but your name isn’t ringing any bells. When you walk up to him after class to talk about getting together he swears he’s just met the love of his life.

Just by looking at you he’s introduced to technicolors he’s never known. After that he can’t believe what’s been happening to him, the sun seems brighter, the birds sound sweeter, and his cynical heart beats just a bit extra every time he thinks about you.

Over the course of working on the project the two of you get closer, sharing secrets only the darkest corner of your rooms know. When the project is finally over though, Eddie thinks that’s it, you’re going to go on about your life without him just like you’ve done before.

To his surprise you don’t, actually once it’s revealed the two of you aced the whole thing you jump into his arms, hugging him tightly as you beam up at him saying the words “I’m so proud of you”.

That does it for him, he knows from that point forward there is more to life than brooding and Eddie can’t wait to continue living this life especially with you by his side.

—

I just got done working the world’s shittiest shift so if this sucks I am so sorry!!!!

Thank you for sending this to me <3

[dangermousie]

God, this sequence was BRUTAL and I adored it. Basically, he can't help himself and keeps throwing jibes about her and the painter and she finally has had enough:

And so she loses it, and hits back and in her attempt to protect herself, draws blood! (The thing is, she has NO idea that he is still in love with her; hell she still has no idea he lied in jail. She is angry and vulnerable.)

And that hits him straight in the heart - all his barely controlled, unacknowledged terror that he's missed his chance, that she won't ever like him again, that she's moved on.

So he addresses it in a mature manner in a private measured discussion. Psych!!! She drew blood so he goes for the jugular ten times worse. The man has only two defense mechanisms when hurt - to retreat behind his walls (tried, didn't work) or when that's impossible, to lash out to make the other person back off and/or to hurt as he's been hurt. And so this utter and complete mess pours out of him, in front of the whole office...

The thing is, what he doesn't realize (and she doesn't realize it either, she's too emotionally compromised) how utterly this rant proves he's so so so in love with her - it doesn’t just show he's out of his mind with jealousy, it's like him reminding her, in the most dysfunctional way possible, see you liked me me me meeeeeee meeeeeeeeeeee! And the fact that he talks about all these little things she did back way when means he actually remembered the supposedly insignificant to him things for YEARS in glorious technicolor. He has revealed himself completely and neither of them is together enough to realize it.

And then he brings this up as his finishing comment and I kinda flail like Kermit because this is the crux, isn't it - this is him, telling her in the world's most dysfunctional manner that he is feeling betrayed, that she should keep her word and choose him and just - he was never great at communicating or showing his feelings in a functional way but he got better (his sister shortly before she died even commented that he learned to express love) and then jail happened and all the progress was undone and then some. This is a man mere weeks out of jail, any hope of him processing and expressing himself in a functional manner would be deluded.

I mean look at them, both equally heart broken and such a total mess.

The thing is, the fact that it makes sense for someone with his issues and his personality and his background to lash out like this, does not negate the fact that he hurt her terribly and she deserved none of it. If you think about it, in his whole life, she's the only person who's ever fought for him - everyone else was either unable or unwilling. I mean, I am sure his mother didn't want to die and leave him but the fact remains, he was the caretaker between the two of them; he feels his sister picked her abusive husband over him, Gao betrayed him, dancer friend couldn't do anything, teachers didn't care (look at her mommy expelling him), cops didn't care (his sister's accident) etc etc. And here is this beautiful, kind, warm, brighter than the sun young woman who fights for him and fights for him - fights for a place on his team, fights for his friendship and his heart, fights to provide a place for him after his life is wrecked. She just doesn't give up and not even he can make her give up permanently. And then he thinks she's dating painter dude and logically so what - she has every right to do so - but that pushes all his jealousy and abandonment issues and he just implodes.

I love so much that the office is on her side btw (man, they must view the real life soap as a hell of a bonus to their working life) and the thing is, the moment after he said what he said, you can tell it sink in for Li Xun how unforgivable and heinous that outburst was (and not like in jail for a good cause either.)

Poor girl! Yes, your ex boyfriend is an idiot, I am sorry.

[transingthoseformers]

The MegOP Children are luring their parents together during the return swap then magnatizing to both. Megatron and Optimus are finding them glued together by their children. Who wont let go of them.

Megatron, trying to work out how detach his spawn without seting off a cacophony: Holding your creators hostage to get your own way is very Deceptacon of you, but now is not the time or place.

Optimus, giving Megs the stank optic: And you've learned the Autobot lesson of Teamwork very well but it's time to let go of your sires and come home.

Kup, chewing on an unlit cygar: Well now I don't feel as bad over being outwited by a bunch of sparklings.

Starscream, with three technicolor seekerlets hanging off of him: Aww their first plot is so precious. Looks like you need to move in with Prime and need to leave the running of the Nemisis to me Lord Megatron.

Rung, who deserves to show up and who has actualy raised sparklings: If I may make a proposal. It might be in the best intrest of all the bitties if we make a joint base on neutral ground. Neither ship is sparkling proofable. And the newsparks will be less distressed if they have access to at least one of their creator's sparks at all time. Co-parenting may be the only option for any meaningful attempts to identify the culprit to get underway.

Ultra Magnus, looking at Tarn in resignation: It might be wise to begin drafting a proposal for standards of decorum in a hypothetical joint base while we wait for this to resolve.

Tarn, eying the tangle of the faction leaders and their children with a sigh: That seems... prudent. At least untill fueling time.

Sddfhui YES

They have mastered both the arts for the sake of family

Kup is righttttt

sTARSCREAM OF COURSE. Of course he wants to wiggle this into a plan to become the leader of the decepticons with his heirs

Rung does deserve to show up because he's gonna help so many of them navigate everything ever but also be an extra doctor on board

Also oooo "and has actually raised sparklings" ????

Mags is right, he's so tired but he's right, as is tarn

[recusant-s-sigil]

So you know how the card combat system in CoM is never brought up again in the mainline series (non-mobile games)? This got pretty long, so it’ll be under the cut. Spoilers for Union Cross. TLDR: Ven’s presence in Castle Oblivion is what made it have the card system.

According to the 8th of Ansem the Wise’s secret reports in KH2, “[Castle Oblivion] consists of 13 floors above and 12 floors below ground, with the contents of its ‘White Rooms’ transforming in response to its visitor’s memories.” Those memories are etched onto cards, created by sampling specifically Sora and Riku’s memories. Who is the first person we see create these world cards?

Marluxia, who also teaches Sora how to use the cards to his advantage in combat for some reason. Come to think of it, why does Marluxia show Sora how to use the cards? In-universe, I mean. And how do the CO-assigned Org members know how to use them as well? But I’m getting off-track. We’re here to talk about why the cards are the combat system, not how the characters know how to use it.

Castle Oblivion is a place tied to the Age of Fairytales by its inhabitants, both as the Castle and as the Land of Departure. Ven is from then, as are Marluxia and Larxene, who both end up there. Eraqus is (probably but not confirmed to be) descended from Brain. Xehanort calls the Land of Departure a second home and is also related to a Union Leader, Ephemer. Remember, the contents of the White Rooms reflect the memories of the Castle’s visitors, so what then would happen if someone resided there? Would their memory, no matter if they consciously are aware of it or not, affect the whole castle to such a degree that the combat system reflects that of a bygone era?

Did you know that Kingdom Hearts χ, the browser game, used cards as its combat system? Ever wonder why Flick Rush exists? Dark Road also uses cards in its combat system, though it’s less a game of War and more “hit the enemy with sleights as fast as possible before their turn arrives”.

In Unchained χ and Union Cross, instead of cards, your player character uses Medals, which function basically the same but are exclusive to that specific game. Medals don’t show up anywhere else in the series, unlike cards.

At the end of Union Cross, it’s revealed that the events of Unchained χ were taking place inside a datascape, a digital recreation of the real Daybreak Town. Makes sense, then, that Medals only appear in that specific stretch of time/gameplay. We also discover that Dream Eaters, both Spirits and Nightmares, are actually wielders whose hearts have been kept safe by their Chirithy, transforming it into the technicolor Pokémon ripoffs of Dream Drop Distance. Only makes sense that they’d use cards for Flick Rush in that case, right?

Ever wonder why Luxord’s title is the Gambler of Fate when his attribute is time? Cards and dice, the main weapons he and his subset of Nobodies use, have been associated with fortune-telling since they were invented. Card reading, especially Tarot, are popular forms of attempting to predict the future or find out something important about yourself and others pertaining your/their destiny. But in this series, destiny is never left to chance, meaning no need to gamble. Perhaps Luxord is hoping to game the system while staying within the rules.

Back to world cards. Doesn’t the way they work seem oddly familiar? They use the memory of a person to project a world for them to interact with within a single location. Sounds very much like the Book of Prophecies creating worlds from the future it saw (the memory of that future etched in its pages) for wielders to collect Lux from the safety of Daybreak Town, since the actual worlds are too far away to get to besides using a Corridor of Darkness or similar.

I could go into how Skuld, Sigurd, and the Dark Road Norse Name crew connect to this (and possibly speculate about Sigurd’s role in Missing-Link), as well as the strange pods in CO/the Mansion and the significance of the Master’s Defender Keyblade being the one used to lock away the LoD but that’s more research than I could possibly stomach right now so I’ll save that analysis for another time. Besides, that’s more related to fate in general and not specifically cards so it’s probably best to keep that separate anyways.

If you made it this far, I want to thank you for reading! This is something I’ve had on my mind for a while and it feels great to finally get it down on paper (or rather, in a post).

[houseofbrat]

After watching the technicolor version of Queen Elizabeth II’s coronation, I no longer understand the conniption fits people are having over morning dress versus white tie. Most of that won’t be seen on the footage of the ceremony anyway.

The peers were never going to be a major part of the ceremony as they were in 1953. Most of the peerage is not even attending anyway. Did people miss the changes to the House of Lords before the millennium? Why would all of the peerage show up in jewels at the coronation when they’ve been politically sidelined for more than twenty years?  

When I watched the actual ceremony, most and all of its pageantry will be coming from the Church of England, not duchesses in tiaras. I would expect all of the participants to be wearing ceremonial dress. 

I do not buy rumor that Camilla’s grandchildren will be holding up a canopy. However, if you told me that her grandchildren will be holding up the train for her robes, then I would buy that. Will Camilla even be wearing a robe with a very long train? I don’t know. I imagine it would very difficult for her to walk in something like that at the age of 75, almost 76. Remains to be seen. 

After watching the 1953 ceremony, I suspect those who are in the carriage procession--the Wales & their children, the Edinburghs (just Ed & Sophie), the Princess Royal & Sir Tim, the Gloucesters, and the Duke of Kent & Princess Alexandra--will be sitting in a version of the “royal box,” just as the Queen Mum and Princess Margaret did in 1953. Those in the “royal box” will be wearing tiaras and ceremonial dress. 

The difference between the Gloucesters & Kents versus Beatrice & Eugenie and James & Louise is that Richard, Edward, and Alexandra were born princes & princess and will die as princes & princess. Same with their HRHs. They are literally the grandchildren of George V, and Charles will allow them to keep their titles & styles because of that.  

However, Beatrice, Eugenie, James, Louise, Archie, and Lilibet are not the grandchildren of George V. They are either the grandchildren of Philip Mountbatten & Queen Elizabeth II, or they are grandchildren of Charles III. None of those six will ever be working royals. They have no actual use for titles and styles in the future, and King Charles does not need to allow them to have those titles and styles. Hence, those six that currently have them will cease to have them after the coronation. All six will be styled as the sons and daughters of a duke, which they all are.    

[anotherbluesunday]

✨Fic Update: In Technicolor—Ch.3: Remember to Wear Sunscreen Pt.I (Wynn)✨

Looking up as the house lights came down and the stage lights glowed bright in entrancing pulsing beams of indigo and violet--they flashed in broken chorus until hitting brighter then landing square on the positions the band members would soon occupy. And they did. One by one. Each came out to a roaring applause as the energy from the opening set carried over into the next. First was Reggie. Of course. Next was the drummer--Wichita, the only one whose name I knew apart from Reggie. Pixie sized but mad stylish, she looked like the beautiful love child of 90's LA street style and melancholic romance gothic with her baby hairs laid down in swirls, black braids that hit her hips, dark eyes outlined in sapphire blue, and baggy oversized black jeans with a cropped netted top and a zip-up hoodie that looked like it'd gone through a woodchipper.

The things I would do to have her look. To have her persona.

Next out was one of her brothers. Tall with long curls and eyes as dark as her but skin tanned to a deep bronze, he strutted out with a confident grin. Stripped off his flannel to tie it around his waist knowing it'd get a reaction from the girls in the crowd that liked long haired boys in tight white tee's. Slinging his guitar strap over his head, I watched as the brother--who hadn't taken center stage--turned to look at the stage entrance-exit as the final member emerged.

The songwriter. The other brother.

Tall and curly haired like the other but with his red dyed mop cut short, you could tell he wasn't used to this. That he wanted to be just a bit smaller; to shrink away. It was easy to tell that he liked hanging in the back away from the center of the stage. Away from the attention and scrutiny. And there was something so human about that that I couldn't help but relate to it. That anxious look in his dark Bambi eyes that were cartoonishly large. The way he fidgeted with his guitar, looked down at the strings as he mimicked the placement, then looked backup not knowing what to say.

Lips bowing open with words failing, his gaze shifted. Danced around the crowd looking for something--anything--to ground him.

I did the same thing through my first year of cheer. Wanted to throw up through every halftime performance and I bet the other brother was feeling that same sense of nausea. The same panic. The same isolation despite being surrounded by people who were there for you--people who supported you.

Gaze landing on me lurking in my corner, he stared at me for a long second and I did the same. Watched the tension leave his jaw when I smiled and he smiled back, the gesture causing his cheeks to dimple in a way that made him look even younger and more charming. All of the siblings--the ones I assumed to be related--were pretty easy on the eyes. But the one at the front had a boyishness to him that hit different than the cool stoicism from the sister and the peacock-esque flamboyance of the first brother.

Was this really the same guy from the music video?

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As I said in the other moodboard post for Chapter 2, this chapter was already released prior to this moodboard (last night actually) but I wanted to share this teaser with you all even though it’s not much of a teaser since the chapter’s already out. lol. But yeah, enjoy and I hope you like the story.

And don’t forget to comment on Ao3 or leave kudos to let your writers know you liked the story even if it’s just a little. Your engagement with us makes all the difference. Honestly, it does and more so than you know.

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[musicalrecs]

Here's a rare gem for shameless promotion: The Likes of Us.

Having said that, let me immediately qualify it. It's not a gem because of the quality of the book or the score (they're, well, adequate). No, it's a gem because of the meta premise and the narrator. Allow me to explain.

You see, before writing Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat together, Andrew Loyd Webber and Tim Rice wrote and pitched The Likes of Us, about Thomas Barnardo, who founded homes for poor children. It didn't sell, and they basically shoved it in a drawer and forgot about it (though ALW reused some of the melodies, most obviously turning "Love is Here" into "Travel Hopefully" in By Jeeves).

Here, have some booklet scans so I don't have to quote them:

Anyway, the show was written in 1965, then had its "40th anniversary [performance] and yet world premiere" in 2005. ALW and Rice didn't really remember the plot and the book was constantly changing anyway, so the most brilliant possible choice was made: Stephen Fry was cast as a narrator.

He does an absolutely wonderful job, turning what would otherwise be a cloying story with passable melodies into a delightfully funny evening. Honestly, it's tempting to just make this post nothing but quotes of his narration, but I couldn't find a transcript and there are limits to how much I want to transcribe jokes when I'm trying to get you to listen to the album anyway.

Okay, just a few:

"It's told in song, dance, and spoken word as was the unbreakable fashion in musical theater at the time."

"Neither traumatic event, however, inspired a song from the two youthful authors, who one might well think these days be extremely aroused by the idea of an anti-lawyer number."

"'Will this last forever,' a simply ravishing melody but a rather risky title about three quarters of the way through any musical."

"There was here a scorchingly satirical song, I believe, making fun of poncy peers and fancy knights of the realm, but for some reason Lord Webber and Sir Tim Rice seem to have lost it."

Aside from the quips, my favorite of the actual songs is Going Going Gone, because I always love a good ensemble number listing stuff. (See also: "Under the Sea," "La Vie Boheme," "Murder, Murder," etc) (That, and the musical doesn't build up the romance enough to make the ballads affecting.)

Of contemporary interest, Hannah Waddingham played Rose, the cockney woman offended by Bernardo's attitude about her neighborhood. So if you want to hear her singing something a little, uh, different from what you usually hear from her, you can listen to "We'll Get Him" and "Have Another Cup of Tea." (This was a year before she was cast in the West End Spamalot.)

Anyway, you can find a few clips from local productions on Youtube, but the real joy is Stephen Fry so you may as well just listen to the soundtrack on Spotify or something. I particularly recommend it for when you have a boring task to do (data entry?) and need something to keep you entertained without working up your passions or giving you a new hyperfixation.

Last quote: "And this, ladies and gentlemen, is what failed to launch the careers of Andrew Loyd Webber and Tim Rice 40 years ago."

[technicolorfamiliar]

Technicolor Familiar Watches Too Many Conrad Veidt Movies Part 3 of ?

Part 1 // Part 2

Anders als die Andern (Different From the Others), 1919 Dir. Richard Oswald ⭐4/5 Watched Nov 15, Archive.org It really breaks my heart that so much of this film was lost and destroyed, and that the story is unfortunately still relevant 100+ years later. Maybe I don't have as much to say about this one because it's so chopped up, and because it's already been written and talked about so much. I am glad it seems to have found its proper place in literature/content about LGBTQ+ history, getting the acknowledgement it deserves. Despite already knowing so much about the movie from various books, podcasts, and documentaries, I was still very affected by the story and performances, especially towards the end. It really hit a nerve, surprisingly so. Connie's Paul is really lovely, tragic, and so sweet with Kurt.

Jew Süss, 1934 Dir. Lothar Mendes ⭐3.5/4 Watched Nov 26, Youtube There's something about the structure and the hazy, dreamy quality of the film itself that makes this seem like a fable. There are parts that are deeply upsetting and chilling despite the mediocre supporting cast. It's imperfect, but definitely did a lot more than other films to create complex and sympathetic Jewish characters in the 1930s (even if still playing on stereotypes). I'm a total sucker for 18th century opulence and fashion so I can’t complain much. And oh boy, does the 18th century suit Connie. He knows how to work the lace and silk to great affect. Some of the things he's doing as Josef are really fascinating and gut-wrenching. He's doing so much vocally, too. He's in an entirely other class compared to many actors of that era. P.S. The scenes with Josef and his mother and daughter were, uh, interesting. I have… mixed feelings.

Rome Express, 1932 Dir. Walter Forde ⭐3/5 Watched Nov 26, Youtube My expectations were pretty low for this one based on some things I'd read online, but it's a cute if slightly baffling train thriller with an ok-ish ensemble. I'm a little biased, my inner child fuckin loves trains so any train movie is at least going to be semi-enjoyable. I was so stressed the whole time about how everyone was handling that apparently very expensive painting. Connie is so extra, though. Why is Zurta eating a banana as soon as he jumps onto a moving train? Why does he hold a gun like ~that~? Why are his fingernails so long?? It's so funny seeing him next to all these tiny British actors. It may partly be how they dressed him for the role, but he makes everyone else look positively shrimpy.

All Through the Night, 1942 Dir. Vincent Sherman ⭐3/5 Watched Nov 27, Vudu Once I finally leaned into how silly this movie was, it was pretty entertaining. The dialogue alone is so stupid, but self aware of how stupid it is. And it features one of my favorite gags of all time: making up gibberish words for technical terms with complete confidence. There's a dog. (Question: Is the dog a nazi like the monkey in Raiders of the Lost Ark? Does the dog know it's complicit in war crimes??) Peter Lorre looks like he'd rather be anywhere else. Mrs. Danvers is there. Some of the visual comedy is actually pretty great -- the dog in the boat at the end when Connie is being totally deadpan serious? Hysterical. (DID THEY BLOW UP THAT DOG?) I think this was the first time I've heard Connie speak German, too.

The Spy in Black, 1939 Dir. Michael Powell ⭐3.5/5 Watched Nov 27, Youtube Interesting that the main character, the person carrying this British movie in the late 1930s, is a German U-boat captain. But wow. I'm obsessed. Hardt's entrance into the hotel? Baa-ing at the sheep? The delicious gluttony with food? Dragging the stupid motorbike up the stairs to his room? "It is evening. And I am grown up."?? We love a sexy, honor driven character like Captain Hardt. Therefore, Valerie Hobson going for the British officer seems totally unlikely and unbelievable. I think I like this movie marginally better than Dark Journey, as far as espionage films go. It's slightly more engaging (but that may be Connie and Valerie Hobson's chemistry) and the story is a little better.

[hungeringheart]

Hi, Can you do a session analysis of a: Heir of Space

Seer of Breath

Mage of Life

Thief of Mind

Witch of Time

Heir of Blood

Knight of Doom

Rogue of Light

Ooh, hello! Big cast you've got there, it'd be a shame if anything terrible and tormentous happened to them.

(Apologies for the length of time this took, I'm repeating myself like a broken cymbal monkey to my entire ask log but I had a bunch of stuff happen and then a spine injury.)

Let's play in this space, big character sheet anon.

Dramatis Personae

☆ Heir of Space

☆ Seer of Breath

☆ Mage of Life

☆ Thief of Mind

☆ Witch of Time

☆ Heir of Blood

☆ Knight of Doom

☆ Rogue of Light

What Does This Mean For The Session

Looking at the spread here, we can make some suppositions about these good folks' collective problems already.

For starters, let's have a peek at Space and Time --

Space has an Heir (altruistic aspect manipulation class) and Time a Witch (active, slightly more personal aspect change class).

When John's session had an Heir of Breath, there was a wealth of Breath (agency, room to mess around, direction, momentum) in the game. The aspect existed, abounded (no one's parental situations substantially interfered with anything really), and seemed to have a vested interest in giving to/acting through him particularly.

In our case, refreshingly, the Heir of Space is an indicator species for the same type of collective lassitude and happiness. There's a lot of physical space separating your characters, but they also all seem to benefit from this one having more space and room to grow than even most of them, and some non-Breath amount of power over the agency they experience. Maybe the Heir can't actually give people more opportunities, but they help it feel like there are a lot more of them, or create the conditions -- the Space -- for others to grow into their roles in different ways.

The Witch of Time is a good sign too -- whatever the situation actually is with the workings of time for the team, the Witch has the ability to change the conventions of and affect the world through time, rhythm, tradition, cycles and endings. Everyone has room to breathe, and someone in their corner has the ability to refuse the end on their behalf.

You're being nicer to your little guys than a lot of people! I'd give you an award for being decent to your blorbos if I had anything like that to give.

Now, let's examine the two most important aspects for anything to get done, Blood and Breath.

Breath (agency, freedom, will) has a Seer, and Blood (bonds) has... wow, would you look at that, another Heir.

On the surface this looks really good: someone can see the optimal paths to take to preserve agency and follow the narrative, which is a core concern to the session, and someone else inherits, understands and changes for others their close connections and covenants.

BUT WAIT: blood as bonds theory is just one facet of the horrible diamond I'm about to painstakingly show you more of the facets of. And having someone dispensing wise seerly advice about the very topic of your own agency is not as fun as people think. At some point you may want to grab a Breath Seer by the lapels and ask, whose story even is this, dipshit?

Let's briefly digress.

So, the reason people say that blood represents bonds and responsibility ("blood of the covenant" etc) is that for Karkat, his personal arc is about that, it's about taking responsibility for his friends and doing what's right no matter what he has to sacrifice. I think Meenah and Vriska have the same basic journey, but interpreted through their own personal and aspect lenses (and therefore even worse for everyone).

And obviously this holds water, I mean, it does, that's the case. But let's consider something else.

Do you remember how much ... gore there is in that comic? It's mostly technicolor, so as a red-bleeding animal you intellectualize that this is blood but don't feel the same social-animal horror about it. But it's blood. Homestuck is up to the gills in gore (and so is the troll political system, starting from castes, which after all are based on blood and seem to cause tremendous suffering and loss of blood in human societies, and moving further to their war crimes and institutionalized infant cannibalism).

At this point many people hold up Kankri (or Kankri's adult, mangled corpse) like he's Simba and say, aha! Blood is about suffering despite effort! Blood is about sacrifice and futility! Blood is about obligation and the suffering inherent in interdependence!

And this too is true. But not exclusively.

What about all of the biohorror in Homestuck -- Blood as heredity, as genes -- as mutation, as cancer, as eugenics, as suffering therefrom, as the thing that locks you into your destiny? Blood as inevitability, then? Blood as that which is uncertain and feared? Blood as something always under scrutiny, as something vital and struggling? Blood as what is spilled? Blood as something that flows, that changes? Blood as omen on doorframe, both for harm and help?

As a foil and complement not just for Breath (which is in no small part about getting to do what you want, all of this be damned) but also for Doom (law, inevitability) and Time (tradition, rhythm, flow) and Life (the way of things, the struggle)?

Oho! Now we are cooking with the rocket fuel.

Heir of Blood, then... inheritor of and abounder in connections, but also in structural and personal suffering and struggle.

Things are beginning to look a little grimmer.

Well what about the Seer then, why is this a bad thing?

A Seer of Breath sees the optimal course to take about the aspect that doesn't have one, by definition. In a conflict between the nature of the force of existence itself and its representative, obviously the force wins; this Seer then sees possibilities and productive configurations, but they're at least initially flexing authority they don't have a solid basis for, telling everyone how best to be free to make their decisions. Doesn't that sound absurd and restrictive? Isn't this Seer really easy to invert to Doom? Or Rage?

The point of Breath is at least in part the multiplicity of paths; the point of a Seer is to pick one and stick to it. Unfortunately combining the most Rage behaviour with the literal antithesis of the aspect (on the axis of Rage's desperation) produces a guy who applies a very personal type of knowledge to something that approach is wrong for.

Annoying hyperonline friend who keeps trying to get you into discourse, basically, in the same pot as an intersectionally complicated and personally tormented real literal actual flesh and blood person. Ethereal online Thinker(tm) competing with someone Problematic who has nonetheless suffered more than them and has more of a concrete understanding of the things they beef about. Guy who bloviates about ideals because they got robbed by incredibly obvious cops on the way to a protest, in the same place as the organizer.

These people are tugging this game back and forth, Balkanizing the rest of the team; they probably do not get along. Tragically, they had to be doing that yesterday, and now it's everyone's problem.

We're beginning to see the complications.

Surely Life and Doom are set up in a way that hurts and bothers no one here!

Maybe. Mage of Life -- so, motherfucker who doesn't know anything about Life (flourishing, survival, mutation and struggle) and has to learn as they go -- and Knight of Doom, because somebody has to lay down the damn law in here, particularly since the existing people who should do that are too busy writing callout posts about one another and posting them in the group memo to make any decisions.

It's encouraging that at least one pair of these friends has each other.

But are Thief of Mind and Rogue of Light just sitting around on their hands then?

The Thief of Mind finds all this funny and derives fuel for their own thoughts and choices from fucking it up for other people. The Rogue of Light is supernaturally lucky and on the ball and wants to share that with everyone else. I think they're not really even in conflict, though -- I think the Thief is an annoying hanger-on from outside and the Rogue is these people's actual friend, and they undo each other's efforts , but at least they both want to survive and win!

All together now:

Examining all this we can see a narrative taking shape. Two people aren't friends but have mutual friends in common, and rope them into a game together. The group immediately balkanizes under the first available stress, along the lines of what people prefer in a leader. Dealer's choice: Facts and Logic (tm) about extremely personal choices, or decisionmaking by a horribly tormented and jaded person who has no idea how bad anyone else really has it but pontificates about it anyway.

Someone suggests making the game competitive, a bad time is had by all, the Mage and Knight have their own dyadic thing going on, the Heir of Space mitigates all this (or makes it worse, they're too out of touch to tell), and the Witch of Time is ferociously combing through universes to find a normal one to escape into, or maybe at least acknowledges they can't realistically win with the time they have and works behind the scenes to keep it all together. The Knight of Doom helps.

The drama, anon! The power! The presence! If you write this I would actually love to see it.

[columboscreens]

You know, realizing this latest episode was a reboot puts a LOT into perspective as somebody who was just binge-watching the show and wondered why everything was suddenly so much...better shot?

I mean, the cinematography in this one episode is SO GOOD I friggin' noticed it because of how samey the show normally looked. It's all film noir and I LOVE IT. A strong introduction to the reboot, because this was one of my favorite episodes so far.

in terms of film quality/processes, shots, format, lighting, tracking, etc., the reboot is a pretty noticeable departure from the original. it's both good and bad.

reboot columbo is filmed in a way that speaks a more modern filmmaking language. if you pay close attention to 70s columbo, you'll notice a lot of same-y talking heads in 4:3 aspect ratio, sure, but there's a glut of creative shots. maybe some appear dated, maybe not all of them worked, but many techniques that were crazy and new at the time are taken for granted now. more importantly, they made it a point to take edgy visual risks. after all, spielberg himself kicked off the series' cinematographical tone--artful, while not distracting from the content itself. a major contributor to the series' success.

the second series is decidedly less adventurous. i'll admit there's certainly no shortage of lovely shots, and the widescreen approach is certainly novel. but the show clearly lost that pioneering edge; it was merely of its time. it no longer pushed the envelope visually in the way its progenitor did.

to me, that represents how the series as a whole lost its edge. and i kind of feel like the late 80s/early 90s columbos moreso relied on the era itself looking opulent and dazzling rather than making its own bold visual decisions.

that said, i do really enjoy much of that opulence, as well as the shot composition and noir elements of the new series; my primary gripe is just that everything is so damn MUDDY and NOISY! the current epidemic of dark everything in movies these days has its roots in the 80s, when media started Going Darker for some reason. but come on...

compare with

i know i'm cherry-picking and these shots aren't 1:1, but they demonstrate my point regarding lighting technique in both series. if the scene is supposed to be very dark, i DON'T want realism. short of trying to effect chiaroscuro or something, i don't actually want it to be that dark TO ME--i just want it to be dark to the CHARACTERS. a few soft lights do wonders to seamlessly suggest darkness.

that's only one aspect. i've been hard-pressed to find much information on columbo's film stock, so i'd love to hear any info if anyone knows anything. but while both series used 35mm film, the original's stock just looked better. why? (more pretentious sperging under the cut, if you can believe it)

well, the original used a lot of light and was processed with TECHNICOLOR, a legacy color development process of extremely high (read: archival) quality and dynamic range that does not fade or decompose like other color systems. that's much of why the original show still looks so good. a couple of reboots were (i believe?) done with technicolor, but only the last ones of the series, which look like they have more modern cameras, as well.

the other thing is the grain. in nearly all the reboot episodes, that grain is insanely NOISY even in good lighting. at times, it's downright distracting to watch.

[edit: @firecooking has provided some insight into how the digital development process may have added a lot of noise to the film grain]

now, i'm merely a hobbyist photographer. i don't often shoot on film, i've only ever developed a single roll with my own hands. but i'm guessing the reboot team tried to use a higher ISO film across the board to account for the increase in underexposed (darker) shots. that, combined with maybe the underexposure itself, may have resulted in such obvious grain vs the properly-lit, finer-grained, lower ISO shots of the original. at least, that's my hypothesis. i could be totally wrong.

and sure, not everyone is me staring at a blown-up blu-ray transfer three feet away from a big 4K monitor, but that the disparity in quality exists really speaks to how seriously the 70s iteration was taken. it's as prestige as 70s television got--every episode was its own film, some of which were screened in theatres, not mere TV episodes. most of the reboots are so damn dark and grainy that i can't imagine enjoying them in a theatre without heavy remastering.

there's grain...and there's noise. deafening noise.

so yes, the reboot is splendid to view at times, but really it just makes me appreciate how beautifully and thoughtfully 70s columbo was shot. it's not just nostalgia goggles--sometimes i just like to see who's talking.