#passage cloute

[mingiswow]

Christmas in august | Lee Sangyeon

Pairing: Sangyeonx fem!reader

Words: ~3k

Genre: smut MDNI, pwp, fluff

Content Warning: smut obv, mentions of people using the boys for clout and fame, mentions of alcohol, not proofread, ig that’s all lol

Smut warning: fingering (f receiving), nipple play, piv, unprotected sex (don’t do that… fr), semi-public sex, slightly exhibitionism, choking, little spanking, Sangyeon is a little asshole but just for a little

⚠ If you’re under the age of 18 and/or don’t feel comfortable reading that type of content, I have a lot of other content here.

⚠ English is not my native language, so pardon me if there’s any mistake. And you can always tell me what’s wrong.

A/n: I am deceased. The first concept photos for the boyz’s photobook got my imagination running wild. Sangyeon is my bias and his back picture??? Oof 🥵🥵 anyways hope you enjoy my little Sangyeon mind rot

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You were doomed. For real.

You promised your friend you’d behave. You promised her that you wouldn’t get yourself involved in trouble or would fight with anyone at the party - her knowing that you don’t get along with some of her boyfriend’s friends’ girlfriends. It’s not your fault that some of them are as fake as your nails and were dating them for money and fame.

“I don’t care if they are or not social alpinists, yn” your friend, Minji, said. “They are still the boys’ girlfriends”

“So you agree they are social alpinists” she rolled her eyes but didn’t deny it.

She said all the things you shouldn’t do. Which you were not doing. But she never mentioned not eye-fucking Sangyeon.

Ever since Minji introduced you to Sunwoo you became as best friends as you and her, he was funny, loud, sometimes obnoxious, just like you and your friend. And it wasn’t long until he introduced you to his friends. Sangyeon caught your eye immediately. He was 100% your type. He was gorgeous, taller than you, funny, had the sweetest smile, and even sweeter eyes. Not to mention his ridiculously gorgeous body and that nose that you couldn’t stop but imagine how it would feel in between your legs if he ate you out. In your loneliest nights you’d touch yourself thinking about riding his face, his nose buried in your lower lips and strong arms holding you in place.

“yn? yn, are you listening to me?” Eric punched lightly your arm as you disassociated looking at the distance with the thought of Sangyeon naked upper body wet as he played in the pool.

“Uh? What?” you turned to him, eyes blinking. “Yeah, yeah, I’m here, sorry”

“You don’t seem very much here, babes” he laughed at you and you blushed, wishing none of them saw you stripping the older one naked with your eyes.

You excused yourself from the conversation and disappeared inside the house, going for the bathroom.

You closed the door behind you and took a deep breath in, exhaling with a huff. What were you thinking? Sangeyon had a girlfriend. They haven’t been dating for long but they liked each other. She would be here at any minute and if she saw the way you looked at her boyfriend, she’d kill you. It didn’t help that she already didn’t like you very much. Not that the other girlfriends liked you or your friend that much, but she almost despised you, it was almost as if she could smell your pussy throbbing every time you saw Sangyeon.

You splashed some cold water on your face, trying to wash away the dirty thoughts, and put some cold water on your neck and wrists, wishing to calm down your beating heart and rushing pulsing.

There was a knock on the door, waking you back from reality. Another deep breath was taken before opening the door. But on the other side was the last person you wanted to see.

“Oh, sorry, yn, did I interrupt you?” he asked, that sweet smile on his face and all you wanted was to punch it away.

“Oh, no, don’t worry, I finished already” you gave a half smile and tried to leave but he blocked your passage.

“Is everything okay? You seem unwell” you nodded, trying to focus your eyes on the skin between his brows, not on his luscious soft lips or his pale built chest waiting to be marked with your freshly done nails. “Are you sure? You seem pale” he took two steps closer, the back of his hand touching your forehead.

You took a step back, a little caught off guard by his sudden behavior. He took another step closer, his other hands holding your barely covered waist so you’d stay in place. Your skin felt like it was burning where he touched it. You knew he was just being careful, kind, like the leader he is, he was treating you like he treats the boys. You were one of the boys to him. Right?

His hand that was on your forehead touched your cheeks, neck and lowered to the place right in the middle of your chest, where your heart was pounding like it wanted to leave your body. And you wished it did so he wouldn’t notice.

“Oh my god, yn, your heart is beating so fast? Are you sure you’re okay?” you nodded.

“I-I am. Don’t worry” your voice was a whisper. You felt so stupid in front of him.

“Are you nervous? You seem nervous, yn?” he smirked and you felt your knees go weak, thanking for a brief moment the way he held you. “Am I the one making you nervous, yn?” You blinked at his statement. Yes, he was the reason but you thought he didn’t even notice.

You barely saw it happening from how fast it did. He pushed you back inside the bathroom and closed the door behind you two, locking it. His body was now flushed against yours, chest to chest, your thin beach dress doing nothing to separate the heat of your bodies.

He gave a chuckle seeing how nervous and flushed you got, cheeks burning with embarrassment. You thanked god he couldn’t see the state your bikini bottoms probably were.

“It’s so cute how you think I didn’t see the way you’ve been looking at me the whole afternoon. The whole time we’ve known each other actually” his smirk never leaving his lips and you gulped, so you weren’t so slick after all. “Oh princess, you think I’d be dumb enough not to notice?” you felt your walls clench on nothing when he called you princess. “But you wanna know how I noticed?” he asked and lowered his face to your neck, his lips ghosting over your heated skin, the small hairs prickling and shivering. His tongue suddenly licked a stripe from bottom to top, reaching your ear so he could whisper “Because I was looking at you too”, your breath caught in your throat as he bit your earlobe, legs giving up on holding your weight.

He chuckled, satisfied with his effect on your body with the bare minimum. His hands squeezed the plush skin on your waist and pushed you against the sink, sandwiching you against the hard cold marble and his hard warm body. You could already feel something as hard as his muscles poking your stomach through the thin material of his swim shorts.

Sangyeon slowly raised his hands from your waist to your face, holding it in place so you had nowhere else to look but his face. Your lips were parted, breathing difficult just by your nose. You were giving in to him so easily. Mind completely blank from anything else, every corner, every crease of your brain filled with him.

It was like you were floating, laid down in the softness of the clouds when his lips finally met yours. His plush and hot ones pressed hard against yours. Your eyes were shut tightly, afraid it was just a trick of your own mind, a dream. Another one of those delicious, dirty wet dreams you had with him. The man started to move his mouth and you lost it, lost every little bit of shame or what else you could feel besides need, hands circling his neck and kissing him back. Mouths moving aggressively, teeth clashing and tongues fighting. It was even better than you had imagined. The way his mouth moved hungrily against yours, as if this was his last opportunity, his last chance with you.

Due to air missing from both of your lungs, you cut the kiss, but his mouth didn’t stop, the muscles went right to your neck, kissing it delicately, careful not to mark you and give away what you were doing.

Your mind finally went back to place and you realized what you were doing. You pushed him away, conscience heaving.

“I- we can’t… please stop” you tried to leave the bathroom but he held you against the door. “Sangyeon…” you whined, trying to leave his hold.

“We broke up” you stopped in your tracks. He knew exactly what your problem was.

“What?” You asked more for yourself than to him. He chuckled and shook his head.

“Do you really think I’d do this with you if I still had a girlfriend? You think that lowly of me?”

“No! I mean no…” you blushed. “I… I couldn’t know. I… I’m sorry” you lowered your head.

He grabbed your chin between his fingers and raised your face to look at him, gently putting your hair away from your face.

“It’s okay, I should have said it” you smiled and nodded. “So… now that we’ve established that I’m single… can we…” you giggled at his sudden cuteness but nonetheless kissed him again, cutting his sentence.

He used the opportunity to lock the door behind you, and lowered himself a little so he could grab the back of your thighs and put you on top of the cold marble sink.

“Even tho’ I really wish I could listen to you scream my name,” he said against your mouth, changing his position to your ears so he could whisper, “the sweet little moans and whimpers that I bet you have are just for me, darling. No one can listen” you nodded, biting your lower lip instinctively to hold any sound. “I’ve been dying to have you on my sheets since day one, yn” your hands on his back stopped as he moved to look into your eyes again. “I know this is not the perfect first time for ourselves but I’ll make sure to compensate you another day” you smiled and held his face between your hands, just like he had done before.

“I don’t care about perfect, Sangyeon, all I need right now is for you to fuck me because it’s starting to get too hot in here” he chuckled and went back to devouring your lips.

He moved one of his hands between your bodies and started to touch your vulva through the fabric of your bikini. The material was starting to look darker in the spot where your wetness was being held. You held a low whine when he pressed two fingers against your clit, kiss never being broken with his actions. His same fingers moved the fabric to the side, the tip of the digits sliding up and down in your slick coated pussy.

“Fuck, Princess you’re so wet” you nodded, enjoying little movements he did on you. “Did I get you this wet?” You nodded feverishly again, holding a deeper whine when the tip of his middle finger poked your entrance.

He moved a little away from your body just to help you get out of your bikini set and dress, leaving you bare in front of him. You shivered with the way the cold air hit your nipples and your hot wet pussy. But you barely got time to feel anything else because Sangyeon attacked your nipples with his lips and I sorted his middle finger inside you without any difficulty.

Your back was thrown back and your back arched forward his face as he kept his assault on you. It was borderline impossible to keep quiet but you tried your best, not wanting anyone to discover the nasty things you two were doing in the bathroom.

His mouth was skillful in your nipple, biting, licking, pulling. It all felt so good especially when paired with the way his long finger was hitting your cervix just right.

“M… more” you managed to whisper, mouth hanging open after with mute moans leaving your lips that formed an O shape.

The man was feeling generous that day, not only because you guys didn’t have much time to play and tease but because he waited for so long to fuck that he felt like he could burst inside his shorts just by your sight alone. So without any remark, he pushed two more fingers inside your hole, earning a tiny high moan that left your throat before you closed your mouth to be careful.

His attacks on your nipples started to get more slow and chaste in comparison to how fast his three fingers were listening inside you. The spongy spot just right behind your clit being hit every time he’d curl his fingers and without a warning, you came around his digits. Fluids leaking from how wet you were, creaming his fingers and hand.

Without any shame in his face, he moved his hand from in between your legs and licked his hands clean, licking and swallowing every drop of your essence. The scene was dirty, nasty, almost perverted, but it turned you on in ways you couldn’t even imagine it would. You pulled him by his neck and kissed his lips, tasting yourself in his tongue. If Sangyeon was already head over heels for you, that was the moment he thought he wanted to marry you.

After breaking the kiss up, he took his shorts and underwear down his legs and you could see his rock hard dick, the length pulsing and the girth veiny, red and angry demanding to stretch you out from the insides. Your hands pumped his length a little, feeling how he was reacting to your touched, low hisses coming from his lips as he closed his eyes and enjoyed the small touch.

He finally aligned his tip to your hole and slowly entered you, raw, burning. You bit your lip hard trying to suppress a moan, the metallic taste of bliss invading your lips from how hard you were biting. Your perfectly manicured nails, done just for this event, pressed hard against his big built shoulders, the muscles tensing with the action he was making and from the way you were leaving your marks.

He didn’t care anymore. He was far gone. Both of you were. His dick thick inside you, stretching you like his life depended on it, not giving you time to think with the way he was fucking you. Fast, hard, delicious. Your mind was blank and all you wanted was to cum again. Your walls pulsing around his hot hard cock.

You were almost close when he stopped fucking you, leaving you empty just to turn you around and bend you with your chest on top of the sink. Your nipples hardening with the sudden contact with the still cold marble. He gave you a good couple of spanks in each one of your ass cheeks and entered you again. The new angle hitting you just right, the knot in your stomach starting to tighten again, your orgasm approaching.

Then a sudden knock on the door caught your breath, hand going to cover your mouth so any noise wouldn’t come out.

“Sangyeon? Are you there?” It was Sunwoo. “Have you seen yn?” Your eyes widened when Sangyeon didn’t stop.

He had other plans. That little asshole. He grabbed both your arms behind your back and pulled you flushed against his chest, one of his hands holding you pressed tight against him and the other one around your neck. You opened your mouth and thanked when no sound came out. The tip of fingers pressing your pulse points on the sides of your neck, head going dizzy in the most delicious way.

His hips slowed their speed otherwise the skin slapping sound would be too loud.

“Yeah, it’s me” he answered the younger boy, hips never stilling. “No, I haven’t seen her. She probably went out to grab more alcohol, no?” He answered so easily, so simply, like his cock wasn’t buried deep inside someone’s pussy. Your pussy.

“I don’t think so but I’ll keep searching, Minji is worried”

“Don’t worry, she didn’t go far, when I finish here I’ll look for her too” he gave a slow deep thrust and you came undone around his cock, legs wobbly and the only thing holding you was the fact you were pressed between him and the sink.

“Thanks man, appreciate” the younger one left and you heard the steps getting further away.

“Such a good dirty girl for me” he kissed your neck before pulling his dick out and coming on your back. The thick white ropes painting your skin.

You slowly regained your breath as he cleaned you and him from any remains of your actions. Sangyeon helped you dress up again, careful not to hurt you. Like he wasn’t balls deep you just minutes ago.

“Just so you know, I don’t want this to be a one time thing” he said to you after making sure you were okay and had regained (at least a little) of your leg strength. “I never wanted” you nodded, a smile on your lips.

“I don’t want it to be a one time thing either” you booped his nose, earning a sweet giggle from the boy. “To be honest, I’ve been into you for a while, but I was too scared to make a move and then you started dating so I didn’t want to be a homewrecker” he hugged your lower back, bringing you close to him and kissing your lips, just a simple sweet peck on your lips.

“Don’t worry, she was a homewrecker first. Long story, I don't want to talk about” you nodded and gave him another peck. “But I still want to take you on a nice date and get to know you better”

“More than you just got to know?” It was Minji’s voice behind the door and you could see her eyes rolling. “You guys ain’t slick at all. You got me worried you little pieces of shit” you heard laughs from the other side indicating she wasn’t alone. “Now leave this bathroom and stop sneaking around”

“Yes, ma’am” Sangyeon answered and you chuckled at how red his face got. Again the step got further from the bathroom. “I think we are in trouble”

“No, we’re not, she’s just acting though” you said, opening the door, holding his hand in yours and feeling a warm feeling take your whole body. “Now let’s go before they come hunting us”.

All eyes were on you two after you went downstairs, some smirks from the boys and jealous looks from the girls. But you couldn’t care less. Your best friend came running to you, grabbing your hand and pulling you to the kitchen.

“Now tell me EVERYTHING” you giggled at her sparkly eyes. Yeah, she was definitely just acting though.

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Masterlist | feedback and requests

[dallasgallant]

Time period post: car culture

Getting a license is more than a right of passage, it’s integral. Getting a car is big- both for one’s reputation and social life, back in the day kids couldn’t wait to get their license…

In the 60s cars were becoming the dominant mode of transportation, it was getting more common for families to have more than one (if they could afford it) and so on. Though public transportation was still prevalent and reliable like bus and trolly systems… cars were a status/clout symbol for teenagers. You wanted the cool car, the nice car, the muscle car.

Automatic transmission, a variety of colors, bench seats, bigger, better, sleek. An interesting note is that people have been racing cars since they were invented, but particularly it started to ramp up professionally besides just troublesome teens, hobbiest and bootleggers.

I cannot emphasize enough how much the “car culture” began to be cemented in this period, the 60s is sometimes even referred to as the golden age of motoring. Movies and pop culture of nice slick cars helped cement that, growing trends of customization -> car centered architecture! Not only mid century modern and space age but Googie, meant to capture motorists eyes! Started in the 50s and carried on here.

Route 66!!! “Golden age of motoring” also means the golden age of road trips and tourist attractions, this route is still renown today though it’s mostly the remains of it (which did go through Tulsa!) it was one of the first national highways and later popularized in pop culture for its later touristy nature.

traffic on the highway increased, a growing share of it long-distance, and the need for food, fuel, repairs, and shelter transformed the economies of the towns through which the route passed. The development of novel methods of merchandising to the transient customer that became commonplace in mid-20th-century America—drive-in and drive-up businesses, fast food, motor inns, and roadside advertising—can to a great degree be traced to the influence of Route 66 in those towns.

It was decommissioned formally and completely by 1985, due to high speed highways— often decimating the small towns that came to rely on the traffic (think of Pixar’s cars lmao) it’s not the point of this post but it’s interesting I want to look into more and drive it someday.

Teen specific-

Back on track! The ideas of cars = freedom is about as old as cars themselves, they meant transportation and movement and independence. All things the American teenager craves, all the more if it looks cool and is both a place to hang out and one to take you to hang outs.

“Make out point” is a trope for a reason, the ability for teens to go off and have sex semi secluded was another huge factor for cars importance to teenagers. (Also a time when it is generally becoming less stigmatized/uptight culture)

Car dates generally. It’s private. Intimate and well a lot of ones social life was centered around them so why not your love life? -> there’s also something to be said here about the influence of consumerism too like how it’s why the ‘teenager’ came to be in the first place etc

[royalsunshinehotel]

The Cut (Jay x Bridgerton!Reader)

You were prepared, in every sense of the word. 

Years of training and observing, as the young ward of the Bridgerton house, had led you to this day, and it had all turned out rather beastly. 

Violet, your mother, had brought the same ferocity and dedication with her love to your upbringing, as she had with her many other children. You may have been a ‘ward’, but your mother stuck a giant feather on your head and brought you out as her own. Only for you to be smirked and gawked at, looked down upon. And you had months of this to look forward to? To find a husband? 

At the very least, you made an impression, the Queen herself could not deny. And in the corner of the ballroom, your brother Gregory’s friend Jay, knew this. 

Taking a sip of his champagne, he muses on the day, while keeping his eyes on you. 

The past two weeks had been ghastly for him as well. His estranged father had finally passed away, and had decided to formally claim Sanjay as his own - despite a messy, sordid history with his parents, he came back to London- to do his duty. 

He had tenants to worry about, people on staff who would be out of work if he didn’t. Catching up with his good friends at Bridgerton House would just be a side benefit. But he just missed them, all assembled to see you off. He made up his mind to call tomorrow, if not only to set up a meeting between his mother and Violet. 

No other reason at all! 

He wasn’t sitting in the corner of the ballroom for you. He didn’t see you leaving the house, dressed like an angel, and he didn’t spend the rest of the day pondering the passage of time. Weren’t you supposed to be on the shelf by now? What fool would allow that to happen? Why were you just ‘coming out’ now?

So, he had decided to attend the Danbury Ball, to the shock of his mother. If he didn’t have his eyes on you and your mother, he would have regretted it immensely. 

It was glittering, well-lit, and all together much too loud. It would only be worth if it he could approach you, and the wall of Bachelors trying to figure him out blocked his way. 

Ridiculous. 

From the other side of the room, you scowl. Hours into your first year on the marriage mart, it truly hits you how different things were going to be. Your eldest brother Anthony, had stepped away to fetch you and your mother some lemonade, and you felt a pang of guilt. Daphne, Franscesca, Eloise, Hyacinth, had all put Anthony through the ringer when it came to suitors. He had years to hone his skills of chasing off suitors, clout-chasers, and fortune-hunters. You didn’t need to worry about that last part, and the Bachelors of the ton knew that. 

You’d been approached twice, by two separate men. Two times. You were a handsome enough woman, and you had the Bridgerton name, but it wasn’t enough, was it? You weren’t even that old. Kate was six-and-twenty when she married your brother, same as you are now!

You were distracted by your shoes, eyes to the floor, when your mother gave Anthony a look, and your brother all but evaporated. 

“Dearest, are you well?” Your mother’s soft, musical tone soothes you for a moment. You slowly bring your eyes up from the floor, and ask what had been weighing on your mind. 

“Mother, why is this the year?” 

“What do you mean?” She asks, coy as ever. 

“I’m on the shelf, I thought I would stay and take care of you! Instead I’m here, in a crush of people, being inspected like a new horse.” Violet chuckles lightly. 

“You flatter me, but I’m not in my dotage just yet.” 

“So tell me why I’m here!”

“Anthony’s finished the papers. We’ve been able to allocate some funds for your dowry. You’re here because you deserve to be here.” She takes your arm in his and the two of you step closer to the exotic plants that always seemed to be in bloom. 

“Your age, and parentage do not exclude you from society, and any man worth having will see that. We’re here to find you a match, dearest.” 

“There’s not a man worth having in this whole lot!” Violet nearly laughs at you, “There’s at least one.” She pointedly looks across the room, at the man who looks like a boy she used to have over for tea. 

“You schemer! Lord Menha?” You gasp, and Violet could roll her eyes. Jay had been staring at the two of you in his typical serious manner, which gave Violet confidence that maybe time hadn’t changed too much about him. 

“Sanjay looks quite handsome, does he not?” You nod, wishing you were still in the corner looking at your shoes, “Remember when he was a young man, sitting in the corner of the room. You had to coax him out like a stray cat.” It was such a vivid picture in your mind. Where had all that time gone? 

The man your mother pointed out was handsome, in a way that made your corset suddenly feel too tight. 

“That seems such a long time ago…” You try to shrug it off. Your mother knew you were scared of the ‘season’, and everything that came with it. But you wouldn’t admit it to yourself. 

“Not that long perhaps. He looks as if he could stand to be rescued.” Violet takes a long drink from her champagne glass, noting how utterly miserable Sanjay looked, blocked in my three to five of the ton’s most eligible bachelors…from five years ago. 

You notice too, Jay didn’t like crowds. Why was he here? 

“Mother, I do think you’re right.” What was left of the boy you knew? Perhaps it would be good to find out. 

“Of course, dearest.” She gives your gloved hand a squeeze as the hostess calls her over, across the floor. 

You square your shoulders, crossing the immaculate tiled floors. 

As you get closer, your stomach begins to twist. He was well and truly pinned down by men who should have married years ago. 

“Sanjay Menha, you absolute devil!” 

“Still have that stutter, old boy?” 

“Get plenty of tail abroad, did you?” 

Jay simply stares at you. It was unnerving to see him this close. He’d gotten taller, shoulders more broad. That dark, curly hair that had been so unmanageable in his youth was shiny, pushed away from a handsome face, now sporting a beard, that gave you, for some reason, the urge to run your hands through. 

“Pardon me sirs-” You try but are cut off by Lord Wabash. 

“Miss Bridgerton, no need for formalities.” You don’t take your eyes off your Jay. 

“Pardon me, Dickon, Lord Menha and I were about to take to the floor.” You bat your eyes the same way your sister Franscesca does, hoping he won’t take offense. It didn’t matter if he did, you were too old, after all. 

You wouldn’t look at any of the other men, you really didn’t need to. 

“Lord Menha and I were about to take to the floor.” Jay stares at you, dark eyes just the same as the day he left town. 

You want to do everything you can to keep Jay looking at you. No one else would come close. 

Had this been on the promenade, such lack of attention to manners would have been a “cut”. But you’re parents weren’t titled, you were an orphan, and you were too old to be here. You’d simply have to take your chances. 

“We are.” Jay agrees, handing his glass to one of his social captors, and letting you take his arm. You take a step down together, together, and the cluster scatters. 

“Lord Menha, if I remember right, you love a good waltz,” you smile, as you direct Jay to the floor. He blinks at you, and your stomach does an embarrassing flip. 

“You remember it just right.” He thinks about practicing with you at the Bridgerton house, you moving so gracefully, and him falling over his feet to keep up. 

“Quite the swashbuckler, Miss Bridgerton?” He asks, thinking of a time that you played Pirates with Gregory and Hyacinth. 

“Only when I see something I want.” Your face heats up at the forward implications of your words. It was just Jay, your Sanjay, friends with your brothers, you tried to calm yourself. 

“I heard you were prone to travel, and an eligible bachelor, but I never saw you as a wallflower, my Lord.” 

“I’m just glad to have caught your attention.” At that moment, it was remarkably difficult to resist the urge to swoon. 

The music starts, and words fade. 

Against the glass windows, Anthony stands by your Mother, trying to hide his awe. It was too neatly packaged for there not to have been some meddling. He was well aware of her friendship with Lady Menha, and he’d have to ask after her health. 

The waltz ends, and Anthony sees Jay’s hand’s shake from the middle of the floor. This bodes well, doesn’t it? 

You both walk together, Jay escorting you in the direction of your Mother and brother, “May I call on you tomorrow, Miss Bridgerton?” 

“You may, Lord Menha.”

[randomnameless]

I'm having a really hard time fathoming how some people consider SB to be a righteous/heroic route or a route where we're the good guys. The route where:

You invade two independent nations under the pretence of "saving their citizens from oppression" (though I guess you can't be oppressed anymore if you're dead lol) even though Her Majestic Hypocrisy repeats a bunch of times that she's in for conquest and that she'd obliterate anyone who stands in her way.

The cast keeps victim-blaming the invaded parties for *checks note* defending their countries. 

The death toll is the highest. You have to kill Ingrid, Rodrigue, Gustave and Sylvain. And you can also kill Ashe, Mercedes (btw, if she dies, the cutscene where Dimitri and Dedue grieve changes slightly, which is nice), Annette, Shamir, Ignatz, Raphael and Marianne (how does Margrave Edmund feel about Claude's alliance with the empire knowing his daughter was killed by its army?). 

IIRC, this is the only route where you conscript merchants into the imperial army. No wonder the empire has the biggest army.

Based Rhea who, despite being hunted, still thinks about the safety of the continent first in the final chapter. It's hilarious how characters like Edespot or Clyde harp on about how Rhea is the big bad, and in the few scenes you have with her, she's just kind? Anyway. Rhea based.

In the C support conversation - which happens right after Felix got seriously injured and Sylvain got killed- there's this bit where Dimitri is like "I don't know if I can talk with like everything is normal, so many have died already" and Edespot's response is basically "yeah I don't see it that way. Let's agree to disagree". Also, I believe she wonders if she shouldn't just kill Clyde and Dimitri once they're out. Even though Clyde is her ally at the moment. You bet on the wrong lord, Clyde... 

I probably forgot a few stuff, but... oh well.

To be honest,

The only things I like about Supreme Bullshit are :

Its ending! Supreme Leader and Barney (well, at least they throw a sword?) being sitting ducks while Rhea steals the show, and sacrifices herself in an epic shonen scene to get rid of the real threat, aka showing that unlike someone, she knows how to prioritize, and it ends up in an explosion. It matches the ending of the F-Zero anime (at 0.48!), Rhea/Falcon rushes to deal a blow (a Falcon punch and a Seiros strike I guess?) to their mortal enemy, there is a giant explosion, and both Rhea/Falcon fade away in a blinding light. Too bad the Supreme Bullshit BGM is eons away from "Searching to the Truth" :(

The reveal that Rhea kept the keys to the sekrit passages in the Imperial Palace - or Rhea knows more about Enbarr and its castle than the current Emperor and her aides...

Doro's paralogue being incredibly tone deaf about, uh, soldiers being "too busy" by the Mittelfrank troupe, that they can't basically protect the dancers/performers from bandits, when the paralogue happens in an area that is expressedly supposed to be full of soldiers!

If starts align in a certain way, it's the only route in Nopes where Clout dies!

Leopold! He's like Victarion Greyjoy, only if he was taken seriously. But we, as players, know better! Also he's a living retcon, from having a major cichol crest to gift to his son because he fought well (and not to, say, Big B or even Ferdie) a sacred weapon despite the route being all about muhritocracy!

Supreme Leader plans and plays with the cards she has in her hand - from trying to get good PR to get rid of people (Varley sr) by pitting them against her next target (the CoS)!

An entire game full of new Supreme Replies (tm)!

For shippers around, it has a Cathmir scene where everyone knows Shamir will prioritize Catherine's life over her allegeance! too bad this is a Supreme Leader route, so no, Shamir won't fucking try to kill her for blackmailing her and can even kill Catherine herself later on....

That's not a lot lol, and most of it are breadcrumbs because for the proper plot...

Yeah, it kinds of sucks.

Supreme Bullshit is even more tone deaf with the War and its realities than Tru Piss (and that's a feat!), Ferdie being completely, uh, off the mark about everything (invading lands and rekting people, and then saying those people's fears are only in their heads! Pal, one of the first missions in the SB exclusive chapters is to rout refugees??? + the nonsense about the Kingdom having more crested generals, when data shows the Empire has more crested peeps than the Kingdom!), Caspar being turned in the worst version of himself who dgaf anymore about protecting "innocents" and "justice", and, uh, everything with Monica.

Victim blaming is the norm with Fodlan games, but yeah, it really feels odd that suddenly, in the Zahras chapters, Dimitri's all "okay" when his closest friends either died or were grievly injured and the game proceeds as it does when, come on, why wouldn't Dimitri kill her the second they're out of the Zahras verse??

I really disliked how Supreme Bullshit yeeted Ionius from Adrestia, or how it didn't explore in more depth the Insurrection of the Seven, especially since we side with Leopold'n'Waldemar against Ludwig, who used to be allies! Also, as far as I remember, no one mentions anything about Arundel, why he ran away to the Kingdom with a young Supreme Leader and how he changed when he returned, or something?

If Ludwig is pushed by Supreme Leader, reciting her Dad's words, as the one who led the insurrection and the experiments on her, why the fuck no one else mentions them, as Leopold and Waldemar were on Aegir's side back then? They don't even mention "Arundel" participating, like, Volkhard sides against Ionius and hides his niece, but 3 months later, he returns and offers her as a guinea pig?

As is the norm with the Supreme Leader routes, the "truth" isn't what we're looking for, because we know Supreme Leader pushes a narrative she will follow to reach her goals, but where Tru Piss gave hints here and there about her narrative being, uh, rubish, we have no clues here, and Leopold prefers to flash his loincloth than giving us anything meaningful about that incident.

When you compare them to Matthias and Rodrigue (and Gilbert?) who often mention Lambert "back in the days", it's more and more obvious that... we're not supposed to ask questions in Supreme Bullshit, and just go with the flow.

And it ends with a high five.

I'd say it deviates less from Tru Piss than Golden Shower does from Verdant Winds, but it's an "expected disappointment".

That's why my only higlights are not plot relevant (save for the Captain Falcon - Rhea parallel) - because we know the plot will never deliver something meaningful in a Supreme Leader route.

[thepariahcontinuum]

You mentioned in a post that Taylor staying with the Undersiders would have made her effectively become a more efficient Lung. How do you think this timeline would go in general with that in mind?

Okay this is the post in question, one from months ago which I had genuinely forgotten but....But let's see.

When Taylor left the Undersiders it was because she felt she'd achieved everything she could as a villain, she'd stopped Coil, dealt with the gangs in the city and gotten Dinah back to her family. She joined the Wards because she saw it as part of the necessary steps to prepare for the end of the world, even though she didn't know what it was.

So I see two options here.

A) Taylor becomes a more efficient Lung, for this timeline to work it would probably require the whole Scion/end of the world situation to not happen/be resolved off screen by Cauldron/whoever.

It really is as simple as it sounds, Brockton Bay gets condemned and the PRT and Government pull out whilst the Undersiders, as the last faction with any real power left effectively rule it as their own fiefdoms....Taylor gets the ferry up and running like her Dad wanted, carries on her relationship with Brian and, much like the ABB probably practices conscription in her terribly, if you want to eat on Skitter's turf then you work for skitter. Ultimately things stagnate without a goal to strive for.

B) Dinah still gives her warning about the end of the world but Taylor decides that the heroes/PRT is a lost cause; I imagine that this is a decision she makes after Defiant, who should have been imprisoned for breaking the truce publicly outs her.

Instead of being a Warlord like Lung she becomes something more like Coil or Accord but on an even grander scale, this Taylor still has the goal of getting as many people on the same page and ready for what's coming but instead of relying on people and institutions that failed her yet again she takes all of the Undersiders gathered clout, Coil's resources, the political and financial prospects that the portal to Earth Gimel represents and begins using it to spread her influence to other cities and, being Taylor, continuing to go to Endbringer fights where she actually starts networking with villains in other countries.

In this timeline by the time the two years are up Skitter has an international smuggling network which will actually work as passages and routes for evacuees, multiple bases and bunkers, dozens if not hundreds of Tinkers working on stopping whatever's coming, probably more than a few defected Protectorate and Ward capes helping her after she's exposed Defiant/Armsmaster and she's reached such a status that Cauldron come and do business with her personally since she's proof that their Cape-Feudalism society can work but has also deposed all of their own assets.

[milotheshrike]

Christians don't like it went atheists can quote the bible?

Stop being such a fake fan of your God and take it seriously then

If I can use your own book against you in an argument AND YOU DONT EVEN KNOW WHAT PASSAGE IM QUOTING

Then you aren't really a true fan.

Your just doing it for clout

And to have an excuse to be horrible to others and feel morally superior "cause my religion says I can"

Considering how many paedophiles join the church knowing its a safe place to abuse children you have no right to accuse anyone or call them pedos just cause you don't understand that there is more advance biology texts beyond basic high school/primary school lessons

Trans people deserve better

Those kids deserve better

The church itself deserves to burn.

-trans kid of a victim of the church

[late-to-the-magnus-archives]

Corrupted, chapter 25: FLESH. A Malevolent x TMA crossover

To quote Jonny Sims, there's a lot going on here.

Tim's got enough on his plate, but his story is clearing bisecting a lot of others. What does this Michael want? What is Dahl's problem? Are those trees going to move?

At least they're finally in reach of a body for Hastur, and Tim did promise. Fulfilling that can't be a bad move. Can it?

Corrupted, chapter 25: FLESH. A Malevolent x TMA crossover staring Tim Stoker and the King in Yellow.

AO3

---------------

Jon is… not the most physically fit of individuals. It is possible he’s never rowed in his life. Tim has decided not to comment on all the puffing and moaning, as that would be cruel on top of everything else that’s happened today. It’s just another thing to go on the list.

For Tim, it’s been list time since they saw the island. They’re helpful, lists; keep things in order, on track, and prioritized, which otherwise would be lost or befuddled in the midst of mayhem and madness.

Item the first: this had not gone according to anyone’s plan, at least ostensibly. Jon was, they said, supposed to be sacrificed, and Tim sent along, passage paid. Oops.

Item the second: they had absolutely no idea where they were, but it was far too cold to be the North Sea—cold enough that this island with weird palm trees (also not right for the North Sea) made no sense.

Item the third: who had knocked on Tim’s door? If that someone hadn’t knocked, it all would have gone down as planned, and he wouldn’t have known anything happened. Oh; but then there would not have been a several week journey north, not at all, because Tim would have realized Jon was gone, lost his shit, and burned the ship with such heat that the bodies would be unsuitable for fish food.

Instead, someone had knocked, setting off the series of events that ensured Tim and Jon went together. Together, to… wherever this was.

At last, they pull the little life raft onto the shore, far enough up the icy, black-stone beach that they cross over to soft, silver sand. The air changes from frigid to funky at once, humid and hot, as if they literally took a single step into another world. Tim sits down at once, giving into exhaustion with a will. “I don’t think I’ve ever been this sore.”

Jon stares past him into the thick, strange jungle. “Me, neither,” he says, but it sounds perfunctory, like maybe he isn’t aware of the blisters on his hands right now, or the slight tremor in his entire scrawny form.

Tim eyes him. “Hey. Maybe sit down before you fall down, yeah? Not that I’m not convinced of your Herculean powers, but we’ve got nowhere to be, and whatever this is, I think we should be at our best.”

Jon’s face is a journey. “I know you’re right,” he says. “But I’m so desperate to know what in blazes this is and how it got here.”

“It’s not going anywhere.” Tim pats the sand next to him. “Don’t make me wield the oar at you in some ill-planned attempt to make you rest.”

Jon scoffs at him, but sits. It takes him a moment to do so without simply falling over.

“Now, aren’t you glad you didn’t go traipsing into the wild unknown?” says Tim.

“I suppose,” Jon drawls, and rests his forehead on his knees.

This… this doesn’t feel as it should, says Hastur.

“No, really?” says Tim. “Which part tipped you off? The ice floes or the abrupt transformation to Bali?”

“It’s not Bali,” Jon mutters pedantically into his knees. “Those are walking palms. Socratea exorrhiza. Endemic to South America, known for the urban legend that they ‘walk’ via those roots in search of sunlight, up to three centimeters a day. Complete bunkum, of course.”

Well, if that didn’t sound like some Fear-god shit, Tim’s head is an apple. He peers over his shoulder, adrenaline souring his mouth. They didn’t appear to be walking yet. “Three centimeters a day, you say?’

“They don’t,” says Jon. “It’s been heartily disproven, just shared by opportunistic tour guides and idiots online for clout.”

Tim swears he can feel those roots reaching for him already, digging into his back. “I don’t suppose you know where we are? Is this South America?”

“No,” Jon groans. "The sand is wrong."

No, says Hastur. And I should… Tim! We’re not alone!

Tim springs to his feet.

Down the shore, on the edge of the tree line, the shape of a man lying flat on the sand is easy to miss. He’s not moving; the weird dappling shadows from these trees hides him (and surely the palm trees in question aren't usually shaped like that, roots curving, branches asymmetrical, fronds somehow sharp, like a giant preying mantis).

“Shit!” Tim says, and scrambles up.

Be careful!

“What?” says Jon, finally looking away from the trees. “Where are you going? Hey!” he rolls over, staggers raggedly to his feet, and follows and by the time he gets there, the secret is already revealed.

Tim stares at the man at his feet. “It’s that guy. The one who came to get us at my uncle’s.”

Jon stares, too. “Tadeas Dahl?”

Tim toes him.

Dahl lies still, breathing, eyes closed. He’s bruised; it doesn’t look like he made contact with fists, exactly, but something with pointy corners and splinters.

Jon kneels and checks for a pulse at his throat.

“Well?” says Tim.

“I have no idea what I’m doing,” Jon says, blushing darker and pulling his hand away.

Check him for weapons.

“Right,” says Tim, who hates that this is a good suggestion, but knows he must. “Learning new skills every day,” he says, rummaging awkwardly through this man’s salt-soaked clothes. “Never thought I’d add looting the unconscious to my resume.”

One never knows when such things might come in handy, after all, says Hastur in a shaky tone.

“Sure, but maybe tone down the sexiness while I'm riffling a body, yeah?” Tim teases in return, just as shaky.

Jon missed all such hints. “Why is he here?”

“Not a clue. Maybe if he wakes, he can tell us.”

Jon looks into the woods. He swallows. “I need to see what’s in there.”

Tim is beginning to understand the need to do things—to respond to hunger so natural that one cannot distinguish it from one’s own. He knows he wanted to burn Lukas' ship. The Desolation made it worse, but the anger is all his. It is a sobering thought. “Can you hold off?”

Jon shivers. “For now.”

“Let’s… maybe not break anything, but grab some fallen leaves and shit and start a fire, yeah?”

“Yeah,” says Jon hesitantly. “If we can gather enough to burn.”

Tim does not say and assuming the trees don’t decide to come after us because that’s just asking for trouble. "Hang out here. I'll bring something back."

I’ll keep an eye on the trees. Don’t worry.

“You can only see what I can see, mate,” says Tim.

I meant setting up perimeter spells.

Tim blinks. “We can do that?”

We can. And happily, the worst case is you overpower them, and we are alerted to every bug and shadow.

“Not great for sleeping, if we’re going to do that, but I see your point,” says Tim. “We'll set them up when I get back. All right. Jon, stay with the guy, okay?”

“Okay.” Jon is all eyes, and looks like he feels very small.

Tim puts his hand on Jon’s shoulder. “You’ll be all right. If he stirs, shout. We’re just going there. Not far. All right?”

Jon gulps. “All right.”

“Girding loins, etcetera, etcetera,” says Tim, and nervously approaches the tree line.

#

One would think palm trees grew closer to the ocean than this. He’s seen pictures, though not like these; these ones begin in a sharp row as if they’d been planted. (Or, his brain supplies, as if they’re soldiers mustered and waiting for orders.) “I’m not doing so well at the not-freaking-myself-out portion of our operation,” Tim murmurs.

Tim… even if those things turn out to be literal monsters that can tromp after us, you have so much power that you could blow the whole lot to smithereens. I am not concerned for our safety in that sense.

“Can’t tell if that’s reassuring or not, if I’m honest,” says Tim, inching closer. So far, none of the palms have moved. None he sees, anyway. Gods, they’re freaky things, main trunks bent over like old men, numerous roots or branches or something digging into the ground at angles like too many legs. “Whoever designed these things needs their head checked,” he says.

Or their hearts. Fear is never rational.

“I wouldn’t say never,” says Tim, crouching so as to put as little of himself as possible under the auspice of those weird shadows. “It’s often very rational.”

Hmph.

“Eloquent.”

I have better things I want to do with my tongue.

Tim pauses. That’s distraction-flirting, or he’s a Yorkshire pudding. “I’m scared, too. It’s okay to be scared.”

Hastur sputters denial like an overfilled kettle.

“Hey. I mean it. I hardly mind the flirting—it’s my native tongue, after all—but I learned a while ago it doesn’t really substitute for communication, do you feel me?”

Hmph.

Tim laughs this time. “Good job on the using-your-words portion of the convo.”

I don’t need to be psychoanalyzed. It would hardly do you any good, anyway. I’m alien to you, inhuman. A being beyond psychological—

Tim puts the tip of Hastur’s index finger into his mouth and sucks.

Hastur inhales and goes silent.

“Sure. Totally different,” says Tim. “I just tasted salt water and whatever this undergrowth is to prove you're not, because I’m quite sure I know what you’re thinking right now, so I think I win.”

For fuck’s… you… that was so filthy!

“It was fine, Hastur,” says Tim. “I mean, it’s not like we have fresh water here, anyway. You’re going to have to get used to it.”

Hastur stills. You’re right. We will need to conjure it.

“That’s a thing I need to be careful with, yeah? Last thing I need to do is wash us off the spooky island and back into the frozen sea.”

Maybe. It’s certainly something to keep in mind as a last resort.

“Don’t think you made me forget what we were just talking about, by the way,” says Tim. “We—”

“Hello!” says a bright male voice, positively chirping.

Tim spins.

Utterly incongruous, a man stands there in the shade of the jungle. His hair is long, curly, and frames a smile that somehow leaves Tim in doubt as to just how many teeth there are. The guy is at least six and a half feet tall, wearing sneakers, jeans, and a button-down shirt designed in vertical, yellowish patterns that should be symmetrical but just… aren’t… quite.

Tim stares. “Uh. Hello?”

“Care for some flowers?” says the weirdo, and holds up a small bouquet of lilies. “Picked them up to play with someone else, but then I didn’t really know what to do with them anymore.”

Tim. Hastur’s tone is even, careful, measured. That is not a human being.

Blondie laughs, throwing his head back (and the number of teeth has definitely changed). The sound is terrible. It bounces around Tim’s skull, making him wince, feeling like the morning after a bender and struggling to get out of bed. “You! Calling out one such as me! Hilarious!”

Tim doesn’t want to take a step back. He wants to stay brave in the face of this, courageous and sure, but being near this thing is… dizzying. After a moment, he realizes one of the reasons why: the sunlight patterns and shadows this thing casts do not at all match his surroundings.

Tim steps back. “So. You’re the, uh. Game glitch avatar, is it?”

The thing laughs again. His eyes—which were blue, maybe, maybe—have become spirals, swirling like some attempt at cartoon hypnosis, but all it gives Tim is nausea.

He steps back again. “Right. Um. Nice to meet you. Keep your flowers. I, uh. Can’t really eat them, which is about the only interest I’d currently have, so.”

“Here, we’d been concerned as to your arrival,” says the guy, unmoving (except he’s closer than he was, isn’t he? Or maybe Tim is misremembering), and grins again. There’s something green stuck in his teeth this time. “An avatar of the Desolation, here? In our place of ritual? Oh, no no, that isn’t allowed. You know we don’t poach, people or places or ponies all. But then we realized you were the one we waited for.”

He’s closer. He’s definitely closer.

Weirdly enough, that isn’t what upsets Tim in the moment. “I’m not a bloody avatar.”

The being tilts his head; his hair moves wrong as it slides across his shoulders, dangling not quite straight down to his left. “No?”

“No.” Tim swallows, clenching his fists and wondering if magic would work on this thing.

“Twisting of truth is my bread and butter,” says the being, who is suddenly so close that if Tim leaned forward just as little, he could bite the guy’s nose.

(Was he always that close? Tim can’t remember. It suddenly seems like his thoughts are being overwritten, left double-exposed and uncertain.)

Okay, this is enough weirdness for today. “I,” Tim says, “am going back to the beach where my pet nerd and our uncouth prisoner await. You, I suggest, stay here in your… ritual forest. Whatever that’s about. We want nothing to do with it, all right? This was an accident. The boat. We aren’t here on purpose, if you pick up what I’m laying down. Yeah?”

“Oh, it’s far too late for that,” says the being. "Besides: you were expected."

Well, shit, thinks Tim, because that means dealing with a spiral-haired weirdo is next on his list. “Oh,” he says. “Ah,” he adds. “Well, let me, uh. Go. Get that fire started, so we can be warm, you know, human bodies and all, and then we can have a real heart to heart, you know, get it all out on the table?”

Another head-tilt in the other direction (or… maybe the same direction). “An official request?”

Tim has no idea what that means. “Sure?”

And another smile, brilliant, this time with teeth that seem to be studded with diamonds. “Knock yourself out.”

Tim backs away.

The guy doesn’t move.

Tim turns around.

The guy is right in front of him.

Tim yips a yip he wishes he had not yipped, and is fairly sure a few dignity-points have been tragically lost.

“One thing,” says the being. “To be here in company of Eye and Lonely is… curious? Unplanned for, at the least.”

“That’s me,” Tim blurts. “Curious!”

“No, I think that’s him,” says the guy, pointing back at Jon, which is when Tim realizes his hands are… long.

Really long.

Those fingers are like horrible spider-nightmares, unevenly jointed, graceful and alien and pointed like knives.

Tim makes one low sound in his throat.

“How very curious, indeed!” says the guy, and laughs.

That laugh. Tim winces, reaches up to press both sides of his head as if his brain were trying to escape—and in one momentary, teary blink, the guy vanishes.

“Oh, what the fuck,” Tim moans.

That… that was…

“A hell of a guy at parties, no doubt,” Tim mutters, and staggers back toward Jon, stumbles, and stops. “The… the grade of the beach is… different? Than it was?”

No, says Hastur quietly, almost gently, which is just a little bit terrifying. This is how it was.

“Ah. Ah-ah. Ha ha! My memory of it’s fucked then,” Tim says so cheerily he feels like he could take off into the clouds like an out-of-control helicopter.

Oh, Tim… it’s all right. I’ve got you. Your equilibrium is slightly off, but you’ll be fine. Take it slowly.

“Thanks, I guess,” Tim mutters, and trips his way back toward Jon.

#

Tadeas Dahl has woken up, sat up, and looks like absolute hell.

The bruises and marks on his exposed skin are rough and scraped, confirming Tim’s thought that he may have had an “accident” on some crates. Dahl’s gaze immediately locked onto him.

They’d made a little fire pit.

Tim remembers he was supposed to bring branches or something. “Oops,” he says, and flops beside them.

“Where’s the tinder?” says Jon.

“In the app store,” says Tim, and proceeds to laugh like a loon.

“Wh… what?” says Jon, staring.

“It is the result of his encounter,” Dahl ground out like the seaworthiest seaman who ever sailed the seas. “Give him time. He will recover.” His focus stayed on the fire pit, however, which he considered grimly. Moving stiffly, he shrugs out of his heavy peacoat, tears off one arm, and dropped it in the center. “That’ll light,” he says like grinding rocks.

“Um,” Jon says. “Maybe, but it won’t stay lit.”

“He can keep it lit.” Dahl does not move. Does not look up.

Jon looks at Tim, anyway.

This is news to Tim. “I can?”

“Yes. You need nothing to burn in order to blaze.” Dahl says this staring at where the fire ought to be, seated cross-legged, his face craggy and dirty and grim.

“Huh,” says Tim.

“No,” says Jon, drawing the word out.

Tim is not going to try—he knows better—but Jon is too much fun to tease, and he holds his hand over the spot in question. “So… you’re saying that with a little bit of willpower…”

“Tim, no,” Jon says in the exact tone one might use to chide a cat.

Don’t laugh, don’t laugh, don’t laugh, Tim thinks, and flexes his fingers. “Just a little bit of will…”

“Tim!” Jon says, all stern, and Tim loses it.

“Sorry, sorry!” he says, laughing. “Sorry! I won’t do it, don’t worry. Got no desire to burn us to death on an impossible island in the middle of the ocean, yeah?”

“That’s too bad,” says the weird curly-haired new guy from the woods. (Who had been there? Or just sat down? Or was already there when Tim arrived? Or—)

Jon yips like a trod-upon goose and scrambles backwards, kicking sand, so Tim takes that as a no.

The guy smiles at all of them, appearing perfectly human if weirdly tall, and then winks at Dahl. “Parties are fun!”

Dahl doesn’t answer.

“Are we having a party?” says Tim, leaning away, telling himself not to run because that brings the predators out of the shadows.

And the guy looks right at him, only… not at him, not at all, but the one who hides inside. “That depends on our guest of honor, doesn’t it?”

“Wh… wha… what is… wha…” Jon pants, staring at the guy like he’s never seen a person before.

Who, almost predictably, turns his head around fully like some wig-wearing owl to grin at Jon.

Jon makes a sound. It is not a good sound. It is the sound, perhaps, a bird might make when beginning to drown.

Tim redirects. “Mind explaining that, friend?”

The head swivels back around. “Oh… I’m not your friend. That would require personhood, which I distinctly lack. If you want to call me anything, you may use Michael.”

“May use? Not your name, then? We going with pseudonyms?”

“It is a real name,” says Michael whoever.

“Spiral,” Dahl grinds out, as if the act of speaking is costing him in blood. “Stop fucking talking to it.”

Michael laughs and waggles too-long hands in Dahl’s direction.

“It’s his island,” Jon says, barely audible.

Tim swallows. “What?”

Jon shakes like a wet puppy. “His. It’s all his. Twisted like… like he is. It’s his.”

Michael curls forward, propping his chin on his abruptly normal hands. “His. Ownership is such a silly concept; it requires a degree of identity I can’t ever retain. Let’s call it an interesting location.”

“Should, uh, we go?” says Tim. “Are you telling us to go?”

“You behave as though we didn’t have an appointment already arranged. Are you confused?” Michael’s eyes have gone twisted again, swirling like endless sinkholes. “That would be lovely.”

You, says Hastur suddenly. You have the god-flesh?

“Do I?” says Michael.

“Wait. This is Sannikov Land? Near the Arctic fucking circle?” says Tim.

“It was. Perhaps it is again?” says Michael.

“So I didn’t fucking conjure it by hoping for warmth! Ha!” Tim says, and laughs with relief, running his hand through his hair.

Dahl looks at him. Peers.

“What an interesting thought,” says Michael. “Does what you wish for usually appear? That strikes me as terribly helpful, or possibly terribly inconvenient, depending on whose side of things receives.”

Distortion, Hastur abruptly snarls. I need that flesh.

“Easy, there,” Tim murmurs, because this situation is pretty fucked up.

Where is it? Where?

Michael laughs. Just laughs, and the experience is like being knocked on the head with a hammer. Tim gasps and covers his ears. Jon keels over, eyes rolling back.

Dahl stares at Michael hard, very hard, so very hard, and yet the act of his focus seems to be dimming things, as if he’s summoned a fog from the impossibly cold sea.

Before Tim has a chance to so much as shout, he’s alone.

#

He leaps to his feet. He can see no one; no silhouettes, no shadows. “Jon!” he shouts. His voice goes nowhere, as if swallowed. “Hastur?”

I’m here. Hastur sounds breathless. I’m here. Fuck. It tried to take me.

“To… to what? What tried to what?” says Tim, taking a step back into nothing, away from nothing. He can see nothing, not even his feet, not even his hands if he holds his arms out. “Shit,” he mutters.

It’s all right. I know what happened, and I think… I think we are going to be given a dreadful rescue.

“What?” says Tim. “Jon! Jon!”

Wherever he is, Tim, he can’t hear you. Can’t you feel where we are?

Oh. Oh, Tim can feel it. Distant. Separated. Abandoned. Forever wandering, never seeing a beloved face, never even having a real conversation. Never connecting.

Yes. He knows where they are. “The Lonely is a fucking place.” And he trips over something behind him and goes down hard.

Tim!

“What in hell… oh, gods.” It’s a tombstone. Weather has eased its markings, or maybe they were never there, and it’s only age-pitted evidence that an unknown body lies there.

Abandoned even in death. It is the loneliest fucking thing Tim has ever seen. He’s frozen.

Tim. You’re all right. I’m with you.

He’s not alone. “It tried to take you?”

It did. It couldn’t. Hastur sounds confused over that, torn, as if he’s not sure if it’s good or bad. I don’t know why not. Even if you’d had Jon in your arms, you would have lost him.

Tim can’t stop staring at the anonymous stone. “It’s your spell, and you don’t know how it works?”

Not here. We are not in a place, Tim. We are inside a being, feeding off our fear and agony. I don’t care to give it too long to figure out if it can pry us loose.

“Rescue, you said? And what the fuck was Dahl doing?”

I believe he panicked.

And then from directly behind them comes Michael’s voice: “He did! Ah, well. Not everyone can be… level-headed.” And that laugh bounces out, sharp angles in soft mist, a knife through angel food cake, and Tim spins toward it with his hands in fists as though to knock it out of the air and discovers, instead of Michael, a yellow door.

It’s just sitting there, solid as you please, its frame and knob both black.

Our rescue, says Hastur.

“What,” Tim states, and walks around it. Of course, there’s nothing on the other side.

Dahl summoned his god, but we are in a place of non-existence. The Spiral—with whom our illustrious boss Bouchard has made whatever deal—intends to follow through.

“Or betray us in a spectacular manner,” says Tim.

Maybe. It’s better than this. We need to get out of this.

Tim shivers. “What happens if it pries you free?”

I… don’t know.

“Do you die?”

I don’t know, Tim.

What an absolutely insane day. “You know, six hours ago, we were on a boat and being betrayed by the last guy Bouchard did a deal with.”

To be fair, it’s Jon he betrayed, not us.

But something still nags at Tim. Some instinct, though he isn’t sure what it’s leading him toward. “I don’t think it’s that cut and dried.”

Oh?

He can’t place it. He doesn’t know enough. “I don’t think he assumed it would go according to plan, that’s all.”

All right. I’m not sure what that has to do with this.

“Won’t surprise me if there’s a few more layers of dastardly scheming going on here, is all I’m saying,” Tim says, reaching for the black doorknob. “So if we end up tied to some train tracks or something, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Hastur’s tone goes amused and warm. Given your power and lack of control, Tim, I’d say it would be far more beneficial to warn the train.

Tim scoffs. “Butter me up, why don’t you,” he says, and turns the handle.

Inside is an impossible hall. It’s got ugly yellow carpet with a black runner on top, weirdly smeary patterned wallpaper, and what might be gas lamps. Tim peers through the door. The hall goes left and right, utterly identical. There are no other doors.

“To hell with this day,” Tim mutters, and steps through.

It feels better than the Lonely, but also… bad? It doesn’t seem to be quite level, and Tim finds himself leaning. “Hello?”

Nothing.

He sighs. “Don’t suppose there are any straightforward monsters serving Fear gods?”

Yes. The Desolation tends to choose such followers.

“Oh.” Tim decides cursing a blue streak won’t help this situation. He goes left.

The hall stretches forever; somehow, the lights never seem to touch more than a few meters ahead, and perspective makes it feel like they’re walking into a darkened pinhole.

They’re not, though. Apparently, they’re not going anywhere. Tim keeps walking. “Hey.”

Yes?

“You got, uh. A little pushy about the god-flesh thing.”

Hastur growls. (Tim will never get used to that. It’s just not a sound people do, and he kind of digs it. A lot.) It is mine, by right, and they’re keeping it from me.

“Spiral,” says Tim. “I’m going to guess, all right? That Michael managed to make me doubt my own senses. It’s some sort of… madness fear?”

You were closer with your description. It is the fear of being unable to trust yourself. Your thoughts, opinions, what you perceive; whether, for example, you are eating food, or the flesh of your beloved pet. Truly terrible.

“Sounds like a fear of dementia,” Tim says, frowning.

Is it not a thing to fear?

“Well, it… to fear, yeah, but catastrophizing it might not be the—”

The floor drops away.

There was no warning. He was walking on strange, crunchy carpet, too stiff to be old, too worn to be new, and hating the way it sank under his shoes, when between one step at the next, it was gone.

Tim gasps as he falls, seeing nothing.

Shit!

And Tim does his best to will a landing that doesn’t hurt.

He… might have overdone it.

He hits bottom, and bounces off it like something out of a cartoon. Out of control, he ricochets off what might be a shelf judging by the sound of breaking glass, then wildly rolls (still bouncing) through what he thinks is a table and into a wall.

He’s completely unharmed, but oh hell, did he wreck the room. He blinks, adjusting to the darkness. It’s a room filled with…. things?

Wax figures, but not good ones; weird ones, leering at nothing. Strange books, piled and moldy, pages strewn around. More than one gleaming knife, reflecting light that isn’t there. A creepy pocket watch, dripping blood with every tick and dangling from a chandelier that has eyeballs instead of candles. What looks like a suit made of a person—if a person could simultaneously be a snake, like this being leaped straight out of 1950s sci-fi. A mirror that doesn’t quite follow Tim’s movements, reflection a split-second behind, angles a hair’s breadth off.

He stands. “The hell is this? The junk-shop of the gods?”

Michael’s laugh hurts down here as much as it does up above. “Do you want what you came for, Son of Anger, Child of Wrath?”

“I’m the child of Rob and Samantha Stoker, thank you very much,” Tim says more firmly than he feels, but he is overridden.

YES. And that, Hastur bellowed.

Michael appears (or maybe was already there, and Tim can’t remember). He doesn’t look human now; he’s all drawn out, attenuated, just close enough to expected proportions to make a viewer doubt the limb they just looked at, and his smile hovers in front of his face, detached. “Then payment will come first.” He raises one hand, and between his two-long fingers is some sort of paper.

Tim stares. “A contract?”

Michael laughs (and Tim winces). “No, no, no! This is the payment. Burn it. Burn it all. Burn it so completely it is never seen again, it is forgotten, it is removed from history like sinew torn from flesh, like memory unrecorded, like family secrets and truths learned while drunk. Burn it until it is gone.”

Tim shivers. Shudders. Swallows around his suddenly dry tongue. He wants to burn it so badly. “This, uh. This is what Elias promised you, eh?”

“Elias.” Michael’s smile is real this time, and Tim isn’t sure how he knows that, but it is a terrible thing. “Yes. Elias promised. And then you will have your prize.”

“What we came for,” says Tim. “Exactly what we think it is, not some trick.”

“‘We?’” says Michael. “Certainly.”

Hastur, Tim thinks. Please tell me you’re not pulling some scheme here.

No. We are one in this.

They’d better be. “What is it I’ll be burning?” says Tim.

“A record,” says Michael, still holding it out.

Tim takes it. It’s a birth certificate for someone named Gerard LaVey Keay, born 1981. “Okay,” he says. “And who’s this unlucky fellow?”

“Oh,” said Michael. “What is a ‘who,’ anyway?”

“Riiiiight,” says Tim. “What’s it going to do to him? In plain English, if you can?”

“Well, he’s already dead,” says Michael, and laughs like broken glass.

Tim grunts. “The fuck are we burning it for, then?”

And the smile melts. The Michael melts. The human guise vanishes, disappears completely, leaving a creature of long, staticy shadow and knife-sharp limbs. “Freedom,” whispers whatever Michael truly is.

Tim. I need this.

“Some rando could be harmed in the making of this one, Hastur.”

I. Need. This. And you promised you would help me. That eagerness is there again, that almost violent push he’d shown on the beach.

Tim stares at the birth certificate. “Already dead.”

“Oh, yes,” says unsmiling Michael, at whom Tim cannot look for more than a moment.

“Not free, though. Trapped?”

“In a book. Undignified and painful,” says Michael.

Oh. Oh, shit.

Tim. Please.

How incredibly poetic. Tim sighs. “Guess the old conscience can take one more for the team." And he wills the certificate to burn.

Just this. But so thoroughly that no copies of it remain, so thoroughly that its existence melts from the minds of those who have seen it, so thoroughly that he feels a dozen little spark-points lighting and extinguishing themselves even in computer systems throughout the U.K.

And he wills it not to spread with all his might, though too much of him wants it to consume.

Not today, Satan, he thinks at himself, at the Desolation, at the anger that simmers in him like a tar-trap in his soul. Not today.

The paper in his hand is ash. There aren’t even fragments for some aspiring forensics examiner to examine under a microscope. He rubs his hand on his trousers.

“Yesssss,” hisses Michael, and disappears, staticy limbs briefly crackling, and Tim’s hair goes on end as he is zapped.

“Ow!”

Oh, Tim… breathes Hastur.

In Michael’s place is a weird glass tube, standing on its end. It’s long, just wide enough that Tim might struggle to hold it with both hands, sealed at either end with a black metal cap, and containing a surging, steaming, bubbling mass of almost-liquid flesh.

“Oh, gross!” Tim says.

Oh, Tim, Hastur breathes again. It’s beautiful.

A weird creak startles them. Tim eyes the walls. “They’re… closer than they were.”

Shit. Pick it up. We need to get out of here.

Tim does, needing two hands after all, and it is cold, and the whole thing jerks in his grip as if trying to get loose, and—“Uh. How?” No door. No stairs. No exits. Even the hole in the ceiling is gone.

Another creak. The walls are definitely closer, shelves trembling, items rocking back and forth.

Tim!

Tim spins. He could portal, But could he portal to Jon?  What if he ends up in the ocean again? Or the desert? Or on the moon?

Another creak. More items rocking together, their quiet, fading sounds a warning.

And the glass tube he’s holding is not behaving well. Whatever is in there surges, bubbling, growing very cold. Tim hisses an inhale, putting it quickly down.

No!

“I can’t hold the damn thing!”

Another creak. Tim looks up. He saw nothing move, but suddenly, there is almost no room left. The table is nearly on top of him. The shelves are so close he could reach them all by stretching out his arms. Above, a single merry-go-round music box overbalances and falls, smashing to the floor in pieces.

Open the glass!

Portal. He has to portal. He can’t leave Jon up there alone and has to get it right. “Just a second!"

Just break the damn thing!

Fuck it, what do they have to lose? Tim kicks it over.

It shatters. Gluey flesh slides out, organ-like, as if it’s all made of half-melted kidneys.

Portal to the beach, he thinks, nauseated, trying to imagine a neat and well-behaved space right next to their little fire-pit, not sucking in air or swallowing ocean or doing anything insane like dumping this entire room on Jon’s head. Portal to the beach, he thinks, gathering his will, trying to make it small, trying to make it controlled, trying to ensure this doesn’t go as horribly wrong as it might—

The flesh climbs up his leg.

Tim shouts, leaping backwards, doing a one-footed dance and kicking as hard as he can, but it does not leave. Ice-cold, gripping, it slides up his thigh so fast he can’t even swear before its cold, cold self steals his breath away.

In a blink, it’s slid under his clothes and all the way up and covered his face.

Hastur!

Don’t breath! Hold on! Hold on!

Another creak, which Tim can’t now see, and he’s shoved roughly forward by the spine-bruising shelves, and pressed painfully into the thigh-high table, and he’s trapped, and is about to portal fucking anywhere, except would that bring this cold shit with him, and is that safe, would it stay behind, is it like The Blob, would it eat anyone he introduced it to, is about to damn the world by escaping—

There is a snap in his head. A ripping feeling behind his eye. A terrible, nose-bleeding, sharp-fuck pain somewhere in his brain and down his spinal.

Stroke? he thinks, and then he’s punched.

No, not punched. Something heavy slammed into his stomach, pushing out all his air, and it’s an arm, and the body holding him is large and male and just a little cold, startlingly cold, and he can suddenly breathe, gasping, but there is nothing to see, and they’re tumbling in darkness and whirling upside down and—

With a whoof, he lands flat on his back in the sand, close enough to Jon that Jon shouts, “Fuck!” as Dahl emits a single grunt of surprise.

And there is someone on top of Tim.

Someone he can see with both eyes. Someone who almost looks human, but not quite, not with that bone structure, that perfect night-dark skin, those irises like golden fucking polished rings. Someone grinning, long black hair falling down to frame both their faces.

Someone who is, without a doubt, the fucking hottest being Tim has ever seen in his life. Also, he is naked.

Tim can’t quite catch his breath. Half of that is falling through the void, and half of that is… “Hastur?” he says.

“Yes,” Hastur says, that tremendous voice outside his head, and Tim thinks dazedly that he had been right on his parents’ living room floor all those days ago: that voice feels hella nice vibrating through that chest.

“Uh,” says Jon. “Tim!”

The shock of cold, icy ocean makes Tim jump hard enough that he almost throws Hastur off (almost, but not quite, because that guy is solid). They both scramble to their feet.

Jon screams. Just screams, and points behind them, already up to his ankles in water.

So two things are happening here

So either the tide is really aggressive on Sannikov Land, or the island is fucking sinking. And also, the walking palms are living up to their name.

Absolutely silent and utterly alien, the trees are coming down, not like Ents, bent over and predatory, and Tim can’t help his own little scream as he sees them.

“The boat!” Jon cries.

Tim spins.

The boat is out to sea with Dahl in it, rowing away all by himself.

“Ha,” says Hastur. “I will—”

He never gets the chance.

The absolute outrage that grips Tim’s soul damn near does them all in. Light from him changes the shore, turns the gray sand gold, casts their forms in die-cut shadow. How fucking dare Dahl take the boat and leave them behind? They could portal out. They won’t now. That’s their damn boat. “You fucking thief!” Tim howls, and pulls.

Pulls what? He doesn’t know. But that boat suddenly comes reversing toward them, slamming backwards through the waves, and Dahl casts one wide-eyed startled look at them all before being knocked down into the boat as it rams into the shore stern-first.

“Get in!” Tim snarls.

Jon does at once, looking utterly spooked, like maybe he saw just however Tim did that pulling, judging by how pale he’s gone and the way he’s staring, and that fear feels good, and maybe it’s time to turn around and give those fucking trees a reason to walk themselves back to their spooky forest, and—

Hastur steps between them, filling Tim’s view, and places his hands (now horrifyingly cold, it seems) on Tim’s face. “You succeeded. We have to go. Let the anger fade.”

If he’d poured cold water down Tim’s shirt, it couldn’t have been more effective.

“Tim!” Jon’s calling. “Tim!”

Tim shakes himself. “What…”

Hastur takes his hand (not as cold now—cooler than his own, but not unpleasant) and drags him for the boat.

Tree-limbs, mantis-like, come down where they were, hard enough to leave divots in the sand.

“Oh my gods,” Tim says, finally seeing this clusterfuck for what it is.

Dahl is huddled in the bow, looking terrified.

“Come on!” Jon demands.

Hastur lifts Tim into the boat (holy fuck) and hops lightly after him.

Tim ignores the paddle. “Everybody hang on!” he says, and wills them to move.

The boat takes off as if rocket-powered, flying through the water at enough speed that it rises on either side of the bow like wings.

Hastur smiles. Raises his hand.

The ice floes ahead of them begin knocking aside before collision, wrenched as if by a giant hook to pull them off-stage. Tim has no idea why that was the image that came to mind, but it did, and he starts to laugh.

Behind them, a chorus of groaning wood rises to the sky like the trees are screaming, and they continue to wave, undulating on mantis-legs, until the island fully sinks beneath the waves and is gone.

-----------------

Notes:

So yeah, here's a walking palm.

Socratea exorrhiza, the walking tree in a jungle in Costa Rica. (GaiBru_Photo/Getty Images)

To quote some of the best characters in fiction: NOPE.

Also? Michael's shirt exists. This hideous thing discovered by TheGreatJellyfish on Reddit.

[bougiebutchbitch]

This A-Train focused rewatch is amazing for fic writing purposes but also because I get to relive discovering what an awful cringefail dork he is in real time. Nooooo baby don't make a video game starring yourself about the Middle Passage in the hopes of winning over the Black American demo.... Nooooo don't make your own version of the Kendall Jenner police brutality video for online clout....... Nooooo you're so sexy ahahah

[latexjester]

the tumblrina rite of passage - faking did and aspd to seem “cool” for clout

[jadonsgf]

i feel like every sports fandom needs at least one moment in time when someone pretends to be a wag for clout it’s like a rite of passage

[nitrateglow]

Thoughts on Popi (1969)

Popi is one of the older Alan Arkin films I hadn’t seen yet and it’s probably the weirdest of his early work. It’s a Chaplin style dramedy about Abraham, a Puerto Rican-American widower (Arkin) living in Spanish Harlem who concocts the most batshit insane scheme possible to get a better life for his two young sons, who are routinely tormented by pigeon-decapitating young hoodlums and temptations of a criminal life. He plans on sticking them in a boat off Miami and making it look like they’re Cuban refugees in the hopes that the Coast Guard will pick them up and then turn them over to the authorities to be given a better life with an adopted family, preferably the rich kind looking for humanitarian clout.

This element of the film is satirical, but the satire might be lost without the proper historical context. This Letterboxd review breaks it down better than I could:

It’s a satire of Cold War politics and a stinging rebuke of the United States’ tendency to praise some immigrants seeking a better life for themselves, especially if those immigrants provide good optics for the world press, while forgetting about the rest. It’s also an unusually sophisticated exploration of the tensions that exist within the United States’ Hispanic community, which is most definitely not monolithic. Following passage of the Cuban Adjustment Act of 1966, Cubans were granted unique status under U.S. immigration law: regardless of how they arrived — either “legally” or “illegally” — they were guaranteed a fast-tracked path to citizenship, mainly as a way of sticking it to the Castro regime.

Though having a non-Puerto Rican actor play this part is problematic for modern viewers to say the least, Arkin’s characterization is very interesting in how it sidesteps easy sentimentality. Arkin doesn’t make Abraham the most likable guy-- his plan is genuinely insane and actually more dangerous than he realizes, he refuses to listen to his far more rational girlfriend Lupe (played by a woefully underused Rita Moreno), and he’s pretty slap-happy when disciplining his kids (though this is probably just another reflection of the time, if my father’s stories about my Oma going after him with a rug beater when he was a kid in the late 60s is anything to go by). However, you never doubt he loves his sons and would die for them if need be. He has some genuinely touching moments because of this.

The movie around this satire and this performance isn’t entirely satisfying though. The first half is very padded out with lackluster slapstick that could have been comfortably pruned out. Arthur Hiller’s direction does well in emphasizing urban squalor and giving some scenes immediate, documentary verisimilitude, but I can’t say the tonal variety of the piece is handled in the best way. Most of the comedy didn’t land for me at all. I did like the bittersweet, borderline unresolved ending though-- it reminded me of contemporary works like The Graduate or I Love You, Alice B. Toklas which also conclude in unexpected ways, not allowing the audience an easy happily ever after.

[papirouge]

I had bad experiences with some of those trad wife accounts on IG in the past as well, mostly how many of them downplay rape and consider a rapist to be a baby’s father when I had to correct them and call those men a criminal that should be locked up for the rest of their life for harming women. I’d get called a liberal a lot (lol) with that stance (I don’t know why they’re so willing to protect rapists) despite also wanting to fight for babies unborn and born and stronger criminal prosecution for rapists, but there was this weird underlying theme of submissiveness and how women needed men (even the violent and dangerous ones) with them that made every interaction feel like a fetish. Or that maybe their boyfriend or husband (with a rape fetish?) was actually running those accounts

With that other anon that felt defeated, I’d say to pick and choose your battles. I learned that mostly for online. It’s getting harder to ignore how many false Christians there are polluting the church with their degeneracy and violence. But their apathy and clout chasing on social media will produce no good fruits. We see that already with how many false Christians are rejecting Christs teachings for being too soft now. They want to create a new false idol out of their insecurities but out of the likeness of Christ yet, their idol will be vicious and cruel towards everyone that isn’t them.

You will know your people by their works. There are true considerate pro life Christians who will never forget Palestine and are trying to do something to help those there 💕🇵🇸 god sees our hearts and your intentions

Oh girl, I've been accused of being a leftist, a communist, an islamist, a conservative tradfem pickme, countless times... I'm too left leaning for the average Christian on this hellsite, but I'm not enough progressive to be accepted by actual leftist xD I'm not a political person anyway so I don't care the slightest about whatever people put on.

Yeah that anon felt quite defeated and reading my reply, I felt like I didn't encourage them enough (girl, if you're reading this I'm sorry 🙇🏾‍♀️). But the thing is, since I don't attend church I struggle to realize the extent of feeling letdown by their own local church community, which sucks. I'm a VERY individualistic person and know that we can't save people - only God does. You perfectly said it: we have to pick and chose our battle. Profess truth wherever we are, and let go if it's rejected

I'm a very small blogger and sometimes feel discouraged by people with much bigger communities but using their influence for the worst, bewildering young Christians, etc. But years ago, God clearly told me to "do my part". That's what I do. God keeps talking to me and reassures me He's still there so I know I'm good and He's still backing me up. That's why I'm so serene whenever people attack me for my theological statement. Whenever they do I'm like "when was the last time God spoke to you?" "When was the last time that you asked God to open your eyes and see the truth in who you are, whatever you need to fix in your life, etc.?" bc if you did, God would've shown you I'm right. I know bc God shown me through dreams/visions when some Christians with a public voice were anointed by him

"They create an idol out of their own insecurities"

You are absolutely right anon. That's one of the best indicator of genuine Christians vs opportunists. Opportunists won't be changed by the Word of God, they will twist the Word of God to fit their own bias. I don't know about you, but becoming Christian changed me. It changed some my beliefs to the core. But the opportunists? they will twist the Bible in any way possible to NOT change their ideological stand because they are uncomfortable with the idea of moving thrm5. That's how you have Christians defending murder, racism, stealing (not paying owed taxes), etc. They might read the very specific passage condemning such acts, they will constantly find ways to deny them. Interestingly, they will have no problem acknowledging other passage that confirm their bias, such as those condemning homosexuality or adulterers (very handy to dunk on sex posi women/liberals they obsessively hate)

"you will know your people by their work"

Yes, yes and yes💞 I think it's interesting one of the people (who got mad at my post calling out the hypocrisy of pro lifers sleeping on what's happening on pregnant women & babies in Palestine) told me that prolifers didn't owe me to speak up about what fit my politics, when first of all, caring about the wellbeing of newborn and mothers are the staples of the prolife fight -those are not my "politics"- so it makes sense to paint out the complacency of so called prolifers regarding the struggle of said mothers and newborns in a war ridden area🤔, but also, as a Christian, I believe we do owe something, not to me, but God.

The "Saved through faith alone" slogan unfortunately deluded Christians into thinking their actions, or lack, didn't have consequences. They do. Ananias and Sapphira were Saved - God still killed them for their disobedience. Jesus talked about "fruits" and Paul about different sort of crown we earn in heaven based off our work/how we conduct while on earth.

Resisting AND denouncing evil is part of the basic lines of being Christian. We're lucky the antichrist has yet to come and we can still freely condemn evil as we see it, but it's like it was already too much to ask for some.

God definitely listen to our prayers : a few days ago, there were call to pray for the rain to come so Palestinians can drink, and rain eventually came. God is good 💜✝️

[hesitationss]

For months, [Tate Tenbarge] has been investigating what happened to an everyday woman whose abuse allegations against her ex-husband became the subject of widespread internet scrutiny, disbelief, and mockery. It was like watching Depp v Heard, but about your neighbor.

See, this is the consequences of leaving youtube/twitter/forum MRAs alone for the past 20 years. Then the Depp v Heard trial showing abusers abuse apologists, and those who profiteer off of this fucked up culture war as "bigotry influencers" that on both the public level, they can continue to humiliate and torture their victims.

I also want to call attention to this particular passage, about how public humiliation and public abuse has become a profitable industry which is only intensifying the MRA/fasc eco chamber, as well as perpetuating IRL violence:

Sunderland is one of dozens of similar creators who have turned domestic disputes and abuse allegations into culture war fodder with a particular narrative — that men are some of the most serious victims of societal discrimination. It’s a narrative that has become particularly popular and lucrative online after the celebrity defamation trial between Johnny Depp and Amber Heard. “We’re nobodies,” White said in a phone interview. “This is my real life. This is a normal person’s life that is being treated as a celebrity’s life in the most negative light.” Sunderland’s men’s rights activism is part of a loosely connected network of internet personalities who advance the same agenda: that men are discriminated against in relationships and broader society. Social media platforms have become battlefields for abuse allegations, where men’s rights advocates argue that many of these allegations are false, even though research indicates the rate of false reports is slim and similar to the rates in other crimes, with false reports occurring in 2% to 10% of reported allegations.

How can you defend from entire populations of people who turn your private abuse into their entertainment and agitprop for misogynistic agenda, most of whom are complete strangers? In my own country, someone recently stabbed 3 people, had planned to commit mass violence on the gender studies class because of this type of media (U Waterloo stabbing) and still people don't think the culture war is a legitimate concern, and any 'leftist/educational' cultural producers are insane clout/bag chasers. We are already in fascism in North America.

[madhogthymaster]

The following is a collection of journalistic accounts and anecdotal passages from various sources directly involved with the incident that has now become known as [REDACTED]. Due to the unascertainable nature of the event, these materials cannot be considered entirely attendable.

---

From the blog of [REDACTED]:

XX/XX/XXXX

Save for a few scattered pieces we were able to scrounge up from obscurity, most of the media related to the incident remains invariably lost to this very day. It is this reporter's intent to reconstruct a believable version of the facts based on these means.

-

-

An alleged portrait of the "Beast" recovered from the burnt remains of a bed stool. Artist unknown.

-

From the blog of [REDACTED]:

XX/XX/XXXX

This un-sent post was found in a lost phone discovered nearby Ground Zero. The owner has been missing ever since. The family wishes for anonymity. At the time of writing, the post is considered the most reliable witness for the first incident.

XX/XX/XXXX

A colleague of mine who was investigating a nearby area sent me this photo of some bizarre scribbles they received from an unverified source, whether it bears a connection to [REDACTED] or it's simply a juvenile prank remains to be ascertained. It might be a warning.

XX/XX/XXXX

We recovered what appears to be a half-burnt journal. It was found inside a furnace conveniently located close to the cabin. Most of the manuscript is unsalvageable except for a couple of passages, which were still in a poor state. To put it frankly, the text was intelligible. Pure chicken scratch. Being mostly incinerated didn't help matters. Still, with a bit of effort, we manage to *mostly* translate what was written in it. These are the results of our work.

The symbols at the end were lifted as they were from the original text. Their presence in the journal, as well as that earlier photograph, make for a compelling case that this might not be, in fact, a simple prank. Although, it could still be a very elaborate hoax.

-

-

From the blog of [REDACTED]

XX/XX/XXXX

My colleague is missing. After they failed to answer any of my calls and messages, I went to check on them personally. They were not home. None of their acquaintances knew of their whereabouts. They had no living relatives, either. I am worried. My colleague had a... unique interest in this case. An obsession, one might say. They were hell-bent on finding out the truth about the [REDACTED], the Pillar of Light and the "Beast." They would often tell me how close they were to a major breakthrough. And now, they're gone. Right after receiving that accursed photograph. That cannot be just a coincidence, can it? I fear that whatever befell them might happen to me as well. Still, I refuse to yield in my pursuit of the truth...

I can't stop now. I just can't.

-

-

-

-

From the blog of [REDACTED]:

XX/XX/XXXX

I'm at the end of my rope. The sources I was supposed to interview bailed out on me. The families of the victims that previously agreed to share their stories suddenly refuse to even talk to me! All my leads are slowly beginning to dwindle. Are they on to me?

XX/XX/XXXX

I have received this photo on my phone, just as my colleague had before disappearing.

Now I know without any shadow of a doubt they are after me. I was in too deep. I was aware of the risks but I kept going. This case, it consumed me like it consumed... Yeah...

I kept telling myself that it was all for a good cause, the pursuit of the Truth (as my colleague used to put it) but the only Truth here was my desire for clout and notoriety, regardless of whom was going to get hurt in the process. Part of me wishes I could rewind time back before I met them, before I fell into this hole. But I was ambitious. I was arrogant and foolish. I let their cause become My Cause and it lead to many lapses. Many mistakes were made in the name of the Truth. Alas, what's done is done. We opened Pandora's Box. We involved ourselves with something far more sinister than any of us could have possibly imagined. An unfathomable horror lurks upon the world ready to asphyxiate us in its warm "embrace." I doubt anyone can stop it now. Our investigation only served to accelerate our own demise. It was always going to happen, regardless of the actions we took. I long for the ignorance I had before this whole mess began. Still, I refuse to just give up. Call it hubris, call it animal instincts, but I shan't simply lie down and beg for Salvation from an entity beyond Comprehension. I will run. I will keep running until I can't run anymore. I want to survive. I want to live.

XX/XX/XXXX

This will be my final post for the foreseeable future. If you've read thus far and you don't think I've gone mad, grab your loved ones and leave. "They" are coming for you as well. I just hope I can get away in time.

XX/XX/XXXX

Hello there. I have returned. I know I said I was going to get away, to run from my problems like a coward but that was wrong of me. One should always strive to be brave, to look Fear in the eye and stand their ground! And that's exactly what I did. First off, I owe several people a heartfelt apology. I want to sincerely apologize to the families of the victims for drudging up painful memories, to my coworkers and family for my toxic behaviour, to my colleague for enabling their own unhealthy obsession.

But most of all, I must apologize to the very fine and good people from the Faith of The Lamb for slandering their beliefs in the name of my disdainful pride. Yes, I've met with them and they were so graceful towards me and my predicament. I was such an ignorant fool, consumed by my wayward ways to the point I became blinded to the Truth. And the Truth is, this small community had nothing to do with The Incident! It was nothing but speculation and conjecture brought forth by conspiracy nutcases and grifters to discredit the Good Name of a charitable religious organization, one that deeply values its privacy and refuses to engage openly with toxic Internet discourse! Alas, I too became a cog in the machine. Motivated by fame and greed I hurt so many fine and humble folks and I cannot apologize enough to them. Fortunately, their Leader was kind enough to forgive my awful conduct and welcomed me into Their Flock with open arms! How could I not accept such a generous offer? How could I refuse to join after my eyes were opened to The Truth! The Lamb is our Lord and Saviour, sent into this world to teach us about The One Who Waits and His wonderful plan to save us from the False Gods!

The Lamb welcomes all in Their Herd - the unfortunate, the downtrodden, the wretches and the undesireables – for Their Love is boundless and Their Generosity endless. The Lamb walks amongst us unburdened by human flaws, an Unattainable Inspiration, spreading the Holy Word of The One Who Waits, that which we are sworn to serve for the remainder of our mortal lives... and beyond. As long as we devote our meager existences to The Cause, we may yet find Salvation in the woolly warmth of their sweet embrace. Life can be good. Life will be good.

XX/XX/XXXX

Life is Good.

XX/XX/XXXX

Life is Good.

XX/XX/XXXX

Life is Good. Life is Good.

XX/XX/XXXX

Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good.

XX/XX/XXXX

Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good.

XX/XX/XXXX

Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good.

XX/XX/XXXX

Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is Good. Life is

Life

Is

-

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A/N:

Thanks for reading. I typed this "horror story" on Twitter over the course of four days back in 2022, to celebrate the release of Cult of the Lamb. I figured it was a good idea to transcribe it here, as well. The original framework was meant to be complemented by the Twitter format. As such, it might not be as effective in the form of a Tumblr blog. Nevertheless, I attempted to repurpose it as best as I could given the limitations. I hope you enjoyed it. Happy sinning, everybody.

The original posts: https://twitter.com/AdrianoBordoni1/status/1562269329223471104

My YouTube channel: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCXotPYvDsNYYAiefRjwrGiA

[boltlightning]

10, 27, and 29 for the ao3 wrapped!

10. what work was the quickest to write?

certainly there stands an ancient grove, which i mostly wrote on the train back from seeing hadestown in dc on my dying phone. i made it back home with 1% battery. it was not a good time but i got a fic out of it, so who really won here: planned obsolescence or my internet clout?

27. what do you listen to while writing?

one of my go-tos is this frantic classical music mix, which does have some of my all-time favorites mixed in. definitely keeps me on my toes!

29. favorite line/passage you wrote this year?

most of steadfast & dependable is precious to me, but this passage has a beacon metaphor i'd been dying to use for months. i love this scene in canon and it was nice to revisit it from a different angle:

Elizabeth forces her way through the crowd. There he stands before her, aiming his pistol at Jack Sparrow. Her husband is a shadow of himself, unshaven and wild. His syllables are rounded and sloppy with drink, his coat torn and shambled — but the straight set of his shoulders and undying grudge would give him away if any doubt remained in Elizabeth’s mind. His eyes pierce like a beacon and burn just as bright. Providence had washed James Norrington up at the end of the world and set him right in her path. Elizabeth did not truly believe he was dead then, nor can she believe that he is truly alive now. It is evidently not a life worth living — James is doing his best to end his time on this coil, and challenges a tavern full of enemies to battle with uncharacteristic abandon.  Steadfast, Elizabeth reminds herself sourly, as she joins the fray to keep him alive. God damned dependable.

ao3 wrapped asks! ✨