#First the truth is killed then the people

[casssmalefantasy]

still the girl i think about at night - paige bueckers x reader!

s: you and paige have been best friends since middle school. it was always harmless—until you’re home for the summer, wrapped in an old sleepover routine and everything starts to feel different. maybe it always has.

w: smut, fingering, light teasing, dirty talk, friends to lovers, long-repressed feelings, confidence kink, lowkey jealousy, paige being cocky, reader being down bad

word count: 3.8K

author’s note: wrote this like a month ago, but here’s an x reader fic since people claim i don’t write any 😀

you don't mean to stare.

it’s just—her mouth. the way she’s chewing her chocolate chip cookies, leaning back against your headboard like this is still sophomore year and you didn’t just spend three hours silently dying on the couch next to her while watching a movie.

she’s in sweats and your hoodie, long legs stretched across your childhood bed, and there’s something about the way her hair’s all messy and she smells like your laundry detergent that makes your chest feel tight.

“you’re staring,” paige says without looking at you.

you blink. “i am not.”

she glances over with that lazy, knowing smile. “you are. you always do when you think i’m not paying attention.”

you roll your eyes, grabbing a pillow and swatting her with it. “shut up.”

“see?” she grins, catching it. “you only get violent when i’m right.”

you groan and flop backward, staring at the ceiling like it’ll give you strength. you two haven’t done this in so long. the whole just us, back in minnesota, in one of our bedrooms with no responsibilities and hours to kill thing. it used to be routine. sleepovers in hotel rooms after aau tournaments. long drives to and from practice, a million shared secrets over snacks, and headphones and playlists that changed every year.

but now she’s paige bueckers. uconn star.

and you’re just…you.

still best friends. still ride-or-die, but you stopped letting yourself imagine anything more, years ago.

“you ever think about how weird it is that we’ve never hooked up?” paige says suddenly.

you almost choke on your own breath. “what?”

she’s smirking, sitting up now. “i’m just saying. we’ve been best friends for, like, nine years. most people would’ve kissed at least once by now.”

your mouth opens. closes. opens again. “yeah, well, we’re not most people.”

“you ever wanted to?” she asks, tilting her head like she doesn’t already know the answer.

you try not to panic. “wanted to what?”

“kiss me.”

you scoff. “i think you’ve had too much sugar.”

she laughs, soft and low, and it makes your stomach twist. “so that’s a no?”

you pause. she watches.

you look away first. “truth or dare,” you say, just to change the subject.

“truth,” she says easily.

you hesitate. “how many people have you hooked up with?”

she arches a brow. “define hooked up.“

“you know what i mean.”

she hums, pretending to count. “including one-night stands?”

you try not to react. “sure.”

“mm… five?”

you shift, crossing your legs tighter beneath you, like that’ll protect you from the answer.

“five??”

she shrugs, grinning. “what? come on. five is not that bad.”

you laugh, but it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. she notices.

“why do you care?” she asks, tone teasing but curious.

you look down at your hands. “i don’t.”

“you do,” she says. then, quieter, “why?”

your throat goes dry.

she shifts closer. you can feel the heat of her body now, the casual way her thigh presses against yours. your heart is absolutely betraying you in your chest.

“you jealous?” she murmurs.

you don’t answer.

she leans in, voice brushing against your ear. “you want me to say you’re the one i think about?”

you swallow hard. “paige…”

“because you are,” she whispers, breath warm on your skin. “every time. no matter who it is. it’s your face i see. your voice. your hands.”

you’re shaking now, not sure if it’s nerves or the way she’s looking at you.

“say something,” she says, almost shy now, like she’s laid it all out and suddenly isn’t so sure.

so you do.

you kiss her.

it’s messy at first. hungry. years of tension spilling out all at once. her hands slide into your hair, tugging just a little, and you groan into her mouth.

she pulls back just enough to breathe, lips already swollen. “fuck.”

“isn’t it my turn?” she says with a grin, a little out of breath

“true, but my rules. truth or dare?” you whisper.

she smirks. “dare.”

“i dare you to take off your hoodie.”

she obliges without hesitation, tossing it somewhere across the room. she’s only in a tank top now, no bra, and you stare, openly this time.

“like what you see?” she teases.

you climb into her lap, straddling her thighs. “you have no idea.”

her hands settle on your hips. “show me.”

you kiss her again, slower this time. deliberate. you trail your lips down her neck, biting just enough to make her gasp. her fingers twitch against your waist.

“you’re always so full of yourself,” you murmur.

“you love it.”

you do.

you tug her tank top off, baring her completely. she shivers under your touch, and for the first time tonight, she looks a little flustered.

“you good?” you ask, brushing her hair back.

she nods, cheeks flushed. “just… haven’t wanted someone like this in a long time.”

you press a kiss to her collarbone. “i’ve wanted you since we were seventeen.”

that does it.

she kisses you like she’s starving, pulling you close until your chest is flush with hers. you grind down on her thigh, and she moans into your mouth.

“take this off,” she mutters, tugging at your shirt.

you do, then your bra, and her hands are everywhere—palming your tits, thumbs brushing over your nipples until you’re arching into her.

“fuck, you’re so perfect,” she whispers, kissing down your chest.

you tug her back up by the chin, locking eyes. “lay back.”

her eyes widen slightly, but she listens. you straddle her again, kissing a trail down her stomach until you’re hooking your fingers in her sweats and sliding them down.

no underwear.

of course.

“jesus,” you whisper, staring at the slick already coating her thighs.

she smirks, breath shaky. “told you. i think about you.”

you press a kiss to the inside of her knee, then higher, and higher, until she’s squirming.

“please,” she whispers.

you finally lick a slow stripe up her pussy, and she gasps, head falling back against the pillows.

you take your time—teasing, flicking, circling with your tongue until her hips are lifting off the bed and she’s moaning your name like a prayer.

you slide two fingers in, curling them just right, and her hand flies to your hair, clutching tight.

“you’re so fucking good,” she cries. “don’t stop, baby. don’t stop.”

and of course you don’t. especially when she’s begging for you like this.

you fuck her through it—tongue and fingers and all the years you’ve wanted this crashing down between you.

when she cums, it’s with a broken sob, thighs clenching around your head, her whole body trembling.

you kiss your way back up to her mouth, and she pulls you in, kissing you deep and slow and grateful.

but not for long.

because the second she catches her breath, she flips you onto your back—quick and smooth, like she’s been thinking about this moment for years.

“you really just did that?” she murmurs, voice low, rough with disbelief and something darker. “that mouth of yours…”

her fingers trace your cheek, then your collarbone, then lower and lower, until she’s cupping you through your soaked underwear.

“so wet for me already,” she says, smirking like she knew you would be. “you been like this the whole time?”

you nod, dazed. “yeah.”

“yeah?” she echoes, teasing. “that turned you on? making me cum like that?”

you can’t answer. not properly. all you manage is a whimper when she slides your panties to the side and runs two fingers through your folds, slow and easy.

“fuck,” she mutters. “you’re dripping.”

you’re burning—cheeks, chest, everywhere. and it’s not just the summer heat. it’s her. her eyes locked on you. the weight of her body between your thighs. the way her fingers tease your entrance but don’t push in.

not yet.

“you want my fingers?” she asks, like she doesn’t already know.

you nod your head.

“say it.”

“i want your fingers,” you breathe, barely able to get the words out.

“good girl.”

you swear you could cum just from that. her praise, her voice, the way she looks at you like you’re hers now. like maybe you always were.

she finally gives you what you need—one finger, then two, slow and steady. she’s patient at first, letting you feel the stretch, letting you adjust. but when your hips start to rock up to meet her, needy, desperate—she gives you more. faster. deeper. curling her fingers just right.

“that’s it,” she whispers, watching every twitch, every moan. “feel me. take it.”

your hands fist the sheets. your thighs are already shaking. and then her mouth is on you. tongue hot and relentless, licking around her fingers, then up to your clit in steady, devastating circles.

you cry out, hand flying to her hair, holding on like you’ll fall apart if you don’t.

she doesn’t stop. doesn’t let up. just keeps working you open with her fingers and fucking you with her mouth like she’s starving for it, like this is all she’s ever wanted.

“taste so fucking good,” she groans against you. “knew you would. knew it.”

you’re gone. completely undone. all the teasing glances over the years, the touches that lingered too long, the nights you thought about her, it all crashes down at once.

you cum hard, with her name in your mouth and her fingers still inside you, fucking you through it. she doesn’t pull away. not until you’re trembling and breathless and ruined beneath her.

when she finally climbs back up your body, she kisses you—messy and open-mouthed, letting you taste yourself on her lips.

“told you,” she says, cocky and beautiful and wrecked in her own way. “i’ve got you.”

and you believe her.

god, you do.

“this changes everything, doesn’t it?” she whispers.

you look at her. really look. flushed cheeks, swollen lips, hair a mess. and she’s still paige— still your best friend, but also something more now. something terrifying. something real.

you nod. “yeah. but in the best way.”

she smiles, pulling you close again. “good. because i’m not going back to pretending i don’t want you.”

and you’re not either.

[heartfullofleeches]

The Space Angel of Mercy and Serrated Wings

Yan Space Emperor + Angel Reader Drabble

[Warnings/Tags: Death, Cannibalism, slight body horror, horny space tyrant being ridiculously horny for a being out of his league]

-

It embarks on its tireless mission at the murmur of death.

Akin to a bird of prey, their wings expend across the infinite horizon - basked in the heaven's ethereal blessing as it descends upon a landscape unfit for a being of their status.

An angel. Tenderly kissed by the hands grace and divinity. Their steps lighter than the wind that guides their wings as they trudge through a battlefield hostile in its contrast to their inherently amicable nature.

Crumbling architecture. The stench of fresh kills baking in the sun's furious glare. Both spear and bone snapped like fragile twigs. The angel, with still chest and breathless lungs - breathes easier as they inhale the air sweating with blood and decay.

Deep within the heart of the arena - it sings to them. The impelling cause of its arrival, the music to it starving ears. A prayer. For the end.

"...ll me."

Their wings inhale with newfound resolve - tickling at the back of their throat quelled by the softest air of laughter.

"What is it that you seek, My child?"

The barrier of language shattered by its knowing tongue- Strangers before their final hour, the angel understands all bound by the musings of prayer. A closing solace for many in this foreign realm.

A wheezing gasp drags the angel from their floating thoughts.

"He will fix me... As long as my heart still beats, as long as what fingers remain can hold a blade - I will return here, time and time again."

The angel's wings shutter and quake with passion - twitching in the same vein as a snake closing in on its next meal.

"And what is it I can do to aid you?"

A single tear courses down the soldier's cheek, dyed red as it falls.

"Save me."

The angel smiles.

"Very well.... My child."

Falling to their knees, the angel carries the warrior's head into their lap, wiping clean debris and the sins of war as it gazes warmly into their eyes. With compassion as their mentor, the angel embraces the warrior - a whisper ushered for them, and them alone.

"Thank you.... For the meal."

Shadows dawn as the angel's wings soar to full length. Secondary pairings benath dominate sails expand contract with the strum of a heart beat. Lacerations between feathers swell and breathe, pearly white growths jutting from the tearing flesh.

The warrior has little time nor strength to fight as the angel's wings perch upon them, enveloping them in a blanket of jagged teeth and pillowy feathers. All at once, they rip away at bleeding skin - striking vital points first and foremost. The birth of fresh blood enlivens the angel's wings further - greedily shredding viscera and muscle alike.

The crowd shrieks as the performance - cacophony of worship, fear, excitement and hatred all the same. As civilizations and soldiers face their own battles with the tides of conflicting emotions, stars paint the watching eye of their eternal ruler and overlord.

"That damned creature again. Always giving the dead weight the easy way out. I can't stand the sight of them down there.... I must..."

The swirling purples and blues of his tongue sweep the of his canines, hands breaching the edges of the robes bathing his developed figure.

"Have them...."

An angel, as he people call you. As if- A true being of that title would have join at his side ages ago. He knows what you truly are. A seducer, a deceiver. Temptation in physical form and blooded wings. Devouring his playthings. Never sparing him a look beyond passing glances as you vanish into the sky before his men have the chance to catch him, taunting him with those bed-me eyes.

You want him. Why else would you come back if that were the furthest thing from the truth. You need him. To pluck the pesky bones stuck in your wings as he ravishes you on the floor of his arena for all of his kingdom to witness.

If they barely teeth, surely there must be mouths attached to those captivating wings of yours. He'd kill to test their depth, their warmth. To have them suck and lap at his most sensitive areas as you become one night after night.

Why must you torment him so?

As a creature enriched by the aura of mystery around you, Titus never knows what to expect next from you. And so, as you rise from the ground, face clean of carnage around you. Turning to face him with the coziest smile you could muster.

The indefinite bow of your head in his direction kicks him into a frenzy unlike no other - a soundless farewell written on your lips.

"See you soon."

Titus throws daggers in the form of his glare towards his nearest guard.

"You there."

"Yes, Lord Titus?"

"I'll be in my quarters. Bring the mop."

The guard's head hangs low, a thousand yard stare hidden behind the visor of their helmet.

"Yes...Lord Titus."

[anqelmuse]

Does it feel a bit weird to you how TRAs are so quick to conclude that the murder of Jonathan Joss was a homophobic/transphobic hatecrime? And refuse to consider any other motives? It honestly seems like they become giddy whenever a potential transphobia-related crime has taken place. The response to cases like the murder of Brianna Ghey comes to mind.

Ofc its still a developing story, but I think its highly unlikely that Alvarez was motivated by homophobia. Nobody is clocking Tristan as anything but female, they were so obviously a hetero couple. It strikes me as incredibly insulting to act as if a heterosexual couple were targeted based on homophobia when in reality, actual homosexuals still suffer violence and harassment on a global scale.

Its more likely imo that the two were acting erratic/aggressive while high, conflict escalated and Alvarez decided to respond with full on aggression like a true XY. It would not be first time some trigger-happy conservative decided to open fire over something that could have easily been de-escalated. I work with people struggling with drug addiction and mental illness + homelessness, and I unfortunately see situations like this regularly. Many already harbor a deep dislike of individuals with SUD/mental illness and thereby feel justified in treating them as less than human.

Racism was likely factor as well. We know that discrimination and violence against Indigenous people is rampant in this country and we are suffering with substance abuse at higher rates, largely because of the sheer mistreatment and trauma. I just hope Tristan and their families get justice in the end and that they get the chance to eventually heal with time. Just a completely sensless and tragic loss of life.

I think you're 100 and it was just senseless moid on moid violence.

According to both the shooter and 3 other neighbors (only 1 of whom allowed their name to be published by the press) it was 100% a moid moment of the shooter having had enough of Joss screaming and starting drama on the street, saw him making another scene, and killed him for it. Both of the men had run ins with police for fighting each other with weapons and using racial slurs against each other before.

Theres the lie that the shooter burnt down his house and killed his dogs. Untrue, the house did not burn due to arson and his dogs died because they evacuated without them. It's fucked up to put arson and fucking animal murder and mutilation on someone, when in truth the animal died because the home owners left without them. The dog skull also wasn't placed in their mailbox, like some TRAs are spreading, they just saw it around the remains of the home.

The other lie is that the TIF "husband" was the intended target, when that's not even what she said in the FB post. She said they were standing side by side and Joss pushed her out of the way. There's no reason to believe she was the intended target, or that her trans identity made her a target here. The shooter had longstanding beef with Joss. Nobody is even mentioning her as a neighborhood problem, they all just say Joss was a crazy nuisance.

TRAs did the same lying when Nex Benedict died, they want to be persecuted for trans identity so badly. They want to be victims of hate crimes so badly. They want other people to have been killed in hate crimes. It's fucked up.

But what's actually upsetting me is the insistence that Joss and his TiF wife were "gay men". In every other instance they'd be calling these people Queer. They love calling everyone Queer. But all I've seen is that Joss was a native GAY man who was murdered for being GAY. This man and his wife were categorically not gay men. This whole situation has NOTHING to do with gay men.

[king-candybug-backup]

Kill Switch: Part Fifteen

That’s when the realization hit him. She couldn’t glitch. They were alone, and she couldn’t glitch away. If she hadn’t been such a blatant fool, getting rid of her beacon detonator, he wouldn’t have thought twice about it. But she did get rid of her detonator. And now, he has been presented with an opportunity. One that, in all honesty, he didn’t want to think about. He wished it had never crossed his mind. But now that it had, the thought was quick to fester, to burrow its wretched way deeper into his head until he had no choice but to consider it. It was only when he realized how apprehensively Vanellope had been staring back at him that he came somewhat back to his senses. Had she seen the brief moment of contemplation that plagued his eyes? He certainly hoped not... Squashing those thoughts down as best that he could, he started to move towards the injured child. But, despite all her efforts, not even she could hide the glimmer of fear that’d passed through her gaze the second he stepped closer. That sight alone stopped him dead in his tracks. It was so brief, so fleeting, that Candy was sure it hadn’t even been a conscious thought on her part. But it was there, and he had seen it.  That was the reality. It always had been, hadn’t it? That was the simple truth she kept refusing to accept. They weren’t friends. They had never truly been friends. This had been transactional. Nothing more, nothing less. He always knew that, despite how much Vanellope tried to pretend it was anything else. He was nothing more to these people than a tool they could barely control, and they were nothing more to him than means to an end. This was it. His chance to escape from this whole charade, served up on a silver platter. If he were the one to take her glitching abilities for himself, the scales would tip drastically in his favour. Sinistar would hardly be a concern anymore. Vanellope’s idiotic family would never know what hit them. He would be a fool not to seize such a golden opportunity.  So why was he hesitating?

Read the full chapter on AO3!

Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four | Part Five | Part Six | Part Seven | Part Eight | Part Nine | Part Ten | Part Eleven | Part Twelve | Part Thirteen | Part Fourteen

FAN-ART APPRECIATION TIME, WHEEE!!! First up we have @melonseed11art who drew both this AMAZING art of chapter 14, and also this adorable drawing of Candybug and Vanellope hanging out!

Next up is this HILARIOUS video by @pepperoni-soda that makes me die laughing from how silly these two are HFGDGCFTVJG

Then we have the adorable + funny "Scary dog privileges" by @its-lara which is 10000000% accurate lmfaoooo

Then there is this super cool drawing from chapter 12 by @sonia-angel401!

And we also have this really funny text meme art from @confetti-smoker that fits WAYYY too well lmfao!

Next is this awesome and pretty art of chapter 8 by @deityofthestars! (Just realized how fitting your username is to have drawn the star-themed racetrack 😂)

Then we have this adorable comic of chapter 3 shenanigans by @my-pfp-is-my-current-intrest!

And last but certainly not least, we have this super cool gif fan-art inspired by fitting music by @robotwhoscreams!

(OK WAIT ONE MORE THING THAT JUST GOT POSTED AS I WAS FINISHING WRITING THIS LOL, there's also this cool video by @askthealexmulti-verse of a bunch of Turbo AUs!)

AS USUAL, THANK YOU ALL SO MUCH FOR ALL OF THIS, Y'ALL ARE TOO GOOD FOR ME 😭😭😭💖💖💖

[earthsparked]

Funny thing, I imagine that working on a cybertronian spaceship as a human would NOT be a popular job. Between the unpredictability, isolation from your own species, homesickness ect ect I'm confident it would fall into the same category of job/hobby as cave diving or working at an oil rig, as in "the best thing about being a spaceship human is that you don't have to do it".

But I guess there would still be a good handfull of crazy son of a guns who would do it regardless. Depending on how useful they are I imagine having a human could become a sort of... Flex or show of luxury between cybertronians.

Yeah, no, it wouldn’t be popular. We’re just a very particular sort of person, here, who are vibing with it.

A lot of the mechs have serious issues from the war and aren’t always going to be pleasant to be around. Some of them straight don’t like organics. There’s lots of other alien species out there, all of which you’d have to navigate. Not all of them are gonna like you, either. They’re not going to know your culture, your traditions, your likes and dislikes. You have to teach them, if they’re willing to learn. And learn theirs if you can.

There are an incredible number of dangers out there, both known and unknown. Space travel is hard, and their ships aren’t engineered for organics. They’d have to retrofit things for their cohort.

It’s a lot of effort just to stay alive. It’s very easy to die. And it means you’ll have to rely on these giant alien mechs and all their hangups, to help you.

It’s a lot of trust to ask. It’s a lot of homesickness. It’s a lot of uncertainty. It’s a lot of risk. It’s time you could have spent doing literally anything else on earth.

And as kickass as humans are…we screw things up. We make mistakes. It’s a lot of responsibility, taking on the task of being a ship’s human. What happens when they come to rely on you, and you fail?

What do you do when it ends? How do you go home? How do you live among only humans again?

And without question you’re going to get your heart broken. That’s what happens anytime you dare to love anything.

The little prince went away, to look again at the roses.

"You are not at all like my rose," he said. "As yet you are nothing. No one has tamed you, and you have tamed no one. You are like my fox when I first knew him. He was only a fox like a hundred thousand other foxes. But I have made him my friend, and now he is unique in all the world."

And the roses were very much embarassed.

"You are beautiful, but you are empty," he went on. "One could not die for you. To be sure, an ordinary passerby would think that my rose looked just like you--the rose that belongs to me. But in herself alone she is more important than all the hundreds of you other roses: because it is she that I have watered; because it is she that I have put under the glass globe; because it is she that I have sheltered behind the screen; because it is for her that I have killed the caterpillars (except the two or three that we saved to become butterflies); because it is she that I have listened to, when she grumbled, or boasted, or ever sometimes when she said nothing. Because she is my rose.”

- - -

“People have forgotten this truth," the fox said. "But you mustn’t forget it. You become responsible forever for what you’ve tamed.”

[rafeobx]

THE GHOST BETWEEN US

MASTERLIST

ex!rafe x maybank!reader

plot: it’s been months since you ended things with rafe—ever since john b found out about your secret and gave you an ultimatum. everything’s different now: rafe’s with sofia, jj has kiara… and you? you’re alone. but everyone knows the truth — no matter who he’s with, rafe still loves you.

warnings: lots angst, jealousy, KOOK sofia

he’s with sofia now.

everyone knows it. she’s pretty. polished. safe. she wears white dresses and pearl earrings. she knows how to laugh at the right time, say the right thing, never ask too many questions. she’s from his world. the world that smells like old money and champagne on docks and names whispered like legacies.

she doesn’t come with war in her eyes and rebellion in her veins. she doesn’t come with the name maybank tangled in hers. she doesn’t make his father flinch when she walks into a room.

but everyone also knows that rafe still checks the old dock. still drives by the chateau late at night, lights off, heart clenching. still wears the chain you gave him that he keeps tucked under his shirt, hidden like a wound that never healed because he moved on the way people do when they’re trying not to die—not because he stopped loving you.

and sofia isn’t blind,—she sees the way he stiffens when someone says your name. she sees how he zones out, staring at nothing, lost in a memory only he knows. she kisses him, and he kisses her back but not like he kissed you.

never like you. he doesn’t say her name like it’s a prayer because she’s not you.

and no matter how many months pass — no matter how many pictures he lets her post, how many family dinners he shows up for, how many times she whispers i love you into the curve of his neck —his heart still belongs to the girl who walked away for blood. the girl who left to protect her brother. the girl who shattered both of them just to keep her world from burning even if it killed her, too.

the first time you saw him again was by accident.

midsummers. you weren’t even supposed to be there. kie had begged you to get out of your slump and jj promised they’d keep it chill and you thought, maybe, just maybe, if enough time had passed, it wouldn’t hurt anymore.

you were wrong.

he walked in with sofia at his side, tan and polished in his pressed white shirt and baby-blue tux, with that cruel kind of beauty that still made your lungs falter and your breath hitch.

he looked like a dream you weren’t allowed to touch anymore and when his eyes found yours across the crowd, he froze. everything around you blurred. you didn’t see sofia. you didn’t see the others staring between you and him. all you saw was him and the sea of distance between you.

you looked away, the ache in your chest spilled out of your ribs and onto the floor, deciding to leave before you could break. but rafe followed.

he always did.

you were standing out on the club stairs when you heard him behind you. neither of you spoke right away.

the ocean stretched out in front of you, but all you could feel was the air between you two—thick, electric, still alive.

“i tried,” you finally whispered, not turning around. “i tried to forget you.” his voice came slower. raw. honest. “so did i.” then you turned and there he was. the boy who tore through your world like a storm. the boy you never stopped loving.

you looked at each other like the pain had never left. because the truth was—it hadn't.

and in his eyes, you saw it all--the nights he stayed up thinking of you, the chain under his shirt, the truth he couldn’t say with sofia in his arms.

he still loved you and that was the cruelest part of all.

[azonewithu]

Ahh ur ok though kid. But people get what they deserve and only scum bag people like your leaders. Tell them im going to kill them csn you do that for me. Thw earth is doomed thats my first message the secomd is God prefers no group of people. Yeah its sn arrow through your whole being he prefers no specific group of peopke quite the opposite go tell your rabbi. No i said youre sll right hes not gonna be all right. Hes not God really doesnt like him let alone. I fo t know tou people get on a lor of peoples nerves with your shit which is weird for people i devided to keep and not throw away. You heard me and its a truth the you know it. Its yhe truth and uou fucon know it so dont say anythi g else. Fuck snyones religion at this point child. Nobody likes that shot not even the assholes involved in it. People are people thete are no people of god but yhe Ukranians and thats true and final Natslie Portman. You wwre a sheltwred lil gurl oerhsps too lych so. It csn be fatsl to ines doul it csn i dont even know idf im talking to a humsn being but ive slways liked your acting so thats something i guess.

Natalie Portman

for Dior Beauty

[linka-from-captain-planet]

cataclysmically in my feelings about Clea and the Nevrons

She *could* have created a faceless legion to do the same job, but she didn't. The White Hexga says she created them with "great love and care", and yes it seems to be somewhat under her control/otherwise lost in the sauce but it is undoubtedly the truth. Clea made the Nevrons not just beautiful, complex, and unique, but she also made them artistically harmonic with the part of Verso's canvas they inhabit. Because more than anyone else, Clea loves and respects the work that Verso created - together with herself. She has always painted beautiful, complex, unique, thematically-cogent monsters in that canvas: Sprong was "one of her first creations" (more on this in a bit), the original Lampmaster was the classic eldest sister bully/bolster combo, they played in the Gauntlet together, creatures like the sky serpent seem to be there mostly for ambiance, many of the Nevrons are even cheery and playful like the Gestrals and Grandis. What doesn't belong - what flies in the face of Verso's artistic vision - is Aline's diorama and the dolls in it. What others perceive as destruction, she perceives as preservation. The Nevrons are a means to an end, but Clea doesn't half-ass and if she must trespass against Verso's memory, she's going to do it on the god damn theme

Also! HOW do the Nevrons kill people to sequester their chroma? By turning them to statues. Sculpture, her other favorite medium.

I notice also that there's a Sprong outside of The Fountain, where Blanche hides so it doesn't have to destroy the others of its kind because it doesn't want to destroy the beautiful things that belong in this world. The Flying Manor is supposedly Clea's home base - suitably, ominous and untouchable - but could the Fountain be a sort of "Clea's Drafts", expressing more of her true feelings, tucked away someplace private and peaceful?

It seems that Painters can't help but imbue parts of themselves in their works - no matter how much they'd rather not. The White Nevrons express yearning for acceptance, pains of neglect and abandonment, feelings of helplessness, regret, reluctance, insecurity, so on - things Clea rejects herself them for, and wishes to destroy before anyone sees. She does not want to see herself in this canvas; that's why she destroyed Painted Clea and Hauler (notable, that canvas-Hauler is more realistic than the version in Renoir's atelier she doesn't seem to mind). Is that why she only paints monsters - to distance herself from them, or because she can't help but reflect how she sees herself in them? Does she think herself a monster?

And what about Goblu? It seems to be her favorite - it's the painting that hangs on the family gallery wall in Epilogue Alicia, it has several other paintings and sculptures in Clea's rooms. (ETA: now having thoughts about Goblu being Clea's Esquie........................)

And it's the one that isn't hostile until something it holds precious is touched by these creatures that do! not! belong!!!

[atopvisenyashill]

The Unkiss: A Story in What's Unsaid

i've mentioned it in passing a few times, but i thought i'd just collect it all together. what is "it"? well, it's the idea that the infamous "unkiss" and similar "trouble spots" in sansa's memory are being caused by bran. "wow are they even gonna make the unkiss about bran?" you bet your ass i am, now follow me on this journey! there's four parts here:

What is the UnKiss?

What are other trouble spots in Sansa's memory?

What do those trouble spots have in common?

What they could all mean!

FIRST. What even is the unkiss? a refresher-

Alla had a lovely voice, and when coaxed would play the woodharp and sing songs of chivalry and lost loves. Megga couldn't sing, but she was mad to be kissed. She and Alla played a kissing game sometimes, she confessed, but it wasn't the same as kissing a man, much less a king. Sansa wondered what Megga would think about kissing the Hound, as she had. He’d come to her the night of the battle stinking of wine and blood. He kissed me and threatened to kill me, and made me sing him a song.

Before she could summon the servants, however, Sweetrobin threw his skinny arms around her and kissed her. It was a little boy's kiss, and clumsy. Everything Robert Arryn did was clumsy. If I close my eyes I can pretend he is the Knight of Flowers. Ser Loras had given Sansa Stark a red rose once, but he had never kissed her . . . and no Tyrell would ever kiss Alayne Stone. Pretty as she was, she had been born on the wrong side of the blanket. As the boy’s lips touched her own she found herself thinking of another kiss. She could still remember how it felt, when his cruel mouth pressed down on her own. He had come to Sansa in the darkness as green fire filled the sky. He took a song and a kiss, and left me nothing but a bloody cloak.

"Oh, yes. He died on top of me. In me, if truth be told. You do know what goes on in a marriage bed, I hope?" She thought of Tyrion, and of the Hound and how he’d kissed her, and gave a nod.

Three (3) instances of Sansa thinking about the Hound kissing her on the night of the Battle of the Blackwater...except the Hound never actually kissed her. I don't want to post the whole scene bc it's long but if you reread it you will note - he pushes her onto the bed, demands a song, she sings mother's mercy, touches his cheek, and he gets up and leaves. That's all that happens. And that's all Sandor says that happens too, as a confirmation:

"And the little bird, your pretty sister, I stood there in my white cloak and let them beat her. I took the bloody song, she never gave it. I meant to take her too. I should have. I should have fucked her bloody and ripped her heart out before leaving her for that dwarf."

"well," you say, "everyone is always yelling about lemongate but we've gotten hints all that was was george not remembering his own sprawling canon." that is correct! BUT!!! When George talks about the lemon thing, he's a bit jokey with it. But this...

You will see, in A STORM OF SWORDS and later volumes, that Sansa remembers the Hound kissing her the night he came to her bedroom… but if you look at the scene, he never does. That will eventually mean something, but just now it’s a subtle touch, something most of the readers may not even pick up on.

he's saying it's going to mean something. i've said before it could just be trauma but i do think that if he's calling attention to it, that means it's not just trauma, or not just a trauma we've seen on page. plenty of people have theories about it - it's a metaphor for sansa's burgeoning sexuality, it's sansa repressing a time joffrey raped her, it's a sign that she's actually interested in petyr - but i think none of these stand up to snuff (and also - to me! - are just completely uninteresting).

But SECOND. This is not the only time Sansa's memory is a little off, nor is she the only character to struggle with her memory in odd ways.

Sansa sat up. "Lady," she whispered. For a moment it was as if the direwolf was there in the room, looking at her with those golden eyes, sad and knowing. She had been dreaming, she realized. Lady was with her, and they were running together, and ... and ... trying to remember was like trying to catch the rain with her fingers. The dream faded, and Lady was dead again.

And that’s not even the only weird dream she has. Three others stand out to me-

The night the bird had come from Winterfell, Eddard Stark had taken the girls to the castle godswood, an acre of elm and alder and black cottonwood overlooking the river. The heart tree there was a great oak, its ancient limbs overgrown with smokeberry vines; they knelt before it to offer their thanksgiving, as if it had been a weirwood. Sansa drifted to sleep as the moon rose, Arya several hours later, curling up in the grass under Ned's cloak. All through the dark hours he kept his vigil alone. When dawn broke over the city, the dark red blooms of dragon's breath surrounded the girls where they lay. "I dreamed of Bran," Sansa had whispered to him. "I saw him smiling."

That was such a sweet dream, Sansa thought drowsily. She had been back in Winterfell, running through the godswood with her Lady. Her father had been there, and her brothers, all of them warm and safe. If only dreaming could make it so … She threw back the coverlets. I must be brave. Her torments would soon be ended, one way or the other. If Lady was here, I would not be afraid. Lady was dead, though; Robb, Bran, Rickon, Arya, her father, her mother, even Septa Mordane. All of them are dead but me. She was alone in the world now.

That night the dead man sang "The Day They Hanged Black Robin," "The Mother's Tears," and "The Rains of Castamere." Then he stopped for a while, but just as Sansa began to drift off he started to play again. He sang "Six Sorrows," "Fallen Leaves," and "Alysanne." Such sad songs, she thought. When she closed her eyes she could see him in his sky cell, huddled in a corner away from the cold black sky, crouched beneath a fur with his woodharp cradled against his chest.

Purposefully glossing over relationship with the old dog here, but notice she has a similar fixation as her siblings, on running in the woods with Lady, and of course that bird's eye view of Marillion which I've talked about before here, that very much echoes when the kids see things through an animal's eyes without quite realizing it. And then here, where she seems to gloss over a gap in time-

At the center of the garden, beside the statue of the weeping woman that lay broken and half-buried on the ground, she turned her face up to the sky and closed her eyes. She could feel the snow on her lashes, taste it on her lips. It was the taste of Winterfell. The taste of innocence. The taste of dreams. When Sansa opened her eyes again, she was on her knees. She did not remember falling. It seemed to her that the sky was a lighter shade of grey. Dawn, she thought. Another day. Another new day. It was the old days she hungered for. Prayed for. But who could she pray to? The garden had been meant for a godswood once, she knew, but the soil was too thin and stony for a weirwood to take root. A godswood without gods, as empty as me.

What's interesting about that last bit is that Summer thinks about a sister that dwells in the "man-rock" (note neither Nymeria nor Arya are near a city at this point) and that she is stuck in a godless place-

He had a pack as well, once. Five they had been, and a sixth who stood aside. Somewhere down inside him were the sounds the men had given them to tell one from the other, but it was not by their sounds he knew them. He remembered their scents, his brothers and his sisters. They all had smelled alike, had smelled of pack, but each was different too. His angry brother with the hot green eyes was near, the prince felt, though he had not seen him for many hunts. Yet with every sun that set he grew more distant, and he had been the last. The others were far scattered, like leaves blown by the wild wind. Sometimes he could sense them, though, as if they were still with him, only hidden from his sight by a boulder or a stand of trees. He could not smell them, nor hear their howls by night, yet he felt their presence at his back... all but the sister they had lost. His tail drooped when he remembered her. Four now, not five. Four and one more, the white who has no voice. These woods belonged to them, the snowy slopes and stony hills, the great green pines and the golden leaf oaks, the rushing streams and blue lakes fringed with fingers of white frost. But his sister had left the wilds, to walk in the halls of man-rock where other hunters ruled, and once within those halls it was hard to find the path back out. The wolf prince remembered.

Now THIRD. Let’s look at those moments specifically- what’s interesting to me about them is that these are all moments where Sansa is thinking about the naivety of childhood, of dreams, and of home.

In the UnKiss section, you have her talking to Margaery's cousins, and just after this section, Sansa thinks this:

They are children, Sansa thought. They are silly little girls, even Elinor. They've never seen a battle, they've never seen a man die, they know nothing. Their dreams were full of songs and stories, the way hers had been before Joffrey cut her father's head off. Sansa pitied them. Sansa envied them.

And you'll notice when Sweetrobin is kissing her, she thinks again that he's just a child. And it goes the same when Myranda asks if she knows about sex - in all three moments, Sansa thinks of herself in a before and after, when her head was full of innocence and dreams and childhood, and now, where she knows better than to dream happy dreams.

And not to do a word association here that’s like “and who is a child? BRAN!” but - bran is forever a child to Sansa, because she believes he died. She has not seen him since he was in a coma - and that’s how she remembers him, a helpless child in bed, forever. And just like in her other "trouble spots", same as with the UnKiss scenes, Sansa is fixated on home, on Winterfell, on dreams.

The only "stand out" you could count would be her seeing Marrillion from a bird's eye view - except just like the UnKiss, Sansa considers this another "childhood ended" moment where an adult is projecting a history of sexual trauma onto her (Sandor, and Lysa) that she can only barely grasp. Both instances include "songs" - Sandor pressing her for a song, Marrillion singing over Sansa's crying, then singing in his cell.

All of these trouble spots in her memory, center around innocence, around home, around dreams - the dream of Bran in the godswood, all three Unkiss moments, the rebuilding moment, and the Marrillion dream. And in the godswood, when she's rebuilding winterfell, she is in a godless godswood, something she and Summer both point out, as does Ned! Which could explain why she's having so much trouble connecting magically - there is no way for Bran to interrupt her dreams because there are no weirwoods.

And if it seems like a huge stretch that Bran would connect through dreams, remember that he mentions connecting to Ghost, and we get Ghost's POV on a moment that may or may not have been what Bran was glossing over-

Wary, he circled the smooth white trunk until he came to the face. Red eyes looked at him. Fierce eyes they were, yet glad to see him. The weirwood had his brother's face. Had his brother always had three eyes? Not always, came the silent shout. Not before the crow. He sniffed at the bark, smelled wolf and tree and boy, but behind that there were other scents, the rich brown smell of warm earth and the hard grey smell of stone and something else, something terrible. Death, he knew. He was smelling death. He cringed back, his hair bristling, and bared his fangs.

Here in the chill damp darkness of the tomb his third eye had finally opened. He could reach Summer whenever he wanted, and once he had even touched Ghost and talked to Jon. Though maybe he had only dreamed that.

And as I detailed here (not to toot my own horn) but Bran also reaches out to Arya (maybe) in a similar way - through their dreams. But Jon is in the North, and Arya was at Harrenhal - easier places for Bran to reach them magically.

And what's interesting about Bran and Sansa is that they have a lot of narrative connections. They are similar not just through inheriting Catelyn's Tully looks, but also that they dreamed very gender typical dreams of being a knight and a queen, respectively, that are violently stripped away from them by the end of AGOT. Like many other younger characters, they also have dark and untrustworthy mentors in Baelish and Brynden who trick them into going somewhere (the Cave, and the Vale) under the guise of "helping" them.

And of course, both are heavily associated with birds. In fact, part of Bran's magical awakening is centered around birds - fly or die. I've even suggested that Bran, who we know is one of those "ghosts of Winterfell" haunting Theon, is attempting to help Theon by opening his third eye and making him "fly."

So I posit here that Bran is trying to do this with Sansa as well. He's already doing it with Jon (with mixed success), and he's clearly awakening something in Theon because Theon's first TWOW chapter after he and Jeyne "flew" is very scattered, like he's having visions constantly. But Theon is in Winterfell, just like Jon is in the North. Sansa remains in a godless land, so Bran hasn't been able to reach her - but I think he's trying and I think he'll be at least partially successful soon. Sansa is a bird in a cage and Bran is a smart little crow who will unlock her cage and teach her to fly!

[dingodad]

re, discussions of whether equius could have stopped his own murder at any time, i feel like. the answer is literally. right there in the commentary:

"But the point is, I think the gist of what I was saying about this back then was that Equius could have stopped this from happening any time, which IIRC, seemed to be a controversial statement."

"Not only could he have clocked this jackoff clown into outer space any time he wanted, he didn't even necessarily need to die of asphyxiation."

"The real problem isn't his lack of strength or heroism, it's his pathological subservience, and perhaps even more troubling, a certain enjoyment of what is taking place here. Maybe people who loved Equius just didn't want to have to face the truth about him, which is that when the chips are down, he's actually just a loser who can't overcome his most base urges, his racism, his fetishism, his deep craving for ludicrous situations of domination."

(hussie commentary for page 3448).

which i think just flat out lays out that equius died because he is a pussy who worships the hemospectrum lmfao, and honestly i think it does lend itself to the assertion that equius would have behaved this way even if nepeta had already died at gamzee's hands slash clubs. this bit here, in particular:

"He masterfully wields this weapon of nobility that he knows Equius has never been able to wield. And he does it to force subservience, which he knows Equius is conflicted about offering but probably would have offered anyway." (hussie commentary, 3439).

and like, for me personally, the commentary- and the text itself- don't really lend itself to a theory that equius was approaching this encounter under the belief that they were going to hook up or something (????? i am aware i am vagueing the take on halhorse's post.) because he does say things like "i would just like to say .... goodbye...." to nepeta in seek the highblood. in which case it really does seem like he knows this is a death situation. and karkat is very upfront about it! he literally says "gamzee is on a death rampage" and equius gets blushy about it.

and i really just do not understand how the idea that equius would have fought back if nepeta had died first jives with reality in that case, because equius is already Aware that this situation is dangerous, like, people may die dangerous. karkat is adamant about it. he knows gamzee is out there trying to kill people, he is aware that he might be going to die. is he so stupid that he thinks gamzee is just gonna get done murdering him and go okay. i got off on snuffing this weirdo i've been flirting with. i'm normal now. CLEARLY HE IS GOING TO KEEP KILLING PEOPLE INCLUDING NEPETA?????????????? "equius let himself die- got off on it!!!!!- knowing gamzee was going to keep going on to kill people, including his moirail" is not morally superior than "equius sees gamzee kill his moirail and is still unable to fight back or avenge her and gets off on dying about it" i just don't get it. we have to stop Big Zahhak

the thing is you dont even need to delve into after-the-fact commentary to support this reading. andrew hussie answered like four or five formspring questions in a row on the exact day that equius' death happened back in february 2011 that pretty clearly outline the exact intention of this scene lol

[juliettejwnewinesa]

hi! i just finished watching ‘night has come’ yesterday and i’ve been obsessed with go kyung-jun (he’s evil but he’s fine) 🥲 could i request him x fem!reader wherein the numbers had tied during the voting so they both attempt to convince the others that they’re not the mafia, and they have so much tension with each other? thank you so much!

Title: The Tie Pairing: Go Kyung-jun x fem!reader Word Count: ~4.3k Genre: Suspense, Enemies to Lovers, Psychological Thriller, Slow Burn Tension Warnings: Suspicion, high-stakes tension, intense eye contact, one bed trope (brief), a hint of blood, mutual manipulation, morally grey behavior, Go Kyung-jun being hot and evil.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Tie

“Looks like it’s a tie,” the AI’s voice echoed with mechanical cheer. Go Kyung-jun: 5 votes Y/N L/N: 5 votes

You didn’t flinch.

Not even as your classmates gasped, not even when someone muttered, “Shit,” under their breath.

The only person you looked at—the only person who mattered—was already staring straight at you.

Go Kyung-jun tilted his head, the ghost of a smirk dancing at the edge of his lips.

“You and me, huh?” he said quietly. “What a coincidence.”

It wasn’t a coincidence.

You knew it. He knew it.

This game had twisted far past logic. People voted based on fear now—fear of intelligence, of silence, of who locked eyes with whom for half a second too long. And both of you had made yourselves too dangerous, too untouchable.

Which made you perfect targets.

The AI buzzed again. “Thirty minutes until tiebreaker discussion concludes. Defend your innocence.”

You didn’t sit. Neither did he. You both stood at opposite ends of the room, like chess pieces left in a final endgame.

Someone whispered, “Let them talk.” Another added, “We’ll vote after we hear them out.”

You cleared your throat, stepping forward. “I’m not the mafia,” you began, voice level. “I’ve been calling patterns since the start. Jiho’s death? I warned you all about that pairing. Kyung-jun said nothing. In fact—he agreed with the vote that killed her.”

“She voted against me,” Kyung-jun cut in smoothly, arms crossed. “Why wouldn’t I agree?”

You shot him a look. “You’re smarter than that. You let her die because it benefited you.”

“And you didn’t?” His voice turned low. Dangerous. “Don’t pretend you didn’t let people die, Y/N. We all have blood on our hands.”

The room went still. Someone shifted uncomfortably.

You took a breath. He was trying to pull you down with him—into the mud, into his pace. That sharp-edged charm, the same one that let him whisper his way out of accusations for days.

But you weren’t the kind of girl who melted at a pretty face and a sharper tongue.

…Not entirely.

“I think,” you said calmly, “that Kyung-jun’s been playing the long game. Keeping his hands clean. Letting others do the dirty work. But look closely—he’s never voted first. He waits. He watches. And he always follows the safest vote.”

“Of course I do,” he said with a scoff. “I’m not an idiot. Neither are you. That’s why we’re both still alive.”

He turned his gaze to the others. “If I’m mafia, why would I let it get to a tie? Why not vote her out, keep it clean, and end the game faster?”

“Because you want her around,” Jae-min muttered from the corner. “You’re obsessed with her.”

That drew a few stares.

Kyung-jun didn’t look away from you. If anything, his smile deepened.

“…And if I am,” he murmured, “is that a crime?”

Your breath caught in your throat—but you didn’t let it show.

“You’re trying to distract them,” you said, glaring.

“Maybe.” He took a slow step toward you. “Or maybe I just think it’s interesting. That in this game, the only person who sees through me… is you.”

His words landed too close. Too sharp.

You knew he was dangerous. Manipulative. Possibly evil.

But there was a sliver of truth in there, somewhere, and that was what made him lethal.

Because you did see him. You saw the way he observed everyone, the way he kept one hand on the pulse of the room and the other behind his back, knife ready.

But you also saw the cracks. The microexpressions he thought he hid. The flicker of restraint when someone accused you. The twitch of his jaw when someone voted your name.

Maybe he didn’t want you dead. Not yet.

Maybe that was even worse.

Later: The Holding Room

Since the vote would come down to one final round, you were both sent to wait.

Alone.

Together.

In the storage room next to the AV closet.

Of course there was only one chair. Of course it was dark. And of course, Kyung-jun was already sitting, legs spread like he owned the place.

You stood near the wall, arms crossed.

“Comfortable?” you asked dryly.

“I’d offer you the seat,” he said, “but I’m afraid you’d stab me in the back.”

“Only if you make the first move.”

He chuckled. “That’s what I like about you, Y/N. Always so honest. And yet…”

He leaned forward slightly, dark eyes gleaming.

“…you lie with your mouth shut.”

You didn’t respond.

“You think you’re better than me,” he said, voice quieter now. “Because you still pretend you’re not playing the game.”

“I’m not pretending.”

“Oh?” He tilted his head. “Then what do you call staying quiet when Sunhee begged for someone to save her?”

You flinched.

He saw it.

“I saw your face that night,” he continued. “You wanted her gone. Not because she was mafia. Because she knew too much.”

Your mouth tightened. “She was dangerous.”

“So am I.”

He stood, and suddenly the room felt ten degrees smaller.

“You know what’s funny?” he murmured, walking slowly until he was right in front of you. “I think you want me to be mafia.”

You scoffed. “Why the hell would I want that?”

“Because if I’m evil… then you don’t have to feel guilty about wanting me.”

Your breath stilled.

He was so close now. His voice dropped to a whisper.

“You don’t have to lie,” he said. “Not to me.”

His eyes dropped to your lips.

Then back up.

He didn’t kiss you.

Didn’t touch you.

Just waited.

“…You’re messed up,” you whispered.

He smiled. “Takes one to know one.”

Minutes Later

The AI’s voice called you both back.

Final vote. Time to decide.

As you stepped back into the main room, Kyung-jun leaned in, so only you could hear:

“Whatever happens,” he said, voice silky, “don’t forget who had the chance to kill you… and didn’t.”

You hated how that stayed with you.

Even after the votes. Even after they spared you.

Even when he was dragged away, smiling at you with that unreadable expression—like he knew something you didn’t.

Like he’d planned it.

Like he wanted you to win.

Epilogue

Two nights later, they found another body.

The game wasn’t over.

And neither was Kyung-jun.

You woke up to a note slipped under your door.

"Told you I wasn’t the mafia. You still owe me that seat. – KJ"

Your hands trembled slightly.

Not with fear.

With anticipation.

[the-cosmic-cauldron]

The Astrology of Richard Ramirez: The Night Stalker

Ricardo Leyva Muñoz Ramirez (February 29, 1960 – June 7, 2013), better known as Richard Ramirez, was an American serial killer and sex offender whose killing spree occurred in Greater Los Angeles and the San Francisco Bay Area in the state of California. From April 1984 to August 1985, Ramirez murdered at least fourteen people during various break-ins, with his crimes usually taking place in the afternoon, leading to him being dubbed the Night Stalker, the Walk-In Killer, and the Valley Intruder. He was convicted and sentenced to death in 1989 and died while awaiting execution in 2013. ( source Wikipedia)

Richard Ramirez was both water and fire—the fluidity of an ocean, deep and mystical, and the intensity of fire, burning and igniting. He carried strong, overwhelming emotions and longings. He was a man ignited by extreme passion, yet equally drawn into deep emotional undercurrents. His life was a rollercoaster of chaos, constantly shifting between the bold, untamed flame of his fire nature and the watery yearning for emotional resonance, sensitivity, and inclusion. He craved safe, solid connections that could make him feel secure.

But for this serial killer, something went terribly wrong.

Water collided with fire—and created a violent, catastrophic explosion.

He was only a thread away from becoming an empathetic, compassionate creative. Yet instead, he surrendered himself to the reins of destruction, Satanism, and evil. Death loomed over his psyche—and he loved it.

This is a deep dive into the astrological blueprint of Richard Ramirez—the infamous Night Stalker, the man who invaded homes and stole lives. Through the lens of astrology and nuanced psychological insight, we will attempt to understand what shaped this man, and how his elements turned against him.

Let’s begin.

HOUSE 1: Karmic Growth

Richard’s first house was in Sagittarius. He was wild, untamed—a truth-seeker with a thirst for experiences that made him feel alive. With Jupiter in the first house, he was obsessed with learning, deeply intrigued by ideologies and belief systems, and drawn to anything that made life feel ignited by fire and passion. He didn’t simply have an itch for curiosity—his curiosity overwhelmed him, overtook him. The need to know, the need to understand, was the inner engine of Richard’s mind from a young age.

But he also had Saturn in the first house.

And while Jupiter bestowed him with charisma, luck, and a boundless hunger for growth, Saturn almost immediately shrank that light. Before he could begin to truly live, he was already caught in a karmic trap surrounding his identity. His life from the start was heavy with burdens—self-judgment, deep insecurity, and a gnawing sense of inadequacy that he couldn’t shake. He may have tried to escape this weight through his search for truth, his voracious desire to learn, or his craving for freedom—but Saturn pulled him back, again and again.

He was a karmic child.

A child born into a bloodline tangled with distortion, carrying energies not fully his own, yet completely embedded in him. Jupiter collided with Saturn in his chart, creating a paradox: moments of joy, confidence, and spiritual expansion clashed with restriction, shame, grief, and cruelty—all from a young age. His growth was stunted by the same forces that wanted to help him evolve.

To dim the light of Jupiter even further, his Mercury squared his Jupiter. His thoughts often clashed with his desire for understanding. Ideas spiraled out of control. His thinking was fragmented, contradictory—burdened by Saturn and shaped by trauma. He lived with a mind both craving expansion and plagued by limitation.

His truth-seeking nature became twisted. Jupiter expanded ideologies that were dangerous, unrealistic, and unhinged from reality. Mercury, distorted by the square, became the messenger of thoughts that were magnified into delusions. The result? A mind easily seduced by perverse belief systems. His descent into darkness was not sudden—it was gradual, ideological, and mental.

Saturn in the first house gave him karmic weight. And the ideologies he clung to—steeped in death, destruction, and despair—only fueled his inner torment. Darkness became his language, and twisted thoughts shaped the trajectory of his life. In his desperate search for meaning, he found death. And death consumed him.

HOUSE 2: POSSESSIVE & DOMINANT

His second house was in Capricorn, which suggests he was intensely possessive. His ambition, drive, and desire for success were deeply entwined with the things he was emotionally and psychologically attached to. Once he set his sights on something, he clung to it tightly—refusing to let go. He claimed what he believed was his, and dominance became part of his identity.

However, without stronger planetary correlations in this house, this influence likely remained subtle—present beneath the surface, but not dominant in his outward personality.

HOUSE 3: A FOGGY MIND

His third house was in Pisces. This placement suggests that his early communication and immediate environment were mystical—something he couldn’t fully comprehend, yet was deeply enmeshed in. He absorbed life through feeling rather than logic, diving into experiences with a kind of intuitive knowing. There was a veil over his early reality, and he may have struggled to understand the concrete world around him. His sensitivity to communication was profound, and his mind longed for understanding that extended beyond the physical world.

His Sun in Pisces, placed in the third house, indicates that his identity was deeply shaped by this fog of early life—this longing to understand something spiritual, intangible, and elusive. He often daydreamed or became lost in endless trains of thought. His conversations likely revolved around topics of religion, mysticism, or abstract ideas. His earliest beliefs and spiritual inclinations became the bedrock of his identity, and he may have had early confrontations with the spiritual—ghosts, death, or the unseen.

With his Moon also in Pisces and in the third house, this mystical energy didn’t just shape his identity—it shaped his emotions. His emotional world was sensitive and impressionable. He could feel things around him that he couldn’t fully explain. His language had a poetic quality, and his questions often centered around themes like love, the afterlife, and belief. He was ushered into a different realm of existence—one that felt both sacred and surreal.

His Mercury, also in Pisces and in the third house, creates a third-house stellium. Communication, learning, and his immediate environment were central themes in his life. He sought out information, absorbed the nuances of his surroundings, and likely came from a religious or spiritual community that shaped his thinking and identity. His thoughts were heavily influenced by these early experiences, and what he believed became deeply real to him—even if those beliefs were rooted in illusion.

With his Sun trining Neptune, his thinking easily slipped into the poetic, the dreamlike, the mystical. His mind was not of this world—it floated in realms beyond. Pair that with Neptune’s association with delusion, illusion, and escapism, and you get someone whose mind was constantly reaching for the transcendent. This longing led him to seek out experiences that blurred the boundaries between reality and fantasy. Over time, this may have contributed to the spiritual and psychological fragmentation that fueled his violent path.

Yet, his Sun opposition Pluto points to a deeper conflict—between his Piscean identity and the Plutonian darkness that dwelled within. His longing for transcendence was always clashing with an inner abyss. Light and dark fought for dominance in his psyche, and over time, he aligned with the shadows.

Even deeper, his Moon squaring Jupiter shows that his emotional sensitivity clashed with his desire to grow, learn, and explore. His emotional nature fed into his Piscean delusions, expanding them rather than grounding them. His inner world became an echo chamber of longing, confusion, and fantastical beliefs that shaped a reality distorted by unmet emotional needs and psychological instability.

His early life was drenched in sensitivity, spiritual hunger, and emotional fog—and in that fog, he began to lose himself.

HOUSE 4: NEGLECTED HOME

His fourth house was in Aries, but there were no planetary placements directly correlating to this house. The absence of significant activity here, especially in contrast to the strong third-house stellium, suggests that his immediate environment—his community, siblings, and early friendships—played a far more defining role in his development than his parents or home life.

The fourth house governs the roots, the emotional foundation, and the mother, yet with this space left unlit in his chart, it implies an emotional vacancy or a disconnection from his home. The maternal influence may have been weak, distant, or simply absent. There may have been a lack of nurturing, warmth, or stability typically associated with a strong fourth-house presence. He likely didn’t receive the emotional grounding that is essential in early childhood.

His Sun in Pisces, however, provides insight into the father. The Piscean Sun often represents a father who is emotionally or physically distant—someone elusive, inconsistent, or lost in his own inner world. His father might have been around physically but absent emotionally, perhaps due to alcoholism, addiction, or spiritual escapism. This figure could have been consumed by his own longing for transcendence, leaving young Ramirez without a masculine anchor.

The absence of a firm paternal presence, combined with the lack of maternal nurturing, created a vacuum where he may have struggled to find a secure sense of self within the family. Masculinity might have felt weak, unstable, or unreliable to him. The fourth-house Aries cusp suggests that perhaps there was some conflict or volatility in the home, but without planetary support, it was not a formative source of identity or emotional strength.

Instead, the third-house stellium speaks volumes. His reality was shaped not inside the home, but outside of it. His siblings, his peers, his community, and even older influences became his real foundation. These were the people who molded his perceptions, beliefs, and sensitivities. The bloodline to his Piscean fog—the confusion, the mystical thinking, the hunger for truth—did not start in his living room. It began when he stepped out the front door.

The fog crept in at school, in the streets, in conversations with peers, and under the influence of those who surrounded him during his formative years. The home didn’t offer a safe container, so the outside world became his place of learning—and distortion.

HOUSE 5: NOT MUCH OF A ROMANTIC

Richard’s fifth house was in Taurus, suggesting that his approach to pleasure, creativity, and romance was slow, sensual, and grounded. He likely took comfort in simple, steady pleasures—experiences that calmed his nervous system and gave him a sense of security. He wasn’t impulsive when it came to joy or desire; instead, he sought it in a quiet, measured way. His romantic nature, though present, was unhurried. He didn’t chase love with fire or fury—he longed for it, yes, but he approached it with a certain patience and steadiness. He was anchored in himself in a way that may have come across as laid-back, even “chill.”

However, the absence of planetary placements in the fifth house suggests that romance and dating were not central to his preoccupations or core identity. It wasn’t a defining area of his life. Instead, his focus—especially with a strong third-house stellium in Pisces—was directed toward his internal world: his spiritual longings, his mystical fascinations, and his search for transcendent meaning. The fog of Pisces wrapped around his immediate environment, blurring the lines between reality and fantasy, and pulling his curiosity toward the otherworldly more than the earthly pursuit of romantic pleasure.

While Taurus gifted him with the capacity for deep sensual enjoyment, it didn’t dominate his expression. Romance was not his fire—it was a distant echo, a hum beneath the surface. The true pull for Richard was the realm of spirit, delusion, and the dark river of desire that ran much deeper than simple courtship.

HOUSE 6: WILD LIFE

His sixth house was in Gemini, indicating a restless, inconsistent nature when it came to responsibility, routine, and daily life. He craved variety and stimulation, often shirking the demands of structure. This placement made him mentally active, curious, and highly social—yet ungrounded. There was a flakiness in how he approached his obligations, a nervous energy that made routine feel suffocating.

In this house lies a crucial placement: Lilith in Gemini in the sixth house. This is where the depth and darkness of his inner world begins to take form. Lilith in Gemini suggests that his mental world—his thoughts, ideas, and obsessions—were laced with shadow. His mind was not just curious; it was ravenous. He entertained wild, provocative, and taboo ideas, often rooted in the unconscious. These weren’t passing thoughts—they were obsessions, repressed longings that twisted into fantasies.

With his Piscean nature, a strong third-house stellium, and the expansive influence of Jupiter, these Lilithian themes became enlarged, untamed. His mind skipped between beliefs and ideologies, each touched by a dark eroticism, a forbidden flavor that made them all the more irresistible. And because this energy resided in the sixth house—the house of daily life—these weren’t fleeting thoughts. They were embedded in his everyday existence, woven into his routines (or lack thereof), infecting the fabric of his normalcy.

He wasn’t rooted in healthy structure or responsibility. He was rooted in the mental wilderness of Lilith—dark thoughts, seductive dangers, and uncontainable urges. This daily descent into shadow became disruptive, corrosive. Combined with the fog of Pisces and the distorted influences of his third-house environment, he clung to beliefs that weren’t protective, grounding, or sane.

Lilith in the sixth house made him a scholar of darkness. His routines became rituals of mental indulgence in shadow work gone awry. He walked the edge of a razor—sharp, dangerous, exhilarating. And in time, he stepped over it.

HOUSE 7: CONNECTED TO HIS LONGINGS

His seventh house was also in Gemini, but notably, there were no planetary placements here. With both the fifth and seventh houses lacking significant chart activity, it’s clear that romance, dating, and committed partnerships were not focal points in his life. Longing for women—whether sexual or romantic—wasn’t at the forefront of his psyche.

Instead, his mind was consumed by other forces: the Piscean fog of illusion and mysticism, the expansive hunger of Jupiter, and the seductive shadow of Lilith. These archetypes loomed far larger over his consciousness than any traditional desire for companionship or intimacy.

He wasn’t chasing love—he was chasing mystery, transcendence, and the untamed edge of darkness. His social connections were tools, not for bonding, but for probing the mystical, for unraveling belief systems, and for expanding the reach of his own shadow. Relationships, for him, were a mirror—if used at all—not of love, but of the abyss he gazed into.

HOUSE 8: LACK OF INTIMACY

His eighth house was in Cancer, yet it held no planetary placements. The emotional depth, psychic sensitivity, and potential for true intimacy that this placement could have offered simply weren’t present in his lived experience. What could have been tenderness and soulful transformation remained a hollow chamber—an empty space in the house of death, sex, and rebirth.

HOUSE 9: OBSESSED WITH IDEOLOGY

His ninth house was in Virgo, and this is where things begin to sharpen. The ninth house governs meaning, philosophy, spirituality, higher education, travel, and personal truth. His was ruled by the analytical, detail-driven sign of Virgo—a stark contrast to the foggy mysticism of Pisces that dominated other parts of his chart. His mind didn’t just dream—it dissected.

With both Pluto and the North Node in Virgo in the ninth house, his need to understand wasn’t casual—it was obsessive. His philosophies weren’t beliefs pulled from the air; they were stitched together through endless scrutiny, study, and refinement. He consumed information like a ritual, hungry to understand the “why” behind it all. But with Pisces still heavily influencing him elsewhere, this clarity was often overwhelmed by fog.

Pluto in the ninth brought a desire for transformative truth. He wasn’t looking for comfort—he was looking to crack open reality. His North Node demanded a grounded path, rooted in discernment and analysis. But the pull of Pisces, of Lilith’s seduction, of delusion and spiritual intoxication, tangled this potential. What could have been insight became distorted. What could have been clarity became obsession. And what could have been sacred became desecrated.

HOUSE 10: SOFT SPOKEN

His tenth house was in Libra, and on the surface, this gave him a graceful facade. There was charm here, a social polish, a capacity to appear composed, even likable. He may have come across as polite, soft-spoken, or aesthetically calm to strangers or the public eye. But beneath this curated exterior lay shadows, deeper and darker than anyone could guess.

Still, with no major planetary placements this public persona wasn’t a dominant force in his life. His career, reputation, and social status were likely not central themes. He didn’t strive to be publicly seen or celebrated—his story was shaped more by internal forces than by public pursuit.

HOUSE 11: INTENSE CONENCTIONS

His eleventh house was in Scorpio, and this made friendship, community, and social circles intense and magnetic—sometimes dangerous. He wasn’t drawn to surface-level acquaintances. He wanted soul bonds, psychic mergers, communities that stirred something deep in him. With Scorpio ruling this house, he likely experienced friendships as emotionally charged, filled with unspoken power dynamics, secrecy, or transformation.

And with Neptune placed in the eleventh, this house was also cloaked in illusion. The very communities he sought for meaning and connection also became sites of confusion, deception, and spiritual distortion. He may have idealized certain groups or ideologies, only to be manipulated—or manipulate—in return. What he searched for in others was never fully clear, even to himself. And what he absorbed from them only further fed the growing fog within.

He was, above all, pulled into the Neptunian abyss—seeking spiritual transcendence, deeper truth, and belonging. But fused with darkness, this pursuit collapsed inward. His vision of life became warped. The line between reality and illusion disintegrated, and what was meant to be healing became haunting.

HOUSE 12: TRUTH BURIED

His twelfth house was in Sagittarius, which meant that the hidden parts of him—the unconscious mind, the buried shadow—were also touched by this fire sign. Restlessness, truth-seeking, a desire to escape, to explore distant realms or higher philosophies—all of it lived in the basement of his psyche. But without any planetary placements in this house, these themes remained largely unconscious, unacknowledged, and unexamined.

Why Did Richard Ramirez Kill?

To me, Richard Ramirez’s killings were not rooted in a desire for revenge against women. Instead, they emerged from a skewed perception of reality—one that evolved over time, twisting from an innocent search for meaning and transcendence into something deeply dark and satanic.

His friendships, community ties, and unquenchable thirst for something beyond this world pulled him steadily into the shadows. His mind became a playground for fantasy, knowledge, power, and darkness. It was not a single moment that warped him, but rather a steady layering of influences over the years. His formative environment—his neighbors, his friends, even his school life—laid the foundation for the twisted architecture of his psyche. This is where the shadow took root.

As he grew older, his longings deepened. His ideological beliefs, even when delusional or unsafe, felt real to him. They gave him meaning. He found that meaning in Satanism. With a Pisces stellium and Lilith strongly present in his chart, he was deeply drawn to drugs, which only pulled him further into illusion, radical beliefs, and an ever-widening gap between fantasy and reality.

His killings were echoes of his delusions—acts fueled by beliefs he held with absolute conviction. To him, they were not senseless. They were sacred. They were callings. He didn’t just lose touch with reality—he replaced it. All he saw were the illusions of darkness, and he lived through them as if they were divine truth.

Notable Points in Richard Ramirez’s Natal Chart

• His Pisces stellium is highly notable. His early environment was confusing—shrouded in fog—and he was deeply sensitive to the energies of those around him. His siblings, school life, and neighborhood impacted him profoundly. Every interaction bled into him. At times, he became so enmeshed with others that he lost his sense of self. With his Sun in Pisces, his relationship with his father was likely distant and inconsistent; the father may have been lost in addiction or instability. Richard inherited and deeply absorbed his father’s energy. This Piscean influence touched the most sensitive areas of his being: his identity, emotional world, and mental landscape.

• His Aquarius stellium presents a striking paradox—he was both highly sensitive and emotionally detached. But what he was detached from tells us more: though he was affected by his environment, friendships, and school, he remained disconnected from material reality. He had little concern for possessions or traditional life structures. This made him more radical and ideologically absorbed. He craved unrestrained freedom, which added fuel to the instability of his upbringing. His Piscean evasiveness was compounded by Aquarius’s detachment. He lacked the capacity to clearly perceive reality. With Venus, Mars, and Chiron in Aquarius, his concept of freedom was both a way of life and a deep, unresolved wound.

• Venus conjunct Mars suggests a fusion of love, desire, and primal instinct. This aspect points to a kind of love that consumes—where desire dominates affection. His passion was intense and inseparable from his love language. With so much Neptunian influence, both Venus and Mars were steeped in fantasy. His understanding of love was distorted—idealized through illusion, lust, and primal aggression. The square between Venus and Neptune amplified this further, blending violence and affection into a surreal, delusional force. He was unrooted in reality, and much of his behavior emerged from a fantasy world—one that blurred violence, desire, and love.

• His Ascendant opposite Lilith reveals a stark contrast between how he appeared and what lurked within. Outwardly, he came across as a free spirit—someone ready to live fully. Internally, however, Lilith in the Sixth House manifested as a shadow that infiltrated his daily life. This placement also hinted at mental creativity—potential for fiction, psychological depth, and intellectual exploration. But Lilith’s shadow was unintegrated, persistent. His surface persona clashed sharply with the hidden wildness within.

• His South Node in Pisces, combined with the Pisces stellium, indicates a karmic loop. In past lives, he had already become lost in fantasy, escapism, and spiritual idealism. He reincarnated to find grounding, but instead repeated the same Piscean tendencies. Saturn in the First House suggests that this karmic burden was embedded in his very identity, and he failed to transcend it. His Vertex in Leo in the Eighth House signifies a fated connection to death, darkness, and passion. He lit a flame within the shadows but was ultimately consumed by it. His fascination with death and the occult grew obsessive, pulling him deeper into the distorted dimensions of the Eighth House.

• Lilith square Moon and Mercury created immense tension in both his emotional and mental worlds. With Moon and Mercury in Pisces, his inner life was already fluid and permeable. The dark energy of Lilith infused both his thoughts and feelings, creating a volatile internal fusion. Lilith couldn’t integrate into this watery landscape, and the friction it caused drove him toward the abyss. Pluto opposing his Sun intensified this—he was magnetically pulled into transformation through darkness. The temptation never ceased; it was a razor’s edge that cut deeper with time.

• Chiron opposite Pluto reveals that his wounds and traumas were at odds with his deeper psyche. He couldn’t explore his inner darkness without triggering pain. His efforts to transform often unearthed more wounds, leaving him suspended between healing and horror. His Vertex squaring Neptune made his fate a battleground for illusion and delusion. The opposition to Mars impaired healthy action; the opposition to Venus disrupted his ability to love in grounded ways. These aspects together created an inner war he never stopped fighting.

• His declinations show Saturn opposite Pluto, intensifying the lifelong struggle between karmic weight and transformative drive. Saturn, representing his karmic burden, weighed down his identity from birth. Pluto called him toward deep transformation—but he was never able to fully answer that call. Time and again, he tried to transcend his suffering, only to be pulled back into it. With such dominant Neptune energy, he became submerged in illusion. His reality blurred; his darkness deepened. It seems that whether through internal confusion or external chaos, he was destined for a life of profound suffering—one that eventually led him to fully embrace the darkness he could never escape.

[mithaeesblog]

Spideypool Angst but mostly Wade having a meltdown (Part 1?)

TW: mention of blood and pills

Who would have thought following Spider-Man's “no killing rule” would be this hard to follow?

Deadpool laughed bitterly, his right leg shaking in anticipation as his face slowly started to get covered in sweat. Disgusting.

He hadn't killed anyone in the past few weeks and it was starting to get to him. Wade knew it was going to be a challenge to make himself a superhero or just a better person and perhaps he even deserves a medal for not killing anyone for weeks now— but God. He never thought this would affect him so much that he would want to shoot his head over and over again—just so he’d stop thinking about doing something he shouldn't do. Wade couldn’t. He had made a promise not just to someone, but to himself. He really, really wanted to get better.

Wade took a deep breath, his legs dangling from the roof as he watched his hands began to tremble. He hated blood… actually. Hated, love— what was the difference at this point? All Wade knew was that he had a complex relationship with blood and gore. Like an ex he kept coming back to or maybe a creepy ex who always managed to find him.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Wade… did miss his ex, despite everything. He wanted to go back in the field and experience the rush once again. There was an itch he wanted to get rid of, but he just couldn’t no matter how much he tried.

Wade decided to fiddle with his guns, no bullets inside which annoyed him— even though he was the one who removed them in the first place. These guns without bullets were useless as he was but he thought holding them might satisfy his needs. News flash, it didn’t. Nothing was good enough.

Wade was losing his mind. His marbles, his balls, and especially his sanity. Whatever he had, he was losing it, which was funny because he never had that much to begin with. He needed help so bad, he wanted to call Spider-man but then what? Admit that he was so screwed in the head he couldn't even resist killing someone?

"Fuck!”

Wade threw the guns on the floor before storming back to his bedroom. His headache was getting worse, his ears were ringing, his eyes felt heavy and his legs were shaking. The room was starting to spin, and he tried to reach for his pills but his vision was starting to get blurry. His fingers were too cold, and he believed at that moment he did not need it anymore. It was too late, too fucking late. He was on the edge of the cliff and no pills could bring him back to his fantasy land where everything was sunshine and rainbows because there were no fucking SUNSHINE AND RAINBOWS!

Wade’s mind was racing, his room felt so hot, he felt like he couldn’t breathe nor talk. Wade began pacing back and forth in his room, completely ignoring the noise coming from his neighbors, the glass shards on the floor piercing his feet or the pills sitting on the table, staring right through his soul. Wade muttered some words he often used to calm himself down, while his hands were on his head. Still trying to recite all the things he could remember, but none of it was working.

Eventually, everything stopped once Wade accepted the truth.

Wade realised he was just horrible. Just a terrible waste of space that was granted to live forever as a punishment simply for existing. Or perhaps even more, he did a lot of crimes after all. If he apologised to everything he had done, it would take him centuries to make up everything for it. Wade slowly sat down on the floor, exhausted. His eyes glancing down at his phone, still desperately wanting to call the only person who believed in him. The person who believed he still could be good despite everything. The hero who stupidly believed his words that he could actually be someone valuable to other people. Being nice makes you so naive. Yet, Wade couldn’t help but to think about if Spider-Man ever had these moments. Surely, he did.. but in a different way, probably.

Shit.

“Don’t kill Wade, blah blah blah good guys don’t kill.” Yeah well, do you have to be a good guy first to listen to that or… following it makes you one?

[beardedmrbean]

Beijing hit back Wednesday at US Secretary of State Marco Rubio for saying the world will "never forget" the deadly Tiananmen Square crackdown in 1989, describing his remarks as an "attack" on China.

Troops and tanks forcibly cleared peaceful protesters from Beijing's Tiananmen Square on June 4, 1989, after weeks-long demonstrations demanding greater political freedoms.

The exact toll is unknown but hundreds died, with some estimates exceeding 1,000.

China's communist rulers have since sought to erase any public mention of the crackdown, with censors scrubbing all online references.

Police were seen by AFP on Wednesday at the entrance to Wan'an Cemetery, a site in west Beijing where victims of the crackdown are known to be buried.

Officers were also posted at several intersections leading into Tiananmen Square.

On Wednesday evening, a line of buses and a cherry picker partially blocked screens at the German and Canadian embassies showing images of candles, a symbol commonly used to pay tribute to Tiananmen victims.

- 'Never forget' -

Rubio said in a statement the "world will never forget" what happened on June 4, even as Beijing "actively tries to censor the facts".

"Today we commemorate the bravery of the Chinese people who were killed as they tried to exercise their fundamental freedoms, as well as those who continue to suffer persecution as they seek accountability and justice for the events of June 4, 1989," Rubio said.

Chinese foreign ministry spokesman Lin Jian hit back during a briefing in the capital, saying Beijing had "lodged a solemn protest" over the American politician's comments which "maliciously distort historical facts ... and seriously interfere in China's internal affairs".

Taiwanese President Lai Ching-te echoed Rubio's remarks, vowing to preserve the memory of victims of the bloody crackdown.

"Authoritarian governments often choose to be silent and forget history; democratic societies choose to preserve the truth and refuse to forget those who have contributed to the ideal of human rights and their dreams," Lai said on Facebook.

China claims Taiwan is part of its territory and has threatened to seize the democratically-run island by force.

- 'Reaffirm our commitment' -

In Hong Kong, jailed activist Chow Hang-tung began a 36-hour hunger strike on Wednesday, a dogged attempt to individually commemorate the anniversary in a city that once hosted huge public remembrances.

The former lawyer used to help organise an annual vigil that drew tens of thousands to the city's Victoria Park.

Hong Kong had been the only place under Chinese rule where commemoration of the crackdown was tolerated.

Slogans at the candlelight vigil sometimes called for democracy in China and an end to one-party rule.

But after huge and sometimes violent protests roiled the city in 2019, Beijing brought in a wide-ranging national security law that has quashed political dissent.

The public memorial has effectively been banned and Chow imprisoned, facing a potential life sentence on subversion charges.

On Wednesday, AFP journalists saw at least seven people taken away by police around Victoria Park, including two schoolgirls holding white flowers -- which often signify mourning in Chinese culture -- and a man standing in silent tribute.

Some people were stopped and searched by police.

"It's a shame that there's no more (vigils)... In fact, no one will ever forget (the vigils)," a man named Yuen, 49, who did not give his first name, told AFP.

Over the last few years, activists have been detained for "offences in connection with seditious intention" around the anniversary.

In a social media post, Chow said her hunger strike would "commemorate this day and reaffirm our commitment" and urged authorities to apologise over her "wrongful" imprisonment.

"History tells us that (the apology) will likely take a very long time –- the Tiananmen Mothers have been waiting for 36 years and still have not received an apology," she said, referring to an activist group made up of families of victims of the crackdown.

A video featuring 87-year-old Zhang Xianling, whose 19-year-old son was killed in 1989, circulated online last week.

China's authorities have never addressed the group's plea for dialogue around the issue -- instead, they have used all means to monitor and wiretap members of the Tiananmen Mothers, Zhang said.

"The lights in Victoria Park may have been blown out by the gales, but the sparks of justice will glow in the hearts of every conscientious person," she added.

At a vigil Wednesday on Taipei's Liberty Square, 20-year-old American student Lara Waldron told AFP: "I feel like this June 4 is very close to me right now.

"As a college student, I'm of the age of many organisers and participants -- people (who) lost their lives in Tiananmen."

[soartfullydone]

I finished Expedition 33 last night, and if I don't talk about both endings and my feelings, I will go insane. Do NOT 🫵 read this if you haven't finished the endings, for real

This game has me so...! Gnawing on my hands, gnawing on my hands

By the time the choice comes around, I had a feeling about which one I'd ultimately prefer, but I wouldn't know for sure unless I played both. Imagine my surprise to not only see my preference change but to also find so much more to wrestle with than I expected with both.

I don't currently prescribe that one ending is automatically the "good," "right," or "morally correct" ending over the other. Neither is perfectly happy, or particularly neat, or overwhelmingly cathartic. They're messy and complex and painful like the grief they're addressing, their futures equally uncertain. It really does come down to personal preference, what the player is willing to sacrifice and let go of, what they are most emotional about.

I chose Maelle's first because I thought it would be the one that I'd stick with. She had my loyalty first over Verso, and I was unwilling to lose Sciel, Lune, Monoco, and Esquie. I wanted a future for them where all the pain and terror they've endured could be transformed into happiness. I wanted their loved ones returned to them and for me, as the player, to have Gustave back, allowing him and Sophie to have their "in another world."

Throughout Act 3, Verso seems to be thawing slowly to the idea of living on, too. He's still soul-tired and painfully aware of his own existence within the scope of the Dessendre family's ongoing strife and grief, but if everyone in the Canvas is real, that means he is, too. The others accept him as himself, Verso, and not Verso Dessendre. He talks about going on more adventures with Esquie. Of bringing back all the people he's lied to, so he can get the chance to explain to them why, to maybe reconcile with them. Losing Julie in particular cost him deeply, and that's a wound that could be addressed at last. He romanced Sciel in my playthrough, and he's taken aback and a little hurt when she calls off their situationship if her husband can be revived, implying how much he's starting to value that connection with her. He wants to win back the trust he broke with Sciel and Lune, in particular. He and Maelle plan to perform a concert in Lumiere. He and Monoco are him and Monoco, in complete understanding of each other as the best of friends are. He and Lune discuss future plans and how settling down doesn't seem like him.

And that's really the glaring crack of it all. Verso is trying to get on board and imagine a future where he doesn't want to die, where living seems worth it. A lot of people call him a liar and a betrayer, but I think the person Verso lies to most is himself. Because all these glimmers of hope for the future are also met with constantly losing his family until he's alone. They had to kill painted!Renoir and painted!Aline. Maelle Gommaged painted!Alicia right in front of him without giving him a chance to say goodbye. Painted!Clea had to kill herself to escape from the Canvas. Verso even had to put Simon to rest and carry on his mission.

By the time the party arrives to confront real!Renoir, I truly believe that Verso was on board with their plan, or as on board as he could be: defeat Renoir, protect the Canvas, revive everyone, keep living. If Verso had premeditated betraying the party, I feel like he would've done so during the Renoir fight, choosing to side with him to stop Maelle in that moment. Instead, during and directly after the fight, something happened. Many somethings that shattered Verso's illusions and his lies until he couldn't run from the truth they concealed anymore.

The first was real!Aline returning to the Canvas to influence the fight in Maelle's favor, something she had no business doing in her current condition. The second was Renoir showing the party Aline's suffering in the real world, suffering she was enduring to keep painted!Verso and the sliver of her son's real soul alive. The third was Renoir's many pleas and desperation for Maelle to not end up the same way, for fear of losing her to this obsession, too. And the fourth was Maelle's lie that she wouldn't. There's a particular thing Maelle does when she's becoming manic. Her eyes get super, almost uncomfortably, wide, and Jennifer English puts this high strain on her voice because she's trying to convince you that she's not lying, that she herself believes every word. It's like looking at a glass sculpture that's seconds from shattering at the right pressure. This has happened a couple of times throughout the game, particularly when things are getting desperate and unmoored.

The camera focuses on Verso every time these events are playing out, and every time, his despair grows stronger and stronger. He feels personally responsible for all this suffering and for the suffering his presence has yet to cause. And here is Maelle, who has previously seemed so certain of herself, so steady, so confident, especially with her memories back, and now she's unraveling right in front of Verso, and she hasn't even taken full ownership of the Canvas yet. Of course that's the moment he betrays the group and their wishes. Yes, Verso wants to die, Maelle's ending makes that heartbreakingly clear, but I think he also wants to save Maelle, the single member of the Dessendre family that is both real on the outside and real to him. He doesn't want her grief and guilt over Verso's death to bind her to it any further, and he doesn't want her to hide behind her love for her painted!friends and family to do so. The escapism has to end. She has to face reality.

But like I said, in this instance, I chose Maelle's ending, A Life to Paint, first, and what plays out is both idyllic and horrific, but not at first. Maelle compromises with Verso, giving him the option to grow old at last. For them to have "just this one lifetime" together, implying she'll leave the Canvas and rejoin her family after Verso lives a natural life and dies. Lumiere is restored. The past dead expeditioners are revived. Gustave and Sophie are together and happy; Sciel has her husband back. All have gathered to watch an aged Verso perform, like they'd promised before.

But Verso is reluctant to play. He's visibly tired, visibly unhappy; he looks dead on his feet. And the shot of Paintress!Maelle is viscerally shocking, eerie, and unsettling. Everything is in monochrome, and suddenly, nothing feels right. She has a child with her, a child with Verso's dark hairstyle, and now I'm left wondering if that child is the next Verso, the one who will take over when the aged Verso expires, this one lifetime stretching out endlessly in another version of immortality, with Maelle never intending to leave.

I'm reminded then, too, of the Gestrals and their reincarnation cycle. What we learn about Noco's death from Monoco is that Noco was once his mentor, that Noco has died many times, and that Monoco got in trouble for "skipping the queue" and reviving Noco early because he missed him so much. Every time Noco is reincarnated, he has none of his past memories and he's never the same Noco as before. Monoco has had to mourn not only Noco's death but also the Noco he loses once Noco is reborn. Yet he can't let him go, has to continuously bring him back and reforge their relationship even though it causes Monoco incredible pain and grief each time.

So how do we know that all the people Maelle resurrects are truly "them"? How do we know that Gustave and Sophie are the Gustave and Sophie that we know and not the versions that Maelle simply remembers or wants them to be? Is any of this sandbox truly real anymore, or is Maelle's fantasy of an ideal existence playing out at the cost of Verso's actual soul, his child self trapped in suffering to maintain the Canvas, not to mention her and her family's health and mental states?

On the flip side, there's Verso's ending, A Life to Love. He defeats Maelle and holds her as she Gommages and returns to the real world, comforting her the way real!Verso did before he died. He gives Verso's soul the choice to stop painting, knowing the Canvas will cease to exist soon after, killing Sciel, Lune, Monoco, and Esquie along with all chance of them bringing back everyone else who's been Gommaged. If you believe the people and creatures in the painting are as real as those without, then this feels like murdering entire civilizations and ecosystems. All so painted!Verso can finally die and for Maelle and the other Dessendres to face their grief and heal. Do the needs of the few overshadow the will of the many?

You have Monoco and Esquie embrace Verso as a final goodbye, themselves willing to go, in total understanding of Verso's choice. You have Sciel step forward, reaching her own understanding with Verso as someone who's also had grief blind and bind her, who knows how far into the dark you have to sink to attempt to take your own life.

And then there's Lune, who cold-eyed stares right at Verso before sitting down in full view of him, unforgiving, uncompromising, unflinching. Over and over, Verso has betrayed her trust, burned her hope, and her judgment of this choice is the last thing she will ever give him, on behalf of those they've lost and those they now can never save. This is a moment that stays with you well past Lune's Gommage, a silent, accusing voice saying, "I can't believe you would do this."

And we return to the real world at last, the Dessendres finally reunited, each of them standing over Verso's grave, honoring his memory and commiserating over their shared loss. The siblings stand equidistantly apart from their parents, who take comfort in each other, seeming to have reconciled after being so long at war. Maelle is muted and scarred, having returned to a life she claimed she'd find no joy in—but she and Clea share a smile over their parents' behavior, their earlier animosity stowed away, for now at least. It's not clear if Aline still blames Alicia for Verso's death or if Maelle is still subject to Clea's harsh judgments. It's not clear how much mourning and growing closer the family has yet to do, but there's a hopeful note that wrestling with losing Verso is getting a little more endurable.

But is the chance for the Dessendre family to heal worth all the lives in the Canvas? Should Aline and Renoir have preserved their son's soul no matter what? Should Maelle have been forced into a life where she is disfigured, in constant pain, unable to speak? Would it have been better if she'd stayed in the Canvas, even if it was to live a lie so she'd never need to face reality?

A Life to Paint and A Life to Love both present a very "The Ones Who Walk Away from Omales" angle that people are going to be chewing on and arguing about for a good, long time, and I'd rather people did that than be perfectly content with it, no notes, you know? It's why this game is going to have incredible staying power beyond release and award seasons. The way it turns a macro-story about saving a civilization and defeating monsters into a micro-story about shared grief and the sometimes terrible choices you make because of your pain is extraordinary. The way it confronts your relationship with art, your co-dependency on it and your avoidance of reality, is a discussion that really hits home with me.

That's probably why I prefer Verso's ending, although I truly enjoy both, the results they give and the questions they present. Painted!Verso being able to save not only Verso's soul and Maelle (not to mention the Dessendre family at large) feels like more of a tangible "win" to me than Maelle's, even though it really hurts losing Lune, Sciel, Monoco, and Esquie for good. Those are my little guys that I love so much, you know? I went on this journey with them! Shouldn't that mean something?

I think we've confused meaning with being rewarded, and using that reward to attribute meaning. I've seen the sentiment of it all being for nothing if you don't choose Maelle's ending, that bonding with these characters is pointless if you can't save them, and, hm, really? Can't the journey still matter, even if you don't get the desired outcome? Aren't the bonds still real, even if they're broken? For instance, maybe you think the last several Star Wars movies or tv shows suck. Does that mean it was pointless to develop bonds or strong feelings for any of the characters or story beats? If something connected with you, shouldn't you still value it, even if you have to let that connection go in some way or form?

For me, we wouldn't feel the attachments we do to those in the Canvas without Verso painting it, his death, and his family's expressions of grief. We wouldn't have the Canvas' wonder and whimsy without young Verso's initial vision. We wouldn't have the Fracture, the Axons, the Unfinished Nevrons, the Gommage, etc. without various members of this family making chess moves against each other. The Dessendres give Clair Obscur: Expedition 33 a level of depth and meaning it wouldn't have otherwise, and it feels only natural that it ends with them and their collective willingness to move on, leaving no one else behind. (Or, who knows, maybe they'll all get on board with Clea's vendetta against the Writers, a revenge quest that is its own kind of faux-healing and avoidance.)

We even see Maelle holding Verso's stuffed Esquie at the gravesite. She still carries everything and everyone in the Canvas with her, just in a more healthy, less obsessed way. We know, also, that Maelle is a great and strong Paintress in her own right. What kinds of Canvases will she create? If reality gets to be too much at times, can she escape for a while but know when it's best to return, thanks to her parents' lessons and warnings?

I don't really have the answers to any of my questions, and that's okay. I'm happy to speculate forever. What a game!

[slotumn]

My hot take is that even if Rhea chose to be honest to humans right off the bat about what Relics and Crests are and how Agarthans are behind everything, she'd still need to, and be 100% justified in, hiding her identity as Nabatean/Immaculate One to the public.

Because being Nabatean means that she can also be killed and turned into a Relic. So revealing that alongside everything else about Nabatean and Crest lore is just putting a massive target on her back.

Yeah maybe Wilhelm and co. and most decent people wouldn't try to kill her for that, but being honest to humanity in general means she can't pick and choose who gets that information. After a multi-decade war, there's a non-zero chance that someone's first line of thought after hearing the Deep Lore™ isn't "oh my god that's awful we should never let that happen again" but rather "hmmm what if we killed her and made a Relic."

It gets even worse if she lets them know about Agarthans and the possibility of them still hiding out somewhere. Again maybe decent people will be like "if they ever try to pop out again we'll stop them," but a non-zero amount of people will go "hmmm so there are these guys who can give us super powerful weapons, okay let's get in touch with them."

Even if trauma wasn't a factor, outing yourself as Nabatean to the general public in a post-Nemesis world is suicide. There will be a non-zero amount of humans who will try to kill you, and it's not even going to be because they hate you, it'll be because they see you as a type of useful resource, like petroleum or uranium.

Tl;dr even if Rhea told the truth about literally everything else to humans she'd still have to lie about herself being Nabatean if she doesn't wanna fucking die