#AND KEEP COMPARING THEMSELVES TO A CELESTIAL BEING THROUGH WHICH THEY HATE THEIR OWN HUMANITY EVEN MORE

[faestorian]

i have to think of some domestic wolfgato scenarios to draw because. oh my god.

[luna-the-moth]

The Birth of Satan (SFW)

Hello hello lovelies! I felt the strong urge to write some Satan angst, so why not illustrate the fall, Lilith’s death, and Satan’s birth?

CW: Blood Word count: 1.3k

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Staring at his previously snow-white wings, Lucifer felt a shiver of fear run up his spine, as the voice that had been plaguing his mind for eons had finally silenced.

He was used to it shrieking, furious at even the slightest inconvenience. Whenever Michael had belittled him, or Mammon had stolen Raphael's feathers, he would hear an ear-splitting voice, screech and attempt to claw it's way out of his head.

However, Lucifer had never reached that tipping point. Always reigning in his fury, his feelings of being slighted. Repressing, over and over, plastering that infuriating smirk on his face, permanently. Until now.

Watching Lilith's body fall in slow motion, Lucifer paused from his duel with Raphael, giving the other seraphim a chance to drive his spear into the future demon's torso. Yelling out in pain, Lucifer ripped it out of his body, a guttural noise of pain reverberating from his chest.

Before the angel of healing could respond, Lucifer dove through the clouds, wings spiraling down, rushing in a torpedo of blinding wings. He had to reach her, he couldn't fail her, not after everything they've been through. Not after betraying their Father, performing one of the most outrageous and traitorous actions an angel could commit.

Falling in love with a human

He could see her, limbs twisting, blood-stained wings beginning to burn, brighter than all the stars combined. She was dying, he realized. Dying for such a trivial thing. Although Lucifer hadn't seen the appeal in humans, he couldn't deny the stars in his sister's eyes when she talked about humans, the happiest she'd ever been.

How could he deny his sister of her happiness?

But now, as she plummeted into the Devildom's ground, a crater left in wake, Lucifer would've done anything to have changed his mind. To stop her from visiting the human world, even if it meant she would loathe him for the rest of their eternal lives.

Abruptly changing his flight course, Lucifer had realized too late that he was about to crash down as well. He went rolling into the dirt, wings splaying out in unnatural angles, twisting, fading into ash.

But not even moments later, he forced himself up, wings ached and burned in excruciating pain. He could see it in his peripheral vision, falling around him. Snow white feathers fading into black, corrupted with sin. Among them, the Demon Prince and his butler, stood in the far off corners of his vision, watching.

Of course, this was mere entertainment for them, he thought bitterly. This was nothing but a game, a chessboard. As he and his brothers were knocked away by their king, they were relinquished to the Devildom, unwanted, and thrown away as scraps.

Chuckling scornfully at his predicament, Lucifer hauled himself to his feet. Barely being able to stand, he staggered his way over to his sister.

With a flicker of hope, he saw her chest rise and fall, albeit weakly, but still, she was alive. Throwing caution to the wind, Lucifer painfully fluttered his wings, attempting to fly to her. However, all it succeeded in, was cause numbing pain in his back.

Finally kneeling over Lilith's body, Lucifer carefully picked her up, tears gathering in her eyes. She looked fragile, like a porcelain doll. Cracked and thrown away, nothing more than a discarded pawn.

Her wings, twisted and mangled, were already starting to fade away. With her breathing starting to turn ragged, she let out a weak chuckle, and uttered one last wish.

"Hey Luci.....? Don't....let them....fall....too....okay?"

Looking up at her brother with adoring eyes, Lilith let out one last chuckle, cheerfulness still ever-present in her eyes. With a peaceful smile gracing her blood-stained lips, Lilith breathed her last breath, body turning limp.

"No....this can't be real. Lilith, it's not your time yet, please come back, I'm begging you!" 

Tears falling freely from his face, Lucifer sobbed brokenly, tears carving their temporary scars on his face. After all he's done, and everything he's fought for, she still died. So this is what Simeon had meant when he had said no one comes out of war a victor.

Lucifer had known this fact intimately, watching humans go through the same, repetitive, heartbreaking process. Time and time again, wars and battles would be fought, but in the end, no one truly came out victorious.

Yet Lucifer had never thought the war would come to this. He thought there was still a chance, that she could live. He had anticipated losing the war, yet he had led his brethren against his own kind, choosing love, and loyalty.

Lucifer gently set down his sister's body, with one last kiss on her forehead. Seeing her body, disgraced and bloodied, had been the tip of the iceberg. Everything was red, no green, as Lucifer screamed in agony, a broken war cry.

He couldn't fight the voice inside of his mind anymore, no. It had overtaken him, rage, and pure wrath taking over his instincts. All of his composure, his masks, crumbled and let out the monster underneath. Twisting his form, he tore out his wings in a fit of rage.

Feathers flying throughout his vision, Lucifer cast the wings to the side, watching as the pure feathers had darkened into black, a sign of his sin. The heavens were cruel, and always were. Yet Lucifer had never experienced it's full fury and viciousness until now.

Clutching his head between his hands, Lucifer finally had a moment of peace. For eons, his mind had been plagued with wrath, always taunting him from the back of his mind. Now, he felt himself, with no one else influencing his decisions.

However, Lucifer's grief was far from spent.

No, fate couldn't let this man have a single moment of peace, could it?

Behind him, where his wings once lay, was a black and green mass. Writhing and erratically moving, it started taking on a form. Twitching and lumping itself together, if gradually started taking on a solid form.

A unicorn, Lucifer realized with a startle. With black, skeletal armor, and a fiery green mane, it reared it's head and whinnied loudly. It's horn, a deep obsidian, carved with emerald, glinted in the Devildom moonlight.

This wasn't like any creature Lucifer had seen before. In his entire lifetime, Lucifer had never seen something as volatile, furious, and absolutely magnificent as this.

The unicorns in the Celestial Realm had been tame, calm, and soothing creatures, renowned for their medicinal abilities.

Yet this one looked at him with absolute disgust, an intense hatred burning in it's furious green eyes. Or, what he thought were eyes. In the eye sockets of the beast, were bright green flames, which Lucifer assumed were eyes, as they narrowed and behaved like his own.

With a taunting gleam in it's eye, the beast wordlessly stood before Lucifer, who was already broken and bloody. Prideful and arrogant, the beast stood proudly, brandishing it’s strength compared to Lucifer’s.

It's own creator who had hosted it for years. Even so, the beast resented him, for keeping it in the corners of his mind, always repressing and quieting it's voice.

Whirlwinds of flame surrounding the unicorn, it's form took yet another shape. One more...human. No, human would be far too generous. Demonic was a more suitable word.

Horn splitting into two, twisting themselves to frame the humanoid head, the beast had started to hone itself, refining it's outward appearance. Blond locks replacing the fiery green mane, hooves morphing into hands and feet, it gradually took the form of one of the Devildom's strongest demons.

Yet, the beast couldn't help but add a finishing touch to it's form, just to mock Lucifer. With one last flourish, a boa of black feathers appeared, draping his neck, a final mark of rebellion against his creator.

Flashing a nasty grin towards the fallen angel, Satan jeered at him, seeing the all-powerful Lucifer Morningstar, broken and grieving. It was almost laughable, at how weak and pathetic his previous host looked.

With a smile full of spite, he spat out a venomous statement, filled with loathing and hate.

“Hello, Lucifer. Did you have a nice fall?"

[freyjawriter24]

Advent Omens: Warmth

My response to Day 22 of @drawlight‘s excellent advent prompt list. Yes, I know it’s February. But I’ve been being surprisingly productive recently, and wanted to channel some of that into cutesy stuff outside of my focus on Someone New, and this seemed a good, shorter way to do that, so here we are. I hope you enjoy (even if it is a little out of season... It’s still winter, though, and I’m only two months and a day late for this one! There are more coming that will be even later...).

-----

Crowley had never been a fan of the cold. Probably something to do with his being a snake or something, he figured, but whatever the reason, he hated it. Why on Earth he’d ended up mostly settling in a climate where it was never particularly warm, he couldn’t quite work out (ignore the angel-shaped reason, that can’t be it), but the winters were at least the reason he didn’t stay in New York more regularly – if it got cold in London, it was far, far worse across the pond.

The Bentley, it seemed, had acquired some of its demonic owner’s characteristics, one of which was very firmly hating the cold. The car flatly refused to move the first couple of times Crowley had attempted to drive anywhere when it was cold enough for frost to have accumulated on the windscreen, even when the demon exasperatedly pointed out that moving around would actually make the damn thing warmer. After that he simply miracled it to always feel the temperature of a warm spring day, which had the added bonus of meaning the windows never frosted up again.

Not that Crowley drove much when it was really cold, anyway. He preferred to hide away inside on days like that, curled up in a pile of blankets in his flat or the bookshop, a hot drink or a hot water bottle nearby.

Today, though, was an exception. Because he’d promised to take Aziraphale out, as a treat.

“Ugh, why did it have to be today?” he muttered as he started the Bentley. “I take it you think you’re funny,” he said in the vague direction of the sky, and then swore under his breath.

At least the drive itself would be warm. Not that that would make getting out of the car at the other end any easier, but still.

He rang Aziraphale from the kerb when he got to the bookshop. “Angel, I’m outside. Hurry up, or we’re going to be late.”

“Coming, my dear!”

The happiness in his voice was palpable, and Crowley groaned as he hung up. Why had he agreed to this again? What on Her green Earth had he been thinking? Even without the miserably cold weather, this was going to be an experience comparable to Hell.

The passenger door of the Bentley opened, and an angel appeared, wrapped up warm in a thick coat and matching tartan scarf and mittens. Crowley rolled his eyes behind his sunglasses, but couldn’t help feeling a little flutter of affection all the same.

“Ooh, it’s lovely and warm in here,” Aziraphale said brightly.

“Mmm,” Crowley said, pulling away as soon as the door was shut. “Bentley doesn’t like the cold.”

The angel nodded sympathetically, and settled himself into the warmth of the car as they drove off into the gathering dusk.

It took them far less time to get there than it should have done, of course, what with Crowley’s tendency to go double the legal speed limit on most smaller roads and attempt to push the needle past 100 on motorways, but the drive was still a small, peaceful haven of heat in an otherwise freezing and unfriendly world.

They listened to Beethoven on the way, which gradually morphed into Queen’s ‘A Winter’s Tale’, followed by ‘Body Language’, presumably because it was part of the ‘Hot Space’ album, and the Bentley thought that would be funny. Crowley had to try very hard not to look at Aziraphale during some of the lyrics, and tried not to wonder whether the angel’s pink cheeks were anything to do with the song or just the temperature.

He was inordinately grateful when they finally found themselves on a series of tight back roads and he had an excuse to turn the music off. “Should be around here somewhere. Keep an eye out for signs, they said there should be some.”

Iced-over puddles crunched under the Bentley’s wheels as they drove down one particularly narrow country lane, and then there they were. They’d made it.

“Oh good, looks like they haven’t started yet,” Aziraphale said happily, motioning to a group of humans who were milling about in a dark field together.

The angel hurried out of the car and over to someone who looked like they knew what was going on to sort out being let in. Crowley groaned, then sighed, then eventually clambered out of the warmth of the car and into the cold night air.

“Come on, my dear,” Aziraphale said, gesturing for the demon to join him. Crowley pulled his jacket tighter round himself, pushed his hands into his pockets, and sloped over in a striking impression of a stroppy pre-teen.

“Remind me why I agreed to this again?”

“It was your idea, Crowley. Something about ‘taking the mickey out of all the inaccuracies’, I believe.”

“I wouldn’t have said ‘mickey’, I would’ve said ‘piss’,” the demon grumbled, accepting his fate as one of the in-charge humans glared at him.

“I’d like to remind you that this is a family event,” she said pointedly. “Also we don’t allow flash photography or filming of any kind.”

“Of course,” Aziraphale said, smiling.

“Sure,” the demon grunted.

“Right then,” the human said, smiling brightly. “Come on in!”

The two celestials thanked her and went through towards the group of gathered humans.

Everyone was dressed in warm clothes and gloves against the cold, some with bobble hats on or brightly-coloured scarves visible beneath their thick coats. About half the group were adults, apparently mostly parents or grandparents of the other half of the group, who were children of varying ages and irritability. The adults were talking in hushed tones to one another, the kids either messing about together or complaining about the cold or stood in sullen silence, waiting for the main event to start.

Then a voice came from out of the darkness.

“Two thousand years ago,” it said, with the clarity of hidden speakers and a good microphone, “a child was born that would change the world. He was the son of God, and he was called Jesus.”

Crowley was about to lean over and mutter something snarky in Aziraphale’s ear, when there was a sudden rush of bright light and the associated gasps of several of the people there. The demon froze.

God, he’s beautiful.

Aziraphale was gazing upward in wonder at whatever had been suddenly illuminated in a nearby tree. The light had lit him up, too, bouncing off his pink cheeks and spellbound smile, and Crowley couldn’t help but just stare for a moment.

Eventually, he realised he was meant to be paying attention to whatever it was Aziraphale was watching, so he turned to see a human stuck up in a tree, dressed in flowing white robes and apparently playing an angel. He’d missed most of the dialogue, but it soon became evident that this was supposed to be the moment where the shepherds were told about Jesus. A swell of singing sounded from the trees – a poor imitation of an angelic choir – and the spotlight on the ‘angel’ vanished as the crowd were ushered towards a nearby barn.

The humans filed politely – Britishly – into the barn and took seats on the rows of hay bales that had been arranged for the occasion. Crowley looked around, a little confused and intrigued by this arrangement. But it all became clear in a matter of moments.

The performance was, Crowley grudgingly admitted to himself, actually quite good. Not necessarily in terms of historical accuracy, mind, but for the drama of it – yes, that was all pretty solid.

He watched the angel’s face soften into love when Mary and Joseph came on stage, accompanied by an actual real baby playing Jesus – a real baby! He was impressed by the dedication to realism when the shepherds ushered in real-life sheep to meet the child – real sheep! And (not that he’d ever admit it) he actually gasped along with the rest of the crowd when King Herod and his men came in – which, to be fair, anyone would have done, if suddenly confronted with a galloping horse screeching to a halt amidst an indoors crowd – a real horse!

He also watched Aziraphale’s features harden as the King threatened the death of the Messiah and enacted the murder of all infants in the area. I know, angel, I know. At least you didn’t have to see it.

The three wise men were fairly dramatic just in their looks – again, a decent production value, regardless of any relation to actual fashion of the time. And all the main points of the story were there, all the important stuff that always got retold at this time of year. It was a solid show.

At one point, Crowley looked over to see the angel crying – making no sound, but tears glistening on his cheeks in the candlelight of the barn. He wanted to reach out, to comfort him – an arm around the shoulder, perhaps, or even a soft squeeze of the hand sat on the angel’s knee. But no, that would be too much – they’d barely known each other for six thousand years, after all, that date ticking past only a handful of years ago. And more to the point, the incident at the church was only sixty-four years ago, the exchange in the Bentley in Soho barely thirty-eight years ago. Don’t go too fast. Don’t make him uncomfortable. Let him come to you.

Which is why all the demon did was nudge Aziraphale’s arm gently with his own, and when the angel looked at him he mouthed ‘you okay?’. Aziraphale nodded, and reached a mittened hand up to wipe at the tears on his face. The other hand found Crowley’s and squeezed.

The demon didn’t pay much attention to the end of the performance after that. He was too focused on the angel’s hand on his – in his, as they gently rearranged their grip to be more mutually-entwined – and on imagining what that would feel like without layers of fabric in the way. Warm, he thought softly to himself.

All too soon, it was over, and Aziraphale carefully slipped his hand out of Crowley’s as he stood up to leave. The demon felt the loss of the contact keenly, like a kitten suddenly thrown out into the cold. But he said nothing, did nothing, just stood too and followed the angel out into the freezing, dark night.

But as they left the field and headed back to the car, thanking the in-charge humans as they passed them, Aziraphale caught his eye and gave a small smile. Thank you, that look said, and that alone would have been enough. But then the angel spoke.

“I was thinking,” he said slowly. “That perhaps we could... do more things like this, together. Perhaps, in the New Year, we could... ah, well... dine at the Ritz?”

Crowley recognised the offer for what it was instantly, and felt every atom of himself set alight at once. He struggled to maintain outward composure, but by the suddenly-increased pinkness of Aziraphale’s cheeks, he could tell he had reacted him some way. It was only when he tried to speak that he realised his jaw had dropped open.

“Uh, ngh, yeah,” he garbled, mouth moving like a goldfish with only the occasional sound escaping, none of it in any way sensical. “Of course, angel,” he finally managed. “Whatever you want. Sounds lovely.”

Ohshitohshitohshitohshit.

Is this actually happening?

Crap. Shit. Fuck.

“Good,” Aziraphale said, and even soft and subdued as it was, shy and uncertain, his smile was as blinding as a million suns.

They reached the Bentley and climbed into its haven of warmth. Neither mentioned what had just been said for the duration of the drive back to London, and Crowley kept the music firmly turned off for fear of what the car might decide to play. But the silence felt companionable, warm, relaxed, not at all strained or awkward, and it was all Crowley could do to stop himself from saying something wholly inappropriate in light of it, like I love you, or this is the best day of my life, just for that, or you are the most incredible being I have ever met and just to hold your hand for so short a time is an honour greater than any other and one I most definitely do not deserve, so please feel free to take your time, I can live off this feeling from tonight for as long as you need.

The demon dropped the angel off in Soho, and drove to his own flat in Mayfair, and left the Bentley in its usual parking spot. And he didn’t even notice the temperature change as he climbed out of the car and into the frozen air, because right now, every inch of him was warmed with pure and simple love.

[wearepaladin]

Paladin Oath Breakdown

[monkey-network]

Good Stuff: THE TROOF ABOUT STARLIGHT GLIMMER

WARNING: Make sure to put a titch of salt in your hot cocoa. Boosts the flavor a bit. All original imagery belong to their respective owners and I swear to not claim them as my own with this post, which was all made by happenstance and fun. Thank you, take care out there, and enjoy.

A 3rd rate song in Hasbro’s otherwise swinging OST

To be frank, my thoughts on the character Starlight Glimmer are surely something. On the one hand, I find myself connecting with the tragedy that is essentially her trying to make it through her new life, and the other involves curb stomping her face in. I mean, they are sincerely pushing this character to provide some sort of value to the world, but I can’t really say what yet. Yeah, she’s the kind to make mountains out of molehills, but that’s like 85% of the show in general. Yeah, they forgave her faster than most would, but besides killing two characters the show can be incredibly angelic. All in all, I see where the detesting attitude towards her comes from, but something in me still couldn’t see the clear case behind her poor character. Yet, I think I understand now, and I’m surprised most never really touch this thought. Roll with me here...

She’s the total opposite of Discord. The Nega-Discord, if you will.

I see many compare her to Sunset Shimmer, and I definitely see where they’re coming from, but when you start stacking her to Discord, the troof speaks for itself as Discord has everything Starlight wished she had. As villains, Discord relished in chaos (hence the name) whilst Starlight wanted control. Both were content with the results they wanted and made the most of it until a single moment of convenience brings everybody together to defeat them in spades. Compare this to Sunset Shimmer, whose plans as a villain in the 1st movie were generally aimless and the motive behind it didn’t amount to much beyond an elongated grudge against her former mentor. Her motive were better than Starlight, sure, but besides trying to prove Celestia wrong nothing about her villainous stance really evolved before it was killed off entirely.

Though that grudge has come full circle. Which, splendid.

Even after getting their ass handed to them, with the promise to elicit a semblance of change, Discord and Starlight continue to let their villainous sides seep into how they affect the story in their respective episodes. Their escalating actions, though, is where the distinction starts to show. It’s after “Keep Calm and Flutter On” where Discord’s chaotic nature doesn’t create the problem but centers around it; the use of his powers may complicate the situation for others, Discord included, but it’s never to directly put them in any rut that they haven’t dug themselves. Discord’s essentially the anti-hero of the show, effortlessly willing to be the bad guy compared to everybody else, only for his actions to provide a lesson for those affected. He’s pill nobody wants to swallow, but in doing so helps those see the benefit.

With a platonic ship I find beneficial, mhm

And with Discord being the anti-hero, comes Starlight being the anti-villain, or somebody with well off intentions only to make matters worse in reality. Let it not be said that with the episodes that actually gives her spotlight, not just to be a plot device supporting character, it’s always her building the problem only for others to resolve it and spell out the lesson to her (or us), all for the intent of having some semblance of control like before (or having literal control in one episode). Unlike Discord’s chaos which plays a part in solving the problem, Starlight’s control is the problem. And while her motives can appear as reasonable or relating in its terribleness, you can’t deny that the ends add up from more evil means than Discord and this doesn’t make us root for her.

Now I see i<3kimpossiblealot’s stance on Discord clearly

But one might ask, “Monkey Network, you fool, that’s barely enough to label Starlight as the Nega-discord.” And you’re right, their actions aren’t the only thing that makes them extracted opposites. Their presence is also the key element; can’t have a character with only tell and no show. But, here’s where things get transparent: the sheer duality comes in progression of their appearances. People have said Starlight is typically stapled to the episode to have somebody to consider a main character, and they’re right. Unlike Discord, who not only stands out effortlessly but makes his presence known immediately, Starlight comes in and out like a neighbor next door. Her personality is generally static, so it doesn’t feel hard replacing her with Spike or any average character. It reminds me of this other show, Mob Psycho 100, where the main character’s entire point is to be one within a mob even when he is a psychically powerful person, hence his nickname “Mob”. However, his overall character arc is not trying to stand out among the crowd with said power, but enjoy being around one with his increasing circle of friends with or without. That’s what Discord’s character arc is all about, an all powerful chaotic god having a touch more humanity in him and having a sense of belonging with his former adversaries and the world in general. Starlight wants to be more than a past villain, she wants to learn about friendship, however vague that is, but in return nothing makes her stand out beyond baggage, strong magic, and kites. Yeah, she makes friends with Maud, Thorax(?), Trixie, and NEET boy, but it doesn’t affect her place in the canon in any way. They’re the ones having their character built more, not Starlight’s. She’s the peasant among well tuned kings.

And let us be real, she hasn’t made any sort of mark no matter how hard she’s tried and actually succeeded

And as a final blow, it gets pretty meta when you see that Discord getting less actual screen time in the 4 seasons he was around makes him a better character than the 2 Starlight got. Hell, even if you switch Discord and Starlight’s histories, the former has much more charm and likability that his fuck ups wouldn’t make you hate him as much as you would Glimmer. So with all the effort put into Starlight for two years, she got the worst improvement: the kind begging for your attention. The kind that says that you could change only to be continuously overshadowed by your more precise equal.

Now you can see why Discord was the push behind Celestial Advice’s existing plot

We basically got not only a character that’s string compared to the likes of Sunset Shimmer but the same character twice with Discord’s primary presence. And with all that said, what can we do with her? Well, nothing really. She’s so deep in this rabbit hole that it’s too soon to just write her out and too late to say she’s deserved to die. That’s the sad thing about her. Her development existed outside everyone else’s, so we’re literally seeing a bubbled vision of how this fool of a villain tries to redeem herself, practically by herself, with the only sense of keeping afloat is the fear of failure and utter isolation. The lacking discipline, the uncoordinated freedom of doing what you want however you so please, culminating in a tragic state of stagnancy and unintentional detriment.

No wonder people tend to relate to her

So consider it a slow, deflating tragedy, where her presence ironically gets cast into a boundary of isolation with every passing episode. Watch her slowly fall deeper into the background of your mind, and with every scream for acknowledgement, you slowly grow blissful to the white noise, walking by every excuse for her existence only to then look back in the end and say, “You know, she could’ve been made worse.” That might not seem clear, but it’s certainly happening.

She’s basically the new Star Wars series: a polarizing, ambiguous, yet overall mishandled present on your doorstep that will be shelved and forgotten in favor of the original product not long after

Truth be told, I can’t hate Starlight anymore; I’ve certainly grown tolerant enough for her to be a supportive background character with a nice voice. It’s like stomping a roach, you can feel disgusted, scared, annoyed, angry, but after all that, after a while, the emotions mellow enough and the motivation for continuing the scrutiny burns out. And with this, if you are able to find Starlight to be compelling character, that is okay; make lemonade out of lemons. But like staining cashmere, we mustn’t say propelling judgement on her is wrong when the writers have clearly tried to say otherwise to no real avail. All in all, she’s a dead end and you can either enjoy the end with her or turn back around and move on. Whether she truly develops or falters later, there’s no harm in enveloping her with your time. Or you could just be a villain and fucking kill her off.

And as I will never get tired of this gif,  I’m Roy Macintosh, and that’s all I got

[askkav-archived]

2 4 6 16 18 29

Mental health.

Kav - Mentally, Kavandria likes to think she’s fine and that there’s clearly nothing wrong with her, she’s perfect. She is always fine but Kavandria is far from fine, dealing with anxieties and pressure from all around to be on her best behavior and to be what everyone thinks she should be like.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Personality_disorder - I can only, at the moment, they have Cluster B personality disorder which affects them mentally and how they think of themselves to be as important.

Though over her teenage and early adult life - she’s struggling with her abuse and trauma the only way she knows how, but acting as though nothing clearly has happened and she’s still God. 

(Akainu is just one of her abusers - understand why she’s clearly afraid of him.)

Akainu - He feels as though he has perfect mental and physical health; fit to be the future Fleet Admiral if it came to that point where Sengoku would finally, after all these years, retire.

Though I can see he struggles with depression and possibly PTSD - but because of so, he often and I mean often throws himself into his work so he doesn’t have to deal with his struggles and life.

If you ask me; he barely has a personal life - He thinks of nothing more than work, work and work.

Aim with a weapon.

Kav - Kavandria has always had good aim; she’s proud of her expertise in shooting and it’s not because of her natural talent as a god. She’s honed this skill over years and years of playing sports with the lives of slaves and those beneath her.

She doesn’t ultimately stand next to Yasopp - but she stands behind the fact that she’s god, and her aim is absolute. (Though it’s through the use of Haki that she’s able to aim and shoot well.)

Akainu - He’s not much for weapons, especially with guns and firearms - He’s reliant on his strength and his devil fruit abilities more than anything.

Love life.

Kav - Her love life isn’t all that extravagant as she’ll make you all to believe - Having relationships with pirates, warlords and those that she’s told are beneath her is a basically out of the question.

But that doesn’t mean she doesn’t try, right? She tries though she ends up crying a lot due to the fact that the relationships don’t go anywhere - She only wishes someone would look beyond her status, look past that everyone else sees her as a god and just look at her.

Look at Kavandria, only and say you want her. All of her.

She’s had relationships, either consensual (or not) with various marines and World Government workers, etc. She just won’t list them openly.

Akainu - Love life, really? This man has no time for love or personal issues of others around him. Though I headcanon he used to have a past relationship that went sour because of his duty to the marines.

He acts indifferent and cold but beneath that gruff exterior is a man with a lot of passion and with that, a lot of love and care that he hasn’t found the right one with - though he doesn’t give himself the time and day to even go out there looking for just about anyone.

Thoughts on dragons.

Kav - She used to love stories being told to her by her mother; of adventures and slaying… dragons, to the point she used to slay a (Celestial) dragon or two herself. They were only playing.

“I didn’t mean to, Momma! They have to wake up - It was just pretend!”

Kavandria doesn’t think much about dragons these days.

Akainu - If we’re talking about Garp’s son, Dragon - he hates him to the very core like that bastard son of his.

And if we’re talking about Celestial Dragons; bitch, he wishes they didn’t existed but they do - And he works for them.

But if we’re talking about dragons in tales of grandeur and heroes, well… Dragons are not uncommon in the world though he cares very little for them actually.

Immune system.

Kav - Kavandria, if you have not read her profile page, is genetically modified to have an improved and superhuman immune system. With amber lead in the blood of her fathers’ genes, of course, he made sure of it that his last and only child will remain unaffected by his own humanity.

She rarely or doesn’t at all get ill (though this is only physical).

Akainu - Rarely gets sick and when he does, it doesn’t stop him from working, he still works even high on meds and cough syrup.

Eating habits.

Kav - Okay, so she hates to admit it but her eating habits are horrendous, gorging on sweets and pastries - nearly getting herself into a sugar-induced coma more than a couple of times in a week, thank herself for being god.

Though because of being so self-indulgent in her earlier life, these days she’s actually limited into how much sweets she can intake.

More to keep her looking her best, because she’s a God - she has to look and appear perfect (especially to society).

Though catch her sneaking baked goods when no one’s looking - she’s gotta get her fix.

Akainu - Has a well balanced diet - though tends to eat more meat products. He’s not for the high class food with spices, he’s kind of more like Luffy in terms of eating.

Meat is what he likes, cooked well done of course. (Don’t tell him I compared him to Luffy…)

[stoffelees]

Deserving of Acceptance: Chapter Seven

Chapter Title: Vandals

Rating: Teen and Up

Chapter Warnings: Minor Violence, Racism, Mild Language

Word Count: 2318

Summary: Papyrus deals with humans on his own terms.

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Rest was something that came easy to him when it was time for it. Sleeping during the day was something Sans did, not him. Papyrus casually inspected his home. He had given in earlier and cleaned up the glass in the kitchen. Sans probably would have ignored it anyway. Now Papyrus was just spending the rest of the daylight ensuring everything was in order. He had finished the dishes and dusted almost the entire townhouse. It felt good to know he was leaving a clean home before work. All these changes in his patrol schedule had thrown him off a bit. He liked it when everything was in order, when things were predictable. Sure he enthusiastically enjoyed a good puzzle, but trying to find cookware after Sans has done dishes is not a puzzle he relished.

He made his way back upstairs; it was time to prepare for his evening patrol. He had polished his armor as soon as he woke up so everything would be ready for tonight. One of the biggest roles of being a member of the royal guard was intimidation. And Papyrus prided himself on his spotless armor. No dings or dents; though he himself may have some scars of previous battles, to look battle worn was not proper. One needed to look crisp and ready to fight, not like they had just come from battle exhausted.

Adjusting his chest plate he reached for his scarf. It was his signature piece; monsters could recognize him from afar when he wore it. And that in turn ensured there were less monsters he had to deal with on his patrols. He couldn’t recall when he had started wearing it, but it wasn’t important.

Descending the stairs he ran through the checklist in his head as he did before every patrol. The house was clean; he had made sure of that. His magic was at its strongest and hadn’t been spent in days. Grabbing his keys he allowed himself a fleeting smile, he could feel this was going to be a good night.

The street grew longer behind him as he made his way toward his destination. He hated this part of town. It was where the less capable monsters lived, some would say the less fortunate. They didn’t even try to become strong; they remained weak and ran from confrontation. This area housed the bar, Grillby’s. Monsters too puny to properly defend themselves fled here, hoping the more of them there were the less chance they would be targeted. Safety in numbers they would say.

Even now on the surface and with the peace laws in effect, it was still habitual for weaker monsters to flee. There might be an order by the king to cease dusting, but dust couldn’t talk. In fact, compared to what Papyrus had been told of humans, it was significantly easier to kill a monster and get away with it than it was to kill a human. If a monster was dusted they were lucky to be identified and have their dust claimed. Usually it was left to disperse with the wind. Cause of death was only known if a witness spoke up or the one to claim the EXP bragged, and witnesses didn’t want to become dust themselves.

The sounds of the bar drifted to him, loud and boisterous. He couldn’t understand how the dogs of the Royal Guard could willingly be associated with such a disgusting place. He would never allow his image to be tarnished in such a way. It was bad enough his reputation suffered due to Sans.

As he drew closer the door opened and figure slinked out. Papyrus continued on his path, closing in on the establishment and the monster now present. There was no need to pause here; his duty was to patrol the living areas on the outskirts of the neighborhood which was still a few blocks away. But the figure wasn’t moving; all monsters should know to get out of his way. He was not in the mood to spend energy on a defiant waste of space.

Closing in on the creature, Papyrus’ eye sockets narrowed and he raised a browbone. Of course, of all the monsters to be in his way and prevent him from proceeding to do his job it would be his brother. He stopped his march a short distance from the skeleton before him and analyzed the state of his brother. Sans was refusing to look at him and the fact he was staying quiet spoke volumes.

“DRUNK AGAIN I SEE. YOU REALLY ARE USELESS. FRITTERING AWAY WHAT I’VE EARNED IN A PATHETIC ATTEMPT TO MAKE YOURSELF FEEL BETTER. DISGUSTING.”

Sans had his eye sockets shut tight, left hand tightly gripping his right arm. Other than his drunken state, he didn’t look any worse for wear. “GO HOME BEFORE ANYONE ELSE SEES YOU LIKE THIS. AND IF YOU CAN’T MAKE IT THERE ON YOUR OWN, THEN THAT’S ONE LESS PROBLEM I HAVE TO DEAL WITH.”

Sidestepping his sibling he continued on his mission. He needed to focus on what lay before him, not pausing to even glance back at his brother. He had received a message from Undyne a few hours after their meeting. It detailed rumors that the human vandals were going to target another part of the neighborhood tonight. Undyne had voiced her suspicions, but this further confirmed that repeat offenders were behind it. That was why she wanted Papyrus there. She would do it herself, he had no doubt, but he had control. He was one of the few she could send out and be confident that if she said no dust, there would be no dust, only fear.

The moon was settling itself into the sky, comfortably illuminating his path. Although the red on his attire was easy to spot, the black helped him merge with the dark and the moonlight was perfect for hiding his bones among the shadows. He may not be a ghost, but as a skeleton he seemed to be able to hunt much easier in the night on the surface than he ever did underground. And he was beginning to find it to be quite a thrill.

Perimeter fence coming into view he took stock of his surroundings. It was quite a distance from the last vandalized house but this was where Undyne wanted him. He would scout the area a few times, but he had a feeling he would be more successful if he hid himself and simply watched. So after a few laps he found a house near the fence and tucked himself into the shadows.

He had to wait only a few hours. Glancing at the moon, he noted its position had moved quite a bit and assumed it was close to one or two in the morning. He was growing quite fond of this celestial body and its ability to inform him of so much. Eye sockets trailing back to the new figures moving along the outside of the fence, he focused his mind and blocked out all other thoughts. It was a trio of forms, all about the same height and rather tall for humans so likely male. The first began scaling the fence, throwing some sort of covering over the barbed wire and dropping down on the other side. The second tossed some items over that were caught with a muffled metallic clack before joining its companion on the inside of the fence. The third seemed to struggle a bit to heft itself up but eventually made it over.

Papyrus scoffed. These were the vandals? They didn’t look battle ready; they were just young humans, sub-adult most likely. He watched their movements, noting the caution in their step. The three looked nervous, as they should be. Continuing to observe from his point of surveillance, the only shift in his posture was the slight turn of his skull as he followed the human’s path.

Stories used to be told of monsters lurking in the shadows, ready to pounce and devour humans for their souls. These were largely untrue, but did these humans know that? It was time to find out. Carefully he made his way toward the humans, lithe movements keeping him silent. They had formed a circle and seemed to be discussing something quite intently when the one facing his direction looked up and pointed at him causing the companions to spin around.

The skeleton stopped before the three. They were indeed all male but their line of vision came only to his chest. The one was a bit stockier like his brother while the other two looked a bit leaner. “HOW KIND OF YOU TO VISIT, BUT OUR HOURS DO NOT EXTEND TO THIS TIME OF NIGHT.”

The closest human jumped at the volume of Papyrus’ voice but quickly attempted to compose himself. The other two seemed to look to him in confusion and fear. Stars... the fear, these humans reeked of it. Papyrus never thought he’d be exposed to such a sensation, but their souls practically quivered.

“You don’t scare us! We can do whatever we want here, and there’s nothing you can do to stop us!”

Jagged corners of his mouth turned upward, “QUITE THE CONTRARY. YOU SEE, YOU ARE NOW IN MY TERRITORY. WHICH MEANS YOU MUST PLAY BY MY RULES.”

Giving a sharp slap to his back, one of the humans in the rear attempted to cheer his partner on and pushed him forward. “C’mon man, show this thing how strong we are. We ain’t scared of nothing!”

Reaching into saggy jeans, the human produced a sizable dagger and took on a stance that seemed to mimic a feline preparing to pounce. Papyrus’ gaze scanned over the human. This is what he was hoping for. Normally dark and empty eye sockets suddenly lit up with deep red pupils. He summoned his magic with intention like Undyne had taught him and a large red femur bone appeared in his right hand, one end sharpened to a fine point. The gesture caused the human to convulse and suddenly hovering inches from his chest was a bright orange heart, his soul.

That seemed to be enough to spur the human into action because in a flash he was running toward Papyrus. Given his training he might have taken on a better battle posture, but the human flailed wildly and Papyrus was able to simply grab the wrist of the hand holding the knife.

“YOU’LL NEED TO DO BETTER THAN THAT.” He threw the human back and brought his own weapon forward. “YOU CAN’T JUST EXPECT ME TO STAND HERE AND HOPE WE EXCHANGE BLOWS. WORK FOR IT!”

“What did you do to me?!” The human pushed himself off the ground and faced the guardsman once again. “What is that thing?!” There was panic in his voice as he pointed at his own soul. Papyrus rolled his eye lights. Perhaps he had expected too much from these humans, they clearly were not soldiers.

“MY TERRITORY, MY RULES. THIS IS A CONFRONTATION AND NOW WE WILL FIGHT. YOU MAY LEAVE WHEN THE CONFRONTATION IS COMPLETE.” Tossing his weapon into his left hand, he used his free one to summon a row of bones to encircle the pair. He was not losing this chance to battle.

Eyes wide the human pointed his knife at the wall of bones, as if expecting them to shoot out of the ground and impale him. “W-what do I have to do?” He turned to face the skeleton once more.

“DEFEAT ME IN COMBAT. IMPRESS ME. YOUR KIND LOCKED US AWAY HUNDREDS OF YEARS AGO; SURELY HUMANS ARE STRONGER THAN YOU PRESENT YOURSELF.” Returning the femur to his dominant hand, he casually spun the weapon. As it twirled magic filled in the point to make it a complete bone, blunt on both ends. He ceased the spinning and pointed the new weapon at the human, “COME AT ME!”

Suddenly regaining composure, the human charged at him, dagger at his side waiting to slice when he came close. Of course Papyrus could read this maneuver, it was simple and primitive. Swinging the bone like a bat it connected with the human’s arm sending him to the ground once more. But this time he didn’t stay down, he quickly leaped up and arced the blade at the skeleton. Papyrus took a step back easily avoiding it and sidestepped, bringing the bone down against the human’s back.

He was on his hands and knees now, the dagger seemed to have been lost in the fall. Papyrus reached down and grabbed him by the front of his shirt, hefting him off the grass and off his feet. How pathetic, he himself fought better as a babybones than this human. Perhaps the human species had become weak since the war.

Papyrus dismissed his magic, the bones around them evaporating and leaving no sign they were ever there. “I AM GRANTING YOU MERCY HUMAN, I SUGGEST YOU TAKE IT.” He glanced around them and saw they were alone, how amusing. “IT SEEMS YOUR FRIENDS HAVE ABANDONED YOU. PERHAPS NEXT TIME YOU WILL BRING PROPER WARRIORS.”

He released his grip on the human’s shirt, allowing him to fall on his back. Scrambling backward, the would-be vandal tripped over himself while getting up and fled for the fence. He couldn’t get himself over fast enough it seemed.

That could have been more satisfying, but the buzzing in his bones had returned to a gentle hum. He doubted any more of those humans would attempt to return tonight, so it was time to return home. He would prepare his report for Undyne and in the morning update her on his success. Of course that success would be accredited to her, but it hardly mattered. He served his captain and that is what made the Royal Guard so great.

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[sowingseedsandshootinghoops]

The Fight For Your Soul: Neil Gaiman’s “American Gods”

Note on the text: I used the 10 Anniversary Edition (with the author’s preferred text) of Neil Gaiman’s American Gods as published by Harper Collins in 2016

This is an amazing book written by a fantastic author. Anyone interested in fantasy or mythology would love this epic story of the battle between the Old Gods of America and the New Ones. 

The Old Gods are modern reincarnations of the gods of ancient mythology and religion, while the New Gods are different manifestations of technology. The powers of each group of gods is fueled by the belief of the people; and when the people stop believing, when there is no one left to talk about the old ways, when all the evidence of that god’s existence has been lost to the sands of time, then that god ceases to be as well: “Gods die when they are forgotten” (651). How this happens, and the origins of the fight between the two sets of gods, is detailed by Mr. Wednesday, who is the reincarnation of Odin, the Norse king of the gods, when he tries to convince some of the other Old Gods of the need to band together and fight the New Gods: 

When the people came to America, they brought us with them. They brought me, and Loki and Thor, and Anansi and the Lion-God, Leprechauns and Cluracans and Banshees, Kubera and Frau Holle and Asaroth [and all the rest]. We rode here in their minds and we took root. We traveled to the new lands across the oceans.The land is vast [ though, and] soon enough our people abandoned us, remembered us only as creatures of the old land, as things that had not with them to the new [one]. Our true believers [either] passed on, or stopped believing, and we were left [behind], lost and scared and dispossessed, to get by on what little smidgens of worship or belief we could find. . . . So that’s what we’ve done, gotten by on the edges of things where no one was watching us too closely. . . . we exist in the cracks of society. . . . Now, as all of you will have reason aplenty to discover for yourselves, there are new gods growing in America, clinging to the growing knots of belief: gods of credit card[s] and freeway[s], of telephone[s], of radio[s], of hospital[s], and of television[s]. Gods of plastics and of beepers and neon. Proud gods, fat and foolish creatures, puffed up by their own newness and importance. They are aware of us and they hate us. . . . You are fooling yourselves if you believe otherwise. They will destroy us if they can. It is time for us to band together. It is time for us to act (175-176).

Technical Boy, the New God of technology, echoes Mr. Wednesday’s message when he kidnaps Shadow, the protagonist who works for Mr. Wednesday, and tells him to deliver a message to his employer: 

You tell him he’s history. He’s forgotten. He’s old. And he better accept it. Tell him that we are the future and that we don’t give a fuck about him or anyone like him. His time is over. . . . He has been consigned to the Dumpster of history while people like me ride our limos down the superhighway of tomorrow. . . . Tell him that we have fucking reprogrammed reality. Tell him that language is a virus and that religion is an operating system and that prayers are too much fucking spam” (70-71). 

Ok, so the New Gods are definitely powerful but do they really see themselves as gods? Gods in the same way that the Old Gods see themselves as gods? Well just look at the conversation that Shadow has with Media, the goddess of television, who is talking to him through the character of Lucy Ricardo from the T.V. show I Love Lucy: 

I’m the idiot box. I’m the T.V. I’m the all-seeing eye and the world of the cathode ray. I’m the boob tube. I’m the little shrine the family gathers around to adore.’ ‘You’re the television? Or someone in the television?’ ‘The television is the altar.  I’m what people are sacrificing to.’ ‘What do they sacrifice?’ asked Shadow. ‘Their time mostly,’ said Lucy. ‘Sometimes each other’. . . . ‘You’re a god?’ [asked] Shadow. Lucy smirked and took a lady-like puff of her cigarette. ‘You could say that’” (221-222).  

We don’t tend to think of modern America as being particularly religious, especially when compared societies of the ancient past. Mr. Wednesday however argues that modern Americans feel exactly the same impulse that the ancient ones did, they just express it differently. Before, the people would feel drawn to a particular place for reasons that they don’t entirely understand, and then they would “canonize” the spot by building a religious site on top of it. Think of the Oracle of Delphi and how it was built above two fault lines. In America, something similar happens. Americans “officially memorialize” things that are sacred to them. Think of about things like the site at World Trade Center, or the creation of a museum dedicated to a particular topic, or how a place of the most intense natural beauty gets further deified when it is made into a national park. Americans feel that same pull towards the divine that the ancients did, they just deal with it differently. For Mr. Wednesday the phenomenon is most obvious in the creation of what he calls roadside attractions: 

It’s perfectly simple’, said Wednesday. In other countries, over the years, people recognized the places of power. Sometimes it would be a natural formation, sometimes it would be a place that was somehow just special. They knew something important was happening there, that there was some focusing point, some channel, some window to the Immanent. And so they would build temples or churches or erect stone circles. . . . In the USA people still get the call, or some of them, and they feel themselves being called to from the transcendent void and they respond to it by building beer bottles of somewhere that they’ve never visited, or by erecting a gigantic bat-house in some part of the country that bats have traditionally declined to visit. Roadside attractions: people feel themselves being pulled to places where, in other parts of the world, they would recognize that part of themselves is truly transcendent, and buy a hot dog and walk around, feeling satisfied on a level that they cannot describe, and profoundly dissatisfied on a level below that (151-152). 

They are satisfied because they are, on some level, responding to that call, and profoundly dissatisfied because they are unable to recognize such places for what they are. They think that they are “just” going on a trip somewhere without realizing that the joy creating by places like Disneyland, the world’s largest roadside attraction, comes from the same mysterious that it always has. But because people allow themselves to just enjoy it on the surface level as a place full of rides and candy, they can’t really appreciate it. Those who can though are able to get something much more meaningful out of the “happiest place on earth” than those who can’t. They can, for lack of a better word, get a more real “experience”. The problem with the New Gods isn’t that they are evil, they’re not. The problem is that they can only stay on the surface, and not actually confront the real issues that are a part of being human. The Old Gods of love, hate, life, death, pain, joy etc know about human life on the level that the New Gods of technology simply don’t. 

And then, after all this build up, there comes the showdown. And it is an epic one. The Old Gods versus the New Gods: the war which had already “begun [even though] nobody saw it” (469). The war had already begun because it is war being waged everyday inside the soul of every man, woman, and child who has ever lived. A myth is a story that serves to explain some mysterious part of our world: of either our human nature and “nature’s nature”. If that is true than what Neil Gaiman has given us in American Gods is a modern, American myth. Because what he attempts to do here is explain different, mysterious, aspects of the soul of a 21st century American. What happens on the battlefield- a fight between two different systems of thought, between two different ways of living, is meant to mirror the fight that happens inside of every person. In the pages leading up to the central battle, Gaiman takes a break from the narrative to tell the reader that 

none of this is actually happening. If it makes you more comfortable, you could simply think of this as a metaphor. Religions are, by definition, metaphors. After all God is a dream, a hope, a woman, an ironist, a father, a city, a house of many rooms, a watchmaker who left his purse chronometer in the desert, someone who loves you, even, perhaps, against all evidence, a celestial being whose only interest is to make sure your football team, army, business, or marriage thrives, prospers, and triumphs over all opposition. Religions are places to stand and look and act, vantage points from which to view the world. So none of this is happening. Such things could not happen in this day and age. Never a word of it is literally true, although it all happened, and the next thing that happened happened like this (643). 

So what has Gaiman given us? A myth, a metaphor, a way in which we can view ourselves. A way for us to look at what we believe and why: a way for us to look at the gods we’ve created, what sacrifices we’ve offered to them, and to determine if we want to keep on worshiping them. The war between the old and the new, between the need to adapt who we are to a set of new circumstances while still needing to hold onto the fundamental aspects of our “old” selves, is one that we all wage everyday. 

People are meaning-making machines. They populate, kill, and then re-populate every corner of their world with meaning, sometimes the old meaning gets replaced by something new and sometimes it does not. Then they hope that the new identity that arises up from the ashes of this battle will be old enough to retain its authenticity while being new enough to adapt to the new circumstances which they have encountered in their lives. If too much of the old identity dies, than what remains is counterfeit. But the new identity is killed off, what remains is unable to grow and adapt to the new circumstances which life presents and will, in time, die itself. One of the greatest torments of life is that the synthesis between these two identities is never perfect and always, in an emotional sense, a bloody mess: 

The paradigms were shifting. He could feel it. The old world of infinite vastness and resources and future, was being confronted else- a web of energy, of opinions, of gulfs. People believe, thought Shadow. It’s what people do. They believe. And then they will not take responsibility for their beliefs; they conjure things, and do not trust their conjurations. People populate the darkness with ghosts, with gods, with electrons, with tales. People imagine, and people believe: and it is that belief, that rock solid belief, that makes things happen. The mountain top was an arena, he could see them arrayed. They were too big. Everything was too big in that place. . . . Shadow felt sorry for them all. There was an arrogance to the new ones. Shadow could see that. But there was also a fear. They were afraid that unless they kept face with a changing world unless they remade and redrew and rebuilt the world in their image, their time would already be over. Each side faced the other with bravery. . . .  Shadow could see an initial skirmish had already taken place. There was already blood on the rocks. They were readying themselves for the real battle, the real war. (678-680).  

A new identity is about to be born. Both for the individual, in real life, and for America, in terms of the story. 

What Shadow learns by the end is that the gods don’t need to fight each other. That the new gods need the old gods to anchor them, and that the old gods need the new gods in order to be able to reincarnate properly into this new world. When Mr. Wednesday finally dies, he is able to reincarnate into a body, into a way of living, that isn’t so at odds with the modern world. And that’s the point. Don’t be afraid to look at what you believe, to look at what gods you create in your life. What you believe is a reflection of who you are. The point is to take who you are and allow yourself to grow while maintaining your essence. So that one day you can be living like Odin, totally himself and totally at peace in the modern world.