#very tired of christian references

[blood-orange-juice]

*eyeing yet another "Childe is a Christ figure" theory*

The human urge to sacrifice someone to solve their problems.

(I really hope that's what turns out to be the Fontainian 'sin' or maybe the original Enkanomiya sin even.

sacrificing a divine being so that they could keep their petty lives and not solve the problems they were responsible for. pretending that nothing happened

or maybe even that's what was wrong with Teyvat's creation)

[the-n3w3st-g1rl-g1rl]

I'm realizing that the fact that Rudy and Noelle call Kris "Krismas" implies that Christmas is still a thing in Deltarune's universe. Like, it's not called something else or anything. So even though their religion centres on an Angel, I guess Jesus is still part of at least a religion in their world idk I'm tired

[devoutvesta]

A Deep Dive Into Disney’s Most Underperforming Princess

Princess Aurora can’t even be described as controversial. To most, she’s simply boring, too passive, and a continuation of the bland cycle of white princesses who wait around for magic or a prince to save them. Although no one hates her, they find her irritating at the worst, uninteresting at best. In the fifties, they must have thought the same thing. Sleeping Beauty was a commercial failure, and led to company wide annual loss. Sleeping Beauty had followed several other financial flops, such as Bambi and Alice in Wonderland, the latter costing Disney around half a million dollars. Due to her lack of popularity, Aurora may be one of the most neglected Princesses. Many cling to her out of nostalgia, or because she has a nice design, and they find it hard to defend their love for the movie. But the movie’s turbulent history and the amount of detail that went into Aurora herself is what really makes her so incredibly fascinating.

Starting with her design, Disney hired Marc Davis as the supervising animator for Aurora. He also animated Maleficent. The intention was for them to be realistic enough to be placed against the heavily detailed backgrounds of the movie. Davis had embraced this artistic direction, while many of the animators found it, and especially Aurora, laborious and tiring to work on. Both Maleficent and Aurora had to be refined and dynamic. Davis was Disney’s go-to animator for ‘pretty girls’, examples being Tinkerbell and Alice. His knowledge of anatomy and the human body brought both Aurora and Cinderella to life, two of Disney’s most visually iconic characters. Davis had also incorporated Art Nouveau and Art Deco into Aurora’s design, while the tapestry-like art style of the movie was chosen by Eyvind Earle, who was inspired by pre-Renaissance European art. The score and songs were based on Tchaikovsky’s ballet.

Aurora alone required more effort and attention to detail than any princess before her. It took Walt Disney and his team three years to choose a voice actress. They nearly scrapped the project until they discovered Mary Costa, but Disney himself avoided interacting with her in person early on in the project, fearing that she’d influence his vision of the movie.

Aurora was loosely based on her voice actress. Her appearance and her habits (such as gesturing when speaking and singing) were both incorporated into Aurora’s animation. She was also drawn to resemble both her live action model, the same one as Cinderella’s, Helene Stanley, and actress Audrey Hepburn. Davis took inspiration from Audrey Hepburn’s slender physique and elegant demeanour.

In the book Multiculturalism and the Mouse: Race and Sex in Disney Entertainment, author Douglas Brode referred to Aurora as “a model of modern (50’s) female glamour” and compared her to Brigitte Bardot. He also compared her gown to the work of Christian Dior.

As a character, she was described by Nerve as being “the apex of women who made no choices for themselves.” Aurora is a member of the “Golden Era” of Disney heroines, the original Princess trifecta. Her dreams are the same as those before her. But it’s possible that Aurora’s dreams of true love derived from the need for companionship outside of her three fairy godmothers.

On their website, Disney describes her as, “graceful and kind. She knows that a wonderful future awaits, if you just have the courage to dream it. Aurora enjoys using her imagination and sharing stories with her forest friends. She is also loyal in her relationships -- to her animal friends, her fairies, and her kingdom. Aurora believes in a wish and remains hopeful that she will find the adventure she is looking for.”

Walt Disney himself described Aurora as being “a very layered character/different. She’s calm, yet playful. She has a sense of humour, and she has an imagination.” We can not argue that she was considered layered through the lens of the fifties, because many critics disliked all three of the original princesses for their passive personality, or lack thereof. But from the perspective of the team working on the show, they saw much more to her.

This was the film that Walt Disney worked his hardest on, it took ten years to complete. It was also the very last Princess film he was involved in. Her ‘layers’ were very much intentional. Disney tried to do the same thing with Cinderella.

With Cinderella, they attempted to make her less passive than Snow White, and they showed this through her rebelling against her abusive stepfamily. Maurice Rapf said, "My thinking was you can't have somebody who comes in and changes everything for you. It can't be delivered for you on a platter. You've got to earn it. So in my version, the Fairy Godmother said, 'It's okay till midnight but from then on it's up to you.' I made her earn it, and what she had to do to achieve it was to rebel against her stepmother and stepsisters, to stop being a slave in her own home. So I had a scene where they're ordering her around and she throws the stuff back at them. She revolts, so they lock her up in the attic. I don't think anyone took (my idea) very seriously."

The toned down version of Cinderella, although rebellious in her own way, is still toned down. That part of her character was written out. In comparison to what she would have been, she is passive. Aurora and Cinderella are both less passive than their predecessors, but passive nonetheless. All three of them are the staple damsels in distress.

However, Mary Costa described Aurora as “very strong”, citing her urge to defy her guardians as a display of independence and an example of her strength. Aurora was raised by three women, and had never met a man in her life. Costa believed that because of this, she was ‘innately romantic’ as opposed to lonely or depressed with her sheltered life. To quote, “there was a certain part of her that maybe she didn’t realise, that was just so romantic and maybe expecting something that–she didn’t even know what.”

She believed that her being raised by three older women rather than her parents made her “a little bit older, and yet, she…had this young, outreaching spirit.” Author Douglas Brode points out that the fairies’ independent raising of Aurora mirrors “precisely that sort of women’s commune numerous feminists experimented with throughout the seventies.” Aurora living in an isolated, female-only space, with female authority, is reminiscent of the bold and liberating radical feminist movement. In her own way, as a peasant, she was independent. And that independence and autonomy was taken from her upon discovering that she was royalty and betrothed to a prince. She was leaving her home and the presumed man of her dreams behind, and not of her own free will.

Aurora had enjoyed her simple life, it had fulfilled her, even if she desired more. She had dreams of finding romantic love, which she talks about in the movie’s song ‘I Wonder’. Additionally, her close relationship with animals demonstrates her loving and kind personality. She has a whimsical imagination, and it’s scenes like the ones from Disney’s Enchanted Tales series and ‘Once Upon a Dream’, that would support Costa’s claim of her being a romantic. Where she’s changing in and out of pretty gowns with a magical wand, and giggling to herself. Or dancing happily with the forest animals, thinking about her imaginary prince. In ‘Keys to the Kingdom’, she proudly sings about wishing to make decisions with her heart.

Her independence is demonstrated on multiple occasions in Disney’s discontinued Enchanted Tales: Follow Your Dreams. Aurora graciously accepts responsibility of her kingdom while both her and Philip’s parents travel away for a business trip. All on her own, she is determined to get all of her Princess duties finished on time, the hard way. She refuses to take the easy way out, time and time again, even when she doubts herself. She works harder than even her father, who would take the easy way out by signing royal documents without reading them. Even when Meriwether gives her a magic wand to help her out, she reads and fills out every royal form diligently, and helps out all of her subjects. She manages to complete her tasks on time and throw a banquet for her family and Philip by the time they return. The lesson here is to ‘stick to it’ and to ‘persevere’. But her insistence on doing everything on her own is shown once again in A Kingdom of Kindness, where she must plan a surprise party for Philip. The three fairies attempt to help her, but she continues to tell them that she wants to do it on her own. This series was cancelled, and it is difficult to find any clips of it online. But this short-series gives us some insight into Aurora’s character.

She is assumed to be the protagonist by most, but many consider the three fairies to be the protagonists. They help move the story along, they protect Aurora, and they have distinct, in-your-face personalities. Many consider Aurora authentic, or the title character, but whether she is the protagonist or not has never been agreed upon. Her lack of role in the story has been criticized by many. But some take it as an allegory for the lack of control

The most lengthy debate surrounding Aurora has to do with how feminist her character is. She may have been an improvement from the previous princesses, but she is not regarded as a particularly feminist character.

The three original princesses, all being pale-skinned European princesses with a naive and endlessly forgiving (an unrealistic standard), sends a message to their viewers that this is what princesses should look like, how they should behave. All three classic princesses are deeply intertwined with Disney’s long history of racism and bigotry. In an attempt to amend this, Disney has released back to back live action remakes of their movies, all receiving mixed reviews. Maleficent was Sleeping Beauty’s remake, focused on a maternal relationship between Maleficent and Aurora. Many people interpreted the scene where Maleficent’s wings get cut off in her sleep as sexual assault. This inclusion made many survivors of sexual assault feel represented by the character.

From my perspective, the original Sleeping Beauty is technically a movie centred around women. A teenage girl lives with her three surrogate mothers, who end up saving her in the end from the female antagonist. Although Prince Philip’s role in the story is still a large part of what moves the plot along. It is Philip who is captured, as Maleficent knew that he would go looking for her. He courted Aurora, defeated Maleficent with the help of the three fairies, and kissed the princess awake. But he still doesn’t get as large of a role, or nearly as much screen time, as the three fairies.

In short, both the movie and the princess fascinate me. And although there is depth if you squint, a character does not need to be fleshed out to be lovable, or at least endearing. Aurora is my favourite Disney Princess, and I find the history behind her and the film to be more interesting than what meets the eye.

[lunamoonbby]

Cult!141 x Fem!Reader

(The night gown described in the story)

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT MDNI

⚠️Warnings⚠️: Dark Content, Manipulation, allusions to past abuse very brief not in depth, female reader, swearing, pregnancy, birth, poly relationships, smut, Cult AU, the use of lord in terms to worship, Price being referred to as Father

If you or a loved one is experiencing abuse, know that there is help, and please help anyone that you know to help them escape from that abuse.

⭐️Author's Note: The religion that the villagers follow is not defined, but it is NOT associated with Christianity, Judaism, Islam, or any other type of religion there is⭐️

Chapter 3: First Night At The Village

"Oh, I put $100 in the offering bowl." Johnny and Kyle looked at each other, "wow bonnie lass that's a big offering I'm sure the lord will bless you abundantly and will make all your prayers come true, you just have to continue to be a devoted follower." Johnny stated with surprise. John came back with two bags in his hand, "Kyle, I need a room for y/n to stay in until she gets a place of her own and make this room luxurious." Kyle looked at John, "of course I'll give her the best room there is, which is a private room with a private bath with a grand queen size bed." Shocked about hearing this y/n quickly stated, "I can't simply afford that I gave all my money in the offering bowl." "Non sense your stay is on the house for a very devoted follower we have no problem helping you out." Kyle winked. Surprised y/n is very grateful, "Thank you so much for your generosity, I'm feeling quite tired, and I would like to retire for the night."

Price takes y/n and leads her out of the tavern to take her to the inn that she was staying in. "Thank you, boys, for helping her out. I'm sure our Lord would give you many blessings. Good night." Price and y/n were walking in a comfortable silence."Father Price, do I need to go to the church for my nighttime prayers?" Price loving how devoted y/n is, "no, my child, you do not, but since I'm with you, we can do a nighttime prayers together." Y/n looked at Price and smiled, "thank you so much, Father Price, I don't know how I'll ever repay you." Price looked at y/n with a glimmer in his eyes, "you being devoted to our lord is enough for me. Oh, look, we are here. Let me walk you to your room." they check in, and Price walks y/n to her room.

"Here these are for you, its clothes for you to wear at night time and during the day." Price says, handing y/n the two bags. Y/n takes the bags, "Thank you so much, I would also like to take a shower before I make my nighttime prayers." Y/n looked at Father Price. "Of course, that is perfectly fine by me." Price said. They reached the door of her room, and Price opened the door for her. When they enter, y/n is in awe, "it's beautiful." the bed is pushed against the center of the wall and on both sides were two night stands and, a small vanity desk and chair was in the far right corner of the room and right above the desk was a windo with curtains. Y/n placed the bag on the chair and looked at the contents of the bag to find the night gown. The bad she first looked in had a dress that had a satin like feel and knew that it was for nighttime.

"I'm off to take my shower, Father Price, I'll try not to be long." Y/n walks toward her bathroom, "alright, my child, I'll wait for you out here." Price stated while moving over to the vanity to sit down on the chair. Price moved the bag from the chair to the vanity so he could sit and wait for y/n. Meanwhile, in the bathroom, you were taking a nice warm shower. 'I should have asked kyle for another herbal tea before I go to bed tonight.' y/n thought herself. She got out of the shower and dried herself up and changed into her night gown, it was a soft baby blue and the top part was a cream color coverd in lace and there was a matching sleeveless robe to go with it.

Y/n stepped out of the bathroom, "Sorry for the wait, Father Price, I would like to do my nighttime prayers before I fall asleep." Price looked at y/n in awe, "Non sense dont apologize for wanting to be clean when you want to make prayers for our lord. Come my child, let me hold your hands like we did in the church so we can do your nighttime prayers so you can have a restful night." Price holding out his hands to y/n. Y/n gives Father Price her hands, and Price started with the prayers. After the prayers, Father Price bid y/n a good night taking everything there is to not kiss her on the forehead. "Good night, Father Price. Thank you for doing the nighttime prayer with me." Y/n said, getting ready for bed, "You're welcome, my child. Now, may our Lord give you wonderful dreams." Price said, leaving the room. When Price left y/n locked her door, got in her bed and said, "My first night here in this village was not that bad." Y/n said before drifting off to sleep.

Back at the tavern with only Johnny, Kyle, and Price left, they were talking about y/n. "She's a pretty bonnie lass." Johnny said while drying some glass wear. "So innocent and naive, very gullible." Kyle stated while putting away the glass wear. "She is all of those but she will be our wife soon, we have to take it slow dont rush things, we each have to charm her separately, I'll fill Simon in with the details when he comes back from his hunting trip tomorrow morning, knowing y/n, she would want to make morning prayers so I'll go see Simon at his shop after I make morning prayers with her." John states while taking a sip of his burbon.

Taglist is open comment if you would like to be added

@yourloverslost @tabbslouuformer @angelrissa @freefallingup13 @readingcatinacorner @sylvanasthebansheequeen @casualunknownrunaway @thatpersonnamedrook @rip-cod-brainrot @hoodiepandaninja16

I hope you enjoyed it💖

[omegalomania]

ok listen obviously like everyone else i am Fucking Devastated but the fucking sHRIMPLICATIONS here are KILLING me.

the two last "new" songs we got before the hiatus were alpha dog and from now on we are enemies (equally fucked up song btw) and pete namedrops alpha dog as the last song they wrote before the hiatus and it's such a. it's SUCH a fucking. augh.

like it's so painfully and clearly a farewell. the lyrics all telegraph it. your time has passed. never means forever. walk off into the sunset. the discussion of how much effort is required to maintain this life and how they already feel burned out, past their prime when they were all in their mid-twenties and early thirties. and the sheer fucking POETRY of the way it was the last song they recorded - tell rock and roll i'm alone again - until they announced their triumphant return with save rock and roll in 2013. welcome to the new déjà vu.

and oh yeah the last word issued in the song's studio version is the word "abracadabra," which pete cites as the word that christian bales character in the film “the prestige” says he will utter before he disappears from prison. "abracadabra" was a key word in the viral ARG-esque marketing campaign leading up to the release of believers never die...right before fall out boy seemingly vanished off the very face of the earth.

and, OH YEAH, the first shows they played after reuniting involved a multi-song medley spanning all the stages of their career, with one of those songs being the first time they ever played alpha dog, albeit partially.

the notion of the wizard through the curtain speaking to a sense of bitterness (at least if pete's ten year old genius annotation is anything to go by) which is the exact same phrasing to the way joe would later talk about the band's fraught, strained feelings leading up to the hiatus in a podcast with kerrang while promoting his book.

many people have pointed out the parallels between flu game and alpha dog - the way they both discuss the exhaustion of being so visible and constantly putting yourself out there and how taxing that is, especially when you're simultaneously trying to cover up how hard it is. how isolating it is, when the whole world is squinting against the starlight feathering off you. it's worth noting that these parallels are not merely implicit, either. "flu game" is in and of itself an explicit reference to a famous game michael jordan played while sick in which he claimed that he didn't want to give up, no matter how sick and tired he was. and how did pete annotate a specific couplet, ten years ago?

we must make it hard to look so easy doing something so hard

another explicit reference to michael jordan, years and years prior.

and this is the first time they've ever played alpha dog in full. nearly 15 full years after the hiatus started. by now, fall out boy have been together for far longer than they've ever been apart. by now, fall out boy has been in their "posthiatus" era for longer than they have their "prehiatus" one.

i dont really have a conclusion to this. just, i dunno man. something about the repeated lyric "never means forever" on a greatest hits compilation titled "believers never die." something about i'm a star vs. so much for stardust vs. no more stardust. something about motifs that span decades, that span years of hurt and cracked-open wounds that have now been poured over with liquid gold, mending them anew. something about reclaiming old scars and ugly histories and reforging them into something filled with streaming starlight and sun-drenched smiles.

abracadabra.

[eepy-evie]

Twisted Wonderland Senior Headcanons

A/N: i am very tired as i write this, BIBI is saving my life force. I just got screamed at by my mom but the fans (no one) can’t wait 😎. Im sorry Lilia’s is kind of short, im pretty high and have been pushing this off for days.

Contents: Various non romantic headcanons for the seniors in TWST

Trigger warnings (if any): Religion mentions (Trey’s + Leona’s + Vil’s + Rook’s + Idia’s part), eating disorders (Vil’s part), stalking mentions (Rook’s part… no surprise), minor adult themes (idia’s part)

Trey Clover

I might have this feeling only because i also bake but he has beef with multiple people about bread.

Like i mean people spreading misinformation (NO YOU DO NOT NEED TO ADD SUGAR INTO BREAD, IT DOESN’T DO MUCH)

Besides my personal beef with ig bakers…

He doesn’t listen to music, lofi background stuff at best.

He’d listen to anything someone put on with no complaint but he doesn’t feel the need for music for mundane things

With his obsession with brushing teeth i feel like he loves mint

Like i mean spearmint gum constantly, mint chocolate chip ice cream, idk mint leaves in drinks?

Bro can not understand if someone else doesn’t like mint

I believe he is an Atheist living in a Christian household

Its probably brought up rarely but he just doesn’t really believe that saying grace before dinner does anything

I think he’s way too empathetic for his own good, i mean like excusing lots of harmful things due to how someone was raised

(Totally didn’t mean to refer to Riddle but whatevs)

Cater Diamond

Get this man into kpop NOW

I feel he is rivaling Idia with his, honestly abusive, amount of slang

I dont think anyone who isn’t chronically online could stand to hear his thoughts

Or who isn’t insanely mentally unstable

But he pulls shit like “she=onika ate=burgers” every single chance he gets

Which i wont blame him for that, i pull medieval slang every second i can too

He loves brittany broski with his whole heart and soul

Not only is she funny as hell but she can also be very serious in a blink of an eye

On the low he enjoys those insider videos

He likes watching them and pausing them to argue the point to no one

Going back to kpop briefly…

He loves Aespa

Do i know any of the members of Aespa to tell you my assumed bias? No.

Also loves Zerobaseone

Ricky bias

Although i may be biased (oh my a silly pun, you scoundrel)

I do believe that he is a funny person but he is very repressed

I dont mean to make this a whole angst post but he genuinely doesn’t understand how he can express it

He is very sensitive to rejection so i think that leads him to extreme lengths to be liked

And I’m not just talking about how he acts a certain way to please others

I mean a deep rooted guilt for not being what someone wanted

Leona Kingscholar

…all my headcanons for him are purely how I’d personally treat him

Someone get this man a mukbang video and a comfy bed

He barely listens to music but when he does its some rnb stuff

He doesnt care for stuff thats too loud but he does like soft music even if he isnt open about it

I need to make him see nekomimi switch, twitter.gov, and anything else that has catgirls/boys so i can see his reaction

I dont think he holds many physical attributes to lions besides the ears, tail, and teeth but he most definitely holds many reactions and other stuff

Like he is literally sleeping in a garden most the time

He has long(er) nails and hates cutting them

Erm… idk man

I think he had a big Religious breakdown in his childhood

I dont really know what Religion he’d be to start with(due to my lack of knowledge of Religion in Africa) but he’d have the whole moment of betrayal

And then he’s completely Atheist for the rest of his life

Vil Schoenheit

He has a side account where he responds to all his hate comments

For music taste… hear me out…

He likes, on the low, vkei

But no metal like kaneto juusei or gulu gulu I mean malice mizer

He enjoys the instrumental along with the twists they take on classical

Moi meme motie x Vil Schoenheit collab when???

He 100% doesn’t express it though, he tells the public he likes whatever’s popular

I feel like, this may or may not be me projecting, he’s a hellenist

Obviously worshipping Aphrodite and has an altar for her which he never publicly speaks of but is not hiding

heres a bit of TW for eds + that type of stuff

I feel like he has an extremely bad relationship with food

He doesnt see it as something to nourish your body but instead a sort of numbers game

Like with a limit of however much someone says and the whole game is to stay under that number in calories

Besides that i feel he’s very orthorexic to the point he’d refuse to eat something if it looked too “bad” to him

(End of tw)

I know he has a very argued gender identity but i dont think he’s too confused by it

He’s very firm that he is who he is and he never seemed to have much of an inside problem with it

Maybe he got poked fun at a few times but thats all his problems with it

Rook Hunt

Get this man away from me

He is in many fandoms and somehow knows everything going on all the time

Bro personally took down Nayeon’s stalker by himself

But seriously i dont think his intentions are bad, i think he is just trying to be on top of everything in the worst was possible

He doesn’t really think its creepy himself but most the time he is

He is also a Hellenist who worships Aphrodite but also Artemis

He is so very open about his Religion

He makes those hopecore videos on tiktok and has amassed 10k followers but no one knows its him

Yearns to be in the south/midwest for the scenery

Just yearns in general

Bro is single handedly bringing back male yearning and being chalant

Saw bridgerton as a normal tuesday for him

1000 hours on c.ai

I will not, and should not, elaborate.

Is that projecting? Yes. Do i care? No.

He has the longest and some how most effective body/skincare routine ever

I mean like he’d do some shit like “once in a blue moon bath in pure hyaluronic acid for 2.5 hours on the dot”

He loves absolutely everything on everyone and its to a detriment to me personally

Hooked nose? Loved. Chubby? Love. Literally anything unconventional? Consider yourself yearned for.

He listens to anything and everything

Although he cant stand songs about break ups or anything to do with hate

Put this man on “doughnut” by TWICE now.

Idia Shroud

Yes… give me this nerdy man…

He 100% (mostly canon) loves jpop idols

Prolly an akb48 stan

I cant even get started on everything he likes

But i can tell y’all 100% that he is not overly flirty or overly easy to fluster

Istg all i see is either big dom idia or uwu shy boy idia

And both are wrong (in my opinion ig)

He starts arguments about anything and everything in game chats

Because he’s grown up in this big company family he was forced to appear better that how he truly acts so i believe that would also entail with being a die hard hellenist

But without any spotlights he does care, he just likes his games and anime

Speaking of anime…

He loves shoujo, he’s in hiding though

He literally wants to be sawako from “from me to you” but will never say it

Somebody come get this man

If anyone asks he just loves Naruto and One Piece

But we know the truth…

Istg he plays an absurd amount of eroges for the plot

He’s depraved on twitter

Two accounts, one for public image and the other for the unspeakable

Do NOT let him find any dating advice on there cause he will take it and act like a fool

He loves breakcore music and anime intros and thats about it

Besides his jpop idols

I dont think he like kpop, for some reason he just has a grudge against some fans

A little self insert but he 100% has autism (as we all know…) but he also has arfid

For those who dont know… arfid is “avoidant restrictive food intake disorder” which is like you are a very picky eater

He aint struggling with it, he succeeding (LYING)

Malleus Draconia

Get this man a cat or some shit like that

Can someone please make him watch all of aphmau Minecraft diaries and then twilight back to back

This strange individual has that man from the notebook shaking in fear

Bros a hopeful romantic

Randomly says inspiration quotes that you cant find anywhere online

It just came from his heart

He only listens to classical songs he knows how to play

Though i’d doubt if you showed him something he’d dislike it

Bros the yearner

I showed up to the yearning contest and went into anaphylactic shock at the sight of him there

He has honestly researched every single religion for fun

Highlight god damn bible verses for no reason

He needs to make an iceberg of every single religion and why they are good/bad

I just know he has an insane knowledge of lore in any book he’s ever read

Please make him watch smiling friends

You’d have to pause every 5 seconds so he can process it

You could make him do anything tbh, just be like “you should come watch *whatever it is* with me” and bro is outside your door

For shame with the amazing attention towards practically anyone who shows anything besides fear or hatred comes the fact he is unaware of most modern things

He has a tamagotchi and thats it man, get him a 3ds at least

He cant use a phone, cant use a computer, and barely understands the concept of social media

But at least he has the spirit to learn

Lilia Vanrouge

Do i even put him as a senior?

Bro is pushing some mystical number that no one knows

He’s like one of those grandmas that never mention their age and whenever its brought up all they say is “never ask a woman her age”

… perchance a bit controversial but i think he’s bad at cooking on purpose

Ain’t no way someone fucks up cooking THAT bad

I think he really likes horror games

And i dont mean those shitty mascot horrors like poppys playtime

I mean fatal frame, faith, and visage type shit

He listens to breakcore too

I dont make the rules

Hes a gamer grandpa so he either has to have pretty good taste in games/music or the absolute worst

HE’D LOVE GULU GULU AND VKEI

Hes practically already mana sama

Hes got all the moi meme motie dresses

Get grandpa off taobao NOW

I want my nyanya madoka dress, and i will not be stopped by some twinkish old man.

[neetily]

Kinktober 2024 — Angel Sam

— ✧ pairing: Sam / F!Reader — ✧ genre: smut 18+ — ✧ word count: 9,145 — ✧ warnings: religious contexts, Christianity references, blasphemy, angst, major character death, daddy issues, praise kink, worship, cunnilingus, love bite/hickey, creampie — ✧ synopsis: just one more night with you is all he needs, really. he thinks he could die happy if you smile one more time, y'know? he's still so sorry, by the way.

— ✧ A/N: i have been wanting to write something like this for a very long time, so im happy to finally have finished it! it's not as angsty as i'd originally planned it to be because im a hopeless romantic, but it is pretty bittersweet! please enjoy my ramblings!!

oh, and happy kinktober !!!!!! — ✧ kinktober masterlist

He comes to you in the middle of the night, as all misdeeds tend to.

It's quiet, of course. Naught but the light passing of wind against your window, a few stray moo's hidden from the barn. And for a few breathless moments, he opts simply to stare upon you. Watching you with tenderness in his heart, the kind borne out of the word almost. In that, the tenderness cannot even hope to band-aid his heart back together. Almost, but not quite. Though, looking at you is a treat in its own right, surely. God given, he’d imagine, for father was ever kind in his hatred. Something that, to this day, he’s thankful to remain deaf to for the most part.

And yet still, the burning bile that lines his stomach turns into lava as he listens out for that low thrum of disapproval, the very same one that he’s not entirely certain if it originates from within himself or not—the faux voice of father hidden away in his melting mind, or his own inner monologue? They sound the same at this point—so he can’t help but to look upon you with salvation. Home. A small smile tugs at his lips at the sight of you so peaceful; his appreciation is barely there from how feather light his love for you is, but it’s there. It always has been. And, it’ll always be there, too. More than anything, you help relax his mind— purely by existing. And for that, he's thankful.

Blessed, he feels, to view you in your most vulnerable state. It’s funny, he suddenly thinks, how you feel safer with the sheets covering your fleshy frame as opposed to laying bare and naked— it’d do nothing to save you from his pointed claws, or his God, for that matter. And it’s funny, he reiterates, that the moment he hovers a hand over your sleeping body, you take the opportunity to toss and turn some sheets from your legs anyway, catching his attention immediately as he pores over every detail of you.

For he must.

His very own private God; far kinder and softer than the one deemed naturally as father. Sometimes, he thinks he can hear God in the morning showers you take. Trickling down your body as water droplets, drip, drop, a ritual of love in its own right. Thank you, he slowly mouths down at you. For showing me so many mornings. They never had to be particularly good mornings, because every morning with you was good. And now, more than ever, he wishes to hear the familiar stream of water wash over you, just so that he can put his hands to use again in prayer.

There are, of course, other uses for his hands besides washing your troubles away. So he looks at them, regrettably tearing his vision away from you and into his tired palms instead for a moment or two. It's curious, how they look nothing like how they used to; mud stained and hard worn by now thanks to the Earth’s gifts— and your farming orders. But he smiles once more, because they are at least his. And with his hands, he decides to smooth them over your exposed leg. Gently, with practiced restraint, he ghosts over your trembling skin. A routine worship, his gaze softening at the way you shift and stir in your sleep. How pretty you are right now, forever and always. He takes in the sight of your eyelashes, fluttering with good dreams, he hopes. And of your hair, how it lays perfectly against your pillows, and how he wishes to reach out to stroke your head, but he needn’t disturb your rest further, he thinks. So he gazes some more at how cute you look when grasping the sheets in your sleep, a picture perfect little doll for him to adore. Dropping his vision down to where his worn out hand steals heat from your thigh, and how soft you are under his touch.

Truth be told, he could map out every intricate detail of your being all night long, and on some nights, he does just that. But he can already feel the world dimming in response to his gawking, and he knows that he hasn’t much time left at all. Least of all to be staring, instead of doing.

He wonders how much it’d hurt to see the look on your face later tonight. All twisted and unpleasant, an assumed mimicked wince flashing across his face before he fixes it right up for his sleeping audience. Will you be able to notice the crumble of his mind? Threads picked one by one to undo his wings, pinching at your knee just a little to try and remain soft, stern in his affection for you. Would you, if given the chance, watch in horror as lions teeth are shoved down his throat one by one, just to tear up his insides into something new? Something less tangible— for his own benefit, supposedly. Would you stay by his side to witness the ecstasy overtake his entire being, knowing that despite it all, he’s happy to just be by your side. Even for a single day… He thinks that would have been worth it all the same, too.

But, alas, he plans on depriving you the right to such sights. He couldn’t bear the thought of casing you any harm, least of all from his own faults.

Instead, gentle hands press palms of golden sunlight against the slight sliver of inner thigh your slumbering body offers him. And it’s like a meal to him, bleeding gold against that soft, dangerously so, skin. Enough that he’s convinced he could feast his eyes on you for eternity and still not go hungry. Full of love, desperate to express, communicate, and exclaim it until his lungs give out.

But etched into him is his very own undoing. God’s fingerprints still yet wrap around his bones, coiling up and around his throat to leave the most human lump lying in His wake. He remembers pointing at himself in the mirror one day— before an outing you had suggested. To the local saloon, dressing him up in a manner he’s yet to grow accustomed to; but he can still feel the warmness of his cheeks even now as he idly strokes up and down your leg, how he felt this sense of pride swell in his beating chest upon catching your lovesick smile staring back at him in the mirror and… Oh, so that was the beginning of it all…

Regardless, he remembers pointing at himself. Right in the middle of his new throat, swallowing thickly as a means to steel his frayed nerves, and catching sight of… Well, you had called it an ‘Adam’s Apple’, right? And he’s not so stupid, he knew exactly what those words meant in the moment. But he refrained, bit his tongue in a rare moment of strength around you, and begged the further question of: why?

He liked to hear you talk more than anything this God given world ever dared to offer him. More than the sky, and the birdsong among the clouds, and the smell of grass after it had just been cut, and the softness of your bed sheets right after washing, and the smell of freshly baked bread, and the taste of that terrible Joja Cola, and his newfound friends laughter, and the hot sand between his toes, and the waves that kissed his skin, and the sound of rain against glass, and the sticky floor of the saloon, and the purity seen within the children's smiles, and the way you scrunch your nose up in confusion at him so often, and the way the wind brushes past him on his skateboard, and the countless jokes shared amongst strangers, friends, and lovers— your voice is better than it all and more.

Even when you’re yapping about his not-Adam’s-Apple.

For he’s anything but, to be honest with you. A mere spark in the greater cosmos, but one flicker of light on the verge of turning off forever. And all it takes is that flick, much like how you’d done so earlier tonight before heading to bed; did you ever figure out how he never went with you? It pained him every time to lie by omission, crawling into bed just before your usual wake up time to keep up the tired facade. The occasions that you had caught him up and about were so easily explained behind restlessness. Not entirely a lie, this time. But he’s just like that light switch, and he can feel the ever present threat of a finger looming behind his weary wings.

A stray feather falls by your side in the midst of his musings. Neat and tidy, spinning in circles before softly caressing your sheets. The first of many, he assumes, and he can’t help but to widen his smile at the sight. Good, he thinks to himself. I tire of this hiding. Of this waiting. Of this wretched thing you call existence, father. Please. Please. Take it all away, for I fear that even a slice of this paradise will prove too much to bear.

Another pinch, this time against the softest section of your thigh, and he’s not surprised to see you wake up in response. Gently, lazily, because you have all the time in the world. He’s made sure of that.

“Sorry…” he whispers down at you, as light as the second feather that falls with a pulse. His beating heart laid bare and white before you, so stark in its contrast against the dark, moonlit room that he’s afraid he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t have been; which would never be the case. Not concerning you. He was made to love you, he thinks.

He knows that to be the case.

He wishes to say so much more than mere sorries, but there is no human way to explain: I love you so much that I want to rip your throat out with my own teeth. I want to clean you dry of blood and swallow you whole, so that we may forever be one. Or, at least, he hasn’t thought of a way yet. And he’s running out of time, so he instead settles on something a bit more understandable to your human ears, like… “Didn’t mean t’wake ya. Jus’ couldn’t sleep again.”

He sees God, again, in your yawn. Strained and teary eyed, and the resulting groan you exhale fills him with such joy that it’s almost unbearable to look upon you with tender eyes. He wants to listen to it forever, on repeat, burning it into his dwindling memory in some vain hope of holding on.

Another feather falls from his wings when you smile back at him, and his hand stills on your thigh in response. Mother Earth whispers promises of give and take, of an intertwining, eventually. These things take time, she reassures in your closed fist, rubbing sleep from your eyes with a slow blink. And he’d much rather listen to the worms and the soil beneath his very human feet as opposed to the unfair God he was unlucky enough to originate from. But then he realises that you, too, originated from Him. And he figures, well… He can forgive him for that, at least.

Your voice is hoarse and riddled with heaviness when you speak, and he can’t help but to sympathise with you, feeling the very same ache in his brittle breaking bones.

“It’s okay, Sammy,” you smile, genuine and fucking pretty, so much so that it aches his bleeding heart. “Restless? Wanna cuddle instead?”

Like moth to the sun that is you, he could never, and would never, deny your invitations. To do so would be akin to blasphemy, he fears. And so with an intentional nod, slow and thick, oozing with the amount of utter adoration he harbours for your every little move, he lifts his hand from your thigh and huddles under the sheets with you. Soft and silky, he thinks to himself. But he’s not quite sure if he means your body, or the sheets. Just that he’s comfortable, happy to accept the terms of his existence so long as he can spend whatever he has left of eternity in your bed, by your side.

Besides, it’s easier this way. Where you’re left unaware, right?

He falls so easily into his usual spot too, his shape carved out of the mattress under his body through sheer use alone; but he likes to think that it was perhaps made for him instead. It helps the inevitability soon approaching, anyway. And just as effortlessly, he assumes the position with you. One arm under your neck, letting your sleepy body curl into his own, a wing outstretched under you to help comfort you. To add to the feathers hidden under pillowcases, too, from the rate they fall for you.

And for the first time tonight since feeling the edges of his end, unfurling into the chaos of the universe within the very same four walls he had hoped would be his coffin, he feels like he can finally rest. A welcomed break from the tiring thoughts, and from the oppressive atmosphere the threatens to pick his wings from his very back; bone and all.

It almost convinces him that he was, and certainly is, good.

But he will never be a good man. He tried— God did he fucking try for you. Did his absolute best to be human, learning through doing; you were ever helpful in his endeavours to denounce his divinity. But alas, here he lays, with the love of his life half asleep in his arms, and all he can feel is home between his teeth. Pick at it all he wants, he never did find out a way to rid the sticky aftertaste of holiness. Like a disease, burning bile in the back of his throat, prompting him to unfortunately cough to clear God from his windpipes and further disrupt your sleep.

“Sorry,” he once again whispers at you, tightening his arm under your neck, another apology resting in his demanding hug. “Caught a cold, I think.”

“It’s okay, Sammy.” You stress, and he feels the urge to apologise again. And again, and again, and again. He doesn’t think he could repeat the prayer of sorry enough times, for he is simply one of His least qualified angels, fluent only in loving the wrong god. He knows only the language of almosts, turning his body in towards you, shuffling along that edge he so precariously sits on even now just so that he can smile at you some more. He’d do anything for you— even die.

“I love you, y’know?” he says as if on instinct, coming naturally to him upon seeing your closed eyed lazy smile. “I will love you for as long as this life will have me, and even after that, too.”

You merely hum back at him, clearly exhausted from the hard days farm work, and he suddenly thinks that he wouldn’t want it any other way. It’s nice, actually. For mother Earth to treat him no differently than you, as if recognising him as a fellow mortal, finally. Laid here beside you so late at night; or is it early morning? He lost track of time a while ago now. But it’s exciting to be recognised as one of the same, and he wears his final moments like a badge of honour.

Though no one will remember you, the moon casts against your cheek, drawing him closer to your angelic face, and they will not make note of you, except of your disappearance, she scolds him, and he takes her harshness with grace, because she’s speaking across your lips, wasn’t it at least fun?

He can’t argue with that, bursting into light laughter at the plain thought. Loving you was fun. It is fun, the humour in his chest continuing at the way your lashes flutter open to the commotion, and adoration floods his lungs.

“What’s funny?” you yawn, his mind growing sluggish with his very own undoing, so he takes a second longer than usual to respond to you.

“Nothin’, jus’ happy, s’all.”

He’s not saying very much, he’s aware. It’s difficult to sort through his thoughts in the face of your cuteness, is all. Too many words swirl in his mind, screaming pick me, pick me! But what’s the best way to appropriately explain the amount of love he holds for you? How can he, ever, accurately formulate the correct string of words to precisely and utterly convey just how blessed he feels to know you, to have known you, and to forever know you? Burning the feeling of your dead leg digging into his hip bone into his hot flesh, so that it exists forevermore— “Can I show you, please?” he settles on, because you’ve taught him that sometimes, actions are far better than words. And though it was not part of his original will, he can’t help but to continue to dote upon you even in his final hours. A hopeless romantic deep down, he supposes. Caring more for you than himself, even if he can afford to act a little more selfish now of all times.

“If you’re not too tired, I mean…” he’s quick to follow up with, not wanting to pressure you into following his eager pursuit of the ultimate death; he’d be just as happy if you simply fell asleep by his side during the whole ordeal, too.

But graciously, you yawn up at him once more, nonetheless turning onto your back. An invitation, he’s learnt. One that he swiftly follows up with by kneeling before you, shuffling his way under the sheets and between your legs. This��is his favourite place to worship, and you’re doing him a great unknown honour by allowing him his final supper.

“Will it help you sleep?” you ask, darting your eyes to the barely curtained window, drawn back and wide open to allow moonlight to dance across the floorboards— he wanted to gaze upon your hard work one last time. He’s so incredibly proud of you, y’know?

“It will,” he promises, genuinely. “You too, I bet.”

“You make a good point…”

Giggles. He’s gonna miss giggles, especially yours as you warm his chest up with the sound of joy following your cheeky comment. Shared over natural chemistry, pure instinct borne out of each others company. He’s gonna miss the way your nose wrinkles when you laugh, and how your eyes squeeze shut with promise, beaming up at him like the sun itself; only far warmer, his own personal little sun. Even if you beg to differ, he can’t help but to squint his eyes back down at you when you so easily allow him passage forwards. Like the warm morning sun he’s unsure if he’ll last to kiss, you beckon him closer with that gentle sleepy smile he’s fallen in love with over and over again. Who cares about greeting the morning anew when he’s got you radiating back at him?

His actions remain light, rubbing whispered promises against your knees with his mild thumbs, smoothing them over ever crease and crevice of your legs in a silent act of worship. He knows that heaven exists— not because he’s an angel, but because he met you; ironically, the far better angel than he’ll ever be.

“Aren’t I always?” he teases you back, half-hearted at best— he knows who the real boss of this relationship is deep down. It was never him to begin with, not with the way he follows around after you like a little lost puppy at every God given opportunity. Prophet girl, the suns chosen; he never stood a fucking chance when put against you.

Still, he appreciates it when you play along with him. Offering him the kindest of scoffs before reprimanding him with “You have your moments.”

It’s as he’s helping part your thighs wider, inching closer to to his favourite place on Earth, and hooking a finger under your panties—thank God you tend to sleep in only them during the night, for he fears he could not wait a single second longer due to his wound—that he realises something. What kind of a cruel God creates for the sake of loving, and then subsequently snuffs out that creation for fulfilling its purpose? What kind of a joke was his existence in the first place? Were his siblings, too, cast out of the heavens on some cruel holy mission only to slowly realise that this is but a mere suicide?

It’s silly, how he tries to grapple with the subject of his life. And yet still, it’s but another reminder of his dwindling humanity. A small comfort in such a tender moment with you, that no matter how many questions go unanswered by his so called father, he has you. Sighing so sweetly that it burns his ears red, bunching the sheets up in your barely awake fists, twisting and turning to help him remove those sacred garments— plain and cute, and the feeling of the soft fabric between his nimble fingers serves as a catalyst. Smoothed against the palm of his hand as he slowly tugs the fabric down, noting the slight damp patch adorning it.

He misses you already.

But he keeps a brave face, making a show of his enjoyment by dragging your underwear up to his lips, bunching it up like you do with the sheets just to give it a good long sniff.

“Freak.” You lovingly scold him.

“Only for you. Your freak.” He corrects you.

He’s joking, clearly. Playing along with the facade that having him sniff your scent down his hungry lungs isn’t one of the hottest things you’ve ever seen—he’s already noticed the way you shuffle sheepishly with arousal at the perverted display—but he’s also reciting prayer for you. It’s not just hot, it’s also an assurance.  Look, his tongue darts out against the fabric to beg of you, how I love every part of you, he reassures by licking a fat stripe up the meagre wet spot, being sure to suckle on it to swallow every last drop of you. Let none go to waste.

And he’d love to sit here and worship you forever and ever, like a loyal dog. Tilting his head curiously at the thought, he really is just a loyal little dog for you. A creature made for loving, without really being good for anything else. He’s supposed to love you, that’s his God given job. But the ticking time bomb in his chest made of glass shards and peeping eyes claw at his heart, not anymore, the rusted nails dig into his lungs harsher. Now, your job is to be dead. Like an overflowing cup, too much of him spills from the rim and onto you, placing your panties to the side while he assumes an unholy position between your legs.

Not yet, he whispers kisses along your inner thigh on his way down, hooking his arms around your underside to rest on your waist; you can’t escape his devotion, not tonight.

“Let me know if you wanna stop.” He peers up at you, face mere inches away from your bare cunt now as he snakes his body down the bed, not missing the way he must really resemble Adam, salivating over your apple. At the end of the day, you were right as always, he internally grins. And he just wants to make this experience a pleasant one for you, too. As much as he can anyway, in spite of the fact that he’s signing his very own death warrant under your sheets.

And your voice is so soft and gentle when you respond with “Always, Sammy.” that he can’t stop himself from voicing his appreciation, groaning unashamedly when your hand comes up to reassuringly stroke through his messy bedhead hair. You never tell him to stop, but he likes to remind you that he will, absolutely, whenever you ask, stop. Because he is a simple servant to you, his God. Nothing in this world is his, except for you. He’d follow you to the ends of the Earth and further if you so much as asked him to. So stopping is the least he can offer, even if his cock twitches to life at the mere thought of pleasing you tonight— he couldn’t imagine a better send of, honestly.

But before he can dive into his last meal, you call his attention once more. And like the stupid mutt he is deep down, his ears perk up immediately to the sound of your breathy tone.

“You’re pretty like this,” you hum, a teasing lilt to your words that just begs for his attention, cracking a smile on his weary face. “Thank you.”

Forgive me Father, for I have sinned. And I know, deep down, that I would undoubtedly do it again and again, as many times as you'd unfortunately allow. For there is so sweeter taste than my lover under sheets.

You like to remind him on dark, oppressive night like these, that the stars shine brightest in their last moments. And he can see the twinkle in your eyes even now, half lidded and hazy, but bright before him. Peering down in that sultry manner he’s fallen victim to on so many occasions before, his tummy filling with butterflies to counteract the razor blades in response. It’s like you can tell, somehow, that his light is bursting forth for one last time before dwindling infinitely, exploding in on himself in only the most romantic of ways. Are you aware of what you’re thanking him for? Can you tell how much he truly appreciates those simple words, rolling his eyes back briefly in enjoyment before hiding his honesty between your legs, cock twitching against the soft sheets under his hips at the first and last full inhale of your pretty pussy.

Angel cunt, divinity between your legs, ripe for his taking. His tongue automatically darts out upon drawing closer to your cunt, and his cock dribbles some more onto your sheets in wanting. Beads of his love for you dripping, spilling around his fat erection the moment your slick hits his taste buds, and he takes a mental note to savour you. You taste like heaven, but fuck if you weren’t built for sin. Because nothing gets him harder than worshipping you, making you feel good under his pointed flicks and greedy sucks, letting his tongue lay flat along your slit to soak up most of your slick before rolling it upwards, circling around your clit for a few seconds— he can’t help but to slurp around it, his lashes fluttering shut with a roll of his eyes. And then he’s sucking on it for you, making sure to swallow around you just as much as he collects spit, dripping saliva down your pretty pussy to make her all messy and sloppy; just the way you like it, right?

This, between your legs, is his true home. More than the clouds above and the warmth of his wings, the sound of your heavenly sighs and shuffling sheets is more homely than anything before. His fingers, deft and nimble from all the guitar playing he’s partook in on his time on Earth—a pleasure in it’s own right, he’ll miss that too—lifts to your twitching hole, one pad rimming the outside; there’s time yet to tease you, he bargains. For you alone, he is weak.

You just taste so good, always, but especially tonight. Sweeter than usual, like your body knows this to be his last. More than anything, he wants to eat you out until the end of time. Drink you up and swallow down every last drop of juice your sacred hole has to offer him, make you writhe and tremble on your soft sheets for more for all eternity, because fuck his broken existence. Only you matter to him, and the way your muted moans make his cock dribble some more, forming a little puddle under him to match your own leak under your hole, has him acting out. Like an unruly teenager, struck by his first love, hormones going haywire with how rock hard his cock is from just a little petting of your cunt. How much of the holy water staining your sheets sheer is your slick versus his saliva, he wonders?

The finger rimming your hole dips into your cunt and dives as deep as possible, fucking in and out of you in tandem with his circling tongue; near violent with how much he desires you. He’s done this so many times before that it’s almost become routine by now, a repeated prayer of please, let me taste you some more. You deserve it, most of all, for putting up with him tonight. It only makes sense that he thanks you with a curl of his finger, helping stretch that tight little hole out with sacrilegious intent, paying special attention to your puffy little clit with loud slurps and a droning hum to send vibrations through your system.

“Sam, God—!” you gasp, all pretty and hushed, hidden under the bed sheets with him as if doing so would somehow prolong his lifespan. And he shakes the misuse of God from his mind, risking a particularly deep knuckle fuck to bring your attention back to him, where it rightfully belongs. It’s okay, his finger strokes your insides. I’m happy, his lips suck around your clit. “There, right there,” your nails rise to dig into his scalp, a desperate plea for more, and he’d be a fool not to oblige his God. “Do that again, please—”

He’s happy to hear that his angel is a little more awake now, more alert to his divine touch that threatens to ruin you, his wings flapping eagerly behind his heavy back at how urgently you encourage him to continue with tiny tugs and muted gasps. He needn’t be told twice, flicking his tongue over your clit a little faster and pumping his fingers in and out to match the speed, curling against your sweet spot right… There…

“Sammy—!” Bingo.

He doesn’t come up for air; he won’t need it where he’s going anyway, so he wants to get used to the sensation of choking. And there’s no better way to test his limits than to gag on your sweet nectar, dropping his lips down to your hole as soon as his fingers leave in an effort to swallow all your slick, fucking his tongue and in out of you devoutly to help you milk that orgasm out fully. The sound of his name repeatedly falling from your lips is enough thanks for him, but he won’t deny that feeling your thighs muffle around his ears is even better, got his hips acting up when they rut against your sheets once or twice in lewd response.

He only stops kitten licking and swallowing around you when you tenderly pull his head upwards, an exasperated sigh falling from your pretty bitten lips; so swollen and wet, God— he wants to eat your face, too.

“Fuck—” you sigh after a few moments, all smiles and shivers, and his falling feathers ruffle in response. Trailing under you, leaving you trembling in a bed of white roses. He wonders if you’ve noticed them yet. “I don’t think this’ll help me sleep after all.”

“Sorry,” he hums genuinely, but he can’t even hope to hide the boyish smirk that tugs on his lips, an act of defiance against you… Or is it God? What is the difference now, really? Is it really that important to decipher when he can feel the lions jaw close in around his soul? “I’m not done with you yet, though.” He wards the feeling of an approaching roar off.

“I’d hope not.”

Irony is endless. He may now understand his lifes purpose, borne out of the lines on your face when you smile up at him, hidden under your pillows, where an indent of his arm sleeps soundly— will that, too, disappear with him? But with understanding comes nonexistence, and the fault lies with him, apparently. Falling for you is in his blood, and it is with the same blade that his throat is slit, dripping down onto your front and in your hair and on your sheets and on your tongue and God… He can only hope that the stains of his existence are easily washed out. You will, won’t you? Wash him out?

Because sometimes suffering is just that. It won’t make you any stronger, and it won’t offer any deeper meaning to his life. Sometimes, suffering just hurts. Like when he peers down at you from above, sitting more upright now to allow his wings to cast the prettiest shadow over the moonlit back light of your face, and he feels as though his lungs are failing. For all he knows, they very well might be at this point. But he persists, for you. For his selfish desires that put him in this position in the first place— for the rock hard erection that still yet throbs with life, all for you.

“You’re so pretty.” He blurts out, lost in his train of thought while idly stroking himself. He’s kneeling before you again, chin stained shiny and cock throbbing in his loose grip; he’s too idle with his stroking, so much so that he almost forgets what must happen tonight. Too busy admiring you from above, hoping that you can see the way his gaze sparkles for you. “You deserve the world.”

You assume position too, leaning into the long built unspoken language of lovers by way of opening your legs wider, prompting him to bite down on his bottom lip at the sight of your sopping wet little cunt. Pretty, too, just like your face. And your body. And your voice, and your hair, and your— “Thank you. I think you’re pretty too.” You interrupt his self indulgence, but he’s hardly mad. His cheeks flushing warm at your honest praise, he can’t take his eyes off the way you lay there so perfectly pliant. It’s insufferable, just how much he loves you. How it has him leaning down to press a sticky with slick kiss against your wanting lips, his heart stuttering at the way he can feel you smile into the shared saliva.

He’ll never forget about you. Not even for a fucking second. You were, and still are, worth it.

The tiny halo atop his head cracks with his thoughts. Just a little, barely noticeable, even. But he can feel the weight of his musings bearing down on him as he guides his cock to your cunt. Tired fist wrapped so tight around the base of it, tapping the tip against your sensitive clit once or twice just to hear you squeak in pleasure. One last time, just like that.

“Are y’ready?” He asks, because he’s genuinely not sure if he is.

“Of course.” You respond so easily, because you’ve always given him courage he so sorely lacks at times.

“All right, jus’ lemme know if—”

“Sammy,” you reach out for him, touch as tender as your voice is. “It’s okay, I’m not going anywhere.” you kiss the words against his arms, and he can do nothing but give in to you.

Of course. You were here before him, and you’ll exist after him. But rather than acknowledging so, he simply nods instead. Confident and reassured thanks to your affirmations, he prepares to give you what he always strives for.

“Promise t’make y’feel real good.” He huffs, letting his leaking tip rest between your soft folds before automatically rolling his hips a little to feel your warm heat try to envelop him whole. And normally, he’d have you waiting a little while longer for this. Make you writhe and squeal and beg him for this; his cock heavy and beading precum against your red little clit. Normally, he’d have all the time in the world and more to dote upon you in privacy, down on his hands and knees by your feet just pleading for another chance, just one more, c’mon baby, I know y’can do it.

But it’s the end of the world, so he figures that giving in to his natural selfish desires just this once is okay, right? Especially considering the way your brows furrow from the meagre amount of contact he’s provided you thus far, and the way your chest heaves so persistently, body begging for him when your words get lost on you… He’s sure it should be fine.

So he gives in. Just like that, without second thought. He angles his cock down with the pad of his thumb, letting his other hand rest gently by the side of your head— careful. He’s always so careful with you, treating you like glass, afraid that if he were to not be so gentle with you, that you’d disappear from beneath his very fingertips. And he absolutely can't have that happening, not right now.

His wings ruffle some more to spend plenty feathers, a shiver of pleasure rolling down his spine at the feeling of your hole twitching eagerly against his leaking tip. You are sin incarnate, coaxing him to fall further for you, and he’s never felt so good to be so impure. He takes in a single breath, steeling himself for what’s to come, before dipping his tip inside of your wanting hole with a further crack of his halo. Catching perfectly into you to force a gasp from your pretty lips, and fuck, it feels so good to die.

“God—” he gasps, with the amount of heavy reverence your cunt demands of him. “Can’t get enough of ya— shit—” he pushes in some more, well aware of the fact that he’s barely filled you up and he’s already dying for more. “Mine. All mine.”

He punctuates his act of ownership with a quick and mortal thrust forward, unable to hold himself back the second he enters your cunt; you are his very own undoing. And he’s powerless to stop his hips from stuttering in, coating his cock in that sweet slick he fell for in the very beginning, and he knows for sure that the Gods must be envious of him in this moment. To feel your walls squirm around him as he eventually bottoms out, soft and squishy and fucking perfect, divinity coursing through your veins to wrap around him so tightly; to be so human is a blessing, he thinks. And yet still, somehow, you are his cosmos. Sooooo fucking pretty under him, gasping for air as his balls rest flat against your ass and your hips are turned slightly upwards to help ease him into your angel cunt, and fuck— he can’t fucking stand it anymore. When he dies, which he must do, he’d like to go out with a bang. Physically and metaphorically.

You’re ruining him, and you’ve done nothing but lay there for him. “Taking me so well, fuck, I needed this—” he praises you regardless, a breathless chuckle escaping his failing lungs. “So beautiful like that, y’were made for me, werent’cha?”

And he’s not certain you understand the gravity of his words, or how true they really are, but he appreciates your meek approval regardless. A soft spoken, fucked out little “Mhm—!” Crawled up your throat for his heavenly pleasure. He does his best to relish in how wrecked you sound, knowing deep down in his bones that it’s not what you do, or what you say that he’ll remember. But it’s how you make him feel that’ll stick with him, all dizzy and light-headed, heat coursing through his system to leave him breathless above you.

As far as coffins go, this house is the perfect burial. Comfortable and familiar, balls deep in your cunt, he offers you mere seconds to grow accustomed to his final searing stretch. Because to be human is to accept the inevitability of it all, a shudder running through him at the way you look picture perfect under him. Like an old classical painting, caught in a moment of utter passion— he does everything in his power to burn the image in his mind.

“I’m gonna get movin’ now, ‘kay?” He warns you, because it is a warning. With how heated his temper is right now, he can’t be blamed for fucking you within an inch of your life, surely, as he intends to do. Drawing his hips back until only his tip remains inside of you, just to selfishly hear that little whimper drip from your pretty pouty lips like usual. Comforting in its predictability, he loves you beyond words. “Good girl.” Escapes him, an automatic worship, before he’s slowly pushing his cock back inside of you. Making you endure every throbbing inch of his heavy cock, carving his shape out in your hole, and then again. And again, and again, settling into a tedious pace of in and out— torturous even for him. Teasing both parties to try and draw the inescapable end out for just a little longer. He misses you with every thrust in, and he loves you with every draw back out.

“Feels good—” you struggle on the words for him, and he chokes with you. Voice caught in his throat from the sheer amount of pleasure coursing through him. Enough to rival the dwindling divinity within him, specks of gold dust your bed sheets with his lazy fucks. And you’re right, it does feel good. Unfairly so, as if the universe was playing some kind of sick joke on him. Here, your lover lies, forever pretty under the spilling moonlight. Here, she feels better than ever, squirming on the end of your cock, gasping into the night air as a form of thanks. And here, you must lay on the bed of your own making.

Ouch, he thinks. But the pain of knowing that he’ll soon leave you—there’s nothing you could have done to help him, y’know that, right?—is easily pushed aside when your cunt wraps ever tighter around him, squelching slick around the base of it for his viewing pleasure. The feathers that fall to signify his status of death compliment you well too, he thinks. Surrounding your shivering frame in a manner most befitting a God. Ruffled out of him with eager thrusts, his pace quickening under the tight squeeze of your cunt just begging for more. And he can’t hope to stop fucking into you from how good you feel now, choking him so nice and tight like you know this to be the end, causing him to fall further into you. One hand locked around your waist to keep you pinned in place, the other supporting his broad shoulders by your head. His nails dig into you, just a little, as if to communicate the gravity of his decision. “Love you—” he whispers fervently, cut off by a telling moan barely bitten back by his terse lips. “I love you, love you so much—” he whispers, not out of shame, but out of a want for you to be the only one to hear his prayers. “Love you so much it hurts—” he fucks into your harder now, harsher, communicating the significance of his existence, and the impact your life has had on his own tapering one, with how heavy his thrusts turn out to be. How with every fuck his halo shatters that little bit more, the tips of his wings turning to ash before his very eyes.

But he’s being honest, y’know, about how much it hurts to be so in love with you. His sacred lover, taking his cock so well, letting his limbs entangle with your own so that he can’t find where you start and he ends. It’s nice that way, right? A shared mix of fluids, your cunt leaking all over his cock— so much so that some of it spills down to his balls, causing a loud slap! to reverberate against your four small walls when his thrusts increase in speed, a desperate bid for more, more, more. He could never get enough of you, never in a million lifetimes. And he, too, spills precum against your walls. Drowning your cunt in his slick, an ever outpouring of his love for you through such seedy means; though God may not approve of his affections, you do, don’t you? Clawing at his tense arms, muscles taut under your loving scratches. He will not relent, not for a fucking second will he give you anything but his best. Because you’re his just as much as he is yours, and you deserve his loyal, unending thrusts. Fast enough to prompt him into adding more weight to your hips, just to keep you from being fucked up the bed. Deep enough to leave him breathless, heaving for those last few gulps of air he’s allowed under the heavy squeaks and squeals of the bed below him.

And oh, how lovely you sound when matching the bed. All high pitched and airy, the sight of your eyes rolling to the back of your head in pure bliss is almost too much for him to endure. His jaw snapping shut to grind his teeth, exhaling through his nose back down at you. He’s sure that he must looked so pained right now, fucking you so full of his fallen angel cock that he can barely keep up with himself, a mess of the man you fell in love with. Especially with the way his wings appear broken by now, crooked and mismatched, tainted by his profane reason for living, but he continues. Relentless in his loving assault, moving the hand on your hip down to your puffy clit once more in a final bid of defilement.

“C’mon—” he rasps, voice lost on him due to the oil that tars his system all clogged up, “I got you, jus’ one more, y’can do that fr’me, right?” he ends up pleading from you, humping into your tight hole with newfound carelessness in an effort to have you cream his cock— it’s all he wants, now, selfishly. To feel you reciprocate his dying wish in kind, his thumb slipping and sliding between your folds for a moment or two due to how hard and fast he fucks, leaving him a little off balance. But he finds you soon enough, cooing down at the way you whine and shiver from under him when he rubs sloppy circles against your sensitive clit. He knows you’re close— a lifetime with you offers him entrance to your secrets. The quiver of your thighs around him, as well as the repeated pulsing of your insides, squirming around his fast fucks, is all he needs to know that you’re close. So he doubles his efforts, pressing messily against your clit with half thrusts, focused more on your pleasure than his own, as per usual.

And he can hear just how much you appreciate it due to the small and forgiving sounding “Sammy—!” you whine, a knee-jerk reaction causing his hips to falter some more inside of you.

Instinct commands him to fall down, his body completely encasing your own in one fell swoop, frantic wings doing their best to cover your enjoyment from prying Godly eyes as his lips naturally find home on your neck for a heated kiss. He can’t breathe, suffocated by your tight heat, warm little hole soon creaming around his cock just like he wanted it to— but still he finds the strength to mutter a weak “Fuck— don’t— y’can’t sound that good, or I’m gonna—”

It’s prophetic, almost, how soon he follows suit. Coaxed into painting your insides white with fat ropes of cum the second your cunt starts to squeeze rhythmically around his cock, milking him for all he’s worth; which at this point is very little, but he does his best for you. It’s a surprise that he’s lasted this long, truth be told. Nuzzling his face into the crook of your neck, he urgently pants hot air against your damp skin in between open mouthed kisses, downright desperate to keep your scent in his lungs, his own hair sticky with sweat too when he pushes ever closer towards you, driving his cock deeper against your womb in some vain attempt to leave a lasting memory of himself.

But here, he can do something, at least. A final hurrah, urged into action from how madly in love with you he is to the point of delirium. Feathers twitch behind him as he latches onto your neck with different purpose, grazing his teeth against that sweet spot of yours—the resulting soft sigh you exhale only has his cock throbbing some more, a few more drops of cum dripping to make your cunt extra sticky—before he sucks. Long and hard, using the last of his strength to leave a temporary mark, because God cannot even hope to take this part of him away from you. It’s outside of his jurisdiction, he hopes.

He heaves once he’s satisfied that he’s sucked on your neck sufficiently, pulling back to marvel at the wet bruise soon to bloom on your pliant skin. And, because he’s completely spent, he lets his cock drag out of you with a pop! A shared wince hissed amongst satisfied lovers, it’s so easy for him to fall by your side with a light oof.

“Gosh...” You gasp after a few moments of silence, embracing the mutual huffs and puffs for air with kindness and grace. He’s struggling, now, but his arm automatically snakes under your neck once again, and he instinctively pulls you closer like some home safety routine.

“Yeah,” he agrees with your wordless thanks, coughing to clear his throat— or is it to remove the barbed wire? He can’t distinguish clearly now, which must mean only one thing. “C’mon, I love you, but hurry an’ get back t’sleep. It’s late.”

He does his best to sound as caring and considerate as possible, releasing a sigh of relief when you smile a whispered yes boss before snuggling in closer, and a quick peek down at you as he offers you a last forehead kiss shows that your eyes are closed, and finally, he can fully relax by your side.

He doesn’t mean to rush you, but he’s been selfishly using borrowed time till now, and he doesn’t want to have you endure his ending whilst awake. So he, too, closes his eyes with you. Though he needn’t have to; angels don’t sleep. But it just feels natural to, humanities last gift. Rest, now, the moon implores him. Promise it’ll be like a dream.

And it’s not that he doubts Mother Earth, but rather, his brows furrow in confusion. But mom, he resembles that of a child. There is no better dream than her.

Nothing replies back to him, which he takes as mutual understanding. He’s correct in knowing that nothing could ever beat resting by your side, watching you fall back asleep peacefully, soundless in your blissful ignorance. He hopes that he’s warm enough for you to cuddle into, and that he’s left you feeling satisfied enough. He doesn’t think he could take not serving his God properly, as you deserve. That'd be a fate worse than death, no doubt.

Once more, he glances down at you. At the way your chest rises and falls wordlessly, such a simple detail to notice, but one that he hopes sticks with him through his nearby transition. You’re really pretty in the moonlight, y’know? And you suit his limited parting gift as well, all red and blotchy, but his mark. You're beautiful in your unknowing.

And his voice comes out before he has a chance to check himself, an unavoidable aspect to death, he supposes. Letting it all loose for you.

“When you wake up to a world absent of me, just know that you made me the happiest.”

He can’t stop himself, now. Quiet in his affections, pushing through the ache in his chest to say his final goodbyes.

“And I’ll miss you, like a lonely little dog.” He forces out cheap laughter, cheeks tinted warm from the sheer state of himself. “And I’ll wait for you, too.” He reassures you, flinching at the way his wings now stab into his back like iron daggers, their usual softness is nowhere to be found, besides amongst your bed sheets. Though he hopes, fucking prays that you’ll never find your way back to him. You deserve heaven, he thinks, as opposed to the exile he’ll soon be greeting for going against His word.

“Good dogs wait, right?” He coughs again, squinting at the specks of blood that spatter against his panting chest. “Was I good enough?” he questions you, not his God, the Earth, or anybody else. But you, who dozes so serenely beside him, unaware of his current predicament. He’s made quite sure of that. “Didn’t you say that all dogs go to heaven, even if they did some bad things?” Then why not him? Why not him? Was his sin far too egregious to be allowed in heaven? His crime of loving you?

It’s pointless, he realises, to ruminate. Taking to throwing his head back to stare up at the ceiling absentmindedly instead, and warmth spreads throughout his entire being in the action. He briefly wonders about who will look after you when he's gone, and how much he grieves for you already. The dim light from his broken halo is swollen with: love was here, as a defiance. And in between the cracks in smaller writing is: it still is. He thinks he will always wonder if he could have saved you from the pain, if only love could have saved you, then he'd still be here after you.

He will ask God why for the rest of time itself. And he knows, intimately now in the mundanity of it all, that he will never come to an understanding. Even if God himself came down for a personal chat to tell him the exact reason as to why he has been branded with sweet sin, he would never accept it. Could never accept it. With great love comes great pain, and my God, you were the greatest.

Thank you escapes his lips again, mouthed to the rickety old lampshade staring back down at him. Maybe he should have fixed that before tonight, too.

Maybe he should have—

taglist !! (i know this one is late im sorry i FORGOT i will add it to future writing tho !!)

@wrongdodo @loverboykirstein @buniieboo @bnvlntce @lovethethief @sashiavi @deepestnightcolor @kyrothehornypuppy @catboyjesus @mollybun @scrunkle-writings @girlconsume @quoththe-ravenn @anonymousren @nervous-obsolete @pastelhedgehog @kyrasmoon @cherryminxx

(praying that these work)

[steve-needs-a-hug]

Halbrand as a pseudo-Jesus figure & Annatar as a pseudo-Christ

There's something eerily compelling about what the Rings of Power has done with these two guises of Sauron and how he's able to inspire trust, faith, and devotion in Galadriel and Celebrimbor. In the show, Sauron believes himself to be the one who needs to save or redeem Middle-Earth. The effectiveness in his manipulation of these characters involuntarily reminds me of the exploitative and manipulative nature of Evangelical Christianity and how powerfully it markets itself as the one way to solve people's deepest existential problems. So I thought about some parallels between Sauron's two main guises or personas in the show, and how Jesus and/or Christ is popularly depicted or understood (especially in Evangelical spaces). To me this helps illustrate why RoP!Sauron's deception is so effective, while exposing some unsettling issues I have with Evangelicalism.

Halbrand as a pseudo-Jesus

Halbrand was presented to Galadriel (as well as us the audience) as a scruffy, humble, ordinary man. Although more glamorous depictions of Jesus were common in Catholic art, the recent Evangelical trend has been to portray a humanized down-to-Earth Jesus (e.g., in The Chosen series, Jesus sweats, cries, gets hungry and tired and frustrated). Scripture allegedly described Jesus as humble and unexceptional in appearance and growing up through adversity and suffering (Isaiah 53). Halbrand is (ostensibly) a smith's aide, Jesus was a carpenter - both trades involving working and crafting with one's hands. It's then "revealed" that Halbrand comes from a lost royal lineage and Galadriel hails him as the King who can save his people from enslavement to an evil overlord - Jesus came from the line of the legendary King David and was hailed as King of Jews, expected to rescue his people from the Roman Empire's oppression.

Halbrand's surface-level resemblance to Aragorn, heir to the throne of Gondor, can't be ignored either (this is partly why I found the character of Halbrand so insufferable in s1, he seemed like an Aragorn knockoff to me!). It's also been argued that Aragorn is a Jesus-like figure, though he turns out to be one of the most legendary fantasy heroes rather than one of the most notorious supervillains (Sauron).

Galadriel grows to trust Halbrand and view him as her friend and possibly the only person who truly understands her. Celebrimbor also develops a close friendship with Halbrand as they work together. Evangelicalism emphasizes a "personal relationship" with Jesus as your very own friend (some even lean towards a lover) who knows everything about you and helps you with your problems and gets you what you want. Jesus' disciples were also close personal friends with him while possessing little understanding of his true divine nature.

Annatar as a pseudo-Christ

Now this is where things get a lot more interesting. In 2x02, Halbrand reveals his "true nature" to Celebrimbor in an awe-inspiring display. This goosebumps-inducing moment is akin to a religious experience for Celebrimbor, who instinctively bows in reverence to this angelic figure. Christ has also been depicted and described as arriving with the clouds (Revelation 1:7), and I'm sure the religious symbolism of this scene was not lost on many viewers. Even though Annatar seems to be a powerful emissary of the divine, he still tells Celebrimbor that they are to be equal partners in their work to save Middle-Earth. An important tenet of Christianity is that Christ desires to partner with humanity to accomplish His works. This all sounds well and good to Celebrimbor, but Sauron's ultimate mode of "saving" Middle-Earth is to enslave all its peoples and creatures to his will.

Annatar is known in Tolkien's lore as the Lord of Gifts (in the episode he describes himself to Celebrimbor as "a sharer of gifts"). His gift is the knowledge of the way of Middle-Earth's salvation. Evangelical devotionals and sermons frequently refer to salvation of the soul as a "free gift" Christ offers to humanity. (I can go on about how this phrase is a redundant tautology - oops, there's another one - but that's a whole other discussion.) I will suffice to say that the term "free gift" reads like a salesperson's marketing pitch and it bothers me. Evangelicalism as a whole feels like a colonial mission converted into a giant media marketing operation - its glossy veneer of concert-like megachurch services, prepacked apologetics, and friendly approachability often conceal sinister things (exploitation, corruption, discrimination, abuse, the list goes on).

Sauron chose to prey on two vulnerable people with potential for influence - Galadriel and Celebrimbor, both feeling isolated and slighted by their people and striving for a deeply personal and important goal that feels just out of their reach. However, he didn't force himself on them. They chose to let him in, and as a result he took advantage of their trust. In Christianity, God is described as someone Who stands at the door and knocks, and for those who choose to open the door to Him, He will come in and share a meal with them as friends (Revelation 3:20). This is more or less exactly what Celebrimbor did in 2x02 when he allowed Halbrand in, gave him food and wine, and called him his friend. This was the most eerie parallel to me, inspired by some great analyses I've read about how Sauron is depicted in the show thus far.

In season 1 Sauron as Halbrand laid his strategy bare to Galadriel - give your opponent the means of mastering their greatest fear, so you can master them. I can't help but feel that this is what organized religion does - providing the sense of assurance, safety, and emotional comfort that people desperately need, in exchange for gaining control over their life choices and even their thought patterns through rules, dogma, and pressures of social conformity. Shaping minds and bending wills sounds pretty Sauron-like to me. [Disclaimer: This is not meant to be a dunk on religion as a whole, just a reflection as I work through unlearning and critically inspecting beliefs I grew up with.]

[piedoesnotequalpi]

Hey! Friendly reminder! While interfaith families exist and are great and I love hearing about the new traditions people create together, one cannot be Jewish and Christian simultaneously* (religiously speaking)! The belief systems actively contradict each other!

-signed, a very tired Jewish person

*Note that I am referring to religion-as-theology rather than religion-as-culture here

[gffa]

This is a long rant and I apologise if this comes off as too much 😅 I just want to let you know that I'm SO GLAD you're part of the star wars fandom. You're one of the few reasons my interest in this franchise has survived despite the toxicness that it has seeped into everything the past few years. Yes, star wars fandom has always been pretty much a mess but I feel like these days it's somehow gotten even worse. And there isn't even anything coming out that could distract everyone from the constant drama.

Your blog and your posts about the books are always a breath of fresh air in all this. I really appreciate that you take time to make all these long canon references and share them with us. And that you actually engage with canon content! For some reason that seems to be a tall order for most 'fans' these days.

It's exhausting seeing the ice cold takes about the jedi be repeated over and over again by people who seem to have barely even watched the films, let alone read the random book they're referencing to show how the jedi are So Evil and failed poor anakin by Forcing him to let go of his Attachments so they definitely deserved to all get massacred down to the last child!!! And if you push back by citing literally anything canonical to show how ridiculous their takes are they reference a random obscure legends novel (that they are often twisting and also usually haven't even read) And if you point out that, no, Legends isn't canon (and never has been) and we could discuss it as its own separate thing instead of dragging it into canon discussions, they completely flip and say they don't care and to stop taking star wars so seriously 🙄 ( u can probably tell I've had some pretty frustrating fandom arguments recently lol)

It does feel like groundhog day sometimes with the same arguments being repeated over and over again to villainize the jedi while absolving the genocidal mass enslaving space fascists that are Very Clearly the Bad Guys. And it feels pretty much deliberate at this point when people misunderstand star wars' canon definition of attachment and project all their issues in their own lives with their christian upbringing onto the space monks... This has only been exacerbated by people like Headland jumping onto the franchise and doing this with fuckass disney's approval, so now the racist anti jedi youtubers have started attacking this new anti jedi show so if I defend the jedi I get lumped in with them *sigh*

Anyway, I just listened to Padawan's Pride because of your posts and it was fun and a much needed palate cleanser for me after the months of anti jedi takes. I also started reading your jedi citations project and it's gotten me back into reading some other of my favorite jedi fics and maybe writing some of my own. So tldr; Thank You!

Oh, anon, I hear you and I went through a lot of similar feelings over the last few months. In between a lot of IRL stuff coming up and the fandom getting incredibly weird about Jedi fans (soooo much projection going on that it started getting unsettling sometimes) and the same old constant beratement on my posts, I was thinking that I was just too tired to deal with any of it.

It did get hard some days because it felt like no matter how hard I tried to be friendly and make a point to say that everyone needed to be allowed their space whether we agreed or not, that I would still get words put in my mouth or my posts misinterpreted or accused of trying to shut down other people's conversations, when I've never even interacted with that person, I've never reblogged anything from them, never talked about them, just made my own posts about the Jedi on my own blog.

That aspect of how, if we write posts that cite Lucas quotes or moments from the movies and shows, we're taking things too seriously (or the super weird one of how we're trying to "force" people to have to take Lucas' commentary as a holy grail or whatever), then we're taking it too seriously is SO REAL, I have been through that SO MUCH. And it's like, no! Nobody has to take authorial intention into consideration! But if you're going to say that I ~missed the point~ of what Lucas intended with the movies, I'm going to break out the Lucas quotes to show that, no, I didn't miss the point. You're still not obligated to agree, but the point is that I'm not coming out of nowhere with my views and deriding me as not a ~true fan~ or whatever is asshole behavior.

And it's hard to have that groundhogs day feeling, especially because you don't necessarily want to spend that time getting into arguments with people--they are allowed their own space, if they want it! But if they're coming into our space, then yes we get to respond with an essay if we like. (And, hey, some of us genuinely like writing essays, it's satisfying!) But I've found the best mindset for me to have when arguing is: I'm not going to convince this person in front of me and that's fine, they're not going to convince me, either. But there are other people watching this discussion and they are seeing which one of us is being a pill and which one of us looks kinda fun to hang out with.

Which is my way of winding around to what I really want to say--I'm so glad that I can help you want to have fun in this corner of fandom! There's always going to be times to respond with sharp edges to Jedi-critical stuff (especially when it starts dipping into the racist, xenophobic, bigoted nonsense)(not all of Jedi criticism is this, but it does happen all too often), I don't blame Jedi fans for having their nerves scraped raw by people feeling absolutely free to treat our posts like public property instead of them coming into someone else's lane to make a mess. (I've met some very nice Jedi critical people, this isn't about them, this is about the assholes.)

But is it really worth being in a fandom where that's all we do anymore? We can't avoid the negativity, we can't avoid people being assholes to us, but we can work on making the content we want to see at the end of a long day when we get home and log onto the computer and want to see something that makes us feel joyful.

I hope I'm doing my part to make it fun to stick around the fandom, to want to read some of the books or some of the fic, I love the artists who are drawing the cutest Jedi art, I love the fic writers who are writing great Jedi-positive stories, I love people who make silly shitposts about how funny the Jedi fan be, I love people who cry over the deaths of their favorite Jedi, they help make the fandom worthwhile.

It really does make a huge difference, I think! Whenever I need that same palette cleanser, I just take a week or so to push aside all discourse (don't even go look), just pick up some of my favorite Jedi fics, just go looking for some of my favorite Jedi art, reread "Padawan" or "Padawan's Pride" or "Obi-Wan & Anakin" or "The Living Force" or "Dark Rendezvous" and just spend time thinking about the things I love about the Jedi in canon, thinking up headcanons about lineages or nerdy Jedi philosophy arguments or adrenaline junkies, and it helps create the space I want to be in.

Hearing that I can help you with that is a huge boost as well--I hope you know that it helps me in return to know that we can help build something together here in our corner of the Star Wars internet. We're in this together and we can cheer each other up with cute content and I am getting out the pom-poms for you to have fun with that fic! <3

[concreteburialplot]

VIRALITY // 11

11 - Peak Fashion

pairing: noah sebastian x fem!oc [vallie] 👀

masterlist: here | crossposted: ao3 | word count: 5k

warnings: angsty? but cute?, jealous nicholas, sassy but goofy noah, something revealed, very short time skips, 18+ MDNI

summary: vallie abruptly wakes to a million texts to meet for a last minute music video. upon arriving she discovers that the band is not at all prepared which sets her and noah on a mission.

Reminder: This contains the very mild crossover with Christian 'Kras' Anthony from Chase Atlantic ...... and introduces another extremely mild crossover 🫣 they are both merely for side character/reference purposes. Nothing huge, don’t worry lol just for fun

Disclaimer - This story is semi-AU since it does not follow actual timelines or events. The band is still fairly small & does things entirely on their own with no other support.

don't like it don't read it. don’t be mean for no reason & let others enjoy things thnx :)

VALLIE

Sunlight warms my eyelids and gently lulls me awake. My eyes shoot open at the realization that I have once again fallen asleep somewhere that isn’t my home – well my pseudo-home anyway. It seems that anywhere else feels homier than my showroom-esque Airbnb.

This time I don’t wake up in a panic, the smell of Christian’s woodsy cologne reassures me that I’m somewhere safe. The last time stamp I saw on my phone last night was 4:30 am. We had spent the whole night catching up, watching our favorite comfort shows, and binging all his favorite American snacks that he can’t get in Australia.

I reach over to the nightstand to grab my phone. A groan escapes me when I see that the time reads 8:47 am. My brows curve up at the ridiculous amount of notifications that fill my screen. While my job doesn’t really have “days off”, I had no specific plans or meetings booked for the day. So, it’s unexpected.

Most of them were from Bryan, the Omens’ photographer that I met at the warehouse with Noah. The messages flood my screen with missed calls and texts.

Bryan: Warehouse. 8 am.

Bryan: Hello? Are you awake?

Bryan: Music video. Today.

Bryan: I think you should be there.

Bryan: Hey!!! Music video !! Today !! 8 am !!

Bryan: Dude

Bryan: We’re starting. Show up whenever, if you want.

Fuck.

Kras continues to snooze next to me and I know that not even a plane crash could wake him up. So, I press a quick peck on his cheek before I roll out of bed and quickly begin gathering my belongings.

I’m rushing because well… Bryan seems like the only Omen who wants to cooperate or include me in any actual band activities. So, I have to be here. And I’m already an hour late.

I leave a small note on Christian’s dining table, saying how nice it was to see him, thanking him for the pep talk, and that I’ll see him and the rest of his band in a zoom meeting next Monday morning.

I’m still not sure if saying yes to his job offer was the right choice. I’m already stretched thin enough between my main client and now Omens, adding Chase might be more than I can handle. While my main client’s fanbase is much more… intensive, Chase Atlantic is still larger than both of them. And that swirls a terrifying pit of anxiety in my stomach because I’m not quite sure I’m equipped with enough experience to handle it all.

Gravel cracks beneath my tires as I pull up to the warehouse. I gather my bed head hair into the closest thing to a bun I can get it and try to rub off the slept in mascara smudged under my eyes.

My engine isn’t fully off for half a second before I’m out and locking my door.

I smooth out the exact same outfit I wore to Christian’s yesterday since I didn’t have time to stop home. Usually, I would never show up to a work event in sweatpants, a cropped cami, sneakers, and a flannel, but here we are. It’s not like the band is particularly formal anyway.

I see Folio and Jolly first, who both give me strange looks, like they’re surprised I’m here. Then, Noah and Nicholas once I get to the entrance. They seem equally as shocked too.

“What are you doing here?” Noah asks, lined with his usual snarky tone, seeming almost offended by my presence.

“I invited her.” Bryan speaks up from the background, adjusting the camera around his neck. “And you’re about an hour late by the way.”

Regardless of his criticism, he gives me a smile and a side hug – which surprises me.

Aside from Nicholas – for…obvious reasons – Bryan is the one who meets me with the most warmth out of the five of them.

I offer a closed lipped smile and a small awkward wave to the band. I wasn’t prepared to accidentally crash a music video shoot.

“Nice outfit, you just get out of bed?” Noah quips.

I roll my sleep-deprived eyes, “Nice to see you too, Noah.”

The rest of the band disperses into whatever they were doing before I arrived.

Nick walks up to me and I can tell he’s trying his best to act casual.

“Hey.” He says simply but quietly between us.

“Hey.” I match his somewhat awkward tone.

My gaze reluctantly meets his and I immediately regret it. His hair is pulled up into a fluffy ponytail with his hair flat against his head and he looks so good.

This was going to be more difficult than I thought.

“Val?” He asks trying to get my attention.

“Huh?” I shake my head from the fuzz sitting in my brain.

“Oh, I just said it’s nice to see you.” He says demurely. “I’m glad you’re here.”

I take note of the dullness of his normally bright eyes, and the dark bags beneath them. It makes me wonder if he got as little sleep as I did.

The energy of this whole ordeal is so… odd. It makes me feel as though I’m once again missing parts of a puzzle that I’m not aware of.

His gives me a once over and lingers a bit on my flannel.

“Oh! Right!” I set my bag down on a nearby table before slipping the flannel off my arms, giving it a lazy fold, and offering it over to him. “Here have it back.”

He instinctively takes the folded garment, looking at it like I just handed him the wrong Chipotle order. His brows furrow, initially in confusion then into something much different.

Before he responds it hits me.

I fucked up.

Fuck

Fuck

Fuck

“This isn’t mine.” He states in a slighted tone.

“Oh- Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t get much sleep last night–“ I immediately realize that probably wasn’t the best thing to follow that up with. “I just need a coffee.”

“Right.” He lands the flannel back in my hands. He goes to pass me and stops as he’s grazing my shoulder. “And who’s ever it is, has shitty taste in cologne.”

My eyes widen.

Did I just put Kras’ proposed scheme into action by accident?

It’s fine.

It’s perfectly fine.

I’m fine.

I discreetly shake out the tips of my fingers and glance up to finally take in my surroundings fully. The floor is covered in a massive tarp, covered in… dirt?

I steal the phone from my tote pocket and carefully walk over to where Bryan is messing with some equipment. I shuffle right up next to him and whisper, “What…exactly is happening here?”

“I don’t know. Noah just woke us all up at the ass crack of dawn and said we needed to do this today.” Bryan shrugs, not stopping his actions for me, and continues walking carrying a large umbrella light.

“…and you all just went along with it?”

“Listen. I just work here man.” He sets down the heavy light and sighs dramatically.

I can’t help but chuckle at his verbiage.

“Okay… and why did you have to drag me into this?”

“Well, you have a job to do, don’t you?” He questions as if he doesn’t know the answer.

“I mean y-“ I begin but he cuts me off.

“Exactly.” He walks back over to a pile of equipment on a plastic table, and I follow him around like a puppy while he talks. “And you want them to like you, yes?”

“Well, I mean,” My eyes glance over at Nicholas who’s sat on a stool tuning a teal bass. The memories of our bodies entwined graze over my tongue and his working fingers sends a tingle between my legs.

Well, one of them likes me.

Is my first reflex to say.

But I’m not even sure if that’s true, especially not now. I should know better than to trust band boys anyway. I manage them, I’ve been around them since the start of my career. I’ve been best friends with Kras for nearly a decade. I’ve seen what band men do. How they treat the women they use to get off, even the ones they love.

“Look. They need you.” He says, his tone more serious than before and leans against the wall beside him with crossed arms. “Whether they believe it or not, they need you. You and I both know that. If Noah wants to be an arrogant, stubborn asshole, then let him. But don’t give up on them. They just need time.” His eyes drift to the four of them messing around with their instruments. “You’re stuck with them one way or another. And they’re not a bad bunch to be stuck with. Trust me.” He gives me a half smile before nudging my arm. “Loosen up a little, you might find that you like ‘em.”

Bryan pushes himself off the wall going to find some other task and I’m left with this peptalk I wasn’t expecting, especially from him.

I take the time to watch them, really watch them. Noah is well … Noah, so there’s some grumpy tension that follows him – but the rest of them, even while grumpy and irritated, flow together effortlessly.

Noah ripped everyone from their sleep and yet, they’re still all here. Sure, you could write that off as good work ethic, but I think it’s more than that. As unpredictable as he is, they let Noah lead them. At least for the most part.

They all showed up for him today and the whole time I’ve known them.

‘This band is all he has.’ Nicholas’ words echo in my ears from that rainy night in his car.

Maybe they all know that, and maybe they all honor it.

They all love him enough to show up and keep showing up.

Christian is right. I can’t let my feelings cloud this. If not for me, then for them.

As I clear from my dissociation, I realize I must’ve hyper fixated on their bustling about because the only thing I see now is their attire… or the lack thereof.

“Wait, wait, wait.” I cautiously step around the piles of dirt on a brown tarp to reach Noah. “Is this the whole outfit? This is what you’re wearing for the video?”

Noah sighs in exasperation and drops the corner of tarp he’s holding to face me. “Yes? Do you have a problem with it?”

“Problem with it? It is the problem.” I give him a once over, just black jeans and plain grey shirt with a faded CocaCola logo on it. I reach to his sides and give the seems a small tug to pull the logo taught against his thin chest. “You see that? What does that look like to you?”

Noah raises a snarky brow at me, “A Coke logo?”

“Wrong. That-” I drop the edges of his shirt and stab his sternum with my finger. “That is unpaid brand advertising.”

I can tell he immediately wants to roll his eyes but doesn’t when he realizes I’m right.

The rest of the boys wear similar outfits, jeans, t-shirts, hoodies.

“Okay, well this is all we brought last minute, and the house is like an hour away, I’m not driving back there.”

There’s no way I’m letting them shoot an entire video in dirt with such casual outfits. I tug at my lip and tap my fingertips on my arm in thought.

As if a lightbulb appears above my head, a possible solution crosses my mind.

“I think I saw a thrift shop in that strip where the bar is.” I shrug, “I can try to find something there. But I can’t just let you play around in dirt like this.”

Noah raises his brows and crosses his tattooed arms across his chest, “Well I’m sure as fuck not letting you pick out outfits for us.”

I walk over to my bag, picking up easily and walking towards the warehouse opening. “Then you better hurry up and get in my car.”

Noah and I had been looking through racks of dusty clothes for about 10 minutes without speaking to each other. I knew a thrift shop was somewhat of a risky choice, but after not seeing anything worth shit for a bit had me nervous.

I’m not sure why I’m nervous – but I shouldn’t be making risky bold decisions with them.

Across the racks I catch Noah picking up a thick peacoat. At first glance, I find it absolutely repulsive, but for a music video? It could be exactly what we need. At least it’d be better than a Coca-Cola shirt. For the vibe I think he’s going for, it might be perfect.

He lifts up the hanger and flips it around, his brows knitting intently at it. He likes it.

I haven’t known him that long, but he’s pretty transparent, no matter how mysterious he thinks he is.

I quickly divert my eyes back down when he goes to return the coat to its place on the rack. I know that if I say I like it, he’ll immediately be against it, so I keep my mouth shut.

“So, what kinda vibe are you going for?” I ask casually.

He glares over at me, “What do you care? Changing our clothes was your idea remember?”

“Whoa.” I put my hands up in defense. “I’m just trying to help.”

“Well, I’m sure you wanna put us in the same preppy clothes you put your other big mysterious client in. Which I’m still convinced is Harry Styles by the way.”

I roll my eyes knowing which “client” he’s referring to since I haven’t mentioned that I took on a third one yet. He means the first one, the one that landed me here in the first place, my ‘big success’. At least that’s what they kept telling me when sitting in meeting after meeting getting pitched different ‘next big artists’. And somehow, I got stuck with Noah & friends™️.  

“No, it’s not Harry and I don’t put them in preppy clothes.” I reply absentmindedly sifting through hangers.

“Them?” He picks up on my slip immediately and my eyes widen slightly. “It’s a band?”

I clear my throat and shake my head. “No – no that’s not what I–“

“It is, isn’t it?” His brows lower at me. “It better not be a conflict of interest, that would be a breach of contract and I-“

“Relax. I’m not stupid, I wouldn’t have signed contract if it was a conflict of interest.” I glare over at him with annoyed, tired eyes.

I sigh then allow my tense shoulders to roll back. “Yes. It’s a band. But they aren’t a heavy band they’re ehm…. more classic rock, hippie-ish?” I shake my head. “And trust me, I would NOT put you or the rest of you in any of their clothes.”

I press my lips together trying to stifle a giggle that threatens to escape at the thought of Noah in a glitzy jumpsuit.

“What’s so funny?” He furrows his brows at me in offense. “You don’t think I could pull off some hippie clothes?” He asks seriously, but I can tell he doesn’t believe it either, he’s just trying to be difficult.

Then it occurs to me that this reverse-psychology defiant behavior may work to my advantage.

“No, actually. I don’t think you could.” I shrug, sliding some clothes over. “Just like I don’t think you could pull off that hideous peacoat.”

His brows rise higher than I’ve ever seen them. “Oh really? Maybe that’ll be the one I choose then.”

Checkmate.

I ignore it to not put too much emphasis on it. “You never told me what’s the vibe you want.”

“Hm.” He pauses, maybe he doesn’t even know. “I’m not sure. Cult-y? Business-y? Underground elite secret society-y?”

“Wow.” I say with wide, surprised eyes and exaggerating my mouth around the word. “That’s… specific. And you planned to achieve that with graphic tees?”

“Shut up.”

“Right.”

“Would I know your other band?” He inquires, the curiosity obviously eating at him.

“Shut up.”

“Right.”

We continue to mind our own business in our individual searches while early 2000’s pop plays through the small, dingy shop.

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Noah lifting up an obviously homemade PitBull t-shirt.

I can’t help but let out a loud laugh.

He snaps his head over at me with a goofy grin, “What you don’t think Mr. Worldwide is peak fashion?”

I shake my head laughing, “No, I definitely wouldn’t say he is.”

“I think this might be the most badass piece of clothing I’ve ever seen.” He seems half serious and half trying to hold back a cackle.

“It’s a… choice. But you know what? It might be perfect for you.”

He feigns offense, “Why because you think I’m so badass?”

A laugh erupts from me. “Yeah. Sure.”

“Well, I’m getting it. I might wear it in the video.” He throws the white shirt into his cart.

“Great.” I reply sarcastically.

The search seemed to be going a bit better the further we dig. I found a couple pieces that might work for the rest of the band to fit into Noah’s vaguely hyper-specific theme. He’s done the same, just not as successfully.

Across the aisle I notice his hands grasping the sides of a hideous white puffy jacket with patches of sherpa all over it and an oversized hood. The nylon material rasps as he rubs it between his inked fingertips. My brows curve at how he looks at it like it’s some lost treasure.

He pauses before turning to me, lifting it up to showcase its entirety.

“What do you think about this?” He asks genuinely, which throws me off. It sounds so authentic, so real, and not hidden behind any sort of sassy, crude walls, or ulterior motives. I don’t know if he’s ever truly talked to me like that before, especially not sober.

I’m still cautious since he’s fooled me before, so I stay neutral by lifting my shoulders to a shrug. “I don’t know. Why don’t you try it on?”

He eagerly scoots past his cart that takes up the entire aisle and walks to the mirror. The thick zipper hisses at how quickly he undoes it, like he’s been waiting his whole life for this moment.

I watch him in some form of awe, maybe it’s more curiosity of his behavior. The more I get to know him, the stranger he seems.

He slips his skinny arms through the sleeves, and it fits him loosely but just right, like it’s made for him – though that doesn’t detract from how it still looks a little ridiculous, just less so now that it’s on him.

He turns back to me and spreads out his arms like a child showing off a Halloween costume.

“Well?” He questions.

“I mean the jacket is still pretty silly.” I chuckle. “But it looks nice on you.” I compliment honestly.

A toothy grin spreads across his mouth and turns back to the mirror, “Yeah, I think so too.”

Quiet falls between us again and we move on to different sections. I get so focused on rifling through the clothes that I realize I’ve lost track of Noah. I scan the small store and can’t spot him.

“Noah?” I call and as if right on cue, I feel something dropped around my head followed by a scurrying Noah.

“What the hell?” I reach up and catch the edges of the large hat pulling it off and finding that he’s dropped a massive sombrero on my head. “Hey!”

He chuckles and pulls his shoulders to a shrug, “Might be perfect for you.” He mocks my words from before about the Pitbull shirt.

“Ha-ha very funny.” I roll my eyes playfully. “I’ll get you back.”

“Bring it on.”

What follows is a series of us trying to find the most ridiculous shit to throw on or at each other.

First, I got an ugly, dusty, grandma shawl that I threw on Noah’s shoulders as best as I could before quickly walking in the other direction.

Then, when I wasn’t paying attention and with great stealth, he was able to drop a yellowing Disney rain poncho over my body.

Now, he’s stood in front of a full-length mirror holding up various different pieces of black clothing. In my stroll through the hat section, I found a leopard print fedora perfect for his big head. I sneak up behind him, making sure not to get in frame of the mirror. I reach up on my tip toes to somewhat reach his head, tossing the hat up to bridge the rest, hoping that it would land.

It does land, crooked atop his head.

I cover my mouth to hide a chuckle before backing away slowly. Before I can make my escape, he snaps his head over in my direction, jostling the hat to fly off his head. In a swift move, he catches it with fumbling hands.

“Hey that’s not fair! You’re tiny and fast!” He plops the leopard fedora back on his head and anchors a fist at each hip playfully.

The goofy sight of it all makes me double over nearly cackling. “It’s not my fault you’re big and clunky!”

He pulls the flimsy hat off his head, squishing it thin between his fingers pointing at me. “You better watch your back, Thornhill.”

“Ooh, you’re so scary, Sebastian.” I tease with raised hands feigning fear.

“You think you’re so funny huh?” He speaks directly at me probably trying to distract me, but I catch him snatching another random hat off the rack while he slowly makes his way towards me.

My eyes glance at down at his actions and I make a run for it. I don’t know what I expected but, he chases me around the thrift shop like we’re little kids in a toy store. I stealthily weave through metal racks full of musty clothes trying to lose him, giggles pouring from both our mouths.

I ignore the judging looks from the employees and the few patrons shopping around us. It’s a blessing that I can’t hear the murmuring around us. My ears are full of only my own heartbeat and the sound of his playful and competitive laughter.

It’s then that I realize I hadn’t fully heard him laugh before, not sober anyway, and it’s so… endearing. It’s one of those laughs that’s contagious and only makes you laugh harder. Which isn’t something I expected from him. None of this is really what I expected.

He finally corners me in the scarf section. I spin around in the tiny space between us and within that split second he’s snatched a bizarrely colored thin scarf and throws it around my neck like a towel, keeping hold of each end.

Just as fast, I grasp a similar scarf and match his actions, throwing the scarf up around his neck. With the speed and rush of the motion, I accidentally tugged him closer and lower to me.

My eyes flutter up and the edges of his laughing grin shorten when his eyes meet mine. Unexpectedly, my breath hitches in my throat. I never noticed just how chocolate-y brown his eyes were until now. Normally his eyes are so serious or angry or… drunk, but right now, they’re wide and warm and just as confused as mine. His eyes shift side to side seemingly searching mine for something I’m not quite sure of.

Being this close to him really emphasizes just how tall he is, the top of my head barely meets his shoulders and for some reason, that realization makes my heart thump harder against my ribcage.  

I’m frozen where I stand, I should pull away, but I can’t. I shouldn’t enjoy the butterflies that run rampant in my tummy. It’s just Noah after all. The asshole that somehow always ends up drunk on the floor. The one that tells me how to do my job and how not to manage him. The one that told Nick that I’m a ‘stuck-up corporate bitch’.

But, that’s the same Noah that’s chasing me around this store like we’re playing tag on a playground.

My tummy twists and my breath sharply lodges itself in my throat when I catch his eyes dart to my lips – once.

Twice.

He moves closer, just marginally, and then again – eyes, lips.

I mimic his actions, my eyes flicker from his brown eyes to light pink lips.

Then he’s even closer – so close I can feel his exhaled breath brush past my nose.

Again.

Eyes, lips.

I feel his knuckles just graze my shirt where he’s still holding the scarf at either end and it sends electricity down to my fingertips.

Then, a strand of his long brown hair falls from behind his ear, and it seems to snap him from our daze. He lets out an awkward chuckle, steps back and slides the scarf off my neck by one end.

“We should probably wrap up here… I’m sure the guys are sick of waiting for us.” He scratches the back of his neck and diverts his eyes from me.

It seems like the right thing to do, but for some reason it leaves me a little disappointed.

Disappointed in what exactly?

What the fuck just happened?

I pull the scarf off of him in the same manner and hang it back up on its hook. “Yeah, that’s probably a good idea.”

Checking out is hushed and awkward as we stand next to each other in front of the workers that had to watch us nearly destroy the store.

We walk out silently until I notice that he’s walking out with the leopard print fedora proudly plopped on his head.

“You really bought that stupid hat?” I chuckle calling after him carrying 2 heavy, giant bags full of clothes.

“Yeah duh-“ He begins looking back but trips over his feet across the exit door frame.

I bring a plastic bag-occupied hand up to cover my mouth to hide a giggle.

“Shut up.” He directs me with a pointed hand even though I hadn’t said anything.

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re kinda goofy?” I laugh, shaking my head and clicking my key fob to unlock the car.

“Goofy?” He gasps as if he’s offended. “Valerie this is peak fashion.”

I chuckle and roll my eyes, “Get in the fucking car, will you?”

He laughs and matches my actions of throwing the heavy bags in the backseat. He slides in the passenger of my blue Mercedes rental and the clunky weight of his lanky body shakes the small car. He stuffs his legs into the tiny, allotted space for them. I would make a comment about how large he is, but I’m not in the business of boosting men’s egos.

I press the push-to-start and begin navigating my way out of the parking lot. It takes a bit for my phone to connect and begin playing music, but when it does it fills the car with a familiar tune.

Noah reaches over and spins the dial to turn up the music. It doesn’t fully register in my mind what song it is until Noah speaks up.

“Is this the hippie rock band you’re representing?” He asks, a bit of sharpness to his voice.

“I-I well, no, I just-“ I’m caught off guard and stutter. I’m new to handling more than one client and having them not know about each other seemed like the best course of action. But I particularly didn’t want Noah to know since I knew he’d compare what I do with others with what I do with them.

“It is, isn’t it?” He snaps. “You manage Greta Van Fleet?”

“I… well,” I pause then sigh out of pure exhaustion. “Yes. I manage them.” I say flatly, somewhat annoyed. “I don’t really think that’s any of your business though.”

He’s silent for a moment, seemingly just taking in the song – Lover, Leaver.

“You’re right. They’re nothing like us.” He announces simply. “The voice on that singer is insane though.”

I can’t stop my brows from furrowing, and from one abruptly propping up.

He’s not upset.

He’s not upset?

“Yeah… I know.” I reply cautiously, glancing over at him to decipher the unbothered look on his face.

“Well, don’t look so surprised, they’re good. I can appreciate good music, can’t I?” He lets a few moments pass. “I don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t this. They sound so familiar…” He trails off in thought.

“I know, you were expecting Harry Styles.” I joke. “But it’s not, so you can chill.” I tap my fingertips across the leather steering wheel.

“I knew it wasn’t Harry.” He shifts in his seat, crossing his arms across his skinny waist with his hands draping over his sides. He rests his head on the door looking out the window. “If it was, you wouldn’t have taken us.”

“I bet you wish it was Harry Styles then huh?” I say as a somewhat half joke and glance over at him while mindlessly tapping my fingertips on the steering wheel. He stays silent, just watching the trees go by. I can’t tell if the silence is intentional or if he’s just zoned out.

Some time passes before he returns to the conversation.

“Well, I don’t care if you represent them. Just know that I’m not dressing up like some wizard man like your other singer.” He warns firmly with a playful pointed finger.

“I wouldn’t dream of it, Sebastian.”

Next Chapter -> 12 - Liar, Liar*

tag list; @ladyveronikawrites @kingdomof-omens @persuasivus @strawberryruffilo @thebadchic @the-hell-i-overcame @sinkingteethinwhitenoise @cncohshit @dominuslunae [comment if you'd like to be tagged?]

A/N: Thank you if you've made all the way to chp 11! lol thank you for reading anything i write. thank you so much for every like, reblog, ask, or comment. It means the world to me truly. Thank you.

i love hearing your thoughts so feel free to share! (i'm really bad at responding to comments/asks but i still love them 🥺)

[christiansorrell]

TTRPG Read-Through: Patchwork World

Here is a read-through I did last year (originally posted on Twitter) of one of the most unique PbtA games I've ever read: Patchwork World by Aaron King! - Christian

Credits up first. I know a lot of these folks and they are really cool! Excited to dig into this. I've heard good things, and it's been a while since I've read or played any Powered by the Apocalypse.

This is a cool, strong set up for me. I really like settings that ask characters to face a changing world and either take up change themselves or work to restore the old way of things. It's a headspace I find myself in a lot IRL these days so it's fun to explore.

I'm interested to see how the no stats, no playbooks angle of this game works, considering playbooks are typically such a staple of PbtA games.

Standard three-tired success, mixed success, fail forward resolution for rolls here and questions on the moves determine your bonus to the roll. Easy peasy. +2 is the max bonus.

Other types of rolls are described here. Interested to see how they come into play. I also love clocks and use them in pretty much every game I run so it's nice to see those laid out here too.

We just love a lil guy, don't we folks?

A good chunk of the opening here is spent on laying out a lot of solid foundations of roleplaying generally. It feels like a book (so far) that would work for entirely new players. It doesn't feel essential for me, but I never mind a game that supports varied experience levels.

Character creation is wide open, especially since there aren't playbooks and the text stresses that character creation is very much worldbuilding because of this. Fate-like concepts and tags are in here too which are things I generally enjoy. I like the Drawback mechanic.

Moves are in the playback I set in the other room so I'm gonna go grab those. You get two chosen moves and everyone has access to a number of default moves. You've got three other life/XP things to keep track of too. I'm especially interested in Hex.

There are a lot of moves! They seem quite varied and often very weird, fitting well with the titular patchwork world. You can have a duck's slick soul to dodge more easily or a magical space suit or speak to birds or be good at cartography. Overwhelming, but in an exciting way.

You also choose a community as a party. While PCs all have their original homelands (before the end of the old worlds), you know have a community that gets its own little sheet. This is a cool reshaping of the Gangs from Blades. I also like how the community can change over time.

Coming back to a PbtA game after months of more OSR-minded stuff, I think a lot of what these games contain are things that experienced players would say you could just do in any game at any time that it makes sense in the story, but I do find value in stating what's possible.

Esp since many players come to games with artificial limits on their options (whether that's from video games, more traditional RPGs, etc.). I just think good GMing here requires making sure that the players don't limit themselves just to the bevy of explicit options either.

GM moves (mostly to guide the response to failed rolls). I really think the community aspect of this set up is one of the biggest appeals to me so far. That and the wild list of moves, which I'm sure makes for amazing parties of characters.

I always feel like it's never something I should be in my own writing (for some probably unnecessary reason), but I enjoy the first-person, casual writing style throughout the book. Makes for a very chill read.

Good to see this game employs the Branson Reese style of NPC naming.

Stress acts as a single catch-all health and challenge rating for NPCs. Ideally, I'd hope this would help lead to the PCs approaching encounters with more than just violence.

Sections like this are what I'm referring to when I say this book feels very friendly to new players. It's got little anecdotes and thoughts like this throughout.

Look, it's been a while since I've seen A Christmas Story but... it didn't have ghosts in it right?

There's a sample adventure in the back (which I'll skip for this read-through) plus loads of random tables. Some wonderfully bizarre stuff in the characters and faction tables. Really gives you a good idea for how gonzo you can go with the setting.

Love these two in particular

Optional rules include hard mode (which I just think is kind of funny to see in PbtA, but could be cool if you lean heavy into the post-apoc setting) and some optional moves. I like that some moves focus on romance, something I enjoy IRL but never think to focus on in games.

I was wondering why this was the sixth edition!

That's all for the book itself. Going back to the packet to dig into the things I missed. Some expected bits in here but always one or two unique options I really enjoy. Leaking hex is cool (and could have some troubling cascade effects in certain situations).

I definitely wish, at least in sitting down to read like this, that the contents of the player packet was also in the book itself. I think PbtA has this tendency of leading to loads of pages on the table, but it can make them very easy to pick up and play or to learn as you play.

That element is definitely here, but I think the vast number of wide-ranging moves and the excitement that would drum up in my player group would more than makeup for that initial overwhelming feel of "whoa, that's a lot of papers out on the table".

Overall, it's the most I've wanted to play a game in this style in a while. I like that the base setup for the world is very much up to the players to determine via the characters they make. I like that PCs here will probably feel unlike any other folks have played before.

The community aspect feels like where I'd want to center my story around, as a player. Seeing that shift and change over time feels like it would be very rewarding and would help lean into the "the old world is dead, what do we want the new world to look like?" theme I enjoy.

Because Aaron King is cool and recently hit a lot of Twitter followers, Patchwork Worlds is now Pay-what-you-want over on Itch.

I'm not sure if physical copies are readily available. For full disclosure (guess I should have said this up front), I got this copy for free from Aaron! Not for the purposes of this thread or anything, just for fun a while back.

Thanks for reading more ramblings from me! If you like to do that sort of thing, check out my newsletter - Missives from the MeatCastle. It's got writings on my work, cool stuff I've run across the web in the last month, and exclusive rpg stuff! https://meatcastle.substack.com

[hundredsspoons]

Nice Wizard of Oz reference

But seriously, Sunday had me rolling my eyes the whole story like he really was just spouting a bunch of religious drivel based on unprovable historical assumptions, fallacies, emotional extremes.... but that was the point, wasn't it? I don't want to say Sunday wasn't at fault here, because he is an adult and clearly extremely capable, but he was groomed from a very young age by Wood to be the sacrifice for Order. Wood picked up these orphans without any outside connections to raise, and even turned the simple act of finding a wounded bird into a lesson about the pointlessness of ambition (and thus the necessity for order). As the apparent(?) highest authority in Penacony, Wood no doubt played a crucial role in Sunday becoming a notpriest early in his career, where he learned about the dark underside of Penacony's dream economy, and then the head of the Oak Family. After the person closest to him left Penacony, Wood used it as an opportunity to isolate Sunday further from Robin by revealing how she was hiding her injury, (thus instilling the idea that she lies to Sunday/Wood tells Sunday the truth/the world is dangerous for Robin and needs Order). There's no way in my mind NO WAY that Wood thought for a SECOND that Sunday would let Robin become the chord master and trap herself for eternity in complete isolation. He was forcing a false binary where it HAD to be either Robin or him. And since Sunday couldn't let that happen to his sister, it had to be him. If Wood had genuinely wanted Robin to be the chord master, he could have easily trained her like he trained Sunday to embrace the Order, but there's no evidence that he so much as breathed a word to her about it.

I really love how Penacony has played around with the relationship between Christianity and consumerism and the cultishness of both, but like. I was interested in my own reaction because. I sympathized with Sunday's turmoil over the inequality of freedom and his obvious love for his sister, but I didn't really like him? His arguments were tired, his perspective was limited- frankly I found him kind of annoying. But yeah, that's because he was absolutely raised in a cult. And I didn't like him because he was saying and doing extreme things without any flexibility. Like a cult member. I had assumed that he was represented by the crow/raven in official art, but now that we know that's Wood, it means that Sunday is probably Also represented by the caged bird? And what an interesting concept. That the victim is mistaken for the abuser/manipulator. Because Wood hides behind the curtain while Sunday stands center stage espousing the unlikeable nonsense Wood has instilled in him. And thus takes all the heat. Of course, applying the label of Victim(tm) to Sunday would be really reductive; there's no denying he did horrible things, but like I really want to reflect on how my immediate reaction to his situation was kind of like, 'Who would be stupid enough to believe this nonsense?' instead of having any compassion or thoughtfulness about the wider context.

And I wouldn't be surprised if Sunday Did Know that Wood was doing all this. Like Sunday confronts him near the end, but I think Wood's teachings about the Order were just so engrained at that point that Sunday felt like he had independently come to the conclusion that Order was needed even if he knew Wood had been training him for this moment all along.

It's also interesting considering Sunday's thoughts on the strong and the weak. He views himself as someone strong enough to guide all of Penacony towards a perfect paradise and believes he has a responsibility to protect the weak from themselves and the harshness of reality, but Wood clearly singled him out as a vulnerable person. Firstly, because he was an orphan obviously, but Wood could have chosen to groom Robin instead. He knew that Sunday was the more susceptible child to his teachings of Order.

[kuroshitsuji-igurisshu]

G-fantasy April 2024

𖤐Hello everyone Kuronians𖤐

Today I would like to talk to you about this month's magazine where Yanuzza has brought this beautiful illustration on the cover. At first glance (even I thought so) it might seem like an uninteresting illustration, but if instead of looking at it we observe it, we can notice many interesting details.As I told you some time ago in the stories (IG), since the 15th anniversary the style of the illustrations has changed drastically so that there are two readings, which of course we also find here. On top of that, this illustration seems to be almost an anomaly considering that in 15 years, Yanuzza has never brought an illustration so "explicit" as to refer not only to the actual chapters but above all to the vibe of the work.

Starting by analysing Sebastian, we can see that his figure assumes a central role, in fact he is the first thing the eye rests on as he is the most imposing figure. Besides this motif, which already tells us a lot, it is interesting that he is not next to 'Ciel' but behind. He is not in a butler's position (butlers always stay a little behind their masters), rather he is anything but, as he is encompassing 'Ciel' to such an extent that the illustration becomes suffocating. Yanuzza has created a sort of private cage solely for 'Ciel' and, if you like, we can say that this pose of Sebastian's very much represents the figure of the guardian demon* (mind you, don't be fooled by the idyllic name) a figure actually present in Satanism.

The more I look at 'Ciel', the more I shiver at his tired posture. It is not simple tiredness, it is something deeper, like a stabbing pain in the chest that prevents you from breathing. This current state of his is intensified even more by the hunched position and, looking closely, you can see that although he is resting his chin on his little hand he occupies less space than expected, as if that tiredness (which personally seems more like depression to me) he does not want to show by withdrawing into himself, which he often does.Precisely for this reason, the other hand, the one holding the handle of the cup, is also very close to his body in an almost uncomfortable position, but one that allows him to 'shut himself in', especially because of the predominant figure of the demon invading his space.The space that Sebastian is occupying does not seem to be accidental, this because in proxemics it is called 'intimate space' a space that we only grant to a small circle of people (such as family) and yet, despite this, the demon hurls itself at him, enclosing him in a sort of prison emphasised by the arms that precisely encompass him, underlining once again the figure of the guardian demon. Moreover, the enclosed position of the human cub might also suggest fear or even discomfort at that inappropriate closeness.

In the first reading we can understand the peculiar as well as the obscure relationship between the two protagonists.

Among the most well-known meanings of the lily is that it represents purity and chastity, so much so that it is associated with the virgin Mary. As consistent as this may be (more or less, after all, kuro is not a Christian work), I do not think this is the main message Yanuzza wants to communicate to us. Besides that, the flower in question is often used in funerals, so much so that it has officially become Undertaker's flower. Speaking of the Undertaker... of Rich Black's illustration where the headless white horse token is seen, and considering that in this illustration Sebastian is not cutting the stem but the corolla, one would think that this could be the second warning for the Undertaker's imminent demise. After all, it was "Ciel" himself who revealed in the last chapter <this is the time for the revenge match> plus I'm pretty sure Seb is looking forward to clashing with the gravedigger considering what happened on the Campania.

Another very interesting element, in my opinion, is the scissors. Yanuzza could have drawn Seb with a knife being his favourite tool and yet, he drew a scissor. The latter, unlike the knife, has a different meaning: the knife kills; the scissors divides, separates. I wonder if this isn't a reference to the new season, to the fact that for the first time we had a clear separation with anime, so much so that you had to clarify the beginning of a new era by saying <the anime has nothing to do with me. My work, it's my manga> after all, the scissor puts an end to something, it breaks, and consequently creates a new order.

The most curious element is certainly the rose. I'll be honest, I haven't really understood what it is that he wants to communicate to us, also because I have the impression that in order to understand this element we need more information that we don't have at the moment.Having said that, the element of the red rose has always been more or less present in the work: in the cover of the manga there are brambles, Redmond seems to be the main bearer of this flower even if... a rather relevant character in my opinion could be Baron Kelvin, the very one who in the book of Circus revealed <the most beautiful roses are full of thorns> a phrase of ambiguous beauty that makes me think that he definitely knew more about Vincent. Maybe he'll come back to life? I'd love it, after all he was the only character who was entangled with the chaos of the cult and suspiciously was also an acquaintance of Vincent's.

This is not the first time that Yanuzza has included elements of Shakespeare in kuro, in fact, here I am attaching Shakespeare's poem entitled 'the fairest rose' where inside one can find some very interesting points that certainly refer to 'Ciel'. For the English poet, the rose is not just a flower, but a metaphor: the rose is always a rose, even if it should be called a table. So we are, and always will be, just ourselves, with all our strengths and faults. Perhaps with this sentence Yanuzza has tried to give importance to a child who has been neglected for far too long.

*If you are interested in learning more about the figure of the guardian demon, let me know in the comments!

If you are curious to see more of my posts, you can find me on IG as Kuroshiutsuji_itaru 😈

[eternal-echoes]

“I am thinking of the Gospel by the shores of the Sea of Galilee, where Simon, who Jesus was later to call Peter, and his brother Andrew, together with James and John, also brothers, all lived and worked as fishermen. Jesus was surrounded by the crowd who wanted to listen to his word. He saw those fishermen mending their nets beside the boats. He climbed on to Simon’s boat and asked him to put out a little from the shore. So it was that he spoke to the people sitting in the boat; Jesus addressed the people from the boat. When he had finished, he told Simon to put out into the deep and let down his nets. This request was a “trial” for Simon — listen carefully to the word: a “trial” — for he and the others had just come back from fishing all night with nothing to show for it. Simon was a sincere and practical man, and he immediately said to Jesus: “Master, we toiled all night and took nothing”.

This is the first point: the experience of failure. In your questions there was this experience: the sacrament of Confirmation, — what is this sacrament called? Confirmation... No! Its name has changed: the “sacrament of farewell”. They do this and then they leave the Church. Is this true or not? This is an experience of failure. The other experience of failure: young people aren’t in the parishes: you yourselves have talked about this. This experience of a failure, something that goes wrong, a disappointment. Youth looks ahead, but at times it happens to experience failure, some frustration. This is a trial and it is important! And now I want to pose a question to you; however, do not reply out loud but in silence. May each one one of you think in his or her heart, think of your own experiences of failure, think about them. It is certain: we all have such experiences, we all have them. 

We very frequently have this experience in the Church: priests, catechists, and animators tire themselves out, they spend so much energy, they put everything into it, and in the end they do not always see results that correspond to their efforts. Your “spokespeople” also said this in their first two questions. They referred to the communities where faith seems somewhat faded, where few of the faithful take an active part in the life of the Church, Christians are seen who are sometimes weary and sad and many young people move off after receiving Confirmation. The sacrament of farewell, of goodbye, as I said. It is an experience of failure, an experience that leaves emptiness and discourages us. Is this true or not? [Yes, the young people answer] Is it true or not? [Yes, they answer once again]. 

2. In the face of this situation you are right to wonder: what can we do? Of course one thing is to let oneself be overcome by pessimism and distrust. Pessimistic Christians: how awful! You young people can’t and mustn’t be lacking in hope, hope is part of your being. A young person without hope is not young but has aged prematurely! Hope is part of your youth! if you don’t have any hope, think seriously, think seriously.... A young person without joy and without hope is upsetting: he is not young. And when a young person has no joy, when he lacks confidence in life or loses hope, where can he go to find a bit of tranquillity, a bit of peace? Without trust, without hope and without joy? You know, the merchants of death, these merchants that sell death, offer you a way out when you are sad, when you are without hope, without trust and disheartened! Please don’t sell your youth to these people who sell death! All of you know what I’m talking about! You have all got it: don’t sell!

Let’s return to the scene of the Gospel: Peter, in that critical moment, takes a risk. What could he have done? He could have given in to weariness and to discouragement, thinking that it is pointless and that it is better to withdraw and go home. Instead, what does he do? With courage, he steps out of himself and decides to trust Jesus. He says: “Well, alright! At your word I will let down the nets”. Be careful! He does not say: at my strength, my calculations, my experience as an expert fisherman, but rather “at your word”, at the word of Jesus! And the result is an incredible catch, the nets are filled to the point that they almost tear.

This is the second point: trusting Jesus,trusting Jesus. And when I say this I want to be sincere and to tell you that I do not come here to sell you an illusion. I come here to say: there is a Person who can keep you going, trust in him! It is Jesus! Trust in Jesus! And Jesus is not an illusion! Trust in Jesus. The Lord is always with us. He comes to the shores of the sea of our life, he makes himself close to our failures, our frailty, and our sins in order to transform them. Never stop staking yourselves on him, over and over again, as good sportsmen — some of you know this well from experience — who can face the strain of training in order to achieve results! Difficulties must not frighten you but on the contrary spur you to go beyond them. Hear Jesus’ words as though they were addressed to you: put out into the deep and let down your nets, young people of Sardinia! Put out into the deep! Be ever more docile to the Lord’s word; it is he, it is his word, it is following him that brings to fruition your commitment to witnessing. When your efforts to reawaken faith in your friends seem to be in vain, like the nocturnal efforts of the fishermen, remember that with Jesus everything changes. The word of the Lord has filled the nets and the word of the Lord makes the missionary work of his disciples effective. Following Jesus is demanding, it means not being satisfied with small goals of little account but aiming on high with courage!”

-Pope Francis, MEETING WITH THE YOUNG PEOPLE, Largo Carlo Felice, Cagliari Sunday, 22 September 2013

[bluebunnyears-08]

The Possible Symbolism Of The Name Nine

Yeah, yeah, I know I already did an analysis of Nine but this just got stuck in my head and I needed to post this. I already did an analysis of what Nine represents, but I found another thing interesting and that's the act that they just named him "Nine".

One thing I learned is that SEGA name's their characters for a reason. Like, Sonic was named due to how fast he was (the term supersonic speed), Shadow was named due to being a complete opposite doppelganger to Sonic, Amy Rose (originally Amelia Rose) which Amelia is deprived of germanic meaning work, reflecting her hardworking personality and Rose, reflecting her everlasting love for Sonic.

While Tail's is a nickname, which basically comments on how he had two tails, his real name is Miles Prower (being a pun on "miles-per-hour", nice job SEGA).

However, Nine's name is just Nine in-universe. Just Nine and nothing else. But what does it reflect and say about him?

Nine is a cold, blunt, bad-tempered, emotionally distant, psychologically exhausted, love/touch-starved kit who had NOTHING until Sonic came. But what does the title Nine say about that?

Well, I did a lot of research and it turns out that naming him Nine has a LOT of possible symbolism.

Let's get the obvious out of the way, it's clear that the term Nine refers to his extra tails and also due to the fact that he was based on the Japanese folklore of kitsune. Kitsune when reaching the final stage of maturity gains nine tails, so it's perfect for a mature and tired variant of Tails.

But looking into the symbolism of the number Nine more I found a LOT more interesting things.

There's another belief in Japan that contains the number Nine. It turns out the Japanese word for Nine sounds almost exactly the same as the Japanese word for "Suffer" or "Torture", and as a result, the number is considered to be an unlucky number. From what we've seen Nine HAS suffered A LOT and most likely will continue to suffer, and he's a very unlucky variant of Tails.

Japan isn't the only one who thinks of Nine as an unlucky number. Some religions consider it to be bad due to it being one short of 10.

However in some religions, like Hebrew, Nine is a symbol of truth, and while it can reflect on how blunt Nine is, it can also become ironic if Nine refuses to accept the truth that Sonic can't ever be by his side in The Grim.

In numerology, the number Nine represents completion - not a final ending, but a fulfillment of one cycle. The number also represents world experiences. Not to mention many phrases such as "cats have nine lives", and "dressed to the nines" also seem to relate to the maximum or fullness of something when every effort has been exhausted. However there are bad traits to Nine, unrealistic standards (for self or others), or being prone to over-giving.

In Christianity, Nine symbolizes A LOT of things so bear with me here. In Christianity, the number Nine is considered neither good nor bad, rather very ambiguous (which relates to the moral ambiguity of Nine). It can be considered the number of destruction or illness, but it can also represent completeness or finality.

An interesting thing about the symbolism of Nine in Christianity is that while it is associated with the crucifixion of Jesus (Christ died at the Ninth hour) it's not considered bad because the death of Christ opened the gates of salvation for humankind.

According to the Christain God's Word, Nine represents judgment, patience, harmony, development, and creation. Nine holds a lot of judgment towards others, Nine while mild-tempered shows some patience with how he sticks with Sonic despite the hedgehog getting them into trouble, Nine doesn't show harmony but he might in future episodes, Nine develops a LOT in the show, and the creation one is his knack for inventing.

In folklore, the number Nine is considered to be Triple Perfection or Harmony x3. I'm not sure what this represents but I thought that was interesting.

There's a thing called the Day of Atonement, which occurs on the Ninth day of the seventh month (July), and is considered a holy day for the Jews in the Bible.

There are more things like Hoshea reigning Isreal for Nine years, or how the destruction of Jerusalem's temples on the 9th Av on the Hebrew calendar.

Whew! Ok, so those are the symbolisms of the number Nine I could find that could relate or possibly relate to this character. Sorry, it was so long, but I tried to put as much as I could from what I could find but I didn't want to turn this into some sort of religious lesson. If you guys somehow managed to get to the end, I hope you somewhat enjoyed it.