#also me: pulls out the “in the end times the bible says there will be many false prophets”

[lonaami]

i just

hm

[greatyme]

4 minutes fancon highlights‼️‼️‼️

Let me just start off saying this was genuinely SO fun. Like it was silly! It was entertaining! Sometimes it was sexy <3 Even sad! And of course always exciting. I wasn’t expecting it to be THIS fun lol

the fanservice was genuinely SO good. Like. The inside jokes within fandom type fanservice. Like ฮ็อบ y’know

When Den/Job asked the audience what Great’s name was and everyone went MUAYYYY—MULTIPLE times (me included!)

Tymegreat going on what I would call a post-waking-up-from-their-4MP-date and having a little dress up dance moment??? Tyme/Jes kissed Great/Bible’s cheek and of course everyone lost their minds. They also “won” (Great/Bible couldn’t win one of the two so he straight up unlocked the machine and pulled it out😭) the iconic cats in a recreation of their date in Great’s 4MP hehe

THE ACTORS WHO PLAYED YOUNG GREAT AND YOUNG TYME HAD A PERFORMANCE TO BUTTER BY BTS AND IT WAS GENUINELY SO FUCKING FUN AND THEY WERE LIKE BREAK DANCING ??? THEYRE SO GOOD!!! LITTLE UDON IS SOOO CUTE (honestly maybe the main highlight for me…)

Bon Jovi cover from Jes on the drums and Bas on the guitar. Genuinely so fucking cool.

Even the dance stages that weren’t related to the show were so fun. Like jjay doing mmmh by Kai…. OHHH LORDDDD. Jes and Bible are good dancers! And also they’re so hot😁 I have to emphasize this guys😁

Full cast ohm hiwwhee cover!

Tyme/Jes and Den/Job had a scene as when they were in med school and it was so sillay and a little gay of course. Very entertaining I love the dynamic these two have

BUMP APPEARING FOR ONE PERFORMANCE LMFAO. IN THE SAME LITTLE SKIT TITLE/JET AND DOME/MIO HAD A LITTLE GAY MOMENT AND THEN BUMP KISSES BOTH THEIR CHEEKS AND RUNS AWAY SKSKDJKS (it was like. Them as freshmen)

“If this love triangle was a musical…” coming on screen right before a musical between korn/bas, tonkla/fuaiz, and win/jjay made me lose my SHIT. it was LITERALLY 4 minutes: THE MUSICAL. Fuaiz was cunty as hell. Bas is honestly a great performer. And jjay got water dumped on him very dramatically/sadly as it “rained” LOL

Dome/Mio singing billkin’s lahn mah ost to Tonkla/Fuaiz. V sad </3

DENKORN PARALLEL UNIVERSE. IF GREAT INSISTED FOR KORN TO GO TO THE HOSPITAL AFTER GETTING CUT IN THE NECK. AND EVEN FUNNIER THEY PARALLELED TYMEGREAT THE WAY DEN WAS LIKE …yeah I’ll take care of this guy Bee. AND IT GOT SO GAY LOLLLL

THE LIKE LITTLE DANCE PARTY WE HAD AT THE END??? Job was DJing and the cast was jumping around with everyone, going into the audience, and just having so much fun lol (esp Jes hehe)

PONGTONG WERE HERE AND THEY PULLED EM UP ON STAGE TO DANCE WITH THEM!!! Even the young actors danced too and mio was like carrying them it was very cute hehe

Just. Apo’s presence for the auction is always <3 and btw they raised over ฿400k for HIV research!!! They also kept kissing their photos LMAO (since the couple photo was last, jesbible kissed it at the same time kdksjd)

SEASON TWO BEING ANNOUNCED!!! It seems like 8 hours is about when you dream👀 and yes there was lots of screaming (tbh, it was nonstop screaming the whole time ofc)

ALMOST FORGOT. THE WAY THE COUPLES SHIRT MERCH WORKED FOR ALL OF THEM (in terms of characterization (mostly) and ship wise—including ghost ships LOL). Those wearing white: jes, jjay, bas, and mio; those wearing black: bible, fuaiz, job, and jet

[antiquepearlss]

Southern Headcanons

Old Corona lowkey gives off southern small town vibes so here’s some southern Varian + Quirin headcanons because I’m not projecting at all.

Starting off strong with a classic- Varian loves sweet tea. He makes it homemade and it’s 90% sugar and it’s most of what he drinks. Quirin isn’t a big fan, but he’ll drink it occasionally when Varian makes it. Same with Lemonade; Varian loves it, Quirin is neutral.

If Quirin isn’t working, he’s relaxing in a rocking chair on his front porch.

Varian is the type of person to watch tornadoes instead of seeking shelter. Quirin has to physically pick him up and drag him to the basement.

There’s a creek in Old Corona that the children all frequent. 

Most of Quirin’s diet is biscuits and gravy. It’s the southern old man meal. And southern fried steak. And fried potatoes with gravy. Also coleslaw, and fried green tomatoes, because again, old man.

Varian likes fried chicken and waffles, peach cobbler, pulled pork, chicken and dumplings, and cornbread. He ate coleslaw once and died a little inside.

Neither of them are big fans of catfish or shrimp, they’re just not big on seafood. Ulla was a fan, however.

Neither of them have thick accents, but with certain words it shines through. It also shines through if they talk fast, or for Varian, if he gets really excited. Or it comes out at random moments. Eugene and the girls make fun of him for it, Rapunzel thinks it’s cute, Lance thinks it sounds cool

Quirin has Bible verse decor in his house. He’s not even religious. Those just kind of materialize on your walls the first time you say y’all.

Quirin and Ulla had an apple themed kitchen.

Quirin absolutely has said “bless your heart”

Ulla wore gingham, a lot.

Varian has mason jars. Everywhere. And also reuses those butter containers. He managed to get them to contain acid.

Old Corona has a lot of potholes.

Varian’s favorite place to go as a kid was with his father to Rural King. He loved looking at the machinery and the baby chickens.

Varian knows how to use a riding mower and is quite skilled at it. He tried to teach Eugene (his city kid cousin) and he crashed into a tree.

There is little to nothing to do in Old Corona except for the occasional festival.

Oktoberfest goes hard there.

Quirin isn’t the most social but he does have the southern hospitality down. He’ll invite you in for lemonade or tea. He’ll just, barely talk. (He strikes me as the type to be quiet and awkward in small/intimate settings.) He also brings new neighbors homemade food.

Neither Quirin nor Varian care about sports, but they watch football to feel included. Sometimes they’ll root for opposing teams just for the fun of a playful rivalry with eachother, even though they have no idea what they’re talking about.

Quirin likes old country music. Varian claims to dislike country music, but listens to it sometimes. He never heard the end of it from the girls when they found out he loves Cary Underwood. Ulla had a collection of Dolly Parton vinyl that was passed down to Eugene for….some reason.

Quirin also likes some bluegrass and very much enjoys the blues.

Again, Quirin is not religious, but church on Easter used to be a must. Mostly because it was the only time he and Ulla could get Varian to wear a suit, and he looked adorable in one. (Now all Quirin has to do is ask Rapunzel to make Varian nice clothes and he’ll wear them gladly.)

Ulla planted a lot of magnolias in their garden. And hydrangeas.

Old Corona has a lot of block parties and just, spontaneous potlucks. 

If Varian wasn’t with his parents he was probably with the resident Old Person in Old Corona. He didn’t have many friends growing up, but older people loved him.

Quirin watches Andy Griffith.

Old Corona has one gas station and it has the best slushies. Whenever Rapunzel visits they go there.

Eugene kinda hates Old Corona. He’s a city boy. Rapunzel likes the open-ness.

Old Corona is the prettiest in the Fall.

Varian conveniently spills acid on nearby confederate flags.

[bloobydabloob]

Any tips on getting better at realism? I've been drawing very cartoony works forever but I really want to branch out and draw more realistically and hone that style but Everytime I try it never feels human 😔

Suuuure. Sorry it’s fairly long, answer under the split thing.

I’d say mainly just practice drawing from reference first. Before I started doing any sort of more abstractive or non referential realism, I spent time practicing with maybe 20 or 30 paintings from reference.

Here are just some that I made during that time. I think they really really helped me to learn the principles of painting appealing realism, different kinds of people, color, skin, lighting, and anatomy.

In terms of actually drawing realism (whether from reference or not) I think the most important tip I can give, as well as the most overlooked ironally, is stylisation. Most realism that I see doesn’t connect at all with me which I think is maybe what you’re talking about when you say your portraiture doesn’t “feel human”.

Learning to draw realism in my eyes is largely about learning how to shortcut every single thing you can. So instead of drawing everything exactly how it is using an image, learn how to stylise realism in your own way. I find that if you don’t find a way to simplify the process, it can end up being A : Busy and B : hard for you to create more realistic images from imagination or from real life instead of photographs.

Here is a 40 minute drawing I just drew from a random photo I pulled off Pinterest + small explanation on what helps me to break down an image. I simplify realistic portraiture by adopting somewhat of an angular style, but the best realism / semi realism artists I know of draw realism using their own stylisation methods.

I also personally find that it helps to start by blocking in instead of sketching with lines, but I understand that this is a personal preference and might not work for you.

I also say this for everything but there is no “cheating” in art and anyone who tells you there is fundamentally doesn’t know anything about drawing, especially in the learning process. Cheat if you want. Use grids to plot where things will be, colorpick, trace, liquify, transform, whatever. Although I do also recommend that you only use this as a way to learn and don’t rely on it as a crutch, it helps a lot to be able to draw independently of all of these factors. But I learned to draw partially *by* being a kid who traced and colorpicked and fucked around. Who cares

This applies to everything too but just practice a lot. I’m too embarrassed to show but when I first starting drawing semi realistic art without reference it fucking sucked. Like *really* fucking sucked because I am extremely extremely faceblind and I mean that. It takes me 3 seasons of a show to recognise an actor’s face. But because I’ve drawn hundreds of faces now I know what I’m doing kind of. I also never post any realism art immediately because oftentimes if I don’t look at it for a day or two, I’ll come back to it and notice that something doesn’t look quite right. I would say that definitely helps.

ALSO very important but look at it from far away or a little version. I always look at my drawing in the digital navigator on FA and it helps me to notice when something looks dumb.

Anyways hope this helped at all… lalala. I don’t know man. Don’t take my words as bible I’m just some guy and I am also not a professional and realism is definitely not my strong suit. Tutorials are bullshit and if you think any of this advice sucks for you then don’t take it and forge your own path. Bless

[ikeoji-subs]

Zettai BL Ni Naru Sekai VS Zettai BL Ni Naritakunai Otoko 2024 - Episode 2 Eng Sub

VS SMELLS and VS AGE GAP RELATIONSHIPS

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translation notes:

about Fish Cake Man (7:28)

As we state in the subtitles, this guy’s monologue isn’t something we’re equipped to translate and if we did, it probably wouldn’t make much, if any, sense to English-speaking viewers. We learned from Snow’s Japanese friend that he's a comedian who is famous for doing this particular bit. After we had already finished most of the subtitles, I rewatched seasons 1 and 2 of the show and found that he was also in the other two seasons. In the first season, when Mob is explaining about how he's a side character and intends to keep it that way, he looks at a gardener on his university campus who is pulling weeds, illustrating that the world of BL needs to include some people who are unlikely to ever become main characters. That’s this dude. He appears again in season 2, when Mob is scouring the university for signs of Kikuchi after reading his goodbye letter. In every appearance, he's shown wearing the same sort of nondescript work clothes and cap and seems to work in some kind of maintenance or cleaning capacity at National BL University. –Towel

His name is Nou Misoo (脳みそ夫) which means brain tissue. I believe there's a pun here I'm missing but you can check our his sillyness on youtube, instagram or tiktok. –Snow

about “the gods decided to smite me” (10:24)

The first version of this line said that Mob “received divine punishment” for his Mob Move. That was already a great line! But I thought it had the potential to be a little more specific and evocative in an English-speaking context. At first, I was just trying to think of something a bit more specific to replace “received.” I thought of a few possibilities, including “I was smitten by divine punishment.” But since “smitten” is barely used anymore except to describe someone who's in love, it had the wrong connotation. Then I thought about how another tense of the same verb, “smite,” avoids those connotations and has a kind of King James Bible quality. But if I was going to say “smite,” I’d have to change the sentence from passive voice to active voice (which is generally best anyway) and give the sentence a subject who is doing the smiting.

I thought a unitary, capital-G God would make it sound a little too Biblical, possibly tipping it over into sounding overtly Christian. I knew that some religious traditions practiced in Japan, like Shintoism, included multiple gods. So I tried “the gods decided to smite me.” This seemed to balance out the Old Testament-ish aspect of “smite” a bit. The end result seemed more vivid than the earlier version, and it seemed like something Mob would say.–Towel 

about “select shop” (11:30)

Observant English speakers might notice that when the guy who used the same shampoo as Mob talks about where he got it, he uses a term made up of English loan words. He says he bought it at a “serekuto shoppu" (in English, a "select shop"). While both parts of the word are borrowed from English, the term you get when you put them together isn’t commonly used in the US. I ended up replacing it with “boutique,” which gets across some of the meaning. But I’ll explain in more detail here. 

It turns out that a “select shop” is a kind of smallish shop with carefully curated items that all fit a certain aesthetic. A business like this might be called a “lifestyle boutique” in America, but it’s slightly different from any business model used widely here. The big selling point of a shop like this is the fact that they’ve already vetted and coordinated these products. Their offerings are tailored for a particular niche, so that if you’re into the general idea a select shop is going for, you’re likely to be interested in a lot of what they’re selling. The items for sale will also have been hand-picked by a professional who’s able to find just the right thing in a way that a typical consumer wouldn’t be able to. 

You can imagine what kind of college student would not only shop at this sort of place but declare it proudly. Even if Mob was going to fall in L with a B, this guy would be a bad fit.–Towel

about “a listless ne’er-do-well” (19:04)

The more literal translation of this part goes “a man like this, without ambitions or vitality.” It’s a nice turn of phrase, definitely, but I thought if I could localize it a bit it might evoke more of the right feeling. I thought it would be more typical in English to express this in terms of an adjective plus a noun describing the kind of person he’d appear to be, rather than saying he was without these qualities. From “without ambition” I got “ne’er-do-well” and from “without vitality” I got “listless.”–Towel

Tag list: @absolutebl @bengiyo @c1nto @come-back-serotonin @lurkingshan @my-rose-tinted-glasses @porridgefeast @sorry-bonebag @twig-tea @wen-kexing-apologist

[fiddlefordisms]

Canon Details and Analysis of Fiddleford McGucket Part 1

I'm writing a series of meta posts centering around everything we know about Fiddleford McGucket as well as what can be gleaned from those details and some theories of mine. At the very end of this series, I will also do a detailed look, analysis, and theorizing about Fiddauthor (a ship which I love) - however, this series of posts will be focusing mainly on what's actual canon (and thus written in terms of Fiddleford's friendship with Ford) and will be mainly focused on Fiddleford's character even as it stands outside of his relationship with Ford. Because he deserves to be his own character outside the context of a romantic relationship, and he deserves it in general.

Fiddleford was raised on his father's hog farm in Tennessee. We've received very few details about his family life other than that the hog farm belongs to his father, Fiddleford has a cousin named Thistlebert who believes in aliens, and Fiddleford's grandmother who does not approve of "coffee" (whatever that is). What we can glean from this is that Fiddleford is pretty familiar with his extended family. We also know he grew up "dirt-poor."

In Journal 3, Ford mentions that Fiddleford crosses himself while stepping over graves and chastises him for saying "what the devil." Tennessee is also located deep in the Bible Belt. This tells me Fiddleford was likely raised Christian and because of the "crosses himself" thing - likely Catholic. He's the first McGucket to ever go to college.

Fiddleford has anxiety issues, possibly an untreated disorder - a fact commented on by Ford in Journal 3 (knee-bouncing, a tendency towards pulling at his hair, his superstitious nature might lend to this as well, and the "SORRY" photograph mentions that he's "mighty nervous" about his first day, he also mentions having the hiccups that day - probably due to how nervous he is). Given how these things go, it's probably been with him since childhood, and he was probably belittled for it. Especially given the stigma around mental health issues, it would not surprise me if Fiddleford has been told multiple times "to get over his anxiety."

Before meeting Ford, Fiddleford had a low sense of self-confidence (and even after meeting Ford, it might still not have been the greatest). His very first day of college, after being laughed out of class, he's already arranging for a tractor (the joke is he's Southern and from a farm) to pick him up. He was going to drop out of college on his first day had it not been for Ford. This tells us that he was led to believe that he was "not right" or "not smart enough" for college. Because it's only his first day at college, he probably didn't get these ideas ingrained in him from the campus itself. Theories? A few. One: His father probably wanted him to stay and help out on the farm - maybe even take over the hog farm one day. Two: Fiddleford easily leaps to the idea that he "got his math wrong" and that his theory must be incorrect because everyone else thinks so. This tells us he does not consider himself "brilliant" despite the fact that he is HIGHLY intelligent. He's also at Backupsmore instead of a first-rate school. Because Fiddleford has a lot of anxiety, I think it's highly possible something that could have led him to believe this is test anxiety. Schools put so much importance on testing, and because of his anxiety, Fiddleford might not have been able to perform very well on tests. He probably really excelled at doing his homework, though, and probably already had a bit of an inventing streak. He might have been persuaded by a teacher to give college a try and probably had an interest in it due to his affinity for machines and likely a love of mathematics and physics (and possibly chemistry given that Old Man McGucket mixes up a voice-changing serum at one point). Fiddleford mentions in the "SORRY" photograph that he thought making a friend was more impossible than solving relativity. This is extremely sad and points to Fiddleford having been lonely through his childhood and school years up until college. It's not hard to imagine that he might have been bullied for being a "nerd" as well. People tend to look down on those who display Southern mannerisms and interests (Fiddleford plays the banjo, has a strong Southern accent, and was probably raised to take pride in his Southern upbringing) as "dumb hicks" - and this might be a cause for even more bullying while he's in Backupsmore and continued confidence difficulties.

[kiteblue42]

Is Eric Kripke America’s Tolkien?

So I started Supernatural for the first time around 6 months ago for which I blame Tumblr entirely (where do I claim compensation?). In fact it’s very good and fun and I can’t believe I missed it when it was live.

Ok so bear with me I’ve been sick for a few days a combination of high temperature plus rings of power trailer drop may be making me delusional, but I got to thinking … why did this show have such a hold not just on this site, but also on so many fan artists and fan fic writers. (I mean it has a strangle hold on Ao3)?

Then the RoP trailer dropped and I got to thinking is it because it world builds from a US stand point like Tolkien world built from a European standpoint?

Then because I am sick and can’t sleep I am sharing my stream of consciousness o: Kripke as Tolkien, Sam as Sam, John Winchester as Gandalf, Castiel as Beleg and Dean as Turin Turambar - and maybe now I’ve got this out of my head I’ll feel better….:

I attempted to put this under a cut so hope it worked!

:readmore:

Source material

Most modern fantasy stands on the shoulders of JRR Tolkien who basically ingested a ton of European myths and languages (with focus on Northern Europe) and spat out the middle earth legendarium.

Eric Kripke (plus writing team) seems to have ingested a ton of US urban myths and US pop culture and spat out “Supernatural-verse”. Because it is *US myth making* it is distinct from a lot of other US writing that builds off Tolkien and / or European myth arcs (I’m looking at you Star Wars, Westeros etc).

And the themes and sensibilities therefore pulled out by Kripke are *not* the same as Tolkien’s themes and sensibilities. This makes it different to a lot of modern genre fiction (in whatever form) that either builds on or seeks to subvert the themes in Tolkien’s work.

(There’s also a lot of genre fiction that is satire or allegory for the real world, but that is another category to me and not really world building in the same way - incidentally the Boys fits into that category along with Good Omens).

Both ofc back end off the Bible but this is English literature based story telling and no one escapes the Bible or the bard.

Structure

We usually think of Tolkien in terms of:

(1) Hobbit - entry level nicely structured “there and back again” story for children, darker than expected. Main hero arc -Bilbo.

(2) Lord of the Rings - the pretty perfect fantasy master piece - very accessible clear meaningful themes and tidy /satisfactory ending. A number of hero arcs, but clearest drawn are Frodo / Sam.

(3) Silmarillion (&etc) - this is where the legendarium really gets built. It’s not neat, it’s not accessible, some of it is *not* a good read but the ideas here build the world. We have a creation myth. The “good” “wise” guys turn out to be more complex and flawed than we thought. The evil guys are extremely toxic but entertaining and bring the drama. There are epic doomed romances between immortal beings and mortal beings. Everyone messes up and makes catastrophic world destroying errors on the regular. People get cursed and can’t escape their doom. I can’t think of any real traditional hero arcs (maybe Beren or Luthien??). Note Tolkien didn’t finish this and it’s put together by someone else.

Now let’s do Supernatural

(1) seasons 1-3 - Horror procedural-

Entry level solid procedural hunting / horror story. Sam W is here in the traditional hero role. Dean is like your Thorin initiating the adventure. John Winchester is in the Gandalf role (he knows what’s going on and holds the secrets but is not available to the adventurers at all times). Maybe there something deeper and darker going on? This is your Hobbit equivalent very accessible but not particularly unique.

(2) season 4-5 - myth arc - lots of fans will say this is the perfect part of the story and a masterpiece of genre writing. It’s neat with clear meaningful themes and a tidy satisfactory ending. A number of hero arcs though Sam’s remains the most clearly drawn. Dean is more like your Aragorn or Faramir at the end of 5, Bobby in the mold of a Theoden and a Castiel in sort of Gandalf type position. Baby ofc is Shadowfax. This is your LoTR equivalent

(3) seasons 6 - 15 - the Legendarium- this gets a lot of criticism but it’s where the legendarium really gets built. It’s not neat, it’s not that accessible, some of it is not great to watch, but the ideas here build the world out. We have a creation myth (hello Chuck & Amara). We have hero doomed by the narrative (most notably Dean Winchester, though also Castiel). We have epic love stories between mortals and immortals. Yes I am comparing Dean & Cas to Beren & Luthien (!) though Turin & Beleg would perhaps be more appropriate (there’s a good case for Dean = Turin in this universe). The good guys turn out to be more complex or darker than we thought. The evil guys are extremely toxic but entertaining and bring the drama.

There aren’t really any straightforward hero arcs which is one of the reasons Sam fades out a bit and Dean comes forwards as a character. The stories are messy and tragic.

Landscape

Middle Earth - if you read the books or watch the movies or show it’s clear that Tolkien’s (sub)creation is a love letter to the mountains, lakes and woods of England and Europe. It’s also a cry of anguish for their destruction. Both the beauty and destruction are heightened (Europe doesn’t really look like this and really never did - as for the movies they were shot in anew Zealand and then digitally enhanced…) This is as important as the characters and plot - and stands out in particular in the Hobbit and LoTR where there are long descriptions of landscapes (or long shots of the same in movies / shows).

“Middle Americana” - it’s clear that as much importance was put into the look of the landscapes in Supernatural as to the characters or story. In this verse the look is long open roads, beautiful mountains and big skies that are a declaration of love for America, and the run down small towns seem to present wistful sadness. But again it’s not real it’s heightened. The cinematography in first few seasons is particularly thoughtful (and perhaps Kim Manners is to be thanked for that). The show is shot in Canada and the motels / gas stations in middle of no where needed to be built because they didn’t exist in reality. Again the landscape - the open road, the small towns, the big sky, the motels / dinners / gas stations in the middle of nowhere are as much a character as anything else.

I could go on but I suppose if anyone read this far you get the point (and more importantly it’s now out of my head and I can think about something else!).

Ultimately it will take some time to see if this could be right - in terms of genre fiction Tolkien is everywhere and you can’t escape it (even if you never read or watched any Tolkien!). Time will tell if the Kripke verse has the same impact on creatives and audiences, but I just look at the A03 archive and notice how many people know what happened on Supernatural without ever watching it (!) and think hmmm these are the readers and writers of tomorrow after all.

[drconstellation]

Once and Future Royalty

Just, stay with me on this one. I know its going to look crazy at the start, but trust me, I know where I'm going.

It all started with the 537AD scene in Wessex in the opening montage of "Hard Times," S1E3. Yeah, the one where Aziraphale is supposed to be a knight of the Round Table and Crowley is role-playing the Black Knight, and they are both so super-squeaky shiny clean - not a speck of dirt or mud on them. wtf! It looks out of place, unrealistic, and was bugging the crap out of me, like a stone in your shoe. It just didn't fit. I mean, why put a myth, a legend, into that sequence? Oh, OK, yeah, the preceding stories from the Bible, like the Garden of Eden and the Flood, aren't "myths" as well, you say? Hmm. In the context of the Good Omens AU, being a biblical based story, they belong there far more than the legend of King Arthur.

King Arthur, who supposedly united Britain under his rule during the late 5th century and early 6th century, was shown to have the divine right to rule by wielding the mighty sword Excalibur. Some stories tell of Arthur pulling Excalibur from a stone. Some tell of him receiving Excalibur from the Lady of the Lake. Either way, it was bestowed upon him by divine grace. Despite his triumph in battle, he left no heirs, as his queen, the fair Guinevere, was barren. She had a long-running love affair with the greatest knight of the court, Sir Lancelot, but despite this being an open secret in court Arthur would not put her aside. The knights of the Round Table in the court of Camelot were near-paragons of Christian virtue, and there are many tales of their search for the Holy Grail, the cup from the Last Supper of Jesus Christ.

In the end, mortally wounded in battle, Arthur was taken away for healing, and never seen again. It was said he would return when Britain was at it most direst hour to save the day once more. A "messianic" return.

The Once and Future King.

Now, I'm no Arthurian novice; I drank up all of T. H. White as a teenager, read the Dark is Rising multiple times, Marion Zimmer Bradley's interpretation and what ever else I could lay my hands on for a good couple of decades. And there is LOTS of King Arthur stuff around. You are not left wanting for anything new to read or consume. And I'll bet there are a fair few of you also out there who know a quite bit about the legend as well. Oh, and I can't tell you how many times I have watched Monty Python and the Holy Grail. I still walk around quoting it day-to-day, like the good little Gen-Xer I am, having grown up on that stuff. So I really should have listened to my intuition when bits of Monty Python kept popping up in my brain in response to other parts of GO I was thinking about. (Staaay, I said, stay with me here....)

I kept chewing away furiously on the Wessex problem, growling in feral frustration at it, but also kept reading and sorting out some other ideas and metas at the same time. Eventually I found the key in a tiny little post, about a small detail in the 1941 Blitz episode S2E4, of all places. I wanted to slap myself with how much was staring me in the face so obviously once the door opened. And the damn beauty of it is, that I already written about some it, out of context, without knowing the why.

OK. Where to start this journey...hmmm, back to Monty Python, because, guess what - the Wessex scene is actually riffing off one the more famous skits out the the Holy Grail. The scene is a masterpiece of political satire, from start to finish, but the relevant part here is this sequence:

In case you missed the salient points: Arthur claims he is king by divine providence, because he was given Excalibur by the Lady of the Lake. Dennis the peasant protests this waterlogged method of determination, mentioning ponds, watery tarts and a moistened... well, I hope you get the idea about where this is going.

Meanwhile, in 537AD, Wessex, as the mist swirls around them:

"It is a bit damp," complains a shiny silver Aziraphale.

Yes, Excalibur would be a bit damp after it emerged from the Lake. (vidavalor! Get your mind out of the gutter! I'm trying to have a serious discussion here! Please! And I wasn't even going to go anywhere near what the sword in the stone is really meant to be referring to...it's not even relevant to the discussion at hand, I swear! Well, there is going to be sexual relations mentioned but - oh, never mind...)

Right. Where were we. Lets leave those super-clean elite pretendy knights to swim off through the swirling mist back to their dry homes to write and file reports to head office, along with Patsy and the hired Igors, and Dennis can keep playing in his lovely muddy filth after he finishes protesting being repressed by the divinely-deluded Arthur. I've got a bit more to say about what Aziraphale and Crowley might represent here later but you need some more context first, so lets move on. I just needed to show you the first bit so you can see the Arthurian theme stretches across both S1 and S2, and will likely appear in S3 as well. More about that towards the end.

Ah, before I forget...another ref from the Holy Grail we need to cover:

This GIF, unfortunately, doesn't have the full exchange between the peasants, which is this:

P1: "Who's that then?" P2: "I don't know. Must be a king." P1: "How can you tell?" P2: "Because he doesn't have any shit on him."

Ah. Er. OH!

Have you made the connection?

Who have I been emphasizing as being unusually clean in their Arthurian setting? That's right, Aziraphale and Crowley.

What's this implying? That they are royalty. Celestial royalty. Maybe not kings, but how about princes? You know how we've been discussing whether Crowley was a once at least an Archangel, and there is even a hint that he was a fallen prince of Heaven given during the replay of Gabriel's trial? (Not the prince, but a prince - a seraphim) And that Aziraphale may have once been Raphael, and may be again in the future? Once and future royalty. To me it adds weight to the past discussion, and helps to explain the assumed authority expressed in these two scenes here: On the left, Aziraphale takes control inside the book shop as the angels and demons argue who is going to punish Gabriel and Beelzebub (finally found it after several months!) and on the right, Crowley is shouting at the assembling demons in the street that they are "out of order."

Onward, Patsy. (I hope you're still with me.)

1941, the Blitz part 2, minisode.

We've found Excalibur! On to Camelot!

[Edit note: I've added a few GIFs and screen shots into the sequence of parallels above because I was thinking over a few things since I posted and felt this actually sat better. To try and explain, as they don't exactly match as I would like, in the Holy Grail movie, King Arthur and the knights he has gathered rock up at the foot of Camelot and gaze up in awe at it. "Camelot!" Arthur declares to the party. "Camelot!" Galahad echoes in excitement. And a third "Camelot!" comes from Lancelot. What do we get in GO? Aziraphale leaps out of the Bentley (Crowley's black horse) and declares "The theater! Sophocles! Shakespeare!" I swear, if you put the two side by side, they would match. It's not just a reminder of how much time Aziraphale has seen pass by, or that we are seeing a tragedy play out. But damn it, I could so just see Aziraphale attending a Sophocles performance in Athens back in the day...]

Camelot was King Arthur's castle and home of his court. In S2 of GO the Windmill Theater is established as our court of Camelot where our 1941 Blitz-era Arthurian drama is to play out, involving Furfur and the zombies.

Yes, poor old Furfur. Two's company, three's a crowd, as they say. Now we know we're in Camelot, we need to be reminded of the central tragedy of the Arthurian story, that ultimately led to the golden kingdom's fall. Lady Guinevere, Arthur's queen, famously loved Sir Lancelot, and the two were passionate lovers. It was essentially a love-triangle at the top, with Arthur being jilted, but he wouldn't/couldn't discard his queen. Where do we see this playing out in 1941?

Furfur, pleased with himself for catching an angel and a demon in the act of consorting together (with the help of the zombies,) barges into the backstage dressing room, and confronts the lovers with their crime. But who is playing who in the Arthurian love triangle? I would say Furfur is clearly caught in the role of Arthur here. Consider the following exchange:

FURFUR: Hmm, well, well, well… What have we here? AZIRAPHALE: Sorry, have we met? FURFUR: Oh, no, you never had the pleasure, but… we have, haven't we? CROWLEY: Have we? FURFUR: What do you mean "have we?" You know we have. We were in the same legion. Just before the Fall. Doing dubious battle on the plains of Heaven. Remember? CROWLEY: I remember going into battle, I don't remember being there with you. Sorry. FURFUR: I was right next to you. We did loads together. You use to jump on me back, little monkey in the waistcoat. Anyway, whether you do or whether you don't, it doesn't matter. I'm here to inform you, as a representative of the Higher Powers of Hell, that you, Crowley, are in breach of the Infernal Code. Consulting and collaborating with an angel, Fell the Marvelous, aka… [opens book] Azirapalala. Azirapapap. Aziphapalala. AZIRAPHALE: [annoyed] Aziraphale

Furfur claims a past intimate relationship with Crowley, which Crowley spurns offhandedly. Crowley is playing Guinevere here, jilting Furfur/Arthur, which leaves the demon-smiting Aziraphale standing in for the handsome hero Lancelot (with his French connections, no less), and doesn't he make us weak at the knees when he drops his voice an octave in dominating disgust. (Is it suddenly getting hot in here...? Phew!)

Interestingly, looking back in S1 at 537AD Wessex, though, I would say that Crowley was Lancelot as the Black Knight, a role that Lancelot sometimes played in the legends, and Aziraphale would then be the fair maiden Guinevere. It certainly plays into Crowley's long term role of playing the knight who comes to the rescue of Aziraphale's princess in distress. Excalibur was no where in sight, perhaps still beneath the waters of the lake. Nor Arthur. Perhaps it was still too early in the story then...

I had originally suggested in my very first post that Furfur was given a stag as his demon avatar because he was wearing horns for being cuckolded by Crowley. But I wasn't quite thinking about it in context with the Arthurian legend! The stag is also often associated with royalty, plus while wandering around the medieval bestiary website that someone linked to, it interestingly notes that the enemy of the snake is the stag and the stork (Shax's avatar.) Ah ha!

So how can we extrapolate this knowledge into a possible appearance of the Arthurian theme in S3?

Will we see the love triangle of Arthur/Guinevere/Lancelot come back into play and cause more chaos? I'm wondering if it might have something to do with the Fall.

Or will our lovers bring down a divinely-appointed ruler via their committed behind-the-back defiance of expected propriety?

Will Excalibur appear from beneath the waters, perhaps in another form, to declare a new king?

Could it even be a combination Jesus/Arthur, King of the World, returned? And they turn out to be a very naughty boy, disappearing into the night clubs of Times Square, New York, and that's how they lose him? (Social media viral sensation, anyone?)

I wouldn't be half-surprised if Greasy Johnson's name turns out to be Arthur, actually.

And no, I haven't forgotten that Adam's dad was named Arthur as well.

Bring on S3!

**Bonus**

If you've made it this far and you're thinking:

Let me leave you with this last connection.

In the back stage change room, remember Furfur delivers these lines:

FURFUR: What do you mean "have we?" You know we have. We were in the same legion. Just before the Fall. Doing dubious battle on the plains of Heaven. Remember?

On the first level, he is referring the Great War in the Good Omens AU.

On the second level, Furfur is paraphrasing Milton's Paradise Lost.

On a third level, I can (and will in a future meta) connect this back to the training initiative paintball fight at Tadfield Manor in S1.

And even deeper on a fourth level, if you do know the Holy Grail movie well, you'll remember there is an odd little subplot in it, that infers that the whole King Arthur and his knights thing is merely a full-on violent cosplay that is murderously rampaging across the countryside in the present day with the police in hot pursuit. It's a strange juxtaposition between reality and dream, and you aren't quite sure what it is real or not. The ending is bizarrely and abruptly surreal as the two story lines collide in the heat of battle, as the police turn up and arrest the combatants. A bit like this:

[dontsh0vethesun]

blasphéme

masterlist | part 2 to ‘for i have sinned’

priest!wanda maximoff x reader

18+ : religious themes, sex in a public place, degradation, spanking with an object, slapping, general manhandling from Wanda, dom!wanda, spit kink, choking, strap use (r!receiving) coochieism

a/n : absolute ick that these are genuine bible quotes; also i haven’t written anything for so long so this is a bit shit :/

 “I also want the women to dress modestly, with decency and propriety, adorning themselves, not with elaborate hairstyles or gold or pearls or expensive clothes…”

The priest spoke at the front of the church, glasses perched on the end of his nose, voice gravelly and grating with wrinkled fingers gliding over the ink of the pages as he read. You could only groan internally at the verse he recited, avoiding Wanda’s smirk beside you whilst her hand slid up your bare thigh. Goosebumps littered your skin as her nails scraped upwards, pushing the fabric up your legs in the secrecy of the back pew.

She sat beside you in the back row, behind the crowd of people listening to misogynistic sermons from the unbearable old man at the front. And her fingers inched upwards, hand resting on your upper thigh beneath the skirt she was so adamant you weren’t allowed to wear in church, squeezing the flesh with her nails leaving crescent marks behind. 

“But with good deeds, appropriate for women who profess to worship God.”

Wanda smiled amusedly at your scoff with idle stroking of the backs of her fingers across your skin, occasionally daring to push up against your underwear while you squirmed in your seat. 

“A woman should learn in quietness and full submission.”

It was Wanda’s turn to huff a laugh at this, locking eyes with you with a knowing uplift of her eyebrows and a glance at your skirt and your red painted lips. 

“This memo must have slipped right past you.” She whispered with a teasing pinch at your skin and a silenced chuckle at your glare and the yelp you tried to hide with a cough when her hand pushed into your clothed cunt. 

Safe to say she didn’t try to take it easy on you for the remaining time, what felt like hours of Catholic drivel was made more unbearable by the so-called priest beside you. Though she carried herself as a pure and innocent being with that collar around her neck, smiling to the church goers she recognised, feigning an interest in the sermon while her hand took up the space between your legs. You were no longer fooled by her façade, even finding it amusing how false she could be. Shaking hands with the regulars mere hours after they were squeezing at your throat while your lips were claimed by hers. 

The sight of people standing to make their way to the exit of the church had never looked so glorious, you couldn’t take the teasing for much longer, Wanda could feel the wet patch growing on your underwear and disguised her knowing smirk as a smile of fondness to the patrons who greeted her as they left. 

“C’mon church girl, help me set up for this afternoon.” She winked mockingly once you were left alone in the incense smelling room. 

She laughed at the roll of your eyes but you did as you’d learned to do over the past couple of months, bibles were neatly placed along the benches ready for Wanda’s service and everything was straightened out. She watched from beside the altar with her elbow leaning against the table, focused on your every movement which she knew made you uncomfortable. 

“Do you have to stare so much?” You asked her as you walked up to wear she stood cockily, she only hummed in affirmation with a nod while her eyes peered at you over the top of the silver plated goblet pressed to her lips. 

Her lips shone with a layer of deep red when she pulled it away and it took you by surprise the way she grabbed your jaw in one swift movement, pushing your head backwards as she inched closer. 

Wanda looked at you expectantly, you wish you didn’t cave so easily under her stare but you slackened your jaw for her, parting your lips for the earthy red wine to spill from her mouth to yours in an act of dominance she grasped at as often as she could. You swallowed it with a gulp, keeping your eyes trained on hers.

“What did I tell you about wearing this skirt, hm?” She hissed through gritted teeth, you felt yourself shrink at her tone. “And this lipstick.” She tutted, a condescending smile upturning her lips whilst a harsh swipe of her thumb smeared the red across your cheek. “You look like nothing but a cheap whore. Is that how you want people to see you, huh? Is that how you wanna be treated?” 

“You’re overreacting.” You muttered. You knew better than to retaliate, you knew it was coming, the slap against your cheek. Palm hitting against your skin, stinging as your head was jutted to the side and tears welled in your eyes at the feeling. 

The way her hand gripped your arm made you hiss out in pain, feet scuffing against the ground as you stumbled at the shove she gave you, catching yourself with your hands pressed against the back of the nearest pew. But before you had any chance to speak, to move, to do anything, a loud smack landed itself on your upper thigh. 

It echoed around you and you bit back a whine at the pain with the gritting of your teeth, there’s no doubt you’re going to be left with a bruise, especially because another blow landed against your flesh only seconds later. 

“What, you’re gonna beat obedience into me with a fucking bible?” You uttered, glancing at the black, leather bound book in her hand. You were pleased to see her throw you a genuine smile with her laugh but you winced at the soft touch to your welting skin.

“You’re lucky I’m rather fond of you, sweetheart.” She breathed, letting the book land back onto the wooden bench with a thud. She closed the space between you until you could feel the bulge in her trousers against your ass and her front pressed against your back when she moved close enough for her lips to brush against the shell of your ear as she whispered. “And behold, a woman comes to meet him dressed as a harlot and cunning of heart.”

Her voice was rasped and harsh, breath hot against your skin and you couldn’t hold back the groan at the back of your throat when her fingers tangled themselves in the rosary beads hanging from your neck; she bunched them in her hand, pulling them taut until the cross pushed painfully against your throat and your breath was cut short while she held it tight. The beads left dents in the skin of your neck when she loosened her hold, ones she’d no doubt admire later. 

“For the lips of an adulteress drip honey and smoother than oil is her speech.” She rasped with a lick over your pulse point, a hand roaming your body with a squeeze at your breast beneath your shirt and her nails scratching a pathway down the skin of your torso with a light stinging pain left behind. She bypassed the material of your skirt to cup your cunt with a strong hand and a thumb pushing into your clit through your dampening underwear. “But in the end she is bitter as wormwood-” She growled with a tug at the lobe of your ear with her teeth. “Sharp as a two edged sword.”

Your head was spinning at her harsh words and you barely registered the metallic sound of her belt buckle, only being brought back at the teasing of the head of her cock against your hole, she laughed darkly at how wet you were for her. Soaked and dripping onto your thighs. You whimpered at the finger she stroked through your slit, groaning at how she tilted your head backwards by the grip she still held on your necklace. 

“You’re so wet, it’s pathetic really.” She mused, not waiting for a response before shoving her wet digit past your lips and your teeth bit into her flesh at the sudden force of her strap into you, your pussy stretched around her but she kept her hips stilled while she peppered your neck with kisses instead. 

“Wanda, please.”

“Mm mm.” She returned with a shake of her head. “Sinners don’t get rewards without repenting.”

“I’m sorry, Father.” You breathed. “It won’t happen again.”

“You can do better than that, I think. Haven’t I taught you well enough, hm?”

“Obedio patri mio, et reddam pro paccatis meis.” You stuttered out as her thumb brushed over your throbbing clit with your hips twitching at the feeling.

(I will obey my father and pay for my sins)

“I knew you could be a good girl, darling.” Wanda uttered with a snap of her hips thrusting her cock into you in the perfect position with her thumb over your clit along with the pace she began. Your nails dug into the wood of the pew you grasped onto, creaking with each thrust she fucked into you with your breath hitching in your throat, pressure on your neck in a mixture of pleasure and pain. 

Choked moans sounded at the back of your throat, echoing throughout the empty church; colourful light shone onto the pair of you through the stained glass windows. There’s something so amusing about the idea of being fucked by a priest in her church, crucifixes on the wall, bibles along benches and paintings of Virgin Mary herself watching over you. 

Wanda made you feel every inch of her with each push of her hips, her thumb worked on your clit as the tip of her dick hit against your sweet spot and her fingertips dug into the flesh of your thighs. She smirked at the sound of your wetness, lips parting with her head thrown back at the way her own clit was rubbing against the strap. 

“God Wanda, ‘m so close.” You moaned out through heaving breaths, your face was flushed hot, your belly twinged with your nearing climax and your shaking legs struggled to keep you upright, relying on the firm hold from Wanda while her own choked moans sounded beside your ear.

“Cum for me, sweetheart. Let me hear how much of a little slut you are, hm? How much of a filthy sinner you are.” 

A loud groan fell from your lips that matched the one from Wanda, only pants of breath filling the space between you as you tried to recover. You whined at the empty feeling when she pulled out of you, already missing the filled up feeling while she watched how your cum had coated her cock.

Your slick glistened and she swiped her fingers through it, humming at the tang when she sucked it from her fingertips, licking her tongue over the pads of her digits as she spun you round to face her. You could taste yourself on her lips when they pressed into yours, firm and possessive like the hold she had on your waist. You held her close with your hands tangled in her hair, kisses sloppy and quick, eager with such desperation to go for round two. 

“People will be here soon.” She murmured against the line of your jaw, fiddling with her belt buckle to make herself presentable again. “So messy.” She added in a whisper, swiping her thumb over your lips to neaten up the smeared lipstick on your cheek before doing the same to herself. 

“Is sex in a church a sin?”

“I’m not sure it’s specifically touched on in the bible but I assume so, yes.” She laughed.

“Then I have something to confess. I will take my punishment this evening, if that works for you and the guy upstairs.” 

“That can be arranged.” Wanda grinned, smiling into the kiss she greeted your lips with, pulling away just in time for the large doors to creak open and the footsteps of the first arrivals of the service to echo in the room. 

[roll-for-gaslight]

for whosoever believeth in him (shall not perish but have everlasting life)

An exploration of the older Applebees siblings' relationships with religion tw // religious trauma, child abuse, let me know if I need to add anything else

AO3 Version: https://archiveofourown.org/works/55677883/chapters/141332254

Part One: The Prophet

Part Two: The Proselyte

"Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding; in all your ways submit to him, and he will make your paths straight."

-Proverbs 3:5-6

Bucky has a lot of memories throughout his childhood of hearing Kristen repeat that verse, so quiet he’s not sure whether or not he was meant to hear. He wasn’t Chosen by Helio the way she was, but that only served to make him more devoted; he had to make her proud and do his best to not embarrass their family. Kristen never did anything wrong, not like he did. Since it was her favorite verse, it was his as well. 

"I can do all this through Him who gives me strength."

-Philippians 4:13

It’s nice when your sister is Chosen. It means she gets magic before anyone else her age, and she always does the coolest tricks when you ask. It also means you rarely have to feel sick or hurt for more than a few moments before it’s fixed. Bucky appreciates that last part probably more than anything. Bricker and Cork are the two who get themselves hurt a lot, especially as they all get older and Bucky grows out of some of his clumsiness, but ever since Kristen got her spells he can remember the nice, warm feeling that accompanies each one. 

Riding a bike is hard. Kristen never fully got a handle on it, too unsteady and incapable of keeping her sandals firmly planted on the pedals. On the other hand, Bricker is already speeding down the street and asking if he can ride his bike to school instead of riding with everyone or taking the bus. Bucky’s fine at it, but he’s learning a lot slower, and Bricker is currently literally riding circles around him in an attempt to get him to hurry up since they’re not allowed to go off alone. Kristen is out in the front yard to keep an eye on them, laying on her stomach taking notes and highlighting verses for her next bible study group. She glances up at them occasionally as they go up and down the street shouting at each other, but doesn’t get involved. 

“Come on, Buck! I’m tired of waiting for you!” Bricker says on his right, preparing to take another lap around him. Bucky can see the top of the hill at the end of their street coming up, and prepares himself to rocket down it once they turn around so Bricker will stop complaining. 

“Just chill! I’m going as fast as I can!” He insists, turning with Bricker still by his side. He kicks off hard as Bricker groans in annoyance. He cuts in front of Bucky the same as he has been, but Bucky’s going much faster than he was on the way up the hill and suddenly they collide, tumbling one over another with bikes left sliding on gravel behind them. There’s an unbearable pain shooting up Bucky’s leg, starting at his ankle. He’s screaming loudly, unable to keep it in as he cries for help. Bricker stands up, seemingly scraped up but otherwise fine, and his eyes go wide when he looks at Bucky’s foot twisted the wrong way. 

The sound of Kristen’t bare feet hitting the pavement comes first, then her shouts of concern as she gets a little closer. Bucky isn’t fully aware of any of it until she’s kneeling down right in front of him. 

“Easy, Bug. You’re going to be okay, I promise.” she says softly, a small smile on her face. She takes some slow, deep breaths and Bucky mimics her. She pulls him close, running her hands through his hair until he’s calmer. He remembers, distantly, a time when it was just the two of them who were around, a version of Kristen who called him Bug because she couldn’t quite say his name. That version of her couldn’t heal him, but she held him like this when he fell down anyway. The pain is still there, but the panic isn’t by the time she pulls away. “Okay! I’m going to set it, then heal it. It’ll only hurt for a second, then you’ll be better so fast you won’t even remember what you were crying about.”

Bucky nods, and Kristen readjusts to do as she said she would. She lifts his leg to put his foot in her lap first, then quickly sets it into the correct place before Bucky feels it. There’s a slow-spreading warmth, different from the swelling that had already started, and it eventually flows through his whole body. He smells the familiar scent of popcorn and every part of him relaxes. He didn’t notice when he closed his eyes, but when he opens them he sees Kristen, smiling at him. 

“All better, Bug?” she asks, and he nods again. 

“All better. Thanks, Kristy.”

“Rejoice always, pray continually, give thanks in all circumstances; for this is Sol’s will for you in Lord Helio.”

-1 Thessalonians 5:16-18

It’s his first Harvest Festival. Not necessarily the first one he’s ever been to, but the first one that counts: it’s the first time he’s joining in on the big kids' continuous prayer. Last year, he had to stay with the little kids like Bricker and Cork. This year it’s just him and Kristen! He knows that last year she stayed out longer than anyone, he helped her by bringing her water and stuff, but he hopes he can stay out as long as her this year. Maybe if he’s here beside her, if they’re doing it together, it’ll be easier. 

Kristy is standing to his left, and he has to admit, just privately, that he’s not focusing so much on his prayers anymore. By the time they’re a day in, his eyes keep wandering just slightly to check on her, and he can’t quite keep his legs underneath him the way he needs to. He’s focusing more on the need to keep himself upright than the words he knows he’s still saying. There’s a river of sweat pouring down his back, and in his peripheral vision he can see his own hands a burnt, lobster red. 

All at once, it becomes too much. He feels his ankle roll and both knees buckle, sharp pain hitting him right before he falls. He hits the ground hard, all strength gone from his body. He knows if he stays like this, he’ll be kicked out, but right as he thinks someone’s going to come get him he feels a rush of strength and the air takes on a buttery popcorn scent. He looks up at Kristen, but her face is turned up towards the sun. He mimics her pose from his place on the ground and it doesn’t take long for her to fall to her knees beside him. He watches the crowd around them ripple outward, others taking her cue. The Book of Helio says to hold no idols above him, but Kristen is about the closest any of them will get to feeling his light until they cross those golden gates. Many of the people at these festivals treat her like she speaks only with Helio’s tongue. Maybe she does. 

The break comes, but Kristen doesn’t move. She passes him her water bottle, and he knows her request before she has a chance to vocalize it. 

“Can you fill this for me, Bug? I’m going to pray through the break. As much ice as you can crush in there, please.” she asks. 

He nods in response. “Yeah, Kristy, I can do that. I’ll let mom and dad know,” he says, offering her a smile he knows she can’t really see before he hurries off. Mom and Dad question him about Kristen’s absence only once before turning their attention to why he did decide to come back. Was he quitting? If Kristen was staying out there, so should he. 

He drinks a lot of water and refills both of their bottles before he heads back. There’s no chance that he’ll make it through another day, and he dreads their disappointment then. 

He’s the first to return to the field, to Kristen, and as he approaches, others follow. It feels, inexplicably, like there's something pulling them all closer the same way gravity pulls them to the earth. The moment everyone starts to get within earshot of Kristen’s prayers, louder now in the empty space, they begin to crowd in a little circle around her. Bucky feels her familiar magical warmth and recognizes what’s happening a moment before she begins to glow. Within moments, her feet are off the ground and the holy light surrounding her almost hurts to look at. She doesn’t seem phased by the magic, instead she’s placed back on her feet with the grace of an angel. It makes her seem strange and otherworldly, nothing like the clumsy Kristen who trips over nothing and stubs her toes on every table leg. 

The glow fades but the feeling remains, and it takes him several minutes to work up the nerve to approach her again. Everyone else takes turns paying their respect to her, so he lets them finish before he takes his place beside her. He wants, desperately, to reconcile his sister with this impossibly perfect version of her beside him now. He reaches out to grab her hand and give it a squeeze and make her feel real again, but her skin is too hot to the touch and he has to yank his own away before he’s burned. He kneels down, placing their water bottles down between them, and he doesn’t stand up again.

He makes it through who knows how many more hours on muscle memory alone, but the darkness is too much. His eyes keep falling closed, his limbs shaking, and then there comes a point where he just can’t keep up with it anymore. All at once, he can’t help but collapse in on himself as the world goes black. 

He wakes only when he has to for the next few days. He wakes when Kristen does, lets her know he’s okay, and she hugs him tightly. She’s back to her normal self, her comforting warmth a far cry from the searing heat she had been radiating during prayer. He falls asleep leaning on his hand a few minutes later, and he feels her gently help him lay his head down properly so he’s not at such an awkward angle. He wakes up when they pack up their things into the camper and when they arrive home, then sleeps again until it’s time for day camp on Monday.

 “A false witness will not go unpunished, and whoever pours out lies will not go free.”

-Proverbs 19:5

Kristen hasn’t been home for a few days. He doesn’t know much about what’s going on with her, just that she had a really hard first day of school, but something seems off about her. It’s Friday, and she hasn’t been home since Wednesday. He wonders briefly if she’s going to be back in time for Church on Sunday, but he dismisses the thought because he can’t imagine her missing it. 

It hasn’t been that long, but he really misses having her around the house. Without her, it falls to him to mediate between Bricker and Cork each time they argue, and to cook dinner when their parents work their nightshift. He feels lonely, like there’s too much empty space in every room. He didn’t realize how much they had all relied on her before, but it only took a few days for him to notice the difference. For every minor issue, his instinct is to call out for his sister’s help. He barely stops himself each time. 

Kristen misses Church and for the first time ever, Bucky wonders why they worship Helio. He asks his mom, and she puts it in no uncertain terms: because it’s either worship Helio or go to hell forever. It’s their job to try and help as many people as possible find the light, but only those who have the potential for holiness, like other humans. He remembers Kristen, earlier in the week, talking about how her adventuring party has two elves and a half-orc and a goblin and even a tiefling. He can’t help but feel worried about her. Selfishly, he thinks that if three days without her have sucked this bad an eternity would be torture. 

She doesn’t come home for more than a night at a time for weeks after that. 

She said she’d always be there for him. 

How could she lie like that?

The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.

-Psalm 34:18

Church camp is fun, for the most part. It’s not like the Harvest Festival, where everything is extreme to prove true devotion. It’s more fun, teaching them about Helio without having to hang out with their parents and getting to swim and play games to do it. He enjoys the nightly campfires and the songs they sing, though he wishes that Kristen could be with him. He brings some of the gold she left for him for the vending machines, and he makes friends in his cabin.

They make Sol’s Eyes crafts and friendship bracelets, do a daily prayer circle, and spend a decent amount of their time in the lake. They rose early every morning for Dawn Sermon and stayed in the sun almost all day, staying up late each night after their nightly sermons talking to each other and growing close. On the last night of the week, they’re brought out for a campfire after dinner and told that things were going to run a little differently that night. The sermon was going to last longer than usual, and they were encouraged to add their own testimonies as well in order to give themselves over to Helio completely. 

It starts out fairly normal, even a little slow as most people are hesitant to share. Bucky doesn’t even think he has anything to share, anything he’s overcome that’d be worth talking about. It doesn’t take long for things to pick up, several people crying as they deliver testimonials about struggles within the faith and temptations away from the holy light. He thinks of Kristen, about how she was supposed to be Chosen and how she was supposed to be there for him. He hasn’t seen her in almost a year. He stands up next time they ask for volunteers, and he can already feel his eyes prickling with tears as all attention turns to him. 

“My big sister, Kristen, was Chosen by Helio the second she was born. I grew up really looking up to her and depending on her. She said she’d always be there for me and that she would never do anything to hurt me. She could do amazing things with her magic, like heal people, so she went to be an adventurer. On her first day of school, she got detention and started an adventuring party with the people in there with her. They started to lead her away from the light.” he says. Tears start rolling steadily down his face. It feels like he can’t catch his breath, the words falling out of his mouth faster and faster the longer he goes on. 

“She left the faith, and left our house. There’s a part of me that misses her, but I’ve been working on accepting that she’s a sinner now. She’s even telling people she’s gay and she moved in with a werewolf. I’m really scared for her and I want her to find her way back. I can’t help but think that maybe there’s something more I could have done to stop her from leaving in the first place.”

By the time he’s done telling his story, he’s overcome by the sobs that shake his whole body. He can’t stop himself from crying, and several people he had become familiar with over the course of the last week all surged forward at once to comfort him. It felt good to finally put a voice to his deepest anxiety, the idea that he had somehow pushed her away and that he would never see her again. He felt hands on his back and someone running a hand through his hair to comfort him, like Kristen used to do, and suddenly it’s all too much, he can’t breathe as a deep sadness swallows him. He would trade each and every person here to have Kristen be the person comforting him right now, but that’s impossible. She’s gone from his life in a way he can’t fix. 

It’s a strange feeling to grieve someone who’s still alive. 

“Train up a child in the way he should go; even when he is old he will not depart from it.”

-Proverbs 22:6

Being the oldest kid in the house sucks. Bucky has never felt so much pressure, not just to take care of his brothers, but to be perfect in every way. Kristen abandoning them means that he’s supposed to help represent their family. His parents decide that he’s going to be a paladin, like them, and he ignores the ache in his chest. He thought he’d learn to be a cleric like Kristen, but being a paladin is good enough. He can still heal people, even if his light is nothing like hers. 

He spends a lot of days sparring with the practice dummies in their basement, their dad’s old sword strapped to his side. It’s too big for him right now, but his parents say he’ll grow into it. They push him to be better, so he pushes himself harder than he ever has before. 

When they’re at home, his brothers turn to him to resolve every little disagreement. At Church on Sunday, it’s his job to keep them quiet. He trains every night in the basement. He’s in the top of his class in every subject. (If this is what it was like for her, he almost understands why she would want to leave. Almost. That doesn’t mean he’ll actually do it.)

Maybe, if he’s good enough, his parents will stop wishing he were Kristen. 

Maybe he will too. 

Maybe, if he’s good enough, Kristen will just come home. 

“Do not be anxious about anything, but in every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to Sol. And the peace of Sol, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Lord Helio.”

-Philippians 4:6-7

Bucky’s first day of high school is the best day he’s had in a while. He was hoping, in the smallest, quietest part of his heart, to see Kristen again. He didn’t say anything to his parents about it because he could hear their disappointed voices in his head: Kristen is a sinner, you need to stay away from her. Don’t let her influence you. 

He sees her the second he makes it on campus, surrounded by her friends for a brief moment before most of them head off to class. Beside her are the goblin and the tiefling, who he knows is Fig Faeth from her band, but he ignores them. 

She talks to their parents.

It doesn’t go well. He’s not sure he’ll ever understand her again.

He doesn’t really see her again until Spring. 

“What, then, shall we say in response to these things? If God is for us, who can be against us?”

-Romans 8:31

His adventuring party doesn’t seem to like him very much. His dad says it’s because they’re sinners, too deep in their own self-centered desires to see the goodness of Helio’s light. He wants, more than anything, to be friends with them. He sees Kristen and her other “Bad Kids” around school, and they always seem to be having fun together. He cuts back, as much as he can morally justify, on telling them about Helio’s word. It doesn’t have to be the only thing he talks about, especially if it’s making them uncomfortable.

Two months in, they brush off his proselytizing with nothing but an eyeroll and the occasional polite smile. 

Three months in, he mentions the Harvest Festival and his friends look at him with wide, horrified eyes. The wizard in his party, named Cordelia who everyone calls just Del, pulls him aside. 

“Bucky, are things okay at home?” she asks gently. For someone who spends so much time with her head in a book, she’s surprisingly perceptive of the feelings of those around her. He’s surprised by her question, so she rephrases. “I’m only asking because the Harvestmen have kind of a really bad reputation, and I want to make sure you’re safe.”

Bucky nods in response. “Of course I’m safe!” he says, but there’s something hollow in his chest that makes it feel like a lie. He hesitates for a few moments before he speaks again. “What kind of a bad reputation?”

Del frowns slightly, though it doesn’t seem judgemental. She takes his hand and starts to lead him farther away from the rest of the party, off towards the library. She takes him straight towards the religion section, which he’s familiar with from class, but she moves past the books on Helio and onto the secular section. She pulls out a book titled On the Subject of World Religions and hands it to him. 

“Here,” she says, a kind smile on her face. “I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with your faith, I just think there’s a chance you weren’t told the whole story about everything Helioic people have done. This might help you get a little more perspective.” 

He opens it that night and sees Kristen’s name in the log of people who have previously checked it out, several times in a row covering the last few years with the most recent check-in only a week or so ago. It must be her favorite book now. 

He’s never read a book so fast. 

“I will give them an undivided heart and put a new spirit in them; I will remove from them their heart of stone and give them a heart of flesh.”

-Ezekiel 11:19

Kristen’s new god is dead and made of crystals that have a gravity of their own. She’s all about doubt and mystery and, according to his parents, all of the scary things Helio’s light is supposed to protect them from. They have a meal together, the first one in almost two years, and she says she wants to go to church with them.

A little part of his heart breaks, when she says that, for the goddess relying on her. Kristen sure does make a habit of abandoning people.   

He dedicates a prayer her way next time he’s alone, and he likes the cool, quiet breeze that follows. 

“In the same way that your heart feels and your mind thinks, you, mortal beings, are the instrument by which the universe cares.”

He starts praying to Cassandra whenever he thinks of her because he doesn’t want her to feel alone. Then he starts praying to Cassandra whenever he has something on his mind. He starts replacing his morning prayers to Helio with prayers to Cassandra, Her silvery star light replacing the sun’s heat that usually sits behind his spells. He does his best to hide it, but his parents are bound to notice eventually. 

There’s a part of him that feels guilty. There’s a much bigger part of him that feels free for the first time in his life. 

Everything comes to a tipping point when Mac sees the book that Bucky (foolishly, stupidly, how could he ever think he’d get away with this) left on his bedside table. 

“How dare you bring that filth into our house? Do you not remember Kristen, how books like that led her away from the faith? Do you want to burn in Hell along with her?” his father is shouting at him before school. 

Bucky feels a familiar panic grip his chest, but not the same way it used to. It doesn’t hold the same weight as the first time he heard it. He thinks briefly of Cassandra, of her comforting darkness and the forest he’s seen flashes of as he prays. It couldn’t be further from the hell he’s been told about. He shoves the book into his bag, keeping his head down so the frown on his face can’t be seen. 

“I’m not like Kristen, and I’m not betraying Helio. I’m just doing some reading for class,” he lies, and he feels something pull away from him. A wave of regret hits him immediately, and a new fear takes hold. He doesn’t want Cassandra to be upset with him. 

Mac is still shouting, but Bucky isn’t listening anymore. He knows his dad will have to stop soon for work anyway, so his eyes slip shut. He sends out a silent prayer to Cassandra, expecting to feel the wrath of a goddess in return. He’s met instead with that same cool breeze as before, wrapping around him to soothe his fear. 

When he eventually makes it to school that day, he picks up a copy of the deity change paperwork in the office. 

“Bad things happen to good people because things happen all the time, and it is up to people to determine whether they are bad or good.”

Of course Mac and Donna find out. It’s a late-Spring evening, right at the start of dusk when the sky turns to vivid shades of pink and purple. All three boys are in the backyard doing their own individual things. Bricker, because of course it’s Bricker’s fault, gets himself hurt trying to ride his bike off the roof and into their cheap above-ground pool. He saw some viral video of Aguefort’s beginning of the year party that Bucky hadn’t attended and decided he wanted to do a “shrimp jump” of his own. 

He misses the pool. He screams, and Bucky is the first one out by his side. 

“Hey! It’s okay, just try and calm down, I’m going to heal you, okay? I’m just going to heal you and you’re going to be okay.” he says urgently.

 He carefully ghosts his hands over each injury, each one fixing itself as he does so. His magic glows faintly purple and his eyes flash with silver, a familiar cool breeze whipping up around them for a few moments. Before he knows it, Bricker is staring up at him with wide, terrified eyes. Bucky backs away, but when he turns to go back inside his parents are watching him from the doorway. 

Donna’s voice breaks the silence after a few long moments. “We need to speak to Pastor Amelia.” she says, and Bucky feels the fear like a spike of ice in his chest. He knows, with certainty, that if he lets them bring him to Church he’ll lose Cassandra. He’s not sure what to do, how to escape, and he screws his eyes tightly shut for a moment as he tries to think it through.

When he opens them again, he sees a twilight path on the ground ahead of him, trailing out the back gate and away to somewhere he can’t see. He knows, instinctively, that this is Her guidance. He glances over at Bricker, still staring up at him with that same expression, and his parents, who look more angry than anything. 

Then he runs. 

He follows Cassandra’s light not just away but past the hospital, past the school, and past the Far Haven woods until he reaches a place he’s only heard about in passing: Mordred Manor. 

He stops short at the front door, taking a moment to work up the nerve before he knocks. When Jawbone, the school’s guidance counselor, opens the door he pushes down his immediate impulse to step back. 

“Hey there, Kiddo, is there anything I can do for you?” he asks in a kind voice, a soft smile on his face. Bucky takes a deep breath. 

“I need to talk to my sister.”

"Then if people want to believe in the nighttime and that you can stand in the woods alone in the dark and not have to be afraid because you're united there with everything else that's in the night there with you, and that the world is a mystery, and that's beautiful, I would be happy to do that.”

Kristen isn’t home, so he waits in the living room for her. He talks to Jawbone for a little while, and is finally starting to relax when several people come tumbling through the front door. The Bad Kids are as they usually are every time he sees them, completely caught up in each other. The Goblin, who by now Bucky knows as Riz, is perched on the shoulder of Fabian as the two talk over each other. Their wizard Adaine is chattering excitedly with their barbarian about something vaguely arcanotech-y. Bucky’s attention zeroes in, all at once, at Fig and Kristen in the front of the group, shouting louder and louder as they get excited about the presidential campaign. He sees the moment Kristen notices him in the way she stops dead, her voice cutting out mid-sentence. Fig follows her eyeline and grins when she sees them, and at the sudden quiet all other eyes turn towards him as well. 

“Hey, Adaine, do you want a snack? Yeah, you do, we should all go to the kitchen right now except for Kristen!” Fig announces, and then they’re gone. Kristen recovers quickly, her eyebrows scrunching together like they do when she’s worried. She approaches and sits down beside him on the couch, reaching out to put a hand on his shoulder as she looks him up and down in search of anything wrong. 

“Are you okay?” she asks, offering him a small smile. “I’m glad you’re here, of course, but it didn’t seem like you were very interested in ever being here considering what our parents have to say about it. Did something happen? Do you need help?” she asks. 

Bucky pulls her into a tight hug. “I’m okay. I’m better than okay, I think. Can I stay here for a while?” he asks, and she nods immediately. 

“We have plenty of rooms. We’ll get it all figured out,” she assures him. “Do you want to tell me what happened?”

He hesitates for a few moments, then resolves that he’ll have to say it out loud eventually.

“I’ve been praying to Cassandra,” he admits softly. Immediately, Kristen’s eyes well up with tears. “Is that okay? I think I maybe like Her a lot more than Helio. I think she’s who I’ve been getting my magic from for a while.”

Kristen pulls him into a tight hug. She’s murmuring something reminiscent of prayer as she holds him there for a few long moments, and he feels her magic wash over him, so similar to his own now. She pulls away after a few long moments. 

“Of course that’s okay, Bug. That’s more than okay. I’m so glad you’re out of there, I’m so sorry I left without being able to explain anything to you but I’m happy you came to me. I love you so much.” she says.

“I didn’t know what to do, but then She led me to you. She showed me the way here.” he explains, and Kristen smiles brightly through her tears. “I don’t think I can go home again.”

Kristen shakes her head. “No, you’re not going back there. My friends and I will go get anything you want us to, and you don’t even have to worry about it. I’ll handle our parents.” she assures him. There are a few long moments of silence before she nods, seemingly to herself, and meets his gaze determinedly. “I have something to show you.”

She takes his hand to guide him away from the living room and into what looks, on the outside, like an abandoned chapel. Inside, it’s clear that it’s been transformed into a bedroom and worship area for her. Kristen takes him past her bed to the altar and sits cross-legged in front of it. He mimics her position, facing her, and she takes his hands. 

“Have you seen Her forest?” she asks, and he nods in response before she continues. “Good. If you want to, we can pray together and go there now. Cassandra hasn’t been doing well recently, but I think together we could help her. Would it be okay for us to do that together?”

“Of course it would,” Bucky responds immediately. Almost in unison, they close their eyes, each praying silently to Cassandra. 

Their eyes open at the same time and suddenly they’re both in the twilight forest he’s only ever seen flashes of. There’s a dirt path that leads deeper, and they follow it side-by-side until they see Her. She’s in a small clearing, sitting cross-legged on a solitary tree stump in the center with her eyes closed like she’s asleep. There’s a small black cat in her lap that blinks up at them before leaping down and coming to circle their ankles. 

Cassandra’s eyes open suddenly, and the goddess lives again. 

[godslove]

Dear Anon,

Beloved, when was the last time you read the Bible, prayed to God and basked in His presence for at least 30 minutes? Some pray and stay in God's presence for up to 4 hours. It's possible. I want to quote a man of God when he said that “I have never seen a man of God with a strong prayer life and reads the Bible/the Word of God that doesn't have peace.”

Why do you feel that way? Why are those the thoughts you think? There are 3 voices that we hear:

God

Satan—the enemy, spirit of the anti-christ, the devil, the one who fell from heaven/the fallen, the evil one (this is a long topic for another post. Read Revelations 20:7-10 to know his destiny in the end times.)

The flesh—the corrupted, sinful nature of the devil mixed with the pure body that God created. In Genesis, man took the sinful nature when Adam and Eve gave into temptation.

‭¹⁹ “Now the works of the flesh are evident, which are: adultery, fornication, uncleanness, lewdness, ²⁰ idolatry, sorcery, hatred, contentions, jealousies, outbursts of wrath, selfish ambitions, dissensions, heresies, ²¹ envy, murders, drunkenness, revelries, and the like; of which I tell you beforehand, just as I also told you in time past, that those who practice such things will not inherit the kingdom of God.”

—Galatians 5:19-21

We have to pray to cast out demons and its whispering lies of gaslighting, slander, gossip, condemnation, self-hatred, self-doubt, hatred towards others, deception, depression and fearfulness. Sometimes the thoughts we hear are not ours. The emotions we feel are not from God. It's either the enemy or the flesh. The flesh grows or shrinks depending on how much you feed it or starve it. It's the part of you that always wants more and complains or blames other people when you don't get what you want.

‭“I say then: Walk in the Spirit, and you shall not fulfill the lust of the flesh. ¹⁷ For the flesh lusts against the Spirit, and the Spirit against the flesh; and these are contrary to one another, so that you do not do the things that you wish.”

—Galatians 5:16-17

God only gives us a spirit of power, of love and of self-control. Anything other than that is from Satan.

We pray with faith in God's power:

¹⁴ Now this is the confidence that we have in Him, that if we ask anything according to His will, He hears us. ¹⁵ And if we know that He hears us, whatever we ask, we know that we have the petitions that we have asked of Him.

—‭1 John 5:14-15

We lift up our burdens to Him and lay them all at His feet. When we pray, we let it all go and let God be God. Our loving Father will always give the best for His children.

The answers you are seeking are in the Bible. When I read the Bible, He reveals to me the answers I seek about everything in life. When I asked for deliverance, He was faithful to deliver me when the pain was too much to bear.

And He said, “Abba, Father, all things are possible for You. Take this cup away from Me; nevertheless, not what I will, but what You will.”

— Jesus Christ, The Prayer in the Garden, Mark 14:36

There is purpose in every suffering dear. Sometimes the pain we experience can be excruciating but sorrow that brings you closer to God is better than comfort that pulls you away from Him. Don't look at others and say that “God has favorites” because we don't know the personal problems they are going through which we have no knowledge of. We all have our cup of suffering. Followers of Christ are not free from the winds of trials and tribulations, especially in this earthly life.

The more you walk closer to God, the more the enemy tries to pull you away from God either via pleasure (the worldly temptations) or pain (problems in all areas of life). If that happens, pray to God and stand firm in your faith.

“Trust in the Lord, and do good; Dwell in the land, and feed on His faithfulness.

⁴ Delight yourself also in the Lord, And He shall give you the desires of your heart.

⁵ Commit your way to the Lord, Trust also in Him, And He shall bring it to pass.

⁶ He shall bring forth your righteousness as the light, And your justice as the noonday.”

—‭Psalms 37:3-6

God answers prayers dear. Your heart posture has to be right first. When you pray, approach His throne with thanksgiving and praise. Remember the sacrifice Christ has done on the cross for each and everyone of us, God's children. Remove the shame and guilt because ‘it is finished’. When you are already purified from sin, grateful and peaceful, that's when you can ask God to help you bring yourself closer to Him and experience His loving presence. He is always with us dear, He longs for His children to come to Him. Listen only to God's voice.

‭“But seek first the kingdom of God and His righteousness, and all these things shall be added to you. ³⁴ Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about its own things. Sufficient for the day is its own trouble.”

—Jesus Christ, Matthew 6:33-34

If you have prayer requests kindly send them so I can pray for you. If you have questions, I'll answer them as best as I can. I read it all. It's alright dear. I'm here. And so are the rest of our brothers and sisters in Christ who walk this journey with you. God bless you! *Hugs*💐🤍

[britcision]

I dunno if I touched on this already but I am Obsessed so you’re stuck with it

Just

Idk the Adventurer’s Bible calls it “cruel” that Mithrun told Thistle that Delgal wanted him dead in the end, but… it just doesn’t read that way to me

No one questions that Laios and co didn’t want to start a fight and just wanted to talk, but I feel like Mithrun was coming from a pretty similar place

He gives every prospective dungeon lord a chance, speaks to them more readily than anyone else, and always offers them a chance to back down despite clearly believing they won’t take it

And I mean I can’t 1000% cite it so I might be wrong, but… I think it’s also the only time he openly empathizes? He’s more emotive, with more facial expressions, but I can’t really think of another time he openly talks about what other people want

He’ll drop all his own trauma without batting an eye, but with Thistle and then with Marcille he tries to work out what their motivations are, what they want to wish for, and use his own experiences to warn them it can’t work and they won’t actually get it

It’s kinda cursory, but much less than Lycion asking Laios to give up on Marcille; he’s seeking a connection to spare them his fate, and while seeing Thistle catatonic doesn’t noticeably phase him, he’s pretty disinterested in the dungeon lords when you compare it to his reaction to the winged lion

(Full feral, 30 seconds flat, not a word before it’s peanut butter murder time)

The dungeon lords are ostensibly natural enemies as much as the demon is, and all the other Canaries are pretty focused on eliminating the dungeon lord as the first priority, and I dunno if any of the rest would even bother asking them to stand down

Lycion sure as hell doesn’t bother trying to justify to Laios why he shouldn’t go side with Marcille; he just asks him to abandon his friend, no, entirely expected, and he’s pretty clearly just humouring Kabru

Officially, they have to kill the dungeon lord to get a shot at the demon, and with a direct shot Mithrun loses his shit

But either dungeon lord alone? He doesn’t even try to seriously hurt them until he’s made the offer, he gets them temporarily incapacitated at best and he’s perfectly happy to let Laios free Marcille if he thinks he has even a vague shot at it

And sure, it might all be calculated to throw them off their game, to find weaknesses and rattle them before the fighting starts, but then why would he agree to let Laios help her stop being a dungeon lord without a fight?

The other captains sure as hell aren’t buying in, but Mithrun signs off without question, and it also might be that he just doesn’t care about the dungeon lords; any way he can get to the demon works

But he could have killed Marcille instead of trying to restrain or search her

He’s a fucking madlad, the time he used tackling her and starting the pat down could have begin with cape-decapitation to solve the problem before it occurred

He could have sent the plank into Thistle’s chest, not his arm to make him drop the book - that’s even a bigger target

They’re the Canaries. They already heard Laios say he wanted to be the dungeon lord. If they’d tpk’d the entire party there, it’d have been their job description, and we only got a dramatic final showdown because he gave Marcille a chance to just hand the books over… or let him take them

(Bet Pattadol and Lycion regretted pulling him off her, optics be damned, for at least a couple hours there)

Idk I just think it’s interesting that despite being the character with no wants or opinions on most things… he really does try to save the dungeon lords, and his squad follow his lead until they can’t even in his absence

(Talking to Laios and Chilchuck even after he’s fucked off, giving Laios even a cursory chance to quit)

It just… doesn’t add up that he told Thistle what Delgal wanted to be cruel, not on top of everything else

It wasn’t fucking tactful, but it was true, and if Thistle had believed him and realized that what he was doing was pointless…

That woulda been the fight. Wrap on Dungeon Lord Thistle, just a hop down for the other book, the status quo is mostly intact but the Island is saved

I don’t think it’s necessarily cruel to not want to kill someone

(But then the Golden Country woulda had to deal with King Mithrun Who 10000% Is Leaving To Find Another Demon Murder Opportunity, so like it was never an option narratively… which makes it all the more interesting that he tried)

[itstheinktank]

Hey folks, Kuro here! It’s time for another update. Here’s everything you need to know about what we’ve been up to, and where we are going from here. 

DWAYNEMCDUFFIE.COM The biggest news of all is definitely Dwayne McDuffie’s website relaunching. A surplus of scripts, production information, and series bibles were posted, and it’s literally a dream come true for me. Reading through the forums was part of my daily routine for years growing up, and after his passing, losing the website really hit home. I’ve been waiting a decade for it to relaunch, but when it did, I had already planned to go out of town for a few days, so the timing was terrible on my end.

Let me tell ya, watching everyone dig through the website while I couldn’t participate in the madness was tough, but now that I’m back, I can’t wait to dig into it as well and see what I can find. We’ll definitely be doing at least one video on the subject. As for when that’s coming out, I couldn’t say. But please feel free to let us know if there’s anything specific you’d like us to address, and you can guarantee I’ll be taking notes! Thank you Dwayne for still keeping our world turning after all this time.

UPCOMING VIDEOS & COLLABS

In previous updates, I’ve announced another upload hiatus. This means that we won’t be posting weekly/ bi-weekly for the time being. We will be releasing videos irregularly, such as the recent MultiVersus video, and the previously-mentioned Dwayne McDuffie Website video, but we can’t make any promises as to when we’ll resume regular uploads. There’s just too much going on for us at the moment, which I will get into further into this thread. In the meantime, I’ve been making a lot of guest appearances on other channels, and still have a few more lined-up. So keep your eyes peeled! I’ll do my best to pop up around the fandom where I can. 

5 YEARS LATER & AND BEYOND

These are our two biggest projects, and thus, have the most updates already, so I’ll keep it brief. 5YL Episodes 10 and 11 will be releasing together, and are quickly escalating down the pipeline. Patrons and YouTube Members have frequent check-ins, and we’re thrilled that the series has come so far. Even if you’ve already seen the webcomic version, you’re not gonna believe what we’ve pulled off for this version of the series!

Unfortunately, Ash was hit with an illness that kept him out of commission for a few weeks. But the cogs are now turning again for AB Episode 13. We’re happy he’s back on his feet, and we’ll be on another extraterrestrial adventure before you know it!

BEN 10 BREAKDOWNS

Breakdown production has obviously halted due to our hiatus, but I still feel the need to address it again, as it’s one of the biggest hits and longest-running series of our channel. I may sound like a broken record to those that keep up with our posts, but for those that don’t, I want to reiterate my love for making the Breakdowns. These other projects taking priority does not conclude that I dislike making those video anymore, or that the Ben 10 Breakdowns are canceled. One way or another, I am determined to finish this series, and I’m looking forward to sharing more of my thoughts on Omniverse and the Reboot with the community.

STREAMING & COMMISSIONS

Recently, I have been streaming on multiple platforms during my Drawing with Kuro broadcasts. You can still find me every Tuesday on Twitch @ 2:00pm EST, but I am also broadcasting to Instagram and Facebook, too. For the time being, our second channel, The Rust Bucket, will be included in that line-up, with the goal to eventually move the streams right here on the main channel, too, but we still got some kinks to figure out before taking that plunge. 

You can commission me here: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1i_H7yM9I2oTmPkfSpWSUwhpm8YdZ0OhmzK-_nYNGXBA/edit?usp=sharing

THE FUTURE OF THE INK TANK

5 Years Later & And Beyond have been a huge part of our journey. Even after those projects are completed, I don’t see us ever dropping Ben 10 content as a whole. Though naturally, we will gravitate more towards other projects, including original works and IPs. I am happy to say that production has already begun after receiving some exciting news. 

My plan was to plant the seeds for our future as 5YL comes to the end, and then only prioritize it when the timing is right. But unexpectedly, we’ve been given an opportunity to enter a new avenue that would be detrimental to let fall through the cracks, and thus, we’ve spent the past few months curating a super secret project that will now be a part of our regular work schedule going forward. If this sounds vague, that’s intentional, but my hands are tied! I don’t know when I’ll be able to let everyone in on the secret. 

I’m not a fan of stretching ourselves further than necessary, especially if it keeps ya’ll waiting on the projects we already have in the pipeline. Though “What will you do when 5 Years Later is over?” has been a popular recurring question for years, and now I finally have an answer - I just can’t tell you yet! But it’s important for me to let you know that despite the large amount of content we’re working on that you’re aware of, there’s much more going on behind the scenes. So rest assured, we are ALWAYS working on something, whether or not we’re able to give updates. 

That’s all I got to say for now. Thank you for reading! Until next time, Keep it Fizzy!

[ppushable]

just us.

jean kirschtein x gn!reader / oneshot / wc: 9.4k

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It's the last summer of high school and it's time to grow up. Too bad I have to do it without you.

Nights like this I wish could last forever: just us in the rain.

⋅ ⋆ ─────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────── ⋅ ⋆

ao3 tags:

FUCK / Alternate Universe - High School / or the tail end of it / Reader-Insert / gender neutral reader / How Do I Tag / Kissing / Angst / Fluff and Angst / Growing Up / Separations / Rain / Late Night Conversations / POV First Person / Present Tense / Pining / French-Speaking Jean Kirstein / Reader is emotional / theres some music for this too / Don't Examine This Too Closely

to make some things clear:

it's the last summer after high school (i.e. about to enter university)

based in canada which is basically the us but it doesn't really matter

reader is gender neutral (let me know if something seems off)

we don't know Connie in this one

i also got some songs which i thought fit the mood based on what was playing as i wrote. the songs will be indicated (==) in the writing. here's the queue:

dream, ivory; dream, ivory

heart to heart; mac demarco

little person; matt maltese

cry; cigarettes after sex

everything; the black skirts

if you're on iphone, i recommend doing the rain sounds when it rains, but it's up to you. without further ado ♥

⋅ ⋆ ─────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────── ⋅ ⋆

== dream, ivory

The rock I’ve been kicking skids off the edge of the sidewalk, into the dark grass. I already miss the feeling of its bump against my foot. I’m going to miss a lot of things. Even before I finish the thought the familiar feeling of dread rises up from the depths of my gut. 

Shush. 

Jean’s face is illuminated harshly directly below the streetlight, hair glowing as if powdered in some otherworldly dust, shadows hard and soft defining and redefining themselves as we walk. Aimless wandering, that’s all we’re doing, but I’d rather be doing this than anything else. I’d rather be with him.

I almost miss the signature little smirk on his face mid-head turn but double take in time to see it grow. 

“What? You like what you see?”

Well, yeah.

But I stick the side of my finger against his teeth and he squirms. “Wh— hey! What was that?” There’s a chuckle between those words, though, and it makes me want to crack open like a stupid little egg and pour out all the feelings I have for him onto this very concrete, cover it with my devotion, stain it forever and ever. But all that comes out is a laugh and that’ll have to be enough. 

“You’re annoying, you know that?”

“I was just asking you an honest question!” He holds up his hand as if preaching. “Honest to god, hand on the bible.”

Okay, Jean. “And if I said no?”

He has the nerve to look offended. “Then I’d know you’re lying.”

“Fff,” I huff, and I have to turn away because the grin on my face is at a dangerous level. “This boy. You’re too full of yourself.”

“Mmm-hmm,” Jean says smugly. “But you like me that way, don’t you?” His arm hooks my waist to pull me closer and I do the same, gripping the back of his Stohess University hoodie. At this point this position is second nature — no more awkward touching or not-so-subtle shifting. Now we’re like… two stones in a river that just happen to fit together like pieces of a puzzle. That’s right, us, the walking pebbles, down the dark streets of 3 AM that would be scary under any other circumstance. 

Happy as can be. 

Until summer ends, at least. 

Sometimes I want to rip that hoodie off him and tear it into a million pieces, destroy the place that wants to take him from me so badly. But it makes him happy. It makes him really fucking happy. And who am I to take that away from him? 

“Hey,” he says, and I loosen my grip on the thick cloth before he notices the pulling. 

“Yeah?”

I feel his voice, a low hum against my side, just as much as I hear it. “What’re you thinking about?”

The windows of the houses around us are empty, void. It’s strange, isn’t it? To think that in every house is a different life, multiple lives which I’ll never know. An entire life with emotions and memories and experiences and desires. A human animal. “You, of course.”

He doesn’t respond at first and when we pass under another streetlight his face is a little redder than before, all across his nose and cheeks and ears, and it takes a lot not to stop right there and throw myself on him. I love it when he does that, when he proves that his bad-boy front is just that. A front. “Hah. What a flirt.”

Leaning in, I say, “I learned it from the best, didn’t I?”

“So you’re—” his face pulls even closer, and we stop under the broken buzz of a streetlight— “calling me a flirt.”

My feet scrape the concrete as I turn on the spot and drape my arms over his shoulders. Trepidation lines my bones and leeches into my legs, drop by drop. “Maybe,” I say, and I feel the air of my breath off his reddened skin. Gorgeous, gorgeous. I wait for him to close the little distance between us, which might as well have been no distance at all, because when we touch, when I feel the familiar, burning warmth of his lips pressing against mine, I… I forget what I was thinking about. 

I claw for his neck, the hair I begged him to grow out that I know will look so good on him, I need us to be closer, and he knows, pulling my body into his with his arms against the curve of my back, chest to chest, pelvis to hardening pelvis. I huff into his mouth from the sudden pressure and Jean takes me up again immediately after the brief separation without a breath to spare with a little moan, leading me stumbling backwards to god knows where but I trust him. I love the way the world just goes. My back hits something hard and I grunt from pain which just makes Jean snap and double down harder, reach further, a futile attempt to satisfy the beastly desire in my core that grows with every passing second. 

“Ah…”

I love his hand lowering to the small of my back, the way it trembles, the way it goes lower. The other slides under my shirt, roaming well-travelled areas, but that doesn’t make it any less enticing. I cling to the back of his head like my life depends on it because it very well might, following his every small movement like it’s the guiding star. He opens up for a quick huff of air and I use this opportunity to take the reins; to plunge deeper. 

I love how his hair feels. And when I pull it just right he makes a helpless noise into my mouth and oh fuck I could fold for him right now. 

I love how disgusting we are. Probing every part of each other with our tongues. The little pits in the skin of his cheeks. Heat in my core. Heat in my brain. Heat between our bodies. The taste of him. 

I love how I don’t know where I end and he begins. Burning lungs. Pull harder and he groans louder and I don’t know what noise belongs to who. Can you tell dogs apart by their bark?

I love his taste. Desire for air, but greater desire for him . His hand stops now in that place he knows I love, skin to burning skin, but the other never moves, keeping me locked in place. Need to be closer. Just us. 

I love his eyes, half-lidded but brimming with want. A fistful of his locks, tightening. Mind going places my hands can’t. Not here, not now. 

I love…

Just when I think my heavy heart is about to give out, we separate, the heat is gone, and we gasp for air both, separating the line of drool that connects us with a blistering snap. Colours come back. My head drops to his shoulder and his warm breath lands in the sensitive crook of his neck as he lets his hand slide out of my top and return to the small of my back with the other. I keep mine firmly anchored around his neck. We pant like mutts in the street, unmoving save for the heaving of our chests. The buzzing of the streetlight returns, but it never really left, did it? We did. 

I hope he likes me back as much as I do him. I hope he’s not doing this because he has to. Swallowing takes up precious time; immediately after I’m back to laboured breathing. If he’s anything but happy I’ll recede into the darkest, damndest reaches of the Earth so he can enjoy the sun. I would never tell him that, though. I hope I’m not… I hope I’m not too much. 

Maybe a little too abruptly I let go of him and he does the same after a moment's delay, a little reluctantly, but I’m imagining it. I wipe my lip before smiling. “You flirt.”

Running a finger across his mouth, Jean scoffs, a hint of his softer side still showing through as if his usual act hasn’t fully hardened yet. “You started it.”

“Hardly.”

“Do I need to bring out the case files?” he asks, raising an eyebrow. “Do I need to pull out the evidence?”

“Evidence being what, exactly?” I point to his pants pockets. “You have a little pocket hamster witness? Or a boob camera?”

Gasping lightly — yet still maintaining a tone of exaggeration — his arms fly up: one to cover his chest, and the other his crotch. “You’re lucky my ass doesn’t report you right now.”

Obnoxiously, I smack my lips, run my tongue over my teeth, and stick my hands in the pockets of my sweatpants. “I bet that ass can do a lot of things, princess. Walking all alone at night. Isn’t it dangerous?” I produce a crude rendering of Jean’s own smirk (to cover my own growing smile) while flipping my hair. “Let a handsome man escort you to your house.”

His act drops immediately. “Okay, you’re a little too good at this.”

I laugh.

“No, like seriously—” he raises his voice a bit to be heard clearly a smile grows on his face— “you’re creeping me out.”

“Hush, you.” With unspoken agreement we start walking again. “I need to keep up my creepy guy persona in case I’m ever approached.”

“What, your plan is to outcreep the creep?” He shakes his head. “Good luck with that one.”

I make my voice go gravelly again while making a squishing motion. “Let a man cop a feel. It’s the least you could do for all his hard work.”

“Okay, first of all, no, stop that. Secondly,” he says, pushing my hand away, “nobody’s gonna approach you as long as I’m—”

He freezes, then closes his mouth and swallows, Adam’s apple pushing back down the words unsaid. As long as I’m around . The dreadful feeling comes back like cold lead in my veins. But you’re gonna be around for long, are you, Jean?

We reach the junction directly between two streetlights, the darkest point of the sidewalk. There usually aren’t many stars where we live; regardless of the weather, city lights always blot out the little speckles in the sky that are supposed to just appear every night like in the pictures. Jean always wanted to see them. The Milky Way. The closest thing we have to a galaxy are the fluorescent glows of store signs that reflect off the bricked walls of the apartment buildings and cracked asphalt roads. 

“Hey,” I murmur, linking my arm through his and pointing at the splash of white light down the street. “Let’s go over there.”

“What, the 7-11?”

“Let’s get snacks and have a picnic together.”

A little chuckle escapes him. “At this time of night?” He doesn’t allow time to respond. “Well, alright.”

The mechanical beep greets us as the door opens. As expected, the place is empty, resided only by the eye-chokingly bright junk food packages haphazardly lining the shelves. My warped figure in the security camera screen hanging from the ceiling holds open the door for Jean and he steps through. He hasn’t been properly illuminated in a while so I take the opportunity to drink him in a little. There’s some darkness under his eyes and the scruff beginning to grow on his chin is getting longer than he prefers it (shaved off completely). His jaw clenches and unclenches seemingly at random as if he’s chewing gum, but he’s probably biting the inside of his mouth. It’s a nasty habit of his, and it never means anything good. He’s probably stressed about university. 

I sniff. Lysol. This place is a little too normal, a dip back into the waters of everyday. “Do you have your wallet?”

He stops and taps his pants pockets — first the back, then the front — and nods. “Yeah, I got my card.” 

“Sugar daddy me?”

A blush rises to the occasion and he rolls his eyes with a quick “yeah” before disappearing into the aisles. He hates getting flustered (but loves to inflict it on me) and does so at the weirdest things. In his own words, blushing is a ‘boner for your face.’ Okay, Jean. So what if I want to see you pop face boners. You like seeing mine, don’t you?

I scurry after him, scanning the items in his hold. “Strawberry Pocky. Black Doritos. Cola gummies.”

He holds out his arm so I can see better. 

“Nothing healthy? Nothing wet?”

“Okay, first of all, it’s a 7-11. Healthiest thing here is the air quality. Second of all.” He sets his palm on top of my head. “We’re getting there, alright? And don’t say wet.”

“Nothing moist.”

The flat hand turns into a fist and knocks lightly once on my skull. “Can’t win with you, eh?”

I flick his hand away and we keep weaving through the aisles. Marshmallows. 

Picking up the bag of sweets I stare at, Jean says, “we’re never gonna finish all these, y’know.”

“I know.” 

“What happened to getting healthy stuff?”

“You walk so slowly that I have to pick up everything I see. Or I’ll be understimulated and die.”

“Understimulated, huh?” he muses. I look up at his face but he’s reading the wrapper. “Maybe you’re my pocket hamster. Like a lab rat. Do I need to put you in a really big maze?” He shakes the bag like it’s cat treats and shoots me a smug look. “I’ll use these instead of cheese. If you solve the puzzle right I’ll toss you one so you have something to munch on.”

I don’t dignify him with a response. Steeling my fingers, I plunge them into his front pocket. 

The impact wracks through him, nearly making him drop the package. “Wh—”

“Won’t fit.” I shake my head and wiggle my fingers. “I can’t be your pocket hamster.”

I swear a tiny bead of sweat accumulates on his cheek but he’s quick to scratch it away. “I can make you fit.”

“Really?”

His eyes narrow. “You know more than anyone that I can make things fi—”

“Oh, hey.”

My head snaps toward the new voice — it’s the cashier, appearing from a door to take his place behind the counter. His grey hair’s been buzzed short (he hovers around our age despite the colour), almost to the point of bald, and various piercings on his face gleam even in the horrible 7-11 lighting as he cocks his head. “Sorry, didn’t notice you guys come in. Need anything at all?” 

“No, we’re good,” I say, subtly (I think) sliding my hand out of Jean’s pocket. Was the pocket thing too much? I overstepped again, didn’t I? “Thanks, though.”

The cashier nods once — I’m too far away to see his nametag but not the exhaustion that leaks out of him like a broken tap — and messes with something under the table. My gaze once again finds Jean’s and he looks like he’s seen a ghost which almost makes me feel like laughing. His big hand encloses mine and he leads me somewhere out of sight. Slurpee machines. They start humming as Jean lets me go and pinches the bridge of his nose as if on cue. “That was a little too close. Oh my god.” He chuckles lightly and it’s muffled. “He nearly saw us.” 

When he drops his hand and meets my eye the humour disappears in a flash; gravity immediately weighs down his features. “Is something wrong? Did I say something?”

“No!” I didn’t even say anything yet and he’s already this serious. Guilt settles already; why did I make him feel bad? “No. It’s— you did nothing wrong. I’m sorry.” I shoot for a grin and hit a grimace. “I’m just kinda tired.”

“Yeah. You look tired. Darling.” The word is raspy with the breath of his throat yet also strangely tender, as if uttered through honey, and we both pause at the new label. Darling. He called me darling. It’s getting warm. “Sorry. That sounded stupid, didn’t it?”

== heart to heart

Darling . “Dont— no! It’s not stupid at all! I— um.” I put a hand on his shoulder and Jean, recognizing the cue, leans his tree of a body down so he can stare straight into my eyes. “It was really… it was really cute. You should…” I trace a crack in the floor that reveals dark grout underneath while idly tucking some of his hair behind his ear. “Use that name on me again.” 

A little huff escapes him, brushes against my lips, and I’m compelled to look into those eyes again. Brown, hazel, green; depending on the lighting or weather they can be any of those colours, but I always find myself falling in regardless. There’s no reason for it. How layers of cells and pigments can trap me so hopelessly like it’s hypnosis, how even a scraping glance reminds me of our bests and worsts, how I want to look in there forever and ever, a bottomless well of all that was and could be and all that I want. “Well, since it’s got you looking all red like this, I really should.”

I just hope that you feel the same. I hope my thoughts are wrong. I hope I don’t make you uncomfortable. I hope that I can be good enough for you (but how can I)?

And I wish, I really fucking wish, that

   we never lose each other

      but I know it’s going to happen anyway

It’s going to happen anyway

and it hurts.

It hurts like a teddy bear on the ground in an abandoned house. A cracked picture frame. Sleepless nights with only tomorrow for comfort. Returning, over and over again, to the places I keep promising myself not to go to. 

Knowing that, at some point, we’ll walk together for the last time. Kiss each other for the last time. Eat together, dance together, listen to the same song together for the last time. 

So I’ll walk alone. I’ll pleasure myself. I’ll eat alone, dance alone, listen to that song until it becomes monotonous and you’ll become a stranger or a ghost or die forever and the initials so painfully carved into my heart will become fetid. Everywhere I look I’ll see your face and hear your voice and feel your warmth and smell your breath. I’ll do it, I’ll fucking do it and loathe every moment of it.

Oh, Jean, if only we could run away and gossip and lay in the sun together somewhere far away where there’s a big field and lots of flowers and a clear stream that brings us cool, fresh water and berries from the forest. Where it’s always daytime, except when it’s not, and I’ll weave flowers into your beautiful hair and you’ll do the same for me and we’ll look to the open sky, with nothing to obstruct us, no buildings, no wires, no light, and there are so many stars, beautiful and so bright, so wonderful that it’ll take your breath away like a little kid seeing dinosaurs and we’ll lay for hours in the weeds together and just look at them until the sun comes back up. And we’ll be so happy we’ll cry. Just us and nothing else. 

But I know that what I want isn’t what you want. I know that. So I’ll do the right thing. I’ll do the right thing! I said I’ll do it, so leave me alone. 

Now Jean’s breath rustles my hair. “Hey.” 

At some point I started looking at his shoes. They’re creased and dirty. Not because he can’t afford them, but because he doesn’t know how to take care of his stuff. “Really, Jean.” I suck in a big breath disguised as a yawn to maybe disguise the wetness — sorry, moistness — of my eyes and point at his feet. “You’re like a little kid sometimes.”

“Huh? What do you mean?”

“So dirty.”

“My shoes? It’s only a little bit.” 

I raise an eyebrow. 

“It looks cool like that. Doesn’t it look cool like that?” 

“Okay, Jean.” The slurpee machine hums again and I’m drawn to the mechanical whirring. Who cares if there’s rat poop or salmonella or whatever in there. I’m a little thirsty and my throat could use some loosening before I start croaking. 

“It— it’s cool, right?” Jean leans against the wall, right behind the stack of cups that jut out horizontally, packed together so densely the transparent plastic becomes opaque. I slide one out of the holder and snap one of the lids out of their holders, too, and combine them before angling the cup under one of the spouts. 

“I dunno, Jean,” I say, pushing down the plunger. Synthetic heaven plops into the cup, making it jump at the initial impact. I look back in time to see him get a cup of his own. “You’ll have to ask yourself that.”

“That usually means no,” he says glumly, setting his cup down to fill. “It’s fine.” He’ll be getting coke on the bottom and cherry on the top, like he always does. “I know how to use a laundry machine. Just like you taught me.”

Sliding my cup underneath a different spout, I smile. “Good boy. You’re learning so well.”

Jean watches his cup overflow. 

“Oh. Jean. Jean .” I grab his wrist and take his hand off the lever. I shouldn’t have said that. “Wake up, Jean.” His face matches the artificially dyed cherry smeared over the hand he’s using to hold the cup and I laugh. “Jean, come on. We have to ask the guy for paper towels.” I pull him back in the direction we came from. “ Jean .”

“I’m coming.” He takes a few heavy steps before pulling himself together, tensed as if electrified. 

The guy behind the counter has earbuds in with the wires wrapped backwards around his ears and doesn’t notice us until we’re a few paces away. He jumps and fumbles to take one out. “Uh, you guys ready to check out?” His eyes, maybe a little wider than they should be given the circumstances, are drawn to Jean’s hand. “You’re… just getting the one slurpee?”

“Uh, no, we… our stuff is back with the slurpee machine.” What am I saying? Jean’s always been the better one at talking. “We, uh, need to clean up. Paper towels!” I squeeze Jean’s hand but it seems he’s still in stupor, melted cherry slushy dripping to the floor. 

“Oh,” is all the cashier says.

“Can we have some paper towels, please?” I continue. “We made a mess with the machine.”

The cashier seems to relax a bit. “Oh.”

“I’m really sorry. We’ll help clean up. Like, you don’t even need to do anything, just tell us where the paper towels are—”

“No, it’s all good, it’s my job. Plus it gets pretty boring here y’know?” He smiles and his teeth are crooked. “I’ll grab ‘em.” And he disappears behind the employee-only door. 

I wait a second or two before elbowing Jean lightly.

“Ow!”

“You alright, zombie?” I ask, trying not to let too much tease slip into my voice.

He rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah.” He looks at his slurpee-d hand, brings it to his face, and wraps his lips around the base of his thumb to slurp the area where the juice drips out. Then his mouth opens a bit more and his tongue inches out, up the side of his palm against the cup, in and out, motions intended to lap up every last drop of the juice like it was never even there in the first place. His other hand rubs firm circles into mine as he goes back to licking the base of his thumb, making small slurping noises. “Mmm,” he moans as he runs his tongue from his hand to the tip of the cup, and now I realize his smug eyes have been on me the whole time, “tastes good. Un goût de paradis. ”

“You didn’t pay for that,” I say as flatly as possible without bursting on the spot.

“It’s fine, it’s just the drops.” He smirks. “You’d change your mind if you knew what it tasted like.”

“And what does it taste like?”

“Maybe,” his leer deepens as he leans in, pulling my hand gently, “I could show you. But…” he pulls back at the last second. “Nah!”

It smacks me in the face like a dead fish. “You— Kirsch—” use your big girl words!— “bastard.”

He chuckles as something metal drops behind the door; another few seconds and the cashier comes back out with a thick roll of the brown paper towels they use in bathrooms (the ones that can’t absorb for shit). “Sorry about the wait,” he huffs, one earbud still clinging to his ear as the other dangles from the neckline of his green uniform. “Hard to find anything in there.” He opens a little side door to get out from behind the counter and his feet drag a little as he walks toward the slurpee machines. Looking over his shoulder, he says, “you guys are coming, right?”

“Right behind you.” Jean calls, this time leading me back.

The cashier tears some of the paper and starts mopping up some of the stuff on the grill, though only succeeds in pushing the little chunks that are left into the gutter. He clicks his tongue and starts murmuring Spanish obscenities. 

“Here.” Jean hands me a piece of paper towel and I take it, getting to work on the ground. The cashier shuffles aside to make room and I utter a quick thanks. As expected, the towels don’t really absorb, but push the liquid around. 

“Maybe you should lick this up, too,” I tease as Jean kneels beside me. 

“Funny.”

But we do manage to clean it up. We toss the soiled paper into a hole built into the slurpee counter for garbage as the cashier continues to scrape the grill. He sighs, bringing his hand up while balling up the napkin and letting it slap against the side of his thigh. “No use here, I’ll get it later. But, uh, thanks for helping out.” Nodding, he tosses the garbage at the garbage hole and misses. 

Jean bats it in for him. “No problem, man.”

He nods again. I can see his name tag, now that he’s closer: 

CONNIE

“It was nothing, really,” I smile. “Thanks, Connie.”

“I’ll be at the counter when you guys’re ready.” He returns the gesture before shuffling away. 

“Well.” Jean collects our little hoard. “You think this is enough?”

Pocky, gummies, chips, marshmallows. And the slurpees. “I know that’s enough.” I cling to his arm like a parasite. “Let’s go.”

Jean pays, we say our goodbyes to Connie, and then we leave. Back to the buzzing and the empty sky, just the same as before, except with food and a vague destination in mind. 

“You know,” I say, swallowing the slurpee still in my mouth, “did that guy seem familiar? Or is it just me?”

“The cashier?”

“Yeah, Connie.”

“Huhh…” Jean licks his lips which are already cherry red. “I don’t think I’ve seen him around school before. But you’re right, he does seem familiar. It’s weird.”

“Maybe,” I muse, throwing him a teasing look, “in another life, you guys did laundry and taxes together.”

“No way,” he chuckles. “We definitely would’ve done something cooler together. Like, fight giants, or something.”

“Giants.” I grin. “Tell me about these giants.”

He shrugs. “They’re big. And they’re naked all the time.”

“Wooow.” 

“What?” he laughs. “They don’t have enough cloth to make clothes so they just go naked all the time! Except in Malaysia.”

“What?”

“And they run really weird, and the girl giants have these—” he charades huge boobs— “giant tits—”

“What about the guy giants?”

He pauses. “They don’t have anything.”

“Nothing?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing at all?”

He scowls. “Why do you wanna know so bad?”

“Nothing.” I shrug. “Are the giants good-looking, at least?”

“The important ones are.”

“Hmm.” I take another slurp. “So I could have a cute, important, constantly naked, big tiddie giant girlfriend.”

“No.”

“Huh?”

“All the giants wanna eat people.”

“Eat people, huh? I can live with that.” 

Jean snorts and rolls his eyes. “Okay.”

We walk in silence until the next streetlight. “On second thought,” I start, “I think, in another life, you guys would survive the zombie apocalypse together.”

“Zombie apocalypse,” Jean echoes. “Why do I feel like I’d die first?”

“You almost do. But Connie sacrifices himself for you.”

He hmms . “Then you’d be part of the secondary group of survivors that ends up betraying the main force.”

“That’s weirdly specific. So I end up betraying you?”

“It’s okay because we join forces in the end.” He shrugs. “Either that or I charm you to our side.”

I grin. “You do, do you.”

== little person

The walk to the park is a short one, and before long the entrance is visible down the void road. A cold drop lands on my hand.

“Huh, we’re almost there.” Jean shifts the bags of chips in hand — the pocky is in his pocket. “Then—” his eye twitches strangely— “ah! Did a bird just shit in my eye?”

“What?” I sputter as another drop lands on my cheek. “There’s no birds. I think it’s raining.”

Blinking hard, Jean utters, “rain?” 

We look up at the same time. The sky is no longer cloudless, and the familiar pitter-patter emanates from the roofs around us. We look back at each other.

Well, shit.

“It’s not that bad,” I start. Jean opens his mouth to reply but something suddenly falls on my head. 

Rather, a downpour of rain, like water from a bucket, pushes me down. It’s loud! Loud like firecrackers.

“Holy shit!” Jean squawks, barely heard above the sound of rain. “No! My slurpee!”

The coke and cherries is on the ground now, cratering with every heavy raindrop that lands in it. I snatch his now-free hand.

“Forget it! We have to go!”

His face is devastated, but he nods. No recovery. I jut my head in the direction of the park; he nods again, and we make a break for it.

Being the taller one, Jean could easily outpace me, but we run side by side, feet sloshing first in the asphalt then in the grass as we finally make it to the park. “There!” he cries, pointing at the nearest tree that looks like it could provide some decent cover. I run until I feel my legs are going to give out and we crash under the leafy cover like it’s the finish line to a marathon, not letting go of each other even when our clasped hands crack into the tree’s trunk and we smack into each other on the other side with the full force of our momentum. 

“Hooo!” Jean huffs. There’s no light in the park but I still can’t miss the wild look in his eyes, the way his hair drips and sticks to his forehead, just long enough to brush his upturned eyebrows. “You alright?” 

“Yeah!” I cheer, feeling a laugh bubbling out. There’s no houses here, and probably no people. Who cares anyway? The sudden escapade snapped me into a different state. “Yeah, I’m good! Are you okay?”

“I’m soaked!” His huffs turn into a laugh and he waves vaguely at the sky. “So much for a picnic, huh?”

I blink a few times, then open my eyes wide. There’s no lights installed at the park, at least none that are on at this hour, but even in the pitch dark I know where the main areas are. “Why don’t we go to the pavilion?” I yell, turning back to face him. 

“Mmp!” Jean pulls his head back, but not quick enough. “As you wish, darling,” he garbles quickly, wiping the corner of his mouth. 

My jaw drops and I hold up my cup. The juice is now half of its original volume. “You little—” Without thinking, I swing the bag of marshmallows at his head but he blocks it easily with his arm. 

“I couldn’t help it!” he bursts, dribbling a small amount onto the mulch floor with a splat .

The words die in my throat as we stare at the regurgitation. A moment later Jean takes off and I swear I see the raindrops fly off. 

“Jean!” What choice do I have? I pursue.

The thief never strays more than a few feet ahead, allowing me a few more rain-laced swings before a picnic bench suddenly appears in front of us. At the last minute Jean manages to slam his feet onto the bench part and leap onto the table, but I don’t lift my knees high enough and the wood dings my shins and before the pain has time to register the soaked, half-rotten tabletop screams toward me

and when it’s supposed to hurt, it doesn’t. 

Vision isn’t required to know that my face is squished up against Jean’s palms which cushion me from the wood. His wet hands peel off and travel to my shoulders. “Shit! Are you okay?”

Now my legs hurt. I blink at his blurry face and put my hands over his. The stuff I was carrying is on the ground now; I’m kneeling on the bench. “You saved me.”

“Of course.” 

“Even though I hit you with marshmallows.”

“Darling.” He takes my hands in his, clasping them between our bodies. We’re soaked thoroughly now; the sweater I have stupidly unzipped weighs down heavily on my shoulders and rainwater constantly runs into my eyes and the valley of my lips, while Jean’s bangs are plastered to his forehead, eyelashes clumped together, and rain drips from the end of his nose onto our hands. “I would save you if it killed me.”

Then save me now. 

Tell me you won’t accept that program at Stohess. Tell me we can go away somewhere far, far enough to avoid going to a school I don’t want for a degree I don’t want for a future I don’t want. 

At the very least, tell me I can find the strength to break away from it all and make something decent out of this life that I’ve forcefully been granted. 

How do you do it? How do you forge your own path, create a light that’s so blinding it renders me a moth? How do you find the courage? 

I bring the bundle of our hands close to my face, let my breath run down the slick side of the back of Jean’s palm. “I would do the same for you.” And gently, as if handling the most precious jewel, I press my lips against the ridge of his knuckles and whisper, “ mon chéri. ”

Rain continues to fall in that familiar, comforting hum as it patters softly onto the grass and soil and leaves and wood. Jean stays silent for so long and if not for the look in his eyes I would think he didn’t hear me at all. But his lips crack open, and it takes a few tries for him to say what he wants. 

“I… I wish…” His Adam’s apple bobs and rests precariously on his throat, holding the power of the things left unsaid. “I wish you’d finally admit that you’re a bigger flirt than I am.”

Out of reflex I scoff and release myself from his grasp to pull some hair off my face, covering the blow of his sudden change of heart that makes my insides feel as if they’d been scraped on hot concrete and poured back in. “You’re insane, Kirschtein.” No, it’s stupid and selfish of me to expect him to say something. 

Shrugging plainly, he rubs his palms against his knees as if to dry them (ha ha), but gets up a moment later to pick some things off the grass. He returns a moment later with the pocky and gummies and drops them on the table before dropping down himself. The pocky box is soggy. “Let’s have our picnic right here.”

I shoot him a skeptical look which I hope he sees. “In the rain?”

“I know it’s your favourite weather.” His voice is soft and he speaks as if he had committed a grave sin. 

“What if you get sick?” Now I remember to zip up my sweater. 

His eyes follow the movement. “I can take care of myself.”

Fat chance of that, boy. “What if I get sick?”

“I’ll take care of you.”

I take a seat beside him on the table, feet on the bench. “And if we both get sick?”

He smiles a little. “Then I can hold you without worrying about transferring anything.”

“And you’re not a flirt.”

“What—” he opens the pack of gummies with a plastic crackle— “ever,” and sets the package between our bodies. 

These are Jean’s favourite snacks. I’m sure he’s gotten sick by eating too many of these before, but he was convinced it was something else he ate. Idly, he pops one in his mouth, and I follow suit. They do taste good, though. 

“Wonder if anyone’s ever been here this late,” Jean mumbles as I open the pocky. 

“I’m sure they have. And I’m sure they will be.” I draw a length of the strawberry-coated stick like a sword and crunch. “None of them are idiotic enough to have a picnic when it’s raining, though, so we’re probably a first for that.”

He chuckles. “Pioneers, I’m sure.”

We eat in silence. The rain slows down, but doesn’t let up. 

What am I doing here? What’s even the point of this? It’s only going to hurt me more, spending time with a ghost like this. 

“Jean.”

“Hm?”

“Do you know the pocky game?”

“Hmm?”

“You know.” I stick one of the candies in my mouth and point to the other end. 

Jean only looks more confused, and, resisting the urge to roll my eyes, I pry open his lips with two fingers and probe him with the pink tip. A strange and perhaps exaggerated noise gargles out of him — the candy slips from my grasp and falls. 

“What the heck!” He bristles like a cat, even in the rain. “Stop laughing!” 

“You’re— you’re supposed to bite it,” I choke. “Why do you look so scared?” 

“I was just surprised .” He shimmies another stick out. “Let’s do it again. It’s just like Lady and the Tramp, right? Come on, let’s do it. Stop that!” 

My attempt to stifle the giggles is piss-poor and Jean knows it. But I stop when I feel him grasp my chin and turn my head toward him. 

“So,” he says slowly around the pocky in his mouth, “are we gonna do this?”

Smiling, I bite the other end, and then we’re connected. The stick vibrates as Jean starts to nibble, and when I follow suit he puts his hand down. We inch closer—

Crunch!

Our eyes widen. 

Wordlessly, Jean lets go of his end of the stick, finds the source of the disturbance, and holds it up sheepishly. 

The entire bag of pocky, compressed to dust under his palm. 

“Whoops.”

I stare. 

“I’m sorry.”

I push the remainder of our pocky in my mouth and chew. 

“Fuck, I’ll— we can go back to the store and get another box. Hey. Don’t turn away…”

Wow, that tree over there sure looks interesting. 

“Forgive me?”

I turn back. He looks absolutely crushed. (As he should.)

“I know they’re your favourite.” His head hangs. “I’ll…” Without warning, he grabs the bag of gummies and dumps the sweets on the ground. They tumble and disappear from view. 

What!

“There. Now we’re even.” He looks up and smiles, shaking the plastic. 

“What— Jean— what’d you do that for?”

“I wanted us to be in the same boat. It’s my fault for destroying the pocky anyway… and both of our slurpees… and I stepped on the chips when I jumped on the bench so I ruined that too. Plus I nearly got you killed.” He shrugs. “Retribution.”

My chest shrivels in on itself. “I didn’t care that much. Those were your favourite.”

“And the pocky was yours. Besides, we still have marshmallows.”

Pointing, I say, “I dropped them back there.” 

“Oh.”

‘Oh’ indeed. I put my hands flat on the table behind me — despite how grimy — and lean back. 

“We’re never gonna finish all these, y’know. ” Guess he was right. 

One sigh turns into another, and soon I’m giggling like a schoolgirl. The rain falls all over my face, my neck, and runs down my shirt, like tiny tickling fingers. This is ridiculous. Here are two stupid dumb teenagers, at three in the morning in the rain, sitting on a bench surrounded by crushed wrappers and gummies and pocky crumbs. How does one even end up in this situation? They must be so young and in love. They must have no worries at all. Just two stupid dumb teenagers and nothing more. 

Humans can only know each other so much. Words can only do so much. Actions, too. 

Maybe, somewhere far away, far into the future or perhaps the past, someone will truly understand the sort of predicament I’m in. 

But it’s a little selfish of me to be comforted by that thought when I don’t even try to make others understand. 

“What’s so funny?”

I let my eyes roll shut. It’s a mistake to spend money on me, Jean. Just run away now before I absorb you like an amoeba. “Nothing. Nothing is funny.” Well, I don’t have to worry about that, since we’re leaving each other anyway! 

It doesn’t matter. What makes you think you can sustain a healthy relationship when you obviously have your own issues? What makes you think you deserve him? You suck away at his happiness like a vampire. You make it so hard for people to be happy. You’re horrid. 

The rain becomes vulgar and suddenly I hate the way it touches every inch of me. 

“Hey.” Jean’s voice is soft, tentative. “Are you okay?”

The wood turns to slime under my palms. “Yeah. I’m just tired.” Maybe we should head home soon, I almost add, but I can’t. “Hey, Jean.” To my dismay, I open my eyes, and the world blinks back at me. Like it’s pissed at me for ever imagining it could disappear. But when I look at him it makes everything a little bit better. 

== cry

Piece of shit. 

A deep booming emanates from the ground like a great burrowing beast about to snap out but it’s just distant thunder. 

“Yeah?” He’s in the same position I’m in, leaned back, eyes shut to the elements. Hair still glued to his forehead but slowly pushing back. Trembling ever so slightly with the shivers. Idiot boy. 

Ever so slowly as to not disturb him or the picnic table, I stand, put my foot down on the other side of him, and come back down, weight fully balanced on his hip, effectively straddling him. He flinches at initial contact but otherwise doesn’t move as I wrap my arms around his chest 

and cling to him

   like a parasite. 

      Please just hold me. 

Another wave of trembles strikes Jean as he lowers himself so he lies flat against the wood and I lay flat on him. His arms wrap around me a moment later. 

I don’t want to think. Jean pulls me a little tighter against that waterlogged hoodie but I don’t mind. My balled hands are getting crushed under our weight and they’re probably hell on his back so I flatten them as much as possible and grasp him. Just us.

Just us, just us, just us…

Jean speaks first, breaking the vow of silence. “You know—” his voice cracks— “we only have three weeks left.” 

That’s it. That’s all it takes for the pit in my stomach to open up so quickly I’m surprised Jean doesn’t get stabbed with it. For the dread to boil over and suddenly take control of my entire body, render me prone, double my mass. “Don’t.” That word was too weak even for me. 

“I’m really… I’m really going to miss you.” The arms tighten and force some air out of me but this time the contact does nothing to help smooth me out.

Stop talking. 

He keeps going. “I can’t ignore it for much longer.”

“Stop.” 

“I try to and I can’t. I’m…” Jean’s chest jerks beneath me as his breaths turn shuddering. The floodgates. “I’m just scared.”’

My throat hurts so much it’s like it’s going to collapse in on itself and my eyes burn and it’s hard to breathe—

“You’ve been the best thing to ever happen to me. And now I have to leave you.”

“Stop,” I rasp, but apparently not loud enough. 

“When we— when we part ways—”

“Don’t.”

“—I hope you find someone who’s better. Someone who doesn’t get emotional over dumb shit, someone who can treat you right, someone with an actual future—”

I smack his chest with it. My hand. Not hard at all. But enough to get him to stop . 

“Jean…” I rise back into a somewhat sitting position. His chin is wrinkled and he’s biting his lip so hard and we lock eyes for a shattering second before he turns his head. Red eyes in a sea of sadness. 

What… do I say now?

“You do have a future.”

He scoffs and the smirk is like razors to the eye. “Because I’m going to make it so far with an art degree.”

“Jean, you’re doing what you want to do. Who cares if you don’t end up getting a ‘traditional’ job? You’re gonna be happy with your life.” Which is a lot more than I can say for myself. 

Jean brings his gaze down to look at the table. “Yeah, you’re right.” His hands slide from my back to the outsides of my thighs. “It’s going to be different without you, though.” 

Deep breath doesn’t do anything. “It’s going to be different without you, too.”

He gives my legs a chaste squeeze, perhaps of comfort. Breathily, he asks, “what now?”

“We enjoy the time left together.”

“And after?”

“We don’t think about after.”

“We have to think about after.”

“Jean…” 

He thinks for a few seconds. “We could try long distance.”

“Jean.”

“I mean, sometimes it works, sometimes. As long as we keep communicating, it should be fine. Right? Yeah. Yeah…” Somewhere, a lone mourning dove calls, its familiar swooping cry piercing the dark. “Say something.”

“I don’t…” know. “What if it doesn’t work?”

“What if it does?” He shifts up on his elbows. “What is there to lose?”

The idea comes immediately to mind but it’s harder to put into words. Late-night research on advice boards and internet forums only proved that everything that can go bad does go bad, and imagining Jean or even me in any of those scenarios renders me feeble. It could work, but it could also fail spectacularly. I don’t want to lose him in one of those ways. 

But, at the same time, I’d rather not lose him at all. 

Jean waits, expectation heavy in his upturned eyes. Who am I kidding. Of course I’d take that risk. “Yeah. You’re right.” I bite the inside of my lip and worry it between my teeth. “It could work.” Because that’s what everyone says before it all goes south. 

Worst case scenario, he walks off with another person to love. At least he’ll be happy. He’ll have a real person to look at. Maybe someone less miserable and self-pitying and broody. Someone better-looking, for sure. Someone who he can rely on, instead of a brick wall who can’t express its feelings. Yeah, that would be nice. They’d meet in college through a shared passion for art and make it through the hardships of life together in a crappy little one-bedroom studio apartment that’s lit by yellowed fluorescents overlooking some shady alleyway that he’s definitely saved them from. Walls covered in portraits of each other, blurry polaroids, their favourite albums, photos of graffitied underpasses and empty parking lots that would be so meaningless to anyone else. Windows open in the summer to let in the breeze because on extra humid days it smells like wood. Windows open in the winter because the colder the air, the more burning hot their skin feels against the other as their limbs tangle under the warm pile of blankets on the couch as they watch their show together, even though they’ve seen it enough times to quote every line. Communicating, at every opportunity, how much they mean to each other and their concerns and their plans, quick chats as they pass each other on the way to class, hours-long nighttime discussions that never seem to end. Words strung together so intricately that neither of them gets up out of bed the morning the same as they were last night. 

“What are you thinking about?”

I’m still staring into his eyes. “Just— the future.”

His jaw starts grinding again. “You really hate talking about yourself, don’t you?”

“It’s not—” I start to say before Jean suddenly sits up at a right angle, bracing a hand behind my back so I don’t fall backwards. His eyes fixed on me the whole time. 

“It’s not what?” There’s a furrow in his brow. “Not important?” 

Suddenly, I realize my hands are on his chest.

“Listen, I know you have… trouble with speaking up sometimes, and the last thing I want to do is force you to do anything you don’t want to do. But—” his hands tighten around my thighs— “sometimes I can’t read your mind, and I can’t help you; all I know is that you’re struggling all by yourself and I’m sitting there useless. Listen—” his breath gives out, and he tries again: “listen. I’m not— I want to help you. Especially now. So if you have anything to say, please, please say it.”

At some point the rain had slowed to a drizzle. 

Do something. Say something meaningful. For once in your life, please, just open your stupid fucking mouth and say something. 

I’m scared too I’m really scared of the future and I want us to run away together and live in the weeds and the one-bedroom apartments I want to stand outside with you in the alleyway I want to have a picnic with you in the underpass I want you to steal my slurpee I want to make you laugh I want to make you happy I want to give you this teddy bear let’s take pictures of each other I’ll teach you how to make a flower braid I want to forget the whole world and all the human animals it can be just us I’ll come out of my dark corner and drag you back in we can be together and never come out just be with me and I’ll be happy wherever

“I’m not really thinking of much.”

“Why don’t you look me in the eye and say that?”

Layers of cells and pigment. Jean’s eyes and my own. My lips part but it’s as if my throat’s turned into a deep, dry well. Something. Something… “When— if —” I inhale— “if we don’t make it, find someone who can treat you right.”

He blinks. “That’s what you’re thinking about?”

“The times I spent with you have been the most precious parts of my life. So if you decide to spend your time with someone else, that’s fine. You’ve given me enough happiness to last a lifetime, you know?”

“What the hell are you spouting,” he grunts. “That’s never gonna fucking happen. Don’t you— are you listening? I’m never doing that.” Now his hands are on my arms. “Don’t you realize how much you mean to me?”

“I don’t think you know a whole lot about me.” Stohess University, his sweater says in big embroidered letters. “Sorry. Don’t worry about it.” Fuck, I sound edgy. Please don’t pursue the subject. 

“No, I will worry about it. Hey, look at me.” He pulls my chin up. “I’m allowed to worry about you too, you know? Do you really think by not saying anything I’ll just go on about my day like it’s nothing? Fuck. I care about you. Why can’t you realize that?” Jean’s eyes glisten dangerously. “You— you do care about me, right?”

That’s it. I grind my teeth so hard they might shatter as the hole in my gut deepens. “Of course I do.” You don’t know how much you mean to me and the fact that I made you this upset makes me want to condense into a dark point and disappear forever. How could I be so stupid? 

“Then let me care about you too.”

Treating him like a little kid without any emotions. Shunning him to the point he feels… uncared for. Discarded. My doing. 

Are you ever going to tell him that you love him?

No you’re stupid you’re a hormonal teenager who’s emotional about growing up stop being such a baby and think about your future that’s what matters that’s all that will ever matter get a job that will make mommy and daddy proud 

   I don’t want to see you with that boy again 

      big kids don’t cry

“Darling?”

A rough warm thumb swipes the skin under my eye and takes away the hot tears that make everything so blurry. Piercing throat pain. “I can’t see you, Jean.”

“You’re crying.”

== everything

“No… I’m not.”

But even as I say it a warm drop runs down my cheek and not a moment later it’s wiped away and he plants a most delicate kiss in its place. There’s something wrong with my breath because I can’t seem to inhale smoothly. 

“Just let it out, my love.”

“I can’t— I can’t see you.” The words come out half-mumbled and airy. 

“Shhh.” He envelops me in his grasp, arms wrapped carefully around me, chest to chest, chin to shoulder, and I find myself clinging on like a parasite. “I’m right here. I’m not leaving you. I’m right here for you. Right here.”

“Jean—” I gulp. “I—” 

“Shhh.” And his chest vibrates as he hums and rocks and I don’t think I’ve been held like this in a very long time. 

His body so warm beneath me, his arms so secure. Nothing to hear and nothing to see. 

I haven’t felt like this in a very long time. 

Breath after jerky breath

   is it finally my turn?

      is it okay like this?

         it’s okay, right?

            it’s safe. 

Jean doesn’t stop. When I twitch or gasp or burrow into him he doesn’t stop, he mutters and sways and holds me as I sob and dirty his shoulder and I don’t think he’ll ever let go. I don’t want him to. 

At some point in the morning, when the park is alive with the sounds of birds, the convulsions stop, and so does Jean, pulling me off and scanning my face.

“Don’t.”

He ignores me, though, and wipes everything revolting off my face with his sleeve. 

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.” 

“I got emotional.”

“I know.” Without an ounce of hesitation, he presses his lips against my forehead and holds it there. “Thank you.”

I take a deep breath and it somehow seems easier than before. “Three weeks.”

“Three weeks.” Jean returns to eye level. 

“Do you ever get that feeling of missing something that isn’t gone yet?”

“Don’t say that. Don’t say that you miss me.”

“Do you miss me?”

He pushes some hair off my face. “With every fiber of my being.”

Slowly, I do the same — pulling his bangs so that they split on the left side of his face, sweeping them to the side. Jean shuts his eyes as I work and tilts his head forward but I don’t know if he’s conscious of it or not. Meticulously placing every damp lock. He doesn’t open his eyes again until I’m finished. 

The time will pass, dates will tick by like seconds. And when it’s finally time, the inevitable will happen. 

Goodbyes hurt the most when the story isn’t finished. 

Maybe, in another life, it goes on for a little longer. 

A story with just us. 

⋅ ⋆ ─────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────── ⋅ ⋆

one fun fact is that i have never stepped foot into a 7-11 before. i just based it off circle k. makes me wonder why i chose 7-11 in the first place. (if you happen to be one of the four pocket hamsters in a single trench coat that read my zombie au fic, the reference here isn't a spoiler. or is it??? haha just kidding. maybe.) thanks for reading my dumpter fire! to be honest i was a little embarrassed posting it but whatever its ao3tumblr. i hope every single one of you experiences a clear night sky and/or strawberry pocky in the forseeable future. take care :) secret tumblr-excluive a/n: am i doing it right? does my post like nice and pretty? did i spend an hour formatting the cover? no i didn't!!

[meeks-just-wants-to-scroll]

Hello !!! :3

I'm slowly getting through chapter 3 of hare fox moon and I've been wondering:

What's the writing process like??? Since in the notes of I believe chapter 1 it says its all from a discord channel so I'm really curious about how you and cupidkiss go about writing???

Also I love your responses to my comments !! Glad they bring joy :3

Signed- snail from ao3

The writing process of HFM kind of just… came out of somewhere? It got far far smoother as we went on. The first couple chapters initially were rough when released to AO3 but since then I have gone back one or two times and revised.

Initially the rp wasn’t even going to be uploaded to AO3. I just decided to archive the roleplay on a google doc because I had a long ass roleplay way back with another person and I regret I never archived it. It was only a couple chapters in me and Paigey realized we were onto something good. I took up the duty of archiving, revising, and uploading the roleplay because it was my desire to fan fiction it.

Why discord?:

Because me and paigey talk on discord and we felt it was most convenient to just make a discord server for keep everything organized.

General: commentary on the events on the roleplaying/ live reactions. It also functions as a catch all channel for any topic that isn’t captured by others.

Rp: channel where we take turns sending responses. Once a message is uploaded, I can copy and paste it into google docs (with minimal formatting issues).

Plot ideas: this was more active earlier in the story when we were organizing ideas, but it’s basically where we shot ideas and planned what would come next in an arc.

Prompts: similar to plot ideas but far more loose and general. This was a channel for art ideas, silly story ideas, character creation ideas, AU ideas, etc.

Art: where we exchanged art of the RP and characters. This channel mainly exists so I can find art quicker and don’t have to filter through something like general channel for a drawing.

Refs: author Bible channel. Quick place to find ref sheets, character desc, maps, mood boards, and whatever else we need to quickly pull up.

Photos: posts not made me either of us that we send to the server. Yet again exists so I can find images or links sent easier.

There are more channels but they are unrelated or AU related.

In rp channel we initially used Tubberbots for Boone and malt because…. Idk. Thought it’d be cool. Near the end I stopped using my malt tubberbot because it prevented me from existing my messages.

All the rp gets put into a doc and revised by me. Everytime we send a rp response, it gets a once over read, then another scan by me when I am in revising mode. Once there is enough written to be one whole chapter, I do a revise of the entire chapter in one sitting. It is during this step I turn all *italic words* into Italic words because discord copy and paste doesn’t copy the text effects across to google docs.

Once I do that final review, I copy it and upload it to AO3. There are 2 google docs. The first one got so full it would crash and so I made another one. It’s holding up better than the last one, even if it is longer.

Would I recommend roleplaying like this? Hmmm. Not particularly, but I can’t think of many better ways. Discord is familiar and accessible and even though it has formatting issues, it is not the worst.

-

I am happy you’re so engaged with this oc project! I promise you, even when we publish the last chapter to this fic, we will still be enthusiastic to answer and talk about it. :) never hesitate to send me or cupiidskiss asks about HFM.

[life-in-the-monster-haus]

I am so so so sorry for just popping in here and bringing back bible talk because I know you got flack for it but I wanted your opinion on this.

Fontana was doing a Q&A on Instagram for September and she answered a question about why Clawdeen and Howleen weren’t related anymore:

But the leaked bible (which I don’t believe you read) said Clawdeen and Howleen were secret cousins and it would be revealed at the end of season 1, which contradicts the show and what Fontana is saying here.

I guess I just want to know what you think cause I value your opinion but I also see fans refer to the Bible leak a lot and I know you were one of the people that didn’t believe it. (You can ignore me too I kinda just stormed in here)

I'll never ignore a well thought out question or a fellow fan who wants to exchange ideas! bring them on!

No need to apologize! The thing with the show bible got quite out of hand, now that the season is over we can clearly see it was a bunch of circumstantial nonsense. I can talk about it now, enough time and fan fare has passed.

I read it and personally? it sounded like it was mostly assumptions and educated guesses based off the direction Nickolodeon / Mattel are going in matters like diversity & inclusion. Not really something that a show staff would write.

I think everyone was HOPING Clawdeen and Howleen would still be related (I was too) but honestly? after the secret dimensional crap they pulled with Clawd & then finding out her mom was still alive, the likelihood of Clawdeen having a 3rd surprise relative she wasn't aware of became more and more unlikely.

I don't really care for the cultural consultant they hired to over-see this season. While the concern of "all monsters of a certain ethnicity assuming to be related" IS a valid concern, I don't think it applies to the wolf pack. In fact I think it brings up way more and weirder questions / implications than the one they are trying to fix.

So now that we know Howleen is not related to Clawd & Clawdeen what does this mean for Howleen? is she no longer black now? they said Hexican heritage so I'm assuming Howleen is no longer black and she is now only Mexican. I take bigger issue with them erasing Howleen's blackness than encouraging this obscure & ancient stereotype that "people of the same ethnicity would all be related" or is she ALSO mexcian and black? it's POSSIBLE for 2 different interracial families to have kids in the same area / school / grade. it's just not very likely. As a mixed person myself I take issue with this... I know lots of half Puerto Ricans in my state but I'm one of three who's Puerto Rican AND Irish and none of us are in the same age range. I don't think the wolf pack encouraged any negative stereotypes because we saw other black kids and other werewolves. it's not a problem to view them all as related IF they are in fact related. There's nothing wrong with having a big family either. Harry Potter did it with the Weasley's there's 7 children in the family but no one said it was encouraging negative stereotypes about redheads.

I love G3 I really do, it's mostly done positive things for the brand and the characters we love. But every once in awhile they kinda shoot themselves in the foot while trying to avoid something they do something way, way worse. for example in this generation they're trying to "tone down" mentions of death because they said it's too depressing for modern kids and Shea has also gone on record saying that monsters like Zombies and Ghosts aren't the remnants of dead humans, they were born monsters. Which is all well and good but then they still do things that only dead creatures do - like Vampires drinking blood - the reason they do it is because their blood cannot sustain life or Zombies eating brains, why do they still need brains if they're a complete being? and where are the brains coming from? Ghoulia made an entire loaf of Whole Brain Bread in the first season of the Nickolodeon show, brains came from someone. So someone somewhere died to provide those brains and if they're not real brains they why are we calling them brains? why not just have it be pink nutrient mush!?

Because THAT would ruin Ghoulia's cool flesh eating aesthetic, no more Brain Puffs or Cup-O-Brains. (which I personally love & I hope they never stop doing this)

See the logistical nightmare that one change created!? If no one has ever died, where is all the dead stuff coming from!? Frankie is literally made out of corpses, why is that okay!? Because their donor parts died a long time ago!? What is the cut off for how long someone has to be dead before we can joke about using their body parts to create a new person!? They have Frida Kahlo's arm and Frida died 70 years ago.

Making Howleen not related to our main wolf pack did something similar. it's created a logical nightmare that I am confident Shea and her crew do not want to answer for because "it's not plot relevant" but it's relevant to us, the fans, we're the only ones who care.

I don't like it and I think their cultural consultant is needlessly walking on egg shells. I don't feel this concern was all that much of a prominent issue with Clawdeen's family during the previous generations - if anything the fans spent WAY more time denying her being black than anything else and Mattel's flat out refusal to give her natural textured hair supported this theory. But at least G3 is trying to correct this... they need to try harder though, a few braids and baby hairs aren't going to cut it I NEED Clawdeen to have some puffs, corn rows or a whole head of braids. (stop putting blonde in her hair mixture while you're at it!) I do not like that Hoween is no longer part of our wolf pack but I guess it's better than her being written out of the series completely.

Sorry I kinda went on a tangent there, but I assume these in depth thoughts are why you guys ask me these kinds of questions to begin with.