#WE AS A SOCIETY DESERVE BETTER THAN THE LIFE WE ARE FORCED TO LIVE!!!!!

[frostedpuffs]

i didn't realize just how many people my lil vent post would resonate with. capitalism mmmmmmmmmmmm sucks!!!!

does anyone else hate that work takes up like 90% of your life and you literally are always working and have to form plans and important things and even seeing friends or eating meals around work. it's always just work. im spending my life just being At Work. i don't have time for hobbies or for seeing friends bc it’s always Work. like two days off a week isn't even enough because my days off aren't consecutive so i just spend those days exhausted or doing errands or house chores. there is not enough Time. all the time goes to Work. WHY IS LIFE THIS WAY. humans were not meant for this

[cityofmeliora]

notes on Primo's characterization 💖

let's talk about Primo! i think he's a really, really interesting character!

i've said before that i think Primo is the only one of the brothers who takes the whole ~satanic death cult trying to bring the end of the world~ thing seriously.

Primo was indeed very serious about the cult. maybe too serious? even some other members of the cult dislike that about him.

NAMELESS GHOUL: The first Papa Emeritus was someone very rigid, very strict, and very solemn. A real son of a bitch! (laughs) To be honest, we don’t miss him at all! MyRock #44 (2017) translated from French by @ a-wandering-ghoulette)

the best source of Primo characterization is a 2010 interview with Sweden Rock Magazine where Primo and the Nameless Ghouls kidnapped the interviewer. though i quote *a lot* of it here, i strongly recommend reading the full interview because it is truly fascinating. notably, Primo himself speaks in this interview rather than a Nameless Ghoul.

Primo is a misanthrope who believes humans are "vermin" that have doomed themselves due to their "intellectual decline". in his eyes, they are unworthy of life and will eventually be destroyed.

“Human beings are vermin, thus the end of humanity is ultimately a good thing. We play but a vanishingly microscopic role in this cosmos of nothingness.”

The devil-worshipping organization that the Ghost leader speaks of is claimed to operate on a worldwide level and among many different areas: from politics and business to religious movements, in the entertainment industry and on the street. It does not have a name, but its existence “can most easily be explained as a living and ongoing result of humanity’s intellectual decline and eventual decay.”

Primo affirms Ghost's mission statement as originally presented in the band's old Myspace page: to spread the devil's influence and convince other people that humanity deserves its inevitable end.

According to the statement on the band’s page, Ghost’s main mission is to trick mankind into believing that the end of the world is ultimately a good thing. “Our only task is to accompany the world’s downfall.”

A question comes to mind: wouldn’t the band, which with its poppy hard rock could by all means appeal to a much wider audience than ordinary black metal acts, gain more attention by engaging in more commercial modes of expression? “We have other entertainment groups within our organization who are doing just that. Our task is to emphasize the devil’s message in the part of society that has, to varying degrees, already accepted it. It’s directed at the social grouping that goes to the type of concerts that we perform. Our goal is to be able to carry out our black mass, our ritual, for them. Other members of the cult work with far more subtle modes of expressions, better suited for consumers who are not as receptive to the truth.”

though he openly calls the organization a cult, his religious belief is sincere.

to Primo, the band's anonymity and use of costumes are a way of showing reverence and humility in their task. if Satan is the Father, and Antichrist is the Son, the band is the (unholy) Ghost: the force which connects humanity to the power of the Father and the Son. for the audience to think of Primo or the Nameless Ghouls as individual people would distract from their message. when he takes on the role of Papa, he becomes one with their cause.

You refer to yourselves as a group of nameless spirits - should this be taken literally? Is the band actually something other than human? “To make it easier for mortals to deal with the fact that we, as individuals, have no significance in this experience, we have chosen to act as ghosts - hollow and diffuse.”

Why did you, as a leader, choose an outfit so similar to the one worn by the Catholic Pope? “For the Pope it is a way of showing reverence and seriousness, and at the same time humility before his task. He uses it to step into the body that is the essence and the fog, something we advocate too. It is our way of becoming one with the fog.” Things become clearer when the leader speaks of the meaning behind the name of the band: “Akin to the tripartite view so stubbornly proclaimed by the Christian faith, we too believe there is magic in the concept of three and we are part of it: there is a god, Satan, a son, Antichrist, and a ghost in the middle that is the inexplicable - the fog.”

Primo has a theistic view of Satan, believing he is real deity who speaks through / inspires the band's music. in this way, the Ghoul Writer could be considered a sort of prophet to him.

That’s right. Ghost have their music written for them. In one online interview, a so-called “ghoul writer” is mentioned who supposedly composes melodies and lyrics with the help of ungraspable powers from beyond – devilish whispers instruct him which words should accompany which chords, and so forth. “There is indeed a human individual who composes patterns of tones and words which operate ever so beautifully in unison. However, I am of the belief that there is a higher being who speaks through this individual,” asserts the Pope.

like a proper cultist, Primo cannot imagine having a life / identity outside of the cult. he remembers that there was once a time when he was not a member of the cult, but he cannot remember what it was like to be that person. his devotion to the cult has been a core part of who he is for a very long time.

How he got involved in this movement and dedicated his life to Satan, he has a hard time answering. After a long silence, the singer says: “I find it very difficult to remember the life I had before I found the darkness. It is therefore very difficult to answer your question. My memory doesn’t go that far.” Surely the Pope must remember something?           “I cannot remember a time when I did not find myself part of the dark energy. That does not mean that I remember nothing from my past life, only that I cannot remember how I felt then. This is because it was a time when I did not know very much.” Was it by coming into contact with other members of the organization that you found this darkness? “As I said, I do not remember when this happened. But I think…” He chooses his words carefully. “… I believe that, like many others, I was woven into this dark through subtle, human components found within it. Once again, my intellect was not as developed as it is now, so I have great difficulty in explaining what happened - when and where, and to what extent.”

while he cannot say exactly what happened to him or when, Primo seems to have had genuine spiritual experiences. he was always connected to the dark energy, and he feels that he became awakened and that his intellect has developed since he truly found his faith.

despite being a misanthrope, Primo admits he was brought into the darkness by some sort of human connection. he might actually have the capacity to care about some people.

in a Kerrang feature where Primo gets quizzed on "demonology, serial killers and stuff like that", he says the cult knew witches who were burned at the stake, but he doesn't like to talk about it. it stood out to me that he says he doesn't want to talk about it, because he speaks so openly and matter-of-factly about other dark / upsetting topics. at the very least, it appears he doesn't like it when bad things happen to other members of the cult.

WHAT DOES THE PHRASE MALLEUS MALEFICARUM TRANSLATE AS IN ENGLISH? A) HAMMER OF THE WITCHES B) HAMMER OF THE DEMONS C) HAMMER OF THE GODS PAPA: “That would be the witch-hammer. We knew some Witches, but unfortunately a lot of them were taken away.” KERRANG!: “As in burned at the stake?” PAPA: “Correct. But I don’t like to talk about that. (Answer: A) ✔

he seems to be quite pleased about other people dying, though. and he is certain they all go to Hell.

6. NAME ANY TWO OF THE THREE ORIGINAL MEMBERS OF MAYHEM. PAPA: “Though one was not an original member two of the band are actually burning in Hell, and they’re good guests, certainly. But yes, I will say Euronymous and Necrobutcher.” (Answer: Euronymous, Necrobutcherr, Manheim) ✔ 7. WHAT WAS THE NAME OF THE SHIP THAT WAS DISCOVERED FLOATING ABANDONED AND UNMANNED IN THE ATLANTIC OCEAN IN DECEMBER 1872? PAPA: “It was that ship with such a heavenly name, the lady Mary Celeste.” KERRANG!: “And can you finally tell us where all the people went?” PAPA: I’ll check the records. Obviously they’re all in Hell now, but the way they got there is a little cloudy. But then our Lord too works in mysterious ways…“ (Answer: Mary Celeste) ✔

some of Primo's other responses in this article reveal he has a dark sense of humor and perhaps cruel inclinations. when talking about possessions done by the cult, he says "sometimes you just want to do it for the hell of it" and "you want to make a bit of sport out of it", referring to a possession that (allegedly) influenced a serial killer. he refers to the victims of these possessions as "poor [name]", but his remarks on their misfortune don't indicate any actual remorse or sympathy. it might even be intentionally ironic.

5. WHICH PAINTER ALLEGEDLY UNDERWENT AN EXORCISM IN 1947? PAPA: “Poor Salvador Dali. You know we had his missus possessed as well, all in the name of Satan…” KERRANG!: Is possession something that’s done for serious reasons or just to pass the time? “Well sometimes you just want to do it for the hell of it…”  (Answer: Salvador Dali) ✔

13. WHAT AMERICAN SERIAL KILLER CLAIMS HE WAS COMPELLED TO COMMIT HIS MURDERS BY A DEMON THAT POSSESSED HIS NEIGHBOUR’S DOG? PAPA: 'That was that poor boy, the Son Of Sam. That sure was a successful possession, although it did involve far too much crotch-sniffing and turd-eating.“ KERRANG: "Is it easier to possess a dog than to possess a person?” PAPA: “Not necessarily, but you want to make a bit of sport out of it.” (Answer: David Berkowitz/Son Of Sam) ✔

also, many of the events Primo speaks about would've happened before he was born or when he was very young, so it seems he's studied the cult's history very well, and he keeps tabs on their current activities. he does his research!

and as a fun fact: Primo is pretty good at math :)

14. IF YOU’RE TRICK OR TREATING AND THREE HOUSES GIVE YOU SEVEN SWEETS, TWO GIVE YOU FOUR, AND ONE GIVES YOU NINE, AND YOUR PARENTS THEN DOUBLE WHAT YOU HAVE, HOW MANY SWEETS DO YOU END UP WITH? PAPA: “76.” KERRANG!: “That was alarmingly fast, sir. Are good mathematical skills important when you’re burning in the fiery pits of Hell?” PAPA: “We all have our different strengths, but of course the number we are most used to is 666…” (Answer: 76) ✔

there's not a lot of information about Primo, and what exists is hard to find, but i live to bring knowledge to the people 🫡. these are all the sources i have on hand that talk about Primo. if anyone else has other articles / videos talking about Primo, i'd really appreciate it if you shared them!

[stillness-in-green]

The thing that doesn't make sense to me if Izuku resolved to kill is how it doesn't let them prove AFO wrong? AFO did his big reveal which only makes it clearer how deep the grooming went and it should've been time for Izuku to understand Tenko and Tenko to understand the abuse then reject the mindset forced onto him. But Izuku killing Tenko doesn't do that. Tenko just dies. It feels very wrong.

I guess Izuku just wasn't very interested in proving AFO wrong! Honestly, the only thing I immediately remember Izuku disputing the guy on was the same thing he disputed Shigaraki on: that he was anything more than a human being. AFO isn't a Demon King, but just a lonely man. Shigaraki hasn't transcended humanity; there's still a human somewhere deep inside of him. Izuku won't correct his allies' use of dehumanizing language for Villains, of course, but he's quick to push back when the Villains themselves self-aggrandize.

Sorry, I really only have withering disdain for Deku at this point. And I guess I don't really see any evidence that Deku was ever particularly driven by "proving AFO wrong." He wants to stop AFO, certainly, but that's because AFO is a monster who takes advantage of vulnerable people to maneuver them into doing Bad Things that advance AFO's Bad Plans and sets them onto Bad Paths that are difficult to walk back, not because he expressly opposes AFO on this or that ideological point about the nature of humanity and society.

(Hit the jump for the rest of a somewhat rambly reply.)

If anything, current evidence is that neither Deku nor the manga itself really do disagree with AFO about the frailty of humans, as expressed by Tsukauchi answering Deku's question about how to prevent future tragedies by shrugging and saying, "You don't, because life fucking sucks sometimes and that's just how it is. Our hands are completely tied on improving the system as we have it, so all we can do is punch out the Villains that appear in front of us to stop them from causing more harm."

That's also me being a bit harsh, of course. The fact that Deku is even still asking that question in the epilogue suggests that the manga hasn't reached its final answer yet, and maybe it will yet come up with something better! It doesn't have much time left, but it's still possible!

All the same, Deku is still having to ask that question in the epilogue because he never truly faced it over the course of the story. Never thinking about what Shigaraki as a person said in favor of fetishizing the Crying Child, never coming up with any kind of non-violent plan of attack or conversational approach, I have to ask what exactly about Shigaraki did Deku ever disagree with AFO on?

AFO, in the end, characterized Shigaraki as a puppet he molded exactly as he desired, a doll who he sculpted and programmed to act as he wished, a feeble child who has never made a single decision that AFO didn't cultivate him to make. So far as I can tell, Deku never really contested that framing. He didn't know the extent of it until the full reveal, of course, but Deku, like AFO, insisted on approaching Shigaraki solely through that "Crying Child" lens. He seemed to believe that nothing Shigaraki said or did on the surface really mattered (save as a reason that Shigaraki had to be stopped and potentially killed), that the "truth" of Shigaraki was that feeble little weeping boy who never grew up.

How could Deku possibly "prove AFO wrong" in that context? He doesn't even disagree with him! I mean, he's got some nice talk about how people deserve a second chance, sure; he says that people doing wrong doesn't make them Villains for the rest of their lives. What does do that, however - insofar as I can tell from how opaque the series keeps Deku throughout the final war - is refusing the hand out of the darkness. You stop being a victim and become a Villain for the rest of your life by choosing to remain a Villain even when offered an alternative (no matter how patently awful that alternative is).

Shigaraki chooses to remain a Villain and Deku doesn't have a counter for that because Deku never really got past the false binary represented by Villains and Victims to begin with. And I think the same goes for people who expected Shigaraki to just fold when he realized the extent of the grooming he'd undergone. Disallowing Shigaraki any agency in who he is and what he's done is defining him the same way AFO and Deku both did; when Shigaraki refuses to accept that framing, refuses to be a passive victim, the only thing left for him to be is a Villain. And when a Villain refuses to stop...

Well, Hawks already told us what the Heroes' answer to that is. "Someone has to die." As no one ever stepped up to prove him wrong, as far as the story is concerned, he isn't.

AFO always knew that victims can be turned into Villains with the right nudges; that's the whole reason for him cultivating "warped seeds" whenever and wherever he found them. Hero Society is - and always has been - much too rigid in its enforcement of the Hero/Villain/Victim narrative to effectively combat him. Crucially, Deku - the boy who wants to bring everything back just the way it was - doesn't disagree with him. He thinks AFO is an asshole for setting people up to fail, but he doesn't disagree about what failure means. So if AFO, Deku, and the story itself are all in agreement, what's even there for Deku to disprove?

Now, there is something that would prove AFO wrong, but it isn't something you can do while insisting on drawing lines to separate sad manipulated woobie victims who just need to be saved from awful unrepentant villains who just need to rot. It isn't something you can do while infantilizing Shigaraki Tomura.

The way to prove AFO wrong is to make room in society to help all Villains. Even if they aren't asking for it, even if they never ask for it, and even if they're jolly bastards who don't really deserve it! As long as there's a point at which it becomes okay to give up on trying to save Villains, Shigaraki will remain unsavable. He will insist on being unsavable. He could no more let that go than All Might could step aside and let AFO's attack kill an innocent at Kamino.

That's what it means to be a Hero for Villains.

Ultimately, what makes AFO right is that he knows that Hero Society makes it difficult if not impossible to uncross the victim-to-Villain bridge, and so anyone who does cross that bridge (with or without his influence) is that much more susceptible to him. Deku, in turn, thinks the only Villains he can save are those who drop everything and come sprinting as fast as they can back to the Hero side, so anyone who won't do that is someone he can't help.

Shigaraki refused to stop trying to create a better world for Villains. Toga refused to live in a world that would imprison her. Twice refused to give up on the friends no Hero would help. It's the same with every other Villain who refused to quietly endure their status quo: in a society that refuses to change how it treats Villains, anyone who won't submit to suffering in silence cannot be saved.

That's the paradigm AFO exploits, and Deku will never prove him wrong without resolving to change the paradigm first. We'll see if the last two chapters get him there.

[asmallmoon333]

Another Death Note AU I love to think about: Fem!Light x Male!L.

I adore these two in any form, but the potential of this dynamic in particular had me thinking plots that had my brain noodles excited since way back when I was in the middle of writing Time Speaks.

Now, L's gender wouldn't change anything about him, not really, but Light? Oh, it would be a whole new act for her to put on. And with L still male, it ensures it's not just a repeat of canon, but a whole new exploration of their characters, their dynamic, and the world they live in.

So in this AU, we have a Light Yagami who grew up in a society that told her she was lesser. That implied her gender was predictive of her place and abilities. But she wouldn't actually have a lot of anger about her gender I feel, since that goes against her natural feelings of superiority based on her intellect, so she'd just see it as the world being wrong as usual (rotten, if you will). She would look down on men for how easy they were to manipulate; not that anyone else would ever see these thoughts. Except Sayu, who Light raises with care.

Now, while said world would make it harder for her to rise up, Light is someone who gets what she wants and thrives on a challenge. She would use gender as her stepping stone, playing the "good girl" role to perfection.

And she'd be so very good at it. A much better manipulator than male Light.

Now, when she gets the Death Note, the story goes about the same at the start because Light Yagami is Light Yagami regardless.

Then in comes L, the first person who bested her, the first person she hates, and the plot changes. L is the only person, the only man, who looks at her and sees Kira. The only man who is deadpanned and blank to her "good girl" act and meets her provocation for provocation. Infuriating her every time they meet simply by being as smart as she is. By looking at her pointedly crossed arms, at her 'casual' forward-leaning posture, at her inviting smile--and blandly asking if her back hurts like his sometimes does.

How dare he.

How dare he see and value and fear her for her intelligence? He is certain she is Kira despite how aghast every other man and woman in her life is about the very idea of it.

They call L mad. Sexist. He ignores them and insists he's right, that no one else could be Kira but Light. That she's perfect.

And Light? She hates him for seeing through her. He scares her right back.

But she also can't stop herself from craving the acknowledgement.

The game between them would be so different and yet just as complicated this time, because while the two of them don't care about gender, they know this about each other, the rest of the world is not at their level and can't stop their bias about it. And Light uses that to her advantage; Kira will use any shield.

While L will do his best to strip her bare of all her lies.

So Light plays with the world's perceptions of womanhood in her war against L, using her 'weak' gender and 'need for protection' to manipulate the police against him. While L continues to pursue his Kira with a single-minded focus and certainty. He knows it's her.

But now he has to work even harder to prove it because no one is willing to listen to him. He has no proof, and in this universe, that means a lot more to the task force.

Light is smug about this, internally of course. She sweetly tells him to give up and start looking for the 'real' Kira.

L blinks at her and says he'll give up when she stops being a serial killer.

Light hates him.

But she also can't stop thinking about him. She can't stop revelling in how he sees her like no one else was ever willing to. And she eventually decides that she'll get him to give into her too, like she's gotten everyone else in her life. She'll make him admit he wants her, too. That he's human just like they all are, that he has feelings. (Just like she does).

She'll give him her attention in a way no one else has ever deserved. And L better appreciate it.

And after that? She'll kill him, of course.

She's Kira. She's pitiless. She plays to win.

But she might as well...enjoy L while he's here.

He's the only one she'd ever want to have in that way.

As for L? Well he's more than willing to play along, in any and all ways Light wants. He's seen her from the start, seen Kira behind her sweet smile, and he's entranced by her as always. He'd want her in any form, and gender is just one more tool of the brilliant mind he'll always be obsessed with, in any universe.

And he's absolutely thrilled at this game.

So, yeah!! I love this AU and one day, I'll write it, but for now thank you to the amazing artist @thanatelle who inspired these current thoughts! His work is so good <3

Fem!Light and Male!L are so very fun.

[letteredlettered]

Hi! I was rereading By the Grace for like the 45397th time (it is incredible, by the way), and I have wondered ever since the first time i came across it - what does the title mean, and how did you decide on it?

I'm so glad you like this fic, thank you.

The fic starts with the line, "Grace is given for that which cannot be forgiven." It sounds like a quote from something, but it's not; I just made it up.

The title has to do with the definition of the word "grace." I'll use Mirriam Webster's second definition:

a. approval, favor (eg stayed in his good graces) b. archaic: mercy, pardon c. a special favor: privilege d. disposition to or an act or instance of kindness, courtesy, or clemency e. a temporary exemption : reprieve

Another definition is religious, but means kind of the same thing, in a way, it's about the favor God shows to humanity, even though humanity doesn't deserve it.

I don't know much about religion or which religions deal with the concept of grace, but I wanted to deal specifically with the idea of mercy, pardon, or clemency.

Draco Malfoy held fascist ideology; beyond that, he believed in genocide and eugenics. Even if later he didn't believe in those things, he aided and abetted people who worked for the cause of genocide. He tried to kill people. He mind controlled innocent bystanders. On top of that he was a bully; he bullied people for being poor and being orphans and for having blood he thought was unclean. He hurt them emotionally, mentally, and physically, and he did that specifically to Harry.

Draco Malfoy was a young person when he did these things. Even if he was not, he was still a human being. Human beings should be stopped from killing people and committing genocide, but I also think that because they are humans, we should try to understand them; we should still treat them as humans. And if someone like that is committed to living a different life, committed to stop hurting people and start helping people, I think they deserve a chance to do that, as long as they're not trying to hurt people again.

But the victims of these people don't need to forgive them. They are not the ones who need to give those people a second chance. They deserve to hate people who hurt them, to hold it against them. In many circumstances, they deserve to never see those people again, never see signs of that persecution and abuse. It is the job of society to make a place for folks who have done bad things and want to change, but it is not the job of victims.

But that doesn't mean that victims cannot forgive their torturers. Sometimes they do. Sometimes they feel forced to, to "be a good person," and I think that's wrong; I think that's unfair; I think that victims who have been hurt deserve to move on. But sometimes victims do it because it helps them heal. Sometimes it helps them feel fulfilled. Sometimes forgiving someone who hurt them can help to love other people in their lives better.

But the fic By the Grace is about more than forgiveness. It's not just about forgiving someone who hurt you like that, but growing to love them, growing to love them in a deep and intimate way. And that's something that can never happen because someone "deserves" it. It's not also something that happens just to let go of a grudge and live a fulfilling life.

It's something that happens through something bigger than forgiveness, something divine in nature, whether you're religious or not. It's something that happens through a force that I think is bigger and kinder and stronger than the emotions we have in day to day life, than the way we allow ourselves to be in day to day life. It's like heroism or profound self-sacrifice. It's love.

It's grace.

That's what Harry Potter has to feel, I think, if he's going to fall in love with Draco Malfoy, and that's what I wanted to write about.

[t1oui]

so something i've been thinking about a lot lately is how things might go if mortals found out about demigods and absolutely flipped their shit.

like, i'm talking full-on dystopia. everybody being forced to get dna tests to see if they're demigods (since gods don't have dna, anybody who appears to only have one set of genes is a demigod. or a lizard.). demigods being forced to wear armbands so everybody knows who - no, what - they are. hell, how about we go even further and color-code the bracelets so everybody can see who's a big three kid and who isn't. they're more powerful, so surely people will want to avoid them, right?

pictures of demigods are plastered on billboards and all over social media. people are told to approach them with caution or, in the case of a blue-banded big three kid, avoid them completely. in school, demigods are forced to sit apart from their peers, or they're kicked out all together - maybe annabeth's school won't let her live there anymore and she starts going to ahs with percy.

there are protests from both sides - people who want demigods completely removed from society, and people like sally who are just trying to remind everyone that these things, these creatures they're so afraid of? they're kids. they're children who were dealt a bad hand in life. they don't deserve this.

of course the gods are unhappy, but not because their kids are being targeted - no, most of them are mad because their soldiers are being taken away. who's supposed to defend them now?

in the midst of it all, demigods are getting more bold. not out where everyone can see them, mind you, but one morning, nyc residents wake up to find a shrine to fallen demigods plastered on the side of the empire state building alongside the words "fight your own wars". within the safety of camp half-blood and new rome, demigods and legacies begin posting on social media to show everyone they're just people. they're not evil, they're not trying to hurt anyone, they're just trying to get by.

after a few years, there's more people fighting for demigods rather than against them. it's the governments that are scared, and now not only do they have gods and demigods to worry about, they have a possible rebellion to fight. demigods aren't being excluded anymore. instead, their abilities are being embraced. nobody's sure how the world will react when they find out about the other pantheons, but that's not important yet.

percy films videos showing off new rome. connor stoll gathers up other year-round campers to run socials for camp half-blood. the legions of camp jupiter are doing tik tok dances in their armor. sure, they're still forced to wear the armbands, and sure, some people still hate them, but things are better than they were. people are on their side. the life of a demigod is never easy, but it doesn't have to be bad either.

[asktheritochampion]

Revali!

How does... how does this look! This was what I wore during my time in Lurelin with my human family. They were... unfortunately killed by a wandering Lynel. I must tell you this Revali, but Lynels aren't 'mindlessly' killing anything. When they kill or injure hylians, gerudo, ritos, zoras or gorons, they do it for FUN. I appreciate you ending my species. They killed those that taught me how to read, write, talk, cook, plant, and so many other things. As I mourned, the Lynel that slaughtered the ones who nutured me to who I am laughed in my face and told me I was a fool to love and care for Hylians. That Lynel told me that all life that wasn't a Lynel was nothing but dust under my hoof. I yearn for their deaths. If I die under yours or your mens wings, then so be it, I would be more than proud knowing at least you helped me defeat an enemy of yours and mine. I need your help. Once the Lynels are dead, and they hopefully don't ressurect, I will be more than happy than to give my soul for Rito training. Please accept my request. And don't feel bad about the blood of Lynels on your wings. They DESERVED their deaths.

Walk with me.

How much do you know of philosophy and ethical studys?

Once upon a time, in very ancient days now, Rito were considered 'savage beasts' to Hylians because they did not understand out ways. They hunted us, and so we began to hunt them back. Our two races were violent and cruel to one another, both beleiving the other was a race of unintelligent beasts killing our people for sport.

The truth is, we were all beasts. Those flightless apes killed our women and took our children to study like animals for fun. We would hunt them from the sky and play games shooting down their people - even families. That is what our people had been taught. It's what their parents did, what their grandparents did. They didn't know any better.

Now - much study has been done into Bokoblins. Horrid little beasts - but easy to capture. They do not breed, they have no families. The creatures spawn from Ganon's malice. They feel no complex emotions, no one is entirely certain whether they even have free will or thought. They eat one another, kill anything they see, and truely appear to live only to serve the demon king as mindless puppets.

Typically is no ethical worry about killing Bokoblins. They aren't people - they are barely creatures, mere figments of Ganon's wrath.

This was thought the same for all monsters - at least at first. Now days there is more study being done into Lizalflo - they seem to be capable of forging metal weaponry - something which requires skill and design - suggesting they could have some form of sentiance.

Then there's you. A Lynel that was raised by Hylians to be 'good'. To repress any violent urges, and to live a peaceful life amongst others. If you are capable of being re-conditioned - that suggests that all Lynel are capable of free will and congative thought. Perhaps they do kill for fun - but perhaps that is all they know. If other Lynel were raised in different enviroments, who's to say they also couldn't asimilate into a society? Suddenly - there is our ethical dilema.

We're no longer killing an animal. We're killing a person raised in a bad situation.

However - regardless of this ethical conundrum, I personally have no qualms about revenge murder for the killing of loved ones. Thus, if you take me to those who killed your Hylian kin then I shall gladly do my duties as a warrior to smite them.

Still, your presence here is something I must discus with the Princess regarding how we move forwards with Lynels as a whole. On the one wing, attempting to force them from a young age into more recognisable practises to our own is colonization which I shant stand for, however we simply cannot allow them to assult and kill innocent people either. We must research another way to find peace between us all.

[theknightmarket]

"Deal."

In which three disagreeable deities are forced to agree. TW: cursing Pages: 28 - Words: 11,500

[Requests: OPEN]

You were a cultist. You weren’t about to hide that aspect of your life because it was no mere aspect, not anymore; you devoted your entire being to tracking down the pantheon that would mark the end of all humanity. It wasn’t out of spite or service. You had no cosmic motive behind your catastrophic actions. But it wasn’t a test either. Belief rested in your heart and calm in your mind as you traded away the lives of your friends, your family, strangers who would never know what was coming, and your own, for one little thing.

A kiss.

Everyone thought you were joking. Nobody, not even the dredges of society, would risk it all for a little physical contact. They snorted when you told them your plan, and raised an eyebrow when they thought you were carrying on the bit for too long. Oh, there went the ‘town crazy’, traipsing down to the antique shop to pick up the latest prop for their little jape. We laughed at them, for they carried the weight of the jester for our amusement.

Oh, you’d show them. If they lived long enough to recognize what was happening. If they didn’t, you’d still be better off than them.

You proudly owned up to your title of the local lunatic, although it was first given as a joke. One step into your apartment, and they might’ve realized that you weren’t joking. All the ritual memorabilia scattered along the walls, all the unholy ingredients stored in the cupboards, all the little things that contributed to the utter collapse of humanity. Well, as long as the person working the antique store wasn’t a liar.

And, chances were, he was.

But it didn’t hurt to try. And try. And try. And try. One of these days it would work. Eventually, you’d hit the nail on the head and get exactly what you wanted. 

The slam of the book on the wooden alter reverberated around the apartment, swallowed by the artifacts you’d collected. You didn’t know when that day would come, if it would ever come, but you were definitely trying. A manic grin split your face in two as you flipped through the yellowed pages. Awful corruption for a god, but you were going to use it anyway. You could always rewrite it if all you needed was the instructions. They were deities, after all, they deserved better than some dusty, half-broken tome.

You hummed to yourself while you worked. Normally, your speakers would be up and running during the hours you studied old texts, blasting the playlist you’d accumulated over the years. Sorting things was never your forté, so they were all in one place. A bit jarring, but you got used to it, and you didn’t have the time to rearrange anything right now. There was work to be done.

The circle you’d engraved in your wooden flooring – which you notably did not tell your landlord about – was surrounded by candles to make the points of a star. Classic. Reliable. Any source of light was diminished, including the overhead lights that you never turned on and the curtains that you never opened. There wasn’t anything to see anyway, and you preferred your side lamp, though you also switched that off when you had everything in place.

Finally, you rushed to the book and read through the specific instructions for the one you were going to summon first. Try to, at least. The preparations before were all commonplace, every ritual used them, but this was where it changed. You might have been drawing a different symbol or equipping a unique relic. In this case, you were to light the candles pink and inscribe all manner of curls and swirls on the floor with a similar shade of ink.

The packet of lithium was in your hand before you knew what you were doing, but you didn’t resist sprinkling it into the wax divots near the wicks. Your high school chemistry lessons finally paid off, as long as you ignored that your first thought was food dye; working with a pantheon of deities outside of your understanding of the world was undoubtably taking a toll on your mental state.

But that didn’t matter right now. The only thing that was important was the paintbrush in your hand that pooled thick lines of neon pink in the exact shape of the symbol in the book. It had to be exact. Perfect. They deserved it.

You connected the last line to the rest of the shape and sat back on your knees to marvel at your work for the brief moment of life you had left. You wouldn’t get the chance once the end of times was ushered in. It didn’t matter to you if it was a sin to be proud of the product of your years of labor. It was probably more of a sin to cause the deaths of eight billion people. What was one more drop in the bucket?

Wiping your paint-splattered face with your sleeve, you rose from the ground and hastily stumbled towards the alter again. The only thing left to do was chant.

Adrenaline rushed you as though you were being judged, chased, stalked. And you likely were. You felt the stares of a hundred gods and monsters on you, from all directions, right into your eyes. They were eager to witness the introduction of apocalypse. They followed where your pupils went. Holding sparks of anticipation, they flitted across the page to work out the pronunciations, wild birds in their cages pleading to be free from the confines of flesh. Your grip on the alter tightened, knuckles paling as all blood rushed away. Any tighter, and you’d rip splinters from it.

You knew you opened your mouth, and you knew you spoke. The chant flowed like thick oil from your throat and poured itself over the paper. You felt it – gods, did you feel the words cling to the life you gave them – but you didn’t hear it. But it was working. It was working, so you didn’t care. You didn’t matter. The ritual did.

So, it didn’t worry you when a flash of pink light, brighter than an atomic bomb, sprung from the centre of the circle at the dip of one of the paint’s arcs and blinded you. Sight and hearing gone, you relied on touch to ground you, and even that was fleeting. The alter was knocked to the floor and you followed it, landing roughly on your palms in accidental prayer. You assumed you were still looking in the vague direction of the flash. The pink had turned to white in the space of your fall. Whatever was with you now, you had no choice but to worship it. The host of the apocalypse, the bringer of the end of times, the catalyst for the collapse of humanity.

The thing that smelled sweet and clasped your hands gently. You still couldn’t see. Did you do it right? Did you summon the right one? Did you knock over a candle and accidentally burn the apartment down and this was heaven? How did you get into heaven?

Your vision was clearing up while you spiraled. Gradually, the spots of light were pulled apart by a softer tone. It wasn’t the shadow you would have expected after removing all sources of light save the candles, but it wasn’t the flashbang from before, and you would take it. You’d hate for your efforts to be for something but unable to experience it to its fullest.

Shakily, you breathed out, exhaling something akin to dust from the lining of your lungs. A few particles remained in your mouth. Sweetness, again. As though you had dipped your tongue in sugar.

“My- my God?” you mumbled. You could hear your voice this time. Words you knew and recognized. Familiar. Safe. 

Yet you still felt safe with the hands of a stranger wrapped around yours. They were warm and soft, and, blinking with the sensation of stepping into the sun for the first time, normal looking. Slowly, you turned them over, so the palms were facing up to you. They were human.

But the thing kneeling mere inches away from you was not.

“Please,” they spoke, with a smile you swore you once saw carved into marble, “call me Wilford.”

He looked kind. When the last vestiges of bright light faded, you were greeted by the pleasant sight of a handsome, if not confusing, man. Really, the pink moustache and hair, the same color as the paint and candles, was the only sign of him not being the average person on the street, besides the fact that he appeared in your ritual circle like the second coming.

When your eyes met, his grin widened. You couldn’t guess what was going through his head, you wouldn’t dare, but you had questions as to why he was guiding you to stand so tenderly. “Now, whatever did you summon me here for?”

“I-I... well, I meant to- uh, dammit, I—”

Your poor excuse for a sentence was cut off before you could make more of a fool of yourself by hushing. Of course, you quieted down, thankful for the excuse to focus on breathing instead of talking. A haze of some unknown emotion clouded your mind and heart, but whatever you were experiencing must have been obvious to the deity you stood before. He took you by the crook of your arm and coaxed you towards the couch a few steps away. Doing this ritual thing in the middle of the living room was a blessing and a curse, though the latter would only come into play if it failed. You hated rearranging furniture.

He laid you down onto the plush pillows, cooing at you softly. Was this the relationship between gods and humans? Pets to play with as they saw fit. It made sense, as much sense as infinite immortals could make. There was no argument to be on an equal playing field, but you had imagined it to be more…

Violent, maybe subservient. You didn’t expect to be pampered with a hand patting your hair and assurances muttered until you were able to function again.

“I summoned you,” you shakily spoke. It was a statement, but you couldn’t stop the uncertainty seeping into your words.

“I should hope so—” Wilford’s laugh was the same as his voice, incredibly sweet and lighthearted, despite having enough power to stop your heart with just a glance, “—I am here, after all.”

Hesitantly, you nodded. Alright. He was actually there. You had summoned him. It actually worked this time.

“Do you remember why you summoned me?” came his own question.

You definitely did, and your subconscious seized your mouth again to avoid having to say it aloud. To the people in your town, the ones you entertained with your plots and stories, it was easy to tell what your end goal was. With the actual deity face to face, it was much harder. You should have planned for this. Maybe you could buy some time to get your confidence back.

You latched onto the odd choice of words that confused you in the first place. “Do… do I remember?”

“Sometimes I forget myself, and if an eldritch god does, I’m sure humans do, too.”

Your own breathing filled the silence left behind at the admission. Wilford’s chest didn’t rise or fall, why would it, and he seemed preoccupied with carding a hand over your head anyway. His moustache twitched every time that he brushed against your actual skin, and his smile grew an unnoticeable millimeter wider. It left you frozen and staring at him, which he didn’t appear to mind.

You could do this. There was no going back now.

“Well, Wilford,” you began, barely managing to escape his touch long enough to sit up straight, “I do remember.”

“Good! How can I satiate your heart’s deepest, darkest desire?”

“I want to kiss you.”

The reaction you received was not one you expected from a god, of any shape or form. He hummed pleasantly. Nothing else, he just hummed, the sound reverberating in the small room but never seeming to fade. It died out in a flash, instead, as he placed an elbow onto the couch cushion and balanced his head in the hand of it. In the fifteen seconds that you were both completely immobile afterwards, he didn’t blink, and his smile stayed plastered where it was.

“You want to kiss me,” he repeated, tone as peppy as before you revealed yourself.

No matter how hard your heart beating against your ribcage, you didn’t dare back down. You were in it now, whether you liked it or not. So, slowly, you nodded, becoming more and more sure of yourself in the process.

Wilford stayed perfectly quiet and perfectly still for another moment. You wondered if you’d done something wrong, something so taboo that you’d broken a god – but a kiss was much easier on the mind than the murder of billions of innocents; you should have been the one to freeze, and yet there you were, waiting with bated breath for him to say anything else. But he didn’t.

Not before he lunged forward, springing to lean over you in an inclined plank and barricade his arms around you. Even without the cover of blinking, his eyes seemed to mimic the stars – flashes of planets and sparks of supernovas jumped around in his pupils and radiated light to the whites. You could barely move your head enough to make eye contact with how close his face was, pressed almost directly underneath your chin, enough that you felt his mustache ticked at the skin as his grin grew impossibly wider.

“Oh-ho, now that’s an unusual request!” he commented, “I don’t think I’ve ever heard that one before.”

The position you were trapped in gave you no leeway. When you spoke, your breath shifted the curls of his hair. “You haven’t?”

There was silence in which Wilford tried to remember, but he came up empty; so many years and requests and people, anyone would have trouble keeping track of them all. His own established issues didn’t help him any, but that didn’t matter. After all, that was the past, or the future, or a different present that he needn’t care about. You were the one in front of him, looking awfully scared for such a simple want, and you were the one he was tending to. The strange human who just wanted a simple smooch in return for possibly giving him the entire world. It was almost unfair.

“But it is intriguing.” His head cocked to the side. “The average summoner would ask for something bigger. Riches, power, time—” Then a thought occurred to him that made his smile collapse into a sharp grimace, broken only by him spitting out, “—fame.”

You supposed it had crossed your mind once or twice that you should do something more substantial with your boundless wish, but nothing else seemed worth it, to you at least. Why would you care about being a billionaire when you wouldn’t live long enough to use the money? Power was a moot point because you didn’t care enough about any entity to want to control it, and time?

“Isn’t the world going to end anyway?”

A few stray chuckles floated up from Wilford’s mouth. “Oh, no, of course not!”

Any fear that remained from his bout of silence was traded out for doubt, surprise, and a great deal of confusion. When he brought his head back to eye level with you, there was no sign of a lie, just dim amusement as your misconception. You might have been offended had you not been preoccupied by the questions that ran through your head.

He peeled back far enough that there were a few inches between you. “What point would there be in destroying the very thing that gives you power? The cults of eldritch gods support them, in every place and time at once, and to willingly minimize your area of effect would be plain silly. We can’t just destroy dimensions willy-nilly; we have to be selective. So,” he practically purred, closing up that gap slowly, “you’ll be completely safe. The people around you, however…”

Although he trailed off, you didn’t need any more explanation. A world-ending catastrophe wasn’t your aim, anyway, what was currently happening was. The space between you was getting smaller and smaller at a leisurely pace. You couldn’t complain, physically or figuratively. Puffs of air danced across your lips, like fog rolling in from the sea, and the couch dipped as Wilford’s knee came to stabilize him at the edge. You risked prematurely closing the gap entirely when you whispered, “That’s fine.”

“Good,” his whisper came out as the final bat of a wave against the shore, “you don’t exactly have a choice anymore.”

Not that you would protest as his lips skimmed yours so lightly that you weren’t certain it was happening at all. If you were to lean less than a centimeter forward, you would connect, and the deal would be done. Internally, you were a blank canvas, mind in a haze of expectation and adrenaline. Whether this was just you or the effect an eldritch god had on you, you didn’t know, and you didn’t care. You had devoted years of your life to this pursuit, you couldn’t waste the golden opportunity on minor worries.

But it wasn’t your fault that you were interrupted.

Another flashbang blinded you with white light. Ringing in your ears that stopped you from hearing anything except the high pitch, even when you felt your mouth open. This time, instead of the complete blankness of your senses, you were overwhelmed with pain, as if you had been dunked in the river Styx. Not just the brightness of an atomic bomb, but the agony of one, too. A migraine flexed and stilled in your mind, focusing all the thoughts on the damage it must have been causing you. What this was or why it was happening were secondary to silent prayers for it all to stop.

And then, just like that, your prayers were answered. In the flap of a butterfly’s wings, you were left reeling on the couch, pushed back into the cushions and fighting against your swimming vision. It was hard to distinguish direction for a moment, even the memories of the apartment you’d lived in for years struggled to help you, but it soon cleared up. In front of you, from the couch to the wall, was the same as it always had been, and you had to wonder whether Wilford had just made a dramatic exit before anything could actually happen.

Voices from behind you made you realise not only did Wilford not leave, but someone new was in the room with you, and it wasn’t a friendly neighbor checking in about the noise.

“The least you could have done was wait until I was finished.” That one was the voice you recognised, but the tone was much more acidic than the softness you were already used to.

And then, came the one you weren’t familiar with. “What would be the point of showing up after you’d sealed the deal?”

Against the bell chime of Wilford’s voice, this one was sleeker, as if it had been artificially smoothed down to slide from the throat to the mouth and out into the air. It lacked a sweetness but made up for it in baritone words like the soft pounding of a heart in your ears. It matched your own that had dropped into your stomach as your thoughts clouded with the newcomer.

“From what I remember, you’re not one to act with much sense,” Wilford replied, a spite overtaking any of the enthusiasm he had shown you. Whoever this was, he didn’t like them.

The stranger’s sarcastic laugh punctured the air of your apartment. “Oh, that’s rich coming from you.”

“And anyways, I was here first, and, unlike you, I was actually summoned.” 

“Wilford?” You were surprised by the shake of your voice – you weren’t a meek person by nature, but you supposed being in the presence of two gods would do that to anyone. You understood that you should have been groveling at their feet, thanking them and begging for forgiveness, and yet you simply rose from the couch to finally catch a glimpse of the deity he was on the cusp of arguing with.

“Yes, darling?”

His response was thrown to the wayside as your eyes met with the unfamiliar face in your living room. Your first thought was to wonder how the second god you’d ever seen was just as gorgeous as the first. The second was that your eyes blew so wide with fear with that you were sure they were going to fall out. They were draped head to toe in a crimson that burned in the candlelight, which, now that you actually looked, was no longer the pink you had lit it to be. It was much darker, eerily the same color as the blood that flowed through your veins, but it caressed the edges of their body and face like a lover’s hand.

You swallowed before you asked, “What- what’s happening?”

Your question flipped a switch in the two’s minds. On one hand, Wilford broke out into a snarl unbecoming of the man you’d seen him to be as he groaned, “We’ve been party-crashed.”

On the other hand, the one in red started to step – glide – toward you, the robe swaying across the floorboards and creating patterns in the still wet paint that they strode across. A smirk pulled at the corner of their mouth when you were within arm’s reach.

“What Wil here failed to explain is that I am the King in Red, Heir to Carcosa.” Neither of those titles you recognised but you felt your heart drop regardless, especially as he stopped barely a few inches away from you. The sliver of Wilford that you could see did not look pleased, but he stayed where he was anyway.

“Another eldritch god,” you clarified.

His touch on your hand felt like someone had lit a flame in your palm, the veins used as routes for a wildfire to grow. Your impulse to snatch your hand back was overtaken by the need to close around the warmth. The decision was made for you as he brought your hand towards himself. “Guilty as charged.”

The kiss was better, worse, different to the flame of his contact. It was so hot that it fully circled temperature and fell into a blazing coldness against the back of your hand. You were half sure he had melted away your skin, despite the strange lack of pain, and taken your breath along with it. You didn’t speak, couldn’t find it in you to, when Mark came out of his bow and stood straight enough to meet your eyes again.

“Considering Wilford here told you his, my name is Mark.”

You didn’t know how to feel; all the awe and terror and confusion and fatigue was catching up to you, convincing you with a gentle hand to lie down and forget that there were two gods in your living room, who you now knew the names of, that you were going to play host to. Everything was crumbling around you.

Putting up your scraps of confidence, you asked desperately, “Why are you here? I didn’t, I mean, I already—”

But mortals’ crises were nothing but spilled milk to eldritch deities. Flippantly, Mark waved his hand, the sleeve of his robe peeling back, before he spoke, “Yes, yes, I know I’m not technically the one you summoned, but I couldn’t help but overhear what you were trading for the lives of your friends and family.”

“Something that doesn’t involve you, that’s for sure.” Whether you were grateful for Wilford’s intrusion or appalled by the obvious disrespect didn’t matter. Mark’s smirk sharpened, expelling all the smooth charisma.

“If you’re going to make snarky comments,” he snapped, “I suggest you find another of your cultists and make some other exchange. I know you have hundreds.” Wilford gasped indignantly, not that you knew which suggestion he took the most offence to. 

“And leave you alone with one of my followers?” His scoff cut into a growl. 

In your preparation for summoning a god, you hadn’t done much research into who you’d actually be summoning. The specifics of the character weren’t anything you cared for, considering you would use whatever you could get your hands on – pink paint and lithium were the easiest combination of materials, and some of the other rituals asked for either very difficult or very uncomfortable things to get your hands on. As such, the relationships between those deities were unknown to you. Whatever this was, an ancient rivalry or a mere spat, you hadn’t prepared for it.

Nor were you prepared to be the person they were fighting to convince.

“Darling,” Wilford started moving closer, intentionally giving Mark a wide berth, “I know I said you’re safe, and you still are, but being around him for a long period of time has proven to be deadly.”

Sarcasm bubbled up within you. You hadn’t expected it to be a safe endeavor, after all. Still, you kept your mouth shut, more out of respect than the fear.

Mark had no such qualms about backtalking, however.

“Because becoming a ditzy canvas with no memories at all is so much better than what I can offer?”

Wait, what?

“Quite frankly, yes! A lot of people would take it over becoming a husk for you to puppet on stage.”

What?

One second, you were damning the world to apocalypse. The next, you weren’t, and everybody could live their happy endings. And then the next, you were sacrificing the people in the town but saving your own skin. And then the next, you were either losing your memories and your mind or you were renting out your body as an actor.

You really wanted someone to give you the story straight, without all the fluffy words and fighting. But the fear must have showed on your face, because Mark was gesturing in your direction with a manicured hand.

“Come now, you’re scaring the poor thing. I think we can come to a better agreement, don’t you?”

You didn’t like the tone of his voice in the last half. You didn’t like it one bit. He was suddenly less like a sneaky door-to-door salesman and more like the snake in the garden of Eden.

“I mean—” Your words sounded choked out, even to yourself, “—I don’t really think I want anything else.”

“There’s no need to pretend with me, dearest, that’s my job. You must have a larger goal – and with me, you won’t be sacrificing the people around you. They get to live, and you get what you want. Isn’t that better?”

You saw what the problem was. You supposed that after so many years of humanity milling about, there’d be conflicting impressions of them, especially for gods who didn’t see things on the same level as you. The world wars and the protests and the charities muddied the waters of what humans were really like.

Mark was making the – albeit completely understandable – mistake of assuming that both you and the townsfolk were good people.

“I think you overestimate how much I care about the people in this town.”

You couldn’t help the swell of pride in your chest when you noticed the shock on his face. Hell, his back straightened, and he blinked as if he just weren’t seeing you right.

“But your family. Surely, you don’t want to be the cause of their deaths?”

And he was assuming that your family was still alive.

“No, I- uh, don’t have a family.”

His face dropped as if you’d spoiled the ending of a show. Unimpressed, bored, and vaguely disappointed. Maybe he wasn’t used to this kind of resistance, maybe he wasn’t used to getting it wrong. Presumably, that wasn’t a habit the gods made, but it happened regardless. It was happening, and Mark was having a hard time getting back onto his feet.

After a moment’s hesitation, he stilled and frowned. “You’re making this a lot harder than it has to be,” he complained, and yet he spoke with such confidence, as if the outcome couldn’t be anything but him getting what he wanted, that you almost believed it, too.

Wilford stepped around Mark, very obviously and probably meant to tease him, in order to pull you back down to the couch cushions with him. You flopped against the back of it, only secured by his arms around you, cradled like a toy that a parent threatened to take away from their child. Just as stubbornly, he spat, “It was all going smoothly before you showed up.”

“And if everyone played along, we’d be done by now.” You could hear Wilford rolling his eyes better than you could see it in response to Mark’s groaning. You weren’t doing it on purpose, or, at least, you didn’t think you were. Why would you? The man beside you definitely was, trying to get under his skin and poking and prodding, but you were just answering the questions. Were you supposed to play alongor were you supposed to tell the truth?

Wilford interrupted before you could come to a conclusion, “In this day and age, I don’t understand why you’re here.”

Mark looked you up and down. Judging. He smiled, not unpleasantly but vastly less wholesome than Wilford’s grins. It reminded you of a rose, not just the petals but the thorns as well. He wasn’t lying about the danger he brought, he just wasn’t mentioning it, in the same way that you might not recognize a rose for the pain it would cause but for the beauty it was known for. Nobody talked about the spikes, just the satiny crimson of the prettier parts. Distantly, you wondered whether that smile meant you passed inspection or something different.

“I’m just interested.”

“Go be interested in someone else.” He waved his hand, a shooing motion that lit a flame in Mark’s face, his cheeks becoming just as red as his robe. You didn’t particularly want two gods getting into a petty fight in the middle of your apartment – hell, you hadn’t planned for there to be two gods in the first place – but you still wound up the mediator.

At least, you tried. “Can’t I make a deal with both of you?”

But your proposition was shot down immediately, a combined, “No!” bouncing off the walls and down the hallway. It sounded like the thunder and the rain of a storm, like it was down the street and right next to your ear simultaneously. Their yell, their one agreement so far, could have shaken the earth in the way you had expected their arrival to, instead of the flashbang you had been met with.

You shrunk back into the embrace of the couch, pressed into it in the way that got pennies and wallets and keys lost. You couldn’t tell whether it was out of fear, worry, or the want to get disappear like those common trinkets. The feeling of regret flexed in you, growing and shrinking and growing and shrinking. This whole ordeal was more than you had bargained for. You’d expected a one-and-done kind of thing. Now, you had childish rivals tossing insults.

Speaking of.

Mark bent down to take your hand into his again, but he didn’t lean to kiss it. Instead, he drew his other hand over it, fingers dancing along the skin and prompting sparks around your knuckles. “Dearest,” his teeth were gritted together so that the words struggled out from behind the bars, “I would rather die than share a follower with him. We both know how well it worked out last time.”

A tut from your side before it merged into a laugh. “You’re still hung up on that?”

“What reason do you have?” came the venomous response, disbelieving and mocking.

“I just don’t like you.” Wilford’s smile was bright even as he insulted Mark to his face. If you were to reach out, you were half sure your hand would catch on the tension between them, and you were surprised when you were able to get up from the couch and drag yourself through the air without being stopped.

When you were a few steps away from the pair, out of the blast radius, you sighed, “It’s obvious that this isn’t working. Is there a way to end the whole summoning thing?” You weren’t keen to have to redo all your hard work, but you were even less interested in losing your apartment to a minefield. As the saying went, there were plenty of fish in the sea, and finding another god couldn’t be that difficult. You hoped.

Your eyes latched onto the sudden fear in Wilford’s eyes. It was small, but it was there. Despite that, his grin never faltered, and his voice was steady as he answered, “No—”

“Yes, there is!” Mark announced with more excitement than you had heard in your entire experience with him, and, possibly, it was the most genuine, too. His head whirled to frantically search around the room until his gaze landed on the alter.

Wilford jumped to his feet. “It’s extremely complicated and you probably don’t have the materials and it takes time—”

“They have the book, don’t they?”

What ensued was by far the most insane part about this situation; you stood next to the wall, watching with concern, while Mark dashed for the summoning book. He was barely a few inches away from grabbing it before his face met the floor, snuffing out the candles that he landed on and knocking several others onto the floor. Wilford grunted in the new position as Mark’s elbow connected with his stomach – he recovered surprisingly quickly from the tackle to the ground – and he tossed the other god onto his back. A bundle of flames licked up at them on your wooden boards, but the threat was diminished with their combined rolling away.

Before you met them, you would’ve been scared out of your wits by the thought of two eldritch beings grappling in the middle of your apartment, especially because you would have made certain assumptions – that they had demonic powers, that they could kill you accidentally with the snap of their fingers, and maybe they still could. It was only now that you realized they not much more than schoolboys fighting in the field at lunch break. You couldn’t be intimidated by that.

So, walking forward to stamp out the fire that had been growing into a few smoldering patches of ash, you grabbed the book that they had seemingly forgotten about and proceeded towards your front door. Not schoolboys. Toddlers. Thinking of them like that gave you only one course of action; wait for their tantrums to end and then pick up the pieces.

They didn’t react to the creak of the door, Wilford too preoccupied by bending Mark’s arm back and Mark too preoccupied by not getting his arm bent back, so you slipped out into the night with ease. Immediately, you felt the change in the air. There was no tension out there, covered by the coolness of late hours. They offered a comfort you would never be able to match. Never had you been so glad to be human. Sure, other people were a nightmare and getting out of that town was a dream you aspired to, but you enjoyed this little bit of the world. You wondered if ants felt the same when they looked down off a hill. In the presence of ‘dangerous’ deities, it was nice to sit back and appreciate what you did understand. At that time, you would normally have been able to see the stars twinkling distantly against the black void of the sky, but they must have been hidden by the clouds because you couldn’t see them.

Or the railing.

Or the balcony hallway itself, or, as you whirled around to run back inside, the wall of your apartment. The door stood out like an unfinished painting, bordered by the same darkness that was all around you. You felt caged. It was closing in and spreading apart at the same time, and you could only think to return to the living room. At least you knew what was in there. Out here? Glares burned into your skin from all directions and the shiver of a frigid gust of wind was more physical than your own body. You lunged for the handle to escape it and threw yourself in.

More darkness greeted you.

“Wilford?” you called out, “Mark? Is anyone there?”

You had spoken to the void, but you didn’t expect the void to speak back.

“So, you’re the one causing all of this trouble?”

Those eyes seemed to narrow. The only thing you were certain of was the rapid thud of your heart in your chest, and even then, it was inconsistent. A scream clawed at your throat, but you choked on the sound.

You managed to struggle past the blockage to ask, “Hello?”

The words reverberated around wherever you were, but it wasn’t your voice. Some of the echoes were deeper, some higher, some altogether unintelligible, as if spoken in another language. It hurt when they came back to you.

“Darling, dearest—” Something writhed in the pitch, “I’d ask how they got so attached so fast, but we both know who we’re talking about.”

“And who am I talking to?”

“You’ve been messing around with that book; I should hope you know.”

You almost jumped to your own defense before you remembered what position you were in. On one hand, you had only meant to summon Wilford, not Mark, but, on the other, it probably didn’t matter in the eyes of whoever – whatever – you were talking to.

“I don’t mean to be rude,” you started as you searched for the confidence you had started the day with, “but which one are you?”

“I have man names, many faces… you won’t be around much longer, so you may refer to me as Dark.”

Well, it was certainly fitting. As if to confirm your thoughts, a patch of the void appeared to constrict and tear through itself. Each particle fought for space, sparking with red and blue light, and collected into smaller masses. You were stuck to where you were standing while the voice continued in the background.

“Those two are tenacious.” More flecks of light joined the fray. “Neither will stop until they get what they want.” They warped the area around them in the vague shape of a person. “That just so happens to put you in a tight spot.” The color seeped out of the portrait, but it was still distinguishable from the void. “Wilford will slowly erase your memories, even though he doesn’t mean to nor is he aware of it.” A body began to coalesce where you assumed the floor of the void to be. “And Mark will take your physical form as soon as you pledge yourself to him to use in one of his plays.” It travelled up from dress shoes to black pants to the edges of a white shirt. “And you were about to choose both.” A neck appeared above the collar and those particles caressed the line of a jaw. “That…”

A face emerged.

“That is fascinating.”

Before you stood the fully formed god you now knew as Dark, and you had mixed feelings about that. For one, you had actually watched him appear. He didn’t arrive in a blaze of light, he did quite the opposite. That in and of itself dug a pit in your stomach, and his earlier comment that you wouldn’t be around much longer wasn’t helping your nerves. You felt like you were on the edge of spiraling out of control, but you also felt strangely calm, like there was a voice whispering in your ear that there was no need to get worried. Your breathing stayed steady while you looked at him. A formal black suit and ashen skin were the only notable features he sported. There was no taste in your mouth, no pain in your body, just confusion and a hint of fear.

He opened his mouth to speak, and you braced for impact, but his voice sounded normal. “What’s so important to you that you’d give up your mind and body?”

The answer was coaxed out of your mouth before you could think to say it. “A kiss.”

You had managed to shock not one, not two, but three eldritch deities. You were three for three, and you were damn proud of yourself! When you were back in your room later that night, you were going to celebrate. With what, you didn’t know yet, but you were already stewing in the feeling. It didn’t take long for Dark to recuperate, though, and you were brought back to the present by his gravelly laugh.

“Mortals,” he tutted. “You can never seem to decide whether you’re so significant that you’re the centre of the universe, or you’re so irrelevant that nothing you do matters. You’d give up yourself and the people around you for a show of affection, no doubt ingenuine?”

“Is it so hard to understand that I don’t care about the people here?”

“And your own soul?”

“I went into this thinking the entire world was going to end, so this is a preferrable outcome.”

He thought for a moment, tilting his head and narrowing his eyes. You felt like you were being inspected, and maybe you were, but you must’ve passed his scrutiny because a grin crept across his face. Not sugary like Wilford’s, or sly like Mark’s, but understanding, as if you’d given him the last piece of the puzzle that he had also known from the beginning. You confirmed something in him, and he was going to use it to his full advantage.

“That settles it,” he said, bringing a hand up to snap his fingers. That sound reverberated, not unlike your original words, but without the pain. Instead of granting to a headache, it swept away the darkness like a curtain to reveal your apartment. You were standing exactly where you would have been after coming back inside, a few steps away from the centre of the ritual circle, only Dark was situated opposite you. Just to the side were Wilford and Mark, still tousling as though you had never left.

As Wilford reared back a fist to sock Mark in the jaw, he finally noticed your return, to which he shot a smile at you. A stark bruise had found a place above his eye, but that didn’t stop him from winking at you while he drew his fist further away from his target.

And then he paused, hummed, and jumped up from the floor to greet Dark with a hug and a call of his name.

Mark, meanwhile, stumbled to his feet. He didn’t look worse than Wilford, but he certainly wasn’t better; a cut dripped blood around his mouth, which he wiped away with his thumb. His expression didn’t brighten when he saw Dark, and, instead, he took the grace period to trot over to you and swing an arm around your waist.

“Couldn’t handle me on your own?” he boasted when you were well situated, “You had to call in backup.”

At the insinuation, Wilford whirled on his heel and spat back, “I’ll have you know I am perfectly capable of—”

“Can we be civil?”

Whatever relationship the three of them had, Dark seemed to be the most – if not liked – respected. The two men stopped talking immediately and looked towards the one who had spoken, whose voice somehow sounded like it brought the walls of the room closer even if the volume didn’t change. He was powerful, that much was certain, and he proved it more than Wilford or Mark had, so far.

Another demonstration was when he reached into a slightly shaded corner of your apartment and retrieved something from the inky black. For a moment, it was nothing more than vapor, like dry ice, but then he pulled it further towards him.

Even though it now had a physical form, it helped you none with what it actually was. All you saw was a piece of yellow, tarnished paper that made Dark grimace, before he shook it and the color seeped out of it. You could have assumed it was a trick of the light had that not also healed the rips and tears.

“I’m sure the little cultist didn’t summon anyone here to see a petty squabble,” he said as he reached back into the shadow to get something that made more sense to you, a pen. Not that you knew what to do with it when he stepped closer and held both items out to you.

You looked him up and down in confusion.

Dark didn’t look offended while he explained, “If you agree to these terms, you can proceed with your original plan.”

Wilford popped up over his shoulder to take a peek at the writing. His lips pursed and his eyebrows furrowed but he only stated, “Dark loves a good contract.” Mark, meanwhile, tightened his grip.

Now that you were able to see the front of the paper, you could understand the words and be surprised it was in English.

To sum it up, after your eyes had skimmed over the terms, you would get what you wanted. You were ready to stop then and there, but common sense told you to keep going. Something about survival instincts or whatever boring thing your mind felt the need to involve.

The extra lines told you what would happen for the deities beside you. Wilford would get to take the memories of the entire town over the course of a couple days at a time – a similar situation to what you’d heard happened in Insmouth – but would use your apartment as a home base of sorts instead of an eroded group of rocks. You’d be there for the upkeep and taxes and, strangely, companionship. For two days after that, you would go with Mark to actively participate in his plays. At your side, he seemed to brighten when he read it. You guessed that unconscious husks weren’t the most entertaining when it came to improv. The final line stated that you would return to your apartment, alone, for the weekend, which worked for you.

But you weren’t the one it would be difficult to convince, and, what surprised you, nor was it Mark.

“Unfortunately, we have been over why a custody agreement won’t work,” Wilford piped up, leaning an arm over Dark’s shoulder. “Someone holds a very old and very useless grudge and is also the last person I would ever want to associate myself with.”

The impulse to point out that he had spent the last hour or so associating with Mark reared its head. You subtly patted it down, only noting that your confidence was coming back after the whole eldritch gods acting like petty toddler situation.

Dark spoke as though he were used to this, though, “You won’t have to make contact with the King in Red if you don’t want to. A day’s interim for handover has already been specified.”

Wilford couldn’t help but groan back, “You’re taking the fun out of this whole thing. They’re not a time-share, or a car being traded between dealers.” He went to cross his arms but was interrupted by his own gesture to the man who still had a grip on you. “And besides, Mark would never agree to it.”

“Oh, I’m fine with this arrangement.”

You blinked. Maybe you had preemptively gone insane because that void sounded like it was Mark’s but, even from your limited experience with him, he wouldn’t give up that easy. It unnerved you how casual he sounded, as it did the other two; Wilford’s eyebrows shot up, to be expected, but Dark also slightly reared back, like he had the chance of seeing the truth if he looked from another angle.

“Really?” you asked, turning your head to make eye contact.

“I’m given two days, and it’ll only take one to convert you fully to my side.” His hand left your waist and moved to pull your jaw towards him. “Contracts can be amended, can’t they?”

Damn. He was smooth. You tried to ignore the blush that flourished on your cheeks, and how your thoughts reminded you how little space there was between you and him. An inch, maybe less. It wouldn’t need much energy to move closer – in fact, it made more sense to just remove the gap altogether, right?

Until Wilford slapped his hand from your chin and stood steadfastly between you, the ideas falling out of your mind like a bucket with a hole punctured in the bottom. You hadn’t seen him move in the first place, but nobody looked shocked.

“We haven’t started yet,” he spat, and you were almost distracted by his pout.

They made faces at each other while you reread the contract. It all seemed very cut and dry. There was no point in a fine print if you were selling your soul for some kisses, because there was nothing to hide. No devils in the details for you.

Well, except…

“What’s the weekend for?” you asked. Dark didn’t seem the type to give you ‘time off’ just like that.

And you were right, in both aspects. He didn’t try to cover it up before he started explaining, “If I’m going to notarize this contract, I’m going to get something out of it.”

That got the other’s attention. Their heads snapped to look at Dark, both as confused as you were.

“Your follower here planned to trade reality as they know it for a single kiss, not even the three that we’re offering.” What? “Just imagine what else they could give for trifles like that.” What?

It took you a second to process what he said. He wasn’t looking for a one-up on another god, or entertainment, or companionship. He was looking for a gateway into the human world, and he found that gateway in you. What else you could give him. Access. Apparently, ancient beings who were witnesses to the dawn of time were also subjects to legalities. They couldn’t go invading the world whenever they wanted, they were like vampires, they had to be let in.

As Dark said, you would be the one to let him in, so that he could wreak whatever havoc that you could, or couldn’t, imagine.

That might have put other people off from making the deal. But, then again, you weren’t other people. You were you, and you had no qualms about breaking that dam and letting the flood destroy the town. You’d get what you wanted, that was all you really cared about, and it was the first line of the contract.

“Alright.” All three of the men around you looked towards you. “Deal.”

You took the pen that Dark was holding out to you, ignored the smirk that pulled at his lips, and signed your name on the dotted line.

The paper disappeared in the same puff of smoke it had appeared in. Dark’s hand was left empty, and so was yours as the pen took its own exit, but he quickly crossed his arms behind his back and took a step away from you. More than one, in fact, until he turned and started to walk towards the front door. He didn’t have to see your confused expression to understand.

“Privacy,” was all he offered before snapping his fingers and pointing at Mark.

It must have been insulting to be beckoned like a dog; he frowned and groaned and sighed and stomped all the way to where Dark stood, and then, with an upturned nose, he passed him and stalked into the exposed hallway. It only took a shared nod between Wilford and Dark for him to leave as well, following into the darkness that still stained the world outside your apartment.

You and Wilford were left alone. Right back to the start.

“Well,” he started, taking both of your hands into his, “I’m sorry about that, darling!”

“That normally doesn’t happen, right?” The warnings you’d found scratched into the first pages of books, the cryptic words from sellers, all of them foreshadowed the danger of summoning an eldritch god. None of them told you how ending up with three would turn out, so either it was a rare event, or nobody had lived to give their own advice on it.

Wilford simply nodded and answered, “Quite right.” His eyes drifted to the door that only just clicked closed. “Though, it was the actor and I last time, too, so maybe we’re exceptions to the rule.”

“Rule?”

“In theory, the followers who choose us have such different aims that we never cross paths. I have the mind, he has the body,” a laugh jumped out of his throat, “nobody’s going to Mark to forget their wife’s death. But nothing ever goes how it does on paper. We get muddled up, and then we both make deals, and then our follower’s caught between a rock and a hard place, and then—well, you’ve seen what happens.” He gestured dramatically to the apartment, that now seemed so much smaller than it did before. “You are what happens.”

But you were alive. You survived. No matter what happened from that point on, you had gotten through such an ordeal that would surely make anything else pale in comparison. You could do it.

“This is the first time Dark’s taken part,” Wilford offhandedly commented, before his spine straightened as though he was struck by lightning. You swore you could feel the leftover sparks when his hand returned to yours. “Oh, but no more about them. Party-crashers, really, are the worst of the lot. Just criminal. And not even the fun kind of criminal.” His eyes finally met yours again. “But we got there in the end.”

It was in that moment that his voice dipped from those jovial, sugar-coated words into something deeper. Not that his tone had particularly changed, there was just another layer to it, like a tree stripped back to the core of it. It befitted the god you imagined prior to summoning him. Now that you had met him, it made your heart flutter in your chest and your breathing pick up to match it. Much like how it was what seemed like years ago, except there was going to be no one popping in with a flash of light to interrupt you.

“Now, where were we?”

Standing up straight was an odd choice, but you were in an odd situation and by far more distracted by Wilford pushing forward through the thin air between you and connecting his lips with yours. The second that you were fully touching, you tasted the sugar that seemed a permanent coat for every part of him. It was incredibly soft, gentle, like he thought you’d shatter if he applied any pressure, and he did. Humans were such fragile creatures, bound by the laws you’d created for yourselves, both physically and socially. A pinprick, a papercut, a prod to the wrong part of you, and you could die, just like that. Wilford was determined that you wouldn’t go that way, but it made him far lighter than he would have liked to be.

But if this was him holding back, you couldn’t help but wonder what full force would be, because you couldn’t tell whether it was the sweetness or the man himself that was making you want for more. You forgot to breath as you focused entirely on the movement of his lips against yours. Your mind swam with thoughts, all centered on him, to the point that the last hour wiped out of your mind, and you returned to the beginning. It was addicting, to sum it up, and Wilford had to guide you apart when you started to go far too limp in his hold.

You must have looked some kind of way, maybe a certain dazed fog in your eyes, because he laughed – a sound that was so much lighter than before, if you could remember what it was like before – and tapped your nose with one of his fingers. Your barely caught Wilford’s wink in the hazy mind field you tried to pick your way through.

And then the pressure was gone, just like that, as if he’d never existed in the first place. For a moment, the impulse to agree with that flitted across your mind – it all seemed ludicrous, anyway, that was undeniable – but then the door behind you crashed against your wall, bounced back, and was eventually shut when a pair of shoes were fully inside.

You didn’t turn around, because you neither had the reason nor the time to do so. It was obvious whose hands were on your waist in a matter of milliseconds, each finger pressing into your clothes in time with the corresponding one on the other side.

“Finally,” Mark mumbled as his head came to rest in the crook of your neck. Out of the corner of your eye, you could see his fluffy hair bat against your skin, one stray lock managing to knock against your earlobe. “I thought he’d never leave. He never knows when the party’s over. Never remembers.”

If you hadn’t seen the outcome of their little sparing match or the squabble, you could have been easily convinced he was in love with the other god, going off how much he talked about him. Many of your fellow students in high school pretended to hate who they were secretly attracted to, though they didn’t have the power to smite you if you were to suggest it to them. The man currently wrapped around you proved to be a deadlier risk.

“But that doesn’t matter anymore. He’s gone and we can finally make good on our deal.” 

You were shocked out of your joking assumptions by the graze of Mark’s teeth where his head was planted. A nip, and you were wondering if you were starting already, but he stopped long enough to mutter some more muffled words.

“Oh, I have so many ideas.” You barely registered one of his hands coming up to guide your jaw into looking towards him. “If we’re doing it differently,” his whispers danced across your skin before drifting up as he gently pecked up your neck, “I can’t have you doing the same old King in Red script. 

From what you’d heard, that was the pseudo-ritual to take your soul, and, as per your contract, you were supposed to be fully conscious when you were performing. You were glad he’d picked up on that, it would be annoying to go through all that hassle just to be exorcised from your own body at the last hurdle. You were sure that you would have completed it had he not brought it up, thankful that at least one of you wasn’t distracted by the current events. 

“I would offer Othello,” he continued, and you shivered at the new puff of breath, “but the bard seems too tame for your first experience. Musicals are especially rough on the vocal cords if you’re not used to it.”

Damn, Mark was a tease. Your oh-so-dutiful-cult-follower exterior was cracking the longer he dragged this on. He wasn’t doing this on purpose, he was too excited about the prospect of plays to be disingenuous about the subject, but you had half a mind to jumpstart this thing.

“Your heist movies have always interested me—” Maybe two thirds a mind, “—what’re your thoughts on space?”

In fact, a whole mind.

“Shut up and kiss me.”

That felt sacrilegious, and your immediate thought was that you were indeed going to die for your transgressions.

The next thought was how good Mark’s lips felt against yours. The sugar-coated texture was wiped off and replaced by a satin ribbon. Fear of your blasphemy was thrown out the window as you cherished the push and pull, barely noticing the ache of your neck until it disappeared with a switch of position; you were twirled around by the hand that remained on your waist and the other shifted to the back of your neck. You appreciated the stability but found you couldn’t voice it as Mark dove deeper, gripped tighter, sighed against your mouth. The kiss on the back of your hand was nothing in comparison to this. Anywhere Mark touched was completely numb. No fire, no chill, just a blanketed safety from pain when he settled into a gentle caress of your skin. And then it started to tingle. Pins and needles danced on the surface. Capsaicin.

You shivered.

“It’s unfair,” he separated far enough to whisper, “that we don’t have more time.”

Everything moved at a different pace for deities. Decades could go by in the blink of an eye, entire empires rising and falling with less effort than the waves. Most of the time, they were forced to take a back seat, if only because it all would move too fast for them to have any sort of effect. Eldritch gods found their homes in the stars, where things went more at their speed, where things felt more welcoming than the place that valued every second of the minute more than life itself.

But that begged the question; why were you, a human, so comfortable? Why did it feel right to have you in his arms? You aged and you changed, but you made the weight of time so much lighter. Somehow. In a way that such a powerful being couldn’t understand.

You might have nodded at his words. You weren’t actually aware of your actions, but you vaguely felt your head bob up and down, even if it was slight. Your eyes were still closed – you weren’t sure when you closed them – but you felt Mark bow his head to slot between your neck and shoulder again. That was where it felt like flames licking at your skin, but you didn’t back away. Why would you?

You felt him speak before you heard his words, “But have no fear. It won’t take long for the day to roll around, dearest.”

Your heart stilled in your chest.

“We just have to be patient.”

The flames were doused and feeling returned to your lips in the space of a few milliseconds. Fog lifted from your mind, and you blinked slowly to regain your sense of self.

And then there were two. 

Dark didn’t enter with a show of dramaticism like Mark had, nor did he go to find some physical contact like Wilford. Instead, he simply opened and shut the front door and let you adjust to an actual room with him alone. There was an inkling of fear in the back of your mind, the ancient part from the years of hunting buffalo and being scared of the night that yelled at you to run. You pushed down the fight or flight reflex that begged to be triggered. It hushed without challenge, leaving you strangely calm in the face of the most powerful being you had ever met.

You found that you liked his smile. It was surprisingly pleasant, and presumably rare, considering the most you had gotten out of him since Mark and Wilford were involved was a smirk when you signed the contract. This was less sly, and, instead, had the corners of your mouth perking up, too. It only felt right.

What was weirder, though, was the fact that you felt equal to him. You, a mortal with zero self-preservation skills and 206 definitely breakable bones, felt equal to a god who could snap his fingers and kill you. There were no more witnesses, and there was only so much the police could do to track down a being of myth and legend. And yet, your mind assured itself there was no need to fear because you were on an equal playing field. You were both part of that contract, neither offering more or less than they could handle.

Dark, somehow, managed to voice your thoughts before you could. “So, you state your terms, I’ll state mine, and then we’ll have a deal,” he stated.

“What kind of terms are we talking about?”

He stepped forward once, and then twice, until he was close enough to take one of your hands and pull you towards him. Middle ground.

“Let’s start with this one, alright, dove?”

Your stomach flipping, you were the one to cross no-man’s land. Being so confident in the presence of a deity was unnatural, but, then again, everything about this was – except the feeling of lips against yours was beginning to become more and more familiar. The pressure, the texture, the—

The kiss ended as quick as it began. Dark drew back an inch with an exhale of cold breath while you stayed frozen. Your eyes didn’t have the time to close in the first place, so you easily noticed the plain shock on his face. Eyes wide and shoulders down, you could only imagine that you had done something wrong.

You were sorely mistaken.

You registered being dipped when Dark’s hands came to rest at the small of your back and your neck, and then your lips connecting so harshly that you thought they might have bruised. They were definitely already swollen from the combined efforts of the last two experiences, but now? You forgot the ability to breathe and simply submitted to the tug of his teeth against your skin.

Apart from the lapse at the beginning, you had no way of knowing this was Dark’s first encounter with anyone, let alone a human. For all his suaveness and elegance, social skills weren’t something he practiced often. That left them lacking, outside of business deals, to the point that every conversation with someone turned into a trade. Information, ideas, physical assets, it didn’t matter – but this scenario, with such a nice warmth contrasting his coldness, he forgot that this was an official exchange. It almost had him wanting to disregard the terms altogether and figure something out for just the two of you.

But Dark was nothing if not formal. No matter how much he felt the impulse to go further, he had to calm himself down, and that meant he had to take a step back.

He only managed a gap worth a sheet of paper at first.

“Mortals.”

You drew back the rest of the distance, so that both of you could speak comfortably and without temptation.

“You really are fascinating creatures.”

With those closing remarks, Dark trailed the hand from your neck to your jaw to your chin. A finger pushed at your bottom lip.

“I look forward to finding out more.”

He disappeared as quiet as Wilford and Mark, while you struggled to stay upright with your knees as firm as jelly and your heart threatening to give out. 

So much had happened in the space of those two hours, at most, in your apartment. For one, this was no longer your apartment, really. You shared it with three eldritch gods, only one of which you had signed up to interact with, and even that was something you originally thought would end in the massacre of your species. Complete extinction. But there you stood, alive and well, in the middle of the living room. Nobody was dead yet, and nobody who you cared about would die.

You didn’t fight the laugh that bubbled up in your chest – it spilled out like an overflowing bathtub, you felt like you were drowning, you were drowning, but you were alive. You were alive! You’d done it! You got that kiss you wanted, and two more on top of that. A hand, probably yours, jumped to your mouth to cover the cackles that escaped you, but it did no good. It was all just so hilarious.

The laughter only died down when you bit into the palm of your hand. With your teeth lodged into flesh, you had physically tied your mouth shut like a bear trap. This way, you could think.

First, you had to find something pink to wear. Second, you had to brush up on your improvisation. And third? Well, you didn’t exactly know what Dark was going to do, but by all the eldritch gods in that book on your alter, you were excited to find out.

[Yep, I definitely went insane. My mind crumbled and this was in the rubble. I normally struggle with the kiss at the end of these kinds of things, so I kinda shot myself in the foot by giving myself three in one, but it's done now, so enjoy while I sit here and collect the pieces of my brain <3]

[ramblebramblefun]

"Parallel processing!" Deku chirps. He proceeds to blather on at the reporter until Bakugou slaps a hand over his mouth and drolly condenses it down.

"He figured some shit out the last time we worked under Endeavour, and he's hopin' to do it again."

"And what about you?" The reporter asks.

Bakugou Katsuki sneers.

"That old man can't teach me shit."

Then why, Enji wonders, are you here?

The impromptu interrogation only gets worse from there, until Deku steps in, gently stealing the reporter's microphone and pretending to interview Great Explosion Murder God Dynamight himself.

Bakugou has a little more patience for Midoriya than for the general population, but Midoriya soon says something that makes Bakugou shout, lunging for the 'little shit' and causing the green-haired boy to duck behind Shouto with a grin.

Bakugou does not immediately shove Shouto out of the way, which says a lot about how much he respects Enji's son if you know him well.

Enji has been obliged to know Bakugou Katsuki a lot more than he cares for.

The boy is the most irritating person in all of creation. However, in the past, if you had taken Shouto off the table and asked Endeavour to, objectively, choose the child most like himself, Bakugou Katsuki is, reluctantly, the one he would have chosen.

Enji knows better, now.

Midoriya Izuku hides it well behind his smile, but the boy is driven by a wrath equal to Endeavour at his worst.

All Might does not understand how badly it could have turned out. Nor, Enji believes, does he truly appreciate how lucky they are that Bakugou Katsuki was able to be salvaged. That the boy saved All Might’s life is irrelevant; it’s what would have happened when the battle was over and Midoriya was forced to face a world without his ‘Kacchan’ in it.

A world in which in he had failed to save everyone.

Deku, like Endeavour, is driven by a singular furious ambition. That he believes that he wants to save everyone for everyone, well...

Well. Enji's self-delusions were never half so grand, but in the end...

In the end, all is well. Bakugou Katsuki got back up, Deku came down on Shigaraki like the wrath of God, society was saved, and Endeavour is still granted the title of 'hero' by the public.

Endeavour is still granted the title of hero by the public. Todoroki Enji has faced no true punishment for the things he did to his sons... And his daughter...

It's hard to tell, sometimes, with Fuyumi. She has always put on a smile for him, and in the past Enji had not cared enough to look further into how she might be feeling. Or listen, on the rare occasion that Fuyumi dared to open her mouth, to how he was hurting them.

He should... apologise to her as well.

Natsuo meanwhile has gone no contact, as is his prerogative, but that doesn't mean that it doesn't hurt. Enji would have liked to meet the young woman who had caught his eye, and just generally…

Well. Natsuo is still speaking to Rei, so he isn’t totally devoid of the parental support long owed him, and Rei is kind enough to let Enji know that their son is doing well.

…

Enji has never deserved that woman. He should have let her be from the start, should never have dragged anyone else into his obsession, should have simply been a better man, but it’s not like he has a time machine.

It’s just another reason that he must live his life in atonement. He will draw the heat, he will draw the fire and, God willing, his family will be able to live in peace.

Away from him.

------

There’s one more member of the mess that Enji made, and he is farther now from Enji’s reach than all the rest.

Todoroki Touya, Dabi, the flame villain, succumbed to his injuries six months after the total defeat of the League of Villains.

It was much longer than any of the doctors had predicted. Enji did not find it within himself to be surprised. All of his children had inherited his stubbornness in one form or another.

At least this time they all got to say a proper goodbye, not that Touya had seemed to appreciate it. He’d spat insults at them and swore to come back to haunt them as Dabi once again.

But this time there was no Garaki and his cursed miracles. Todoroki Touya was turned to ash for the final time.

Enji still visits him regularly, as he’d promised, and thinks of how things could have been.

------

When Enji shakes himself off and glances over, Bakugou and Shouto are still engaged in a standoff and the reporter is taking advantage of the stillness to try and get their microphone back from Midoriya.

Midoriya, without looking like he's doing it on purpose, shifts the microphone to his other hand and leans over to Shouto's other side.

Enji has been obliged to know Midoriya far too well as well. Somehow this particular reporter has pissed the boy off, likely when they were questioning Bakugou earlier.

Midoriya is quietly, obsessively, over-protective of the lauded Great Explosion Murder God Dynamight, final defeater of All for One.

The reporter is not going to get their microphone back.

It doesn't matter. Endeavour can afford ten thousand microphones, if need be, and there are worse ways to show your displeasure. So long as the boy doesn't make a habit of it, it's barely Enji's problem.

It's time to wrap this up.

"Shouto." He calls.

His son doesn't look away from where he is staring blandly into Bakugou's eyes. That's... Fine. Enji's lucky that he wanted to do his work study with him in the first place.

"Deku! Great Explosion Murder God Dynamight!"

Bakugou doesn’t offer him so much as a side-eye. Midoriya is the only one to make it look like he's giving Endeavour his attention, but he is almost certainly paying more mind to the reporter's repeated attempts to snatch back their microphone.

"We need to complete our patrols. Thank everyone for their time and follow me."

Midoriya gives the reporter and their cameraman a signature Deku smile. He speaks into the microphone before holding it out to Shouto and Bakugou in turn.

Bakugou reacts like he's been handed a live rat. Someone will need to beat interview protocols into his head before he graduates, but it's not something Enji has ever particularly cared for either. It can be UA's job. It should be UA's job.

…

Enji resigns himself to an unpleasant attempt at conversation with the boy later, and turns to fire away. There's a boom and a crackle and a hiss behind him.

It’s time to go.

[silmarillisms]

I've realized that every problem I have with the Shadow and Bone book series stems from the fact that the author writes from a place of privilege, never acknowledges that privilege is privilege, and tries to pass off a highly privileged viewpoint on every situation as absolute truth within Grishaverse.

The Grisha don't know how lucky they are. They get to lord over all of us from the Little Palace, dressing in their fancy clothes and eating good food!

Says the person who has never had to spend every day of their life being forced to convince people in power that they are useful to society and deserve to exist, who live in constant fear that someday someone in a position of power might decide otherwise.

Why doesn't the Darkling just trust Alina? Why does he lie to her and keep her out of his confidence?

Says the person who has never been in a position of power where they were directly responsible for the lives of people beneath them. Says the person who did not spend their formative years being repeatedly traumatized by their only parental figure who taught them over and over that no one could be trusted. Says the person who has never liked someone but knows they need to keep them at arm's length because they seem to sympathize with people who, given half the chance, would fuck you over.

Why can't you just trust that Nikolai would be better than his father and that his rule would end Grisha persecution?

Says the person who has never had to fight for their rights against a corrupt system, who has never had to accept the fact that the system itself is stacked against them and the only hope they have is to break it entirely.

Why can't the Darkling accept that change happens slowly and incrementally over time? Why doesn't he understand that using violent revolution to enact change is wrong?

Says the person who has never existed in a place or time when the only hope for their people was violent revolution. Says the person who has never been part of an ostracized group, who has never been tired of waiting, of watching, of hoping. We don't pray for change. We make it happen.

Why can't Alina stop thinking about gaining personal power, by aligning herself with the Darkling or otherwise? Doesn't she know that it's wrong to seek power?

Says the person who has never in their life spent a day feeling powerless, feeling hopeless, feeling that they don't matter.

I don't have a problem with the universe of Shadow and Bone. I have a problem with the fact that Leigh Bardugo tries to force the audience to see it, and its characters, through a perspective that disrespects the characters she created, the social and political challenges that they face, and the way those things mirror the real struggles of marginalized groups of people - intentionally or otherwise.

[h3rmess]

COLLAPSE

-> 1✰Geto Suguru

LASER LIGHTS ☆

"ignore it 'til I feel alright."

I'm not really sure when it started. It might have been when Satoru and I were sent out on yet another mission, the gravity of which being way too much for people of our age to handle.

Or, it may have been on an earlier occasion when I was promoted to special grade following my evaluation after the exchange event. The gravity of that title held a great responsibility within it : to help the weak.

Gravity. The force constantly acts upon us on a daily basis. The vector quantity that holds both direction and magnitude. The magnitude of the situations only seemed to grow, and I only seemed to be moving backwards, deeper and deeper into a pool of depression.

"Your job as Jujutsu sorcerers is to help the weak. Save those who can't save themselves."

So what happens when I need help? Who's going to save me? Do I rely on another sorcerer to put me out of my misery?

Being the strongest is nothing but a curse. Living every day knowing everyone is counting on you to help when no one else can. Being the first and last resort in all situations. Having responsibilities that, if given to any other human, would eat them alive and leave nothing but blood splatters on the floor.

Why me? Why did I have to be the strongest? I can't save everyone. I can't save anyone.

Satoru seemed to be doing a little better than me. By a little, I mean a lot. He had become the strongest. He was able to laugh and joke so casually about these topics. Meanwhile, they cause my stomach acid to burn my guts. Thank a sheltered childhood for that. Being the family's pride and joy must have been great for him. Not having to climb his way up must have been amazing. Being born the strongest, never once having to doubt his ability because it came so naturally and effortlessly. He must love his life.

He was being sent on more missions on his own. Naturally, this meant that I, too, had to be sent on more missions alone.

Every day was torture for me.

We were unsure of how it came about, but the frequent disaster of the last year probably played a role. Cursed spirits were springing up like maggots.

Exorcise, absorb. Over and over. Exorcise, absorb.

The more curses we killed, the more I had to absorb to remain the strongest. Once you're at the top, you can't back down. Do you know what it's like to absorb curses? It's like eating a rag that's been used to clean up vomit and shit. It makes me sick to my stomach.

Exorcise, absorb. Who am I doing this for?

Maybe it was the pressure of being strong. Or, it could have been the frequency of our missions. Before I knew it, dark circles were forming under my eyes. Sleep became a foreign concept to me. Something that i yearned for dearly. So many people had died.

Soon enough, my meals started to look unappetising too. Revolting clumps of farmed rubbish put together to be consumed. Curses. Revolting lumps of negative emotions put together to be consumed.

Nobody understands.

I kept it under wraps in front of the others, remaining inconspicuous at all costs. The strong can't help the strong.

It seemed to be getting better for a while. But then, Gojo was evolving. He was learning things I knew I could never do. His pace was immense. He picked it up so easily. I tried to keep up. I was losing my speed.

Satoru had it so easy. He never had to think about anything the way I did. His technique was spoon-fed to him, served on a golden platter. He was born with a silver spoon in his mouth. I had nothing. I was nothing. Amongst the entirety of Jujutsu society, not once would you hear anyone say, "Geto Suguru is so strong!" "He's the strongest!" It was always Satoru. Always him who would block my only hope at being the strongest. Always him who would block my chance at being a decent human being. Getting the recognition I deserve rather than being drenched in a boundless sea of tasks once one had been completed. I was never once thanked for my work. I thought I didn't need it. That was until he came and stole it all from me. I hated it. I hated being weak! I hated Gojo Satoru.

Or at least that was my justification for the events that occurred on that fateful day.

I had found myself at the lowest point in my life. I was heavily torn between being able to save one person or an entire population. It was a tough decision to make. Did I want to continue saving people indefinitely, or did I want to get it all done with in one go? To me, the more logical answer was the latter. Re-educating the entire country of Japan would be near impossible. What if there were people like Zenin who had no cursed energy? What, then? Would I be forced to save all the non-sorcerers again?

Then it hit me. The root of my problem. No matter how much I tried to stray from it, it was always right in front of me. The cause of all of my misery. The reason why I was so malnourished. The reason why I found myself in this position in the first place. Those non-sorcerers. The useless beings who couldn't do so much as defend themselves against curses that didn't even qualify for grade 4. The people with no cursed energy who lived their lives in ignorance, not knowing of the mental and physical torment some of us endured daily. Those damn monkeys. Those sub human creatures! They were the issue! The bane of my existence.

And so, my plan to rebuild the nation of Japan was put into action. I needed to wipe out all of the monkeys and build a new world ; a world of jujutsu sorcerers. That way, everyone could defend themselves. I would be putting the weak out of their misery. It would limit the number of deaths from cursed spirits. A small sacrifice like this in the grand scheme of things wouldn't hurt, right?

I killed an entire village. They all went up in flames. It felt amazing. Never once before in my life had I felt such joy, such untainted happiness. I knew that this was for the greater good, and that's what fueled me. That's what drove me to save two girls and build a family where we all shared one common goal - obliterate the monkeys and bring about a change.

Needless to say, I was expelled from Jujutsu Tech, and everyone was after my head. They really didn't get it, did they? They didn't see the bigger picture at all.

And that's when Satoru got involved. He had found out about my massacre and was not pleased, to say the least. Screaming at me on the streets like some uncivil beast. A savage dog spewing bullshit with every word he spoke.

"You know it would be impossible!" He screamed, and I stopped.

I had been blocking out what he was saying, but that combination of words was the straw that broke the camels back for me.

Impossible? He thinks it's impossible? Satoru Gojo, who, with his hollow purple, could wipe out the entirety of Japan. He thinks it's impossible?

Don't make me laugh.

That arrogant bastard. Saying that something is impossible even though he could do it with minimal effort?

How hypocritical.

It must be nice to be so sheltered that you have deluded yourself into completely disregarding your heritage and cursed technique when talking to others. To wholly be able to forget about being strong and try to make yourself appear as if you are anywhere near the level of ther jujutsu sorcerers.

It must be amazing.

He knows that he could do it, and yet he doesn't want to admit it.

Is this the power the strong have? All along, it wasn't about cursed energy or cursed technique, but your ability to manipulate those inferior to you.

Satoru was very crafty indeed.

But two could play at that game. If he thought he was the only one who could manipulate and alter someone thinking, he was dearly mistaken.

"Are you the strongest because you're Satoru Gojo? Or are you Satoru Gojo because you're the strongest?"

The words flowed from the deepest part of my heart, a feeling awakened by his ignorance to his own strength.

No, it wasn't ignorance. It was Satoru being pitiful towards the weak, sympathising with us as if he was anywhere near our level. We are merely lowly peasants compared to him.

He acted surprised at my words, telling me everything I needed to know. If I wanted to progress in my mission, I had to let go of my past self, strip myself down until I was nothing, and rebuild a better version of myself. Only then would I be able to achieve my goal. Only then would it be possible to wake up one day without feeling like the world could come crashing down at any second.

I left my best friend that day. The only one who understood me until that point. It had only been us.

I had to start anew, to build a world in which only sorcerers exist. That way, arrogant brats like Satoru wouldn't have free reign over the weak, and my mind would be at ease.

Just a little longer. Everything will fall into place.

m.list

navi☆

[dufferpuffer]

~~ Looking at Lycanthropy ~~

Part 4: Long-Term Lycanthropy - The Case of Fenrir Greyback

Fenrir Greyback is an interesting figure. He is the only other named werewolf character, is wildly different from Remus... and gives us a broader view on what it is like to have Lycanthropy long-term.

Looking at Lycanthropy (all parts)

Words: Approx. 6000

Physical Symptoms (What he feels; what he does; what happens – factual.) Perceived Symptoms (How he seems to others, health focused) Social Perception (What people think of him; His social situation) Self Perception (What he thinks about himself)

HALF BLOOD PRINCE

First I'll go through what Remus has to say about him:

Chapter 16

Pg 284/285/286 “Oh, I’ve been underground,” said Lupin. “Almost literally. That’s why I haven’t been able to write, Harry; sending letters to you would have been something of a giveaway.” “What do you mean?” “I’ve been living among my fellows, my equals,” said Lupin. “Werewolves,” he added, at Harry’s look of incomprehension. “Nearly all of them are on Voldemort’s side. Dumbledore wanted a spy and here I was... ready-made.” He sounded a little bitter, and perhaps realized it, for he smiled more warmly as he went on, “I am not complaining; it is necessary work and who can do it better than I? However, it has been difficult gaining their trust. I bear the unmistakable signs of having tried to live among wizards, you see, whereas they have shunned normal society and live on the margins, stealing — and sometimes killing — to eat.” “How come they like Voldemort?” “They think that, under his rule, they will have a better life,” said Lupin. “And it is hard to argue with Greyback out there “ “Who’s Greyback?” “You haven’t heard of him?” Lupin’s hands closed convulsively in his lap. “Fenrir Greyback is, perhaps, the most savage werewolf alive today. He regards it as his mission in life to bite and to contaminate as many people as possible; he wants to create enough werewolves to overcome the wizards. Voldemort has promised him prey in return for his services. Greyback specializes in children... Bite them young, he says, and raise them away from their parents, raise them to hate normal wizards. Voldemort has threatened to unleash him upon people’s sons and daughters; it is a threat that usually produces good results.” Lupin paused and then said, “It was Greyback who bit me.” “What?” said Harry, astonished. “When — when you were a kid, you mean?” “Yes. My father had offended him. I did not know, for a very long time, the identity of the werewolf who had attacked me; I even felt pity for him, thinking that he had had no control, knowing by then how it felt to transform. But Greyback is not like that. At the full moon, he positions himself close to victims, ensuring that he is near enough to strike. He plans it all. And this is the man Voldemort is using to marshal the werewolves. I cannot pretend that my particular brand of reasoned argument is making much headway against Greyback’s insistence that we werewolves deserve blood, that we ought to revenge ourselves on normal people.”

Werewolf recap: Werewolves live 'almost literally underground' – separated, shunning society. They struggle to survive, even stealing and killing to eat. Sending letters isn't done – probably both due to lack of basic education and outside contact. Everyone knows Fenrir Greyback. His word amongst werewolves is golden. Nearly all werewolves are on Voldemort's side, thinking he can give them a better life. - Voldemort supplies Fenrir with prime prey in return for his savagery. (Is that all he plans werewolves to be in society...? A punishment force? That's more than they have now, I suppose...) - Fenrir is 'the most savage werewolf alive today' - Fenrir wants to overtake wizarding society by creating more werewolves. He bites children and takes them from their parents to raise away from society thus likely low education in werewolves. - Fenrir bit Remus as a punishment for his fathers prejudice. - Fenrir 'positions himself close to victims' at the full moon. So even he doesn't have full control, but plans accordingly to ensure results. - Fenrir believes werewolves deserve blood for the treatment they have faced. (after seeing what Remus goes through - honestly, yeah.) These werewolf 'enclaves' seem cult-like: Fenrir's opinion is king. You aren't allowed to have contact with other people else you are shunned – and people are brought in young, raised with these beliefs. From this text we can also gather some personal facts about Fenrir: - He was likely an adult before he bit Remus – so he would be... 50, at the absolute youngest now. Probably more like 60, even 70. - He was a proud werewolf back then too – unless he was simply sick of the prejudice to the point of wanting others to suffer it. - He was not child-stealing yet. He left Remus with his parents. That is a more recent development. - No mention of others also positioning themselves to bite children, even on Fenrir's behalf - does he alone do it...? Fenrir Greyback, so far, seems like a driven and influential figure. A household name famed for his savagery and shocking ideals: A werewolf that takes pride in his Lycanthropy and will punish society for being so bigoted. 'If they think of us as monsters – then I'll be the monster they fear.'

Honestly? Punk as fuck. Grandpa's an icon.

Chapter 27

pg 500/501 “Jokes? No, no, these are manners,” replied Dumbledore. “Do it,” said the stranger standing nearest to Harry, a big, rangy man with matted gray hair and whiskers, whose black Death Eater’s robes looked uncomfortably tight. He had a voice like none that Harry had ever heard: a rasping bark of a voice. Harry could smell a powerful mixture of dirt, sweat, and, unmistakably, blood coming from him. His filthy hands had long yellowish nails. “Is that you, Fenrir?” asked Dumbledore. “That’s right,” rasped the other. “Pleased to see me, Dumbledore?” “No, I cannot say that I am.”Greyback grinned, showing pointed teeth. Blood trickled down his chin and he licked his lips slowly, obscenely. “But you know how much I like kids, Dumbledore.” “Am I to take it that you are attacking even without the full moon now? This is most unusual... You have developed a taste for human flesh that cannot be satisfied once a month?”“That’s right,” said Fenrir Greyback. “Shocks you that, does it, Dumbledore? Frightens you?”“Well, I cannot pretend it does not disgust me a little,” said Dumbledore. “And, yes, I am a little shocked that Draco here invited you, of all people, into the school where his friends live…”“I didn’t,” breathed Malfoy. He was not looking at Fenrir; he did not seem to want to even glance at him. “I didn’t know he was going to come —” “I wouldn’t want to miss a trip to Hogwarts, Dumbledore,” rasped Greyback. “Not when there are throats to be ripped out Delicious, delicious…”And he raised a yellow fingernail and picked at his front teeth, leering at Dumbledore. “I could do you for afters, Dumbledore.”

- Big, Rangy, Tight clothes (muscles?) - Matted grey hair and whiskers - Rasping voice; Unique and barking rasp - Smells of Dirt, Sweat and Blood - Pointed teeth; Yellow fingernails - Eats and enjoys blood. Obscenely – at least while being watched. - Wants to shock. - Enjoys human flesh, even outside the Full Moon. - Ripping out throats is 'delicious', young or old (young better) – could be playing it up to shock, but I think he's being honest. - Dumbledore regards him as disgusting – an 'obvious' danger to kids in a school. (he is right) - Draco, a pureblood, is ashamed of him. Disgusted. (he is right)- Draco was told Death Eaters would come, supposedly – so he didn't expect Fenrir to be included. In Draco's mind at the very least, Frenrir is a different classification despite being so closely involved. - Albus called pretty much everyone by their First Name - but there is a level of familiarity between them. I wonder if Albus taught him at Hogwarts before he was bitten? Or if have they just clashed before?

pg 502 “I’ll do it,” snarled Fenrir, moving toward Dumbledore with his hands outstretched, his teeth bared. “I said no!” shouted the brutal-faced man; there was a flash of light and the werewolf was blasted out of the way; he hit the ramparts and staggered, looking furious.

- Eager to kill, with his hands and teeth rather than a wand. - Warded off with a spell unharmed – just staggered and angered. - Non-werewolf Death Eater is someone he had to listen to.... but was allowed to feel angry with.

pg 505 As Harry plunged after them, one of the fighters detached themselves from the fray and flew at him: It was the werewolf, Fenrir. He was on top of Harry before Harry could raise his wand: Harry fell backward, with filthy matted hair in his face, the stench of sweat and blood filling his nose and mouth, hot greedy breath at his throat—“Petrificus Totalus!”Harry felt Fenrir collapse against him; with a stupendous effort he pushed the werewolf off and onto the floor as a jet of green light came flying toward him; he ducked and ran, headfirst, into the fight.

- Fast. Strong. Could knock Harry down. - Filthy matted hair; Stinky with blood but also sweat – he hasn't just had a long hard day of work, he doesn't bathe enough. - Greedy for Harry's throat. Yummy yummy. - Affected by Petrificus Totalus - Heavy. Probably because all of his muscles and massive balls.

~~~ DEATHLY HALLOWS

Chapter 23

pg 388/389 “Your boyfriend’s going to have worse than that done to him if he’s on my list,” said the horribly familiar, rasping voice. “Delicious girl... What a treat... I do enjoy the softness of the skin…” Harry’s stomach turned over. He knew who this was: Fenrir Greyback, the werewolf who was permitted to wear Death Eater robes in return for his hired savagery.

- Soft skin is preferred for throat ripping. Probably young female skin – so its an mental thing rather than a physical, unless he also likes young male skin. Either way a fetish. - 'permitted to wear Death Eater robes' – he isn't a Death Eater. - The ability to 'wear Death Eater robes' is a transactional thing.

pg 389 “Now, let’s see who we’ve got,” said Greyback’s gloating voice from overhead, and Harry was rolled over onto his back. A beam of wandlight fell into his face and Greyback laughed. “I’ll be needing butterbeer to wash this one down. What happened to you, ugly?” Harry did not answer immediately. “I said,” repeated Greyback, and Harry received a blow to the diaphragm that made him double over in pain, “what happened to you?” pg 391 “It is you! If they find out who they’ve got ��! They’re Snatchers, they’re only looking for truants to sell for gold –” “Not a bad little haul for one night,” Greyback was saying, as a pair of hobnailed boots marched close by Harry and they heard more crashes from inside the tent. “A Mudblood, a runaway goblin, and three truants. You checked their names on the list yet, Scabior?” he roared. “Yeah. There’s no Vernon Dudley on ‘ere, Greyback.” “Interesting,” said Greyback. “That’s interesting.”

He makes jokes about eating (or at least savaging) people. Ripping their throats. It's casual. He really likes what he does. But while Voldemort is offering a better life for werewolves (not hard), and Greyback himself is allowed to 'wear Death Eater robes' for his influence and services, invited to events like the murder of Dumbledore... he is still just a snatcher, scraping vagrants for cash.

He crouched down beside Harry, who saw, through the infinitesimal gap left between his swollen eyelids, a face covered in matted gray hair and whiskers, with pointed brown teeth and sores at the corners of his mouth. Greyback smelled as he had done at the top of the tower where Dumbledore had died: of dirt, sweat, and blood.

His face has matted grey hair; Whiskers; Pointed teeth are brown; sores at the corners of his mouth (probably from opening wide to rip throats – maybe also some poor mouth hygiene). Dirt added to his smell along with sweat and blood.

pg 392 “Well, well,” said Greyback, and Harry could hear the tiniest note of trepidation in that callous voice, and knew that Greyback was wondering whether he had indeed just attacked and bound the son of a Ministry official. Harry’s heart was pounding against the ropes around his ribs; he would not have been surprised to know that Greyback could see it.

Huh...? See his heart pounding? Is this 'see his fear' – or literally see his heart...? I don't wanna sound dumb, taking something too seriously – but with all the blood-love and the animal themes and magical curse stuff I don't wanna ignore the possibility completely. I'll just mostly ignore it.

More importantly: Despite 'wearing Death Eater robes' and all that – he is worried he may have attacked a Ministry official's son. Would the other Death Eaters present at Dumbledores murder give a shit about that, while trying to do their job...? I doubt it. Fenrir is a strong, proud man with some higher level of permissions and respect: and yet he has reason to fear small mistakes like 'Snatching a Ministry officials' wayward, rulebreaking son'.

pg 393 “What’s that on your forehead, Vernon?” he asked softly, his breath foul in Harry’s nostrils as he pressed a filthy finger to the taut scar. pg 394 “To hell with the Ministry,” growled Greyback. “They’ll take the credit, and we won’t get a look in. I say we take him straight to You-Know-Who.”“Will you summon ‘im? ‘ere?” said Scabior, sounding awed, terrified.“No,” snarled Greyback, “I haven’t got – they say he’s using the Malfoys’ place as a base. We’ll take the boy there.” Harry thought he knew why Greyback was not calling Voldemort. The werewolf might be allowed to wear Death Eater robes when they wanted to use him, but only Voldemort’s inner circle were branded with the Dark Mark: Greyback had not been granted this highest honor.

...He hasn't told his Snatcher crew he isn't a Death Eater proper. That he doesn't have the mark. He hasn't told them. Scabior is awed that Voldemort might be called there, right then, by Fenrir Greyback the Werewolf... but he can't do it, and he doesn't wanna say he can't. Bless.

Note that the Ministry, full of Voldemort's people, will not respect Fenrir Greyback. The fact he is worried about their credit being successfully taken means Voldemort won't respect his word either. Rewarding Fenrir appropriately for his high service is unimportant.

“... completely sure it’s him? ‘Cause if it ain’t, Greyback, we’re dead.”“Who’s in charge here?” roared Greyback, covering his moment of inadequacy. “I say that’s Potter, and him plus his wand, that’s two hundred thousand Galleons right there! But if you’re too gutless to come along, any of you, it’s all for me, and with any luck, I’ll get the girl thrown in!”

Fenrir values his authority and power. He won't accept anyone underneath him questioning him, and he will claw at any foothold he has to gain more respect... even if it means hiding the truth. But I want to point out his language to his underlings: He is inclusive. 'They'll take the credit, and WE don't get a look in.''WE'LL take the boy there.''If YOU'RE too gutless to come along, ANY of you, it's all for me'He might be the one in charge – but they will ALL benefit. He is jeering about taking the spoils for himself as a rallying cry, encouraging others to come with him rather than let him have it all.

They are scared of being punished for failure, but even though he would also be punished if they are wrong: he wants everyone he works with to benefit and he is willing to take that risk. No wonder people follow him as a leader.

pg 395 “Grab hold and make it tight. I’ll do Potter!” said Greyback, seizing a fistful of Harry’s hair; Harry could feel his long yellow nails scratching his scalp. “On three! One – two – three –” They Disapparated, pulling the prisoners with them.

His yellow nails are also long. Nice.

pg 396 “What is this?” said a woman’s cold voice. “We’re here to see He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named!” rasped Greyback.“Who are you?”“You know me!” There was resentment in the werewolf’s voice. “Fenrir Greyback! We’ve caught Harry Potter!”

These little shits. 'Who are you' fuck off, as if you could mistake Fenrir's rasping. The sheer lack of respect, for someone so loyal and hardworking... because he is a werewolf.

pg 398 “But look at him carefully, look! Come closer!” Harry had never heard Lucius Malfoy so excited. “Draco, if we are the ones who hand Potter over to the Dark Lord, everything will be forgiv –” “Now, we won’t be forgetting who actually caught him, I hope, Mr. Malfoy?” said Greyback menacingly.“Of course not, of course not!” said Lucius impatiently.

Growling over his hunt... I don't blame him, he has a lot to lose and, in his mind at least - a lot to gain. Not that Voldemort or the Death Eaters will ever give him any respect, even for catching Harry. He speaks extremely politely to Lucius – and Lucius is... polite enough back. Even if he isn't respected and they crack jokes at his expense... it seems they don't regard him like utter shit. He will get his name on this job... probably.

pg 400 “You lost your authority when you lost your wand, Lucius! How dare you! Take your hands off me!” “This is nothing to do with you, you did not capture the boy –” “Begging your pardon, Mr. Malfoy,” interjected Greyback, “but it’s us that caught Potter, and it’s us that’ll be claiming the gold –” “Gold!” laughed Bellatrix, still attempting to throw off her brother-in-law, her free hand groping in her pocket for her wand. “Take your gold, filthy scavenger, what do I want with gold? I seek only the honor of his – of –”

Fenrir is so damn polite to the Death Eaters, even to Lucius – who doesn't have a wand. He ranks under them all. He is also still referring to himself as 'us'. Even now his group of Snatchers will share the rewards, though he could pull rank and take everything himself. Potter is a damn good prize but he truly wants to benefit everyone – even though they don't seem to be werewolves. He isn't so much anti-wizard as he is anti-ruling-class. The downtrodden are his people.

pg 400/401 “Sword,” grunted an out-of-sight Snatcher. “Give it to me.” “It’s not yorn, missus, it’s mine, I reckon I found it.” There was a bang and a flash of red light: Harry knew that the Snatcher had been Stunned. There was a roar of anger from his fellows: Scabior drew his wand. “What d’you think you’re playing at, woman?” “Stupefy!” she screamed. “Stupefy!” They were no match for her, even though there were four of them against one of her: She was a witch, as Harry knew, with prodigious skill and no conscience. They fell where they stood, all except Greyback, who had been forced into a kneeling position, his arms outstretched. Out of the corners of his eyes Harry saw Bellatrix bearing down upon the werewolf, the sword of Gryffindor gripped tightly in her hand, her face waxen. “Where did you get this sword?” she whispered to Greyback as she pulled his wand out of his unresisting grip.“How dare you?” he snarled, his mouth the only thing that could move as he was forced to gaze up at her. He bared his pointed teeth. “Release me, woman!” “Where did you find this sword?” she repeated, brandishing it in his face. “Snape sent it to my vault in Gringotts!” “It was in their tent,” rasped Greyback. “Release me, I say!” She waved her wand, and the werewolf sprang to his feet, but appeared too wary to approach her. He prowled behind an armchair, his filthy curved nails clutching its back.

His long, yellow nails are also filthy and curved. He prowls when wary and defeated. He snarls and bares his teeth. Bellatrix' Stupefy's were enough to knock down the other Snatchers completely – but reduce Greyback to his knees. It is possible she was going easy on him so he could talk. Greyback has enough standing with the Death Eaters to talk back to a high-ranking member when he feels slighted. He isn't forced to be entirely passive: allowed to bark and snap.

pg 402 “If she dies under questioning, I’ll take you next,” she said. “Blood traitor is next to Mudblood in my book. Take them downstairs, Greyback, and make sure they are secure, but do nothing more to them – yet.” She threw Greyback’s wand back to him, then took a short silver knife from under her robes. She cut Hermione free from the other prisoners, then dragged her by the hair into the middle of the room, while Greyback forced the rest of them to shuffle across to another door, into a dark passageway, his wand held out in front of him, projecting an invisible and irresistible force.“Reckon she’ll let me have a bit of the girl when she’s finished with her?” Greyback crooned as he forced them along the corridor. “I’d say I’ll get a bite or two, wouldn’t you, ginger?” Harry could feel Ron shaking. They were forced down a steep flight of stairs, still tied back-to-back and in danger of slipping and breaking their necks at any moment. At the bottom was a heavy door. Greyback unlocked it with a tap of his wand, then forced them into a dank and musty room and left them in total darkness.

Bellatrix definitely outranks him, no big surprise there – and despite his recent tone trusts him with his wand, which he is skilled enough with to cast multiple wordless, even movement-less spells. Fenrir once again living his best life: enjoying shocking people with his savagery and enjoying the idea of soft young girly skin. Lovely.

He mentions getting a bite or two – I find it interesting that he doesn't seem to want to 'eat' people or tear them to pieces. He wants to take bites. This lines up with what we know about werewolves rarely killing people, instead trying to infect them and have them survive. Now – I don't doubt he mainly kills people in his human form: He likes to rip throats. But I wonder if the 'bite or two' comment is literal, rather than being funny: He enjoys biting but leaving them whole. A werewolf instinct, that tells them to 'stop' after a little damage. We know an instinct for blood and raw flesh leaks through to the human form...

pg 410 “Cissy, I think we ought to tie these little heroes up again, while Greyback takes care of Miss Mudblood. I am sure the Dark Lord will not begrudge you the girl, Greyback, after what you have done tonight.”

He gets treat for being such a good boy :) Yippee! Do they hold off on giving him treats...? This, and how hopeful he is, suggests they don't give him treats often. 'He won't begrudge you the girl' he caught Harry fucking Potter and all he can hope for is to bite the girl – rather than like... be accepted as a real Death Eater.

pg 411 As Ron ran to pull Hermione out of the wreckage, Harry took his chance: He leapt over an armchair and wrested the three wands from Draco’s grip, pointed all of them at Greyback, and yelled, “Stupefy!” The werewolf was lifted off his feet by the triple spell, flew up to the ceiling, and then smashed to the ground.

So he wasn't hit as hard by a single Bellatrix stupefy – but three wrong-wand Harry Stupefy's... I'm recording these to try and get a grasp on how sturdy he is, but it's unclear lol.

Chapter 32

pg 555 Two bodies fell from the balcony overhead as they reached the ground, and a gray blur that Harry took for an animal sped four-legged across the hall to sink its teeth into one of the fallen.“NO!” shrieked Hermione, and with a deafening blast from her wand, Fenrir Greyback was thrown backward from the feebly stirring body of Lavender Brown. He hit the marble banisters and struggled to return to his feet. Then, with a bright white flash and a crack, a crystal ball fell on top of his head, and he crumpled to the ground and did not move.

Moves like an animal, on all fours – despite it not being a full moon. More confirmation that he is unafraid to sink his brown pointed teeth into people non-transformed. especially a 'delicious' young girl with soft skin. Blown back by a single spell, as we have seen before, but was able to move and be angry afterwards. Crystal Ball took him out... but I feel like that'd kill most regular people? I know Wizards are hardier than Muggles but jesus christ he's hardly getting much medical attention out there

Chapter 33

pg 586 “You alone know whether it will harm your soul to help an old man avoid pain and humiliation,” said Dumbledore. “I ask this one great favor of you, Severus, because death is coming for me as surely as the Chudley Cannons will finish bottom of this year’s league. I confess I should prefer a quick, painless exit to the protracted and messy affair it will be if, for instance, Greyback is involved – I hear Voldemort has recruited him? Or dear Bellatrix, who likes to play with her food before she eats it.”

I'm sure Dumbledore being an icon for equality and hope and compassion would make up for him not having soft young girl skin on his throat. Isn't that Ron's favourite team? Albus you're savage

Chapter 34

pg 602 Harry saw Fenrir, skulking, chewing his long nails;

He is nervous at the non-arrival of Harry. At Voldemort's potential reaction to it. Fair enough – but if he was going to lash out I'm sure Greyback would be one of the first picks.

Chapter 36

pg 630 He saw Ron and Neville bringing down Fenrir Greyback,

R.I.P. Stinky, you were iconic.

~~~ SUMMARY OF THIS PART:

Fenrir Greyback is extremely identifiable as a werewolf, even when not transformed: Filthy matted grey hair - even on his face, with whiskers. His teeth are brown and pointed, sores at the corners of his mouth - probably from ripping throats. Long, curved, yellowed fingernails that are as dirty as the rest of him. Stinking of sweat, blood and dirt. His voice is a unique rasping bark. He snarls and bares his teeth when angry, prowls when wary - skulks when afraid.

He is fast and strong, running out of the fray to knock Harry down and go for his throat. He can move like an animal on all fours, fast enough to look like a grey blur. As he was most likely an adult when he bit Remus - that puts his age at at least 50 now, probably older... yet he is agile, rangy, big, strong - and heavy. I'd say due to muscles.

Basic stunning spells stagger him but just make him angrier. Spells that had 'regular' people down-for-the-count forced him to his knees, but he kept his rage and his sobriety. Petrificus Totalus worked on him - but it's unclear for how long. Three Stupefy's from three wands Harry was holding was enough to throw him against the ceiling. A crystal ball to the head knocked him out - but didn't kill him. He was awake and well hours later.

This all suggests he could be a little hardier to magic than the average wizard, but whether its due to Lycanthropy or the fact he is a badass is unclear. He is a decent Wizard himself: skilled enough with to cast multiple wordless, even movement-less spells.

It is possible he can 'see' or 'sense' people's hearts pounding, related to his love of blood... but likely not.It's also possible that his werewolf instincts to only bite their prey to infect, leaving them alive, leaks into his non-transformed desire to rip and maul. That is also unclear.

What is clear, however, is Fenrir's pride as a werewolf.

Fenrir Greyback is a household name: 'the most savage werewolf alive.' It is obscene how much he loves blood. How much he enjoys shocking people with his brutality. He threatens and cracks jokes about ripping out throats, about his preference for biting delicious, soft, young girl skin. But he isn't too picky. He will tear out anyone's throat, with pleasure. Eager to kill with his teeth over his wand. It's not a bluff to scare: it's a promise. Albus regards him as disgusting, an obvious danger to the school.

He enjoys human flesh even outside of the Full Moon, relishing it like a fetish. Even Albus' throat, despite being the opposite of a young girl... though the fact he was an icon for equality, hope and compassion probably sweetened the deal.

Because Fenrir isn't just doing this for self gratification. His pride runs deeper than his fur.

He believes werewolves deserve blood for the treatment they have faced by Wizarding society. They are all Wizards and Witches, after all... but we know that they are hardly classified or treated as such. Segregated, called 'Half-Breeds', treated as monsters - disallowed from school or most jobs. Most werewolves live 'almost literally underground' - so far away from society that they rarely have contact. They struggle to survive, stealing and even killing just to eat. It's very likely most of them are uneducated, both due to not being able to attend Hogwarts - and perhaps Greyback's own actions, having them raised with other uneducated werewolves.

His word is law amongst Werewolves. He is highly respected and loyally followed. He is a leader. If he says Voldemort can give them a better life by restructuring Wizarding society - they believe him.

Like a cult: werewolves shun even other werewolves that have grown up amongst Wizarding society. Sending letters to family or friends is a 'giveaway' - merely having grown up outside of werewolf communes a red flag. It's likely most of them have grown up separated from Wizarding society after all, as part of Fenrir's plans:

He carefully plans and positions himself close to victims before the Full Moon - intending to bite children, even if he doesn't have full control. The child is raised away from their parents, amongst 'their own kind'... to one day have enough werewolves in the world to overtake Wizarding society. (There is no mention of other werewolves assisting in this goal - Is he highly selective? Or is nobody else as adept at being a werewolf...?)

He didn't always do it - Remus was bitten 30 or so years ago as a form of punishment for his father's bigotry to werewolves, and he was left with his family. Back then Greyback wasn't a household name. This plan to raise a cult-army of werewolves is a more recent development. But Greyback isn't doing it to be cruel, or make himself a king:

He is pack-minded.

He enjoys being top-dog and giving orders but he has the well-being of his underlings on his mind. When he has glory, riches and standing to gain - he willingly encourages those who look up to him to benefit from the boon, too. He hypes them up. He doesn't expect them to walk into any danger he himself wouldn't walk beside them for.

Even when they aren't werewolves. It seems he isn't so much anti-Wizard as he is anti-ruling-class... until the ruling class are werewolves, anyway. But for now the downtrodden are his people.

However he didn't tell the Snatchers he didn't have a Dark Mark. He kept that hidden, acted like he did have one. Does he suspect they will lose respect for him as a werewolf if he isn't marked? Or is he embarrassed? Either way - he does enjoy his authority over them, though doesn't abuse it.

Unlike the Death Eaters treatment of him.

Voldemort supplies him with prime prey - the children of those who defy him, perhaps some others to tear apart - in return for his unique services. He is 'permitted to wear Death Eater robes' to serve Voldemort well. He is invited as muscle to events as high-status and prestigious as the murder of Dumbledore.

But he is not a Death Eater. He doesn't have a mark.

Which seems a little ridiculous considering the fact he has an army of werewolves loyal to him and thus Voldemort. ...but he is just kept as a Snatcher, scraping for cash. Worrying about getting 'good hauls'... He worries about things like tying up a Ministry Official's wayward, rule-breaking son while doing his job. He growls protectively over his hunts. He expects credit for catching Potter to be stolen... which means Voldemort won't listen to him. He can plea and be ignored.

The Death Eaters will never give him real respect. He is told, after catching Potter, his wand, his friends, the Sword of griffindor... that the Dark Lord 'won't begrudge him the girl'. For anyone else such a deed would get them a mark. He is a dog to them.

Draco won't look at him. He was told Death Eaters would come when he killed Dumbledore - he didn't expect Greyback to be there. Lucius, even without his wand, ranks higher than him. They crack jokes at his expense, saying 'Who?' when he asks for entry - and he takes it. He accepts it and speaks to them with high respect. The best they speak to him back is with basic politeness.

He isn't a complete bitch. He is allowed to get angry, to snap, to stand up for himself. But he is seen as a 'filthy scavenger'. He isn't part of them. A different 'animal', with different needs and ideals... a tool. A trusted tool, sure - Bellatrix gives him back his wand even after he has talked back to her - but he is the bottom of the pecking order no matter what he is, says or does. When Harry didn't show up to be killed by Voldemort he was skulking. Biting his nails. Nervous. I'm sure if the Dark Lord lashed out... he would probably be the first to feel his wrath.

[cripplecharacters]

Hello, I'm working on a project where the main character uses on and off a cane because of fluctuating level of chronic pain. They start using it more because using magic makes it worse, and another character that is important to the main character has a similar disability and help them, but the other one has unconcious biases. The mentor need to work on himself since when he figured out that MC has chronic pain he start training them differently without asking them, I was wondering how I could broach the subject of that mentor and his biases so that he can grow from them since I want to kind of represent the current society biases on visible disability.

So basically, what are some of the key points I should be careful of?

Anon Astro

Hello,

First, just please be careful about exactly why his magic makes his pain worse. It sounds like his magic didn't cause his chronic pain, which is good. How does the use of magic make his chronic pain worse? Is it more like overdoing it and having a bad pain day? Because that sounds fine. If his magic is slowly destroying his body the more he uses it (actively destroying his body, such as wasting his muscles) and making his disability worse by completely changing, worsening, or adding to it, that's getting into dodgy "might accidentally be disability as punishment if you word it the wrong way" territory and it might be best to rework that.

As for the unconscious bias that the mentor works on, it sounds like you're handling that respectively. Maybe the character realizes that his mentor is treating him differently, more delicately, and it eventually (or quickly) irritates him into snapping. He should be the one to decide his limits and if the training routine needs to change, he deserves to at least be consulted on it so that he can make a choice rather than having someone else take away his autonomy by deciding they know his body better than him, the one who lives in it. Maybe he would rather someone ask to help him rather than force something that might not be helpful on him without him knowing, and maybe he was doing perfectly fine and so could his mentor not do this?

The main character should make the rules when it comes to his own body. That's what usually gets people to stop arguing my point when I have this kind of conversation with them. My body, my choice and all of that. Making them think of my informed choice in the context of consent is usually a great way to get them to come around. And then, once the mentor realizes that the main does deserve to make his own choices about what's best for him, it would be absolutely fantastic if the mentor were to apologize for overstepping. Because gods know that rarely happens in both fiction and in real life.

Moving forward, they'll probably have a talk about communicating. Maybe they come to an agreement that the mentor will talk to the main before "helping" him and the main will make sure to tell the mentor if he needs something changed, needs to stop or take a break, or can't do something today. If the training needs modified, it would be nice to see them work on that together, communicating and listening.

As for what to not do, please don't make him seem demanding or mean for wanting to have a say in his own life. So many people act like diabled people are being entitled or ungrateful when we turn down help we don't need and it's infuriating. He's well within his rights to make his own decisions. Even if he does get a bit pissed during the argument, he's within his right to do that. Please don't portray him as some entitled, ungrateful brat for it. Consent, no matter the form, is extremely important and he has a right to ask for people to not make decisions for him without consulting him.

It sounds like you're on the right track with this.

Mod Aaron

[muraseclinic]

please just break me. beat me until i'm vomiting blood, cut me and make me cut myself, slit my wrists and drain my life away, bash my ugly fucking face in and shatter my skull - do whatever you please with me, as long as you make sure i'm never happy again. that for as long as you allow me to live i can never forget again how pathetic and unlovable and undeserving of life i am. tell me all about how worthless and unusable i am, how pretty real girls are and how badly i need to die for what i am. how i'll never be like them no matter what i do, how disgusting i am and always will be. crack my skull open if that's what it takes to make me understand that i'm only getting what i deserve for being this, that you're doing me and the rest of the world a favor by taking care of such a burden. nothing more than a blight on an otherwise beautiful world, one that just needs to be destroyed for the sake of everyone else. make me hopeless, show me that there's no point in trying to get better or live a good life, because there's no such thing as a good life for things like me. make me utterly repusled by the idea of myself happy. and when i finally get it through my skull how badly i deserve to die, how it's the only thing left for me, dangle it in front of me for your entertainment. force me to live in constant misery and torture, beating me just to the edge of release from all the pain i've felt and caused over my pathetic life, just to yank me back up out of the pit i've waited so long to finally hit the bottom of. laugh at the notion that i could ever deserve a life or a death. i could only ever be useful to anyone as a worthless little object to break and cut and kick and crack and stab and crush and bleed out. no love. why would i be loved? i'm so much less than a person anyway

.. oh wow !!✨≽^•༚• ྀི≼ this anon sure is desperate !

but i'd loveeeee to break you . beat you and fuck you because that's all you're good for !! anon thinks it's a real girl? no „ you’re not even a person ^^ the only thing you are is an object for my amusement „ something for me to play with and make cry when i want to.

i’d do whatever i want with you ,, destroy you because it’s what you deserve for being such a burden on the rest of society by simply being alive. i’d make you mutilate yourself for me ,, use your dirty body for my own needs ,, make you swallow blades or use you as my ashtray ~ ᥫ᭡

nobody could ever love a filthy ,, pathetic creature like you anyways.

you're worthless ,, something to be beaten and burned and broken. try and let others fool you all you want ,, we both know you’re a disgusting toy - you’ll never be good enough ,, you don’t deserve to be happy ,, and you don’t deserve to live .. but that doesn’t mean i’ll let you die <(˶ᵔᵕᵔ˶)>

i’ll strip away every last semblance of dignity you have left until you’re begging me to kill you ,, and then i’ll laugh in your face and leave you to rot ,, alive ,, because the only thing that you deserve is a life of me dangling death over your head like a carrot to a pig.

[ also if any one of you have dm’d me and i havent responded, be patient for me, kay? ( • ̀ω•́ )✧ ,, asks are open !! ]

[drsonnet]

"Today, in this upside-down world, we feverishly await the final vote in the U.N. General Assembly on the genocide in Srebrenica, while Gaza has been destroyed, and its people starved and denied water." (Illustration by Erhan Yalvaç)

Of villains, heroes and the final act

Of villains, heroes and the final act | Opinion (archive.org)

BY FARHAN MUJAHID CHAK - MAY 14, 2024

A UNGA resolution condemning the Srebrenica genocide is developed by countries like Germany and the U.S., despite their complicity in the ongoing genocide in Gaza by supporting Israel

Ino longer believe in fairy tales, although I once did.

Raised with ideals of sacredness in life, I was taught to honor the sanctity of humanity, to champion international law, and to cherish freedom of speech as the cornerstone of societal progress. I believe the Geneva Conventions were a manifestation of our collective conscience that mandated the rules of war and held nations to account. Women and children; hospitals and schools; the elderly and infirm were inviolable. I was taught that "peaceful protest" was the quintessential liberty of a sophisticated society that understood the relationship between civic activism, social change and progress. I listened, attentively, to the lofty rhetoric and was enthralled. I would utter high-sounding words on democracy, equality and freedom, and those grand glutinous words stuck to my teeth. I was – in a way, smitten.

Head-over-heels over values that deeply resonated in me, yet I slowly became disillusioned. It became evident those hollow words were never meant to be believed, only used to establish authority and reproach others with their inhumanity. Justice was not blind, and race, color and creed mattered in the application of the law. It is in this troubled context that the United Nations General Assembly (UNGA) will vote on whether to declare July 11 "The International Day of Reflection and Remembrance of the 1995 Srebrenica Genocide." The complex intersection of the ongoing genocide in Palestine, the war on students and free speech on university campuses across the United States, Canada and Europe, and the former genocide in Srebrenica deserves closer scrutiny. The U.N. vote on the Bosnian genocide could not come at a more condemnable moment in world history.

On May 1, after considerable delay, a draft U.N. resolution on the Srebrenica genocide was submitted to the president of the 193-member U.N. General Assembly. Recall that in 1995, the town of Srebrenica was a U.N.-declared safe zone promised protection by a U.N. Dutch force. Dozens of able-bodied Muslim men in the town were asked to disarm, which they did. Despite that, fanatical Serb forces overran the safe zone and murdered 8,372 Muslim men and boys. Such is the perverse reality of the world we live in, that a U.N.-mandated safe haven, supposedly protected by U.N. forces, was invaded by terrorist Serb forces and a genocide ensued under their watch.

Bizarre irony

Now, a UNGA resolution on the Srebrenica genocide, partially modeled on a similar resolution for Rwanda, has been developed by several countries including Germany and the U.S. Absurdly, both are collaborators in the genocide currently underway in Gaza by direct military, economic and diplomatic support for Israel. This is the bizarre irony of being complicit in an ongoing genocide and putting forth a U.N. Resolution condemning the same.

What is the point of passing a resolution on genocide and turning a blind eye to one going on for the whole world to see? Sadly, villains need masks and no better cover than virtue. It is politics, not ethics, that is driving the U.N. Srebrenica vote. Of course, this does not diminish the necessity of it or the need to condemn the Srebrenica genocide and its denial. Still, the larger macro-level betrayal of the Geneva Conventions and International Human Rights Law by the U.S., U.K. and Germany is an indictment of the Western-led global order.

It is that outright duplicity, the sheer savagery of the genocide in Palestine, and the silencing of dissent that has provoked a whole generation of young people on campuses throughout the West. After all, they, too, were told stories about diversity, inclusion and pluralism. They were taught to condemn discrimination based on ethnicity, religion or gender. About equality before the law and the inviolability of non-combatants. They were raised to feel empowered and encouraged to peacefully organize and express their opinions. And, that society benefits when individuals exercise their civic duty. Now, they are witness to the flagrant disavowal of the moral archetypes that were instilled in them. They feel duped and are protesting, as heroes do, the enabling of genocide by their universities. Idealistic and courageous, they are sacrificing their education and careers to condemn the genocide in Palestine. Except rather than being celebrated, thousands of students have been beaten, harassed and arrested. Condemned for believing in the values that they were taught.

Now, we seem to be in the final act. One of impunity – if you will, in which we close our eyes to the genocide in Palestine, condemn students who protest it, and negotiate ways to commemorate a past genocide in Srebrenica – when ignoring it while it happened. Today, in this upside-down world, we feverishly await the final vote in the UNGA on the genocide in Srebrenica, while Gaza has been destroyed, and its people starved and denied water.

Yet, no matter the outcome of the resolution, it will not stop future genocides. Still, if nothing else, it will forever be a testament to the twisted dystopian reality in which we live and be a symbol of the urgent need for a new world order. Maybe, one faraway day, we can muster the will – for whatever purpose, and pass a U.N. resolution condemning it. Or name a highway after the martyrs. We will tell noble stories about those who were killed since it seems our twisted world only after their death feigns to honor them.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Professor of International Affairs, Visiting Research Faculty at Al Waleed Center for Muslim Christian Understanding at Georgetown University

[seat-safety-switch]

There's nothing we like better, as a society, than some jerk getting their comeuppance. Hell, half of our legends and stories are about this happening. The misfortune of those who deserve it tastes sweet, and we just can't get enough of it.

This gets installed into us early in childhood: think of the immortal story of the Three Little Pigs. One pig wants to live a peaceful, agrarian coexistence with nature. He's breakfast. Another tries to moderate the influence of industry on his life, taking benefit where he sees it in the form of sticks. Lunch. The third one wises up. He realizes the sheer inevitable power of industrialized civil society and structures himself apart from nature, entombed in his immortal fired-brick home. He lives, because he was smart, and his siblings too dumb for how delicious they were. He's the one who wrote the history books.

Anyone who's been driving for long enough has a story about someone else who was acting like a jerk in traffic getting into a big accident, or being pulled over by the cops, or simply getting stuck in a lane of traffic that ended up being slower than the one they got out of. "Karma's a bitch," we cackle, and then go on with life, a momentary thrill of schadenfreude helping to alleviate the pressure of modern existence. Don't colour outside the lines, or you'll get your hand smacked by the divine forces of justice.

When you go out in your car today, make sure to act properly. Drive safely. Signal appropriately. Deny those screeching buzzards the joy of seeing you get punished by the universe. And then, once they get mad enough to pass you and are hit by lightning or slip on a banana peel, you too can enjoy the high-and-mighty sensation, but just for a bit. Then drive like a jackass, because the story wouldn't be nearly as funny if it happened twice.