#holy fucking shit so true

[bogdreamz]

korvo lost and farting 0 stars for you my boy

[cryptocism]

yknow. Real Rashid being a double agent is actually the least surprising reveal of season 2 like if they really said: "this man's bosses gave him a week off so that one of them could larp as a servant while using rashids name and dressing in rashids clothes (but sluttier) exclusively to fuck with a Random Journalist who came for an interview" and then followed that up with rashid acting like everything was chill cool and normal until credits I'd be ringing the cinemasins bell like quasimodo no regular person would stick around after that shit it Could Not make sense unless he had an ulterior motive

[amxthystiine]

OH MY FUCKING GOD GREGOR FANS WEVE NEVER BEEN SO BACK????

I,,,,, AAAAAA!!!!!!!!

HOLY FUCK IM SO INSANE RN CHAT !!!! THIS IS LITERALLY MY DREAM PAIRING MY FAV SINNER + FAV EGO WHAT THW FUCK?????

[haemosexuality]

why are so many adventure time fans just straight up stupid. about how stories work. and i dont even mean kids i mean like adult fans just with the absolutely dumbest takes

[tame-a-messenger]

DAMIEN IN A TCB SHOW AHHH WE’RE ONE STEP CLOSER TO HIM IN A STARKID SHOW

I SWEAR IF YOU GUYS KEEP SAYING SHIT AND NOT LINKING IT TO ME IM GOING TO GO CRAZY

NO FUCKING WAY

NO FUCKING WAY

......ITS FUCKING REAL

HOLY FUCKING SHIT

DAMIEN HAAS AND JOEY RICHTER ON THE SAME STAGE??????

plsplsplspslpslsplsplsplspspls IM BEGGING 

[mumblesplash]

do you ever end up accidentally getting super attached to a trope so specific and rare you don't even know how to look for it? 'space aliens failing to understand that a human showing teeth usually isn't a threat display' isn't even an ao3 tag. finding that shit in published fiction or tv shows is next to impossible

[upsidedownsmore]

god i feel fuckin ILL

still figuring out my feelings in regard to jade shadows but oh god my head is spinning, so cool yet so weird yet so many questions godddd idfk know anymore man

more spoiler ramblings below, please don't take any of it as concrete opinions cause i'm still kinda working it out in my groggy ass head

i do feel very weird about playing as jade after what happened to her the quest, i have a lot of respect for the story and it genuinely moved me but i also feel that the implications of building a copy of her and puppeting her around after all that feels...very jarring lol. i guess that's just the unavoidable nature of the game, but it really doesn't feel like it was addressed past hunhow saying "it's what she would have wanted", even though we barely got a hint of characterization from her other than being motherly i guess. idk i guess for a quest that is at least in half about her it felt like she herself didn't get as fleshed out as i would have liked, especially when people are kinda just saying things for her. weird feelings i guess

idk those feel like big accusations but i still overall feel like the story was really really cool and playing through the quest was cool, but it does feel like it pushes the boundaries of what can actually fit within warframe's framework without parts feeling downright disturbing in some of it's mismatched narratives. idk i'm gonna have to think about it more, legit feel dizzy lol

probably gonna just leave it at that though, i really don't wanna jump head first into discourse because i anticipate it being really toxic given the themes. i've already seen some of that discourse and like man some people are fast to get angry about things

[cubedmango]

sibling secrets

[bakersfield-row]

I love Radiohead. No, you don't understand. I love Radiohead. They are the best. Nothing is better than Radiohead. No, you don't understand. They are genius. Not just ok, genius. No, there are no other good bands. They are the best band. It makes me sad you don't understand that. Radiohead is more than a band. The Bends is entry level. I love Radiohead. I love them. King of Limbs will be genius. Everything they do is genius. I would die for them. You need to hear more of their music. I should tie you up in a room and make you listen to their entire catalog. Then you would understand how brilliant they are. You just don't understand them. I love Radiohead. They are my religion. If you don't love Radiohead, then I cannot understand you. They are great. I wish they were air so I could breathe them. I wish Radiohead was water so I could drink them and have them inside of me. All of their songs are amazing. All of them. I love Radiohead. They are more important than you. They are more important than any of us. You don't understand their greatness. I love Radiohead. I should kill you and stuff a stereo into your corpse so your body will sing Radiohead. I'm just high on my love for all things Radiohead. I am not crazy, I just appreciate Radiohead. They are my favorite band. I have all of their albums. They are smart, they make people download. You just don't understand them. I wish I could take a bath in Radiohead. I would like to soak in all the greatness of their art. They are artists. Radiohead is more important than you or me. You just don't understand. I love them. You need to listen to Radiohead. You should listen to their new album. It will teach you things. I love Hail to the Thief. I love Thom Yorke. I love In Rainbows. Thom Yorke is the new religion.

(Also here to remind yall to try to support artists directly since Spotify barely gives them shit)

[defomin]

you know the gay love story is so devastatingly beautiful and heart wrenching when the plot wouldn't make sense when you imagine it with a hetero couple

[joosthead]

was legit gonna post this yesterday 8/18 after seeing the tiktok comment about him and his autism but decided against it but wow i can’t believe it needs to be said

also one more thing is that joost turning off mentions and asking people not to follow him around are literally … the most tame boundaries anyone in that position could take …??? 😭😭 he could literally stop making music, he could delete his social medias, he could turn off his comments completely and never interact with fans ever but he doesn’t.

he is obviously capable of communicating his boundaries and the few he does communicate people disrespect it’s laughable

edit from today w what he just posted: ​such a damned if you do damned if you don’t situation and it’s so sad seeing it happen to such new and promising artists(joost + chappell roan + ethel cain + mitski + probably tons of others) people saying that they’re just not cut out for fame if they react like this… i promise you fame wasn’t the goal when these people started making music and even if it was no one deserves to be harassed and stalked at all

[revasserium]

狐と蛍の物語 (the story of the fox and the firefly)

harrison; 4,064 words; fluff and angst a/n: for @violettduchess and @aquagirl1978's summer days, sultry nights event -- prompt "fireflies" (obviously); i'm also gonna say this counts for my 31 days of au prompt -- reincarnation!au; inspired by hotarubi no mori e and catheryn m valente's deathless and honestly, i'm so proud and happy with this one that i'd encourage you to read it even if you have no idea of the fandom/character. u__u i would love, love, love to know what you guys think!

once upon a time, a long, long time ago, there lived a girl who only danced to the firefly’s light and a fox who could tell nothing but lies.

01.

for as long as you can remember, there’s always been the wood. and it has always been behind your house, it’s leaves and branches foreboding in the winter wind, and somehow less so in the simmer of mid-summer afternoons, when the sunlight dappled light across the soft, forest floor. it isn’t a very large wood, but it’s a wood nevertheless, and deserves all the respect and fear afforded to bigger woods in faraway places. woods that warn of teeth and terrors, woods that hide both dreams and monsters.

you’d been wandering the wood from when you were a little girl, and to you, there’s not a single rock you don’t know, a single tree you haven’t tried to climb. and the forest knows you, as forests do the people who frequent them, and it welcomes you with open arms, it cradles you to its chest, whispers stories into your ears, carves itself open to show you it’s secrets —

“you’re late.”

you crinkle your nose at the familiar voice, letting out a huffing breath as you drop your picnic basket in the middle of the small, sun-lit clearing, taking your time with laying out the checked picnic blanket and two cups and saucers for tea, and finally, pulling out a tray of confections, covered by a thin, linen baking towel.

“no, i’m not! you just want me to think i am so i’ll give you more than half of the sweets.”

a boy settles over the picnic blanket, cocking his head at you before you narrow your eyes.

“well? isn’t that true?”

“ahh… i wonder if it is…” he says, but you can hear the grin in his voice, even through the material of his fox-faced mask, which, after a few more seconds of posturing, he pushes up onto his forehead. he shakes out his milk-tea hair and slates you a poison-ivy grin. you know that grin like you know the woods�� and you know the woods like you know the backs of your own hands. better, even, you think sometimes.

because for as long as there’s been the woods, and as long as you have wandered it’s depths, the boy with the fox-faced mask has always been there.

“there were fresh strawberries at farmer’s market today,” you say, setting up the tea service as you nudge the opened picnic basket towards the boy with a foot. he peers in with wide, curious eyes before letting out a soft noise of contentment as he reaches in to pull out a slice of freshly baked strawberry cream cake.

“your grandmama makes the best pastries in the world,” he says, and there’s such sincerity in his voice that for a moment, you almost believe him.

but you nod and take the compliment in stride, “she sure does!”

he digs in with gusto even when you tut that the tea hasn’t steeped properly, but you laugh as he smears a large dollop of whipped cream across his cheeks. you point it out to him with a dainty finger, and as always, you fight the urge to reach over and wipe it off for him. instead, you hold yourself still and sigh as he finally gets to it, smudging a bit into his hair in the process.

“clumsy fox,” you giggle, pressing a hand up to your lips.

“picky girl,” he snipes back, but there’s that full, sated grin on his own lips as he leans back, his elbows propped up on the soft grasses of the clearing.

after a moment of pleasant silence during which the leaves sang on their trees and the grasses swayed beneath the breeze, the boy turns towards you.

“so. no dancing today?”

you turn your head towards him before casting your eyes up towards the still bright blue sky.

“you know it’s not time yet.”

the boy heaves a melodramatic sigh, sound much bigger and larger than his 14-year old body should be able to hold.

“ah… right, right — because you can —”

“— only dance by the fireflies’ light — yep!”

the boy regards you with an imperious sort of look before breaking into a fit of bright, open laughter.

“you’re the strangest girl i’ve ever met!”

“just you saying that tells me it’s not true,” you stick out your tongue at him, even as heat washes up into your cheeks.

the boy shrugs, lying back down on the picnic basket, “i don’t always have to lie, y’know.”

and it’s your turn to regard him with the imperious look, and, a the cock of a singular eyebrow, his lips tug into a lopsided grin. his eyes flash, the color of budding spring.

“liar,” you say, but you’re smiling too as you lie back down to watch the clouds pass.

he makes no sound to correct you.

02.

once, you’d asked him what his name is and he simply shook his head and said —

“call me whatever you’d like.”

“but i want to call you by your name.”

“what’s in a name anyway?”

“uhm… nothing’s in it but…” you’d frowned then, your eight year old mind spinning to try and catch up with this strange, strange question and this strange, strange boy.

“see? so why should it matter what my name is? just… call me whatever!”

but you’d only frowned hard enough for him to roll his eyes.

“fine then — uhm — what’s the name of the current prince?”

you’d blinked, “harry.”

“then call me that.”

“but is that your name?”

“well, now it is.”

you hadn’t been convinced but you liked it better than not calling him anything at all.

“harry, then,” you’d said, smiling. and the boy — harry — had smiled too, slipping his fox-faced mask back in place as he led you further into the forest.

03.

“y’know…” harry says, his voice light as the sun dips beneath the horizon line, leaving behind a blaze of reds and pinks. you turn your head, eyes catching on the shape of him, inked out against the dying light.

“you’re the only person i’ve ever met who’s wanted to be cursed.”

you take a long breath and turn your eyes back up to the bleeding sky.

“well. you’re cursed, and you seem just fine to me,” you try to keep your voice strong, resolute and steady. grandmama had always said that if you keep your voice strong, people are more willing to believe your words. you wonder if that’s why harry’s voice is always soft, always lilting, his words slippery as moss-covered stone.

“yeah, but you can’t even touch me,” he says, and for once, his voice is harsh, his words sharp and hard as broken glass.

“that’s okay though — once i get my own curse, i’ll be able to touch you, right?”

harry fights back the urge to turn, to take you by the shoulders and shake you till you push him away. he wants to scream, to howl at the moon like the mother wolves and the hungry cubs that live in the heart of the wood. he wants to run through the woods, crash into things, climb up the trees and shake off all their branching leaves.

but he can’t, and so he doesn’t.

instead, he turns to look at you and look at you and look at you.

he wonders if it’s a strange thing, to like looking at someone so much, to find something new about a face every single time it’s looked upon — the wisps of hair fallen loose to frame your face from the velvet ribbons holding it back, the curve of your button nose, the dip of your cupid’s bow. he wonders if this is a normal thing, the thick weight of it in this chest, the truth of his curse sitting heavy on his tongue.

“yeah… probably,” he says — and the lie is smooth as milk, sweet as just-spun sugar.

“good. then we won’t have long to wait, hm?”

04.

there’s a story, so you’ve been told, of a fox that lives in the woods — and the fox can tell nothing but lies, lest the truth cut open it’s throat. and when it bleeds, because even monsters bleed (oh especially monsters), it will bleed in blue and silver, which everyone knows is the color of magic.

“but why would telling the truth kill it?” you’d asked, your eyes wide and round as the full-bellied moon.

your grandmama had sighed, rocking you in her lap as the forest outside shivers and shakes with the steps and breaths of creatures unseen.

“that’s what curses do, my sweetest… they’re unfair things, they are. and they don’t like to make a lot of sense.”

and that had been that. she’d moved onto a nicer story, a sweeter story, a story that was not so much truth and mostly lies — because the truth, as your grandmama had said, is sharp and unfair and makes so very little sense.

lies are much, much the better for the makings of stories.

05.

he has never complimented you on your dancing, not even once — not in all the years you’ve been dancing for him, by the light of a million and one fireflies.

you’d been eight when you made the promise, it’s been ten years since then.

and at eighteen, you wonder how many more years it’ll be before the moon or the forest or whatever it is that chooses people to curse will take pity on you.

it’s just after sunset, and you’d just finished your customary sunday afternoon picnic. harry is sprawled out on the picnic blanket, his fox-faced mask lying in the soft, long grasses, an arm thrown over his eyes. you wonder if he’s asleep, though you don’t think you’ve ever seen him fall asleep, not in all the time you’ve known him.

“music, please…” you announce to the clearing, and after a long pause, as if the forest itself is coming to life, the wind picks up — the leaves rustle on their branches, the birds sweep up into a twitter wingbeats and song, the grasses around the clearing hish and hush the thrumming baseline to a music that only you and harry and the forest can hear.

slowly, harry pushes himself up, making a show of rubbing his eyes, and in the darkness you can only see the shape of him.

you don’t see the prickle of tears at the edge of his eyes as he wipes them away.

instead, you close your own eyes and wait.

and wait.

and then — at the first flicker of a firefly’s light, you lift your hands and start to dance.

06.

once, you’d asked him how he’d gotten cursed in the first place.

“it’s a long story,” he’d said.

“i’ve got a long time,” you countered.

he’d crinkled his nose, pursing his lips as the pair of you hopped over a narrow stream, him watching as you teetered on the edge of the water.

“hm… well, if you do something a ton of times in the wood… the wood decides that that’s all your good for, and it becomes your curse!”

you’d blinked up at him from over your shoulder, a soft smear of mud on your cheeks.

“oh… it’s that easy?”

“easy?”

“i mean, to get a curse.”

he’d narrowed his eyes, “why would you want a curse?”

you’d straightened up, pressing your palms down your rather sullied dress.

“because — you said that i can’t touch you cause i’m human, right?”

“uh-huh…” harry had nodded, uncertain of where your child-logic had taken you.

“but other cursed things can touch you, right? like the wolves and the shadows and the queen of ravens.”

harry bit his lips. but you seemed to have taken his silence for consent and happily skipped off further into the forest. he’d never corrected you even as he heaved another world-weary sigh and followed after you. because technically, you hadn’t been totally wrong.

and his curse was only that he couldn’t correct you.

07.

your mind wanders as you begin to dance, and these days, it’s been doing a lot of that — wandering. so your grandmama says that it’s a part of growing up — learning when to let your mind wander and when to reign it back in, hold it on a tighter leash and tell it to wander no more. it’s a blessing to be able to let your mind wander, and so you do.

it’s just that these days, you can’t help but notice that it’s less of wandering and more of… well, a straight-shot descent to a well-known destination. and you know from a whole childhood of actual wandering that if you know the way and you know what you’ll find at the end, then it’s not wandering at all.

it’s just going.

but still, you let your mind go where it wants, and lately, it’s been going and going and going... to harry.

harry and his soul-soft laughter, harry and his knife-edge smiles, harry and his loose, lethargic movements, unhurried and always so certain. back when you were both still children, he’d led you through the forest with nothing but his voice, spouting out random facts that were much too outlandish to be true, and later, when you were both a bit older (and you’d long since memorized every bit of forest there was to memorize), he’d walk alongside you in companionable silence.

you knew his favorite trees, his favorite flowers, his favorite birds and colors, his favorite season, his favorite sweet, his favorite fruit and so many others.

and still, it feels as if you don’t know him at all, even though you’re certain he knows everything there is to know about you.

except…

you spin out on the long grasses, the light of a million and one fireflies dancing across your skin, dancing with you, singing with you as the forest does. and above you, a crescent moon cuts a sinister smile into a lonely, starless night.

years later, you’d wonder if the night had known — if the wood had known (of course, of course it had known, because there are no secrets the woods do not know, no secrets the waning moon doesn’t keep from the sleeping earth), if the entire world had conspired against you and for you that night.

when you finish dancing and the last of the fireflies flicker down to rest on the long, soft grasses, you’re breathless with exertion, luminous with exaltation and drunk on the song of the forest and a million and one lightless stars.

in the middle of the clearing, harry is smiling, you can see it even from here, and for the first time since you’d danced for him the very first time, he brings his hands together and claps.

“that was… beautiful,” he says, and his voice is deeper now, supple and sweet with the night air.

“th-thanks! phew — i really think that might do it,” you say, plopping down on the picnic blanket next to him, spreading wide your arms and staring up at the velveteen sky above you.

08.

once, you’d been told another story, though you don’t quite recall who you’d heard it from. maybe your grandmama, and maybe the old man who sits in the village square after all the longest days of the year, smoking his pipe and telling his stories.

“do you know why the cursed forest creatures can’t touch humans?”

“why?” a village boy had asked before you had the chance to.

“because… if a cursed creature touches human flesh, the cursed creature will die.”

“oh…” you said, clutching your hands to your chest, and you’d never really thought about dying. because really, what ten year old in their right mind would? but you knew of the concept from when grandmama talked about grandpapa — how he was there one day and then the next day he just… wasn’t.

“he died in his sleep,” she’d said, a tone of sadness in her voice that you’d never heard there before and wished you’d never have to hear again, “it was the best way to go.”

you’d wondered then if there’s really such thing as a “best” way to go. wouldn't the “best” thing to be not going at all?

“then… do the cursed creatures get to live forever?” you asked, before the village boy could cut in.

the old man took a long sip from his pipe and blew out a few concentric rings of smokes before coughing and waving it all away.

“no… you see, if the cursed creatures get to pass on their curses, they’d get to be reincarnated into being a human once more.”

09.

“do you… really want to be cursed?” harry asks as the pair of you share in the silence after your dance.

you suck in a long breath before pushing yourself up to sit in front of him, careful to keep your knees from bumping his.

“of course i do! it’s… it’s what i’ve been trying to do since i was like — eight!”

“but… why?” and harry’s voice is small, smaller than you’ve ever heard it, even though now, his eighteen year old body should carry a much heavier, harder sound.

“because,” you say, resolute as you’d always been, “once i’m cursed, i’ll be able to touch you.”

“and why… is that so important to you?”

harry casts his eyes towards you; you catch his gaze with yours, holding it steady. and in that moment, you mind lets go of the story that the old man told you. because it was a long time ago, and the story was so, so far away. and sometimes, the mind chooses which truths it wants to listen to, which truths it wants to believe in.

sometimes, it chooses truths that don’t look like truths from the outside in, but from the inside out — they’re the truest things to ever be true.

like this one —

“because i want to touch you. because… it’s what i’ve wanted since i was a little girl. because… sometimes, i think i want to do more than touch you — sometimes —” your voice catches on a hitched breath, lost somewhere in your chest, somewhere between your heart and your throat.

but then, darkness descends over your vision and it takes you a long moment to realize that you’re staring at the inside of a mask, thin but solid — the fox-faced mask that harry always wears.

and then pressure, and warmth, right where the fox’s dagger-carved grin usually is, so close to your own lips you can feel the heat.

it holds for a long, long moment, and then it’s gone.

the light returns as harry tugs the mask from you, grinning that teasing, lopsided grin of his, though there’s something about it tonight that makes your heart seize.

“tell me, one more time…” he says, and his voice is jagged with something that sounds painful and true and so, so terrible.

“i — i want the curse…” you say, before you really realize what you’re saying, and it takes you a moment to realize that this too, is the truth.

“okay then… it’s yours.”

and he leans in to press his lips to yours.

the truth, harry realizes, is always bitter, and harsh, and much too sharp. when he pulls back, he presses his palms to yours and lets the moon wash the clearing in blue and silver. you gasp as you feel the magic creeping into your bones, tugging you under, dragging you through the cracks in the world even as harry is tugged away from you back to the world of the living.

“w-was this all a lie?” you ask, because inside you, your heart is fighting for it’s last few beats.

“no,” harry says, his voice is pained, and his expression even more so, because every truth he tells cuts him a little deeper, and he feels his throat constrict over the words, “your dance really was beautiful… and…”

he swallows hard, feeling the knife-edge of this one final truth slicing through him, sharp as moonlight, sweet as the lightless stars.

“i love you. please… don’t forget me.”

and already, you can feel the truth starting to hurt, starting to constrict inside you like a curse. but still, you force it from you as harry flickers and fades along with the light of a million and one firefly lights.

“i — i won’t.”

10.

“but how exactly do you transfer a curse?” the village boy asked, his voice loud and jarring.

the old man takes another long sip of his pipe, puffs out a few more smoke rings.

“through a kiss,” he said.

you blinked. a kiss?

“ew!” the village boy recoiled then, shrinking back from the thought of kissing — because that’s what children are taught to do at such grown-up concepts as kissing.

you, on the other hand, you stayed right where you are, but a frown has creased your tiny, child-like brow.

“and the trick,” the old man continues, his smile going wide and a little lascivious, “is getting someone who will take their curse willingly… to accept the kiss.”

01.

for as long as harry can remember, there has always been the wood. and in the wood, there’s always been a girl with a fox-painted mask who danced to the light of the fireflies.

once, when he’d gone exploring (even though his grandpapa had warned him time and time again about going into the wood by himself), he’d nearly run into her and she’d cocked her head when he’d fallen face-first near the bank of a tiny stream, smearing mud across his cheeks.

“you’re strange little boy,” the girl said — and she could be no more than his age, harry thinks.

“and you’re a weird little girl,” he counters, his eyes catching on the bright red of the fox’s painted mouth.

there is magic at work here, harry knows, though he doesn’t know what kind, and all he really wants is to explore the woods behind his house, to know all there is to know of the world, and perhaps — he thinks as you turn and make your way deeper into the forest — to one day hold the hand of the girl with the fox-faced mask.

but that’s a wish for another day, he decides as he follows after you, jogging to catch up and ask for your name.

“ah… what’s in name,” you say, you voice light and languid, even as he frowns, “you can call me whatever you like.”

02.

once, harry had asked his grandpapa what the truest feeling in the whole wide world is.

and his grandpapa had answered —

“that, harry, would be falling in love…”

“falling in love?”

“yes, my dear boy — and the thing about love is that it’s like a curse… but it’s also like a blessing.”

“but… how can a thing be a curse and a blessing?”

then, his grandpapa had smiled, a smile that is starlight and wolfsong and all the secrets the forest ever has to tell.

“because we are doomed to always, always fall in love, my boy — and it will always, always be like handing someone and knife and asking them to cut open your throat.”

[katiefratie]

HOT MINOTAUR????? HES PLAYING A MINOTAUR?????? The blood pouring from his throat???????

[blitzythefanvergentpitsterthings]

Sooooo.....this will be next episode right?

[hanakihan]

Listen y’all I just woke up and had the most cracked yet self explanatory headcanon

Goto Ryuji and Lim Tae-Gyu are relatives, and even so are either brothers or cousins separated at early childhood.

That’s literally coming from me mistaking them first time I read SL BUT BEAR WITH ME OKAY I HAVE GOLDFISH MEMORY SPAWN

ANYWAY

Consider them both being born in Japan, and after boys were born their parents broke their marriage and while Ryuji stayed with his father in Japan, mother took Fuuka (aka future Tae-Gyu) with her to South Korea for her new future husband. Since she married into new family, she changed her name as well as Fuuka’s hence Lim Tae-Gyu appeared.

Years roll by and it’s first proper meeting with Japanese S ranks, Tae-Gyu knows what they all are saying without translator because for some reason his mother knew Japanese perfectly for some reason and was hell bent on him also knowing it as second language also for some reason, but he never bothered to inform anyone.

And then Goto Ryuji himself enters the scene, and oh suddenly it becomes too quiet as everyone just stare at two men with uncanny levels of resemblance.

Tae-Gyu is just confused why everyone is suddenly so quiet and staring, and he’s especially unnerved by Ryuji’s really intense stare that has usual levels of threat in it but also searching, almost painfully hopeful.

Apparently Ryuji knows he had a brother because he remembers him vaguely and his father always told about him. Tae-Gyu has no proper memories of his early childhood and his mother never really spoke about her previous marriage either, only small specks of Japanese here and there which confused Tae-Gyu.

All Ryuji says after a really long uncomfortable silence is

‘Fuuka’

and Tae-Gyu instantly tenses, starting to glare at Ryuji in return because only his mother ever called him this name at home and it was so precious and personal it IS offending to hear it from a complete stranger even if it’s said with equal undertones of shared understanding and intimacy.

‘Fuuka, did mother allow you to keep Kiryu?’

And oh, that one was a low blow for Tae-Guy because Kiryu - a really old, clearly clumsily child-made plush dragon toy was one of the few things he had from his early childhood and was really attached to, for some reason. He deduced it was probably a gift from someone really important to him back then, because no matter what mother always made sure it’s taken care of and he always had a childish sentiment for it.

‘… How— How do you know about this—‘

And oh, he didn’t even notice slipping to perfect, not accented Japanese. Honestly? He doesn’t care at the moment, because fearsome Goto Ryuji knowing your other name and about your childhood plushie is disturbing.

Lim Tae-Gyu né Goto Fuuka, is confused and disturbed and angry but also terrified and somewhat hopeful. He doesn’t know why man before him knows such important, personal details no one knows, and it scares him.

Goto Ryuji is conflicted, both happy and disturbed. Here, before him, stands his long lost brother whom his mother took away to different county and wasn’t heard of ever since. There’s such a giant void between them, and Ryuji doesn’t know how to cross it and mend relationship with his brother without appearing like a creep with absolutely unbelievable story.

Everyone on side silently watch two stone faced men, who look almost like a mirror reflection, have a silent inner mental breakdown.

[inamindfarfaraway]

I’ve seen a lot of posts praising the intertwined love stories of Hadestown - their songs, their themes, their acting, their emotional impact - and all of it is absolutely deserved. But can we take a moment to appreciate the weight of "If It's True"?

“If it’s true what they say, what’s the purpose of a man? Just to turn his eyes away?”

“If he turns his back on everyone that he could’ve stood beside?”

“If it’s true what they say, I’ll be on my way.

But who are they to say what the truth is anyway?

‘Cause the ones who tell the lies are the solemnest to swear.

And the ones who load the dice always say the toss is fair.

And the ones who deal the cards are the ones who take the tricks

With their hands over their hearts while we play the game they fix.”

“I believe in us together more than anyone alone.

I believe that with each other, we are stronger than we know.

I believe that we are stronger than they know!

I believe that we are many. I believe that they are few.

And it isn’t for the few to tell the many what is true.”

I was expecting star-crossed lover feelings. I knew there would be an archetypal tragedy that seems both preventable and inevitable. Those elements, I could brace myself for somewhat. But nothing prepared me in the slightest for the CLASS CONFLICT arc, and it gave me chills like Eurydice had in that storm.