#blueprint for black power

[blackstar1887]

Unraveling Identity: Cam'ron, African Americans, and a Pan-African Perspective

[elywananda]

Blueprint for Black Power by Amos N. Wilson #WeAreReading African Philos...

[melanin-melanina]

[akkivee]

did you know that with the reintroduction of amy’s tarot cards she now has a very convenient excuse as to why she mistook shadow and silver for sonic like amy follows her heart it’s her thing and when reading a tarot fortune you have to put your heart into it the celtic cross spread for tarot cards places the past present and future cards in a row of three like in the above pic and in sonic 06 shadow sonic and silver are connected and represent said past present and future so if amy is blindly following her heart as she was characterised to do back in the day then she would be blindly be following those connected to sonic’s fate—

[babythegod]

[internetskiff]

The most powerful ability exclusive to humanity in the Half Life/Portal shared universe is our ability to just throw bullshit at the wall and see what sticks. Aperture "OSHA are the devil" Science have managed to create completely safe interconnected points in space. The same company that turns people's blood into gasoline and shoves lions and humans into the same enclosed space for the vague concept of "Science". Meanwhile Black Mesa still has to use Xen as a crossing and their teleportation device requires an entire reactor with a village's worth of staff constantly maintaining it, just to end up having most of said staff abducted by onion-headed aliens. Even the resistance hasn't managed to create completely stable teleporters with a compressed Xen relay, meanwhile Aperture just went "oh dude let's shove a black hole into a non-waterproof gun" and have just created a teleportation method that just removes Xen from the equation entirely. Doesn't change the fact they bullshat so bad they basically got themselves gassed to death, but still.

The Resistance are a good example of this too. The Combine seem to have a complete set-in-stone thought process and understanding of science which meant they didn't even begin to explore local teleportation via Xen, meanwhile a group of random human mechanics and scientists have managed to cobble together at least two semi-functional local teleporters out of scrap metal and stolen Combine tech, to the point the All-Consuming Interdimensional Empire had to straight up copy their homework. And that isn't even the only time they seem to be taking human shit to just copy the blueprints.

They 100% just yoinked the entire damn car out of that garage just to take a crack at reverse-engineering the Tau Cannon attached to it. Even Resistance weaponry somehow manages to rival or at least stand equal to Combine tech - and we're talking improvised crossbows that shoot superheated rods of rebar at the target compared to high-tech rifles that can discharge orbs of pure dark energy. The collapse of the entire Citadel is basically set into motion as a result of a cobbled together Rebel device placed into extremely capable hands.

The events of the Portal games are a case of extremely elaborate machinelike planning versus pure human improvisation, with Chell's entire escape in the first game involving her simply weaseling her way through small cracks that GLaDOS missed while setting up her ambushes, eventually turning her own rocket turret against her to destroy her.

I suppose you could argue this falls flat in Portal 2 with Wheatley, but it's important to remember he's designed to be an utter idiot, so it's safe to say he wouldn't obsess over the larger picture like GLaDOS to the point where he fails to see the cracks. Yes, he's the one that breaks Chell out of the test chambers again, and yes, he's the one that came up with the sabotage plot - but it's important to note while he knows what to target in the sabotage, when we actually get there he doesn't quite know how to sabotage it, leaving Chell to figure it out on her own. She botches the Turret Quality Control Line with some minor guidance, but it's basically completely up to her to figure out how to cut off the Neurotoxin Supply. It's through her improvisation that Wheatley even manages to get into GLaDOS' chamber, tumbling through her neurotoxin vent and shattering the glass cage she trapped Chell inside of. It's through Chell's improvisation that the Core Transfer even occurs in the first place.

The script is flipped specifically when Wheatley takes charge, because oops - turns out a mind capable of focusing on the bigger picture might be pretty important when it comes to running an entire facility powered by it's own Reactor. Wheatley just completely zeroes in on his own personal pleasure, hacking up test chambers and the objects within them to try and figure out the easiest way to get his solution euphoria as quick as possible.

Still, something that's pretty interesting is that only Wheatley has ever managed to create a trap that's impossible to foresee and avoid, something GLaDOS has repeatedly failed to do to the point she ends up commending him. I believe this is because his way of thinking is a lot closer to Chell's compared to GLaDOS'. He puts up way more of a fight as the two run through the facility trying to get to him, seemingly improvising on the spot just like Chell has been over the course of the two games. Even his lair would be impossible to survive if it weren't for a single Conversion Gel pipe he somehow failed to notice and remove.

Whether in a laboratory deep beneath the soil or an alien tower tall enough to split the clouds, the ingenuity of even a single person is enough to topple a tower or destroy a supercomputer 3 times over.

Marc Laidlaw put what I'm trying to say into a single sentence when writing for the BreenGrub twitter account:

"The superstructure is riddled with cracks."

[ocean-sunfish-hater]

Straight Out of the Colonial Playbook:

The Myth of Untouched Lands

The Jewish National Fund (JNF) is an organisation with charity status all across the world. Many people know them as the people who use their little blue boxes to collect money to plant trees. They seem to be doing well to reach their goals, having planted over 250 million trees since 1901. All this seems pretty innocuous, perhaps even noble. After all, the idea of planting trees seems quite divorced from violent settler colonialism.

ID: A large slice of watermelon. You can see the Red of the flesh, the black of the seeds, and the white and green of the rind. It is set against a light teal background, a colour that may invoke peace and calm, much like a free Palestine would.

But the two have long, intertwined histories. Just look to the National Parks of the US, used to grab land from Native Americans with the justification that they were "uninhabited". Colonisation of the Arabian peninsula was partially justified with the argument that native Arabs had degraded the environment to the point of desertification,  and colonial rule was the only way they could be saved from themselves [1]. Unsurprisingly, most of the ecological damage in that region had been done by the colonialists themselves in the pursuit of resources.

The JNF isn't just some minor organisation that has unfortunate ties to questionable powers. Though they shroud themselves in the soft words of environmentalism,  they currently stand as one of the primary tools of violence for Zionism.

Established in 1901 by the 5th Zionist Congress in Basel, Switzerland, they have always been an organisation with settler colonial intentions. In 1940, their leader Yosef Weitz, said “There is no way but to transfer the Arabs from [Palestine] to the neighbouring countries, to transfer all of them… not one village must be left… for this goal funds will be found." [2]. You know what happened to him after the first Nakba? He became the head of the JNF's forestry department [3].

According to their own website, they currently stand as the "single largest provider of Zionist programs in the U.S." [4]. They also own about 13% of all state lands in Israel [5]. They have been both a major driver, and unsurprisingly, benefactor from the ongoing Nakba of the Palestinian people.

So how exactly does planting trees feed into settler colonialism? The model works like this:

The Israeli government violently displaces people from their lands in the name of "self-defence".

The land becomes "uninhabited".

The JNF uses funds they have accrued from overseas donations to buy up the land.

They establish a national park in the area and begin to plant trees.

Settlers move into the surrounding regions. The JNF have a policy of not leasing land or accommodation to non-Jewish people [5].

Any remigration of indigenous people back into those lands is framed as "environmental destruction" and those people are forced out once more.

You know what's sneaky? They are using trees as bodies. They don’t have enough people to colonise all the land they've stolen, so they plant trees to occupy the spaces that human bodies cannot. They deliberately use fast growing trees like pines to aid in this pursuit [3]. Each forest acts as an occupying force, just one that uses seeds instead of bullets and trees instead of soldiers.

Most of their efforts are concentrated on Naqab (Negev in Hebrew), a region in the south of Israel mostly consisting of desert. On their website, the JNF boast of their Blueprint Negev initiative, and how it's "transformed Israel’s Negev Desert, making the Southern Israel an attractive place to live and work" [4]. Their mission statement in the Naqab includes the justification that they are providing homes, jobs and opportunities in the "empty" region [6]. One of the slogans have on their website is "Building the Negev, town by town"[6]. This is explicitly a settler colonial project, and all of it can be found on JNF website, in their own words.

And to top it all off, you guessed it, the Naqab is far from uninhabited. It was never empty land. In August 2018, 350 villagers from Umm al-Hiran were displaced to the state-regulated Bedouin township, Hura to accommodate the expansion of the Beit Yatir settlement in the Yatir forest, which was planted by the JNF [5]. In 2010, Nuri-al-Uqbi presented evidence that his ancestors had owned and lived in the lands of al-Araqib since before the Israeli occupation to the courts. In 2010, a Beersheva judge rejected the case, siding with the government's claims that his tribe had no ownership claims on the land [7]. The indigenous peoples of Palestine are constantly disenfranchised, displaced, and have very little means of winning their land back within an Apartheid legal system.

The JNF are using strategies employed by colonial powers in the past to violently seize land from native peoples. Acting under the guise of environmentalism "launders" the colonisation, adding extra steps in between the expulsion of people from their homes and the eventual settlement of that land by colonists, with the added bonus of making the JNF look very good. And you know what? Their reforestation schemes suck. Fast growing, new growth forests in the DESERT are not a substitute for old growth forests, not to mention the enormous amount of water they must be using to keep these forests as, well, forests.

What boils my blood the most is that you can see them honouring their colonial inspirations and sponsors in how they name their parks. Britannia park in the Hebron district obviously takes its name from Britain, a country instrumental in the establishment of the Israeli state and the Nakba that has ensued. Fittingly, it sits upon the ruins of seven Palestinian villages, destroyed by Israel during the first Nakba [8].

And this isn't just stuff that has happened in the past, but is happening right now. JNF UK is currently receiving donations to plant a memorial forest "to commemorate those who were brutally murdered on October 7." For £100, you can plant one tree. For £250, you can contribute to an outdoor seating area for group events. For £36, you can pay for an irrigation system that will provide enough water for one tree for four years [9]. Doesn't it make you angry? 36,000+ Palestinians have been murdered, and the JNF are collecting money to water trees on their graves.

I hate it when scientists stay neutral. We and our work are not divorced from the world around us. Conservation means nothing if it comes at the cost of human lives; it means nothing if it is used to veil the atrocities of colonialism and apartheid. It is our duty as conservationists, and as human beings to hear those whose voices carry cries for help, and answer the call. Do not be won over by the siren song of green colonialism.

Free Palestine. May all empires fall.

Bibliography

[1] Skandrani, Z., Decolonizing ecological research. Journal of Environmental Studies and Sciences, 2018. 8(3): p. 368-370.

[2] Stop the JNF, The JNF, Apartheid and Settler Colonialism. (Spring 2024). https://www.stopthejnf.org/the-jnf-apartheid-and-settler-colonialism-spring-2024/

 [3] Stop the JNF, Tower and Stockades, Forests and Jim Crow Vetting Commitees. https://www.stopthejnf.org/jnfs-sordid-history-tower-and-stockades-forests-and-jim-crow-vetting-committees-by-jonathan-cook/

[4] Jewish National Fund, We are JNF. https://www.jnf.org/menu-3/about-jnf

[5] Amnesty International, ISRAEL: APARTHEID IN ACTION. Amnesty international: submission to the 43rd session of the UPR working group, 9 May 2023.

[6] Jewish National Fund UK, Homepage, https://www.jnf.co.uk/

[7] Jonathan Cook, Bedouins defiant despite Israel eviction plan. https://www.jonathan-cook.net/2014-06-14/bedouins-defiant-despite-israel-eviction-plan/

[8] Palestine Land Society, Britannia Park - Burial and Treachery. https://www.plands.org/en/articles-speeches/articles/2022/britannia-park-burial-and-treachery

[9] Jewish National Fund UK, Green Sunday 2024 – Memorial Forest. https://israelunderattack.jnf.co.uk/projects/green-sunday-2024-memorial-forest/

[permanentmess]

confession (peter maximoff x fem!reader)

a/n: i really wanted to make a part two to this blurb/oneshot where they finally confess to each other, but then work, travel, and entering senior year of college got in the way. sorry about the delay!

this can easily be read as a stand alone + as gender neutral (i think)

word count: 645

warnings: light cussing, fluff, mentions of injuries. meant to just be short and sweet! sort of proofread

GIF NOT MINE

~~~

Despite your intense schedule last week, this week was actually quite lax. Other than the occasional training session or small homework assignment that needed to be graded, you actually were able to relax in your spare time. 

But, you hadn’t seen Peter much. He was sent on multiple missions in a row and you wished he was around. You wanted nothing more than for him to come bother you every spare moment he had, and the ache set itself in your chest the longer you thought of him. 

Shaking your head, you walk to your closet for a pair of pajamas. You grab the most recent book you had picked up from the store and rested against your pillows. The ache subsided, but didn’t leave entirely. 

You’ve been staring at the same page as you have the past five minutes when you get a knock at your door. You furrow your eyebrows, but set a bookmark in your book and open the door. Peter is standing in front of you, X-Men suit still on and hair disheveled. 

“Peter, what are you doing here? I thought you came back tomorrow,” you lean forward to give him a hug but hesitate, because you don’t want to make him uncomfortable. He did just get back from a mission, presumably, and he sometimes got overstimulated from them. 

He almost knocks you back with the force he uses to wrap you in his arms. You wrap your arms around him just as tightly and walk you both back into your room, shutting the door with a quick push of your hand. He buries his face in your neck, mumbling something you can’t quite make out. Your stomach tenses, but you push it down. 

“What?”

“Finished early, and I got hurt and something happened so Charles had me come back.” You try to pull back but he tightens his hold, if that was even possible. 

“You got hurt?”

He nods against you. “‘S nothing. Just some cuts, maybe a broken ankle, it doesn’t matter. I had to pretend I wasn’t a mutant to protect myself so I couldn’t use my powers. Good news is, I got the blueprints.” 

“Peter, what the fuck, sit down.” He won’t let go of you, but you manage to gently push him onto the edge of your bed, wanting to take the weight off of his feet. 

“I’ll be fine. I’ll heal pretty fast,” he says, but even to his own ears he sounds unconvinced. 

“Look at me.” He doesn’t want to leave the comfort of your warmth, but he obliges. He sees tears pooling in your eyes and feels guilty. 

“I promise it’s not that bad. I’ll get help after this, I just had to see you.” 

You continued to look at him, finally analyzing the injuries that you could see, since his body was covered. It looks like he has a black eye forming. His lip is cut open and you reach a finger up to brush the space around the injury. He reaches his hand up to hold yours to his face, so you gently run your thumb along his cheek. Peter winces slightly at the contact with another cut, right where he had placed your hand, but he craves your touch too much to focus on it. 

You’re not sure who leans forward, you’re pretty sure it’s him, but he encapsulates your lips in a gentle kiss. His lips are cracked but you don’t mind, softly running your thumb along a non-hurt part of skin. He takes this as a sign to deepen the kiss, but he quickly runs out of air and pulls back, resting his forehead on yours as he pulls your hand away from his face, holding it instead. 

“I think I may have broken some ribs,” he winces. 

“Peter!”

He grins and goes in to kiss you again.

[whimsicallywiddershins]

The entire fandom agrees that Percy Jackson has some scary eldritch qualities that humans notice. But I think that all the demigods do, even if most of the effects are more subtle. Powerful demigods are super noticeable, but even the weakest are scary to normal people. But I like to imagine some of my favorites:

Annabeth looks at people like she's dissecting a blueprint, and nothing about them is hidden. She turns her head at odd angles, like an owl. She notices small things and goes completely still, staring, like a bird of prey who just saw a mouse. People feel unsettled by her gaze, like every weakness and vulnerability are no longer hidden.

Hazel's hair, skin and eyes seem to shine metallic when the light catches just right. Sometimes her motions are rigid and awkward, like she hadn't used her limbs for a long time, like she isn't used to having a body. Her shadow is a deeper black than it should be, is bigger than it should be, and doesn't always move with the light.

Nico's skin is sometimes almost translucent, like he is more ghost than human. You can almost see the muscle and bones beneath it. His eyes catch and hold people, so dark and deep it feels like they are falling an incredibly long distance into dark water and earth. His shadow is also too dark. Sometimes, people swear they can hear faint screaming from his shadow, like thousands of tormented souls are trapped inside.

Jason has fangs, more wolf than human. His mouth opens wider than it should, and he looks at people like he is thinking of the best way to hunt and catch and rip and tear. His eyes are too blue and he always smells like ozone. People want to bow to him as he walks by. People want to run, but instinctively know that he will chase them, and they wait, frozen, for him to pass.

Thalia, like Jason, is a hunter. Her eyes are too blue, too vivid, and she stares people down like she is already picturing them riddled with arrows. She tracks small sounds with terrifying intensity. Brushing up against her will deliver a horrible static shock, and power lines and lights flicker and buzz when she walks by.

Will's hair is too bright. His skin glows, especially at night. At first, it seems to be a sweet thing, his good nature shining though. But sometimes when people touch him, they burn. Just standing near him is too much, like standing in the direct sun on a hot summer day.

Piper's face seems to change, every time someone turns to look at her. Subtle, but someone's subconscious is screaming that this girl is different, something is wrong. Her voice trills, like a bird, when she in happy. People can't help but to follow her and when she is gone, they feel bereft. She is too beautiful, and it hurts to look, but people can't help themselves and look anyways.

Leo is always hot to the touch. His fingers and limbs feel rough and metallic, his hair curls like wire. His eyes glitter like polished coins and when he walks by, cars and computers and machines start up and move on their own, just for a moment. He runs across a busy street and the cars stop for him with no regard for what the driver is doing.

Frank doesn't move like a human. He glides, slinks, pads softly and so quietly most people don't notice him. He had an aura of command. Frank seems so normal and average, but angry or upset people look at him and know that they can't take him. Sometimes, when he is angry, people get upset and fights start in his wake.

[astaroth1357]

Devildom "Marriage/Proposal"

Again. Probably not too Christian-coded in Hell.

Contents: Satanic themes, possessive behavior mentioned

~♡♡♡~

First off, there's a big difference between a demon bonding with another demon vs. binding to a human. There's a lot more equal ground in the former, but the power dynamics are inherently different in the latter.

Traditionally, a demon "marrying" a human is usually used as the highest form of reward to an incredibly loyal follower. It's basically a way for a demon to point them out and make it clear, "This one is my favorite!"

Demons binding themselves to humans out a genuine connection is not unheard of, of course, but it's frightfully rare. Only handful may every do this at a time and not even Solomon has managed to pull it off despite the number of pacts under his belt.

It's this rare because to reform the new pact, the demon has to give up their grimoire (the books that more or less act as substitute for a demon's heart and soul) to their partner. It's like handing away the essence of their very being to another.

When demons bind with each other, the grimoire exchange is mutual. However, since humans don't have grimoire, binding to a human is seen as an act of extreme sacrifice and humility on the demon's part. It's truly the only kind of pact they have where the risks lie mostly with them.

Possessing a demon's grimoire is like literally owning the blueprint to their bodies. All of their powers, history, thoughts, and fears are detailed out within them. Every single weakness or spell to control them hides inside as well...

Because of this, demons take this decision very, VERY seriously. If your relationship falls apart, you don't want something that important left in the hands of your ex. A vast majority of demons never even show their grimoires, much less give them away.

A demon will only ever have one grimoire to share, so they can only ever be bound to one individual at a time. A human can technically be bound to multiple demons and having a binding pact does not erase lesser pacts, but again, it would be rare.

When an individual is in possession of a demon's grimoire, they will always be able to materialize it with just a slight flick of the wrist. Having it on their person will also be enough for them to summon the owner at will, barely a whisper necessary.

A demon will already show up stronger than usual if they're summoned by their grimoire, but using any added enchantments inside will only increase their power tenfold. A good caster can turn their partner into supercharged war machine with minimal effort.

There's a certain oneness between the pair that comes from binding that goes far beyond your average pact. The demon and their partner get the heightened ability to "read" each other. It's not full on telepathy, but they gain a preternatural sense for just how the other is feeling. An entire conversation can be held in the span of seconds with merely few glances and a shrug between them.

Demons are also EXTREMELY protective of their bound partners, which kind of makes sense considering what they're carrying around. They're not very good at hiding it either. We're talking full fangs out and deep, guttural growls at even the most minor of threats.

The offer of the grimoire is technically seen as the "proposal" and acceptance commences the "marriage." It's a big deal with when high-ranking demons decide to do this, so it's often celebrated by a public wedding ceremony.

The Grimores

Lucifer's grimoire has a real gothic flare to it. The whole thing is jet black leather with blood red rubies fixed to the spine and fine layer of gold leaf pressed into the corners. No matter where it's being kept, cover will always feel a bit cold to the touch... The pages are thick and textured, with every word inside written inside done in a careful, nearly mechanical hand. Perfectly legible. Technically flawless. Though certain pages are written with some hesitation, particularly the ones that go over his past...

Mammon's grimoire is, arguably, the most beautiful of the bunch. It's snow white with brilliant gold accents on the spine and along the edges. His personal sigil, painted in shimmering light, takes up most of the front cover and mesmerizes any eye that catches its shine. It's a little on the slim side, though, due in part to how thin pages are inside. Reading it can be a bit messy because the caster can always see whatever words have been scrawled out on the back of the page...

Leviathan's grimoire looks like something straight out of a sunken treasure chest. The brownish-violet leather used to bind it feels real, and it is, though it couldn't have come from any mortal creature on land. The edges are worn down and cracking from neglect, giving the whole thing a certain fragility over the rest... The pages are yellowed and hard from water damaged, yet the words inside still survive... even if parts of them are a tad smudged.

Satan's grimoire could probably pass for 18th century notebook. It too is leather bound, but it doesn’t have the same flare as his older brothers'. If anything, it has a very DIY feel to it, where the cover has a little glue in places it shouldn't and the rough-feeling pages don't all fit quite right. It feels more like a field journal than a demonic tome, perhaps adding to the distinct aura of rebellion radiating off of it... The script inside seems to change from page to page with some part written neatly and other parts apparently scrawled out in a rage. Legibility may vary.

Asmodeus' grimoire looks more like a decorative art piece than a book at times... The wine red cover is smooth and shiny with polished gems affixed like a spider's web on the front. Asmo's grimore is unique in that it is the only one that comes with a lock on it, one that can only be lifted by a spell only he knows. The penmanship inside is naturally beautiful, though sometimes the added flare of loops and flourishes gets in the way keeping everything readable.

Beelzebub's grimoire is deceptively simple looking compared to the others. It looks like your standard leather-bound book and aside from its surprising thickness, not much stands out about it. Even the engraving of his sigil on the cover doesn't have any extra color or shadow to it. But when it's open, the most gorgeous words lie inside as if penned by a master calligrapher. Every bit of space is used appropriately and each letter is clean, clear, and fluidly handled. It's not only legible, it's breathtaking and obviously done with a lot of time and care.

Belphegor's grimoire looks like a void in the space around it. It goes beyond the jet black of Lucifer's cover to an almost true black from cover to pages. You wouldn't even know that it's made of leather unless you felt it because it reflects no light and it betrays no design. Running a hand across it, though, does reveal the ridges of Belphie's sigil craved into the front and back cover. The black pages all have words are written in a bright, silvery, and iridescent ink. Parts of the pages also look seem to contain spilled stardust ready to fly off into the air. The penmanship is a little simple, compared to the rest, but nothing that can't be skimmed at a glance if need be.

Diavolo's grimoire could kill a man from its weight alone. The book is far too big for any shelf and thick with heavily textured, papyrus-like paper. No matter who has it, it will always feel as if a supernatural force is trying to pull it from their hands... Seeing much past its burgundy, black, and gold cover is more or less impossible but what's there truly befits royalty. Every aspect of the design is flawless, with polished onyx as black as night embedded in the spine and ancient symbols peppered between golden spindle-like filigree. One can only imagine what exactly is so forbidden on the inside though...

Barbatos' (true) grimoire is an honest to god mystery... No one has ever seen it and Solomon theorizes that he keeps it in a particularly empty timeline. If asked what it looks like, Barbatos will share that it's simply "a green book," but not elaborate much farther before changing the subject... One has to assume, though, it's probably as thick as a tree trunk with all the history within those pages and for the cover...? He's had all of the time in the world to make it something truly special.

[cherubfae]

𝔞𝔩𝔞𝔰𝔱𝔬𝔯'𝔰 𝔩𝔞𝔪𝔢𝔫𝔱 || {𝔞𝔩𝔞𝔰𝔱𝔬𝔯 𝔵 𝔗𝔑𝔅ℭ 𝔞𝔲}

What if all this power as an Overlord has grown tiring for Alastor? Sure, he likes it. But can he even hope to yearn for something different? Could helping the hotel be his missing piece? Could you?

tags: gn!afab!reader, half-ragdoll!sinner!reader, Jack Skellington!Alastor, hurt/comfort, loneliness, implied abuse, blood/gore, protective!Alastor, friends to lovers

From his little corner of Hell, Alastor could see the pale white moon embedded in the red sea sky from his radio tower. On a rare night where the moon could be seen so clearly, it left a deep sense of melancholy within his chest; even his dead heart ached.

All of his years as an Overlord seemed to drain him. Bartering souls had been his greatest pleasure, and sure, he was rather powerful but now that he had all this power; what was it worth to keep gaining? He was already one of the most feared. He sought out a new career path, to become Hazbin's hotelier to rehabilitate demons! It gave him a spark of interest that had been lost in him for centuries. Everything came easy to Alastor. Everything except you.

What a simply fascinating creature you were! Able to unstitch your limbs and sew them back together good as new! He considered you one of his dearest friends, a lovely thought always lingering in the back of his mind. Yet time and time again you seemed to slip away into the night before he could say anything, or even thank you for the lovely vintage wine you'd gifted him. Like a whisper in the dark, you had disappeared.

Not even Rosie had seen you. Which was growing more and more worrisome with the more the hours ticked on by. Where could you have gone? Were you alright? It was an uncommonly chilly night in Hell, thanks to an ice demon casting a spell over the lands as of recent. It was certainly no weather to be out and about in if one could help it.

The Radio Demon was aware of the unsavory living conditions you kept living with your adopted father and self-appointed 'creator' (which was wholly untrue), Dr. Twisttike, having invited you to live at the Hazbin Hotel. Even Charlie, Princess of Hell, had cordially invited you but the two were unaware of just how tightly you were bound to an over- controlling demon. One who claimed that he made you, therefore you were his.

Shaking his head, Alastor fretted over his blueprints for a new radio tower design, yet that inescapable feeling of dread continued to gnaw at his bones like a starved dog. He runs his hand over his face, down the red pinstriped suit, stopping to adjust his black buck shaped bowtie. Its glimmering red eyes blinked. This will simply not do. He needed to find you.

Hidden away, locked inside of your 'room' once more by the demon who held your chain so tightly, you weep silently to yourself. "And will he see how much he means to me?"

"Will you stop that dreadful singing?" Dr. Twisttike hissed, grasping your glowing pale blue chain and yanking you harshly. You fall to your knees, scraping your hands against the dirty concrete. Red abrasions collected on your palms, threatening to break the surface of your skin. "Your lover boy, Alastor, won't be coming for you, dear. You think you can keep up with a demon such as him? Look at yourself. You can't even keep your stitches together. Next time I make a ragdoll, I'll make one out of proper cloth and not flesh like you. All you do is cry and bleed." Clicking his tongue, he leaves you crying on the cold ground.

With your knees tucked to your chest, you sigh. That brute of a man--demon, oftentimes left you more undone than anything else did. Constantly pulling apart your stitches and not letting you put yourself back together. He almost let you catch fire a few weeks ago. Sure, none of this could kill you. But that didn't mean that it doesn't hurt when it happens.

Standing to look out your window, you hum to yourself. You could see the peak of Alastor's radio tower from here, the full moon rising behind like a great beacon. An immense sense of longing filled your body, you hoped he was looking at the same moon and feeling the same way as you. With a gasp, you slip through the partially opened gap and allow yourself to fall to the cobblestone. More abrasions and bruises from, your blood coagulating from your missing limbs.

Plucking out a needle from behind your ear, you begin to sew yourself back together, hissing softly around a particular tender area. Standing on rather wobbly feet at first until you break out into a sprint before your Overlord can know you've left. Your other arm was left behind, but you couldn't be bothered with that now. You needed to get away, heading towards the highest hill of town, near Alastor's tower.

Alastor frantically searches around town. There's still no sign of you anywhere. Dread continues to eat away at him, until he finds himself standing outside the gates of your home. The dread boils away into anger. Your sweet scent lingers in the air mixed with the scent of blood and fear. You were hurt. Bleeding. He wills himself to calm down, his claws bending through metal gates as he pushes them open with brute force.

"Ah, Alastor! Welcome, welcome, come in my dear boy!" Dr. Twisttike's serpentine tail swishes behind him, allowing the tall redhead into the cramped and dingey house.

Even for Hell's standards, the old and decrepit house was absolutely deplorable. A sulfuric musty smell hung in the air, damp with black mold and cobwebs clinging to every viable rafter.

Tension wafted through the air, Alastor's scarlet eyes turning into radio dials. In an instant, he's turned into his full demon form, mouth sewn by green stitches. A glowing green chain wraps taught around Dr. Twisttike, sending him to the ground with a harsh thud.

"Where are they?" Alastor's neck cracks at an ungodly angle, the echo of screams surrounding him. When Twisttike fails to speak, Alastor yanks the chain harshly, his heeled shoe slamming down onto the demon's claw, snapping it clean off. Black inky blood oozes from the putrid wound. "I won't ask again, good man. Where are they?"

Dr. Twisttike rasps, "Upstairs! Their bedroom! Please, stop!" Alastor snaps his fingers, the demon's limbs and extremities are bound by glowing green rope.

Alastor thunders up the spiral staircase. "My dearest! Are you here?" His eyes are frantic, wild. His ears stand alert, waiting for any sign of your lovely voice calling out to him. The only answer he receives is a perplexing silence. He rounds the corner to enter your door lies and snarls. "A cell? You keep my darling in a goddamned cell?"

Blowing the door off the hinges, Alastor surveys the small, cramped room. There's a bare bed with a single flimsy blanket and ragged old pillow. Small splatters of bloodstains stain those sheets. A tiny dresser to the right of the bed holding a single analog clock that seems to have stopped working long ago. The walls are bare of any color and character, with peeling paint and black mold scuttled around the corners of the ceiling like soot sprites. Everything he knows that you love and adore does not reflect in your room. There was no personalization, there was no you. It's uncomfortably damp. It was nothing short of a miracle that you weren't sick.

"You pitiful creature, keeping my beloved in such conditions. Why I should--," Alastor's sentence does in the back of his throat, noticing something half-hanging out the window. A dismembered arm, the thread of your stitches caught on a rusty nail. Carefully expecting it, he gently traces the stitch marks. "Hmm, it appears I have no more use for you, Dr. Twisttike."

A sickening squelch echoes throughout the house as Dr. Twisttike's body splatters all across the walls. Alastor's slithering tentacle removes itself from the corpse, shaking off the blood before retreating into his back. There isn't much left of the poor fool other than the remains of his guts and brain matter. Alastor carefully dabs his cheek free of blood, holding your severed arm close to his chest. He exits, form swallowed by darkness and shadow. Behind him, the home ignites into hellish green flames.

It did not take long for Alastor to find you. You nearly took his breath away. Your gaze is so beautiful and forlorn, sitting on a hill with the clearest view of the large full moon. The silver light casts delicate shadows against your skin as you hum a soft song to yourself. What a true, ethereal beauty you are.

"My dearest friend," rumbles Alastor, his tone a delicate purr. You stand in surprise, which quickly melts into a delicate smile. "If you don't mind, I'd like to join you by your side. Where we can gaze into the stars," Alastor gently reattached your arm, green magic carefully sewing it back on you.

"And sit together."

"Now and forever."

"For it as plain as anyone could see, we're simply meant to be." With a gentle embrace, Alastor presses his lips to yours, tugging you into his arms and off the chilly ground.

|| ᴘʟᴇᴀꜱᴇ ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ʀᴇᴘᴏꜱᴛ, ʀᴇᴜꜱᴇ, ᴏʀ ᴇᴅɪᴛ ᴍʏ ᴡᴏʀᴋꜱ ɪɴ ᴀɴʏ ᴡᴀʏ! ɪ ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ɢɪᴠᴇ ᴘᴇʀᴍɪꜱꜱɪᴏɴ. ᴛᴜᴍʙʟʀ ɪꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ᴏɴʟʏ ꜱɪᴛᴇ ᴡʜᴇʀᴇ ɪ ᴘᴏꜱᴛ. ᴀʟʟ ᴄʜᴀʀᴀᴄᴛᴇʀꜱ ʙᴇʟᴏɴɢ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇɪʀ ʀɪɢʜᴛꜰᴜʟ ᴏᴡɴᴇʀ ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴛᴏʀʏ ʙᴇʟᴏɴɢꜱ ᴛᴏ ᴍᴇ © ᴄʜᴇʀᴜʙꜰᴀᴇ 2024 ||

[hitoshitoshi]

Trouble in Paradise [Sylus x GenderNeutral!Reader]

Summary: What can possibly go wrong with a secret or two? Tags: Betrayal, Pet Names, Revenge, Angst, Trust Issues, Manipulation, Character Death, Murder, Love and Loss.

Sylus had always prided himself on his razor-sharp instincts, the edge that kept him perpetually ahead of the game. For years, he navigated a world where loyalty was a fragile, glass-thin construct, always teetering on the verge of shattering. Trust was a rare treasure, guarded by walls of cold, calculated indifference—except for a very select few.

In Sylus' carefully curated circle, beyond Kieran, Luke, and Mephisto, there was you. Sylus treated you differently. His eyes softened in your presence, offering leniency that others could only dream of. You had access to his world in ways others could not comprehend. He showered you with gifts, his black card was yours to wield, and though his men feared him, you—and only you—could brush off his authority as if it were mere dust on your shoulder.

Then one night, under a moon hanging low like an omen, Sylus discovered the duplicity. A confidential file—blueprints for an illegal Evol weapon with destabilizing potential intended for Onychinus's next major move—had vanished. And the only one with unrestricted access to the base was you.

Rage simmered beneath Sylus's stoic mask as reality cascaded over him like a cruel avalanche. His thoughts were a chaotic storm, yet meticulously piecing together every interaction, every smile, every touch now reeking of deceit.

How could I have been so blind?

The realization gnawed at Sylus’s core, each memory now tainted by your betrayal. Rarely did he harbor regrets, always driven by the relentless pace of his life. His philosophy was clear: never look back, never regret—after all, the past was immutable. Sylus lived by this principle, until tonight. His singular, irrevocable regret wasn’t meeting you; it was allowing himself to become weak. Weak to a puny, disgusting, and utterly immoral kitten—you.

-

When Sylus called you into the room that night, the dread was palpable. You entered the room, naive to the storm brewing in his mind. 

You asked Sylus, “Sylus, you wanted to see me?” 

Sylus didn’t speak immediately. Instead, he studied you, his eyes boring into yours, searching for a trace of the person he thought you were. Your eyes were filled with curiosity —  eyes that Sylus had now grown to loathe in such a short time. The silence was long and heavy, a prelude to the tempest. 

“I trusted you,” Sylus began, his voice was unsettlingly low and chilling. “More than I trusted myself.” What was worse was how calm Sylus seemed on the outside, “And you had made a fool out of me”. 

You flinched as you realized that this was about something more, “Sylus, please, this isn’t what you think. It was a mistake—” 

“A mistake?” Sylus cut you off as he laughed humorlessly, echoing off the walls, “No, sweetheart. A mistake is mixing up the twins. What you did was betrayal of the highest order.” 

Sylus stepped closer, and the air seemed to thicken with each word, each deliberate step. “You sold out Onychinus for what? Money? Power? Or were you just looking for your next thrill?” His voice was a quiet storm, each word was like a lightning bolt aiming to strike you down.

Your eyes brimmed with tears as desperation clawed at your throat, “I can explain, Sylus. I didn’t mean to—I thought—”

Sylus cut you off, his hand wrapped around your wrist with just enough pressure to convey his restraint. “Enough. You were different, or at least I wanted to believe you were. I showed you trust, affection—even let you touch me. And what do I get in return? Treachery, disguised as love."

Sulus’ eyes softened momentarily, his anger eclipsed by a deeper sorrow, a betrayal that cut through the very core of him. He released your wrist, a final mark to the end of everything. “You’ve misunderstood the gravity of what you’ve done. Ochychinus doesn’t tolerate betrayal, and neither do I.”

You stood there, frozen, your frantic pleas suffocated by the oppressive silence in the room. The man before you, who once treated you like a prized possession, now loomed like an unforgiving storm. His red eyes bore into you with an intensity that sent shivers down your spine, each breath you took drowned in a sea of dread.

"Sylus, please," you whispered, voice cracked and desperate, tears streaming down your face. "I never meant for any of this—"

Sylus scoffed, cutting you off with a venomous contempt. "Spare me the dramatics. Intentions are worthless now. What you did—there’s no coming back from it. You've shown me exactly what you are."

The room felt suffocating, the walls seeming to close in as Sylus's fury filled the space. His hand moved with a hypnotic slowness, the barrel of his gun pressing against your temple, the chill of metal burning into your skin.

"You think you can talk your way out of this?" Sylus hissed. "Think again. Betrayal isn't something I tolerate. No second chances. No redemption. Just consequences."

Sylus’ grip on your wrist lightened, but the pressure was a stark reminder of the power he wielded, the finality of his decision. Tears blurred your vision, but you could feel the raw, unyielding rage radiating off him. The man who once showed you kindness and leniency was gone. In his place stood the ruthless leader of Onychinus, a man ready to crush anyone who dared defy him.

"I let you in," Sylus continued, his voice a bitter whisper. "And you threw it all away. For what? It doesn’t matter. What's done is done." He leaned in closer, his poisoned breath brushing against your ear. "You don’t get to plead for mercy, not after what you’ve done. This is the end for you. Consider it a lesson you'll take to your grave."

Sylus's eyes never left yours as his finger tightened on the trigger, the click of the safety off echoing in the heavy silence.

"Goodbye, sweetheart," Sylus said, the nickname once filled with playful affection now a cruel mockery, a final and irreversible verdict.

The room filled with the deafening roar of a single gunshot. In that instant, the world seemed to pause, the sound reverberating through every corner, marking the end of trust, of what once was. The reality of Sylus’s wrath descended in one final, unforgiving act—the betrayal answered with an unstoppable force.

Sylus stood over your lifeless body, a cold, detached serenity settling over him. In his world, betrayal warranted only one response—an end. No second chances. No forgiveness. You were just lucky that he didn’t draw out your inevitable death.

A/N: Nothing much to say other than trouble in paradise fr

If you like otome games, including Love and Deepspace, you should join Linkon Lounge! A discord server that's LGBTQ+ friendly (only serving those who are 18+) where we all can share our interests, talk to roleplaying bots (Caleb, Rafayel, Zayne, Xavier, and Sylus), and have fun game, movie, and stream nights where we stream games and/or cards that we pulled that others want to see. It would be super fun to have you as a member of our server.

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Masterlist

[viiioca]

[ roevember day 5 - stargazing ]

Meteion is certainly a little marvel, is she not? An "entelechy," as Hermes called her -- a creature whose very nature is to connect to some specific energy frequency with fantastic sensitivity and precision, and then translate the information stored there. She is to this "dynamis" what the Echo seems to be to aether; if Krile's gift is to sense thoughts and feelings through said aether, and it is indeed an immutable property of the soul she has inherited, then it stands to reason that its current Unsundered owner would be possessed of an ability not too dissimilar from Meteion's, and yet. Unlike an Ancient's soul, this is a feature that can be created at will and then replicated. The capacity to connect to anyone and anything packaged in the shape of a little girl, arranged into a tidy blueprint, to be produced at any scale? A very finely crafted instrument indeed. Based on Hermes' artful dodging, she does not need a soul to accomplish this as the Echo does. No, he did not even see the need to equip her with irrelevant functions, like a gustatory system, or digestion. To have her own experiences -- her own thoughts, her own feelings -- would add noise to the data, would it not? And make no mistake: attuned to the value of life as he is, Hermes did not make this little creature for any reason but a purpose.

And what a purpose it is. For all his frustration with his own people, what he has accomplished here is inextricable from them: in this beautiful world where conflict is the domain of beastly, lesser life, where such bleak ideas as war and famine and plague are thought exercises meant for the halls of rhetoric, Hermes would not have even begun to imagine the universe as an inherently ugly and random place. He would not have had the benefit of firsthand accounts of those from distant stars who have traveled that long, cold black; he could not have met Midgardsormr or Omega and seen the cost of that journey, the price of that war. It has not happened yet. No -- like any pitiable mortal, his only point of reference is the immediate. Mortality is an injustice inflicted on those with less power by those with more. Hunger as a driver of violence among mankind is a fiction; abundance is a fact. The creation of Meteion is an act of relentless optimism by a man attempting to expand his understanding of the universe, who does not believe that the truth could be any worse than the truth of the world right here, right now. How terrible could it possibly be?

I asked Meteion just how many sisters she had out there traveling the Sea of Stars, wandering that lonely nothing between those brief islands of life, with no comfort afforded them save what they can taste secondhand.

Hundreds, she said.

[melanin-melanina]

[avocadotoast0]

Due to Disney and Lucasfilm's cowardice, we've reached a troubling point where racists and bigots believe that harassing actors from different shows will lead to cancellations if their loud hatred is met with success. Their tactics have now been validated by the cancellation of The Acolyte.

The Rings of Power and actors were already facing hate for bigoted reasons, but now it's evident that the same kind of targeted harassment (from the acolyte) is being used as a blueprint to get other shows canceled. I'm deeply sickened that Disney and Lucasfilm have enabled this behavior. As a result, any show or film featuring Black actors is now likely to face similar harassment that’s 10x worse after what happened to The Acoylte.

We need more big publications to hold Disney and Lucasfilm accountable for fostering this toxic behavior. Maybe if they become the face of the bigotry and harassment, they might start protecting their actors.

[nowimjustastranger]

Somebody to Call My Own Timeline

Don't put me on blast if this is incorrect, I had to tweak the canon timeline since Ford doesn't meet Bill/build the portal. Fiddleford's timeline was also altered to fit the narrative.

May 1969:

Ford & Stan are 17

Stan is kicked out

September 1969:

Ford & Stan are 18 (their birthday is June 15th)

Unable to find the funds for a better college endeavor, Ford attends Backupsmore University. His roommate is Fiddleford just like in canon.

June 1970:

Stan commits suicide on their 19th birthday.

Ford falls into a depression & Fiddleford helps him keep up in college while he grieves. Their bond grows deeper because of this, closer to family than friends when Ford eventually puts himself back together.

June 1974:

Ford graduates three years ahead of schedule at 23 years old.

He moves to Gravity Falls w/ Fiddleford to continue their research concerning dimension travel.

They design and build the first prototype of the wormhole gun, scraping it to try again when the results are decidedly explosive.

Ford is working on drafting blueprints for a side project, it's the first stages of what will become the technology that will allow him to predict/alter the future.

January 1981:

Ford is 31

Ford & Fiddleford complete the final version of the wormhole gun.

They begin testing with inanimate objects.

The future reader is a handheld device, unpolished and clunky, but it works and that's what matters.

Fiddleford refines the design to make it work better, compacting the technology into a repurposed biker helmet. The visor also acts as a screen, displaying the encoded data for Ford to read.

Fiddleford wants Ford to hide his identity while traveling the multiverse since he's in possession of revolutionary and dangerous technology. Ford agrees that it would be for the best.

January 1982:

Ford is 32

Ford uses the wormhole gun to enter the multiverse for the first time.

Ford remains in contact w/ Fiddleford using a special radio that locks onto it's twin's frequency even across dimensions.

Ford uses an altered version of the unicorn hair spell to seal off his dimension (it was Fiddleford's idea to protect their dimension from potential threats). Only Ford knows how to get inside.

February 1982:

Ford is still 32

Ford meets Bill.

Bill helps Ford adjust to the multiverse, teaching him tricks and skills to survive.

Ford finds Bill interesting because he can't see into Bill's future, his curiosity about the entity blinding him to Bill's true intentions.

Ford studies Bill with the demon's consent, and they become friends in the process.

Bill keeps trying to sweet talk/trick Ford into making a deal w/ him in order to get into Ford's head and find the cipher so he can read the data about the future, but Ford declines each time.

Bill can't just take the helmet from Ford because it has unicorn hair embedded in the frame.

March 1984:

Ford is 34

Bill drops the act and betrays Ford.

Fiddleford loses contact w/ Ford after the radio is destroyed by Bill when the demon takes Ford captive.

One of Bill's human pets (a resident of the conquered dimension) removes the helmet from Ford's head since Bill himself can't touch it, Bill keeping it as a trophy while he attempts to break Ford.

March 1994:

Ford is 44

Bill tortures Ford for ten years, trying to get Ford to either make a deal or just tell him how to read the encoded data. Ford won't budge.

Fiddleford, not knowing what else to do, maintains the shack in Gravity Falls in the hopes that Ford will return one day.

Fiddleford also tries to track Ford down using the helmet's signal, but he's had no success so far.

Bill slips up by not bothering to chain Ford up after a fresh round of torture, Ford taking the opportunity to build a bomb with the destructive power of a black hole while Bill is busy greeting his freaks.

The Axolotl saves Ford's life by pulling him out of the dimension right as the bomb goes off. The Axolotl heals Ford's body, but the mental and emotional wounds from his imprisonment remain.

April 1994:

Ford is still 44

Ford fully commits himself to his mission to travel the multiverse, helping numerous versions of his brother get a happy ending.

Ignores his trauma like a boss.

He doesn't return to his dimension, unable to face Fiddleford and the questions he'd inevitably ask about where Ford had been for the past ten years. Emotional repression at it's finest.

Meanwhile, unbeknownst to Ford, Fiddleford was finally able to pinpoint where the helmet is. So Fiddleford knows Ford is alive, but he isn't sure why Ford hasn't come back yet.

This causes Fiddleford to obsess over the helmet, half convinced that Ford's dead and that someone else is in possession of the device.

So his next project is to somehow confirm whether or not Ford is the one wearing the helmet, planning to deactivate the device if Ford's dead.

June 2006:

Ford is 57, 13 years have passed since he was saved.

Ford comes across the Stan from dimension 77/H and ends up nabbing him from his dimension.

Ford has far more advanced technology than what earth is capable of, taking inspiration from the dimensions he's visited to design a tattoo made of nanobots that allow him to teleport short distances, he still has to use the gun for long distances. But if he can see his destination, he can teleport there with the tattoo. The ink is red and the tattoo is the outline of the Stan o' War.

Fiddleford had long since figured out that Ford was still in possession of the helmet due to scanning his brainwaves and comparing them to the brainwaves he has on record from the initial testing of the helmet.

After confirming that the brainwaves are an exact match, Fiddleford then locks the helmet biometrically so only Ford's brainwaves can activate/operate it, giving himself peace of mind by adding the extra security measure.