#did not mean for it to be this long but I love animation and will always speak about it!!!!

[riboism]

haunted ═╬ act I: the arrival

♱ content tags: centuries old vampire! seonghwa x fem reader, vampire au, gothic romance, gothic horror, story takes place circa early 1900s, reincarnation, smut, angst, forbidden love, slowburn, lots of yearning, no happy ending, blood, satanism, animal cruelty, nosferatu/bram stroker’s dracula/edward scissorhands vibes

♱ wordcount: 5.2k

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A wave of relief swept over you as the crisp, refreshing breeze of late October kissed your cheeks. The train ride to Cromer Ridge had been a seemingly endless ordeal—stuffy, suffocating, and filled with doubts that gnawed at your tenacity. Every mile of the journey was shadowed by second-guessing and an almost unbearable longing to turn back. Yet, deep down, you knew there was no returning to the life you had left behind. Starting over was daunting, the weight of the unknown pressing heavily on your spirit. But you also knew it was time to release the past, to embrace the opportunity for renewal. Though your unfamiliar surroundings felt discouraging, you steeled yourself to take the first step forward.

Your first task upon arriving at your new home was clear: find a job. The urgency of the times was palpable, and the job board near the platform was already surrounded by a crowd of weary, determined faces.

A sigh escaped you as your shoulders slumped in quiet defeat. The list of available positions read like a declaration of exclusion. Coal miner. Machinist. Bricklayer. Though the words “No women inquirers” weren’t printed, the message was clear. And who would hire you anyway? You were a woman, expected to secure financial stability through marriage—or, if desperation struck, by selling yourself in ways too degrading to voice. Your only skills were the domestic trifecta of sewing, cooking, and cleaning—skills instilled in you by a mother who saw no greater purpose than preparing you for marriage, a means to lighten the financial burden of an unwanted daughter.

Just as hopelessness began to settle in, something caught your eye. At the far end of the board, a single yellowed flyer flapped in the breeze, its ink faded and edges curling. It seemed forgotten, avoided even, as the crowd conspicuously steered clear of that corner. Curious, you stepped closer, your heart inexplicably quickening. The faded words were difficult to make out, but you pieced them together as best you could:

Live-in housekeeper needed. Inquire at the Park Estate.

⸺

“Excuse me, sir, can you tell me how to get to the Park Estate?”

The lively chatter and rhythmic clinking of shot glasses halted. One by one, the tavern’s patrons turned their attention toward you, their eyes narrowing with suspicion. The bartender froze mid-motion, his dishrag suspended above the bar as he gawked at the wide-eyed newcomer who had dared to ask such a question.

“What business do you have there?” he asked, his voice laced with thinly veiled disgust.

“I’m inquiring about a position there,” you replied, the words tumbling out sheepishly as the weight of the room’s gaze settled on you. “The one posted at the rail.”

A ripple of murmurs coursed through the crowd.

“Someone really oughta take that flyer down.”

“I heard that’s how he gets his victims—lures them up there with promises of work, then poof, they’re never seen again!”

“You know, he harvests human limbs for the black market! That’s how he keeps that eyesore of a castle funded.”

“Did you hear what the butcher’s wife said? She swears she saw Count Park skulking around town weeks ago, creeping like a ghost!”

“No way. He wouldn’t dare come down here. He knows he’s unwelcome. That’s why he stays up there, feasting on stray cats and whatever he can find.”

The whispers swirled, growing darker with every utterance. The stories painted a picture of a man—or perhaps a creature—that was nothing short of monstrous. The rumors about Count Park were wild and fantastical, their macabre details echoing the haunting bedtime tales your grandmother once told of strange creatures lurking in the shadows, snatching disobedient children to devour.

The bartender hesitated, his brow furrowed. You didn’t know it then, but you’d made a mistake by asking about what the townsfolk referred to as the “Dead End of Cromer Ridge.”  Park Estate was no ordinary home; it was a brooding castle perched on the edge of town, shrouded in mystery and whispered fear. No one dared to venture close, and few could even confirm whether Count Park was still alive. Some said he’d gone mad with grief after the death of his wife, his isolation breeding festering darkness. Others insisted he had dabbled in Satanic rituals, turning himself into a vampire—a bloodthirsty creature doomed to stalk the night.

Every tale was more grotesque than the last, but one truth remained constant: the very mention of his estate sent a chill down the spines of the townsfolk.

After a long pause, the bartender finally relented. “Straight down, take a left at the old sign, and head west. It’s a steep climb—I doubt it���ll be easy to make it up there.”

You murmured your thanks and quickly exited, trying not to let the hushed gossip of the patrons unsettle you. But as you stepped into the cold evening, a sense of unease lingered. The townspeople weren’t just unfriendly—they seemed haunted, consumed by fear of the Count. And their fear had a way of clinging to you, no matter how hard you tried to shake it off.

⸺

The bartender hadn’t exaggerated—the hill was brutal. Each step felt heavier than the last, your calves burning as fatigue clawed its way into your limbs. The path grew darker with every stride, the last rays of sunlight vanishing beneath the horizon, leaving only the oppressive gloom of night. In the distance, the castle loomed, stark and unwelcoming against the dusky sky. Its jagged silhouette seemed carved from shadow, a brooding presence that radiated unease.

As you drew closer, doubt began to fester. A small voice in your mind whispered to turn back, to abandon this unsettling journey. Something about the air felt off—thick and heavy, as though it carried the weight of a hundred unspoken warnings. Perhaps the townsfolk’s sinister murmurs had worked their way into your head, or perhaps it was the creeping dread that came with nightfall. Yet, no matter how many reasons you found to retreat, one undeniable truth remained: you’d come too far to turn back.

The promise of a warm bed, of shelter from the biting chill, was enough to propel you forward. Where else could you go? Who else would take you in? Pushing your unease aside, you pressed on, even as every instinct screamed otherwise.

The moment your foot touched the porch, an icy shiver raced down your spine. The boards groaned beneath your weight, the sound sharp and accusatory in the oppressive silence. The castle’s windows were boarded up, their blackened edges like gaping scars. The wind howled through unseen cracks, coaxing eerie creaks and groans from the ancient structure, as though it were alive and watching. The bushes lining the walkway were disturbingly pristine, their neatness at odds with the house’s decayed and foreboding aura. If not for their immaculate care, you might have thought the place was abandoned.

Your breath hitched as you reached for the door. The metal hoop of the knocker was freezing against your palm, and for a moment, you hesitated, your heart thudding painfully in your chest. With a trembling hand, you lifted it and knocked, the sound reverberating through the still night like the toll of a bell. A death bell, perhaps. 

You stood there, waiting. Seconds stretched into an eternity, the silence amplifying every stray sound—the rustling of leaves, the creaking of old wood, the faint whisper of the wind. Your nerves began to fray, and just as you were about to knock again, a sudden noise made you whip around.

A crow landed on the railing with a thud, its black eyes glinting like polished onyx. It tilted its head, staring at you with an unnerving intensity, as though it were delivering a silent warning: Turn back. Leave now.

But you couldn’t. It was too late. The journey here had already cost you too much, and the thought of retreating to nothing—a cold, inhospitable town, a life of uncertainty—kept your feet rooted in place. Even as dread coiled tighter around your heart, you remained, the weight of your decision pressing heavier than ever.

You jolted as the grand doors creaked open, the deep, groaning sound echoing in the stillness. The noise rooted you to the spot, your pulse hammering in your ears. Until this moment, you hadn’t stopped to consider who would be behind the door. What sort of person lived in a place like this? Why was he so hated? What if the rumors were true—what if he was dangerous?

Your imagination conjured a monster—sharp yellow teeth bared in a sinister grin, hollow eyes that seemed to pierce the soul, leathery, pale skin stretched tight over angular bones. His voice would be guttural and broken, a sound that carried only misfortune and dread. You sucked in a breath, bracing yourself for this creature to appear.

But the door stopped after only opening slightly, leaving just a sliver of darkness visible beyond. No figure emerged, no silhouette loomed. Silence followed, heavy and expectant.

“Hello?” you called, your voice trembling.

There was no response. You hesitated, glancing back down the shadowy path you’d climbed. The idea of retracing that perilous journey in the dead of night frightened you. Desperation flared within you, pushing you to speak again.

“I saw your ad on the job board. For a housekeeper? I’m sorry to disturb you so late,” you began, the words spilling out quickly. “I-Is the position still open? I’ve been cooking and cleaning all my life. I can stitch a warm coat in two days, and hats, gloves, and scarves in less than one. I noticed your bushes—they’re well cared for. I know a lot about gardening; my father taught me—”

The door suddenly widened, cutting off your nervous rambling. A rush of frigid air spilled out, carrying with it the faint scent of damp wood and aged stone. You hesitated, then stepped inside, expecting warmth to greet you. But instead, the chill intensified, the air biting at your skin like icy needles.

The man who had opened the door had vanished, his presence already dissolved into the shadows. The heavy doors groaned as you pushed them closed, their weight demanding your full effort.

Turning back around, you finally took in the house. In the dim flicker of candlelight, the interior revealed itself in pieces, like a dream shifting into focus. The grand entryway was vast, yet suffocating, the kind of place that seemed to watch you back. The floor was a checkered sea of black and white marble, cracked in places and dulled by time. A massive staircase dominated the space, its dark oak banister coiled like a serpent rising toward the upper floors. The air smelled faintly of wax and mildew.

Dust clung to every surface, turning once beautiful furniture into ghostly relics. A cracked mirror hung crookedly on the far wall, its gilded frame tarnished and webbed with cobwebs. A dark red, velvety tapestry drooped sadly from its mount, its colors faded and threads unraveling. Scattered across a long wooden table were odd, forgotten items: loose buttons, dried ink bottles, and what appeared to be a single leather glove, stiffened with age. Despite the grandeur, the house felt as though it had been abandoned to the passage of time, its opulence rotting away in quiet decay.

You held your chest tightly, your pulse quickening as you tried to quell the unease clawing at you.

“Eighteen dollars a month.”

The voice came from above, low and rich like the stroke of velvet against bare skin. It was smooth, refined, and utterly at odds with the house and its rumors. You snapped your head up, your eyes darting toward the staircase.

There he was. A figure stood at the top of the stairs, his silhouette cloaked in the shadows. He was too far away to make out clearly, his back turned to you as he rested one hand lightly on the banister.

“You start tomorrow,” the voice continued, steady and composed, though tinged with something you couldn’t name. “Do not wake me. Your quarters are down the hall to your left.”

With that, he was gone, disappearing into the upper darkness as quickly and silently as he’d appeared.

You stood there, rooted in place, the chill of the house seeping into your very bones. The unexpected smoothness of his voice lingered in your mind, disarming in its elegance. And yet, it wasn’t enough to shake the oppressive weight of the home, with its decayed grandeur and shadows that seemed to shift when you weren’t looking.

Your quarters, tucked away at the far end of the hall, were modest compared to the rest of the house—but that was to be expected for the help, you supposed. The space was sparse yet functional, its simplicity offering a quiet reprieve from the unsettling grandeur outside its door.

A soft white bed stood against the wall, its quilt worn but clean, promising a much-needed rest for your aching body. Beside it, a small desk sat neatly, complete with an oil lamp and a sheaf of blank paper, an unspoken invitation to write letters you weren’t sure would ever reach anyone. A large armoire dominated the opposite corner, its dark wood polished to an eerie sheen, its brass handles shaped like twisting vines. Though you had packed light, the armoire’s cavernous emptiness made your belongings seem smaller still.

You settled into the room cautiously, smoothing your hand over the quilt as you perched on the edge of the bed. Despite its simplicity, the room felt...off. Perhaps it was the silence that hung so heavily in the air or the faint chill that lingered, despite the walls being thick and the windows shut tight.

Your mind churned as you tried to make sense of everything—the decayed opulence of the house, the cryptic demeanor of the Count, and the strange, fearful gossip that followed his name. What kind of man was he, truly? You realized with a sinking feeling that you still had no idea what he even looked like. The thought nagged at you, stirring up an unease that clung to the edges of your thoughts like cobwebs.

The strangeness of it all—the place, the person, the situation—was unnerving, and yet, there was a small part of you that whispered it was too late to turn back now. The journey had been long and unforgiving, and there was no guarantee of shelter if you left.

Your body, however, had little patience for your anxious mind. The weight of the day bore down on you, and your fatigue eventually overpowered your worries. You stretched out on the bed, its softness wrapping around you like a cocoon. As your eyes fluttered closed, the strangeness of the house loomed over you, lingering in your thoughts like a shadow.

But soon, the stillness of sleep claimed you and the unsettling mysteries of your new life were left to haunt the night.

⸺

You awoke just as the first rays of dawn slipped through the cracks in the heavy curtains, casting faint golden streaks across the room. To your surprise, you felt well-rested, the ache of yesterday’s journey soothed by the quiet stillness of the night. The house, with all its looming shadows and unsettling whispers, had not disturbed your sleep.

Sitting up slowly, you stretched your arms overhead, feeling the stiffness melt from your shoulders. A yawn escaped your lips as you rubbed the lingering drowsiness from your eyes, the warmth of the quilt still clinging to your skin. For a brief moment, the morning felt almost normal—peaceful, even.

But as your feet touched the cold floor, that fleeting comfort dissolved. The air in the room was still and heavy as if the house itself had been holding its breath while you slept. You couldn’t shake the feeling that something had been watching, waiting.

Shaking off the thought, you steeled yourself for the day ahead. Whatever the peculiarities of this house or its master, you had work to do.

In the cold kitchen, you set the tea kettle over the fire, the soft crackle of the flames breaking the otherwise oppressive silence. As you watched the water begin to simmer, a thought crept into your mind: should you prepare a cup for the Count? It seemed polite, perhaps even expected, but then you remembered his firm instruction not to wake him.

Maybe he simply valued his solitude—or his sleep. You could understand that; mornings were a sanctuary for some. Still, the uncertainty of your role gnawed at you. What kind of man didn’t even outline what he wanted from his housekeeper? You glanced at the kettle again, steam curling lazily toward the ceiling.

You reassured yourself that time would bring clarity. By nightfall, surely, you would understand his routine and expectations. For now, you took comfort in the steady rhythm of small tasks, grounding yourself in the familiar while the unfamiliar loomed just beyond your reach.

As you moved around the kitchen, its grandeur dulled by the thick coat of dust, the scale of your work became painfully clear. The counters, once polished to a gleaming finish, were now layered with grime. A tower of mismatched dishes teetered precariously in the sink, their surfaces streaked with stains that told of long-neglected meals. The pantry was nearly bare—just a few stale loaves of bread, an old jar of jam, and some long-forgotten tins tucked into the corners.

You sighed, shaking your head as you rummaged through the cabinets. At least there were some spare biscuits, and with the tea brewing steadily, you’d make do for now. A trip to town for supplies seemed inevitable, though the thought of braving the peculiar townsfolk again didn’t thrill you.

After nibbling on the dry biscuits and sipping the hot tea, you wandered through the halls, taking in your new surroundings. Even as the sun’s rays peeked over the horizon, the house remained shrouded in shadows. The wooden panels nailed over the windows blocked most of the light, forcing you to rely on the flickering glow of the few lit candles. The air felt thick and heavy, the faint scent of mildew lingering in the corners.

The living room, if you could call it that, was a chaos of clutter. Melted candle wax had pooled and hardened on the floorboards, books lay scattered across the furniture, and a once-elegant rug was curled at the edges, its patterns obscured by dust. A broken clock leaned precariously against a wall, its glass face cracked and the hands forever frozen in time.

You crouched down to scrape some of the hardened wax from the floor, the task already feeling endless. A sigh escaped your lips. Yes, there was much work to be done—more than you had expected.

But as daunting as it seemed, you reminded yourself of the warmth and security that this place, for all its strangeness, provided. Rolling up your sleeves, you resolved to tackle the disarray piece by piece, determined to bring some semblance of order to the house. Whatever secrets this place held, at least you’d have the satisfaction of a clean floor beneath your feet.

⸺

The afternoon had slipped away, and your work felt far from done. The kitchen and dining room had consumed the better part of the day, leaving your back aching and your hands stiff. The thought of tackling the grand living room and foyer loomed over you like a heavy cloud. You’d been busy with the senseless tasks of cleaning and reorganizing, but there were still errands to run. The idea of facing more work in the house was enough to make you pause. 

You slipped into your warm coat, wrapped a scarf tightly around your head, and stood at the door, pausing for a moment. You glanced up the staircase, half-expecting to see a glimpse of your master. But there was only silence. No movement, no sign of him. Perhaps he was still asleep. 

With a loud sigh, you grabbed your purse and stepped out into the chilly air, the weight of the day still heavy on your shoulders. The path down to town felt long, but it was a welcome distraction from the house and the work that awaited you when you returned.

The journey down the hill felt longer today, your never-ending thoughts slowing your steps. You passed the same familiar buildings, the same curious eyes peering at you from behind the small shops and homes, but today, there was a different sort of tension in the air. You knew the townsfolk still whispered behind your back, their words like echoes of a story you couldn’t quite grasp. You tried to ignore it, focusing instead on the task at hand: groceries. Yet, their comments continued to swirl in your mind.

“Don’t meet her eyes, she carries his curse within her,” one of the shopkeepers muttered under her breath to a customer as you walked past. You caught only fragments of their conversation, but the few words you did hear made you shudder in place. 

Their whispers were distinct—filled with warnings, judgments, and fear. It was as if the townspeople saw you as a shadow of the Count, carrying with you a dark energy that left them uneasy in your presence. Their words wrapped around you like a curse, as though you, too, were tainted by something malevolent. They spoke of you as if you were a mirror of the Count’s darkness, forcing them to avert their eyes and steer clear of your path altogether.

You pushed yourself forward, determined to finish your task. The items you needed weren’t difficult to gather, but the weight of their gaze made everything feel heavier. You hurried, and by the time you reached the shop’s counter, you realized you had forgotten a few things, the very basics that had slipped from your mind in the rush of the day.

With a sigh, you made your way back to the estate, the basket of groceries now even more cumbersome. The long hill back up to the house made your legs ache, but it wasn’t just your body that felt worn—your mind too felt numb, with feelings of anxiety and uncertainty making it impossible to think about what to do for dinner. 

When you returned, the sun was already making its way down, and the house was as silent as before. You set the groceries down in the kitchen, eyes wandering over the untouched spaces, the dust that still lingered.

You quickly got to work, preparing a simple dinner for yourself and your master. The faint smell of burning wood and the steady crackle of the fire filled the air, offering you little comfort as you set the table for one. The clink of the dishes was the loudest sound in the room, your own heartbeat keeping time with each dish you placed.

As you adjusted the final details on the table, you heard the soft creak of the door. The flames flickered unexpectedly, casting dancing shadows across the room. A chill swept over you, settling in the pit of your stomach as the temperature seemed to drop with his arrival.

You turned, and there he stood, filling the doorway with a presence so striking it almost stole your breath. His gaze locked onto you, and the cold that had crept in from the draft seemed to melt away, replaced by something much warmer—an almost familiar tension that pulled at your chest, making it harder to breathe.

He wasn’t what you had expected. His appearance was nothing like the monster the townspeople had whispered about. There were no signs of age or decay, only ethereal beauty—as if he was sculpted by some divine hand. His skin was pale, smooth like porcelain, with a soft glow that seemed to catch the dim light from the candles. His dark, glossy eyes were like deep pools, glinting with a mystery that held your gaze far longer than you intended. His perfectly sculpted cheekbones added to the sharpness of his face, giving him a sense of quiet nobility, yet there was something undeniably otherworldly about him.

He lingered at the doorway for a moment, his eyes scanning the room before settling on you. His expression was unreadable, but something flickered in his eyes—shock, maybe, as though he hadn’t expected you to be there. His eyes narrowed slightly, studying you, and the weight of his gaze made your shoulders tense. Your fingers found the hem of your apron, fidgeting as you tried not to squirm under his scrutiny.

Then, almost imperceptibly, he seemed to catch himself. His posture straightened, and his expression softened, the sharpness of his gaze retreating behind a veil of composure, as though he’d realized he might have given too much of himself away.

Your heart pounded as you thought of what to say. Gathering your courage, you managed a small, polite smile. "Good evening, sir," you began, your voice trembling slightly. "I—I prepared some soup and fresh bread. I thought it might be to your liking."

He approached you slowly, each measured step echoing in the room, the sound of his heels against the wooden floor making your chest tighten with anticipation. As he drew nearer, the air seemed to shift, heavier with every step. Just as he reached your side, he stopped abruptly, his gaze dropping to the dinner you had so carefully prepared.

"Thank you," he said, his voice smooth and velvety, resonating like a soft hum that seemed to linger in the stillness. There was a pause before his eyes flicked back to you, and his next words came softly but firmly. "What is your name?"

The weight of his presence pressed against you, and your nerves heightened as you whispered, “Y/N, sir…” You kept your voice low, unsure whether to meet his gaze or keep your eyes lowered. The tension prickled at the back of your neck, your hands clasping tightly before you.

He didn’t sit immediately but instead lingered at the head of the table, his long fingers idly tracing the wood of the chair. When he finally spoke, his voice was commanding yet smooth, every word material.

“I apologize for meeting you so late,” he began, his dark eyes briefly glancing at you before settling on the untouched bowl before him. “I work well into the night and, as such, must sleep during the day.” His tone carried authority, leaving no room for argument.

He picked up the spoon, stirring the soup languidly, the movement unnervingly slow. “You’ve done well so far,” he remarked, the faintest trace of approval in his words. “The dining room is spotless. It has been far too long since I dined in here. My work consumes my time, leaving my poor estate neglected.” He paused, his gaze sharpening as it flicked back to you. “Cleanliness is paramount. My work demands focus, and I will not tolerate distractions. I trust you will uphold these expectations.”

“Yes, sir,” you replied quickly, your voice barely above a whisper. “I hope to please you and exceed your standards.”

His jaw tightened subtly, and for a moment, you worried you had misspoken. But he continued, his tone precise. “As I said, I cannot tolerate distractions. You are not to enter my workspace or my chambers. The entire upstairs is off-limits. There are valuables there that require privacy and care.” He hesitated briefly, his mouth parted slightly as he struggled to find the right words. “There is little up there that requires your attention.”

The restriction struck you as strange, but you nodded. “Understood, sir.”

“Your duties,” he continued, his tone crisp, “include daily cleaning, maintaining the estate grounds, and running errands in town as needed. For groceries and supplies, bring back receipts, and I will reimburse you with your pay.” He paused, his voice growing softer but no less firm. “There are also a few rules you must follow.”

“Yes, sir?” You straightened slightly, bracing yourself.

“Firstly,” he said, leaning forward slightly, “I am not to be disturbed during the day. My rest is crucial, and interruptions will not be tolerated unless it is a matter of life or death.”

“Yes, sir,” you said quickly, nodding.

“Second…” He cleared his throat, “Do not touch the wooden planks. The windows are boarded up due to a previous mishap, and unfortunately, there aren’t many architects nearby to fix it.”

“I won’t, sir.”

“And finally,” his voice dropped lower, carrying an ominous edge, “do not venture outside after sunset. The forest is dangerous—predators prowl in the dark. You would do well to heed my warning.”

A chill coursed through you at the severity of his words, the weight of his warning making it clear he meant every syllable. “I understand,” you murmured.

He gestured toward the table before finally lowering himself into the chair. “You’ve done well today,” he said, adjusting the napkin in his lap with methodical care. “I trust you’ll continue to prove yourself capable.”

“Thank you, sir,” you replied, your voice steady despite the unease curling in your chest.

He picked up the spoon again, swirling the soup without taking a bite. The hesitation made you anxious—had you made the wrong choice of meal? Your mind raced back to the town, chastising yourself for forgetting to stop at the butcher. You watched as the vegetables spun lazily in the broth, but his expression remained impassive.

“That will be all for tonight,” he said abruptly, his tone cool. He set the spoon down, folding his hands over the edge of the table. “You may take your dinner to your quarters.”

“Goodnight, sir.” You nodded, retreating with careful steps, the weight of his presence lingering long after you exited the room.

⸺

You eased your tired body onto the mattress, but sleep eluded you. The encounter with the Count played over and over in your mind, every word, every glance dissected in the stillness of your room. There was something peculiar about him—his aloofness, the subtle weight in his voice, the way he seemed to measure his every movement.

What exactly did he do? He hadn’t mentioned it, though whatever it was must be lucrative, given the grandeur of the estate. Yet, that same home felt hollow, like a gilded cage rather than a place of comfort.

Your thoughts wandered to his appearance—so striking, so unexpected. He was undeniably beautiful. How could someone so captivating hide away in such a bleak and isolated castle, so far removed from the rest of the world? And why was someone who seemed so young living alone in such a vast and lonely estate? Where was his family?

And then there was that look he gave you—just for a fleeting moment, but enough to unsettle you. It was as though he was disappointed upon seeing you, his dark eyes carrying a strange mixture of pain and defeat. You couldn’t name it precisely, but it lingered in your mind, an odd tension you couldn’t shake.

Everything about him was odd—the house, his demeanor, his rules. And yet, there was something magnetic about him that kept your thoughts tethered to him, even as your body begged for rest. It would be no surprise if you dreamed of him too. His image lingered in your mind like a shadow cast by moonlight—too vivid to ignore, too enigmatic to understand. You closed your eyes, trying to banish the thoughts, but his face remained, carved into the fabric of your imagination as you fell deeper into sleep. 

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act II: the count ➜

[shiro-s2e2-erukinzu]

Anime only watchers and people who aren't caught up with the Manga, BEWARE... Cuz I'm about to discuss Spy X Family Mission 109... You have been warned...! 👌

[SPOILERS AHEAD FROM THIS POINT ON]

This chapter was quite an interesting one...! 🤔 Especially with how it ended...!! 😲

This our first chapter of the year and did not disappoint...!! So let's us discuss this chapter shall we...? 👍

So, this chapter begins like this:

MELINDA STOP, THAT'S SOOO FREAKING ADORABLE!!! 💗😆

I just love the fact that Yor told Melinda about Loid's "concussive therapy" in the last chapter and because of that, we now get this gem of a reaction from her meeting Loid for the first time...!! ��🤭💗

After that, it's time for Melinda's therapy session with Twilight...! Melinda tells him that Yor is the reason that she decided to come in, which Twilight acknowledges as an inadvertent assistance from Yor for the mission. After that, Loid lists off all of Melinda's symptoms and asks what might've triggered them, but she doesn't respond... Loid then tries to reassure her, which led to Melinda to say this to him:

Melinda... 🥲

After that, Twilight ponders why Melinda does not consider herself as a lively person, but she's still too anxious to give a full answer... So Twilight tries to reassure her again, but this time...:

It feels completely unsettling to me...!! 😰 Like, the way Twilight's drawn here with his inner thoughts just gives me bad vibes, but that's the thing with the characters of this series, most of them are grey characters...! Twilight may want to make a better world, but in order for him to achieve this as a spy, he has to do things like manipulation in order get the information he needs to help stop people like Donovan Desmond from causing more harm... And though he's only thinking of his mission currently, we have seen him go against what would've been more beneficial to the mission before (like deciding not to kill Yuri for Yor's sake back in Mission 83), so it's definitely possible that Twilight won't push Melinda too far, but we'll have to wait and see...!

Moving on, after sending her bodyguard Nora away, Melinda remarks that Twilight doesn't seem like a doctor (which immediately made me scared for a second that she might've figured out that Twilight was a spy) and proceeds to mention that she was a patient at Twilight's hospital a long time ago...:

Melinda then tells Twilight that she's here as a mother and a wife, which makes him come to that conclusion to ask if her distress involves her family, and then Melinda asks Twilight...:

HIS REACTION TO HER QUESTION GOT ME CACKLING!! 👏🤣🤣🤣

Twilight not knowing how to respond to that tries to figure out the best thing to say here by saying that he too is interested in UFOs, but it doesn't seem to work, so asks if UFOs have anything to do with Melinda's family, and her response was THIS:

WHAAAAAAAAT!?!? 😵

WHAT DOES THIS MEAN!? 😱 DOES THIS CONFIRM THAT DONOVAN HAS POWERS LIKE ANYA, OR COULD SHE BE IMPLYING THAT THE "REAL" DONOVAN WAS REPLACED BY AN ALIEN...?! I HONESTLY DON'T KNOW WHAT IT COULD BE...!! 😫

And well, that was the end of the chapter and, uh... I have SO MANY questions right now...!! 😵 I honestly don't what to believe at this moment, but I think I'm still leaning on the idea of Donovan having psychic powers like Anya...!! It just makes too much sense at this point!!! 👀

I don't know what's gonna happen in the next chapter, but whatever it is, it's gonna be ABSOLUTELY CRAZY!! 😲 So until the next Mission; take care, be safe out there and be kind to one another...!! PEACE!! ✌😁

[trixy812]

012 🌸🤍Never Change

Tags: Nanami x fem!reader, angst, tw: bullying, yuuji Itadori ooc??

Synopsis: A note from the past rekindles memories of quiet kindness and unspoken feelings.

An: This is a short fanfic that means a lot to me. I went through bullying in high school—people called me ugly and laughed at me for it. It left me deeply scarred, and even now, I can’t look at myself in a mirror when I’m out at a party or anywhere that isn’t home.

The idea for this story came from a joke I made to a friend. I told them that if my fiancé had met me in high school, he probably would’ve bullied me too (he’s always been one of those popular, well-loved guys). My friend surprised me by saying, “I don’t think so. He would’ve fallen deeply in love with you and protected you.”

And, well, here we are! Of course, I had to throw in some angst because I know you all love that. This is my longest author’s note yet, but I really wanted to share this with you. Thank you! 💕

🅼🅰🆂🆃🅴🆁🅻🅸🆂🆃

Elementary school was a battlefield for you. You loved anime unapologetically, your heart worn on your sleeve, but that only made you an easy target. Whether it was pulling out a manga during library hours or raising your hand in class to ask the questions others were too afraid—or too bored—to ask, you always seemed to draw unwanted attention. And with that attention came the snickers, the muttered insults, the cruelty.

Except for him.

Kento Nanami wasn’t the type to stand out. He wasn’t loud, nor was he the kind of person to rush to someone’s defense with bold words or dramatic gestures. He was quiet, observant, and more often than not, detached. But you’d catch his gaze sometimes—a brief flicker of acknowledgment, a moment of stillness in the sea of chaos.

At first, you thought he didn’t care. He never said anything when others taunted you, never stepped in to tell them to stop. But then there were the little things. The way he’d linger just long enough to block someone from snatching a manga out of your hands. The way he’d redirect the attention of the class with a clever remark when your questions were met with ridicule. The way he’d sit across from you in the library, his quiet presence a subtle barrier against anyone who dared to interrupt your peace.

It wasn’t much, but it was enough.

You didn’t spend time together outside of school. You were classmates, occasional companions in a sea of indifference. Yet, in those fleeting moments, his quiet kindness felt like a lifeline.

What you didn’t know was that Nanami was watching. Not just you, but the people around you. The way they treated you, the way they laughed at things they didn’t understand, the way they mocked someone who only wanted to be herself. It wasn’t just unfair—it was senseless. And little by little, his view of humanity began to sour.

"They’re awful," he thought. "They’re all awful."

But you weren’t.

You, with your boundless curiosity and your unapologetic love for what you loved. You, who didn’t hurt anyone but bore the brunt of everyone’s disdain. You weren’t awful.

And maybe that’s why he stayed close in his own way, orbiting your world like a distant but steadfast star.

But then, one day, he was gone. When high school began, Nanami didn’t come back. He disappeared as quietly as he’d stayed, leaving no trace behind. You moved on—or at least, you thought you did.

⋆｡˚ ☁︎ ˚｡⋆｡˚☽˚｡⋆｡˚ ☁︎ ˚｡⋆｡˚☽˚｡⋆

It was a quiet afternoon when it happened. You were reorganizing your shelves, pulling out old books you hadn’t touched in years. That’s when an old English dictionary slipped from your hands and hit the floor. As you bent down to pick it up, a folded piece of paper fluttered out.

You unfolded it, and the words, written in neat, careful handwriting, made your breath catch.

"Please, never change. Thank you for everything, and always follow your dreams."

Your heart stopped.

Nanami.

The memory of him surged back into your mind like a tidal wave, sweeping away the years of distance and burying you in moments you thought you’d forgotten: the way he’d glance at you with quiet understanding, the soft curve of his rare smiles, the steady, unshakable presence he carried wherever he went.

And now, this.

Tears blurred your vision as you read and reread the note. Had he really written this for you? How had you never noticed before? How had you never realized what he meant to you?

That’s when it hit you.

You had loved him.

Maybe not in the childish way people talk about first crushes, but deeply, profoundly. You had loved the boy who sat quietly in the library, who didn’t laugh when others did, who saw you when no one else cared to look.

And now, this note. His words—thank you for everything—felt like they came from another world, another time. You hadn’t done anything for him. If anything, you owed him.

Suddenly, the idea of finding him consumed you. You had to see him again. To tell him what he meant to you. To thank him. And maybe—just maybe—to find out if he still carried any piece of those quiet, shared moments in his heart.

It wasn’t easy. You scoured social media, old directories, anything that could give you a clue. Weeks passed, and just when you were about to give up, you found it.

A photo.

It was a photo of two people: a blond man with a serious expression standing beside a younger man with pink hair, smiling brightly. The caption read: "Nanamin."

You stared at the photo, your chest tightening. It had been so many years. Could this really be him?

With trembling hands, you messaged the owner of the account, explaining your connection and asking for help. It was a risk—you knew you sounded desperate—but you didn’t care. You needed to know.

To your surprise, the reply came quickly.

"I can meet you at the station tomorrow. I’ll explain everything then."

When you saw Yuji Itadori, the young man from the photo, his face was kind but somber. He introduced himself and hesitated, as if searching for the right words.

"I know why you’re looking for Nanami-san," he said gently. "But I don’t think I can give you the answer you’re hoping for."

Your stomach churned.

"Why not?" you asked, though part of you already knew the answer.

He looked at you, his expression heavy with grief.

"Nanami Kento is dead."

[vidavalor]

<<There's also the little bit where journalists write *records*... while a detective or PI will be writing things down, they're not for public knowledge>>

Oh, for sure! Love this, Kaylee! Books and papers as records of the past... but so too are people? *diverges slightly from original topic of post to happily follow thread of records*

Stripadeliveragram and the grammophone out in the intercut scenes of The Arrival...

Maggie is repeating the origin story of her family's record shop but I suspect that she doesn't know it but she's really repeating the origin of her family itself. Maggie is descended from her great-grandmother, who started the record shop in a corner of Mr. Fell's bookshop in the 1920s, yes? Well...

Corner: A place where any two lines intersect; an angle. Off of this: the place where streets or walls meet.

As a result of corner being rooted in the Old French corne, its original meanings, though, also include the other meaning of corne:

a horn; the hard growth atop the head of a mammal.

This is actually part of the etymology of the word horny.

The original meaning of horny was something that resembled an animal horn but not really being made of horn. It did not take long, though, for people to adapt it to have the secondary meaning of to be sexually aroused, which has pretty obviously long since overtaken the other meaning to become basically the sole meaning of the word today.

It had a few variants before settling into the horny that has lasted for awhile now. In the 17th century, to have the horn meant the same as to feel horny does today, and phrasing it as feeling hornish was a thing for awhile, before horny caught back on and stuck. While this meaning of the word rather unsurprisingly came from the phallic associations of animal horns, it was a gender-neutral term from the start. Equal linguistic opportunity from the get-go when it came to having the horn.

Within the word corner is the word corn. Some kernels of truth (groan lol) might be in here because...

Corn on the cob... I am a professional midwife/cobbler.

I think we found the sweetly corny great-grandmother who, ahem, popped some corn in Mr. Fell's bookshop back in the 1920s and led to Mags' eventual existence as a result...

A development that, if correct, will add an absolutely hilarious new layer to...

...I mean, yes, he does like waiting inside but, eventually, as the rest of the scene points out, those seeds get planted... I feel like Aziraphale might know that better than anyone else. 😂 *tilts head*...

...'always cunt-tains the seeds'...? *snicker*

Honk the big, cross duck's horn just right and, under the right circumstances, not that long later, wave hello the little hen.

Muriel: But you don't look like a bee. You look like a murder hornet or a snake or...

Crowley: We talk all the time. We've been doing it for millions of years.... It's great.

So, Aziraphale arrived in Edinburgh with a briefcase we never see him open and a hat that reads, among other things, "PRESS 66" on it, right?

And we might think that these are just Aziraphale's journalist cosplaying accessories but I think there are some hints that there's a bit more going on here than we might think-- all of it very relevant to The Finale.

We think that Aziraphale's arrival in Edinburgh is the first time that we see these things but, in true Good Omens form, the hat and briefcase are both actually glimpsed in a prior scene... rather significantly placed in that earlier scene, even.

Here they are, sitting together, the hat atop the briefcase, both in front of Jimbriel's once Fly-containing box, beside/behind the memory-wiped Muriel, in the scene below:

So, as Muriel is sitting there, not remembering Aziraphale, and as Aziraphale is sitting there, remembering Muriel and thinking all the things about the fact that they don't remember him at all? In the shot between them is the box into which Jim put his memory and brought it to Crowley and Aziraphale for safe keeping. In front of that box? Is Aziraphale's press hat and briefcase, seemingly drawing some connections between the journalist accessories and the memory plots in S2. Hmm...

What this scene also shows is that Aziraphale didn't just magic this stuff up as props when he arrived in Scotland. Even though we didn't see them in the car on the way up, they were there on the passenger seat for him to retrieve upon his arrival. He brought them with him from the shop. He packed them overnight and they were there, all ready to go, prior to Muriel's arrival, which coincided with Crowley coming over and moving the plants out of the car because Aziraphale planned to take it to Scotland. Why does this matter?

Because it might signal that there's more to the briefcase and the hat with its press credentials than we might initially suspect.

I think it would be safe to say that Aziraphale, by this point in the story, would be concerned that his memories were in danger.

He knows he's always been on a collision course with falling and this is all escalating pretty quickly in S2 in the two days prior to Aziraphale packing this press stuff and taking the car. Gabriel was The Supreme Archangel and he couldn't remember who he was and the archangels had shown up to threaten them and say that they're going to be spying on him even more closely, sending another angel to bug them the next day... the memory-wiped Muriel being quite an interesting choice, as that's sending quite a threatening message. Aziraphale also had roped Maggie and Nina into this and he knew he was likely going to have a confrontation with Heaven and Hell coming.

One of the first things he'd be concerned about would be his memories, right? and it's here where we can mention what we later learn about what Heaven can and cannot do regarding those memories... things that are new to us but that Aziraphale likely would have already known and factored into his plan, as we'll see.

Hints are given to this all season via Gabriel but it really becomes overt in this scene here:

This scene proves that Gabriel's memories aren't just in The Fly in S2-- they're also still in his mind. His memories are shown to be in two places at once. Gabriel's memories-- ones even directly related to the trauma he underwent-- actually began to come back before The Fly, in this scene. Gabriel felt safe and like he was talking with someone who could understand in this scene with Crowley so the memories began to come back for him.

The point here is that this scene shows that, when Gabriel "took his memories out" and put them into The Fly, what he was really doing was basically backing them up. He "uploaded" his memories into The Fly for safekeeping so he could retrieve them later, as a way to keep it so that they wouldn't be erased forever, but those same memories are still also on the "hard drive" of his mind. They were just mostly inaccessible to him for almost all of S2 because of trauma.

Before you say well, Gabriel might be a special case because he took his own memories out to avoid Heaven attacking him? Consider that Crowley didn't have a chance to do that-- but he tells Gabriel he knows how Gabriel feels.

Crowley has had the same experiences with his own memories. He's been able to bring some back at different times, without a lot of context, but a lot remains blocked. Crowley saying that he's been able to retrieve some memories means that those memories are still there in his mind, just very painful and difficult to access.

The idea might be that their memory loss is actually trauma-blocking. If Crowley's situation has the same effect as Gabriel's, it suggests that Heaven can't actually take people's memories-- they can only block them.

This would then be suggesting, as a lot in S2 did, that Gabriel didn't develop retrograde amnesia from taking his memories out-- he developed amnesia from the trauma he underwent.

When he felt safe enough to confront some of that trauma, the memories started to come back to him a bit.

What does this have to do with Aziraphale's briefcase, you ask?

It is connected because Gabriel's memory loss being from the trauma of Heaven trying to kill him, not from putting his memories into The Fly, proves that an angel could take his out their memories and not get amnesia from doing so.

Gabriel's story is showing that they could take out their memories whenever they want and still retain those memories also in their minds and be perfectly fine.

It's showing that Aziraphale could have backed up his memories in S2 without experiencing memory loss-- and the press hat and the briefcase are tied to just how he might have done that.

Aziraphale might have taken one look at Gabriel and his memory situation and the archangels circling the shop and thought that it would be a good idea to backup his memories and store them somewhere safe for if this all went pear-shaped.

What's interesting is that then, in a parallel shot to Aziraphale arriving in Edinburgh, we have this later scene when Aziraphale returns to London... note what's missing:

We see him park by the suit shop-- but no suitcase/briefcase this time. No hat. He's also taken off the raincoat. We never see them again for the rest of the season but we see a whole bunch of scenes that hint at where they are and why Aziraphale has left them in that location.

In this moment, we spend a strange amount of time on watching Aziraphale get out of the car and look around, hands-free, pat The Bentley, go for a little walk for a moment...

He talks to Nina, he goes back to the bookshop and greets Crowley and gets an armful of plants. The Bentley is largely the focus of the scene with Nina as well and its moving up in a scene that involves Nina and her bicycle-- another "mad 'American' woman on a bicycle", in parallel to Anathema in S1-- recalls Aziraphale miracling a bike rack onto the boot of The Bentley to transport Anathema's bike back to Jasmine Cottage. The key to getting Anathema and her bike safely home to her cottage was the bike rack Aziraphale made happen; the key to getting him and Crowley safely to the South Downs Cottage might be what Aziraphale stashed in the trunk of the car on his trip.

Here's where we can see that scenes before and around this involving Shax and Crowley show us pretty emphatically where the briefcase and the press hat are not located in the car...

They can't be on the passenger seat as they were on the way to Edinburgh because Shax wouldn't have been able to sit there when she got into the car on the drive back from Edinburgh. They also can't be in the backseat because the scene adjacent to Aziraphale's return to London is he and Crowley loading the plants back into the backseat. Crowley would have handed him his things if they were back there.

So, we have all of these shots of Aziraphale's return that are, among other things, emphasizing that the hat, the raincoat, and the briefcase are all not things he's taking out of The Bentley's trunk upon his return, even if they are his belongings and he brought them with him from the bookshop. He's intentionally leaving them all in the Crowley's car.

Aziraphale definitely did not leave his memories in a briefcase in The Resurrectionist Pub, even though that's the last place we saw the briefcase. How do we know that?

Because let's say that we're right here and Aziraphale did put his memories into the briefcase... either into something else that he then locked into the briefcase or just into the briefcase itself. What's the one problem with this?

He locked them in there for safekeeping, right? So...

He can't just leave the briefcase for Crowley-- he also needs to leave the key to the briefcase, yes? He needs to leave the combination somewhere... but he also has to hide that combination key. The briefcase wouldn't be very safe if just anyone could figure out how to open it, right? It needs to be something only Crowley can understand.

This is why Aziraphale is not a private detective in Edinburgh but a journalist because the key is in the hat.

How does one open the locked briefcase?

Press 66. 😉

The briefcase and the hat go together because the briefcase cannot be opened without the press credentials in the hat which, in very Good Omens and Crowley & Aziraphale form, look like they're one thing but are really another when you consider alternate meanings of words. Aziraphale knows that only Crowley would see Aziraphale's hat atop that briefcase and the 'Press 66' and work out that it's how to open the briefcase.

It would also be very Good Omens to nod to famous film Macguffins and then make them actually important in Good Omens' story. While a "what's in the briefcase?" thing here is very Pulp Fiction, the film that inspired the briefcase in Pulp Fiction is 1955's atomic noir Kiss Me Deadly, which is being referenced all over the place in S2.

The scene where Aziraphale picks Shax up from the side of the road is a homage to Kiss Me Deadly's opening scene, Gabriel's memory issues and his "I am in The Fly" note is similar to part of the central mystery of that film, and Kiss Me Deadly is the origin of the popularization of the word vavoom/va-va-voom.

Like basically every other film referenced in Good Omens, it's also known for innovative use when it comes to language-- particularly, coded cinematic language, in this case. Like North by Northwest, which is referenced in both parts of 1941 so far, Kiss Me Deadly found innovative ways to get around the Hays Code to tell its story. References to The Maltese Falcon in the story are also likely in relation to that story using etymology-based language to queer code aspects of its story, in a similar way to Good Omens, but also that The Maltese Falcon itself is a bit of a MacGuffin. In Good Omens, though, it seems like they're actually winking at those by making Macguffin-alluding things actually important parts of the story.

Anyway, the biggest fan theory about what's in the briefcase in Pulp Fiction is based around the combination to the briefcase being 666 in the film and the idea is that it's Marcellus Wallace's soul, which he sold to the devil. Famously, the audience never sees what's inside the briefcase. We might be saying here that the combination to Aziraphale's briefcase being 66 may be nodding to Pulp Fiction's briefcase a bit and hinting at the Satan in The Final 15 ideas. 66 is also tied to Route 66 and rock 'n roll in America, Buddy Holly, and the paralleling Gabriel & Beez flashback, maybe especially hinting at memory-related things happening with the briefcase.

I won't spoil you on what's in the briefcase in Kiss Me Deadly but let's just say that it goes along with Good Omens pretty well thematically... in a much, much darker way. The film being very bleak noir makes it very different in tone from Good Omens but the fact that the briefcase is actually is relevant to the story in the end of that film might also hint that Aziraphale's disappeared briefcase might wind up being important in The Finale, too.

Adding to this theory is also that another briefcase in The Bentley's trunk/boot was also something shown earlier in S2-- on a very significant night in Crowley & Aziraphale's history:

When Aziraphale is in Edinburgh, we see him intentionally hamming up his newspaper man persona and, in doing so, he takes the briefcase into The Resurrectionist Pub, right? Bit of foreshadowing there as to what will happen to Aziraphale and what will need to happen to bring him back?

Yes, we don't see the briefcase again after this scene but I doubt he left it in the pub because it would be useless to Crowley without the hat, on which Aziraphale has hidden the briefcase combination hidden in plain sight. Aziraphale was seen wearing the hat in one scene set after we last saw the briefcase, proving that both of them and the raincoat are in the trunk of The Bentley:

Aziraphale wore this whole get up to Edinburgh so that, if anyone was watching him, they'd think he was Muriel-like cosplaying a newspaper man. I mean... we know the trench coat is a little Columbo-esque, but why wouldn't he just be a private detective and not a journalist, if the goal was just to play a role to help solve the Gabriel mystery? Because he had to be a old movie-esque journalist so he could have the word press there in the credentials, only for its other meaning for the briefcase combination.

Aziraphale definitely had a whole other list of motivations for being the one to go to Edinburgh. He wanted Crowley to rest in the shop and to talk to Gabriel, he wanted to be the one to go tackle the mystery, and he wanted to work on his 1827 issues by going to the graveyard again... but we might find we can add to that list that he also realized it would be a good opportunity to hide his memories in a briefcase in The Bentley with actions that are right there, in plain sight of anyone who is watching-- including us 😉-- but might not be deemed suspicious.

Parallel-wise, the briefcase and The Bentley are the matchbox and the moving box and PRESS 66 is Aziraphale's equivalent to I AM IN THE FLY... all before Aziraphale and Crowley actually figured out what Gabriel and Beez did to protect Gabriel.

He's pressing on the press hat he's leaving for Mr. Six Shots of Espresso... 😂 The press card is in his hat, like a feather... Crowley's "it'd be a real feather in your cap wing" joke from the foreshadowing "I'll be damned"/"It's not so bad when you get used to it" scene in 1.01...

That demon doesn't know it yet but he's driving around with Aziraphale in the trunk because Aziraphale figured out how to get around the worst case scenario. He knew he was on a collision course with falling and he found a way to potentially dodge the memory loss by stashing his memories for Crowley in The Bentley.

His enthusiasm in Edinburgh is him barely able to contain his amusement at getting one over on anyone watching him who think they know what they're seeing but don't realize what he's actually up to.

No wonder why he was walking on air when he got back to London-- it was mission accomplished. He'd managed to leave Crowley the ability to bring him back, tucked away in the safest spot possible.

The bookseller who, like the others, is a metaphorical book/paper, left their out for Heaven and Hell trying to kill him for Crowley's safekeeping in a briefcase... the thing people use for...

...paperwork. 😂

But wait... there's one other big question, though, yes?

Why didn't Aziraphale tell Crowley this?

There absolutely was enough time and opportunity to tell Crowley he'd backed up his memories and left them in The Bentley's trunk.

The fact that this didn't come up seems wild, right, because they both know that Crowley has been having a steady anxiety attack about Heaven and Hell circling all week. We would think that, if Aziraphale had figured out this plan to circumvent that threat, the first thing he would have done would be to tell Crowley about it, yes?

Except... while I wrote this meta from the perspective of what the end result of Aziraphale's actions with the briefcase might be in The Finale, I don't actually think that was Aziraphale's own motivation for doing what he did.

Aziraphale didn't take out his memories and leave them in the briefcase in The Bentley for Crowley as a backup plan for them to elude a form of death for Aziraphale.

He left them there for Crowley to find and have after Aziraphale was already gone. Why else would Crowley need the combination on the credentials on the hat, right?

If Aziraphale had intended on his memories in the briefcase being a plan to save himself, he would have told Crowley about it so that Crowley would know. Instead, though, it's something of a suicide note. He left them for Crowley to find and have in the future.

I think The Bentley was even warning of this suicide ideation and showing concern upon the return to London for Aziraphale over what he had put in its trunk. The car is worried. [I love Good Omens-- when else am I going to type a sentence like that? 😂]

Aziraphale first parked it in front of Battye [madness] & Palm [to take]. It's a shop reflective of a lot of that depression and suicide ideation happening in Aziraphale's story and leading to his fall that I looked at in The Devil Takes The Hindmost.

The Bentley then drives itself-- and all Aziraphale's Aziraphaleness in the briefcase-- up a few feet. What is The Bentley then aligning Aziraphale with?

Death.

The car parked itself in front of the Give Me Death half of Give Me Coffee or Give Me Death...

... until Aziraphale told it to go back to where he parked it. Then, The Bentley backed up a few feet to Battye & Palm and all the madness that is the rest of the season. The car was foreshadowing the end, parking itself right along where it would be parked the last time we'd see it in S2.

The trunk is aligned with Give Me Death in The Final 15...

...fulfilling the foreshadowing of the end of S1.

[deeplyshalllow]

Glinda gets what she deserves at the end of Wicked

I don’t necessarily mean this in an all negative light either, Glinda’s ending is bittersweet – sad, but hopeful. But she does not deserve an all out happy ending at the end of the musical.

I don’t know if I’m gonna be crucified for this, but here goes.

Glinda in Act 2 is a key part of a fascist regime. She doesn’t just live in it, she isn’t forced to take part in it and she’s not working as a double agent (like Fiyero). She knows what they are doing to the Animals (which includes separating infants from their mothers and putting them in cages, and making Animals so afraid they literally forget how to speak), she knows and loves people it is hurting and yet she continues to actively promote it.

(I won’t point out the connections to real world situations, but I’m sure you guys can all think of examples and think of how you feel about people who are active participants in helping such regimes.)

We see she knows all this too. We see she excuses it for her ego and the power:

Glinda: Do you think I like to hear them say those awful things about her? I hate it!

Fiyero: Then what are we doing here? Let's go, let's get out of here!

Glinda: We can't leave now, not when people are looking to us to raise their spirits.

Fiyero: You can't leave, because you can't resist this. And that is the truth.

Glinda: Maybe I can't. Is that so wrong? Who could?

Elphaba: No, of course you never! You're too busy telling everyone how wonderful everything is!

Glinda: I'm a public figure, now. People expect me to...

Elphaba: Lie?

Glinda: Be encouraging!

And if one could possibly argue (weakly) that, given she’s not actually doing any of the regime’s actual violence, just keeping people’s hopes up she’s not as bad as those who are, she gets worse:

Morrible: Well, we'll just flush her out and force her to show herself.

Wizard: But how?

Glinda: Her sister

Morrible: What? What did she say?

Glinda: Use her sister. Spread a rumour. Make her think her sister is in trouble and she will fly to her side... and you'll have her.

Even if one argues that Glinda is somehow not clever enough to realise that they’ll end up killing Nessa, she sure as hell knows it will get Elphaba captured. And there’s no way that Elphaba being captured won’t lead to the execution of her best friend. Yes, she’s heartbroken, yes, she might not have said this when emotions weren’t running high, but it doesn’t make her terrible words less deadly (and bear in mind Elphaba hadn’t even done anything to hurt Glinda! It was Fiyero who chose to go with her).

Glinda only really starts realising what she has done in March of the Witch hunters, when Nessa is dead, Fiyero is tortured and presumed dead and Elphaba has descended into madness – all because of her own action. And, kudos to her, this is when she decides to change, she immediately goes to Elphaba and tries to warn her about the Witch Hunters, apologises and ultimately Elphaba trusts her with the Grimmorie and to continue her legacy (which she immediately does by overthrowing the Wizard). She has started down the track to good but she still has a long way to go.

I am not the first, nor will I be the last to point this out but “Goodness knows the wicked’s lives are lonely, goodness knows the wicked die alone”, sung by Glinda,is clearly not about Elphaba. Elphaba was not wicked, nor did she die alone (literally Dorothy was in the room and metaphorically Glinda supported and loved her). Glinda is singing about herself, Glinda knows she has been wicked, Glinda knows that it is her own actions that have lead to the “death” of her friends.

So what Glinda is left with is a chance to do good. A chance to live up to her name and make up for what she’s done. A chance to use what she’s most talented at, making people like her, to continue the legacy of her best friend. Despite everything, Elphaba does trust her, if she didn’t she wouldn’t have left her with this responsibility.

Glinda: Fellow Ozians, friends, we have been through a frightening time. There will be other times and other things that frighten us. But if you let me, I'd like to try to help. I'd like to try to be... Glinda the Good.

This is why she is going to “try” to be Glinda the Good, because she hasn’t been good yet. She has learnt a lot of very hard lessons through the narrative, been dragged kicking and screaming out of her selfishness, ego and giving into her worst impulses and is grateful for a chance to repent. And honestly, I’m sure she will suceed.

And one last thing:

Elphaba: I only wish...

Fiyero: What?

Elphaba: Glinda could know that we're alive.

Fiyero: She can't know, not if we want to be safe. No one can ever know.

I know a lot of people take ire with this line. But Fiyero, always the best strategist of the group, is right. The last time Glinda was trusted with important information it led to a death and two more people nearly dying. She has not earned that trust yet.

But, remember, Glinda isn’t stupid, Glinda is in a position where she’s going to have to think more and more. Glinda has presumably seen her roommate get wet before, she saw Fiyero’s reaction to the rumour, no matter how much searching happens Fiyero’s body never turns up, how long is it really going to take for her to connect the dots? Sure “Glinda can never know” for sure, but she sure as hell can be comforted by the fact she’s almost certain her best friend did not melt from a bucket of water.

[meirimerens]

how did you come to have a wider actively-used-in-speech(=writing) English vocabulary than a native speaker? how do we ascend to your level? i open a book, and its language is plainer, artlesser.

Have i ascended or have i dug... and does it make any difference as long as you keep moving... well You're gonna have to read More books. Other books. I'm Sorry. Nonfiction as well often. Or stuff published before 1940. My favorite nonfiction books are those about language (and the crowd is not surprised). I've found a great deal of meaningfulness in Anne Carson's "Eros the Bittersweet" for as starting, central and pivotal point of it is the fact that Sappho's Eros is NOT bitter-sweet, but very much sweet-bitter, and this order of adjectives is crucial to understanding the ancient concept of Eros -> this is a book fundamentally which makes you understand sometimes you have to Make Up A Word. And brother I love making up a word.

Other things that could possibly help :

if you know another language, read stuff in it. Find words you find l(o/i)vely and write them down and see what they look like in English/your target language , and see if anything approaches it.

Read older translation of foreign theatre/poetry. I'm quite partial to Greek tragedies rn.

Read older poetry in a language you know

Now one can go overboard with this, but look at synonyms. I love a synonym. I am not insensitive to a synonym. BUTTT before using it you have to see if you truly, fully understand it. if choosing it makes more sense, makes a better sound, a better flow, a better image depending on what you're prioritizing when writing. You have to strip the word you originally had to its bones-meaning and see if a synonym fits better as flesh around that meaning. If it doesn't, do NOT try to push it. it is meaning you need to grasp.

Speaking of stripping to the bones-meaning : get into etymology. Or at least find some sort of fun in it. Etymology is the bone. It's the marrow.

get into new things/subjects and collect words from them.

^ related to above: keep a list of words you find and you like. With their meaning. I have such a list. I'll show you some of my favorite words from it to see what I mean with these last two points :

Porphyre (french, geology) type of colorful stone. found in the context of sculpture.

Protomé (french, art/art history) depiction of the front of an animal if human. found in the context of archeology.

Fasciation (english, botany) malformation of plants. found in its context.

Stria, striæ (english, geology/mineralogy) parallel lines in rock of crystal. found in its context.

Spinescent (english, botany) bearing spines. found looking for a synonym.

Isthmus (latin usual name in english, anatomy) constriction between organs. found in the context of geography, where it is used for a constriction between two stretches of land.

Acantharea (latin scientific name, marine biology) group of marine microplantkon. found looking up stuff from Ernst Haeckel's Kunstformen Der Natur because I use a lot of his pieces from it as reference when I pit peter and stakh in some kind of damp situation.

Acanthus (latin usual name in english, botany) acanthus plants or architectural ornament resembling them. found in french reading Hyusmans' À Rebours (1884) ("Against nature" in english) and written down because I liked it (among many others. read À Rebours/Against Nature if you want to find yourself a treasure trove of language And to find yourself wanting to beat the main character, whose head you're trapped in for the whole book, to death. one of my faves tbh)

You get what I mean? You gotta stay curious. You gotta facilitate yourself finding new way to handle the language by reading more and more different stuff. it's a whole lot of looking for words, and when they don't sound or look or feel or behave good/well enough, stripping them down to the bone-meaning (carcass) and see through curiosity if there exists another flesh to meat them up with. You don't get to stop reading, because very rarely will a word come fully formed, shape orthography function declension meaning, directly inside of your mind. It comes through your eyes or sometimes your ears first. If you don’t find good words/good language in the book you’re reading, you're gonna have to read other books, because they’re where the words are. you cannot have read every book on earth and elsewhere in which language is plain and artless everytime. so you gotta keep reading 🫵 you might find only a handful of good, new, tasty words in a book. but you'll have found them. And it matters

[snailsgoingdowntown]

Help, I Reincarnated as the Female Leads Sister-in-Law! 

1  2  3  4  5  6  7

Chapter 8

‘Slight’ Yandere! Dion Agriche x Fem! Reader 

Arranged marriage AU

Warnings: panic attack, vomit, self-harm (biting thumb hard enough until it bleeds), slight blood, mention/allusions to murder, very slight suicide  ideation, one (1) suggestive line, implied child abuse, Maria being lowkey creepy (again), uncertainty about loving future kids, please tell me if I missed any.

NOTE: while I am happy that people enjoy this story, please stop blowing up my inbox about when the next chapter(s) will come out. Or telling me I should hurry up.  Thank you.

NOTE #2: there isn't going to be any romance involving Roxana or any of the other characters and the reader.

DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT CONDONE ANY OF THE HARMFUL AND/OR DANGEROUS/TOXIC ACTIONS THAT MAY TAKE PLACE IN THIS PIECE OF FICTION. THESE ACTIONS/BEHAVIORS SHOULD NOT BE NORMALIZED NOR ROMANTICIZED AS THEY ARE BOTH EXTREMELY TOXIC AND DANGEROUS.

MINORS/BLANK BLOGS/ BLOGS THAT DO NOT INTERACTION WITH NOR REBLOG FANDOM STUFF DNI (MAYBE ANIMAL BLOGS ARE OKAY BECAUSE THEY’RE CUTE). PLEASE DO NO NOT SPAM LIKE MY POSTS.

= = = 

Roxana’s heels clack against the tiled hallway as she glides through, making way to her room. Blond waves gently bouncing with each step, the girl can’t hold back the scowl that tears at her lips. Brows furrowed, her thoughts were full of the recent events - the dinner. 

She didn’t mean to intrude. As a matter of fact, while curious, she had no intention of doing more than taking a quick glance - to see if what Jeremy said was true, that Dion Agriche was indeed having dinner with his poor, pitiful bride. 

Jeremy got there before her.

Hiding within the shadows, the boy was glaring daggers into the second eldest son. So engrossed with the scene presented to him, Jeremy didn’t notice Roxana as she got closer and closer. No, the brash boy had announced himself before she could even pat his shoulder. Like a wild boar, he interrupted your dinner, uncaring for how it made him look. Not that he ever did.

And perhaps out of pity on your behalf, or sick curiosity to see how everything pans out, she showed herself as well. 

An hour prior to the incident Roxana and Jeremy talked about you, the newest family member. She wasn’t the one who brought you up, but rather Jeremy. Her younger half-brother had asked her what she thought about the situation. It was the first time he asked. 

‘Well… It is strange. I thought that father would have waited longer before finding Dion a wife, much less holding the wedding.’

‘Yeah,’ Jeremy agrees, a borderline sneer on his face, ‘but it’s stupid. She won’t last long.’ 

‘Shorter than a month?’

‘No, longer. But I’m not sure how much longer. Still, to be married to that bastard… She's fucked. Pretty sure she’s begging God to kill her already, or to keep him away and indifferent.’ 

The blond beauty stared at her brother in question. ‘This isn’t like you, Jeremy. Did you meet her before or is it because Dion is the one involved?’ 

He doesn’t answer immediately, grumbling out words she didn’t catch. ‘Watch, she’s going to puke in disgust soon.’ Blue eyes narrowing in annoyance, Roxana only becomes more confused. What’s with this sudden interest with a sacrificial bride? 

‘Jeremy,’ she says, gingerly patting his head, ‘This is the first time you’ve shown interest in anyone. Why is that?’ Asking him directly, she hopes that she’ll easily draw answers from him. But, for once, he doesn’t budge. It’s concerning. 

‘Xana, I heard they’re going to have dinner together later today. Do you think that guy will show up?’ Ignoring her question, he asks his own. A frown tugs at her coral lips. But seeing how aggravated he is, she decides to humor him. Just this once. 

‘I’m not sure. If it was on father’s orders, then yes, of course. His word is law.’ 

‘What makes you so sure he’ll listen to all?’

She blinks at him, taken aback. It wasn’t often she gets rendered speechless, especially by her own younger brother. But his response also amuses her - hearing his resentment towards the twenty-year-old was always amusing.. 

‘Xana, he’s crazy. It’s only going to get worse.’

Before Roxana could respond, she got called away to Lant’s office, the butler bowing nervously after he brought the news. 

Returning to the present, the blond lets out a deep sigh, a headache forming the longer she thinks about it. This wasn’t how the story went. There wasn’t a grand wedding for any of the Agriche family members - the closest thing was when Jeremy kidnapped Sylvia, and even then, that couldn’t be considered romantic.  

Nothing in the story was romantic. 

…not like her brother’s marriage to you was either. 

Nothing made sense and it’s bothersome. Concerning even, for the moment you entered this play, she became unsure of when or if Cassis will show up - what if nothing follows the storyline at all, no matter how small? She knows he exists, she saw him at the wedding. Shining silver hair that reminds her of the moon and golden eyes that were filled to the brim with caution towards her family and the wedding, the male lead of this story exists. 

But you didn’t. 

Maybe in the original work, you did, as a nameless background character. Faith unknown and unimportant, you somehow stumbled across the stage, entangled in strings that now control your every move. It worries her - you worry her. Roxana can’t tell if you’re friend or foe, if you’ll survive and stay sane, if you’ll die soon, if she should consider taking you under her wing, seeing how you were nothing more than a victim. 

But she doesn’t have that luxury. Ensuring her own survival was hard enough - how could she take care of a second person? Why should she bother herself with you? 

You don’t serve any other purpose than being arm candy, a woman seen as nothing more than an incubator by your father-in-law. She doubts Dion cares for you; during the planning period he didn’t act out of character. He acted the same around her, still the annoying son of a bitch he’s always been. 

…but, a few days before the wedding he kept his distance. Unconcerned with her presence, he made a few last minute purchases. Away from the prying eyes of Lant, Dion also added a secret guest - the doctor known as Ash Katopodis. 

She heard a rumor that he also sent the redhead to you instead of the doctor Lant had appointed. The fifteen-year-old had found it strange once word reached her ears, brushing it to the side after concluding it was gossip for gossip sake. While it was bold of the servants to say such things, Roxana saw no point in punishing them for their senseless rumors - it had nothing to do with her. If they wanted to play with their lives with risky talk, then that was on them.

Upon reaching her room, she stops short of opening the door, manicured nails tapping against the door handle. She didn’t mean to intrude on your alone time with the brute. Yet she did and the sight of Dion in such a domestic setting made her sick. 

Disgust threatening to tip over the scale, it’s hard for her not to sneer at the mere memory of it. Domesticity does not suit Dion. He does not deserve it. Playing house with an unwilling girl, dressed in pure white as the veil hid her anxiety and fright laid within her eyes and painted on her lips. Scared and left hopeless as her family watched as she kissed the monster, powerless.

The holy church in which the wedding was held became corrupted when the second Lant Agriche picked it out, Maria fussing over the details. Who sits where, ‘gently’ probing your mother into agreeing with the dress the third wife had picked, your makeup and hairstyle, the fucking lingerie until Sierra pointed out how weird it was for the mother-in-law to pick out such an erotic and intimate thing for the girl who was to be her daughter-in-law. 

During the ceremony, Jeremy had kept mumbling to himself, clearly done with the whole ordeal. Obviously, Roxana was as well, but kept a pretty smile on, greeting you after the vows were said and said her goodbyes as you were dragged away to the bridal chamber. Only to find the morning after by Hana that you didn’t go there, instead led into the lion’s den that is Dion’s room.

How… odd. 

No… what was odder was that you didn’t have separate rooms. Emily had told her as such out of the blue, preparing her breakfast. She questioned it then, and it’s only weirder, more worrisome the longer she thinks about it.

She shakes the memories away. It wasn’t her life. She had enough trouble on her plate already - she couldn’t possibly add you to the list of her neverending responsibilities she’s forced to juggle. She could pity you, but never love you. Touch you but never hold you. Talk to you but never make a genuine connection as sisters should. 

She should stop with this foolish nonsense. 

Turning the handle, she glides right in, letting the door shut behind her. Emily had retired for the night, and the blond also ordered Hana to do the same. After all, Lant had given Dion another mission, and the favorite son had to prepare to leave in the morning, too busy to bother you. 

… why am I so focused on her…?

The moonlight lights up her room through the glass doors that lead to the terrace. With a huff, she sits in her vanity, and starts to remove her makeup with removal cream. It’s greasy as her dainty fingers spread it across her face, each action copied by the mirror. It’s quiet.

Her thoughts refuse to shut up, however. 

‘What’s going on with Lant…? Choosing a daughter-in-law from a nearly unheard of family? Do they have something he wants and only used this marriage  as a means to get closer? Most likely, but why?’

A frown tugs at her lips, face completely bare after she pats it down with a face towel. Ruby eyes stare into the reflection before her, and Roxana only sees frustration and confusion. She can’t rely on her memories of the story anymore. 

She won’t be sure until the faithful day when her father kidnaps Cassis Pedelian, the Blue Heir. And even then, how could she be sure that it would be the same Cassis Pedelain that was mentioned in the novel? The same goes for his sister, Sylvia. 

“...things are getting complicated.” Standing, her feet take her to the bed and she lays on it, back pressed against the mattress. The crystal chandelier sparkles in the moonlight. Ruby optics disappear behind her eyelids, blond lashes casting shadows on skin. The night is still young. 

A small smile of amusement forms on her lips when she remembers your earlier conversation. You had called her an interesting person - far from what others say. They called her lovely, a Goddess of beauty - and you? 

You called her interesting.

Still, you couldn’t hide the admiration for her in your eyes. You weren’t a stumbling fool and understood what her look meant when Jeremy went too far. But the most fascinating thing?

You listened to mental caution and drew a line, uncomfortable with her, with them, the gears turning in your head on what to do next. You even separated yourself from her without hesitation once the moment presented itself.

Regardless, you admired her in spite of your clear discomfort. 

“...I must be tired.” 

You called her an interesting person. In return, she’ll call you a fool. 

- - -

His side of the bed was cold, patting it as your bleary eyes and murky mind clear up. Still dressed in the half undone dress and corset, you ignore how uncomfortable it is. No, right now, what you are focused on is the way your beating heart is thrashing against your rib cage, how cold your body has become, beads of sweat building and rolling down your temples, on the verge of gasping for air. Did you just fuck yourself over? 

You don’t know what time it was - sun high in the bright, blue sky, birds singing their lovely tunes. The occasional footsteps passing by, the far off voices as the servants go about their business. None of them knock on the door. None come to ‘wake’ you up.

Or, if they had, it must have been a good while ago. Were you so deep asleep that they gave up?

“...He’s going to kill me, isn’t he… hah…” a humorless laugh passes through your chest, shoulders slumping as nothing but regret fills your head and chest. Are you going to be killed today? Or maybe tortured? Thrown out like disgusting leftovers? 

You don’t want to die. Ah, but what could you possibly do? Get on your hands and knees like a dog and beg for forgiveness? …no. You’re already pathetic enough, you don’t want to lower yourself even more. Fuck. 

“...Ah, fuck, what should I do?” Putting your thumb sideways in your mouth, your teeth clamp down on the poor digit. The taste of iron explodes in your mouth, teeth marks left behind on the now wounded and bleeding flesh. 

A throbbing headache decides to join, adding physical pain to the list of your suffering. You bite down on your thumb harder. It feels like it might just snap in two but your mind is too fried to realize this. The only thing you can think about is last night. 

Your husband was gone. Where did he go? Maybe he decided to leave you, seeing you as a broken toy he doesn’t want anymore. Does that mean he’ll give the least back to Lant? Is that why he isn’t here? To discuss how to dispose of you? 

The thought makes your stomach churn, saliva glands overfilling as bile starts to raise. You were given to them as a pet - as some twisted sacrifice, and for what? Did this family want nothing else but a new ‘toy,’ to see how long a normal person would last within these walls? What then?

If they decide to kill you, or if you kill yourself out of desperation, what would they tell your parents? No, they wouldn’t tell them anything to begin with. 

And your family wouldn’t be able to ask.

“Urk…” dry heaving, slapping your hand over your mouth, panicked tears forming. Your entire body shakes, blood staining the bed as your injured hand grasps at the sheets. “URK!” Without a thought you rush out of bed, slamming yourself down on your knees as you reach the trash can. All of your stomach continents come up, the foul taste of vomit coming forth. 

Hot tears run down your cheeks as you heave over the trash, blurring your vision. You’re breathing too heavily. You look at the door a few feet away from you. If anyone was right outside it, they would have heard you. 

“...” you wait for a knock or for someone to burst through the doors with bated breath, your eyes shaking in their sockets, knees throbbing after the harsh impact. No-one comes. It is only you - alone in this room, a sinner who is paying the price. Must you go through this for a sin you’ve forgotten until now? 

The answer is yes. 

The answer is yes as you wipe your mouth with the back of your hand. The answer is yes as you force yourself to stand, knees painfully throbbing as the flesh bruises. The answer is yes as your thumb still bleeds, teeth marks engraved into the skin. The answer is yes as your heart refuses to calm down, chest hurting. 

The answer is yes as you walk over to the vanity, the reflection of a face that doesn’t look like your own. 

You are a mess. 

The tears don’t stop flowing as the urge to vomit returns. Crystalline droplets catch on your lashes, ugly sobs and hiccups breaking out, your shoulders shaking as you collapse onto the leather stool seat. A sinner always pays the price. 

You bury your face into your hands, entire body jerking with each sob, each hiccup as anxiety for the future and present overtakes everything. This isn’t like you. But you were never strong enough to survive in an environment like this. You were pathetic. 

Seconds turn into minutes and maybe even into hours. Time is a concept that you don’t bother yourself with by the time you finally calm down, red puffy eyes staring into the mirror as the tear streaks dry on your cheeks. Some snot peeks out from your nostril, hair a mess, clothes crumbled and sliding down, showing more of your cleavage. Such an unsightly sight. 

Grabbing a face towel on the vanity desk, you wipe off the tears and snot.

“...Okay. Let’s… get cleaned up.” Your limbs feel heavy, dragging your feet towards the closet before finally, finally striping out of your clothes from yesterday. The articles of clothing pools at your feet. 

How much longer can I last here? 

Will there ever be a peaceful divorce? Can I divorce him? Would I be able to?

If the story events do take place and Roxana takes over the Agriche family… by then… would I have children…?

BAM!

Your poor knees-! At the thought of having children - his children - your body just gives up again, as always. That’s the only thing you’re capable of, as experience has shown. 

“...children… right, children… I have to give that man kids… kids that will go through the same thing he went through…” Will you be able to love them, if they come into existence? You have to, they would be yours.

Or would you end up just like Jeremy’s mother? Horrified at the sight of her own child, refusing to spend time with them. Seeing them as an irredeemable monster that you would do anything and everything to avoid?

Chomp. 

Your thumb once again becomes a victim to your teeth, the imprint becoming deeper and drawing more blood.  It hurts, it hurts, it hurts- but as the thought of starting a family with Dion Agriche deepens, the more you need to find something sturdy. Your thumb is enough to keep you grounded, yes, it is, and no, you’re not planning an early funeral, visualizing the area you want to hold it, or the dress your cold corpse would wear, or your family’s crying faces -

No, stop it. This isn’t - this isn’t… this isn’t what I want to be.

 Licking the flesh wound, accepting the taste and smell of iron, you are not met with clarity nor bravery; just, temporary acceptance. This is your life. This was what the Gods had planned for you. This is what you have become - a wife to the future Black Agriche Heir. 

His first wife.

Despite the blood and saliva, your mouth feels dry. Nausea builds back up, gagging and breath becoming short. It’s becoming hard to breathe. 

Your lungs are being squeezed, throat constricted with an invisible ball gag - vision blurred with what? What’s this hot liquid running down your cheeks? Are you crying ? Again?

Something is choking you. Your head is starting to feel fuzzy, a pounding in your chest you can’t get. Everything is warped, shapes turning into mush, black merging with white, a hammer bashing against your head. Only the sound of rushing blood and a running heart is heard. Only the thought of death remains. 

“No…no, I - I - this-!” you curl into yourself, kneeling as your forehead touches the floor, hands interlocked around your head as your lower arms and elbows rest on the tiles. Sobbing violently, your mind crashes again. You were never strong. 

Not then, not now. 

- - -

“Young Master Dion has been sent off on an errand; the dinner with Master Lant has been postponed until tomorrow, at six o’clock.” Hana informs you as she sets out your breakfast: oatmeal and water. Just what your now very sensitive stomach and nerves need. Did she overhear your little mental breakdown not even an hour ago? Or was this the usual breakfast for the residents of the Agriche compound? 

“I see.” You hoarsely reply, voice still recovering. This is a good thing - you don’t have to see the devil’s face for yet another day. Her news also answers your question; Dion is out on an errand and they weren’t planning to axe you. Yet. Hopefully never. 

Still, the curiosity of your husband’s duties lingers. You shouldn’t involve yourself anymore than what you currently are. Curiosity always kills the cat. So, you bite your tongue, deciding against asking her what your oh so lovely husband’s chore is… but, if you are to play the role as a wife, his wife, should you ask him once he returns? Like how one would greet their spouse once they return from work. 

Hello dear… ick, no. Hey, how was your day… no, next. Are you tired? Do you want a bath…?

Or maybe you should just ignore the subject all together. His business isn’t yours, so why bother?

Besides, what if he doesn’t like you ‘snooping’ in his business? But at the same time, he’s been acting so weird and unlike how he was portrayed in the story. So while that Dion would find your questions annoying or useless, this Dion may want you to ask about his day. Fuck, it’s all so confusing and irritating 

 “Hm. Hana, is there anything on today’s schedule?” 

“No, not yet my Lady.” 

Not yet. What does she mean by not yet? Does that mean she’s aware that someone will interrupt your tiny bit of peace at some point today? Her short dark brown hair slightly bounces as she shuffles her weight onto one leg. “However, my Lady, I could… tell them that you’re recovering from ‘last night.’”

Her suggestion makes your grip on the cup loose, dropping the glass onto your lap as water soaks it. 

“My Lady! Are you alright?” In a panic, Hana grabs some of the napkins on the table and pats your lap to soak up some of the water after removing the now empty glass. “My apologies - I shouldn’t have brought up such a vulgar suggestion…” Her once collected face and behavior shatters at the drop of a hat, ‘concerned’ about your safety. 

Or was it for hers? 

“I-it’s fine… no worries,” a tight lipped smile that only makes her brows furrow more and treats you gentler. Like you were made of glass. Well, that wouldn’t be too far from the truth… 

“No, really. I just need to change clothes…” Once she’s done with soaking most of the water up you stand and walk to the closet. Opening the doors you skim over the options. Hana’s footsteps stop right behind you. Why is it so hard to have personal space in this place…

Your gaze travels upwards and for the first time, do you notice the Agriche family's crest engraved into the wood. Bitterness explodes in your mouth. It seems that no matter where you are in this place, there will always be a physical reminder of where you are - of who you belong to. No matter, you tell yourself. Besides, this isn’t even your room - 

It was your husband’s. And maybe after a month, if not less, into your marriage, you’ll be assigned your own. …why were you sharing a room with him to begin with? Probably to increase the chances of conceiving a child sooner rather than later. 

“... does that even make sense?” you murmur in amusement. Lant wasn’t even dead yet. But, you think, maybe he wanted his son to have a child so he could start to shape them into this tainted and sadistic mold ahead of time before he kicks the bucket. To ensure that the child - your child - would follow in their father’s footsteps. 

To see if they would carry the same air and expectations as your husband does. 

How cruel. 

“Hana, I’ll let you choose it; they’re all so… beautiful that I can’t choose.” In reality you’re getting a headache from looking at the family crest. Which just became yours. 

“...yes, my Lady,” she follows your order without question, going through the options. 

Not even a few minutes later she pulls one out. 

It matches your husband’s eyes. A brilliant shade of scarlet, it practically glows. A sheer black neck piece that forms as a choker and covers your cleavage but leaves your shoulders bare. Black lace is on the hem, flowers engraved into the pattern. The body of the dress is a solid scarlet. 

“It’s beautiful.” You compliment her choice of style hiding how the beautiful piece of clothing makes your fingers twitch and brings the urge to vomit forward. Oh, how horrible it is, to not even be able to enjoy such a sight. 

How horrible it is, to be born into this world after a helpless first life only to repeat the cycle, but worse. 

[azure-aeon-dragaeon]

💙 Who's your favourite Skylander? Flare Wolf

❌ Who's your least favourite Skylander? Spyro (look at how they massacred my boy)

💚 Who's your favourite non Skylander character? Flynn

🚫 Who's your least favourite non Skylander character? Hugo

🖤 Who's your favourite villain? Wolfgang

💢Who's your least favourite villain? Kaos

😈 Favourite trappable villain? Wolfgang

👿 Least favourite trappable villain? Dreamcatcher

❔ Who was your first Skylander? Gill Grunt

🌐 What was your first Skylander game? Spyro's Adventure

✨ Which game was your favourite? Supercharged

☔ Which game was your least favourite? Swap Force

🔥Favourite fire Skylander? Fire Kraken

❌🔥Least favourite fire Skylander? Eurptor

🌊Favourite water Skylander? Snap Shot

❌🌊Least favourite water Skylander? Dive-Clops

🌱Favourite life Skylander? Ambush

❌🌱Least favourite life Skylander? Chompy Mage

🌄Favourite earth Skylander? Wallop

❌🌄Least favourite earth Skylander? Golden Queen

💀Favourite undead Skylander? Grim Creeper

❌💀Least favourite undead Skylander? Chopscotch

💨Favourite air Skylander? Jet-Vac

❌💨Least favourite air Skylander? Pop Thorn

🔌Favourite tech Skylander? Jawbreaker

❌🔌Least favourite tech Skylander? Sprocket

🌠Favourite magic Skylander? Trap Shadow

❌🌠Least favourite magic Skylander? Blastermind

🌞Favourite light Skylander? Knight Light

❌🌞Least favourite light Skylander? Spotlight

🌙Favourite dark Skylander? Blackout

❌🌙Least favourite dark Skylander? Knight Mare

♫ Favourite song from the soundtrack? Crystal Eye Castle

🎮 Favourite minigame? Lock Puzzles

💠 Favourite level? Dark Water Cove

❎ Least favourite level? Stonetown

🔆 Your strongest Skylander? Spyro

🔅 Your weakest Skylander? Camo

🔷 Your rarest Skylander? Dark Spyro

⭕ What Skylander do you want the most? Smash Hit

💔 How many Skylanders are you missing? None

💞 Skylanders OTP? Jet-Vac X Stink Bomb

❗Why did you start playing Skylanders? Because I love the art style

💙 How did you discover Skylanders? Through watching the opening cutscene for Spyro's Adventure on my computer

💖 Any Skylanders OCs? No, sadly

😉 Most memorable gameplay moment/moments? Beating a friend's Skylander while she was busy talking to someone

😇 Your favourite experience with the franchise? Looking at Skylanders TF (Transformation) content online

💛 What do you like most about Skylanders? The character designs

🔪 What do you not like about Skylanders? Being unable to play it online

💎Do you hope the franchise continues? Yes

💜 What does Skylanders as a franchise mean to you? It made me love anthro animals and furries

💗 Describe your dream Skylander game? It's a Street Fighter 6 lite fighting game wherein you can create your own Skylander a la Imaginators and join guilds which are represented by veteran Skylanders (Flare Wolf, Stealth Elf, Drobot, etc)

💯How many Skylanders do you have? 7

💘 Will you continue playing Skylanders if the franchise continues? HELL YEAH

💝 If you could recommend Skylanders to others, what would be your points of persuasion? You can play as a dragon

🕒 How long have you been a fan? A very long time

Skylanders ask game

💙 Who's your favorite skylander?

❌ Who's your least favorite skylander?

💚 Who's your favorite non skylander character?

🚫 Who's your least favorite non skylander character?

🖤 Who's your favorite villain?

💢Who's your least favorite villain

😈 Favorite trappable villain

👿 Least favorite trappable villain

❔ Who was your first skylander?

🌐 What was your first skylander game?

✨ Which game was your favorite?

☔ Which game was your least favorite?

🔥Favorite fire skylander

❌🔥Least favorite fire skylander

🌊Favorite water skylander

❌🌊Least favorite water skylander

🌱Favorite life skylander

❌🌱Least favorite life skylander

🌄Favorite earth skylander

❌🌄Least favorite earth skylander

💀Favorite undead skylander

❌💀Least favorite undead skylander

💨Favorite air skylander

❌💨Least favorite air skylander

🔌Favorite tech skylander

❌🔌Least favorite tech skylander

🌠Favorite magic skylander

❌🌠Least favorite magic skylander

🌞Favorite light skylander

❌🌞Least favorite light skylander

🌙Favorite dark skylander

❌🌙Least favorite dark skylander

♫ Favorite song from the soundtrack

🎮 Favorite minigame

💠 Favorite level

❎ Least favorite level

🔆 Your strongest skylander

🔅 Your weakest skylander

🔷 Your rarest skylander

⭕ What skylander do you want the most?

💔 How many skylanders are you missing?

💞 Skylanders OTP?

❗Why did you start playing skylanders?

💙 How did you discover skylanders?

💖 Any skylanders OCs?

😉 Most memorable gameplay moment/moments

😇 Your favorite experience with the franchise

💛 What do you like most about skylanders?

🔪 What do you not like about skylanders?

💎Do you hope the franchise continues?

💜 What does skylanders as a franchise mean to you?

💗 Describe your dream skylander game

💯How many skylanders do you have?

💘 Will you continue playing skylanders if the franchise continues?

💝 If you could recommend skylanders to others what would be your points of persuasion?

🕒 How long have you been a fan?

[ladyloveandjustice]

Fall 2024 Anime Overview: Acro Trip

Premise: Chizuko is a huge fan of her local  magical girl, Berry Blossom. The magical girl’s arch-nemesis is a villain named Chrome, but he’s…incredibly pathetic. He’s hardly a challenge for Berry Blossom, and Chizuko is disappointed because this means her hero doesn’t really get a chance to show her stuff. She has a lot of ideas on how Chrome could be a more effective villain, and he overhears her talking about some of them. Now he’s trying  to recruit her for his evil organization, saying that if she helps him, it will mean cooler fights for Berry Blossom that will make her rise in popularity. What’s a fangirl to do?

Acro Trip is a lot of fun, and I recommend it to any magical girl enjoyer. I also recommend it to anyone who loves pathetic failguys, because my man Chrome is the most hilariously pathetic of them all. You like bad boys? Well this man is literally bad at everything.

He’s incredibly endearing—his idea of  “evil” is flipping restaurant maps or littering, he trembles pitifully when a middle school girl hits him with an umbrella, he fucks up in every way possible. At the same time, he’s a sweetheart who clearly takes his responsibility to be a good “mentor” to Chizuko very seriously and cares about her a lot. The show loves him and so do I.

 But wait! Girl failures have their rep too!

Chizuko is incredibly relatable to all of us magical girl fangirls, and her matter-of-fact way of dealing with things bounces off Chrome's himbo antic well. She has her fair share of failgirl moments herself, usually caused by her…well, it definitely seems like it's her crush on Berry Blossom.

We’ve been there, girl. I do feel Chrome gets a little more of a spotlight than her, but we also get to see her actually develop, going from refusing to get involved with Chrome to embracing her power.

Meanwhile, one of my favorite running gags is Chizuko's sweet lil’ grandfather who just rolls with every weird thing that happens and is way too excited to engage in criminal activity.

Berry Blossom herself is actually almost as big a dummy as Chrome is, with her mascot being the one who has to keep her on task. The classic dynamic! I do wish there was more to her, but I’ll discuss that later.

I felt a little concerned when it was confirmed Berry Blossom was a teenager and that Chrome was…probably in his mid-to-late twenties, because in the first episode there was a part where Chizuko seemed to think he was in love with Berry Blossom, and he was also very clear he was a masochist who is, uh, blissful when he gets punched in the face by Berry. However, the show immediately drops this. The idea of Chrome being in love with Berry Blossom never comes up again, and in fact it’s made clear he isn’t, as he repeatedly is more focused on being a good surrogate big brother to his “apprentice” over her. The masochism is mostly dropped too. On the other hand, Berry Blossom does seem to be developing a crush on Chrome, which makes me wary, but thankfully it’s extremely one sided right now. He’s completely oblivious to this, clearly doesn’t think of her that way, and it’s built on her constantly misunderstanding him requesting gifts to cheer up Chizuko (like her autograph).

It's not exactly a perfect show though,. As fun as it is, not all the gags hit, some side characters kind of dull, and my enthusiasm waned a bit as the series went on. The animation is…pretty rough. This anime clearly did not have a lot of resources allocated to it.

There’s also a bit of missed potential. It takes Chizuko way too long to get in the action, Chrome’s backstory would probably be more effective if his “rival” was a little more complex and sympathetic, there’s an interesting part in the finale where Berry Blossom mentions she doesn’t really have interests or hobbies and her mascot gave her purpose and then that’s just…brushed aside. Like how is it she doesn’t have any interests? She lives alone too, is she like, depressed? It feels like a major thing for her to say, and something Chrome should acknowledge but it’s like. "Well fight for your fans! They love you”. Perhaps it gets addressed in the manga or an (unlikely) season 2, but it sort of felt like the show wasn’t putting any thought into this heavy, kind of sad character detail they introduced. Whenever the show attempts to give its characters some depth and pathos it always seems a little half hearted.

The finale also set up a really dramatic conflict where various truths come out, and then just. Undid it all immediately. One of my least favorite tropes. There was obviously more manga left, but it really felt like the season just came to a stop rather than ended in a satisfying way.

However, the show succeeds at it’s main purpose- it’s a cozy good time for those who enjoy goofy, incompetent villains and goofy, incompetent magical girls. It’s a very sweet, silly, and occasionally funny show. Don’t go into expecting anything deep, but you can certainly have fun with it.

I implore you to give it a shot, because it’s fantastic that the lazy dark and edgy Madoka ripoffs are finally dying off, and we’re getting more variety again. We’re finally getting magical girl shows with fun premises, ones that aren’t reboots or Precure! So if you care about the genre at all, it’s so important to support them!

[mochimochimona]

Rewatching Arcane Only For Viktor and Jayce, analyzing for storytelling purposes as an artist* -S1 EP:4 or Viktors staring is sus

I loved that scene, where Jayce firstly implies Viktor to keep sitting so he doesn't need to crawl up and also for taking the blame completly.

A little disclaimer here because it might be confusing why I am doing this analyzis (?)...sss english is not my native language sorry - so I am an artist and Arcane is a huge inspiration for me and I wondered what the animators did to imply Jayce and Viktor being really close to each other, even having feelings for each other. And I do get the impression Viktor always had feelings for Jayce because he acts different in a lot of interactions with him. Body language is also an implication, so I will take a closer look on that as well. So I am going through scenes of them together and asking myself what makes me think they wanted to imply something more than lab partners, what makes me think that and HOW I would have done it differently to AVOID that. Also I want to know if I misinterpreted Jayce's behavior and read too much into it. So, here we go. It's actually part #3 already, I will put a post on tumblr with all of my guesses later. If you wanna share your thoughts, please do so!

Knowing what will happen and how sick Viktor gets, seeing it (really, seeing it because I can pay attention) and Jayce not noticing because he is so caught up in playing political figure hurts. Really hurts. And also I am sure now that Mel used Jayce most of the time to get what she wants (not in an evil way, honestly, she does take a liking to him later one, but I will say not as much as we get the feeling Jayce and Viktor care for each other) and she makes advances to Jayce, using his insecurity and jearning for acknoledgment.

I mean how can Jayce not tell that Viktor is immensly sick? I mean those two were working their asses of in the lab I get that, but I think it started right then and there that Jayce lost their dream, really, and the fact that Viktor is his best buddie (or whatever) and it got worse after he holds the speech.

And Viktor is clearly more devastated, which might even shocked Jayce too, than Jayce was, I mean the reaction:

Jayce really was surprised Viktor was so desperate. Viktor knew he was gonna die sooner or later so I think he thought with studying hextech he might find a cure for himself in the process. He didn't touch him, though, so Viktor wasn't shy, just shocked.

This scene made me laugh and choke, I have flashbacks of Jayce being in the Future but instead of seeing Mel and Viktor through the fire, we see him. Interesting choice to make the appearance of Jayce like that. Is that...is that foreshadowing again???? This makes my brain hurt.

Why am I doing this to myself again?

LOOK HOW HE LOOKS. WHY IS NO ONE ADRESSING THIS. Why am I doing this to myself, SEND HELP? Viktor was confidently asking "where have you been, they asked me to do the speech (or whatever)" but when Jayce touched him, said they were partners, he got a bit shy and even stuttered a bit. Okay so IF you are fine with your homie....anyway, the next thing:

"Not in front of" - there is a pause, his look:

"...all of them" and then THE STARE. Why would you do that? I am an artist myself and when it comes to visual storytelling, I am always asking myself what I want to tell people with frames and panels (if you make comics), so I am really wondering from a storytelling point of view: what did they wanted to make a point about? Apart from highlighting Viktor in this situation, to imply that he isn't comfortable in speaking to others okay. But his pause. Looking at Jayce...?

Because clearly Viktor is staring. Honestly, if they didn't want to make it read as longing, or something similiar/else, you would have took a different shot after he told "not for all of them", because if you did that, you wouldn't imply that he would have done it maybe in front of everyone, but not with Jayce staying there because it made him nervous being in front of him. ALSO really important thing I noticed here: when he interacts with Jayce in close proximity and out of context of research, he gets shy but he usually is a confident person.

And again, you could have approached Viktor not wanting to perform in front of a huge audience differently, if your only goal was to make that clear. Ya know, him being touched by Jayce on the shoulder, saying "You are my partner" and keeping a wide shot, making him gesticulate that he isn't comfortable, "in front of all those people" (he would do it in front of Jayce though). DOES ANYONE GETS WHAT I MEAN?

Still staring, or paying a lot of close attention to your lab partner.

And then he says "you - pause", AGAIN WITH THE CLOSE SHOT. I HOPE for the love of god that some people from the Studio will be at the Art Department in Berlin because I really want to ask about this. And I hope I won't get spooked so I ask lol. Because that's really what is interesting about this.

And then comes a really interesting thing, I guess. Sky approaches and she looks at Viktor. A short, acknowledging look from Viktor and he gets back to Jayce. So I was wondering why they made the shot like that again and showing she has interest in Viktor, but Viktor is just respectful.

And right back to Jayce but the next shot is a perfect masterpiece, I laughed so hard.

Replacing Vikor with the mug, where Jayces "Man of Progress" can be seen is, again, peak foreshadowing and storytelling. Again, you could have showed it differently, but every scene has a message and wants to convey something, so this is an important shot. Man, these guys from Fortiche are madmen. Stopping here or the post will get too long.

[squid-bunny-msi]

1998 OR 1999 JIMMY ASK EXTENDED

When I can't sleep I just be typing anything

SO THAT ONE ANON WHO ASKED which Jimmy do I choose, if 1998 or 1999, I give all the points on why it's hard to choose

1998 Jimmy

1998 Jimmy comes from the beginning of MSI, despite starting in 1997, it's only in 1998 when we can see "decent" footage of the shows. The outfit coming from the veery early years adds an emotional layer to it

The aesthetic of 1998 Jimmy is also kind of my aesthetic too, in fact, his style, I feel like I can't describe it well, but it's like an "alt/darker" style of the 1999 one? (duh, it's black). What I mean is, What core is this? Jesus Christ tie, split dye hair, black suit, watches in his wrist, along with the old recordings that made everything darker and crunchy, nobody knows about them and they're just in a tiny room with punk posters? It's like a memory from long time ago.

Before 1997-8 era, there was 1995, with the self-titled album. 1998 is the first time I see the cross tie being incorporated, which I think it's one of the most iconic parts of Jimmy's outfit, which he kept wearing from then on. I think the cross tie connects MSI's debut work with their then kept secret PINK works and the self-titled album.

When I first knew about MSI, I found 1998 Jimmy particularly handsome, back then I didnt like much the 2008 Jimmy because I found him ugly (lie, i DID like him i was just embarrased to tell people cuz I used to only like anime guy ahh faces and he's more like handsome in an ugly way..heh..), then I found 1998 Jimmy, and then 1999 Jimmy and OUGGGGGG🤤

When I draw Jimmy, this era is the one I draw by default, currently it's a tie between the 1999 one.

He has black in his outfit and I love black.

1999 Jimmy

I think this outfit, along with the 2008 one is the MOST ICONIC outfit of Jimmy. If you draw Jimmy in any of those two, it's instantly recognizable to people in and outside the fandom

His pink outfit gives a statement that goes with the band's intentions: He wanted people to get mad to a guy running around in a pink suit. He told this in an interview

An entirely pink suit along with fairy wings is a very original concept for a punk's look if you ask me. Usually we have the perception of punks as people with mohawks, jackets, black t-shirts and spikes, but instead we got twink man with a pink suit singing crazy with fairy wings 😭😭😭🙏 gives a twist ngl, and I like that A LOT

This might seem crazy but I think all the info you need to know about him is right there if you just look at his 1999 outfit: bright pink suit, skirt, cross tie, dyed funky pink hair, stupid fairy wings and Adidas shoes. If you analyze each one of these elements and make an assumption on who he is or how he acts (without knowing him), you'd probably get it right.

He's very fun to draw! Right now I've simplified his shape and now I draw him faster and easier, he's also fun to paint because he uses bright pink.

This was the outfit he used the most in FGWSSS and Tight era I think (mostly FGWSSS), which are considered the classics of MSI, which makes this outfit more iconic imo.

He's so stupid looking in this one but handsome as well

Here are the main points of why I like both 1998 and 1999 Jimmy and why it's hard to choose between them. Its 3:30am Thank you for coming to my TAlk tuah 😂😂😂

[sciderman]

what's a lesser known spider-man related thing that you don't see enough people talk about? (for me although its not lesser known, more like forgotten, only two people (you included) have recongnized my pfp)

weird al yankovic song

[sil3ntm0thart]

my fields of mistria farmer! really like the game!

[chaikajpeg]

hinata shōyō | haikyuu

reference photo: link to the original post on twitter. shot by oremiya14

i don't know the name of the team and the player yet but i'll add them later (i'm in a bit of a hurry so i have to go... sorry!!)

[fisherrprince]

the problem is I’m such a staunch believer in the slow buildup, the earnest enjoyment of meandering through terrible story decisions and weird nothing subplots to build up into a conclusion that explodes out from all that as fantastic storytelling and intrigue based on all that buildup, such that it makes it necessary to get through all that or you’re missing something essential, that I’m also a terrible person to talk to about what makes a story good. I can tell you plenty of what actually makes something tight and well-written and all that technical speak but how could anyone take my advice when I so so so love excruciatingly long unnecessarily complex fumbling and weird nonsense that spirals into, inexplicably, weird nonsense that makes you cry your lungs sore

[sweet-berrry]

hi again! tell me something you think is cool?

Animation History timeeee

Ok, not really. I'm gonna recite these things from memory, so there may be many issues and irregularities.

Intersectionality between the art form of animation and the unhealthy work life balance of the modern age.

Ok so basically wayyy back in the day they would hand draw all of their animation and often have people (especially women) hand color their frames. Then they film it and BOOM! A movie

This process was extremely tedious and time consuming. Not to mention expensive. Any body can hire an actor for a day and shoot a few scenes, but if you have to hire multiple people for multiple days to make one scene. Yeah it adds up.

That's why (in my opinion) Disney had such a monopoly for so long. Having all the equipment and know-how made it almost impossible for other studios to catch up and make a profit.

Even at this time, people were not working healthily. Walt Disney was a motivational master (positive or negative) and knew how to lead people. People were inspired to stay late and work longer hours. After he died, the company needed the same amount of effort from their employees, but had no clear leader. Three separate executives saw themselves as the next Disney, and started an intense power struggle all while the studio fell into a financial and emotional depression.

Movies started making less and less, while employees lost trust in their employers as people were fired left and right. Imagine with me. Your buddies have all been fired, and you're hoping you can keep your job past Christmas. The power in you building is a little unstable, and nobody's in a good mood. But then your boss tells you "Hey, because we fired Tim we need you to pick up his load." Are you happy? No! But you have a family to feed and an EXTREMELY specific skill set. So you do it.

One of the executives noticed how bad the environment was turning and even made a department wide meeting where anybody could say how they felt and what they needed from him. People talked about how they had slept at the studio for multiple nights in a row. How their families were falling apart. The executive ended up crying at the weight of it. But nothing really changed.

Eventually Disney gets a second wind, and we get The Little Mermaid, The Lion King, Beauty and the Beast, all the classics... But I want to focus on the 2000s.

Fast forward a couple decades, and we get computers! They were especially impactful on the movie business because of digital editing (as opposed to manually cutting and layering film) and special effects. Matching with the sci fi themes of the time, many graphics were sleek, futuristic, and uncanny. We mostly giggle at their low quality now, but that time was essential to convincing George Lucas that computers were an investment for Hollywood.

Basically, he makes his own cgi studio to work specifically on lucasfilm productions and sell Pixar computers. They make advertisements for their computers in the form of short films! They eventually grow out of Lucasfilm, and George sells them to Steve Jobs.

While a lower level of physicality is involved, the work load is no lighter. Pixar has to fight tooth and nail to prove that they belong in the movie industry. At this time only a small amount of people know how to use computers let alone make art, but this doesn't stop those few from trying. They work night and day in their windowless buildings to prove their worth. Staying overnight, skipping meals, and other unhealthy practices were all normalized in the pursuit of making a breakthrough.

Toy Story. The first fully cgi feature length film. The Jurassic Park of animation. Love it or hate it, it changed the game. Immediately studios like DreamWorks and Disney pivoted from hand drawn to computer animation due to the lower cost of production and easier onboarding process. But these studios just couldn't compete with Pixar's quality and reputation.

John Lasseter. A great leader, a not so great dude (I don't want to get into everything he did. Look it up if you're curious). He DEFINITELY wanted to be the leader of Pixar and for a while he was the face of the operation! But again, being good at motivating people doesn't necessarily speak to your character. Even ignoring his gross behavior, his disrespect of others in the industry was apparent. Stealing ideas and putting himself in the spotlight shaped the way that Pixar told stories. Honestly, a lot of the films carry signs of his toxic influence (Coco, Incredibles, Monsters Inc).

Even though the transfer to cgi should have made room for healthier practices, the greed of studios and the toxic people they put in power sabotaged that idea.

Here we get into the present day. I'll never forget the stories I hear. The stories are so sad, but Disney still allows them to be told. How much worse are the stories they cover up?

In the Incredibles 2 extra credits, they ask some Pixar employees questions about being parents. They said things like "once I had a child it took awhile to learn that I needed to be strict about leaving on time." Or "it's nearly impossible to have kids and work, but we do our best. Sometimes I forget to eat!" These things should not be happening. Pixar is large and successful enough to support these families better. "I told my son I would play in a minute and when I looked up it was nine pm".

The problem is a mix between the generational culture and the studios profiting from that culture.

Pair this with the huge number of artists who are passionate about animation, and you get a swarm of young adults with no children who are willing to do almost anything to make their degree useful. People who have idolized Disney and Pixar for years.

The cycle will not stop on its own. These artists deserve to create in a way that encourages growth and stability.

I didn't mean for this to promote anyone, but @studioflimpo is a wonderful example of a change for good within the industry!! They are a small indie studio that's working on its show Mandelbrot Hall. (They also have some awesome short films you should watch!)

The shift toward indie animation recently is a huge win for everybody! The studios who get the recognition they deserve, the employees who get treated the way they deserve, and the audience who gets to experience the art of animation.