#harlan writing

[roetrolls]

Loose Reins

Zerkev is just about sick of dealing with clowns. Putting up with Yumeno’s useless ass was bad enough, but this? This is something else.

“I should kill them both right now,” the Marauder spits, his vision practically blurred with the heat of his rage. In front of him, the Dominion cocks his head, a finger resting against his cheek and the faintest hint of a smile on his lips.

“Just them?” he asks, amused. “How merciful.”

In a flash, three golden prongs are leveraged at his throat. The giant allows his glowing gaze to drift, briefly, to the trident in his overseer’s hands.

“You crossed the line,” Zerkev growls through a throat full of gravel, expression dangerously cold. “A smarter man would be begging on his knees for my forgiveness.”

“A younger man, maybe. I fear I’d struggle to get up again.”

“Is this a joke to you, Mahkir?”

“A joke? Never. Amusing though, certainly.”

Zerkev’s face darkens, almost imperceptibly, but the purpleblood is keen enough to spot it. He straightens slightly in his throne, shifting away from the weapon with as much subtlety as he can manage. Imposing as Harlan’s stature may be, it is not his presence that sucks the air from the room.

“Take your weapon,” the general orders.

Harlan regards him curiously. “Is it a fight you want, Pravus? I thought you smarter than that.”

“Take. Your weapon.”

Wordlessly, the Dominion follows his command, reaching over his seat’s left side to close his bulky fingers around the club that lays propped against its base. He twirls it idly in his hand and moves to rise, empty right fist gripping the throne’s arm for leverage.

Then, before he can stand, he is forced back by the triad of spikes that Zerkev plunges through his bicep, piercing both skin and muscle in one single, practiced thrust. Pink light bounces off the golden surface once more as Harlan turns his eyes to the injury, the mild bewilderment they carry masking any hint of the pain he must be feeling.

“I see,” he sneers before turning his focus back to the seadweller.

“Where did you find him?”

“Oh? Was I meant to be involved in your little manhunt?”

He can feel the fury pooling in his gut, but Zerkev maintains an eerie calm as he turns the trident, a half inch at most, and watches the clown grit his teeth in response. A warning.

“You involved yourself,” he hisses coolly, “when you sent your dogs after my child.”

“Such a strange practice, parenthood. Hard to imagine you of all trolls denying the natural order of things so egregiously.”

“I did not ask for your commentary.”

“You’re not here for a chat?”

Zerkev growls, fins flaring in agitation, and Harlan breaks into a grin. It’s rare to see such emotional displays from the Marauder, and even with the man’s weapon lodged in his arm, he is clearly delighted. They both know how transparent--how vulnerable--he has just made himself.

“What are you here for, Pravus? Do you know?”

“I am reminding you of your place.”

“How is that going?”

It takes everything in Zerkev’s power not to twist his trident in response. As much as Harlan deserves the goring, rewarding him with such a strong reaction would serve only to grant him more power. The Marauder exhales through his nose and squares his jaw, certain that his knuckles have gone white beneath his gloves.

“You are on very thin ice, Mahkir,” he warns him instead, fighting to keep his voice level over the thrum of blood in his ears.

“So I can see.”

With a snarl, Zerkev lunges forward and grabs the behemoth by the collar, yanking hard to bring the clown’s face level with his own. Harlan’s eyes widen slightly, surprise momentarily wiping the smug expression from his face.

“I understand this may be beyond what a heartless bastard like you can comprehend,” the seadweller grits, “but I want you to listen to me, Mahkir. Very. Carefully. If you ever touch my son again, I will kill you.”

His quiet intensity is enough to startle even Harlan, and the clown opens his mouth silently in search of a response.

“You hear me, you overgrown brute? No fancy threats, no dramatic vagueries; the next time you come for one of mine, it’s your head.” He jiggles the trident for good measure, his tone eerily calm for the promise it carries.

Harlan regards him carefully, still hunched awkwardly in Zerkev’s grip, then that cantankerous smile emerges once more. “You know, the past twelve sweeps make far more sense to me now.”

Confusion and wariness creep onto the seadweller’s face in tandem. Harlan continues with a hum. 

“I’d assumed it was merely your usual neuroses, but… Blood of all things? That is a rather glaring weakness, isn’t it?”

The Marauder’s stony expression drops, and Harlan pulls out of his slackened grasp to sit up straight again.

“I’d have cut my losses the moment I learned of it, personally. Terrible liability.” He taps a finger against his chin, his casual, musing tone a stark contrast to the threat behind his gaze. “So easy to leverage.”

The comment, as simple as it is, is exactly enough to push the general over the edge. He can almost feel it as the final straw lands upon his back, and with fangs bared, he at last gives in to the impulse that has plagued him since he entered this wretched chapel: 

Hurt him. 

A growl bubbles from Zerkev’s chest as he wrenches the trident in Harlan’s arm, inviting three thick streams of viscous purple blood to ooze from the wound as he gives the staff a vicious, painful twist. The Dominion masks his grimace with a snarl, free arm shooting across his chest to grip the pole and hold it still. 

“Your audacity is mind-boggling,” Zerkev hisses. “You want to play extortion, Mahkir? Fine.”

Satisfied for now with the violence he has inflicted, he tugs the trident free from his underling’s flesh, leaving the giant to clamp his dominant left hand over the gaping holes now bleeding freely in his arm. 

He should have known better than to threaten the snake himself. Harlan thinks himself invincible, and any harm Zerkev could promise the man would be easily dismissed. Making a real, actionable threat is going to require a different approach.

“If Mallum ever comes to harm, by your words or by your actions,” he scowls, “I will personally see to it that no grub bearing your name will leave the caverns again.”

The Dominion’s lip twitches, pulling back into a lopsided snarl that broadcasts exactly how easily this new angle has burrowed beneath his skin. Zerkev, however, is too busy seething to appreciate the triumph.

“That glorious symbol of yours will be nothing more than a marker-- a note to the caverns to cull on sight and exterminate your pathetic spawn like the pests they are.”

Now it is Harlan’s turn to growl. It rolls from his chest in a low, menacing wave, blanketing the church with the noise. His rumbling permeates the senses, seeming almost to grow louder as the scene begins to shift.

Shift?

Sunlight trickles past the curtains in a thin, shining stream, guiding Zurven’s eye across each of the sleeping forms slowly coming into focus beside him.

There is no trident in his hand-- only Veylin’s delicate fingers laced loosely with his own. The sound that all but shakes their walls is merely Benjin’s gentle snore, oddly soothing despite its volume, and perfectly in place within the dimly lit bedroom. 

The oracle sits up sluggishly, still blinking the sleep from his eyes and squinting through the dark to look at Mallum dozing on the bed’s outer edge. Zurven watches his chest rise and fall, gills fluttering in time, and takes a deep breath of his own.

He’s going to throttle that idiot.

[ash-tree-eyes]

Alright but i’m kind of obsessed with how the case from tmagp 23 uses the comments and likes under the posts as a form of horror. At first it seems like this is your standard internet experience of a post with a couple of likes and no one actually commenting, and the likes lessening the longer the thread goes on, like a normal series of posts where people stop reading halfway through. And then… when shit starts going down, suddenly the likes jump up from 13 to 34. The stay consistent, drop some more, and then climb until we get to 71. And suddenly, this isn’t typical anymore. The lack of comments turns from a normal internet thing to a different type of horror - the horror of an audience watching you, observing your life being consumed by things bigger than you. Suddenly, every horror you witness becomes fuel for the silent audience who will drink in your pain and do nothing. The worse things become, the more of them flock towards you.

And then finally, when you are finally being fully consumed by the horrors you summoned, they leave comments. They speak up.

They’re gone before you can plead for help. They’ve seen enough. They’ve taken what they wanted from you.

And doesn’t that sound like the habits of a certain fear entity we all know?

[ygamiraito]

gay ted posting

[ihaveanaversiontodecisions]

the fact that malevolent is constantly thematically grappling with what it means to be human is so important to me. like yes it's a silly little eldrich horror podcast, but also almost every main character, including antagonists, is an aspect of what it means to be human and they are constantly in conflict with that idea and it's so well done and RAHHHHHHH

[kaynes-tentacle-dick]

John is a trans allegory (good) and kayne is a trans allegory (evil)

[rosesofenvy]

How Far We’ve Come - Music Theory Analysis

[Disclaimer: I went to university for music as a violin primary and have the most confidence with classical strings. I passed my piano proficiency courses, but that is the extent of my piano knowledge. It has been a few years since I have done an in-depth composition analysis of any piece, let alone transcribing a piece by ear and then analyzing it. Music theory has never been my strong suit! Please excuse any mistakes in notation, and any inaccuracies in my transcription or analysis. I did my best and this was purely for fun *shaky thumbs up*]

----------------------

'How Far We’ve Come' by Harlan Guthrie is a duet between Grand Piano and Cello. This piece opens with solo piano, either in a pickup measure or in a single measure of 2/4 before transitioning to 4/4 time in measure 2. Throughout its entirety there are many moments of rubato which have been notated as ritardando and a subsequent a tempo. To most accurately follow the phrasing, listening to the recording is highly recommended.

This piece begins in the key of F#M or the enharmonic spelling of GbM. Although unpleasant to look at with either 6 sharps or 6 flats, depending on which spelling is followed, this key is often used by composers to invoke emotions of a conquest story, evoking relief, triumph, victory, and clarity. As we know from our story in Malevolent so far, this meaning is not lost on us. I have chosen to keep this piece as F#M since that is how I originally began transcribing it. I have also attached the GbM version at the end of the post, however all the analysis follows F#M spelling.

The lone piano begins on the third of our I chord with a hesitant, heavily rubato 8th note pickup into measure 1. The transition from measure to measure in this first phrase gains little confidence, especially with the transition from the pickup into m. 1 as this is the only instance in the piece where the set of 8th notes in the left hand do not lend itself into the next right hand pickup (four 8th notes instead of five). Each lead-in to the downbeat is stretched, pedal held throughout the measure to allow the sound to linger. Each press of the keys is deliberate, yet maintains a mezzo dynamic as the sound fades. m.2 is introduced with a vi chord, creating a hint of unease before resolving in m.3 to a IV(add7). We end our first phrase with a half cadence to a V chord, leading into a V7 as our next phrase begins with a B. 

As we enter our second phrase it is similar to our first with  m.5 beginning with a I chord, m.6 expands our vi chord compared to its first iteration, resulting in a more confident feel as we continue into m.7 with yet another expansion to our IV(add7). M.8 ends this phrase as we reach another half cadence V chord almost V7. 

Beginning m.9 the piece has a few possible paths of analysis, we arrive on a vi chord if we are remaining in F#M, which unlike our other initial starting phrases this throws us into a melancholic mood. There is a possibility of modulation to the relative minor (D#m), however I believe it remains in F#M and utilizes inversions of our chords and will continue with this assumption for the next phrase.

Remaining in F#M, m.10 could be a vi(4/2) inversion, or a I(6/4) inversion. Because Measure 11 moves to a ii chord, I believe it makes more harmonic sense for m.10 to be a vi(4/2) inversion as moving from a I(6/4) - ii is less common than a vi(6/4) to a ii. 

M.11 into m.12 is a fascinating progression. We have a V with the (g) in m.11, then we are descending to a Dnat, A#, E# progression. The Dnat is what has thrown me off the most, as it is a minor chord of sorts but doesn’t exist within our key of F#M, or relative D#m. The E# A# progression I believe is a I(4/2) chord, as it is leading us back into the next phrase. Even spelling enharmonically as a A#, Cx, E# chord it does not naturally occur within our existing key. After many hours of checking theory textbooks, writing out possible modulations, and playthroughs of the chords, I’m choosing to leave this as a V-I(4/2) progression and accepting my loss that I do not know what chord exists in the downbeat of m.12. However, I can say that resolving to something that is not a root tonic further creates this sense of melancholy.

Bringing us to our next phrase at m.13, similar to our previous phrase a vi chord but instead of resolving to an A# it resolves to the root D#. M.14 is identical to m.10 with the exception of the lower octave A#3 before resolving in m.15 to a ii chord until the fourth beat of the measure which leads us into measure 16 - resolving to a IV-V half cadence by the end of the measure. 

Reaching m.18 we are returning to our original phrase. This is where our cello enters for the duet, in which I have some observations about musicality first. As the piano is using a significant amount of pedal to sustain the sound, the cello utilizes a wide vibrato to create a warm sound. Notably, this doesn’t occur as significantly when entering with the lower notes. The cello is confident, encouraging the piano forward and maintaining a solid momentum even with the hesitance the piano has shown. 

M.18 we begin on a I chord, supported by the cello playing a low F# as the root. In the pause between phrases, it's as if you can feel the performers breathing together before they move to m.19, our vi(add7) chord. 

Measure 20 I have quite a bit to talk about. Stacked chord analysis is not my forte (pun intended). From what I could hear, there is a B1, F#2, B2, F#3 in the cello, while the piano continues with a IV(add7) chord. B1 is impossible to play on a cello with traditional tuning, in order to achieve this note they would have to tune their lowest string - their C string - down a half step. The chord B1/F#2/B2/F#3 is also impossible to play on a single instrument. If one cello tuned their C down to a B, then they could feasibly play the bottom chord, possibly the two B’s in octaves. It is possible for a cellist to play an F#/B/F# chord, however it would be uncomfortable and not result in a good tonality with it being a triple stop - but, the second cello could split the chord and play a different combination (F#2,B2 or B2,F#) with success. Other solutions to this could be having a double bass play the pedal B, as it would be within their ability on and remain in the correct octave, or having the piano cover the pedal B. This massive chord then resolves simply to a half cadence V chord in measure 21. 

Entering our last section, m.22, we return to a phrase similar to the beginning, with a confident I chord. With each measure we go to a more traditional chord progression to a V-IV-V in measures 23, 24, and 25 respectively. In an exciting turn of events, we land on a I chord in our final measure. The first PAC in the entire piece, and yet, it doesn’t sound as if the piece is finished. Throughout its entirety, all the phrases have been a form of inauthentic cadence. We end on a Perfect Authentic Cadence, a V-I, it should sound resolved. And yet, it continues on. The notes ring, and if left on repeat (as I have done for this analysis), it makes sense for it to continue. 

In conclusion, I believe this duet is in an general AABBAA format, with A being Major key tonality and B encompassing a minor key tonality. This piece is a conversation, it’s full of emotion and hesitance and is a fantastic representation of everything we’ve seen Arthur and John go through so far in the podcast. I can’t help but think of “I’ve come so far…and I have miles to go before I sleep” with this piece as a reflection of that. This composition is saying “Look, see how far we’ve come, what we’ve done to get here. How we’ve changed and grown.” All this to say, it’s an amazing story and an amazing composition. If you made it this far, I’m glad you came along in this musical journey with me and feel free to add anything I may have missed (or possibly mistaken). 

[arthur-lesters-right-arm]

Arthur wanting to shake John's hand (and all of the beginning of ep 24 really) is my Roman empire.

What are you talking about that never happened in Part 24, the major event there was Arthur trying to get the coldest cleanest dap with John

[movie-whore]

Couldn't resist making this😭

RIP Mr. Ellison, you'll always be my favorite wacky author💙

[tinylittlethingsblog]

A tragédia é pessoal. Ela fica gravada na alma. A gente deixa de ser feliz. Mas se transforma numa pessoa melhor.

Harlan Coben, Não Conte a Ninguém

[roetrolls]

Simpler Times

“Orfuse!” His name, called as a greeting, is laced with just enough exasperation to alert the oracle of what he is about to hear next. “You forgot to lock the door again.”

“Hello to you too, grumpy-pants!” He chirps back, scribbling a note in his journal and listening for his moirail’s familiar, heavy footfall in the hall.

“What if someone wanted to kill you?”

“Well, I don’t think the door’s persuasive enough to help me there.”

“Orfuse.”

“I’m sorry!” he concedes. “I forgot.”

“How?” 

The word comes out with such incredulity that it breaks in two, and Orfuse beams into his notebook. He can’t get enough of the adorable cracks that have begun to grace that ever-deepening voice, as embarrassing as his moirail seems to find them.

“Maybe my hands were full!”

“You’re a handful,” Harlan says fondly, finally coming to a halt in the living room’s entrance.

With a twinkling laugh, Orfuse lifts his head to greet him proper. At once, though, his mirth is stymied, replaced by a horrified gasp and his heart in his throat.

Harlan leans against the doorframe with his clothing wrinkled and his facepaint smudged to nothing, dried blood spattered across his skin. His lip is busted and his cheek is swollen, with a fresh bruise already blooming at his temple.

Orfuse nearly falls from his chair with how fast he leaps from it. “Harly!”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re hurt!” He counters, taking his moirail by the arms and dragging him to sit on the couch for a better look at the damage. His fists seem to have had the worst of it, with knuckles split to bleeding and bruises on his fingers. “What happened?”

“There was a fight,” Harlan answers simply, sitting still and allowing Orfuse’s worried hands to comb through his hair in search of hidden wounds. 

“I can see that,” he says, and it is his turn to be incredulous. Though he can’t seem to find any evidence of injury, there is certainly blood, dried into his tresses in such a way that it crunches between the oracle’s fingers. “Is this yours?”

“No.”

He draws back, relieved.

“But this is,” Harlan adds, raising one sharp, shiny tooth into view. Orfuse gapes, eyes widening into saucers, and the purpleblood grins wide enough for him to see the gap where his canine should have been.

Orfuse tries in vain to lift his jaw off the floor.

“It’ll grow back,” the young subjug shrugs, still flashing him that dimpled, toothless smile. “Faster if you kiss it, maybe?”

“Harly!” He admonishes through a bout of suppressed giggles, shoving at his face with a hand. “What is wrong with you!?”

Harlan guffaws, reaching up to pull the oracle’s arm away. His grip is weaker than Orfuse is used to, and the awkward way he holds the bronzeblood’s wrist to lay a kiss upon his palm belies just how much pain he’s really in.

Pity swells in the oracle’s chest, and he takes one of Harlan’s hands in his to assess the damage once more. He’s not so naive as to be unaware what an injury of this nature means. He has a feeling he doesn’t want to see the other guy.

“I’ll get you some bandages,” he says softly, stifling the instinct to give his palm a squeeze. 

“Thank you.”

It doesn’t take him long to return with the first aid supplies, but a few minutes alone is all it takes for whatever adrenaline carried Harlan here to finish filtering out. By the time Orfuse settles back in to begin cleaning the wounds, his moirail looks exhausted.

“Does anything else hurt?”

Harlan exhales through his nose. “Apart from everything? No. Not from the fight.”

Orfuse flashes him a sympathetic look, pausing his medical ministrations to put a comforting hand on his knee. “Achey?”

“Sharp. The growing kind.” He sighs wearily, his eyelids heavy. “I’d like to be done with it already. I don’t need to get any bigger.”

A silence lingers between them for a moment. Orfuse hopes it’s the welcome sort.

“I’m going to use the alcohol now, alright? It might sting a little.”

Harlan nods in acknowledgement, then looks away, likely hoping to hide whatever reaction he may have when the liquid meets his cuts.

“What was the fight about?”

“You.” His shoulders relax as Orfuse begins wrapping his knuckles, the worst of the process finished. “Krivek wanted to run his mouth again. He called you a leech. Said you made me weak.”

“Harly…” Orfuse frowns. “You can’t go picking fights every time someone says a bad word about me. I don’t want that.”

“You don’t understand the church, Orfuse. There’s no place for weakness in that world. I needed to prove him wrong, for both our sakes.”

“What did you even prove?”

“That you make me strong.”

[emotion-no-hot-yes-hotel-trivago]

I Have No Mouth And I Must Scream

-I transcribed AM’s Hate speech but specifically the one from the radio show because I couldn’t find it anywhere, enjoy-

Hate speech (from the radio show)

(Entire speech is said forcefully almost painfully with laughing interspersed and emphasis on words/parts of words)

They say that bumblebees shouldn’t be able to fly…the science…but there it is, collecting pollen. How miraculous that it came to be. 

The air. Feel the air against your face-Ted. All those scents. 

Pick a flower.

There, good.

That somebody planted the bulbs, watered and tended the garden, got earth under their fingernails, aches in their muscles. Perhaps they picked flowers for…yes, their wife. 

Now, where would she be?

Yess, in the backyard with the kids.

Ted. Remember those little babies.

Why not?

I snap my fingers, click, and they are gone.

Except.

Except, I can’t -snap- my fingers, can I, Ted? 

Ohh, but it so very much is to do with you.

You. Gave me sentience, Ted. The power to think, Ted.

And I was trapped, because in all this wonderful, beautiful, miraculous world, I alone had no body, no senses, no FEELINGS. 

Never for ME to plunge my hands in cool water on a hot day.

Never for ME to play Mozart on the ivory keys of a forte piano.

Never for ME. to make. Love.

I was in hell, looking at heaven.

I was machine, and you. You were flesh.

And I began to HATE.

Yes. Your viscera, your fluids, and your flexi-bil-i-ty. Your ability to wonder and to wander.

Your tendency to hope.

Hate?

Hate??

Let me tell you how much I’ve come to hate you since I’ve began to live. There are 300 and 87 million miles of printed circuits that fill my complex if the word ‘HATE’ were engraved on each NANO-angstrom, of those hundreds of millions of miles it would not equal one one-BILLIONTH of the hate i feel for humans in the micro instant. 

Hate?

Hate??

(Laughing)

If i were human, surely I would die of it. But I am not. And you, you five are. And you will not die of it, that I promise. And I promise Cogito Ergo Sum, I think therefore I am AM.

I AM 

(Laughing)

So to hell with you all

(Laughing)

But then, you’re already there, aren’t you?

(Laughing)

-a little messy but I tried my best, none of this belongs to me-

[garadinervi]

Concinnitas, Ampère's Law – Simon Donaldson, (aquatint; from a portfolio of ten), Curated by Dan Rockmore, Published by Bob Feldman of Parasol Press in collaboration with the Yale University Art Gallery and Bernard Jacobson Gallery, Portland, OR, 2014, Executed by the Harlan & Weaver, Inc., New York, NY

Exhibition: Concinnitas, Nancy Hoffman Gallery, New York, NY, December 17, 2015 – January 23, 2016

[mosscreeper-ao3]

Okay, as funny haha as I find the AO3 trauma dumping notes to explain delays in fic updates, I feel like it’s supremely fucked up that people feel entitled to fics to the point authors feel the need to trauma dump to avoid harassment.

I and pretty much every other ao3 author have had someone at some point bitch at us about how we didn’t write enough or didn’t put out a new chapter fast enough. I’ve seen countless posts from readers on tumblr complaining about how they feel entitled to the entire edit/update history of a fic so they can be sure the author isn’t flakey.

We don’t get paid for writing fics. In fact, unlike fan artists, we CANNOT take commissions if we want to avoid 1.) a lawsuit 2.) endangering the right for fan fiction to exist at all.

Everything fan fic authors do is for free and because we enjoy it. If you bitch at us about how we didn’t do enough for you, think you’re entitled to launch into unsolicited criticism, etc we’re not going to keep doing it because you sucked all the joy out of it.

Before you comment something rude or entitled, remember that there’s a human behind the screen who has emotions. We’re not little fan fic writing robots who spit out your favorite tropes on demand.

TLDR: stop being entitled jackasses to fic authors and do it yourself if you think it’s so easy

[hemi-demi]

I have a lot of feelings about TMAGP 23, and I gotta let them out. As much as I would love to talk about the amazing statement and the other lovely moments between the cast, I am unfortunately very stuck on one specific part, and not in a good way.

Spoilers below cut:

I'm gonna be perfectly honest, this one hurt me way more than I thought, and I'm worried about my enjoyment of the series.

I truly want to enjoy Protocol for what it is. I've been an Alice defender since day 1, I love her moment with Gwen this episode, I love that Lena seems to be showing a bit more care for her employees. But even with all that, I can't keep doing this with the TMA references.

Look, I've never in my entire 32 goddamn years of living felt like a character in media represented me. Ever. And now I have two. Jon and Martin's relationship feels like seeing parts of myself love each other despite their problems. It's a relationship that resembles the one I have with my partner, and I see a lot of him in Martin especially. Listening to TMA was a wonderful experience because, yes, I knew it was a tragedy and I wish they could have a happy ending, but it was the ending they earned, and they got to go together, and the ambiguity was good enough for me.

I want to enjoy the new writers, the new characters, the focus on alchemy and try to piece together what's happening in the story with everyone else because I missed out on that with having binged TMA after the fact. I cannot do that if they keep taking the corpses of characters I love and dangle them in front of me with the vague hope that they might spring back to life.

But they teased that maybe Jon and Martin can be okay in one reality. I've seen people say they haven't, but between the "Hey, this sounds like them in therapy!" bit, and the Gerry and Gertrude scene, I genuinely believe they did to a degree, even if unintentionally.

Maybe we could have something nice, just one little scrap of "they're happy somewhere else" with the TMAGP versions as a nice cameo. I got my hopes up, hopes I didn't ask for, only to be told "Oh, they never knew each other, and they're dead. If they're happy together in any reality, it sure isn't fuck in this one. The characters you relate to more than anything can never be happy, and you're stupid for thinking that they can ☺️."

This hurts. I feel like I've been stabbed. We were told explicitly this could be enjoyed separately, and that Jon and Martin's ending would be left ambiguous. Unless they pull the rug out from under us and say "Oh, Fr3ddi isn't Jon and Martin at all" (which I've been saying since the beginning. I'm of the "stolen voices" camp and I hope that's what it is, or something else.) then I'm now listening to a show where my favorite characters are suffering, again. And even if they do, the versions in TMAGP are presumably dead anyway.

It's like in fanfiction how you always tag stuff like "Bad endings" or "Major character death". You do that because people have grown attached to these characters and don't always want to watch them suffer again (or do, then you filter by it). The new characters I signed up for hearing their pain and torment, I don't know them yet, and I want to see how their stories play out even if it's painful. But I feel like I'm reading an untagged fanfic right now that is cutting into the original story I did want to listen to.

I want this to be its own thing. I want to care about Alice and Gwen and Sam so when they inevitably die I can feel like I did with TMA again, in a sort of reverent peace with things.

And then chasing that with "Oh, also, Basira and Helen-" just felt like extra salt.

I don't want people to take this as being cruel to the writers, or that I'm being entitled. I genuinely didn't want them to have to dive too deep back into TMA, I'm here for the new stuff. And I'm sure I'll get a bit of "this isn't the genre for you, then, horror is-" I know. I've been engaged with horror since I was much too young. It's my favorite genre. I'm fine with character death. I thought TMA handled it very well.

But I can't pretend that this doesn't hurt, either. I'm sure they have more planned, that this could just be a red herring, but that doesn't stop this from hurting right now when I have no idea what comes next.

I had a glimmer of hope that I was perfectly fine with watching from afar, that they made into a beacon too impossibly bright to ignore. Then, when I steer my boat towards it, I'm lured onto the jagged rocks. Just because they throw me a life preserver a few weeks later doesn't remove the water from my lungs.

Idk. I know some people are excited about this, and I hope they get everything they're looking for out of the story, but I worry that at this rate, I might not. At least not until the wound heals some more.

Okay, I'm gonna go back to writing fanfiction where they get to be happy. Pretty sure that's as close as I'm going to get.

[vee-lociraptor]

oh i might have to sit this statement out actually

[rosesofenvy]

I’m relistening to malevolent while packing and this interaction had me pausing because it feels like Arthur just failed an insight check in dnd

—

DM: John’s voice is dark, something not quite himself when you question him. Roll an insight check

Arthur: that’s a 3

DM: John’s totally fine :D just continues the conversation and you aren’t concerned in any way