#eve or mary or some shit

[penisbutterjellytime]

Got bored n made anotha RDR oc, a few months or so ago, for funsies

The border Collie is one of the few she kept from the family dogs litter.

text in the first pic ⬇️

Minerva "Minnie" Acherman A small farm girl. Worked a lot in the fields and did a lot of physical chores when she was younger (field work, milking cows, digging, churning butter, washing / laundry, some building, etc.) so she can lift a considerably large amount of weight with no sweat. Picking people up bridal style or by piggy back, man or women for a few minutes is a party trick she does often. When in camp, she is often seen doing chores like cutting firewood or helping Pearson skin animals or pick up bags, and other such physically laborious tasks as that's what's shes used to and lets her go on autopilot. Joined Van Der Gang through a series of shitty events. Her Grandparents dying, Then her dad, The farm being confiscated, She hopped from working farm to farm, maybe a factory job or two, building, etc. Any job that needed muscles and would take her, she took it. With her farming background blood, guts, and gore, isn't that unsettling for her as her father showed her the the slaughtering process as well as how to protect the cattle from predators, animal or human. Loves to talk, can't shut up when she starts, but tends too keep her mouth shut as she can be a bit blunt for the average person. She may look busy and hyper-focused on a task when attempting to talk to her, but I promise that she is as equally attentive, maybe more, to the conversation as she would be if she was sitting down. May be a negative to her social skills but a benefit for the gang as she can easily eaves drop on conversations, who don't believe anyone's listening. friends/friendly with: The girls; Tilly, Mary-Beth, Karen (Around the same ages + She's enjoys the gossip, theorizing, and shit talk, also enjoys seeing Mary-Beth get excited and explain the plots and twists in the stories she's reading / writing herself ), Kieran (The camps horsegirl ... self explanatory. For some reason reminds her of a kitten the families Barn cat had, would be picking him up by the scruff if she could), Pearson (reminds her of a mix of her dad and grandpa, even if it's just a little bit), oh yeah and the chickens (self explanatory).

[ybcpatrick]

oh i watched the smackdown lowdown segment and its so much fuckign worse it just keeps getting worse. his voice gets all shaky and high because the water's cold. holy fuckign. oh my g od

[uzumaki-rebellion]

Sinners and Hoodoo

I appreciate how the film "Sinners" doesn't demonize Hoodoo. As someone who grew up around Hoodoo lineages from Louisiana, Mississippi, and Georgia, and who also practices it myself, it is a breath of fresh air to see that part of my culture presented in such a thoughtful way. (Shoutout to Ryan and Zinzi Coogler for bringing Professor Yvonne P. Chireau on the production as a consultant to get the depiction historically accurate).

I personally think a lot of Christians who take issue with Hoodoo being highlighted positively are finally being presented with an alternative view from what they've been ingrained to believe is evil. Colonial religions are a type of brainwashing that many of us have been subjected to whether it is Christianity (or Islam). Black people who were forced to take on these different religions during slavery days in the diaspora did what we always do, take the worst of what we're given and transform it into something that works for us.

Black people bring the spirit to colonizer religions. It's why our ceremonies, gospel music, and ways of worship hit harder at a deeper level than white people's. We call God and the ancestral spirits down, and often, they ride us. We call it getting happy. Catching the spirit. Or the holy ghost took over. Or a Loa/Orixa chose us to ride as their horse. I've had it happen to me in New Orleans at a little club while Big Chief Victor Harris, the Spirit of Fi Yi Yi, was performing with the Mandingo Warriors. I'd been feeling 'touched" all day doing some writing research at Tulane, handling some personal spiritual work, and visiting the late great Big Chief Tootie Montana. The drums got to going, I got to dancing and shouting, and the next thing I know is...transcendence and coming back to myself.

A lot of Black people are taught to be afraid of Hoodoo even though Hoodoo practitioners sit right next to them in church. Pray over them. Take care of the shut-in. Provide food at baptisms and funerals. Teach Sunday school and sing in the choir. A lot of us practice Hoodoo ways at home and simply think , "Oh that's what my mom/dad/grandmother/grandfather/cousin/aunt/uncle used to always do." Some of our laughed about superstitions are Hoodoo. Do you clean your house and eat black-eyed peas for New Years Eve? Hoodoo. Do you burn the hair cleaned out from your comb/brush and never throw it in the garbage? Hoodoo. You don't let just anybody touch/play in your hair period? Hoodoo. Keep your purse from touching the floor? Hoodoo? Throw salt over your left shoulder? Yeah. Hoodoo ways.

All these TikTok videos going around calling "Sinners" demonic for highlighting Hoodoo as a force of good (just like the discourse over Annie being a mammy figure) has shown me that Black folks are struggling with the misinformation about us as a people that has been perpetuated for centuries. I promise you, had Hoodoo been played with in the film as an evil force, Christians wouldn't have much to say because it aligns with their biblical-taught beliefs about so-called witches/mediums/spiritualists. It's why some are tripping out and calling Michael Bakari Jordan a devil-worshipper because he was given his middle name by a Babalawo. Can't make this shit up.

I love "Sinners.". I love how it loves Blackness and Black people. I love how it connects us to our roots through music, dance, and Black American folklore. (I hope the people who believe that Black Americans don't have a distinct culture of our own--several actually-- finally shut the hell up throughout the diaspora. You know who you are). I love Hoodoo practitioner Annie Moore played by the beautiful and insanely talented Wunmi Mosaku. She played the role with respect, reverence, and joy. I feel so seen by all the cultures I'm descended from shown in the movie, from the Mississippi sharecroppers to the Choctaw people, the blues, women like Annie, Pearline, and Mary. Men like Smoke, Stack, Delta Slim, Cornbread, and Sammie.

At this point, Ryan Coogler doesn't make movies. He creates time capsule moments that will reverberate into the future. I am eternally grateful to experience it while it's happening. My Hoodoo heart is happy.

[rosenclaws]

New Years Eve Hideaway || Worst!Logan Howlett x Reader

summary: It's New Years Eve and you were hoping for this to be the time to tell Logan how you feel, but he's no where to be found.

warnings: angsty kinda (Logan has PTSD and fireworks set him off), fluff, makeout sesh, alcohol/drinking, swearing.

wc: 1.8k

a/n: I thought of this last night and cooked it up in time for new years!! I'm from the west coast so I've got a long way to go until 2025 but I hope you all have a great new years eve/new year and stay safe and have fun <3333 Also if you see me reuse gifs no you didn't.

Wade's place is as lively as ever. New Years Eve was a celebration and for Wade it meant getting absolutely shitfaced and being around the people that you love. The music was turned up to eleven and his apartment was cramped. You said hellos and caught up with a few people you hadn't seen in a while like colossus and Yukio, you love Yukio.

"Wade! Nice party!" You shout as you finally find the host.

He's all decked out in gold glitter and those stupid new years glasses. He hugs you tight and offers you a cup of a mysterious liquid. "It's my own creation!" He said happily as he drank from his own cup. You look down and swear there's glitter in there and so you gently put it to the side.

"You ready for the new year?" You ask and he smiles.

Things were really looking up for Wade. He's back to being Deadpool, him and Vanessa are talking again, and he's got all the people he loves surrounding him. Not to mention a new (very hot) roommate. Your eyes dart around the room. You try to keep it subtle but Wade reads you like a book.

"Looking for Wolvie?" He says with a grin.

He clocked your crush on the man immediately. Relentless jokes and teasing at the both of you about hooking up, dating, a threesome. That last one earned him three claws to the stomach so he left that one alone, for now.

"The big bad wolf fucked off somewhere. Very rude if you ask me. You’d think the guy who did rubbing alcohol shooters would be all over free booze.” Wade shakes his head as he finishes the rest of his drink.

“You think you know a guy.” Wade’s attention gets turned elsewhere as Mary Puppins starts to piss on the couch.

When he leaves you let out the disappointed sigh you were holding in. You loved Wade you really did and you would have come anyway but you were really hoping to find Logan here.

As embarrassing as it sounds you wanted to use tonight to finally tell him how you felt. If things went well then maybe you’d get to have a new years kiss and if they didn’t go well you could blame it on the alcohol and hope he believed you.

You grab the weird drink Wade created and decided if he wasn’t here you might as well get drunk. As you move you fail to notice Shatterstar standing right behind you.

“Shit!” You curse as knock right into them spilling Wades mystery drink all over yourself. He apologizes and you tell him its no big deal. You lived down the street and you really didn't want to leave the apartment to change.

"Wade! Can I borrow your tide pen?" You ask knowing he has a whole box still stockpiled from before his red suit. He sticks his thumbs up and you weave your way through the crowd.

"Pretty sure this is Wades room." You mumble as you open the door.

The first thing you notice is how the room smells. Whiskey and cigar smoke. This isn't Wades room, it's Logan's. It's messy, the sheets are strewn everywhere. There's empty bottles by the bed but there's also pictures hanging up by a piece of tape. Some of Laura, some of Wade and Al, and to your surprise some of you. Its only group photos but you're there.

You're broken from your trance by a weird noise. A muffled noise, what the hell? Carefully you walk up and throw open the closet doors, hoping to god it wasn't a rat or something.

"Logan?" You ask in disbelief. This massive man is sitting on the hard closet floor. Clearly cramped and he's got a bottle of Jack Daniels in his hand.

"What are you doing?"

"Nothing." He grunts out. He's clearly not interested in talking but you're not going to leave him on the ground.

"Seriously? Look I'm sure if you wanted to ditch the party there's bars open all night." You try to joke but he doesn't laugh.

There's more to his face than his typical grumpiness. In fact it takes a second to notice. You sit down across from him and you see it. There's this far away look in his eyes, behind the rage, there's fear.

"I get it, the closet it can be nice. Comfortable." You reach out but hesitate. Silence settles over you and you tap your fingers on your knee, not really sure what to say anymore.

"You should go back to the party." He gestures his head to the door.

"I don't want to anymore. I uh, I really only came to see you." You confess. He raises an eyebrow but stays quiet.

"If you want me to leave I can but, It's new years and well...I have a walk in closet. You know the big kind that has more space." You offer.

He's silent and you think you've pushed it too far. This was stupid I mean who asks a man if he wants to sit in your closet. He gets up and places the bottle on the ground, holding out his hand to you.

"You just gonna sit there?"

You and Logan manage to sneak out of Wades pretty easily. Grabbing a pizza and a few bottles of soda (and one bottle of champagne) you head to your apartment. Your closet was much more spacious than Logans for sure but the two of you were still close. You turned on some movie on your laptop and you and Logan ate the pizza.

“God why is there so much singing.” Logan says with a groan.

“Because its a movie musical, look if you didn’t want to watch than you could have said something.”

“What kind of name is the Greatest Showman anyways.” Logan huffs and you roll your eyes.

Your shoulders bump into each other as he reaches for his soda. Though the movie was already half way through, you hadn’t really been paying attention. You were too focused on Logan. He was so close, his arms were big and so musclely.

That’s not even a word but you couldn’t think straight, not with your crush sitting right next to you. He smelled nice, like fresh shampoo. As the movies plays you notice the time, its almost midnight.

“The fireworks should be soon!” You move to go back outside to watch but Logan stays glued to the floor. That fear coming back into his eyes.

“Logan?” You crouch down next to him.

“Don’t worry about me sweetheart, go enjoy the fireworks.” You don’t move.

You don’t ask him to explain either but something tells you he shouldn’t be alone. You turn the movie back on and let it play, letting your head rest on his shoulder as his hand gently comes to rest on your knee. Both of you don’t want to move, afraid of doing the wrong thing.

“Fireworks. They just bring back bad memories.” He mumbles.

He’s over 200 years old but nightmares of his life before still haunts him. He fought in pretty much every war, lost friends, watched people die. He’s been surrounded by violence and gunshots all his life and in the heat of battle he doesn’t even flinch. Even as recently as last Tuesday he’s has bullets fired at him and he just spit them out.

But for some reason fireworks just get to him. It triggers something in him, this deep seated fear that makes him freeze. Most years he’s been shitfaced drunk and isn’t even awake by the time the clock hits twelve.

But this year was different. He had friends and a place to live, a party to go to. He had you. He knew you were coming and he wanted this year to be different. That maybe he gets to truly start fresh with the turning of the year.

But his brain just wouldn’t shut off, spiraling into what ifs and filling him with fear of loss and the worst possible outcomes. So he holed himself in his closet waited for the night to be over. Until you found him and you smiled that pretty smile and instead of laughing at him you joined him.

“That’s okay…Fireworks are overrated anyways.” You don’t know how to help, you don’t want to press but you want him to know you’re there.

There's muffled cheering through the walls and a boom echoes through the closet. Its not as loud but you can still hear it. Without thinking you grab Logan’s hand. Squeezing it tight as the fireworks outside start their show.

“Look you don’t have to-“

“I want to. I want to be here with you.” You cut Logan off before he even has the chance to feel guilty. You reach over and turn the volume up on the movie.

“Happy New Year Logan, there's nowhere I’d rather be than right here with you.” You say sincerely, a soft smile on your face.

He stares at you, it takes a second for him to truly understand that you want to be there with him. That its not guilt or pity you feel for the man, but something more.

Slowly the two of you lean closer, like a trance has spelled the both of you. The fireworks fade to the back as your lips touch. Both unsure at first but once you get a taste of Logan you want more. You wrap your arms around his neck as you pull him towards you.

One of his hands cup your face, his thumb rubbing your cheek softly as his other hand places itself on your lower back, bringing you as close to him as you can get. He tastes like cherry soda and his lips feel just right against yours.

"Logan..." You whine as your lips finally part. He groans as he ducks his head, moving his lips to your jaw and down your neck. Sucking a small spot when he notices you start to melt in his arms.

"Never had a New Years Kiss before.". He purrs and you find that hard to believe.

"Glad it's you." He captures your lips in another kiss as the fireworks seem to subside, not that either of you notice.

Starting off the year together, intertwined in each others arms. All Logan wanted was a fresh start, a true start where he changes from the man he was into the man he wants to be. This is the start to that, he's no longer the violent angry man he was. His world had been flipped upside down and sometimes he still wonders if he really deserves it all.

I mean, after all the pain he's caused how the hell could someone like you ever fall for him, care for him. It's crazy to think about but Logan is going to take this and hold on to it for as long as it lasts. Hopefully it lasts forever. Logan slams your laptop shut and moves it to the side, making room for you to lay down on the ground.

Maybe this new year isn't looking too bad anymore.

[istherewifiinhell]

CAVING. [<- poor choice of words]. Failing to overcome tempation of getting mad at stupid lore.

for those who arent within ranting range in the last day or so. OR specifically snooping on the blog were these things end up by proxy. Iykyk. I might as well..... the tf ground vagina lore

Solus Prime <- blah blah one of 13 mythical first creations from robot god. Also

All female Transformers are patterned from her template and thus are gifted with a similar processing architecture, which is the main differentiation between them and their male counterparts.

Great. Thats a really mature and nuanced take on the whole. Robot gender situation.

In the chaos, Megatronus fired the Requiem Blaster without thinking, fatally wounding Solus Prime. Before Solus passed away, however, she professed her love for him. Solus's body returned to the core of Cybertron and Primus, and the passage it left behind became the Well of All Sparks.

Biblical fridging. One the foundational relgious events is the. ONE WOMAN. getting killed. Awesome. And uh thats biblical megatronus. Not like. Our guy. I mean. The guy. You know.

The Well of All Sparks is the fount from which Primus birthed the Cybertronian race.

Groundvagina. You know. For birthing robots. Why do we need to do that again.

Anyway if you need me ill be in 1984 where a couple of sciencist transformers learnt what dinosaurs were and said. You know what would be really funny.

.

[batsandbirdbrains]

Can you imagine the absolute psychotic break Dick would have if he found out Deathstroke was his biological dad? So anyway on that note

The one where Dick is actually Deathstroke’s son

Dick legitimately has no clue in this AU that he’s not actually the son of John and Mary Grayson. Let’s go ahead and make this one also right after the end of young justice season 2 where everyone is pissy bc nightwing was “secretive” and “too much like Batman” bc he did the absolute correct thing in not telling the whole goddamn team abt Kaldur’s deep cover op. I’m still mad they gave him shit for that if u can’t tell like im sorry u all got ur feelings hurt but dick and Kaldur’s plan literally saved the world like hello ur welcome. Anyway.

Dick is utterly Depressed and he’s isolating himself in a Blüdhaven safe house, basically falling apart at the seams bc he’s terrible at taking care of himself when he spirals like this. Everyone’s mad at him and he’s blaming himself. He’s throwing himself into the Nightwing shit and running himself ragged beating up baddies, but he’s also just exhausted and not eating right or sleeping well and he has a shitty job at dive bar or a strip club as a busboy. Should we age him down to 17? Let’s make him 17, for the added angst of not even being a legal adult but having to take care of himself and make a fake ID so he can even get a job. Not that his boss even really looked at it or legally employs him, but still. If he’s 18+ let’s make him a stripper/dancer for the extra tips and to add to the whole desperate for cash thing. Plus he’d prob get a lot of intel for his night job, actually. Idk idk

So also, instead of Artemis going undercover to help out with Kaldur, she refused. She and Wally had no interest in returning. So Dick had to maintain both his role as Nightwing and go undercover as Renegade, Deathstroke’s apprentice.

Slade was surprisingly on board for going along with Dick’s charade, because there’s no keeping secrets like that from Deathstroke of course he knew it was all a ruse. Dick just had to promise to actually follow orders while out as Renegade and to actually put effort in when Slade trained him. Dick couldn’t figure out why it was so easy to get Deathstroke to agree, he knew it would eventually come back to bite him in the ass, but he was desperate and running out of options so he took it.

So one night when Dick comes home after getting the shit kicked out of him by some run of the mill baddies, he finds Slade Wilson sitting on at his wobbly kitchen table, drinking coffee out of Dick’s favorite mug and looking like he’s judging the state of cleanliness (or lack thereof) of Dick’s apartment/safe house. Dick is too tired to even question it and just falls face first on the couch, pressing his face into the cushion until he sees stars.

A muffled “What do you want” brings a short laugh from Slade, and it just makes Dick feel even more exhausted.

Slade basically talks shit about the so called heroes who threw Dick away when they didn’t like the way his plan worked, Dick starts tuning him out because of course he’s going on a monologue when all Dick wants to do is go rot in bed for the next 18 hours. But then he says something in such a casual tone that it takes a moment for Dick to register what the words mean, and he snaps his head up so fast it feels like he snaps a muscle in his neck like a broken rubber band.

“Shut the fuck up,” he chokes out. “There’s no way I heard that right.”

“Denial’s not a good look on you,” Slade snorts.

Because Slade had just said moments ago that Dick is his long lost son, he ran a DNA test and everything.

“Long lost son,” Dick mocks, “that’s bullshit. What is this, a soap opera?”

“You were kidnapped when you were two years old,” Slade says, his voice calm but serious. Not wavering. “I’d been on a job. Your mother was called away by her father. You were left with a nanny we thought we could trust. That was a mistake. And I’ve regretted leaving that morning every day of my life since.”

Dick can’t stop staring at Slade. This has gotta be a joke. He’s so full of shit, there’s no way.

But Slade isn’t wavering at all. He’s not smirking. He’s not smiling. He’s just watching Dick so intensely, and Dick feels like he’s under a microscope.

He shows Dick the documents. The proof Slade even has a third son at all. Pictures that look an awful lot like the toddler he’s seen in pictures from the boxes of old stuff from his parents’ circus trailer. A toddler playing with Slade’s two older sons, Grant and Joey, who Dick may or may not have briefly met while Renegade.

And then he drops another bomb on him.

“Your mother is Talia al Ghul.”

Dick feels like his lungs just popped like a balloon.

He doesn’t know what happens, but next thing he knows, Slade is sitting next to him on the floor, counting out breaths and talking him down from what was probably the worst panic attack Dick has had in at least a solid week.

“I hate you and you’re full of shit,” Dick gasps, his chest aching. Definitely only because he’d been kicked in the ribs earlier by a thug, no other reason.

Slade just laughs. Not like an asshole smug laugh Dick is used to hearing from him, but like he’s actually genuinely amused by Dick and his antics.

It’s only a little bit of a mind fuck.

Slade convinced Dick to come with him, at the very least just so Dick can use the equipment Slade has to run the DNA test himself and confirm whether Slade is telling the truth or not. And maybe to have a meal that isn’t instant ramen or cereal or a rotisserie chicken.

And Dick hates how comfortable he is with Slade, because he slips right back into the role of Renegade like he never left. And Slade actually treats him like a son, like he’s proud of him, like Dick isn’t just a weapon or a pawn to be used. Slade isn’t throwing him away as soon as he’s gotten all he can get out of him.

And if Slade is maybe putting some biased thoughts about how the Justice League and their junior team treated him into his head, Dick steadfastly ignored that fact. Because it’s true, they treated him like shit. Like he was expendable. They needed his plan to save the world from the reach, and then tossed him out on his ass and called him manipulative for it without so much as a “Thank you, Nightwing, for coming up with a plan that saved us from the alien overlords.”

And then he meets Grant and Joey. As himself, as Dick, not as Renegade. And they’re his big brothers, and they’re so excited to see him, they missed him so much, he was so little last they saw him. And it’s such a stark contrast from how Tim was so mad at him last they spoke, because Tim thought he should’ve been in the loop about the deep cover op, but Tim is still a newbie who almost tore his eyebrows off taking his domino mask off wrong not even a month before the invasion ended, how the hell was Dick supposed to involve him in such a terrifying mission?

And if Dick is out as Renegade with Deathstroke one night and runs into members of his old team, runs into a confused Kaldur who doesn’t understand why Dick is still going out as Renegade, well then maybe they should’ve worried about what Dick was up to before Deathstroke sunk his claws into him.

Because now Dick isn’t sure if he even wants to go back to them.

[anyarose011]

Too Late To Turn Back Now {Angus Tully x Reader}

Summary: A dislocated shoulder, an insult to end all men, a few lies, going out to eat, and an unwanted revelation about Angus Tully. What a perfect way to celebrate Christmas Eve-Eve.

Part 4 of 10 (Masterlist)

Warnings: Swearing, descriptions of arm injury, mentions of underage drinking, minor harassment, and discussion of cancer.

This was one of the more lighthearted and fun as hell chapters to write, so I hope you all enjoy it!

Word Count: 5.0k

Apparently, Angus Tully had gone on another adventure without you. One probably shouldn’t call it an adventure if he went to the chapel, and merely stared at the photo of your dead friend for hours on end.

“Do you think he was praying?” You asked Mary after she told you that while you were helping her make lunch.

“I think he’s just as religious as you.”

You scoffed. “He’d never become a priest.”

“You’d make a lousy nun.”

“I’d be a fun one.”

Once the four of you sat down to eat, your father tried to give you cookies you knew for a fact were given to you by Miss Crane. You also knew they were a week old at this point. Still, to spare your father’s feelings, you broke off a piece. You then put it in your mouth, nodding with a smile before bringing your napkin to your lips as if to clean them, when really you just spat the cookie into it.

Immediately, Angus asked to go to the bathroom, and you knew he wasn’t doing that, but you couldn’t blame him.

“I’m trying.” Your father shrugged, and all you and Mary could do was laugh.

You helped her was the dishes after that, and went back out to the dining hall, still seeing your dad sitting at the same table, alone.

“Everything alright?” You asked.

“Yes, just waiting on Mr. Tully.”

“You honestly can’t force him to learn today.” You scoffed, leaning against one of the chairs. “It’s Christmas Eve-Eve.”

“You always had lessons on Christmas Eve-Eve, and you didn’t complain.”

“I did.” You laughed, rolling your eyes. “Several times.”

He sighed. “I’ll let him out early by an hour; if you attend as well.”

“Never mind, let him rot.”

“I thought so.” He got up from his chair. “Where on God’s green earth is that boy?”

You watched him leave through the doors Angus took ten minutes ago, and as you were about to go into the kitchen to (lovingly) bother Mary some more, you heard shouting. Now of course, you were (and still are) a nosey bitch, so you had no choice but to also go through the doors leading out into the hallway. You heard Angus first.

“There’s nobody here, okay? Just us two losers, a grieving mom, and your-.”

His face and words fell once he saw you enter, and your father turned to see you standing in the doorframe, looking as if you wandered into something you shouldn’t have. Then, you threw on the attitude.

“What am I now?”

He looked away. “Nothing.”

“Oh, wow!” You began with fake enthusiasm.

“I didn’t mean-.”

“-No, no of course you didn’t.”

Your father stepped in. “That’s enough from the both of you. Mr. Tully, I can forgive you for using the phone without permission if-.”

“-If what?” He interrupted. “No, let’s cut the shit: You stay out of my way, and I stay out of yours.”

Of course, your father had detention slips in his back pocket, and of course he threw one up. “That’s a detention.”

Angus pushed past him, groaning and walking fast down the hall. You pursed your lips. “You really showed him.”

“Stuff it, Lady Macbeth.” He scolded, then called Angus. “You just earned yourself a detention, sir. Now, get back here!”

Angus looked back. “Being here with you is already one big fucking detention!”

“Son of a bitch, that’s another detention!”

In response, Angus knocked over a trash can, which caused your father to run like you’d never seen him run before. You should be ashamed that your first instinct was to laugh, but you weren’t and you still aren’t.

You should also have felt like a fool for deciding to run after them as if it were a game. Again, you didn’t feel like one then, and if you were to do it again as an old woman, you would in a heartbeat.

You saw as Angus tore off posters from the wall and would stop at corners just to taunt your father. Then, after running around more than half the school (you had no idea how much honestly, but it was enough for you), you stopped outside of the gym with the both of them. Even with Angus’s back turned, you knew he was contemplating the unthinkable.

“Don’t you even think about it, Mr. Tully.” Your father warned, panting from running. “You are a hair’s breadth from suspension. I’ll wash my hands of you, you hear me? Wash my hands.” Angus ignored him, stepping into the gym.

You followed your father as he kept going. “Stop right there, you know the gym is strictly off limits. This is your Rubicon. Do not cross the Rubicon.”

Angus took one look at the gym equipment, then back to the two of you. “Alea jacta est.”

He winked at you before springing towards the trampoline, bouncing off of it and over the balance beam. When his body landed with a hard ‘thud!’, you and your father were stricken with tense silence.

Which was then broken when an inhuman scream ripped from Angus’ throat.

Still, as your father looked on in horror, you said (being completely unbothered). “He’s faking it.”

When his screams didn’t subside, and you only heard them grow louder and he threw in more explicate language, your smile fell. It was when he got to his knees did you see how mangled his left arm looked, and you felt like you were going to throw up.

Angus Tully was one step ahead of you in that department, and that’s all we should say about that (not that he nearly puked on you; if anyone ever says that, they’re lying and should be shot on sight).

So, that was how, on the afternoon of Christmas Eve-Eve, you came to be standing outside of your father’s shitty 1964 Nova. You and Angus, who was crying while wearing half of his jacket, were shivering violently, waiting for your father to scrape off the car.

“Hurry up!” Both you and him would beg.

“I am hurrying!” Would be your father’s only response, and you saw his face grow redder every time either of you would yell.

Luckily, he managed to (somehow) scrape it all off and you three piled into the car. Even though you were going to anyway, you father insisted you sit in the front (more than likely because he knew you and Angus would probably try to kill each other in a high tense situation, and who would’ve figured he was right).

“I was on thin ice already.” Your father panicked at you as he stepped on the gas to the hospital. “If Woodrup finds out, the facts won’t matter, he’ll make it my fault.”

“It is your fault!” Angus cried from the back of the car, trying to hold his mangled arm up. “You were supposed to be looking after me!”

“I told you to stop!”

“You said you washed your hands of me!”

“No, I meant it metaphorically!”

“Of course you meant it metaphorically. What were you gonna do, actually go and wash your hands?!”

Your father turned back to the road. “Unbelievable. Unbelievable, I said I will wash my hands, never once did I say it in the present tense!”

“I don’t know, Pontius Pilate.” You shrugged. “This Jesus guy makes a good point.”

When he hissed your real name, you nearly shrank into your seat. “I don’t need any more of this from you. You were the one to tell me he was faking it anyway!”

“You said that?!” Angus yelled. “Jesus, I knew you hated all men.”

“Not true.” You turned around to look at him. “I would’ve said the exact same thing about a woman, especially if I heard her screaming from your room!”

Out of all the times you made a man cry and left him speechless, this one was and forever will be your favorite (obviously he was crying from his arm, but you liked to think your comment also did that). Your father scolded you for your foul mouth, but it was 100% worth it.

There you three sat in the emergency room, waiting for over an hour for a nurse to let you in, when your father started monologuing to himself.

“This is the end. They’ll inform the school, who will inform your parents, and then it’s curtains. You’re gonna get me fired; you.” He looked at Angus, then you. “I hope you like sleeping in the snow, Josephine.”

“I love it more than life itself.” You rolled your eyes.

Angus grumbled. “I’m the one about to lose an arm and all you can think about is yourself.”

“Hey, he was worried about me.” You pointed out.

He turned and glared at you, and you actually felt bad for the first time that day.

A nurse soon approached you, handing your father a clipboard and pen. “If you could just fill this out, please. Admissions and insurance.”

Your father, hesitantly, begins to fill it out. It sounded like a joke at first, having to sleep somewhere else, but honestly what were you going to do? You and your father lived in the faculty housing ever since-.

“-Excuse me?” Angus asked the nurse as she was walking away. “Is there any way we could skip this whole insurance thing?”

“It’s just standard procedure.”

“I understand. But look, we were over at Squantz pond playing hockey, and I slipped on the ice.”

Your father whispered. “Angus, what are you doing?”

But he kept going, glancing at you for a moment. “Our mom told him not to take us, but I made him. Our folks are divorced, and we don’t get to see each other very often. She’ll be mad as a hornet if she finds out.”

The nurse still didn’t let up. “Okay, that’s your business. But we just have certain protocols.”

“Yeah, protocols.” Your father tried to warn.

Angus didn’t listen to either. “Please, we ever get to see my dad. It was my fault, all mine. I don’t want to get him in trouble.” He looked at you. “We can’t have her dragging him to court again.”

You shook your head, swallowing a pretend lump in your throat. “No. Last time was…oh god.”

He looked back at the nurse.  “Can we skip the whole insurance thing? We can pay cash. Right, Dad?”

What a sucker; it took you and Angus to do ‘Kicked Puppy” eyes for a minute, and she was brining the three of you in to the see the doctor in three.

When they were removing his shirt, they told him first look away from the arm, but they didn’t inform you.

“Is it that bad?” He asked upon hearing your audible disgust.

“Not the worst thing I’ve seen in a hospital.”

Your father slugged you, but not hard enough for it to hurt. Still, the whole thing was a blur as they popped Angus’ arm back into its socket. It was dislocated, not broken, and a part of you selfishly wish that it had been just to spare you from the disgusting noises. That and also Angus’s screaming, as if you hadn’t been objectified to that enough.

The three of you were leaving after Angus' arm was tied in a sling, when your father spoke up.

“Barton men don’t do that.”

“Do what?” Angus asked, readjusting his sling.

"Lie."

“Well, I had momentum.”

“Mhm,” he looked at you. “what’s your excuse?”

You shrugged. “I don’t go to Barton, and I’m not a man. Thank God, by the way, considering I hate all of them.”

Even though you said that sarcastically, neither of the men said you were wrong.

When you three made it to the pharmacy, and your father handed over the prescription, the pharmacist went to search for it. Angus lowered his voice, saying to your dad.

“You said that if Woodrup finds out, you and her screwed. So now he won’t find out.”

“What if your parents ask?” You questioned.

“Never going to happen. Trust me.”

Your father raised his brows. “Okay, then. This all remains entre nous. Got it? You know what entre nous means?”

“Oui, monsieur.” He smirked “Now you owe me.”

“Owe you?” Your father gasped. “Do not try to leverage me, Mr. Tully.”

“All I’m looking for is little thank you that I did something nice for you. That’s all.”

You shrugged, deciding you wanted a treat too. “It is Christmas Eve-Eve.”

Your father took you all out to ‘The Winning Ticket’; the classiest tavern within 50 miles. Classy being the less dingy, place in Barton. As your father and ‘Friend of Some Sort’ had a minor debate on underage drinking, you saw the last waitress you wanted approach.

“Miss Crane, as I live and breathe.” Your father sounded amazed as if he saw Aphrodite herself. “What are you doing here?”

“Oh, hi guys!” She laughed “Yeah, I always pick up a little extra work over Thanksgiving and Christmas.”

“Well uh,” he gestured to Angus. “This is Mr. Tully.” Then to you beside him. “And this is-you already know my daughter.”

“Yes,” she nodded. “quite well. My niece knows her too if you can believe that.”

He laughed a little louder than he should have, and you wanted to crawl under the table and bang your head against the metal support until you split your skull open.

“Oh, and sure, I know you.” Miss Crane nodded to Angus.

“Angus Tully,” he smiled. “we met outside of Dr. Woodrup’s office. I was wrongly accused of blowing up a toilet.”

“Well, I didn’t know about the ‘wrongly’ part. I just know that miss Hunham talks a lot about you when she visits.”

Aaand now you wanted to just take any of the silverware off the table (even the spoon would work) and stab yourself.

“Does she?” He teased.

You were quick with a comeback. “About how ridiculously annoying you are. I was baking cookies and Elise nearly crawled into the oven because the things I said about you were just too horrible for her to hear.”

“Now be nice.” Your father said.

“When have I never?”

The three of you ordered (after another discussion about alcohol and underage drinking with Miss Crane this time), and it did not escape you or Angus how your father’s eyes were still on her even after she left.

“Ouch,” Angus smiled. “you two have chemistry.”

“That’s the Percodan talking.” Your father pointed out.

“I don’t know, seeing her like this, I think she’s pretty attractive.”

You gagged, not even having the will to come up with a good comeback, you were so disgusted. Thankfully, your father had one.

“Listen, you hormonal vulgarian, that woman deserves your respect, not your erotic speculation.”

You never gave it much thought; your father dating women after your mother died. He just never truly seemed that interested in anyone, and he said it himself, he never goes out. Still…while you do want him to be happy, the woman of interest is your best friend’s aunt-.

Angus pursed his lips. “May I at least go to the bathroom? Sir? “

“You mean the payphone?” Even when he saw Angus’ eyes darken, your father still was not stirred. “Jo March, accompany him, please.”

You sighed. “Why do I have to be his keeper?”

“Because I, Pontius Pilate, washed my hands of him, remember?”

With that being said, you walked with Angus over to the bathrooms, and waited outside with your arms crossed like a child being punished. After a few minutes, he came back out, and the first thing you asked was.

“How’d you lie so easily?”

He gave you a look. “When?”

“The hospital.” You clarified. “You came up with a whole story on the spot that was so convincing, you had a nurse wrapped around your finger within a minute.”

Angus shrugged, beginning to walk away. “You were honestly the icing on the cake.”

“Oh, thank you.” You spoke with sarcasm, following him. “But honestly, you-.”

“-Are you any good at pinball?”

Okay mister ‘Trying to Change the Subject’, you’d play this game (literally and figuratively). “Yeah, I think so.”

He grabbed two dimes from his pocket. “Wanna bet?”

“I guarantee you that’s all the money you have, so there’s nothing to bet.”

“Not exactly.” You both wandered over to the machines. “If I win, you owe me something, and vice versa.”

“And if I wanted you to get out of my life?”

“Done and done, but only If you win, which you won’t.” He put the dimes on top of the machine a guy was playing on.

“Sorry, kid. Next game’s taken.” The many said.

Angus furrowed his brow. “But I just put some dimes down.”

“Don’t care. My buddy’s up next.”

“That’s not how it works.”

“That’s how it works in here. Why don’t you go shoot the other fuckin’ machine?”

“Because I don’t want to shoot the other fuckin’ machine.”

You put your hand on his non-injured arm. “Angus, it’s fine.”

Before he could retaliate, the man lost the game, sighing. “Thanks for fuckin’ up my mojo. Kenny! You’re up.”

“Bullshit.” Angus shook his head. “I put my dimes down, so we’re up next.”

“What was that?” You both looked and saw ‘Kenny’, a drunk man with a hook for his right hand. Shit… “Hey, kiddies,” he snapped his fingers at the both of you. “my eyes are up here.”

His friend snorted. “Look at these fucking kids; spoiled little Barton boy and his prissy girlfriend.”

Not the first nor the last time you were a smartass to a man where it will almost get you killed. “I’ll have you know, gentlemen, he is not my boyfriend; he is the reason I hope every day I become an only child.”

“You know what?” Angus stepped in before Kenny could respond. “You can just take my dime.”

“Take it?” He taunted. “You want me to take your dime? Like it’s charity?”

“No, what I mean is, we could play together.” and let this be known that Angus Tully was not always great at thinking on his feet. “Yeah, you could be my left arm.”

“The fuck did you just say to me?!”

Flinching at his tone, you decided to actually use your brain, for once. “Oh my gosh, I think I hear Dad calling us.” You took Angus’ hand without thinking. “Come on Fitzwilliam, you fucked everything up as always.”

You didn’t care that two, pissed off men were following and yelling at you, you didn’t even care that you were holding Angus’ Tully’s hand and having him trip over his own feet as you pulled him back to your table, you just needed to get out of there.

“Papa,” you call out to your father. “can we go please?”

He hummed at your arrival (and the term of endearment, which you only use if something has gone array).  “Why?”

“Our favorite asshole got us in trouble.”

“Hey!” Kenny shouted at you and Angus. “Why’d you run off? We were just talking to you. Do they teach you manners at that school?”

Hook for hand be damned, your fight or flight instincts kicked in when he put his hand on Angus and you were about to be the reason he’d lose it. Then, Miss Crane stepped in.

“Kenneth, leave them alone, they just came in for some food.”

Still, he looked like he was about to charge the both of you.

Your father stepped in next. “Kenneth, is that right? I don’t doubt that he did something to offend you. It’s his specialty. Perhaps I could purchase you gentlemen something to imbibe, and we could let whatever this unfortunate incident is go the way of the dodo.”

“The what?” The first guy playing pinball asked.

“The dodo,” Angus said. “it’s an extinct bird.”

“What he’s trying to say is,” Miss Crane translated. “he wants to buy you guys a beer.”

It didn’t take long for the two men to consider it. Kenny nodded. “Yeah, okay.”

“Same here.” His friend agreed. “I’ll have a Miller.”

“The champagne of beers.” Angus smiled, nodding.

It was when everything final cooled down, and as the two men and Miss Crane left to get their drinks, did you notice you were still holding Angus’ hand. Which you let go of as if you were holding fire in the palm of your hand.

He went back to his moody self after that, as you were walking back to the car after finishing dinner (no connection of course).

“Why’d you buy those guys beer? They’re assholes.”

Your father shrugged. “That’s one way to look at it. Here, catch.”

He tossed him the keys, which he caught. Your father continued his lecture, walking ahead of both of you.  “How many boys do you know who have had their hands blown off? Barton boys don’t go to Vietnam. They go to Yale or Dartmouth or Cornell, whether they deserve to or not.”

Angus glanced at you. “Except for Curtis Lamb.”

“Except for Curtis Lamb.” Your father repeated his words when they stood outside the car.

“Were you ever in the military?”

“Yes, I tried to enlist in ‘41, but was rejected-I have to get in over there.” He said after failing to open the door on the driver’s side. He walked over to the passenger’s (which you begrudgingly allowed Angus to have this time) side that Angus unlocked. “They made me an air raid warden. Gave me a whistle and everything. Helmet. Arm band.”

You opened the back door and slid into the seats, but Angus stayed outside, asking. “Before we get going, can I be candid with you?”

Your father already was used to that question from you, so he didn’t even look scared when he hummed his approval.

“You smell.” He got into the car. “And it’s really noticeable toward the end of the day. I even smell it on your coat. Mind if I crack the window?”

He didn’t even wait for his response before rolling the window down anyway. Before you could say something snarky to defend your father, he spoke first. “Trimethylaminuria.”

Angus furrowed his brow. “Huh?”

“Trimethylaminuria.” He repeated. “Means my body can’t break down trimethylamine. That’s the smell. And uh, yes, more toward the end of the day.”

“Wow…your whole life?”

Your father nodded.

“No wonder you’re afraid of women.” Angus said your name, glancing back at you. “How did he marry your mom?”

Your jaw dropped, and only inaudible noises came out at first before you settled on. “I’m too sober for that conversation.”

“For the record,” Your dad interrupted, stunned. “I am not afraid of women, and you shouldn’t be asking a girl personal questions after insulting her father. Jesus.”

Angus nodded. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have said anything. Dr. Getler says I should give more consideration to my audience.”

“Who’s Dr. Getler?” You asked.

“My shrink.”

Your father decided to jump in. “Has Dr. Gertler ever tried a good swift kick in the ass?

He scoffed. “Okay, now your turn. Go ahead, tell me something about me. Something negative.”

“Something negative about you?”

“Sure, just one thing.”

“Just one?” You and your father questioned.

He nodded, preparing for the absolute worst, but it never came. Your father merely turned back to the front, started the car, and began to make the long drive back to Barton. You weren’t even out of the neighborhood when Angus then asked.

“Fitzwilliam?” He looked at you. “What kind of name is that?”

Your father snickered. “That’s what you called him?”

You shrugged. “The guys thought he was a stuck-up rich boy, but he’s really awkward and looks like he wants to kill himself every time someone looks at him, I had to.”

“He strikes me more as a Hamlet.”

To anyone who didn’t know anything about Shakespeare, that would be a compliment. To you and your father specifically, it made you laugh. Of course Angus Tully would be one of the most overdramatic characters in theatre.

“Seriously,” the boy in question said tiredly. “who the hell is Fitzwilliam?”

Your father shook his head. “My advice, Mr. Tully? Brush up on the classics; Pride and Prejudice would be a good place to start.”

None of you had the strength to do much more that night besides spending time in your rooms before bed. It was as you were a few chapters into Little Women, did you wonder.

“Why were you and my dad yelling at each other this afternoon?”

Angus looked up from his copy of Popular Mechanics to see you in the doorway once you asked that question. You both were both just wearing your pajamas and socks; outfits you had only seen each other in for either a short number of times, in dimmed lighting, or with jackets over.

It felt different this time…stranger, even.

“Hello to you too.” He greeted, setting the magazine down.

“Well?”

Pursing his lips, he didn’t look at you at first before saying. “I was calling a hotel.”

“Your mom’s?”

“No, one in Boston.”

“Why would you…?” The look on his face said it all. That look of regret and pity that you didn’t understand what he meant right away. “Oh…”

You wanted nothing more than to have said it with disgust, but it was disappointment that laced the word. Then, with a mix of anger and even hurt.

“Am I that insufferable to be around?”

He shot his head up. “What? No.”

“Seems like it.” You scoffed, beginning to pace around the room. “What happened to ‘Friends of some sort’? I asked you if we were fine because I felt like you’d gone quiet, and you said we were. I get it; you asked me to tell you the craziest thing that happened to me, and I should’ve just said ‘I got slightly drunk at a party’, not everything. You barely tell me anything about yourself, and then I just go and throw out the shittiest things that have happened to me. It’s not fair, and I’m sorry-.”

“-My father’s dead.”

Nothing could’ve gotten you to shut up faster.

It caused you such a shock, that you sat down on the bed beside him, staring at him. His gaze changed in a matter of seconds; when he first told you and you looked at him, you’d never seen anyone surer. Then, as shock settled into you, discomfort did for him. You let the quietness between you linger for a moment, terrified of your own response.

“I…I had a feeling.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

You were expecting him to immediately respond, but he didn’t. You debated on just sitting in the silence, or crawling back into your room and pretending this didn’t happen, when Angus finally spoke up.

“I was thirteen, he was…really, really sick for some time but then it just happened so fast and…I don’t really like talking about it, I’m sorry-.”

“-No, I shouldn’t have pressured you-.” You relented first, and ff the circumstances weren’t bleak, it would be funny how you both spoke over each other.

“-You weren’t, you told me something about yourself and I should’ve-.”

“-You aren’t in debt or some bullshit to share anything with me-.”

“-I just haven’t really told people that before-.”

“-Your arm wasn’t the worst thing I saw in a hospital.” You decided to break the loop, and it was successful. “My mother was sick too and…” You chuckled, but felt tears prick your eyes all of a sudden at the thought. “God, she’ll haunt me for this, but she was so skinny the last time I saw her…Cancer. She and my dad were debating on if I should see her like that before she goes, and I won the argument in the end that, yes, I needed to say goodbye. I’m glad I did, no, that’s not what I think of when I think of her but…it scared me. I was eleven.”

He nodded, listening without interruption; a skill that seemed he only acquired during these small moments of vulnerability. Well, you wouldn’t necessarily call yourself vulnerable; you were merely answering his questions truthfully based on your experiences (of course; no vulnerability whatsoever. You didn’t open yourself up to others outside of your father and Mary, why would you to Angus Tully?)

“I went to the chapel before anyone else woke up and I just couldn’t stop staring at the picture of Curtis Lamb…I can’t even say it got me thinking about death or anything like that I just…I don’t know.” He shook his head. “I felt weird and wanted to run away.”

“I get that.”

“I’m sorry for trying to get a hotel by the way,” he apologized again. “if that matters.”

You gave him a smile. “It does.”

For the first time in a while, you thought you saw him smile too; a genuine one, mind you, not the shit-eating grin he often gave you and everyone else. It was then you decided to get up and head to bed, bidding him goodnight. Then, again, you stopped in the doorway from another thought.

“What were you going to call me?”

“Huh?” He perked his head up.

“When you were crying about being stuck over here for Christmas?” You alluded. “You and my father are losers, Mary’s a grieving mom, but what am I?”

His eyes drifted in thought, then back to you. “‘Your know-it-all daughter.’ That’s what I was gonna say.”

“Yeah,” you nodded, smiling as you backed out into your room. “I do know all, Angus Tully.”

You couldn’t see his face anymore when you went to your bed, but you heard his sarcastic ‘Goodnight’ with him saying your full name, and your chest felt lighter than it did the night prior to talking with him.

…What the hell was happening to you?

You were giddy, you giggled to yourself about nothing and had to hide your mouth under the blanket so Angus wouldn’t hear you in the other room. For a moment, when asking him what he would’ve called you, you wanted him to say ‘pretty’. So much shit happened that day, but the one thing, the one thing that your mind goes back to is taking his hand, and not letting go until you realized-…

…No…

No…

Oh, what the fuck?!

Oh god!

Once you were happy about having a newfound crush on Angus Tully, and now you were in absolute agony.

What a wonderful way to spend Christmas Eve-Eve.

[rageprufrock]

A director's cut on Wayfinding would be amazing. I'm living in eternal hope, that it will be updated some day.

I literally say this all the time and literally nobody believes me, so you know what, here, let's all have a little treat -- 3/4 of Ch 2 of Wayfinding, some of which has been posted before during the LIVEJOURNAL days and a lot of which has never been posted at all.

Happy reading!

Your sons and daughters will be given to another nation, and you will wear out your eyes watching for them day after day, powerless to lift a hand.

—Deuteronomy 28:41

JOHN

Dee, at three, is the most beautiful girl alive. She has dark blond hair and mossy green eyes, and when she laughs John feels his knees go weak, like he wants to drop down and pick her up and clutch her in his arms, like that's why little girls laugh to begin with: to get out of walking to the playground. 

Mary's out talking to adults, people who converse in full and complete sentences, she says, but John likes Deanna better. They get each other, they always have, and they talk in the secret language of favored fathers and daughters, instantly fluent in each other. She talks by waving her chubby hands, by tugging at his jeans, by crawling up into his lap in their living room, by touching his face, and when he smiles at her, she beams back and John feels his heart clutch in his chest because he loves her so much. She babbles at him about her day, and what sandwiches she and Mommy made, about the songs they sang, and how much she missed Daddy. 

John never know he could love anyone this much. It scares him how much he loves her. 

He takes her to the playground, pushes her on the swings, wants her to go as high as she wants, as fast as she likes, anywhere she seeks. At night, he thinks about when she gets older, about having to share her with the teachers at school, with the little brother or sister he and Mary have been thinking about having one day. He worries she might fall down, that people will disappoint her, that her life will be hard. He worries that nobody will understand how amazing she is, about if she'll know how to do her own taxes, and if she'll get mad if he tries to do them for her. He worries about her SAT scores, and if she'll be embarrassed that he's a mechanic and not a doctor or lawyer; he looks up law schools. He thinks about what he'll do if she ever stops loving him the way she does, if she stops looking at him like he's a giant who can fix anything, the way it makes him feel shit-scared and like Superman all at once. He gets sick thinking about boys making her cry, about one day when he has to let go of her hand in a church and give her over to someone else, and how he might not live through it, giving up his perfect girl.

John knows it's a dream, because it's been a long time since Deanna's hair curled like that, since she wore green t-shirts and pink shorts, tiny yellow sneakers and looped her arms around Dad's shoulders. 

More than that, he remembers, like the first burn of Alistair's knife into the flesh of his thigh in hell, the day Deanna stopped looking at him like that, when he'd looked at her heartbreakingly beautiful face and all he'd seen was how tired and hurt she was, and knew he couldn't do fucking shit about it. For all the boys he'd been scared would hurt her feelings, John knows he's done the worst, that he's left the deepest scars. Sometimes he thinks that if only his handlers in hell had known how much that had hurt him, and how long, how deep, they wouldn't have bothered with knives, with fire, with peeling off the individual fibers of his muscles at all. 

But right now, right here, in this haze of sleep he doesn't deserve, it's Lawrence and Dee's three; they are walking home from the playground at six o'clock. He hasn't failed her yet, and all Dee knows is that he's her daddy, and that her momma's waiting at home, and that when she wakes up tomorrow there will be pancake men on the griddle and that life is good. It's all John's ever wanted her to know, and the one fucking thing he couldn't leave her. Even this is all his. He doubts Deanna remembers. 

"John."

He blinks. It's Lawrence. It's 1982.

"John. You must wake up."

He gasps, and his heart roars into his throat.

John blinks again, and it's Chapel Hill. It's 2008. 

"John. Wake up."

"Jesus fucking Christ," he chokes out, and pushes himself up. His whole body hurts. He's 54 years-old and he feels every fucking year; he's 54 years-old plus 200-odd years in hell, and feels those, too, the memory of pain, too fierce for all the human words he knows, and too small, now, for all the demonology he learned in the pit.

At the foot of his fucking bed, Castiel is staring at him, crazy-eyed.

"What the fuck do you want?" he growls, and rolls over onto his side, swinging his legs off the edge of the mattress. He hears his spine creak, his knees protest. He's too old for this, and it's still raining, the wetness seeping into his joints and making them hurt.

"Deanna is gone," Castiel tells him, short like a gunshot.

John freezes. "What do you — ?" 

"I cannot find her," Castiel says, and he looks away from John, stares out the window into the rain. "She's not here."

John already feels sick, nauseated, but he says, "Hell, look, she might like you, but that doesn't give you leave to follow her around, you feathery fuck."

"She's not here," Cas says again, precise, and this time, when he meet's John's gaze, his eyes are blazing. 

John swallows. "Maybe she's at work," he says. 

"Her car is here," Cas rejoins. "She told her coworkers yesterday she was quitting her job. I heard her on her telephone. I didn't know what it meant, at the time."

John hears himself say, "Fuck," and then he's out of bed, all the pain subsumed into something bigger, dizzying fear that claws at him like the hellhounds had, and he barrels out of his room and down the hall, shouting for Sam.

In Deanna's bedroom, they find letters. She wrote one to Sam, one to Bobby, to Missouri and Ellen and Jo and hell, Ash. There's a letter to John, one to fucking Castiel. On the dresser, near her piles of unworn earrings and an origami crane, there are her car keys, and a Post-It saying: FOR SAM. DAD, DON'T LET HIM FUCK UP MY BABY.

"God damn it," John yells, and whirls around on Castiel. "How can you not find her? You're — you're a fucking angel."

"I recognize souls," Castiel growls. "And Deanna's is — "

He cuts himself off, looking away again, and John's grateful for that, at least. He's already busted his hands on Castiel's face once, he doesn't need to do it again. 

" — And I cannot find Deanna's," Castiel finishes, selecting his words carefully.

They toss the house. They search it from the corners of the attic into the basement, and Castiel flits from corner to corner, there and gone again in a heartbeat, and John almost drives Sam's fucking car into a tree when Castiel pops up in the God damn passenger seat as John's driving through campus, looking for any sign of her.

"You're wasting time," Castiel grinds out. 

"She can't have gotten far by foot," John snarls. He fucking hates angels.

"She's not a child," Castiel retorts. "She didn't run away."

"It's been eight hours — she could be entire states away," John says, clutching at the steering wheel, because she could be, and he has to believe it.

"She's not in any state," Castiel says, impatient. "She is not in North America. She is not in the Western Hemisphere and she is not on Earth. I looked for her from the top of Everest and I dove past the continental shelf and there's no sign of her — not a trace."

John would throw up if there was anything in his belly to throw up.

"Well, what the hell does that mean?" he asks, his voice is breaking and pitchy with panic. "What — does that mean she's dead?"

Castiel is quiet for a long time, too long, before he murmurs, "It means someone, or something, strong enough to disguise her from me has her."

John slants him a look. "Maybe you're not looking hard enough."

And when Castiel's eyes meet John's, John thinks he remembers — against the unrelenting red of hell, like a gash mid-putrefaction, endlessly dying — beyond the blue irises and black pupils and all the human trappings that John sees now, something terrible and beautiful and so huge John can never know it in complete. 

"I have always known where Deanna is — I did not lose her, she was taken," Castiel tells him — the "from me" is silent. His voice sounds like the endless, hollow spaces of a library, the air filling up a basilica: old and huge and knowing. 

"Jesus fucking Christ," John says, and turns back toward the house, where the car pulls into the driveway just in time for to hear Sam screaming, for John to throw the car into park, tear out of the side door. 

He follows the sound of Sam shouting — for help, for anyone, oh God, please, no, no — his voice getting hoarser and thinner, and when John gets into the barn, Castiel's already there, filling the air with something that sounds like a fucking siren on mute, just the press and urgency and terror of it, getting louder by the fucking minute.

John's about to ask, "Sam, what — ?" when he sees it.

***

In hell, there are stages. 

In the early days, John was too busy reeling from the horribleness, the sheer and terrible evil of the place to process anything, and the soul is strangely cerebral in the way it shuts down for preservation, he thought, watching demons scrape his skin from his muscle, peel him apart like an onion oozing blood. 

The nerves wear away and at some point it's just nausea, awareness, that hurts, and not the way the guts of you feel any physical pain. It's when they run out of skin to cut and things to rape and nerves to twist and blood to drain and the agony of your physical body vanishes into nerveless oblivion that it all gets dicey, that it gets worse, that it gets into the territory of things John Winchester doesn't know how to describe, can barely remember accurately, just feels like a physical lurch through spaces his body occupies that he doesn't know how to name. But he knows this: for the first year after the pain stopped terrifying him, when the easy kick of horror wore off, a demon named Alistair had dragged Deanna onto the rack. 

It wasn't Deanna, but it was, and John will never forget her shaking lower lip, her cheeks, dirty and wet with tears, what Alistair did to her, or how the last breaths of her rattled out of her chest over and over again, every day, and how he always screamed, even when his lungs had been clawed out of his chest. They brought her in when she was a grown woman, beautiful like his last clear memories of her; they dragged her down as a gangly limbed girl; they strapped her onto the rack when she was ten and screaming, turning her face toward him and shouting for help; they carried her over, frozen, green eyes swimming with tears, when she was five, when she was brand new. 

When he was numb to that, too, to watching his baby girl die over and over again, when he was too tired of being ripped up — and that had been terrible in its own way — they'd brought out Sam.

***

Sam's hunched over, on the floor, making hurt, animal noises in the dirt, his body a broken arch over where Deanna's on the floor, her hair a dark gold spill across the floor.

Her eyes are glassy and open and dead, one hand flung out, fingers curled delicately, and from the neck down she's been ripped to pieces. There're long gashes down her chest and belly, blood soaking dark and day-old into the dirt, a messy spatter of gore on her bleached and blue-white skin, on the curve of her chin. Her UNIVERSITY OF NORTH CAROLINA-CHAPEL HILL SCHOOL OF NURSING t-shirt is shredded, and John can see the ghastly white of a bone in all the blood and he thinks, no, no. 

Her hair is dirty, matted, and getting worse from where Sam is brushing her bangs back away from her face, he keeps gasping, "No, Dee, no, please, no, Deanna." John doesn't know it until he hits the dirt that his knees are giving out, that he's falling to them, and then he's crawling forward on all fours to Sam, to Deanna, to where Sam's face is slick-wet with tears and he's run out of words.

John pulls Deanna's head into his lap — hands shaking — and when he tries to suck in a breath it hurts like a knife in the gut. He palms her cheeks. He touches Deanna's mouth. He brushes the corners of her eyes, her throat — the white skin of it, too still — and he strokes her arm, the long muscle and the dip of her elbow, down to her wrist and John closes his fingers there, ignores the way blood is slicking his palm. He thinks about the first time he ever touched Deanna's wrist, when it was small and chubby and the first time she closed her fingers around his thumb; he thinks about holding her hand when she was a baby, when she was small, when she got so big, and then he has to stop thinking about it before he throws up. He's looking for a pulse even though he knows there's no way there is one — the ground underneath her is soaked dark red, soaking into John's pants now, too, too much for one person, for one girl, and John knows, he knows, he knows but — but he can't stop looking, can't stop running his hands over her.

"No," he's saying, "no," because he died for her, he sold his soul for her, he went to hell for her, and whenever he'd watched her die there, he'd known it was bullshit, that Deanna was upstairs calling Sam a motherfucker and taking care of him and breathing and — he turns to Castiel.

"Fix her," he says. "Fix her."

Castiel doesn't look at John, can't take his eyes away from Deanna — her body, what's left of her, Jesus Christ — and he just says, "I don't know how this happened."

"Fuck how, who cares about how?" Sam snarls, and he gets to his feet, he grabs at Castiel's trench, hands smearing dirt and Deanna's blood, and when Sam shakes Castiel, Castiel actually shakes. "Just fix her — bring her back — "

"I can't," Castiel tells him, distracted, and he's not looking at Sam, he's looking over Sam's shoulder, looking at Deanna like something stuck a fist into his chest.

Sam's face crumbles again, like even his muscles and bones hurt to much to hold it up, to keep it together, and he just keeps clawing at Castiel's coat, keeps saying, "Please — please, it's — she's my sister, please."

"I can't," Castiel says again, a crack of lightning in the heavy air. And softer, creaking, hurt in a way John would have sworn the unbending edifice of Castiel, angel of the Lord, couldn't be, he closes his eyes, he murmurs, "It's beyond my powers."

"You — you pulled Dad out of hell," Sam says, wild. "You're an angel."

"And I knew then where your father was," Castiel hisses at Sam, eyes blazing, "where his soul was, who had it, and I had heaven's fiercest garrisons at my back when we stormed the gates of hell for him — for Deanna, I know none of these things, and — " and his voice cracks here, his voice a whisper " — and I know no one, no demon, who could have taken her, stolen her from under my protection."

And that's when Sam starts yelling, starts hollering, that familiar note of total batshit crazy-would-do-anything-no-questions-asked that John knows has led to at least one dead body before. 

"No!" Sam's screaming, "no! She's — no! You bring her back, you fix this, you — " with Castiel growling over him, and Sam's voice getting pitchier and more desperate and less coherent, guttural and begging, with all the syllables and words melting away.

John loses track of the argument, he stops listening, and he runs his fingers over Deanna's face, closes her eyes, puts his hands over her ears, because he knows she hates it when they fight, when Sam's yelling. He curls over her, he pulls her up, he presses her face into his neck and he breathes through the gold floss of her hair and he tries to wake up. He rocks himself back and forth, he threads his fingers into Deanna's, he pulls her hand up to his mouth, and he kisses the unbroken pink skin of her knuckles, sobs into her fist and prays, and prays, and prays.

***

They put her in the library.

John doesn't bother suggesting a pyre. He thinks about picking her up, about carrying her inside, but when he tries to move her, Sam goes postal. John gets the blanket from the hayloft instead and hands it to Sam, lets him wrap it around her, face gray and terrifyingly blank. He doesn't fight it. John's always known that Sam and Deanna orbited each other, that he's always watched from a distance. Sam wraps her up like a baby, picks her up like one, like she weighs nothing, and he carries her into the house, her head against his shoulder, and he hushes her like she can hear him when he puts her down, lays her across the rug in front of the fireplace.

Castiel has followed them like a ghost, just flashes from the corner of John's eyes, but John can feel him, the hugeness of Castiel's presence like an electrified blanket, muting out all the ambient noise. It kills the sound of cars on the road, the rustle of the trees, the silence is so complete and unbroken it's swallowing, it eats up everything, and John just sits in the armchair in the library and lets it eat him, too.

He watches Sam kneel over his sister, over their shared heart, and John's still because he doesn't know what else to be, what else to feel, anything to do, and Castiel flutters like a shadow, flickering in and out, and nobody says anything, everything in slow motion.

The sky goes from the swollen, overcast morning to dense heat by mid-day, and John just sits and sweats ice, hurts. God apparently hates a vacuum, and in the absence of Deanna — Jesus Christ — to lock it down and get shit done, apparently it's Sam's job, and John ain't moving anywhere, doing anything, anytime soon. So Sam gets a wet cloth, washes the blood off of Deanna's face and fingers, pats her hair clean and brushes it out. He calls Bobby and says, "Bobby, we need your help," and "Deanna's — Bobby, something got her." He calls Ellen. He calls Missouri, and John can hear her already crying when she picks up the phone, murmuring, "Oh Jesus, that poor girl, oh Jesus," and Sam just tells her, something brittle in his voice, "Don't worry, we'll get her back."

Sam stays long after it gets dark and cool, long after Deanna's gone stiff, and John wants to ask what the hell they're doing here, what the hell either of them are doing there, but then Castiel appears, a darker shadow among many, and says, looming over Sam and looming over Deanna:

"It's hellhounds."

John freezes.

Sam croaks, "What?"

Castiel drops down on his haunches, balancing on the balls of his feet, the trenchcoat pooling around him, and he reaches one hand over, hovering it over Deanna's body. Sam goes to snatch it away, but his fingers freeze midair, suspended like he can't move, and Castiel ignores him, just says, "Hellhounds — I knew I recognized her wounds."

John has never seen a hellhound. Not even in hell did he see one with his eyes, but he knows them, the way they fill up empty spaces, the way their teeth rip on his skin, through his bones, into the matter of the soul, tore at the viscera of what made him, seen their victims littering the long basalt walkways of hell. Alistair had kept a pack of them, and when hell was particularly busy, and he was particularly occupied with trying to break John, he would dispatch the dogs to do his business on the other souls in his charge. 

"Why would hellhounds — " Sam starts.

"It's also why I haven't been able to locate her soul," Cas murmurs. "My sight doesn't extend to hell when its gates are sealed."

"Oh my God," Sam croaks. "Deanna's in hell."

Castiel's eyes shutter, and his palm drops, tired, closing over the wings of her collar bones, his thumb in the divot between, like he, too, is looking for a pulse but he doesn't know how.

"Most likely," Castiel rasps. "I'm sorry."

And it surprises John more than anybody, probably, when he asks, "Why?"

Castiel's eyes, when John catches them, are cold fire. 

"I don't know," he admits. Unfolding himself, Castiel says, "But I will find out," and before he's fully standing, the space he occupied is empty again — and when John looks down, Deanna's wounds are closed over, the skin closed and unbroken, just blood smeared across white, all knitted together.

***

It's horribly fitting, in a way, that it's Sam and John who bury her. 

They pick a spot behind the house, away from the barn, where it's green and lush and the trees bow into a heart across the Carolina blue sky and dig in unbroken silence. Deanna never got to be a little girl or a young lady or anything other than the fulcrum on which Sam and John tilted, and she'd loved them anyway for it, and John feels sick, and selfish, and numb, and when they put her down into the earth — in a pine box, dressed in a pale yellow sundress she swore she didn't like that much — Sam cries the entire time, hurt, his voice cracking so badly and his knees so weak John finishes the job himself, hiding his baby girl away under six feet of reddish-brown dirt.

The next three days John drinks a lot and remembers very little. He thinks there's a fight, somewhere in the middle, where he calls Sam an ungrateful, selfish little shit and where Sam yells back that he wished Castiel was Deanna's angel, that Dad being dead was a fucking blessing and his coming back was the curse. It's shortly after that that Bobby arrives, and hell, John barely remembers any of this, just has the vague impression of Bobby dumping him into his bed, saying, "You poor, sorry son of a bitch," and taking off his boots.

He dreams about hell, dreams about Deanna on the rack, and when he wakes up to go hug the toilet he doesn't know if it's the bourbon or the fear. 

It's almost a week later by the time he comes out of it, shaken awake by Bobby, who slaps him — furious — across the face, and when John's cussing, "Jesus fucking Christ, you — " he cuts in, saying:

"Fuck your self pity, Winchester."

"Jesus, Singer," John gasps, dazed, tasting blood on the corner of his mouth. Bobby looks red-eyed, tired, and John doesn't remember him staying. He'll add it to the list with all the other things. 

He points toward the bathroom door. 

"Go get showered and brush up. It's past noon."

He does, but only because the prospect of fighting with him is more energy than it's worth, and when he staggers out of the shower, Bobby's sitting at the foot of his bed whittling a fucking stick. He tilts his head toward a stack of clothes. 

"Get dressed," Bobby tells him. "Work to do."

"Bobby, get the fuck out of my bedroom," John tells him. "If you wanna baby someone, Sam's down the hall and — "

"Sam," Bobby snarls, "has been doing some fucked up shit in your cellar, and is not down the hall." He picks up John's pants and throws them at him. "Now, as I said: get dressed — there's work to do."

***

The cellar, when John gets down there, is covered in runes, in Enochian, in sanskrit, in Latin. It's covered in Gaelic and there are, John recognizes, symbols, painstakingly copied from the old tortoise shell relics of pre-dynastic China. There're candles burning, a gas lamp humming, flashlights all over the place, a scrying dish. John tastes brittany and lavender and witch hazel burning, the smoke from rosemary, and he sees bone ash in a bowl and says, "Jesus, Sam, what the hell are you doing down here?"

"Something," Sam growls at him, and when he looks up, his face is thin with grief. None of it's in his eyes. He's always been able to shut it down, lock it away, close the door on it better than Deanna, in a way John couldn't do it at all. "Anything to figure out what did this to her."

John picks up the scrying dish. There's dredges of what he bets is grave dirt and blood in there, and he sets it back down. Somewhere in Lawrence, Missouri Moseley is writing his ass a pissed off as shit letter, John just knows it. 

"That angel said it was hellhounds," John says, and he can't keep himself from remembering the way Deanna looked, dead on the barn floor, a flash before his eyes and gut-wrenching, unforgiving, as sharp and nauseating a pain today as it was before.

Sam turns back to his book, hands preternaturally calm, but John sees the way all the knives on the tables are shifting, uneasy, and he presses his hand down on the handle of one to still its rattling. 

"Hellhounds don't act of their own volition," Sam lectures. "They always move on orders, and they don't just wander out of hell, either, someone — "

"Someone sent them after her," Castiel interrupts, there suddenly and leaning over Sam's book, his fingers trailing across the page. "This is the right summoning."

Sam swallows hard. "Yeah?" he croaks.

Castiel tilts his head, and John can't see the look that's exchanged, but hell, he can guess. The angel says, "It's not necessarily going to yield results, but it's worth a try." 

"Good to know," Sam says, mostly to himself.

"Is that why you prayed for me?" Castiel asks, brisk and barely civil, like he wants to be anywhere but this house, and John can understand that feeling, he knows it in his gut. "To check your spellwork?"

"And to see if you found anything," Sam says, hasty.

Castiel's face darkens. "I haven't."

"And to give you this," Sam says, voice strange. For a beat, John wants to ask what the hell Sam thinks he's doing, but then he sees the letter, Deanna's familiar handwriting tiny across the front, spelling out, Cas, and Sam says, "She — she left it for you."

Before John has an opportunity process whatever the fuck that means, Cas is taking the letter, and John doesn't know that he's ever seen a solemn hand before now, but Castiel's hands are solemn, and he and stares and stares at the envelope, his mouth going slack with something John knows intimately is loss. 

"Thank you, Sam," Castiel says, finally, tracing a thumb over his name.

Sam's flat-lipped smile is brittle and he nods. "Let us know if you find something."

Cas doesn't look away from the letter, but he does say, "I will," the last syllable of his words still lingering long after he's gone.

John clears his throat. "What summoning was he talking about?"

Sam shows him a book. "Here," he says.

***

John hears Sam and Bobby on the phone with Rufus, with Ellen, with a half-dozen other hunters scattered around the country. There are signs, they're saying; something's not right, something making the sky heavier and everyone nervous. Ellen says she's got a kid named Ash — "Hell of a haircut to go with that brain of his." — is finding the beginnings of a pattern in supernatural events. They've got compounding questions and no answers, and Bobby and Sam take notes and keep digging and John spends hours sitting in Deanna's room. The first time he lost one of his girls he'd been so busy trying to avenge her he hadn't grieved; this time, it's all he can do. 

His letter had said:

Daddy — 

I'm sure by now you're all trying to figure out what happened, or why I did it, or how, and I know telling you all to leave well enough alone is pointless. But I do want to say that I'm sorry for upsetting you, probably upsetting Sam. I know you probably won't believe me (and that's okay, too) but I had to do this; it was my problem, I caused it, it's my responsibility to deal with the consequences. 

I know you and Sam will fight like idiots, but please take care of each other for me.

Love, Deanna.

John's read it so many times, folded and unfolded it until the paper was soft. He keeps it tucked in his wallet, he folds it up in the pocket of his shirt. He keeps it nearby all the time. He keeps trying to find if there's a message in the words, some clue left behind, but it's just blue ballpoint pen ink and yellow legal pad paper, Deanna's familiar, crushed-tight handwriting crawling across the lines like a line of ants. He wonders what she wrote Sam, if his letter was longer, if she told him any more than she'd written to John — and Jesus Christ, John knows he's a jealous shit when he comes to Deanna — and he wonders what she had to say to Bobby, to Ellen — to fucking Castiel.

It's better than the other stuff he thinks about.

But he still thinks about it, the memory of Sam begging, his ugly, desperate crying, and Deanna small and bloody in his arms, guts spilling out, vivid and hypsersaturated. It's worse than the dreams of hell because the only thing that had kept him going, for time that seemed to arc out into eternity, was knowing that Deanna was aboveground, that she'd forget him, forgive him, eventually, because that's what Deanna does.

He can barely close his eyes before he starts remember: the rack, the screams, the peeling skin, the fire and the way after a while the coppery warm smell of blood had been good and rich, and luxurious in his mouth. But it always circles back around to Sam's face, Deanna's slack and bloody mouth, and he wakes up gasping, heart trying to tear its way out of his chest. He's back to drinking himself to sleep, and without Deanna to shuffle everything under any convenient rugs, there're empty bottles of fuck knows what bottom-shelf liquor littering his bedroom floor, hiding away in the corners of the library, where the rug now wears a dark-red stain, too, like the rest of them.

***

The forensics of the supernatural are complicated, arcane, rooted in gossip and ashes, and it takes a week and a half to get everything just right. They gather a sage stick and a dozen white candles; Sam breaks a thermometer, mixes mercury and acid and a scrap of Sam's t-shirt, stiff with Deanna's blood, in the silver cup with its grotesques along the base rolling forked tongues at John like a threat. 

When they do, they do the ritual in the library, because he can't go into the fucking barn without being wrenched by it, without still smelling the blood, feeling the dizzying vertigo. 

"You're sure this will work?" he asks, but there's no fire behind it, he can barely keep himself standing, leaning against a wall and hoping it's enough to keep him upright.

Sam, across the room, nods. "Yeah — it should summon whatever demon..." he trails off, because Sam can't bear to say it either, say, dragged her off, stole her from us.

"Most demons would leave some residue," Castiel growls, there suddenly and occupying a once-empty space by the fireplace, comprehensive in his stillness. 

John asks, "Most?"

Castiel looks wrecked, wild, and he has dark circles under his eyes, like he's losing his veneer of angelic distance. Castiel is an asshole and useless but he's an angel, for fuck's sake, he shouldn't look thinner and crazy and like he's falling apart, like he's been pulled inside out, but he does, and when he turns to look at John, he says:

"Ones that won't would be beyond summoning, anyway."

"Nice of you to finally fucking show up," Bobby spits at him, and the glance Castiel gives him could flay a man.

"Did you find anything?" Sam asks, before Castiel can do it, rip Bobby from stem to sternum, and John thinks Castiel would do it, too, just to get it out from underneath his skin. They're all particularly dangerous recently, and John tries not to think about how it might have been for his baby girl, always being everybody's emergency handbrake.

Castiel shakes his head and looks toward the windows of the library, where the leaves are rustling, lazy, on the summer-heavy trees, blanketing the ground in pale green light. 

"The gates of hell are still closed to me, and my superiors haven't answered any of my questions," he says, and he runs his hand along the edge of a bookshelf, fingers touching the spines of Deanna's Little House on the Prairie books. "I have felt no indication of her on Earth, either, in the course of my other duties."

John barks out, "Other duties? What the hell other duties do you have that — " are more important than getting Deanna out of hell, John means to say, but Castiel cuts him off, interrupts and grinds out:

"We're wasting time." He nods at Sam. "Do the ritual."

Sam does. 

They stand, all of them, in a half-moon around the arc of a devil's trap, and Bobby and John hold shotguns and holy water and Sam is holding a book — old vellum, rumored to be human skin — chanting Latin until the walls shake, the lights flicker, the daylight goes prematurely gray outside the windows. 

The space inside the house and around it shake, overfull, filled up to the brim with the heavy, dusty sweep of magic, and it always feels like someone's tickling fingers up John's spine when it happens: invasive, unexpected, unwanted, cold. Castiel just leans against the bookshelf — still tracing a copy of Little House in the Big Woods with his fingertip — and watches, utterly untouched by it, his trenchcoat and hair and everything perfectly still, the moving eye to a coming storm. 

The wind kicks up, and all the papers in the room are swirling like a hurricane, pens and glasses rattling off desks, and it's like a storm trapped inside a house except that all of a sudden everything goes quiet, goes still, and John has just enough time to ask, "Was that it?" before a sonic boom swallows all the questions in the room in a column of blue flame and something ugly and skeletal gets spat into the room, sucked out of nowhere and sprawled in the devil's trap now.

Bobby says, "What in the hell — ?"

"Stay still," Castiel hisses at all of them. "Don't move — any of you."

And they don't, any of them, because John doesn't believe in Castiel's God or any of the work that Castiel says they have for him, but there is something in his voice that is old like water in stone, like the darkest, oldest parts of a forest, the black corners of oceans no one has ever seen. When he talks, the room shakes, too, and John watches Sam freeze and Bobby freeze and watches whatever the hell it is they've summoned freeze, watches Castiel take easy, unhurried steps closer to it, his long legs eating up the length of the library floor.

John looks at the thing instead, and he stares and stares and stares until it resolves into something that looks human, a little. Hell is vivid, but hell is vast, and he doesn't remember this, whatever it was, that is bringing itself onto spindly knees, with cracking wrists and razor-sharp shoulders, skin that wraps possessively around the bone and green-gray with rot, dark, tired blood in the deep hollows between the ribs, in the well of its throat, where there should be stomach and muscle or sinew. But reflexive, John still freezes, he still feels his spine curl, he wants to look away when it looks up. He thinks, do it for Deanna, and meets its eyes only to find it doesn't have any: just black holes in a dried-out skull that seems to glow. In the yellowy light of late afternoon it looks small, unremarkable, and the whispery voice that comes out of its rattling throat hisses:

"Angel."

Castiel crosses into the devil's trap, and the thing flinches away, shuffles back on its creaking knees. The Daddy Long Legs fingers of it clicking across the library floor, nails scraping wood, catching the cheap rug fibers, dragging as it moved to get away.

"Deanna Winchester," Castiel spits at him, still advancing. "I can smell her on you."

The demon — it has to be a demon — grins, wavering, and it's a mouthful of rotted out teeth that John sees behind his shriveled lips. 

"Oh, her. She came to me special delivery, all I had to do was pick her up." He makes a wheezing noise, like a whine of regret. "Didn't even get to keep her long."

"Who?" Castiel asks, and his voice sounds like the first tremor of an earthquake. "Who sent her to you?"

"Above my pay grade," the thing hisses back.

"Where is she now?" Castiel says.

The thing laughs. "Sweetheart, I think that's above your pay grade, but oh — " it shudders, the hollows of its eyes crunching together in delight, shivers rattling its bones " — oh she's so good, angel, all the guts of her are good, and her skin, that delicious, white, wet silk on the inside of her thigh — "

The only thing that keeps John from leaping into the devil's trap, too, is Bobby's hand like an iron vice on his arm, holding him in place, hissing, "Don't you fucking think about it, Winchester."

" — and when they took her away, they took her even deeper," it hisses. "Somebody else's turn, I guess."

Castiel is unblinking, his eyes as still as the locked-tight angles of his shoulders.

"Did she make a deal?" he asks. "Did she sell her soul?"

The thing makes s spitting noise, like a cat gone feral. "Why should I — " the rest of its protest is swallowed up in a shriek, unearthly, and John can't see what Castiel did, but he's done something, because the demon on the ground has folded even more tightly into himself, its body like origami, and it huffs for breath like it needs oxygen, gasps in between saying, "No — no."

"Then how," Castiel asks, very quiet and very dangerous, advancing again, just half-steps, the creak of his cheap shoes on the floorboards and carpet a menace like John's never known something made up of so many ordinary sounds could be, "did she end up on your rack?"

The demon stops, just a beat, and in an outward gush of suicidal delight, it shrieks, its bones rattle, its skin tears, it shouts, "Oh, it was you — it's your sticky fingerprints I recognized all over her, isn't it? I knew there was something familiar about you, angel."

John freezes.

"How?" Castiel demands again. "Answer the question."

"Your little princess was a gift, angel," the demon coos at him, still rapturous. "Someone cracked the Gate. I just followed the hounds up, found her soul wandering around, beaming like a lighthouse." It rasps a laugh, and asks, commiserating, "She's awfully skittish, isn't she?"

Castiel is reaching a hand to it, eyes blazing — and John's never seen a demon scared, before, but he's seen it now, watching it shake and look like it wants to plead — when Sam cuts in, shouts out:

"Wait — how do we get her out?"

The thing on the floor flicks its eyes over, to Sam, to the source of the sound — John could beat Sam to death for being completely unable to follow simple God damn directions, ever — except the demon's mouth is going manic with a smile, and like it forgets who's in front of him, what it's stuck inside, it sways, wanting, purring:

"Oh, Allistair loves her, he'd never give her up without a fight."

John feels something hemorrhage and break in two in his chest.

He'd spent 200 hundred years in the Pit, 100 on the rack, unbroken, because he had people to live for upstairs, something to clutch at.

But John had also spent 100 years at Allistair's side, stringing people up when he'd just gotten tired of fighting, when he'd climbed off the rack and picked up the knife, and the honey sweetness of it, the dizzying pleasure of it, the memory of Allistair as he'd picked up a blade is bright and visceral and inescapable in his mind. 

"You're Castiel, right?" the thing hisses, turning back to the angel, tongue curling out of its withered mouth, and John watches Castiel tense up, his arm stretch outward and fingers freeze, just long enough for the demon to add, "She dreamt about you."

And then Castiel closes the heel of his palm over the thing's forehead and turns it to dust in a blaze of light.

***

After that, there's nothing. 

There's nothing long into that night, after Sam's exhausted himself trying to discern answers in the ashes. Nothing after they all go through all the lore again. Nothing after Sam goes hoarse and terrifies the neighbors standing in the backyard, yelling at the sky for Castiel, who doesn't darken their doorstep for days that stretch into weeks. 

There're no signs, there's nothing. Everything's quiet, so quiet it doesn't make sense, and there're no answers, still, nothing to cling to and no one to ask and John's collection of newspaper clippings turns psychotic while Sam's stack of spellbooks gets darker and blacker at the edges.

After a month, Bobby goes back to South Dakota, hushing something into Sam's ear when he hugs the boy goodbye, as Sam clutches at him too closely, hollow eyed. Two days later, Jo and Ellen roll into town, and John could kill Singer, for being a crazy old fucker, yes, but for dispatching the Harvelles, too. Ellen's hated John ever since he got her husband killed, and he understands that, but maybe she doesn't hate him that much after all, because she picks her way up the stairs and sits next to him on his bed late the first night they're at the house.

"Ellen," John says to her.

She plucks the SoCo out of his hands and looks at it, assessing. "This doesn't work."

He laughs. "No. Sure doesn't."

Ellen puts it down, far away from their feet, closes one of John's hands into her own — and his fingers feel stiff, numb, the skin wrapped around them papery and strange against his own touch — and she puts the other on John's neck. She says, "John — I'm so sorry." He tries to shove her away, but he's too God damn drunk; he hasn't slept in weeks; he's half dead, all sick, completely spent, he's got nothing left, flat out and run down, and he can't even move fucking Ellen Harvelle when she drags him into a hug.

"We'll get her back," he tries to tell her, but he's not sure all the words come out right, because Ellen just ignores him, cards her fingers in his hair, and chokes out:

"John, I'm so sorry."

He tries to blubber something at her, about how Deanna's strong, how she'll make it, how she'll be okay until they figure out how to break her out. But he doesn't mean any of it. He doesn't even really believe any of it, and at its heart none of it matters, because his baby girl is six feet under and a million miles away; her Dad and her brother can't save her; hell, an angel can't save her, and she's strapped down on a rack under Allistair's knife, and it doesn't matter if John gets her out, it doesn't matter if they do it tomorrow, in the next minute, five hours ago — it will never be okay. She will never be fine. John will never be able to save her when she's already lost, and he's not sure how it happens, but he's thinking this and thinking this and ends up on his knees in front of the upstairs toilet, sobbing and throwing up and letting it all hit him, Ellen rubbing his back.

The next morning John packs up his truck.

"Where the hell are you going?" Sam asks. "We haven't — "

John closes his eyes. "I can't just sit here," he says, and it feels funny to be talking again after so long being silent. "I've gotta do something — maybe I'll pick something up along the way."

Sam stares at him, and John knows that look on his face. That's his, Don't You Dare Make Us Move Again face. That's his, I'm Gonna Be A Lawyer face. That's his, I Hate You Because Deanna Listens To You face.

"So you're just leaving," Sam says, dully.

"I'll have my phone," John tells him. "I'll check in — "

"Fuck you," Sam interrupts, and John can tell he's been dismissed. "Just — go. Leave."

He clutches at the truck, tries to dredge up any patience, or hell, any of the anger Sam used to light in him, how the way his son tilted his head and rolled his eyes could make him furious, incandescent. He can't find any of it. John just says, "Sam, I'll call."

"Forget it, Dad," Sam tells him, flat and already disengaged. "You never did anything to deserve her before, I don't know why I thought you'd shape the fuck up now."

That doesn't stop hurting until John's already back in Kansas, parking the car in front of Missouri's house. He calls Bobby to let him know he's back on the grid, dials the first digits of Sam's number a half-dozen times before he throws the phone into the backseat.

"He doesn't mean it," John mumbles, when Missouri makes him a coffee and sits him down at the kitchen table, frowning at him.

"Oh sweetheart, you know he did," she confides, and gives him a cookie. "That's okay, we both know it's not true."

Since John doesn't know it's not true, he'll let Missouri know it for both of them, and he eats the cookie and sleeps for 12 hours before he gets back on the road.

The hunting community at large responds to John's miraculous resurfacing on the circuit with disdain and suspicion; he hadn't expected anything less, but it does make him wonder about the number of times someone sneers at him and says, "I fucking knew it," like he'd called in stuck in hell to get out of God damn work or something.

He stays in Kansas for two weeks, hoovering up three small-fry ghosts and offing one poltergeist, rapidly becoming a hazard at the local bar, before he goes west, into California, where he loiters around Napa exorcising minor demons out of winery basements and drives in the cool early mornings. When he calls Bobby, all he gets is that they haven't found anything; when he calls Sam, Sam doesn't pick up the phone. So basically, everything is pretty much the same as always, with Sam righteously furious and Bobby barely tolerant and Deanna dead and John good for fuck-all.

John's never been good at taking care of Deanna, not the way he should have been. He taught her to shoot a gun and throw a punch, how to salt and burn a ghost and take out a witch, but none of it ever helped. All the people who've really hurt her are immune to rock salt and prayer. 

Sam hates the fact that John thinks they're doing the right thing, that he won't bend enough to consider there's another way; John's never fucking thought he was doing the right thing — he's always just been doing whatever he can to try and keep his family safe, to protect Deanna, to teach Sam how to protect himself, to look after his sister the way she always looked after him: unwavering.

He's in some nowhere town in Washington state when fate comes for him again. 

John's packed it in at a run-down Motel 6 with a faulty air conditioning unit, sleeping hot and having nightmares about Deanna, four years-old, tears streaking her smokey face and their house in Kansas ever-burning. He's driven across so many states and for so many days; no matter where he goes there he is, waking up with a silent scream filling the space behind his gritted, grinding teeth. 

It's through a hot sting of tears, gathering in his eyes, that he sees Castiel in the corner of the motel room, pacing the space in supernatural silence — barely disturbing the air. 

“They are making plans,” Castiel says, his voice raked gravel.

John just blinks at him, tries to get his bearings. He feels the fibers of the shitty motel coverlet under his bruised knuckles, can taste sour mash in his mouth. “Jesus — what? Who?” he asks once he can.

Castiel stares the way John thinks cemetery statues would, if they had real eyes: accusing, unblinking, fucking terrifying. 

“The host,” he says, and without waiting for another dumb question, he adds, “I sought and was denied revelation for a second time, after I left you. I…resorted to alternative channels for information.” 

John scrubs at his face. “The hell does that mean?” 

“It means I believe that the host are making plans,” comes the retort. “And from the signs and wonders I believe they are trying to trigger the last battle.”

John hears himself repeat, “Last battle.”

“The apocalypse,” Castiel goes on, freezing now at the laminate table in the room, where John had thrown his keys and his EMF meter, dumped his wallet late last night, when the liquor had started dragging him into sleep and his hands were shaking. 

“What does that have to do with Deanna?” John asks. He remembers justifying to himself that this ghost, or this striga, or this poltergeist was more important than his daughter long ago. Now Castiel says “apocalypse” and all he can think of his little girl. 

Castiel doesn’t look up at John, he keeps staring at the table — and it takes a beat before John realizes Castiel is staring at the photo in John's wallet, spilled open: yellowed plastic over an image of Deanna at 4 years old, in jean shorts and a green t-shirt the color of her eyes. Her hair's nearly white blonde from the sun, her eyes squeezed shut from her laughter, barefoot in the grass, happy and safe and new. It's the last photo Mary had taken, a lazy afternoon picnic in the impatient days before she went into labor with Sam. In the hazy light of the room, John can see Castiel skim his fingers over the wallet, over the little plastic photo sleeve, as if he can absorb the moment by touch. 

“Over the years, our Father has anointed prophets among humankind,” Castiel tells him, never looking away from John's history, from all that they've both lost. “And a portion of their words have been collected into your holy texts — the Torah, the New Testament, the Quran, the Bhagavad Gita, the Gathas, among many others. But they are not comprehensive of the full prophecy of the end of the days.”

John rolls himself off the couch, more or less onto his feet. He swears some, and once his back and all his joints stop cracking, he asks, “And, what? She’s tied to this prophecy?”

Castiel looks away from the photograph now. He looks back up at John, and whatever tenderness had been on his face is gone.

“You know the story of the four horsemen and the tribulation days, and your human storytellers elaborated on it with visions of resurrection and peace at the other end,” Castiel says. “The version I hear whispered among the host goes differently — it ends with the peace of all humanity wiped off of the face of Earth, and it begins when the righteous man, sent unjustly to hell, gets off the rack and picks up the knife.”

John’s stomach roils, his blood rushes, and he remembers Alistair and his hounds, the endlessness of hell, the way it breathed and throbbed like an exposed organ, gore seeping into every chamber — dripping off the ceilings and into John’s flayed-open guts.

“If it was you, the apocalypse would have started already. There are 666 seals, each monitored by one of my brethren, and we would have seen them begin to break,” Cas says, impatient, interrupting. “But there's been nothing, no movement, no change — and I believe now that’s why Deanna was taken.”

“To — lure the righteous man?” John asks.

Since his resurrection, John's guardian angel has spent shockingly little time perched on his shoulder. Castiel lacks the forgiveness, the soft edges of what John's been taught about mercy, been told about faith. He's terrifying, infinite in a way that's as alien as hell had been; John's literal demons had feared Castiel — John can do no better.

So it's no shock that he finds himself shaking, finds himself cold through, when Castiel turns to pin him with his borrowed eyes, stars burning from behind the thin bone mask. 

The size and shape of Castiel's anger fills the room like it had filled that barn so many weeks ago: cosmic and limitless — the ceaseless consuming at the heart of a black hole. 

“She is the righteous man,” Castiel replies, disgusted.

He comes away from the dresser, he comes toward John, and it's with two fingers outstretched and a gutted, gutting voice, that Castiel says, "It's only her — her goodness, that once broken is a deep enough sin to trigger the end — " 

The bare touch of the angel's fingers land with the weight of an asteroid between John's eyes as Castiel tells him, voice bending the way time is bending, the way light is bending, the way fate is shattering around them: 

" — it was folly for anyone to ever believe your soul could serve as substitute." 

***

John screams and he's in hell. He breathes and he's in Chapel Hill. He blinks, and he's in Bobby's basement, his molecules still out of alignment, none of his synapses fully reconnected. It smells like sweetgrass; it's smokey like a prairie fire, and gaunt, hunched over a silver bowl filled with the deep red of old blood, Sam sits on the floor at the edge of a summoning, eyes wide as silver dollars as he stares up at John.

"I — was not trying to call you," Sam tells him, slow.

From over his shoulder, Castiel says, "Your Enochian pronunciation called for no one," and appears from nowhere with a gleaming blade in his hand, luminous and otherworldly, and says, "Move — I'll do it."

[irreplaceable-ecstasyy]

31 December 2024

I've just seen the London production of Natasha, Pierre & The Great Comet of 1812. I have never cried as much as I did. And here was my experience.

My bestie & I were sat literally a row away from the stage. It was a religious experience.

Spoilers below!!!!!

Act 1.

- The set is like a more modern take on a nightclub. There are huge letters that spell out M S C O W. The second O is on the ground, smack in the middle of the stage, like it's fallen out. Some of the lettering looks broken.

- There's Russian rave music playing while you wait for the show to start, and you can see the band slowly get into their places. They're so lovely.

- Important info. There is a pole on the (audience's) right of the balcony.

PROLOGUE:

- There is no announcement that the show is about to begin. Pierre literally just walks onto the balcony alone with the accordion player. Balcony thing. Then I burst into sobs when the ensemble joined in with "THERE'S A WAR GOING ON OUT THERE SOMEWHERE," walking down the aisles on either side of us. POWER WALKS.

- THE POWER IN THE VOCALS GOT ME SOBBING MY EYES OUT. I CAN'T BELIEVE I CRIED THAT MUCH AT THE START. NOT EVEN LIKE A MINUTE IN.

- Marya D is gorgeous. Hélène is gorgeous. Mary is gorgeous. Natasha is gorgeous. Sonya is gorgeous. holy fuck you guys.

- They were all sat on the bigass O in the middle, and they had silly little choreo to go with each character intro that i absolutely loved

- The amount of eye contact and character interactions that I had in this singular number was enough to kill me.

- Soon as they were sat, Fedya mf Dolokhov was sat in front of us. His makes eye contact with me and gives me this cheeky little smirk and a small head tip, flirty flirty, while i'm out here crying my eyes out.

- Then they scooted along, and I had direct eye contact with Mary. She is the most beautiful woman I've ever seen in my life (and apparently one of my friend's know her which is crazy.)

- Then they scooted, I had Natasha eye contact and she gave me the loveliest smile and a small wave. She knew for a fact I was already having the time of my life in that show. And she didn't break eye contact until the next scoot.

- Then they scooted, I had Prince Bolkonsky trying to hit on me. 💀💀

- Then they scooted, and oh my god. ANATOLE mf Kuragin stole my soul with eye contact and the little brow waggle. JAMIE MUSCATO HIMSELF?!?!?!? I am a gay gal, but I totally get it when it's Anatole.

- "Andrey's family, totally messed up." Anatole gives me a look and shakes his head in disapproval while pointing at Mary and Bolkonsky, and I nodded at him in agreement, to which he gave me a cheeky little wink, and an approving nod.

- Cat Simmons as Hélène Kuragin, oh my gods. Her voice is so sultry and deep, and it has this natural grit in places. So so delicious.

- Jamie Muscato sounds exactly like Lucas Steele holy shit.

- I was crying so much throughout 'Prologue'. Because it made me realize how much this show means to me.

~

PIERRE:

- Declan Bennett, the man that you are.

- It has the simplicity of the Bway production, minus the ladies twirling during 'Il est charmante, il n'a pas de sex."

- They surround him, sing at him. Sometimes they sit and watch him from where they're sat behind him.

- Man, Pierre chugs so much vodka in one go. Straight from the bottle.

- But you guys, the VOCALS. The ensembles 'aaahhhhhhsss' are so so so so so beautiful live!!!!

~

MOSCOW:

- Marya D. on that balcony, looming over everyone, got me feeling things. She greets her goddaughters, absolutely doesn't give a shit about Sonya.

- A lot of touching Natasha's cheeks fr. - For some reason, the house servants are Anatole & Dolohov but honestly, werk it. -

- Oh my god, you guys. There are these two performers, a more metaphorical telling of Natasha & Andrey's love in Natasha's mind, in china doll masks. One is dressed as the Bride & the other the Soldier. You can imagine who's who. They are honestly my favorite addition ever?!?!?!!?

- They walked down the aisle closest to us, & I was elbowing my bestie to look.

- Natasha would gaze at them, like we're seeing at her fantasies & dreams.

- "I love him,/ I know him." The Bride & Soldier waltz together while Natasha watches dreamily with Sonya.

- I believe it is during Moscow when this happens, because I distinctly remember it when Natasha is humming the little bit in the song. Natasha literally rips the Bride away to dance with the Soldier but the Bride still dances in the waltz on her own.

- I swear, I love it everytime Marya D. comes walking down the aisles. Her power walk is everything.

- "Gossips & crybabies." We were the crybabies she motioned to. Damn.

- Sonya leaves after, "she will touch you on the cheek," and when Natasha goes to follow, Marya stops her with the, "Well, now we'll talk!"

- "The old fellow's crotchety." Prince Bolkonsky literally flips Marya D. off from the balcony.

~

PRIVATE & INTIMATE LIFE:

- Mary walks down the left aisle with a tray of incense, and lays them out on the benches upstage. The auditorium soon just smelled of incense, but it was very nice.

- Bolkonsky walks funny.

- Mary is counting her rosary beads as she sings her bit "but besides the couple of hours..."

- But she starts to get more frantic while counting until she drops the rosary entirely, then smiles at the audience awkwardly.

- Mary's voice is so so so powerful, like oh my lawd!!!!!!

- You would think that Bolkonsky is enjoying life with how much he's just jiggying & jiving on the balcony as Mary sings about her suffering.

- "A young suitor, yes!" There is a performer who comes to give Mary a bouquet of roses, posing as the suitor, until Bolkonsky chases him away. Literally snatches the bouquet and flees. My heart broke for Mary.

- Also, such important information, Bolkonsky literally slides down THE POLE from the balcony to go to his 'cheap french thing'.

- "WHERE ARE MY GLASSES????" Bolkonsky is having a full freak out. The lights are flashing and EVERYTHING.

- Bolkonsky literally collapses after he's gives up trying to look for his glasses. Such an uncomfortable scene.

- A pause. "They are there upon his head." Very defeated delivery. There's so much regret in her voice, my heart just keeps breaking. Then Mary goes to cradle him.

~

NATASHA & THE BOLKONSKYS:

- Natasha literally walks in on Mary and Bolkonsky on the floor, and she's like 'eugh', shuffling awkwardly.

- (Edit!) A very kind cometeer reminded me that during this song, Natasha looks to the audience and moutha "what the fuck?" as she's watching the Bolkonskys interact.

- Mary scrambles to her feet so awkwardly, she's so cute, bless her, and she's like "Oh, hello - won't you come in."

- Pause. "hello.."

- Side eyes all around. "And from the first glance, I do not like Natasha." The SASS from Mary!!!!!!!!

- "i'm sorry the prince is still ailing." motioning to bolkonsky on the floor. the amount of disgust and concern in this delivery is so funny.

- Bolkonsky is still on the floor throughout this entire interaction, very much awake, but just like a sad blob on the ground all curled up.

- More side eyes!!! "And from the first glance, I do not like Princess Mary." Hair flips, the sass walk as Natasha goes to sit down with Mary upstage.

- "CONSTRAAAAAIIIIIINNNNEEEDDD and STTRAAAAAAAAAAAIIIIIINNNNNNEEEEDDD." This harmony in person was INCREDIBLE?!?!?! It's literally my bestie's & my favorite harmonies, & we were CLUTCHING onto each other.

- The audible reactions of the audience to the disharmony was honestly so funny. There was a series of "oH?!" and "uuH??"

- Bolkonsky finally moves but he doesn't scream like in the album, he just groans and Mary runs to him.

- His robe was undone and i feared what my eyes would see. He was just wearing matching silk pajamas that just did not fit him, and he's scratching where he shouldn't be in public.

- He kinda just vibrates away with his funny walk, mumbling to himself.

~

NO ONE ELSE:

- It is so so so so pink.

- The snow is pink heart confetti under a pink spotlight, and it's just so cute and pretty.

- This big ass pink teddy bear falling from the ceiling before No One Else was a jumpscare. It's actually so symbolic, and a reminder of how young and naive Natasha really is.

- Chumisa, you gorgeous, talented, incredible soul. She was incredible and her voice was so so so beautiful. It was everything.

~

THE OPERA

- Marya D. and her fur coat give me life. She struts across the balcony and says them iconic lines, "THE OPERA, THE OPERA!!!" and Natasha scrambles to her feet to get ready.

- Hélène creeps into the scene as Sonya and Natasha are admiring the opera, and she goes "and is that Natasha." before she sort of disappears again.

- Out comes Dolokhov, finger guns ablaze & so so so much energy for his intro.

- No one gave Dolokhov hi-5s when he ran across the row in front of us with his hand extended, but one person at the end :(((((( Our section was quite shy with the interactions.

- But when he got to another section, someone tried to give him a hi-5 and he just siked them. Poor girl.

- For Hélène's intro, she comes over and swishes her leopard print coat at us and struts around. Love her so much.

- "No i'm enjoying myself at home this evening." Pierre stumbles from our left of the balcony, bottle of vodka in one hand and what I think might be a copy of War & Peace but I could be so wrong.

- The affair between Dolokhov and Hélène is sussy. They're so open about it rather than just hand-in-hand.

- "So beautiful/ What a charming young girl.." Hélène's whole interaction with Natasha had so much sexual tension. Hand on her chin and everything as she inspects Natasha.

- The Opera moment was the most magical thing ever. There was only one opera singer, two dancers (who play the Soldier & Bride too!!!) but it was so cool.

- The characters all huddle centre stage as the O descends around them, like they're in their seats in the circle.

- All of them had opera glasses that shone. Sonya's ones kept blinding me at one point because she was looking in my direction but slay queen. I hope I didn't look a mess.

- Opera glasses choreo, work it, honestlyy!!! I'm here for it.

- Anatole's entrance was everything. He appears on the balcony, then slides down The Pole so elegantly. He greets Hélène first and they are far too close to each other.

- As the Opera goes on, everyone else has their glasses up, with the very ominous shine, except for Natasha and Anatole as they're just glancing at each other.

~

NATASHA & ANATOLE

- Very simple, very much like Bway, but with its own charm, of course!

- Natasha is absolutely infatuated by Anatole. Throughout multiple numbers, through act 1 & 2, she's always squealing because of Anatole.

- "[...] Seize me from behind/ And kiss me on the neck." Anatole whole ass grabs Natasha and licks her neck. Saucy.

- "give me this flower." Anatole slips off one of Natasha's bracelets to keep, sort of as his pledge to her.

- It ends with Natasha & Anatole side by side on the upstage bench, raising their opera glasses with the lights. Then the lights dim and all we see are the glares of their glasses before it blacks out.

~

THE DUEL

- This was such a joy. One of my favorite songs ever. It's all green and purple flashing lights.

- The patrons all have glowing green glasses at the club, and it's a lot of dancing, twirling and the ensemble interacting with the audience.

- Pierre is having the time of his life with Anatole & Dolokhov. He's being spun around on top of a box, literally living, laughing and loving.

- At one point, one of the two miscreants take a red marker and draw something on Pierre's forehead. Couldn't see what it was.

- Eventually, Hélène arrives at the club and she's just tired. She rolls her eyes when she sees Pierre having fun and sings, "keep drinking old man." Anatole hops, skips and jumps to greet his sister.

- Pierre actually tries to be with Hélène, hang out with the wife but then she goes, "God to think I married a man like you.."

- "Anatole is a married man!" - Dolokhov gives me a look that's like "can you believe this idiot?" then Anatole's eyeline follows his to look over at us, and he's like "Nawh, nawh. Don't listen to this guy."

- "Here's to the health of married women!" Dolokhov is stood on the box, Hélène is just lingering so close to him. The affair between Dolokhov and Hélène is so fucking real. They're literally making out.

- Pierre sees this from the balcony and just screams, "ENOUGH!!!"

- Dolokhov and Hélène literally just roll their eyes at him.

- "He will kill you, stupid husband." Said very sarcastically. Hélène seems to want this duel to go through. She doesn't give a shit about it, it seems.

- Dolokhov climbs up the Pole onto the balcony to meet Pierre for the duel.

- Dolokhov and Pierre were suspended in the air, each holding a strap like Rewrite the Stars lol, and they're hanging over the balcony, feet planted on the railing.

- When it's Dolokhov's turn to shoot, Pierre sort of just curls up into a ball. Then unfurls very uncertainly when he realizes that he is, in fact, unharmed. The audience giggled a bit.

- When the duel concludes, Pierre is lowered by the rope and back onto stage while Dolokhov is just escorted away.

- I swear, when Pierre's two feet touch the stage, Hélène literally SHOVES Pierre to the ground when she goes "You are a fool."

- He fucking clambers to his feet and literally advances towards Hélène in a way that makes her flinch so violently, backs away and throws her hands up to defend herself. But when he doesn't move close, she just laughs and turns away from him.

- Then Anatole strikes with "Well, sweeeet sister." The interaction is so... interesting. The siblings, as we know, are too close for comfort.

- "Sleep it off." [BIG SMOOCH ON PIERRE'S CHEEK.] "And be happy/ We live to love another day."

~

DUST & ASHES

- Pierre sits on the benches upstage. He takes a moment for himself during the opening instrumental, turns around at a mirror & evaluates how ruined he is.

- He also takes a moment to wipe away the scribble on his forehead.

- There's so much raw emotion despite his drunken state. The way he stumbles around but he's trying to get ahold of himself. Declan really brings out so much in Pierre, that I'm just in awe.

- At one point, Pierre starts storming around, searching for alcohol bottles that are scattered around the auditorium. Some of them were underneath the seats, very scary watching storm up to some of the rows and throwing himself onto the floor.

- Declan, what a man.

- In all my years of listening to Dust & Ashes, I never knew how powerful the acapella bit was until live. The raw vocals in the space and the weight of it, whilst leaving space for the lyrics to settle. It was one of the most beautiful moments I've ever witnessed in my life.

- The cast was stood in the wings of auditorium left for the backing vocals. I only spotted them because I followed Pierre's eyeline, and like, the choral backing was coming so strong from the left.

- Marya's silhouette was so menacingly tall among the rest. I love her.

- So much cheering, big big applause. You don't even have time to process the glory when Sunday Morning happens.

~

SUNDAY MORNING

- Sonya & Natasha run onto the stage, and Natasha has a candle and handheld mirror. Sonya is trying to light the candle and the opening notes are played in a vamp until the candle is lit and Sonya starts to sing.

- The little superstitious ritual is interrupted when Marya comes strutting in.

- "SUUUUUUNDAY MORNING, TIME FOR CHURCH." [Proceeds to take the biggest & angriest swig from her flask before strutting off]

- Marya D did not want to go to church, you guys 💀💀

- Marya keeps coming on and off like it's a montage of her Sunday morning. Bless her.

- "After church, Marya left/ For Prince Bolkonsky." Marya comes strutting back on, touches Natasha's shoulder.

- "The rudeness of that man/ I'll straighten him out!" And she struts off again!! Miss ma'am is really doing her laps.

- Have I mentioned how much I love Marya D.?

~

CHARMING

- The death grip my bestie had on my arm when the opening instrumental played because she knows Charming is my favorite song.

- Hélène is so hot, you guys. Holy shit.

- She struts in from the left aisle with a box for Natasha.

- Her rendition of Charming is so different from Amber's, which I LOVE. It's more siren-like. Very sultry & deep more than the energetic enthusiasm that Amber's Hélène brings.

- It's so fox-like and cunning, and I was getting hypnotized fr by her.

- "Now a woman with a dress." I'm used to the belt, you're used to the belt on 'dress'. Nuh-uh. She sings this in the most hypnotic, whisper-quality head voice that is so delectable, I was under her spell.

- "You are not a child/ When you're draped/ In scarlet & lace." It was literally scarlet lace lingerie. Natasha holds it up from the box that Hélène had brought for her then shoves it back in very bashfully.

- I was wondering if Cat Simmons might do Amber Gray's amp up during "he is quite madly in love with you, my dearrr. yeahehehehehhhh. oOOhhhh." No, you guys. She amped up the amp up & it was fucking amazing.

- The lighting at the button of this song is similar to Amber's where it spotlights Hélène, and it was so angelic. This song was everything.

~

THE BALL

- Anatole paces the balcony, eating a heart-shaped lollipop very seductively during the opening instrumental.

- "How I adore little girls." The noises of concern and disgust in the audience was the funniest thing ever. Small gasps and scatters 'eughs'.

- He slides off The Pole to greet Natasha when she arrives, and yes, she is wearing the scarlet and lace with her ball fit.

- People arrive at the Ball, and they're all holding candles that are actually lit. Kinda like they're their dance partners & this is definitely some metaphor for the candles in the mirror as Anatole & Natasha are the only ones dancing.

- The candles and the choreo, holy fucking shit. They're twirling a bit and swaying, moving around the ballroom every now and then. No one's flames go out, and it really adds to the ambience of the Ball.

- Hélène being the only person with the candle still lit after they kiss.

- Like the bway version with the glasses ringing, hers being the last. It was such an incredible still. She's moved to stand upstage (on our right), on the benches, holding the candle. It's enough to illuminate her face as she observes what she's done, and it remains lit throughout the rest of the song.

- "I'LL DO ANYTHING FOR YOU." Incredible harmonies. Then they're kissing again.

- Crazy ending instrumental madness!!! Then blackout!! Hélène times her candle going out really well, idk why I was so impressed by that. I'd feel so much pressure on me.

- Then interval!!

Bonus:

The Soldier, The Bride, The Bear represent Natasha's innocence and naiveness. They're all just toys, and she really clings onto them throughout the story, and I think it's actually such a clever portrayal.

[image: The Soldier & the Bride]

PART 2

[whoblewboobear]

There have been a lot of negative posts about how this season turned out bc of the rat grinders exclusively and everyone is entitled to their opinions on the season. But in light of it, I’m gonna throw out some positives about this season 💖

Sophomore year will always hold a special place in my heart because of the Fabian arc but Junior year might be my favorite fantasy high season overall. I loved learning about Ankarna and Cassandra. I thought I’d be bummed out not seeing some of my fave npcs but the downtime mechanic and the stress tokens added sO much. The Porter & Jace reveal was incredible. KRISTEN’S CAMPAIGN ARC!!! Fabian and Mazey!? K2 and all the blimey shenanigans 👏 Everything with Wanda Childa and Ruben and fig’s complicated women podcast was sooooo funny. I genuinely laughed harder this season than I have with any other d20 season I’ve seen.

I feel like with this season they really hit their stride with pacing too. It felt a lot more fluid with how we rolled into combat most of the time. I loved that first party of the year and seeing Adaine become the party wizard. After ep 18 it makes me love the party with the Oisin missing his shots so much more bc he got in that nasty little one liner later. I adored that the rat grinders were essentially a red herring to keep the bad kids looking elsewhere to take the heat off Porter and Jace a bit.

We didn’t see much from all of them, and we didn’t see nearly enough about Lucy, but I really loved the Rat grinders as in school rivals for the bad kids. Ruben was hands down my favorite but goddamn did I also love how much of a girlfailure Kip was. I loved seeing her rage out and I hope we get to see her really go nuts in the finale too. I really really warmed up to Mary Ann last episode with her tugging on Jace’s shirt and saying she didn’t feel good and then seeing her rage when her strawberry got destroyed. She’s so fascinating to meeee. I loved everything with Buddy and Kristen. I wish they had more scenes together. And while I’m talking about the Dawns, that entrance from Bobby Dawn as the new cleric teacher made my skin crawl in the best way. I loved Kristen calling him frumpy and sad on her teacher evaluation too- and holy shit Fig meeting Ankarna for the first time? Ankarna being the inspiration Fig needed to make music again too?

The incredible art from Cait May this season was hands down one of my FAVORITE d20 artist collabs ever. Just overall improved designs for everyone that just make so much more sense for their characters and art for new characters that made me adore them even more. Also holy shit the Porter maxi is genuinely my favorite mini that’s ever been featured on the show. I’m typically not into how the minis look in general, they always look a lil goofy to me but goddamn when they hit, they fuckin HIT.

And speaking of Porter, I really got endeared to him this season. Yeah he turned out evil and always has been a dick to gorgug and is definitely a shit teacher, but before the reveal I loved his training with Fig and Zara. One thing about Fantasy high is that I just love a lot of the teachers. My two faves this season being Terpsichore and Henry! They’re both so dedicated to their students and are such a specific type of teacher that you’ve definitely met before in real life. Like all my favorite math teachers back in school were so much like Henry and that made me love him even more.

Of course my #1 favorite thing about the world of Spyre is the religion aspect and how Brennan and Ally both approach it. That scene with Ally connecting with Yolanda and Lucy to allow them some comfort in the afterlife was so beautiful. Kristen’s talks with Bucky throughout the season were very touching and hit very close to home as someone that grew up in a religious household and doesn’t connect with the divinity I was raised on. Just- wow wow wow. I also really love that despite the breakup, Tracker and Kristen still have really interesting convos about divinity even if they don’t agree.

I loved seeing different dynamics in the bad kids too, I love the huge sibling energy that Fabian and Adaine have and the bond that Kristen and Fig have. I love how interwoven all the bad kids feel as a group. I love the little quirks that they all have, and I loved all the fandom posts about them like the sharing clothes posts and the one about how everyone lets Riz crawl on them to get better vantage points. I love Riz’s wall of text breaking down to gorgug about how much he appreciates him. Him calling gorgug a sweetie almost made me cry. I of course love all the parent/child moments this season. I loved the bad kids finally healing Lydia and seeing how happy it made Ragh. I LOVE Aelwyn and all her cats 🤧 I loved seeing Baron again and I loved how the bad kids got to the funhouse version of mordred through riz’s briefcase. I love seeing Adaine and Sandralynn bond. I loved finding out that Sandralynn and Sklonda go out for drinks and are friends. I just 💖 and goddamn, Ayda’s message to Fig and how Zara helped to surprise Fig with it. I love how Bill and Pok are such proud dads of their boys and I hope they’re doing some bonding over drinks in the after life.

And I cannot end this post without saying that I loved how cinematic this season felt too. It had INCREDIBLE imagery that you could easily visualize. Everyone at the table was in their element this time around from a role playing and a strategic standpoint. Everyone had their moment to shine and something important to do this season that fed back into the main plot. So thank you to Brennan and the intrepid heroes for giving us another killer season. After the season ended I was planning to finish Starstruck and Neverafter but I might just rewatch Junior year all over again just to get it out of my system.

Feel free to add things you loved about Junior year!

[adachimoe]

p4g's tv listing

with golden, atlus added the "tv listing" feature which has 9 channels. channel 5 was removed from the english release, and nowadays, channels 1 and 9 have also been removed as of the steam version:

all 9 of the original tv listing channels are based on 9 of the 12 basic cable channels, which would be what these 12 keys on a remote control are keyed to:

additionally, what plays on each channel in the tv listing is somewhat based on what plays on these channels irl.

channel 1 is "yhk" named after "nhk" (nippon hoso kyokai or the japanese broadcasting corp). so the abbreviation probably stands for "yasoinaba hoso kyokai".

the feature that plays on "yhk" on the tv listing is called "aoshi uta gassen", meaning "blue and purple song battle". this a parody of kohaku ("red and white song battle"), a new years eve music program that airs on nhk.

channel 2 is "yhk educational", named after "nhk educational", and it has edogawa's educational lectures. ez.

channel 3 is "inaba city public tv". in some areas, 3 is another nhk channel, but in other areas, it is a local or prefecture tv station, making it plausible that channel 3 would actually be inaba's local tv station.

the feature that the player unlocks for channel 3 is called the "mayonaka ohdan miracle quiz" in japanese. this is named after a tv show called the "america ohdan ultra quiz", or "trans america ultra quiz" (i think thats the official name). the game show had contestants fly around the world with the goal being to end up in america, specifically new york.

teddie references the japanese game show. he wears a hat similar to the one worn by the contestants. and when he introduces himself, he says he's "'just meet' teddie". one of the hosts of ultra quiz, fukuzawa, had the catch phrase, "'just meet' towards new york!" as the goal of the show was to end up in new york. (i am awful at anything sports, but my understanding is that "just meet" is a term for "hitting a baseball with the middle of a baseball bat." i don't think there's an english term for that. maybe something like, "hitting the sweet spot"?)

the quiz show didn't air on nhk, so it's one of the few cases where the tv listing feature doesn't really "match" with its channel.

channel 4 is "o tv". the program that plays on it is called "daily persaniland" which plays the unlocked animated cutscenes from the game. following the "the program on the tv listing is usually related to the channel", then "daily persaniland" is named after the show "weekly storyland". since "weekly storyland" aired on "nippon tv", then "o tv" must be a reference to "nippon tv". this made no sense to me until i realized what the logo for nippon tv was:

during the development of p4 and p4g, the "ni" character was stylized similarly to an "o". (tbqh i thought it was like, "osaka tv" or smth at first.)

channel 5 is "tv per" (from "per"sona). this was never released in the english version of p4g, but in the jp game, the program on it was called "mariko's room", and it featured was marie (as mariko kusumi) interviewing the main voice actors. each one appeared as the VA's image on a TV on top of their respective character's head lol. and each unlocked after you finished their slinks. (adachi's va's interview is funny - madono says something about wanting to bully the shit out of adachi since he is so dang bullyable, but he knows that would get him thrown in a tv lmao.)

"tv per" is named after "tv asahi", which is also channel 5. "mariko's room" is named after "tetsuko's room", a very famous long running interview show which airs on "tv asahi".

channel 6 is pbs (i assume the p is just short for persona). this is named after tbs, which is also channel 6. tbs is one of the channels that persona 4 the anime aired on. this channel just gets you back into the game or the epilogue.

channel 7 is tv tatsu, named after tv tokyo which is also channel 7. based on the kanji used (辰), the "tatsu" is probably for tatsumi port island (cause iwatodai is like some combo of tokyo and kobe). channel 7 on the tv listing hosts the "giants of p" art gallery. this is named after "giants of beauty" which airs on tv tokyo.

channel 8 is yaso tv, named after fuji tv which is of course also channel 8. yaso tv has the p4g jukebox feature called "hey hey hoo music king". this is named after the show "hey hey hey music champ" which also aired on fuji tv.

lastly, channel 9 is called MOMOM. this is a flipped upside down version of the channel WOWOW, also channel 9. MOMOM has a collection of trailers for the anime and arena. unlike the others, there doesn't seem...? to be a connection between WOWOW and the contents of this channel.

random ass trivia, but in an interview about golden, hashino talks about a dropped idea for the tv listing called, "moya moya inaba~s". this featured mitsuru and aigis walking around inaba going, "wtf theres nothing to do here". it was ultimately dropped because it wasn't fun even tho they sank time into it.

this show was named after "moya moya summer~s 2". the concept of the real show is that 2 comedians from the group called "summers" and a tv announcer go to small, rural areas of japan and interview the locals.

i thiiiink the reason why atlus wanted to do this / tried to make it work lies within the meaning of "moya moya". there are many ways you could render this in english, but notably, one of them is "foggy". like ha ha yes, a feature called "foggy inabas" based on a show about small town locals??? (in english, the show's official title is, apparently, "complicated summers 2" which sadly does not include the word "fog".)

[headfullofpresley]

𝐒𝐡𝐨𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐧' 𝐆𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐬

Pairing: Elvis Presley x reader

Word count: 4,5K

Summary: You and Elvis are always playing pranks on each other. This Halloween, you come up with a prank that goes horribly wrong as Elvis doesn't think it's so funny and gets genuinely upset. But like always, your partner eventually comes around and gets his revenge.

Warnings: strong language, playing with a ouija board, fake demonic possession, mentions of the devil, elvis being upset, elvis calling reader a bitch, pranks that you probs shouldn't use on other people, tiny bit of angst, reader and larry gellar disliking each other. guess that's it?

A/N: hello, hi! i guess this isn't really spooky but felt like it fit the season! there's pranks in this that i don't advise you to use on anyone unless that's you're kind of humor. wrote this in an hour or so because it randomly popped into my mind and well... i thought it was funny 👀. just want to make clear that this is in no way me making fun of elvis' spirituality in any way, nor is reader, if some people might think thatttt or if it comes across as that. just wanted to write something else rather than a vamp!elvis fic like my brain already was thinking about for halloween, AAAAH. also, this doesn't include all members of the mm or any of the other guys because i didn't know where to place them. okay, bye. p.s: be a smart cookie and don't use a ouija board.

Elvis didn’t care for Halloween.

Never did when he was young and never did as he was growing into an adult. Sure, when he was a little boy and his friends would drag him along to go trick or treating he could appreciate the free candy, but that was about it. After complaining about the people in scary costumes on the street when he was around 7, his mother stopped him from going out on All Hallow’s Eve and he appreciated her doing so.

As he got older, he’d usually be working on the last day of October and whenever he wasn’t, he would rent out the Memphian and watch horror movies with the guys, other friends and some of his fans. He enjoyed playing pranks and scaring the shit out of the people around him, but that’s where celebrating Halloween ended for Elvis.

His Christianity or beliefs didn’t have anything to do with it. He simply preferred holidays that involved lots of homecooked foods, spreading joy, giving gifts and being surrounded by his loved ones. Like Thanksgiving and especially, Christmas.

You on the other hand are obsessed with Halloween. You always put a lot of effort in your costumes and Elvis allowed you to put carved pumpkins by the front door with a lit candle inside of it, but he wouldn’t celebrate with you in any other way than watching movies. You were too old to go trick or treating, so you were happy when Lisa Marie was over at Graceland on some Halloween evenings to do so with her, but this year she unfortunately was in California with her mother.

 

This Halloween you put little effort into your costume, opting for a black cat suit with a tail, some drawn on whiskers that complimented the dark eye make-up you were sporting, and a pair of black cat ears. Elvis wasn’t complaining because you looked smoking hot in it, but he wasn’t aware that you chose this simple outfit because you had bigger plans for tonight that involved… well, let’s say, a lot of action.

After watching a few movies at the Memphian with Elvis, some fans and the guys, you all made it back to Graceland. It was only around 1 in the morning which was early for the bunch you were living with, so nobody was tired yet. Which was good, because you and Charlie Hodge had come up with the perfect prank to play on Elvis and the two of you managed to convince everyone to get involved in it.

The only one who wasn’t up for it was Larry Gellar and you were slightly worried that he’d out your little plan and ruin the whole thing. You were praying that he’d just go home already, but much to your chagrin, he was sitting on the couch and conversing with Elvis, not looking as if he’d leave any time soon. You were just going to have to risk it.

“Let’s play a game!” You chirped happily as you held up a plastic bag, pulling off your cat tail and throwing it by the side of the couch. “I found this today at the store. The sales girl told me it’s the perfect game to play during Halloween, because then you know it really works,”

Elvis watches with curiosity as you pull a large box out of the bag, turning it around and showing him the front. As he realises you were holding up a ouija board, he was immediately intrigued. Ever the curious person, especially when it came to things about spirituality, Elvis slides to the edge of the couch and takes the box out of your hands, opening the lid to take the board out and inspect it.

“Hell no, I ain’t playin’ that,” Lamar immediately says as he glances at the board and you try to suppress a grin. His reaction was the one you told him to give. If Lamar would play, Elvis was going to take the chance to tease the hell out of him for a week straight because Lamar scared easily when it came to these things.

“Ah c’mon, Fike. It’ll be fun,” Elvis grins as he places the board in the middle of the coffee table. You give Charlie a quick thumbs up and he grins, agreeing to play the game. Sonny and Red agree as well, but Larry decides to sit this one out. You were happy about that and as you go around the living room to dim the lights and light some candles, you feel instantly annoyed when you hear Larry’s voice.

“Elvis, I don’t think this is a good idea. Playing with an object like that can be dangerous, you know?” Larry chimes in, looking at Elvis with worried eyes. Never really having liked Larry, you roll your eyes. Elvis doesn’t see it but Red does and he sticks his finger in his mouth, feigning a gag. The two of you silently laugh and you sit down on the floor by the table, Elvis sliding onto the floor next to you.

“It’s not dangerous, baby. It’s just a game,” you quickly tell Elvis as Larry once more expresses his concern. Elvis looks at Larry once more before he turns to you and grins, kissing the corner of your mouth as he grabs the planchet and puts it on the board. Larry gives you an annoyed glare and you ignore it, happy that he decides to retreat back into the kitchen. Joe sits back on the couch along with Billy to watch the game unfold, simply because there wasn’t enough space for more fingers on the planchet.

 

“You sneaky sonofabitch. You’re the one movin’ that thing!” Elvis exclaims in slight annoyance as he glares at Sonny who sat on the opposite side of the table. Sonny widens his eyes, trying his best to hold back a laugh as he shakes his head.

“I swear to God, I ain’t doin’ it!”

You and Charlie exchange a knowing look. It was the two of you taking turns sneakily moving the planchet with the tips of your fingers, but Elvis didn’t notice a thing. He was too intrigued and focused on the words “it”, or in this case you, were spelling out. You hadn’t propeely opened communication or whatsoever, so the board wasn’t working at all. You believed that a ouija board could truly work if you wanted it to and you could communicate with… well, someone or something, but that wasn’t the intention for tonight.

You just wanted to play the prank of the century on your man like he has done to you so many times before.

All of you ask random questions at first that require simple answers. Then you decide to take matters further into your own hands and add up the dramatics a notch. You needed it to be spooky. Elvis doesn’t scare easily, the morgue trips he often makes with you were proof of that, and you want him to be terrified tonight.

“Someone dies tonight.”

All of you exchange uncomfortable glances, though only that of Elvis was real. He shifts a little on the floor and takes his finger off the planchet, accusing Charlie instead of Sonny now.

“Hodge, stop pullin’ my leg with this bullshit!” He huffs and Charlie widens his eyes, scared that you and him got caught, and just as he opens his mouth to defend his case, you speak up.

“Elvis! You’re not allowed to take your hands off of it without saying goodbye!” You grab his hand and bring it back to the board, putting his finger back on the planchet. He looks at you and scoffs, squinting his eyes.

“Oooh, I see. It’s you, ain’t it?”

You mentally curse yourself. Was your acting that bad? Shaking your head as you give him your most serious face, you tell him that it’s truly not you who is moving the planchet and before he can question you further, Charlie sneakily spells out something else.

“The girl.”

“That’s it. I ain’t playin’ no more. Say goodbye, goddamnit,” Elvis barks in annoyance. He wasn’t going to admit it out loud but he truly believed the planchet was moving by itself and spelling out these things. He was having fun when they started and asked random and silly questions, but now it was getting a little too serious for him.

A little too scary.

This thing was threatening your life and he felt a sense of paranoia fill his chest. What if you’d really die because of this stupid game?

No. No, you weren’t going to die. It’s just a game. It’s not real- he refuses to believe it’s real.

You quickly say goodbye along with everyone else, moving the planchet over the word before taking your hands off. You bite your lip to hold back a laugh and wrap your arms around Elvis’ neck as he leans back against the couch, crossing his arms after he shoved the board across the table. You giggle softly and hug him, planting kisses on his cheek.

“Stop that worryin’. It’s just a game, El, nothing is going to happen.”

Although he doesn’t believe you and is still worried, he slides his arms around your waist and pulls you onto his lap, hugging you back.

 

You spent the rest of the late evening playing some music and Elvis doing a spontaneous jam session, which got his mind off of that damned ouija board. After all, it was just a game. Nothing was going to happen and tomorrow afternoon, he’d wake up with you in his arms.

Alive and well.

But as you two got upstairs to his bedroom and got ready for bed, he wasn’t going to take no risks. There was a baseball bat leaning against the wall by the door and a hand gun laying atop of his Bible on the bedside table. You look at it as you got into bed where Elvis already was, sitting against the headboard with the TV on.

“What are you gonna do? Shoot a ghost?” You joke with a soft snort and he looks at you, simply nodding his head.

“Hell. I will if I have to,”

“My protector,” You swoon playfully as you run your fingers through his hair, laughing. He chuckles softly and sighs, kissing your lips before he allows you to settle in the bed. You pretend to watch some TV with him but couldn’t contain your excitement, curious to know what his reaction was going to be when the best part of the prank would play out.

Since you fell asleep pretty quick most of the time, Elvis didn’t think anything of it when he heard you lightly snoring as you had turned your back to him. He had his arm leaning across your hip, needing to touch you in one way or another, always. Unbeknown to him, you were wide awake and looking at the alarm clock on your side of the bed. You had told Charlie to give you twenty minutes before you’d set things into motion and as that amount of time had passed, you started off your little prank slow.

Ease Elvis into it, so to speak.

 

Pretending you were having a nightmare, you twitch lightly while mumbling some soft incoherent sentences, moaning uncomfortably. Elvis who was still wide awake moves his hand from your hip to your hair, caressing it soothingly as he sits up a little to look over at you. Figuring you’re still sleeping, he leans back against the headboard of the bed but only a split second later, you suddenly shoot up to sit in the bed. Startled, his heart skips a beat and he quickly sits up again too, moving some of your hair over your shoulder. He’s familiar with sleepwalking, but he has never seen you do it before. He knows not to wake someone when they’re in a state like this nor call out their name, but his worries grow by tenfold as your body slumps against him.

And then starts twitching and goddamn near convulsing as you throw your head back. He widens his eyes in shock as your eyes roll in the back of your head, your arms hanging limp by your side. Holding your frame, he tries to keep you still as he cups your face.

“Y/N! Y/N!” He slaps your cheek softly, unsure of what to do in a situation like this. He curses loudly as he reaches over to the phone on the bedside table, putting it to his ear as he calls downstairs and yells to whoever is on the other end of the line to come upstairs.

Like clockwork, Charlie comes running in not much later and feignes a gasp at the sight of your state. Elvis looks over at him, desperate for help.

“Goddamnit, Charlie, do somethin’!” Elvis yells as your body seems to be twisting and turning into uncomfortable positions, arching your back as you let out deep groans and grunts. You didn’t even know your voice could get that low, but you were impressed by yourself.

An eerie feeling washes over Elvis and he slowly lets go of you as you push yourself out of arms, standing on top of the bed. And then you just start… laughing.

Like an absolute maniac.

The sound sent shivers down Elvis’ spine and he quickly got off the bed, standing next to Charlie as they both look at you, unsure of what was happening. Well, at least one of them. Charlie was completely sucked up into his role though and he took a step back, fear in his eyes.

He was a damn good actor.

Something clicked inside of Elvis’ brain as you look at him with a menacing look in your eyes, smirking like the Devil himself just walked into the room.

That goddamned board.

“Get my Bible,” Elvis orders Charlie, never taking his eyes off of you. Charlie does as he’s told and grasps the Bible from the bedside table, handing it to Elvis. The singer takes off the necklace he was wearing with a cross pendant hanging on the silver chain and hands it to Charlie, looking at the smaller male.

“Put this on her forehead,”

“Elvis...” Charlie widens his eyes, holding onto the necklace and pretending to be terrified of going near you. “Can’t we.. can’t we just call an ambulance?!”

Charlie was going to do whatever Elvis told him to do anyways because it makes the situation seem more natural but even if he wouldn’t be acting, the glare that Elvis gives him is enough to have him sprint into action. He runs over to the bed and pulls you down, keeping you down on the mattress as he presses the cross against your forehead. As you look at Charlie, you have to try your damnest not to ruin things and laugh, but luckily you manage to stay in your role.

Writhing on the bed and trying to get out of Charlie’s grip with what truly is little effort but looks like a lot, you let out a bloodcurdling scream. Elvis comes closer to the bed while he is quickly reciting any kind of prayer he thinks might work, reading psalm after psalm. He’s taken back for a second when you did what Charlie and you rehearsed- kicking the brunette off of you and making him land on the floor. You swear you could hear Charlie chuckling, but Elvis is only focused on you.

Now you are the one that is taken back as he gets on top of you and grabs your wrists, holding them above your head as he’s still reciting prayers. He’s yelling at the non existent demon inside of you to get the hell out and Charlie has to muffle a laugh in the palm of his hand, curious about what you were going to do because neither of you expected this.

You felt a laugh bubbling in the back of your throat, so before it could come out, you stop writhing on the bed and drop your head to the side, pretending that the prayers worked and it has all come to an end. Elvis sat on top of you for a few more minutes until he releases your hands and gets up, closing his Bible. He watches you, ready to once more go into action as he sees you casually sit up and get up from the bed. He frowns a little as you walk over to Charlie and hook your arm through his, clearing your throat.

“The end.” You and Charlie gracefully bow, bursting out into uncontrollable laughter.

Until you notice one person in the room isn’t laughing.

Feeling the mood shifting in the room and as if a thunderstorm just passed over Graceland, you stop laughing as you see Elvis glaring at the both of you. You walk over to him as he throws his Bible on the bed and cup his face, but he’s quick to swat your hands away and get back into his bed.

“Elvis, c’mon. Don’t be mad, baby. We were just having a little fun,” you laugh softly, sitting on the edge of his side of the bed. He turns his head to look at you, his blue eyes icy cold. You weren’t unfamiliar with that look but usually it was something more serious that brought it on and you never liked it.

But what you weren’t realising is that this was serious to Elvis. He thought he was going to lose you to some freaky demonic entity.

“Get out.” He simply states in a low voice, turning his head back to the TV that was still on. You look at Charlie and he gives you a little nod, taking you out of the room with him.

You succeeded in pranking the prank master, but you’re afraid you pushed him too far and that simply wasn’t worth it.

 

You figured Elvis would be over it by the day after Halloween and things would go back to normal. But then again, you know Elvis like the back of your hand and although you were not surprised by him ignoring you for a week straight, you were still hurt.

When he learned that all of the guys were involved in your little prank, he let them have a piece of his mind and that was that. But you were walking on eggshells. He even made you sleep in Lisa Marie’s bedroom for that entire week.

By Sunday night, you were fed up with it. Maybe you had taken things too far, but it was just idiotic that he wouldn’t even let you sleep in the same bed as him.

“What do you think you’re doin’?” He snaps as he watches you burst into the bedroom and get into the bed next to him, fluffing your pillow.

“What does it look like?” Maybe you don’t have the right to be annoyed with him, but you are. He knows how much you hate to be ignored and you’ve been worrying yourself all week with all sorts of doom scenarios, like him ending the relationship.

He grabs your arm to pull you out of bed but you sit up and pull your arm out of his grasp, the words flying rapidly off your tongue. “Good God, Elvis. I’ve told you I’m sorry about a thousand times, but you don’t wanna hear it! You haven’t spoken a word to me in a week. At least yell at me, be angry with me, do something!”

His nostrils flare as his jaw clenches and he sits up more straight, turning his body into your direction.

“You want me to yell? Be angry? Fine!” He barks harshly, his loud rich voice booming off the walls. “I thought I was gon’ fuckin’ lose you that damn night! I thought you really were gon’ die, Y/N. That there was some sonofabitch inside of ya who was takin’ ya away from me. If you think that’s so hilarious, well hell, then you really are an evil bitch,”

You weren’t hurt by him calling you a bitch. You and Elvis fought enough times in the past that involved ugly name calling but you always made up minutes later. It never lasted for days. But learning that he was truly afraid of losing you in that moment causes your heart to clench uncomfortably in your chest. You feel a pang of guilt in your gut and your shoulders slump, tears burning in your eyes as you could see a tear rolling down Elvis’ cheek. He quickly wipes it away and looks at the TV set, swallowing the lump in his throat.

“Elvis, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” You exclaim breathlessly as you crawl closer to him and hide your face in his neck, wrapping your arms around his shoulders. His body tenses up but then he quickly relaxes under your touch and wraps his arms around your frame, placing one hand on the back of your head to press you firmer against him. “i didn’t mean to scare you like that, I really didn’t. I just thought it would be a fun prank for Halloween. I never thought it’d turn out like this.”

It was never your intention to truly hurt Elvis or emotionally scare him. Deep down inside, Elvis knows this and he feels a little guilty about giving you the cold shoulder for a week, but he doesn’t feel the need to apologize to you for that. Instead, he accepts your apology with a long tender kiss and then cups your cheeks as he looks into your eyes.

“You can prank me, baby, jus’… no more pranks like that, okay?” He whispers as he brushes some hair out of your face, thumbing a tear away from the corner of your eye. You nod, promising him that you’ll never do something like this again and keep it at small pranks only.

 

That same night, you and Elvis stand outside at the back of Graceland, watching the ouija board melt into mush in the firepit.

He wasn’t going to take any chances and forbids you to play with a board like that for the rest of your life. You have no problem promising him that you will never touch another ouija board again and content with your answer, he wraps his arm around your shoulder and looks at the flames.

“Don’t ever do that to me again, Little,” he whispers as he presses his nose into your hair, inhaling the scent of your shampoo before he kisses your head. You wrap your arm around his waist and hold him close as you nod, resting your head against his chest. “I can’t lose ya. Ever.”

“I promise, Elvis,” you say as you raise your head and look up at him, kissing his chin. “You’ll never lose me. Even the Devil can’t take me away from you.”

He grins at your words and pecks your lips, but then he pulls his head back and looks past you, frowning. Curious, you look over your shoulder and a hot feeling of fear immediately spreads throughout your chest, widening your eyes as you see two man wearing scary wolf masks stalking toward you and Elvis.

It was only you and your boyfriend at the house tonight, but still when one of the men grabs you and a few others that came from the other side of the premises grab Elvis, you scream at the top of your lungs for help. It doesn’t do much and your vision is taken from you as you’re being blindfolded, a hand being placed firmly over your mouth.

You were thrown in the back of a car and after driving for what felt like hours, you were being lifted out of the car. You couldn’t speak as one of the men had shoved what you guessed was a tie in your mouth because you wouldn’t stop cussing at them in the back of the car. You were surprised they hadn’t knocked you unconscious yet.

You were terrified of what was to come, but more so you were worried sick about Elvis. The last thing you had seen were a couple of masked maniacs overpowering him and dragging him away. Having no idea where he was or if he was even still alive, you were determined to break free and get out of where ever you were.

You needed to get to Elvis. The thought of never seeing him again made your head spin, feeling like you were about to either faint or be ill.

Despite your inner turmoil, you didn’t stop fighting your kidnappers. Not even as you were being placed on a chair, your hands tied behind your back and your ankles tied together. As the fabric was pulled out of your mouth, you were about to scream again until your blindfold was taken off. As your eyes adjust to your surroundings, you widen your eyes when you see Elvis and the Memphis Mafia standing in front of you, all wearing shit eating grins.

You realise you’re sitting in the pool room.

The guys all burst out into rumbling laughter, Elvis included, and he bends down to be at your eye level, his hands placed on his knees as he grins.

“Honey, I’m gon’ say this once and for all,” he bites his lip as he laughs, that mischievous little boy gleam in his eyes. “Don’t prank the master.”

You sarcastically laugh along with him as he unties you, glaring at Lamar who was having an uncontrollable fit of giggles when he tells you you should’ve seen yourself when him and Sonny were driving you around the block to make you think you were being taken somewhere else.

You stand up from the chair as Elvis has let you free and grab a poolstick from the wall. Red snickers.

“We should probably start runnin’ now, huh?”

“Yup.” Elvis smirks, popping the ‘P’ as he shoves the guys out of the way and starts making a run for it. You were immediately hot on all of their heels, your main suspect being Elvis, as you yell profanities at them while trying not to laugh.

Both you and Elvis know that this was only the start of what would become a very, very long prank war and you’re determined to take his title away from him, although you doubted you’d succeed at that.

As long as it didn’t involve ouija boards and any kind of demonic possession, Elvis was ready for whatever you had planned for him. But just to be absolutely sure, he made a mental reminder to have Lisa Marie stay at Graceland for Halloween next year so he could benefit of the free candy and admire your matching costumes with his daughter rather than thinking he was going to have to give you up to the Devil.

Because one way or another, he would shoot the sonofabitch.

taglist: @notstefaniepresley @powerofelvis @breadsquash @generoustreemystic @ab4eva @marriedtopresley @steph-speaks @notstefaniepresley @ellie-24 @dollksj @re3kin @wivette @eliseinmemphis @18lkpeters @rosepresley @ccab @whatstruthgottodowithit @dkayfixates @lettersfromvenus @elvisalltheway101 @that-hotdog @robinismywife @jaqueline19997 @raginginkedslut @joshuntildawn13 @claire-elvisgirl

[theshipsong]

sole salvation: zeke jaeger, messiah claimant

this is so long it has a table of contents, and prompted by an ask from @oxygenbefore1775:

salvation and atonement

recapitulation

genealogy

the paths as wilderness

biblical fiction

all the english bible citations are from the NRSVCE, i reference the gospel of john just once because it sucks, this is barely proofread and about ~4k. two shorter posts that might be of interest:

the founder ymir eve-mary replacement theology run

krista/christa

none of this is arguing iseyama consciously made any allusions!! this is just comparative reading

1. salvation and atonement

i looked up the japanese title for snk 114, "唯一の救い," mostly for the second part. "唯一" is kind of obviously "sole" or "only" (if i know any CJK characters it's number radicals), but i wondered about the nuances of "salvation" because of the association i have for it below. this had me running to good ol' biblegateway.com, whose only japanese bible translation is the from the heavily paraphrased/colloquial Living Bible. a search of "救い" lands us in exodus, isaiah, and my second-favorite gospel, luke.

you guessed it: it's part of the word choice for "messiah." section titles in bible translations are editorialization, really, but the beginning of the nativity story in matthew is headed

約束 さ れて いた 救い主 promise (...tense stuff idk) savior

救 = rescue, aid, salvation; 主 = host, leader, lord

in the hebrew bible context of exodus, 救い most often refers to god delivering the israelites from egypt through moses, while isaiah is christians' favorite prophet for all his shit cited as prophesying the messiah. the title "christus" is latinized from the earliest greek translation of the bible from hebrew, which used "christos" for "messiah." kings good and bad were anointed with oil (chrism) at the start of their reign, so "anointed one," "messiah," and "Christ" really just meant a monarch. quoting some old testament pseudepigrapha (psalms of solomon 17:23-24), the messiah was understood in second temple judaism as a future davidic king expected to "thrust out sinners from the inheritance / to crush all their substance with a rod of iron / to destroy the lawless nations with the word of his mouth." (rod reiss, zeke as marley's spear, the scream, etc)

now for the "sole" bit. i am cursed to read the kodansha USA title "sole salvation" with the connotation of the solae of the protestant reformation, which are 2-5 doctrines articulated by various reformers but not necessarily codified (or creed-ified, as it were), uh, in protest of early modern catholicism. theological authority comes sola scriptura (not the pope), justification comes sola fide (not by following rules the best), and salvation is available to all sola gratia (through god's grace, not individual merit/how many indulgences you can afford).

how we apply all this to zeke:

what is wild about christianity and islam after it is "humanity"'s fall from grace and the promise of a messiah to remedy it were initially about just one people. AoT's dramatic irony has the paradisians refer to themselves as the whole of humanity until grisha's basement, so jaegerist ethnonationalism is, really, in keeping with the prehistoric tribalism detailed in the history books of the hebrew bible. when the israelites encounter egyptians and semitic peoples of canaan and babylon, they know them as pagans, and proselytization is not on their minds at all, nor these other peoples' relation or lack thereof to adam and original sin. with zeke, we see this idea of salvation and its scale and recipients flipped between grisha and ksaver: grisha promises the restorationists that zeke will save eldia, while ksaver and zeke swear to save the world from titans with eldia as the sacrifice.

the lack of consensus of how to "save" eldia mirrors the hairsplitting of soteriology into what modern commenters call theories of atonement. there are many, but the only ones i'll mention are

substitutionary theory: the vague but broadly understood starting point that jesus died for humanity, and most subsequent theories hammer out the details. with this you'll often see writing connecting it to the story of abraham and isaac, and a classic work is derrida's the gift of death chapter 3, but i have to say if this story echoes for anyone in AoT, it is tom ksaver and not just because of the ram.

ransom theory: humanity has been satan's hostage ever since the garden of eden, so jesus was born and raised, incarnated as human by god, to be the perfect sacrifice to buy back our freedom. this is weird because it calls into question god's omnipotence: why respect satan as a debt collector?

satisfaction theory: jesus' sacrifice is more about ethics and respect in that his death is the "minimum" price for our sins, but he goes above and beyond by walking willingly through the exact cavalcade of physical torture that was the passion, which "satisfied" god, working from a classical/medieval fixation on honor and dishonor.

penal (not penile) substitution theory: god cannot forgive sin willy nilly, so jesus bore god's punishment for us. this is lutheran, and if you read martin luther's diaries from when he was an augustinian, this man just wanted a morally perfect Dom. libs and catholics don't like this because it makes god look bad. s/o my kenny post where i put grandpas ackerman and jaeger side by side with a bit of penal substitution, but it also makes me think of grisha (below)

and my favorite, recapitulation theory, which is simply the most literary way to read the gospels: christ's life, not just death, are a do-over of adam's. he succeeds where adam failed, perfectly inverting everything about the first man: he was born of a woman (the cause of adam's fall 🙄) but chaste himself (allegedly), he's tempted directly by the devil and resists, and in death the piercing of his side by a roman centurion echoes that eve was made from adam's rib. it's the root of the idea of jesus and mary as the "new" adam and eve that i dip into in the krista post—antisemitic supercessionism is a later addition. mary "recapitulates" eve by obeying god, not satan, etc.

i didn't do that comprehensive a skim, but grisha and zeke seem to be the only ones who use "salvation" language, while karina braun uses "atone" in snk 94. "atonement" has one of the silliest etymologies of all time: at + onement, unification, when two become one. so framing the crucifixion as "atonement," and referring to mysticism as self-effacement, jesus' death is supposed to reconcile man with god, like we were divorced. its more pedestrian, legal definition is for reparations and such, but i don't think the soteriological version can describe marley and eldia at all. it's not just penal, but penitential (sacramental) semantics on kodansha USA's part. i might go pester @tsuki-no-ura for a direct translation later. but the jesus-est and adam-est thing about zeke, to me, is physical at-onement when ymir fuses his body into the founder, or as zeke says to armin in snk 137, "did ymir eat you, too?" so the death of jesus' earthly body is a horror story if you aren't trinitarian: he is subsumed into god, made indistinct.

2. recapitulation

recapitulation is a useful idea for FOUR AoT characters: zeke, historia, eren, and mikasa. i really think the figures that do the most to "recapitulate" the eldian creation myth are mikasa and historia, though:

historia: have already said my bit! she's the anti-mary, snk 65 has the juiciest theological language of all. see my second favorite gospel luke. she disobeys where ymir's daughters didn't: she says hell no, she kills her dad. she's my hero.

mikasa: eren and armin's conversation about mikasa and ymir more casts ymir as a god with mysterious motivations, so i'd say "whatever mikasa did" gives us a more medieval "satisfaction" model of pacifying her rage

eren: the whole metaphor on humanity penned in like livestock, ymir's leaving the gate open for the pigs. eren's defence of historia, even from her own self-sacrifice in volunteering to inherit the beast, also makes him an anti-daughter of ymir.

zeke: has all of the prologue and expectation to make him seem like a savior. if he recapitulates any part of "from you, 20,000 years ago," he starts out as fritz by attempting to order ymir with his royal blood, but ends up just as bound as her. there's a screencap we've all seen overlaying the storybook illustration of "ymir" and "the devil of all earth" with eren, zeke, and ymir in the paths. i have feminist tbh satanist thoughts on the nature of knowledge and forbidden fruit that i slghtly get into in that krista/christa post

this is the point where it's important for me to say this is an atheist post and blog, and jesus of nazareth was one of like half a dozen messiah claimants knocking around judaea at the time, including his own cousin john the baptist. the first coming of the messiah was a nearly as absurd a prospect to jews in the late roman empire as the second coming of jesus is to us, so "claimant" doesn't even mean they said so themselves. some were preachers whose followers got a little too hype, or just actual con artists. but! zeke does have a lot more christian echoes going for him beyond the exact function of his death.

in the original question mae asked about zeke in either marian or christian terms, so i gotta say that jesus was also human and subordinated to god's will, in a similar position to mary, as was adam. adam's rib symbolism is so erotic and penetrative and all i think about when titans in AoT are constructed spinal cord first. to me everything about titan shifters is a feminist issue of bodily autonomy regardless of gender, and the power of the founder to "rewrite" eldian biology is the most god-like, terrifying, violating thing about it. this is where a lot of more progressive christian theologians struggle, too, with the question of how is god, in all his power and goodness, still permissive of suffering? or is it that god is not in fact powerful, simply all-knowing? and is that worth jack shit? which is the issue of the royal family keeping the founder after the walls went up.

and we leave this section with the jesussy, or more specifically "the holy lance" that made jesus' side wound. but i think levi went for, idk, his appendix? good enough.

3. geneaology

the gospels of luke and matthew start with lengthy and conflicting geneaologies in support of the claim that jesus of nazareth is of the davidic line through the tribe of judah, but matthew's is patrilineal from abraham through joseph, while luke's is surgically imprecise about jesus' father and thus is often argued to be jesus's geneaology through mary backwards to adam, supported by luke being the gospel to feature women the most prominently. not knowing those intricacies or how legal adoption worked in 1st century judaea, you can say that mary is royalty and joseph is just some guy, ben david or not, because he famously did not contribute sperm. looking at zeke, grisha is just some guy, and dina's blood is the whole justification for zeke's suffering. had she not married grisha, she still would be affiliated with the restorationists, and whatever other child she had would be sacrificed much the same. this supposes that jesus of nazareth was just some guy himself, a typical second temple jewish teacher whose followers were especially rowdy; whether god is real or incarnated himself as human is inconsequential when mary is directly descended from david.

but joseph Does matter from a purely pragmatic point of view of protecting and providing for mary and jesus, from keeping his troth with a pregnant teenager he'd probably never met before to the matthew account of fleeing with them to egypt to hide from herod, and in christian ethics through shit like the Feast of the Holy Family, which replaced the much cooler Feast of the Circumcision.

point is, jesus had two dads! joseph is generally understood as a dead during the time of jesus' three-year ministry, but any time jesus refers to his father he does not mean joseph. like ever. zeke nation knows better than i how often zeke discusses grisha, but in my recollection he calls him his full name or says "your father" if talking to eren. in my subtitles for the above panel re: the second paradis mission he says something like "as the former son of the terrorist grisha jaeger."

but to be clear joseph of nazareth is comparatively a non-person. it's reasonable to think he taught jesus his trade of carpentry, though, and two of the greatest songs of all time play with that, along with that tumblrina poem that goes around here frequently.

beyond daddy issues, protestants like this binary of "high" versus "low" christology to discuss jesus as god and jesus as man, though the exact meaning of either varies and frankly i question the historical accuracy of using either to describe ancient/antique christological debates. the way the liberal protestants at the seminary i dropped out of tended to use it is basically sorting jesus's qualities and behaviors in the gospels as divine or human. divine activities = miracles, prophecy, rising from the dead; human activities = flipping tables, being rude to his mom, getting hangry. now these mostly look like venial sins, to err is human et cetera, but the fig tree story is one of the silliest little humanizing details about him, to me tantamount to zeke having a cat's tongue. zeke's whole problem is he holds himself to an extrahuman (not divine, no, since he probably would go with demonic) standard while forgetting what makes him human. ironically, zeke rejects his inhumane father to claim his very human mentor as family, but ultimately half-lives his own life holding himself to or counter their visions of salvation.

the other bit of jesus' family worth connecting to zeke is his cousin john the baptist. but he more belongs to the next section.

4. the paths as wilderness

the torah or pentateuch, the first five books of the hebrew bible, have 99 uses of "wilderness" in the NRSV, and it pops up about 150 more times throughout the prophetic books. of all AoT's hamhanded judaic imagery, i think the paths actually get at something theological as opposed to earthly/fixated on eldia as a persecuted people. the wilderness is a testing ground and a kind of punishment itself, especially in genesis and exodus, for prehistoric figures like hagar, moses, jacob, david, and of course the israelites once they left egypt, wandering for 40 years. they starve and god saves them with manna; left unattended for two seconds they turn to idolatry; and they of course conquer various tribal people of canaan, including the philistines (root of palestine). after that, "wilderness" is much more metaphorical, referring poetically to estrangement between god and his people, the israelites exiled in the babylonian captivity, the destructon of solomon's temple, etc.

but there's one literal wilderness in the gospels. jesus' cousin john the baptist is introduced by a quotation:

In those days John the Baptist appeared in the wilderness of Judea, proclaiming, "Repent, for the kingdom of heaven has come near." This is the one of whom the prophet Isaiah spoke when he said, "The voice of one crying out in the wilderness: 'Prepare the way of the Lord, make his paths straight.'" (Mt 3:1-3)

john the baptist is jesus' maternal cousin who he likely only meets once in adulthood, and i am too pedantic not to explain that baptism, or ritual bathing, is not a christian invention. he hung out around the river jordan wearing a hair shirt and preaching and dunking people in a kind of open-air mikveh. jesus visits him to get dunked as he starts his three-year ministry that ends with his death, but before they meet there are already whispers that john the baptist is the messiah. herod antipas, a roman tetrarch, had john beheaded shortly after this at the request of his stepdaughter, so when herod hears stories of jesus' ministry and miracles he dreads that he's john the baptist returned to life.

one could say the fateful meeting of john and jesus is the turning point for the birth of christianity, like the jaeger brothers in shiganshina, in part because the gospels have john insist up and down he himself is not the messiah, he's just preparing the way for him. this kind of makes him look like a bigger loser than he was; contemporary jewish historians of the time say he had a following to rival or even larger than his cousin's.

but right after his baptism, jesus fasts in the wilderness for 40 days, where the devil tempts him. it's the most detailed in luke 4 and matthew 4. jesus resists like a champ, but returning to "low" christology and questioning what actually makes "perfection:" after three years of preaching in galilee, jesus' resolve wavers, and the "willingness" of his sacrifice is 2,000-year-old point of debate. two moments in the gospels that show he fears his death are praying between the last supper but before his arrest, and just as he dies on the cross. gethsemane, or the mount of olives:

And going a little farther, he threw himself on the ground and prayed, "My Father, if it is possible, let this cup pass from me; yet not what I want but what you want." (Mt 26:39)

And going a little farther, he threw himself on the ground and prayed that, if it were possible, the hour might pass from him. He said, "Abba, Father, for you all things are possible; remove this cup from me; yet, not what I want, but what you want." (Mk 14:35-36)

Then he withdrew from [the disciples] about a stone’s throw, knelt down, and prayed, "Father, if you are willing, remove this cup from me; yet, not my will but yours be done." (Lk 22:41-42)

and as he dies in matthew and mark, he quotes psalm 22, "eli, eli, lema sebachthani?" or "my god, my god, why have you forsaken me?" he shows resolve and despair, i think so very like zeke. his line in snk 114 of "are you watching, mr. ksaver?" makes me think jesus' relationship to god was similarly distant, and three years of ministry have to have changed jesus as much as oh, 13 years of being a human weapon changed zeke. ymir "tests" both jaeger brothers in the paths, so i bet there's some heresy out there that jesus "stole" john the baptist's role and followers from him.

one thing i'm fascinated by that i haven't seen laid out is that grisha and the restorationists deify ymir, even calling themselves "the chosen children of god" (woof), while ksaver the scientist asks the more materialist question of "what was that 'something'" that ymir encountered if not "the devil of all earth"? but zeke has to split the difference between these two. or, the power of the founder and the paths are simply too "god-like" (kenny's words uwu) for anyone to remain rational.

when zeke first describes the paths after he blows himself up, the first thing i thought of was biblical wilderness. in snk 137, he tells armin he's spent "an astounding amount of time" in the paths trying to understand ymir; i'm cursed to fill in that blank with 40-something, years or centuries or millennia. zeke using the sand all around them as an example of lifeless objects that don't seek to multiply reminds me of two things in genesis:

god's covenant with abraham in genesis 15, reiterated in 22 after a ram(!!!) shows up to take isaac's place: "Because you have done this, and have not withheld your son, your only son, I will indeed bless you, and I will make your offspring as numerous as the stars of heaven and as the sand that is on the seashore" (Gn 22:16-17). of course ymir building titans from sand recalls genesis 2, that god molded adam from dust, but before god formalizes this covenant with abram/abraham, he also says "I will make your offspring like the dust of the earth; so that if one can count the dust of the earth, your offspring also can be counted" (Gn 13:16)

the memento mori verse that makes up the blessing for ash wednesday is "remember you are dust, and to dust you shall return" (Gn 3:19) as he casts adam and eve from eden.

as a metaphor, i suppose wilderness in the bible evokes a time before creation, the void of possibility, and whether you find that beautiful or bleak, whether dust to dust makes you hope or dread, makes you closer to armin or zeke. my other atheist bestie from seminary was optimistic about the death of the human race because non-human life goes on, and that's okay and probably better; the earth can bounce back from the damage we dealt it, which is what trees growing in the colossals' footprints in the epilogue makes me think of. this makes me sound pro-apocalypse and well! i think this all solidifies that armin is the perfect counterweight, not just for the leaf and baseball; armin has always been curious about the planet, is a true scout, while zeke has been beyond the walls all his life, and has seen too much to be grateful. it's very mercury versus jupiter, details versus big picture.

5. biblical fiction

if you want to read the gospels as a total newb, start with mark because it's shortest, then i recommend matthew, then you can do luke and the acts of the apostles. but for juicy fiction that really digs into jesus as a human who struggles with the weight of expectation, you gotta get into:

the last temptation of christ (1988, dir. martin scorsese): i haven't read the book and only could stand the movie twice, yes even feat. david bowie as pontius pilate, but this was my first reaction to the the endng of AoT and the eremika cabin: jesus on the cross is tempted one last time by satan with a vision of running away and living as an ordinary man with mary magdalene. unfortunately zeke does not get a cabin vision but torment, and frankly his time in the paths is more like the three days jesus spent in hell before easter.

the liars' gospel by naomi alderman: is so crazy good, i love this writer deeply. it's more like four novellas stuck together of jesus' life and ministry and death narrated by his mother, judas iscariot, one of the sanhedrin that "tried" him prior to pilate, and barrabas, the criminal or revolutionary that pilate released to mark passover—all jewish, historical judean perspectives. to mary, jesus is kind of a deadbeat, awful eldest son (two of the gospels give him siblings; she did not die a virgin) who really should be working as a carpenter; to judas, he's an unworthy leader; etc. i think it's an excellent model for a novel-length, canon-compatible zeke fanfic.

if any sources are vague it's almost certainly out of the jewish annotated new testament (ed. levine/zvi brettler, 2017)

also tagging @pisspope 💜

[crushedsweets]

It’s that time of year so I gotta ask;

What Christmas gifts do you see the Creeps getting for each other if they did or were capable of celebrating Christmas?

BEAUTIFUL ASK BEAUTIFUL ASK OK IM EXCITED. merry christmas guys :)

btw: the proxies, natalie, nina, and jack are often in contact

liu, jeff, ben, jane, sally, lulu, and ann do their own thing with their own families (or theyre undead and cant comprehend time passing.. or have nobody...etc)

GIFTS:

brian would try to get something small for a lot of the creeps (the proxies, natalie, jack, nina). candy, candles, lighters, watches, pocket knives, etc

tim might give cards but like... he'd only get brian and maybe toby a real gift, again something like cologne or whatever 'manly' shit LOL. gloves etc

toby would try to get something bigger for his friends. he's petty so he'd get tim something like socks. but he'd steal makeup for nina, a bike he would fix up and paint for natalie, CDs and tapes and stuff for jack, hoodies and hats for Kate. he'd buy brian a gag shirt every goddamn year. something with a stupid quote or ugly photo. every. year. brian eats it up everytime. also gets ben gag gifts, but really cheap ones cuz he..doesnt really use anything... but he likes to laugh

kate doesn't get anyone anything, but she like. cries really easily when she receives something. not like bawling 'OMG THANK U' but like she sniffles and has to walk away (if they don't hug her first) and then come back to say thanks. toby thinks its hilarious so he'd never leave her out even if she doesn't get him something

jack would have to ask nina and natalie if he could use their address to order gifts from amazon with his dark web money..... natalie is a safer bet, but he doesnt trust her not to open her and toby's gift, so he sends that to nina, then ninas gift to natalie, and its kind of a pain in the ass. but he's hella awkward and just outright is like 'can you guys just tell me what you want' so he'll get them exactly what they ask for. even if its kind of expensive. he makes plenty of money ...

natalie only buys stuff for toby, nina, and jack. but she'll get cards for jeff, ben, and kate. she spends a lot of time in thrift stores to get toby and nina stuff specifically for their style and size, and would even learn to do basic tailoring (like hemming) for it. she'd also paint something for/with nina, but she'd feel awkward doing it for toby. she'd get jack candles and pillows and like.. stuff to make his cabin feel/smell nice. since he can't really see it. ALSO AUDIO BOOKS FOR HIM.

nina goes all out. she's broke as fuck during november/december cuz of it. she's buying expensive jewelry, perfume/cologne, hoodies, shoes, consoles. she was fucking SPOILED growing up by her dad, and loves giving it back. one year she'd be dramatic as fuck and buy a whole ass console for kate and toby at the cabin. then realize toby and kate now wont text her back cuz theyre fucking gaming. LMFAOOOO . she'd make a ton of kandi and paint shirts and write letters and stuff.

liu would buy nina something nice, flowers and earrings and hair products and stuff. he'd mail jane+mary a card and chocolates, visit his parents graves and go see some cousins/aunts/grandparents for the holidays. he'd be out of state for the holidays, every time. he can't stand to spend the holidays alone

jane goes all out with her family too. she spends christmas eve with her family(and brings mary), aka her grandparents and aunts/uncles. she spends christmas day with mary's family. she would send liu a card back out of respect. she'd also spoil sally. sally is completely content spending christmas alone while jane goes to mary's family, but jane sets up netflix and toys and dresses and stuff for her.

sally lives with jane/mary fulltime, but she refuses to go anywhere other than the forest and jane's house. she'll draw cards for jane and mary every year and help them decorate. jane is grateful for sally, since she doesn't know if she'd have it in her to decorate without a child's joy motivating her

jeff doesnt do shit. he gets kinda depressed and hangs out with ben. might snag a card and some chocolates for natalie, MAYBE. if he's still "with" nina, he'll steal random stuff for her but not take into account her actual tastes. but him and ben just sit around and game while jeff smokes and eats hella . LOL

ann, lulu, sadie, and dina don't celebrate at all. again, they're stuck in timeloops or constant hazes, or have legitimately no interest in the holiday

extra random stuff:

nina forces kate, toby, and natalie into ice skating every year. photo booths, driving to see christmas lights.

toby tries forcing everyone to go over to jack's cabin ..cuz he doesn't wanna invite them to his LMFAOOOO. he says it's nina and brian's idea, but he's the one who sets the date and texts invites. him, jack, and natalie put together some dinner and everyone just kinda hangs out and eats.

nina decorates the fuck out of her apartment and goes to toby's cabin to put up some stuff. she hangs mistle toe and literally nobody listens to the 'rule' but she's always like "omg...kateeee...you and i just so happen to be under the mistle toe... >.<... what now..?" LMFAOOO

anyway merry christmas and happy holidays guys :) have a good day luv u

[proxylynn]

My theory of Hazbin Hotel's main plot.

[This may just be a hot take or me whimsically spitballing headcanon, but I have thought about this and, while I don't have all the puzzle's pieces, I think I have enough to make out a decent picture. So bear with me as I unload the insanity that has been in my head since entering the Hellaverse.]

Starting things off, I think the main villain/antagonist of HH's plot is the obvious elephant in the room...Roo aka The Root of ALL Evil.

According to Vivziepop, Roo is a "looming threat in the distance", possibly hinting toward her being a future antagonist and she mentioned that there is no character that she is more excited to get into than Roo, but, she also mentioned that it's "gonna be a long time". So likely we won't see her properly till season three but get hints throughout season two and teased at the end. I will make no claim that "defeating" Roo solves everything in the universe because that's nonsense. There is no good without evil. So you can't just off Roo who's been there since the beginning. And I mean THE beginning. I'm talking the creation of EVERYTHING.

"Angels that worshiped good and shielded all from evil."

Evil exists at the start before Lucifer does anything, this is a fact. So where am I going with this? Let's continue down the line. To the one driving my train of thought...Lilith.

For someone who didn't eat the fruit of the knowledge of good and evil, Lilith was very aware of certain things and had independent free will. But humanity didn't get this autonomy till after the fruit fiasco, so what happened? Why did Lilith have magic main character self-awareness? Well, let's think about this...Why was there such a tree in Eden in the first place? The Angels are making this a paradise and keeping evil out of Earth. So why place a tree in there that would fuck it all up? This was why they didn't want Lucifer making shit because they were worried his ideas would be too risky and bad could happen. So again, why was this tree here? What if...The Angels didn't make it.

I propose, as her name so implies, that Roo sprouted the tree up without the Angels knowing in the hopes the fruit would be eaten and allow evil to taint the world. Lilith might have gotten a hint of what the tree granted and what simple veil that clouded her eyes was lifted enough to make her reject Adam and flee the garden. It's even said that "together" she and Lucifer share the gift of free will with Eve, but Lilith seems to take this stand back and watch approach when Lucifer gives her the fruit, almost like she's uncertain what eating it will do so she keeps her distance. This again, also hints that Lilith has had free will from the start and didn't eat the fruit because it was only when Eve ate the fruit did evil finally break the seal to enter Earth.

"As punishment for their reckless act, Heaven cast Lucifer and his love into the dark pit he had created."

Now here's where it gets a bit more headcanony because this line could mean nothing or everything. Lucifer and Lilith are banished to the newly made Hell. I repeat...Heaven cast Lucifer and Lilith into Hell. Nowhere does it say she died. So...We have the first human woman who didn't eat the fruit and never died. By technically, Lilith still has her immortality. She's the oldest human alive. It's also stated Lucifer shares his power with her (and Charlie), which makes sense if she's just some dull human. So, now imbued with this mix of angel/demon rizz, Lilith becomes even more OP and Hell's mary sue Queen that dominates like the bad boss bitch she is.

"Lilith thrived, empowering demonkind with her voice and her songs. And as the numbers of Hell grew, so did its power."

Lilith as a character has a surprisingly decent amount of info to work with considering we only saw her for the smallest moment. So here's some goodies I've collected from the wiki that are of note.

{According to Vivziepop, Lilith is the "big, slowburn mystery" of the show, adding that we are going to slowly start getting answers over the course of the "next couple seasons", and that season two gives some more pieces to it.}

{When asked about what Lilith was like, Faustisse described Lilith as graceful, regal, and politically charged. Lilith is someone who is exceptionally equanimous. This was implied in "Overture" as in the "Story of Hell" book she is depicted helping Hell thrive over the years using her voice and her songs.}

{When asked about Lilith and Lucifer's dynamic, Faustisse believed their relationship could be summed up with the phrase, "Behind every man is a greater woman", and that they love each other very much. They describe Lilith and Lucifer as "passionate, cheesy lovers". They are of the opinion that Lilith "wears the pants" in her family, but they think both Lilith and Lucifer are switches within their intimate life.}

{When asked about Lilith's powers, Faustisse declined to answer, citing possible spoilers for the main series. They did, however, state that they did not think Lilith had wings like Charlie and Lucifer, although saw no reason why she wouldn't be able to manifest them if she wished. According to Faustisse, Lilith can change the shape of her horns, but it's unlikely this will be shown in practice in the series as it would apparently be difficult to show that kind of constant change over consecutive scenes.}

{When asked if the Eden family have some connection to the royal family as well, Vivziepop declined to answer one way or the other.}

{Due to her origins as a former human, it is likewise unclear if Lilith is connected to the Sinners, who are deceased humans and became demons after death; as Lilith was alive when she was banished to Hell, her transition between human and demon is ambiguous.}

{Faustisse has suggested that she is somewhat good with children}

{Lilith disappeared seven years prior to the series for reasons unknown, never responding to any of her daughter's attempts to call her. Curiously, she was missing the same amount of years as Alastor. Lilith was later revealed to be in Heaven in "The Show Must Go On". Although the exact reasons remain unknown, it was heavily alluded to that she had made a deal with Adam at some point.}

You might look at all this and be like "Lynn, you dummy, we know all this. This is just random stuff". Oh, I think not. Because in just these bits we get so much. Let's begin with the character setup for diving into my main theory.

I think Lilith does love her family. She has a loving and amazing husband in Lucifer and in Charlotte (aka Charlie) the most adorable and kindhearted daughter any mother could ask for. As Queen, she took charge and made Hell less of a pit to wallow and suffer in, and more like a new home to begin anew. So then...What happened? Why would she suddenly leave and cut all communications? Here is where we dig into the meat of it all. My theory of why Lilith left.

Remember how I said Lilith didn't eat the fruit and still had free will then pounded that over and over into you? Well, going on what I said about her getting "a hint of what the tree granted", Roo could've infected Lilith and gifted her awareness while in Eden. Now in Hell where Roo is arguably stronger due to all the sin and sickness that permeates the realm, her influence on Lilith would increase. Lilith, being the big brain that she is, probably felt something was amiss when she got pregnant. Nine months is a long time to plan things out, and maybe doing a few concerts to warn others of impending danger subtlety might've worked...but only for so long. She needed something. A safety. And that safety was her family. Lucifer likely could've been useful but his depression was beginning to take hold with each failure and the worsening sinners as years passed. So...plan B...Charlie. She would instill in her daughter everything she knew and give her a "destiny".

"But Lilith's hope remained. And her dream passed down to their precious daughter, the Princess of Hell."

With Charlie, Lilith instilled that the people were important. But never explained in what way. As she continued to prepare her daughter, Lilith would come to understand this reason. Power. Roo thrives on the tainted evil that seeps from the sinners. So just as she finishes schooling Charlie, she sets up another backup plan to still Roo's intake long enough for her daughter to figure out a way of her own...And this is where Adam comes in.

"Adam is dead. Your deal is done and I'm in charge now. Your brat is threatening the very foundation of Heaven. And if you want to stay here, you're going down there, and stopping that bitch. You understand me…Lilith?"

Feeling Roo's corruptive influence getting worse because sinners just keep coming, Lilith contacts Adam. Now Adam is still salty but hears his first wife out as she caters to his ego. But Adam is wiser after millennia and knows she's not being innocent here. He bluntly gets her to just spill the beans to which she does, she needs out of Hell. Adam grabs this opportunity and says he can sneak her into Heaven but it'll cost her. He knows how much her precious people mean to her so, vindictively, he says he'll take her in if he can go into Hell and kill demons. Little does he know he's playing into her trap. She "reluctantly" agrees so long as no Hellborn are harmed, only sinners. Adam is all for it, even makes a cover story to tell Sera later how killing sinners in Hell will keep Heaven safe, and Lilith then goes about doing the hardest thing she's ever done. She tells Lucifer of some details of this new Heavenly Extermination thing and that she'll have to go away for a long time, promising to return but unsure when. Heartbroken, Lucifer watches as his love leaves him, their daughter, and their kingdom.

"Hey, mom. I know I keep calling and you must be busy... Really busy... But, um, the interview didn't go well, and... I don't know if I'm ever going to make a difference. I don't know what I'm doing. I could really use some advice, mom. I... I think dad was right about me... Ahah, oof. Eh, anyway... I'll stop talking before this gets long. Love you, bye..."

"Don't worry, Mom. I'll make you proud."

Vaggie: Did you hear from your mom?

*Charlie shakes her head in dismay.*

Vaggie: Oof… how long has it been now?

Charlie: Not that long, only…seven….years, off doing something important, I'm sure! But, this kingdom was something she really cared about. Something I care about.

This is what I think it's all been leading to. Lilith having made Charlie into someone for the people and wanting to save souls in a, as funny as it is, maintaining the very balance that got fucked up way back in the garden sort of redeeming way. Restoring order by allowing the good to go where it should've gone in the first place and keeping Roo weak. Maybe Lilith can even get her own redemption, being partially responsible for allowing Roo into our world in the first place. The only added weight I have left to give to my silly little "infected Lilith" idea is how she looks at season one's ending.

She looks pissed and upset, which we can say for a few reasons like how Lute just straight-up calls Charlie a bitch to her face. Like, dude, dick move. But, with Adam dead and seemingly no progress from Charlie (that she knows of), Lute is forcing her to go back to Hell where Roo's influence can grip her once more. I'm not entirely sure just what that could mean but for the sake of the Alastor/Lilith theory fans, let's say when Roo is strong she can puppet Lilith into infecting others via demonic deals. She might have done this countless times with mixed results, only to have full success in Alastor. But Mr deer is a bit too successful a test subject and thus gets his powers leashed. Now we have Alastor trying to force his way out of this mixed-up double-power deal by roping in Charlie, the one kink in this chain that could cause everything to break if forced too much.

It would explain his latching onto Charlie and seeking a deal since the very first time they met. She's a means to an end. The key to unlocking his proverbial collar. It even explains his out-of-nowhere instant disdain for Lucifer. Of course he'd be hostel to the husband of the bitch that metaphorically screwed him and poses a threat to his current plan of using his daughter for his own means.

Well, this was a long as fuck rambling. I hope even a shred of this made sense. Now to sit back and wait for season two to come along and either be like "I got something right" or "Wow I was dead wrong on so many levels". I wonder how long that will take?

"In an interview posted on February 2, 2024, Vivziepop thought that the production of season two might take about one-and-a-half to two years, roughly the same production time season one had."

Oh...um...Looks like we have some time. So, we can expect the new episodes to land in late 2025 at the earliest. *sets up chair* I can wait.

[your-favourite-yapper]

Remus who gets a diary for some self discovery but his handwriting is so shit and his diary is cheap as and he keeps spilling tea on it so he ev stops bc he's embarassed x mary who gets a diary for some self discovery but can't stop lying in it so she ev stops