#it's his destiny i guess

[dorothyofozhospital]

Someone: why do you hate green so much?

Dorothy: bc the goddamn PRINCE of the EMERALD CITY went ahead and framed me for blowing up the hospital! And now I'm in another country because of him!

Them: i was gonna joke about the color green killing your brother but jeeze

[kaiserouo]

"Huh."

[miyuskye]

I found this scene in particular so odd and out of place in the new episode. Apart from the fact that Stolas has no right to be angry at Blitz for "not saving him" when Striker kidnapped him nor to be upset that he didn't tell him about Striker's attempt at shooting him. In Loo Loo Land he's perfectly capable of defending himself (even when he hired Blitz for protection!), why is he complaining that an imp, the lowest class on the hierarchy isn't protecting one of the highest?

In that scene Stolas accuses Blitz of not understanding "how much he cared about him", but has he forgotten that he was the one who couldn't stand up not to Asmodeous nor to the accusations of him "sleeping with an imp"?

This reaction shows the actual opposite of what he's telling Blitz he did.

I read that Stolas is supposedly also not aware of ~things~ but why is the narrative conveniently forgetting about his faults as well?

Onto the "apology tour" subject: I fail to understand why Blitz owes Stolas an apology. The only time he was shitty to him was actually in Ozzie's when he asked him on a (fake) date without telling him all the story. But they didn't talk about that not during that episode neither during Apology Tour. Is it because doing this would have forced the narrative to acknowledge that also Stolas was at fault during that episode?

All the other times they interacted (on and off screen, their chats don't really mean anything since it seems that's the way Blitz writes in general), Blitz was being good to him (not that he had any other choice, due to their society ranks and their deal).

To me, this looks like bad writing. But if someone has a different take, I'm happy to hear their interpretation.

[renesassing]

lo, the seraph, the flower-tongued. the god of the garden.

[fyllophobia]

cheep cheep

[jacepi-time]

[ilumel]

i refuse to believe this is a coincidence

[sleep-nurse]

remember null? well after lore progression and violence he regained his true self now

say hi to narrow (or, nicknamed by hana, anguria which means watermelon in italian)

lore rambling in the tags because i'm not assed to write it here

[shitpostingkats]

Or perhaps the Wright ADHD Agency

[squidd-ink]

Blackquill my beloved

[thetarttfuldickhead]

The call connects and there’s Roy, seemingly back at his own house, seated on a grey couch and wearing a scowl dark enough to match his t-shirt and jacket.

Trent smiles, though carefully not too wide. “Hello Roy. Thank you for agreeing to this.”

Roy grunts. “Better you than any of the other wankers,” he mutters.

Trent makes an effort to hide his grin. Visibly gloating about having the sort of access to Roy Kent that other journalists – independent or disgraced or otherwise – can only dream of isn’t likely to get him the exclusive comments that he needs from Richmond’s head coach on today’s kerfuffle.

“So,” he offers smoothly, “what do you—“

He’s cut off by the loud bang of a door slamming shut on the other end and a startled fuck from Roy and then there’s Jamie Tartt’s head coming into view as it flops down on Roy’s lap. He must have thrown himself down onto the couch.

“It’s all such fucking bullshit, man,” Jamie pronounces dramatically as he – Trent’s eyebrows rise another inch – grabs Roy’s arm and pulls it over his chest, claiming half a cuddle. “Did you know—“

“I’m in the middle of an interview, you twat,” Roy barks, but he does not, Trent notes with increasing interest and incredulity, remove his arm.

“Since when do— ?” Lifting his head from Roy’s lap, Jamie blinks at the screen. “Oh! Uh. Hi, Trent! How you doin’, you good?” His grin is wide, easy, with no hint of embarrassment, and Trent finds himself smiling back. Jamie has always been charismatic, but the last few years have seen his swagger turn into a good-natured charm that’s surprisingly hard to resist.

“I’m fine, thank you, Jamie. And regarding the news this afternoon, how do you—“

“No,” Roy immediately says, shifting to push Jamie off his lap in spite of the younger man’s indignant protests. “He has no fucking comment. He’s not part of this conversation. He’s not even fucking here.”

“The fuck are you on about, mate, he can see I’m— “

“Go to the kitchen,” Roy interrupts. “Get me a whisky. If I have to listen to you complain about wankers on Twitter or split fingernails or whatever, I need a fucking drink.”

“You’re an arsehole,” Jamie tells him from out of the picture, but he doesn’t sound particularly upset. “I haven’t even got any split fingernails.” And then he must be off because he doesn’t say anything else and Roy turns back to Trent, glaring like he’s daring Trent to say it.

Trent, with equal parts cunning and self-preservation, says nothing at all. Waits.

Eventually, Roy’s shoulders drop a millimeter. He lets out a huff. “Jamie’s fucking needy, all right? He needs fucking hugs and shit and he turns into a moody bitch prima donna if he doesn’t get them, so.” He presses his lips together, having apparently said all he intends to say on the subject.

Trent had noticed Jamie’s fondness for hanging off anyone's and everyone’s shoulder during his season with the team. He hadn’t known and would never have imagined, though, that Roy would ever be willing to indulge the tendency, especially not to this degree. And that rather begs the question...

“Roy,” he says carefully. “You know that, if the two of you are—“

“We’re not.” And Roy closes his eyes, shakes his head. Opens them, looking resigned, but looking a little bit wry too. “Be less fucking weird if we were, wouldn’t it? But we’re not. It’s just… “ He pauses. Shakes his head again. “It’s Jamie. Just… fucking Jamie.”

“Except you are not,” Trent says, just to be clear, just because being a bit of an asshole is a habit, and fun.

“Except I’m not,” Roy growls, and looks like he’s about to add something more – something scatching and imaginatively insulting, Trent assumes – but then he lifts his head, turning towards someone offscreen. “What— ? Yeah, we’re fucking done. Bye, Crimm,” he adds, and then the screen goes dark as Roy abruptly ends the call.

“Bye, Roy,” Trent tells the silence. “I’ll just text you the questions, shall I? You can get back to me when you’re done giving Jamie Tartt a cuddle.”

[redladydeath]

Okay, so last night I decided I wanted to do something with Vox and body horror and this story concept ended up manifesting in my brain. Massive CW for psychosis that's not actually psychosis, as well as self-harm and body horror.

Vox and Alastor meet in the 1940s while they're both doing electrical engineering work for the war effort. Vox is only 22, so he falls fast and hard for Alastor, who decides to use the younger man's infatuation with him to his advantage. One night while they're out drinking, Alastor convinces Vox to make a blood oath with him. He tells him it's just symbolic, but in reality, there's magic involved; if Alastor kills him, he'll get all the years Vox was supposed to live added to his own lifespan, which is dwindling. He lures Vox into the woods and tries to murder him, but is shot by a hunter who happens upon the struggle. Vox nearly loses an eye, but survives the encounter and is able to go on with his life, albeit with some pretty intense trauma.

Twenty years later, it's the 1960s. Vox has been a successful television presenter for 10~15 years now. He's rich and is married with children, but is less than an ideal husband/father. When he's not at work, he's usually with Valentino, a young male prostitute who he's been having a secret affair with for the past year or two. The two of them are currently somewhere between a sugar daddy/baby arrangement and a legit relationship. Vox is overall pretty content with his life and hasn't thought about Alastor in years. That is, until things start to change.

At first, it just seems like a bad cold; his joints are stiff and he has the chills constantly, but that's nothing too unusual, and he continues going about his daily life. But then the delusions start. Vox begins hearing things whenever a radio is on– words and phrases that shouldn't be coming out of it, said in a familiar tone of voice. He starts seeing shadows moving just out of the corner of his eye, but when he turns to look at them, they're gone. When Vox looks in the mirror or watches clips from his show, there's something different– uncanny– about his own eyes that makes him feel like he's looking at a stranger. It must be stress, he thinks; he's been working himself too hard.

But things only get worse. Vox's body is stiff and jerky and cold– suddenly very cold to the touch, although no one other than Vox can feel it. Food and drink and cigarettes lose their taste. His emotions feel muted– all except fear. He starts hearing this loud, irritating humming when he's in the studio which makes it hard for him to work. People are starting to get worried. He's acting erratically, asking if they can hear or feel things that simply aren't there. His wife thinks he's building towards a nervous breakdown, but Vox knows that's not true. Something's happening to him, something no one can perceive but him.

Things continue to deteriorate. Vox thinks he can hear metal creaking when he moves. His face won't show up on camera anymore; the footage always ends up damaged for reasons no one can explain. He smashes the family radio in front of his kids when he clearly hears Alastor's voice coming out of it, taunting him. He asks Valentino, who hasn't even been to church in the past decade, to connect him with his childhood priest because he thinks he's being possessed and wants an exorcism. If the Protestant God won’t help him, maybe the Catholic one will. It still doesn't work.

Things come to a head one night when Vox, desperate to prove to himself and everyone else that he's not crazy, takes a knife and cuts deep into the hand he used to make the pact with Alastor all those years ago. He cuts and cuts and cuts until finally– finally– he sees it: metal and wires and no blood. He was right. He tries to show his wife but only succeeds in scaring her out of her wits. He flees the house and takes the family car. He needs to go see Valentino, show him, ask him for help. He crashes the car into a lamppost while trying to drive with one hand. A cashier working late in a nearby electronics store tries to help him, bringing him into the shop to wait while he calls an ambulance.

When the cashier leaves him alone to go make the call, Vox hears it again. He hears Alastor's voice coming out of a radio, telling him that his time is up. He's been living on borrowed (or rather, stolen) time for the past ten years and now it's time to come join him, down where they both belong. Vox can feel his "bones" cracking, his skin stretching and tearing. He can't hear anything except Alastor's voice alongside the blaring static emitting from all the TVs and radios in the store. He's dying he's dying he's dying– until he stumbles into a fusebox and the whole store is engulfed in an electrical fire.

When the firemen dig through the rubble, they never find a human body.

[kaiserouo]

i swear if i like a character with human face in the future i will actually try to learn how to draw faces

[makoredeyes]

Dave Attenborough voice: “and here we see a young Warlock attempting to woo a potential mate. He’d best be careful though. This one’s a loner, and will be quite tough to impress…”

Or; The universal experience of keeping up with Arc Users (TM)

*been a bit so mentioning again Timur’s handsome mug borrowed with explicit permission from the character design created by the incredible @/Sylenth-l here on tumblr and Twitter

[druidonity2]

I wonder what Velen is up to these days...

[cvntroach5000]

HE FUCKING BIT ME???