#Marius is so unserious

[nightcolorz]

Marius implementing an unspoken rule for the palazzo boys where they should be showing off their ankles at all times (bcus of his ankle fetish) to the point where the boys almost only wears boots when marius can not see is genuinely so unhinged wtf 😭 to me this should be on the list of tvc’s absurd random details that r never brought up again alongside Louis eating grass, lestats tiny feet, etc, cuz like what

[usergrantaire]

les misérables + spotify playlists [template]

[ormymarius]

Orm is always on the verge of death I swear

[fayevalcntine]

I feel like Queen of the Damned (2002) exists in this weird realm where stylistically, the movie does fit into this weird niche of being a decent adaptation of the main plot of the book. It does try to update the music genre background by making it underground Gothic, and Akasha's casting/costuming/overall arc is more or less preserved. But then you also have Stuart Townsend not even attempting to do a French accent (afaik he keeps his own accent throughout the film which I found so funny). Lestat's backstory is completely changed, I presume for the sake of simply not having to bother with explaining like 400 pages' worth of The Vampire Lestat before getting to the main plot from QotD? Also, I can't not find it a bit insulting that the movie completely erased Louis and Nicolas for the sake of having Jessie be his final love interest. If I were to remove the movie from the books' backstory, I could see that subplot barely work (even though it's still not really grounded in any proper development beyond fascination on Lestat's part). But as an adaptation, it just feels like a complete misfire.

[mariusrenathyrs-crashout]

#going back to my 'marius' vampirism is a metaphor for the lasting trauma of sexual abuse' idea#marius is my roman empire

So I did a funny joke post about Marius and this was one of the tags left on it and I'm so sorry prev but you've activated my trap card because I've thought so much about this topic, but have felt too afraid to talk about it unprompted lol. But I am going to spew my guts about how I feel about this symbolism so cw for talks about SA and victim blaming. Cause I have for sure thought about this a lot and gotten sort of heated about jokes about Marius just being a dumb horny knight when he's a whole ass victim of significant trauma.

(tag credit goes to @royhasissues, hope it's ok to post your tags)

So, I loove Marius and one of the main reasons for that is his relationship to trauma and what that both symbolizes for his character as well as how it determines his actions and emotional stability as of episode 32.

Marius Renathyr was someone who thrived off of structure, order and discipline. He was clearly a highly religious man and had followed his religious and orderly tenants to the letter for most of his life. A young Marius was focused on things like war, helping to defend his people and more specifically, protecting his king and best friend from forces that wished for their ruin. As such, I cannot imagine a young Marius really had any type of experience with relationships aside from platonic and brotherly relationships he had built with fellow knights or Victor. So already we have a young inexperienced knight going off on a quest where not only is he leaving the shelter of his kingdom for the first time, he's also on a time limit in which his success or failure could determine the future of an entire kingdom of people.

Then, vulnerable and half starved, he stumbles upon the Duchess who not only takes advantage of his physically weakened state; but also takes advantage of his emotional and mentally weakened state. Lilith as a temptress of course could tempt a young knight, and then to curse him with vampirism after tricking him into sleeping with her is back to back traumatic events - the vamprism something that could be interpreted as a punishment for failing his tenant of chastity. Something that I found interesting too is not only is his kingdom's symbol a rose, but it also is the same symbol as The Duchess - it brings to mind the idea of "deflowering" as a symbol of lost innocence.

From there, he has fought against his vampiric instincts which he viewed as a curse and a punishment for his weakness when in reality, it was not weakness at all. And the way some people react in a sort of joking or unserious way to his attitude towards sleeping with someone, his concerns of being trapped in a power scale imbalance with a strong and powerful woman also shows how his character reflects victim blaming both from others but also internalized victim blaming. It is why I think the scene of his friends trying to convince him to sleep with the Inquisitor only for Yorgrim to shut it down and back Marius up is such a powerful scene because it showed how some of his friends did not understand the level of trauma he had experienced despite how he bares literal physical reminders of the trauma he had experienced decades prior and how it still weighs so heavily on him.

Not to mention how Marius' bloodlust and how his aversion to getting too close to people - particularly Lethica who he shows clear romantic feelings for - is also symbolic of his trauma reactions. He is unable to allow himself that sort of closeness or intimacy with another person, even if there is no sexual motivation or undertones about their interactions, it's still a fear response of wishing to avoid any possibility of being harmed once again or lashing out due to that trauma.

And mind you, this is all worsening for him around the same time he comes to realize he's lost his connection to his God, his king and best friend he went on this quest for is dead, 2 of his closest friends are also dead, and many other awful horrors have befallen him and his group, it makes sense why his emotional and mental stability have started crumbling so drastically. And then, when he is at his lowest, who swoops in to whisper false promises and telling him he can be strong once more, protected once more, that this all can be worth it if he just listens to her? The one being who gave him this trauma in the first place. She swoops in and talks to him tenderly, who caresses him and tells him it'll be ok, that he can be what he was once more, that she will help him if only he listens to her and stays with her and loves her and nobody else. Nobody else. There's a lack of clarity, a lack of stability, of rational thought. Marius entrusts himself to her now because it's hard escaping from your abuser when they act like they're your protector instead.

[breadvidence]

Lull

@megab was kind enough to bid on my little talent for the Bishop Myriel Fundraiser and requested I provide some Enjolras/Feuilly, with a preference for modern AU, romance, and low sadness content. Set post some kind of barricade, rated G. Thank you again, @megab, this was an excellent challenge for me—I hope you're pleased! (Find it also on AO3.)

⁂⁂⁂

Enjolras offers Feuilly the vape across the center console of the van, caught, as he’s been caught for years, by the contrast between Feuilly’s heavy, hairy knuckles and rough skin and the delicacy with which he moves. When their hands brush, it’s little more than a stirring, a breath, yet very warm. Nicotine always grants him a moment of pure focus, and that is a very fine thing to spend attention on. They’ve talked the last two hours in spirals on school history curricula, age appropriateness and accuracy, facts versus principles versus play, a conversation that would’ve been a debate full of presumptions and ignorance about each other three years ago and is now a collaborative fantastical, familiar lines padded each time by new knowledge, moving ever closer to an actionable theory. He recalls, with a shock of humor, having years ago been cautious of Feuilly’s frank militancy around the topic of children’s education, how he braced himself for debate of his own disinterest in family life. It’s unserious, today, with the windows cracked to let the last of the evening into the cab, seeking the light of knowledge while the world slowly dwindles to what’s caught in the headlights. They have disagreed about the year when a person most benefits from learning the rhythms of agriculture and the flowering season of sweet peas, ’til finding common ground that their mutual adult ignorance on the topic is a shame. Somehow, this is an extension from the topic of Mendel’s genius, his lies, their persistent place in the classroom.

Feuilly sweeps his left hand along the wheel: the rasp of calluses on worn vinyl, the soft chuck of the turn signal lever, the van’s frantic blatting. Enjolras says, “Marius’ future father-in-law knows some. You haven’t seen the garden at that house, yet. Maybe an ask that would get him to speak—I ought to text Courfeyrac; it’s a harder pet project than Marius ever was, that old man, and I don’t mind collaborating.”

This earns a neutral hum. The suspension struggles with the gravel road they’ve turned down and when it’s clear Feuilly has no input Enjolras turns up the music so that it can be heard over the jostle and groan.

The road paces a thorn-hedge he remembers tearing his clothes on as a child for another ten minutes’ of slow going before crooking abruptly left, and there’s the cottage, and beyond the cottage: the sea, sound and smell, brief flashes of light when the clouds bannering the moon allow its shine to reach that far. Feuilly presses the breaks, uncertain, ’til Enjolras directs him to park the van in whatever weed-grown dusty part of the yard suits him; the cottage never had a proper place to put a vehicle, and though his father complained every summer about the car getting filthy, he never materialized his various plans of canopies and concrete pads.

Inside, the power comes on when they flip the breakers, which was not a given. A new water-spot in the kitchen ceiling, mouse droppings in the corners of the cramped bathroom, dust on every surface. Normally his parents hire a maid service before the family visits, but that’s for August, and here he is in July. Gillenormand’s lawyers suggestion to step out of the city, Courfeyrac’s wry concurrence that ducking out of sight from the social media circuit would be beneficial, the impact of fines on his finances: he’s fallen back into the family nest with all the dignity of a cat slipped off the edge of a counter, on his paws and stiffly strolling to his next destination. The proximity to the coast and an org he’s been in contact with about immigrants crossing the Mediterranean promises opportunities to make this sabbatical from Paris a step—if not on the same path he’d been on before—forward. Always forward. He’s not dead yet.

By the light on Feuilly’s phone, they cut on the water out front, go in and run the faucets ’til they’re done sputtering out air.

Feuilly bends closer, expressive face scrunched in consideration. “Does it ever run clear?”

“No. Father invests in a new filtration system every few years, it clogs, and he has to go back to the old faithful, which—” He cuts off the faucet. “—only does so well. There’s gallon jugs of drinking water in the van.”

Feuilly plays his fingers over the wood of a kitchen counter that’s been in use for three centuries, warped and lined and smoothed to unevenness by thousands of passes by knife and hand in the work of feeding others. “When you said your family had a cottage on the Côte d’Azur, I imagined something luxurious. —I see by your expression you have a lot to say about that. ” When he smiles, age has begun to show a stamp at the corner of his eyes. “Come on, let’s get our bags while you talk.”

Enjolras can discuss the price his family rents this cottage out for during the season when not in residence, owning the earth as a symbol of luxury that makes the building somehow irrelevant, the gap between his wealth and wealth, the social games with the richer families up the coast, all more or less by reflex: he thinks about how Feuilly looked at him, fond, present, the tiredness hanging upon his face the strain of the drive and nothing more. In the legalities and failures of the past month, if Feuilly’s love remained all-embracing, sometimes he could be seen in moments of contemplation with a pinch at the corner of his lips, skewing his generous mouth to the side, like a parent faced by a child’s poor choices. He has been gazing on the shadows rather than the light.

Courfeyrac had been the one to volunteer the passenger seat of the van to whoever wanted to assist Enjolras in the move. Grantaire jerked upright, but when Feuilly said, quietly, I’m due for vacation, he laid his head back down with a great air of ruefulness—a few days out of rehab and painfully sober, the third round and this one I’m really going to keep with it, I swear, this time it’s it. He surprised them all, himself included, when he showed to help pack Enjolras’ apartment. An hour into the drive, Feuilly had said, You could argue Grantaire needs more than me, to which Enjolras rejoined, Why should I argue anything when he does it so well himself?, in a tone warmer than it would have been before June.

In truth, Grantaire would have made this trip. Any of them would have, injured or no—even Marius, maybe, with his heart pierced through with love. But he is glad for Feuilly.

The linens will have to be washed and hang-dried, so for tonight they fetch the sleeping bags out of his camping supplies. As he leans over to drag them out from where they’ve shifted, he feels himself watched; catches Feuilly in it when he straightens up, expression obscure in the uncertain light off the van overhead. Through a flush, the awareness of an action not quite yet ready to be deployed, he says, “Will you grab that cooler and bag from Marius’ grandfather? We might as well finish off the perishables. It’ll be a while before the fridge gets actually cold.”

They’ve been watching each other for a while, too busy for that to mean anything. One time, Grantaire asked Enjolras if he were asexual, the words near lost under the froth of a long night of stout; he said yes, then, as the easiest and shortest answer to offer someone who would never have a real stake in the matter. It never occurred to him to wonder whether that got back to Feuilly, a thought which seems abruptly relevant.

The thorn hedge chatters with a wind that pulls the clouds away inland. The moon hangs bare.

They flip a coin for the modestly more comfortable bed in the master bedroom, haggle over the results—you’re the guest against it’s your house—’til Enjolras says, “Let’s revisit the point after the wine. —Would you have argued with the coin if it landed on its edge?”

“Would I have? —He packed us Clicquot,” Feuilly replies, slow, thoughtful. Deferring, too. “I don’t know how to tell if it’s a nice bottle. Do you think it’s a sin to drink it at room temperature?”

“No,” Enjolras replies as he opens the windows and shutters, wrestling against the jasmine vine that’s escaped its trellis and taken up onto the wall of the cottage. The perfume of the flowers, the bottle of wine, the idea of pleasure taken when it presents itself—the memory of the dusty road, the anticipation of sweetness—these concepts won’t marshall to his tongue, and he’s distinctly aware of why he maintains such a robust group of friends; love of them aside, he can borrow their talent when he’s needed them, and the sentiment he wants feels suited to Prouvaire’s kind of wordcraft, not his. “All that matters is to appreciate it, I think.” He retrieves a blanket from the chest in the corner. “Which we can’t do in this stale place. It will take a minute to air out. Follow me?”

Never a given. Always a request. It flatters him that Feuilly says yes, has said yes, but they’ve never had the time to dwell on the fact. Lesgle, a few days before the trip—in his two arm-casts, Enjolras’ day to help him around the house, not the worst injuries any of them walked away with but certainly the least convenient—had asked, What are you going to do, out there isolated?, and Enjolras listed the contacts he’d already made, the plans for the coming months. To which Lesgle said, Nothing that whole first two weeks, huh? Feuilly will have his hands full keeping you occupied. Maybe we should figure out how to fit a third person into the van, distribute the work load, eh?

Enjolras declined that idea, with respect for the utility three-ways provide in Lesgle’s life. A week and a half in Feuilly’s company, in quiet, no Wi-Fi, no television other than what they’re willing to burn data on streaming to their phones. This, and more of this: him with the old woven blanket over his shoulder and the Clicquot by the neck in his hand, Feuilly with the cooler of Grandpère Gillenormand’s idea of road snacks, out to the old flat stone that noses out towards the beach, the one with the ancient olive whose roots buckle over the edge, shielding it from the sight-lines of the cottage. Even without eyes to see, that feels important.

The cork comes free dramatic and loses itself noisily into the dark, logical consequence of all the shaking during the trip. Feuilly comments, philosophical, “It’s biodegradable,” then drinks from the bottle without asking first if Enjolras minds swapping spit. Holds it out to him.

All due respect to Grandpère Gillenormand, it pairs well with pear slices gone a little brown, bite-sized quiches that are probably still safe to eat, soft musky cheese with the fats gone runny in the lukewarm. He sucks some from where it has oozed onto his thumb, prickling aware of Feuilly’s gaze. Comfort with silence is a project of Enjolras’, unevenly worked on; he breaks through the surf’s hush, hush, with, “I don’t want to presume to take up more of your vacation time, but if you stay on another week, I bet we could arrange some in-person meetings with contacts you’ve communicated with for a long while—there’s a woman in Morocco, the one who mostly goes by— What?”

He smiles, shaking his head. There’s an uneasy edge to it. “They’re not skittish of you, with all…” He gestures to encompass this exile.

“She was never interested in the mainstream politics of it all. Maybe I shouldn’t have been. That game—sometimes it felt like the wickedest way forward. Like an execution, though I don’t know of what.”

He hitches up a shoulder, picks up a crushed cookie from the bottom of the bag, individually packaged, unlabeled, so many crumbs. Drops it. “It seemed like a viable path for so long. —And now we have treats from Grandpère Gillenormand, but none from—” And here he names some powerful people who could not be called personal friends, invested in the cause to variable degrees, who have declined to attach their names to a young men’s scandal. “—who haven’t even invested a bag of chips.” He looks up, smiles crooked “I’ve complained about it already, I know, but nobody’s given me an adequate answer.”

“Combeferre tried.”

“Combeferre was witty. I love him for that.” He dwells, a moment, in one of those silences that invites no comment. “You’re not bitter.”

“I acted knowing what doors would be closed. I’m alive and free. In any case, Lesgle tells me it’s his kind of luck come to me; that politicking is no better than lawyering, in the end.”

It’s money’s privilege that he’s on the coast rather than in a prison, a more impressive shuffling under the carpet than Enjolras has seen among his parents’ friends but not by much. Feuilly is too much a practical to reject an escape, and too sharp an intellect not to question it. With his eyes fixed first towards the sound of the surf, then with one squinted down into the neck of the bottle, he says, “There’s something undignified in being shuffled aside. Like we’ll be forgotten. If I didn’t believe in the future you’ve described, I wouldn’t be here—I mean that two ways; I wouldn’t be having to rebuild all my networks after our failure, but I also wouldn’t…” He hesitates. “I wouldn’t still be out here, sitting on an old blanket, wondering whether we’ll stumble on our way back to the house. It’s a very hard thing to love, sometimes.” He raps his knuckles against the blanket, the stone beneath.

“I trust your judgment,” he says, solemn, and reaches out to tuck Feuilly’s big hand safely into his, before he can rough those knuckles again. “Though I think we emptied that bottle quicker than we should have. We’ll have to linger out here a while, make sure we have time to get steady.”

“One bottle between the two of us won’t have—” Then he stops, considering, as Enjolras—a little clumsy, but with intent—laces their fingers. “Ah.”

“Lesgle was very worried I wouldn’t have enough to keep me distracted.”

“Was he?”

He makes a low noise of agreement. “But I thought it might be a good time to explore some questions I haven’t taken the time for in the past.”

“Please,” Feuilly says, the tone of his voice like the first drag off a cigarette, smoke and heat and nerve-awakening, “never let someone convince you that you’re smooth.” Then he leans in, catching Enjolras’ surprised laugh with a press of lips. Leans back enough to have space to mutter, “Since there’s nothing else on my to-do list, guess I’ll make my move—really. I’ve heard you speechify, you can do better than—”

Each word soughs air across his lips, the skin there alive to every current as they’ve never been before, and if there was strangeness and damp and more softness than expected and the scratch of their stubble against each other, Enjolras can see his way to understanding the cultural hyperfocus, so he takes Feuilly’s face in his hands and kisses him with purpose. The first touch of a tongue startles him, but Feuilly loops an arm around his shoulders, steadying. When he reciprocates the touch, slides a hand across his cheek, down his throat, it stuns him: the heat, the power of his throbbing heart, the catch and kick of his breath. All the same, he has to interrupt—it must be said— “Balancing organizing direct action with conventional politics did consume time I would have put towards interpersonal connections, which was one of the losses I considered a necessary—”

Feuilly kisses him again, on the point of his jaw, in a manner that ought not really interrupt him. It does. As Feuilly has served to do in the past, his argument adjusts Enjolras’ understanding of the breadth of the issue: namely, it seemed a matter of explaining why they have only now kissed, which words could adequately address; and now, after another brush of lips, to his cheek, ticklishly beneath his ear, he perceives this to be a matter better handled by action.

But one might plan, first. “We can zip the sleeping bags together,” he says, “and both sleep on the better bed.”

“Practical,” Feuilly replies, and gathers him close. “We will.” The moonlight softens his face to boyishness, his eyes are wide and pupil-blown in the dark, and if there has been bitterness, and failure, and hurt, and a shadowy place traversed: their blood is in them yet, and they are together, and before the future makes its demands, they may have a little of the present.

[mushroompoisoning]

Good friend, I ask of you because I trust you, what are these "The Mechanisms" you are so fond of?

Okay I tried to type out an incredibly long summary but tumblr deleted it so you're getting a semi-sane version instead

The Mechanisms are a band of immortal, space-faring pirates travelling the universe singing about the tragedies they witness for our entertainment!

There are nine main members you'll hear about, with the tenth - Dr Carmilla - having left much earlier and making her own music 👍 ( there is technically an eleventh but they're more of a mystery easter egg than anyone we know things about )

Quick lore thing: the mechanisms immortality works from the mechanical part(s) they each have. They can die and get injured, but they'll revive whenever the narrative wants them too. All logic in this universe functions off of Would It Be Good For The Story

The cast is:

Jonny D'Ville (he/him) is the ship's first mate ( don't let him tell you otherwise ) and he's got a mechanical heart

Nastya Rasputina (she/her) is the ship's engineer and girlfriend! Yea the ship - Aurora - is alive btw. She's got me hanical blood

Ashes O'Reily (they/them) is the ship's quartermaster and best arsonist! they've got mechanical lungs

Drumbot Brian (he/him) is the ship's pilot and the only one with a moral code. It's controlled by a switch which flips between Means Justify Ends and Ends Justify Means with no nuance. everything is mechanical except for his heart

Ivy Alexandria (she/her) is the ship's archivist! Pretty chill, cares more for books than violence but that doesn't mean she disapproves of the latter. she's got a mechanical brain

The Toy Soldier (it/its) is the mascot and whatever else they tell it to be! it just wants to be involved. will follow anything you tell it if you ask nicely ( or with enough force ). it's not actually mechanized, and is instead a sentient wooden man

Gunpowder Tim (he/him) is the ship's master at arms! madman war veteran who I love dearly. he blew up the moon. he's great. I pick favourites. he's got mechanical eyes

Raphaella La Cognizi (she/her) is the ship's unethical scientist! nothing is off the table when it comes to research. nothing. theory is she mechanized her, but iirc that unconfirmed. she's got a mechanical spine and wings!

and Baron Marius Von Raum (he/him) who is neither the ships baron nor doctor. he claims to be both, though. Deeply unserious fella. he's got a mechanical arm

^ here are some good images for crew reference

OKAY! Now onto actual music

They have six albums and a couple singles!

Once Upon a Time (In Space) is an unconventional retelling of classic fairytales

High Noon over Camelot is a retelling of King Arthur

Ulysses Dies at Dawn is a greek mythos adaptation

and The Bifrost Incident is a norse mythos adaptation

there's also Tales To Be Told volumes I and II, and the two single Frankenstein and Death To The Mechanisms ( technically that one is part of an album but the album is just a bunch of their other songs from already existing albums )

The tales to be told albums contain some of the mechanisms origins!

One Eyed Jacks is Jonny's

Lucky Sevens is Ashes'

Lost In The Cosmos is Brian's

and Gunpowder Tim vs The Moon Kaiser I don't think I have to say

Nastya has an origin song, but it was never officially put on anything. You can find it on the @mechanismslorearchive ( you can get any lore you want on there )

They also have a number of live shows ( you can find those on youtube ) and written stories on their website! I recommend these if you wanna get to know the mechanisms as characters better

that is the basic rundown. I'm not an expert on the mechs so if you're looking to talk to a metaphorical seasoned nurse instead of a med student I'd go to @bugsinthebayou or @gunpowderdtim (sorry for tagging yall)

[argesta]

Academia, in my fanfiction (or at the very least, the ones I gravitate towards reading)? It’s more likely than you think!

In your last reply you mentioned chapter titles, so here I am to ask about the chapter titles!

And also how you decided who plays which roles. Ex. Santiago as Lestat’s oldest friend (from before he married Louis even) and member of his team.

I love this.... academia in my fanfiction more likely than you think... say that 😩

I’ll answer your second question first because it’s so, so good.

When adapting canon to an AU, what I’m interested in is the dynamic capture of a character over the static one. So by static, I mean a 1:1 parity with the character, a modern version of their job, direct translation of their personality, social status, identity etc. Dynamic essence is how they impact other characters + overall context.

To take Santiago - because he's this circus ringmaster in canon S2, this satyr, lurid spotlight figure, I could’ve easily just made him a tabloid guy, go the TMZ route. But that wouldn’t really convey what I needed him for - he’d just be a cameo.

Given that in canon he has such a fraught relationship with both Armand and Lestat - need but rivalry but resentment - I wanted to translate that above all else. And there is no better framing device for this dependency than to have him be this older, grizzled spin-doctor that has been working for “the cause” since forever, knows enough dirt to bury both Lestat and Armand, but does not have the resources to take on any of them individually. Armand himself is a new upstart that technically should be Santiago's subordinate, but in PV he comes with his own capital (the name and power and connections via Marius “eugh” de Romanus at his back).

To me, Santiago’s main draw in all his canon appearances is the fact that his power is so uncertain for all its apparent flashiness. His control is predicated on so many elements which lay behind the curtain (LITERALLY) and which we do not see until the finale.

We think he is calling the shots, but then: oh. You take a closer look and he’s no ringmaster or eminence gris, he’s just the town crier. There is no vertiable eminence gris in either IWTV canon or PV, because they’re all defanged. They are consequences of history and fatherhood, especially if you compare them to figures such as Magnus and Marius - these old men still moving pieces on the board from beyond the grave and/or before the start of the story.

Anyway, am I unnecessary and unserious for thinking this in-depth about it? Absolutely. Is this some artistic credo that I think all AU/fic writers should do? Definitely not.

It’s just the by-product of me outlining this AU-verse in 6 PoVs so far (Lestat, Louis, Claudia, Armand, Daniel, Nicki) so it’s inevitable that the world becomes part of the story. I’d love to get a chance to tell the events in PV from other characters’ point of view, or at least write more fic set in the same PV universe, so I just think of it as doing the planning in advance because I know it’ll come in handy later.

Chapter titles meta under the cut <3 sorry mutuals :’)

The chapter titles are all film techniques! Names come from either cinematography study (frame camera angle perspective etc.) or editing and transitional devices (montage, scene cutting and so on). They are mostly made for motion picture, but some are of course also used in other contexts like news live reporting social media etc. (though I do believe sm apps like CapCut come with their own name for stuff or whatever - I avoid platforming TikTok until it pays me).

I like taking this angle with all present & future chapters because it’s a clin to how the characters are mediating (and meditatizing) their experience through these like - artifacts and artifices.

I.e. TWO-SHOT being a wide-frame, single-take conversation between two people, with almost no one else (certainly #norealpeopleinvolved) entering or leaving the shot until the scene ends. CROSS-CUT being... well, to take it from the definition:

Cross-cutting is an editing technique most often used in films to establish action occurring at the same time, and often in the same place (...) can also be used for characters in a film with the same goals but different ways of achieving them. Cross-cutting is often used during phone-conversation sequences so that viewers see both characters' facial expressions in response to what is said.

Sometimes it's genuine - TWO SHOT really is just a two-shot, sometimes it's an irony/play on purpose/subversion, like SPLIT SCREEN showing on one level Louis-Claudia conversing on a literal screen, the proverbial split between Louis/Lestat, and the disturbing, growing similarity between Lestat/Armand as a common front (as perceived by Louis; being the split image of someone else, etc.)

Certainly I don’t need to oversell the point of why the performativity of editing and montage fits the universe these miserable girls are living in, or why the chapters are defined and sectioned through the techniques it would take to adapt them to screen. (Very clear that none of these characters can define their life without an audience, they’re so consumed with the self-narrative that they forget they are not only participating in it, but fully have the power to change it).

[pumpkinspice-prouvaire]

2 & 6 for ask game 🫶🏻

I love begging for asks and then ignoring them for DAYS hehe

2. OT3

honestly polyam triumvirate is so underrated. They're best friends. Can they not also be lovers. I say yes.

Also I have ABSOLUTELY been on my courfeyrac/marius/cosette shit lately. I would like to see them [redacted] [redacted] [redacted]

6. Show us a bit of a WIP!

hmmm having one of those days where I hate everything I've ever written but have this from a very short and unserious 5+1 fic I have vaguely started

“Oh no, I did,” Enjolras says, sarcasm dripping off every word. He’s been in a terrible mood since they arrived, but if Grantaire had taken a shot of adrenaline to the heart and had several vials of blood taken, he might be a bit cranky too. “I just thought my date seeing my face swollen to twice its usual size would be a perfect way to round off the evening.” He’s still a bit puffy looking, which means Grantaire has to contend with the fact that he’d still find Enjolras attractive with his face swollen to twice its usual size. 

[nightcolorz]

I can easily imagine Marius hearing Daniel calling Armand "boss" and thinking to himself, yes, I approve of this as it is a modern word for "master"

Then he refers to Armand as Daniel's master while talking to Daniel and can't understand why Daniel looks surprised and upset, he thinks the poor child must not understand Marius's choice of words

Marius: you maker, your... "boss" as you say in this modern era

Daniel: 🤦 this idiot

Marius would be so confused by Daniel's playful, unserious term of endearment, by the fact that he came up with it all on his own and Armand doesn't ever enforce it, imagine if Daniel started calling Marius "Grandpa" or something equally unserious? Marius would not know what to do with it

Daniel: you are the original immortal idiot

Marius: I am your elder and you should respect me

Daniel: who is the boomer here, you or me?

PLS THIS IS SO FUNNy 😭😭😭 “I love how ur modernizing the classic master and fledgling dynamic for the modern age 😍😍” meanwhile they r just experiencing Banter and Affectionate Petnames

I love the idea of Daniel teasing Marius and Marius just has no fucking clue what he’s talking about😭😭 Daniel calls Marius grandpa and he’s like….thank u for referring to me as ur superior and elder… and Daniel is like 😦?? Lmaoo

[clownjail]

marius is so unserious oh my god 😭😭

[maester-of-spreadsheets]

Okay so I have queen of the damned on as “I’m drunk plz entertain me” background noise because it’s missing Aaliyah hours but I’ve never seen this so

1. Where! Is! Aaliyah!

3. Marius de Romanus as a name for a guy from ancient times is so unserious

3. This is supposed to be all spooky and gothic but the lighting is so much more colorful and bright than virtually any movie made after after 2016. It reminds me of watching Ringu for the first time last

4. Also reminds me of Scream 3 somehow. Early 2000s cheese hits different man

[mechanicalemotions]

and this is a review in blood and gold referring to marius as lestat's maker. you wanna take a few sentence reviews as gospel instead of actually reading the source material? please. marius's palazzo is not a harem, armand is not a sex slave, marius literally has no sex drive and armand is allowed to do whatever tf he wants within the rules of the fact that... he's living in marius's home. you people are so unserious, lmfao.

banging my head against the wall, screaming. fans on twt are discussing armand and armand's past as if him being a sex slave continued in the time he lived with marius. are they stupid?? marius specifically got him OUT of sex slavery. i'm so tired, guys. this fandom has been so ruined by the show fandom with zero media literacy, i'm actually annoyed as fuck.