Jun 13
Fellas, is it gay to behead a sexy green giant who interrupted Christmas dinner with your bros and then offered you his axe?
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Fellas, is it gay to behead a sexy green giant who interrupted Christmas dinner with your bros and then offered you his axe?
Men be like “uwu let me steal the forbidden veil of a goddess that my crush is sexually attracted to and try wooing her by breaking into her room while flaunting said veil only to piss her off”…
🔍 Scene: “Who’s Obsessed Now?”
Therapy Session #9: “Holmes, Denial, and the Alchemist with a Pipe Dream”
Patient: Arthur Conan Doyle Affliction: Burnout, literary resentment, haunted by his own creation Therapist: Dr. Johann Faust Diagnosis: Terminal Sherlock Dependency (denied loudly, confirmed hourly)
Arthur lounged in the chair like it was a chaise at some Parisian salon, one leg draped over the other. “For god’s sake, can we talk about anything but Sherlock? Wine, women, your tragic haircut, take your pick.”
Faust didn’t glance up from his notebook. “You brought him up, not I.”
Arthur’s grin sharpened. “No, I brought up writer’s block. You’re the one scribbling Holmes fanfiction in the margins.”
Faust’s green eyes flicked upward, cool. “Classic fixation.”
Arthur gave a mock gasp. “Deflecting? In my therapy session? Honestly, Doctor, do you practice that eyebrow arch in the mirror, or does it come naturally smug?”
“You wear guilt like he wore tweed,” Faust murmured, jotting a note.
Arthur leaned forward, eyes bright with mischief. “And you wear desperation like a too-tight collar. At least he made it fashionable.”
“You keep metaphorically throwing yourself off cliffs to escape your own success,” Faust countered.
Arthur pressed a hand to his chest. “How dare you. At least push me off a better cliff next time. The man deserves style in death.”
Faust’s pen tapped against the page. “Defensiveness noted.”
“Smugness also noted,” Arthur shot back. “Careful, Doctor. If your ego gets any bigger, we’ll have to schedule a separate appointment for it.”
They locked eyes.
Arthur’s grin widened. “You know what your problem is, Doctor? You think you’re immune to deduction. But let me give you a taste.”
Faust narrowed his eyes. “…Do enlighten me.”
Arthur gestured lazily, enjoying himself far too much. “The shirt. Buttoned to the throat every day of your miserable immortal life, like a chaste librarian at war with the concept of skin. That’s not modesty, that’s repression.”
Faust’s pen froze mid-scratch. “…Excuse me?”
“And the hair,” Arthur went on smoothly, relentless. “You want it to read as ruffled genius, but it’s not. It’s controlled chaos chic. Every strand calculated with the precision of a man who’s solved alchemy but hasn’t solved his mirror anxiety. It screams: I transcended mortal vanity, yet god forbid anyone photograph my left side.”
Faust’s jaw tightened. “…Ridiculous.”
Arthur leaned back, eyes gleaming. “And then there’s the voice. You dress like a priest, Johann, but every word out of your mouth sounds like sin. Tell me, did you ever take vows, or did you break them before the ink was dry?”
Faust’s pen twitched against the page. “…Grotesque simplification.”
Arthur smirked like a cat with cream. “No, Doctor. Deduction. You wear your neuroses like tweed, your collar like celibacy chic, and your vocabulary like a brothel in disguise.”
“Tell me something,” Arthur added, grinning. “Do you own a pipe?”
Faust blinked, suspicious. “…For aesthetic purposes.”
Arthur clapped his hands, delighted. “Ha! That’s what every man says before the midlife crisis hits. Next you’ll be buying a violin and talking about the game afoot.”
Faust stiffened. “I am nothing like him. He is cold, clinical, emotionally distant,” a pause, “and adored. Universally respected. Mysterious. Iconic.”
Arthur smirked. “Go on, love, don’t stop now. You’ll convince yourself at this rate.”
Faust’s jaw ticked. “…Dick Mullen is superior.”
Arthur stared. “…Did you just compare my boy to a budget knockoff? Truly, I hope your mysterious pipe chokes on you.”
Faust’s lips curved faintly. “Too sophisticated a reference for you.”
Arthur groaned and dragged a hand down his face. “This is insufferable.”
Faust snapped his notebook shut. “Session over.”
From the doorway, Charles poked his head in. “Docteur! I heard the word obsessed and assumed it was about you again, oh! Is this the Holmes guy?”
Faust’s voice went flat. “Out, Charles.”
Arthur leaned back in his chair, grinning like a man who already knew the punchline. “Admit it, Doctor. You don’t want to be my therapist, you want to be my Watson.”
Faust glared. “…You brought him up.”
Arthur winked. “And yet here we are.”
He stood, straightening his coat with exaggerated flair. “By the way, Johann, next time you button that shirt all the way up, just remember: repression doesn’t count as fashion.”
Faust’s jaw tightened. “…Out.”
Arthur tipped two fingers to his temple in mock salute. “Case closed.”
His laugh echoed down the hall long after he was gone.
The door creaked again. Charles peeked in, beaming. “For what it’s worth, Docteur, I think the look is very priest chic. Someday repression might even be in fashion!”
Faust froze, green eyes narrowing. “…Out.”
Charles hummed cheerfully as he vanished.
📝 Session concluded.
📖 [Further case notes available in the Masterpost]
"The curtains are just blue" is a bad ideology but it is extremely funny to apply it to Octavia Butler books.
Your English Teacher: Bloodchild is about the line between a relationship with a power imbalance and r*pe
Octavia Butler: mmm fucked-up mpreg porn
find someone who looks at you the way oscar wilde looks at adjectives
Nobody:
Literally no one:
Not a soul:
Montresor:
Lonch!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
In today's myth ("The Necklace of the Brisings"):
Freyja is a cat lady confirmed (same tho)
Loki is bored so shit is going to go down
For fuck's sake Loki let a woman go jewelry shopping alone
Freyja has corvid-brain, confirmed (same tho)
Freyja has a boner for gold, the dwarves have boners for Freyja. A compromise is made.
Loki is a snitch
Loki is a rogue
Loki has Expertise and rolls a Nat20 for stealth
Odin slut-shames Freyja. I mean she did cheat on him but he seems more worried about the fact that it was dwarves and that she "sold herself". Bitch Heimdall slept with grannies while their husbands were in bed next to them and no one gave a shit about that
Freyja gives no shits
Freyja is willing to cause an eternal war between human kings for her necklace
That's literally it the story ends with her being like "Yeah sure I'll pit forty-two kings against each other and raise them from the dead eternally so they can keep causing this unending bloodbath but first gimme back my shiny"
I mean. Fair.