#the story itself was so good jesus christ

[zaddyazula]

trying to process this fucking masterpiece

[tempests-bards-and-birds]

wow the barbara-centric fic i was writing that was meant to be haha funny crack surrounding the whole thing of her being Oblivious to venti's identity has morphed into angst surrounding the questioning and potential collapse of the faith and religion that she has built her entire life on only to find out that maybe her god isn't so different from her at all and that maybe they're both suffering and imperfect in similar ways and that. yeah wow who could've guessed that this would happen

[bluest-planet]

Unfathomable Rage, snippet.

Even if Yoruhua's Heart is no longer made entirely of Darkness, their body still is. And sometimes it feels like they just swapped one steel cage for another made of bone.

Vanitas just wants his keyblade back.

Part of this series of a loosely connected OC and Vanitas' roadtrip snippets. Non chronological. And loose continuity.

-

Yoruhua honestly has no idea what he was doing anymore.

He is old, and he is tired.

He didn't want to do this again; there's was so much left yet to to do, he felt overwhelmed as to which path to follow next, along with worrying over taking care of both himself and Vanitas from any harm in their weaken states. Be it Light or Darkness.

He has no thought out rescue plan, no supplies, no protection in Quiet Regalia, no idea where he's going in such a vastly unrecognizable realm, one that's moved on without him after all these years.

He's just going, anywhere that'll take him. He has nothing to guide him, except his broken piece of heart. Even then, the mountain of work left ahead of him made him so exhaustively frustrated.

Yet again he was forced to restart his life from nothing. To figure out how to climb that infinite mountain.

First it was being born; created by his mourning sisters' misplaced hope in seeing their brother again- left to assimilate in the night, in the Dark. When he hadn't been what they were expecting.

Then, it was being forgotten in a rushed retreat- abandoned to a hostile foreign Realm. Completely detached from the collective he was apart of, like drifting like broken, dying coral.

At least then he had her to keep him company and teach him about her realm. She who allowed him to graft himself onto, anchored to her shadow.

After that, he returned to an immature collective, regained his crown, his power, his title, and his hour of night. But he didn't want any of it anymore, he couldn't, so he gave it up to be one with her forever; promising to share the same heart and shadow, mind and matter.

I am thou, and thou art I.

He thought that was the end of it, he finally had everything he ever wanted. Even if they weren't accepted in either grace of Night and Day. Now he existed in a state fuller than he's ever felt before, heart unbound by natural law, free to traverse between dawn and dusk. He had nothing left and wanted nothing more. Free to make their own choices.

Until... Well, nothing ever seems to last long enough.

Again it was all taken away again. Grossly ripped apart and without mercy. Unwillingly annullling his promise, left to watch the life he didn't even get to finish building, pass by him through a narrow, unfinished window. Leaving permeant angry claw marks on the sil and cracks in the stained glass.

And now? After all that time? He's free, he was alive, he was here, and he made it. But that wasn't very true was it? He's still waiting for her near the end of the finish line, as he promised. He refused to cross the line without her word. Not when he still has to gather all his pieces up again and again.

Over, and over.

It was grounding those pieces down, into nothing but dust.

And you can't fix dust, can you?

Nor can you get it back when it's been blown away. Lost in the wind.

Ash to dust, left to rust, all time fades away...

...

I'm going insane.

It would be so easy to fall back into that ever present anger that still simmered just under his cold skin. Boiling him alive. It was making him sicker by the minute.

For so long, his anger kept him tethered to this existance, using negativity to recreate his own well gravity where there was none; furious at his imprisonment, he used it to crush his foes and bind other hearts to his own, in an last attempt to drag the one he so desperately wanted back,

Her.

Orichalchemi.

His Heart's Promise.

A shuddered breath escapes him as he walks through the small village. It's barely audible under the humid and heavy, down pouring rain. He briefly looks over his short companion for a distraction. There, Vanitas walks beside him quietly for once.

Was he enjoying it? The heavy, oppressive rain practically flooding the streets, creating small waterfalls falling from old clay rooftops tiles into gushing streams atop gris weathered cobblestone. A loud swirling sound coming from the round drain grate in the middle of the street. And though they were largely protected walking besides the storefronts and under their awnings, the wild wind still manages to land a few droplets on them.

Yoruhua tries to enjoy it; having been stuck in a Keyblade for so long deprived of any sensation- this should feel... Euphoric, shouldn't it? Their anger should be washed away with the rain; they had no use for it, now that they were free- it should've instead burned out to give way for fiery determination only.

But...

Another deep breath escapes them, stealing petrichor rich air immediately after, hoping to extinguish the stubborn fury still burning in their lungs like fire in a coal mine. And they swallow saliva to banish the tight bitterness clogging their throat, the toxic fumes that escaped from the hell underneath.

Yoruhua is unable to stop the way their brows furrow into an unwanted hateful scowl on their face.

Immediately, they feel Vanitas' questioning stare. Always quick to pick up on their mood, likely able to smell the intensifying burnt copal wafting from them, even under all this rain. Regardless of the smell, he's annoyingly perceptive like that; able to read people in an instant, always anticipating for hostility.

They used to be the same; but now, they've lost that too, just like they did everything else upon being freed. Walking, talking, breathing, reading, sleeping. And so much more. All of it digested by gluttonous fury that deemed it unimportant to preserve.

They stifle a deep sigh. Guess they'll just have to relearn that too, they've done so many times before.

Except this time Orichalchemi isn't right there by their side to learn along with them, their mind circles back, entirely intrusive. They shift the tracks on that dreary train of thought to something more positive; on her never wavering support and fun mischief. Gone, but not forgotten.

They longed so deeply to hear another of her dumb jokes and puns, get sidetracked listening to whatever rant about some odd plants she found, or just goofing off while the furnaces smelted iron in the privacy of her forge.

He feels the ghost of Orichalchemi's metal touch on her cheeks. It would be warm, heated up by a day's work blacksmithing, comforting on Yoruhua's cool icy skin. Always trying to keep them warm even if she herself couldn't feel the temperature. Smudgy ash would get on his skin, but he wouldn't mind, not when she'd always wipe it off with that well worn, patchy handkerchief of hers.

What Yoruhua would do just to be able to dance with her one more time, or collaborate on creating a new keyblade, or gardening in peaceful silence.

He wanted her and Vanitas to meet. To show Vanitas that not all hope was lost; there were some Lights that accepted and respected them for what they are. That there was a chance at a normal life for them, he didn't have to walk only at the edges of sunrise; the day was theirs for the taking too.

They just knew she would share the same admiration and love for the Dark in him as she did for them.

But their rose tinted memories and dreams do next to nothing to soothe their pain. It only fans the flames.

If... If she didn't find her, then neither her nor Vanitas would be able to truly stop running. She'd never be able to claim the day for herself again. Yoruhua doesn't think she can do this all on her own, so it's not an option. She must find her.

And instead, she's here. Wasting time.

This time, there's no mistaking it, another frustrated sigh seethes past their increasingly blackening teeth. Their icy breath misting miasma into humid, hot air.

Ironic that their emotions burned them inside out within a frosted shell.

They can barely breath. Charcoal black copal suffocating their lungs.

Another step, keep walking, the rain is never ending. His footsteps next to yours; my footsteps next to his.

They're his, they'll always be his, I can recognize his gait anywhere. I would know, I've watched him since birth. You're irreplaceable, you're me, so I'll never forget what you sound like; but when he walks next to me like that, it's like he's stepping in the footsteps you left behind.

Did you make this desired path for us to take? To make this journey ever so easier for me, just as I tried to support him? I hope it leads back to you. I miss you, I miss you, I miss you, where are you? Why am I here at the end of the line, without you? Did you take a branching path I somehow missed? Please wait for me to catch up!

...Will you always be out of reach?

...

Light flashes over the village, a blinding white in less than a second. Lightning. A very old fear plucks at her heartstrings, stopping her in her tracks.

"What's got you so spooked?" Vanitas jeers.

Yoruhua's fingers twitch, and they resist the urge to clench right into a fist. Or to let their claws unsheathe. Ruining their white leather gloves.

Instead, they bring their hands close to their chest and crack their knuckles against their palms. A satisfying string of boney pops and cracks echo between them. Then they twist their atrophied wrists, it's louder, and sounds painful. But it isn't. It snaps instead like pulled rubber.

The space between their joints feel looser, less tight, lest upset.

For now.

Vanitas seems mildly put off by their actions and lack of reply, but puts on a mean smirk, "well, whatever, I'd thought you'd never shut up."

That gets a response.

Yoruhua's miscolored eyes snap to look him directly in the eye. His own red pupils scorned by hers; yellow stained sclera, with birthed red on the right, and adopted blue on the left.

She doesn't say anything, just stares at him as if she's looking right through him. It's... Terrifying. It's not at all what he wanted or expected trying to get another rise out of her.

She shouldn't look at me that, his mind tells him, so vacant but so full of fragile, ancient agony, just waiting to spill out. He feels like he's staring down death.

Maybe he is.

How many lives has Yoruhua taken, as Void Gear? And before that, as a creature of pure Darkness?

In an era where keyblades hadn't been created yet; the first, baby Lights unable to defend themselves against hoards of Darkness.

Her one blue eye has always upset him- how illfitting and horribly familiar it was. It was filled with Light; it made his skin crawl when she looked at him. As if she could find him anywhere and always would. He always expected her to see him for what he really was eventually, like all the other Lights. Just another disgusted, hateful, or scared holy blue added to a growing chest full of ultramarine.

But it never came.

He looks at Vanitas, and his blue eye never averts. Only staring at him with unbridled attention and... Care.

It wasn't pity; just care and attention. It tracks him because it didn't want him out of its loyal sight; Yoruhua was afraid of loosing him. She watches him because it brought her comfort, because she was protecting him.

Not because he needed it, but because she did. Not willing to loose her one connection to the real world in eons.

And then he realized; it wasn't just like the Lights. There was only one other blue eye, recognizable sapphire instead of lapis just as ancient as hers, that he felt- not a fondness, but trust, reliability- when it looked at him. Void Gear.

The realization made him sick to his stomach. He hadn't lost it, his keyblade, he hadn't lost her. His one true companion, and constant since he was brought into this world.

Maybe it wasn't Wayward Wind, and maybe he hated her at first for not being his original keyblade, the one born of his heart and made for his palm. He blamed her, as if she was a symbol of all his failures and proof that he wasn't worthy of reclaiming his old identity. The only keyblade fit for a monster like himself, equally rejected by the Light.

She never belonged to him, but was lent to him. She, a dying keyblade without a wielder, and he a doomed wielder without a keyblade.

A pact made out of survival rather than trust or worthiness.

Haunting sapphire forever forced to silently serve possessed ruby turned tyrant topaz.

Regardless of his vitriol and violence, how he abused the blade in day and night. Refusing to properly maintain the blade as a punishment for the both of them. Waiting for the blade to finally give up on him and break during battle; she stubbornly stuck by him.

Till the bitter end.

And still does now.

She's watching him, like she would when he'd sleep, or when he'd be caught in a fight. Never sparing a look at his opponent, only him. Wondering if he'd make it out unscathed.

But this look, this old, detached rage.

He didn't want to be right this time; all blue eyes would come to hate him eventually.

They always do.

Both of them don't say anything. Vanitas doesn't have the guts, and Yoruhua knew that once she did- she wouldn't be able to stop the floodgates.

Then...

in the distance-

-THUNDER!

"Shit!" Vanitas jumps, turning to see another flash of jagged lightning striking a far off mountain and away from their staring contest.

He doesn't realize his mistakes until it's too late.

The sudden movement, the fact that he looks human, his uniform particularly triggering, the loud thunder and blinding lightning-!

Yoruhua finally snaps, unable to reign in the destructive wildfire festering in their body.

They char within hungry rage, eager to swallow them back in and sink it's teeth into his battered body. Like slipping into an old shoe, he fits in its between its protective fangs perfectly.

Bones snap to relieve the building pressure inside, allowing Darkness to reshape itself into something bigger and meaner.

Vanitas gets the wind knocked outta him, thrown into flooded streets.

"Ahugh-!?"

He twitches on the ground, unable to think straight while so lightheaded. Water soaks into his expose hair and face, the rain has no mercy; filling up his nose and ears.

The shadow cast over his body is what tells him Yoruhua stands above him; hanging oppressively tall and dead silent.

Their sharp golden feet barely make a sound, the ripples following their long strides disrupting the flow of floodwater in front of his face. It gives him a second's reprieve to surface his face to for desperate gulps of humid air.

Uncomfortable cooling droplets fall down from his black hair to his face. He tries to wipe it away to see better, but it's a pointless endeavour while vulnerable in the middle of the storm.

His lungs tremble inside; wracked with exhaustion and heavy pain. A deep bruise settling over his chest where he was struck by pure muscle.

Heaving, he brings a hand to cover his face, about to yell at her for hitting him in the first place, when he finally looks up.

Endless black hollowness.

He stifles a swear. Looking directly at her was a mistake.

As a pure Dark being, Yoruhua has no face and her body was the epitome of her entire existence; Instead it's a hollowed out heart with curled heart shaped horns ending into a sharp point. Long claw like hair tiredly falling down their back. Ending with an upsidedown crown choking their neck. But, with no mouth or nose to breath, her cries have nowhere to go.

The same atrophied, spindly hands- now thin claws- wrap around under their shoulders. A warped mimicry of a hug, or strangulation. Kept in place by white leather belts and golden chains, preventing them from reaching out. Unable to defend a larger heart shaped hollow on their chest, much like an other Darkside. The rain passes through them as if she isn't real; nothing to be concerned about with little impact on the world around them.

Small bat like wings peak from his hips, sharp enough to cut anything trying to get close, but are rendered useless by the long, heavy dragging tail behind them. It almost looks painful to carry, in contrast with the much thinner and weak looking body. It's awkward, really. The sharp halberd point adding unnecessary violence.

The silhouette reminding him of mixture of various monsters made of Darkness, the Heartless, Nightmares, Unversed and the emptiness of a Nobody. But no where did he see a unique mark.

Fitting, considering Vanitas had no idea what Yoruhua really was; she refused to fit into any one definition since he met her.

< When.... When does this end...? >

Vanitas cringes, the sound of Yoruhua's... Voice, grates in his mind. Like it was trying to scrape its meaning into his soft brain with a jagged rock.

But he recovers fast enough, this time, he knew what to expect and could adjust.

His own voice comes out haggard, "you're gonna... 'ave t'be more clear.... 'bout that..."

He couldn't fight back like this, so against his gut instincts he didn't move. Glaring at her gold crown instead.

Wind blows through her hollow face, whipping past to sound like clamoring howl.

< When does it end? > Yoruhua asks.

Vanitas shakes his head annoyed, "I... I don't k-know what you mean!"

One of their hair claws crack like a wip, dredging him up by the neck to force him to look at them.

< WHEN DOES IT ALL END?! >

Vanitas bites down a yell, the loudness pounding against his skull. Angry now, himself, he tries to fight back.

He repeatedly claws at the hair around his throat, even his his fingers just keep slipping through, he doesn't stop trying to break free.

This isn't how he wanted this to play out; he wanted to see the extent of their Darkness, but not with it turned against him like this.

At first he just wanted their power for himself; wanted them to revert back into a sapphire eye caged in black steel for him to wield again. But now he wanted nothing to do with it. Not whole they were possessed by lapis, it looked wrong on them, like they were at its mercy rather than the other way around.

They'd promised to share their shadow with him, but this? This was just their stygian rage.

"I DON'T KNOW! MAYBE IT NEVER WILL!" he spits in their face. Braving the emptiness. He needed to dredge that sapphire out of them instead of endless black.

He manages to wrap a hand around their hair, clutching it tight together hoping it hurt, "it'll never end at this rate, so get yourself together! You don't get to complain to me, of all fucking people, for it to end!"

He pulls on the hair, tugging her head forward by just a bit. He hears and sees nothing; no breathing, no eyes.

Regardless, "I was finished. I was fucking done, Yoruhua! You were the one to bring me back, to drag me with you on this stupid quest, and keep us safe- It's your fault we're both still here!"

He screams in her face, "so don't you dare give up, and finish was you started!"

The monster in front of him recoils, its horns point towards him and graze his cheek as it withers in anguish.

< All of this, was a mistake. >

He barely flinches when blood spills from the cut but her words gut his stomach more painful more than any wound, a horrible sadness and indignation settling.

He used to be jealous of them; of the fact they never seemed to hate themselves as much as he did himself.

He hated being wrong, he hated being wrong so much more than he liked being being right.

He was a mistake. He never should've come back,

And neither, apparently, should've Yoruhua.

No... he thinks, after everything he's done? It can't have been for nothing.

Just like Vanitas; even where everything but the end goal was pointless, it was that one goal that gave him enough to keep going. His was the X-Blade and the peace that came with it, and he failed, so death was his consolation prize.

If Yoruhua refused to give that back to him, they owed it to repay him with something far greater.

Her own quest, to save her Light. To become whole.

Well, maybe he wanted to see the product of that.

And maybe... Maybe that would sustain him, to live through vicariously.

Yoruhua was more like him than he wanted to admit; chasing after the right to exist without pain. And she might just be able to do what he could not. She's done it before, so there was no way he'd believe she'd just stop trying when they've already done the hardest part of doing the impossible. That was just illogical.

Bitterly, he seethes, "Aren't you the one who said... Coming back was yours greatest moment? I thought you reveled in your existance."

< ... >

Vanitas scoffs a humorless laugh, the rain easily drowns it out, but Yoruhua is close enough to hear the mocking sound.

Their grip on Vanitas tightens around his throat, ready to squeeze the life out of him.

This death, could never live up to the first. He was a dying wielder, and they a doomed keyblade.

Well, even in this greatest betrayal, he refused to give her the last laugh.

"So much for your pride, Void Gear." He hissed. Never breaking contact with the shadow of his former sister, even as spots started to fill his vision and his body seized in her traitorous strangle.

What I am is Darkness, so to it I'll always return.

-

...

......

.........

Faintly, he can hear rain. It's a soft pitter patter against glass; nothing like the aggressive deluge of before.

The air is cool; not humid like before. Brisk, even. He wondered why, but nothing makes sense in the Realm of Darkness.

The wood beneath him is smooth and just as cold. A thin sheet under his body reminding him of the one he kept within his shelter in the Graveyard. Entirely impersonal.

He tries to get a gulp of air, but his throat trembles in weakness. It's scratchy and just shy of turning into a sore throat soon. He regrets it almost immediately. But a whiff of something in the air shakes off his grogginess instantly.

Faint Petrichor... bittersweet, burnt chocolate almost coffee like?... And thick smoky copal...

He almost chokes on it, which thankfully he doesn't; it would have made the tightness in his throat so much worse.

He doesn't have the strength to move his neck, let alone his body, stars, he's light headed...

His eyelids feel so heavy... And the familiar scent so comforting...

Maybe, he can go back and rest.

So he allows his eyes to droop, resting with his eyes closed for a few minutes. Entirely unaware of what conspired before this moment other an exhaustive hate.

Now was his time to rest.

He manages to turns on his side, using his arm to cushion his head, and the other to reach out for-

-Void... Regalia...?

Too tired to ponder if it was the right name, he accepts the summoned keyblade. It fits perfectly in his grasp, and that's enough to ease him back into a dreamless sleep.

The keyblade's resigned sapphire eye faithfully watches over him, quietly. Like it had hundreds of times before.

[foxstens]

chainsaw man is still great

[marybeatriceofmodena]

What did Andrew Lloyd Webber do to make Patti Lupone upset? Sorry, saw your tags and i was curious

Oh.

Oh honey.

You sweet child.

Anyway, get ready for one of the most infamous showdowns in all musical theatre history, with the guy who writes the straightest musicals on Broadway (derogatory) and the one and only, the matriarch, the queen, two three-time Tony award winner Patti LuPone.

So, Andrew Lloyd Webber was basically kind of a boy genius in his prime - he met his future collaborator Tim Rice when they were 17 and 20 respectively, he wrote his first big hit, Jesus Christ Superstar, at 22, with Tim Rice writing the lyrics. And it was kind of a big deal at the time because the topic was controversial (you know, the Passion with rock music), but also because Broadway wasn't that far off from its golden age and let's just say the music and style were very different from, say, My Fair Lady. Or The Sound of Music. Or Funny Girl. It was basically the Rent/Hamilton of its time. (Yeah, Stephen Sondheim was around at that time, he worked on West Side Story which was revolutionary in of itself, but he's kind of an oddball in this case. You'll understand why later.)

Their real follow up (I'm not counting Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat for a variety of reasons) was a little musical called Evita, which you might know mainly because of a song called Don't Cry For Me Argentina. Or at least, your mom has probably heard it once at the very least. It's that song that's oversung from a musical while being out of context along with I Dreamed a Dream for Les Misérables. Or Memory from Cats.

Evita tells the story of Eva Peron, the wife of an Argentinian dictator, who basically screws her way to the top and ends up becoming the mistress of Juan Peron and the most beloved woman in her country through guile and deceit. Yes, I know the historical accuracy is very much debated but I know jackshit about Argentina's history except the bare basics so don't come at me. It was first produced in the West End in London, with Elaine Paige in the role, but because of Equity issues, she couldn't reprise her role for the Broadway production. So a Julliard graduate who was mostly starring in David Mamet plays got the part instead, and that was Patti LuPone.

Patti... did not have a good time during Evita, because the part is basically the kind of score where you can tell the composer is used to writing male parts, but most female singers have a two-octave range (yes, you got Julie Andrews who used to have a three-octave range, and many others, but they're exceptions), so she struggled a lot. That being said, if you listen to live recordings of her, you wouldn't be able to tell, and it got a lot easier later on. But she had this to say:

"Evita was the worst experience of my life. I was screaming my way through a part that could only have been written by a man who hates women. And I had no support from the producers, who wanted a star performance onstage but treated me as an unknown backstage. It was like Beirut, and I fought like a banshee."

This is from Patti's autobiography, which she wrote in 2007 - 8 years after shit with ALW went down. With all that said, she won a Tony Award for Evita, and she pretty much became a musical theatre household name from then on. She played Fantine in Les Misérables, Nancy in Oliver!, Reno Sweeney in Anything Goes. Meanwhile, ALW's next big hits were Cats (I'm not even kidding, Cats was a hit), and, you guessed it, The Phantom of the Opera, which he wrote in part to showcase his then wife Sarah Brightman's triple threat talents.

So, you need to understand before I continue that ALW, from my perspective, has always had a bit of an inferiority complex. He's basically associated to writing these commercially successful musicals that show a big spectacle but aren't ultimately substantial. I'm not sure I entirely agree with that, but I do think that if he didn't have Hal Prince, Maria Bjornson, Charles Hart and Gillian Lynne backing him up for Phantom, it would have probably been a Rocky Horror Picture Show knockoff people would have forgotten about pretty quickly. This is what I mean:

Yep, that was Phantom before any of the people I mentioned above (and Michael Crawford) were really involved.

Remember how I said Stephen Sondheim was an oddball? The thing with him is that his musicals weren't always commercially successful, but in general, in part thanks to being Leonard Bernstein's protégé, he was generally pretty well-respected and it was considered that his work was bringing musicals to a whole other level. Without Sondheim, you wouldn't have Jonathan Larson, and you wouldn't have Lin-Manuel Miranda. I am convinced ALW is resentful of that, and when you stop and think about it for more than 10 seconds, it's so obvious he REALLY wants to be Sondheim or at least command the same level of respect, but that's a story for another day.

So, after Phantom, ALW had other musicals that followed that either got a meh reception or outright flopped. Then there was Sunset Boulevard, which is based on the movie of the same name with Gloria Swanson. Despite all of her griefs for Evita, Patti LuPone agreed to partake in the musical as Norma Desmond, for its production in London, with the promise that she would transfer to Broadway once that production would open. And overall, after a string of flops, Sunset was actually doing pretty well.

HOWEVER. One day, while reading the gossip column of a newspaper, Patti found out that contrary to what she was promised, Glenn Close, who was meanwhile starring as Norma in the Los Angeles production, was to play Norma on Broadway. That was a complete surprise for her since no one on the production team had bothered to tell her it was happening - and keep in mind that for the news to come up the way it did in a gossip column, it probably would have necessitated a delay of a few weeks between the producers and the newspaper, which would have given them plenty of time to break the news to Patti. And Patti kind of needed the leg up because she was pretty bitter that a) Madonna was cast in the Evita adaptation instead of her; b) they actually lowered the key to fit Madonna's voice range, and she still had to expand her own to be able to sing the (lowered) score. And trust me, Patti is mad about it to this day.

So of course, she trashed her dressing room, the cast and crew weren't even mad about it because they were as shocked and angered as she was by the news. Patti sued Andrew Lloyd Webber for breach of contract, namely for 1 MILLION DOLLARS (yup, those are the real numbers), won, used the money she got from the lawsuit to get a swimming pool, which she called (and I SHIT YOU NOT) the Andrew Lloyd Webber Memorial Pool. Since then, Webber is dead to her, to the point rumor has it she had part of a building blocked during an event so she could get out of it without coming across Webber, because she hates him so flipping much she doesn't even want to be in the same building as the guy.

(There's also drama that happened with Faye Dunaway who was supposed to replace Glenn Close after she went from Los Angeles to Broadway, except they abruptly closed the show down after Close left, but that's a story for another day)

So with all the bad press, and with ALW forced to pay 1 million dollars for Patti's lawsuit, that led Sunset's productions to close earlier than expected. ALW has stayed around since, with... mitigated output, so to say. The lowest point for a lot of people is Love Never Dies, the sequel to Phantom, which some people love, and that's fine, but it didn't do well with either critics nor fans of the original show, which ALW is EXTREMELY BUTTHURT ABOUT. And like, there are so many stories I could tell about LND alone, but I will share my own crack theory about it, since it does relate to the ask.

Anyway, buckle up.

So. There have been jokes going around for years that the Phantom in LND is basically ALW's self-insert, where he displays to the world that he's totally not over Sarah Brightman leaving him (in part because making Phantom kinda ruined their marriage lmao), despite, you know, having married since. (Aaaaaakward.) So LND basically becomes this really uncomfortable therapy session where a man writes a self-insert musical about how his ex-wife made a big mistake of leaving a sensitive artistic soul such as himself. The characters from Phantom who appear in LND are all more or less unrecognizable as a result, and one who gets it worse (in my humble opinion) is Meg Giry, who was basically Christine's sweet and loyal ballerina friend who basically went into the Phantom's lair on her own to save her friend despite the danger. In LND, she's basically a bitter hag (because ALW hates women, guess Patti was right about that), who really likes the swim and even has a stripping vaudeville number about it, written in universe by the Phantom, no less.

For comparison, here's Don Juan Triumphant (the Phantom's opera in the original):

And here's Bathing Beauty (the vaudeville number):

Yeah, so... do you see why people hate LND already?

And that's not the only thing with Meg! She's also pining for the Phantom to pay attention to her and threatens to drown the Phantom and Christine's secret love child when he makes it clear that he's gonna love Christine for EVA AND EVA.

So, with everything we learned today about ALW, would someone like him view someone like Patti LuPone as some sort of crazy, bitter diva who's obsessed with him for whatever reason? Absolutely. Would he be petty enough to insert Patti LuPone into his self-insert musical, which gave us the version of Meg Giry we got in LND? Of course. Why does Meg love to swim so much and why does she drag Gustave out ostensibly for a swim? Is it a dig at Patti's Andrew Lloyd Webber Memorial Pool? Maybe.

I kind of hope we find out one day if that theory is true. And maybe start a kickstarter so Patti can add this painting from the 2004 movie in her collection.

Fun fact: during the process of casting for the 2004 movie adaptation of POTO, ALW allegedly suggested Patti LuPone to play Carlotta... only for Joel Schumacher to have to awkwardly remind him that they were not on speaking terms. The idea was therefore promptly dropped.

[inhonoredglory]

Good Omens Season 3: Heaven and Hell dividing humanity; humanity as Leviathan; and Aziraphale locking the doors of Heaven and throwing away the key [A Meta]

(This meta is long, but I swear there's some good stuff in here. It took me 2 months to get it together for these two longsuffering Anons. Thank you so much for asking me these very important questions.)

In preparation for answering two Asks above (and to aid my own predictions of Good Omens 3), I read and reviewed the Book of Revelation, W.B. Yeat’s iconic poem “The Second Coming,” Terry Pratchett’s Small Gods, Neil Gaiman’s deleted scene from American Gods (Shadow meeting Jesus in America), and Doctor Who showrunner Russell T Davies’ 2003 miniseries The Second Coming (starring Christopher Eccleston!). The first two are definitely going to be referenced in season 3, Davies’ show is one of the few stories dealing head-on with the coming of Christ, and Terry and Neil’s bibliographies are probably the biggest resources for how Season 3 will shake out thematically.

🕊 How Aziraphale Will Change Heaven

I think GO s3 is the season we see Aziraphale really come into his own, when we see him implement the moral vision he’s taken this long to coalesce, when all the pieces he and Crowley have put together are finally put on stage in a terrifying, beautiful display (all that righteous anger and conviction, merged with his kindness and empathy is going to be Something Else).

There’s an angel in the Book of Revelation who stands between the Earth and the Sea. This angel wears a rainbow halo and speaks with the voice of seven thunders, and yet John (the writer of Revelation) is told not to write down what this angel speaks. (Sounds like someone has hit on the Ineffable Plan?) If Neil and Terry were going to pick up an image from Revelation for Aziraphale, I really like this one, because it feels like an intermediary role (between two Sides), one that god dare not make public because it speaks an uncomfortable truth. And it’s about speaking and revealing knowledge, instead of fighting or destroying something.

Because even though we know Azi and Crowley will fight to stop the second End Times, fighting itself is not a theme Neil Gaiman or Terry Pratchett really champion. Instead of war, Aziraphale will oppose Heaven in all the little ways he and Crowley opposed it before: By enjoying human comforts (Azi will definitely bring food and trinkets to Heaven and send scrivener angels and seraphim alike to tour earth). By asking questions (Heaven’s new suggestion box). By telling stories about humanity and why it’s important to know who these humans are before anyone kills anybody (Azi was, after all, brought on board because of his human expertise).

Aziraphale will become what Crowley wanted to be before the Fall, but Azi’s got the benefit of thousands of years of knowledge, cunning, and intelligence about how both Heaven and humanity work. He knows Heaven’s weaknesses, he knows humanity’s strengths, he knows his own capabilities, and he knows where Heaven will turn a blind eye. He’s going to be such a bastard the likes of which we’ve never seen. And he’s going to drop truth bombs like there’s no tomorrow.

Season 2 brought back the book banter about “the lower you start, the more opportunities you have.”

Season 3 will bring back Aziraphale’s most badass book moment. This scene takes place after Azi possesses an American televangelist talking about the fire and brimstone of the End Times and the Rapture (the mass teleporting of all worthy believers to Heaven). Says Aziraphale,

Aziraphale is fed up with Heaven’s hypocrisy and he's scathing in his condemnation of both Heaven and Hell. Everyone will die and become collateral damage, no matter which side is doing the killing.

Sound familiar?

That's the arc Aziraphale is heading towards: that blazing conviction of Crowley's, spoken out loud and fearless and in spite of his eons of trauma. And Season 3 will see Aziraphale get to that place, where he gets to tell off Heaven, but not just in the privacy of the bookshop or the bandstand, but to their faces in Heaven's hallowed halls.

The demons and angels in Season 2 were much less icky and ethereal (respectively) from their appearances in Season 1. Because it's working towards a further humanization of both sides in Season 3. Because one of the biggest themes in s3 will be Aziraphale humanizing Heaven in all the little quaint ways he loves humanity. All in preparation for the endgame of Heaven and Hell not existing at all.

(Season 3 deep dive continues under the cut...)

Because angels and demons won’t be fought, but changed. Maybe not by much, but just enough to break the loyalty they have to a Great Plan no one understands. This is how both Neil’s American Gods and Terry’s Small Gods conclude, with the build-up to an incredible battle, and then for the human hero to step in and talk down the gods and armies into seeing sense and reason.

I don’t think Aziraphale himself will be that person. It might be a very human Jesus. Or (more likely) a random human being caught up in this craziness (maybe someone in Tadfield, per the working title of the second GO book: 668: The Neighbor of the Beast). But Aziraphale will be fundamental in changing the atmosphere of Heaven in the little ways Earth changed him.

🗝 Season 3 Themes: Morality and God

In the Job minisode, Aziraphale casually but boldly assumed that god didn’t want the goats and children to be killed. Because Aziraphale has a firm and dogged idea about what god should be. It’s his own personal morality, but he calls it god’s because he doesn’t want to imagine the symbol of ultimate goodness being anything other than what he Aziraphale himself feels to be true.

And I don’t think that’s a theme that Good Omens will deny for Aziraphale. Because it’s not really about how evil or good god is. It doesn’t matter what god thinks or is. god doesn’t answer questions, doesn’t deliver messages we can understand, doesn’t show up when needed. god is inscrutable, shifty, absent, “a Dealer who won’t tell you the rules, and who smiles all the time.”

What’s important is what humanity has done with god, what humanity has said about god, what they do in god’s name, what they interpret god to be. That’s the real danger.

And Aziraphale, in his profound goodness, will become the person he wants god to be. Because that’s the injunction we all have. To live up to the ideal we have made for ourselves: In many ways, that’s what god is.

Aziraphale is now in a privileged place that allows him to affect basically the entirety of Creation with that driving idealism. He will level the playing field in Heaven. I firmly believe Aziraphale will be the one to close the doors to the pearly gates and throw away the key.

So, like you asked Anon, will Aziraphale try to make Heaven better or stop the Second Coming? I think those are the same goal. Changing Heaven will fundamentally change how the Second Coming happens, because just like the End Times in Season 1, Heaven and Hell’s scheme will be turned on its head because the Chosen One refuses to follow the script.

The Second Coming will end, not with a bang, but a whimper, because everyone decides to turn in their guns and forget the whole thing.

⚔️ Heaven and Hell v. Humanity

But before that ending happens, I think there will be another threat the world has to face: the individuals who are so sure of their own righteousness that no amount of sense could stop them from destroying anyone who thinks differently. This is an important theme in both Neil and Terry’s works (see Vorbis, the Exquisitor in Small Gods, who tortured unbelievers for the Church), and I believe it will show up in the new season.

There's never been a true war that wasn't fought between two sets of people who were certain they were in the right. The really dangerous people believe they are doing whatever they are doing solely and only because it is without question the right thing to do. And that is what makes them dangerous. –Neil Gaiman, American Gods

Because it’s humanity who takes Faith and shapes it into Religion. We are the ones who created the Heaven we see in GO: cold, unfeeling, strict, judgmental. And I think Season 3 is going to address this fundamental belief of both Neil and Terry: that humans are just so damnably human (fundamentally innocent and stupid and wonderful) and yet there’s a few of us who will take things too far and think that Someone wants them to destroy everything in the Name of God. And in these changing contemporary political times (the passage of an old generation, still clinging to their old ways and growing more extreme by the minute *cough*Trump*cough*), the dangerous people become even more vocal and violent, like the frightening, monstrous creature in WB Yeats’ poem “The Second Coming,” a devastating scourge on the world born in the name of God:

Surely some revelation is at hand; Surely the Second Coming is at hand. […] A shape with lion body and the head of a man, A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun, […] And what rough beast, its hour come round at last, Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born? –WB Yeats, "The Second Coming"

That’s who I think the Metatron will team up with in the end, someone like Vorbis. Because we’ve already seen how petty and small Heaven and Hell is, especially in Season 2. Only the Metatron really carries some heft and foreboding. I believe he’ll team up with some extremist faction of humanity who wants to see the End of Days and divide the world into Yours and Mine, with Heaven taking a portion and Hell taking a third and calling it a day. Not a War, but a divvying out of souls. With no consent or permission on the part of humanity.

That’s what I think the zombie reference is all about. Like Gabriel said in 2x03:

Yes, we’re going to get zombies. And it’s going to be insane and funny and horrifying (and I think we’ll get to know one or two historical figures who pop back up to earth). But the thematic and fundamental metaphor of zombies is how they have no free will. They’re not alive, they have no souls, they have no choices. That’s what Heaven and Hell want humanity to be: To do away with the dance of choice and free will and divide humanity once and for all between both sides. That’s how Heaven and Hell team up against the human race.

🐳 Leviathan (Job 41:19) as Humanity

And that’s how I believe the Leviathan fits in, who is the subject of the quote from Muriel’s matchbox:

The Leviathan is a magnificent creature, and this passage goes on and on about how fearsome this being is:

Who can penetrate its double coat of armor? Who dares open the doors of its mouth, ringed about with fearsome teeth?… Nothing on earth is its equal—a creature without fear. It looks down on all that are haughty; it is king over all that are proud –Job 41:13b, 33-34

And yet why does god want to explain how amazing the Leviathan is? To show how god has control of it. God says,

Can you pull in Leviathan with a fishhook… Can you make a pet of it like a bird or put it on a leash for the young women in your house?… Can you fill its hide with harpoons… No one is fierce enough to rouse it. Who then is able to stand against me? –Job 41:1, 5, 7, 10

The reasoning is that because god created this dangerous and terrifying being, then god must be even more dangerous and terrifying. And if god can so easily abuse and humiliate this beautiful monster, then god must be worshipped and respected. (Yes, it’s as messed-up as it sounds.)

I can’t help but think of this Leviathan as a metaphor for humanity. A beautiful, ferocious being whose ownership and control is the focus of god’s attention and qualification for worship? Of the Leviathan, Job says: “Will traders barter for it? Will they divide it up among the merchants?” (Job 41:6). That’s how humanity is going to be treated in Season 3.

Because both God and Satan want to control humanity. They want to put their thumb on human souls and claim them for each side. But humanity doesn’t have to be so easily fooled, because we are more powerful than we realize. Our hearts and imaginations can forge a path of purpose and goodness without the entrapment of organized religion and fundamentalism. We, like Leviathan, are ferocious and angry and fed up with being treated like this. We can and will fight back.

🌟 Becoming Gods

Ultimately, we will shuffle off the need for Heaven and Hell (symbolized by the shutting down of both at the end of Season 3). We will lose the need to unquestionably defer to a Being who plays dice with our lives. I’m reminded of the opening passage to Terry’s Small Gods:

The lowly tortoise will learn to be the eagle; humanity will learn to be like god. Because we are as powerful as god, since we created god. Adam Young pointed out that having a god figure to solve all our problems doesn’t make humanity any more responsible for the evil things we’ve done. We need to learn that we are all we’ve got, and we have to answer for the shit we’ve done to each other and to the world.

I like how Russell T Davies put it in his show The Second Coming, where Jesus comes down again in the body of ordinary human Steven Baxter and tells humanity:

You are becoming gods. There's a new master of creation, and it's you! Unraveled DNA, and at the same time you're cultivating bacteria strong enough to kill every living thing! Do you think you are ready for that much power? You lot? You lot? Cheeky bastards. You're running around science like kids with guns, creating a new world, while the world you've got is stinking…. If you want the position of god then take the responsibility. –Russell T Davies, The Second Coming

I legitimately think that’s how Jesus in Good Omens 3 will come down. In the body of a regular 30-something off-the-streets guy, who thinks the pomp and circumstance made about him is insane. And Aziraphale will be his minder, trying to tell him how the whole scheme is supposed to play out and giving him wise asides on how warped Heaven’s standards are and trying to tell him how to go about changing things for the better. (Jesus will be terribly confused, meanwhile; he just wants to go out for a pint and get on with his human life, none of this god business.)

🐍 Crowley’s Growth

There will be some big things at play in Season 3. I think Aziraphale will change how Heaven operates and close Heaven for good. I think Aziraphale will initially try to get Jesus on board with Azi’s own private mission of Goodness. I actually think Crowley will end up becoming Aziraphale’s “back channels” to Earth, and they’d exchange trite, bantering messages about the state of affairs from secret rendezvous points in America. (There was a whole thing about Jesus getting lost in Times Square, according to Neil Gaiman.)

I think Crowley will learn how to trust Aziraphale and learn that doing the right thing means being brave and selfless. He’ll realize that humanity is worth saving, even if it means dying. In fact, his depression at the start of Season 2 will probably only get worse after the loss of Aziraphale, and his altruism might get colored by the taint of suicidal recklessness, because he might as well go out for what he believes in, if what he wanted most in the world chose being selfless over being with him. (If Crowley’s character takes a suicidal turn like the Tenth Doctor after losing Rose, I’m gonna scream.)

This is how Aziraphale helps Crowley be brave in the finale of the Good Omens book. That’s what I think will happen in Good Omens 3:

Aziraphale here displays a gentleness and kindness that comes from a place of grounded knowledge and responsibility. He knows how much he and Crowley have in their own ways fucked up humanity too, and he knows that no matter what their own personal feelings, they each need to do something to defend the human species they've come to love so much.

Crowley is scared of risking everything to help save humanity, but with Aziraphale's encouragement and wisdom, he realizes that doing the right thing is the only option he can choose, no matter the risk to his own happiness and safety.

So I believe Crowley will learn to understand why Aziraphale chose to return to Heaven and fight in the trenches. Crowley will see it as a choice made to save, not just each other, but the world they love so much.

Ultimately, I think Crowley on earth will take on Aziraphale’s strongest qualities: being selfless and bold to protect humanity at costs, and connecting to humanity on a personal, individual level.

While Aziraphale in Heaven will become like Crowley: asking questions, sabotaging the System, and condemning Heaven with all the uncomfortable truths they need to hear.

[chantsdemarins]

🏰Breath of the Æsir {Loki X Fem.Reader} Chapter 3: Stories Cannot Burn or Disappear

I am so sorry these chapters are taking me so long. I haven't been the same since Covid! I hope the quality is still good...Thank you for joining my crazy medieval AU Loki fever dream era.

There is a bit of Easter and eclipse magic wound up in this chapter!

Summary: Loki isn't the only one who thinks you are more than a human woman, which buys you time while you figure out how to keep your manor and tenants safe. However, the challenge of nursing a debilitated, power-stripped god adds a layer of complexity to your already daunting task, clouding your judgment when clarity is most needed.

Note to Reader: Yes, Hozier is now a character, your eyes aren't playing tricks on you 😭 But which character will he be? Guess and comment!

Passion and Romance Meter: Nothing explicit yet but hopefully you feel it boiling.

I hope these people don't mind being tagged! I thought you might want to be tagged! Please let me know if you don't want the tag or if you want to be tagged. Also comments and reblogs are healing and joyous for me!

@arcielee @ijuststareatstuffhereok89 @thomase1 @mcufan72 @caffiend-queen @fictive-sl0th @muddyorbsblr @anukulee @mischief2sarawr @mochie85 @sailorholly @lokisgoodgirl @shambelle97 @lokischambermaid @eleniblue @smolvenger @wheredafandomat @hiroyukinasukawa @meowmeow-motherfucker @latent-thoughts @buttercupcookies-blog @lcolumbia1988 @soulpiercing @wolfsmom1 @mysticmarvelfan

@holdmytesseract @superficialdomina @scrumptious-finicky-illusion @mjsthrillernp @arcielee @poetic-fiasco @gruftiela @thegodofnotknowing @thedistractedagglomeration @tallseaweed

@dangertoozmanykids101 @jennyggggrrr

The clay soil in your husband’s land hadn’t fully absorbed the blood of the Christian god. Not yet at least. The claustrophobic land was hemmed by bogs and marshes, lowlands with the familiar wooden gods made from branches poking out of the muddy banks. The tides to the east would fill the saturated earth till she could take no more before becoming a lake. This system of pooling respiration created a natural barrier for the people. The stillness of the water meant you didn’t stop for long, just enough time to plant your wooden god or light a beeswax candle, burn some leaves as an offering, and then find fast footing across the rickety log bridges built by people no one could remember.

In spring, a carpet of blue wood betony would appear. The town's folk's talk led you to forage it, keeping the blossoms and stems in dark Roman glass, tucked on the kitchen shelf next to the salt. Your husband never noticed your collection, or if he did, he never mentioned it as anything particular or strange. It was a relief to find plants that grew elsewhere, unlike the state of the manor land — high on a hill, flanked by rocky, sandy soil. Collecting plants often made you wonder if Christ might rise from the bogs. You'd just have to wait and see, you supposed, imagining Christ emerging naked from the thick peaty waters, stray herbs clinging to his torso.

Perhaps when Loki showed up, bleeding from his stomach, you'd envisioned something like that before. That desert man had a different name, Jesus of Nazareth. You blushed at the thought of any man, holy or common.

Yet, you didn't blush much while sewing Loki back up. Stitches plunged down his torso into places you'd only seen hinted at on the marble body of Jupiter in Eboracum. Your confident needlework proved itself. If your cheeks reddened, it wasn't from embarrassment but from lack of oxygen, struggling to breathe. Saving a life required haste, much different from the crafts of passing time.

The day the Northmen came you had been already struggling to breathe, you’d lost your air completely and found Loki’s form in front of you when your eyes finally opened again. His hair like ash from the hearth, his eyes the most peculiar color of blue, much like the betony in your waiting Roman jars. Just where had you gone when you’d lost your air? Loki had refused to confront the Danes, refused to fight them. He had handed you back his weapon, leaving you to confront the invaders yourself.

After all, you became a manor wife because your origins had burned in your village's fire, but not in the stories that followed. Stories cannot burn or disappear, especially when people fleeing tell them to the right people in the countryside. Your husband's family had heard your father's tales and believed him. Your hand in marriage was worth more than any dowry. It was all the more disappointing when you couldn't produce an heir or embroidery, and the manor lands remained sandy, rocky, and haunted. You hadn't known a husband should stay close or lie with his wife until Elinor finally told you. Your confidence to heal a stranger, to meet the Northmen at their boat, came from your father. He told you who you were, and like the manor people, you believed him — even if you didn't understand what you were.

The sky had darkened as you came to the mahogany longship anchored next to the wind-ravaged cliffs. You knew to avert your eyes from the mast, the Northern dragon guardian was designed to kill folk such as you. A provocation to your ancestors. There was confusion at their camp, what seemed like hundreds of men were pointing above and shaking their heads. A seer had cast the runes, and the chieftain seemed to not like what the seer had spoken. The rugged man looked up at the sky once more and sent what looked like an envoy to you. He blamed the Norns and you in yet another language you didn’t understand. He could not kill you because it would only curse them more.

Stunned, your trembling hands clutched Loki's blade in disbelief. You ran beneath the still darkening sky, which seemed poised for rain, though no clouds were visible. Looking up, you saw something unimaginable. A planet had fully eclipsed the sun. Your people knew of these events, but you had not witnessed one yourself. As you ran you wondered if the land's spirits had cast a powerful enough curse to scare the Northmen.

Returning home, you found only Loki in the makeshift courtyard, fever-ridden, slumped over the fence. Your heart sank, fearing he was actually dead this time. But the breath of the Æsir still moved through him, you could see his chest moving as you approached.

The village was silent, its people hiding. The only sound was the wind stirring the grain fields and the oak leaves in a dry, papery rhythm. Loki beckoned you inside but he was barely able to move to the porch, he was already worried you’d absorbed too much of the darkness. You fell into his arms, wincing from the feel of his fevered skin through your shift. Significantly taller, Loki's limbs resembled a freshly felled hawthorn. You dragged him closer to the front door, you both were exhausted in the strange day of night.

Your efforts paused for a moment, you readjusted your grip on the stranger. "Saturn is passing over the sun, an eclipse," Loki murmured, breaths faint and labored. How did he know this? Such knowledge was native only to your people. Still reeling from scaring off the Danes, you now faced an eclipse. Loki speculated on the Northmen's possible interpretation of the event. Since much of their knowledge came from his world, he felt he knew exactly what they must have felt seeing the sky darken as you approached.

"They saw the eclipse as a sign of your power. They recognize planetary transits. As you approached them, Saturn crossed the sun's path, a coincidence perhaps in your favor," Loki continued. "But they'll return, and we need to be ready," he cautioned, aware of your mutual defenselessness. He felt responsible for the deaths across these isles, seeking balance, an unfamiliar concept.

You had wanted him to stay long enough to know who he was but now it appeared like he wasn't well enough to be able to leave, even if that is what you both wanted. The truth was, part of you didn't want him to go at all. There was something about him. He knew some of the old ways and where ever he had come from, you suspected again, he had once held a high status.

Loki also continued to contemplate your shared fates. Did the Norns truly allow for this meeting between you as part of the path of the raven’s wingspan, his destiny as a god with no power. He dared to speak to you some of his true thoughts. He felt he owed you some kind of explanation for his resistance to fighting on your behalf.

“Lady, I wish I could help you but as you see I am unwell from my wounds. When I heal, I would like to help you defend your home as part of my thanks, I will find a way to do that does not involve fighting. We have the cosmos on our side it seems, so perhaps there is more luck for our coming together. This is of course if you will continue to have me.”

His pale face seemed even more ghastly, and he laid his body on the porch in a heap, looking very similar to how you first found him. You felt a tenderness stir. You’d felt it for him when you were saving him but now it was tinged with worry for both of your lives and everyone who depended on you.

“Loki I don't want to heal you twice, but it seems this is my fate. Let’s see what you have within you still and if your Gods are listening. I expect you will tell me why you refuse to fight or why you cannot. You owe me the truth. There is much you are not saying.”

He knew he would not be able to hide himself from you as you seemed unable to hide yourself from him. The circumstances unfolding seemed like the actions of reverse spells, instead of concealing they were revealing who you both were. This was vexing to you both.

Despite his sincere words to you, Loki was not sure this troubled land was his final destination. He wondered if he should try and leave as soon as he was able. He was speaking with two tongues. Perhaps he should venture south, go to the Midgard places where panther Gods and pyramids covered in gold existed. Those people were said to do the bidding of the gods with even more ferocity than the Northmen.

Instead, he was sick with fever and stuck with a mysterious, beautiful, and angry woman, whose husband could return at any moment and kill him for what it looked like was happening, even in the middle of a possible invasion. Suddenly his reverie broke as you lifted his shirt to inspect his wound. Your worry for his fever could wait no longer.

"Lady," he said as he batted your hand away.

You protested back, “I have seen you already, why would you be shy now stranger? I need to check your wound, you are feverish,” you continued to pull up his shirt. His gash had indeed become weeping and likely the source of his fever. Whether you liked it or not, you were healing him once again it seemed.

“Wood betony, that is what you need, you are lucky I have some. I’ll see to it Elinor makes you a poultice, and then I am putting you in one of the downstairs bedrooms.” Your eyes were worried even if your words were not. Loki placed his weakened hand on your shoulder, and spoke solemnly, “You know, we need to find your husband.”

You turned your face from him, you didn’t want Loki to notice even the smallest bit of feeling.

“Of course, that is a good idea, this is his manor and his people after all,” you replied. “We can leave when the fever breaks and you can walk without me carrying half your weight,” there was the slightest tinge of playfulness in your words to your surprise. You hoped he did not notice.

As the day was moving into evening, the villagers whispered their suspicions about the stranger you aided. The darkened sky had unsettled them as much as the Northmen. Loki was right, without your husband the manor would devolve into chaos and this would leave the village even more vulnerable.

You watched Loki slowly drag his body to the downstairs bedroom and close the thick doors behind him before you had the chance to redirect him or wish him a good night. You thought better to tell him that he had gone into your husband’s bedroom not the servant’s quarters you had intended for him to rest.

You felt your stomach twist in knots. If your husband came home tonight the wrong impression you worried you would make, would surely be inevitable. You would have to go and move Loki once you were done with your chores. A prospect that left you even more anxious.

Finally, when everyone had gone to sleep and Elinor had gone to her quarters, you stood alone in the empty house contemplating what you should do next. Sleep seemed an impossibility. The eclipse had only been five minutes, but it disturbed the entire day. Now it was nearly midnight and it felt like morning. All time had shifted somehow. Loki sleeping in your husband's bedroom loomed in your head.

To quiet your thoughts you found yourself in the kitchen, sometimes cooking felt relaxing even if you were not good at it. Instead tonight you eyed the row of bottles on your shelf. There was something else calling to you. You grabbed a jar of mistletoe berries, and held them in your hands. Their color was startling.

Suddenly you busying yourself muddling them with the mortar and pestle. If there was a recipe to follow you did not know it, you pulled a few more bottles off the shelf and added the ingredients. Mullein leaves and blackberry.

Pausing for a moment you felt that Loki’s knife was still around your body, you had placed it in a leather holder diagonally across your chest, and forgotten it was there. The knife passed over your breasts and you couldn’t help but touch the length of it.

You hadn't the time to have paid much attention to it before. You noticed the unusual, rich craftsmanship. The inlay was extraordinary. Garnets and chrysoprase. You then gently pulled it out of the holder and carefully pricked your finger with the impossibly sharp tip. This action surprised you.

You inhaled deeply. Crimson blood rolled down your finger and into the stone mixing bowl. You placed your still bleeding fingertip into your mouth hoping to quickly stem the bleeding, but the knife had been too sharp, or you cut yourself too deep.

Quickly, you sucked the wound, blood filling your mouth. You spat the excess into the bowl and placed it on the windowsill, intuitively sensing it needed the moonlight. Just then you heard a deep voice behind you. You were frozen in place, unable to turn around. It was Loki.

"I had no idea you were a seer, you could have told me that sooner and it would have cleared things up," his words rich with sleep and something else.

When you finally turned around you saw he was only wearing his leather trousers and the poultice. Your heart produced a wild, unfamiliar beat, and you steadied yourself against the kitchen table. You weren't a seer, but you could not explain what you were just doing or what you were now feeling.

Before you could stop him, Loki took your mixture from the sill and drank it. "My gods what have you done?" the startled words fell out of your mouth as he placed the now empty bowl back into your hands.

[rainbowsillz]

Hi, I really loved your overblot!riddle fox and I was wondering if you would write something similar for another dorm leader

Maybe Vil, Malleus or Leona

(Also i love your writing, so glad I found your blog)

“ I'd rather be hated than allow for you to go. ”

FT. Yan! Overblot Malleus X GN! Reader.

Tags: Delusional behavior, obsession, toxic, etc.

CW: Yandere.

You can't return to Earth, not when he denied you of this.

Your open-mindedness was what welcoming, for you— who radiated like the sun itself to him.

Malleus was fond of you and that's no secret.

For a magicless student, you were bold, granted that you didn't know who he was. He can tell, it wouldn't be what deterred you away from him.

You were quick-witted, determined, nobody can frighten you. You don't let anyone stomp over you. And you cherished his friendship with you!

It was surreal.

This feels.. more of a mirage.

He'd give the universe to you had you asked him, his passion extends than you'd imagine it.

You had become what he cannot live without.

I mean if I were him, I wouldn't want you to choose your home too, so it sits on his chest, billion of thoughts visiting inside his head.

And like a blade through his heart, it's undoubtedly that you'll pick your family.

Twisted Wonderland wasn't a place where you'll reside forever at, and you trusted him too much that you told him of what you planned to do once the headmaster could send you back over.

He looked calm externally.

You noticed the shift in the atmosphere and decided that you shouldn't have said that.

For a close acquaintance, he'll probably be affected by this, so you didn't bring it up twice.

Hopefully, he'll forget about that.

Malleus didn't. Why would a housewarden like him wouldn't recall this? That's ridiculous.

After that, nothing changed in your relationship and he didn't say anything that indicated about it. Time was fleeting, it continues on, despite the heaviness and the graveness it was for him..

Maybe he was childish because he was hurt.

And a lot of months flew by.

So— karma happened to you it seems.

It started out like any other until this.

It was sudden, for a person who managed to turn the tide around every time where overblots came, this was impossible. Attempts met with reality of him snuffing out everyone's work.

It didn't take an hour, it didn't last for long, thorns wriggled across marble floors, if you turn to the window you'd see that outside weren't much different from the interior carved in.

A prison by yours truly.

You were awake, not because you were a superhuman or that you have an immunity.

It was due to Malleus has to speak to you.

You were a nervous wreck, weren't you? You should be, considering the things he do.

How curious.

Malleus has read stories that good always prevailed, while evil served to make them more memorable and beloved in society's eyes.

So, if you were the hero, what's to be his role?

When you didn't response to him, he wasn't offended by that, an attentive smile fixated on.

“Why do you resist? ..I have neither intention of harming you nor anyone in our college.”

And he was true to his word.

“Jesus Christ, Tsunotarou, this is crazy, you are out of your mind. You can't use magic at us!”

Well, he can but that wasn't your point, okay?

“Crazy? I am that for you, aren't I?”

He mumbled to himself, having him in front of you was less reassuring than you anticipated.

“....Yeah.”

What does he expect you to say?

His hand, tainted with ink, takes hold your chin.

Green pupils misted with turbulence, there was no malice in him, to your surprise, there was sorrow. Malleus was in grief, you assumed.

“Whether it's you or Lilia, I'll be left alone again. Isn't this how I should have it be?”

Your mouth was dry, unable to reply.

He can convince you, he shall, and until then? A slumber was what would befallen upon you.

[lowkeyrobin]

hi hi!! could i get cricket crew (those a-okay with xreaders) with a reader who’s like a pro gamer, maybe reader is also a streamer? somethin along the lines of that pretty please 🦕

ahhh yes of course!! I recognize you mwahahha, lmk if you'd like to be addressed as 🦕 anon btw bc I can't tell if you used it in a silly way like how I use 🛒🛒🛒 somwtimes or as a way to address yourself LMAO no worries tho 🫶🫶🫶

HANDSOME BROS ; pro gamer era

includes ; ranboo, tommyinnit, tubbo & badlinu

warnings ; language, mention of Dream

masterlist

TOMMYINNIT

he's been your biggest fan since day one, literally

he just so happened to be one of the first couple viewers you pulled while you began speedrunning minecraft

eventually you guys became friends and stuff

he literally watched your speedruns go from an hour and a half to half an hour so quickly

and over that time he's been boosting your stuff and everything

you ofc make other content and collab w other streamers, mostly Tommy and his friends

one time, you get a speedrun down to 25:03, your best so far and he's in a vc w you with your stream pulled up

literally screams when he sees the ender dragon explode into xp

"HOLY FUCKING SHIT, YOU GOT DOWN TO 25 MINUTES, THAT WAS SO GOOD, OH MY GOD, Y/N/N!"

you sit there like "omg I just did that that's my best record ever"

afterwards you play roblox for a bit with him (meep city) and throw a party to celebrate

you meet a bunch of viewers/chatters/fans as well bc you publicized yours and Tommy's usernames so they could join your server

"You're a pro now, y/n! even better than Dream!"

if he was right next to you rn, he'd be giving you the biggest kiss in the whole world

you'd been spending so, so long to get below a half hour or so and even just 5 minutes below that made you so ecstatic, same with him lmao

he literally makes 40 tweets about it and posts about it on his Instagram story

he also doordashes you some fast food + like three large waters

he's literally your biggest fan ❤️❤️❤️

when I tell you he's so fucking sweet to you

he's fully aware you're very serious with your video games and you try to be the best you possibly can

like he'll come over while you're training for a valorant competition with foolish & punz and just hang out behind you and watch

he'll go to snapchat and snap aimsey a pic of u grinding on valorant with the caption "look who's grinding valorant again"

star will respond with a "Jesus Christ how many hours do they have on there??"

he'll reply with a video of him asking

"how many hours do you have on valorant? like, all time"

you didnt even hesitate or think before you replied with "253"

"HOLY SHIT DONT YOU THINK YOURE GOOD ENOUGH?"

"amount of hours doesn't equal skill, tommy"

TUBBO

you're like a pro bedwars player istg

like techno and purpled type pro

he plays with you sometimes but he mostly cheers you on

the 18 in a row win streak?? holy shit that was a celebration in itself

he was in your chat spamming "HOLY SHAUT Y/N" "OMG PLS PPSK PLS PLS GRWT TO 19" "HOYKEHIT"

he can't even type he's so excited for you

you end up losing that streak to an adrenaline rushed bad move

next time you won't rush yellow 💀

months later, once you got to a 19 streak he was actually on vc with you and started getting your chat to become your cheerleaders

literally had 45000 cheerleaders for a bedwars streak + him who made a whole chant????

when you actually won the 19th you just freaked the fuck out

you couldn't even bare trying to get to 20 because you were shaking so much and you'd end up fucking up

you literally show your stream your shaking legs and hands

the entirety of your chair was soaked in stress sweat from your thighs 💀💀💀

he's seriously your biggest fan

everytime you do something relatively pro-gamer-esque he makes at least 5 tweets, a YouTube community post, and a post on his insta for ppl to go watch it and how awesome you are

he makes complications of your best bedwars moments on an alt YouTube account too LMAO

he did a lot of math but rounded up that you had 150 or so hours of bedwars streamed, plus the hours of grinding skill you'd done off camera

"only 150??"

dude even chat is somehow surprised

makes you a whole poster and brings it to your house to celebrate your 19 win streak its so cute

it's made a feature on every stream since because it's up on the wall right behind you and in perfect view for everyone to see 🫶

RANBOO

good god they're actually worried something is wrong with you

no way super Mario odyssey can be so fun to you

speedruns went from maybe 2 hours down to 58ish mins or so in just a couple months

you were friends prior, but you got back into smo and got addicted with trying glitches and bugs you knew about

once you reached like 58:05, (about 13th on the leaderboard) you quit

good lord there was no getting better lmao

then came the challenge to get all the moons and speedrunning the dark side & darker side of the moon

they got on a vc with you while you were collecting moons so you could deal w a lot of distraction, and asked you to check the hours time

the way this shit said 834 hours.

the amount of joke-yelling and "I'm not mad just disappointed" convo came out of that

"It's not my fault the game is fun!"

"that's more than a year! that's nearly two straight years!"

"I've been playing it since release in my defense. I probably grinded up half of that within the past year or two though to be honest"

never the less, they always cheer you on and always have to boost your content

for the leaderboards, you're around 70th place on the dark side, about two hours, and for the darker side, around 80th, so about 3 and a half hours

they literallt watched you do 10+ hour streams and got on vc to voice concerns of burnout or scoliosis

"I'm fine! shit! damnit!"

"Chat please tell them to go sleep, this is wild. go play Mario kart with Bill at least"

"Yeah, come play Mario Kart with me!"

"where the fuck did you come from, I didn't even hear you join???"

"I've been here for half an hour!?"

BADLINU

you're freakishly amazing at building in the Sims 4

like dude you're an idol in the Sims community it's so weird

you build like those humongous mansions and find new furniture glitches and new designs and share them and stuff

dude don't even get me started on your sims

most the time you make your friends but they're never inaccurate

you can dedicate a five hour stream just making the fucking characters dude

he'll sit next to you so you can properly make his face and he'll get all tingly in his head as he watches

when you're making a giant new build he'll tweet about it like 4 times and leave a link to your stream LMAO

"guys go watch y/ns stream they have polls set so you guys can actually decide on design choices"

he's actually your biggest fan omg

he'll be in your chat like "omg hi y/n"

"Hey Freddie!"

joins a vc with you and starts absolutely bombarding you with compliments

dude can't go one stream without taking 372882 screenshots of you

"Dude how do you have motivation for this?"

"It's fun! if I can't be a designer in real life then I'll be one in the digital world motherfucker"

[skepsiss]

For the @steddiesummerexchange to @stevesjockstrap!

Batter Up: Chapter 2 of 5

Read [Chapter 1] [Chapter 2] [Chapter 3]

Rated: Explicit

Summary: This fluffy story is about Baseball Player Steve Harrington, meeting Rock Star Eddie Munson and the whirlwind 1-week romance turned committed relationship. They're instantly obsessed with one another, but neither knows how to take things to the next level. Enjoy Steve being a love-sick idiot! (The story turns explicit in Chapter 4, other chapters are all fluff). In this chapter, we get to read Eddie's POV and how obsessed he is with Steve, too. Chrissy is here to cheer him on.

Read Chapter 2 below, or [read it on Ao3]

Big thank you to @thefreakandthehair for beta reading for me and helping me with my NBA terms!

Graphic made by me!

”I want to bite his ass like it’s a fucking apple,” Eddie gritted out, his hands tense and clawing at the air as he seemingly held back unfathomable amounts of sexual tension. “Gross!” Chrissy trilled, bouncing the squash ball in her hand against the ground to warm it up. “You don’t need to be so crass, Eddie.” “You don’t understand—” Eddie hissed, sitting forward in his seat as he spoke to Chrissy through the plexiglass. She gave him an unimpressed look, saying ‘really’ silently with a twisted lip and a raised brow. “Okay, you understand— just! He’s so fucking hot, and I swear to fucking God if he lets me near him, I’m going to go berserk,” Eddie groaned, sighing dramatically as he bounced his leg. “Don’t you have a date tomorrow?” Chrissy asked, squeezing the little black ball in her hand a few times before casually starting to bounce it against her racket. “That’s the problem! Chrissy! Jesus Christ—he’s like… fucking Adonis. How am I—I clam up like a Mongolian death worm every time he gets near me. I can’t—I can’t even get close to laying the moves on him ‘cause I’m, like, fucking useless. It isn’t even a date tomorrow. It’s like a poorly concealed, deep-fake, seduction attempt. I don’t know! You know I’m fucking useless at actually flirting with guys unless I’m off my fucking rocker, high out of my mind,” Eddie lamented, finally standing up and beginning to pace. Chrissy’s shoes squeaked on the floor as she served and started to play a single game of squash by herself. She was listening, Eddie knew she was, this was sort of par for the course with them. He was on Chrissy’s time, and he wasn’t going to complain about being stuck inside a squash court with his best friend, even if it smelt like an old sock. 

Alright, maybe he would complain a little bit.

“But we’re not—” Chrissy puffed, exerting herself as she kept up the conversation, “—going to get high—right?”

“No, I’m not going to get high,” Eddie groaned, feeling his fingers twitch against his leg. He had given drugs up—or at least he hoped he had—but that didn’t mean that it made existing without them easy. “I don’t want to depend on drugs to flirt, I just—I wish I was starting out with a smaller-fry, you know? First big thing out of rehab, and I’m smacked in the face with Steve Harrington? Why didn’t you tell me about him earlier? He’s just—-ugh! Chrissy!” Eddie whined, his stature devolving as he crumpled to his knees on the squishy floor. 

“Not my fault—you refused every invite—to baseball before—now,” Chrissy retorted, the bang of the ball against the wall making it a bit difficult to hear her. “You didn’t tell me my fucking Achilles heel of men existed in cotton spandex pants, and a baseball cap,” Eddie complained, crawling back over to the bench to pull himself up onto it. “He looks so fucking good, Chrissy. God… it’s like the gods sculpted his ass and put it inside white sheets woven from the strings of fate itself.” Chrissy missed the swing and puffed, putting her hands on her hips as she caught her breath. “You’re really….” she sighed, finally looking over at Eddie and smiling at him, “... into this guy, Eddie. You going to write poetry for all the boys you get a crush on? It’s pretty cute, actually.” “Don’t call me cute,” Eddie huffed, rolling his face toward the bench to hide from Chrissy. “I just… don’t want to fuck this up, Cece…”

Eddie heard the door to the squash court open and the muted sound of Chrissy’s shoes against the mats. It didn’t take long for her to get to the bench and sit down with him, her fingers instantly in his hair. It was soothing, and Eddie only resisted for a moment before he inched forward and put his head in her lap. 

“You won’t mess it up…” Chrissy repeated, tailoring her reply so she wasn’t swearing as well. Chrissy was sweet, and Eddie was no stranger to this sort of kindness from her. They had dated, once upon a time, and Eddie could confidently say that Chrissy was the only person he had been with that he had really loved. He still loved her, even though they weren’t together, and he didn’t think he could ever not love Chrissy Cunningham, but the attraction they had once shared was void now. They just weren’t meant to be romantic, but Eddie knew that losing that intimacy with Chrissy had destroyed his heart. Still, he was more than grateful to have her as a friend. No one knew him better than Chrissy, and he didn’t hold out hope for them to get back together. It had been the drugs that had broken them up, but it had been Chrissy’s confession that she was more attracted to women that had kept them apart. 

He didn’t begrudge her, but Eddie had never been able to shake the feeling that he had been the one to fuck everything up for them. That it was his shortcomings that had poked holes into an already sinking ship. He was great at that kind of stuff— an expert at ruining a good thing. 

“I don’t know… if I’m ready,” Eddie confessed, his necklaces clinking together as he rested his head on Chrissy’s thighs. 

“Ready for what?” Chrissy asked, her voice gentle as she continued to pet his hair away. “A relationship…” Eddie sighed. He had been single for years now and had only really pursued flings or one-night stands. Even then, he had gotten out of rehab a few months ago and he hadn’t even tried to hook up with anyone since getting out. It was too intimidating to flirt when he didn’t have drugs to rely on, and now he was being blindsided by the prospect that he didn’t just want to sleep with Steve. 

“You really like this guy, huh?” Chrissy smiled, her tone so caring it made Eddie’s heart ache. 

He hid again, rolling his face into the crisp white of Chrissy’s uniform. She looked tooth-achingly sweet in it, and Eddie only let himself feel a little bad for getting eyeliner on her skirt. 

“Oh, Eddie…” Chrissy lamented, still petting his head. “You’re allowed to want things, sugar.”

Eddie let out a held breath, his fingers clenching at the soft fabric of Chrissy’s outfit. “But what… if I fuck it up?” He asked again, the fear edging into his voice as he let himself get vulnerable. “How would you mess it up?” Chrissy asked, sounding more like a mother than someone Eddie’s own age. “I don’t know,” Eddie whined, “open my mouth and speak? Show him the fact that I’m a giant fucking nerd with an ego the size of Australia and daddy issues that span the Atlantic Ocean?” 

“You’re being dramatic,” Chrissy sighed, her tone remaining gentle. “Even if that was true, if he doesn’t like or well… accept that kind of stuff about you, he’s not going to be a very good boyfriend.”

Eddie groaned softly, knowing that Chrissy was right, but hating the idea that they could just not work out, and he would have to let go of the idea of Steve Harrington. “What if… he’s just looking for something… short term?” Eddie questioned, feeling his heart and stomach clench in unison. “Well, then you get at least one great night of sex with playboy, Steve Harrington,” Chrissy replied matter-of-factly.

“Chrissy!” Eddie gasped, lifting his head to look at her. He was only mildly scandalized that she would say something forward like that, but he amped up his reaction to get a smile out of her. 

“Lots of ladies are frothing at the mouth to get a date with him, you know,” she continued, grinning. “And you’ve gotten, what? Four dates in the last week?” Eddie breathed a laugh and put his head back down, smiling at her reassurances. She was right. They had been flirting pretty relentlessly, and Eddie was certain Steve was interested in him. So, for flirting to extend over the course of a week… that had to mean Steve wanted more than just a fling, right? 

“You really think I have a shot with him?” Eddie asked, his voice quiet as he turned the idea of just kissing Steve over in his mind. 

“I really think you do,” Chrissy concluded, tugging Eddie’s earlobe until he hissed and sat up. “You’re a catch, Eddie.” He smiled bashfully at her and looked away, rubbing his ear. “Really,” Chrissy offered, patting his thigh. “If you’re just you, really you, without any of the fame or drugs or anything like that… he has to fall for you. If he already likes you enough to ask you out, I have no doubt that he’ll like the real you, Eddie.” 

Eddie frowned, still unable to look at Chrissy as she placated him with compliments. The worst part of it was that he knew she meant it. They weren’t in love, but he loved her. “You’re succeeding in helping my ego take over New Zealand, too,” Eddie teased, sniffing as he tried to hide how touched he was by Chrissy’s comment. She gave his thigh a good pat and then stood up, tucking the frills of her skort behind her as she walked back toward the squash court. 

“Who knows, Eddie,” Chrissy chimed, “maybe this is the makings of real love.” She flashed him a little smile and then slipped back into the court, picking her racket up and starting to warm the ball again. 

Eddie blinked at her, and then slowly felt his cheeks flush as he took those words in. Real love, huh? He really liked the idea of falling in love with Steve. 

Chapter 3

[thefiresofpompeii]

watched the mad woman in the attic. maybe i’m babybrained cocomelon brainrotted or something but why is this legitimately better than torchwood like?? or at least equal to it in complexity and subtext.*

but jesus christ… what a message about possessive friendship and the inability to let go — the parallels between eve mind-controlling the homeless people to do her bidding because she “just wants friends”, sam doing the same to rani (thinking she abandoned him after he stopped being her only friend, and trying to guilt-trip her into coming back) and rani doing the same to the bannerman road gang (becoming overly paranoid and gaslighting herself into believing she’s not good enough for them because they dare mention maria). THREE LAYERS of mirroring… “maria’s the new sarah jane” being salt on the wound of rani’s aspirational “sarahjaneification” … parallels with martha’s early-s3 complex of being unable to live up to rose, too …

^the ship interface is saying this about eve, but it can just as well be interpreted in a metaphorical sense: rani is a child trying to be an adult, rani is trying to become sarah jane, and it will hurt her. funny how the ghost of doctorification haunts the narrative even in his absence, it’s that powerful. The Doctor is a sort of memetic virus that is passed down from mentor to student, and although its intensity diminishes over time, it can still be fatal. gwen wants to imitate jack harkness. jack harkness wants to imitate The Doctor. rani wants to imitate sarah jane. and sarah jane wants to imitate The Doctor

^eve’s Not-Regeneration — proof of convergent evolution among time-active species? river song’s existence says “yes”. potentially, exposure to the vortex itself gives you the “golden energy emanating from your outstretched limbs” perk

also, from a lore perspective… eve’s species are fascinating aliens. a time-sensitive AND time-active people that’s not connected to the timelords in any way, we don’t see that nearly often enough! as for their backstory (being subject to a genocide as collateral damage because a race that can see the outcome of a conflict is dangerous to both warring parties), that’s definitely a main-show rather than kids-spinoff type concept. wonder what they were doing during the War, not the war on their planet, but the universe-spanning one. judging by the capabilities of their spaceships, the time technology they used is pretty advanced. eve may have been lying by omission: maybe the species that genocided them were none other than the residents of a certain planet that tries by all means to maintain a monopoly on time travel. they don’t like other species messing about with the web that they so carefully wove… ah, now THAT’S a plot seed for a short story in a faction paradox anthology if i ever saw one

Old Rani’s plot was also all incredibly 73 yards. the more i watch, the more i realise just how intertwined ruby sunday’s story so far has been with various callbacks and parallels to sja… it’s gotta mean something? something something trickster pantheon something somehow one who waits

*i almost hesitated to post this because the internet Hates people that analyse kids’ media with any degree of sincerity (im usually toeing the line anyway; the main show isn’t really Aimed At Adults either. which we sometimes forget)

[doyawalker]

Out Of Sight, Out Of Mind #12

chapter 11.

this is it. the chapter with (almost) all the answers because Jungkook finally can't take it anymore and has to tell you the truth. But is he really though?

contains mentions of (over-)drinking, smoking and again, a lot of feels lol

masterlist

previous chapter

taglist: @generalchopshopgoatee , @namjooning-94, @hopefulrascalstatesmantoad, @parkinglot-nights , @y2kcy3brz

__

And I Wonder If You See Me In Another Lifetime

The last couple of days had been a haze, every hour blending into the other, the cup in his hand filling itself automatically, the cigarettes in his ashtray growing in number rapidly. He had told Namjoon everything that night. And while it felt good to finally get the feelings of his chest, he didn’t enjoy the advice his friend had given him.

‘You need to tell her everything.’ 

How could he? Telling you everything would mean that this would be his last and only chance, because you would either forgive him or finally ban him from your life completely. He wasn’t ready to face that ultimatum. And knowing how much he fucked up, he scared your reaction too much. Would you even be able to forgive him? 

And so he continued to numb the pain because it was the easier option. Or so he thought. Because as time went on and he isolated himself mentally more and more from his friends, his nights became more restless each time. The cigarettes burnt in his throat more than usual, the liquor clouding his mind in a way that made him want to throw up. He was convinced that he was finally turning crazy. 

And it wasn’t until that particular Friday where Namjoon finally made his way through his fogged mind again, that the environment around him felt real once more.

“Jungkook, for fucks sake, you have to stop drinking!”

Taking the cup from his hand, his older friend looked down onto him, his brows furrowed and concern flaming up in his eyes. 

Jungkook looked up at him slowly, his lips pressed together in a tight line.

“Jesus Christ. You are moving your ass over to her place now and you are going to talk to her. And if you don’t do it, I will go over there and tell her. I can’t look at you being so fucking mental anymore.”Namjoon’s words barely reached his consciousness, as he simply stared at him, jaw clenched.

It all felt useless anyway. What difference would it make if he would tell you? He was so sure that you wouldn’t forgive him that he would rather give up on you completely instead.

He just needed time to accept that.

Sighing, Namjoon ran a hand through his hair, bowing down to come face to face with Jungkook. 

The outlines of his face were blurry in his eyes, his sudden proximity took him by surprise.

“Jungkook, I swear to god. Talk to me. What is the problem here? Do you really just want to sit here and let life pass you by? Not do anything? Drink your health away? When was the last time you went to the gym? When was the last time you had a proper meal that didn’t consist of just carbs and fat? This is not the Jungkook I know. Since when are you giving up so fucking easily?”

He couldn’t answer. But Namjoon’s words were starting to reach through to him slowly. And there was a voice, somewhere deep, deep inside of him that started to whisper back to him.

“You told me the whole story, Jungkook. And I promise, if you go and tell her the truth she will understand. Yes, you fucked up on some parts but this wasn’t your fault alone. Don’t tell yourself that.”Namjoon kneeled down now, grabbing Jungkook by the shoulders and gently shaking him in his seat. 

“Jungkook, if you don’t do anything now, Taehyung will take his chance with her. He told Yoongi a few days ago that he’s interested in her. If you don’t get your shit together, you might lose her for real. So, what the fuck are you waiting for?”

And that piece of information finally opened up the space in his mind again, as the sudden jealousy took him by storm, the whisper in his chest suddenly turning into a growl. He jumped up from his chair, his squinted eyes viewing Namjoon carefully.

“He really thinks he has a chance with her?”, he muttered under his breath, his teeth clenched together so much that he felt the veins pulsating in his throat.

And it really didn’t take much more for him to finally move. Because the thought of you together with Taehyung was even worse than the possibility of you rejecting him. He could never live with the regret of not telling you the truth. 

Pushing past his friend carelessly, his feet started to move on their own, carrying him toward the exit of Jin’s and Hoseok’s garden. And as he walked through the gate that led him out onto the street he heard Namjoon yell something behind him, but he didn’t even try to understand it. His mind wasn’t clouded from the alcohol anymore but rather by the thoughts of you. The thoughts he had tried to suppress so much, now all crashing down onto him and the urgency to finally see you again made his skin itch. He knew where Taehyung lived.

And so his feet quicken their pace, rushed by the possibility that you were sitting in Tae’s arms right now, and soon he was running down the street, his sight still blurry but his mind sharp enough to find its way to you. 

The thoughts in his head were racing with the words he wanted to tell you, he didn’t even know where to start but he didn’t care. He would find a way. He would make you stay. He knew it. And that realization made him sprint even faster as he crossed the street carelessly, a car honking at him brutally, but he didn’t mind. His body continued to move on its own, carrying him closer and closer to you.

And when he finally turned the corner into your street, the sky opened itself up as heavy drops of rain started to fall onto his jacket and his face. He didn’t mind.

Pushing open the entrance door to your apartment complex, he hurried up the stairs. You lived on the third floor. He ran past the other doors, only half-heartedly focusing on the numbers outside on them.

304. 305. 306. 

And then he was there. 307.

His feet finally came to a halt again. His chest and throat were aching from the running, his breath coming in and out of his lungs rapidly. But it was all irrelevant because he was finally where he was supposed to be. And so he started to bang his fists against your door carelessly, not willing to wait another second to see you again.

“Jungkook, what the f-”

But he just barged into your apartment and as he pushed past you, you smelt the alcohol radiating off him. He looked tired. His hair was messy, his curls not as pretty as usual. His chest was rising up quickly as if he had been running all the way here. And maybe he had because there were a few drops of water in his hair and on his clothes, the white tee under his gray jacket clinging to his broad figure.

His eyes frantically searched your kitchen and living room area, as he turned around to face you. 

Closing the door behind him again, you look at him and as you did something fluttered in the pit of your stomach. Because suddenly you felt excited. Excited to finally see him again and only now you realized that you had missed his presence in a way. 

“Is Taehyung here?”, he asked.

“No, why?”

He stepped closer to you and while he was surrounded with the smell of alcohol and cigarettes, you still noticed his usual perfume. The musky scent filled your senses as your eyes wandered over his features that looked so distorted with something you didn’t recognize on him.

“I can’t do it.”, he announced, his eyes burning themselves into yours. “I just can’t.”

“You can’t do what?”

He ran a hand through his hair, closing his eyes to take a deep breath in. You had never seen him this distraught. As if every piece of his facade had finally dropped and now he was standing here before you, displaying his emotions like it was an art gallery.

“I fucking can’t stay away from you.”, he blurted out. “I tried, okay? I really tried because I know you don’t want me to be around you, but I can’t.”

A second passed by.

“I know what happened. Of course, I fucking remember what happened back then. And I know it was a dick move to make you believe I don’t.” 

He got even closer, his head tilted to the side, his eyes searching for something in yours. 

“I know you were in love with me. Of course, I remember that. And I know I fucked up so badly by just leaving you but there was so much more happening back then and I just…”, he paused for another second. “I was a fucking idiot and I didn’t act right. I didn’t know how to act.”

His words were slowly seeping into your mind as everything unfolded around you.

Something was burning in the corner of your eyes, his voice echoing through your chest as your heart rate accelerated. The room around you turned blurry as you could only focus on him.

“I didn’t want to hurt you. Back then. I noticed that you weren’t happy with me and so I asked Lou what was going on with you. And she just kept on telling me how fucking hurt you were because of me, how I was ruining you and your life, how I needed to stay away from you. But I couldn’t. Fuck, Y/N, I couldn’t.”

Badum. Your heart was beating so loudly in your ears that you were scared you wouldn’t hear him. But you did. 

“That’s why I started to act so…shitty. I was so unsure of what to do because I didn’t want to hurt you and then I tried to act like a dick on purpose so that you would leave me because I knew I couldn’t do it. But you stayed and I hurt you even more and it was breaking me. And Lou kept on telling me how horrible I was being, how I didn’t deserve you and I guess she was right. And then one day, she forced me to leave you. Because she found out that we were still meeting up and she talked so much shit into me that I believed her.”

He paused, taking another breath in.

“But you ended up in a relationship with her.”, you managed to croak out, your voice sounding so weak that it was merely more than a whisper.

His expression shifted, his eyes becoming even darker. His face was painted with what looked like pain and regret.

“I know. It was…messed up. She manipulated me like she did with everyone around her. I was broken when I left you and she was there to catch me before I fell down. She just turned up at my house everyday, comforting me, telling me that I did the right thing. And my parents caught onto that quickly. And somehow she just…she just sneaked herself into my life and when my parents asked us for the date when we got together, she just randomly said something and somehow…somehow we were together suddenly. I wasn’t aware enough to understand what was happening and it took me one and a half years to finally get away from her.”

“I thought she broke your heart.”, you mumbled, your body leaning toward him automatically. 

“She didn’t. When I tried to break up with her she had conditions. Conditions about what the world would know about this break-up. Because she was so scared about her image, I don’t fucking know. I didn’t care. I just wanted to be away from her. And so she made me agree that we tell everyone that she was the one that left me and that I was so heartbroken over her. And then she finally left me alone. And it was easy to numb out all the voices that tried to comfort me or whatever. I was just happy to be alone again.” He paused another second. “And then I met you again.”

You stared at each other and you couldn’t help but smile slightly at his words. This was everything you ever wanted. The explanations. The truth. The fucking feelings. He was here, right in front of you, giving you everything you ever asked for. And you couldn’t believe it.

“And I was so shocked to see you again because I never thought I would. But of course, I remembered everything that happened. And I didn’t know if you would even want to talk to me but I knew I had to try. And at first I thought that it would be easy, that I was over you completely. But I’m not. Fuck, Y/N, you’re all I think about. You kept me awake for the past three weeks and I just can’t stay the fuck away from you, although I don’t know if you can ever forgive me. But you at least deserve to know the truth. And so…here I am.”

He finally concluded, slightly out of breath from all the talking, his eyes still focused on you. 

And the world was spinning around you, your mind trying to understand every little piece of information he had just given to you, missing puzzle pieces falling into place. And he gave you time. He just stood there. Seemingly as lost as you, his expression so pure with emotions, something so atypical for him but it was the most attractive you had ever seen him. 

And maybe it was the fact that you were just ripped out of sleep or the way he had cursed your name but suddenly your body acted without your mind controlling it.

And so you leaned forward, closing the little space that was left between the two of you as your lips collided against his, your arms falling around his neck automatically. Your head was still spinning, everything inside you in a turmoil, but the feelings of his lips against yours as he kissed you back, made everything seem okay. 

And so the two of you lost yourselves in the kiss that started out softly, but as the burning of desire sparked inside of you, you couldn’t help but press yourself against him harder, making him groan against your lips. Then his hands were all over you, tracing your waist gently but firmly, making your body shutter in his grip. You had never felt like this before with him. As if he was a different person and maybe he was. Maybe he had become a different person over those past two years. And maybe you were different too and this new you could finally let go of the pain buried inside of you. Because although you still had a lot of questions, you could tell that he was being honest. Honest for the first time it seemed. His emotions were too raw, too unfiltered to be another lie. 

And that’s why you chose to just push your thoughts to the side and let yourself fall into him completely. 

His kisses became more demanding, one hand finding the back of your neck and tilting your head to the side so that he could get better access. And then he started to push you backwards. Gently at first and as you obeyed, more harsh until the lower part of your back hit against your kitchen table. You moaned against him quietly and he took a second to break away from you, looking you into the eyes. They were boiling with the same feelings you felt inside of you, his hair messy from where your hands had pulled at.

“Fuck, you are so fucking beautiful, you know that?”, he mumbled, his fingers against your chin. And this made you lose it all. Because he had never called you that. He had called you hot and every other word in the universe to describe how fuckable you were but he had never called you beautiful.

And as you felt this bittersweet tug at your heartstrings, he leaned closer again, kissing you once more with so much passion that it made you dizzy. His chest pushed you further back before his hands wandered down your body, gripping your thighs and effortlessly lifting your ass up to sit on the table behind you. Almost automatically, your legs fell open, gaining him the access he wanted to bring his body even closer to yours, one of his hands falling beside your hips on the table for support, the other still wrapped around the underside of your thigh. 

He kissed you so slowly that you almost went crazy in his touch, the heat of his body feeling so good against you that you knew you needed more. More of him. 

And so you quickened the pace of the kiss, earning yourself a groan that erupted somewhere deep in his chest as he responded to your request, his hand roaming your body once more as if he just couldn’t get enough of feeling your skin against his fingers.

His touch wandered back up to your waist, slowly closing in onto the swell of your breasts and you were so eager for him to reach the sensitive spot, so lost in the bliss of the moment, that you almost didn’t hear the key turning in the lock of your apartment’s front door.

Almost.

And as the realization cut through your clouded mind like a knife, you took a sharp breath in, pushing your hands against his chest quickly, making him take two steps backward.

His brows furrowed together, his gaze questioning you but your eyes were fixated on Taehyung, who opened the door in the exact same moment you hurriedly closed your legs, begging to whatever entity above you that you didn’t look as agitated as you felt. 

But judging the look on Tae's face as his eyes fell on you, you probably did. 

Fuck.

He came to a halt in the doorframe, his eyes darting back and forth between Jungkook and you and as Jungkook turned around to look at what you were so shocked about, his gaze darkened.

“What the fuck is he doing here?”, Tae asked, his voice laced with disapprovement. 

You jumped back onto your feet, rushing over to your roommate. He was obviously drunk from his little get together with his friends and this was really not optimal, because he couldn’t keep his mouth shut whenever he drank. 

“Hi, Taehyung. How was your evening? Are you okay?”, you asked, trying to ease the tension that grew thicker with each passing second but of course, Taehyung wouldn’t let this pass.

His eyes snapped on you, viewing your lips carefully.

“Did you just fucking make out with him? What the fuck?!”

He was almost yelling, the skin between his eyebrows pulled together as he glared back at Jungkook. 

“Get the fuck out of my apartment, dude. You have no business being here.”

“This isn’t only your apartment.”, Jungkook responded seemingly calm. “I am here to see her, not you.”

“She doesn’t want to see you.”, Tae hissed, taking a step closer toward him, his eyes squinted together.

Panic overcame you as you realized the potential danger of the situation unfolding in front of you. Pushing your body between the two men, you grabbed Tae by the shoulders, keeping him in a safe distance. “Tae, calm down, okay? We just talked. Nothing happened.”

“Just talked, my ass. Is this really all it takes for you to fall for his stupid gimmicks again? He just has to come here in the middle of the night when you feel lonely, ready to throw yourself into whoever’s arms?”

He glared at you with such intensity that you dropped your hands back down to your side. 

“Did you forget what the fuck he did to you? You cried to me about him just two weeks ago and now everything is forgotten? What the fuck is wrong with you?!” 

And his words pierced your skin, hurting you somewhere deep inside your chest, as his anger hit you right in the face. You stared at him, slowly blinking, the words hanging in the air and as a few seconds passed, Taehyung seemed to understand the meaning of his words.

“Tae, shut up. What kind of friend are you?”

Jungkook’s voice cut through the silence, his hand falling on your shoulder to pull you back against him. 

“This is none of your business. I came here to apologize to her because I know that I hurt her. This has literally nothing to do with you, so I would suggest that you go into your room and leave her the fuck alone.”

Tae’s eyes widened, his gaze searching yours. But you didn’t know what to say. Still stung by his words, you pressed your lips together, simply staring at him.

And that’s when he caved in, dropping his head to look at the floor, taking a deep breath in.

And without another word, he turned on his heels, rushing into his room and closing the door with such force that the sound echoed through the whole apartment. 

__

[simplespacedust]

hey so i'm gonna talk about pro-shippers because i feel like none of you have critical thinking skills.

please, if you are going to read this, read to the end because there are multiple parts to my argument.

SOMETHING IMPORTANT: i don't think it is okay to doxx, harass, or send death threats to people on the internet! if you send death threats to people, you are awful! if you go out of your way to harass people when they tell you to leave them alone, you are awful! if someone says something you don't like, talk with them like a normal fucking person jesus christ! if you repeatedly harass a pro-shipper, you are not helping them get any better!

firstly, in terms of "problematic" stuff in mainstream media, most component people can recognize when a piece of media is commenting on something with the use of a relationship/something problematic as a metaphor. just because something exists on-screen doesn't necessarily mean the message of the media endorses it. this is why you never (hopefully) see anyone getting upset about murder in movies. the piece of media is not saying murder is good. it is using it to make a commentary/characterize someone/etc.

now that we have set that precedent, we can move on to pro-shipping in fandom spaces. pro-shipping in fandom spaces if often fundamentally different between than the more general category of just "relationships in media." in fandom spaces, the tendency when creating art, writing fics, posting headcannons, etc. is for the purpose of personal/audience enjoyment. this is why pro-shipping is more often problematic within fandoms. if a person did want to create/add to problematic ships for a purpose other than getting off to it, that would be a different story! thats fine!

unfortunately, however, many pro-shippers do not proship for the literary merit/symbolism/characterization etc. many of them do it because they find the idea of parent-child or sibling-sibling relationships attractive. this is where the problem is. they symbol itself is not the problem, its the message/purpose of the work/art/headcannon itself.

i hear a lot of people talking about how pro-shipping is often a coping mechanism for dealing with trauma a person has experienced. my response to that? KEEP IT TO YOURSELF AND GO TO THERAPY!!!! if you are having to resort to jacking off to fictional incest to cope, then clearly you need the help of a professional to work through your issues! if you cannot for whatever reason, still keep it to yourself!

it is well understood that people are influenced by the opinions of people around them/what they see and interact with. putting out bullshit on the internet that portrays problematic relationships as desirable can one, create a pedophile safe space, and two, unintentionally (or maybe even intentionally!) expose children to these types of relationships and make it seem normal in their brains, which could cause them to not speak up about it if something bad does actually happen to them! even if a person shouldn't be in a space, they are! it doesn't harm you to not post the porn you wrote of that one kid and his dad from south park. and that only talks about adult only spaces, i have seen a shit ton of pro-shippers on tiktok, a platform marketed towards minors.

ANOTHER SIDE NOTE (i have a lot to say and am terrible at organizing my thoughts srry) is that a lot of times pro-shippers infiltrate general fandom hashtags. a child who is scrolling though a bluey hashtag on tiktok should not have any risk of running into someone on the internet describing how bluey's dad would r4p3 her!

you may think that because you are only talking about fictional characters and "its a coping mechanism" its okay, but it is most certainly not! not all coping mechanisms are healthy and what you post on the internet most CERTAINLY has a real effect on people. this is basic media literacy and critical thinking, guys. stop posting child/sibling smut headcannons on the internet! it is absolutely vile!

with all of that being said, (i said this at the beginning but i am going to say it again) i still dont think it is okay to doxx, harass, or send death threats to people on the internet! if you send death threats to people, you are awful! if you go out of your way to harass people when they tell you to leave them alone, you are awful! if someone says something you dont like, talk with them like a normal fucking person jesus christ! if you repeatedly harass a pro-shipper, you are not helping them get any better!

(im gonna put a bunch of proshipper hashtags at the bottom of this to reach the targeted demographic, i am NOT a proshipper, i am NOT an "anti anti" and i do NOT believe proshippers are valid, again, this is just for reach just to be clear)

[phoenixwatchesmovies]

Dracula Season Watch Party: Bram Stoker's Dracula (1992)

The centuries old vampire Count Dracula comes to England to seduce his barrister Jonathan Harker's fiancée Mina Murray and inflict havoc in the foreign land. - Dir. Francis Ford Coppola

I haaaaaaaaaaaaated this the one and only other time I watched it because, for a movie calling itself Bram Stoker's Dracula, it sucks ass at adapting the novel. It hits all the beats but misses the themes and adds extra stuff, and Jonathan doesn't even go after the Count with a shovel, ffs. However, it is technically one of The Most Faithful adaptations we have to date, which is impressive considering how much story there is to adapt. And if I stop being such a purist turd.... *sigh* it's a good movie.

Like..... REALLY good. The costumes, the colors, the music, the camera work, everything has such a surreal vibe, and the scene transitions move with something like dream logic. Actually, I think "movement" sums up everything I loved. Shots moving around a scene, SO MUCH gauzy fabric moving in a breeze, Dracula and Mina moving through a crowd. It's ✨pretty✨

It's also horny AF. Jesus Christ.

That being said, I think the criticism I've seen saying this version turns Lucy into a slut is pretty unfair. She and Mina gossip about their relationships (and kiss in the rain, by god I ship it), and she's flirtatious with the suitor squad, big deal. She's never overtly sexual until she starts becoming a vampire, and that's nothing that doesn't already happen in the book. The two scenarios don't compare. One is established friendships that come equipped with camaraderie and intimacy, the other is a corruption. Like, that's literally what's happening, and that's where the horror comes from. As for this version's take on her sleepwalking, we are NOT calling that slut behavior. That's all I'm saying.

Speaking of the suitor squad (Lucy's potential fiances, for the uninitiated), I understand there is only so much you can squeeze into a two hour run time, but I wish they had more time to shine. I need more of Quincey being a manly man with the most golden heart of gold ever. I need more of Jack being the most lovesick and emo wreck of a human with a side of medical malpractice. Most importantly, I need Cary effing Elwes to have more to do as Art. Not that any one of Lucy's boyfriends loves her more than the others, but I feel like Art's devotion to her is given more weight because he was the one Lucy chose to marry, and ASDFGHJKL. You can't cast CARY ELWES, aka WESTLEY THE FARM BOY, of Thee Greatest Movie Ever Made The Princess Bride, and then NOT give him any room to work in that space. He could have eaten that shit up! You know it! I know it! The only people who apparently don't know it are the people who called the shots on everything from the script to the casting, because if we had spent more time with canon couple Art and Lucy and less with fanon couple Drac and Mina, WE COULD HAVE HAD IT ALL. *insert Adele gif because I couldn't actually find one*

While we're on the subject of Dracula and Mina as lovers doomed across centuries, YES, it's fucking romantic as shit and I've come across the concept in other stories and would have snorted that shit if possible, BUT. The addition here detracted from time we could have spent on Lucy, as mentioned above, and despite what I've said about that so far, I understand why you'd make that call. If there's going to be an epic Gothic romance, it might as well be the focal point of the story and therefore needs to happen between the leads. But.

BUT.

THAT'S ALREADY IN THE SOURCE MATERIAL. IT'S MINA AND JONATHAN!!!!! Jonathan Harker is peak Gothic wifeguy. Dude never stops thinking about how awesome his wife is and how much he loves her, and I can't even think about his refusal to let her be condemned to hell alone and his determination to damn himself with her if she became a vampire without getting in fits about it. He said "fuck God if he doesn't love Mina, he's not good enough for her and I love her enough for both of us," and you think ANY other love story can beat THAT??? They did my good friend Jonathan so so dirty.

On the subject of my good friend Jonathan, I know I'm not the only one who thinks Keanu Reeves would look so. Fucking. HOT. With gray hair. I don't know what they did to him in the back half of this movie, but rather than be disappointed in how fake it looks, I'm choosing to look forward to the day we finally get Silver Fox Keanu.

Other details I loved now that I'm done complaining include Mina's wardrobe echoing Elizabeta's gown in the prologue, red light reflecting off Renfield's glasses when he's talking about his master, red appearing more prominently in Mina's and Lucy's wardrobe as they fall under Dracula's influence, the zoom-in on the bite marks on Lucy's neck transitioning into the wolf's glowing eyes in the next scene, Dracula's shadow moving independently of his body, everything Anthony Hopkins is doing as Van Helsing, and the entire standoff between him and Mina and the brides.

I think I've said all I feel like saying, and it took a full 24 hours to stop talking, so in summary: I DO like this more than I used to, but I like it more when looking at it on its own merit and not as an adaptation. What I like, I really like. What I don't like, pretty much has to do with how it differs from the book. The most important part is that I had fun watching. Even if there aren't any flappy bats on a string.🥂

[paganminiskirt]

I love reading your analyzing of Coyle. I wondered if you had any thoughts on his sexuality? (I mean I have a damn spread sheet myself, but you're so much better at words and really great at psychoanalyzing lol). I've described him as being "the straightest gay man I've ever seen" to a few people now and eventually the "get" it.

(CW: discussions of canon typical sexual and racial violence, slavery, internalized homophobia, domestic violence and femicide. One of the linked videos also discusses fascism using disturbing transphobic rhetoric as an example.)

Thank you for your kind words, it’s really nice to know my ramblings are resonating with someone! Discussion should be allowed to emerge naturally, but I think much of the debate that arose from the revelation of Coyle’s character was removed from the context of the oppressed groups being commented on by the text. I say that mainly in reference to people of color, since the KKK represents a cultural trauma which is inextricably attached to blackness, but the statement applies to queer people as well. That very Klan was almost extinguished in the 1870s until it was revitalized half a century later by a film, of all things: media is obviously important. There’s much more that can be, and to an extent needs to be, said about this story beyond rehashing “it is/is not okay to hornypost about this” ad nauseam.

So let’s get this out of the way: I think Coyle was deliberately being written as queer. The ethics of incorporating LGBT characters in a setting so obsessed with the grotesque are questionable (you can read more perspectives on that here and here,) but I think there was intention behind the decision to depict him this way, whether it's "good representation" or not.

One of his defining traits is that he habitually deploys lewd, effeminate language to intimidate and dehumanize his victims: “alluring piglet,” “honey,” “beautiful/sexy b*tch,” “darling,” “sweet, ripe young things" and the like. You could argue that is solely a degradation tactic rather than a direct indicator of his sexual preference, and he does seem to do it primarily to scare you. But a big part of the horror in Kill the Snitch is that Coyle is very unembarrassed about how much pleasure he gets out of subjecting you to that degradation. (“You lick my boot, maybe I let you up.”) The innuendo he taunts the Reagents with is unaffected by their gender presentation, and The Snitch is a fixed character presented as a cis man who Coyle treats with just as much aggressive leeriness. From there, it's difficult to interpret him as straight. 

And since Coyle is one of the main villains of the game, I think I would be remiss if I argued that his bi/pansexuality is a thematically insignificant byproduct of his broader characterization as a sadist. That conclusion certainly presents itself: even if his queerness is loudly implied, it isn’t commented on directly by the text the way other aspects of his character are, like racism and uxoricide. The closest we get to a clear, unmistakable identification of his sexuality comes in the form of his aforementioned attitude towards The Snitch. 

While the Reagents are interchangeable grunts, The Oogie Boogie Man Snitch is Coyle's own prisoner, and as such we witness him compound the usual routine of sexualized cruelty with repeated assertions of possession, calling him things like “toy” “mine” and “property” to emphasize a sense of ownership. He comes completely undone when the Reagents electrocute him to death, exploding into thwarted, miserable rage like a kid watching their sandcastle get kicked to shit (“No! FUCKING NO! He was mine!”) and throwing out all of his beliefs at once as this jumbled, fascistic mess; “anarchist pinko fucks” this and “country’s going to shit” that.

Perhaps the most telling line about their dynamic is this one: “Jesus Christ you look like my second wife, you know that? Spittin' image. Woman got me 'bout as hot as Missouri asphalt.” The only time we see how Coyle interacts with people on an even playing field is in the files, when it’s mentioned that he killed two of his fellow soldiers when serving in the army & brutalized a murkoff agent interviewing him. The social dominance he has over people like The Snitch and his wives seems to be the only way he’s capable of conducting interpersonal relationships on a vaguely emotional level. Otherization, fuckability, and the need for corrective shame/subordination are all intertwined in Coyle's head, muddling together to form his notion of natural hierarchy: one which is incoherent, self-serving, and more about appearances than anything else. (“I know what you did. I just need to hear you say it.”)

And the importance placed on appearances isn’t just something that Leland happens to believe. In the era when this game takes place, the electric chair was at peak popularity as a form of “humane” capital punishment: in reality, it was a callous technological repackaging of the methods of execution which came before it, namely the (distinctly racialized) hanging/lynching. These methods were designed to reinforce social hierarchy by staging voyeuristic displays of dehumanization, and were levied with particular barbarism against people of color. There’s a catalog of horror stories I could insert here about white supremacy and the electric chair, but that’s another post entirely. What I want to establish is that:

A. It's easy to interpret The Snitch’s execution (and the Reagent’s forced participation in it) as a symbolic enforcement of Murkoff’s construction of social dominance, akin to capital punishment or lynching/state sponsored terrorism. B. Men like Coyle were categorically responsible for orchestrating executions like the one in the game, and the fact that he gets so angry and addled about it even though he’s ostensibly a follower of their doctrine speaks to the nature of his ideology. 

Though a lot of real world topics get touched on by Coyle's dialogue, it certainly isn’t 100% down-to-earth social critique. Many of his lines invite you to laugh at him (“It's hurtful when you disrespect the badge. I have feelings, too”/”Ain't you slicker'n a can of mashed assholes”) and his crimes themselves are, at times, overblown and ridiculous. He's a caricature of institutional violence and injustice, not a straight faced example of it. No, the realistic part of Coyle’s storyline is how the power structures of 1950s America both protected him from consequences and deliberately encouraged him to degenerate. I’ve alluded to this before: it’s one of my favorite things about Trials.

He was sent to military school because of his violent tendencies and joined the marines to avoid investigation after killing his first wife, but once he had the Police Department to shield him his behavior escalated in severity so much so that it attracted the attention of an even worse organization. The process was Military School → Ku Klux Klan → Marines → Police Department → Murkoff. This facet of the story was always there, but the newly released comic really hammers in the point, that Coyle - infantile, nonsensical, vulgarly abusive and utterly unworthy of authority - was never a barely tolerated outlier or a well kept secret within the systems he budded up from. The files directly attach his klan involvement to police work even as he's described as a “good cop:” because there were no good cops in Blackwell, because good cops aren’t real. US Law Enforcement can be traced back to early southern slave patrols, they've had a handshake agreement with the Klan for decades, and you need look no further than the recent Minneapolis Police Department exposé to see how they operate in the modern world - and this game is set sixty years before 2023. Horrifying, yeah?

Understanding cops themselves to be fundamentally immoral and unjust, by the time we meet him in the game, Coyle isn’t even a competent cop in terms of his willingness to enact unjust aims. Yes he is brutal, yes he is racist, yes he clings to the childish, cowardly belief in immutable superiority found in actual modern fascists - but the ouroboros of psychosexual issues driving him to behave the way he does take precedence over his purported devotion to any belief system, to such a degree that he isn’t even acting in explicit defense of an institution anymore. That job, to defend the current institution, is what the Reagents are being trained for: the same ones he deems subhuman and, most tellingly, “perverted.”

One thing that makes Coyle’s whole presence in Kill The Snitch  so surreal and disorienting is how manufactured and aimless his job as The Snitch’s defender really is. The man play acts an interrogation of someone who will never see trial, referencing vice squads, courts and elections that are nowhere to be found in the Sinyala facility - even though a different line of his mentions how they “don’t favor courts in these parts.” So, he’s directly contradicting himself. When the Snitch dies, he goes “NO! NO! I'll never... God DAMNIT,” not even finishing his own sentence about what it is he apparently needed The Snitch for.

The man obviously thinks otherwise, but he’s a make-believe cop, a test dummy for trainees to be pitted against ala shencomix’s professional hater. Though nowhere near as disenfranchised, Coyle is a puppet in Murkoff’s trials as much as the Reagents are, all his nasty, grandiose rhetoric ultimately amounting to hot air: and unlike the Reagents, this does not end with him being reborn. He lacks the overarching purpose of eventual service to a greater cause that they have.

And therein lies the self-destroying prophecy inherent to his understanding of reality. You can argue that Coyle is aware (subconsciously or otherwise) that there exists the potential for him to be otherized, and by extension subordinated, for an immutable part of himself which is directly attached to his sexuality and masculinity. I’d be surprised if he wasn't, considering how loudly the prejudices of the culture he arose from are relayed to the audience. The fear that comes from that knowledge gives birth to an obsession with categorism, shame, and “justice:” which he rationalizes as an immutable aspect of reality by connecting it with the natural phenomenon of lightning. (“I used to stand in a storm and watch the lightning strike the plains and I would think, "well there you go." That's justice. Sometimes the finger of God reaches down and touches you. But you never know which finger it is you're gonna get.”)

This leads to violence which he is constantly rewarded for: and because it’s the only viable outlet he has for exercising those very issues which he was trying to avoid confronting in the first place… he overindulges. Loses all interest in presenting the rhetoric coherently, in favor of chasing the immediate release that cruelty provides with ever-increasing vigor. (Funny how he calls the Reagents “dope addicted” too. Mr. Sony VPL strikes again!)

But in the end, Coyle is worthless. He’s a tool, designed to be overcome. It's a similarly symbolic, utilitarian role to that of The Snitch, which potentially feeds into his perverse sense of protectiveness over him, but the people who are coming out the other end of this with a job to do in the real world are the Reagents. People he looks down on, people he terrorizes, people he’s so desperate to bend to his will. He’s like... white chauvinism revealed as senseless, small and disgusting, condemned to chase its own tail & buckle under its own weight no matter how hard it shakes it's fist at the sky. 

And in a series so fixated on delusion and the disintegration of the self, the nugget of reality within that was thrilling to see on screen. 10/10, would cringe at again.

[comfort-person]

Publicity stunt

This GIF IM SORRY WHAT?!!!! 😩😩😩😩 anyways moving on this story is based on the ‘one bed’ trope. Yes I’m obsessed. I hope you all enjoy!!

Synopsis: you and Harry are forced to be a publicity stunt. He is your boyfriend for one year. A signed contract. But one problem… you hate each other.

Harry styles x fem! Reader

The lights of the paparazzis blinded you and Harry, Harry’s head bowed as his arm was wrapped tightly around you giving the impression of a protective boyfriend protecting his girlfriend his slender fingers wrapped around your hip as you both walked towards the doors of the five star hotel. Fans were screaming, shoving pictures and cd’s towards him attempting to get his attention but all he wanted to do was relax… what a day it had been. He was chewing a piece of gum, curly hair messy but driving the girls and guys wild as usual. His other hand was holding his water bottle, his sunglasses and his car keys… yes he did in fact have pretty big hands.

Once inside of the hotel, away from the eyes of the public you pulled away from Harry not saying anything to him as you walked to your guys’ hotel room. Eventually once at the right room you slid the card in before pulling it out abruptly the green light flickering slightly letting you know it had been unlocked before you pushed the door open, not holding it open for the man as instead it slammed into his arm “thanks.” He spoke sarcastically, you would’ve said something even more sarcastic if it wasn’t for the issue that had now made itself apparent to you… one fucking bed. Great! Just your luck, right? “Are you serious? Harry didn’t you say you got two separate beds?” You asked Harry dropping his stuff onto the desk

“Yes. I did. But clearly they didn’t listen… it isn’t my fault.” He spoke and you glared at him “not your fault? Pfft.” You scoffed, Harry’s cold green eyes boring into you as he stared an annoyed unimpressed look on his face “and earlier you called me childish. Grow the fuck up y/n.” He spat out, your attention now on him, a steamy angry emotion in both of you as you glared into each others eyes “it’s. a. bed. If you’re so unhappy with it sleep on the floor.” He muttered annoyed before sitting down on the bed, the outside world was already dark, and harry was just about ready for bed. You couldn’t believe what he was saying and hated the fact that he just didn’t seem to care… he was truly a fucking asshole. Gods could your life get any worse? “People describe you as a gentleman… apparently you’re not. Because if you were you would’ve offered to sleep on the floor… cliche but if you did I might actually like you.” You spoke, yet didn’t even get a response from him. He just ignored you. Blatantly ignoring you. It pissed you off. Yet you watched as he soon grabbed a hold of a pillow neither of you would use before he stuffed a pillow in between the already laid out pillows- the one pillow standing up right creating an invisible equal line down the middle of the bed, “there… better princess.” He spoke sarcastically and you glared at him annoyed “you stick to your side. I stick to mine.” He spoke and you just nodded your head, before hurrying into the bathroom with your pyjamas, Harry getting changed himself before the both of you decided to wind down for the night.

Harry’s back was facing you, your back facing him too, the pillow being a lot of help actually yet you couldn’t get comfortable whatsoever. It was as if something was bugging you… and you forced yourself to believe it was him that was bugging you. But in reality it was this whole entire situation… you liked harry… and hated the fact that you both had to go around hiding these stupid fucking lies. You had been fidgeting nonstop for a good hour and a half, Harry’s eyes narrowed as he stared at the wall blankly… he was really biting his tongue. But that’s when your cold foot touched the back of his leg his body jumping

“Jesus Christ y/n! You’re freezing… stop fidgeting and go to sleep” he spoke, voice laced with tiredness the deepness making his voice crackle slightly. “Okay. ‘m sorry.” You muttered before rolling onto your stomach before attempting to sleep again, Harry’s eyes fluttering shut as he sighed softly, relaxing all until a minute later you were moving again- bed creaking, foot colliding with Harry’s ass “ow!” He rolled onto his back neck craned to look at you “will you stop? You’re certainly doing that on purpose.” He spoke, your brows furrowed in discomfort “I’m sorry… I can’t sleep… can’t get comfortable. I miss my home… my own bed…” you murmured Harry’s eyes opening slightly wider as he listened to you “well… you’ll be able to go home sooner once you fall asleep.” He spoke before attempting to roll back over and sleep only to be grabbed by your gentle hand eyes full of sadness and worry

“Harry…” you whispered “y/n.” He spoke in the same tone “hold me.” Those words practically stumped Harry, as he froze, blinking- utterly baffled. Did he just hear you right. “What?” “Hold me Harry. Please… I- I can’t sleep unless close to someone… or something…” usually you had your back pressed against the wall but there was no wall either of the sides of the bed. All apart from Harry. Harry closed his eyes, exhaling quietly before shaking his head “fine.” He rolled over to face you, you rolling over again so your back was facing him before you backed up into his warm embrace- back pressing against his chest, his arms lightly wrapping around your waist hands closed into fists to make sure to not touch you without you wanting him to, your body soon relaxing as you closed your eyes, Harry relaxing too as slowly but surely the both of you fell into somewhat of a peaceful sleep.

Hours passed before eventually it was morning again, 6am to be precise. You would’ve slept in longer if it wasn’t for the fact that Harry’s fans were screaming his name… one side yelling ‘Harry’ another yelling ‘styles’ it was continuous. Annoying. Frustrating.

Your eyes fluttered open confused, a soft groan leaving your lips, yet that soon became the least of your worries as you soon realised you were not facing a wall anymore… but rather Harry himself… your chest pressed against his, face inches from his, your eyes widening slightly in shock…. You must’ve really gotten comfortable last night… Jesus. You stared shocked but didn’t attempt to move as you soon instead found yourself admiring him… his lips… his nose…. The way his eyelashes brushed against the tops of his cheeks… his hair sprawled out onto the pillow lips slightly pouted, arms still wrapped around you tightly and securely. His defined jawline and cheekbones making your stomach flutter. So much so you carefully reached your arm behind you grabbing your phone as you quickly but efficiently took a picture of him asleep, immediately posting it to Instagram keeping your eyes on him but also your phone to make sure he didn’t see you doing such a… romantic? Thing.

A sudden “you know it’s rude to stare,” making you jump a small lazy smirk on Harry’s lips as he stared at you. You quickly turned your phone off dropping it by your side as you stared at him “sorry..” you smiled softly staring at him the feeling you had towards him was now of fondness rather than resentment. “Want to hear a joke?” He asked softly voice lazy and amused and you hummed watching as he smirked “right… okay.. what do you call a dinosaur who constantly kicks you up the bum?” You shook your head not knowing “a megasoreass…” your lips immediately upturned into a smile as you laughed “that’s so fucking stupid Harry.” You giggled out “okay okay I’ve got one…. What do you call someone who crosses the road to find a chicken?” Harry stared confused “uh I don’t know.” “Harry styles.” You spoke, Harry’s eyes narrowing as he glared at you playfully “well who’s the one who likes chicken here? I only eat fish… soo… I guess it’s really y/n y/l/n hm” he smirked at you your smile remaining yet both your faces began to relax as he began leaning in, you moving closer to him as well before the inevitable happened…

Your lips met with his, the pillow that once kept you both from being close to each other now was a place for both your heads to rest, Harry’s hand coming to cup your cheek, thumb brushing against your cheek bone as he kissed you deeply but passionately, eyes fluttered shut, growing more heated, his free hand sliding down your waist and your hands grasping onto his shoulders tightly hands soon curling into his hair, tugging slightly before eventually you were both forced to pull away…. Breathing heavily… looking into each others eyes as Harry stared at you

“Shit…” he murmured

“Shit.” You repeated after him studying his eyes silently… there’s no going back now, right? “Fuck it.” You whispered, lips colliding with his again as you kissed him passionately, the kisses messy and sloppy as his hands travelled down your waist, until eventually you were pulled on-top of him the filthy make out session continuing… and well….

The rest is history.