#what sort of past life transgressions

[pooksgetspooked]

Hierophilia pt2.

Summary: A devout priest of unshakable faith stumbles upon what could only be called his own slice of heaven. With no creature holier than you roaming the mortal realm, it serves to be beyond troubling when Leon finds himself quickly falling into the clutches of corruption by the mere presence of you. Pairing: Leon s. Kennedy x Angel!Fem!Reader Word Count: 3k

Content warnings: MDNI! Religion, Corruption, dub-con/non-con, possessive & obsessive undertones, definitely blasphemy

“Leon? You look awfully tired,” you hummed, peering down at him with worried eyes while you placed a gentle hand atop his head, caressing the mop of blonde, “is all well?”

Was all well? By all means, he should be, but he was anything but. You were ruining him. He was losing more of himself with each day around you.

Somehow, someway, you evoked all sorts of vile thoughts he would have once cringed at, but now made his dick twitch in his pants. He had never prayed more in his life than he has in the past week or so; and despite his lust driven devotion, the notion of God abandoning him was suddenly feeling all too real.

“I’m well, please don’t worry about me,” he sighed, voice gravelly and head hung low as he sat on the bed in his quarters with you standing above him. With what had transgressed, you quickly noticed Leon’s shifty behaviour, but not the cause of it.

For the better he thought, because he was certain if you could peek into his mind, you would take off like a skittish dove at first chance.

He didn’t deserve you, or the tender care you put into him. You had thought he was falling ill despite not sensing any ailment, but you made an effort to heal him.

You made soul food for him and brought it to his quarters for him to rest, tried to haggle with the ever growing mob of believers without him, you even tried to take over some of his duties so he would get more time to himself to rest.

He wanted to cry for all too many reasons. The internal conflict wagering between his relgion and beliefs; all thing he knew prior to you was at war against the very notion of having you.

But you were so kind, gentle and soft, like nothing he had ever known in his life. You showered him with a warmth he had never known in his life, and it felt like he would cripple if you were to ever leave him. He knew he shouldn’t feel any way like he did towards you, but he couldn’t help it.

“Are you sure? I’m growing worried about you, Leon. You’re more withdrawn, less enthusiastic to go talk with the other chapel people, you’re eating far less than you should. Please, is there nothing I can do for you?” You were almost begging him now, your voice making his chest ache.

He finally dared look up at you, his eyes dragging up your legs through the sheen nightgown, breath hitching when he found himself at eye level with your chest, before forcing himself to meet your gaze.

“I- no, we- there’s nothing, dove,” he tried to stop the saliva from pooling in his mouth, and from his crotch from bulging, but the damage you dealt on him was nothing he could stop. He couldn’t dampen his heavy breaths, or stop his gaze from trailing back down to stare at your nipples and how they peeked through the fabric, thin enough to see the pretty flushed shade.

Your eyes widened as you caught his words, back straightening in attention. That only had his boner at attention, because your chest nudged an inch closer to Leon’s face, his lips now close enough to hover over where your nipples were.

“You said we. There’s something we can do together to help you then!” You were so excited, the feathers of your wings ruffled and your halo seemed to glow just a little brighter. So naive and innocent, but he couldn’t. Not with you. Maybe he should just hook up with one of the chapel ladies he knew always eyed him during sunday masses and call it a day. Far less damaging to his guilty conscious, and he might still have a shot of maintianing his ticket to heaven.

He shook his head, lips parting as he leaned back just slightly. He needed to breathe. Had to pull himself out of proximity of your breast before he caved and did something he knew would be a point of no return. “No, no we can’t,” he breathed out, blinking hard as he scrambled to piece together the jumble of thoughts bouncing around in his head. “I mean there’s nothing. There’s nothing for us to do,” he corrected himself, cursing himself for the slip up as soon as he noticed the look of curiosity on your face.

When you were curious, you were relentless.

You whined softly as you leaned forward with him, staring down at him with sad, wide eyes and limp wings, “no, there is something and you’re keeping it from me. Please? I’ll do whatever it is, i’m okay with it!” So eager to please, Leon had to stop himself from groaning as his dick jumped beneath the cloth of his boxers. How could he resist when you made him feel like you looked up to him as your new God?

You were quickly closing the proximity between the two of you, your chest steadily approaching him as your leaned closer to him each time he leaned back, and Leon was growing dizzy as his eyes were steadfast on your chest.

He didn’t know how much more he could take before he relented. You were making it so needlessly difficult, how was he supposed to turn away from you.

It was when your hand slipped, no longer able to prop up your weight. Leon had always commented that you should eat a little more and exercise to put on some muscles on your twiggy arms. Now, Leon was a little more grateful for the bone of defiance in you.

Your chest planted into his face, your eyes growing wide as you hastily apologized and tried to pull away, “Leon! I’m so sorry, are you hurt-” any attempt to pull away was stumped by the slithering arms, toned and firm, coiling around your waist with hands creeping up your back to keep you in place.

Before you could say another word, the sensation of his tongue, warm and wet pressed flat against your nipple flooded out any previous thought. The sensation had your back arching, crotch nudging into his pelvis with hitched breath as your mind went hazy.

“Leon, wha?” You couldn’t help the pitched whine coaxed out of you when his lips wrapped around the pebbling nipple, tongue flicking and swirling around the hardened bud. Your legs were kicking, arms scrambling for purchase to try and pull away, but what use were limbs that had never worked a day in their life against someone who was well adept at labour? You were a snagged dove in the maws of a wolf. Helpless and very much fucked.

“Shh, calm down angel. You said you would help me, right?” Leon finally pulled away from your nipple with a pop, half lidded, dilated eyes staring up at your trembling form. He could feel you shaking above him, your wings fluttering with you as you panted from your struggle. Cute.

Leon didn’t give a shit anymore. He had to do something about this lust addled haze or he might actually combust and die. He can worry about any of the irreversable ramifications later, heaven be damned, because there’s no way heaven would grant him a pass to sleep with an angel as divine as you anyways.

“I- I did but this feels funny,” oh my god. You didn’t know the first thing about sex, or what it was did you. Leon almost laughed, because he knew he was actually going to hell now.

“Feels funny? Can you tell me how it feels funny?” He breathed against your nipple, admiring how it poked through the now see-through fabric as he gently tightened his hold around your waist, arms clenching like a vice.

“It- it feels like-” another whine, halfway a garbled moan as he gently bit down on your nipple, warm and wet appendage still toying at the teat, lavished with all his love and attention. “Go on,” he mumbled through suckles and kisses, “tell me how it feels. It feels nice, right?”

“No it- it feels weird, like hot and tight, Leon please,” tears gathered at the corner of your eyes as you fought to breathe through weak struggles and the growing sensation that made your head fuzzy.

Meanwhile Leon was watching you intently, blue eyes never straying, soaking in every fidget of your expression. He couldn’t help but coo at you, his dick throbbing at your confusion. Despite your words, he could feel the dampness on his pants, stained from your leaky core.

It was like your mind was only in control of your words and that was it. Every other bodily reaction was detached from your brain, and wholeheartedly honest in a manner entirely different from your words. Your body and your mind was at odds with each other, and it was stirring an odd sense of satisfaction within his chest.

Maybe it was getting to see you experience just a modicum of what he had been facing for the entirety of the last week and more. You were responsible for what could only be deemed as his downfall, it was only fair that you repent for it in some way. It was only fair for you to help Leon out in this little way that you could, just like you were so eager to before.

“Do you trust me angel?” He allowed you just a small reprieve. The last one you would ever get before he really allowed himself free of his inhibitions and commit a sin so devastating that God might have to come down and smite him himself.

He watched you eye him through teary eyes as one of his hands crept lower, skirting beneath the fabric and rubbing soothing circles into the plush flesh of your thigh. Plump lips curled into a soft pout as your thighs twitched against his hand, damp panties rubbing against him without even realizing.

“I do, but everything feels weird,” your eyes screwed shut, blinking back stray beads of tears that threatened to fall. Leon shushed you softly, his other hand crawling up your back to cradle the back of your head, before trailing across your cheek to wipe the tear away.

“It feels weird now, but I promise you it’ll feel really good later for the both of us. You wanted to help me right? My precious angel, always wanting to help everyone,” he gently tutted, discreetly brushing the tear collecting on his thumb against his lips to lick away while his gaze sharpened in on you, clinging onto every word you say and every expression you make.

You snivelled, shoulders hitching each time you did as your brows knitted in that adorable confusion Leon wasn’t used to seeing, but was quickly warming up to. You seemed so conflicted, as though you inherently knew something about this was amiss without even being taught, but Leon knew you by now. He had never seen you turn anyone away before, and he knew he would be no different.

“You promise it’ll feel good?” you hesitantly peered into his eyes, all shy and meek, Leon had to restrain himself from diving back into your tits once more.

“Oh angel, I promise.” He was going to have you seeing God again by the end of the night. Or maybe, he would have you chanting his name in place of God. That sounds far more fitting for the man who would break you down, and rebuild you into something grander.

He started off slow, wanting to ease you into deep waters. His lips found their place back onto your tit as his hands rubbed soothing circles into the soft flesh of your skin before his hand on your thigh drifted. Agonizingly slow, he kept his arm around you tight when you flinched at the initial contact with your drooly cunt through the damp fabric of your panties.

Finger rubbing along the slit, outlining your puffy pussy, paying special attention to your little clit, it wasn’t long before he had you babbling and coming undone for him. You were so easy to make a mess off with how your slick would drip down the expanse of your inner thigh. By the time he had shifted your panties out of the way, your cunt was a creamy, sticky mess.

Of course, Leon had to get a taste. He lowered himself till he was eye level to your crying slit, and said his grace for the feast splayed out before him.

“Lord God and giver of all good gifts, we are grateful as we pause before this meal, for all the blessings of life that you give to us. We ask this through Christ Jesus, Amen. Lord, as we gather here before this table, we pause to give thanks for the bounty of the earth from which this meal came forth.”

Leon had you seeing stars by the time you unraveled the second and third time on his tongue. He ate like it was his last meal on death row; a starving man who didn’t know when his next meal would be. The way your cunt squealched and cried made Leon’s dick cry all the same.

Wet llps trailed gentle kisses up your thighs, occasionally nipping at the flesh and sucking bruising hickies while his rough thumbpad rubbed at your clit. He planted his first kiss on the bud between your legs, before licking a fat stripe up your slit, collecting the slippery liquid on his tongue. He switched between suckling on your pulsating button and making out with it, pussy kissing his lips with nearly as much enthusiasm as he was putting out. His lips sealed around your cunt, slobbering into the honeyed cavern, nose bumping into your clit in a dual pleasure that was driving you dumb.

The rapidly approaching tipping point was nearly pushed over the edge. Leon moaned and hummed into your cunt, and the effects were devastating. You could feel his moan in your womb, tickling the empty organ in a way that had your cunt spasming, coiling heat growing to be searing while your thighs ached from the tension of another cresting orgasm.

He rutted against the sheets in a bid to chase his own release while eating you out, but his rapt attention remained fixated on you. He eventually dared to slip a finger in, curling in a way that had you gasping for air. With each moan and cry that got louder, Leon’s strokes grew wilder until you were spasming and clenching down on his finger and tongue, granting him a taste of the sweet cream he had prayed for.

He was serious about your prior reprieve being your last, because you didn’t catch a break for the next hour or so. After his feast that had you crying and squirming, he had you splayed on your back atop of him, your bare back flushed against the skin of his chest so that he could squeeze two fingers into your cunt, his other free hand caressing your jaw while two more fingers played with the soft little tongue past your lips.

“Leon, please, I can’t take anymore,” your words were barely coherent, but there was no need for words when you were weeping now, nearly as much as your core was. So overstimulated and sore, you didn’t know how much more you could take.

Your thighs trembled and spasmed, wings twitching while your core clenched on his fingers, pruned thumbpads driving you wild with the rough texture rubbing against your abused clit.

Leon did what he did best. Shushed you gently, drowning your words with his own lips as his fingers curled up, far enough to make your brain flicker and scramble any plea on the tip of your tongue.

“But you’re doing so, so well for me dove, and I know it feels good for you. You can feel how much your pussy is crying in joy, can't you? Just like how you are.” To drive his point home, he pushed his fingers deeper, adam's apple bobbing at how your cunt squelched in response, the ring of cream rising closer to his knuckle.

“Just give me another one, okay? Last one, and we can cuddle and rest together.”

Leon was either a dirty liar, or he flunked his math, because the next wasn’t the last. Neither was the one after that, or the one after that. It was only when you were babbling stupidly and cross eyed did he find it in his heart to give you your second hard-earned break.

“Oh angel,” he sighed down at you with dreamy eyes, his fingers slipping out of you.

For the first time in awhile, he pulls his gaze away from your face to watch the glisten of your slick coating his fingers, before curling his tongue around his digits and cleaning them until he could no longer taste you on him. “You need a break?”

You were a limp mess, your mind lagging behind on his words before it finally caught up. You could only muster a drunken whimper, brain still fried from the mind melting pleasure Leon had forced upon you ceaselessly for the past who knows how long. Spread out on the bed, sweaty and weak, a sight for sore eyes. For leon’s eyes.

He hummed softly, familiar tune of a hymn that you could barely connect as he leaned down to press his lips against yours, tongue darting past your lips while his arms caged you in. Only when you started flailing and whimpering from the lack of air did he pull away with flushed face.

“Rest up darling, I just need a little bit more of your help, and I’ll be happy again.”

He made a silent vow to himself, hushed mumble beneath his breath too soft to catch. Leon s Kennedy was going to make sure he was all you would ever know and worship once he was done with you.

[eggyrocks]

bruised part five -> my person

m.list

♪ now playing: remember by alex g ♪

Iwaizumi's certain he's being punished. Some kind of penance for a transgression in a past life.

Her arms are wrapped loosely around his neck, and his arms are hooked under her knees as he carries her towards their apartment on his back. And he can feel too much of her: her cheek resting against his shoulder, her fingers absentmindedly tapping against his chest, and the warmth of her breath on the skin of his neck.

It makes it harder to focus. It makes him want to forget about how it was Bokuto's shoulder she was resting on when he arrived to bring her home. And that's something he won't let himself forget.

And as if she can hear this thoughts and decides she wants to torment him, she squirms, nuzzling in closer to him, and whispering softly, "Haji," in his ear.

He swallows before he answers. She's the only one who calls him that. "What's up?" he asks, trying not to let his rising heartbeat or twisting nerves seep into his voice.

"This is like," she starts, and then pauses, blowing out a hot stream of air that lands right on Iwaizumi's neck and goes straight down to his gut, "fucking, the millionth time you've picked me up drunk."

"Yeah," he agrees with a chuckle. "Well, you're a sloppy drunk."

She offers up a hum in agreement. "You must really fucking love me to put up with me this much."

Iwaizumi thinks that his heart leaps up into his throat, for just a second. "Of course I do," he confirms. "You're my best friend, dumbass."

There's nothing she has to say in response. She turns her head to bury her face in the fabric of his shirt. The rest of their walk back is silent.

It's only a few more minutes before they arrive home. Iwaizumi doesn't let her down once they cross through their front door and he kicks off his shoes. He ignores the smug sort of look that (the somehow still awake) Kyotani tosses in his direction and brings her directly to her room.

He thinks that she's asleep by the time he deposits her on the edge of her bed, and he's ready to throw a blanket over her and slink back into his own room. But the second he places her down, a hand goes tight around his shirt, and she yanks Iwaizumi down to lie beside her. "Stay with me tonight," she says, not once opening her eyes as she lays her head down on his chest and wraps an arm around his middle. "Like when we were kids."

It's not anything like when they were kids. When they had sleepovers and she managed to convince them both that there were ghosts and demons lurking, and they needed to stay together for protection. Or when her parents would fight and she would sneak through his window, staying the night with him just so she wouldn't be alone.

It's not anything like that, Iwaizumi thinks, as he hesitantly settles back against her pillows, and places his arm over her shoulders. "At least take your shoes off," he mumbles.

Through the darkness of her room, he can almost see the way her legs shuffle and struggle to kick off her still tied shoes. But she does so without ever lifting her head away from his chest, flicking her ankles so her shoes soar across the room, landing in a spot they're almost certainly not supposed to be.

She sighs, content, and wiggles in place, like she's trying to settle in deeper to him. "Did you know," she starts, voice heavy with sleep and intoxication, "that you've always been my person?"

Iwaizumi looks up at the ceiling. Shadows from the light outside her window shift and reshape. "Whaddya mean?" he asks, barely a whisper. He wonders if she can hear his heart beat.

"I dunno," she mumbles. "You're just my person. Like, our lives are so intertwined. I dunno who I'd be without you. Like, if you disappeared from my life tomorrow, I dunno how much of me would be left. I'd be like, a new person, y'know?"

And there's no one she'd pick over you.

Iwaizumi breathes evenly and deliberately. There would've been a time in his life, and maybe it was pretty recently, that those words would've made his chest swell up with pride. Because of course he's her person. She's always been his. That's how it's always been. It's always been them.

But now, the words twist in his chest like a knife.

I don't think she'd have room for a romantic partner that's not you.

"Don't worry about that kind of thing," he says, turning on his side, facing her and pulling her into a tighter embrace. "I got you."

Her voice is muffled, so he almost doesn't hear it when she says, "I know."

Tonight, he can be selfish. Tonight, it can be just them. He can hold her in his arms and he can't pretend that things don't have to change. Tomorrow, he will make room. But tonight, it's just them.

an: enjoy this written part :) i loved to write it. also im still working on the 500 follower requests dont worry

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[nerdygaymormon]

Happy Pride

I want to wish a Happy Pride to:

Green Carnations

In 1892, Oscar Wilde had some of his friends wear a green carnation on their left lapels to the opening night of his show. An elegant and witty character in the play—who paralleled real-life Oscar Wilde—wore a carnation as part of his costume. Why green? It was an unnatural color for a carnation, Wilde chose this since it was said that homosexuality was unnatural. The green carnation became associated with Wilde and his flamboyant friends, and spread as a secret code to show others that you're gay.

"Be Gay, Do Crime"

The slogan "Be gay, do crime" has existed since at least 2011. The slogan suggests that crime and incivility may be necessary to earn equal rights given the criminalization of homosexuality around the world and a reminder that the Stonewall uprising was a riot. The slogan stands in contrast to the polished, corporate version of contemporary Pride, and shows that queerness has always been transgressive, regardless of its legal status. Part of being queer is being willing to push boundaries and protect one's self from the law since we have traditionally been attacked by it.

Peppermint Patty and Marcie

Peppermint Patty defied traditional gender norms. She played all sorts of sports at a time when it wasn't common for girls to do so. All the other female characters wore dresses, but Patty wears a t-shirt, shorts and sandals and the only other female character not to wear dresses is Marcie.

Peppermint Patty regularly flirts with Charlie Brown and has a strong bond with Marcie. While we don't know for sure, it certainly seems that Peppermint Patty is bi and her best friend Marcie is a lesbian.

I can imagine Peppermint Patty organizing the school's GSA or an all-inclusive dance, and loudly calling out any queerphobia. I like thinking of Patty getting a man's suit from a thrift store and going to Prom where she dances with both Marcie and Charlie Brown

Absolut Vodka

In 1979, Absolut entered the American market, but sales were slow. In 1981, Absolut starting targeting the LGBTQ consumer with the idea this group are trendsetters. Since 1981, Absolut has had print ads in queer magazines, sponsored events in gay bars, donated more than $40 million to queer charities and causes, sponsors the GLAAD Media Awards, and numerous major LGBTQ events in the US annually. Absolut has commissioned many openly gay artists to create ads, such as Andy Warhol, Nereyda Garcia Ferraz, David Spada, Keith Haring and Kenny Scharf. Supporting the queer community in 1981 was risky, but they have invested in the community and earned loyalty in return.

Pink Triangle

In the 1930s and 40s, just as Nazi Germany required Jews in the concentration camps to wear a yellow star of David, gay men, bi men, and trans women had to wear a downward-pointing triangle on their chest. The symbol was reclaimed in the 1970's by the queer liberation movement as a symbol against homophobia, and then was adopted widely by the LGBTQ community. The community took this symbol from the holocaust to show we are stronger than the worst done to us.

The pink triangle has largely been replaced by the rainbow Pride flag, and a reason for this is explaining why a pink triangle is the symbol of the community required an explanation of its dark past and therefore was about what others did to us rather than a symbol representing who we are and our hopes & aspirations. Although it isn't used much anymore, it's important to remember the pink triangle as the first widely-adopted visual symbol of the queer community

Ace & Aro Rings

Beginning in 2005, wearing a black ring on the middle finger of your right hand became a way for people to signify their asexuality. The material and design of the ring are not important as long as it is primarily black. It’s about carrying a reminder on our hands that there are others like us, and it's a way to identify each other. A white ring on the left hand of the middle finger is the aro equivalent.

Eyebrow Slits

Eyebrow slits was a trend in the hip hop community in the 1990's and called "eyebrow cuts." The trend fell out of style, but was brought back in the 2010's by some male artists and models as an edgy fashion statement. Lesbians quickly adopted this trend, perhaps as a way of showing they aren't beholden to gendered fashion rules, and it quickly grew in popularity on social media as a way for members of the queer community to express themselves and signal to each other. It seems natural that a fashion style containing an underlying rebelliousness appeals to a group who are marginalized by society. The eyebrow slit trend largely has faded except among the LGBTQ+ community, and so has become associated with us.

Nautical Star Tattoos

For centuries, sailors would get tattoos, often of images with symbolic meanings, such as the nautical star (which represents the North Star) which was believed to ensure a sailor’s safe return home. In the 1940s and 50s, lesbians were navigating the choppy waters of societal norms and expectations, and this five-pointed star tattoo became their compass, helping them find others like themselves. They'd get this tattoo on the inner wrist because it could be covered by a watch strap during the day, allowing women to hide their identity when necessary for their safety or professional lives, but could reveal it in safe spaces. This symbol was revived in the 1970's and is still used by some to this day.

Online "Am I Gay?" Quizzes

A common experience of people who are gay, bi, and pan, is they find an online quiz that will ask a few questions and then determine whether you are gay, or will reveal how gay you are (as though this can be graded like a school test). Sometimes the questions are lighthearted, while others try to be more serious. Here's the thing, more than any quiz results, searching for this type of quiz is probably the biggest indicator that a person experiences attraction to people of their same gender. It can be helpful for someone to have a "confirmation" of how they're feeling, and thus these "am I gay" quizzes will remain a rite of passage many.

Subaru

In the early 1990's, Subaru was struggling. Sales of their dependable but plain cars were in decline. Subaru knew teachers, healthcare professionals, IT professionals, and the outdoorsy types bought 1/2 their cars in America, and they targeted advertisements at those groups. Soon they realized there was yet another core group, lesbians were 4 times more likely than the average American to purchase a Subaru.

Subaru began printing advertisements that made subtle nods to lesbians in a way that slipped past the notice of other Americans, such as having the license plate "XENA LVR" on a car. Many ads had taglines with double meanings. "Get Out. And Stay Out" could refer to exploring the outdoors in a Subaru—or coming out as gay. "It’s Not a Choice. It’s the Way We’re Built" could refer to all Subarus coming with all-wheel-drive—or an LGBTQ identity.

Subaru noticed a group of customers and created ads for them, a group which often felt unwelcome and invisible. The campaign was so successful that it became a stereotype that lesbians drive Subarus, even leading to the word "Lesbaru." Polls show that the queer community views Subaru as the most queer-friendly brand.

[moonshynecybin]

#he really does cut people out cold shoulder them with no discussion huh.... fascinating man......#invisible transgressions remembered forever at arms length#he is. i think. pathologically nonconfrontational. idk even with the sepang stuff.#like he doesnt look at marc AT ALL only performs to the press. same with argentina he sends uccio.... <- *eye* have a theory that vale on his factory settings is actually quite a desperate people-pleaser. not necessarily in a "i need others to approve of me" way (though that too) but in a "i need for others to cheer for me" (to try and explain what i mean better, he's not doing anything just to get the approval but he wants to feel approved/supported for whatever he's doing. different catalysts for action, same need). that's why he can play the crowd so well. and sepang - i think it was genuinely a protracted breakdown caused by vale realizing he's not superhuman anymore and his lead slipping and compounded by the anniversary of the worst loss he's suffered in his life

post about graziano here, jorge confrontation here

like the thing about vale is. well we dont personally know him. so outside of stuff people close to him tell us, we only see the side of him he wants to show the press, which is still him, just more of a performance, i think. its already been discussed AT LENGTHHH that he loves to do this sort of performance and is just. generally very good at being a celebrity. and i think its an extension of his PR deftness that when jorge comes at him he just laughs and looks at his audience. he ropes them into a private joke, like can you believe this guy? which jorge (who takes to confrontation like a duck to water) HATES so bad. its a very effective deflection tactic. fr the easiest way to seem like the bad guy is to treat an argument like it is worthy of your attention. so he meep-meep roadrunner court jesters his way through off track conflict for the majority of his career. and yes he makes enemies and they tell US that he is being cold and prickly and treating them differently. but crucially. he does not seem anything other than a Chill Dude in front of the cameras. until well. sepang lol.

so yes! i think he is invested in controlling these narratives and good at it to boot. but!!!! where it gets crazy is when you get to the personal arenas. like the people he loves that he is actually invested in. where his feelings are on the line fr.

like for other (professional) conflicts he gets over it!! but not with his dad and not with marc. and part of the marc stuff is the ego involved (theyre having a GOAT-off) and the professional stakes, as ive discussed. BUT. i think he doesnt get over these two because. well. because they really really hurt his feelings, i think. like he's said in the past that he's been able to get over the rivalries he has with other racers (like biaggi) bc they WERENT friends before so he didnt gaf when it got nasty. but. he still. REALLY cares with marc. (and of course with his parents divorce. like yeah that makes sense) so i actually think its very telling that he isnt over sepang. and that he didnt look at marc at all whenever they had their epic divorce moments (sepang press conference, postrace argentina 2018) rosquez would be less real if he could just move on lol. like it is a divorce to them both for REAL. so vale is going to handle it the same way he did with his parents and quietly cut marc out while making it. VERY clear. that marc is no longer one of the people that he holds within the select bubble that gets to see vale without all of his press trappings.

[misswonderfrojustice]

So since my last post of making writing prompts on certain video games, characters, etc. and I haven't gotten any asks, I'll just go ahead and make one of my own.

This is an idea I had regarding the Miguel O'Hara character from Marvel's Across the Spiderverse [Spicyverse] movie franchise.

{I have never seen any Spider-Man movie at ALL in my life, so I know little to nothing about the whole premise of the world's plotline besides an Uncle Benjamin dying, being bitten by a radioactive spider [shouldn't you be horrifically deformed or dead after being exposed to ANY sort of chemical radioactive agents???] and so on so forth. I am an avid researcher on anything out of the ordinary or historical events/eras, so of course I read into the biographies of the series. So, now knowing about the protagonists and villans (and me being the sympathetically strong and sweet alien 👽 I am inside) I propose this scheme.]

Gabriella the Chocodoodle Lab Puppy

Apparently, sweet little Gabby is killed in the movie due to Miguel's interference of the Multi-Verse as a punishment for his transgressions, and he is now in charge of becoming the self-proclaimed only Guardian of the Spiderverse.

Well...

I'm giving him some grace here. Instead of him buckled down in over his work in his cave he calls an office, constantly hovering over each and every universe and it's inhabitants, he comes across a lone box sitting in one world [I guess I'll call it Earth 1231] and it was right across from his apartment complex where he is staying at. In this universe, the Miguel variant does not exist, and neither does the mother of Gabriella.

However, Gabriella is still alive but not visible to his observation and not noticed anywhere else but in this part of the city of Nueva York. Suddenly, the box starts eagerly shifting and moving, bumping into the doorway of said apartment complex like it wanted to enter the building. Curiosity gets the better of him, causing Miguel to open up a warp portal to Earth 1231 just to see what was inside the item.

He arrives at the building and walks closer to the box, which seems to be in a colorful pattern of cobalt blue and vintage infra red polka-dots, matching the typical Spider-Man costume theme. There are many holes perforated around the walls. Air holes, mind you. Miguel bends down slowly to the box's level, quickly jumping back when he hears what sounds like a young girl's voice echo inside his head.

"Papí?! It's me Papí?! Gabi!!"

Immediately, he ponders on where this instant pop-up of memories' past is located from, thinking his sanity is starting to decay quicker than he believes it to be, until the voice of Gabi repeats itself again, but gets even louder the closer he gets to the box. Throwing caution to the wind, he removes the lid, only to discover a gorgeous little chocolate Labradoodle puppy that wasn't even six weeks old staring back at him wagging her tail happily.

"Hòla Papí!!! It's me, Gabriella! Can you take me home please??? I'm hungry and it's really cold outside."

Gabriella's loving barks translate into his language inside his head. Now, Miggy Iggy has never been one for pets, especially after his baby girl's passing (it would serve as a painful reminder of his failure on not protecting his loved ones), but for some reason, he felt an intensive surge of parental desire to take Little Gabby home into his universe. Consequences be damned.

My version of the Multi-Verse would be him getting re-gifted a second chance at having his family again, without any future foreboding consequences or negative effects on the Multi-Verse's entirety. Gabriella was reincarnated as a puppy and aged at the same year she had died the first time of his Earth, where his variant was murdered by a mugging gone wrong, and Gabriella was alive. She only ages as accorded to Miguel's age, but never growing any larger than what she is now.

Starseed Baby rules, I'm sorry.

I'm thinking of making a short story about this later on, but hey, it's my idea.

Here's an image of what I believe Little Gabby should look like located below:

Let me know what y'all think!

[freak-phone]

made some quick introduction bios for my current favorite animals, my dnd guys. text transcript under the readmore! 

(^  art by @triptrippy​ hee hee)

Valdés

35

he/him

wizard (school of divination) & storm genasi

time period - late 1960s

formerly a human government researcher, currently a house player for a mob-run casino after a freak incident & drastic self-reinvention. obsessed with luck to counteract the curse he's been stricken with.

sensitive and friendly, but often tactless without meaning to be. neurotic and reactive.

Melvin

30

he/him

healer build rogue, half-elf

time period - victorian

an odd medical salesman and back-alley doctor and surgeon. has a bad reputation and is known as a last resort for people with no other options, but does clearly have a genuine (if macabre) interest in medicine.

calm, cheerful and polite, but unsettling. kind, but not warm.

Opal

20s

he & they are fine but doesn't really care

rogue, half-alien

time period - futuristic

formerly a gig worker from a dystopian hyper-capitalist future. lived most of his life without looking up from the rat race of trying to make ends meet, but was recently freed by developing space-travelling alien powers and newfound self confidence.

very skittish and not very smart or worldly, but earnest and determined.

Kalibri

23

he/him

bard, triton

time period - 1980s

a musician with severe self image issues. to escape the expectations of his stifled life as a politician's son and avoid an unwanted arranged marriage, he faked his own death and adopted a new life disguised as a human pursuing a music career. surprisingly driven, if a bit tunnel-visioned.

moody, catty, and a little self-centered. typical wannabe rockstar attitude.

Ragni

47

he/him

ranger, windwaker rito (bateleur eagle)

time period -   i dont know. legend of zelda

a disgraced rito exiled from their society. past transgressions have earned him a sort of boogeyman reputation that he seems to mostly embrace. currently a reclusive huntsman, being brought out of hiding by a calling from Hylia herself. also, the father of the current gerudo prince.

blunt and stubborn. doesn't care much what others think of him, but trying to learn patience and personability. yes he has a face but he hasn't taken his mask off yet :-]

[saintmurd0ck]

Oh, Rhi. When I saw this, I knew I had to send in a request 😆❤️

And because I'm in such a fluffy mood, could I pretty please have some major fluff with Frank Castle? Maybe a love confession? 🙈

Feel free to ignore, I'm just a fluffball today and Frank needs some love 😍

death and taxes

frank masterlist | sleepover masterlist

awwww lily i am in a mortifyingly fluffy mood and simultaneously yearning for the man that is frank castle... so please rejoice in these thoughts with me. please note the photo is a little misleading cause this thing be angsty (a little) BUT ANYWAY i hope you like it!

frank doesn't know why it's taken him this long to say it. 

he thinks it's partially denial, but like many aspects of his life, there's a thin layer of silt that's settled over this feeling, that causes it to numb, despite the heart loudly pounding in his ribcage in earnest. for you.

he glances at the alarm clock on the bedside table, wincing at the time. it's 4.24 in the morning. he looses a heavy sigh before turning back onto his side, staring intently at the steady rise and fall of your chest, at the blissful expression painted on your face.

the sun is far from rising, moonlight barely drifting past the curtains, but there's an ethereal glow about you. there's a dull ache that spreads in frank's chest, symbiote-like as it snakes outwards, reaching into every shadow-filled nook and cranny within.

it pains him--loving you pains him. it's a sweet kind of agony, one that pairs fitful sleep and tormenting nightmares with the goodness of your soul, the understanding and kindness that seep from your actions into the centre of frank's transgressions. after all, you're the only person left in his life that sees him for who he truly is. 

there are days when he is weary, when his self-loathing echoes above your adoration, when he questions all of what he deserves. he doesn't know if today will be one of those days, where the roaring in his head dulls every other sense about him.

but he knows it's time. it's long overdue. 

and he knows he's got a shot with you. it's a chance of redemption, even if the odds are slim.

frank grits his jaw as the phantom pain spreads, catching stiffly in his joints, in his breathing. this is real, he reminds himself. it's not a nightmare. he moves closer to you, pressing a gentle kiss to your spine, inhaling the scent that's become home to him.

as it does every once in a while, the voice of mario castiglione blossoms in his memory. frank's father. his lilting sicilian accent rings clear. 'when you meet the one, you'll know. you'll know, because the love will be as real as the two things in life that are certain.' frank can still see the two fingers his dad would hold up. 'death, and taxes.'

death and taxes, indeed.

frank chuckles softly, supplementing his father's memory with a new one of his own. "wanted to wait until you were awake to say this, but if i don't do it now, i'll lose my nerve."

he pauses as you stir, mumbling his name, resuming only when he's certain you're fast asleep. "shoulda said it the first time i laid eyes on you, sweetheart. but here we are." 

he nudges himself once more. as real as death and taxes.

"i love you. i sure as hell don't deserve you, but you're here, huh? hell, i'll spend every goddamn day makin' it up to you... to, i dunno, prove myself."

the confession is freeing, easing the weight on his shoulders, one word at a time. frank can't remember the last time he's spoken to anyone with this sort of grace, or vulnerability. it's liberating, and he feels it--mind, body and soul. 

"i love you," he whispers, scooping you into his arms, holding your bodies as close as he can muster. as if the dam has broken, it comes tumbling out; a mantra, a tangible prayer. "i love you, sweetheart."

'i love you i love you i love you,' his spirit sings.

tags {x} @marvelswh0re @murdock-and-the-sea @itwasthereaminuteago @devils-dares @mattmurdocksscars @castlesnchurches @mindidjarin @pedrito-friskito @sweetieswiftie @honeyedheartss

tagging some of my frank besties cause i'm so fucking proud of this one

[zorbs]

《XƎTЯOVerthink》 Kaleidoscope Analysis

Remember those funky little toys called kaleidoscopes you used to play with as a kid? The ones you'd twist and look into it to see shifting reflections with pretty colors? Yeah, yeah these guys.

Well I noticed the new Link Click MV heavily incorporates a kaleidoscope as a visual motif. Throughout the MV there’s imagery involving mirrors and rainbows and repeated patterns and rays of light, all qualities of a kaleidoscope.

The most direct references are this frame which illustrates the mirror physics of a kaleidoscope:

And this frame illustrating the repeating patterns displayed within a kaleidoscope:

Seeing all this imagery got me thinking as to why it’s all there. The clock and camera imagery within the show make more obvious sense to their meanings, but kaleidoscopes don’t have anything to do with anything we’ve explicitly seen in the show before. However, after some thinking, I believe the kaleidoscope motif is a lot more relevant than it may seem.

The word “kaleidoscope” itself comes from Greek roots, which translate into “observation of beautiful forms”. To me, this MV seems to be painting Red Eyes as the current observer in control of the kaleidoscope.

The aspect of a kaleidoscope being a toy causes me to think about the line from Vortex, “But Imma win this silly game / until then I will never leave”. During those lyrics is when we see Red Eyes appear.

From what we've seen of the two different Red Eyes (likely siblings/twins), they appear to be children. With that info, it wouldn’t be surprising if the Red Eyes we’ve seen take control of Qiao Ling and Liu Min still views this whole thing as a game (toy), especially after being lured into the “game” set up by CXS and LG. Red Eyes is just playing with power to entertain themself, the same way a child would play with a kaleidoscope for entertainment. 

Additionally, CXS, along with other characters throughout this MV, appears to be trapped in the kaleidoscope with the way the reflected colored light and fractals or glass are displayed around them. It even seems like Qian Jin is trapped, possibly implying he’s a mere pawn in this game as well.

What I find most intriguing though is the fact that the tiniest rotation of a kaleidoscope creates drastic changes regarding what is seen inside the toy. There’s a seemingly infinite display of patterns. This idea parallels the visuals that show multiple (infinite?) versions of CXS. Some of which are dead, others distraught or gravely injured.

I think the kaleidoscope motif is yet another metaphor for time. Those that have the power to control it with slight changes, the unthinkable number of possible outcomes…thinking of it in this way all starts to make sense. The ones trapped in the kaleidoscope are all at the mercy of time and the ones who control it. Thus, this narrative must rely on “the ones aren’t in control”.

Many have already been speculating this, but I’m also getting the sense that there have been multiple timelines that have been manipulated way before the events of Season 1 began. And those events all involved a sort of engineering of CXS’s fate.

Which leads me to…what the heck is Lu Guang hiding??

One of the first visuals we see is LG falling during the line “When I’ve sunken so low”.

This lyrical imagery can be paired with the line “Knowing it all, am I destined to fall / Like once you did for me”. I feel like these are implying LG has had transgressions of his past. He’s undergone mistakes that have caused him to fall. Again, multiple people have raised this point, but there must be a reason LG is so strict about the time travel rules. Is it because he’s learned them first-hand the hard way before? 

What if LG previously manipulated the timelines in order to save CXS over and over again?

Immediately following the “like once you did for me” lyric is a montage of the way LG came into CXS’s life.

This visual and the coupled lyrics add to the idea that LG saved CXS and his past actions led to the moment in time we’re currently watching as an audience.

I also want to point out the line of “Where do we end up when we save the world?”. What if LG already disrupted the timeline enough by saving CXS and has now sworn off any further timeline changes in order to protect the current present, leaving Red Eyes with complete authority over its manipulation. He’s already completed his past objective but is now left dealing with the adverse effects.

Anyways, this is just a theory, a LINK CLICK THEORY.

[lullabyes22-blog]

I'm curious to know, was Nandi aware that Sevika had an interest in Silco, how did she feel about it?

(Also very excited to see what angst and shenanigans past IV will bring :D)

Thank youuuu<3

I'm excited to share Act IV as it's full of craziness, fighting, politics and the first inklings of the 'magic system' FnF will be operating under :D

And yes! Nandi was very aware of Sevika's little crush...

Tw: troubling dynamics, sibling rivalry, poverty-related trauma, lack of privacy, death.

(I have so much to say about this trio...)

In FnF, Nandi is Sevika's closest family and the only stable maternal figure in her life. She's practically raised her, and the two are very close, to the point that they will sometimes swap clothes (In FnF, Sevika's red shawl actually belonged to Nandi c:)

They are also extremely different, equally strong-minded women - who fight like alleyside cats.

Nandi is more the 'old-school' generation who grew up before the Undercity's communities became so fragmented. A bit like Vander, she's the nose-to-the-grindstone, keep-the-peace type, whereas Sevika is directly confrontational and used to fighting for what she wants, since she's grown up knowing nothing else. There's plenty of friction between them, as Nandi opts to buy more into respectability-politics, while Sevika increasingly finds herself agreeing with Silco's approach of a violent overthrow and armed resistance.

All of which makes Nandi deeply uneasy.

Given Sevika is only 17 at the time Nandi becomes involved with Silco, she figures her sister will outgrow her initial fancy. And to an extent it seems to work: once Silco and Nandi become an item, she gets pretty territorial because suddenly he's gone from hot revolutionary to annoying interloper who keeps dropping by for dinner, leaving a mess of dishes in the sink, and monopolizing her sister's time.

But she never really outgrows her interest. If anything, she begins acting like she has proprietorship of Silco by proxy: sticking close to him during rallies, getting snappish with any stranger who gets too chummy with him, and generally acting like his bodyguard (hello foreshadowing...). By the time she's hit twenty-two, she's full-on playing an aggravating game where she eavesdrops through the door while he and Nandi are having sex, then barges in at the very worst moment.

Each time, Nandi will give her an earful. Sevika will shrug it off - then repeat the transgression the next week.

On Silco's part, I keep it very vague re: his awareness of Sevika's interest. He's never out-and-out encouraging of her attentions, but it should be noted that he never rebukes her or draws boundaries either (something Nandi actually calls him out on.)

He's got his own baggage re: physical space (grew up with no privacy at his parents' home, at the orphanage, in the mines, in the dorms). He doesn't fully grasp that such tight quarters in one's twenties can lead to all sorts of unfortunate consequences unless clear-cut lines are drawn.

(Something that plays out again when he meets Jinx and just FAILS on every level to assert boundaries, because wtf are those things?)

There's an almost icky sense of claustrophobia I'm hoping to get across in their dynamic (Act IV's flashback has a scene where Silco and Nandi are having sex, and there's zilch privacy between them, their neighbors, and Sevika, who, it should be noted, shares that bed with her sister when Silco isn't screwing her on it...)

Nandi does her best to be firm with Sevika. But broke as they are, there's no chance of Sevika moving out into her own place. And, with Silco being an utter commitment-phobe, it seems unlikely he'll marry Nandi and ask her to move in with him (plus, his place is even tinier than hers.) All of it definitely wears on her nerves, compounded by the violence they're facing in the streets, and her concerns for Silco's and Sevika's safety.

In the end, they're all stuck in circumstances beyond their control, with no hope of upward mobility or improved living conditions. All of which plays into Sevika 'taking' whatever belongs to her sister because she's grown up with a scarcity mindset and never had enough to fill her (literal and metaphoric) belly.

Present-day Sevika feels a deep measure of guilt about it. But one does not become a greedy, greedy dragon without having a taste for stolen goods...

[a-gal-with-taste]

Certainties & Mistletoe - Part 2

Summary: Mistletoe, the only decoration the old bastard could bear to stand during the winter-months. You thought it harmless, simple and almost forgettable... but the events it causes, is anything-but.

Ebenezer Scrooge & F!Reader | 4946 Words |

Prev | Next

Tags: Slow-burn, humor, banter, internal-thoughts, boss/employee relationship, maid!Reader, some world-building, pining (?!?), denial of feelings/everyone has denial, Scrooge being a grump (shocker), I literally don't know where this is going but gosh is it fun

A/N: Second chapter. Why? Haven't figured it out yet, and also don't know where this is going. Enjoy the ride!

If anything was affixed in reliability in regards to your strange-sort of new-reality, it was the fact that it was difficult to ignore that pesky little sprig. 

Not just difficult. 

Quite impossible, actually, considering it sat prominent at the corner of the undecorated desk of Mister Ebenezer Scrooge. 

A desk currently unoccupied. 

The district of Cornhill in its entirety left shaken by the sight of such a man on the prowl, particularly in this season’s time. Pity as it was to wish-upon the innocent the presence of Scrooge, you felt free alone in his business-quarters as you went-about your normal, average routine...

As normal as could be, with the singular reminder of your transgression still sitting upright and full of life, on that small glass of water at the miser’s desk. Right there... right there, out in the open, for all, and especially the Master-himself, to see!

It felt like a mockery. Taunting you, with a memory already half-repressed, forcing it back into the forefront every time you saw the spiky-leaves from the corners of vision, the crimson berries gleaming-still in candlelight...

You half-thought the thing lived-on, refusing to even consider wilting, just out of spite.

Henceforth, why you chose to regard it with an eye full of loathing, and offer a wide-berth around its immediate proximity. A fact that was as ridiculous, as it was entirely unignorable by parties not-privy to your internal conflict.

“Miss?”

You hummed in a way that proved you were listening, despite the venomous staring-match you were engaged-in. With a plant.

“Fairly sure those berries are only poisonous when eaten... they don’t jump out ‘atcha, frankly.”

Ah, Robert - though he swore that Bob was the name written on record - ever the relieving fresh-air in the stifling atmosphere that was Marley and Scrooge. His humor politely-stifled on most days to appease his mentor and employer, the brief freedom allowed between the hours of mid-morning, to five hours past-noon, were well-spent with an easy smile, and a more at-eased attitude.

Usually, it was a well-welcomed attitude. 

But the mischief that gleams in bi-colored eyes, that shift from yourself and to the out-of-place sprig, is enough to leave you wary before he even speaks.

“Though I can’t quite decide... whether your loathing comes from its poison, or spikes. Have you pricked yourself, perchance?”

“Were I lacking more wit than I currently possess, perhaps, but I am not-yet that clumsy,” You insist, but there’s a small smile shared from you to him, one that does-away with most of the troubled glint in your eyes. Most. 

“Strange, ‘innit?” He hummed in that almost-sweet, disarming way that had earned your gratefulness early-on in your employment. “Thought I’d be a-long into some great beyond before ol’ Ebenezer decided to stock up on decorations.” 

It’s spoken all in light joviality - out of respect, seasonal mood of jolly or legitimate amusement at the old man, you weren’t certain - but the second-opinion of the foul little thing does little to ease your mood. 

Your eyes slowly trail-back to it, nails digging into the meat of your palms as they tightened into fists. 

“I would think the very-same,” You murmur, eventually finding yourself able to turn your back on the desk and what resides there, in order to begin work along the shelves, all under Cratchit’s keen gaze. Keen, very-much curious, and unfortunately, eager for gossip to pass the hours.

“Well then. Have you any idea why he-?”

“Why-what? Who knows why that man does anything he-wills to do?” Too hasty, you knew, not only by how swiftly eyebrows shot-up, nearly touching his hairline.

Honesty would relieve you of some of the worry, you knew.

But it also seemed unbearable. To admit one's misconduct was enough of an embarrassment, but the crime-committed felt so much more severe than a slip in composure or social-graces...

Yet, it only took another lingering stare at the surviving twig of holly, before you wrung the dusting cloth between your fingers, “Mister Cratchit, have you ever done something truly... dreadful?”

No one would ever think a dear such as Bob capable of anything less-than goodness, but the copper-haired lad nodded rather quickly. “Oh, indeed! Rightfully so, my missus never lets me forget it.”

Stunned, breath caught between two-lungs, you asked out in a rush what it was.

“Thirty minutes late, I was, to own second girls’ arrival.” He confessed, a great and sorrowful light entering the eyes of two-shades as he wags his chin mournfully. “Nothing more-dreadful than that, Miss. It’s only out of blessing and that gold-heart of hers, that Kathie has never scorned me for it.”

Your heart sank - not necessarily from the story, though you did pity the family-loving man - but because it wasn’t even remotely-comparable to your own situation, and all the complications that now come with it.

Though, likely being the sole-woman alive who has so-willingly bestowed a kiss upon the lips of Ebenezer Scrooge, there was very-likely none to properly seek confidence-in.

So, physically shaking your thoughts from mind, you turned your inquiry to a subject far-less combustible, and humiliating. “Yet another child I find myself privy to be learning-of. Tell me, Robert, what good have I done to deserve such knowledge?”

“Bob, or Mister Cratchit if-you-please,” He corrected immediately, but with a pleased grin assuring you that no-offense was taken. “Two-years anniversary comes soon, since you’ve strode into this very office. It seemed appropriate.”

“In a way of celebration, I trust?”

“No other way I would speak of your presence here, miss.” The assurance is cut off, as Bob raps his knuckles upon his desk once, twice, with a canine briefly worrying at a chapped-lip before he continues. “That, and... well, you might very well privy to the sight of my children, soon enough. Two of them, to be exact.”

“Oh, Mister Cratchit, surely you don’t desire to host them among the company here.” You certainly had no issue with their attendance, but the office of Scrooge and the late Mister Marley was hardly a place of welcome for children.

“Oh no, they’d be so horribly bored, and Mister Scrooge would likely be-” A darting of eyes, much akin to your own, is paired with a gulp as he lays a gaze upon the somber work-station of the man-himself. “... displeased. But Kathie is of-age to begin work, with a voice as lovely as the Queen’s, I'd say! She might design to come ‘round upon her day, with my little man.”

“A son, too?” 

“Tim, man ‘o the house when I'm here, hard at work!” The declaration is spoken with pride, and it’s quite easy to respond with a small smile at the proud-father.

Perhaps it was selfish, but discussion of his life, rather than your own recent actions, was far more welcomed, even as something terribly weary entered his eyes before he continued.

“My... my boy would dowell with walking. Winter has never-quite been a friend with him, and... well. It’s come to the point where the exercise is much-needed, y’see, and I-”

“Mister Cratchit,” You interjected, sympathy in your eyes. “You need-not explain further. Perpetuating your woes with my curiosity was never an intention.” And it was clear, even with a lapse of details, that the situation with the Cratchit’s son was a woe-indeed.

“Right... right!” It was now his turn to shake-himself free of his troubles, which he did with a zeal that left his bright-copper hair to flip over his forehead. “Well, regardless... Miss, ‘ve no-doubt they’ll make the occasional trip! ‘Tis only natural for Cratchits to wish in staying-close, even when hard-at-work, though I can assure you, they’ll keep their business outside!”

“Tis not me you need to assure-this-to, but the caution is appreciated.” And the fact gave you plenty more to mull-over between the repetitiveness of your daily routine, dust collected and shaken-off the dusting-cloth with practiced ease. “Have I time and ability, I can spare a cuppa, warm, for the little-ones.”

“Oh, I couldn’t ask that of you-”

“And you haven’t, it’s merely an offer,” The smile you gave back was meant to invite ease, something which the clerk accepted after a moment. “Free-of-charge. Though darenot tell the Master of-that.”

“Heh, right... I shan’t.” A pause, the quiet words of gratitude nearly-silent, but no-less sincere. Again, pleasantries were a rarity in such-offices... three-years gone by, and still Cratchit was slow to get-used to them in your presence.

Keeping to normalcy. A lifestyle you thought mastered, and now something you missed bitterly, as your routine now seemed to revolve around... it, at his desk.

Foolish, it very-much was, but nonetheless, your steps naturally merged upon a new-path as you went about your duties - a bit quicker than normal, after the pauses taken during your conversing with the clerk - and kept ensuring you made as little visual-contact as possible with the sprig of your ire, the reason for that writhing cluster of uncertainty gathering inside you.

Why keep it? 

And, more significantly, why display it? As some sort of warning? Perchance it was a form of mockery, a private joke of which only one gains twisted-humor from... 

But was there humor to be had? From yourself, certainly-not, but recollection reminds you swiftly of the man’s own reaction to the incident... 

Averted eyes - surely out of the morbid embarrassment of the unprompted action.

Rapid, repeated clearing of the throat - solely for discomfort, you dreaded what occurred whenever the gentleman fell-ill, and what that entailed for you to do.

Your concern of some ailment only increased at the memory of reddened-cheeks - an occurrence that had twice been a happenstance. The prior evening upon your departure, and just this morning, upon your return.

With a sigh as you shuffled the books back unto their place on a cleaned-shelf, you resolved to detour from home to speak with a physician, speak on behalf of his welfare. A second-opinion... was it not what was desired in the first place, except for another scenario entirely?

You supposed you had to take victory elsewhere. If you could not succeed in unraveling the frazzled, mangled remnants of your good-sense, at least ensuring your employer was not catching-cold, was an acceptable alternate achievement in defeat of another.

That is, of course, what you tried to convince yourself. You feared you didn’t succeed much there either.

Speaking of the man, the clock struck the fifth-hour of past-noon.

By the second-ring announcing the time, you were dusting yourself to an acceptable greeting-condition - picking-up the pace as you passed the desk, and its topside contents you so-loathed.

The third and fourth tolling of bells both near-and-far finding yourself positioned, as always, by the front-door to brace to take hat & coat. Arms extended slightly, expectantly enough that your eyes slipped-closed as you sighed, bracing for the temporary flurry that would be let-in. From the season’s snow, and Mister Scrooge's return.

The twelfth-toll. 

The minute-hand passed the twelfth-rung entirely, marching onward to time forever and ever... and the front door did not open.

Understandable. It had slushed more than it had snowed the night previously, making the banks of snow less-pleasant to traverse through by oneself... doubly so, for Prudence would not make traveling conditions any-easier, despite the companionship she provided.

Allowing this consideration, a moment passed without fanfare. A second moment, another... but by the forth, you began to peer at the doorway rather perplexed, a frown gathering on your lips as you squinted out the port-window of the entryway, stretching upon your toes, and still catching no-sight of your employer.

A flicker of... something, unpleasant, crossed your mind.

“Robert-”

“Bob, miss.”

“-Mister Cratchit. Master Scrooge is late.”

“Oh no.” Less of alarm, more of polite-dismissal, the clerk raised his ruddy-nose high-enough over his freshly-inked book to squint-down the corridor to the back-offices, the grand clock sitting proudly at the back. “Hardly even five-after... five minutes after, miss! Hardly a wink in time."

You shook your head, glancing between the unopened door and clock. "Mayhaps, but this is Mister Scrooge we speak off. A man who considers ‘time to-be a finite resource to be transacted sparsely, to avoid its waste.’"

After nearly two-years, Ebenezer Scrooge was nothing, if-not predictable when it comes to stifling-speeches of practicality. You liked to think you did a well-enough mimic of voice and posture too, but the humor is lost quickly when six minutes pass.

A seventh. “He surely hasn’t gotten into an argument of some sort.”

“Mister Scrooge is rather, erm, efficient with those, miss. Doesn’t much-like getting caught up in one such as those.” An eighth, flirting close with the tenth-past the hour.

But Cratchit’s words were true enough; it was quite-possible that the man was among the most stubborn of humankind, the kind to be set-firm as stone, plowing through as efficiently and steadfastly solid as marble.

Which was why you started to pace at the entrance, when the minute-hand reached the first ten-moments of the hour. Sitting at the windowside, two-minutes later, with that cluster of troubled-nerves within you building and building, to the point you feared a combustion would take-place.

The avoidance should have been welcomed. 

Extra-time, even only the length of only a quarter-hour, was something you would normally see as a blessing and something to be welcomed wholeheartedly, entirely, and without any questioning as to the why.

But then you glance at the almost-empty desk, your eyes catching-sight of what exactly made the desk only almost empty.

The sprig of holly doesn't seem as much like a physical taunt, at this moment.

It's motivation.

One you find yourself taking subconsciously, as you rise from your waiting-seat at the windowside, and march over to the coat-rack. With your bonnet shoved over your hair as you tug on your coat, the voice of the bystanding clerk is enough to cut through the fog of your swirling-thoughts, "Leaving sooner than normal? No emergency, I hope?"

"Only the emergency of a search. I worry the worst, Mister Cratchit."

A slow blink, and lowered quill as the man frowned. "For Mister Scrooge? Surely not... yes, it's not-normal that he's absent for so-long, but I'm certain he's right-as-rain-"

"And if he's not?" You demanded, fingers a flurry over the buttons as you bundle yourself up to prep for the outside-chill. "Slicked-cobble is a nightmare, even for a man with a cane. Especially so, mayhaps, and God-knows there's few willing to help him if he's slipped or fallen."

Most would probably laugh, though you-yourself find little-humor in the thought.

"Oh, come now, miss, someone would fetch the doctor, surely! Imagined we would hear Prudence half-the-city away if something befall the fellow, besides-"

"I'm quite certain of it, but I need to be sure!" You insisted, tugging your gloves into place as you turned towards the door, turning to Cratchit in the midst of your strides. "I... I only wish to ensure all is well. If such-is, I'll be back only momentarily-"

The sharp, sudden gust of pure ice to your cheeks was only barely-registered, in time with the modestly-sized office building shaking from the force of the door flung open.

You had very-little time to register these two-sensations.

Even less time, to slow-down enough to prevent the collision, of you striding-out, and your fashionably-late employer marching-in.

Rather spectacularly, soundly colliding against his chest, your hands are coming up too-late to cushion the blow, and curl on his vest. It's only thanks to the sudden-rigidity in your body that you don't stumble-along with the gentleman as he staggers, winded from the blow, and you-yourself are able to keep upright.

Though, your legs feel slightly-weakened at the sharp, flabbergasted inhale that you feel, more than hear.

Another-breath is felt beneath your cheek, after the man finds his center-of-gravity once more, and after the faint deflating of his chest at sharp-exhalation, Prudence slices through the stifling fog of the incident with an excited bark at your feet.

Hands curled tighter, before you push yourself off his chest with chin still tucked-low towards your own. "I-I... You... I apologize, but you were running quite-late."

A poor, poor excuse. And hardly an apology, something Ebenezer Scrooge sincerely agrees with, as evident by his scoff. 

"A typical occurrence, miss, when one requires a detour from average paths."

"Well... yes, but I had-fear that you slipped, the cobbles are quite-slick this evening-"

"My relation with gravity is of such grand-importance to you? Humorous, considering you nearly made me fall-"

"You only did just the same, Mister Scrooge! An accident of equal blame, you can hardly push responsibility solely onto...." You trailed off, a bit lamely, as your gaze has raised in response to man. 

Pompous and sneering as his words are, you quickly take notice that Ebenezer has held himself in such a way that can only be described-best as stiff... he also refuses to look at you directly, line of sight barely-skimming over your brows. 

The non-whiskered skin of his cheeks still host some redness from his exposure to frost, even if the door has already swung-closed behind him. Excessively so, as the flushed-hue upon his skin extends from face, down to neck, peeking upon his ears from beneath his hat...

And...

He's also holding a fresh sprig of holly in a gloved-hand, newer than even the one hosted at his desk. Fist clenched tight about it, as if his body was subconsciously, fiercely opinionated on its existence.

You cannot yet-tell what that opinion might be.

"What... what is that?"

CLICK HERE TO READ THE REST ON AO3

[aleprouswitch]

A post I saw a few days ago about White Savior complexes in the wake of the BLM movement made me think about how a lot of other white people I know who do so much of this posturing on social media grew up in mostly white neighborhoods, many of them middle or upper class, and it's like they're trying to show themselves as allies all over social media to alleviate some kind of guilt for their own transgressions, sort of like "the more I post, the better I'll look to others and the less I'll feel complicit in the root causes of oppression and inequality".

Instead of constantly sharing cutesy infographics and posturing all over Instagram or Tumblr or wherever, I just made recurring donations to the Minnesota Bail Fund and donated to Gianna Floyd's GoFundMe, i.e. I put my money where my mouth was. I'm very aware of my own whiteness and that I've said and done things in the past that weren't okay, but at least I grew up in very racially mixed working class neighborhoods (and I still live in one) and that gives me at least a better understanding of how to be an ally in an effective manner. I've also tried hard to unlearn a lot of behaviors that, through self-reflection, I realized was problematic.

From where I'm standing, the best thing you can do to be an ally for any social justice cause as a white Leftist is to just shut up. I'm not kidding. Just shut up and listen to the black people in your life and be a support system through being a listener. This applies for so many other movements as well, but I feel a sense of unease whenever I see posts reacting to videos of police brutality with performative spiel. What's happening is not about you or how much you "care" out in the open. It's what you're doing for the black people in your life like, as mentioned, being a good listener and donating to worthy causes without fanfare, that's important.

[tyrantisterror]

what do you like about vampires that appeals to you?

Man, it's hard to articulate my answer to this. There's just so much to like!

Vampires have this quintessential Gothic Horror spookiness to them - all those motifs of decay and things that were lost or forgotten rising from the grave to remind us of their terrible presence, lingering well past the point where they should have left. Their almost the personification of that genre in my mind, really - sentimental and melodramatic, tragic and camp and terrifying and alluring.

They're creatures who straddle two different worlds and belong to neither - between life and death, human and maneater, person and monster. They have to pretend to be what they once were to continue their current and often miserable existence as something quite different.

I like them best when their nature as shapeshifters is highlighted - Stoker went off when he gave them, like, fifty fucking different forms. Particles dancing in moonlight, creeping green fog, bats, wolves, swarms of rats, all excellent, allowing vampires to be truly versatile threats despite their many weaknesses, and playing with the idea of them as ambush predators. Always hiding behind a new mask, waiting for you to get close so they can strike.

They have the guile to look human until they're ready to sink their teeth into you, and that's terrifying.

But there's also a pathos inherent to them, a tragedy. Whether they know it or not, vampires are, for all their power, pathetic. They can never be what they once were, their humanity stolen from them. Many of them are reduced to acting as parasites, hiding on the fringes as they struggle to maintain their existence in a world that (often rightly) hates them for it. Many are cursed with the memory of what it was to be human, which makes the inescapable nature of their current cursed half-life all the more tragic.

And all of that is really juicy from a writing/drawing perspective... but, more importantly given the discussion that prompted this ask, it's really fucking hot.

They're basically orchid mantises, after all - predators in an alluring shape by design, meant to lure you close so they can fucking get you. Vampires have been sexualized so heavily in fiction in part because that works with their monster concept - they are predators who wear human faces to catch their prey (which is probably why they're so often put up against their sibling monster archetype, werewolves, who are their opposite - predators that strip themselves of human skin to hunt), so it only makes sense for that face to be hot. And there's something enticing about being lured into something pleasingly dangerous - erotically life-threatening.

I mean, so long as it stays strictly fantasy, of course. Which, vampires being not real, it kind of has to.

It also helps that a lot of vampires - not all or even most, but a lot - seem to have so much fucking fun being vampires. I think the appeal of rooting for monster characters lies in feeling monstrous yourself, and in that case there is something so appealing about the vampire's transgressive existence - that yes, they are predators of humans and enemies of the species they once belonged to, but that's a problem for the normies, not the vampire.

They're lonely and wicked and tragic and maniacal, and they want to hold you down firmly but perhaps a bit gently as they tenderly move your head to one side and lean in for a deadly kiss that is almost always portrayed as more sexual than painful despite its lethal consequences... like, it's perilous, yes, but it's romantically perilous, right? Especially since they often seem very keen to let you join them, to share eternal cursed life as part of their deadly embrace... it's a dark, fucked up sort of fantasy, but it's one that can seem really appealing if you have the right things wrong with you.

Also, fangs, goth wardrobe, red or yellow eyes with slit nocturnal pupils, nosferatu claws... like I'm not going to justify it those things are just hot to me.

[astrology-bf]

May DWC Day 5: Complication

@daily-writing-challenge

Not for the first time in recent days, Ifan found himself wishing he’d left that blasted Crystal of Light where he found it beneath the Sultantree.

He wasn’t sure if things would have been easier, but they certainly would have been less complicated - he’d just be another adventurer, free and clear to chart his own course. But here he was: trudging along a path in the Twelveswood trying not to look too much like he was sulking, wondering what the hells sort of offense he committed in his past life to have landed in this situation. 

Raya-O-Senna hadn’t said a word to him since they’d left Gridania save for a few questions about his prior training. Otherwise, the Padjal simply hummed to herself as she walked a few yalms ahead of him, her bright red pigtails a stark contrast to the pristine ivory of the horns cresting gracefully from her head.

Ifan frowned and chewed on his lower lip. Damn that Ascian for forcing his hand.

---

“The use of black magic within the Twelveswood is a serious offense, Master Kaleid.” Kan-E-Senna's voice was calm and clear as ever, but her expression was troubled. 

“I’m aware of that, Elder Seedseer. But I won't apologize for doing what was necessary.” Ifan answered firmly.

A-Ruhn-Senna bristled at this. “Impudence. How dare–” He caught himself, setting his jaw as the Elder Seedseer raised her hand to call for silence.

“Make no mistake: your services to Gridania and the Twelveswood are greatly appreciated.” she said, giving Ifan a heartfelt bow of her head. “And were it solely a matter of service, I should be glad to dismiss this matter entirely. But we speak of principles that predate the very founding of our city, and ancient custom that violation of those principles be met with the highest penalties.”

“Imprisonment, or death.” A-Ruhn iterated. “That we are even considering alternatives is a concession, do you understand?”

Ifan grit his teeth, struggling not to let his annoyance show. A difficult feat considering he was still somewhat spooked by his encounter in Toto-Rak. “What’s to be my punishment, then?” he said quietly.

There was a pause. “...That has not been decided yet.” Kan-E-Senna said at length.

“Oh? I get Gridania not wanting to cause a political situation with the Scions, but I’m given to understand the Elementals are pretty uncompromising.”

It was E-Sumi-Yan who spoke. “It may be easier to visualize things in terms of a single heart struggling with many conflicting feelings. The urge does occur to punish transgression, as does the urge to reward service to the woods. As the Elder Seedseer says, it has not been decided: the judgment decided here will settle the balance as the mind moves to settle turmoil in the heart.”

Ifan raised an eyebrow, then returned a deferential nod to the High Conjurer for the explanation. “Alright, that does clarify the situation somewhat. Then is there a way I can help expedite things? I have Ascians to hunt.”

“Do you intend to use black magic again?” Raya-O-Senna asked suddenly. All present turned their heads towards her.

Ifan paused. Then he shrugged. “If I have to. I will try to avoid doing it on your turf, if that helps at all.”

“Try to?” she pressed. Her eyes were regarding Ifan rather intently in a way he didn’t like.

“Like I said, I’ll use it if I have to.” he answered, leveling his gaze with her own.

“And if we were to, say, offer you liberty in exchange for relinquishing the Gem of Shatotto…?”

“Not a chance.” The blunt immediacy of Ifan's answer caused even the Elder Seedseer to blink. A-Ruhn scowled and clenched his fist, but Raya-O seemed intrigued.

“Why not?” she queried with a curious tilt of her head.

“You haven’t earned the right.”

She smiled.

“You speak to a Padjal of the Twelveswood, outlander.” A-Ruhn barked, finally losing his temper. “Know your place.”

“I know who you are, and it doesn’t matter.” Ifan countered testily. “I took a blood oath to Nald’thal that I wouldn’t hand the gem over to anyone save a worthy successor who actually understands Shatotto’s legacy. None of you have proven to me that you've earned the right. But I’ll let you know when I’m in the market for an apprentice.”

“You–”

The Elder Seedseer and the High Conjurer let out a shared sigh at A-Ruhn and Ifan's incipient bickering. Raya-O, on the other hand, seemed to be deep in thought. 

Suddenly her head snapped up, and she spoke again. “Right, then.” she said in a clear voice. “On my name, Raya-O-Senna, I hereby invoke my Privilege and induct Ifan Kaleid as my student in the White.”

The grove went deathly quiet.

A-Ruhn started laughing.

“Ha. Very good, sister. For a moment I thought you were serious. A black mage, not even a Padjal, learning white magic. Very good…” he chuckled.

“Oh, I am quite serious, brother.” 

A-Ruhn went still. He stared at his sister, as did the other two Padjals. “...Have you completely lost your mind?” he hissed.

“That’s a great question, honestly…” agreed Ifan, staring at Raya-O with an utterly befuddled look on his face.

“My mind is quite clear, and made up.” Raya-O chirped brightly. She stepped forward, looking Ifan up and down and giving another nod before turning to E-Sumi-Yan. “I shall vouch for his potential, that he may prove his worth before the woods.”

The High Conjurer frowned. He glanced at Ifan, raising an eyebrow. Then he simply gave a silent nod.

“Listen to reason! You can’t just–” A-Ruhn’s objection was cut off as Raya-O turned to face her elder sister with that same cheerful look upon her face. 

“What say you, sister? Have you any objections?” she asked.

“...Concerns, certainly. But I do not challenge your right, sister.” said the Elder Seedseer slowly. She was looking at Ifan as she spoke, however, as if trying to ascertain something that she'd previously missed.

“You have my thanks, elder sister. And I should think any who consider themselves true adherents of our ways would not dream to question my right. Is that not so, little brother?” said Raya-O with a sly look at A-Ruhn. 

A-Ruhn grit his teeth. His Padjali dignity wasn’t quite sufficient to prevent him from looking like a scolded schoolboy. “Nothing good will come of this, sister. Mark me. This is a mistake.” he fumed. 

“We shall simply have to see, will we not?” Raya-O said in reply. She turned to Ifan, smile widening, then rounded him as she made to exit the glade. “Come along, student.”

Ifan stood there with his mouth open, wondering what in the world had just happened.

---

The silence grew too uncomfortable. Ifan sucked on his teeth for a moment before upping his pace to get a little closer to the Padjal. “I think we got off on the wrong foot.” he offered.

“Did we?” Raya-O didnt turn her head or break stride.

The magician pursed his lips to conceal his twinge of irritation. “Look. I appreciate you sticking up for me, really; I don’t want to cause problems between Gridania and the Scions, but I have a job to do.”

“Oh? You don’t want to learn white magic?” she asked airily.

“I didn’t say that.” Ifan countered. “I just think your brother has the right idea, and your lessons would be wasted on me.”

A fluid hum escaped her. “Hm. What makes you think that?”

“My conjury is terrible.”

Raya-O chuckled. “Well, that much is obvious.”

Ifan clicked his teeth and crossed his arms with the slightest pout on his lips. “No need to be mean.” he mumbled before continuing more clearly. “It isn’t that I can’t perform conjury, it just isn't something that comes easily." he clarified. "If that is so obvious, why do you still want to teach me?”

“You’re unusual for a prospective white mage, that I won’t dispute.” Raya-O replied, threading her fingers together behind her back. “But you being unusual is why I believe it of the utmost importance that you, specifically, be inducted into our legacy.”

Ifan stared at the Padjal ahead of him, wondering how it was that someone who looked like a mere girl could have such an authoritative air. “Why? What makes me so ‘unusual’?”

“Answer a question for me first, student.” she countered.

He sighed. “Alright.” 

She came to a halt, but didn’t turn around. “Have you given much thought to why you struggle with conjury?”

The magician raised an eyebrow at Raya-O, coming to a halt himself. “A little. But I gather you want something more detailed, right?” He looked off to the side as he sought the words. “Conjury puts the balance of the natural world first and foremost. That's fine, but I care about people first and foremost. Not to say I don’t understand the importance of respecting the land’s aether, but if I have to make a choice between curing a sick child and draining a tree of its lifeblood… I don’t even have to think about it.”

Raya-O looked up at the sky, fingers still threaded behind her back. “That’s quite interesting. You seem to have given an unusual amount of thought to healing people for one trained as a thaumaturge.”

“I don’t buy into the Ossuary’s obsession with death and destruction, if that’s what you’re implying.” Ifan countered quietly, arms still crossed.

“Then why did you choose to become a black mage?” she asked casually.

“You still haven’t answered my question.” 

Raya-O idly rocked on her heels. “You did say you appreciated my sticking up for you, did you not?"

Ifan blinked, then scowled. “...I can see why your brother lets you have your way.” 

“Water erodes Earth, if you will recall your Three Conquests.”

“Point taken. Well, as to why I chose to learn black magic… Aside from the fact one of the people offering to teach me was an old acquaintance whose judgment I trust, I chose it because by that point I’d started to realize what I was actually up against. What was being offered to me was a way to fight back on more even terms. The quicker we finish our foes, the less chance we give them to inflict harm.” he said. It was the truth.

The Padjal ceased rocking on her heels and lowered her gaze. Her back was still turned to Ifan. “Are you not worried that you’ll fall prey to temptation?” she asked. There was a strange sort of gravity to the question.

“Of course I am.” Ifan responded instinctively. “Every mage should be. That’s what being a mage is. The balancing act.”

“Much like conjury.”

Ifan blinked. Raya-O had finally turned her head to look at him over her shoulder with an extremely self-indulgent smirk upon her face. 

“...Gods damn you.” Ifan let out. He uncrossed his arms in defeat. “Alright, I see your point.”

She turned to face Ifan, her expression settling into a gentle smile. “Fighting back doesn’t necessarily mean only through use of force, Ifan. There’s a defiance in healing: spiting those that would commit injury and abuse by helping yourself and others to live, to heal, and to grow around the scars. What I’m offering you now is another way to fight back on more even terms, and keep your soul in the balance as you reach for magic's apex. And while you and my brother are correct in that I’ll never make a Hearer of you... Magic is magic, regardless of color; and all that is required for magic, aether aside, is–”

“Visualization and intent.” Ifan finished. Any mage worth their salt knew the words.

“Precisely. And in that regard, you strike me as extremely capable. After all, did you not just tell me yourself that, when it comes to saving human lives… ‘You don’t even have to think about it’?” She leaned forward as she echoed his words, hands on her hips, peering right up into Ifan’s eyes with a wide smile. 

“Master, you know that’s not what-" Ifan answered without thinking. Then he blinked in realization. “Fuck.” he stated crisply, then went red and hid his face with a hand. “Ah– sorry.”

Raya-O covered her mouth with her hand as she gave a teasing laugh, taking delight in Ifan’s embarrassment. “Master, hm? I rather like that.”

Ifan grumbled. “You just remind me of my first teacher, that’s all.” Then he sighed. “And I suppose I owe you that honor if you are absolutely dead set on attempting to train me, Master Raya-O.” he added with a resigned nod of respect.

“That’s the spirit!” she chuckled, reaching over to give Ifan’s bicep a pat. “Come. For your first lesson we shall speak of a Padjal named A-Towa-Cant. I think you’ll find his tale most intriguing…”

[inkovert]

sharing a snippet from a chapter I went back and rewrote a bit last night bc something about it felt ~off~ and I still can't decide if I like the changes I made or not but fuck it :)

Picking up a keychain from a nearby rack, I chucked it at him. 

His brows furrowed as it bounced off his chest. “What the hell was that?”

“Oh, my bad, I didn’t realize you could see me, you know, given the way you blew me off in the hall the other day.” He glared off to the side. “A bit rude, don’t you think? Did I piss you off that much at the dance?”

His jaw clenched. Still not meeting my gaze, he asked, “You lecture all your customers like this?” 

“Only the ones that act like immature jerks,” I shot back. 

His eyes finally flicked over to me. He bent over, picking the keychain I threw off the floor and returning it to its rack. “Overlook all past transgressions.”

My brows furrowed. “What?”

“Those were your words. The terms of the clean slate. You seem to think I owe you more than that.”  

I gritted my teeth. “Yes, Spencer, you’re right. I’m really asking for a lot by expecting to be given the time of day.” 

“That’s not what I mean.” He fiddled with the remaining keychains on the rack. “Your whole speech about us having some sort of understanding. For whatever reason, you refuse to admit the obvious.” His head turned and our eyes met. “We’re strangers to each other. I don’t know anything about you and you don’t know anything about me. A handful of arguments doesn’t change that.”

My lips parted, a surge of protest rushing to the surface. But it slowly subsided, my lips closing once more.

//

I grabbed a bag for his purchase, but he declined with a shake of his head. Swiping up the CD, I moved to hand it over to him, yanking it back just as he reached for it. 

He tsked, mocking me. “Now you’re just getting pathetic.” 

I frowned, grumbling as I handed the CD over. 

“The girl’s self-esteem is intact for one more day. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

I glanced over at Andy who, evidently having been watching us — or rather, Spencer — quickly averted her gaze. He had a point. And it surprised me that he’d gone out of his way to step in and help without being asked. 

Then, I replayed his words. “Wait, you did all that…for me?”

“Don’t read too much into it. Consider it an apology. For the other day.” He averted his gaze. 

He was about to walk off, but a simple sentence made him hang back. “You’re wrong, you know.” His brow twitched. “About us not knowing anything about each other.” How could he not see it? 

Palms flat against the counter, I leaned against them. “I know that you like Rock music — The Kooks, Rolling Stones, Crash Kings,” I nodded to the CD in his hand. “I know the glove compartment in your car is packed with CDs, and on a random night last September your favorite band was Nirvana. I know that every time I see you you have a different book in your hand, and the reason you enjoy reading so much is because it gives purpose to your meaningless, inconsequential life — your words, not mine. You own a phone so ancient I didn’t even know they still made it. When you don’t want to answer a question you either respond with a question or by avoiding eye contact, sometimes both at once if I’m lucky. And I know I saw you in a vulnerable state once and I’ve kept it a secret ever since. So, sure, they may have just been a handful of arguments on the surface. But we took something away from each one. At least, I did. So, between us, I don’t think I’m the one that’s refusing to admit the obvious here.” 

[orpheuslament]

Hi! I adored your poem so much that I got excited and had lots of thoughts about your lovely writing. So one thing led to another, I wrote some notes, and I thought it might be a fun experience to share my thoughts with you. So here are my notes on Sharing a Cigarette with Joan of Arc. This isn’t nearly everything that there is to say about this piece, I just wanted to gush about my favorite aspects of my initial reading (which may or may not have happened when I was drunk, I will admit). 

(Also, sorry if it’s a bit confusing, there are lots of grammatical mistakes and lacks structure. I mostly wrote/adapted this on my phone this morning while commuting and English isn’t my native language. I’m so sorry if I’m not quoting you right too, I’m mostly doing this from the top of my head)

As a queer person myself, I am very familiar with feeling small & vulnerable, grasping at the straws to figure out who (what?) I am, stuck in limbo, which is probably why I love it so much that your barebone characters melt into one another, the mirroring and entanglement that lasts only for a moment but isn’t any less significant. I loved the metaphorical give-and-take between the reader and Joan (a conversation that never happened between past and present. A revelation of sorts? Euh, I can imagine that) echoing the banality of sharing a cigarette with a stranger at the bar (Joan borrows your lighter but she rolls your cigarette and you’re sharing the same experience). I loved the economy of words, the graceful dryness of the writing. There’s no need to say too much for us to see what we’ve been looking for; your poetry is a mirror (I don’t remember what was the first piece of you that I’ve read, but I thought it was cruel; demanding & merciless. I loved it).

I love the parallels between the scene and the content, the characters are standing in between spaces (religious & secular space, masculinity & femininity, freedom & constraint, etc…) both figuratively and literally  (‘the emergency exit of a Parisian bar”). More generally; I love the back and forth between temporalities, the inside & outside, the person & the saint.

Ok, here’s something interesting; the figure of Joan of Arc is very ambivalent. She’s revered as a martyr and a Catholic saint (she was beatified in 1909 and then canonized in 1920 if I remember well, so that’s pretty recent, and an interesting political move) but she’s also considered a feminist icon, and a national symbol,  so as far as historical figures go, she is associated with various movements and currents of thoughts. Joan is a figure of antithesis. During World War I, her image was used to fuel the French national sentiment, and during World War II, she was simultaneously a symbol of Pétain’s France of Vichy, a symbol of the Résistance under de Gaulle's leadership, and of the Communist resistance. This is kinda crazy when you think about it because nowadays she’s mostly associated with the monarchists, and more generally the  French far-right (every year the RN celebrates JoA on the 8th of May. There’s a funny story to it). Her legacy is rich and contradictory, and it tells you exactly nothing about who she might have been; because she had no say in how her story was recorded, and the chronicles of her life were written by people who had lots of stake in how future generations would interpret her actions (& their inaction). We know nothing about who she was; “ I don’t want them to keep me. As a saint you lose all autonomy, your body is not yours to bury.” But that’s also what makes her so fascinating, right? I personally very much love the ambivalence of Joan's image; because to me as a French person, she’s deeply associated with a sense of identity (Joan’s sense of self is her divine right), but she’s also a symbol of individuality, transgression & defiance against social norms. That’s why I loved the ideological scope of your poem so much; a reinterpretation of the myth that reconciles every one of these facets. I love her for what she tells me about the loneliness of the struggle; the push to action; the jaded resilience and determination. (On a side note, did you know The Second Coming of Joan of Arc by Carolyn Gage or  I, Joan by Charlie Josephine? I’m kinda betting that you do cuz you seem pretty well-read, but if that’s not the case, those might be interesting and right up your alley) “In poet’s tongues & in the tip of the artist’s fingers. In the sound, a young girl’s hair makes when it falls to on her shoulders, in the way a boy creates himself with a pair of kitchen scissors & his parent’s dismissal. Patron saint of non-conformists, angel of the oversized sweater, of the buzzcut & the transsexual.” Those are my favorite lines, you have no idea how much i'd wanted to hear that.

I love the use of religious imagery in this context; the run-on pattern of light and fire that is so pervasive within the Christian mythology that’s associated here with the cigarette, which simultaneously joins the images of fire, smoke, and ashes, and defines the temporality of the piece as well; that transient moment of sharing a cigarette & chatting with a stranger at a bar (watching a small fox chasing a butterfly). Of course, Jeanne was burned at the stake so the association with fire is pretty commonplace, but what I love most is how you’ve capitalized on so many aspects of the symbolism of light and fire at once, be if within the Christian mythology and some sort of collective imaginary driven but many other influences, a rich network of associations feeding into one another. For instance, fire is often used as a symbol of God's presence in Christianity (‘ to be touched by God is to be destined to early fire’). In the New Testament, Jesus is the one who brings fire to the earth, and the Holy Spirit is the "tongues of flame" (in this case, I love the idea that there are so many readings available to your poems because your art is also a revelation, this is also your language,  ‘in poet’s tongues & in the tip of the artist’s fingers’) In Joans’s hands, the cigarette becomes an object of worship, much like in Christianity, the worship of fire was preserved through ritual candles (‘omens of a future in which her name is constantly lit by candlelight’). Religion and sanctity are simultaneously the conditions that make transcendence possible and the reason why Joan’s freedom is constrained. Fragile and illusory (the angel is parallel with a bird, a butterfly chased by a small fox. Which almost feels like a warning. Being seen is a point of no return. Doesn’t mean it’s not worth it). More generally (I’m thinking of Bachelard’s book, The Psychoanalysis of Fire, but I’m pretty sure any dictionary of symbols might say the same), and maybe more crucially, fire is associated with change, passion, or inspiration. Fire is the element of conversion in alchemy because everything that touches fire is irreversibly transformed, and often changed beyond recognition. But I kinda imagine that it’s not so much that fire has the ability to change something but instead fire reveals the underlying form of an element. Something that was there all along, a potential. As an element, fire has also mixed symbolism because it represents vitality and destruction, life and death, the lights of heaven and the pits of hell, a force that can be helpful when controlled (a candle, the cigarette), but volatile if left unchecked (the early fire; the pyre).

Association between the reader (you) and Joan, threading both into the same thoughts and experiences, creating a sense of belonging and understanding. I love the reference to physical transformation as liberating and cementing your sense of self and identity. Also, the repeating sequences about the hair reminded me of Patti Smith’s poem, “jeanne d’arc” which is also a subversion of the myth though she’s exploring a different alley. I love these lines, “got no hair / weighing me / cut so close / scalp is nicked”. I never knew it was such a universal experience, cutting your hair real short for the first time. I used to be so scared.

I love the choppy rhythm of your prose, the use of asyndeton that was kinda taken to the extreme, with the short sentences, you often dropping the subject clause, speech melting into thoughts into memories. There’s something organic about this that’s not quite like the usual stream of consciousness. Your poetry is like being out of breath.

Moreover, the dynamics of the passing of time are really neat in that piece, because you get the feeling that time stops, and freely moves backward (recollections; but also Joan’s presence - a sweet apparition) and forward (anticipation, and our knowledge of history, the cost of transgressing social norms throughout the past centuries. How far we’ve gone and how far we still have to go), which allows the reader to connect the dots on their own and retrace the underlying stories that transpire between the lines (Joan’s past, her fears, and doubts, her aspirations, etc… everything that makes Joan her own person before she is a Saint dispossessed of herself), gradually revealed in a smooth mix of inner dialogues, more distant thoughts & flashbacks, every aspect of the events connected to the characters and their journey. How brilliant.

On a side note, I am often reminded of Angels in America reading your poetry, mostly because you’re very similar in how you’re queering religious spaces (that is using religious motifs to express ideals, devotion, while simultaneously criticizing religious institutions & the dangerous hypocrisy of their tenants). You’re more radical tho, and I love your writing for that.

Alright, I'm done rambling. Good evening & take care!

THIS IS SO FUCKING COOL IM GOING TO CRY i loved Loved LOVED reading your thoughts about my poetry im always stunned when people take the time to analyze something ive written. sometimes you guys figure out things i didnt even know i was doing!! its such a cool way to discover things about myself + my writing. ill admit that sharing a cigarette is not the best thing ive written but seeing how it resonates w people fills my heart with joy. also i cant believe youre comparing my work to aia that play was extremely formative for me ive read it three times i think!! thank you sososososososo much!!!

[oleanderblume]

Ima say that Charlie's mom has Alastor's soul and he became the radio demon and gained his power in exchange for doing her bidding, based on what's been shown, souls are immortal unless sold to another sinner/demon. So my assumption is Alastor gained the souls of other overlords in order to be able to kill them, OR, he didn't kill them and is/was emmassing an army for Lilith. She seems to be left out of the story, but heaven's talk about "another uprising" makes me think that there was one previously, began by Lilith, not Lucifer.

Lucifer is an angel afterall, a fallen one, but an angel nontheless, and if his banishment to hell was punishment for his perceived transgression, and Lilith convinced him in the past to stage an uprising against heaven, it stands to reason why he wouldn't do it again with Charlie's life on the line.

My guess is Lilith started the first uprising, and that failed, prompting the exterminations to start happening, and after Charlie was born and the exterminations still persisted, Lilith probably wanted to do another uprising. But Lucifer would have been much more reluctant to do that when he has a daughter to protect.

So lilith leaves, taking Alastor to do her own planning over that 7 year gap. Then she hears about Charlie's plan, sends Alastor to protect her and the hotel, while she's still working on the next war effort.

At least...that's my guess at what's been going on.

It also makes sense why Alastor is so uniquely invested in the hotel and why he haaates Lucifer. He's the step dad of the situation lol.

Also, I just love Lucifer and his whole personality, Charlie takes after him in almost every way and its adorable lol.

The shows pacing is kind of suffering in the time scale department, i think it would have served the plot better if it were released spaced out similarly to Helluvaboss, because the binge format isn't conducive to the massive assumed time jump between episode 4 and episode 5. But that's more to do with the platform and way the episodes are being released, than the actual writing of the show.

The first 4 episodes take place over the course of 3 or 4 months, not in direct succession. And the last 2 episodes will probably take place during the last month before extermination, and then the season finale on the day of extermination. That pacing makes sense, but because of the way the episodes are released, it doesn't *feel* that way initially. Not the fault of the writers, more so the fault of Amazon's bizarre releasing schedule.

The philosophy of the show is really neat, reminescent of The Good Place. Where heaven is ridiculously underpopulated because of the archaic rules that gatekeep almost everyone out of heaven, and hell is overpopulated because the system of judgment is so off balance that it doesn't account for modern morality and extenuating circumstances. <- this is basically the same as The Good Place, but with more furries and more direct reference to Christian theology.

So far, i like it a lot, and im interested to see where it diverges from The Good Place.

I doubt Charlie is going to stay mad at Vaggie for long, for one she didn't seem particularly shaken in the first place, and Vaggie has shown her devotion to Charlie's cause from the start, her being an angel and her past of being and exterminator being a major hang up for Charlie would contradict Charlie's entire philosophy of "people are capable of change"

Also, i don't think Angel will get to heaven, in fact, i think he would get there and choose to stay in hell because hell is actually better than heaven in a lot of ways— especially if you're looking at it from the specifically Christian lense. Heaven wouldn't tolerate the things most souls would *want* as a part of their paradise, especially not by modern standards.

I honestly think that heaven will be described, as it has been thus far, as only accepting to the hyper religious zealot sorts that are deeply hypocritical— why else would Adam be there? Dude is the epitome of a red-pilled mysogynist dickwad. He likely got into heaven based solely on his kissup nature to the presiding God.

on what is considered appropriate behavior.

I think this is the general criticism the show is going for, a solid combination of critiquing the functionality of a system like heaven and hell, and a critique of the "virtues" one would be required to follow in order to get there.

Fuck, even Lucifer was taken aback by Charlie being in a queer relationship. To me that speaks a lot to the values *he* as an angel, was taught.