#A Plague of Righteousness

[alatariel-galadriel]

The greatest kindnesses you will ever receive are from absolute strangers. it will mean nothing to them and everything to you

[o-sachi]

Orter Madl Relationship Headcanons

ᯓ character; orter madl (mashle) ᯓ tags; fluff, sfw, gn reader, no y/n

[🐟]: Ngl, I had a hard time trying to make rs hcs for this guy because he's literally un-romanceable in reality SOB.

— I'm not sure how you managed to bag this guy. But... congrats. Like, truly, you deserve it. Up until dating you, this guy has never shown an ounce of interest in romance AT ALL. Perhaps you could say that his type is simply "you"?

— But maybe he gets into a relationship since it's transactional; he gets something from you and you get something from him. He has always been a rational person, so this is the only way he can rationalize something like "love" if he even believes in such a concept.

— Perhaps he'll give more of his time to you than any other person. Not that he expects you to feel special because of that. Though, somehow, the transactional relationship is able to blur some boundaries and help both of you ease into spending more time with each other.

— You don't know it, but he does look out for you, especially if he gets something from you that's really valuable. He'll always be on the look for anything that's bound to threaten your safety. There have also been instances when he butts into one of your fights.

— There isn't a day when he doesn't question you or your motives. Again, he tries to rationalize everything. So he can't make sense when you do things selflessly for him. What's the point if you don't get more in return? You confused him plenty and those thoughts plague his mind more than he'd like them to.

— One day, while spending time together, he'll be staring holes in the back of your head. What's he thinking? Well, let's just say he's having the biggest crisis of his life (having thoughts/feelings that cannot be rationalized). He'll be in a pissy mood for the rest of the day, but he takes it out on everyone else but you.

— The change of heart happens excruciatingly slow, but there will be signs. Perhaps you won't notice it at first, but certainly everyone else around the two of you can see it—clear as day.

— Eventually, he starts to see your values—not as a wizard—but as a person. Your strength, unwavering determination, and goal oriented mindset all seem quite alluring to him. It just never occurred to him before that these things could mean something else out of a fight.

— Through time, he'll just let himself be drawn to you. After all, there's nothing wrong about respecting someone who upholds justice and righteousness like he does. You're strong and can hold your ground. If anyone will take up space in his life—it might as well be you.

— His idea of softening up is showing you his tough love. He knows the types of things you get yourself into as a wielder of magic, so he reminds you to get stronger everyday even if it kills you. He'll practice with you and show no mercy. In his mind, he's thinking of wanting you to become self-sufficient to the point that you can handle yourself even without him by your side.

— He hates it when other people talk about you, even praises annoy him. But if he hears anyone insult you... they'll find themselves buried 6 ft. deep under sand. Without knowing it, he thinks so highly of you now—that if anyone were to utter the mere thought of you pisses him off. At this point, he lets you walk closely by his side so that everyone knows you are not to be messed with.

— You'll never hear him say the words, "I love you." But on a special occasion—like your birthday or your anniversary— he'll do something sweet for you (much to your surprise). You walk into his training grounds, a vast space with a bunch of sand. In the middle is a big heart made out of sand with him standing right beside it. Then he says something like, "Today's a special occasion hence the shape," or something unromantic like that lol.

o-sachi © 2024 pls do not translate/copy/reupload my work on other platforms.

[doomhands-jr]

The Devil's Advocate - Chapter 7

Pairing: Delinquent!Noah Sebastian X Pastor's Daughter!Reader

Summary: Noah is a delinquent with a lot of anger at the church. You're a pastor's daughter plagued by moral perfectionism, charged with overseeing the community service he's been sentenced to complete. You've never encountered true temptation before. How will you fare up against Noah, who not only isn't bound by the same rules of purity as you, but actively scoffs at them?

Rating: 18+ Minors DNI

Warnings: Angst, religious guilt, mentions of religious trauma, mentions of masturbation. Mentions of anti-choice propaganda.

Masterlist

Banner by @flowerynerds

Authors note: Maybe grab a cup of tea for this one.

_________

Noah Davis didn’t like to think of his actions in terms of morality. He understood that right and wrong were subjective. That life didn’t exist in binaries of good vs. evil, and that things like virtue and righteousness weren’t so easily defined. 

That didn’t mean there weren’t some steadfast rules he followed: 

Do his best to act in a way that aligns with his internal moral compass

Reduce harm much as possible

Do what’s best for the collective, while still keeping his best interests in mind

That line of thinking has served him well over the course of his lifetime. He’d freed himself from moral obligations and had done what he truly felt was best, and in doing so, he was able to walk through life with his head held high, standing by his actions. 

The idea that some of his behavior was sinful had not entered his mind since he formally left the church. 

But now, as he laid in bed, recovering from the tsunami of brain chemicals that just flooded his system, he felt like a sinner . 

The sin coursed through his body, sick and bittersweet. It flowed through his veins, infecting his cells and rotting his bones like a poison. Like a drug. 

He scrubbed a hand over his face, clammy palm meeting clammy forehead, cock still twitching with the aftershock. 

He’d expected you to put up more of a fight. He’d banked on you shutting him down, batting him away and telling him to behave himself, but you’d walked so willingly into his snare, so eager and needy, offering up yourself on a platter with almost no hesitation. 

It was a vile thing that you brought out of Noah. An ugly, profane creature that lurked in the shadows of his soul. He’d been aware of its existence in his periphery. It had been a sleeping beast. One he’d hoped he’d never have to contend with. 

But now? It had taken its first shuddering breath, and with it, thrown down its gauntlet. Its demand? You—not as a partner, but as a sacrifice. Sprawled out on an altar for it to consume and defile. To claim for the sake of hubris. 

Noah longed to find a way to cleanse himself—confess his sins and pray the rosary. Baptize himself in holy water. Take communion and walk forth a forgiven man. Would that be enough? 

War had been waged within Noah, and the odds were stacked against him. He was David, standing at the feet of Goliath. Jonah, staring down the gullet of the whale. 

He squeezed his eyes shut and the image of you at the apex of pleasure flashed across his vision. You’d made that offering to him. It was sacred. He’d cherish it for the rest of his life.  

_______

Noah had no holy water available to him to wash his sins away. He did have a hot shower, though, and at least that was a start. 

Turning on the water, he allowed the steam to gather in clouds around his bathroom. His skin had grown sticky with sweat, and his shoulders ached. As soon as he stepped under the spray, the tension began to dissipate. 

He pressed his forehead against the cool tile wall and allowed the stream to trickle down his back. 

He had a duty to himself—and to you. There was no denying his affection for you, but therein lied a glaring problem: you were ready for more. You deserved more. You deserved to push past these boundaries of purity and explore who you were outside of faith, and that made you vulnerable. Because whatever sickness lived inside Noah was itching to exploit that vulnerability. Not for your benefit, but for its own.

“Help me figure this out,” he whispered against the shower wall. It was a prayer in the most ironic sense. He wasn’t sure if he even believed in what he was praying to, but without any other ideas, it felt like the right thing to do. “I don’t want to hurt her, but I’m afraid.” 

He received nothing but silence in response. 

He scoffed at his own actions. What did he expect? Divine understanding? 

He grabbed the soap, lathering it up before scrubbing it over his disgusting, unclean body. Why did he even bother? He learned long ago that nobody was going to save him but himself. If he wanted his demons to die, he’d have to be the one to kill them. 

________

On a snowy Sunday morning, Noah didn’t have a church to attend, but he did have a pair of work boots, a heavy coat, and a trail through the woods that allowed him to commune with nature. 

He also had a pre-roll he stole from Nick, which he cupped against his jacket to light. It took a few tries. The wind wasn’t biting, but it was present, and it flickered the flame in his lighter. He eventually got it lit though, and he took a deep drag, holding the smoke in his lungs and waiting for it to take effect. 

Exhaling slowly through his nose, he closed his eyes to focus on the high setting in. His body began to lift, a warm, cloudy, hollow feeling expanding out from his chest to his limbs, and ten minutes later, the joint was spent and Noah was intricately connected to the forest around him.

He walked on the trail, delighting in the way the frozen leaves crunched under his boots. He forgot his gloves again, so he stuffed his hands in his pockets as he walked. 

You were probably in church right now. Might even be on stage leading the praise and worship music alongside Isaac, where you were safe. 

No, that wasn’t true. You deserved more than the life you’d find within the church. If you stayed put, you’d eventually find yourself on the arm of some 30-something with a trust fund and a perfect attendance record at Sunday school. You’d have to hide who you were from society, pretending to fit in where you didn’t belong. 

Noah dug his nails into the palms of his hands. He wanted you to have more than that, but he wasn’t the right person to give it to you. At least not in his current state. 

Giving up the idea of you was painful, yes. But it also gave him time to figure out how to contend with the ugly parts of himself. If he could let go of his desire for you, then he wouldn’t have to risk that part of him taking over. He could lock it back into the cage he’s kept it in for so many years and continue on in life as if nothing had ever happened. 

He’d never have to know that hunger again. 

He breathed in deep, allowing the frigid air to sting his lungs and throat. It wasn’t painful enough for him. He needed to toil and sweat and suffer to repent for his sins. He picked up his pace, letting his feet fall heavy onto the ground. Within a few minutes, his heart rate sped up, lungs stretching to accommodate his increased need for oxygen. All systems firing to pump fresh blood through his body. 

That helped. Maybe he could sweat the fever out. Force the toxicity to exit through carbon dioxide and leave it as an offering to the forest so it can convert it back to oxygen. 

He broke out into a run, thinking back to the time he caught you running in the rain and wondering if you’d been seeking the same energetic cleanse. 

You’d cried in his arms that night. 

He slowed his pace, down from a run to a jog. 

It was the first time he’d noticed something wrong—the first time he sensed that his control was slipping. 

A stray root caught his foot and he fell hard to the ground, catching himself with his palms and knees. He stayed there for a moment to assess his body and see if any damage had occurred, and when he found none, he rolled onto his back and laid in the snow and mud, stretching his arms and legs to the side and creating a snow angel. 

The snow fell lightly, catching on his eyelashes. He stuck out his tongue, allowing the tiny flakes to melt upon contact and tasting the nothingness of it all. 

He closed his eyes, and he was thirteen again. A nude magazine lay open on his floor. He’d just finished masturbating for the third time that day. Sobbing, he grabbed the leather belt hanging over his desk chair and whipped himself across the back with it. Harder this time than last. Perhaps with enough pain, he would learn his lesson. 

He bunched a shirt up and stuffed it into his mouth, biting down hard to muffle himself as he wept. God surely wouldn’t forgive him again after this. He would be sent to hell for being so unclean. 

For months, he’d tried to break this disgusting habit, but it was to no avail. He was sick and perverted, and lacked the self-control he needed to resist temptation.  

He didn’t want to go to confessional. He didn’t want to have to hear his priest’s disappointed voice telling him to say ten hail-marys. 

He took a deep, shuddering breath in, noticing how the icy air stabbed at his lungs. He didn’t want to dwell too long on that memory. He could already feel his throat constricting. 

It wasn’t until he befriended Ruffilo that he realized he wasn’t uniquely perverted. Ruffilo hadn’t been raised in a church. He talked about porn as if it was something exciting, rather than shameful. He’d been the first one to bring up the subject of masturbation, making casual comments and jokes about how often he got himself off. 

Ruffilo’s world—a world without shame—had been a foreign concept to Noah. After being exposed to it, he realized that faith and freedom were mutually exclusive. There was no way to balance the two, so he chose freedom and never looked back. 

Noah’s fingers found a frozen leaf. He caressed the edges, feeling how smooth they were and remembered brushing bits of leaves off your coat that time you’d jumped in the leaf pile. He remembered how you gasped when his frigid hands ghosted over the nape of your neck. He could have cut the tension with a knife. 

He couldn’t go back to the church. There was too much pain there to revisit. He cut off that part of him a long time ago, back when believing in God meant engaging in his own self-destruction. 

Being with you meant dipping his toes back in the water of religion. You and faith were a package deal. He knew that. You weren’t going to give it up any time soon, and certainly not for him. 

He closed his eyes again and felt the sting of saltwater. He wasn’t going to cry. He’d done enough of that in his adolescence. But the feelings were there, and they weren’t going to let him off the hook without being felt. 

It was you or self-preservation.

He inhaled deeply and forced himself back up, turning to start the long trek back to town. A conversation needed to be had. 

________

There was no priest to whom he could confess his sins, but there was Folio, and late on a Sunday afternoon, he could be found stoned in his room. 

“I fucked up,” he announced, standing in the doorway.

Nick was on his bed, controller in his hands and headset on. From where Noah stood, he couldn’t see the screen, but he guessed his friend was mowing down enemies in Call of Duty. 

“In the middle of something,” he said. “Give me a few.” 

Noah invited himself into the room and sat in Nick’s desk chair, observing the décor. Nick decorated his walls with posters of women in various states of undress. Some of them were holding fish. Others were posed on top of cars. 

His fishing rod and tackle box rested in the corner next to his desk. An electric drum kit lined the far wall. Clothes were strewn about the room, along with drumsticks, food wrappers, and half-empty water bottles. A few cans of beer spilled out of the overfull trash can. On the nightstand sat an ashtray with the spent ends of several blunts stuffed in the center. 

Quite the confessional booth. 

“What’s up?” he said, taking his headset off and turning his attention to Noah. 

“I fucked up,” Noah repeated. 

Nick blinked twice, but made no other movement. “Okay,” he said. “In what way?” 

“You already know.” 

“The pastor’s daughter?” Nick guessed, tilting his head lower to stare at Noah through furrowed brows. “Did you fuck her?” His tone was accusatory, and deservedly so. 

Noah shook his head. “Not exactly.” 

Nick turned on his bed to face Noah head-on. “What did you do?” 

Noah deliberated over exactly how much to tell his friend. What happened between the two of you last night was private and he didn’t want to share your business with someone else unless you said it was okay, but he needed to get some things off his chest. 

“So,” he began, taking a deep breath and shaking his head. “I think I need to stay away from her for a while. I’ve got some stuff to sort out and until I do, I might hurt her.” 

Nick gave himself time to fully process what Noah had just said. He inhaled deeply through his nose, letting his eyes drift away from Noah and relaxing his focus as he mulled it over. 

“You really care about her?” he asked. 

Noah nodded. 

“Want me to stay away from her, too?” It was an honest question, and Noah was suddenly struck with how much his friends cared about him. 

Noah squeezed and relaxed his hands a few times to increase circulation in his fingers. They were still cold from his walk. 

“No, actually. If anything, I think you’d be a really good influence for her. She could use someone like you.” 

Nick’s eyebrows pulled up in the center. He tilted his head to the side. “Why do you say that?” 

“She needs to have more fun,” he said. “She’s been repressed for a really long time and I think she’s ready to break out of that and live life.” 

Nick’s eyes went wide and he  pointed to his chest. “And you want me to be the one to help with that?” 

Noah didn’t want Nick to do that. The last thing he wanted was to see you enjoying yourself without him, but if it was between that and you staying miserable under the church’s influence, he at least wanted you to be happy. 

“I think you’d be good for her,” he said, working hard to make sure he didn’t sound bitter at all. 

“What if I fuck her?” he asked, his momentary sincerity seemingly over. 

Noah’s face dropped. “Don’t fuck her.” 

“But what if I do?” 

Noah clenched his jaw, grinding his molars together as he steadied himself. He knew Nick didn’t mean anything by it. He was just being himself and trying to rile Noah up, but Noah wasn’t about to give in. 

“Then make sure you’re on the same page with her about what it means. Don’t lead her on.” 

Nick chewed on his tongue. “Where is all this coming from?” He asked. “Why do you think you’ll hurt her?” 

“I guess,” Noah said, picking at a bit of dead skin on his lip, “It’s sort of just a gut feeling? I don’t know how to describe it, but there’s something in there that tells me I gotta sort myself out before I get involved with anyone.” 

Nick blinked up at his friend, softening. “I didn’t realize you were so serious about her.” 

“I don’t know what I feel,” said Noah. “I just need some time to figure that out.” 

“You okay?” he asked, hand coming up to scratch an itch at the back of his neck. 

Noah nodded. “I will be,” he said. It was true, he would be okay eventually. He was sure of that. He’d survived worse than this. He just needed to figure out what the best course of action would be. 

Nick’s eyes flicked back to the paused game on the screen. “So you’re saying it’s cool if I fuck her then?” he said. 

Nick could be a real asshole at times. He was abrasive by nature. Many found his personality overwhelming, but the ones who stuck around knew that he was an antagonist, not to be mean, but to challenge people—coax them out of their comfort zones and force them to confront their triggers. He wasn’t always right, and he often stuck his own foot in his mouth, but when he was right, he was so right, it made up for all the other times. 

This time, however, he used his skill to diffuse the tension. 

“Man, fuck you,” said Noah, slapping the ash tray off the end table. It tipped over sideways and spilled its contents onto Nick’s bed, coating his sheets with ash and spent roaches. 

“Bro!” Nick shouted, but Noah was already out of the room, hissing to himself with laughter, and Nick was too couch locked to chase him. 

________

“Noah said to tell you he’s sorry. He got called in for overtime again,” Nick said as he walked into the community center seven minutes late. 

Your heart sank. Not just because you wouldn’t get to see Noah, but because he could have easily texted this information to you himself. 

It was as you’d suspected. Noah was avoiding you.

Over the course of the week, you’d grown more and more stressed. Sunday was fine. You’d woken up feeling well rested, having dreamt of Noah throughout the night. At church, you couldn’t focus on any of the sermon because you were too consumed reliving the previous night. 

Monday came and went with no word from Noah. You thought for sure he would have texted you to say hi or check up on you. Some sort of acknowledgement that the dynamic between the two of you had shifted. But you’d also heard it was customary to wait three days. 

So you waited. 

By Wednesday, your patience had grown thin. You’d given him the benefit of the doubt, wondering if maybe he was nervous and waiting for you to reach out, so you had, sending him a casual hey . 

He never responded. You’d been checking your phone religiously over the course of the week, but it had been radio silence on his end. 

“Okay. Thanks for letting me know.” You kept a straight face and a steady voice while you spoke, but it took effort. “We’re supposed to be shoveling snow today but since there’s only us, I’m going to veto that.” 

Nick sighed in relief. “Thank god . I wasn’t built for the cold.” 

“Get inside,” you nodded towards the doors. “We’ll start with windows.” 

He offered up a salute and bounded through the doors, eager to escape the cold. 

As Nick got to work, you processed this information. 

Noah’s silence was deafening. 

Was this your punishment? Was God unhappy with your behavior and was this his way of letting you know? 

An element to this was fitting. This was the cost, you realized. This was the price you paid for giving into temptation. 

A bitter laugh escaped under your breath. 

Was the church right about everything? Was there a reason you shouldn’t fall into temptation? 

Maybe Hell did exist—and it wasn’t a lake of fire, but the absence of Heaven after you’d already tasted it.  

Even after everything, you probably would still have done it all over again if you had the opportunity. He’d introduced you to a part of yourself that had been dormant for a long time and for that, you were grateful. 

But the price was steep. 

Your biggest regret was that you hadn’t even gotten to touch him before it was all over. You felt so stupid. Why couldn’t you have held out a little longer? Resisted temptation until you had him fully within your grasp? 

But then again, perhaps the loss of him would be even more painful, wouldn’t it? 

You sighed and stretched your arms up, resting your forearms on your head as you observed Nick spraying down the windows with cleaner. 

You could get through this. It would be hard, but it was within your grasp. People have survived much worse. In the grand scheme of things, this heartache was minor. It would hurt for a while, but eventually you’d recover and life would go on. 

It was just a matter of getting to the other side. 

You wanted to remember this pain. Savor the full impact and hopefully this would be the only time you needed to learn this lesson. You’d grow, heal, and move on a better and stronger version of yourself. 

Eventually. 

Right now, you needed to focus on the task at hand: overseeing community service without getting yourself into any more trouble. And that’s what you were going to do.  ________

That did prove to be a tougher job than you anticipated. Nick was charismatic as ever and kept trying to get your attention. 

You’d throw him a bone every once in a while, if only because it genuinely did lift your spirits to be around him. He was a much safer presence. 

“How many weeks do I have left?” 

You were strewn across the back pew, doing your best not to wallow, but failing pretty spectacularly, when Nick’s voice broke you out of your ruminations. 

“I’m not sure,” you said, sitting up and looking at him. He leaned casually against the back of the pew, rag thrown over his shoulder. His fingers tapped a rhythm on the wood. “I have it written down somewhere. I’d have to look.” 

“Can you let me know next week?” he asked, bouncing on his heels. You could see what attracted Ava to him so much. 

“Yeah.” 

“Or actually, maybe this Friday. Isn’t that when your Christmas thing is?” 

You blinked stupidly up at him. You’d forgotten all about the upcoming showcase. 

“Oh, yeah. It is. I didn’t realize you knew about it.” 

“Yeah,” he said, and then shifted on his feet as if he was trying to figure out a way to avoid saying that Noah told him about it. Which would mean that Nick was also aware of the awkwardness between the two of you. 

“Were you thinking of going?” you asked. “You don’t have to.” 

“I thought it might be fun to see you sing,” he said, voice soft and lips smiling.  

You were momentarily taken aback. You didn’t think Nick cared about anything you were doing. The thought that he might be interested in your life outside of community service was one that hadn’t crossed your mind. 

“Really?” you asked. 

He looked side to side and nodded, as if it should have been obvious to you. 

“Nick, that would mean so much. I would love for you to come.” 

“Good,” he said, a self-satisfied smile back on his face. “But try not to suck or I won’t be donating anything.” 

You snorted loudly. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.” 

“Anytime.” 

The conversation died down, and you could feel the elephant in the room rearing its head. 

You could ask how Noah was doing. It wouldn’t be too out-of-character. But you’d give yourself away easily if you did. 

Besides, nothing good would come of it. If Noah wanted to contact you, he would. If he didn’t, then he was just someone you needed to get over. 

Nick lingered, just as hesitant to leave the conversation. 

“You doin’ okay?” he asked. 

You sighed, leaning into the back of the pew. “Yeah,” you said. “I’m fine.” 

“Wanna talk about it?” he asked. 

You rolled your head across the pew to look over at him. His face held a neutral expression, but there was softness in his eyes. 

“Maybe some other time,” you said. “Thank you, though.” 

“No problem,” he said. “I’m here if you need me.” He punctuated it with a squeeze to your shoulder and your hand came up to clasp over his on its own accord. He was warm, and truth be told, you really needed the gesture. 

Perhaps you’d be okay. 

_______

“And there were no signs prior to this?” 

“No,” you said, collapsing on Ava’s bed while she worked on her Contemporary Art project from her desk. It looked like a big lump of Styrofoam. She held a strip of sandpaper, rubbing it back and forth over a corner and causing little pieces to flake off and litter the desk and floor beneath her. 

“And neither of you talked beforehand about what it would mean?” 

“No,” you grumbled, recognizing your first mistake. You absolutely should have talked about what it meant for the both of you before doing anything, and you can’t understand why you’d been so foolish to skip over that. “It just sort of…happened?” 

Ava fixed you with an imploring stare. 

“Babe, I’m really sorry that you got hurt, but. I don’t know,” she began. “Aren’t you always the one preaching about that kind of thing? It seems like you could have used a little bit of your own advice, don’t you think?” 

You turned over and let out a loud groan into Ava’s pillow. 

“Not helping.” 

“I know, I know. That was probably insensitive. I just,” she trailed off, turning back to her project. “Maybe this was a lesson you needed to learn? Not to look down on others for the things they struggle with. And maybe also to recognize that we’re all human. We’re all sinners. Even you?” 

You pouted. “You really think I needed to learn that?” 

“You’ve been known to judge in the past.” 

“I’ve been better about that!” you said, throwing your hands up in the air. 

“I know,” she said. “I know you have.” She pouted back at you. “Maybe I’m not the best person for this kind of talk.” 

You sighed, crossing your arms over your stomach. “No, you’re fine. I think I’m just feeling sorry for myself is all.” 

Ava got up from her desk, brushing as many Styrofoam flakes from her clothes as she could, and crawled into her bed with you, wrapping her arms around your shoulders. You melded into her touch. “You’re allowed to feel hurt. He did send you mixed signals.” 

“What about you and Nick?” you asked. She chewed on her lip for a moment. 

“Nick and I…we talked about it beforehand. We knew it was just for that night going into it.” She rested her chin on your shoulder. 

“You didn’t want to pursue anything more?” 

Ava shrugged beside you. “Neither of us is looking for anything.” 

You leaned your head on her shoulder. It would have been nice had you had the same disposition going into the encounter with Noah. You could have just enjoyed it for what it was and then went your separate ways without any complicated feelings. You admired Ava’s ability to do that. 

“You’re right,” you said. “We should have talked about it beforehand. Made sure we were on the same page.” 

You turned to bury your face in her shoulder, squeezing your eyes shut to keep any tears from escaping. 

“It doesn’t always work out that way,” she said. “Don’t judge yourself for your mistakes.” 

She stroked your back as you failed to prevent your eyes from leaking. “Is it okay if I cry on you?” you asked, voice muffled by her shirt, a stray piece of Styrofoam finding its way into your mouth. 

“Babe, of course. I’m here for you.” 

You nodded into her shoulder, allowing the first of many sobs to fall. She continued to stroke your back, soothing you as you wept. 

It hurt. You’d trusted Noah to care for you. You never would have believed him to be the type to get what he wants and then not call. 

Plus, he still had five weeks of community service (you’d checked), and there wasn’t any way he could get out of that. 

“How am I supposed to face him on Saturday?” you whined. 

“Hmmm,” she said. “Is Folio talking to you?” 

“Yeah,” you sniffed. “He’s actually been really nice.” 

“What if you just talk to him? Use him as a distraction so you don’t have to talk to Noah. Who knows? Maybe having fun with him would help you move on.” 

You pulled away to look at her. 

“You mean like…?” you trailed off. 

She laughed. “I’m not saying have sex with the guy,” she said. “I doubt he’d do that since Noah’s like, his best friend. But he’s a good guy and he’s fun to be around. And you could use that kind of energy in your life.” 

You sniffled again and let your head drop back down to rest on her, spitting out another fleck of Styrofoam. It truly was everywhere. 

You doubted that hanging out with Nick would help you get over Noah. If anything, it would just remind you of him. But you did need more friends in your life, and he was someone you could see yourself getting along with. 

Perhaps focusing on your friendships would help. You squeezed Ava’s middle. 

“I love you,” you said. “Please be my friend forever.” 

She breathed softly, squeezing you back. “If you play your cards right.” 

______

Friday’s showcase had a much larger turnout than expected. People lined the pews and even stood in the back after all the available seats had been filled. You peeked through one of the side doors that entered onto the stage and saw Nick sitting in a middle row. Ava sat a few rows in front of him. She caught your eye and gave you a big thumbs-up for good luck. 

Your eyes scanned over the crowd, searching for a tall, tattooed figure and coming up short. 

He said he was going to come. He was the one who had pressed you for the information in the first place. 

You looked down at your phone screen. 6:53. He still had seven minutes to make it. 

You exhaled a deep breath and shook your hands out, trying to calm your nerves. 

“Want to pray?” came Isaac’s deep voice to your right. You looked over to find him standing quite close to you. His usual v-neck and beanie had been swapped out for a white button-down and black tie, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His hair was tied neatly in a bun atop his head. 

“Sure,” you breathed, figuring you could use some prayer. 

He grasped your hands in his. His were warm. Steady. They helped to soothe your nerves. 

“God,” he began, “please watch over us and guide us as we work to spread the good news of Jesus’s birth. Let us not falter. Allow our voices to ring true and fall on ears willing to hear. In your name. Amen.” 

“Amen,” you repeated, working hard not to roll your eyes. 

It wasn’t that you didn’t appreciate the prayer. It was just that Isaac talked as if he were living a hundred years ago, trying his best to sound profound, and you weren’t entirely convinced it was solely for God’s listening pleasure. He was a performer, after all. 

He squeezed your hands, smiling. “Almost time. Are you nervous?” he asked. 

“A little bit,” you said, noticing the discomfort in your gut. 

“Don’t be. You’ve got this. It’s just the one solo and then you’re in the choir for the rest of it.” His thumbs rubbed over the backs of your hands, and you were about to pull your hands away from him, but it actually was quite soothing. He seemed like he genuinely cared about you. And he smelled nice. Some sort of expensive-smelling cologne that was the complete opposite of whatever spiced oil Noah wore, but in a really good, clean way. 

“You look great, by the way,” he added, taking a step back and giving you a once-over. “I like the dress.” 

The dress in question was a high-necked A-line in a bright shade of red to match the holiday theme (Christmas theme, your father would correct you, because apparently no other holidays existed to him). 

You wore a dark green cardigan overtop, along with a gold necklace and black heels. Your lips were painted to match the dress. It was the most dressed-up you’d been since last Christmas. When you chose the outfit, you were still under the impression that a certain tattooed someone would see it. 

“Thanks,” you said. 

You could tell by the way Isaac lingered that he wanted to continue the conversation, but you didn’t feel much like talking. Needing an exit, you excused yourself to go get a drink of water. 

Weaving through other soloists and members of the church choir, you made your way down one of the two hallways that flanked either side of the main sanctuary. You rounded the corner, where one of the members of your church’s worship band—Darian—was passing out programs for the event. 

“Hey! You ready for your solo?” he asked when he saw you. 

You smiled, breathing out a nervous laugh. “Yeah,” you said, scanning the stragglers still arriving for any sign of Noah. 

“I’d be nervous if I was on first,” he said. You took your eyes off the latecomers and looked to find him smiling encouragingly at you. 

“Yeah,” you said, shifting your weight awkwardly. “Isaac insisted for some reason that I open.” 

Your stomach sank even more. You couldn’t see Noah anywhere. 

“He mentioned it was because your song would set the tone for the evening,” said Darian, but you were only half-listening. “Do you want one of these?” 

You looked back at him. “What?”

He held out a program for you to take. “In case you wanted to keep it. For posterity, or scrapbooking or whatever.” 

“Yeah, sure,” you said, grabbing it without really thinking. 

Your emotional bandwidth had been all but used up, chest tight and head foggy. You felt bad that you weren’t really engaging in conversation, or even paying attention to it for that matter, but hoped Darian would forgive you. 

Sensing that you weren’t in the headspace to talk, Darian wished you luck and went back to handing out programs. You thanked him and continued walking across the foyer and down the opposite hallway with no real destination in mind. You were to go on in less than a minute. 

You shook your head, trying to get out of it and into your body. You needed to connect with your voice in order to perform, but you couldn’t seem to steady your breathing. 

The sanctuary was laid out in a rectangle, with the foyer lining the back, hallways with classrooms running the length of either side, and then a room behind the main stage, so from where you stood at the end of the hall, you could see through the windows of the doors to the stage that the lights had dimmed. 

Isaac walked out to the center of the stage from the hallway opposite you. A spotlight appeared on him, and with an abundance of charismatic charm, he thanked the audience that had gathered, before leading them in yet another prayer to bless the evening’s performance and to let God’s will be done. 

Throughout the entirety of his introduction, you’d zoned in and out. Your nerves ate at you, consuming your focus and leaving you feeling detached from your surroundings. 

You’d performed this song a dozen times at least, and in front of much of the same audience, too. You performed every week in front of the congregation on Sundays. Perhaps you’d struggled with stage fright at one point in your life, a decade ago when you were still fairly new to performing, but these days you were at-home in front of a microphone. 

And yet. 

Your knees shook. A cold sweat had broken out on the back of your neck, and your stomach clenched and released several times in quick succession. 

“Ladies and Gentlemen, please enjoy O Holy Night, performed by my dear personal friend, and co-leader of our praise and worship team,” Isaac began. 

You heard your name being called, snapping you out of the haze. 

The audience applauded. Isaac gestured to the doorway opposite you, where he assumed you would be entering from. 

Taking a deep breath, you opened the door and walked to the center of the stage. Isaac turned when he heard the doors open, looking caught off-guard for a moment, but he recovered quickly, gesturing to you and clapping to signal to the audience that they should keep their applause going. 

He slowly backed away and gave you a double thumbs-up before exiting the stage. 

Recognizing you were still holding the program Darian had handed you, you clasped your hands behind your back and stepped up to the microphone. 

The soft piano intro played out over the loud speakers. You closed your eyes and inhaled deeply. 

O holy night,  

The stars are brightly shining,  

It is the night of our dear savior’s birth.  

The first note came out shaky. You’d pushed too hard with your diaphragm, allowing more air than was needed to pass through your vocal folds. You closed your eyes and focused on breath control, feeling the spotlight heat your skin. 

Long lay the world 

In sin and error pining  

‘till He appeared and the soul felt its worth.  

Back in the late 1843, a church in the south of France had its organ renovated. After the renovations were complete, the church reached out to a French poet by the name of Placide Cappeau, asking him to write a poem that could be used as a hymn. In response, Cappeau penned the first iteration of O Holy Night.  

Placide Cappeau was a known atheist.  

A thrill of hope. The weary world rejoices  

When the Catholic Church got wind of an atheist creating a Christmas carol, they did their best to bury the song. They claimed it lacked musical flavor. At the time, the idea of all men and women owning souls was highly radical. 

For yonder breaks a new and glorious morn.  

O Holy Night has since become one of the most popular Christmas carols known to western society, thanks in part to John Sullivan Dwight translating it to English in 1855. 

You knew this, because you’d written a history of the carol for an end-of-semester project back when you went to high school at Calvary Baptist. 

Fall on your knees. O hear the angel voices,  

At the time, you’d wondered how an atheist—someone who, in your mind, stood against everything you stood for, could write such a beautiful song that touched the hearts of you and so many others. 

O night, divine. O night, when Christ was born.  

How could someone with no connection to God write something that so clearly captures the essence of the Holy Spirit?

You chanced a look out at the crowd, once more searching for the familiar face you so wanted to see. The atheist who understood more about Christ’s love than so many in the church ever would, and found no sign of him. 

You squeezed your eyes shut, preparing for the high note that signaled the climax of the song. 

O night, O holy night. 

Your voice rang out, loud and with a pleasing vibrato you’d finally learned to control three years ago. You paused for effect. The music cut out, and you sang the last line. 

O night divine!  

It was over. You’d done it. The piano melody came back in for the closing notes, and you curtseyed elegantly as the crowd applauded. 

You exited through the same doors you entered, heading straight for the restroom so you could take a moment to yourself before you had to be back on stage in the choir for O Come All Ye Faithful.  

Placing your program on the sink counter, you ran your hands under cool water, intending to splash some on your face when a small blurb on the bottom of the pamphlet caught your eye. 

Collection plates will be passed around. Please help us save countless unborn lives by making a donation. 

Unborn lives. 

Isaac was donating the proceeds to a pro-life organization. 

You’d been unknowingly roped in to an anti-choice fundraiser. 

A wave of anger erupted from deep within you, washing over your entire body and pulsating through it. 

You snatched the program from the counter, storming out the bathroom, across the foyer, and to the adjacent hallway Isaac stood at the end of. 

“What the Hell, Isaac!?” you near-shouted, bounding toward him. 

Isaac’s eyes widened upon your approach. He took several steps back, running into two of the other choir members, but it wasn’t enough. You slammed the program into his sternum. 

“Whoa!” he said, grasping the program you’d thrust at him with one hand and holding the other out to keep you from coming any closer. “Where’s the fire?” 

“What is this?!” you said, stabbing the program on his chest with your finger where the blurb appeared. 

He looked at you bewildered, then down to where your index finger pushed into his chest, and then back to you like you were a mad woman. “We said we wanted to give the proceeds to charity.” 

“Yeah,” you said, ripping the program out of his hand and throwing it down at his feet. “Like a soup kitchen or a toy drive. Not to Life Alliance!” 

Isaac’s eyebrows pulled together in blatant confusion. “What’s better than saving innocent lives?” he said. 

“Oh my God,” you scoffed, not caring whether or not it counted as taking the Lord’s name in vain. 

 Suddenly all the air in the room felt like it had been vacuumed out and you found yourself struggling to breathe. 

Taking a step backwards, it dawned on you that this was your limit. The church had compressed you your entire life, and you’d finally reached your breaking point. “I can’t participate in this.” You said it not to Isaac, but to yourself. “I have to go.” 

“Hey! Hold on,” Isaac said. “You can’t leave. You’re our first soprano. We need you for the high G.” 

You shook your head, turning on your heel. You wouldn’t have been able to hit that note even if you wanted to with how your throat was constricting. 

“We can talk about this. Maybe we can do more than one charity,” he said, but you were already halfway down the hall, tears threatening to spill over. 

The heels you wore made it hard to run down the icy sidewalk, but run you did. Down the sidewalk, down the street. You didn’t stop running until you’d put several blocks between you and the church. 

You’d once thought of it as a sacred place—a home away from home. 

Now, the only time you felt at home in it was on Saturday mornings, sharing the space with two delinquents who didn’t even believe in God. 

Nowhere felt sacred anymore. 

Nowhere except the shed in the backyard of Jolly’s house. But you were cut off from that now, too. 

Where did you belong now?  __________ How are we all feeling after that? Also, if anyone has any artistic skills and would like to help me make a moldboard or a banner or something for this story, I would be forever grateful!

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[twasjane]



Plenty of other people, myself included, have noted the similarities between Angua and Vimes, not to mention Sir Terry clearly liked writing both characters.

So, Terry Pratchett- especially towards the end of his life- was pretty open about how much he began to feel connected to the way he wrote Sam Vimes. He was a VERY angry man.

And he chose to write Angua as very angry too. Prickly, sarcastic, very clever, scared of her own monstrousness and, crucially, has "a soft spot for the under dog".

From what I can tell, the characters he liked writing the best (and arguably had the author's voice) were either deeply righteously angry, plagued by a feeling of always performing something in order to stop others finding out they're a huge fraud or a bit of a snarky coward.

And, I mean, I can relate honestly.

[dailyadventureprompts]

Deity: Heironeous, The Vindicator

Let our hands never falter, sparing evil the sword Let our hearts never waiver, letting weakness take root Let our march never end, lest the task be left undone

Champions, zealots, fools. All these words describe the followers of Heironeous; patron god of those blinded by duty and self righteousness. From the guards who rough up vagrants for the sake of social order, to the patriotic songs sung by soldiers on the way to invade a land they've never seen, to the teacher who’s convinced they can instruct through pain, because sparing the rod really does spoil the child.

It is a terrifying thing after all to be in the wrong, to have no easy answers, to be filled with doubt, and so the Archpaladin and his clergy intercede to provide the fearful populace with direction, with easy answers, and with scapegoats when necessary.

Adventure Hooks:

The party are asked by some troubled parents to look in on the local chapterhouse of the Invincible Vanguard, who took over for the town's royal garrison some years ago. A number of youths, bored of life in their sleepy little town decided to sign up with the Vanguard a few months past and have not been seen since. The Heironeian are cagey to say the least, but through their investigation the party might stumble across the same awful secret the kids did during their initiation, as well as their ultimate fate.

A beast rampages through the countryside, sowing fear, destruction, and rumour wherever it goes. Defeating it is no easy task, but one of the local lords is willing to pay a high price should the party bring him its head as proof. Imagine their surprise when a few days later a group of Heironeian paladins are paraded through the street carrying THEIR trophy aloft, claiming all the credit and with that same lord backing their claims. It seems the party has been part of a cruel PR stunt, however will they make this right?

A series of inexplicable mishaps and borderline disasters that plague a frontier village have come to a head with one of the Vindicator's itinerant preachers convinces the locals that devilry is the source of their woes, pointing the blacksmith's tiefling apprentice. It's up to the party to prevent the kid from getting strung up, and make the villagers see reason before there's an out and out witchhunt on their hands.

Setup: From the outside, with the perspective of history, it’s easy enough to see that there’s something wrong with faith of Heironeous, how their temples and icons venerate violence, whether it be martial glory or the suffering of martyrs that needed to be avenged. How their liturgy teaches the faithful that sympathy to outsiders, questions to authority, even the smallest of doubts are weaknesses to be overcome.

But the Heironeans are the ones fighting off the monsters encroaching on your village when the baron won’t pay for garrisons or adventurers, and it’s their priests who come to hand out food to the hungry and say there’s work the town over building their new fortress, and it’s their inquisitors who stand in the market square telling the crowd that all the awful things that happened these past few years is the fault of sinful, faithless rulers, and if only they could be led by righteous men (and it is always men) and expel the social parasites then truly this realm could be one beloved by the gods. 

That’s the grift, the Heironeans seize on a crisis or a fear and offer to put your life on a better track, nevermind that it’s a permanent war footing where you and your family and neighbours are conscripted to roles based on how you’d be most useful, and disagreement amounts to insubordination.

Heironeans say they’re justified of course because evil is always out there, the one true evil, Hextor, the grotesque, six armed lord of bloodshed and suffering who wishes to make slaves or corpses of all the world and the heavens besides. He is jealous of Heironeous you see, his twin brother, who is propheciesed to be the only one who can defeat him. Hextor never rests, always spawning more evil in the world, and anyone could be his follower without even knowing it... all they’d need to do is work to subvert the will of the archpaladin and they’d be abetting the scourge.  You don’t want to be an agent of evil do you? Then tithe to the church, enlist in the vanguard, obey your betters, marry early and within your kind and have more children to carry on the fight when you are too week, raise them up right, kneel when you are told, submit. Do all these things and the Vindicator will know you are good, and worth fighting for, and will forgive your mortal failings. 

There is a deeper lore, behind even what the faithful or even most of their leaders know:  that Heironeous and Hextor are the same being. Sometimes it is the monster wearing the golden hero like a mask, sometimes it is the bright and radiant warrior casting a most wicked shadow, sometimes it is simply that the god of war and slaughter has two faces, fair and foul, both righteous, both tyrannical, both hungering for blood.

The cult of Hextor is a secret order within the faith, membership offered only to those chosen by their god or those that see the worship of the archpaladin for what it really is: Violence for the sake of power, power for the sake of violence. They are secretive, deflecting rumours of their existence onto puppets and figureheads that they manipulate, going so far as to create false-cults to the Scourge to draw the faithful’s attention and ire. Any fault in the church can be blamed on Hextorian infiltration, any opponent that challenges them is but an agent of the Scourge.

  Titles:  The invincible, the vindicator, the archpaladin / the scourge, the herald of hells

Signs:  Oddly serene visions of violence and pain, wounds or blood on the image or relics of martyrs or weapons of champions, prophetic nightmares about the victory of Hextor.

Symbols:  A white hand or clapsed around a silver lightning bolt/ a black gauntlet clutched around six red arrows

Inspiration: Cruelty cloaked in the guise of righteousness is not an original concept but after writing  about how d&d has weird habit of using a frankly childlike view of morality in order to justify its violence  the same way that IRL hategroups do, I wanted to play around with the concept. 

Likewise, I felt my campaigns needed a solid “badguy with the aesthetic of goodguy” villain and I was tired of using overzealous followers of the dawnfather or bahamut to fill out the roster.  Specifically, rather than bad people in service to an ostensibly good god (who are objectively real in the setting and thus would try to oust the bad apples), I wanted to create an evil god that used the trappings of goodness to dupe average people into doing bad, the same way that has happened over and over again historically in our own world.

 I ended up choosing Heironeous for this villain makeover because like a lot of other default d&d deities I find the base form of him painfully one note, he’s the paladin god of paladins and he has hero IN HIS NAME. That said, he has a twin brother Hextor, god of war and tyrants that serves as his dark mirror and there’s thematic meat in that... Merging the two into one god gives us this delicious setup where the theology of Heironeous creates the problem and sells the solution, benefiting no matter who wins in the supposed cosmic power struggle.

Art

[scribblestatic]

Heeey back with some more Amputee SY. I think I may write more for Sheepzun soon, too. Eh, I'll figure it out.

Anyway, narratives are paused for now and we're back to summary drabbles :D

Prev: Part 9

---

After all that, Luo Binghe did in fact finalize his divorce with Qiu Haitang. She went with the Cang Qiong group when they left, a new member under Qi Qingqi's tutelage, cursing Shen Jiu's name the whole time and vowing to murder him.

Her vows quieted rather quickly after she began having strange dreams of her brother tormenting her. Despite only experiencing the incidents through dreams, she would wake screaming and proclaiming that her brother wasn't like that.

Those protests also faded, making way, instead, for confusion as to why Shen Jiu never killed her, considering how her punishments in his body occasionally came because of a comment she made. So, she too had been an instrument in Shen Jiu's suffering.

By that point, though, she was already back at what remained of Cang Qiong Sect, burrowing deeply into Xian Shu's female-only population, having gained a temporary but fervent fear of men. And, from the outset of their last attempt, no one of their peak was to contact the Empress of the Merged Realms on any personal level.

He was pretty well firm in his assertion that he wanted next to nothing to do with them for a long, long time, if not for the rest of any of their lives.

At the same time, Cang Qiong Sect's reputation took one hell of a blow. Among demons, well, they were already pretty bad, so it wasn't much worse. No it was the remaining cultivation sects that took the opportunity to voice their dissatisfaction.

Of course, it was a well-kept secret back then that Shen Qingqiu was plagued by frequent qi deviations. The fact he managed to survive them all out of pure will was admirable. But, if his sect siblings knew he had once cultivated the demonic path by force under Wu Yanzi, why hadn't their previous generation or their current one done anything to help cleanse his body and meridians before attempting spiritual cultivation?

Given, it wasn't exactly common practice for a rogue demonic cultivator to try joining a sect, already deep into their devious ways. But the fact Shen Qingqiu had turned a new leaf should have been celebrated, should it not? Instead, his sect didn't give him proper care and let him fester.

The humans who relied on cultivation sects didn't quite allow these details to stop them from calling on Cang Qiong. However, their reputation as a righteous group had not only been smeared, but filthied. As it turned out, despite their talks of righteousness, Cang Qiong Sect was no different than the smaller sects who were more secular and only professed righteousness while plotting and scheming on the inside.

It took Cang Qiong Sect down from it's elevated status. They were now, simply, normal but numerous and large. But normal all the same.

Yue Qingyuan's kind demeanor shifted. He wasn't any less kind than before, but he was, perhaps, less approachable. Without Shen Qingqiu or the ghost of what "he'd done" haunting the sect, he no longer had anyone to apologize for but himself. His mistakes became all the more evident, and his impulsiveness all the more detrimental.

But, as he'd promised to Shen Yuan, he was working on himself to fix that. That included getting help for the binding of his soul and sword, a demonic cultivation tactic he'd used to try to reach Shen Yuan faster, only to hinder himself even longer. Mu Qingfang headed the studies into his recovery...as well as studies into treating qi deviation symptoms from dual path cultivation issues. After all, perhaps as karma, Yue Qingyuan had begun to suffer from them as well as he began to undo the damage he did to himself.

Unlike with Shen Qingqiu, Cang Qiong Sect carefully rallied around him for support.

Perhaps it was because he was the sect leader. Perhaps it was because their own sins had been laid bare. Perhaps it was because they, too, wanted to make amends with themselves.

Whatever the reason, they would deal with it on their own.

...Of course, Shen Yuan was, generally, unaware of these details.

He'd made it a point to ignore anything and everything to do with Cang Qiong Sect for at least the next three years. Unless it was of severe import, of course. As lazy as he was, he would be taking his job as empress seriously.

('...Lazy where?' his attendants wondered, watching as he held two scrolls open and wrote in another with his qi, writing down every detail he knew of what flora and fauna could help reduce deviation symptoms from dual path cultivation despite the fact his problem had been fixed with a different kind of dual cultivation. This was, of course, after he'd finished writing a report about a demon tribe Luo Binghe was supposed to meet with soon, ensuring he was aware of their body language and cultural specificities.)

("Don't tell me the results. I want to know nothing of it," his 'anonymous' letter demanded of Mu Qingfang, the doctor staring at the supplies sent to them, pangs of regret searing through his soul.)

("The Cang Qiong Sect leader seems to be doing well," Xiao Jiao would murmur as she served his morning tea.

"Who asked about him? Pah. Leave those righteous cultivators to themselves."

He still slipped her a few taels for the information.)

Ahem.

Right. Anyway. He genuinely didn't care for correspondence with them, and sought to live his life separately.

For example, rekindling a better relationship with Ning Yingying.

Her confession caused her reputation to take a blow as well, though less so since Shen Yuan himself openly forgave her.

"This lord had been conniving and callous. If anything, she merely learned from the best, did she not?"

With casual jokes like that, he easily saved face for Ning Yingying, and not to long later, she finally went to see him for tea as he'd desired.

Their reunion had been incredibly tearful, the girl apologizing to him on her knees at his seat. Shen Yuan wanted to comfort her and pat her head, but he couldn't do that. While his handling on qi was sophisticated and he could grab and hold things, he couldn't quite mimic the feeling of a hand. So, instead, he asked her to look up at him. When she did, he smiled at her as radiantly as he could.

"This master understands, Ying-er. Please, you aren't a servant, you're a guest. Come, sit, sit."

She did sit, but she just continued crying. He tutted and dabbed a handkerchief at her tears.

He didn't lie and say he hadn't felt betrayed, but he understood and didn't hold it against her. She was just a child, and he had raised her to seek her survival. He hoped that now, with his mind in a better place, he could be someone better and more reliable to her. And she, sobbing, said she would never betray him ever again.

Because of this forgiveness, she and Sha Hualing slowly began reconciling as well.

Slowly. Very, very slowly.

---

With Shen Yuan officially crowned empress, Luo Binghe, who was already chipping away bits of his harem, chipped further, finding more wives to relinquish back to the wild.

After all, he really married them for power and to manage the symptoms of Xin Mo. However, ever since he began speaking and dual cultivating with Shen Yuan, Xin Mo's troublesome nature has waned quite significantly. He also learned to recognize when the sword's malicious nature was pushing thoughts in his mind, Luo Binghe realizing to himself that perhaps Shen Qingqiu, as he had been then, was probably experiencing something similar the whole time. The sword's name was "Heart Demon," and Shen Qingqiu's were a constant thorn in his side, to the point of significant and frequent qi deviations.

He and Shen Qingqiu, as he had been then, hadn't been so different, huh...

Sometimes, when Shen Yuan felt like talking about narratives and thoughts, he'd speak of the "cycle of abuse." He did it early on when he still thought he wasn't Shen Jiu.

(And, to an extent, he wasn't. He was, but he wasn't. The spells Luo Binghe had tried to use on him to summon the "kind shizun" into his body had all been for naught. Not until he used a spell to reform a broken soul. Shen Jiu had been a shattered, broken man: insane, psychotic, and missing pieces of his souls for reasons unknown.

Perhaps Shen Qingqiu lacked major parts of his hun souls, the remaining po souls existing without a significant part of his humanity. When Shen Yuan expressed that, in his life, he'd been a sickly man unable to grow healthily, he wondered if that was because he was missing some of his po. Perhaps he'd managed to form some of them, but not the others, and vice versa.

Together, in one body, the current Shen Yuan was what Shen Qingqiu could've been. Snappy, sometimes callous, contradictory, full of an undying loyalty, affectionate beyond all reason, and the kindest, most forgiving person Luo Binghe has ever had the pleasure of knowing. That is his wife, his Shizun, his empress.)

Anyway, this cycle of abuse made him think about how similar his story was to Shen Jiu's. Shen Yuan expressed it as well, sighing with regret as Luo Binghe braided his hair into a large plait in preparation for sleep.

"...If only I had realized how similar we really were. Maybe I would've had the mind to treat you better... But, I suppose there's no use in 'woulding' and 'coulding' ourselves to death."

"It's as you say, Shizun."

"Aiyah, who's your shizun? You grew more mature than me."

"This lord firmly doubts that," Binghe hummed, kissing his cheek...and starting to kiss down his neck.

Even without his limbs, Shen Yuan made such a pretty picture. The nape of his neck was enough to arouse.

"Oi, you..."

But he didn't tell him to stop, however. And didn't tell him to stop when he kissed him all over. And didn't tell him to stop, even as he complained, face flushed and staring at his cock, talking about his, as he put it, "ridiculous pillar."

But he never told him to stop, leaning closer to him and pressing what he could of his small, amputated body to him.

And despite being told not to "would" or "could" or "should" himself to the grave, he did think, well, it would be nice if, somehow, some way, Shen Yuan became able to hold onto him. To wrap his arms and legs around his body. To hold him close like he so obviously wanted to, unable to because of Binghe's sins.

...If he could somehow alleviate that point, even a little bit, that would be nice, wouldn't it?

A little "woulding" and "coulding" perhaps wouldn't hurt.

---

It's because of his inquiries that Mobei Jun mentioned he could ask his advisor.

He hadn't mentioned much of him to Shen Yuan, not deeming the man very important. Besides, his beloved wanted nothing to do with Cang Qiong Sect, and that was precisely what the advisor was...somewhat.

He was former peak lord of Cang Qiong who had steadily adopted a strange mixture of a bombastic yet timid demeanor. He'd had a way of sucking up to Mobei Jun with words that led the pureblooded demon to scowl and beat up on him frequently (never with full strength, not really, but enough to make him bleed), but there was a shift in him into someone like himself but also not like himself.

A while back, nearly three years ago now, he and Mobei Jun had been locked in battle with demonic beasts that had left them somewhat vulnerable. During said battle, he used Xin Mo, but his blade had seemed to cut...something. He wasn't sure what. But it was during that time that he was quite suddenly sucked into a portal, causing him to meet and change places with a version of himself that he could now at least admit had been taller, thicker, and tanner than himself.

(He'd gotten thicker now with both fat and muscle, and he no longer straightened his hair, much to Shen Yuan's delight. Despite not having fingers, he quite adored rubbing his cheek against his curls. He also quite liked resting his head on his chest, too, much to Binghe's quiet pride. Ahem. Anyway.)

Once he'd gotten back, he had thrown himself into looking for ways to bring the "nice Shizun" to his world instead, and when that failed, he attempted to summon him in Shen Jiu's body. All the while, Shang Qinghua, who had been at Mobei Jun's side, inching away from the battle when he last saw him... Well, the ice king later reported that, as though having a final, strange change of heart, he threw himself into the fray, even getting himself injured to protect him, something the lying weasel never did before.

From that day on, he'd fully turned into a dormouse, eating his way through bags of melon seeds and seeming to cry about nothing at random times, cycling between whining and silence, and saying those strange words he sometimes did with his full confidence instead of expressing mild confusion when he said them. Once tidy and uptight, smiling with false deference, he fell into disarray, his hair becoming a bit of a mess and wisping all over his head with curls somewhat looser than Binghe's own. In some ways, he became more pathetic than he'd ever been, but in others, he became someone Mobei Jun could genuinely rely on.

After that incident, whenever Luo Binghe heard the man call out to Mobei Jun with, "My king," it actually sounded like he wasn't hiding behind layers of subterfuge and meant whatever emotion came with his cry.

Mobei Jun still beat up on the man, but they were both lighter and had taken a different context now. Instead of genuine irritation and anger, he was, essentially, bullying him to show his affection. However, the dormouse man, being human, apparently still hadn't caught on to the difference. Not that Luo Binghe could blame him, honestly. Having been raised human himself, how was he supposed to tell when beating someone up meant they wanted to court you? Cultural differences.

Regardless, the former peak lord, perhaps forgotten even by his own sect, dwelled quietly in Mobei Jun's domain, running it like a well-oiled machine even when he was absent. The ice demon was, apparently, quietly considering crowning Shang Qinghua after seeing Shen Yuan's crowning ceremony, but Luo Binghe doubted the tired cultivator was wizened to that fact.

Regardless, if Mobei Jun truly thought that the man could possibly do something to assuage his concerns, then he might as well ask. He'd ask Shen Yuan, honestly, but he sort of wanted to keep this idea a secret and surprise him with the success if it worked out the way he'd like. Anyway, he took the lord of the Northern Desert up on his offer.

So, there he was now, staring at Shang Qinghua from the doorway as the small man, bundled in all manner of coats and cloaks to fend off the cold, stared at him with wide, amber eyes that had well-set dark circles under them. He'd been holding a pile of scrolls, though now, a few had dropped to the ground.

"...Ah. J-Junshang. This humble one wasn't, ah, aware you were coming to visit so soon. I mean, my king did say you were coming, but..."

"Hmm."

"Oh, goodness, uhm, please, ah—" He flustered, dropping even more of his scrolls before he gave up, scurrying over to a table and dropping them down haphazardly. He scrambled back and picked up his other scrolls, a wavering smile fighting to stick onto his face. "Come have a seat, come have a seat. Eh hehe. There's no need to stand over there and be a stranger."

Between the time Luo Binghe made his way to the soft chair sitting in front of Shang Qinghua's desk (what a strange thing to do...he'd started putting chairs in front of his working desk like that when his personality started shifting), the man had cleaned up the scrolls, fully closed the curtains around the windows and thrown more wood into the furnace to reduce the loss of heat.

After scrambling around, he slumped into his chair with a sigh, opening a rectangular container out of habit and scooping something that wasn't tobacco into an ornate, clearly gifted pipe. He snapped his fingers, creating a small flame at the tip of his index finger, and lit the contents. An earthy scent hinted with spice and pine began wisping from the end, which Shang Qinghua took a deep huff of before breathing it out in a faded cloud.

"So, ah, how can this one be of assistance, Junshang?"

This was the man who could call Mobei Jun's title from nearly anywhere and immediately summon him, huh.

"This lord was considering a gift for his empress. However, acquiring the materials for it would be difficult. You have much experience from trading, sales, and reviewing materials, so I shall seek your guidance for this matter."

"I'm unsure I can be of any service, but if possible, I'd be happy to oblige."

"Then... What do you know of methods to replace limbs?"

Thankfully, the man was quickwitted, seeming to immediately understand what he was going for. With a hum, he placed the tip of his pipe in his mouth, thinking.

"Junshang likely seeks prosthetics, however, the sort that currently exist can be a bit troublesome. They're rudimentary and may offer less in terms of mobility than one would prefer."

"Is there nothing that can mimic hand movements?"

"Ah...erh, I'm afraid I don't know of prosthetics that can do such fine-tuned work. However, this one is sure a dedicated manufacturer with some financial sponsorship would be able to make something. Though, if we consider how Junfeng* has developed his qi skills...perhaps something made custom for him would be best. That would also be difficult and take a while, but the results would likely be much more satisfactory."

As he settled into deep thought, the mousiness faded to reveal his more shrewd nature. Rodents all had a certain level of it, being herbivorous and desiring survival. In that sense, had he had more tact and grace, perhaps Luo Binghe could somewhat compare him to his A'Yuan.

Still, there was something else Mobei Jun mentioned to him. Just a little whisper of an idea.

"This lord was hoping for something that wouldn't take too long. Perhaps something more natural rather than constructed."

"Hmm?"

"You see, A'Yuan has quite a bit of knowledge regarding the flora and fauna of the three realms, and since the merging, he's been discovering further, previously uncovered creatures and beings. This lord one heard him mention something like a mushroom or seed or something that grows..."

"A mushroom, hm..." He rubbed at the side of his head, trying to think.

"Perhaps, would you know of some sort of plant or organism that can mimic limbs?"

"To mimic limbs... Ah." He breathed in, sucking in more of the smoke from his pipe, and pulled over a scroll that was apparently empty. He opened it, breathing out through the corner of his mouth as he got his inkwell and brush. "I believe I know what you're referring to. The Sun-Moon Dew Flower Seed is more of a mushroom than a plant, but one could use it to grow another body. I can't believe I forgot about it... While this lord doesn't quite remember where it is, it was somewhere in the Bai Lu Forest, I think. If you search there..."

But as he wrote, he suddenly stopped, a frown curling between his brows.

"Ah, but, the merging..."

Right. The merging of the realms disrupted many places. The ecology of the world was altered, and some locations, animals, and plants were no longer available where they once were. Some may have even gone extinct over the last few years.

"If the realms hadn't—ah. Ah, no. Hah. Please don't take that the wrong way, Junshang. This humble one nearly misspoke. The merging of the realms happens every few hundred years. You simply brought about its next cycle. One could consider its occurrence as inevitable as the wind."

He gave off those little laughs of nervousness, sweat budding easily at his brow as he rambled placatingly. Luo Binghe didn't really care, honestly.

Inevitable as it may have been, he did indeed bring it about himself. The loss of lives—human, demon, spiritual, natural, or otherwise—were on his head. The ink of his name was made with the blood of millions.

Eventually, Shang Qinghua lost steam for his useless pandering, sighing and taking another deep breath of his pipe, apparently to calm himself.

"Then, if it's possible that the plant you mentioned is no longer available, do you know of anything else? Something else that could help."

This was where the thing Mobei Jun mentioned could appear. Possibly.

"This humble one doesn't know. Begging your forgiveness," he murmured, gazing up at him.

"Surely you can think of something. I... This lord owes it to his wife. After all I'd done to him."

The man's expression shifted quickly between a wince, a sympathetic grimace, and something thoughtfully soulful. "Erm, well... I mean, this one...isn't sure."

Another push, then.

"Maybe if, for example, the Sun-Moon Dew Flower Seed changed with the merging of the realms. Would such a thing be possible?"

"Well..."

Shang Qinghua looked off to the side, frowning and sweating, tapping his finger against the desk and the partially-inked scroll. Smoke curled around his head, and the furnace crackled behind Luo Binghe's body.

"Something like that..."

His eyes narrowed further as he thought.

"...Might be possible."

Shang Qinghua blinked.

Then, his expression eased a bit. Not so nervous, but more thoughtful.

"...Something like that...hm."

...This might be it.

Luo Binghe focused, thinking on what to say next.

"...What do you remember of the Sun-Moon Dew Flower Seed? How could it change?"

"Hmm?" Although his eyebrows rose, the cultivator didn't look up from where he'd started staring at a blank part of the scroll in front of him. "Well... The Sun-Moon Dew Flower Seed is not really a flower. It's a mushroom. Rather, a type of fungus. Plants and fungi are different families. Though, a few of their traits can be a bit similar."

The amber tone of the man's irises brightened at the centers and darkened around the edges. Wisps of smoke from his pipe seemed to shift, somehow. Like they had begun dancing.

A qi Luo Binghe hadn't felt before sifted in the undersides of his conscious awareness of the room.

"Fungi... Right. You can't kill fungus in a way that matters. So, even if the Sun-Moon Dew Flower Seed is gone, its fungal properties would likely allow it to survive. It has a mix of plant and fungal family properties...ah likely a mistake of mine..."

As Shang Qinghua continued murmuring, he began writing again, eyes focused on the scroll in front of him. The light from the fire paled in comparison to the glow from is irises.

"Underneath the ground...the mycelium that make the Sun-Moon fruiting bodies would probably still be there. While they would make the dew flower seeds using spiritual energy...hm. Fungi are adaptable. Plants are, too. Especially the wild ones...

"Fungi typically consume dead matter, while plants create their own food. A body made of Sun-Moon Dew cells wouldn't need to consume much of anything but sunlight and maybe water. Difficult to grow, but once grown, incredibly durable...yeah. So, no, the merging wouldn't kill them."

"...This...plant...fungus you speak of. How did it work?"

"Mm...by absorbing energy. If you prepare a body using it, if the soul leaves, it loses all function. So, it both consumes energy and creates its own. If you were to use the mycelium and feed it with qi, spiritual...or demonic. Why not demonic too? Yeah. Both. Either. Feed the mycelium with blood and qi, and it could create a body. If you attach it to a body missing a part of it...hm.

"...Yeah. That could work. Feed it, and it becomes a replacement for a limb. Maybe even an organ. The mycelium could work like nerves. Attach it to the right parts, and it can grow what's missing. It can't be easy, though, I don't think. It's not easy to grow a Sun-Moon Dew Flower Seed into its mature state, so this...hm... What would I call it?"

He leaned back, eyes gazing toward the ceiling.

It felt as though the air went still.

"...Sun-Moon Dew Celium, I suppose. Mimics cells if you can use your qi. Cultivators and demons alike can use it. Perhaps one could make organs for non-cultivators as well, but they'd definitely need medical prowess for it. I'd make it easier to work with, but this is a dog-eat-dog world, isn't it? Nothing's ever so easy."

The smoke danced around Shang Qinghua's body. He breathed out more wisps of it. If Luo Binghe focused enough, he could see a second pair of eyes—large, faded, and, gazing up, just like the man was—hazed over in contemplation.

And then he blinked.

A log shifted behind Luo Binghe in the furnace, and Shang Qinghua startled, his irises back to their normal color.

The imposing qi was gone.

"Ah. Sorry. I, ah...kinda...blanked out?"

"...So you did. But it was insightful."

"This humble one's glad to, erh, help. I think." He sweated, glancing to the sides, like he wasn't sure what he was talking about.

"Right. Then. Where would this lord find the Sun-Moon Dew Celium?"

"Hmm?" He seemed confused for a moment, but then realization spread. "Oh. Oh! Junshang, that's a genius idea! As expected of the Emperor of the Merged Realms!"

Luo Binghe frowned a bit. "What?"

"I can't believe I didn't think of it. How could I forget?"

Shang Qinghua dipped his brush in ink and started writing on the scroll. Luo Binghe could've sworn he'd already written on it.

However, the only writing present there was something he'd started when talking about the Sun-Moon Dew Flower Seed. Nothing else. None of the words he'd written during his murmuring.

"While the Sun-Moon Dew Flower Seed's likely gone, the mycelium that formed it may still be there. If you take it and inject in his missing limbs, it'll feed off his qi and blood to form the missing parts on its own! It should work just like automail!"

"'Automail'?"

"Eh? Ah-haha, please excuse my ramblings, Junshang, that means nothing," he laughed nervously, finishing off what he was writing and quickly fanning it to get it to dry. "Junshang should find the Sun-Moon Dew Celium in Bai Lu Forest, or somewhere around it. As he is in charge of Huan Hua Palace's former quarters and holds such power, this lord believes it should be easier for you to find and work with than any prosthetic an engineer could make."

With the ink quickly dried (a type of ink he'd managed to make, apparently), he rolled the scroll up and wrapped it with ribbon, handing it over to him.

"Please make use of this lowly one's knowledge. I hope it works well for Junfeng."

"...This lord thanks you for your insight."

Once Luo Binghe was out the door, he acted as though he closed it. But instead, he peeked through a slight crack in it, watching as the dormouse of a man slumped back into his chair after standing to see him out.

He groaned, rubbing his head.

"Mmh. So tired."

It didn't take him long before he ended up nestling his head in his arms and falling asleep.

"...Mobei Jun."

The ice demon appeared before him from the shadows, his power stronger than ever in his own domain.

"Yes?"

"He's fallen asleep."

"Mmn. He often does after he creates something."

Perhaps the king of the Northern Desert didn't understand the implications. Or, maybe he did, and he simply let things be because the bullied cultivator was quite firmly loyal to him and under his thumb at any given moment.

But speaking something into existence was within the realm of the gods.

Because Luo Binghe had felt it. As soon as Shang Qinghua finished speaking, he felt, in the core of his soul, that this Sun-Moon Dew Celium he suddenly conceptualized truly existed in the world. It felt as real as any flower or mushroom he'd ever seen or eaten, like he'd already touched it despite never having done so.

Was Shang Qinghua some god from the upper realms made flesh? A vessel through which a god of some sort spoke? Was that the reason for his steady change into the person he was now?

"From what I know, it takes prompting from others and desire on his part. Then, he makes things that did not exist. What has he created?"

Ah, if you weren't there to witness its creation, did you not know of it?

How curious. Shang Qinghua certainly faired much better away from Cang Qiong Sect.

And he had to desire its creation, ah? So, it's possible that he wanted to help A'Yuan.

...Hm. Admirable. He would take that into consideration.

"Something that will help with my goal. As promised, you are relieved of your duties for the next week."

"Mmn."

"Also. When you do decide to crown Shang Qinghua, this lord would be honored to attend."

Mobei Jun hummed again, but he had a twinkle in his eye and a puff to his chest that somehow pissed Luo Binghe off a little. What was he doing, looking like he'd won? He could almost read it right off his face: my empress is better than yours.

God powers or not, he wouldn't give up his A'Yuan for anything. After all, he didn't need to be some vessel or something to make miracles happen.

Keep your hibernation-prone dormouse, his phoenix was waiting at home.

---

"...A'Yuan, this lord has a question."

"Mhh-huhhh...?"

"Do you happen to know what 'automail' is?"

Shen Yuan, covered in sweat and dozing off on his chest, suddenly sat up with as much physical power as he could muster, strands of his hair sticking to his forehead.

"Where did you hear that word?"

Luo Binghe grinned instead of answering. See? Shang Qinghua wasn't all that special. His beloved was probably a god, too.

----

I'm extremely baby at learning Chinese, so take my attempt with a big ol canister of salt, but since Junshang (君上) is basically "sovereign above others" and Luanfeng (鸾凤) is like saying "husband and wife," though the feng is literally "male phoenix," and a phoenix is traditionally the symbol of the empress where the dragon is the symbol of the emperor, I went with Junfeng (君凤) to kinda sorta make it like "sovereign phoenix."

Cause, I could've gone with the traditional term for empress, Hou (后), and put a "shang" on it for Houshang, but 1. Hou was rarely, if ever, the first symbol in the word or phrase, and 2. Hou (后) means queen and empress, yes, but it also means behind, rear, or after. And all things considered, I don't think Luo Binghe would want to give Shen Yuan a title saying he's behind him in anyway.

Moreover, considering that Shen Yuan died for the pieces of his soul to rejoin with the other pieces in Shen Jiu, and he went through the fire (Binghe torturing him) and came out renewed, well, the phoenix imagery seemed better. Also, the male phoenix is a symbol of joy, so, again, the language just fit better to me.

So, please excuse my partial bastardization of Chinese. I'm really trying earnestly though.

While called "empress" in English, Shen Yuan's official title in Chinese is Junfeng (unless someone who knows Chinese better comes up with something that fits a lot more haha).

*reread Airplane's adventures and has a rekindled and vibrant love for him all over again*

I couldn't leave him out of this AU. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Also, I said we were done with the narrative parts. Then I proceeded to write a lot of narrative. When will I stop lying to myself lmao

Parts 1-8: links on Part 9 Part 9 Part 10: here

Read on AO3

[yan-lorkai]

.⁠｡⁠*⁠♡ Day fourteen: Rollo purifying his darling

.⁠｡⁠*⁠♡ Tagging: @orisaspirin

.⁠｡⁠*⁠♡ Warnings: yandere content, death by fire, religious symbolism???

The flames flickered and danced in the dimly lit chamber, casting shadows that twisted and writhed along the stone walls. The air was thick with the scent of incense, a smoky veil that filled your lungs with every ragged breath you took. Rollo stood before you, his eyes gleaming with an intensity that sent shivers down your spine.

The warmth of the fire was nothing compared to the heat of his gaze, burning into you with a fervor that was both terrifying and mesmerizing.

“Do you understand why this is necessary?” Rollo's voice was soft, almost tender, but there was a gravity to it that weighed heavily on your soul. He reached out, fingers brushing against your cheek, and you flinched at the touch - his hands were warm, warmer than they should be, like they were the source of the fire that surrounded you.

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to meet his eyes. “My love… please… I don’t understand. Why are you doing this?”

A faint smile tugged at the corners of his lips, but it wasn’t kind. It was the smile of a man who had already convinced himself of his righteousness, of the purity of his actions. “Because,” Rollo murmured, “you are tainted by the world. Corrupted by the sins that plague humanity. And I… I will save you.”

He leaned closer, his breath hot against your ear, and you felt a chill run down your spine despite the flames. “I will purify you, cleanse you of everything that holds you back from true salvation.”

He stepped back, and you watched as he dipped his fingers into a bowl of water, murmuring a prayer under his breath. The droplets sizzled and steamed as they fell to the ground, evaporating the moment they touched the burning stone.

“Through fire, we are reborn,” Rollo recited, lifting his eyes to the heavens. “Through pain, we are cleansed. And through suffering, we find our way to the light.”

You struggled against the ropes that bound your wrists, panic surging through you as the flames grew higher, licking at your feet and legs. “Rollo, stop! Please, I don’t want this!” Tears blurred your vision, but even through them, you could see the unwavering resolve etched into his face.

“Hush.” He whispered, pressing a finger to your lips, silencing your pleas. “This is for your own good. You must trust me.” There was an almost serene calmness in his eyes, an unshakable belief that what he was doing was right.

“You will be purified, cleansed of all that is unworthy, and then… then you will be perfect.” He was so sure, so certain, he watched your impending demise with a smile on his crazy lips

You felt the heat intensify, creeping up your body, wrapping around you like a lover’s embrace. The pain was unbearable, scorching through your flesh, but Rollo’s gaze never wavered. He watched you with a devotion that bordered on madness, his lips moving in prayer, as if every word could shield you from the agony, could make it all worthwhile.

“Through the flames, you will be made whole.” He whispered, his voice reverent. “And when the fire dies, when all that is impure has been burned away, you will be reborn, just as I have always dreamed.”

He cupped your face in his hands, leaning forward to press a gentle kiss to your forehead, the heat of his lips branding you with his love. “You will rise from the ashes, untainted, unblemished. And you will be mine.”

The world dissolved into fire and pain, and through it all, you heard him — his prayers, his whispered words of devotion, his promises that this suffering would lead to your salvation, the only thing you could focus was in the smell of burning meat and your muscles melting.

And as the flames consumed you, as everything you were was stripped away, you saw him standing there, bathed in the light of his own twisted faith, smiling down at you with a love that burned brighter than the fire itself.

In that moment, you prayed for him to be wrong. You didn't want to be reborn, not if meant you would be bound to his side. If there was an afterlife, you prayed that he could never find you.

[spacebubblehomebase]

(2/6) "R is for Righteousness!" 💙

Richard Dick Grayson was the very first Robin. He was the one who decided that Robin- amongst all things- would become a hero. Fighting for Justice alongside The Dark Knight of Gotham despite the tragedies they both started with. He who allowed Robin to first spread his wings and fly amidst a brooding city perpetually plagued by darkness. To become the world's new beacon of youthful hope, a memory of a comforting smile to those he saved, and a time honored legacy to those who would come after him. -Bubbly💙

[comradefleur]

you know what's tea...if robin wanted to literally burn the world it would be so understandable. she could've actually characteristically embodied the malicious creature with sordid intent the world conjured up, instead of rightfully and righteously reclaiming it all in a transformation. but all she did was try to get by and did so with whoever would actually keep her around long enough instead of treating her like the plague and a curse upon the world and immediately casting her away. and most of them would in the end, anyway. and the entire time she managed to grasp any semblance of "safety" she STILL had to watch her own back and was constantly in danger, in fight or flight mode and on the run. from CHILDHOOD. she was utterly alone in her formative years. because of this, she could've been made into the blight that they pretended and would've all deserved, and yet!!!!!!!!! she was and is gracious. even before luffy freed her and brought her true light, safety and stability, she was always so gracious. never truly reactive or lashing out. yes, even when she had to roll with some shady shit to live, she could've been the actual ring leader of doom they painted her out to be, the big bad wolf, a ticking time bomb ready to bring every single thing down, and yet!

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Kinkslump Linkdump

This is my dozenth linkdump! The world comes at you fast, and even though I'm writing 4-5 essays a week for this newsletter, many's the week that ends with more stray links than will fit in that format. Here's the previous ones:

https://pluralistic.net/tag/linkdump/

I managed to turn out five posts last week, despite being on tour with my latest novel, The Lost Cause, a hopeful solarpunk novel endorsed by Rebecca Solnit, Bill McKibben and Kim Stanley Robinson. The tour went great – the book's now a national bestseller on the USA Today list! Here's an essay I wrote explaining the structure of the feeling that the book is meant to convey:

https://www.torforgeblog.com/2023/11/14/cory-doctorow-the-swerve/

This is a climate emergency novel full of rising seas, terrible storms, wildfires and zoonotic plagues, and yet – it is a hopeful novel. What makes it hopeful? It depicts a future in which we are treating these phenomena with the gravitas and urgency they warrant, with our whole society's focus shifting to moving coastal cities inland, weatherizing and solarizing our housing, and creating permanent housing for internal refugees.

While it would be infinitely preferable to live in a world where none of that is necessary, that's not the world we have. This is an sf novel, not a fantasy novel, so all the climate harms we've locked in through decades of expensively procured inaction are present. But the difference between disaster and catastrophe is how and whether we address those harms. Sure, this is a world where superstorms wipe away whole cities and Miami is a drowned mangrove swamp, but it's also a world in which oil executives do not chair UN climate summits or complain that oil companies are being "unjustly vilified":

https://www.cnbc.com/2023/11/27/opec-says-oil-industry-unjustly-vilified-ahead-of-climate-talks-.html

I write a lot, and it's not just this newsletter. Writing transports me from my anxieties and aches. That's how I came to write nine books during lockdown ("when life gives you SARS, make sarsaparilla"). Lost Cause was one of three books I published in 2023.

I'm going to greet 2024 with another novel, The Bezzle, a sequel to 2023's Red Team Blues, about the hard-charging, high-tech forensic accountant Marty Hench:

https://us.macmillan.com/books/9781250865878/thebezzle

The Bezzle is a story about the shitty technology adoption curve – the way that the worst technologies we have are first rolled out on the people least able to complain about them. After these bad technologies have their sharp edges sanded down on the bodies of prisoners, refugees and kids, they move up to blue collar workers and discount store shoppers, and so on, until we're all living under their thumb.

In The Bezzle, a dear friend of Marty finds himself serving a long sentence in a privatized California prison that flips from one private equity fund to the next, each with even worse, more extractive ways to use technology to bleed prisoners and their families dry. You can read the opening scenes in a just-published excerpt on Tor Books's site:

https://www.torforgeblog.com/2023/11/20/excerpt-reveal-the-bezzle-by-cory-doctorow/

The period immediately before a book's publication is always a tense one, as the first reviews trickle in. Library Journal's Marlene Harris is the first out of the gate, with a spectacular review:

https://www.libraryjournal.com/review/the-bezzle-1802415

Marty’s reminiscences range from obscure financial machinations to heaping helpings of social commentary but always move the underlying thriller story forward in a backwards heist tale that delivers a righteously satisfying ending to the surprise of both the reader and the villain. This novel, like his previous outing, rides on Marty’s voice. He has a jaundiced view of everything, but he tells it with such style and verve that readers are caught up and ride along on the surface until the shark beneath the water jumps out and bites the villain where it hurts.

I'm headed into Skyboat Media's studios on Monday with @wilwheaton to record the audiobook for this one, directed as ever by the amazing Gabrielle de Cuir. Keep your eyes peeled for a presale crowdfunder in January!

I am often asked how I decide when to present an idea through fiction and when to do so with nonfiction. The answer is a complicated one, and I got into it in some detail on Nature's Working Scientist podcast, in discussion with Paul Shrivastava:

https://www.nature.com/articles/d41586-023-03394-8

When it comes to politics, fiction and nonfiction are intensely complementary. Nonfiction can convey the data about a social phenomenon, but fiction can convey the meaning of the data. It's one thing to see a chart about inequality, and another to inhabit it through fiction. Marty Hench's narrative adventures are a way into the feeling of living in a corrupt oligarchy.

There are other ways into that feeling, of course. Take Barry Bowen's "Lifestyles of the Blessed & Famous: Preacher Homes Sold in 2023" for The Roys Report:

https://julieroys.com/lifestyles-blessed-famous-preacher-homes-sold-2023/?mc_cid=9678383b64

If a picture is worth a thousand words, then carefully staged realtor drone shots ganked from the Redfin listing for a "pastor"'s $3.5m mansion in Newport Beach is a full-on sermon about the corruption of the Hillsong megachurch:

https://www.redfin.com/CA/Newport-Beach/503-30th-St-92663/home/12363926

Narratives and photos are all well and good, but there's always room for some data. The USA's weird breed of federalism and devolved power makes for some very interesting data. Writing for The American Prospect, Paul Starr rounds up several studies evaluating the "natural experiments" created by enacting very different policies in otherwise similar states:

https://prospect.org/health/2023-12-08-life-death-cost-conservative-power/

The data is in: conservativism kills. Living in a red state shortens your life expectancy. The redder the state, the worse it is. The bluer the state, the longer you're likely to live:

https://onlinelibrary.wiley.com/doi/full/10.1111/1468-0009.12469

The exemplars here are Connecticut and Oklahoma, whose life expectancies were at par until they began to diverge in policies. Oklahoma got more conservative, Connecticut got more liberal. Today, the average Oklahoman will pop their clogs at 75.8, while a Connecticutensian can expect 80.7 years.

Different scholars have parsed out different policy outcomes. Giving Medicaid to children, for example, shows benefits for the next 50 years:

https://www.aeaweb.org/articles?id=10.1257/aer.20171671

The big one, of course, is gun control. Here's the topline: "restrictive state gun policies reduce overall gun deaths." Water also wet:

https://journals.lww.com/epidem/fulltext/2023/11000/the_era_of_progress_on_gun_mortality__state_gun.3.aspx

Fact-free spiritual beliefs like "an armed society is a polite society" are key to conservative policymaking. Pesky progressives who confuse the issue with relevant facts are playing dirty, pointing out reality's unfair leftist bias.

But after 40 years of neoliberal deference to corporate power, the worm is turning. Somehow, a world on fire, filled with megapastors in megamansions who brief for lethal policies, has finally inspired a global vibe-shift (and not a moment too soon!). One of the most tangible expressions of that shift is the revival of antitrust, which has been in a coma since the Reagan administration.

All over the world – the EU, the UK, Ireland, Australia, and the USA – there are new competition enforcers challenging corporate power in ways that were unthinkable just a few years ago. If I'd written an enforcer like FTC chair Lina Khan in 2010, critics would have slammed me for wish-fulfillment too unrealistic for science fiction.

But today, Khan is taking big swings at corporate power, fighting against a calcified edifice of decades of bad, pro-monopoly precedent. The pro-monopoly press hate her, which is why the WSJ keeps publishing sweaty op-eds insisting that she is wasting her time and that monopolies are good, actually:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/07/14/making-good-trouble/#the-peoples-champion

But she is still out there, fighting for all of us. After a pro-monopoly judge stymied the FTC's bid to block the rotten Microsoft/Activision merger, Khan re-filed, appealing the decision:

https://www.reuters.com/markets/deals/us-ftc-tries-again-stop-microsofts-already-closed-deal-activision-2023-12-06/

Critics insist that she's on a foolish errand, but Khan is tackling the most promising face of a sheer cliff, and the plainly anticompetitive merger between one of the world's largest console makers (a convicted monopolist!) with one of the world's largest games publishers is the right place to start. If she can get her piton into one of the hairline cracks in that face, her arduous climb gains a solid anchor for the next stage of her assent.

Of course, Khan's highest-profile action is her case against Amazon, the omnipresent, dystopian poster-child for enshittification, a platform we can't avoid, but which is so haphazardly policed that the bestselling bitter lemon energy drink you order might be bottled piss harvested from its immiserated drivers:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/10/20/release-energy/#the-bitterest-lemon

In a world of murderous, community-destroying monopolies, Amazon stands out for the sheer number of ways it makes the world worse. Amazon maims its warehouse workers and kills its drivers with impossible quotas. It poisons Black and brown neighborhoods with truck exhaust from its giant depots. It destroys small businesses that sell on its platform. It was part of the studio cabal scheming to destroy actors and writers' livelihoods with unfair contracts and AI. Its audiobook monopoly stole at least $100m from independent authors. It makes goods and services more expensive at every retailer (not just Amazon), and price-gouges on its own storefront:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/11/06/attention-rents/#consumer-welfare-queens

Keeping that scam going requires a lot of skullduggery. A new set of leaked internal Amazon documents shed some light on how that inedible sausage gets made:

https://www.vice.com/en/article/wxjbm9/amazon-brags-it-cultivated-california-mayor-with-donations-in-leaked-policy-document

Amazon's "Community Engagement Plan 2024" brags about buying off small-town mayors and astroturf groups in its bid to resist regulations that would limit warehouse delivery van emissions in communities of color (Amazon calls this "philanthropic work"). Coincidentally, that "philanthropy" targeted Perris, a town where residents voted for a warehouse tax to repair the roads that had been trashed by fleets of Amazon vans.

But the real focus of Amazon's "Community Engagement" is California's AB1000, a bill that will limit the construction of supersized, 100k+ sqft warehouses near daycare centers, schools or rec centers. Secondarily, Amazon is hoping to get California to make it easier to advertise alcohol around kids, to "unlock" California's liquor market.

This kind of shameless, mustache-twirling villainry can only go on so long before it meets resistance. One of the longest-running, hardest fought struggles against corporate malfeasance is the farmers' right ro repair fight against John Deere. Deere boobytraps its tractors so that after a farmer repairs a Deere tractor, they have to wait for days, and pay hundreds of dollars, for a Deere technician to come out to the farm and type an unlock code into the tractor's console:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/05/08/about-those-kill-switched-ukrainian-tractors/

Despite multiple state right-to-repair initiatives and a pending rulemaking from the FTC, Deere is still fucking around. Now, they've found out. US District Court Judge Iain Johnson just handed Deere a scathing, 89-page memo rejecting the company's bid to kill a class action suit brought by its customers:

https://www.reuters.com/legal/litigation/deere-must-face-us-farmers-right-to-repair-lawsuits-judge-rules-2023-11-27/?ref=404media.co

The memo hearkens back to company founder John Deere, "an innovative farmer and blacksmith who—with his own hands—fundamentally changed the agricultural industry":

https://www.404media.co/a-massive-repair-lawsuit-against-john-deere-clears-a-major-hurdle/

Judge Johnson tells Deere's lawyers that the real John Deere "would be deeply disappointed in his namesake corporation," and calls out their lying. You love to see it.

This kind of thing is happening all over the world as policymakers, regulators and lawmakers take aim at corporate power. The Australian government just announced that it would force Apple to open up iOS to alternative browser engines:

https://open-web-advocacy.org/blog/new-digital-competition-laws-for-australia/

This is obscure and technical, but that's why it's so exciting: rather than mumbling broad platitudes about competition and user choice, the Australian Competition and Consumer Commission's regulation targets a critical leverage point where a small change will deliver huge benefits:

https://www.accc.gov.au/media-release/consumers-and-small-businesses-to-benefit-from-proposed-new-regulation-of-digital-platforms

While there are many browsers in Apple's App Store, they're all just reskinned versions of Safari, all running on the same core engine, Webkit. Webkit is ancient, undermaintained and feature-poor. Crucially, Webkit does not implement the parts of the HTML5 standard needed for WebApps, which would allow app developers a safe channel to offer apps that don't go through Apple's App Store monopoly chokepoint:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/12/13/kitbashed/#app-store-tax

Now, there's a big jump between announcing this kind of regulation and enacting it. As Mark Nottingham points out, Australia's had an "in principle" commitment to enact a privacy regulation for two successive governments, with no actual regulation in sight:

https://techpolicy.social/@mnot/111546662237364754

So we can't take these announcements as a sign to declare victory and stand down. The policymakers who announce these proposals deserve our accolades for the announcement and they require our constant vigilance until they make good on their promises.

That's the case in Ireland, where the Coimisiún na Meán has just published a fantastic regulatory proposal for recommendation systems, requiring recommenders to be turned off by default and that recommendations based on "political views, sexuality, religion, ethnicity or health" have to be switched off by default:

https://www.cnam.ie/wp-content/uploads/2023/12/Draft_Online_Safety_Code_Consultation_Document_Final.pdf

It's especially significant that this is coming out of Ireland, a corporate crime haven that has successfully lured the world's tech giants into flying its flag of convenience, with the guarantee of tax evasion and lax regulation:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/05/15/finnegans-snooze/#dirty-old-town

This rule won't enforce itself. It'll require constant vigilance and pressure. There's plenty of ways to do that on a part-time, voluntary basis, but if this kind of thing enflames you enough to make a career out of it, here's a tenure-track job for an infosec professor at Citizen Lab, fearless slayers of high-tech corporate ogres:

https://jobs.utoronto.ca/job/Toronto-Assistant-Professor-Information-Security-ON/576463017/

That's all for this week's linkdump. It's time for me to go hole up in my office and wrap presents. When I do, I'll be tuning into the latest Merry Mixmas MP3 of Christmas mashups from DJ Riko:

http://www.djriko.com/dls/DJ%20Riko%20-%20Merry%20Mixmas%202023.mp3

Riko's Christmas mashups have been part of my holidays for more than two decades now. He's been making them for 22 years! That's a lot of great holiday mashups:

https://www.djriko.com/mixmases.htm

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/12/09/gallimaufry/#marty-hench-rides-again

[watchingyoufromthestars]

Teens as the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse because Freddie brought it up and I love character assignments

First Horseman, Conquest/Glory: Normal

Glory can align to Pride, which from the Hell arc we know as Normal’s greatest sin. This is the White Rider, the color of which in the Bible is associated with righteousness; being morally right is a big part of the Oak characterization. A random side note of the twins using bows during the betrayal, this guy uses a bow, not that connected to Normal besides being his dad(s). Another interpretation of the First Horseman is as Pestilence, or infectious disease or plague, and he’s an Oak that’s explanatory enough for that. And he’s our resident stinky boy (even though it seems like everyone even the cast has forgotten that Normal DOES shower he just doesn’t know how to do laundry correctly but alas).

Second Horseman, War: Taylor

The Red Horse. In some translations, the color is specifically a “fiery” red, which fits perfectly with our little literal demon child. The rider wields a sword, which is the weapon Taylor is associated with the most from his wide array of survivalist gear. There’s also the association with bloodshed, which there has been for everyone, but I’d say most heavily with Taylor’s family at specifically Willy’s hands, who is currently in the position of God. He killed Glenn, decapitated Taylor, and also chopped off Nicky’s other arm (though none of those actually bled). I forget where I was going with that point is that actually a connection? Whatever.

Third Horseman, Famine: Lincoln

Not an actual reason for assigning him this, but this is the Third one and Link is a #3 kind of guy. He hates the number four because “that’s how many family members it’d be if his dad's got another kid”. The actual assignment may feel like a bit of a stretch but it makes sense to me. The Black Rider carries a scale, representing how bread would be weighed during the famine. They’ve also been interpreted as Scales of Justice. Applying this is Lincoln, I see it as the end to ep37 and Link’s feelings towards Grant as they are currently. Link is struggling to let his love for his father and hatred towards his actions coexist. He broke the garlic knot out of love, but he said he never wants to speak to Grant again. The garlic knot is his bread that he weighs in decision of how to approach his relationship with Grant, and he instead sliced it like the Gordian Knot and removed himself as a son and refers to Grant as a coworker.

Fourth Horseman, Death: Scary

Death surrounds Scary, that was my first thought when assigning. From Tony to Terry, and without going into depth about them because just mentioning them should be enough, Scary and Willy’s hand in her life has been more associated with Death than any of the other teens. Death is also the only rider explicitly given a name, and I’ll connect that to how she ‘rebrands’ herself as a goth punk seeker of darkness and going by an entirely different name upon introduction/throughout the series.

And that’s all 🫶 I love doing character assignments they’re so fun. There wasn’t that much to work from so they’re pretty simple reasons for assigning but I feel like the reasons fit enough.

[thoughtsafterdark]

Stigmata

The world is quiet. So quiet. The silence deafens, bends backs, breaks minds. It holds its breath, waiting, biding its time. Still and poised yet tense, every pebble and grain of sand prepared to strike. Like a big cat stalking its prey, shoulders rolling so smoothly as it inches closer and closer. Like oil sliding off the skin of the water. Those moments when it crouches and becomes one with the Savanah. When the golden light of the setting sun sets the land aflame and blades of grass blend with raised heckles until they are one and the same.

It waits for you, for your conception and birth. Molecules aligning, cells dividing, flowers blooming. The water of your mother’s womb is surprisingly thin given the precious life it cushions. It is expelled from your lungs like a sacrament, like a fountain that once erupted from a desert rock millennia ago. Strong lungs as befit a firstborn son. Your first cries pierce the air and shatter the stillness into a million shimmering fragments. The diamonds spill across the inky blackness. A burst of colour from the Lord’s brush, arcing across the sky. Another promise, another new beginning. Yet Gods are foolish, lonely creatures. Their promises ring hollow and false to our suffering ears. The whips crack and our skin splits, oozes all the same. Where was God when my brothers withered and died, the cries ripped from their throats going unanswered?

And yet tell me why as I gaze upon you now, I am compelled to fall to my knees? As if every fibre of my being yearns to bow, to yield - as if your voice bursts from somewhere deep in my squirming gut and heart and not your lips?

Tell me why I itch to bury myself in the crook where your thigh meets groin and inhale the musk there as if your scent holds the Eye of the Needle, as if the grooves of your skin map Heaven’s Kingdom. Would you let me cry tears of rapture at your coming and wash your feet with them and my tongue?

I wonder if such a wonton display of devotion would anger you, frighten you. Would you toss me away in disgust, smash my face into the ground? Break my nose against rock and let me feel the warm flood of blood flow backwards down my throat, let me savour the salt and iron as I swallow devoutly. Tell me why I have never felt so alive as when your holy wrath rains down upon me like fire, like the destruction of Sodom.

I watch you now, standing proud against that same setting sun, gazing across the expanse of your new kingdom. Here as it dips low upon the dunes and the sand lashes at us. Its rays frame raven curls and fracture all around you, as if afraid to touch you and be seduced. A halo that revers yet fears you. It hardens your features as if you were hewn from granite Your jaw tightens against the onslaught, sharp enough to fell armies. Your eyes become the harsh ringing of blade against blade. Gone is the boy with the easy smile tugging at the corner of a mouth, crow’s feet wrinkling eyes. In his place is the cold pyre of divine righteousness. The commander of earth and sky, made to wield sound and air itself. I think of the icons of old, the waxy mournful faces of saints and note what a pale imitation they must be, if they had even a third of your weight.

You are a black hole - all-consuming, inescapable, inevitable - and we are all trapped in your orbit, edging ever closer to the Event Horizon that will surely destroy us. But tell me if our path is so doomed why my heart leaps at the prospect of pledging my death to you? What finer gift is there but that of my last breath, freely given?

In your face I see rivers of blood and the thrum of charging men. I hear the chants of our forefathers and the long line of prophets that came before, accumulating across the centuries into the tapestry that is your flesh.

Yet as you lie here beside me, the darkness kept at bay by the stubborn flame of a lone candle, your face serene with sleep and your sweat acrid and sharp in my nose - I see just a man plagued by a crown of thorns. I think of my hands, bathing in the blood of innocents in your name. Your name, a mantra, a hymn that ignites us all with awe and hunger. I wonder if knowing deep down you are just a man makes me more or less the fool.

Then your eyes open, lashes fluttering, and I see the light burning there and I know messiahs are not born but made in the hearth of a home, in the fierceness of a loyal heart and the beating lifeblood of a people starved of hope. I care not if you bleed red or ichor, I know only that I will follow you into hell itself, until we burn to ash and we become whispers, legends. Until we are nothing but dust floating across the dunes, the wind that stokes the flames of a thousand more rebellions.

[princelylove]

Synopsis: In which Enrico Pucci has some thoughts on his situation.

Warnings: Directly quoting the bible, general yandere content, spoilers for part three + six

Enrico tapped his finger on his own arm, unsure of what to do.

Ever since he met you, he’s been distracted.

Two.

He thought of what was written for him- what could only be written with the intent for him to see- and only grew more frustrated with himself. What was he doing here? What was his plan? What was his goal?

“He must be someone who can control his desires. Someone without a lust for power, honor, wealth, or sexual gratification. He must be someone who puts the laws of God before the laws of humans. Will I, DIO, meet someone like this one day?”

‘What a disgusting display,’ he thought to himself. Everything he was doing in this moment, every single one of his feelings, was a plague. It was a disease upon his very nature, the man he must be, yet he persisted. His mind turned traitor. 

Three.

Enrico often wondered what you were doing instead of handling the task at hand. He never understood Perla in his youth, despite supporting and loving most of her decisions. He had never been in love before. It seemed… silly. Frivolous. Like it was just something to pass the time, or something to keep humans from going extinct.

He would just say his feelings are fond. Affection is different from love. So is adoration, so is admiration. Enrico doesn’t know how to place his feelings for you. 

Perhaps it was best to leave them unspoken.

Five.

He made a promise, once. A vow. His feelings on the matter are insignificant. He was to continue DIO’s plan- at all costs. He wasn’t feeling love, he was feeling lust- and he is no sinner. 

Oh, if only he were that type of man. That isn’t the truth. Truthfully, he’s fine with sinning. Using the argument of sin against his wants was futile. It’s all just a means to an end. He would sin if he truly needed to- he has and Enrico will, again. His morals aren’t a part of this equation and, to be honest, they never will be.

He would have to find something else to discourage his thoughts of you.

Seven.

He thought of Psalm 23. 

“The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.”

DIO was all he needed. It’s asinine to think otherwise. 

“He makes me lie down in green pastures, he leads me beside still waters. He restores my soul. He leads me in paths of righteousness for his name’s sake.”

Perhaps he was wrong. Perhaps this is what DIO wanted- to test him.

“Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for You are with me; your rod and your staff, they comfort me.”

DIO has never led him astray. DIO has never failed him. Even in death. 

“You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies; you anoint my head with oil; my cup overflows.”

Or perhaps this is exactly what his lord wanted for him. Something for good behavior- a reward for his loyalty. For his continuous struggle. 

“Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life, and I shall dwell in the house of the Lord forever.” 

Yes- that’s exactly it. Of course it is. This is the little bit of indulgence Enrico will ever get in his entire life. It’s just puppy love. It’ll go away. Surely he just needs to embrace it, and it’ll leave him. His obsession-, no, his infatuation would eventually pass, as all infatuations do. He’s merely fixated on your beauty like any other would be. You’re like something in the Louvre- something to be admired from afar and never to really touch. 

Eleven.

Love is not an option for Enrico Pucci. He only has one calling, and he loves Him like he loves God.

He will not have another- he cannot have another, regardless of the type of love, and the intensity. He has no family, as far as he’s concerned. He’s too old to have a crush.

He’s a failure to his Lord if he cannot meet the prerequisites set by Him. It was right there DIO’s diary- DIO needed someone who wouldn’t succumb to foolish urges such as love. 

With DIO’s death, it’s too late for Him to bet on another player. Enrico must do what he has to do. In Heaven, he’ll find love. He’ll find you again in eternal paradise. 

But admiration is not a hindrance. Appreciation isn’t going to get in his way. 

Thirteen.

“Do you believe that I am able to do this?” He mutters, to no one in particular. The person it’s intended for has long since passed, but it’s almost as if the universe laughs in His place.

The thought does not comfort Enrico in the slightest.

Seventeen.

The sound of a disc being ejected from a cd player is the only sound you can make sense of. Your head feels as if it’s splitting in two, and your vision is getting blurry. 

Enrico shushes you, both of his hands firm on your shoulders, slowly trailing down to your upper arms.

“Be not afraid.”

The whirr of the disc being ejected plays again, and you feel yourself losing consciousness. 

“The thought to harm you hasn’t even crossed my mind.”

Nineteen.

[theroyalhouseofwindenburg]

The Black Death: Part 5

In the subsequent days, the guard meticulously gathered a group of his most trusted men, forming a secret alliance fueled by a shared purpose. True to his promise to Augusta, he orchestrated her discreet release from the confines of the dungeon, providing her sanctuary in the knights' quarters. Seated around a dimly lit table, they convened, plotting the downfall of King Wilhelm. Augusta, her resolve unwavering, proposed a strategic strike during the late hours of the night, precisely when the changing of the guard offered the opportune moment. Unified in purpose, the conspirators collectively acknowledged that this marked the beginning of the end.

Several days later, on a frigid winter morning, King Wilhelm lay ensconced in the warmth of his bedchambers, immersed in a deep slumber. Abruptly, his restful repose was shattered as one of his guards entered with an urgent demeanor. "What is so pressing that it's worth disrupting my slumber?" Wilhelm bellowed, his voice resonating through the chamber. "Your Majesty, I'm deeply sorry to disturb you, but an unsettling breach in security has occurred. We believe there's a threat to your safety within the castle. I urgently request you to accompany me to the knights' quarters; it's the safest location for you," the guard instructed, his expression reflecting genuine concern.

Reluctantly rising from his bed, Wilhelm, gripped by apprehension, followed his guard down the dimly lit hallways, the weight of impending danger hanging heavily in the cold, early morning air.

They traveled through the corridors of the castle, descending into the shadowy depths of the basement. As they entered the dungeon hallway, a gnawing sense of unease crept over Wilhelm. He turned to the guard, agitation evident in his voice. "I thought the knights' quarters were further down the hall. Why have we stopped here?" Wilhelm questioned, his tone laced with frustration. The guard met Wilhelm's gaze, an ominous smile playing on his lips.

"Funny, isn't it, Your Majesty? How the mighty can fall. Your castle, once a symbol of power, is now but a fortress of your own demise."

Before Wilhelm could voice his confusion, one of the cell doors swung open, revealing a formidable assembly of guards, effectively blocking any escape route. Standing among them was his own daughter, Augusta, wearing a smirk that mirrored her newfound resolve.

"What is the meaning of this!?" Wilhelm shouted in a rage.

"The meaning, Father, is the inevitable consequence of your cruelty. Your reign of oppression ends here, and the people you've tormented will finally see justice. These guards have chosen the side of righteousness, and Windenburg will be free from the chains you forged." Wilhelm tried to order the guards to apprehend Augusta, but his influence had diminished, and, in turn, they forcefully restrained him. "Unhand me! I am your King!" Wilhelm desperately shouted. Augusta delivered a final statement to her father, "You hold no kingship over us." With that, the guard forcefully threw Wilhelm into the dark cell, swiftly locking the door behind him.

As the heavy door closed with a resounding thud, sealing Wilhelm within the confines of the dimly lit cell, reality set in. When he turned around, a haunting sight greeted him—the room was filled with the anguished presence of plague-ridden souls, their hollow eyes reflecting the torment of the cruel disease. A palpable sense of terror was etched on Wilhelm's face as he desperately pounded on the unyielding door. "You won't escape the consequences of this, Augusta! I'll make sure you pay for this betrayal. Mark my words!"

Realizing that no one was listening to his desperate pleas, Wilhelm crumbled to the ground, his head in his hands. The weight of his own suffering mirrored the agony he had inflicted upon others. The following morning, Cordelia lay in her chamber, having endured solitude since Wilhelm's last visit. Suddenly, a familiar voice interrupted her solitude, "My lady, forgive the intrusion, but I thought you'd want to know that young Prince Alvin is here. He's missed his mother dearly, and I thought it best to reunite you both."

Cordelia initially believed she was lost in a dream, but as she opened her eyes, the reality before her was as tangible as anything. Positioned by the entrance to her chambers, Cordelia's guard and Lady Philippa stood with Prince Alvin in her arms. Overwhelmed with emotion, Cordelia rushed out of her bed, racing to her son and embracing him tightly. She turned to Lady Philippa, her eyes filled with curiosity, and inquired, "How did you possibly get Wilhelm to agree to this?" Lady Philippa responded with a subtle smile, "His Majesty has been missing since last night, Your Grace. There's no trace of him anywhere." She continued, "I've been asked to escort you to the council chamber; everyone is waiting there, Your Grace."

As Cordelia stepped into the chamber, Prince Wilhelm rushed into her arms, marking the long-awaited reunion of their fractured family. Joy and relief filled the air, enveloping the room in a momentary respite from the shadows that had cast a pall over the kingdom. However, amidst the warmth of familial embrace, an eerie silence lingered, a stark reminder of the absence that loomed over the reunited kin.

In the ensuing days, a gradual decline overcame King Wilhelm. The unmistakable signs of the plague manifested on his weakened form as he sat on the unforgiving cold stone floor. The once-mighty ruler now grappled with a sense of profound loss and despair. The weight of his deeds bore down on him, and the impending specter of his own mortality loomed ever larger.

Locked in the dark chamber, Wilhelm faced the cruel irony of his fate. The same suffering he had inflicted upon others had come full circle to claim him. Each passing moment carried him closer to the precipice of his inevitable demise. In the shadows of the castle that was once his seat of power, Wilhelm confronted the consequences of his actions, and the haunting silence echoed with the reckoning of a ruler who had lost not only his kingdom but also the compassion he had forsaken.

[catt-wall-d-writer]

Astarion - Ain’t no sunshine when he’s gone [1/2]

Tw: loving relationship turned toxic, angst, possible act3 spoilers

I primarily wrote this as a vent piece since I had, in an unfortunate chain of events, Ascended Astarion on my Durge resisting playthrough. So I decided to give my Tav and Astarion some deeper lore. There will be part two soon enough, but if you have any wishes let me know

It seemed like yesterday that we spoke first of Ascension. Like it was merely a day ago, when the weak rays of sunlight in the Shadow Cursed Lands speckled against our skin as we prepared for the long trek to Wyrm’s Rock. 

The journey felt daunting but manageable then, as long as we were together. 

But it’s been so long… I can barely recognise the face I wake up next to every day.

At first I thought to indulge him, so every time we spoke of Ascension I would naively smile and nod, supporting his fight for freedom. I thought to let him down slowly, support his freedom of making a choice… Then later on, I tried hinting that it might not be the safest option. Oh what a fool I was. It was already too late. He has set his mind on becoming free… whatever that meant for him. 

At the time I thought he just wanted revenge, to slay Cazador in cold blood, slowly and painfully, the bastard deserved an eternity of torture, but his existence alone brought so much suffering that it was best to end him.

But not like this. 

I know it’s not my place to say, I should even be happy for him, he’s gotten his revenge and he has become undefeatable. Absolute.

But this just isn’t him.

I wonder this time where he's gone Wonder if he's gone to stay

These thoughts plague me, haunting every quiet moment. His gaze now seemed all knowing, piercing me as if he was looking  right through me. I felt fully bare before him. But unlike before, he never asked if I was alright. He just looks at me and carries on.

His touch has gotten rough, his words sharp and cruel. 

“My pet” he calls me, and like a fool, I glance at him and I don’t know if it is the radiance of the sun or if it is that last fading bit of hope glinting in my eyes.

“Yes, my love?” I answer, like a lovesick puppy.

“It truly is a pity that you resisted the Dread Lord’s calling… we could’ve been indestructible now, but look at you, clinging to your righteousness” he says, his disappointment seeping into each word.

I barely speak up in response, my throat swelling with the intense feeling of despair that has been brewing in me ever since he has Ascended “I…I resisted because I wanted to protect you…from myself”

“Oh please, I don’t need any protecting now, every other being pales in comparison to the power of a True Vampire Ascendant” he says nonchalantly, just showing me how much this new form has corrupted him.

Days blur together. I don’t remember the last time I talked to him, last time I heard his contagious laughter. Who is this man who grips me so roughly, who kisses me with a forced, mechanical passion?

I shift in bed, inadvertently bumping into him.

“Can’t sleep?” he says, his tone void of emotion.

“Mhm” is all I say, my eyes meeting his deep crimson ones. They glow in the dim light, scrutinizing me with a cold, detached curiosity.

“Sunrise isn’t far away” he says, as if a sanguine being like him would need to lie in bed and rest.

“Mhm” I repeat, unable to grasp the point of his words. He’s no longer capable of caring, and he’s shown me that time and time again.

“Say…pet…”  he starts slowly, and I feel him shift on the bed behind me, his chest flush against my backside “It’s been so long since you’ve invited me to…drink from you shall we say…” He says and I already feel his breath against my neck.

At least that part didn’t change, he still asks first.

“I must admit, I am feeling a bit…. Peckish” he continues since I didn’t reply, and I can almost feel his heart thrumming in his chest as he struggles to hold himself back.

I simply turn to face him and a single tear runs down my cheek as a stray ray of sun, peeks through the curtain, shining onto his beautiful pale face. The very same face, its smile a distant memory. 

Ain't no sunshine when he's gone. Only darkness every day.

I bury the memories and I give in, placing my palm on the side of his face, pulling him closer and he takes the opportunity to bury his fangs into my neck. As always, I wince a little at first, it just that he doesn’t even attempt to show concern for me or to comfort me. He takes and takes…

It's not warm when he's away.

It gets to me, I can’t say it doesn’t, yet I try to find comfort in it - even his cold cruel words can be twisted into something that can resemble kindness.

He greedily slurps my blood and I can feel my vision blurring. Is this it? Is this how I’ll end? At the hands of my lover- turned monster? 

As if sensing my despair, he suddenly halts. Without warning, he grips my neck with a vice-like hold and leans in, his breath hot and menacing against my ear. “My sweet pet,” he growls, his voice a groggy rumble, “All mine….and oh so eager to serve…”

I sigh.

And I know, I know, I know, I know

“I know what’s going through that pretty head of yours, pet” he says as he drags his fingers along my throat “I will not tolerate it” he warns me.

Have I no right to the sanctity of my own thoughts anymore? Is there no place left for me? Not just in his cold, dead heart, but anywhere?

It’s not too late to answer the calling of the Dread Lord 

Hey, I oughta leave that thing alone.

It would do me no good, becoming nothing more than a tool for senseless slaughter in the name of some god.

And yet, that might be the only way to make him see me as an equal. As a true partner. Not a toy, not a pet, not something to be owned and used.

[utapri-translations-uuuu]

The Beginning of the Tragedy - Translation (悲劇の開幕)

Please do not repost/retranslate without permission.

Translator's notes can be found at the end and are marked with an asterisk.

I have also made a version which includes the members' notes found in the script.

[A bet between God and a devil - Heaven]

A strong spotlight suddenly shines on Mephistopheles.

Mephistopheles is before God in Heaven.

Mephisto: Life is a stage. How will you live until the curtain of death falls?

He spreads his arms and inquires strongly.

Mephisto: That is a problem that has existed since mankind was created into the world. What will you achieve and what will you gain…?

He lightly shakes his index finger.

Mephisto: However, humans are granted very little time. Their soul is bound by the shackles of life, and, over time, aging wears down the body and death arrives… Although the duration of life varies, death comes to everyone equally.

He writhes wistfully and hugs his own body.

Mephisto: Even in that finite time, humans are foolish and plagued by worry. Sinning and following the wrong path…

A small flame emerges from his index finger, which he extinguishes by blowing on it.*

Mephisto: The insolence of overestimating oneself and being conceited… Only being able to get pleasure from looking down on others. The greed to have more than one can handle. Not knowing that selfish desires drive others away…

He thumps his chest and clenches his fist tightly in hatred.

Mephisto: And the feeling of jealousy towards those who are better than oneself! Feeding the flames of resentment, unaware that it stirs up more misery!

He shudders and holds his head between his hands.

Mephisto: Unreasonable feelings that emanate from not getting one’s way. Excessive anger drags people into a whirlpool of madness…

He swishes his cloak loudly.

He turns around and addresses God.

Mephisto: But that’s precisely why it’s so interesting! Don’t you think so, my Lord…!?

It’s so bright that the true form of God cannot be seen.

God: Devil Mephistopheles… Let us hear your case.

Mephistopheles takes a step forward.

Mephisto: They say humans were created in the image of God, yet they are imperfect and filled with greed! Isn’t your creation tarnishing your name…?

He moves like a beast, exemplifying their foolishness.

Mephisto: They hide from the eyes of the Lord, and they do deeds that are no better than those of beasts behind His back. Even those who appear to conduct themselves righteously. They have not a shred of reason!

A small flame emerges from his index finger, which he extinguishes by blowing on it.*

Mephisto: Reason is like the flame of a candle before the wind in the face of desire. Completely useless!

God: Is that all you have to say? Why do you raise such complaints?

Mephisto: Of course! Not because… it’s amusing, but because it’s so pathetic and egregious! Do you want to leave alone these humans who are nothing like you, but who are acting presumptuously under the authority of the Lord!?

God: Not all humans are without merit. Do you know Faust? He's a scholar, an outstanding human being.

Mephisto: Faust…? I’m sure he is without human failings, right?

He leans back as if surprised.

Mephisto: Doing things like miracles on the daily! Giving to the needy and standing by the weak… The kind of deeds that others should use as inspiration…?

God: No. However, I would say it is very human-like. To think, worry, and hesitate… that’s human nature. But I believe that in the end, he will choose the right path.

He claps his hands in exaggerated happiness.

Mephisto: … You believe! Ha-ha! Belief alone won’t save anyone! That’s why the human world is in such a terrible state!

He opens his arms.

Mephisto: Let’s make a bet! Who is right, me or you…? Are humans good… or do they succumb to evil?

God: Yeah, I’ll leave it to you. Do as you please. Since Faust himself seems to be at an impasse about the path that he should follow.

He clasps his hands tightly in front of his chest, excited.

Mephisto: Oh, this is getting fun! The greatest gamble of all time! Will man win or will the devil win…?

God: Fate has been set in motion. Whatever the outcome, let’s accept it.

Mephistopheles is full of motivation.

Mephisto: I’ll use all of my power to seduce you… I’ll sweetly and gently… make you fall into hell! Take a good look at the skills that have successfully been used to toy with great kings and virtuous saints!

God: If you underestimate humans too much, won’t you end up giving him an advantage?

Mephisto: What nonsense!

He bows slowly and in a very ceremonious way.

Mephisto: I’m going to show you all the misery and despair around the world… It’s the beginning of a stage filled with sin and taboo~!

[Title call/Titular line]

All: Faust Last Cantata

Translator's notes:

Repeated line in the script? I believe this might have been a mistake, and it was intended only for the second instance.