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[lotuseye]

KINKTOBER 2024, I DIDN'T CHANGE MY NUMBER.

don't take it out on me, i'm out of sympathy for you. maybe you should leave, before i get too mean and take it out on you ( and your best friend too! )

suguru geto & satoru gojo. it was so, so difficult to put up with satoru sometimes- especially when every 9 of the 10 words that left his mouth was lies and excuses. in a particularly rough patch where there seems to be a whose-d*ck-is-bigger contest between the two stubborn idiots, she runs into geto in the bar they frequent and decides he deserves an earful for enabling gojo to be atrocious- but a torture can come in various forms, can't it?

word   count:   6902.

genre:   one-shot, kinktober product.

characters:   suguru geto & satoru gojo & reader.

notes:   hi so this is an insane idea that i could not help but write. satoru being a bad boyfriend. suguru being an even worse friend. pr*ise. degr*dation. kind of ch*king. car s*x. pet names. mean dom!gojo. submissive leaning p*ssydrunk switch!geto. switch!reader. dont even perceive me with this one i have no clue how we got here even.

“ you are such an… such an asshole.” 

“ and your learning curve is horizontal, sweetness- i don’t recall you leavin’ me.” 

the liar, the bitch and the master manipulator, she hated every single bone in satoru’s body. 

well, except the one he was burying her to the sheets with. 

the same old unfinished story of broken promises, it is a rinse and repeat now with the vibrant colors of their relationship is diluting in the waters of exhaustion and exasperation. oh it was limitless alright, the number of times he could have let her free fall from the tallest skyscraper of tokyo and be forgiven with how he catches her right before the fall, a honeyed coo or two in her ear. no language on the face of earth is adequate when it comes to explaining the way satoru exists on the axis of the world he’s tilted, but the words detached & displaced are the first ones that come to mind. she is simply one of the many things bound to be lost in the infinity between him and the space he occupies, a hard-swallowed pill that she couldn’t still digest even when he had his veined hands splayed on the curve of her hips, his steel of a bicep pressing against her throat as the bed rhythmically creaked beneath them. 

it felt too good, and he knew it- he knew he had her when she left that airy sigh into the pillow she had been drooling in with the spot he found without effort, he knew he had her when she preened underneath him with her shoulderblades against his ribs. it’s lazy, lazier than satoru usually indulges in, his hips maintaining an angle that let him bully the spongy g-spot tucked between the snug walls with such fervor that he has her reeling with each languid thrust. his damp locks are tickling the nape of her neck, the beads of sweat collecting at the conjunction of their limbs, wetting the already messed sheets. she can hear each grunt, each breath of his, feel it vibrate in her chest. the same old tale, he does something rancid enough to piss her off and then instead of an apology he fucks her until she forgot what she was mad about in the first place, but like any trick, it has a point where the audience tires of the repetitive schemes. 

“my baby’s pissed at me, huh? would ya’ look at that. ” he coos, his mouth pressed against the junction of her jugular and her neck, his mouth wet. she has no choice but to listen, no choice but to take it- he doesn’t leave anywhere for her to escape, having her stuck beneath the mattress and his heavy figure, with her throat sitting tight and cozy in the crook of the arm he has wrapped around her neck like a shackle. her maroon nails are digging into his sinewy forearm until crescent moons shine with a painful pink color and it is not only a rightful response to the merciless pounding, but also a subconscious punishment, a silent outlet of her anger.

satoru doesn’t like that. 

the position shifts, the man atop her whining rather dramatically before his weight lifts off of her. “ naughty girl, so ungrateful.” he chastises breathlessly, and just when she thinks she’s free of the torment she can’t stop cumming from, he yanks her up by the fat of her hips, propping her up on her knees but her attempts to rise on her hands is strictly prohibited, satoru lets out a “ tch tch,” as he catches both her wrists in one large palm to cross them on the small of her back, right in the middle of the twin dimples before his empty hand grasps the nape of her neck and push her face into the sage green, satin pillowcase she had been moaning into few moments ago, burying himself to the hilt in one go simultaneously. “ this is why we can’t have nice things,” he clicks his tongue, and she can almost see the way his eyes roll to the back of his skull, all educated deductions from the way he speaks through his gritted teeth. complain he might, but he cannot deny that he lives for the thrill of her, lives for the thrill of having her in his bed, the taste of cherry lipgloss stuck in the back of his throat and her laughter his favorite siren song. “ because you don’t appreciate ‘em, baby.” 

“ don’t even start-” she groans, and his hips snap harsher the next time as a silent yet effective method of shutting her up, liking her pliant and obedient as always. “ sorry, what was that?” he leans over, asking with a faux undertone of surprise in his tone. “ can’t hear you over the sound of her, babe,” he pulls out temporarily, just to bring his palm down for a hard smack on her swollen cunt, only pleased when he hears her cry out and shudder to grasp the base of his painfully hard cock and nudge it right back inside her to resume. “ wanna’ repeat that f’ me?” 

but she can’t, her vision already having painted white as she stiffens and seizes with a whimper choked on her throat, clenching around satoru impossibly as her climax pulls her right under the crashing wave, a steady ringing in her ear that deafens her briefly- she can call him every single name under the sun and he’d deserve each one of them, but she cannot deny that the bastard has a way of pushing her to the brink of feelings & sensations she didn’t know was possible. it’s what makes it all so alluring, it’s what makes her heart swell with the ease of familiar affection when he follows her almost immediately, his hips slapping against the back of her thighs faster as he falters, the feeling of wet ropes fill her to the brim a one that makes her toes curl, a nice warmth spreading through her system. 

“ why are you adamantly trying to get me to leave you?” she asks, breathless, rolling to her back- her knees hurt, and she’s definitely pulled a muscle in her neck with how strained it feels. the heel of her palm presses against the junction of her neck and shoulder, rubbing in idle motions to alleviate it a bit. she watches him collapse next to her, just as breathless, his tongue darting out to lick his dry lips, snowy lashes fluttering with exhaustion, gaze heavy lidded. “ didn’t i tire you enough? ” he mutters but she doesn’t need to know him as well as she does to hear the whiny undertone. he blindly reaches through the sheets to find her warmth next to him, yank her to his chest without paying any mind to the way she yelps, and nuzzle his face against her spine. “ you talk too much, go to sleep.”

it had been a long shot, but at least she wouldn’t say that she didn’t try. “ get off of me,” she sighs, exasperated more than anything as she pushes satoru’s heavy arm to slide further away in the sheets. still drowsy & a bit lightheaded but still not relaxed or prideless enough to fall asleep next to him. “ ‘m gonna’ go take a shower.” 

oh, that gets his attention. his head slightly lifting from the sheets, he watches her go, wearing nothing but his shirt. “ can i come?”

the only response he gets is the door that slams shut on his face.

****

she hadn’t expected suguru to be home. by the time she takes a stroll to the kitchen with her damp hair tucked in a soft towel, having switched back to her own clothes to deprive satoru of the pleasure of seeing her in his own clothes, adorned in a pair of rust nike shorts and a hot pink crop top. she finds suguru by the stove, cooking something that smells like thyme with his headphones on. she would have snuck her head in to get a good sniff of the pot, but since sneaking up on someone who is handling a hot pan while wearing headphones is never a good idea, she makes her way to the fridge as intended. he notices her by the shadow that falls on the counter, pulling the headphones down to his neck. “ hey there,” he greets, simple as he spares her a single glance. he doesn’t need to look at her twice to imagine what went down, sighing before turning to his meal.

“ i can feel you judging me,” she says as she pulls the bottle of milk out before closing it shut with a sway of her hips. suguru snorts. “ i am.” 

ever the honest.

“ you don’t get to,” she comments simply as she occupies the same counter he’s cooking in. their shared apartment having memorized by now, she pushes on the side of his head slowly to avoid him hitting his forehead on the cabinet she pulls open ( thinking about it, maybe she should have let it hit him ) to get the coffee she had been desperately craving. she releases him a moment later, putting the coffee jar on the counter. like the calm before the storm. “ you’re the one who told me he was home when he was out with the bitches, if my memory isn’t failing me.” she states thoughtfully as she licks the spoon she delved into the coffee jar earlier. “ and you were the one who told me not to worry when i, in fact, should have been worrying.” 

suguru sighs, clearly discontent to be in the conversation but too bad- he wasn’t discontent when he was lying straight to her face. her gaze is keener than a knife when she turns it on him, the smile that curls on the corners of her mouth is cold enough to look cruel. “ you’re a disappointing friend, suguru.” she comments, her tone sing-song-y enough to sound eerie. too serious and unserious at the same time, like his mistake was spilling her favorite coffee on the floor or forgetting to pick up groceries on his way home. “ and you’re not one bit innocent.” 

“ don’t get me involved in your shit,” he exhales, keeping his gaze on the pan- chicken pesto & rice, hm. delicious. what a pity she felt too nauseous to take a bite. “ it’s not my responsibility to keep your deranged man in check, satoru is the way he is and you know it.” he places a large palm on top of her head but not ruffling her hair, instead bending over a bit unnecessarily to get down on eye level with her, his voice reeking of condescension. “ aren’t we a little too old to be blaming others for our bad life decisions, missy? ” she smiles at him, as sweet as a plum. “ fuck you, suguru.” 

he grins. “ oh, i’d bet you wish. ” 

***

it has been two months without satoru, two months with letting his calls go to voice mail or turning the flowers away from her doorstep. he’s using every trick in the book, from the gifts to the soft epilogues he is murmuring into the mic in the late hours of the night, hoarse and truthful but satoru’s truth as subjective as it can be- his emotions shift with the weather, and so does his intentions. his detachment applies to his ability to hold onto his promises, and the last couple of years he had not learned from his mistakes or her pleading, and she doesn’t necessarily deem herself the teacher he loves being. it’s not in her nature to be coddling a man that is not getting the message, at least not without making him regret every bit of a wrong he’s done her. 

early 2010s are playing in the club that smells like pot & cigarettes & sweat, the fog of everything & anything that’s been smoked blurring in her gaze and dimming the moving purple & pink of the lights, coating the glitter on her cheeks prettiest of technicolors. four martinis in, she’s feeling the buzz in the marrow of her bones, not drunk enough to be stumbling on her feet but drunk enough to not try to see satoru’s white head in the packed crowd. the soles of her butterfly shoes are hitting the back of her ankles, and the polyester of her cheap dress is sticking to her damp skin in ways uncomfortable enough to assure her she definitely is getting a rash the next day. still, it is not nearly as bad as the urge to check her phone every twenty minutes to see if he’s texted. he probably has, and not that she’d text him back, but still it was a reassurance of its own to know that she occupied his thoughts. it was hard, for someone like satoru, to stay focused without drifting away. she’s even surprised he seems to have object permanence altogether. 

just when her tired feet are dragging her to the bar for a refill of her empty martini glass, a similar figure draws her attention. the oversized black sweater that’s ridiculously loose on his shoulder, the fresh wolfcut, the black circle earrings and the cargo pants that also sit nonchalant on his waist and that goddamn manspread. he’s been staring at her. 

if he was here…

“ the pot and its lid, how lovely.” her smile is forced when she leans over him, to the bar, yelling inaudibly over a loud remix of lady gaga for a refill, trying to contain her suddenly restless heart in her ribs, over the prospect of satoru popping out of somewhere to tap her on the shoulder with his disgustingly saccharine smile, sticking a tongue out through his perfect teeth. her knees feel weak and the alcohol is not the only culprit. suguru chuckles, taking another sip of his own drink, neat whiskey as usual. “ he’s not here.” 

thank fucking god. she breathes, and he takes the sight in, nursing his whiskey, slowly twirling the glass with leisure movements of his wrist. “ you want me to call him?” he asks, mocking, teasing. she doesn’t give him the reaction he probably had been pulling and poking around for, instead waiting patiently with her elbows on the counter, a little bent, her midsection resting on suguru’s knee. she’s too occupied in her thoughts to notice it, but he’s not. though, it remains a silent acknowledgement. “ no,” she tells him, mouthing a thank you to the bartender before she turns to suguru eventually, her blue eyeliner having smudged around the corner of her eyes. he offers a grin. “ why, you here with someone? ” he shakes his head at the possibility of that being true, accompanied by a disapproving sound. “ don’t let him know, princess- he can dish it out but he can’t take it. such is the man, your boyfriend. ” the cynical undertone is laughable, so she does- it is swallowed by the slender glass in her hands. “ look at the one talking,” she gestures, amused. suguru shrugs, his head tipping back with the big sip to down the rest of his whiskey, adam’s apple bobbing and the chain that shines distracts her, gleaming under the now red hues. “ jus’ saying,” he shrugs. “ i know him. and you know him. don’t understand why you’re so obsessive over things you know that ain’t good for ya’.” 

well, that had been a little too real than what she expected. she blinks, her expression shifting into one of confusion and of restlessness- a question she cannot answer truly, as she herself is yet to discover the big revelation. instead, her limbs retract, the ghost of a smile playing on the corner of her mouth. “ careful, suguru.” she muses, words laced with honey but not without the sting. “ you don’t know me like that. you don’t know me at all, actually. ” how would he, when all he has seen of her was her reflection created in satoru’s image? he hasn’t known her the way satoru or even shoko did. he knew her as the girl satoru couldn’t treat right a day in his life yet the girl he simply was too entranced to move on from. 

his expression remains untouched, but a twitch at the corner of his mouth catches her eye. “ you’re here for him,” he says, without an attempt to correct her. “ you’re wearing that skimpy little dress for him. you’re drinking, laughing, dancing- for him. and he’s not even here.” it feels like a dare, the way his shoulders move, how he leans back. “ what a shame.” her ears are burning, the root of her hair red, and the flush on her cheeks is reeking of shame. she feels exposed, at the way suguru pecks at her open wounds without a care- but she asked for it, didn’t she? she stills, then leans, until both of her hands press against the cold edge of the marble counter, caging suguru in. she can smell the whiskey on his breath, can smell the cologne he wears, earthy and woody, lacking the sharp scents satoru uses. he leans back in his stool, carefully curated expression watching every single movement of hers to see what she’s after, decipher the secret message except there is no secret message- she’s angry, and she feels like a lesson has been due by yesterday. 

“ and you’re here for me,” she says eventually, cracking into an eerie smile with the dawning of the revelation. “ oh, suguru, you sneaky bastard,” she can’t help the airy chuckle that escapes her, her eyes having widened with something she’s found in the poker face he had been wearing. he is good at this but so is she. “ you’ve almost had me, gotta’ give it to ya’.” she coos, mingled with mockery in the worst way possible as her head cranes aside, withdrawing to take a good look at him. “ who knew?”

he laughs, the tormenter that he is, and it’s pretty. has it always been this pretty, or is the newfound depth to dabble in make her see him in a light she hasn’t before? “ please,” he snorts, shaking his head, asking the bartender for a refill and tossing his empty glass on the counter. he makes no moves to get out of her symbolic cage, pretty content to be sitting where he is, a knowing look painting him more annoying than he already is- but how could he not be, with the pretty girl lodged between his knees? satoru’s girl, at that. or not. that part was always confusing, even for them. “ i’m flattered, but you’re… not my type.” he finds the words he had been looking for eventually, clicking his tongue with satisfaction. “ i don’t like ‘em as whiny and loudmouthed as you.” she can’t tell if he’s joking or not, can’t tell why the room went up a hundred degrees all of a sudden. “ do me a favor and pick up the next time he calls, yeah?” he murmurs, digging around for something she assumes to be a cigarette, no longer focused on her. “ he’s been nagging like a bitch all day, ‘m tired of it. we both know you’re not going anywhere.” 

she didn’t think it was possible to despise someone as much as she did satoru, but suguru is full of surprises. even if he is not able to find that one particular vein satoru adores pressing with the soles of his pretty, expensive shoes, he finds a completely different one- condescension dripping off his mouth, that lazy stare boiling the blood in her veins. he deems her not worthy of him, whiny and loudmouthed. 

she kisses him just for that. 

it is short, it is confused- it is filled with the urge to prove something, unsure to herself or to him. he tastes like whiskey & mint and it burns the back of her throat, and for a brief moment, he parts his lips, to which she takes as an invitation to push her tongue in and lick at the roof of his mouth as her hands grasp the collar of his hoodie. 

it is short because suguru breaks it, his hands on her elbows, eyes widened and the cherry hue of her lipgloss smudged on his lower lip with the saliva that it shines with. “ ‘m not the revenge you want,” he warns, perhaps the most serious thing he’s said to her that night- but she lacks the fucks to give. “ shut the fuck up,” she says in return instead, before pushing him incessantly to return to the bittersweet taste she had been craving before it even died on her tongue. this time, suguru doesn’t reel back or stop. this time, his tentative hands slide around the small of her exposed back, pulling her flush against him as his teeth sinks into her plush lip. it’s dizzying, how he kisses the breath out of her lungs, and how it sets a dozen fireworks in her ribs. 

“ oh, fuck, i can’t- he’ll kill me,”  the sentiment returns, and she doesn’t remember hearing him so desperate in her life- doesn’t remember hearing him so out of breath and pleading, a begging more to himself than her as he rests his forehead on her temple and draws in heavy breaths like it might make him want her less. it doesn’t. satoru doesn’t plead the way he does, doesn’t look at her with the same pathetic insurmountable need in his eyes. maybe it’s what makes her bold enough to push her thigh between his knees, watching the way his jaw falls slack, slender fingers tightening on her hips as if he can’t decide if he wants to stop her or not. “ you’ve been lying to me for him long enough,” she murmurs, hot and breathless into his mouth, watching every single way his face contorts with shame and pleasure like a hawk through heavy lidded eyes. “ time to lie for me, sugu.” 

it’s how they end up in the back of her car- with her perched atop suguru’s large thighs, moaning into each other’s mouths, raven locks bunched in her incessant palm and his hands splayed out on her thighs. it’s sloppier than anything, and all she can think about is how utterly beautiful he is, with his heavy breathing he is pointless trying to regulate and the way he keeps clutching at her, ridden with guilt & lust at the same time. she doesn’t carry the same concern as he does, doesn’t care about satoru- not in the way she should, at least. it was time he stopped underestimating her. it was time he stopped believing her lack of retaliation on his bullshit was because she thought he could be a better person than he was, not because she was weak enough to stay. she only realizes her mistake now, how wrong it was of her to try to handle things the way adults did- but forfeiting grudges, by trying to forgive and communicate. he mistook her kindness. he thought her sweet, thought her all bark no bite.

but looks could be deceiving.

no clothes are coming undone, but suguru is half unraveled underneath her thighs. “ look at you,” she says in pure admiration, catching his chin between the knuckle of her index finger and her thumb, tilting his head to her liking- which is straight at her, having no choice but to see the diabolical grin that turns her into something he has never put his hands on before. something he wouldn’t know what to do with, if he had. “ whiny and loudmouthed, you said?” she quotes, and a single shift of her hips is enough to drown out any response he might have, to which he responds with a grunt of restraint and a kiss harsher than loving. “ shut up,” he kisses it on her teeth, and she has no objections to that. his presence is overwhelming. it’s unusual, the attachment that comes along- suguru is intense in a way she cannot define to be good or bad. so explore she does, tilting the corner of his jaw with a stubborn push from her nose, teeth grazing at his jugular. she can feel the way his breath hitches, feel the way he twitches. he attempts to take control of the situation by manhandling her on his lap, squeezing the fat of her hips in his palms with a grunt as he forces her into movement. the sticky material of her long drenched panties stick to her, the zipper of his pants getting caught at her clit and making her jolt with each drag. it gives him a momentary release from her evil clutches, but it is questionable how it can be considered relief when he has that drunk look on his face, jaw setting with a low grunt. “ such a fucking slut,” he whispers it against the column of her throat, freeing one hand to resume the movement by lazy & languid rolls of his hips, having her gasp on top of him, boneless on his lap. “ grinding on me because your boyfriend just can’t act right, huh? is this how you get back on him? ” 

she nods, even if she doesn’t want to, too caught up in the way he pseudo-fucks her, unhurried and devoid of any rush- like they had hours to spend in the back of her car. his pants might be deceiving her, but even the outline of him pressing against her is enough to have her mouth watering for the real deal, satoru half forgotten in suguru’s warm lap. his fingertips trail beneath the hem of her blue skirt, and they dance around the edge of her panties without ever getting to business. she squirms, desperate for a taste of something she can’t go back from, but his hold is a one of steel- “ if you want something, you’re gonna have to say it,” he murmurs, his mouth brushing hers without properly kissing her, each thrust making her jolt on his knees. she melts halfway, face contorted in pressure. “ are you this much of a headache for satoru too, or is it special f’ me?” 

that does it, her lower lip trembling as she rests against his chest, hips lazily grinding back into his to keep up with the delicious rhythm that has her seeing stars before anything. the fingers that now ghost over the damp spot of her underwear is her undoing. “ performance anxiety, sugu baby?” she lets a breathless, airy chuckle, accompanied by a sweet aw she manages to utter. “ don’t worry, i’ll guide yo-ohhhh shit,” he tucks her words back into her mouth without batting an eye, he’s good like that, of course he is. there is nothing to be questioned in his abilities to touch a girl, it seems- he doesn’t struggle as he slips underneath the wet fabric and plunges two fingers deep inside her, the sudden intrusion sending an electric jolt down her spine. for a moment, it becomes so, so hard to speak, toes curling in the pretty heels satoru has gotten them as an apology gift for one of his many fuckups. she doesn’t think suguru would like to know that. 

“ sorry, you were sayin’ somethin’?” he hums, a pleased, toothy smile tugging his mouth upwards as he takes in the sight of her squirming on his lap to handle the pressure. he brings an end to those wiggly hips by pressing the forearm that has been on her thigh even harder to pin her nice & tight. “ uh uh, don’t run away from me, now, you wanted this, remember? ” he tuts, still keeping his slow grind her swollen bud as his fingers pump leisurely in & out. “ suguru,” she shudders, gripping the car seat behind him just to be able to have some sort of anchor but even that is failing her. suguru is an asshole of his own kind, so instead of easing up on her, he tugs on the lace ribbons of her dress with his teeth, like an animal, just so he can nuzzle his nose between the valley of her breasts. he’s not as chatty as satoru, it turns out. not as hurried either- it’s not the same rush, not the same avid sense of detachment. this is not turning out the way she expected it to, not the mindless fuck she had been going after just so she could see the look on satoru’s face when she told him she fucked his best friend. 

“ mhm, i see what’s got him so hooked alright,” he reveals to himself, half mesmerized and half amused, an afterthought as he drags his tongue on the velvety edge of her dress, dipping it underneath. “ i’d be tweaking too, if i fumbled this.” the this he is talking about is not her sparkling personality, she assumes, but it has her chuckling breathlessly anyway. it’s one thing to be wanted by satoru who wants everything he can get his hands on all the time, but it is another to be wanted by suguru who seems to want nothing at all. well, except the girl he lied to the face of repeatedly. just for that she thinks of leaving him blue-balled, but all thoughts flee her mind once his teeth catches her hardened nipple and his fingers crook in that delicious way, pulsating around his fingers as the tight coil in her guts snap. 

she doesn’t realize the buildup, nearly panicking with how sudden it all crashes into her- eyes widening impossibly as she clutches onto suguru desperately as the man holds her still. “ keep cumming, keep cumming, good fuckin’ girl,” he grunts with his nose pressing hard against the column of her throat, effortlessly handling the mess of limbs on his knees that is stiffening & seizing with the pressure it takes her to release it all. she thinks she’s seeing sounds, she thinks she’s hearing colors- by the time she comes back down to earth, she has half a mind on her to breathe, and only through the demanding of him who is now holding her chin in his palm: “ don’t pass out on me now, keep breathin’, keep breathin’.” 

it feels cold, when his fingers finally vacate their cozy home, but they are soon to find another- he uses the hand on her chin to pull her jaw a bit down, fingertips squishing into her cheeks to make her open up so he can stuff her mouth with the very same fingers with a dazed look in his eyes. “ polite girls clean up after themselves,” he murmurs. the tangy taste melts on her tongue, sucking on suguru’s fingers as he slowly rocks them a bit, imitating the lewd imagery of her sucking his cock. it would be a pretty sight, she thinks. to see him with his head tipped back, to rob him stark naked of any control he might have, to own him by the balls, as they say. but suguru doesn’t seem interested in the idea, as he just sighs, contently watching her suck on his fingers. she’s always thought he had pretty eyes, violet hues that have been shining with brilliance from the day she’s met him. “ i can’t be doing everything around here, can i?” the way he asks is so fucking condescending, she can’t help the way her ears burn as he pushes his hips into hers to remind her of the very painful hard on that’s been straining against her thigh now. “ ‘m not satoru, sweetheart- i don’t give out free dick. if you want it, you earn it. ” the now empty hand comes harsh against the plush fat of her ass, making her let out a muffled cry through his fingers. “ ride me like you mean it. ” 

he doesn’t have to tell her twice. 

the unbuckling of his belt and the freeing of his hard on is unceremonious, but the thrill of it is so, so heavy in her blood she thinks she’d ride this high for a good year, if she was lucky. he’s not as long as satoru, but the girth of him makes her gulp with the unsavory calculation- it doesn’t take a genius to know it’s going to be a hell of a stretch. suguru, who seems to have noticed her hesitation, grins a little. “ aw, afraid of dick, now?” he mocks, and she hates how much she really likes the genuine laugh he lets out, even when he’s bullying her. “ it doesn’t bite. go on, now. ” she wraps a hand around the base of it, her knuckles brushing against the dark happy trail as she indulges herself in a leisure stroke, watching his eyes roll back with an animalistic pleasure. all she knows is that she wants to see more of it, so when her thumb reaches the angry & leaking tip, she makes sure to apply all the pressure she can manage. “ i think the dick is afraid of me, baby. ” she teases, teeth grazing the corner of his jaw. “ you’ve been packing this the whole time? damn, maybe i got the wrong bestie.” 

suguru can’t manage a response with the way he looks like he’s on cloud nine beneath her, and she finds it sweet, the way he leans into her touch, the way he’s lost in it. having decided that she doesn’t want pleasure if it doesn’t involve hers, she aligns him with her slick entrance, letting the fat tip nudge against her folds with a shaky breath, and tilting her hips to let him sink into her without further teasing. 

the moan they let out when he’s finally inside her is in unison, but his is much whinier than hers and she finds that she revels in the sound- she’d never think him to be whiny in bed, never think him the one to release control. but here he is, holding onto her hips in the backseat of a honda civic, the living and breathing embodiment of pussy whipped. “ holy fuck,” he gasps out, his adam’s apple bobbing as his head tips back to the headrest. “ holy fuck.” 

“ you’re gonna eat your fucking words, suguru,” she confesses in his ear, in the most saccharine voice imaginable as her thighs part to dig her knees on the leather seats so she can ride him to her heart’s content, moaning every single time he bottoms out, every single time his head kisses her cervix, filling her up so nicely. all she can think about is how he deemed her unworthy of him in the bar an hour ago. “ oh, no words? the whiny girl’s pussy got your tongue, baby?” she latches onto his throat just so she can leave a pink mark of hers, just for him to see in the mirror, just for him to have to sit down in satoru and try to explain where that came from. what a scene it would be, how she would have given a kidney and a lung to see it. suguru, to the proof of her point, is too focused on not busting on the spot all her teasing is returned by radio silence except for grunts and whines. he looks so drunk, she wants to kiss him just for that, but she bites on the inside of her cheek instead, wanting him to know what real desperation was. his hands are so, so tight on her waist, and his mumbles are her favorite song. 

well, except the ringtone that disturbs the perfect rhythm she has found, an unexpected caller. 

it is coming from suguru’s pocket, to which she has no problem digging around to find. “ i’ve got you, sweetness, keep moaning like that,” she kisses his forehead just to drive her mockery home, before her eyes lock on the screen. 

gojo. 

if it wasn’t lucky. 

“ no, no, give me that back-” suguru attempts to get his hands on his phone but she is already answering before he can manage, and the first thing they hear is satoru’s voice, who never lets anybody speak first if he’s the caller: “ dude, i’ve been calling you all fucking night, ” he complains. “ where the hell have you been?” 

suguru is looking at her with pleading eyes, but seeing how that desperation erodes with a single roll of her hips is so satisfactory there is no shame in her voice as she responds: “ he’s busy, satoru babes,” she laughs, giddy. and it takes a hot minute for the white haired walking ego on the other end of the line to register her voice. “ what?... how?... what the fuck?” by now there is no fucking way he’s not hearing the sweet moans suguru is releasing, too pussy-whipped to realize the situation she put them in, too pussy-whipped to stop. “ say hi, sugu.” she plays an evil more diabolical card, shoving the mic right in the corner of suguru’s mouth, who is now scrambling for the last bits of his late composure. “ sato-oh, fuck, satoru, i can’t- i couldn’t- oh my fucking god, ‘ts so tight, ” unable to string a form of coherent sentences, she thinks she could cum from just how mouth-watering the view is. 

“ suguru, are you fucking my girl right now?” satoru is asking with a bamboozlement she has never heard in his voice before but before he can get an answer she hangs up, tossing the phone somewhere in the messy seats- not everything is about satoru, and leaving him hanging is a bigger punishment than letting him stay on the phone for the whole thing. there was no knowing with the bastard- it wouldn’t be a punishment if he turned out to be into it, after all. torture or not, suguru is hers for the moment, and there is a prized possession in such belonging, she honors it with wrapping her arms around his neck and rocking into him like there is no tomorrow. “ you feel so good,” she breaths into his ear, honest and genuine. “ you feel so fucking good, suguru. you’re so beautiful, look at you,” she slides his chin into her palm, gaze boring into his heavenly visage with an adoring look, even when he looks so utterly fucked out. “ who’s passing out on who now, hm? ” 

maybe he would have panicked at the aspect of being caught red handed, maybe he would have stopped or would have actually do something about it when satoru calls again immediately after- but all he does is to shift deeper in the seat, spread his legs wider and start fucking up into her in a rhythm so unforgiving they go back to square one, all power evades her, being reduced to a ragdoll in his arms as he hooks his arms beneath her thighs and spreads her all the way open. “ you got wetter when he heard this,” he tugs on her earlobe, hoarse and teetering on the edge of his own pleasure. “ you got tighter when you picked up, such a fucking whore,” he grunts, and she is reeling, nails digging into his shoulders as she tries to take the pounding without screaming. “ little slut is gonna cum from being caught,” he mocks, breathless. “ go ahead and fucking cum.” he is so right there is no fighting it- he commands with that growl and she is falling apart before she can stop it, and suguru is right behind her. 

it takes minutes, for both of them to come down from their highs, as suguru keeps spilling into her with no end and she keeps milking him for all he’s worth, clinging to each other like their lives depended on it. knowing that satoru had stopped calling somewhere right before they came, it truly might have, as there was no knowing what he would be doing right now. his silence was scarier than his reactions, but at the moment she really can’t bring herself to care. “  you doin’ okay?” he asks, making her jolt on his thigh just to get a reaction out of her, brushing her damp strands away from her face, revealing her hazy gaze and unfocused eyes. “ cockdrunk,” he grins. “ look at yourself, poor little thing.” her limbs still work enough for her to give him a slap on the bicep along a roll of her eyes. “ says the man who moaned like a bitch to the boyfriend of the girl he’s fucking. who knew you were such a whore, suguru?” her tongue darts out to lick her dry lips. “ you’re full of surprises.” 

“ and you’re so full of unnecessary words,” he sighs, both to how she immediately became annoying again and how it feels when she finally lets him slide out of her, remaining seated on his thigh. none of them make an attempt to leave this cozy nest they have been indulging in for a good hour or two now. “ at this point i just think you are incapable of going fifteen minutes without hearing your own voice.” she snorts with the response, shifting off his lap to collapse right next to him, both of them breathing heavy in silence for a moment. “ what now?” he asks after a few minutes, looking over at her with those heaven of violet eyes. 

she offers him the most charming, dazzling smile of hers. “ what happens is that you tell satoru i said hi,” she says. “ and get out of my car, suguru. i’m done with both your asses.” 

© written by lotuseye. do not translate or copy my work.

[liesmyth]

the locked tomb holiday exchange rec list

Behold! The good, the magnificent, the sad! The filth and the angst and the feelings! The weird shit that would make TazMuir proud! 💀🎉✨☠️🔥🎊

Here are some favourites from a skim of works posted for @tlt-holiday-exchange, both art and fic. They are MANY and they are JUICY. Find the entire collection HERE, and keep an eye on for authors reveal coming soon!

ART FILLS

A Beautiful Fairy Tale. Wake tells little Bomb a bedtime story but she can't mention a princess without talking about guillotines. Rated T.

Dubious Curiosity. Nona is curious. Nona loves everyone. And Nona wants Cam. (Camilla/Nona) Rated M.

Fingers In Her Mouth. Camilla Hect misses the Warden. Maybe he can lend a helping hand… even in death. (Camilla/hand!Palamedes) Rated M.

just guys being bros. Camilla/Gideon. Gideon touches a boob! A very happy new year to awkward butch lesbians everywhere. Rated T.

Pyrrha Dve Appreciation. Pyrrha & Nona, soft hugs! Rated G.

Stealing Breath. Camilla/Gideon butch-off make-out session. Rated G.

To Shreds, You Say? Pyrrha/Mercymorn/Wake fucking nasty. Rated E.

FIC FILLS

a buried and a burning flame. Coronabeth fucks Gideon's corpse. Rated E.

For all intents and purposes the corpse of the Ninth’s cavalier is a bad lay. That’s all fine, though.

a grave, deep and narrow. Camilla/Palamedes, GtN AU, Character Death, Tape Recorder Conversation Redux. Podfic included! Rated T

Only Lyctors were meant to leave the First House alive. Ianthe insists on bringing Coronabeth; Judith dies of her injuries. Camilla is stranded alone at Canaan House — alone, except for the persistent hallucinations of her necromancer.

affix. Coronabeth/Harrow, humiliation kink, improper use of bones, dom!Harrow, GtN era. rated E.

Cytherea doesn't go to Canaan House AU - Corona overconfidently approaches Harrow in the hopes of exchanging lab keys. Harrow humbles her quickly.

AITA for telling my dad I didn't like my birthday party? Gideon & John, In-Universe Social Media, Character study, Rated T.

I (20F) told my dad (45?M) that I wanted a cool birthday party, but he threw me a terrible birthday party instead. Am I really the asshole for telling him I didn't like it?

and kings shall come out of thy loins. Gideon/Ianthe, crack treated seriously, body horor, SNAKES. Rated M.

Ianthe saves God from the stoma and the River and all she has to show for it are these fucking snubes.

come, dearest heart. Lyctor Palamedes AU, HtN era. Camilla/Palamedes, Pyrrha/Palamedes, Pyrrha/Camilla/Palamedes. Rated E.

In Canaan House, Palamedes Sextus unwillingly ascends to Lyctorhood to put an end to Cytherea the First's rampage. He's left heartbroken, grieving, and terribly, terribly lonely.

Don't Care If You Think I'm Dumb (I Don't Care At All). Gideon/Ianthe, Gideon as Kiriona, Unwholesome Tower Princes Bonding ft. bad sex and retail therapy. Rated E.

The newly christened Kiriona Gaia is not having a good time on the Mithraeum. At least she has Ianthe there to make her worse.

Follow Your Dreams, Never Let Them Die. Gideon/Harrow, Pokemon trainers AU! Rated T.

On her Pokemon Journey, Gideon Nav approaches the mysterious Drearburh City Gym - but something feels oddly familiar.

Gaia's Natural Market. modern AU, retail hell, Harrow/Gideon, Harrow/Ianthe, Gideon/Ianthe. Rated T

RING-A-DING-DING, the Holiday's are here! And nothing says "Give!" like the bounty of the Mother Herself, so come on by to GAIA's Natural Market! Treat your family to a home-cooked meal with only the PUREST of ingredients - all Produce Organic, all Products non-GMO, and all Smiles Authentic and free of Toxins!

Good Girl. Coronabeth/Ianthe, puppyplay, muzzles, rated E.

Coronabeth is Ianthe's big dicked bimbo puppy. Ianthe's into it.

Goodnight, New Rho. Camilla & Nona. Domestic Fluff, Missing Scene. Rated G.

Nona gets a bedtime story. Camilla reminisces about growing up with an older sister. They both sleep well, despite a notable lack of dogs.

In the Empire of the Deeps. Gideon/Nona/Ianthe, Gideon/Ianthe, Pirate AU, monsterfucking-adjacent, Nona is an eldritch sea creature. Rated E.

A chance encounter on the beach. Ianthe is manipulative, Kiriona is sad, and Nona is not as innocent as she seems. Sometimes, you might yearn for one person and meet another one. Sometimes, you have to take what you can get.

just like normal. Ianthe/Coronabeth, Cytherea is also there. Penis in vagina sex, Exhibitionism, Squirting. Rated E.

Ianthe gives herself a cock, and Corona is increasingly bewildered that she hasn’t been allowed to sit on it yet.

language of its own. Camilla/Palamedes. Worldbuilding, idiots to lovers, pre-canon. Rated T.

Camilla Hect has to do an erotic poetry final.

Masochism Tango. Porn with feelings, knifeplay, vivisection, lyctor-typical everything. Rated E.

Two occasions in which Pyrrha Dve had the pleasure of being under Cytherea's knife, and Mercymorn had the pleasure of Pyrrha Dve.

METHODS OF SUBDUCTION. Judith/Cornabeth, Judith & Varun. Planetary science rizz. Rated M.

Varun the Eater teaches Judith Deuteros how to flirt.

midnight mass. Mercymorn/Cristabel, pre-canon, Character Study. Rated T.

A lifetime before the resurrection and two decades before the apocalypse, a novice nun and a third-year medical student discuss goodness, passion, and salvation at midnight on Christmas morning.

motherhood. Mercymorn uses flesh magic on Wake. Hate sex ensues. Body horror, motherhood as violence, canon compliant. Rated E.

“I will kill you,” you say, with all the placid fervor of a religious convert. When you’re on the edge of real violence, you lose that tense little furrow in your brow—it’s beautiful, really. “Please give me a reason.”

My Love Overflows. Corona/Ianthe, Strap-on, Dirty talk, Impact Play, Hair Pulling, Bladder control. Rated E.

The one in which Corona pisses all over herself at Ianthe's whims.

name and rank. Judith/Coronabeth, Judith & Varun. Judith's failwoman swag! Rated T.

As Judith lies dying, she has nothing but time. Varun the Eater uses it to teach her how to flirt with the Princess. Don’t worry. Varun has got this!

New Rule. Mercymorn/Pyrrha, Ranch AU, stablehand Pyrrha, boss/employee relationship. Rated E.

Never hire stablehands who are too handsome and capable for their own good.

no shade in the shadow of the cross. Cytherea/Mercymorn, angst, fisting, two pillow princesses NOT making it work! Rated E.

Cytherea and Mercymorn have an ill-timed tryst.

per my last email. Camilla/Palamedes. Academia, banter. On peer review and multitasking. Rated M.

“Warden,” she said patiently, “you want me so badly it’s making you stupid."

RISKING OUR LIVES FOR UNIVERSITY HOLE???? 🤯😳 University AU, Team 69. The hole is a basement to be clear! Rated T.

The difficult part of visiting the local haunted house for a feature in the university magazine is not actually the visiting; it’s the writing about it afterwards.

So Messed Up. Ianthe/Coronabeth. Puppy play, collars & leashes, tail plug. Rated E.

Ianthe using her flesh magic to give Corona a big cock for petplay because she loves the idea of her sister being a big dicked bimbo puppy girl who just wants to rut into her.

The Great Gamete Gambit. Camilla & Palamedes, Pre-canon, worldbuilding, sixth house reproductive practices. Rated G.

Palamedes and Camilla have an important package to send, but there's been a heist in the gamete repository! Can the 15-year-old Master Warden and his cavalier crack the case?

The Sextus Scandal. Camilla/Palamedes, Epistolary, Pre-Canon Divergence. Rated E.

Transcripts and documents relating to the disciplinary hearing and subsequent resignation of Master Warden Palamedes Sextus.

Ways to Be Perfect. Babs/Colum Asht, GtN era, Rated M.

When Naberius first glanced across the supper table at Colum Asht, he didn’t immediately get the impression that he was liked.

The end!

Thank you for making it this far. If you enjoyed any of these works, or anything else in the collection, please drop a comment to make our creators feel appreciated <3

[post creators reveal exchange wrap post]

[maarslovesmonkees]

Hey!!! 👋 I wanted to know if you could do a NSFW alphabet for Caesar ?

{Caesar NSFW alphabet}

Hii!! Yes absolutely!! This is my first post, Im actually quite nervous writing😭 I really hope you enjoy (feel free to message me constructive criticism if applicable!)💞💞

Notes and warnings: Caesar x Human!Reader, Gender Neutral terms!

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

AFTERCARE IS A MUST! Incredibly giving during and after sex, will pamper you so good. He won't really talk, but his actions speak up loudly. Masaging you in your sore places, kissing your neck, giving you water, cleaning you, then giving you a cuddle right after is his little go-to aftercare routine.

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

For himself, he doesn't have much of a favourite, but if he were to choose, his hands. How much he can do to you with just a touch of his hand. Loves to really feel you, caress your whole body and face, squish your sides and hold your hips as you bounce on his cock.

He loves anything squishy and smooth on their partner. Tummy, ass, tits/pecs etc. He also loves your neck. Smelling your unique human scent, biting it, licking it, nibbiling it>> (in Caesars eyes).

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

He prefers coming inside, thinking of marking you with his seed. He'll always ask before he comes though, as he knows in human culture, not everyone wants to get creampied. He also cums a big amount, a pool gushing out of you each time you get bred.

If you're scared to get cummed in he'll love to see your stomach and chest covered in his white sticky cum.

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

Definitely owned(stole from a cabinet when he was bored) and fapped to porn magazines back when he lived with Will and Caroline. He doesn't own any anymore, as he doesn't use much human products. Plus, he has you now ;3

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

Not as experienced as you think BUT A VERY FAST LEARNER. He definitely has some knowledge of the human anatomy beforehand so he'll know what to do!

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

Missionary. Aye man he might be an ape king but he still old. Just loves getting a good look at you, and its such a comforting position for both. Vanilla and basic but theres a reason its popular.

Another would be you on top, riding him. Not as taxing on his joints, but also can get a full view of your body. How his dick slides into you, how your boobs/cock bounces as you went up and down... He just loves to give you pleasure and physically seeing it.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.

Quite serious, and doesn't really joke during it either. He thinks sex is a very pure thing but If you do pop a joke, he'll definitely give you a chuckle as he looks at you adoringly.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? Do they like hair on their partners? etc.

His fur is softer than you think. He's definitely quite softer than the others as well, trying to maintain a good fur routine as he doesn't want to give you rashes or anything during sex.

He doesn't mind about hair on the partner as well. Shaved, not shaved, trimmed, don't matter to him, he's putting his dick in you.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

Incredibly romantic. So giving and loving throughout it all. He doesn't talk much, and doesn't really moan either (mostly pleasured grunts), but his actions speak so much louder than words. He'll look into your eyes, caress you, and will DEFINITELY pull your head in for the forehead touch😭💞

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

Doesn't masturbate often, but he prefers having you with him when he does. He LOVES mutual masturbation, you getting off, gets him off.

When he does masturbate alone, hes quiet and goes slow. Gripping his bed as he comes, thinking of filling you up.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

Breeding. Thinking of giving you, a human, his kids gets him all hot and bothered. Whether or not you can have kids, hell still love to fantasize it as he fucks you. Going into positions that has a higher chance of pregnancy, loves getting in deep and cumming in deep, caressing your stomach afterwards after, and even the day after he feeds you like you were pregnant🥺

Praise. Being a king can be hard. Giving him compliments, telling him hes making you feel good, telling him how amazing of a partner he is will give him butterflies. He kind of misses his parents and grandfather. How they were so kind and always praise him. He'll MELT from both your kindness and a bit of nostalgia.

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

His/your nest. Intimate, private, comfortable, what more can he want. He wants you to be comfortable and laying on the ground with a bunch of sharp sticks and rocks anywhere isn't ideal.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

You in the mood, gets him in the mood. As an Ape, he does have a keen sense of smell. If he senses your arousal, instant boner. A human loving him in such a deep, private and erotic way gets him so horny.

Also when your enjoying yourself and physically making it noticable, gets his cock ACHING. Your moans, grunts, shouting of his name, your body shaking in pelasure gets him GOINGGG.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

Hes a gentle and loving man, below all his stoicism, so he wouldn't do anything that could hurt you. So sorry BDSM lovers :(

I wouldn't think he'd be interested in exhibition or anything involving such a private moment being out for everyone to see. You are his, and hes not really comfortable with others seeing such a vulnerable state for both of you.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

He has no preference with giving or receiving, but again it he had to choose, giving. He just loves lapping around your heat, slurping up all your juices, and holding your shaking legs stable. He'll be sucking up your sensitive spot then going to nibble your inner thighs.

When receiving, he loves to look into your eyes, and caress your hair. He'll grabs your head oh so gently and help you keep a steady pace. He enjoys it so much but still keeps alert if your jaw starts to hurt. His cock is quite big so good luck 🤞

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

Slow and senual for the most part. Especially at first, with you being human and all. Quite fragile compared to a chimp but even after that, he likes to milk every moment of this intimate practice with you. Again, he is quite serious in this matter so he likes being in the moment.

Howeveeerrr, if you ask, he'll happily let you indulge yourself with some fast and hard fucking. Its not like he doesn't like it, he does, its just he prefers sex to be more romantic.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

He'll be open to it. Not his favourite but he understand that you both have responsibilities in the colony and need them done, so a little quickie to satisfy you both wouldn't hurt.

Its mostly in the mornings where a good quikie will happen. Waking up to get ready for todays task, but your still horny? He'll smell your arousal and give you a quick orgasm by putting his thick cock into you while stroking your sensitive bits.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

Not really but again, open to it. This is Caesar the ape king, we're talking about. He's taken so many risks in his life, and sometimes he just wants something loving, familiar and stable, especially in his sex life with his amazing mate. He'll be hesitant with experimenting but he knows he can trust you.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

If in a comfortable position, he can go all night long. Again, grown ass ape we're talking about.

Doesnt last too long when it comes to you. Maybe like 10-20 minutes hes already pumping hot cream deep inside you.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

Doesn't as its quite hard to find (and maintain). If you guys actually have one for some reason, it'll definitely spice up the mutual masturbation time.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

Not a teaser. He loves to give you what you want, what brings you the most pleasure. Its his duty as both a king and a mate to keep his 'subject' happy.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

Vocally not loud. Grunts and heavy breathing mostly, with a couple of moans here and there.

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

Doesn't do it often, but loves to stay inside of you after sex. Keeping his cum plugged in deep all night long, and just being attached makes him feel so warm.

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

5 inches but VERY girthy🙏

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

Normal ish. Around 6/10. You can turn him on quite quickly though.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

He doesn't sleep fast at all. It actually takes quite a while for him to fall asleep. He just loves to stare at you as you sleep, post orgasm and such. He snuggles you up close, kissing your forhead for a while. He likes to look over you, in a protective sense, after sex. He feels the most relaxed in his life with his mate just sleeping next to them, and hes not one to waste a moment.

[mofffun]

King-Ohger G-rosso S4

Remember when the title is just the most… non-informative with "The Kings Gather Here[at G-rosso]!"? That's. That's literally the plot. Just glad to say all your sentai trope love is satisfied.

There are a lot more actor scenes vs action scenes I doubt if I'm in the right theatre, and much more than S3. Shame on me not having revised on last year's and without realizing S4 is exclusively scripted with the face actors in mind. Even the audio is voiced by the original actors. It's almost like a fan meeting with interactive games and all rather than a Sentai stage play lol.

[spoilers below cut]

(Livestream est. Mar 17, 17:30)

Stage show:

Minnogan broke out of the seal mysteriously and stole the crown lance.

Each cast member has a short sequence of action before transforming. Gira center, Yanma upper stage right, Himeno lower stage left, Rita middle stage right, Kaguragi middle syage left. Rita did the hand-behind-back pose transforming and Papi did the ep16 strike! Jeramie's entrance is all grand with sliding doors in the middle stage. Not just the set blocks sliding horizontally, the projected virtual background (Shugoddom castle platform) also rotates to different angles, so as a stage production, it feels like a level-up from S3.

Minnogan activated the castle spaceship and transported the kings to present day Tokyo, Theatre G-rosso. Yanma commented there seems to be a lot of fun rides, Gira and Kaguragi asked the audience what this place is. Rita remained at the back of the trope.

A kaijin introduced himself as the Magician and blasted them with a beam, the kings minus Giramie suffered a personality inside out. Rita is Idol Rittan, Himeno is yankee (so still violent), Yanma became a coward/shiokara/schoolgirl with pigtails and thick round glasses trope, Kaguragi a flirty jokester. Giramie remained themselves having avoided the attack. When the others stormed off, Giramie looked each other in the eyes and said, "I'll leave that to you." The trust! They are Parents™!!

Yanma shouted, "Yanma is scared 😭" and ran off stage. Rita was the first one that moves versus when they were usually the last. Yuzuyan Rita just immediately switched to the idol voice and came down to the lower stage keep waving at people. When Himeno walked off the scene, they went after her going, "Eh~ don't leave (without) me, Hime-tan!" You can practically see the bottom half of Rita's face 😭

Cut to Rittan chasing an angry Himeno to practice for their Idol act. Rittan turned to the audience and said, "You want to see Hime-tan as an idol too, right?" Jeramie caught up to them and the magician kaijin challenged them to a game to get back to normal.

Kaguragi, Yanma, Gira: Kaguragi became all frivolous with a different tone of speaking (a bit like Ryuta Den-O/Gaon Zenkai). After some routine pick-up lines, Kagu caught up to Yanma, put his arm around his shoulders and said, "How about we have a good long talk, just the two of us?" *wink* Yanma tried to crunch himself as small as possible holding his own hand. HE HIT KAGU WITH A TINY FIST AND SAID "WARUI OTOKO (Naughty guy...)" AND STARTED GINGERLY TOUCHING HIS PECS. Gira arrived just in time for this and said "Are they dating?"

The game is a simplified Flappy Bird but Moffun. Rita's version of Moffun's song played in the background and Rita danced slightly along to it. The audience had too keep clapping loud enough while Moffun (an acutal person is in there moving its arm and legs while in the air) was hanged up by a wire and transported across the stage from left to right. (edit: Yuzuyan sang the Moffun song live instead of a recording. Moffun's arm could be waving because of wire work)

There's a progess bar and game background on the screen too. Of course Moffun fell down half way, Rittan snapped back into the judge voice and yelled at the audience not to drop it (Live Rita scream!!). Jeramie smoothed things over by calling it a practice to make the kaijin give us a second chance. We won the game and they got back to normal. I don't think they have clear memories of their behaviour, but just a vague sense. Regular Rita said, "Feels like I embarrassed myself..."

Kaijin appeared and challenged Gira to a game. The kaijin would call for different poses and Gira had to follow while the rhythm accelerates. Round 1 had Yanma doing rabbit ears and Kagu a tiger's jaw with his hands (like zyuoh shark ED pose). Gira's pose is spreading his arms with the evil laugh act.

Since Gira passed Round 1, the kaijin made the game more difficult by changing the poses faster. Round 2's Yanma's pose is Idol Rittan and Kagu did push-ups. Gira's the same so this session is just watching Taisei got up and down >D< Gira's the one most frequently interacting with the audiene. When they changed back, Yanma was shocked he was standing with his feet pointing inwards. Kaguragi said, "Hmmm, can't tell why but I feel an affection for Yanma-dono."

The six kings regroup. Minnogan summoned Dugded and the kings turned on each other. Gira was not affected but he had to fight off Jeramie. They were quickly de-transformed and appeared pinched.

Prince and Kyoryu Red descended from the middle block and ziplined to the rescue! Prince very naturally said "Otou-chan" >D< The Kyoryu pairs led the audience into a cheer for the King-Ohgers.

The kings regained strength while Dugded revived the Jesters to fight them. Gira transformed with the crown and they did the ep33 crossover roll call.

Yan Hime vs. Hibill & Glodi. Kagu Rita vs. Goma & Kamejim. The pollinator fight is amazing. They kinda ran up the audience blocks up to the last block and zipline back down??? and then they defeated them combining their "King's Proof" techniques. Jeramie and Prince fought Minnogan while Gira and King fought Dugded.

They won, detransformed, did the fist bump circle from ep39, and the kingoh dance.

After talk:

I was at Feb 4 16:00 & 17:30. Both sessions are the same.

The kings invented a game called "King-Ohger Game" (HKers call it "Ping! Pang! Wah!")

The players are in a circle and point to a person while saying a command. You have to say/do the correct response in sequence or lose.

Person A points at B, A says (First Name)

B -> C (Last Name)

C & Everyone (pose)

C -> anyone else *repeats*

The commands and poses:

Gira -> Husty -> "Jaku no Ou!" (thumb & forefinger out pointing the front)

Yanma -> Gast -> "Souchou!" (yankee fix hair both hands)

Himeno -> Ran -> "Kawaii" (this but smiling)

Rita -> Kaniska -> "Saibanchou" (stabs sword to ground)

Kaguragi -> Dybowski -> "Ou-tono!" (pose)

Jeramie -> Brasieri -> "Otto?" (two palms up on side + head shake)

The kings were in this line up 💙💛❤🤍💜🖤 at introduction, but Rita said they are serious about the game and need to see better with their only left eye so they mvoed all the way to right -> 💜💙💛❤🤍🖤. Yuzuyan even flipped her hair a bit and showed the blue eye (me dead at the coolness)

The kings formed a semi-circle to start the game. The audience was supposed to follow with the poses but the cast apparently was just having fun themselves XD. They kept getting faster and faster until it's Wings targeting each other. Yanma lost the game and Rita immediately stepped forward to announce he lost. Yanma asked "Seriously?!" (feels like it's the actors at this point but it still fits their characters lol)

The penalty is a mimic game. Aoto need to do Boon. He skipped to stage center. "Gira nii-chan~! Advent! King-Ohger!"

In the 17:30 show, Erica lost twice. She said the first time is practice but admitted it the second time. She did Suzume's "Help! Shugo Kamen-sama~!!"

After the game, Jeramie asked the audience if they like each member respectively, but paused at Gira's turn. He only asked when Gira said "What about me?" Then he also asked if we like Miss MC (so MC can ask if we like Jeramie). When everyone says "Daisuki", Jeramie gets to say "Me too <3" 😭

At the final bye-bye, Himeno is always pointing out "I see you!" at the fans. Gira will say "ギラだよ!" at the little kids. Giramie did a 🫶 with each other!! REAL. I heard the fans behind me said "There's so much Giramie (<-exact word) in this show" upon leaving.

Conclusion:

Can March 17 comes faster because I need to see this show again. This show is SO worth the price as a fan meeting.

I didn't fact-check this but twitter were saying Takada Masashi is listed in S4's credits. I don't know if he's in the Kumonos suit or in a supervising role but Kumonos looked significantly buffer than before and quite close to TV to my untrained eye. Another thing is I find Jeramie's mantle is much longer than I thought? I thought it just passed his hips but it's almost at his calf.

There were real fire shooting up and the theatre did turn completely dark for a bit so I see why baby kids would be scared. But as an adult I had a LOT of fun seeing the action so close in person and apparently the cast is having a lot of fun too.

Ticketing & seating:

(previous guide)

S3: I booked a general lottery round through proxy and got two permium through twitter. Possibly because most people has seen it, tickets weren't hard to find.

S4: I did not book anything but general lottery round were available on twitter for Saturady (2/3). Permium is hard to find because Jeramie is really popular now his badge is complimentary to the Permium ticket. General Sale opens one week before for Feb S4 (and two weeks before for March). I managed to find tickets in the first block just hopping by a 7-11. (Note: sale starts 1/27 19:00 but choosing your own seat only works after 1/28 0:00) There are still tickets in the middle and last block on the same day. The later the shows, the least crowded from my observation. Saturadays might be easier to get tickets but if you want to feel the atmosphere with kids cheering around you, choose a Sunday show.

Since it's about seeing the actors, I'd still advise seating yourself as front as possible. Even on the far left or right, you can still see the whole stage. I think the ideal distance is Row E or F because down on Permium, your view to the middle stage will be blocked and your neck's gonna hurt staring at what's happening at the ceiling.

Another good seat is any walkway seat or Row L so the suit actors run next to you. Seating at the second block isn't too bad this time because S4 has actors running/descending from as far as Row T.

Both S3 & S4 face actor sessions require real-name registration on the ticket. You have to input a name and a JP phone number at the combini machine, but they don't actually check it upon entry.

[streets-in-paradise]

By Duty and Chance - Hector x (Fem) Reader

Troy (2004) Oneshot

Requested by Anon

" (...) Soo basically anything you write about Hector is gonna be greatt. But i was thinking maybe that hector and reader are in arranged marriage ( yk enemies to lovers) but they end up falling for each other. "

YES, YES, YES!! ( ok, I'm gonna calm myself down now).

Just because I'm a simp, the enemy vibe was reduced a bit and the core conflict happens more on them falling at different paces. She was once on the geopolitical enemy side, cause she is a greek, but the marriage happened as a first step of negociations with another greek kingdom acting as nexus before the peace mission in Sparta.

Warnings: arranged marriage, reader starts fancying Hector before he gets into her. Pre war, but it adresses the political situation going on in Greece at the start of the movie and includes mentions to some Iliad characters that weren't in it because she is from Pylos and the movie showed nothing of Nestor's kingdom.

Summary: Your concerted political marriage to Prince Hector of Troy starts as a total disaster. Ashamed of your growing interest on him while the sorrow of a lost love keeps him distant, you focus on proving him you are a fitting wife to deal with his domestical problems before the conclussion of the peace mission started with your union would signal your first political act together.

Back in Greece for a diplomatical trip to Sparta, you come across a souless marriage product of another arrangement and the impact of that meeting calls you to redefine your relationship.

Note: Inspired by the arranged marriage prompts by @creativepromptsforwriting

" My love for one person could never trump the love I have for my people."

Tags: @g-m-kaye @thorsslxve

Sailing away for marriage so nobody else would have to do it for war was a noble act, but you were given the most abnormal circunstancies for the development of the plan.

King Menelaus of Sparta had had finally convinced his brother of creating an alliance with Troy, but the sons of Atreus weren't trully well versed on the language of peace. For so, King Nestor of Pylos offered himself to start the arrangements hoping to accomplish better results. As the only of his daughters available for a political marriage, you were selected to represent the first collaborative gesture of the greeks.

Once Prince Hector of Troy would have made you his wife, he would be in optimal conditions to deal with the Atreides and pact peace as a royal with bonds to he land already established. You father and his were of similar ages, they knew and respected each other despite of standing in opposite sides of the world. It made perfect sense that you would be given to them as a good will present to start the negociations.

The journey was too long and the advice of Nestor was required by the mycenaeans for the ongoing war on Thesaly. Without him, Agamemnon wouldn't be able to persuade Achilles to do his part in the way it would be commanded for him to do. Since your father couldn't split himself in half to attend the needs of each king, the leadership on the diplomatical mission was given to one of your brothers. Antilochus, favorite of the king and your people, delivered you to Troy doing his best to provide a supportive company for you in the difficult time. However, knowing that your father wouldn't be there increased the transactive feeling of the situation.

It was all a bargain between nations, and you were an object being moved from one place to the other.

Bonded for the rest of your life to a man your parents didn't even bother in meeting face to face.

Fame spoke wonders of your future husband, so worthy of trust that your father felt relieved and genuinely happy when the news of Priam's acceptance for the proposal reached Pylos. Hector was claimed to be the sort of man that any father could want for his daughter, that all mothers would feel proud to call their new son, and any respectable lady would dream of marrying. You got sick of being congratulated for having to move to the opposite corner of the world for him. While they were celebrating, you were aware to be essentially loosing your family to live arround strangers for the future chance to share a throne you never wanted.

You hated it and you thought you hated him, untill you saw him for the first time.

Hector was the most handsome man you ever had the pleasure of laying eyes on, but he advanced towards you with the calm resignation of a man sentenced to death. He did a great job restricting himself to the formalities, but that was all. In fact, it could be said the meeting had subverted expectations. Charming him on that occasion was your task as the lady of the couple, but he managed to awake a bit of your interest without even trying. While Antilochus noticed how your complaining reduced after meeting your fiance, Paris was struggling to get a smile out of his brother by doing cassual jokes about your beauty.

Polite indiference was all you got from him, even in the day of your wedding. His kiss after sweeping off your veil felt like a handshake to seil the political deal. Logically, you weren't expecting him to hold any feelings for you, but stumbling with his coldness was frustrating. At least in a surface level, you were starting to like him, but you didn't want to humillate yourself trying to make him like you.

Nightfall brought the end of the first day of celebrations, and for the first time, you were meant to be all alone with him. Trojans had similar customs for their hymenaeus, only that the choir of girls following you with torches to light the way to the thalamus was more espectacular than what you would have pictured back in Greece.

It was a magnificent display, romantical sight that contrasted with what was about to happen in that bedchamber.

Lookwise, you were very proud of yourself once the maids finished to prepare you for him. You hair was perfect, your smooth skin impregnated with a delicious perfume, and the thin white nightgown you were wearing was the perfect balance between coverage and exposition of your body. Enough to guess what awaited underneath, but discrete enough to not present yourself naked in front of him.

The color simbolized the purity you were meant to give away for the prince's consumption in the consumation of the marriage. Many greeks would have claimed they wanted to switch places with him, it would have been a joke in the friend group of your brother if they would have seen your transformation and you chuckled to yourself thinking of that as you nervously awaited.

The arrival of your prince changed everything. Amazement of him was strong in your virginal perspective. His toned body was considerably more exposed than before, since he was then only wearing the skirt typically matching his armor, and the perfumed oil freshly applied was giving a subtle shine to his skin. You could have started to feel lucky despite your understandable nerves, if he wouldn't have appeared to be so unaffected by the sight of you in comparison.

A brief look and a smile from afar before proceeding to sit on his side of the bed was all he had for you while your eyes unwillingly feasted on his image. His feet were still touching the floor and he seemed absorbed in some contenplative thinking while staring at the opposite side of the room.

Desperate to break the awkwardness, you attempted to get his attention hoping to help him relax. As a start, you kneeled behind him to caress his neck an shoulders.

" This isn't working. " You commented in a friendly mock. " Normally, the woman is the doubtfull one and it's the man's work to talk her into it. "

Hector was perfectly able to feel the squeeze of your front against his back, how you played with him in a convincing performance of your duty as wife.

" We have to be married, but we don't have to pretend a passion for each other that is clearly not there. "

His warning didn't work to completely dissapoint you.

"I'm just trying to be nice." You excused yourself in a sweet tone. " If it works as consolation, I was the only option Pylos had to offer. I have seven brothers and two sisters: one is already married and the other one is twelve years old. Father convinced me to get here only so none of my brothers will ever have to fight you. "

That simple reference to your family life evoked something stronger than mercy. A memory of someone he loved.

Andromache was a princess and once a sister of seven brothers that had fallen in battle. The reminder that you were just trying to stop the same tragedy from falling upon yourself acted as small comfort for his crushed heart.

She would understand.

" It's not your fault, I accepted the sacrifice. " He vaguely explained. " … My love for one person could never trump the love I have for my people. "

In that simple sentence, he let you know there was someone else in his life before the arrangement and that was the cause of his distant demeanour.

You hugged him from behind with comforting gentleness.

" I was starting to wonder why the brave trojan warrior that almost all greeks fear to face seems so afraid of facing me. " You teased as reply. " Nobody would expect Hector of Troy to flee from the touch of his wife like he has never done for the strikes of the enemy. "

The provocation didn't cause the wanted effect, slnce he didn't mind to live up to his legend in the intimacy of the room.

" I think this is a space safe enough to leave my pride behind. "

He had a point, but he would have to listen yours.

" All I'm going to ask you is to accept you are stucked with me. It's not much, ladies all over the world pretend for husbands they don't like all the time. "

You gave up, collapsing on the matress to bitterly claim your side of the nuptial bed.

" … They fake ecstasy while the strangers on top of them lascerate their virgin insides with their careless thrusting. Women can hold their pain perfectly pretending it's pleasure. You, my friend? All you had to do was giving me a decent kiss for the public to cheer, and you couldn't even do that because you are just so heartbroken. Do you get the cruel irony here? "

Hector followed you, watching you closely as he meditated in your words.

" I have nothing to reproach, you were a flawless bride, but I broke a third fraction of my moral code today. This marriage confronted two of the three rules in it and I had to choose which one I could still follow: to defend my country, I had take a woman I don't love."

He approached a bit closer to kiss your forehead.

" I'll allways respect you, but ríght now I can't be the husband you expected. You have my word, I will do my best, but for a while I believe my company won't be much comforting. "

You turned arround so you could be the one avoiding him.

" I never said I wanted you, I just hoped we could resemble a marriage. "

That wasn't how things were supposed to be like. Despite you weren't a hopeless romantic, you never imagined you would end up with a man who didn't feel the most elemental attraction towards you. Lack of desire in an arranged marriage wasn't supposed to flow in that direction, but the other way arround.

A wife shouldn't be seeking the attention of an indifferent husband instead of commiting to his desires. That wasn't what you were prepared for, since you always guessed it would be expected of you to be sexually required even in a loveless marriage. Rabidly denying your discovered attraction for the heartbroken prince was all you could do to protect your pride after realizing you were useless to him on the most bassic function of your union.

During the week of partying you foud out you weren't the only greek struggling to capture the trojan sensibilities. Antilochus fancied the cousin of your husband, but the girl rejected his every attempt of flirting with frustrating disdain. Keeping the peace mission in mind, your marriage was the best possible outcome. If Briseis would have been to Pylos as your new sister in law instead, her attitude would have caused a political disaster.

The royalty of Troy habitated one strange reality in which their princess freely rejected men with amusing harshness while the youngest prince seduced the most beautifull women arround free of commitement during the celebrations for the heir prince being forced to marry you. It was as if Hector had to assume all the sacrifices so everyone else could live how they wanted. He was the warrior prince so Paris won't have to fight, he had lost the chance to marry the woman he wanted to get trapped with you in an arranged marriage so Briseis could remain a virgin as she had choosen.

The man was a sacrificial bull whose fate was never being questioned, as if he existed to save everyone else.

As his wife, at least in title, you were going to take his side. When the first voices of concern from his relatives started to raise given the obvious fact that he wasn't happy on his marriage, you were not afraid of speaking up.

" I have been going to the temple of Aphrodite every night to pray before reaching my bedchamber. " Briseis was once commenting to him, with sweet naivety. " We need a miracle, but I don't loose the hope for you. "

She meant well and you knew it, but you didn't care. Hector límited himself to thank her and smile, but you couldn't let it pass.

" How about some gratitude instead of your condescending prayers? Are you aware this could have ended up the other way arround, ríght? Under the rules of my world, you should have married my brother. Hector is stucked with me so you won't have to marry one of those warriors you look with pity. "

He couldn't believe what he had witnessed, and he felt relieved it was late enough after dinner for his father to have already retired to his bedchamber.

" You have no reason to scold her for seeking to comfort me. "

Briseis raised up from her seat.

" It's alright, cousin. I understand she is under a lot of pressure. "

If you would have to hear one more pityfull comment, anger would have made you burn on the spot.

" You wouldn't survive in Greece, girl! The life of wives there would slap you in the face and get you off your high horse. " You cutted her off. " Maybe your cousin knows it, and that's why I'm here. "

Paris almost choked in his struggle between drinking wine and stiffling chuckles, what made him an easy target.

" What's so amusing? In greek standards, you aren't even suitable for marriage. No father would give his daughter to a coward archer that only shows off his weapon for hunting. " You inmediately called him out. " I think you know that and marriage terrifies you. Charming the girls is way easier than proving their fathers that you are a man, and if the woman you sleep with is already married you don't even need to worry because the position is occupated. "

Hector slowed you down before your brutal honesty could bring chaos.

" What do you think you are doing?

" Being your wife. " You simply explained. " I couldn't help noticing that your family is a mess and I want to help you fix it. You need a rest, and some acknowledgement of your daily sacrifices ... not like any of them notice. "

The preoccupation sounded sincere and that impressed him. After all, he showed no early emotional investment in you justifying such loyalty.

" We like the mess, but thank you for trying."

For the first time since your wedding took place, Hector gave you a genuine smile expressing real complicity.

If not the wife he loved, he discovered you were at least willing to be a support in his domestic life that was different from the kind his family could provide. You were behaving exactly like your role and rank demmanded, only reproaching your surroundings because you two were the only ones submitted to such thankless pressure.

When Antilochus returned to Pylos with the crew that brought you to asian shores, Hector took the day off to be with you. The last reminiscense of your old home had left on that ship, so he conforted you by actively helping you to slowly build a new one. It was agreed that once you would be established, you would accompany him and his brother on a diplomatical tour bringing you back to Greece, but for that you had to be well adjusted to the new city and your husband.

Under that pretext he convinced himself for seeking to take you out in order to get to know you more. Excuses would pile up whenever he would decide to break the routine and show you some new wonder of his country you could experience together. The wound of his unfullfilled love story from the past remained fresh for a while, so he couldn't admit to himself that there was some interest for you already growing.

However, that didn't stop his father from trying to cassually interfere whenever he could against your mutual resistance.

Priam often approached you by himself to give you history lessons, advice, and all sort of support helping your cultural adaptation. He wanted you to autentically feel as his new daughter and, for the most, he was succeeding.

After one particularly stressfull morning Hector was returning to the section of the palace complex that belonged to both of you since the wedding and found you attending a visit of his father. The servants rushed to welcome him, but he commanded you shouldn't be disturbed.

The King of Troy was asking you news about the heroes emerging in Greece and you were storytelling for him.

" That is a complete misconception. " You were cheerfully correcting him. " Achilles isn't our strongest warrior, that's Ajax of Salamis. He is like a mountain made a man. So strong that a swing of his battle hammer can easily pierce shields."

Priam's curiosity got stronger after the correction.

" Rumours have come to my shores saying the Pelide is the greatest threat Greece has for my kingdom … What is then the cause of such notoriety? "

" He is the fastest: an hurricane bringing devastation wherever he is unleashed. " You completed the tale. " You will never see the lethal blow of Achilles coming before it's too late. King Agamemnon has conquered the majority of Greece by the edge of his sword, but they don't get along. The man holds loyalty to no country. "

The last part didn't surprise the king as much as it should.

" I guess greek heroes just can't compare to my son. "

His comment of pridefull parent purposedly encouraged you to ramble about the virtues of your spouse.

" At risk of ignoring some evidence, I think i will agree. Hector is the best warrior Troy has ever seen, but also a wise, noble, … magnificent man. Of such kind heart, and beautifull as an artwork of Apollo. "

You didn't realized of your mistake after delivering the last part of the sentence and covered your embarassement with laughter.

" … I'm so sorry! That was totally innapropiate!! "

Priam was smiling, easing you with his complicity as if you had given him exactly what he wanted to know.

" I can't blame you for rejoicing of your husband, that's how things should be. "

At that precise moment, Hector revealed himself to make you aware of his arrival.

" Most people would say Paris is the pretty one. "

Your shame was such that you would have wanted earth to swallow you.

" I was merely pointing out you perfectly fit the idea of masculine beauty preferred in Greece. "

" Are greek wives not allowed to like their husbands? " Priam teased you and glanced at his son with amusement. " I haven't visited the country in decades, but I was never aware of that. "

You tried to joke your way out of the situation.

" We are forbbiden from liking them in advance. "

Hector gave a few steps closer in your direction before replying.

" I'm not blind: I can perfectly see i'm married to a beautifull woman. "

Despite he had probably thought about that before, it was the first time he was saying it out loud.

The trip to Greece was a crucial point, not only for the mission started by your marriage, but but for your relationship on itself. It was meant to be structured in two phases. First, you were going to Sparta, where Menelaus would receive you and give you news of Nestor and Agamemnon. If the war against Thesaly was over and the rulers had returned to their kingdoms, you would continue travelling on land to visit Pylos. There, Hector would meet the rest of your family and your father would later accompany you to Mycenae for the hardest part of the tour. After Agamemnon would have accepted the terms of the concerted peace, you would return to Sparta and finish to settle the deal back where you started.

Frightening news for Troy was getting to hear Menelaus saying his brother had conquered the last corner of their country. Suddenly, Hector felt that the inconvenience of being married to a greek that was once a stranger seemed very small in the big scheme of things.

Only once he had the oportunity to dive into greek politics in person, the eldest trojan prince had fully realized what meant to be a son in law of Nestor. The eldest rulling king In the country was highly respected by everyone, and specially the Atreides. He was probably the onlyone whose opinion was completely trusted by Agamemnon, besides from his own brother, and that anecdotic detail was shared by the spartan king himself.

Relaxed on the political front, Hector found time to notice other things.

As intended welcome, Menelaus offered a great celebration that was an autentic show off his fortune. You were drinking, eating and dancing like you didn't properly do during your own wedding party. The promise you made when on the sea of keeping an eye on Paris so Hector could do the deals got sidelined by the mutual discovering going on between you and your husband. Too absorbed in each other to care, being an actual couple instead of an institutional facade.

For a brief instant that disrupted the cheer, he glanced at Helen quietly observing from her seat how everyone else had fun while her husband fooled arround careless of her. Then, Hector looked at you and realized how far you had made it together.

The woman he had in front wasn't the same he awkwardly danced with to keep the appearances on that farse of a wedding celebration. Lonely observant like the spartan queen, only daring to engage in the fun if dragged into it by her brother because she clearly felt she didn't belong there.

You have trully become his wife, his princess.

The realization came to him in the most unexpected moment, on a loud place very innapropiate to talk about feelings.

" Was that what you had in mind when you told me you wanted us to resemble a marriage?" He teased you in whispers, subtly pointing at the royal couple while purposedly leading you into taking a prudential distance from the dancing people. " I see them, and i'm so glad we didn't turn out like them."

It made you chuckle.

" It wasn't them specifically, more of an idea of how a loveless marriage works. "

Hector smirked and pulled you closer, attempting of letting you give in for a hug.

" I understand now what went wrong from the beggining. " He teased the reveal of his conclussion. " … You desired me that night, but noticed I didn't feel the same and that confused you. The uses of your home prepared you to give yourself to a man you wouldn't want, never to not be wanted. Or even less, to find yourself wanting the man rejecting you. It wasn't your fault, as it wasn't mine, but you closed yourself for self preservation after the embarassement you must have felt … And you shouldn't had to feel that way. "

You pressed one hand on his chest as a measure of distance.

" Is this some sick test, Hector?" You called him out, distrustfull. " I'm not the wife you wanted, so I should never want you. I can't do it, that's not how the world works. "

Hector grabbed your wrist softly, gesturally inciting you to accept him.

" Then our world is upside down, but that's fine." He calmed you. " I thought I was respecting the honor of my maiden bride, only to find out she was the one waiting for me. "

You groaned with exasperation, unsure of how to make him understand the real problem going way deeper than that failed episode.

" … You have no idea of how frustrating it is to love you knowing I will never match your lost love. "

The exposure of your hushed suffering made him feel a bit heartbroken for you, but you were also confessing your love for him and that was enough encouragement.

" We needed time … I was not ready to love you, but I am now. "

His metaphorical use of the phrase merged all the possible forms of love he was feeling into one. To make your amazement complete, he grabbed both of your cheeks so you won't be able to escape the passionate public kiss he once couldn't give you on the wedding.

No choir of singing girls guided your way to the bedchamber that time, but you were following Hector and your hearts were beating as one.

[nsewell]

gilded shadow (anora and kieran, 875 words, rated G)

She finds Kieran in the dust flecked light of a stained glass window, head tilted upwards as he takes in the scene it depicts in flowing lines and an array of colors. The Battle of the River Dane, or an overtly romanticized version at least. Her father would often point out its indulgences and inaccuracies whenever they passed it together. Loghain stands tall at its center, rearing his sword at a retreating Orlesian force on the banks of a shore, young, defiant and battle weary. King Maric, ever at his side, sports a shield with the Theirin heraldry, and silhouetted behind them both is the symbolic wreath of an approaching dawn. They’ve left out all the mud, her father used to say. 

She wonders what it is about it that draws him now. Kieran had shown no interest in his paternal history before. She can't read the placid expression on the youth’s face, and even that moniker doesn’t seem to fit him, despite their thirty some odd years of separation (she could be his mother, for Maker's sake). There is an agelessness to his twenty year old countenance.

Since his arrival at court, Anora has searched Kieran’s features for traces of her father, but the longer she looks, the more she comes away with only contrasts. His eyes are the most startling of these, an intense golden hue, almost unnatural in coloring. His skin is olive toned, warmer than Anora’s or her father’s light pallor. He carries Loghain’s height, but not his build, slender and wiry in all the places her father held the bulk of a life-long warrior. Even the way he adorns himself in a quiet elegance, with the spindling mages staff at his side speaks to this antithesis.

“Your Majesty,” he says without turning to her, but still inclines his head with deference and maybe it’s there that she finds a remnant of Mac Tir, in the squaring of his shoulders, the tempered way that he holds himself. Or maybe she’s imagining it. “‘Tis a very flattering depiction. Flashy for Ferelden,” he continues with an undercurrent of irony. 

She steps beside him until their profiles align and he is tall, but so is she, their heads reaching within close proximity.

“King Maric had it commissioned from Antivan artisans for father’s appointment to Teryn,” she says. “I’m told he didn’t attend the unveiling. He was never one for pomp and ceremony. He always said his deeds weren't something to be gilded or admired, that they would endure longer than any monument.” She questions if that rings as true to her now as it did as a girl. If the heroism of the “Traitor Teryn” will live longer in the hearts and minds of the people, or stay confined to this solitary pane.

There had been a few disgruntled Bans in the wake of the Blight who had petitioned for its removal, likely as a scapegoat to cover their own misdeeds and advantages taken during the chaos. The matter had dropped from a lack of traction, but Anora will do whatever she can to preserve both the legacy and the architecture that commemorates her father, so long as she draws breath.  

But the past, however worthy of remembrance, is still the past. She turns her back to the window and sets her eyes on the heavy oak doors in front of her. Beyond them lies the throne room and all that will shape the future of her country, with one declaration of Kieran as her heir apparent; the product of a circumstantial union between her exiled Warden father and an apostate witch that Anora had been in the dark about for decades. Who had been raised in the Orlesian court of all things.

She has complicated feelings on the entire matter and there's a strange mix of pride and distance when she watches Kieran with his educated answers and quiet intensity. He in turn respects her, is deferential to her judgement, but still she feels the caution he regards her with. Sometimes she can sense his eyes on her, dissecting her, for what she cannot guess. Sometimes she thinks he might resent her so, for thrusting this destiny on him even if she made it clear that it's nothing he cannot walk away from. He is a very odd boy.

She profers her arm, her sleeve heavy with red velvet and fur-lined at the wrist.

“Are you ready?”

His eyes are finally drawn from the visage of their shared father. He hesitates with that analytical edge he seems to regard everything with, and then his hand, slim and steady, clasps around her arm. In the other, he grips his staff.

“I am - sister. With lofty ambitions not to trip on your gown.” 

She matches his humor with a dour expression, maintaining her straight-backed posture as she guides them both forward. “You bring an optimistic outlook to the monarchy. How very un-Fereldan.” 

If Anora hadn’t punctuated this remark by pushing open the doors, she might have heard him laugh - low and derisive, might have glanced back at the glassy specter of her father as though it had come to life. 

But she doesn't hear it, and together they stride through the doors into the maw of Ferelden's court, side by side. 

[ladyvlolypop]

Bucky Barnes Headcanons

these are both dating and overall head canons, if you think the writing is a little out of my usual type it's because I wrote these while

My Masterlist

Bucky Barnes x gn!reader; sfw

Very gentle, his touches are very soft and he tries to avoid being harsh with you, knowing he’s way stronger than you(and because he’s unsure of his metal arm).

When he passes you he gives you subtle touches, his hand on your hip or waist for a brief moment.

He used to smoke when he was a soldier. Heavy smoker and drinker but he never touched a cigarette again after he became the winter soldier, not because he didn’t want to but he just didn’t want to be addicted to anything.

He can definitely speak and understand bits of german and italian because he was stationed in Austria and Italy during the war. He speaks french as well but much better(we love a multilingual king)

He understands russian perfectly but struggles to speak or write/read it. He understands bits of other slavic/balkan languages as well(if you speak russian freshen up his skills a little pls)

He sometimes still stares in awe at modern things, he imagined the world differently in the 30's. Will sometimes tell you how certain spaces changed and how they used to look like back in the day.

He likes to tell you about his childhood, liking to compare how you two grew up

Has lots oft things to catch up to

Has a flip phone w a loud ass ringtone

Jumps a little when hearing his ringtone

He has a smartphone for work but he barely uses it

Loves fantasy shows/movies and reading

LOTR and GOT fan honestly

Likes baking and cooking but he’s not good at it, he’s thankful for microwaveable meals and your cooking

Can’t ride a bike

Can’t drive, learned it just before infinity war happened

He probably let his his metal arm get hot in the sun and cracked an egg on it with sam

It fried

You only call him 'James' if it's serious or if it's to tease him

will use nicknames like "Doll", "Babygirl", "Honey","Darlin'(g)" or "Dear" for you

Uses lotion for his scars

would fold if you did it for him, def will offer to do the same for you(he gives really good messages let him)

Has a routine for his beard when he lets it grow out, likes to keep himself groomed

Same for his hair

Has insane home remedies

Pulls out chernobyl broth when you have a feet ache(boils sprite)(He read about it on facebook)

Doesn’t trust italians

He’s such a dad

Dad jokes all the way

Enjoys shopping for home gadgets

Knows how to haggle and will show his skills when he can

Will often come home with surprise groceries or gifts, things or snacks you like or some other stuff he got on sale

Likes to go to flea markets

Sometimes comes home with large amounts of certain products

Man will come home with 3 boxes of fruit because there was a sale

Love language is definitely gift giving and acts of service

Carries your bags or groceries for you without asking, pretty good at fixing things around the house

He’s good with kids, wants his own but unsure when the right timing for it would be

He sometimes shows them tricks with his metal arm

He’s not much of a talker unless you two are alone

Often rants about work

Good listener though, very attentive listener

He sleeps like a bear, very warm and keeps close to you, his arm cools down at night though and you might wake up with the feeling of cold metal against your belly

He started sleeping better when you were with him, still you will sometimes find him sleeping on the floor in the mornings, old habits die hard.

He’s very stubborn, especially if it's about your safety but he hates arguing with you

He hates the possibility of you getting hurt in any way

You're on his mind all the time

walks around with the thoughts of "would Y/N like that? Should I buy them that?"

first thing he does when coming home after missions is give you a tight hug

if it's really bad all he wants to do is hold you closely and cuddle for hours

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

if you think the writing is a little out of my usual type it's because I wrote these while on a call with my bsf and she was poorly singing lana del ray songs in my ear, some of these hc were even here ideas

[astoundingbeyondbelief]

Kaiju Week in Review (January 7-13, 2024)

Hard to talk about the Monarch: Legacy of Monsters finale without spoilers, so if you haven't watched it yet, skip ahead to the next item. No flashbacks this time (time dilation aside), just our surviving heroes finally all on the same page to solve a seemingly impossible problem. The momentous reunion between Lee and Keiko got the space it deserved, although I was a touch disappointed that the obvious budding romance between Cate and May got shortchanged. And of course we finally got our first kaiju fight of the series, with Godzilla dispatching the Ion Dragon in a quick but ferocious battle. Fun to see this version of the character take on a low-stakes, low-power challenger for a change. I am routinely frustrated by TV seasons ending on cliffhangers (some of which are then never resolved), but they managed to conclude this season's storyline while setting up the next one, should they have the chance to tell it. Good to have some payoff to the Apex episode earlier in the series. I'm wondering if the series is planning to pivot to Kong now. Since Godzilla: King of the Monsters still hasn't happened yet, the Big G still can't make any public appearances without breaking continuity, which is quite the writing complication.

@bog-o-bones has blessed us with an excellent feature-length video essay on the history of the kaiju genre. Even for a walking encyclopedia like me, it was fun to have it all laid out so cleanly—the way the three genre pillars of Godzilla, Gamera, and Ultraman rise and fall in popularity, never entirely in sync and consequently keeping us steadily entertained over the decades. So many narratives about the genre in print are decades out of date and/or act like barely anything past the sixties was worth making. This one's up-to-the-minute and gives the seismic influence of films like Cloverfield and Pacific Rim their due. I have my quibbles (last-minute re-records accidentally omitted GAMERA -Rebirth-; the original Mothra deserved more attention), but I acknowledge the amount of works covered here is staggering and every fan would tell this story a little bit differently. Highly recommended.

IDW's biggest Godzilla comic ever is coming in May, a one-shot anthology called Godzilla: 70th Anniversary. It'll have nine stories over 100 pages, with the writers including Joëlle Jones, Michael W. Conrad, Matt Frank, James Stokoe, Adam Gorham, and Dan DiDio. (Some of these folks will presumably be illustrating their comics as well.) The solicitation doesn't offer many plot hints, given that scope: "From the American Old West to modern Tokyo and beyond, this collection features stories of the King of the Monsters fighting with its allies like Mothra, against old enemies like the terrible Mechagodzilla, and reshaping the lives of all who fall in its path!" I'm surprised they're not waiting until November—hopefully it doesn't get delayed into November.

Godzilla x Kong: The New Empire will now release in the U.S. two weeks early—March 29. It's taking the place of Bong Joon-ho's Mickey 17, which is now undated. I can hardly complain about being able to see it earlier, though the move comes with some risk, as it's now opening the week after Ghostbusters: Frozen Empire.

SRS Cinema has opened preorders for their Yuzo the Biggest Battle in Tokyo Blu-ray. Or is it Yuzo: The Biggest Battle on Tokyo? That's what the product page says, but on the cover the title's unchanged. Oh, SRS. Anyway, bonus features are scant: just trailers and something called "A Brief Introduction To Ishii Yoshikazu."

Here's the teaser trailer for Volcanodon, a short film from Taiwan's Creator Union of Tokusatsu. They're aiming to have it uploaded to YouTube sometime this year, and I'll happily watch it. Obviously low-budget, but it's well-shot and it's nice to see a kaiju movie outside of Japan go all-in on practical effects.

[onedaughterofman]

You, forever (Chapter X: Dance Macabre)

Pairing: Papa Emeritus IV x g/n reader Summary: The Clergy takes something from Copia, but he refuses to let go. Warnings/tags: descriptions of corpses, death, blood and violence. Biblical references and Satanism. Angst. Around 8K words.

A/N: The end is here. I want to dedicate this chapter to King Satan. None of this would have been possible without Him.

PREV CHAPTER HERE

"The fifth angel sounded, and I saw a star fall from heaven unto the earth. To him was given the key of the bottomless pit. He opened it and there arose smoke and the sun and the air were darkened. There came out of the smoke locusts upon the earth."

Breathe.

The sky remains calm. Ominous gray clouds obscure the firmament, rendering it black. Copia’s eyes gradually lift from the old, decayed remains of marble tiles and rubble on the floor, examining the area until they inevitably fall on you.

Breathe again.

Copia’s heart jumps inside his ribcage, stopping scarcely for a moment before resuming a measured, heavy pace. His organ throbs and whines painfully, beating slowly. The sensation it’s terribly burdensome, as if his heart alone weighed more than his entire body. Mouth agape, he battles to inhale but even if the air enters his lungs, there’s no substance in it.

The entire world has come to an abrupt stop. No birds or cicadas dare to sing, not even the wind whistles in his ears. Copia is unsure if he’s still alive and breathing, or if he has ceased existing too. His fingers twitch, not quite moving, but desperately yearning to reach out.

You are standing in front of him. As beautiful as the last day he saw you, laying in bed and sleeping soundly. Copia remembers that morning previous to his trip, before the word crumbled at his feet. He recalls your tousled hair in the pillows, the way the dim light fell on your exposed body and how the sheets and blankets swirled around your figure. Copia remembers the little smile on your tender lips, the way your eyelashes fluttered when you acknowledged his departure.

That morning, the sky was equally dark as today, rain threatening to fall at any given moment. Now, even if the air is humid and saturated with dew, Copia fears no storm. The ground could break into a thousand pieces, turning into nothing but fire and lava, and he would nevertheless try to reach out, to hold you even if dread and guilt anchor his feet.

Suffocating as it is, Copia is sure he’d rather experience forever this solid weight his heart carries than to lose you again. It would be a hungry beast to feed, a dreary peace coated in blood and sacrifice. But worth it, so worth it. 

 It’s been months, years, an eternity since he saw you standing for the last time…And now, now Copia’s right hand lifts, fingers shaking and yearning to take yours. Yet, he doesn’t dare to. His feet are glued to the ground.

Frozen in place, Copia can only stare at the way Goore’s hands hold your waist and wrist, firm grip restraining you in place. There’s a black blindfold obstructing your vision, and the hair falls on your forehead in a way he’s convinced you must hate.

Yes, you used to despise that. His memories may have faded now, to the point he’s no longer certain what is reality and what a dream, barely a product of his imagination and mind tricks. Copia no longer remembers his past, the days and nights have become a blurry, mushed mess in his jaded brain. However, he’s sure of this. 

If it’s about you, then he naturally knows it. He feels it in his guts, in his heart.

In front of him, you remain both hauntingly beautiful and sinister, much like the phantasmagorical version of you he has kept alive all this time inside his mind.

“For you,” Goore announces, definitely shattering the deep silence. The tree tops move with the wind, practically in slow motion. “Right back from the bottomless pit.”

One step, then another. Copia’s legs vacillate, weakening at the sight of you oscillating limply in Goore’s arms. Your hand moves by degrees, in a very artificial and articulated way, almost as if there were invisible strings holding you together by the joints. He breathes through his teeth, raw air freezing his insides.

And yet, he moves. There’s no strength, no soul behind his flesh, only muscle memory keeping him upward. Copia’s hand extends again, fingers narrowly brushing the hair on your forehead before something hastily strikes at his face.

The effort to move out of the way makes his heart race. At least, now he’s sure he’s alive. Goore’s laugh pierces the silence, demolishing it into a thousand pieces as a low growl dies in your throat.

Copia swallows, but there’s no saliva in his mouth. His tongue is dry, and something wet is scurrying down his cheek. The realization hits him like a train.

It’s blood. He’s bleeding, from a shallow cut on his forehead.

Oh, impious father, why must he keep suffering? Hasn’t he given enough? Hasn’t he sacrificed everything, everyone in this spiteful earthly realm? He only wanted one thing, and that was to live with you, to love you. Was it too much? Was it so greedy of him, to desire your love?

Is he so wicked, so cursed that not even Satan himself would grant him his one, true desire?

It’s hard to accept it, to face the truth. You have attacked him, mercilessly tried to claw his eyes out of his face. Copia could cry, but his throat is closed and his soul is tired, empty. His lip merely quivers, before he regains control.

Behind his back, he perceives the muffled growling of the Ghouls. The tails are flickering and wiping the air, in a visible demonstration of their uneasiness. Copia gestures for them to calm down, but the growl persists, only becoming a dull rumble he chooses to ignore.

Mary’s chuckles are completely different. This time, their hands nudge you away, making you trip on a pile of debris. Your body doesn’t hit the ground, only because they grip both of your wrists before the fall, keeping your nails away from their face.

“Careful,” Mary advises, blowing a few strands of hair out of their eyes. “Their wrath knows no difference between a friend and a foe.”

“What have you done to them?”

As much as his soul hurts, there is no anger reflected in his voice. Copia is terribly numb, too exhausted to even consider devoting his energy on someone like Goore. If he’s about to plumber to the ground and allow nature to consume him to the very core, then he wants to use his last vital force to hug you and be with you under the moonlight.

“Me? I opened the pit that kept their soul trapped in the underworld. Just like you asked me to.”

“This is not…” Copia begins, but the words taste bitter, like poison. He debates whether or not to say them, pondering if it’s better to spit them out and release them to contaminate the ground or swallow them and hope to die from their venom. “This is not… the person I used to know.”

No. You, the one he fell for, would have never hurt him. You were kind, lovely, so full of warmth. Copia detects bits of you in the creature he has in front of his eyes, notes the resemblance, but there are also striking differences. It feels as if he is looking at you through a thick, colored glass or a distorted mirror. 

You’re the same and yet, you’re a stranger. He can’t overlook the way his muscles spam and tremble when he takes a step back, head shaking. Oh, how afraid he is, how strongly the anguish tears into his throat. He’s terrified, frightened of you and of himself, of the things he has done and the blood on his hands and clothes.

The fear in his small pupils is evident. Goore sees it even in the gloomy night, smells it permeating the air. Their lips stretch again, a wide grin on their face. “Man, don’t be like that,” they say, fingers digging into your cheeks. A growl escapes through your teeth, but you remain in place. 

When Copia doesn’t move, Mary continues. “You heard that? He doesn’t want you anymore,” they mock, turning your head in the other’s direction. Only a low gasp exits his lips. “You can’t rely on a man’s loyalty, believe me. Been there, done that.”

Finally, his words elicit a reaction. “That’s not…!” Copia complains. To ever think about leaving you or, Lord forbid, you discarding him makes his blood burn, then freeze. You can’t. He loves you. He needs you. You have promised to stay together eternally, to rot and burn forever united. “You must have made a mistake. Something is wrong, I know it!”

Rejoicing in Copia’s internal turmoil, Goore merely huffs in response. Their eyes are wide open, pupils blown inside the light irises. The gaze is intense, malevolent even. If there’s a spawn of the deepest circles of Hell on earth, then it’s Goore.

Maybe it’s not Death the one who didn’t want them. Maybe even Satan preferred to keep them far away.

“Well, you made me speed up the process way too much. Human resurrection is not as simple as one might think.” A long pause. Mary’s fingers uncurl from your wrists, pushing you away. Your legs tremble and give up, barely regaining your footing before reaching the ground. “Why, though? Death doesn’t take everything away, only the soul. The flesh and bones remain, just like the memories stored in the brain. If you give them a little push, a spark of life, they start moving like flesh puppets.”

Yes, that sounds right. Most of Goore’s projects were just flesh puppets made to satisfy whatever selfish desire they had. It quickly became a boring hobby, a stale one. Mary wanted more. So, they got more. “But yours? This one has a vigorous, tortured soul. That’s why it’s fucked up. I told you to only bring the body back.”

“You’d say it’d work.”

“It works. They need some adaptation time to reconnect the soul, body and memories.” Or so, Mary hopes. All their past projects were incomplete, way too complicated to be allowed inside the Ministry. You’re different, a masterpiece, a beautiful creation. “If you still want them, here they are. Hell, I’ll make them behave for you.”

A deep breath is all it takes. When Goore concentrates, it’s almost as if the cords holding you in place suddenly tensed up. Like a puppet with no visible strings, your back straightens and both feet get planted firmly on the dirt. A twitch of their fingers makes you twirl and dance round and round under the ghastly moonlight.

It’s awful.

“See? Are they not more beautiful now?"

No. It's terribly awful. Copia stares, eyes wide open, air frozen in his throat. His guts hurt, and he feels about to puke. “Stop!” he yells, moving forward. His fingers touch you for the first time, and there’s a spark there. He feels shivers down his spine, the bile rising to his mouth. 

Oh, Satan, if he’s been a good servant, then he only pleads one thing: let this be a nightmare. Copia is suddenly small, so scared, both happy to finally hold you but terrified of this reality. He has you back, but something is terribly wrong, he can tell. The realization of what he has done, how he has turned you into this, condemned you to this monstrosity, hits like a train. He could cry, sob and wail for days to come. 

But he doesn't. “Just leave them and go. We are done here.”

“As you wish,” Mary says, starting to walk. They stop before crossing the old Ministry’s gate, head tilted to one side making the long bangs fall on their eyes. “If you put them back in places they used to like, their memories will come back quicker and maybe they’ll regain some of their humanity. Don’t remove the blindfold yet, the resurrected don’t like it. There’s a reason why Nihil had to wear those stupid sunglasses during the rituals.”

“Maybe, you say?” The leather gloves make a loud noise over the silence when he clenches his fists tight, knuckles turning pale under the cold material. “I sacrificed everything I ever had to the Old One, and all you can give me is a maybe?”

Under his breath, Papa Emeritus IV curses. Why? Why is this happening to him? He was chosen. He’s Papa now. 

 It’s not fair. Life has never been fair to him. Maybe Imperator was right all this time. If you want something, you don’t ask for it, you don’t pray and hope to get it.

No. You conquer, you destroy, you take it by force. That’s how she lived, no fear, no guilt, no shame. And Satan liked it, Copia is sure. He rejoiced in the suffering she caused, fed off the atrocities and sacrifices she offered. Satan is a cruel mouth to feed in the Ministry, a curse that weighs on top of all of them, all the time.

In this world, either you bleed, or others do it. There’s no magical benediction, no way to free the soul from curses. They are all slaves to someone. Perhaps Terzo was also right. There should be no God, and no Satan.

There should be only men, only himself. 

Blown pupils burning holes on Papa’s face, Goore speaks up one last time.  “What can I say? Suffering for the Lord is not an easy thing.”

Copia allows himself to fall to his knees when Mary crosses the gates and disappears into the darkness. Behind his back, the ghouls mutter between each other, words in a language he can’t recognize. If they are laughing or mocking him, he doesn’t care.

In his arms, now on the ground next to him, your body twitches. Copia takes hold of your wrists, pulls them until your head comes to rest on his chest. The tickle of your hair on his cheek reminds him of old, better times. It’s a bitter comfort, a loving touch to his starved skin. 

“Amore, it’s okay,” he whispers over your hair. “You’re home now. I’m here with you.”

There’s no reply. Holding you closer, Copia lets his eyelids fall as he slowly rocks his body back and forth, humming an old song. When your skin begins to retain part of his heat, he feels a smile forming on his lips. The humming grows louder, melody vibrating in his vocal cords. 

Oh, how happy he is. Copia’s mouth opens to let out a joyful chuckle, but only sobs come out of it. The tears fall on your hair, clinging to the strands like dew drops.

“It was commanded to them that they should hurt only those men which have not the seal of God in their foreheads. In those days shall men seek death, and shall not find it; and shall desire to die, and death shall flee from them.”

In the abbey, although now run down by the passage of time and the unforgiving fire, there is a garden.

Long time ago, Papa Emeritus I took it as his job to build an educational area where Siblings could study and research herbs and plants used to treat diseases or to create deadly poisons. The exotic species were guarded by gargoyles and surrounded with beautiful painted tiles, a gift he received from a Bishop resident in northern Italy.

When Papa Emeritus I died, the maintenance of the garden fell on the Siblings. Shortly after, diverse rumors began to be spread, whispered in a hushed voice on the hallways. Some Siblings were convinced the soul of the old Papa was still roaming around, carefully tending to the plants and haunting anybody who dared to disrupt the peaceful and educational nature of the garden.

If the rumors are true, Copia doesn’t know it. The whole yard is nothing but a burned, withering mountain of weeds and dry leaves. There’s no ghost tormenting him, not heavy weight pounding down his shoulders and no promises of revenge coming from Primo.

It’s almost disappointing. Sitting under a tree, Copia wishes Primo could be here. The old man used to be the least bothersome of them all, and also the one who dedicated himself to the church the most. If only he could be near, willing to impart his wisdom for a bit of time, he’d be grateful.

Some kind of ancient rite, a special herb conjunction or even a spell could help him sleep for a whole night, without falling prey to the terrible horrors of his dreams. Copia endures the way his eyelids weigh down, desperate to offer some relief to his weary eyes. His sight is blurry, sclera bloodshot.

Copia is tired, so tired all the time.

There’s no respite for his old soul. He can’t rest, for as long as your situation remains uncertain. Copia knows deep in his heart that you must ache so badly. Still, on long days and eternal nights, he merely wishes to hold onto your body and wrap his arms around you, whispering sweet nothings into your skin. If love could heal and relieve any ailment, if it could become a vital motor of life, then you would live perpetually in peace.

What a selfish idea. And yet, love is such a selfish, cruel thing to impose on others. The crushing weight of it, the brutal nature of desire and hope… Copia is aware of how abrasive his longing is, of how much his love will follow you like a restless shadow. He recognizes, deep down, that he is constantly asking so much. He’s begging for things no one else ever gave him, for him was not even worth the idea of it.

And you didn’t care about it. You never minded his flaws or his ugliness. Instead, you embraced every little detail with the tenderness of a lover.

Love: brutal, wonderful, cruel and tender, both a blessing and a curse. Since that first moment you asked for a dance, he hasn’t experienced peace.

There’s no peace for you either. He understands how being trapped in this existence must hurt you. Still, when the idea of ending it enters his mind, he feels repulsed. No matter how much his hands hover over your neck, wishing to squeeze it until you stop moving, he doesn’t.

No, you must stay by him, love him beyond death. You will come back to him, forever his. During interminable nights, you two will dance under the moonlight and eternal sky. The flames of his desire and adoration will burn as bright as the stars, but not as much as your gaze when your eyes meet his.

You’re his fate. Copia will do anything to make sure no one will ever touch you again. Nothing will happen. Not anymore. He’s not weak, he has found strength and power hidden deep within his guts.

Copia died, the same day he lost you, and now he’s been reborn. Just like Christ.

A whole new figure.

A whole new person.

You’re a whole new person too. Two lovers, different than they used to be but still reaching out to each other, swimming eternally in damnation.

And damned, that you are. In the dark, the earth trembles and crumbles. A deep pit, no bottom to be seen, opens its mouth to devour you whole.

Falling. You are falling away from the light, the warmth. Consumed by the shadows and the cold, your fingers reach for the sky, for whatever vestige of light that your eyes can see.

It’s useless. Heaven has darkened, and wisps of smoke curl around your body, engulfing every inch. It’s freezing, everywhere. The frigid air burns in your lungs, bites at the exposed skin of your cheeks rendering it numb. Gradually, all your muscles become numb, rigid.

Stiff, falling into nothingness, you try to focus on the last ray of sunshine in the distance. Through tear coated lashes, your pupils stare until the smoke completely obscures your vision.

Something wet is on your face. Maybe it’s tears, blood. Or maybe it has begun to rain.

Descending, you close your eyes. There’s nothing to observe anymore. No sound, either. Deep in silence, you wish something would save you. What’s happening? Where’s Copia? Why isn’t he here, with you, holding your hand?

Is this… the end? Just like that? It’s not like falling asleep. No, it’s like drowning in liquid darkness, thick fluid filling your mouth and nose and permeating your lungs.

It burns, so hard. The pain doesn’t feel right. It’s not raw, real pain. No, it’s more like a vague memory, as if you were merely remembering past sensations.

Death, won’t you spare me over until another year?

Someone hauls you out of the dark pond. A frozen hand on your own. Moving your fingers, yanking your wrist. Someone is handling you, pulling, holding. A hand, long fingers, cold skin. Someone is there. Something is there.

Then…

Light, air, it’s too little, too much. Your eyes are open, but you can’t see. There’s dirt on them, something coating them. Blind, you reach out. Your ears ring, loud, so loud. It hurts, and this time the pain is right, raw, pure, vivid. You wish you could go back to where you were before, comfortably numb, lost away.

Who…

Who are you?

Everything is overly bright, too loud. There are voices, too many of them, screaming until your ears ring. Pressing on them doesn’t help. Your nails dig in your scalp, and now there’s warm, fresh blood dripping down your forehead too.

What happened?

Where are you?

Who are you?

Memory broken into pieces, shattered beyond recognition, you try to move but your body doesn’t respond. The voices keep screaming. Or maybe that’s just you. 

“The sixth angel sounded, and I heard a voice from the four horns of the golden altar which is before God, saying to the sixth angel which had the trumpet, “Loose the four angels which are bound in the great river Euphrates”. And the four angels were loosed, which were prepared to slay the third part of men. By these three was the third part of men killed, by the fire, and by the smoke, and by the brimstone, which issued out of their mouths.”

“Have you ever heard of the Codex Gigas, my girl?”

The Nameless Ghoulette stands still, long fingernails going over the edge of the desk. Copia perceives the body heat radiating from her, senses the strong outburst of intense energy that she releases.

“It’s an old tale,” she responds, clicking her tongue. “But humans like to change stories as they please, so I wouldn't know much.”

Slowly, Copia nods. The myths around Codex Gigas, known as “The Devil’s bible”, are various. “Legend says it was written during the 13th century in a Benedictine monastery in Bohemia, by a condemned monk seeking absolution. He admitted having committed numerous sins, including fornication, gluttony, envy and bestiality.”

“A spicy one,” she adds, a smile on her face. The gesture is partially obscured by the black mask, but there’s an unmistakable gleam in her pupils.

The amusement she provides is contagious. Copia allows himself to let out a few hollow chuckles, too. “That’s not what the Abbot thought. They sentenced the monk to be walled up alive, but before the punishment was completed he begged for mercy,” he explains. “They ordered him to make a book that would include all the world’s knowledge, and to do it in a single night.”

The task was impossible. In the secret underground library, Copia’s eyes absentmindedly examine the pages on top of the desk. The manuscript is ancient, faded by the inclemency of time. Next to him, the Ghoulette’s fingers continue drawing lines on the desk, nails following the swirling pattern of wood. “The monk made a deal with Satan. He surrendered his soul in exchange for the book.”

“Our Father is too kind. What use would He have for an old human soul?”

Kindness. If Copia ever had to describe Satan in a way, he’d never employ that word. Kindness is a human emotion, a trace of something He could never comprehend. Much like the infernal creature next to him, the Old One might behave and speak like a human, present himself as he wishes, but he’d never understand the whole spectrum of human emotions.

No, Satan isn’t kind or cruel. Copia used to believe he knew so much about the Lord, about the principles and history of their religion. Maybe a part of him, that intrinsic mortal part of himself, was so afraid of the unknown he clung to whatever could offer him respite. The idea of being watched over, guided, protected by Him…

That idea made Copia feel safe, wanted, needed. Now…

Now he no longer experiences such stupid feelings. “I don’t believe Satan asked for an old soul either,” he carries on, sucking in a deep breath. “I think he wanted the book to be written, shared between humans.”

“He took it as a personal project, then? Was He giving a message to humans?”

The silence in the room is profound when Copia nods, pupils observing the flickering flames of a torch. It’s cold between these walls, incredibly so. Deep in the underground tunnels, he barely remembers the sensation of the sun on his skin, the warmth coming from it.

As cold and dark as it is, Copia would rather spend most of his time there than to adventure to the upper levels, where you are kept under the watchful eye of the Nameless Ghouls. He left some of them caring for you, being unable to face the task himself without his stomach churning and hands trembling.

No, it was too hard, extremely nerve-racking. He’s a coward. Copia knows it, and yet…

Yet he’s only human, weak and flawed. No one could blame him, though. Even the Ghouls appear uneasy to spend time in your presence, flickering their tails and baring their teeth when you make a sudden move. It makes them tense, to be in front of someone who resembles a human but it’s anything but it.

An insistent tapping on the desk plumbers Copia back to the present. “It has all the world’s knowledge, from above and below. It’s a treasure to many, a curse to even more people.”

Everything has a price; Copia has learnt it long ago. Wherever that book went, chaos and blood followed. “The manuscript is now at the National Library of Sweden in Stockholm,” he continues, waving a hand and staring back at the walls. “But it’s not complete. Ten whole pages are missing, and no one knows what they say.”

From the corner of his eyes, Copia manages to catch a glimpse of the fleeting glint on the infernal creature’s eyes. The opaque glass does nothing to hide it. She’s interested in his story, probably more interested than any other ghoul would be.

It’s not a surprise. Ghoulettes are, after all, more ambitious, smarter and unruly.

The words are measured when he speaks up again. “No one but Sister Imperator and me,” he declares, moving the stack of papers closer to the demon. Her fangs glisten under the golden light when her mouth opens, a grin on the lips. “These are the missing pages. They were hidden under the Ministry, behind a secret passage. I don’t know how they came to be here, or who brought them, but whoever that was is now gone and forgotten.”

Gradually, the Ghoulette steps closer. Copia senses the faint whistle of her breathing under the mask, and endures the unmistakable heat of her body. She smells like burnt wood and smoke, a mix of sweet briar and incense coating her clothes. The sharp nails trace the pages, written in neat calligraphy. All the letters are the same size and style, still clear over the yellowish paper.

Copia’s hand darts out to prevent her from tearing the thin paper, but he halts before making contact. Ghoulettes are scarier and more dangerous than their male counterparts. They don’t react well to any aggression.

No. In general, Ghoulettes don’t react well to any man. Since the beginning of the times, they have chosen to aid women. During centuries, only priestesses were able to summon and strike a deal with Nameless Ghoulettes. It was a major surprise when pathetic, poor little Cardinal Copia was the one who without precedence managed to summon not one, but three.

Imperator was immensely proud. She bragged about it to Nihil for days. "I told you my boy is special," she said. "He's the one we were searching for, Papa."

Contrary to his own fears, the creature doesn’t shred it. The pages crack under the soft pressure, but remain intact. “What are they about?” she asks.

“How to summon Satan, the coming of the Antichrist…”

“Beware of the storms that gather in the sky,” the text said. “For the thunder will bloom and the birds will caw. Listen to the moonlit star, the one who exclaims: ‘I see no day, only the cold night that will fall, summoned by your own hand.’”

The story matches that one The Clergy used to repeat. A secretive nun, carrying the old man’s bastard child. Copia heard it a thousand times, without completely understanding all the implications of it. To many, it was just an old scary tale to tell in the dark, some wishful thinking.

And yet…

The crows were incredibly loud the night Goore was born, their file said.

“The Earth will shake and break, and death all around will rise, lifting old hopes from shallow, troubled graves. The estranged son will return, unleashed from the bottomless pit.”

Everything matches. The first time Copia read it; he didn’t pay much attention to it. Now, after everything he has gone through, after studying Goore’s old files and witnessing the raw nature of their power…

Now Copia’s eyes are wide open. Why would Satan choose someone like Goore as The One? He can’t grasp it. Goore is everything The Clergy feared and despised, everything himself tried to avoid. He was devoted, a believer… He gave up everything for this cause, for the Ghost project and the church.

Goore never had to give up anything. Goore only took and brought devastation. But...

“Straight out of Hell, the Antichrist will walk the earth.”

Maybe Copia never truly understood his own Lord. For all one knows, he is and has always been wholly Fatherless, alone.

And perhaps that’s the way it should be.

There is something else in the pages, something no one should ever witness. It’s dangerous in the wrong hands, revolutionary in good ones. And his, his are meant to hold these pages. “The last pages are the more interesting ones. They share the forbidden, necessary knowledge to become Him.”

In a swift movement, the Ghoulette’s nails press harder. Copia looks at her, notes the way her fangs are bared and her pupils are blown behind the opaque glass. “Become Him, you say?”

“Did you know Satan is a given name? Much like Emeritus, it’s only a title. It means adversary,” a pause. “The Satan we serve had this power bestowed upon, at the beginning of the times. But you know how it is with empires. They must fall, one day.”

“That’s a risky thing to affirm, especially to a servant.��

“I always thought Ghoulettes had a bit more independence, but I might be mistaken.”

The Ghoulette thinks, for long seconds. There is a loud rumble coming from her throat. “You are crazy,” she says, at last. “Completely mad, absolutely unhinged. Yet, now I see why my sisters heed your call. You have His fire. I’m curious.”

It’s time. He’s been pondering over it a lot, wondering what his next steps should be. To find himself suddenly lost, no Imperator or Saltarian to tell him what to do and no Dark Father to ask for guidance, Copia has been severely lost. Now, he’s seen the light.

With you back at his side, he can do anything. Even if you don’t completely come back as you were, he can march straight to Hell and recover whatever vestige of your soul might be still lost there.

It all makes sense now. He’s the number one, you’re his number two, and there’s so much work to do. “Are you and your sisters in the mood for some hunting? I think we have to send one last gift to our Father. As a farewell, si?”

“You know us well, Papa.” The Ghoulette leans in closer, a feral look in her eyes, pupils a slit. “Give us the command.”

In her ears, Papa whispers the words he has long wanted to tell. His white eye glimmers in the gloomy room while issuing the command and, with a click of his tongue, all the nefarious Ghoulettes are set loose on earth, to feast and to conquer.

There can only be one architect of the new world, and that is him. 

“The rest of mankind who were not killed by these plagues still did not repent of the work of their hands; they did not stop worshiping demons, and idols of gold, silver, bronze, stone and wood—idols that cannot see or hear or walk. Nor did they repent of their murders, their magic arts, their sexual immorality or their thefts.”

They pass the old ministries' ruins first. Speeding through the tombstones and the raised roots, they run to the left, then right. The starless sky remains calm, motionless and frozen in time, like the rest of the forest.

The smell of rotten flesh is what gets to them, first. It’s a murky and complex fragrance, a mix of sulfur and old blood, of decay and putrefaction. In the distance, the faint grunts and wails become a dull rumble, barely audible over the raging sound of blood pumping in their veins.

It’s natural to run, pushing vigorously until the burn on their legs makes it painful to continue moving. Wherever their feet touch, the ground trembles and shatters open, bones and remaining tissue filling with the impulse of life. Maggots and flies swamp the place, sticking to their hair and clothes, crawling in the dirt and brimming over the air.

Despite their efforts, the flesh puppets don’t last. It makes sense. Necromancy is a fine art, much like playing guitar. You can’t simply grab an old, broken, forgotten instrument from the trash and make it sing. No, you require time to repair it, tune it and make it feel right underneath your fingertips. Just like that, you can’t take a decayed corpse and infuse vital energy and a soul back into it.

And fuck, you definitely can’t do it while running for your life.

A sudden, loud noise forces Goore to duck, rendering them immobile. Their legs tremble, muscles spamming after all the effort. Heaving for air, they pant as their back hits the trunk of an ancient tree. Not too far off, probably near the remnants of the abandoned chapel, the monsters feast and tear the flesh off the undead, their growls echoing into the night.

The smell is always the worst part. Sniffing the air, Goore detects the distant tinge of blood and rain. It’s odd, the sky is clouded but calm, and rain hasn’t fallen in ages. It’s almost as if it is waiting, waiting for something to come, for the hammer to ultimately fall.

The bittersweet stink of Death follows them through the woods and the cemetery. They continue running, escaping in vain. There’s no way they can outrun beasts from Hell, but the rush from this chase fills their body with a thrill.

Yes.

Goore only feels truly alive when he’s about to die.

The path deep in the shadows calls their name. Mary follows it, heavy combat boots crushing the dead leaves. The smell grows more pungent, distinctive, before the glint of a black mask becomes evident in his side vision.

Oh, there she is.

One of them, at least. The other two are apparently still hiding in the shadows, waiting to pounce and sink their claws and teeth in skin and muscle tissue. Goore’s boots sink into a mix of mud and leaves, fingers reaching up to remove a few branches off their hair.

Is this it, then?

The Ghoulette’s head tilts to one side by degrees, movement blurry and paused. There’s a loud crackling sound coming from her, a deep growl circling around them. Goore stares, and it resembles the feeling of watching a movie that’s slightly corrupted, all missing frames and delayed noises. In the distance, he hears a final wail, and it’s not hard to sense the last one of their flesh puppets has fallen.

Well, it was fun while it lasted, at least.

“Are we delaying this any further, or…?” They ask, voice vaguely coated with mockery. “Are you supposed to deliver a message?”

No one answers. Those round glasses on the visor glint, mask slowly regaining its original position before tilting to the other side. Mary’s skin shivers when something blows air over the exposed skin of his neck and hell, there is the other one.

Right next to them.

The razor sharp claws dig over their leather jacket, making it creak. The strength is not enough to pierce the thick material, but Goore nevertheless feels the bite. From up close, the glint in the creature’s eyes is almost blinding. Her pupils remain nothing but slits, thin and long, inside the irises. He notices it even through the dark glass.

“No message for you,” a voice says. It comes from within the forest.

Silence grows more deafening in the woods. Not even the bugs dare to disturb it. The only sound comes from their wild, beating heart and from the rush of hot blood, so loud in their ears. “I’m a bit disappointed,” their voice is a growl, a low rumble through gritted teeth. “He could at least curse me, at the end.”

“Don’t worry. We’ll curse you enough.”

Everything goes dark. It’s only a few seconds, a blink it’s all it takes. When Mary opens their eyes again, they are staring right into the clouded sky. The tree tops obscure their vision, leaves falling in slow motion before swirling in the wind. The ground is damp under their back, and something wet trickles down their forehead.

Blood. It tastes like blood when they lick their lips to clean it off. A drumming sound fills his ears, rhythmic and rapid. Mary inhales, snatches a shallow breath before enduring the burning cold of the air. The indistinct murmur of the demons comes from their right, words almost unintelligible.

Fuck. They are awake, but soon it will change. These creatures are hungry for blood and despair, insatiable. Goore fears no death, not anymore, yet the pain stabs their nerves right to the core. Once again, their body grows cold, muscles tense and skin too tight.

“Should we play with it first?”

“Papa said to have fun.”

Mary blinks once, then twice. Each time their eyes open, there’s the same gloomy sky and the tree tops. Their head hangs to one side, body completely limp in the hands of the demons. The stench of blood is extremely pungent, and their clothes are completely soaked in it.

Fuck. The world moves around them in a hazy bliss, almost like a dream they can’t completely wake up from. Midnight has passed long hours ago, and now it’s the devil’s time, the hour for them to rise again and bathe in the perverted lust of gore.

If the glimmering fangs and shiny eyes of a demon it’s the last thing they see, that’s okay. They feel no guilt, no shame. Heart hammering in their ribcage, wild adrenaline pumping along the blood, Goore smiles one last time. They only wonder how long it’ll be until they are reborn in morbidity, just like before.

Until then, they’ll remain as nothing but another bloody corpse, forgotten and buried under an upside-down cross.

“The seventh angel sounded his trumpet, and there were loud voices in heaven, which said: “The kingdom of the world has become the kingdom of our Lord and of his Christ, and he shall reign for ever and ever.” And the temple of God was opened in heaven, and there was seen in his temple the ark of his testament: and there were lightning, and voices, and thunderings, and an earthquake, and great hail.”

“Amore, careful there, please.”

This place… Copia recalls it as if it was yesterday. He had been ordained Papa, there was a party in his honor and he felt overwhelmed, shaken. Imperator urged him to prance around and talk to people, something he dreaded. He hid underground, in his sheltered place away from prying ears and judgmental eyes.

You were beautiful, as always, but even more wonderful that night. Copia feels his throat tighten at the remembrance, caresses the memory inside of his mind with barely the tip of his fingers. He doesn’t want to stain it, doesn’t wish for it to shatter under the weight of his actions.

Oh, how ethereal you looked, how soft your voice was when you asked him to dance with you. He recalls the fragrance of your perfume, the softness of your hair on his cheek when he leaned his face on the top of your head. How gentle your embrace was, that time. How grateful he felt to be alive, to be able to experience all the wonder of your love, the tenderness of your touch.

Tonight, among the same walls, Copia feels like crying. If it’s out of happiness from having you back or pure despair for all these past months, he doesn’t know it.

“Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch'intrate"

“Careful here too, my dear,” Copia guides you through the door, eyes buried on the ancient inscriptions that sit at the top of the old stone. Your hands are stiff, and your body moves practically in slow motion, not quite following the same rhythm you used to have.

It’s okay, he understands how tired you must be, how much your muscles and heart ache. Copia’s fingers scarcely trace over your wrists and back of the hands, supporting you as if you were about to break into a thousand pieces with the slight pressure.

Oh, how careful he is, how attentive. He shushes softly, whispering sweet nothings into the air as he escorts you through the place. The black blindfold blocks your sight, but your head follows the sound of his voice and he can almost picture the adoring look in your pupils, the gentleness of your gaze.

If the blindfold is there to shield you from overstimulation or to protect himself from the hate it might fill your stare, he doesn’t recognize it either.

It doesn’t matter. Copia stops in the middle of the ample room, next to the old fountain. His arms embrace you, and you melt into his hold. Copia’s heart stops, restarts at a measured pace, both heavy and pained. You melt into him, between his arms, as if you have never belonged anywhere else. 

Silently, he accepts it. Stiff and frightened, his breath hitches when your hand raises, slow as if someone was gradually pulling from the strings that hold you together.

When your nails hardly caress one strand of his hair, Copia feels like crying again. No, not crying. Breaking down, sobbing, wailing, screaming into the night. He's tired, so fatigued and wounded, but your touch is so affectionate, lovingly. It feels like a dream. Even if it's nothing but muscle memory, you cling onto him just like you did that night, so many years ago.

The world seemed so small back then. 

Copia allows you to card your fingers through his hair like a young boy tasting love for the first time. To the entire world, he might be the terrible and ruthless Papa Emeritus the IV, a merciless murderer, but not to you. To you, he’s sentimental and vulnerable, nothing but an enamored fool.

Not a single sound breaks the calming silence. Standing in the middle of the room, he looks at you with full attention for the first time in forever. You have become a strange and beautiful companion, skin still ghastly but slowly recovering a glimpse of life. Immobile, your face bears a languid expression and your breathing is so fast your chest rises and falls with a tumultuous respiration.

Copia wants to soothe you, to give you the whole world if you desire so. “I’ll ask you something, just like what you asked that night after I became Papa," he whispers, instead. "Can I be the first person to dance with you, now that you have returned to me? ”

There’s no reply. No verbal, at least. Unhurriedly, your arm lifts up in his direction, extended hand hanging in the air that separates both of you. Copia's mouth remains agape, eyes wide open. If you are a serpent of temptation, the snake offering him the apple of sin, then he’s Eve’s trembling hand blindly reaching for you.

He takes it and knows there’s no turning back. Your hands are cold, but he can’t let go. No, there’s no moment to let go. He’s been calling for you for so long, just like he’d call forever. Copia’s face falls on your shoulders, lips trembling as he presses a light kiss over the soft material of your clothes. He chokes on the whimpers his mouth refuses to let out, eyes closing and brows furrowing. His lids stay pressed tight, lashes coating in tears.

A hand on your waist and another holding your wrist, Copia begins to move slowly. It’s like that first time he danced with you, soon after the release of Prequelle. He was incredibly nervous back then, so scared of you. A part of him feels the same now, nothing but old Cardinal Copia clinging to an unknown Sibling of Sin, wishing for the night to never end. 

The air is frozen inside his lungs when your hand moves to his shoulder. Most of your body is still limp, so Copia holds close, guiding you around the place. Eyes closed, he bears most of your weight, experiencing the renewed ardor of a lover. His breath hitches when your cold lips travel along his cheek in the resemblance of a kiss.

Oh, no. He feels like sobbing again, lower lip quivering as he murmurs on your habits. “You are mine,” he declares, placing another kiss. “You and I are one forever.”

Underground, hiding from a world on fire, Copia has never felt more at peace. He is awake in your coiling spirit, illuminated in blood and fire.

It's natural for his hands to tighten on your body. The dancing becomes faster, flowing on the old marble floor. Copia senses how your fingers slowly curl on his clothes too, feet barely gaining a bit more of traction. He hums a song, the same song you hummed for him that time, the same one he used to sing to you on long nights before sleeping to help you relax, or after interminable nights of loving you under the moonlight.

The melody is carried by the air and resonates on the walls before getting lost in the long halls. There’s no one else there, no ghouls or demons, no Satan or human that could ever interrupt this moment. Forever, he’ll dance with you forever, cling to you forever, be with you forever…

There’s a sting in the way your lips graze over his cheek again, barely brushing his own when his head turns around. The bells chime in the distance, coming from a now forgotten chapel. If this is the last time before the end, he just wants to be with you all night.

Below the surface, locked in a loving embrace and following the faint melody of his humming, you two waltz in circles.

“Copia?" You call. There's something wrong, because the sound seems to be coming from far away, anywhere but your vocal cords. It's too rough, full of static. 

Throat dry, Copia struggles to find his own voice too. The anguish claws at his neck, but it doesn't matter. You don't give him time to answer anyway.

"I think it’s going to rain soon.”

Those words. He remembers them. Those words haunted him for days and night. You told him that, the night you confessed to him how scared you were for his safety, how much you feared for yourself too. Oh, he should have heed your words, should have listened to you. 

No, instead he disregarded your worries, ignored your warning. He won't do that, never again.

"Yes, amore," he mutters, this time. "The wind has changed." 

The silence falls upon both of you, once again. He doesn't mind it. It’s okay. No one will hurt you again. No one will bring you any harm. Copia will make sure of it. There’s no one else who could oppose him or challenge him.

No.

He’s God now.

Outside, the first drops of rain hit the ground. Soon, it hails. 

“The lawless one opposes and exalts himself above every so-called god or object of worship, so that he takes his seat in the temple of God, declaring himself to be God …”

2 Thessalonians 2:3–12

The end.

BONUS CHAPTER

[riaaanna]

Queen Fanclub Convention 2023 Part 6: Greg Brooks (with Q&A re: Sotheby's)

📸 Ian Knight

I feel like I had to put that in the title to get anyone to even read past the first two sentences. 😂 It's down there, in a bit...!

Now, if you've ever listened to any Queen demos circulating around Youtube, you would've undoubtedly heard the iconic "Property of Queen Productions" watermarked across the audio. That would be the voice of Greg Brooks, Queen's official archivist.

Those rarity gems have been part of my journey in the Queen fandom since late 2018 so it was so surreal to be sitting in the room I've always imagined to be able to sit in and hear these demo recordings directly. (Although ngl, I always thought he'd be watermarking it live into a mic, but no such scene happened unfortunately lol). When the first "Property of Queen Productions" played in the room everyone cheered like greeting an old friend, which was so amusing.

Anyway no you're not going to hear those demos here, duh (but like y'know) so instead I will only list which ones were played:

Flick of the Wrist

Great King Rat (Take 1)

Nevermore

Nevermore (Take 5)

March of the Black Queen (Take 3-5)

Brighton Rock

I Go Crazy

Jealousy

Tie Your Mother Down (Brian's guide vocal)

After consulting with friends with more expertise in this I found out these aren't new and have been played at some point in the previous conventions. There are sites with a good list of these so you can probably look them up (and if you're looking at demos, beware of fake ones cause there are a lot out there!). Nevertheless it was a great experience to listen to them!

Aside from that he also brought some merchandise which are sold for MPT. The first being a Queen vinyl box - leftovers from the archives (on the left 📸 Ian Knight) and the second being this genius pun on a mug which I bought... Proper Tea of Queen Productions!

Greg took some questions between the demos and here is a transcript under the cut. A bulk of these talked about the extent of the lots auctioned at Sotheby's which he got to see as Queen's archivist, and there's some insight to Queen Productions Ltd (QPL)'s extent of "involvement" with the auction. I asked a question about it myself and I was happy with how much he was able to reveal.

Disclaimer: English is not my first language so there are parts that I marked as "indistinct" and the accuracy may not be 100%. This wouldn't be their fault for not pronouncing it clearly, it would be mine for not catching it properly. There are parts I omitted related to the demos cause they wouldn't make sense without listening to them anyway.

Jim Jenkins (J): Okay everybody! Right, this gentleman does not need any introduction. He’s Queen's archivist, he gets involved in everything to do with Queen and he's just done a big job at Sotheby’s. Queen's productions did get involved in Sotheby’s, people think not, but they did. Greg did a stellar work down at the auction house. So, he's going to play us some musical treats, let's bring him on, Greg Brooks! (applause)

Property of Queen Productions!

Greg Brooks (G): Hello everyone! Everything good? Right, I can tell you a few bits, I'll answer some questions and I can play some bits. I've bought mainly rarity outtakes, so from the original sessions, and the way that I've ordered them is starting for the first album, all the way up to, I think, The Game. I'll just play you a few things, I might ask you here and there which one you'd prefer to hear. But I'll start off with some early Queen, if that's alright with you guys. Good! And then, um...

Greg on audio: Property of Queen Productions.

Audience: (big cheers)

G: Oh, I started early there, sorry. (laughter) I wonder where that was coming from, sounded vaguely familiar. I'll start off with this, I'll play a few and I'll answer questions if you want, or I'll play a rarity if you prefer. Got that? Yeah. Okay, let me know if it's not loud enough, just by doing that (gestures hand pointing up) they'll know. So here we go then, I won't announce what it is, but I will tell you, these are all early backing tracks, early run-throughs, the whole band playing live in the studio, but invariably with no vocals. Sometimes there's a guide vocal, okay?

(Demo tape playing)

I was just thinking how nice it is after all this publicity with Sotheby's and Freddie's entire life being sold… it's nice to go back to the important stuff and just hear the music here, isn't it? (applause)

This is what it's all about, isn't it? All that stuff aside, all those possessions, the music and the voice. So, we'll carry on.

(Demo tape playing)

So, we have to mention the dreaded Sotheby's thing, or some people think it's dreaded. How many people managed to get a look? Quite a lot of people. The lyrics, I think, were fantastic. Did you see them all? Yeah. I mean, some of the Queen II stuff was mind-blowing, all those alternative lyrics. Anyway, we’ll carry on.

(Demo tape playing)

(indistinct) He was asking me is that – did they usually put the music down first? They always record the backing track first, they always get that rhythm track which we've been told many times, Brian and Roger always said that Freddie, John, Rog do the backing track and in that case because it's Fred's song he's directing from the piano you can even count in and you know he would be saying, you know, directing really and... because it's his song, in other songs it would be whoever's song it is. Invariably though Freddie directs from the piano and then they'll, Brian will come in and put his guitar and then the last thing will be – even the backing vocals go before the lead vocal so you can hear it, as you hear this stuff you can visualize what's going on.

So we thought we'd stop just for five just in case there’s any questions, I'm happy to take questions.

Question 1: Hi, Greg. I just want to say, so this would’ve been 50 years of the original album, have you suggested or proposed anything to celebrate it at all to the band?

G: Yes, we all – did you hear the question everyone? You need a bit more volume, or you alright? Turn up a bit there guys, if it's alright.

Because it's 50 years of Queen I, yes, some years ago it would have –  it's always about two or three years in advance. We got proposals to the band and the record company and we would have proposed something for Queen I but there isn't anything in the pipeline for the debut album. There's all kinds of discussions about all kinds of products but because of so much stuff going on in the last couple of years, I think the band just decided this year there wouldn't be a major product, as I understand it, and the record label.

So no, there isn't anything in the pipeline for this year, though there are, as there always are, some great things being discussed, some of them look quite certain to me that they're going to happen and they're really exciting, and I mean that.

So you know by that, I'm not talking about having random products, I'm talking about proper Queen. (audience cheers, possible implication that he referred to QAL products) No sniggering! (chuckles) When I talk about Queen I mean, well I regard as the Freddie and John years. So honestly, there's some great stuff in the pipeline and it will soon come around because we've done a lot of research and I'll continue for about three separate products and I have no idea which will come first.

Question 2 (me!): I want to ask more about the auction. Is that OK? I just want to ask, first, how did the communications between Queen Productions and the, I don’t know, Mary or the auction house come about? And second, if you're allowed to tell us if the band is getting anything. Thank you.

G: Well I got the gist.

Q2: Oh, sorry… (apologizing for my bad English or pronunciation, whatever…)

G: I wasn't, on my level as they say, I wasn't privy to anything that was happening on the top level. I was only interested in going along and seeing all the lyrics and the costumes just to see the extent of it. I think – I think, the band stayed out a bit more or less. It was really between Mary and the Sotheby's. I don't know a lot about that. All I know is, you know, it was a good idea for me as the archivist to know the full extent of all the lyrics.

And evidently Freddie kept the lyrics of everything he ever wrote, ever. So for those of you that went to Sotheby's you saw probably five percent of the lyrics. There was something like, I think it was five, six hundred sheets of paper and lots and lots of unreleased songs, unpublished songs, pre-Queen going right the way back to the mid-60s.

And everything he ever wrote for Queen, including many unpublished songs. I saw lyrics for songs that I had not even heard audio outtakes for. So whether he made demos at home, which aren't in the archive, I think that's plausible. But as you know there wasn't any of that. In the auction there was no audio recordings, just lyrics.

But he wrote something like nine or ten sheets of paper for every song he wrote. So you saw for the Bohemian Rhapsody lyrics, they were 15 sheets. And for A Day at the Races, one of my favorite albums, there was 10 or 12 sheets for every song. So if you were lucky enough to purchase that Day at the Races lot, I think it was something like 80 sheets of paper.

(jokingly) I think you bought that, didn’t you Jim? (laughter) I'm not supposed to say that. You got somebody to bid for you for the crown and the cloak as well. (laughter) See we should all have worked for (indistinct) when we had the chance. (laughter)

Question 3: (indistinct, asks something about how the exhibition was because he didn’t go.)

J: You missed out, it was amazing. You could see the costumes, and the lyrics.

Q3: My Question is, I’ve never ever been at the auction, what was it like?

G: Okay, what was it like? (gestures to someone else)That gentleman there would like to ask a question in a minute. That dubious bloke. (laughter) I should be more specific.

To answer your question, if you didn't get to Sotheby's, it was then basically recreating Freddie's house in their main five rooms. And they did a phenomenally brilliant job. So, not that I've ever been to Garden Lodge, but it was as near as you could be to walking into Garden Lodge, lounge, kitchen, all of his furniture, everything really. From his artwork to his lyrics, his costume, the tea sets, the teapots, the tablecloths, the chairs, the wardrobes, everything was there. And it was very evident what impeccable taste he had. And so you walk through and everything on display was extremely beautiful.

And it was very impressive and quite moving, you know, because if you could deal with the fact that you felt like you were intruding in somebody's personal space, which I felt it was a bit, should I really be here? Would he want people in? I don't know, not my call. But since it was public, I went a few times and just took it all in because it was so incredible. Does that answer your Question?

And sorry, just to add to that, the lyrics I asked to see on my own, because I knew that was going to be emotional, so I set myself down in the back room and went through all these lyrics. And for especially Queen II, all the lyrics that he wrote that he didn't use. So he was writing down “Oberon and Titania” and all those things he used. And then on another page was equally brilliant stuff that he didn't use. I took Jim, we sat and looked, didn't we, Jim? And it does bring a lump to your throat. You can't talk while you're looking because you realize you're looking at this man effectively working to perfect that song, you know, and he's working, working, working, working, and he's made every conceivable note you could make before he chooses the words that we all now know. It's really impressive, wasn't it, Jim?

J: Extremely. It was emotional.

G: Yeah. We all think Freddie is a genius, and I know that word is bandied about. I always knew he was a genius and a brilliant, brilliant musician. But the stuff he didn't use was as good, or better in some cases, than the words he did use. Anyway, next question.

Question 4: What's going on Greg? With the rise of AI, and John and Ringo (indistinct) the new Beatles music, will that open up the archives on lesser quality recordings to be reassessed by that?

G: Well, that's a very interesting question. I'm surprised you came up with that. (laughter) I always give him a hard time, I don't even know why, it's just because it's fun. (laughter) And he’s got, he takes it in good spirit. No, it's a good question, I thought about this AI, everybody knows what this AI is capable of now. We hear the Beatles and Freddie singing “The Long and Winding Road” and so on. (indistinct) (laughter)

As I was saying. What was I saying? Oh, there you are. You can hear Freddie singing “The Long and Winding Road”. And some of it is very convincing. You think, Christ, did he record that, really? And then you hear a dodgy bit, and you go, oh no, it's not. But it's only going to improve, isn't it? So there is going to come a time when you choose your artist, and you choose your song, and you want Freddie to sing an Elvis song, or Elvis to sing Somebody to Love, and it will be possible.

But I can only imagine where it's going when you think how brilliant it is at the moment. And it did occur to me the other day that if you can feed in all of Freddie's songs, all the backing tracks, sorry, just the vocal tracks without the music, you could effectively have him singing anything. And then I thought, if you ingest it into a computer, all the interviews he ever did, I wonder if it's conceivable for him to read his own book, which was (indistinct). That would be good, wouldn't it? You can have him reading anything, because it would sound like the real Freddie reading The War of the Worlds by H .G. Wells, or whatever. The possibilities are really endless, so I don't know where it's going.

But it's worrying, really, because next year I could be here playing Freddie singing The Best of Elvis, and it would sound very convincing. Okay, any more questions, or shall I crack on?

Question 5: While you were looking at the stuff at Sotheby's, did you think (indistinct) regarding to I Want it All (Greg’s upcoming book on Queen memorabilia collection), or have you got the stuff you now can add to it?

G: Well, the lyrics, for example, the thing that interests me most… There are lyrics in the I Want it All book, but I didn’t want to fill it – because it's not a lyrics book, so I thought what I'd do, I'd do it once and do it properly. So the album for which we have handwritten lyrics for every single song is The Works. And we also have lyrics for the B-side of Ga Ga, I Go Crazy, as well as Let Me in Your Heart Again. So there's a four-page pullout in the book showing all the lyrics for that album, that’s 12 sheets.

There's a couple of more elsewhere… but to answer your question, you would think that you would want all of the Somebody's Love and Champions and Bo Rhap lyrics in the book like I'm doing, but it would just be too much, so probably down the line there is a book there, obviously, whether it would be our book or Mary's book, who knows, but um… it would be nice to have some of the costumes featured, and I think when we come to do the live (I Want it All) book, volume 2, I'll look into that, because some of those beautiful early costumes would be a wonderful four-page, wouldn’t they, in a book.

So the short answer is yes, we will endeavour to show you all that stuff when we can in the coming years, you know, it'd be great, but at the moment it's too soon into the auction, after the auction.

Question 6: Yeah, just while we're talking about the audio lyrics and things, do you actually have the copy of the lyrics for the archive now or is that kind of lost into whoever bought the lyrics?

G: Um, good question again, I don't know how to answer that. (laughter) (indistinct, laughter)

I would think at some point in the future we will see the lyrics. I think one way or the other that they'll be seen. Yeah, because it would have been too upsetting to think that they've all gone to the corners of the earth never to be seen again. That is unlikely.

Question 7: Hi Greg, and one of the things we noticed, because we got pushed around the auction really quickly…

G: Did you?

Q7: Oh, like, people were like, move on, people can’t see, keep walking, so...

G: Did you go out and... Come back in again, though? You can do that.

Q7: No, we already queued. But one of the things we noticed is that on one of the Queen things they had was “Feel the Force”? And we were like, “is there a Freddie version of that that exists?”

G: Not that I can remember.

Q7: Yeah, it was really obscure on a track list, of all the things and then there was “Feel the Force”…?

G: It did occur to me that it must be the case that he had, in his archive, and still does, recordings of songs that we don't have in it, the Queen Archive. And I guess that's probably true of Brian, Roger and John that had their own home recordings. So it's conceivable that that track, for example, but we don't have it that I'm aware of.

But as I said, just to recap, there are lyrics for songs that he wrote that we do not have in the archive. So he must have the recordings, or she must.

Yep, okay Right, I'll play a bit of…

(Demo tape playing)

G: One thing – this “Property of Queen Productions”, quite irritating whoever it is that says that all the way through… (laughter) Just for those who don’t know, that was the band who insisted that we did that, so it would keep from these things from getting ripped off.

(Note: Greg is now promoting the merchandise he brought. I omitted this.)

(Demo tape playing)

J: Okay, ladies and gentlemen, Greg Brooks!

[adhd-merlin]

Ah someone else who has discovered the joys of Camelot (1967) a movie that I am completely normal about. Have you watched it? Because the delivery of the lines is everything and if you need someone to talk to about it I am, once again, completely normal about it. The scene where Lancelot and Arthur first meet?? A masterpiece in sharing a single braincell. And don't even get me started on the way Guenevere first treats Lancelot "have you jousted with humility lately". It's unapologetically at the top of my Arthuriana movie rank list and has gotten me to reread The Once and Future King

I have not watched the film yet!

I've been listening to the original cast recording on Spotify but, most importantly, I've read the book of the original Broadway production (1960 libretto) and I love it?? It's a delightful little read on its own, even without having watched the musical. (I want other people to read it please it's very funny I promise)

I guess the 1967 film script won't be identical to the libretto but I assume it's fairly similar.

The scene where Lancelot meets Arthur was hilarious it made me laugh out loud. Lancelot utter puzzlement ("Gone a-Maying, Your Majesty??"). Arthur's sudden self-consciousness.

And don't even get me started on the way Guenevere first treats Lancelot "have you jousted with humility lately"

I know!! Lancelot's grating self-righteousness coupled with his complete lack of self-awareness is so funny.

And I loved the gradual tone shift. It starts out so silly and the tragedy sneaks up on you — I thought Guinevere and Lancelot's affair might be played for laughs with an oblivious Arthur but no, it turns out he's fully aware of what's going on and he's forced to watch it unfold because he's powerless to stop it? and he loves them both and doesn't want any harm to come to them even as they betray him??

(He continues talking, looking from one to the other, feverishly — painfully) — Excuse me??

and King Pellinore is hilarious, he enters the scene wearing a monocle followed by a little mongrel named Horrid and talking like a character from a P. G. Wodehouse's novel. Extremely validating because when I read that chapter in Le Morte d'Arthur in which King Pellinore first makes an appearance my first question was "is he meant to be this funny?" and the answer from this script is a resounding YES.

I think I might perhaps watch the 1968 stage production first, merely because it's available for free on Youtube (at least in the UK).

I might try hunting for a free streaming link to the 1967 film, though I don't mind renting it if I can't find it.

[omegaremix]

Cold Waves @ Warsaw; September 15 & 16, 2022.

If I told you that I was feeling shaky going into attending Cold Waves, you’d write me off instantly. Why would I still feel nervous about attending shows? Sure, the event is everything, but every trip to grandiose New York City is still a major thing for me. It’s still feels like uncharted territory and I’m still not over it but it has everything Long Island fails to provide: the venues, the people, the exciting energy, and an allure I still can’t put my finger on. It’s all for the taking, whereas on Long Island I had way more than enough. Also: anxiety. (Film at 5.)

I was only mere days away and I had to get ready for two straight nights of taking trains to and from Brooklyn. Cold Waves would be the third show I’d attend this year - fourth if I cared going to Ministry’s “Industrial” Strength tour which I didn’t go to. I was a frantic wreck anticipating this industrial legends / synthwave festival. The tremors in my black heart would stop only if I finally arrived at Warsaw. It’s my third visit there. The first was for Hospital Productions’ 20th Anniversary and the second was for Black Marble and Cold Cave on a hot June day - before my world, my momentum, and soul were all upended.

I don my black cap, a Clock DVA shirt, blue jeans, black boots and new black leather jacket. It’s sunny out, a hazy blue sky is being invaded by cumuluses all over the place - perfect conditions for an afternoon drive westward on the Long Island Expressway, down on Sagtikos Parkway, through Southern State to Rt. 231, and heading south to Rt. 27A to the Babylon station. I took no chances catching the earlier one-hour train to Penn Station, then hopped on the ‘E’ line to Court Square’s ‘G’ line to Greenpoint Ave. The train ride was bliss as hardly anyone was on it.

It was 6:15 PM when I stepped off the G and went upstairs to Greenpoint, my favorite Brooklyn neighborhood. It only took me 15 minutes to walk a few blocks down to Driggs Av. in Kings County’s Polish neighborhood. It’s only 6:30 PM and already I’m being greeted by a crowd of three at the very front of the line. One of them saw my DVA shirt and gave me two thumbs up. “Great shit, man!”, he said. I smiled and my heart rate went up 20.00% knowing I made the right choice of t-shirt for night #1 of Cold Waves. I found myself standing at the exact same spot on line more than four years ago when I waited to enter the venue for Cold Cave and Black Marble. It was that very corner where Wes Eisold stood with Genesis P. Orridge before that show. Doors open at 7 PM as all of us trudge towards the venue for our security checks before entering paradise where I’m immediately hit with the smell of incense, a special smell distinct to my Brooklyn travels and nowhere else.

The music existed before the beginning of time and it was pumping. No wonder - DJ Andi (Harriman) was behind the wheels of steel. She’s a fixture of the neighborhood where she fit perfectly with the industrialists and synth-wave demographic that populate there. With me being 15th in line, I won a spot up front. As always without fail. I was feeling great about what was about to go down for the next five hours. The first person I thought of was my Roman goth friend Lira* who I wished was there with me. She would’ve blended in with all these vampires, witches, and mistresses attending; many walking around wearing 242, Wax Trax, Pig, Pigface, Hocico, and Twin Tribes shirts.

7:45PM is here. The dee-jay fades out, the overheads turn off and the first act is ready to go. Cold Waves is finally underway.

Spike Hellis was the first of ten on the roster and kicked off the entire festival. The fresh Los Angeles duo have enjoyed a new sizable uptick of exposure. They were active and had lots of energy on stage; a theme that they’d set the tone for the entire program. Their fast-paced EBM, electro, and electronic hybrid was a fine example of the current sound that Los Angeles had to offer. Both Cortland Gibson and Elaine Chang traded instrumental and (screaming) vocal duties with each other while conveying themes of agony, control, rage, emotional despair, and submission that rubber-stamped their own pandemic-era, all accentuated at the end with an annoyed Chang dealing the finger to an audience member as the cherry on top. Who knows what happened there? What I do know was that someone threw an empty beer can at them during their set and security called him out on it; eyes and pointy fingers in his direction with a one-and-final warning not to do it again.

For those wondering why Rein is being highly praised all over, you’ll see why. One of two solo acts, Rein wasted no time taking the stage and it wasn’t long for her to show everyone why she’s one of the most talked-about synthwave acts of recent. It’s not just her razor-sharp EBM delivery and style but also her choreography which made her perfectly groove to the music. She can seriously move it like no other and also delivered plenty of hard-edged sounds of equal measure. It was more than enough to ask who the fuck Shakira was, because she’s got nothing on her. It wasn’t just Rein who was motioning to the music. I look to my right and seen a good number of people getting into it, too; such as the guy three spaces away from me who happened to be wearing a gas mask through her set. After she closed out her set came another intermission. The next three legendary acts have yet to come into play and right behind me are three belligerent drunks (one male and two females) fighting over who bumped into who, not saying ‘excuse me’, who stood where, and lots of name-calling and f-bombs lobbed at each other’s slovenly faces. Not a dull moment so far.

Portion Control was the third and most enduring act of the festival with their debut cassette release A Fair Potion dating all the way back to 1980. I’ve constantly heard of them through new-wave, industrial, and synthwave circles. It’s my first go at them and Wow. They. Nailed. It. They became one of the very few artists I ever discovered to give me a perfect example of everything I was looking for on the very first listen. Perhaps the hungriest, meanest, and venomous act I discovered live or not. I may have caught them at their best ever and it lead me to the three Seed e.p.’s. Onstage, Dean Piavanni was a vocally sinister, persuasive, and direct force who could’ve easily taken on the audience (and would’ve won); as Jon Whybrew was on the controls transmitting ultra-energetic and juiced-up EBM and industrial techno for the small masses. It was the most exciting payout of the night so far.

If there was ‘the’ reason that attending Cold Waves was an absolute must, it was the team of former Wax Trax and Ministry members Paul Barker and Chris Connelly. They are part of the reason why everyone had some of the best moments of their lives and made for some of the greatest industrial releases ever. Billed as The Revolting Cocks Corpse and in conflict with Al Jourgensen’s version of the band, it would be their last-ever appearance. I hate to admit, a scratch off the bucket list was long overdue and years in waiting. Now, here was my chance of seeing both of them live in one shot.

Want real-deal Cocks classics? You got ‘em. Paul Barker handled his iconic bass logo-ed with the Cocks’ Beers, Steers & Queers emblem on it before kicking off with “38” and brought out former Cock (Front 242’s) Richard 23 on vocals. After that comes Connelly onstage in casual wear in a trucker hat, jeans, and a shirt that’s scrawled “Strong And Pretty” on the front, so we’re getting the nutty version of him. Then the rest of the hits came rolling in: “Attack Ships On Fire”, “Cattle Grind”, “Crackin’ Up”. When Connelly asked himself out loud what else to play, the audience yelled “Let’s Get Physical” (rest in peace, Olivia Newton John). “Well, I didn’t ask for your help!” he said coyly to all of us and we couldn’t help but to laugh. They did cap off their monumental set with “Do Ya’ Think I’m Sexy” and it felt like a dream. Connelly leans on the speakers acting all cute and blowing kisses to the crowd with a smile. Before you know it, he’s laying on the floor with arms wide open like he’s just fallen in love as Barker and company call it a night. Nothing but good times and an ultimate culmination of their Wax Trax output as I hoped for.

Finally, it was Front 242’s turn to take the stage; the apex of an already high-flying night. It would be a bittersweet performance at that as this was one of many shows on what was their final U.S. tour. Many fans thought it was because of Jean-Luc De Meyer health issues but thankfully that wasn’t the case. No matter, it was everyone’s last chance in the states to catch them before leaving North America once and for all with no turning back. I considered Front 242 to be a bonus for me as I was heavily into their pioneering Eighties material during my community college years, their later albums, and C-Tec which De Meyer took part in. I had absolutely nothing to lose seeing them live. All throughout the night I’ve seen photographers-for-hire huddle around the space in-between the rail and stage getting their dozens of shots in. For Front 242, the three-song policy got extended to four. It had to be. Warsaw security managed to catch one snap artist who didn’t know better.“No flash! No flash!” they told him as they pointed at and called him out on it. Which also begged the question: where the hell is Brooklyn’s industrial / synthwave fixture-photographer Nikki Sneakers? It’s been at least five years since I’ve seen her shooting at venues.

Front 242 played their most-recognizable and popular classics that established and pioneered EBM with “Don’t Crash”, “Operational Tracks”, “U-Men” and many more. It was all Richard 23, De Meyer, and Patrick Codenys in their unmistakable iconic tactical outfits with a shirtless Tim Kroker on live drums. They took all the power and energy they had and kept it going all the way, delivering nothing short of a rhythmic and beat-heavy experience they were known for. One funny moment to be seen was when De Meyer stood cross-armed wearing his huge shades and had such a scowl on his face, looking all bad-ass as the other three carried on. After eight or nine songs, 242 left the stage - not to lock targets and catch men - but to gear up for their first encore. We all knew there was more to come and what came was “Headhunter”, one of industrial / EBM’s most historic songs ever written. Two more songs later and 242 left the stage again charging up for another encore. As soon as we all heard the soundbyte “Hey, Poor!”, it meant only one thing: “Welcome to Paradise”. Only then was the perfect Front 242 show complete. The team of 23, De Meyer, Codenys, and Kroker took in a lengthy applause and gave a standing ovation as they all thanked New York City and bid farewell. The lights turn on for all of us to head out of Warsaw. I turn around to get going and behind me I see a female fan being consoled by her husband - and she’s in tears. Either she finally fulfilled her life-long dream of seeing Front 242 or saddened that they would say goodbye and farewell to the states, never to return.

The first five acts were amazing. It felt like I did a great service to myself in attending. I already checked off all the boxes I wanted to: take mass transit, visit Greenpoint, see Barker and Connolly play, and be associated with my kind of people. A night out in Brooklyn never fails and the thrills would still continue after the show ended. There’s always the experience of taking the alphabet and number lines - taking the ‘G’ and then the ‘7’ line to walk from 10th St. towards the Empire State Building and then arriving at Penn Station all by one-in-the-morning. Like the ride from Babylon to Penn Station, the reverse ride was quiet and not as crowded as a can of sardines. More exhilarating was the ride from Babylon back home where all the roads were empty and quiet, leading up to driving east on a wide-open Sunrise Highway at three in the morning and getting home all in 25 minutes time.

Night One of Cold Waves was now in the record books.

**********

Friday afternoon? Well, what an adventure. I had no idea that traffic was literally paralyzed on Sagtikos Parkway. It was that point where I knew it would be down to the wire getting to the Babylon station. From then on, I was finding every inch I could to cut other drivers off, find detours, and get head-starts while waiting for green lights and cursing out turtle drivers. Traffic was tight and every decision counted. One minute I thought I was going to make it and the next minute I was doubtful. South on Commack Road, down Deer Park Avenue then Route 231, and finally to Route 27A where I was only a few thousand feet away from the station. I arrive at the parking lot across from the station, bolted out of my car, ran across the street and up the stairs like a motherfucker. I finally reach the platform and - it’s taking off. Fucking great.

I had one hour until the next train to figure out how to unfuck myself and get to Warsaw in time. I tried signing up for OMNY (New York City’s wireless transit pay) months ago but was unsuccessful. Now time to try again. I downloaded the Apple Pay app- and then had to call the bank to connect my card. Now that it’s tied to my phone, I tired again to sign up for OMNY. Success! The 4:35 PM Babylon train arrives and I had 55 minutes to map out the quickest path in getting to my destination. The train arrives at Penn Station and I waste no time hauling ass to the ‘E’ line. Here we go. I hover my phone over the turnstile and - GO. Raced up and down the flights of stairs and I catch the ‘E’ train by five seconds before its doors closed. I take another 20 minutes to cool down before the transfer to Court Square / 23rd Street’s ‘G’ line. I hop off, sprint, and find the ‘G’ train that would take me to the Nassau Avenue stop, the closest one to Warsaw. It took me about two minutes and 1,000 feet to get there. I finally arrive out of breath before I go through the security checks and magic wands before entry. All clear. It’s 7:40 PM. Five minutes to go and I’m at the exact same spot I was the night before. All worship to Lucifer that I made it.

And now, night two begins.

If there was any artist to kick off Friday’s festivities that represented his hometown and carried its flag, then Confines was it. The hard-hitting, beat-heavy industrial-techno / EBM project certainly had some punch to it. Like Rein, Confines was a one-person show who did all of his instruments and movements on his own. Not bad at all. At the time of this writing I learned something about him that totally kicked me off of my seat: Confines happened to be David Castillo, co-owner of Brooklyn’s Saint Vitus bar and venue, host of the Age Of Quarantine podcast, and lead singer of Primitive Weapons. Are you fucking kidding me?! I was on the lookout to spot him at my last visit to -Vitus to see Uniform but I was shit out of luck. Now I finally found him performing at Cold Waves and didn’t even know that was him until after the fact! Fucking right. And it doesn’t stop there. I also learned that both Geography Of Nowhere 1 and Work Up The Blood was mixed and mastered by Hospital Productions’ Kris Lapke / Alberich and laid out by Sannhet’s AJ Annunziata. Wow. Talk about getting five-in-a-row on that bingo card.

Fans of Vancouver musicks enjoyed a two-for-one approaching the middle of the night’s bill. We were all treated to Leathers consisting of Shannon Hemmett (vocals), Kendall Wooding (synths), and Adam Fink (drums). For anyone who wanted the 2022’s tense of what an Eighties’ synthpop / new-wave show would look like? Well, now you have it. It was a treat seeing them perform and also seeing the slender Hemmett as an Eighties dream while Wooding and Fink played a smooth mid-tempo set. But with a wardrobe change and Jason Corbett coming into play, Leathers became Actors and Artoffact’s flagship band was the iteration that appeared on everyone’s radar as of late. They traded in their Eighties’ synthpop and new-wave cool for heavier rock. This time Hemmett took over synth duties and Wooding wielded bass as Fink stayed on drums and Corbett helped Actors push more power and electricity into their second set to keep the excitement steady from start to finish. I tried out both Leathers / Actors before and for some reason they’re not my type of heavy-rotation listening. However, there’s no denying that their talent brought them their well-deserved fanfare and exposure.

Not since Merzbow’s personnel bringing out his gear at Output have I been bracing myself with another artist’s set-up. Lighting fixtures attached all over and bulbs placed in front of huge cymbals might’ve told me that the next set would burn my eyes right off my face. Luckily, I was wrong. That was Kite’s visual set-up and a precursor to their performance. The Swedish duo of Niklas Stenemo and Christian Berg were another act I never heard anything of, and afterwards tilted me to give them a shot. Both were skilled in playing two keyboards at once (or keys- and knobs in Berg’s case) as they delivered a lively performance and Stenemo a few kicks, switching between synth-wave and synthpop. Their latest single “Bocelli” was the highlight on the night, showing their dramatics while also providing a soulful, heartfelt, and at times acclaimed power.

While Kite tore down their equipment, I thought of something. It’s been five years since I attended Hospital Production’s 20th Anniversary. I remember one moment near the end of the showcase when Bone Awl was playing their set - where all of a sudden Dominick Fernow (Prurient and Hospital- label-head) runs to the apron, stage-dives over the pit, and into the audience for a crowd-surf. It was a moment that never escaped me since then. Here I am back again at Warsaw for Cold Waves five years later and I’m at the rail for both nights. During one intermission, something dawned on me - I look at the rail, then the edge of the stage, and then the rail once again. I thought to myself: how in the fuck did Dominick have enough clearance to fly in the air, avoid banging into the rail, and land safely on top of the crowd? Good thing he successfully pulled off that spectacular feat.

Asterisk: New York City was supposed to receive Stabbing Westward as the closer to Cold Waves but had to bow out. That’s where Cold Cave gladly stepped in and ultimately sealed the deal for Cold Waves’ entire New York City stop. “Remember when we last played here?” lead singer Wes Eisold asked the audience. Yes I do, Wes. Yes I do. Seeing Cold Cave again for the second time in the same venue was another special bonus to me, and always a welcome one at that. I walk through previously-ventured territory and this time it was just as exciting as the last. All hits and zero misses from Eisold, his lady Amy Lee, and company. “Glory”, “People Are Poison”, “A Little Death To Laugh”, “Confetti”, “Rainbow Girls”, “Godstar”, “Theme From Tomorrowland”. You named it, they played it. For 50 minutes they kept a steady upbeat energy of synthwave and classic goth pedigree; not to mentions tons of smoke and fog fired towards our way to where I’m seriously considering getting myself screened. The only difference between their 2018 appearance and this one at Cold Waves? No sign of Max G. Morton, and Eisold’s heroine Genesis P. Orridge who joined him on guest vocals had sadly passed away since then.

But there was one shining onyx that fit the head jewel of the crown: when Eisold and Amy Lee brought their daughter out on stage. How fucking amazing was that? The audience collectively melted. Imagine being in your single-digits and having an amazing story to tell your friends back in school about how your rock-star dad brought you up on stage to sing for the crowd. Through their entire set, Cold Cave never let up and missed any of their targets as Eisold, Amy, and the rest played through their last encore and that’s all they wrote.

Before I knew it, it’s 12:20AM. Cold Waves in New York City was now history.

**********

I walk out of Warsaw and away from the busy volume of the patrons standing around in front of it. The night skies changed their tune to a purplish overhead. They were nice enough to wait until my moment was over to return. I’m now processing how to put the last 48 hours into words and also my place in the universe after being where I wanted to be. I head west on Driggs Street through McCarren Park weaving through the pedestrians walking towards me and observe a few small groups of people congregating and chilling on park grounds with their portable speakers. It’s only a few more blocks before I enter the ‘L’ line that will connect me to the ‘2’ line.

If only I can tell you the city’s delights that I’ve seen during my travels to Penn Station. I’ve seen female torture artists and double-pigtailed mistresses in their black onesies and shiny knee-high boots. There’s an Asian girl my height in a low-cut purple dress and her thigh is all bloodied and bandaged up; situated below her very visible purple underwear. Across from me was this gay guy who was the stunt double for The Ukiah Drag’s Tommy Conte, kissing his boyfriend on the cheek and sad-gazing in his boyfriend’s eyes who boarded off the ‘L’, but not before he blew Tommy a kiss goodbye. Another couple hopped on our crowded car. His blonde girlfriend’s neck and chest were literally covered red with hickeys and didn’t give a soaring aerial fuck about all the eyes and stares aimed at her. The ‘L’ ends and I transfer to the quick ‘2’ which only took five minutes to get me to Penn Station, leaving me with a half-an-hour wait for the Babylon train to arrive. Lather, rinse, and repeat with a left-hand forward ride to the station and another Sunrise Highway night drive back to my quiet-as-night neighborhood. A return to silent normalcy.

**********

Chicago has been widely known as the industrial capital of the U.S. It’s where Jim Nash and Danny Flescher established Wax Trax as a record store and the label that’s given birth to the careers and legacies of Ministry, KMFDM, My Life With The Thrill Kill Kult, Meat Beat Manifesto, and countless other acts. It’s also where Public Image Ltd.’s Martin Atkins created Pigface and Invisible Records and gave life to Chemlab, Damage Manual, Dead Voices On Air, Murder Inc., Ritalin, Sheep On Drugs, and Test Dept. All these artists made my identity, or part of it. Throughout the years I’ve followed all of my favorite artists and have never given up on them. They were there for me during my difficult times at community college and to this day I’ve never tired of their projects. It wasn’t until recently when I revisited the classics that I realized that these artists and labels were in my heart all along. Millions of industrialists join each other in various online groups to share their stories and live memories and say “hi!” to the many legends who lurk around and keep that cameraderie going. I see the company around me in Greenpoint who share similar interests, qualities, and aesthetics and those are the people I want to be associated with.

I thought attending just one Boy Harsher show was a rite of passage. Yes - more in the synthwave world. I’ve also attended shows for Nine Inch Nails, Ministry, and Killing Joke and that’s more than enough for me to hoist my flag for this genre. (Naysayers will wave their filthy unclean fingers at me and say “not so fast” because I wasn’t able to go to a Skinny Puppy show.) I’ve heard many great things about Cold Waves that I’d be a fool to miss out. Mutuals who went told me it’d be amazing and they were double-right. With Front 242’s final American appearances and with Braker and Connelly having to quit the RevCo name, this year was a non-negotiable. What started out as a one-night benefit and an honor of Jason Novak (Acumen Nation, DJ? Acucrack) and David Schock’s fallen friend Jamie Duffy evolved into an (almost) annual round of the best and legendary industrial, synthpop, and synthwave acts. Like my attendance with the previous Cold Cave and Black Marble shows, attending Cold Waves was a thank-you to the scene that gave me an identity but also to a certain number of acts that helped build it.

It’s been one of the best and most exhilarating moments of the year, ranking as high as Sacred Bones’ 15th anniversary. If the line-up for next year is as good or better (how could it?), then I guarantee you I’ll be returning.

[reasoningdaily]

12 African Gods and Goddesses: The Orisha Pantheon | History Cooperative

A vast, diverse continent, religion, and mythology across Africa is rich and vibrant. The African gods and goddesses that make up these belief systems are worshipped in many ways by millions of people around the world.

The Yoruba religion, which is today found throughout Southern Nigeria, forms the basis of many religions practiced by members of the African diaspora. These gods and goddesses are some of the more well-known in Africa yet some of the lesser known by people of the the rest of the world.

A detailed list of all the African gods and goddesses would be endless, but these twelve from the Orisha Pantheon are a good place to start.

Table of Contents

Eshu: the Divine Trickster

Ogun: the Master of Iron

Shango: the Bringer of Thunder

Oshun: the Mother of Rivers

Obatala: the King of Peace

Oya, the Goddess of Weather

Obaluaye, the Master of Healing

Yemonja: the Whisper of the Ocean

Orunmila, the Oracle of Wisdom

Oba, the Flow of the River

How Many African Gods are There?

The Concept of a Supreme African God

Olodumare and his Journey Away from Earth

The Capstone of African Mythology

Important themes 

Eshu: the Divine Trickster

Mischief is something that doesn’t go unnoticed in African mythology in general. Trickster gods are present in many cultures around the world. It is something that adds that bit of extra tanginess to a stew of divine righteousness. 

When mischief and trickery can be converted into an orb of power controlled by a celestial spirit, it makes way for a relatively powerful narrative that strikes awe within its believers. 

Eshu, otherwise known as Elegba, is the Trickster of the Orisha Pantheon. He is the benevolent version of Loki in African mythology and a wandering trickster spirit generally concerned with probability and elusiveness. 

By Western interpretation of Eshu, though, he is not seen as this malicious spirit doomed to destroy humanity through psychological trickery. Instead, he has solidified his position as a messenger between the realm of spirits and humankind, not unlike the Greek god Hermes. 

He is not depicted as the devil himself. Still, He is believed to be more than capable of bringing adversity to those that do not take note of his presence. On the other hand, he requires sacrifices of resources such as tobacco to ensure constant appeasement and protection of human spirits

Ogun: the Master of Iron

No settlement can be complete without an armory. An armory provides the means to defend oneself from the dangers of the outside world. This defense was a top priority in a hostile place like West Africa.

And what better tool to carry it out than the trusty old iron?

Being abundant in the region, iron was a vital resource. Hence, the material having a specific personality induced a sense of wonder and natural instinct among those who believed in its smithing magic. 

Ogun is the Giver of Iron in the Orisha Pantheon. Alongside mastering the delivery of this world-building resource, Ogun is also dubbed the Warrior God of War. Wielding weapons of fine craftsmanship, Ogun oversees metalwork and conflicts that arise within the Yoruba people.

However, he refuses to interfere in what individuals choose to do with the weapons he blesses the productions of. The destiny of the weapon is left in the hands of the human who possesses it. This is an ode to Ogun’s double-edged sword, representing two sides of justice.

Being garbed in red, Ogun represents aggression in one narrative. Hence, his being is deeply rooted in the Yoruba people’s psychology. As a result, he stands as one of the crucial Orishas in the pantheon.

Shango: the Bringer of Thunder

Modern people often underestimate the might of a crackling burst of thunder. During ancient times, a slap of thunder signaled the onset of danger, or the gods’ wrath hurtling down from the heavens. 

In the Orisha pantheon, the supreme god meant existence through Olodumare, and the Yoruba storm god Shango was its bane. Filtering the very essence of wrath and fury, he was the bringer of thunder and brimming masculinity.

Sharing a commonplace with other famous gods such as the Greek Zeus and the Norse Thor, his prowess remained dominant with a chaotic sky. Shango directs the destination of thunder and lightning depending on what goes on in the world down below. 

His authoritative use of raw power symbolizes typical masculinity, linking him to a more personal viewpoint for followers of the Orisha pantheon. 

This power is often connected to dances conveying threatening gestures in rituals dedicated to this thunderous deity.

Shango has three wives, Oshun, Oya, and Oba. They are all mentioned within this list. 

Oshun: the Mother of Rivers

The natural world generally flourishes with life. This wouldn’t have been possible without bodies of water snaking through lush, dense forests, bringing much-needed vitality to all who benefit from it. Nearly every culture associates rivers with something benevolent. After all, they are essential natural resources giving way to life thriving within its banks. 

Being the Goddess of Rivers, Oshun is often attributed to being the lifeblood of the Niger River. In fact, her name comes from ‘Orisun,’ which was referred to as being the source of the Niger River. Oshun is also Shango’s favorite wife. 

Oshun’s aquatic finesse over the rivers of West Africa immortalized her spot as one of the most critical Orishas. Her blessings ensure that the water remains clean and fishes remain plenty, giving the people a peek into her somewhat empathetic side. 

This empathy also means that she is associated with fertility and childbirth. She is strikingly similar to Dionysus, the Greek goddess of wine and fertility. Being involved in marine affairs also implies that she is engaged in rejuvenating the human mind, further solidifying her position. In the Americas, Oshun is regarded as the ‘Orisha of Love.’ 

However, one thing is for sure. Whichever way she is depicted, she is always shown to be a motherly being with nothing but divine power at her fingertips.

Obatala: the King of Peace

While many Orishas are imaged through physical manifestations such as lightning or rivers, some are connected to deep human affairs. Peace, honesty, and creativity are just some of them.

Garbed in white, the King of Peace Obatala is a merciful Orisha dispatching purity. He is often noted as being the master behind shaping every child when they are within the womb. 

His symbols include a white dove and, in more modern times, wreaths of olives due to them becoming a universal sign of peace. Obatala practices a more specific approach to humankind, taking deep care of their psychology while enforcing justice within their affairs.

Oya, the Goddess of Weather

Good weather brings peace to mind momentarily. A great, lasting one makes way for a civilization to flourish. Crops may live or die due to changes in the skies above, and stomachs may be quenched for hunger or thirst. Weather is a fundamental aspect of any significant settlement.

Oya is the Orisha of the weather. Defined as an embodiment of wind, she is Shango’s wife and hence the direct caterer of his will. Besides shifting the clouds, Oya is also connected to tending to the dead. The ‘dead’ doesn’t just include a human being; it consists of the natural world in the sense that dead trees would have to fall to make way for newer ones. Her Slavic god counterpart in Slavic mythology would be Stribog. 

So, in reality, Oya really is the goddess of change. Like the weather’s unpredictability, she also commandeers the essence of constantly changing the natural world so it may continue flourishing. Due to this, she also holds domain over psychological qualities such as intuition and clairvoyance. 

Obaluaye, the Master of Healing

The concept of regenerative vitality is crucial to every society. No human being is immune to all diseases; however, when there is a chance to heal, it is always welcomed. This duality of vulnerability to conditions and protection against them makes up the next Orisha.

Obaluaye, also known as Babalú Aye, is the Orisha of healing and miracles within the pantheon. Both revered and feared, Obaluaye is well respected by the followers, and he is said to curse you as quickly as he can heal you. Being connected to places such as hospitals where the borders of life and death are frequently grazed.

Obaluaye is also connected to rituals that promote the cure for illnesses. His healing powers range from epidemics to skin diseases and inflammations. This healing power is said to be catered more toward people closer to death.

Yemonja: the Whisper of the Ocean

The ocean is vast and seldom cruel, and it is impossible to predict what lies beneath deep waves and endless stretches of water. Such is the need for a motherly figure to watch over all the uncertainty of this blue domain.

Yemonja is the Orisha of the ocean. Not only does she hold control over it, but she also radiates the power of compassion and love. Her watch over the seas sustains life as it is and seals her importance as a motherly figure in the pantheon and the entirety of African mythology. 

Speaking of which, Yemonja is the metaphysical mother of all the other gods in the Orisha pantheon. Hence, she is much revered and respected.

Orunmila, the Oracle of Wisdom

The concept of destiny is gazed upon in awe by all those who truly place their faith in it. Destiny is an important notion to believe in because it continually shapes the lifestyle of the individual who lives in its belief.

Orunmila, the Orisha of knowledge, omniscience, and wisdom, is the embodiment of destiny. His purpose might not be material, but it is a psychological one reflected in many African myths. 

Human spirits exist within the mind, and hence, tending to its development is what Orunmila really does. He holds power over knowledge, including information, intuition, and instinct. General African myths deal with confusion by introducing a force that counters it. Orunmila is a prime example of it.

His role also extends to the natural world as he knows everything that takes place within it. 

Oba, the Flow of the River

Orishas, too, have emotions that flow gracefully like the river. Oba, the Orisha of water and manifestation, is no exception to a story that is best linked to jealousy. 

Being the third and the most senior wife of Shango, Oba was one of his consorts. In the pantheon, Oshun was Shango’s favorite wife, which greatly affected Oba. When Oba asked Oshun about what she did to become Shango’s favorite, Oshun simply lied to her (knowing Oba’s children would inherit the kingdom). She said she once cut off her ear, turned it into powder, and sprinkled it into Shango’s food.

Driven by the will to become Shango’s favorite, Oba followed Oshun and sliced off her ear into his food. Naturally, Shango noticed a floating ear in his food and exiled Oba from his abode. 

Oba fell to Earth down below and morphed into the Oba river. Interestingly, the Oba river intersects the Osun river at an explosive speed, symbolizing a long-standing rivalry between two of Shango’s wives.

Oba is linked to rivers, marriage, fertility, and restoration. 

How Many African Gods are There?

The pantheon of Orishas (traditionally followed by the Yoruba people) is a sequence of divine spirits dispatched by the supreme god Olodumare.

Though a specific number can’t be placed on the amount of Orishas, there is an exciting notion around it. It is said that there are 400+1 Orishas, where the ‘ stands as an incomprehensible number that implies infinity. 

There isn’t an exact number, but sometimes it goes up to 700, 900, or even 1440 Orishas. As for the “400+1” concept, the 1 is an incredibly sacred number that tells you that there are countless Orishas, but you will always be one count short if you try to comprehend it.

So you may think about the total as often as you like, but there will always be one more Orisha to consider.

And yes, this does go on forever. 

The Concept of a Supreme African God

In African Mythology, the Yoruba people very well received the notion of an omnipotent sky god looking over all things that live on Earth. In fact, it takes the form of Olodumare, a celestial being that transcends the boundaries of space, time, gender, and dimensions. 

Olodumare is also known as Olorun, which means “the Almighty.” Although his omnipotence strikes a profound sense of existential authority, the Yoruba people do not have any dedicated shrines or places of worship for him. Part of this is due to the belief that Olodumare is so deific; his mere distance from the human world makes him incredibly detached from their daily affairs.

Olodumare and his Journey Away from Earth

The Lord of the Heavens was not always this distant from the planet riddled with human beings. 

It is believed that at one point in time, Olodumare was close to Earth. However, the constant need by human beings for basic things from the sky, such as food, seemed to frustrate him, so he began his journey away from the planet. Since his abode was the skies, he separated them and himself from the Earth and hence controlled the world from a cosmic distance.

It is here where he found the need to create the Orishas. As the emissaries of his power and will, the Orishas were each assigned unique functions, ensuring total order within the planet of Earth. 

The Capstone of African Mythology

Most African traditional religions are extraordinarily diverse and range over countless cultures and practices. The Yoruba religion and its beliefs influence human life in both the African continent and other regions. 

The Yoruba religion can be marked as a capstone of African beliefs due to its wide acceptance. Of all the African religions, this remains one of the few on the rise. In present-day Nigeria, Yoruba mythology has evolved into a faith where its followers address the gods and goddesses in respect to the complex oral traditions passed down from generation to generation.

The Yoruba people refer to this religion as Ìṣẹ̀ṣẹ. The word itself can be broken down into two parts;”’Ìṣẹ̀” means’ origin’ and ìṣe refers to “practice.” Coming together, Ìṣẹ̀ṣẹ literally means “practicing our origin.” As you can see, this is a beautiful way to honor their roots, as most of their traditions and beliefs spring from their deep-rooted faith in the Orisha Pantheon. 

Important themes

A relatively common theme integrated into the Yoruba religion is Animism. Animism refers to the belief that everything (and yes, LITERALLY everything) possesses a spiritual quintessence. Due to this, every object (material or immaterial) is believed to have some sort of sentience. 

As a result, they are all controlled within the domains of the Orishas. Like the gods and goddesses of Ancient Egypt and Rome, there is always a supreme being keeping watch over all. 

Another belief revolves around reincarnation. The belief in reincarnation is linked to ideas from their ancestors. The notion of reincarnation is that deceased family members make their journey back to life as a new baby in the same family they once departed from. 

As a direct result, Yoruba people can sometimes be identified as their departed imprints through visions and likenesses in appearances. To honor this, they are often given names such as “Babatunde,” which means “father returns” or “Yetunde” (mother returns). 

These reincarnated figures are usually there to assist their progeny with everyday life and general faith. Hence, dead ancestors remain as relevant as they can ever be even after death.  

Additional Resources

The Orishas, https://legacy.cs.indiana.edu/~port/teach/205/santeria2.html.  

Dialogue Institute. “Yoruba.” Dialogue Institute, Dialogue Institute, 16 Sept. 2020, https://dialogueinstitute.org/afrocaribbean-and-african-religion-information/2020/9/16/yoruba .

“Home.” Staff – Works –, https://africa.si.edu/collections/objects/4343/staff;jsessionid=D42CDB944133045361825BF627EC3B4C.  

[dailyanarchistposts]

Caste is, as Ambedkar said, “not just a division of labour but, a division of labourers.” Wherever this institution went, it tried to freeze the society into a fossilized rulership and a fossilized disposable and disciplined labouring class. And just as division of labour alienates the workers from her work, product of her labour and life itself; the division of labourers alienated the whole of society and deeply fractured the spirit of human morality and solidarity. The caste structure gave birth to the caste society which has outlived the mode of domination it was invented to serve.

The straitjacket of caste did not emerge in isolation. It is one part of the centuries old project of societal control – Brahmanism. This entry is an attempt to find an anarchist orientation towards Bhrahmanism and its annihilation by looking at some episodes in its history and mutations.

Brahmanism, primarily, is and always has been a socio-political ideology and not a religious movement. The ideology consists in the believe that Brahmans have established links with the higher realms, they are the natural advisors to the rulers on social and political matters and, that they hold the highest place in the social hierarchy. The hierarchy consists in a four tier system of Varna and those who are out of this hierarchy forming the Avarna strata, based on Brahmans principles of standardized purity. Within this image of the Brahmanical society the caste becomes the essential of realizing the dominance of Brahmans as the priestly caste. To insure the success and reproduction of this institution every aspect of human life from the cradle to the grave are governed by strict laws codified in various books and laws of local kingdoms.

This vision of society was largely realized in significant parts of the sub-continent with varying degrees of success, modifications and compromises with other power system. This was not an easy task and beginning with the invasion of Alexander of Macedon, the Brahmans were prosecuted in the north-western region of what is now called India, the only region where they had influence. This continued with Ashoka’s and later his son, Kunala’s murdering of the “treacherous” Brahmans who were fueling anti-Maurya sentiments in local courts. The situation was so bad for the priestly caste that they were sure that the end of the world has finally arrived – the end of Kali Yuga. But Brahmanism not only survived but thrived and the impacts of its unfortunate success to this day are leaving bloody marks on human body and spirit.

Brahmanism conquered not by the blade of the sword but with the succor of the myth. Brahmans spread stories of their demigod like powers, the benefits of befriending and dangers of crossing them. Most importantly they provided to the rulers a divine lineage and right to rule till the end of time and the practical knowledge of statecraft. The Brahmans without ever becoming a threat to political power gave rulers a lineage they can link back to the Puranas and the Vedic era. They were not only able but necessary for the prosperity of the land, making the ruler the permanent and necessary fixture in the mind of the masses.

The benefits flow both ways. Kshatriya and the other ruling castes were essential for realizing the Brahmanical society. It was the duty of the warrior class to institute Danda for its maintenance. In essence, Brahmanism is statism. The kingly class is so essential to the ideology that the end of Yugas are marked by the Kshatriyas becoming incompetent in maintaining the Varna vyavastha and that the evidence that the end of time had not yet arrived was the fact that most king’s lineage maintained their thrones.

This perfect union of the priestly caste and the ruling class is no accident. Humans, when incapable of making sense of the untimely flood, failed crops or plague conjure up unseen forces that help us make sense of the unpredictability and meaninglessness around. Through the combined effect of general ignorance and the need for self-preservation the first seed of authority and power is sown in the heart. God becomes the Supreme Ruler. Once formalized enough, we try to tame the forces through rituals and sacrifices. In initial stages this practice is individualistic. The relation of these forces or gods is direct and intimate, but soon these practices become socialized and a specialized class of sacrifice experts emerges. The link of individual to the god is broken and a flesh and blood human becomes a new center of social power. The same phenomenon repeats itself in sphere of social organization and to tame the social forces in our favor we learn to surrender to the Ruler, sent on earth by the Supreme Ruler. To the extent we submit to a power for self preservation, from corporate bureaucracies to nation states and families, all forms of rulershipare religion.

It was during this period of renewal of Brahmanism, returning from the brink of extinction that the pantheon that is now recognized as Hindu deities was gradually created. First by casting the individualistic, semi-socialized religious cults of Krishna, Shiva etc into the mold of Brahmanism and later by making the newer gods the incarnation of the former. In this process of absorptionreplicating the hierarchy of the Brahmanical society into the realm of gods. Through economic and political coercion the religious power now served the interest of the Brahmans and states.

I skip the changes this Brahmanical temporal authority ordained by the divine authority underwent over the next few centuries and under the Mughal rule and turn to its first interaction with capitalism, the Company Raj, colonization and modern nation states that shook the roots of the old project. In the preceding decades the merchant caste, with its control over rural finance and land displaced the Brahmans from the top of social hierarchy. In Bengal province by the end of the nawab rule fifteen families controlled 60% of the land and in Punjab the British administration had to introduce a law to regulate the acquisition of land by the money lenders on failure of payment of debts. And with the changing nature of sovereignty from the village level to the new national imagination Brahmanism had to mutate once more to survive.

The core of this mutation was the deep-seated hatred of the individual – her free development and initiative. Faced with European capitalism, in its vulgarized disguise of individual freedom the reformers, who had taken up the task of reviving the Indian culture by going back to the Vedic sources, were united in there contempt for the individual. They found in the Varna system the solution to the modern problems of nations. Caste does not necessarily have to be based on heredity but the proper division of labour and social activity based on natural hierarchies which was necessitated by the needs of social organization. Caste with natural leadership of Brahmans, was no longer justified by the metaphysics of religion became the outcome of the theology of social sciences, its theory of race, competition, gender superiority and survival of the fittest. Its aim was to serve the New God of “national interest”.

In search of this nation Brahmanism morphed into Hindutva. This new outward expression of the lust for power also explicitly presented itself as a political project and not a religious movement. Within the Hindi, Hindu, Hindustan that is to bring glory to the nation state, the Hindu is a casteist structure. This was novel. The Hindu identity for a political project was necessitated by two factors. First, the apparent feebleness of the social unity – togetherness and second, the essential principle of nationhood – unity through separation.

Savarkar understood this principle well – “nothing can weld peoples into a nation and nations into a state as the pressure of a common foe. Hatred separates as well as unites.” A nation is that artificial and arbitrary unit of territory and subjects that a political power has acquired for controlling and fleecing. It destroys the natural love and association with the place of birth and our immediate communities through its industrialization and directs that human feeling towards the worship of this abstraction, its symbols and submission to its policies. This form of rulership finds its fullest expression in Totalitarianism of Nazism, Bolshevism or Brahmanism.

The national identity of Hindu provided the aspect of togetherness through idea of blood, culture and language, modification of Shudhi, etc. and its separation through the idea of the Muslim. Whether the state takes refuge in the ideology and shape of Hindutva or secular nationalism – two face of the same coin, its true nature remains the same, that of attuning all human expressions to the beat of this soulless political machine in the name of “national interest”. This technical term does not include the interests of the population – free and quality education and health care, well paid jobs or free or cheap housing for all, it means the interest of the market, the interest of the war machine that is the life blood of the state – its defense from other competing states, its source of expansion outside and control within.

After the transfer of power in 1947, India has remained a fractured community with its apartheid of caste and material conditions furnished by generations of deprivation and violence. In the rural regions it maintain the old structure of control and coercion while in urban setting it modified mildly and justified the stratification by logic of hygiene and merit – that is justifying privilege with privilege itself. The new Indian state did not start a project of actively constructing a casteist state but through its passivity towards caste issues it perpetuated the caste society within the shell of a capitalist state system, each feeding off the other. The maintenance of hierarchical corporate structure that is the Hindu family and segregation through the institution of marriage. The upper castes continued their take over of bureaucracy and managerial positions in state and cultural institution, practically, without any reservation mechanism and that continue to define the Indian society till date.

If we anarchists say that sanctity of the temple of the parliament and its new priesthood just like the temple of the old gods and the Brahmans is a lie and deception then, what do we have to say about reservation and other methods of achieving equality within the current state of things? To this we say that even the ritual of horse sacrifice must have yielded results for the masses, not from the blood drawn but from their organizing for themselves, taking things into their own hand and shaking things up. This assertive self-organization of the masses in each epoch of history has realized to the extent possible the moral and social progress. And within the modern nation states this progress, which is the collective wealth of our humanity has received a degree of formalization.

The erosion of this progress and regression will always be a possibility as long as there is a power whose control it weakens. And when this social progress is at its highest the instruments of domination have also become sharper, deadly and now threaten us with the possibility of ending the only known experiment of life in the universe. Anarchist believe that through continuing this assertive self-organizing for securing more and more moral progress we not only improve our immediate condition but also prepare ourself for the final destruction of social, political and economic rulership. A liberal welfare state can be an holding ground that reduces the impact of the blows from the state and the caste society and gives us opportunity for further progress. But the ultimate safeguard from Brahmanism or any other form of absolute domination over human body and spirit is Anarchism.

In an hierarchical society, certain individuals at particular historical junctures can play a catalytic role in either accelerating the progress or dragging it back for decades. If the former, then too, it is the social organization of individuals based on values of equality, mutual aid and decentralization of power that maintain it. There is further limit of the strategy of “having the right faces in the high places”. Once in position of power, the prerogative of the institutions dictate their actions. Having women, dalit-bahujan or queer people In position of power, like other holding strategies can make some limited gains but in the end the only interests these individuals represent are their own. No person can “represent” another person, a whole community lesser still. It maintains the relations of dependence and submission and further dulls the instincts for self-initiative and fosters moral passivity – a perfect condition for Brahmanism or any form of authority to exploit.

Even if the major decision of life and society are now made by the captains of industry and states-persons, and even if these decisions are not primarily driven by Brahmanical interests (and how different are these differences after all?) Caste is still alive. Some aspects of caste have been weakened and at the same time others strengthened. The general economic inequality, access to housing, well paid jobs – which means class – is graded on caste lines. As one historian noted, “it is striking how many of the country’s billionaires today are, though not direct descendants of eighteenth- and early nineteenth-century magnates, certainly originate from the same communities which began to accumulate wealth and influence at the end of the Mughal period and during the rise of the English East India Company.” The social stigma, practices of untouchablity and the Brahmanical institution of marriage flourish. Two great forces are gravitating towards forging a new Brahmanical-Hindutva order and a hazy road for taking in the opposite direction also gradually becoming visible. Both possibilities, like always depend on one thing – Organizing.

The force of social reaction to the neo-liberal bloodbath which turned a preventable health crisis into an global pandemic and in India made 12 crore people unemployed in a single month is the decisive factor in the fate of Brahmanism. 10 crore young Indians have given up all hope of finding a job and had stopped searching for work long before the current economic breakdown. Half of the youth of this country are unemployed. And those who have work are working 12 hours shifts to survive hand to mouth. In this constantly changing external world the individual loses her equilibrium. These uprooted millions turn into a mob seeking a source of stability and finding themselves incapable of self emancipation look for external power that would uplift them and give life a new meaning. Along with religiosity, in some cases the caste relations are strengthened as they are seen as a source of nourishment.

This combined with RSS’s mobilization and organization is the path towards strengthening Leader worship and Hindutva. The breaking up of the process of class reproduction and the erosion of the middle class, and with it the hopes and aspirations of millions in front of their eyes is accelerating. By some estimate at least half of the children born in middle class do not remain in it when they reach adulthood. The concentrating boss class is eager to exploit the people on caste lines. This is where one possibility of going in the other direction lies – poor peoples’ revolutionary unionism. The traditional unions that replicate the caste structure due to its hierarchical nature will only represent the interests of the minority leader class and not the workers themselves.

Its only through Anarcho-Syndicalism that we can achieve the threefold task of achieving progress in living and work standards, wages, expansion of reservation to compensate for the generational subjugation of dalit-bahujans in private and public sector, expanding the public sector that enables creation of new and greener jobs, progressive taxation and day-to-day struggles at workplaces; confronting the caste issue face to face as members of working class as well as part of oppressed communities through minority committees, along with local union branches to address caste at workplace and within the unions and; shedding away the elaborate etiquette of submission of this casteist society through rediscovering our instincts for self-initiative and direct action rather being dependent on this or that leader, the despot of tomorrow. This rediscovery and the development of this instinct and culture in the organized form within these alternative institutions form the essential ingredient of the society that shall replace the current disorder.

John R. McLane noted that, “since an individual’s obligations and privileges were specific to his or her family, jati, and age, universal standards of political-moral behavior rarely galvanized people into cooperative political effort.” Any intellectual current or form of practice that exclusively promote inward inquiry at cost of building broad solidarity of all oppressed while understanding the various inner relations in practice, unintentionally replicates the essential of the nation and Brahmanical order and play into hand of our enemies like in 2019 general election where Jadav-Yadav dynamic was a major determining factor in BJP’s victory. We do not wish to repeat these past mistakes, neither of the Marxist left that minimizes the importance of non-economic cultural and social factors at work and in society and address them within their organization and programs nor, of the narrow identity politics that in the long-run poses no threat to the status quo that it apparently wishes to destroy and has no space for broad solidarity based on shared needs and values in genuinely democratic and workers controlled organizations.

Revolutionary unionism is only one part of the struggle. Anarchists and other individuals must engage in cultural struggles towards elimination of the caste society. I cannot pretend to have a solution to this problem, I can only note that we know that the forces of alienation aggravates it and that we have a legacy of experiments by the people from dalit-bahujan castes to build upon and with anarchist emphasis on the abolition of marriage, dismantling the corporation of family and building a society based on free love and societal responsibility of child rearing, we have the impetus to motivate action in direction of liberation.

Caste being a particular configuration of hierarchy and the method of its reproduction, it finds affinity with all forms of dominations and latch on to the one it finds. While through the autonomous and varied cultural struggles and fighting back the class war as working class dealing with caste antagonism we make conditions better for both our class and dalit-bahujans, Anarchism is Brahmanisms only permanent solution. As long as there is a state or a economy based on private property, RSS has the possibility of achieving its desired position of the Raj Guru to the State. Following in the footsteps of the Saudra-attishudra Dakaits and their direct actions against capital and domination we organize not to end any particular form of authority but Rulership itself.

For a Casteless Society! – For Annihilation of Brahmanism! – For a Free Humanity!

For Anarchy!