#the shadow comparison might not be like a deeply accurate comparison but that’s what he embodies to me

[kideternity]

Beelzemon is like my shadow the hedgehog. You know?

[ammapreker]

cloud, twenty five (26 may 1962), gemini ☀ pisces ☾ sagittarius ↑, ravenclaw alumnus (hogwarts class of ‘80), incarcerated following being found guilty of being a death eater and other crimes (‘84 - ??), formerly worked in the department of magical artefacts

bartemius crouch jr. —

vibes, consummate liar; byronic hero; the chessmaster; Light Yagami (Death Note); master actor; Victor Vale (Vicious); lonely rich kid; neat freak; man of wealth and taste; subtle machinations churning in the backdrop; ain’t too proud to beg; the perfectionist; “Wanna make a monster? Take the parts of yourself that make you uncomfortable — your weaknesses, bad thoughts, vanities, and hungers — and pretend they’re across the room. It’s too ugly to be human. It’s too ugly to be you” (Richard Siken).  

characteristics, • house though certainly not a hatstall given his intellectual curiosity and creativity, his cunning and resourcefulness would have been a proper fit for Slytherin, had he maintained any reluctance about the first choice. • wand 11″, red oak, dragon heartstring • boggart important persons in his life looking past him, as if he’d become invisible to their sight (in the same vein that he felt happened with his father) or so insignificant that he didn’t merit their attention • patronus likely non-corporeal at present, but formerly a raven for those huginn and muninn vibes • amortentia musty books, rosewater, chai, aged wood • skillset highly adept with ancient artifacts, curses; strong occlumens; impressive actor ?? Hogwarts theatre program anyone ??? because the way this man was able to act as Moody without attracting any suspicion until the very end says to me that he should’ve had some kind of experience on the stage; he’s just too good.

basics, “decent people are so easy to manipulate” and that’s the vibe. Poor little rich boy turned tragic villain, all rooted in his endless attempts to gain his father’s approval only to consistently fail. Worked himself to the bone achieving those twelve O.W.L.s and nearly as many N.E.W.T.s, not to mention the extracurriculars that he certainly possessed no time for, and it was all for nothing; the father whose name he (unfortunately) bore paid him no mind. Was it due to his mother’s spoiling, or his own obvious desperation for approval seeping from his pores? Or, perhaps, had his father seen all along what he might become in the shadow of his inattention, and despised him for it? Barty’s spent a lot of time in Azkaban debating which questions, precisely, he’ll demand of his father before he kills him (goals are so important), and those top the list. Keeping to canon, (hopefully, depending on alternative ideas! And obviously he likely wouldn’t have still retained the post) Sr. used his son’s trial, which he’d presided over as the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, to publicly disown him, ignoring Barty’s pleading for mercy. There’s a trick, you see, to lying — to be most effective, all lies must contain within them at least a grain of truth; he’d yearned for his father’s mercy and, having been denied it, he had no father save for the figure he’d devoted himself to, the Lord to whom he’d hoped to be “closer than a son.” Even in Azkaban, though, anxious as he is to see Voldemort freed and return to his side, he clings to the thoughts of two women to ease the stings of the dark: his mother, Melisende, now missing, and his former flame, Livia Greengrass, now tied to another. It’s these ties that seem unseverable, no matter his devotions to Voldemort; it’s this reckless wish to restore them that leaves his loyalty torn. In truth, he wants it all; in truth, he cannot have it. 

headcanons, • the same self-interest and obsessive desire to belong that first led him to the Death Eaters has always existed within him; no matter what most may have whispered about how “a nice young lad from a good family had gone so badly astray,” morality has always been a sliding scale. The capability to make the choices he did always existed within him, had anyone paid enough attention to see beneath the charming, perfectionistic exterior that became twisted with longing. • While his relationship with Livia and his access to her family first introduced him to positive talks of the Death Eaters, his pursuit of the role ultimately came from spite following a tumultuous argument with his father that ended with Barty leaving the family home. Having finally abandoned any hope that his father would acknowledge him and his success, he sought someone who would. • Though he credits his position at the ministry to another attempt to gain his father’s favor, studying magical artefacts and runes had been deeply fulfilling. There lies within him this need to reconcile the different parts of himself as two sides of a coin — one for his father, one for his master — but that’s far too simplistic a view to be accurate. • Did not deny being a Death Eater at his trial despite his plea for mercy, and he found those who had denied the charge to be unworthy in comparison to himself. 

[keelywolfe]

FIC: Biting Off More Than You Can Chew; part 12

Summary: It's the morning after Rus's heat. Time for a little truth or consequence.

Tags: heatfic, dubious consent, NSFW, frenemies to lovers, mates, first time, more if I think of them

PLEASE READ THE TAGS: This is a Heat story, so there are going to be issues of consent. I don’t do partner rape, nope, but hey, I want to be straight with y’all. I like heatfics personally, but I understand how they can be troubling for some people. So there it is.

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6

Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | Chapter 11

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Read Chapter 12 on AO3

or

Read it here!

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Rus was dead. It was the only explanation for how shitty he felt.

Being dead sure as hell sounded better than dealing with all the aches and pains he could feel settling into his bones. Better than dealing with the trickle of memory that was starting to soak into his thoughts, of spending the last night in a heat-induced haze of fucking, and by the shiny damned stars, having sex all night long only sounded good if you were getting paid by the hour. Anyone off the clock needed some damn sleep after a while and that was a fact.

Since dead people didn’t need sleep, though, Rus was gonna have to come to the regrettable conclusion that he was alive, in which case he might actually have to deal with some shit.

In the positive column, his soul felt…okay. Settled. That seemed like a good word for it or maybe deeply satisfied would be better. A miles-deep itch luxuriously scratched with a firm application of dick. A quick trip over into the negatives was he felt like every single one of his bones had a bruise fucked into it somewhere.

Also, he desperately wanted a cigarette and oh, yeah, he was in Edge’s bed and the last time that happened, the waking up didn’t exact rate a 10 on the hospitality scale. He could feel the presence of a body behind him and unless some serious changes in time and space happened while he was out cold, it was a good guess that it was Edge. Yay.

Welp, since he wasn’t dead, there was nothing for it. Cautiously, Rus eased over to take a gander.

Edge was there, all right, sound asleep, rusty-dark circles beneath his sockets. Stood to reason he’d still be zonked; he’d been along for the entire bouncy ride and stuck around for the cleanup. That was something to be grateful for right there. The bond between them felt oddly empty, like it was lying dormant. Rus prodded at it mentally like poking at a sore tooth and there was only the faintest pulse of response, not even enough for Edge to stir.

Yeah, buddy was tired, he deserved a chance to sleep in, right, job well done and all that shit. Hopefully, he wouldn’t be too pissed off if he slept through his shift, but Rus wasn’t sticking around to find out. Time to get out before black comedy took a left turn back to the drama category.

Didn’t exactly start off well; the second Rus tried to climb out of bed, it felt like this morphed from porn to some kind of stealth game. First objective, slithering off the mattress without moving it enough to wake the Edgelord. Next, his clothes were scattered to the four corners of the room, forcing Rus to tiptoe around to gather them up. At least they weren’t hard to find. Aside from his loose wardrobe, the room was neat as a pin.

Rus slipped his clothes back on, grimacing at the lingering dampness on his tank top and at the crotch of his pants. He sure as hell hoped Muffet held on to the sweatshirt he’d left at her bar even if she charged a cleaning fee, it was one of his favorites. Thinking of Muffet made him wince. His reputation was going to take a hell of a beating over last night or at least start up a Scooby Doo style mystery.

He’d deal with that later. Wasn’t much he could do about his clothes now, he wasn’t hanging around to do laundry, and he only needed to wear them long enough for a couple shortcuts.

Done and done, time to hit bricks and if the shortcut down to the machine woke Edge, all he could do was send an annoyed text. Yep, it was time to go, back home where he didn’t have to think about anything he didn’t want to, tuck all this shit about heats and bonds and who-the-fuck-knew else back into the dark, dusty corners of his mind while he focused on naps and smoking. Back to the ol’ basics.

Except, Rus still found himself hesitating, looking back where Edge was sleeping curled up beneath the rumpled blankets.

Rus’s soul gave an uncomfortable throb. Edge looked so damn young when he was asleep. All of the sharp corners and creases that bound him up during the day eased, leaving his skull smoother and the cracks that ran through his socket starker, more poignant. A pretty unwelcome reminder that he was the same age as Blue…and that he’d never had sex before, fucking hell, what a way to lose any vestiges of virginity a guy had, both times in a feverish, heat-induced marathon. Rus wasn’t an expert on the mornings-after, okay, he’d only slept over by accident a few other times. Dropped unconscious was more accurate, he’d been drunk as hell every time. Sneaking out for a hasty walk of shame while his nighttime companion and/or mistake was still out cold was fine on those occasions, but this time? Seemed kinda rude, what with the whole soul bond thing. Maybe really rude.

Besides, could be if Rus stuck around, he’d get breakfast out of the deal again.

That hooked it. He’d stay until Edge got up and see how this played out, and if it started with, any version of, ‘Why are you still here?’, he’d hit bricks. He rubbed his chest right over his soul, mentally ordering it to quit with the whining, he was staying, okay?

For now, he needed a damned cigarette. That itchy craving might be a pale comparison to driving heat crawling through his bones, but it didn’t mean it wasn’t irritating. The crumpled pack in his pants pocket held two mangled butts and his lighter. It’d have to do.

Rus stepped outside the bedroom door and carefully closed it before taking shortcut down to the front porch, already shaking out a cig before he sat down. It was cold outside, the sudden chill refreshing on his bones. The soothing rush of nicotine was all the better coupled with the linger ache in his bones. Nothing like a smoke after getting laid.

Not that ‘getting laid’ really lived up to the experience, now did it. That first time had been something, but his turn in the heat box was…fuck. That shit had been something else, the memory a blurry mess of pleasure and hot aching, his soul uncaring as it slowly collapsed into pain and dragged his dick along for the ride. If that was what it was like with a helper along, Rus didn’t even want to think about what it might be like to endure it alone. Someone needed to ask evolution for a refund, because that didn’t qualify under normal wear and tear.

Then again, if getting knocked up kept a Monster from having to go through that, it was a hell of an incentive.

A shadow fell over him and Rus looked up. And up, and up, at a hulking bear Monster, radiating LV without even a check, their beady, reddened eyes focused laser-sharp on Rus.

Yeah, okay, that was a hell of a wake-up call to remind him he was still in Underfell.

“Hey, there precious,” the Bear said, low and growling. “don’t you smell delicious?”

Welp, that was ominous on about three different levels, four if Rus could use complex mathematics, but this guy looked like 2 + 2 might tax his skill level.

Suddenly, Rus was feeling a lot more self-conscious about his tank top; there was a reason he normally bundled up in a sweatshirt and it wasn’t because he couldn’t take the temps.

Before Rus could decide whether to take his chances telling them to piss off, or shortcut out and ruin one of his last cigarettes, a familiar voice said from behind the Bear, “might wanna take another whiff there, smokey, that one’s taken.”

The Bear did, loudly, nostrils flaring, and Rus would’ve sworn he paled even though his face was covered in fur. He ducked his head and it was more than a little bemusing to see him so subservient to a guy not even half their height, muttering out, “Sorry, Red, I didn’t know.”

“uh huh,” Red hooked a thumb towards town, “you got a free whiff, now fuck off.”

The Bear dropped down to all fours and waddled hastily away. Rus watched him go, their tail waggling like a flag of surrender. Then he looked back at Red.

Red looked like Red, that ever-present smirk of his lingering on his mouth. He tucked his hands into his pockets and rocked on his sneakered heels. “you shouldn’t be outside yet,” Red said, “you still reek and some of the dimmer bulbs won’t check who you belong to, since the boss hasn’t bothered to put a collar on you yet.”

“yet?” Rus took a long drag, snorting out smoke through his nasal cavity. “yeah, i don’t think so. i don’t belong to anyone.”

“don’t take it so hard. he belongs to you, too,” Red sounded resigned. As if had any fucking right to, as if this whole clusterfuck wasn’t his fault, and yeah, it might’ve still gone down this way if Red just told him about this, maybe handed over that fabled heat manual along with the rock and the hard place, but at least Rus would’ve had a choice. At least this would be all his bad decisions, that much he was used to. Not Red using him like a bandage, slapping him over his brother’s wound and expecting him to soak up all the juices.

Only to find out it wasn’t as easy to toss him out afterward and fuck it, Rus was losing the metaphor, but the point stood. Red didn’t have a right to sound like that, fucking prick.

What all this really came down to was that there was a choice to make here, and the bitch of it was, Rus already knew what one he was going to make.

Rus sighed and held out the pack of cigarettes, and after a minute, Red took the last one, tossing the crumpled pack on the ground where Edge was probably gonna find it and bitch about it. Red sat down next to him on the step and took the silently offered lighter, too. They sat there for a while, smoking in the quiet morning and honestly, what a laugh, right? Red and Sans could hold onto a grudge in both their greasy little hands until the Universe went to dust and Rus’s soft little soul folded like a card house after one shouting match.

Seriously, Red really knew how to pick his scapegoats, didn’t he.

“i really hate you, you know,” Rus said conversationally. The artificial light was getting brighter. If he were back home, Rus would already be napping at his sentry station.

Red only chuckled humorlessly, “there’s another thing you and my bro have in common.”

“your brother doesn’t hate you.”

Red shrugged, flicking ash across the snow mounded around their porch. “wouldn’t know. haven’t seen him since his heat.”

“what?” That sure as hell got Rus’s attention. Yeah, Red skipped out on movie night, but Rus hadn’t known it was that bad. “you live here.”

Red’s grin was blade-sharp, his eye lights firmly on his untied shoes. “see that’s the thing about being able to shortcut. you don’t have to see anybody you don’t wanna.”

“true.” But Rus couldn’t help but wonder who didn’t want to see who, ‘cause if Red did all this for his brother, it was pretty damn hard to believe that he’d ditch him over the fallout. “edge is still pretty pissed, huh.”

Not that Rus had a leg to stand on in that fight, not when he was still pissed off himself. Once Edge figured out who sent Rus into the lion’s heat den—an extremely short list of suspects— stood to reason he’d be steamed.

Red said nothing. He flicked his burnt-out butt into the snow and pulled a slim silver case out of his pocket. Weirdly posh for him but when he opened it, there was a neat row of those little cigars that he liked to smoke. He held the case out, offering, and fuck it, Rus took one. Nicotine was nicotine, even if the harsh smoke made him cough. When Red made a move to pat him on the back, Rus leaned away, glaring through his cough.

“don’t,” Rus wheezed out. “don’t touch me.” He took a couple deep, clean breaths, and added, “we aren’t good, i want you to know that. we aren’t friends. you fucked me over good with this shit.”

“yeah. i did.” Red didn’t argue. He smoked his cigar and looked out at the snow drifts around them. At his battered version of Snowdin, his world that was so fucked up that it forced Monsters to go into heat and nearly die themselves to keep the population up.

Rus sighed, absently twirling the cigar between his fingers. “but if you want, i’ll try and help you get back in with your bro.”

That got Red’s attention. He turned to Rus, sockets narrowed suspiciously. “why would you do that?”

“because edge didn’t ask for any of this shit, either,” Rus said, low, “and now he’s stuck with me of all people, isn’t he. he doesn’t deserve to lose his brother, too, especially not in your shitheap of a world.” And it was a shitty, shitty thing Red did, but damned if Rus didn’t get it. What wouldn’t he do for his own bro? Might be better not to put it to the test.

Red said, dubiously, “don’t think that’s how he’d look at it—”

He didn’t get a chance to elaborate. Rus got the faintest impression of someone else’s panic at almost the exact moment the door swung open abruptly behind them and Edge came boiling out, nearly tripped ass over teakettle over them. His wild panic faded when he saw them, the flare of his eye lights dimming to confusion, “Why are you outside?”

Rus shrugged and held up the cigar in answer. “don’t worry, red is a good bodyguard.”

From the corner of his socket, Rus let his eye lights linger on Edge’s bare ribcage, the smooth, broad bones occasionally intersected with the scars of old cracks. The clotted bite mark on his sternum was stark in the artificial daylight and looking at it gave Rus a weird itch, echoed in the healed scar on his collarbone. Interesting to see that Edge hadn’t put on a shirt or even his boots. He was going to go searching in the snow in his bare feet, so panicked he was gonna chase Rus down without shoes.

Guess it was a good thing he decided not to leave. The last thing he needed was Edge showing up half-naked in Underswap Snowdin and tearing apart the town searching for him. That soul bond shit really did a number on a guy’s head, didn’t it, plus maybe some dregs of that heat lingering at the bottom of the mug.

He had the bond pulled in pretty tight right now, anyway. Rus didn’t feel a bit of Edge’s visible discomfort. His ungloved fingers clattered lightly against his skull as he ran a hand over it. “Both of you get inside.”

A direct order that neither Rus nor Red made any move to obey. Rus pinched out his cigar and tucked it into his pocket in case of a later nicotine emergency, then tipped his skull back to look at Edge, all that restless impatience turned upside down.

“you gonna make us some breakfast?” Rus asked lightly.

Edge’s eye lights settled on his and he stared at Rus, unblinking, and fuck only knew what he was seeing. Then they slowly slid to his brother’s back, at Red who was currently staring holes into the ground.

“Yes,” Edge agreed, slowly. “Now come inside.” He didn’t wait to see if they followed, turned on his bare heel and went back in, leaving the door open behind him. Red made a show about getting to his feet, tossing the cigar butt into the snow and giving his ass a lazy scratch. He was shifting impatiently by the time Rus did the same, minus the ass scratch, and shuffled inside.

Edge was waiting by the kitchen door. He said to Rus, “Why don’t you go upstairs and take a nap while I cook? You look like you could use a little more rest.”

“don’t have to tell me twice.” Especially since he suspected Edge wanted to talk with his brother without an audience. Welp, he’d gotten Red through the door, the rest was up to them.

Rus took a shortcut right up into Edge’s mussed bed. The sheets had already given up all the heat they’d collected overnight. Didn’t matter, they were still comfortable and the blankets plentiful. Rus burrowed in, sighing, and closing his sockets, firmly ignoring the spicy, sex-musty stink that was probably baked into the linens even as it made his soul twitch feebly with interest.

Nope, you had your fun, he told it sternly. Time to sit in the back seat until his pelvis felt less like it’d been used as a rocking horse.

Honestly, he didn’t mean to actually fall asleep or at least not as hard as he did, but he must’ve because the next thing Rus knew Edge was there, along with the tantalizing aroma of pancakes and coffee.

The spread was as good as the last time, golden-brown pancakes with a pat of melting butter pooled in the center, mingling with the drizzled honey. Tempting as that was, despite the hungry cry in his soul for sustenance, Rus reached for the coffee first. Only two notches above lukewarm with plenty of milk and sugar, just how he liked it.

Edge set the tray on the bed between them, digging into his plate of pancakes while Rus got close and personal with the coffee. Didn’t take long for him to finish his caffeinated bonding and start in on his own plate, groaning his bliss out around a mouthful of delicious caky sweetness.

“this is so good,” Rus mumbled, then before Edge could grouse about his tables manners in spite of the lack of table, he swallowed and added, “i could get used to being served breakfast in bed after a long night of heat sex.”

Edge’s fork paused almost too briefly to be seen, quickly cutting into his second pancake. “I think something like that could be arranged.”

It was lightly said, but the reminder made Rus grimace anyway. Yeah, if what Edge told him before held true, they were gonna be doing this every few months or so, weren’t they. A shitty situation all the way around, but fuck it, at least there might be future pancakes. He poked at a bite with his fork, the soft innards dissolving into a honey sludge.

As good as the food was, it was weirdly awkward to be sitting here eating pancakes, even more than it’d been the last time. Last time, Rus thought he was about to head home and all this would end up a footnote in his autobiography. Now Rus knew it was gonna end up as a chapter of its own and sitting here trying not to look at the bite mark he’d left on Edge’s sternum on the same bed where only a few hours ago he’d been putting in a good effort to pound Edge through the mattress was a little…yeah, awkward didn’t seem to quite cover it.

Reluctant as he was to think about last night, he did have some clear memories, and hadn’t he just been telling Red that none of this was Edge’s fault? Might be time to put his G where his big mouth was.

“i’m sorry for what i said last night,” Rus said bluntly. “it was shitty of me to blame all this on you.”

Edge didn’t even pause, only swallowed down his current mouthful and said, “I’m hardly going to hold what you say in heat against you. One of the first things in the manual is to not take things a heat-stricken Monster says personally.”

“yeah? that’s probably sound advice.” Rus dragged a bite of pancake through the leftover honey puddled on the plate, sopping it up. “i didn’t know how awful that was for you before. i suspected, you didn’t exactly seem like you were having a good time, but that?” Rus ducked his head, shuddering. “that was something else.”

“Being in heat is awful,” Edge agreed. “however, it shouldn’t be that bad again. Not according to the manual.”

“it’s word is law, huh?”

“After a few centuries of refinement, I’m willing to follow it.”

Rus was running out of pancakes to use as a buffer, time to speed this up. “i feel like an asshole for having to ask and i can guess what you’re say, but…um…are you okay?”

Stupid how that faint smile of Edge’s sent a little pulse through his soul, this bond thing could be really annoying. “I’m fine. And you wouldn’t be an asshole even if I weren’t, it wasn’t your fault.”

“it feels like my fault.” He’d been the one climbing on top, he’d been the one pinning Edge down. Willing or no, it’d still felt like Rus was taking too much, taking, forcing, driven by unrelenting heat and—

“Who are you going to trust, your feeling or me?”

Rus only laughed, a little uncomfortably. He dabbled a finger in the honey dregs, licked it clean. “i’m not usually much of a dick man, anyway. better to receive than give, in my opinion.”

“I don’t think I’m prepared to choose either way.” Edge mused thoughtfully as he set the tray with their empty plates on the floor. “I’d need more data.”

Oh. Well, now. That almost sounded like an invitation, now, dinnit?

Maybe if he…gingerly, Rus opened up the mental wall he had up around his soul juuust a little, a wide enough crack to peer out. He could feel Edge doing the same, so fucking weird, allowing the barest tickle of emotion that wasn’t his, but Rus was ready to match that emotion pretty damn quick.

Desire, as thick and sweet as that morning’s honey.

Rus swallowed hard, “uh, do you maybe…?”

“Yes, I want you,” Edge said bluntly. Just tossed it out there like a ball for Rus to fumble, except not really because Rus had a hold on it now, opening up his soul a wee bit more. Okay, so, if he could feel all the concerns and worries that Edge put out, stood to reason he’d feel want, he’d felt it a little last night. Wants and needs and desires and pleasure, and holy hell, this was gonna be interesting, wasn’t it.

“aww, sweet talker,” Rus cooed. He reached out and traced around the bite mark on Edge’s sternum teasingly, skirting dangerously close to the damaged bone. “you up for some experimenting?”

“Are you offering?”

“yeah, i am.” Enough dancing around, Rus was a little too tired yet to try for the tango. And why the fuck not. His cock was out of commission, but his cunt was all right, and as far as he knew, the only sex Edge ever had was his own heat and its aftermath, and then Rus’s. He could stand to be shown a good time. Hell, Edge was a better lay than most anyone else Rus went home with before, plus he came with morning after pancakes. Maybe this bond thing didn’t have to be so bad, especially if Edge was willing to let him show off a trick or two.

Rus leaned in, carefully telegraphing each move, and kissed him. Jaggedly sharp teeth parted, allowing his tongue inside and there was something about navigating around them, the almost-danger of it that pulled a groan out of Rus, fuck, yes, this was gonna be amazing it was—

An unguarded flash of emotion pulsed through Rus’s soul, a spark of unexpected warmth. Rus jerked back instinctively, flinching away from Edge, both hands curling over his chest as he asked shakily, “what the fuck!”

That emotion was stifled immediately, snuffed out and hastily hidden behind that mental brick wall again. “My apologies,” Edge said smoothly. He leaned in, trying to kiss Rus again but it was about ten steps past too late for that.

“no, no, holy shit, what the fuck!” That brief, shining flash, so brief, but Rus knew it for what it was. Too-warm and tender, settled insidiously against his own for only a moment, but he knew.

Love.

Rus scrambled out of the bed, nearly tripping over the tray on the floor, dishes rattling as he backed hastily away, his trembling hands held out as if to keep Edge back.

Edge didn’t try to stop him, he only sat there, looking bleak and…and…no, fuck no…

“no,” Rus choked out, “no, i can’t do that, this bond.” He clutched a fist over his sternum where his soul was aching to manifest “i can’t…please…i can’t deal with it making me feel things that aren’t real, i can’t.”

“It’s not the bond,” Edge whispered, barely audible. He looked way, down at his hands twisting in his lap. “I felt that way before I ever touched you.”

“don’t…” Rus blurted, low and thready. The sourness rising at the back of his throat overwhelming the lingering sweet. “don’t you fucking dare. i don’t believe you.”

“Why do you think my brother chose you?”

“He told me—“

”Oh, I’m sure he had a very good excuse. But heat can be more selective than you’d think.” Edge closed his sockets, exhaling long and slow, “My brother knew exactly how I felt about you and he knew that I never wanted this for you. You deserve a choice, a better choice, any other choice than this.”

“you don’t…you don’t feel that way about me…” Rus said shakily. “you can’t.” More denials trembled on his tongue, but how the fuck was he supposed to deny what he felt with his own soul.

He didn’t even think about shortcutting, only knew he needed to be gone.

The basement was cold, colder even then outside, untouched by the artificial light. Rus fumbled at the machine controls. He had to clear it and reset the coordinates for Underswap twice. Home, he had to get home, that was all, he had to get away from here and…

…and then what?

What was he gonna do? Go hide in Underswap again until heat struck one of them down?

Rus covered his face with trembling hands, inhaled the nauseating mixture the smell of tobacco and sweet honey that clung to his bones. Everything had changed and nothing had changed; the heat was still going to come and there was no place deep enough Rus could bury himself, no Monster he could pull between his legs to ride him to forgetfulness that was gonna stop it.

He didn’t know what to do anymore.

He stood in front of the shimmering blackness of portal, his soul knotted into a screaming tantrum of not fair and when had that ever changed a fucking thing? Terror and anger could fight it out for supremacy in his head, but he had some pretty visceral proof that he couldn’t run away from this one and that was the bitch of it. It was chained directly to his soul and there was no easy escape, not this time.

It was hard to force any kind of clarity into his warbling thoughts, but Rus did the best he could. Deep, calming breaths, his breath clouding in the cold of the basement. He was shivering by the time his panic loosened its hold, bones rattling in the stillness. Okay, obviously, his head and soul were twisted on backwards and upside down over this. What he needed was an outside opinion, someone who didn’t have a horse in this race to give him some damned advice.

Rus went through the portal and closed it behind him before heading upstairs, towards the best opinion he knew. He’d barely opened the door when a shout rang out, making him cringe.

“WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN!”

His brother all but flew off the sofa, furiously. Tears stood out in his sockets, shining against the starry blue of his eye lights. “I have been looking everywhere for you! The Monsters at Muffet’s said you were acting strangely and--” Whatever Blue saw on his face made him pause, his righteous anger fading. When Rus dropped to his knees and opened his arms Blue was there in an instant, holding him close. His small, sturdy body was comfort, it was home, and Rus greedily absorbed the feel of it.

All too soon, Blue pulled away. He didn’t go far, cupping Rus’s face in his gentle, gloved hands. “Papy? What is going on?”

That was his bro, always so kind and trying so hard to understand, to make things better. Blue wanted so terribly much to fix it, whatever it was, things and places and people and Rus.

“sit down, bro,” Rus sighed, nudging him towards the sofa, “and i’ll explain. but it’s a long story.”

“Then start telling it,” Blue settled in on the cushions, folding his hands in his lap expectantly. “and brother? I’m expecting a much longer tale than ‘Fuzzy Bunny’.”

Rus resisted the urge to say anything about it being a tale about getting tail and sat down next to him, sprawling into his brother’s lap. “okay. you remember a few weeks ago when i stayed out all night—"

~~*~~

tbc

[the--sad--hatter]

My Big Fat Fake Wedding (Steve x Reader)

WARNINGS - IMPLIED, REFERENCED SMUT, STALKING. 

PAIRING - STEVE ROGERS X READER

I combined several requests to make this because my brain is sleep deprived and hopped up on energy juice and it seemed like a good idea. 

 8: “Oh no… there’s only one bed… whatever shall we do?” “You do realize we are dating right?” – With Steve

 9: “I know you like to make an entrance but that was ridiculous.” – With Steve, Bucky and Sam

 7: “Are you masturbating in there?” “It’s my electric toothbrush!” – With Bucky and/or Steve

My Big Fat Fake Wedding (1/2)

It all started with a simple, run of the mill mission. A group of bank robbers, clad in ridiculous rubber masks. It was hardly an Avengers level threat until one of the robbers shot green flames from his hands and suddenly the police decided that it was above their payroll and frankly, you didn’t blame them. So a small group of Avengers went in, rescued the hostages and took down the robbers. It went smoothly and was over in seconds.

 But it changed everything.

One lucky paparazzi managed to sneak a picture of Captain America, chastely kissing the lips of the Woman who’d punched the flaming robber in the face. Steve had been proud of you, and a little turned on. He’d slipped up, kissing you in public. Suddenly the word was out and the whole world knew about the First Avenger and his Bad-Guy punching, Avenging lady love.

 That was when the letters started.

  Everyone thinks he’s the Golden Boy, but he’s not good enough for you. Nobody is.

  You’re mine. Not anyone else’s.

  I know you play the hero but I see the darkness in you. It matches the darkness in me.

  Will he ever know you the way I know you?

  Will he accept you the way I do?

  They somehow made it into your fanmail and even Tony and Natasha were drawing a blank when trying to trace the sender. Whoever he was, he wasn’t ready to step out of the shadows, choosing instead to remain unseen but not unheard.

 “I can’t believe I have a stalker!” You said.

 “You’re not really famous until you have a stalker.” Clint agreed.

 “I know! It’s so cool!” You crowed.

 Steve stopped his pacing to shoot you a look of disbelief.

 “I mean creepy. It’s so creepy.” You amended quickly.

 “Please take this seriously. Please.” Steve begged and you made a zipping motion across your lips.

 “Cap relax, she’s not the first Avenger to have a stalker and I doubt she’ll be the last. Even if this weirdo crawls out of his basement to try and get to her, he has to get past all of us and you to do so. Even then, if he pulls all that off, he has to face her.” Natasha pointed out calmly.

 “She’s right, he’s just some creep with a crush. Chances are he’ll never act on this and if he does, he won’t get near her.” Sam agreed.

 “Why am I the only one worried about this?” Steve snapped.

 “You aren’t.” Bucky said, crossing his arms and glaring at you.

 “Down boy.” You said, smirking at the brunette super soldier and while his face remained impassive you saw the amusement in his eyes.

 “How about this. We’ll up security on her for a while, she can wear a tracker, take one of us with her when she leaves and we’ll have all her fanmail sorted through before it gets here.” Tony offered.

 “Do I get a say in this?” You asked, raising your hand.

 “No.” Steve said straight away and when everyone winced and backed away from you he realised his mistake.

 “Uh, I have an urgent… thing. Away from here.” Clint said and bolted, mostly everyone following him until it was only you, Bucky and Steve left.

 “Sorry pal, you’re on your own here.” Bucky said apologetically, slipping out of the room.

 Steve shot him a look of betrayal  before he looked at you warily.

 “So you wanna tag me, keep me under lock and key?” You snarled.

 “That’s not what I meant.” Steve said.

 “Really? Because that’s what it sounded like Captain. You think I’m so helpless and fragile that I’m in terrible danger from a fanboy.”

 “No.”

 “I’ve been looking after myself a long time, I can handle Hydra, Aliens, Inhumans, and Super Soldiers if I need to. I’m not now nor have I ever been helpless and you don’t get to ride in on your white horse and play Prince Charming to my damsel in distress!” You raged.

 “IT’S MY FAULT!” He shouted, breaking through your anger.

 “What?”

 “I kissed you. You were so fierce, so irresistible in that moment and I slipped up, I kissed you. I outed us and now there’s someone sending you these horrible letter because of what I did. I know you can take care of yourself, it’s why I lo… admire you so much but if something did happen, if he so much as left a tiny bruise on you then I would never forgive myself.” Steve said.

 His eyes were bright and shining, pleading with you to understand. He had all but fallen to his knees in desperation for you to hear what he was saying and you did, you heard it. You uncrossed your arms and flung yourself at him, his arms catching you automatically and his head lowering so his lips met yours. You melted into the kiss, into the feel of his warmth.

 As much as the apple pie comparison was a cliché when it came to Steve, it was accurate. He was comforting, familiar and delicious with just a touch of spice and heat. Enclosed in his arms, pressed against his chest and his lips moving in perfect tandem with yours always gave you that deeply content feeling in your soul and lit a fire in your blood.

 “Do whatever you have to do to keep me safe Steve.” You whispered against his lips.

 His fingers threaded through your hair, cradling the back of your head while his other hand pressed into the small of you back and he kissed you again, pouring all the unspoken love between you into it.

 ~~~~~~~~~~

 The letters kept coming. At first they were every couple of weeks, the weekly, then every few days until there was a new letter every day. They always carried the same message, that Steve Rogers was unworthy and you didn’t belong with him. They grew more detailed, more frenzied and dangerous in tone until the day they went too far and it wasn’t Steve that snapped, it was you.

 “I don’t care how difficult he is to find, I want everyone on this. I want this sociopath found.” You demanded, slamming the latest letter down on the table.

 Bucky stood behind you on your right side, like a dark shadow. He was the first person you had gone to when the letter arrived and his anger, while quieter and more sinister than yours, was just as potent.

 Your stalker had crossed a line, and a big one. He was no longer satisfied with just insulting Steve, leaving thinly veiled threats. He had written a manifesto, a detailed plan on the grisly ways he wanted to kill Captain America while you watched, as a punishment for your ‘bad judgment’. It was so sickening, so horrific that while Bucky had been reading it, you had been in the bathroom, throwing up.

 “We’ve tried everything, looed into every avenue and lead. Whoever he is, he’s really good at hiding. There’s nothing we can do to track him down.” Natasha said apologetically.

 “Then lets stop looking for him and bring him to us.” Tony suggested.

 “Yes!” You said snapping your fingers and pointing at Tony.

 “You and Cap have been dating for a while now, don’t you think it’s time you two kids tied the knot?” Tony suggested, smirking at you.

 “No!” You said, your eyes going comically wide.

 “Wait, no. That could work. We plan a public wedding, make a big deal out of it. It might just push this guy over the edge and bring him into the open.” Bucky said from behind you.

 You glanced at Steve who had been uncharacteristically quiet throughout the meeting and was now refusing to meet your eye.

 “Do it.” He decided, standing up.

 “What?” You yelped.

 “You told me to do whatever I had to do, so I’m doing it.” Steve said, still refusing to look at you.

 “Steve…”

 “It’s a fake wedding, we just need to put on a show to lure him out. Stark will take care of it, put on a big affair. He won’t be able to stand by and let it happen and then we’ll have him.” Natasha reasoned with you.

 “You really want to do this?” You asked Steve.

 He clenched his jaw tightly and nodded once.

 “Fine. Fine, I guess we’re getting married.” You snapped, storming out of the room.

 “Wait up.” Bucky called after you when you were halfway down the corridor.

 You looked over your shoulder and saw that he was alone. You scoffed loudly and carried on walking.

 “I know you’re not happy about this but neither is he. Steve doesn’t want a big fake wedding. It’s got to be killing him to do this but he’s doing it anyway, not because he was threatened but because you were.” Bucky snapped and you slowed down and turned back to face him.

 “He hasn’t even told me if he loves me, I don’t know if he does. And now I’ve got to marry him? To trap the physco who is threatening him? I’m allowed to be upset about it Buck and it shouldn’t be you chasing after me, it should be Steve.” You said, leaning against the wall and sighing heavily.

 “Want my advice?”

 “No.”

 “Don’t wait for him to say it. Wait for him to show it because Steve Rogers has always been better with actions than words.” Bucky suggested.

 “I know but…”

 “But?” Bucky asked.

 “He’s Steve. How can I believe he loves me when I’m so clearly not worthy?” You asked honestly.

 “You’re not Thor and he’s not Mjolnir. It’s not a case of being worthy and even if it was, you’re far too good for that punk.” Bucky said, smiling at you.

 “AW Buck, that was clever and sweet. Two characteristics nobody expects from you. You wanna sit down? Need a nap? Your brain must be hurting.” You quipped.

 “See if I’m ever nice to you again, sassy little shit.” He grumbled, stomping away.

 “Hey, old man?” You called after him.

 “What?” He snapped.

 “Wanna give me away?”

 He stopped dead and looked back at you, shocked. There was a flicker of joy in his eyes before he masked it with a scowl.

 “Fine, but I don’t do returns.” He said harshly, thought there was a flicker of a smirk on his face.

 ~~~~~~

 Over the next three weeks, Tony and Pepper went all out and put together the most over the top wedding that had ever been planned. Notices and invitations were sent, announcements were put in the newspaper, Pepper cornered you and dragged you to a dress fitting.

 “It’s a fake wedding!” You insisted.

 “But it has to look real. So you need a dress.” She told you.

 “As long as I can move in it and it has pockets, I’m good.”

 “You want a wedding dress with pockets?” Tony asked in confusion.

 “Yes…”

 “Why?”

 “For knives, chewing gum, my phone.”  You listed.

 “Fair enough.” He said with a shrug.

 Throughout the whole three weeks, Steve used any excuse he could to avoid you. Somehow, you were never in the same room as him alone. He was perfectly polite and caring when he saw you, kissing you on the cheek and smiling at you adoringly. Yet as soon as it was just the two of you, he would suddenly have something urgent to take care of. It was breaking your heart and you were sure he was pulling away.

 If it wasn’t for the flowers, the chocolate’s, the muffin basket and the little texts you would have been convinced you were over.

 Finally it was the night before the big ‘fake’ day. The whole team was whisked away the large estate in The Hamptons where the sting operation was going down.

 And Steve could avoid you anymore.

 “The Master bedroom, for the happy couple!” Tony announced, all but shoving you both through the door and slamming it closed behind you.

 You and Steve looked at each other awkwardly before you broke first and looked away first, checking out the bedroom.

 “Oh no… there’s only one bed… whatever shall we do?” You said dramatically and jumped onto the bed, striking a ridiculous pose.

 “You do realize we are dating right?” Steve asked you, looking befuddled before nervous.

 “Do you not want to share a bed with me? I can sleep on the floor.” He offered quickly, turning red.

 “Are we dating Steve? Because I haven’t seen you in weeks.” You said bitterly, fluffing a pillow up and settling back on it.

 He tentatively came and sat on the edge of the bed next to you, his back to you.

 “When I was young, I believed I would meet a girl and marry her. Then I always got sick and I thought no girl was gonna marry a guy who probably wouldn’t even survive the first year of marriage. When I met Peggy, I thought about it again but then I went into the ice and when I came out the world was different, I was different. So I put those notions behind me again. Then there was you and all those thoughts, they started popping up again and I didn’t know how to deal with them. I’m actually finally getting married, to the girl of my dreams. But it’s a sham.” He said softly.

 “Just because the wedding is fake, it doesn’t mean we are.” You told him, blinking back tears.

 “Is it something you want? I know not everyone does these days.” He asked, his shoulder tensed.

 You sat forwards and leaned on into his arm, pressing your lips to his bicep and lacing your fingers with his.

 “I want you Steve. We’ve barely begun and I don’t know where we’re going yet, but I do want you.” You said.

 He turned his head to look at you.

 “Do you mean that?” he asked.

 “Wholeheartedly.”

 For the first time in weeks he kissed you again and you felt complete. You felt at home. When he undressed you and kissed every part of you, you fell deeper into a state of bliss and when he took you into his arms and made love to you, your soul soared.

 ~~~~~~

 Even fake weddings were stressful and your wedding dress seemed to be glaring angrily at you from where it was hanging on the back of the bathroom door. You dabbed the concealer that you had begged off of Wanda onto the faint lovebites on your throat and sighed, gripping the edge of the sink tightly, trying to calm down. You felt like you were on the verge of a panic attack and all the noise and people had been getting under your skin so you had kicked everyone out, choosing to get ready alone.

 You pinned your hair up in a sort of messy but looks messy on purpose, tousled kind of look. Your make up was done, hickeies were covered, hair was styled… all that was left was the dress. You fidgeted and meandered, checking your reflection in the mirror again, looking for something to fix. You convinced yourself there was a stain on your teeth and pulled your toothbrush and toothpaste out of your toiletries bag. Just as you were starting to wonder if you even had any enamel left on your pearly whites, you heard the bedroom door open and let out a frustrated moan at the thought of interaction.

 “Are you masturbating in there?” Bucky asked bluntly through the door.

 “It’s my electric toothbrush!” You called, switching it off.

 He pushed the door open and glared at your fluffy bathrobe while you glared at his whole person.

 “Shouldn’t you be wearing something a little more bridal and less slumber party?” He asked.

 “Go to many slumber parties do you?” You asked, immediately giggling at the mental image of Bucky having his hair braided and watching Clueless while eating Ben and Jerry’s, face mask on and pink nail polish included.

 He rolled his eyes at you and plucked the dress off of the back of the door, tossing it at you.

 “Get dressed.” He instructed.

 “Make me.” You said childishly.

 He raised an eyebrow at you and took a menacing step towards you.

 “Ok, Ok, I’ll do it!” You yelped.

 “Good girl.” He said, patting you on the head and leaving the bathroom while you scowled after him.

 You pulled your robe off, muttering insults under your breath while you stepped into the dress. You yanked the door open and Bucky immediately snorted.

 “What?” You asked in a panic.

 “Steve’s going to have an asthma attack when he see’s you.” Bucky sniggered.

 “He doesn’t have asthma anymore…”

 “You’re about to bring it back.” Bucky said.

 “You know what, I’m taking that as a compliment.” You decided, turning around and gesturing to the zipper on the back of the dress.

 Bucky got the hint and stepped forwards to zip you up.

 “Really though, how do I look?” You asked seriously.

 He turned you around and put his hands on your shoulders to make sure you were looking at him when he answered.

 “Worthy.”

 ~~~~~~

 “I’m going to kill Stark!” You announced.

 You were waiting outside the hall where the ceremony was about to be held. Steve, your guests, The Avengers, they were all waiting just beyond the doors for the ‘wedding’. It was really happening, and then you had happened to glance up to the ceiling.

 “You might want to save it until you’ve killed Thor.” Bucky warned, watching the side door intently with his head cocked to the side as he listened to something that you couldn’t hear.

 You traced the elaborate set up along the ceiling with your eyes until you found the release mechanism. You glared at one of the staff.

 “You there, stand next to that rope and no matter what, do not, under any circumstances, let anyone pull it!” You ordered.

 You were so stressed and adamant that the poor girl immediately scurried over to it and stood in front of it trembling. At the same moment, Bucky suddenly released your arm and dived to the left.

 That was when all hell broke loose.

 A goat, an actual goat came bounding around the corner, bleating loudly. The girl guarding the rope jumped in fright and suddenly everything happened in slow motion.

 The doors swung open as the first notes of ‘Here Comes The Bride’ Were played by the string quartet Tony had hired, the girl lost her balance and instinctively grabbed the rope to break her fall and yanked it down. One thousand red, white and blue balloons fell down from the ceiling, showering you and floating through the open doors. The terrified goat wriggled out of Bucky’s arms and bounded away, skipping past you and straight down the aisle.

 You stood there, in shock as the whole ceremony stared at you.

 Clint was the first one to laugh, followed by Tony.

 “I know you like to make an entrance but that was ridiculous.” Sam shouted at you, from his spot next to a very awestruck Steve.

A/N This was getting stupidly long so I had to split it into two parts!

[centrally-unplanned]

The Phantom of the Opera Movie: How (not) to Adapt Your Fanfic to Stage & Screen

I recently watched the infamously-maligned trainwreck that is the 2004 Phantom of the Opera film adaptation of the stage musical, which lived up to its reputation! Rehashing the atrocious casting of literally-sang-for-the-first-time-two-weeks-before-filming-Music-of-the-Night Gerard Butler as the Phantom is well-trod territory, but I don't think that is the real crux of the film's failings. Instead, I think it serves as a quintessential example of the failure to transition from stage to screen - and how lucky the stage adaptation was.

For the "PotO" uninitiated, despite the endless shipping the titular Phantom and the female deuteragonist Christine do not have a romantic relationship. Oh the Phantom is trying to get down with that, for sure, but she sees him as either a ghost, an angel, or a terrorist at various points, never a credible love interest. In the original novel this is extremely explicit, and it is actually preserved in the stage adaptation - though as you realize with this film not intentionally.

In a stage musical, audiences don't really "suspend disbelief" the way they do for something like movies. There is one or more human beings, right in front of them, being real people in a wooden box with minimalist decour - the artifice is inescapable. Which is fine, actually! Instead of being immersed in the worldbuilding the audience can appreciate the craft of it all, the acting chops of the leads and the high notes they hit and the cool set designs around them. As such strong plots for musicals aren't really required; details are skipped over in exchange for focusing on other aesthetic elements. More importantly for our purposes, in a musical like Phantom of the Opera the audience isn't set up to expect a tight directorial vision, with instead the characters being the a product of the choices of the actors themselves - people even look out for the different interpretations different leads will bring to the same script. Each performance is itself an adaptation.

This lack of verisimilitude does wonders for the musical version of Phantom of the Opera. Honestly, plot-wise and arc-wise? Phantom of the Opera isn’t that great. Christine, one of the supposed leads, has no motivation for like 90% of run-time, instead being buffeted about by the whims of other, more powerful characters (just like early 20th century France ooooh, eat it Leroux), and Raoul, her earnest, wealthy suitor-cum-fiance, is the dried cement of love interests with no arc to speak of. Lots of plot elements are covered quickly and left vague as to their meaning. But really, who cares? You get to watch a tortured, corrupted genius offer a panoply of shadowed delights to a beautiful ingenue in a rock-opera baritone, and Rage Against The System so hard when spurned they drop a God-damn chandelier on the stage - that’s really all you need!

In the stage musical there is often - lets be honest very often - sexual subtext between the Phantom and Christine. But that is the choice of the actors, it's not in the script, it stays subtext. You are there to watch those actors put their spin on it and take it to the limit - let them have fun with the material! On stage it serves a great metaphorical function; to be tempted by music, by the mystery of darkness, has been metaphorical sex for so long it needs no more explication. 

Now, however, we loop back to the movie adaption, with two key points to establish. First, movies do not work like musicals. There is no live person in front of you, every shot is the product of a dozen takes and as many hours of editing choices, and as a viewer you are dragged along lockstep seeing the results of these choices. All of this is in the service of building a cohesive vision that allows the audience to fully suspend disbelief. The price for this immersion is that now every moment of the film is imbued with intent. Everything has to be there for a reason, the way things in reality are - or more accurately the way we want reality to be. To quote Best Girl Mizusaki:

(Just when you thought I was going to write a media essay without being a huge weeb for once, huh?)

What's true for animation is almost as true for film, all of which means that how characters act is no longer an actor on stage doing their spin but the cohesive narrative of a story.

Second, the movie takes all of that fanshipping sexual subtext and cranks it all the way up the nosebleed seats, while changing none of the relevant plot points. In fact, it adds plot details to strip away the musical’s ambiguity! One of Christine's opening scenes, only briefly touched on in the stage musical, explains cleanly that she considers the Phantom the angel of her dead father come down to protect and guide her. Later in the show, as the Phantom's villainy becomes more apparent, when propositioned by Raoul her only objection is to how the Phantom might hurt her if he found out. Well after all of his temptations, rage, and villainy, near the climax of the film, she still sings in a graveyard about her uncertainty over whether or not he is a literal ghost or spirit of her father. So the plot structure is preserved and explicit - Christine is drawn to him due to his musical talent and offerings of instruction, is unsure if he is even human, but realizes his corporeality, villainy, and fundamental pitiable humanity at the end. Raoul throughout is her explicit, engaged-to-be-married romantic partner.

So then why are her and the Phantom fucking??

Seriously, I cannot undersell how sexual their scenes are.They are all over each other, fingers gliding over skin, and the next scene after this one is her in his bed with sex-hair all over the place! This subtext is continued in every scene they have together, long after he has been revealed as a murderer. At one point he confronts her in public, with her fiance watching, and it's still played like he is the Tuxedo Mask to her Sailor Moon. Even the scene where she takes off his mask is shot like it was foreplay-gone-wrong, and the Phantom just forgets to say his safeword in time (This is why you pre-negotiate about your kinks, all!).

Any movie-goer understands what the intent of scenes like these are, why a director would choose these actions & shots; they want us to know that they are getting busy off camera, even if only by implication. We know they don't actually do that because there is a book to refer back to but damn does this movie want us to forget that...in these scenes. Which is the problem, of course - the rest of the movie operates as normal! In the above scene Christine thinks the Phantom is, again I must emphasize this, the ghost of her father; apparently she is going for the reverse-Oedipus achievement but no one told the rest of the script. Is she lying to Raoul about her love and her reasons? Is she actually tempted? Stop telling me you are unlovable via haunted monologues Gerard Butler, you look like testosterone on a stick and y'all boned literally five minutes ago, I am not buying it!

The subtext and the text are at war with each other - and given that, as we established, the dynamic between the Phantom & Christine is really the only interesting part about this story, strip that down to a muddled mess and you really have nothing left. And in a movie, subtext like this is just another form of text - the director chose these shots, it's intended. Beyond the terrible vocal performances and sometimes baffling shot direction, the movie's biggest failing is this schizophrenic mismatch between the script and the actions on screen which is a problem the stage musical honestly didn't have to worry about. These scenes are not set up like this, and the ability to add subtext by the actors is just fundamentally limited by the medium; it cannot touch the story itself, which isn't even the focus of the audiences. Even if these contradictions did exist more in the stage musical, they wouldn't doom it due to the nature of said medium.

Which is very, very fortunate, because there is one final point to make - Andrew Lloyd Weber, the creator of the stage musical, wholeheartedly approved of this direction for the movie. He produced the film, wrote the screenplay, chose the director, the works - this is his film. And, as is apparently from interviews and a...not fondly remembered stage sequel to the musical that he wrote, he ships the Phantom and Christine hard. Not in the "oh I love their dynamic on screen way", but in the Ao3 sort-by-fetish-tags "they are my Trash'' way. And I would never begrudge a man his ships, but apparently he was not content to keep it away from the canon. He absolutely reads the stage musical this way as well!  It's just one of those interesting ironies of life - one of the most successful adaptations of a book to a stage musical was made by someone who, in my opinion, did not grasp the fundamentals of the story he was adapting. We just didn't notice because the medium didn't care, and also damn can he write a score that slaps.

I would not be the first person to say that this movie for Andrew Lloyd Weber is something of a George Lucas moment for him, a creator completely missing the appeal of his own work; but after seeing it the comparison rang deeply true. The Phantom of the Opera movie is truly the Phantom Menace of musicals.

No, I don't feel bad for that last line, why do you ask?

[canaliculi]

Bloodborne / Night Vale fusion, because reasons.

The radio station was a surprisingly squat building, hunched low to the ground in comparison to the imposing, acerbic, latticework tower that stretched and stretched and stretched darkly into the skies above. Tall enough that its piercing tip was lost in the round, bloated stomachs of storm clouds. The station’s doors were flanked by dangling lanterns which spilled out pale yellow light that, Carlos felt, should have made the entrance warm and inviting. But the light barely seemed able to pierce the thick veil of shadows looming around the station’s entrance. Coupled with the eerily dark windows (in which Carlos kept catching flickers of movement), it made what could nearly be considered a foreboding sight. Add to that the strange speaker who must even now be somewhere within, and Carlos almost felt trepidation as he treaded up the short flight of stairs to the door. A scholar is unflinching; that is the- uh, sixth or seventh thing a scholar is. Still, Carlos couldn’t help but to notice old stains upon the sun-bleached stones, splotches and splatters of a red-brown rush seeped haphazardly into the stairs and liberally across the entranceway. There was a brief moment where he delayed before the door, ringing his hands. He turned back to examine the streets. They were as murky and straight and abandoned as they had been on his way over. The other businesses in this area appeared to have already closed for the evening. Halogen lamps lined the street in decidedly exacting intervals, though they guttered sporadically. Carlos had the urge to knock before he entered, which was dumb. He cleared his throat and straightened his cloak and did not think about it being considered perfect and beautiful. If he swept a hand through his hair first before entering, Carlos felt that such an action could be forgiven. The vague menace of the radio station did not end at its exterior. The foyer of the building was wide and well lit, though none of the shadows flicking upon the walls seemed to quite match up with the figures they were cast from. Also, the vaulted ceilings, engraved with twisting and softly glowing designs and sigils, appeared to arch up higher than the building height should allow. Carlos frowned. He back-stepped across the threshold, trying to compare. He stepped forward again. A throbbing migraine settled like a falling rock into the space directly behind his right eye. “Yes, that is what tends to happen when one observes a spatial anomaly too closely,” a soft voice said. “If you close your eyes very tightly, it should pass. Thinking of an object with well-defined physical limitations helps. You could, for example, think of a book. A thick book, with a density of roughly 75 chapters. A book that is eight inches wide and 13 inches tall. It is cumbersome to hold, and in a stack or a row of its fellows, it sticks out.” Carlos pressed his hand against his eye, teeth grinding against the pain. He wanted to snap at this stranger, beg her to stop talking, or to turn off the lights, or to just rip his eye out already, but his mouth and tongue and gullet refused to help him form the words. And as she spoke, slow and methodical and exhaustive, he found himself imagining the book. “It is definitely a color, perhaps burgundy or deep burgundy, though if you hold it closely to a flame, or take it outdoors during the daytime, it appears to become more red. There are curious, golden designs sunken into the cover. These designs line each side of the front, and wrap around the spine of the book, and continue unbroken onto the back cover. Centered on the front cover is lettering, taken from a Latin alphabet. Each letter is in its majuscule form, but the beginning letter of each word is slightly larger than the ones that follow it. These letters, arranged in this precise configuration, read Hunting for Helen: A Helen Hunt Biography. Of course, this is assuming previous knowledge of-” “I’m all right now, I think,” Carlos interrupted. As the young woman had spoken, the pain had dulled and faded, though it was unclear whether this could be attributed to the time allowed to pass by or the excruciating detail with which she had described the book. Either way, she seemed pleased. “Uh, thank you?” “I am happy I could help,” she said. It sounded like she meant it, deeply. “My name is Dana. I am a citizen of Night Vale, as well as an intern here at the Night Vale Community Radio Station.” “Oh! You work here. Of course, that makes sense.” “Does it?” “Yes. Yes it does.” The conversation thus far was… Carlos didn’t have words for it. “Uh, my name is-” “You’re Carlos the Scholar.” “Yes? Yes. I- were you at the town meeting, then?” “Of course not. Cecil was there.” There was a small, wry smile twisting up her lips, as though she had just said something obvious. “It would be a great waste of sentient resources to have two journalists at the same event. Could you even imagine? Having two accounts of the same event?” “I-” Thankfully, Dana cut him off, because Carlos was not sure what he had been planning on saying. “Say, for example, a great boring sandworm chewed its way up through the floorboards of the primary school house-” “-is that something that could potentially happen-” “-and there amongst wreckage it sat, fat and writhing, its twelve front mouths gnashing, its plump, segmented body undulating and its barbed tail - darker than the rest of its pearlescent pink body by at least three shades – flailing about and smashing into bleachers and exercise equipment and people alike-” “-this isn’t a real creature-” “-and what if there were two reporters at this event? What if one were to say gnashing but the other disagreed and said grinding? What if one were to say writhing, while the other said thrashing? What if one had said plump, segmented body and the other had said voluptuous, loathsome body!” “Plump and voluptuous might be synonymous, but they don’t carry the same connotations,” Carlos felt obligated to state, and was rewarded with Dana perking, a tightening leap of every individual muscle, vindication coursing through her body like an electric current. “That is the exact thing that I mean! Two accounts of the same event, from two different perspectives would only muddy the narrative!” She shook her head, slow as though through molasses, slumped so as to imply an unwavering depression. Carlos cleared his throat. Yet another quiet descended between them. He tried to remember how the conversation had reached this point. “So, uh, in that case, that is to say, if you were not a redundant presence at the town meeting, then-” “How did I know you were you?” “Uh, yeah.” “He has a square jaw, and teeth like a military cemetery,” she said, the statement sounding even more ludicrous in her quiet, dreamy voice. Dana nodded, as though this made perfect sense. “With such an accurate description, anyone would recognize you.” “…Right.” Carlos sighed, tugging his collar minutely out of place and then tugging it straight again. “Although, there is the possibility that you are not who I think you are. There is the possibility that you are not who you think you are. You could, say, be a double of Carlos the Scholar. We had some trouble with that a while back.” “Double trouble,” Carlos repeated in a tone carefully stripped of all emotional context aside from a dryness that rivaled the outside climate. “You know what? I don’t think I want to know.” “That is so prudent of you, Carlos the Scholar.” He cleared his throat again. “Anyway, I- uh, I had some questions.” “Absolutely,” Dana said, nodding again. As if that were an appropriate response. “Yes, well- It’s concerning the harbor and waterfront.” “The Night Vale Harbor and Waterfront Recreation Area?” “Yeah, that. I had-” “You know, the official municipal position is that the Night Vale Harbor and Waterfront Recreation Area does not, and never did, exist.” “Uh, I’m aware.” “Great!” “But it… does exist, right?” “Hmmm, I wonder.” There was a pause, as Carlos tried to decide if Dana was going to expand or if she considered that to be answer enough. Apparently, she was finished. “Okay. Well, there was this news report? It came out a few- a few months ago now, I believe, and I just wanted to ask about uh, about that.” “Asking questions is what Scholars do,” Dana confirmed. “Would you happen to know anything about-” “Oh! No, I wouldn’t know anything about something that happened a few months ago.” She and Carlos paused again. “Well, to be precise, I would know something about what happened months ago, but no more than the general populace at that time. You see, I didn’t begin my internship here until a couple of months ago.” That made some sort of sense, Carlos supposed. He nodded anyway. Dana smiled. It felt like progress. It was, potentially, progress. “Is there anyone here that was around then? Another intern maybe? Or one of your reporters?” Dana had laughed when he said intern, which seemed strange. She had a nice laugh though, light and chiming like dangling charms caught in a summer breeze. The kind of breeze that heralded the coming of a storm. “You want to talk to Cecil,” she stated. It was a statement, firm and immutable, but Carlos wasn’t sure he agreed. He had tried very deliberately to not picture the man behind the radio voice. The voice that Carlos had begun to feel he knew intimately throughout his months of study. And he could feel his palms beginning to sweat at the prospect of coming face to face with a man who had fallen in love with him. Instantly. “He usually knows what is going on around Night Vale. Also, if you heard this news report on the radio, it is likely that Cecil was the one who reported it.” “Uh, yes, it was him,” Carlos said. He felt like the conversation was well out of his control. “But, I’m not sure-” “Great! The show is almost over,” Dana said, abruptly turning. “The recording booth is just this way, Carlos the Scholar; I bet Cecil would love to answer your questions.” “Just Carlos, thanks,” he mumbled. There didn’t seem to be anything to do but follow in the gentle swell of her wake. Their footsteps thudded, gentle and earthen, on the richly lacquered wood panels of the halls. The entranceway had been tiled with some sort of stone, a deep grey-speckled black that was shot through with spidery threads of a bright, pulsating red. The overall impression had been similar to red lightning arcing across a night sky. The feeling of skipping across galaxies. The idea that his footsteps clattered and echoed out into the void, to ring around stars and bounce between planets until the sound of his existence was returned to him once more, rendered strange and unknown by time and vast distances. As they ventured out of the foyer, it was replaced by a burnished, burnt looking wood that glistened as if freshly waxed and polished. Mostly, the walls they passed were bare, though there were a few concentrated areas where signs featuring local venues, artists, and general goings-on were posted. And as the yawning ceilings in the entrance had reached unfeasible heights, so too did the hallways stretch onwards, well beyond the point the building should have ended. They walked past intersection after intersection, taking turns seemingly at random and winding deeper into the building. After about the fourteenth turn, Carlos’ head began to ache again. “Stop doing that,” Dana said mildly. Carlos startled out of his thoughts, the mental map he’d been trying to formulate lost. He couldn’t shake the suspicion that they had been going in circles. “Would you like me to describe another book for you? I was in the library recently, so, I saw a few.” “No no, that’s all right,” Carlos replied a little too quickly. He took care not to ask why she sounded so prideful concerning her knowledge on the appearance of books. “I-I’ll just, uh, stop.” “Let me know if you change your mind. Or, as is more likely, let me know if your thoughts become drawn once more to the intricate mysteries of civic architecture.” “Sure,” Carlos said, mostly for lack of anything better to say. Dana gave a quiet laugh that echoed for too long into the halls around them. His pulse throbbed warningly at his temples. The corridor terminated abruptly at a set of doors. Dana pushed them open, and they swung without sound on well-greased hinges, revealing a wide room. The majority of the room was dominated by a massive paper-strewn table, upon which candles were burning down to their nubs, spilling outwards in dense waxy puddles and dripping down the sides of their ornate blackened candelabrums. Bright burning lamps jutted outwards from the side walls. On the far side, directly across from the entrance, much of the solid mortar architecture was replaced instead with thick glass. The window-wall conglomerate looked in on two separate rooms, split evenly down the middle. One half was filled with a darkness that Carlos unthinkingly labeled as impenetrable. If he watched it for any extended period of time, he could swear to see silhouettes within it. He could swear to see the implication of movement, like the slow-wafting curls of a portentous fog. His own dim reflection in the glass seemed warped, somehow, and he found himself stepping forwards, reaching out with one hand- “This is Cecil,” Dana said. She had grabbed onto his outstretched forearm and pulled him over to the lit side of the window. “You can wave, if you like.” Carlos was still fixated on the darker half of the room, and thus he did as she bade without thought. “Of course, he cannot see us, so it is likely he won’t notice.” His hand slumped down to his side. “One-way glass, is it?” How curious. “Oh, is that what that is?” And how much curiouser. There was a dull pain at the base of his skull that had nothing to do with impossible designs. Dana turned to him and smiled again, her dark cheeks dimpling appealingly. “Cecil should be wrapping up just now.” Shaking his head, as if the physical action could alleviate any of the intense mental and emotional anguish he was laboring beneath, Carlos purposefully thrust his thoughts to the side. With a small huffing breath, sucked in harshly through his nose, he resigned himself to coming back and properly studying this radio station at some unnamed and ill-defined point in the future. He busied himself in the present with studying its host instead – Cecil. No sound could be heard from their vantage point, but as he observed he could see Cecil’s lips moving, expressive and mobile around whatever words he was murmuring. Preparedness being one of the numerous things a scholar is, Carlos had tried to study up on the various instrumentations utilized in the field of radio, though to his despair (and interest) he found that he did not recognize much of the equipment the young (?) man was perched before. Cecil sat on a stool, facing a microphone and a large desk that looked like the guts of some great mechanism had been spilled across it, complete with exposed gear teeth and dangling wires, lights that blinked on and off and on in unreliable patterns, as though they were expressing some coded message. His eyes were downcast, and his posture sloped forwards and downwards, and to Carlos it looked like his entire being was pulled towards the device, as if Cecil were pouring the essence of himself out alongside his words. In the strange, wan lighting of the studio room, the reported looked ghostly muted and washed out, even clothed as he was in vibrantly clashing garb. Carlos found himself invested in the continuous morphing of Cecil’s mouth, the elegant line of his throat and the shadows upon it which shifted and vibrated. The even expanse of his lungs, his breathing measured and weighted, and above all purposeful, broken from the monotonous in-out-in-out rhythm of everyday life and instead cultivated to serve his craft. Something about that struck Carlos – the deliberate distortion of so vital and base a function as breath, the reconfiguration of an autonomous reflex to become instead a conscious instrument, tightly regulated and repurposed to suit Cecil’s needs. It was- It was- Uh, well, Carlos liked it. No, he admired it. No, wait, he appreciated it. There was one final series of motion – lips drawing inward and then spreading again, corners curving sharply upwards in a smile – and then Cecil was motionless. Well, his mouth was, which was definitely not a part of his body Carlos had become inordinately fixated upon. The rest of Cecil was moving in long, clean lines, slender fingers flicking small switches, the knobs of his wrists becoming prominent as he turned various dials. He arched his back even, shoulders rolling as if to relieve stress or strain. The twin points of his shoulder blades pressed obscenely through the thin shift of his shirt before sinking back to smooth flatness. “The broadcast is over,” Dana said, punctuation to a sentence they couldn’t hear and shattering a silence which had subsumed them. Her fingers, cautious and weightless as a butterfly, alighted on his shoulder. Carlos felt his muscles twitch violently regardless of her care. “If you would like to enter the sound booth now – you know, to talk to Cecil - you should use this door.” She motioned to a door directly to their right. “Oh, yes, thank you, Dana.” They shared another pause. “Really, you’ve been a huge help.” “You don’t need to thank me, Carlos! I’m only glad I could be of some assistance to you and your work,” Dana replied. “Cecil seems to think this Scholarly Research of yours is of the utmost import.” Carlos nodded. For any number of reasons (including the fact that he wanted the conversation to end and also that Dana said Scholarly Research as though she had no idea what the two words would be doing in conjunction with one another), this felt like the only appropriate response left to him. He took a brief, stabilizing breath as he reached for the polished brass handle of the door, sneaking another glance at the radio host. It was with only mild shock that Carlos, upon opening said door, found himself staring at the inside of the sound booth, watching Cecil continue to fiddle with whatever he was fiddling with on the mechanisms before him. Self-preservation was quite low on the list of things a Scholar was, so Carlos looked to his left, where he could see Cecil through the glass of the wall, in profile and continuing to fiddle. And then looked before him, where he could also see Cecil, though from behind this time, continuing to fiddle. He blinked. He studied the bump of Cecil’s vertebra prominens, where the wide collar of his shirt dipped down to reveal it. He blinked again. Looked to the left where he could watch the curved bow of Cecil’s body from the side, could see his brow furrowed in concentration. Looked forward. Looked aside. Looked forward. It wasn’t a headache this time, no, it was something thrashing in his skull, frantic behind the wet push of his eyes, strung between his temples like a rope bridge in a violent storm and thrumming to the wild pulse of an uncaring universe. Everything was white noise, the pitched, toneless chittering of cicadas climbing higher and louder, a roaring drone, a deafening rustle of chiton and clattering legs and fluttering, veined wings that resembled stained glass windows when they flashed against the blinding, blanketing burn consuming his mind. A flame that struck itself alive in the folds of his grey matter and from there went screaming down every waxy nerve fiber, skipped to flow like poisoned, brambled water through his veins. His muscles went lax, or they tightened, or they trembled. His limbs became numb and indistinct and fuzzy. Sound and sight kept pitching upwards, becoming a resounding din, a blinding (smiling) light searing him from the tinder of his insides and moving outward from there. His teeth buzzed in his gums. He opened his eyes – or his eyes were already open – and saw nothing. No, saw nothing’s brilliant, devouring opposite. Tears spilled down his cheeks, and where they trailed his skin blistered and fissured and spread. He was lost, utterly, completely. He was senseless. Or senseful? This wasn’t the stripping away of who he was, it was the adding upon. Stimulus after stimulus, pooling inside him, a pressure growing and growing, a dam he hadn’t known existed groaning, creaking in duress and he knew, he knew there was no way to stop it, no coming back from this teetering brink. The fall only jutted upwards, cut into the sky like a radio tower with him suspended on its point and what could he do? What could he do but tip forwards, into the awaiting drag of gravity, cutting a silhouette into the rain-soaked sky- And then, he was thinking of a rock. Just large enough to fit inside his palm. Smooth, worn with age. Timeless. Tousled for untold eons by tumultuous waters. Once part of the earth. Once part of a mountain. Once part of a monolith. Once part of a greater. Victim to the steady erosion of rain upon a grassland. The trickling flow of a stream as it bubbled over its surface. Time first measured in minutes, then hours. Then months. Then epochs. Until it was plucked from its cool resting place. Until it was held up to the light. Why don’t you hold it up now. Oh, but it isn’t a stone after all, is it? It was a gemstone, polished with such care and reverence that it felt flat, and edgeless. But it wasn’t, Carlos could see now. Its surface glittered, a thousand – no, a hundred thousand – no, a thousand thousand level edges cutting its oval shape. Drawing in, reflecting and refracting light that was not hungry and covetous, but simply was. He turned it in his fingers, watching how its angles flashed and shown, a prismatic kaleidoscope interrupted by sparks of pure, unsullied white. A voice. He could hear a voice. “You hold it delicately between your fingertips.” Rich, dark, dripping with intent. Soaked in oil, wrapped in honey, in molasses, in everything that seeped. “Carefully, preciously, as if you could break what time could not.” And close. Quiet and hushed. Murmuring, not whispering – no harsh edges, no hissing consonants. “It shimmers against the pale of your palm, glimmers beyond the stark, dark outline of your thumb.” He could hear a voice. He could feel hands on his shoulders, long fingers crooked around the peaks, thumbs rubbing small circles near his collar – one clockwise and one counterclockwise, both pushing in towards his midline. “The light dances and leaps with each turn, each twist, winking in and out of existence.” Carlos was sitting on something cold, and hard. The ground. His back was against a wall. His limbs were arranged artlessly, limp and drooping, his fingers loosely curled. “You think it might like you. That is, you would think that, if you thought that gemstones could like something.” A pause. “Which, being a Scholar, you probably don’t.” He couldn’t help it. Carlos giggled. Gods above and writhing below, he giggled. Shame nipped like beasts at his heels, but relief was more overwhelming, flooding over him in a vast tide. “Oh?” One syllable, hardly more than a rush of breath, save for the lilting of it upwards at its end. Save for the multitude of meanings it seemed to carry, and Carlos felt unqualified to name what even the least of them might be. “Carlos? Can you hear me?”

[13thfloornz]

J Cole is one of mainstream hip hop’s brightest stars. Drawing comparisons to Kendrick Lamar, he appeals to his audience through his sensitive engagement with American racial issues, economic delivery, catchy hooks and forward-facing consciousness. While Kendrick has better flows and production, J Cole’s greatest strength is his sincerity. Which is exactly what his For Your Eyez Only world tour set up to emphasize. Dressed in an orange prison uniform, surveillance cameras followed him as he was escorted by a guard through the barbed-wire laced prison gates. Under the eyes of the ever-watchful cameras he launched into For Whom The Bell Tolls– a song about his struggle to find hope. It was a moment loaded with ‘gram-worthy theatrical gravitas. However as the night wore on, it became apparent that it signified a subtext of the show- that it was a joyous respite from oppressive systems experienced by people of colour everyday.

So we were saddened to read the ill-informed and sensationalist review posted by Liana Thaggard in the New Zealand Herald this morning. Her opening lines:“Rapper J Cole’s insane prison-themed show seemed  like a great idea at first, but it soon saw the crowd riled up and screaming anti-police chants.”

This was in reference to a performance of Neighbours. The lyrics tell the story of J Cole buying a house in a ‘nice neighbourhood’ “Nice meaning white” he explained. His neighbours eventually called the SWAT team on him, suspicious that he was a drug dealer. They crashed in his door only to find him making new music “doing some of the most positive stuff you could ever do in this home.” We were then shown CCTV footage of the SWAT team breaking into his house, destroying his property, and moving J.Cole’s surveillance cameras to destroy any further evidence.

This was what started the chant of FTP (Fuck the Police). Further on in her review, Thaggard goes on to say “in an effort to calm the crowd, Cole thanked them for their support.” Her review is troubling not just because of its misrepresentation of the evening, but it also exposes shortcomings in New Zealand’s mainstream media about rap, activism and its audience. J Cole, the mixed race America rapper and activist, who was raised in South Carolina and came up in New York, who cut his teeth on Nas and Tupac, was not alarmed at the sight of a chanting, hand waving crowd. He did not feel the need to “calm” anyone. He wanted the reaction he got, and he was right to want the reaction he got. Any panic at the sight of a sea of angry brown and black faces, and any discomfort in that anger being directed at the police as the enforcing arm of a racist justice system- those emotions reside solely in the breast of Liana Thaggard. If you’re reading this Liana, I invite you consider that the only reason to find a group of people expressing anger about oppression is if you are on the side of the oppressors.

Too political? No. Because Thaggard’s review is symptomatic of the problems that crop up too often when mainstream (white) media discusses rap, and people of colour in general. We lift it out of its context, we sanitise or entirely ignore any elements of the art that point to our own complicity, and when we feel challenged we paint black artists and the emotions they engender as dangerous, violent, even animalistic.

So let’s re-contextualise. First, let’s discuss the “insane prison themed” stage show. Very interesting choice of words, Thaggard. For us they conjure images of riots, bared teeth and shankings. Images completely incongruous with the focus of the performance.

One thing the show’s visuals drew much attention to- and which drew no attention at all in Thaggard’s review- was the text on the back of Jo Cole’s prison jumpsuit: “Property of ______.” See, hip hop is often accused by the media of glorifying criminal culture, and on the surface an “insane prison themed show” could be just another example of the edgy, unrepentant thuggery it’s so easy to dismiss rappers for.

Contextually, though, Cole’s theme wasn’t criminality but the systematic imprisonment and commodification of black people. The shadow of slavery hangs over those words on his jumpsuit, and for black Americans, the prison system is the new slavery, with 2.3 million black Americans in jail, 5 times that of the white population. Thinking a little further, Cole is released from the “prison” out onto the stage to perform, the famous and rich black performer, but the jumpsuit stays on and the bars and wire loom over him the whole gig. A visual that ties directly into, say, a successful black artist moving into a white neighbourhood and still being seen as a drug dealer. America and its culture criminalises black people, and that is the “insane” theme of Cole’s stage props.

So much for Cole and America. What of the “riled up” crowd who were “screaming” anti-police slogans? The people Cole apparently felt were so out of hand they needed calming down with some songs about girls? A crowd, though Thaggard tactfully neglects to mention, with large numbers of Maori and Pasifika fans in attendance? Like the bars of J Cole’s stage prison, there were shadows hanging over them as well, shadows invoked by the sight of a SWAT team violating the home of a person of colour. Shadows of the Urerewa “terrorist” raids and Tuhoe grandparents with assault rifles against their heads. Shadows of the Dawn Raids, and New Zealand Police forces bursting into Pasifika homes to evict “overstayers.” (It’s worth noting that the label that birthed our own Deceptikonz, Savage and Mareko was named Dawn Raid- communities remember even if the wider culture prefers to forget.) Shadows of our own racist justice institutions, in which Maori make up over half the prison population. Hell, if they were Tongan they may well have had the events of the past few weeks in mind, when (coincidentally enough) the New Zealand Herald ran headlines painting their proud rugby fans as all but rioting criminals.

Finally, we can re-contextualise even farther back with the origins of “Fuck the Police,” one of the most controversial, maligned and catchiest cries to come from early gangsta rap. Let’s start by contextualising it in the full opening bars: “Fuck the police coming straight from the underground / A young n**** got it bad cause I’m brown / And not the other colour so police think / They have the authority to kill a minority!” Unlike conservative minded New Zealanders often portray it, FTP’s origins aren’t in petty criminal high school drop outs wishing the cops would just let them sling tinnys with impunity. It’s about an American police force who for decades frequently and consistently got away with the murder of young black men. That song is from 1988, and considering it has a long history of censorship and outright bannings, and that the issue it addresses was getting media attention as if it was a new phenomenon in 2016, it’s easy to see why there remains a weight of rage behind it. While it’s especially potent in the American context, if you think our Maori and Pasifika citizens haven’t experienced police profiling or racist scrutiny, you’re deluded.

It’s deeply disingenuous of Thaggard to close her review with “it’s clear to see why Kiwis resonated with every word and lyric the rapper sent across the stadium,” when in the previous breath she painted the angry chants of FTP as some unfortunate and unintentional gaffe Cole had to move past. Without the above contexts, it’s not clear to see at all. While you might not believe it to look at today’s pop landscape, hip hop as a genre was not made for white teenagers to hook up to in clubs. The strength and beauty hip hop has is that it provides an environment for marginalised communities to share in art and performance that speaks to and validates their experience of marginalisation.

We would have loved to have written more about the specific aspects of J Cole’s show that deserved praise. He was high energy, consistent with his flows, humble and appreciative of the fans, and on point with his delivery. But to see the most crucial and meaningful aspects of the show glossed over or misrepresented so badly, we felt demanded a more targeted response. We, like Liana Thaggard, are outsiders to hip hop culture. We do not share those histories of marginalisation that pervade its music and culture. So even more than others it falls to us to report on and discuss it sensitively and accurately.

Kate Powell & Cameron Miller

Click on any image to view a photo gallery by Veronica McLaughlin:

  J Cole – Spark Arena December 1, 2017 J Cole is one of mainstream hip hop's brightest stars. Drawing comparisons to Kendrick Lamar, he appeals to his audience through his sensitive engagement with American racial issues, economic delivery, catchy hooks and forward-facing consciousness.

[wielderofbreidablik]

Kiran

eName: Kiran

Class: Summoner

Gender: Male

Birthday: May 11th

Zodiac: Taurus

Hair Color: Black

Eye Color: Blue

Height: 5'9

Weight: 184 lbs

Handedness: Right

Blood Type: AB

Sexuality: Hetero

Appearance

Kiran is a young man with a slender white complexion that’s largely unblemished. He has short dark feathered hair, royal blue eyes, and an ovular face. Prior to coming to Askr, he had a very average build with little to no muscle definition. However, after joining the Order of Heroes and participating in the dangers of combat, he begins training to increase his strength, speed, and stamina, eventually gaining a more lean and athletic figure over time. His normal attire consists of an open white cloak with gold trim, worn atop a blue shirt, with a leather belt worn on the outside that holds several pouches around the back and Breidablik’s holster. His pants are baggy and white (also with gold trim) that are tucked into brown leather boots. He also wears brown leather gloves, unless he’s working at his table or sleeping.

Profile

Kiran was born and raised in a small rural town called Folkson, where the climate was temperate all throughout the year and the people were as fair as they were firm. His mother, Freya, was one such individual, who conceived her son during a passionate spring she shared with a man from out of town. This man, who would be Kiran's father, disappeared during the season's end - effectively vanishing without a trace and leaving Freya as a single parent. Regardless, she did not begrudge her circumstances and in fact bore her son with grace and pride, eventually nurturing him into the gentle, smart, and diligent young man that spent most of his time working in a little restaurant to help support his mother.

However, with what time he could afford away from his job and his other daily activities, Kiran would enjoy the realms of fantasy and sci-fi found within his books and games. Of particular interest to him was the Fire Emblem series, with its many tales of heroes, kingdoms, and dragons. He'd long since lost count of the number of hours he'd spent investing itself in everything from its lore to the mechanics of its games. As a matter of fact, it was not at all uncommon for him to fall asleep suddenly in the middle of enjoying a new entry and dream deeply of being immersed in its world.

But on one fateful February, those dreams would become something much more, as a voice suddenly called out from across boundaries that were previously unknowable to him. It spoke through feelings and impressions - not words - and carried with them a sense of urgency that soul as kind as his couldn't dismiss. Indeed, before he even understood what was happening, Kiran found himself trying to reach out to the voice in response, and in doing so became consumed by a pillar of blinding light.

Moments later, his eyes open to find that he was no longer in the comfort of his home, or anywhere in Folkson for that matter, though he was accompanied by a figure that seemed familiar. Swept up by confusion Kiran instinctively focused on the person before him, trying to find his bearings through recognition. But the person before him wasn't someone he had met. They shouldn't have even been real. It was Anna, a reoccurring character from Fire Emblem. But that was impossible! Absurd! Yet she starts speaking to him and her voice is familiar too, and he's so shocked by these alien circumstances that all he can do is stare for a time, unable to find his voice.

However, there would be no opportunity for understanding then. All too quickly the two are besieged by enemies and Kiran is forced to take on the relic Breidablik. Through conflict after conflict, Kiran comes to know of his new surroundings: the world of Zenith. He then comes to meet the royal siblings Alfonse and Sharena. According to what he learned from them and Anna, their kingdom - Askr - was at war with the kingdom of Embla, and that each side had the ability to open and close portals respectively and that these portals lead to different worlds. Embla was traveling to these worlds to conquer them and enslave their champions to conquer further worlds and enslave further heroes. All at the behest of Princess Veronica. He also came to learn that Breidablik had the ability to summon forth the Heroes of other worlds to fight at his side, an ability that only he could properly utilize and that this made him instrumental to Askr and its Order of Heroes in their campaign to protect the worlds from Embla and its like.

When he finally came to know all of this and they formally requested his as aide, Kiran understandably hesitated. They were asking him to participate in a war after all. A war between individuals that, until not long ago, he'd been sure to be entirely fictitious - one that, in all likelihood, would not be ending any time soon. It was certainly a lot to be asking someone who seemed so astoundingly average compared to those that surrounded him now.

But still, it was an unrefutable fact that through Breidablik, Kiran had a power that was both formidable and unique. A power that could be used to save people and prevent tragedy. What’s more, his tactical prowess had already proven itself to be just as invaluable as well. So could he really turn a blind eye to all of that just to stay out of harm's way? After all, if he had the power to protect those in need of salvation, didn’t he have a responsibility to take action? As momentous as those questions were, it didn’t take him long to find the answers. Indeed, it might be more accurate to say that he had known them before he had begun to ask himself.

So with somber determination, Kiran adopts the role of both summoner and head tactician for the Order of Heroes, even as the challenges before him began casting a broad shadow upon his future.

Personality

Kiran is best described as a cheerful and optimistic person who's extremely loyal to those he cares about. He's also quick to form attachments and sympathize with those he spends time with, so from the outside looking in Kiran can sometimes seem like a naive person. However, Kiran is also extremely intelligent and quick-witted, so he's not easily taken in by those trying to deceive or take advantage of him unless it's being done by someone he believes is absolutely beyond doubt.

Kiran also has a very strong sense of responsibility and ethics, always being willing to take action on matters that demand it, even if said actions would normally be reprehensible or daunting to him. This makes him an extremely selfless person, so much so that he's often in danger of neglecting his own needs in service of helping others. On more than one occasion, Kiran has overworked himself for the sake of the Order. He's also quite modest, so much so that it can border on insecurity at times, as is evident whenever comparisons are made between him and the members of the Order of Heroes or he begins to reflect on any of his past failures, such as the death of Gunthra.

He isn't very quick to anger, and in fact, is a remarkably gentle person. After fighting Muspel, he becomes apparently more hardened to the point that he becomes capable of summoning individuals such as Grima, Duma, and Garon, though his kind nature remains intact owing to the love and support of his allies. However, if someone he cares about is in sufficient danger or should someone be unjustly harmed, he can become much more aggressive in eliminating the threat.

Kiran can also be surprisingly protective at times. For example, even though Breidablik’s power prevents his units from permanently dying in battle, he still takes steps to prevent situations where they would get hurt, and in fact has put himself in danger to keep them safe on several occasions, even though he’s more at risk than they are owing to his poor fighting skills. Furthermore, his fierce sense of loyalty and compassion can also drive him to extremes in an attempt to see those he cares about safe and happy.

Kiran can easily be described as a romantic individual, capable of finding positive qualities in just about anything. Most especially with the opposite sex and any potential partners of his. This makes him more easily swayed by the words or actions of girls, something that Sharena unknowingly makes use of on a near-daily basis and that Anna does much less innocuously. The reason for this is very largely owing to the amount of female involvement in his life growing up, most particularly from his mother, who was a pure and constant presence for him.

Abilities

In terms of fighting potential, Kiran's abilities are quite low. Unlike the many Heroes he's surrounded by, he hadn't spent even a single day of his life preparing for battle, making his stamina and physique remarkably average. After coming to Zenith of course, he does begin training more formally, though he’s obviously far behind his peers. However, Kiran’s true value lies in his ability to plan and strategize, allowing him to lead the Order of Heroes to numerous victories with few casualties throughout his significant tenure as head tactician. This has also earned him a place on the battlefield in spite of his inability to fully protect himself, though more cunning individuals such as Veronica have been quick to take advantage of this and have isolated and captured him on more than one occasion. 

Kiran's most unique and significant ability is his ability to wield the relic Breidablik, which allows him to summon Heroes should he have enough Orbs. As it stands, Kiran has great difficulty summoning specific individuals, since Breidablik responds more acutely to his feelings rather than his thoughts, though there have been certain occasions when he's done so. Breidablik by default also form contracts with those he summons, so like Veronica he has the ability to subjugate his Heroes, though in practice he rarely ever does so - with exceptions being to those he feels like he needs to reign in. Breidablik also has the ability to prevent those contracted to him from falling in battle, though they can still be incapacitated by other means. This protection does NOT extend to death caused by sickness, hunger, or so on. 

Due to Kiran's hefty experience with the Fire Emblem series in his own world, he also has near-omniscient knowledge about Heroes and the worlds they come from, with Zenith being one of the few exceptions. However, due to the nature of this knowledge and how it might affect others, he largely keeps this all to himself. If he should ever say something that would betray this, he simply remarks that his world has stories about the different worlds they've visited in a similar fashion to Zenith does. This knowledge is also in part of what allows him to be a good tactician since it helps him to possess a greater understanding of his units and the units of certain enemies.