#but then i Realized the Potential and had to do something worthwhile with it

[kijosakka]

im not kidding this aftermath chapter is going to send me into an early grave

WEHY IS THIS AFTERMATH SEGMENT SO HARDDDD :(

[tune-on-in-folks]

Day two of kinktober! This took me all day and it's not even edited. (I love working retail) Considering this and the fact I am rusty with writing, and don't write smut- there are 100% mistakes.

Regardless, I still wrote it!

Tags/warnings: Sex pollen/aphrodisiac, Love Potion, reader nearly gets drugged, Vox drinks the drugged drink instead, Valentino is here and speaks like once, blowjob, face fucking, dub-con potentially? Word Count: 2,040

Vox was thoroughly bored.

He was entertaining Valentino and Velvette by accompanying the two to the newest club that had opened under the Vees’ name. These types of joints weren’t his favorite, especially when he knew he had work to do. The sinners attempting to fawn over him were also starting to grate on his nerves. How many times did he have to show that he wasn’t interested for them to get the hint?

“Ooo, look who’s at the bar, Voxxy.” Valentino purred into his ear, pointing with his cigarette holder.

Vox begrudgingly looked over not expecting to see anyone or anything worthwhile. But then he saw you, right next to the person Valentino was pointing out. Vox recognized you instantly. You were an employee, working just underneath his own assistant. His eyes narrowed as he took in your frown and bored expression. You looked like you were having as much fun as he was- none at all. You were clearly with the person who Valentino had his eyes on, but you looked disinterested, like you had been dragged here. Vox watched as you waved off your friend as they headed towards the dance floor.

He found himself shifting on the couch next to Val, growing slightly restless as he watched a sinner approach you and offer to buy you a drink. He couldn’t hear what was being said, being too far away. But Vox knew he didn't like the person who was interacting with you. Vox watched you for a moment more, his gaze never wavering.

“Vox…Vox!” Valentino hissed, trying to get his attention.

Finally he relented his attention, eyes snapping back towards the moth demon, his face twisting with a scowl, “What, Val?”

Valentino gave him a knowing look, quirking an eyebrow. “Oh I see, found yourself a prize, hmm? Well you better go grab them before he does.”

Vox looked back over towards you, in time to see the sinner that was pestering you, pull out a vile of something. Something he quickly realized was the Love Potion Velvette and Valentino had developed. He found himself standing quickly, compelled by something in him he didn’t want to digest. His steps were fast- hurried, as he walked over to you, never letting you out of his sight.

Vox stepped up beside the man who had just drugged  the drink he had bought for you.

The sinner turned around, annoyed at being interrupted only to pale as he recognized Vox.

“Leave.” Vox growled, his voice low and angry.

He watched the sinner scurry away with cold eyes. When he was out of sight, Vox turned to you, his gaze intense.

“You should be more careful.” He said, his voice still low but considerably softer.

You hadn’t been expecting your boss of all people to save you from that annoying sinner, but regardless, you were thankful.

“Thank you.” You breathed, “For getting rid of that asshole, he wasn’t taking a hint.”

“I’d say.” Vox commented, watching as you brought the drink to your lips.

Panic surged through him as he watched you, his hand quickly pulling the drink from your own grasp. He slammed the drink down, grimacing at the strong taste of liquor and the sickeningly sweet taste of the Love Potion.

“What the fuck, sir?” You exclaim, your brows knitted in confusion and annoyance at him stealing your drink.

Vox swayed, the effects of the drug beginning to kick in. “It was drugged.”

Your eyes widened in realization, horror running through you as you grappled with the fact that you were almost drugged. Which morphed into more horror as you realized Vox had just drank the entire thing. You stood up, your hands reaching for him as his eyes fluttered.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” You whispered, biting your lip.

You didn’t know what to do, you didn’t know what the effect of the drug was or how it would affect Vox. He was an Overlord, surely it wouldn’t affect him like it would have affected you?

You swallowed, forcing yourself to take a deep breath to calm your nerves. “Sir, do you think you can teleport back to V-Tower?”

Vox’s mind was swimming, his senses swirling in a dizzying array. Your voice sounded distant and your touch on his biceps felt electrifying. But he managed to understand what you were asking. His arms slid around your waist, pulling you against him as he teleported.

The two of you stumbled out of a camera right outside of his penthouse suite. Vox let you go in favor of catching himself against the wall. You just barely managed to stay upright, never having traveled through electricity before. You hadn’t even been aware that Vox could take anyone along with him when he did that. You spin around, your eyes finding Vox’s already on you.

“Sir?” You implore, taking a step towards him, “Are you alright?”

He groaned, shaking his head. “No. Fuck! No, I’m not.”

You watched him stumble towards the doors before following after him. You were the reason Vox was now drugged, it was only reasonable you made sure that he was okay. You wrapped your arm around him, trying your best to support some of his weight.

“Come on, let's get you to bed.” You say softly, slowly moving towards where you thought his bedroom might be.

Vox seemed conscious enough to help you out, walking on his own for the most part.

He collapsed onto his bed, closing his eyes. He was aware that you were standing over him, nervous and unsure of what to do. You didn’t want to leave him. Not in this state. He cracked an eye open, his hands moving down to unbuckle his belt. You watched, your face flushing as he began to remove his pants. You turn away, unsure of why you had even been watching him in the first place.

The sound of fabric being removed fills your ears making your face heat up even further.

“Are you okay…” You begin to ask again, not sure exactly what to say or do for that matter.

“Come here.” Came his voice, sounding surprisingly clear despite still being under the influence of the drug.

You glance back towards him, your eyes widening when you see he had managed to kick off his pants and boxers, leaving him exposed.

“S-Sir!” You exclaim, averting your gaze from his hard-on.

Was that the effect of the drug, you wondered? Still, you stepped closer towards him, intent on helping him with whatever he needed. You come to stand beside him, keeping your eyes firmly on his face.

“Do you need help?” You ask, slightly meekly, not sure how to approach this situation.

A smirk formed on his face, his eyes flickering open again. “Are you offering?”

You nod, “Whatever you need, sir. It’s my fault you’re in this mess, afterall. I can… help you get your shoes off? Or your shirt maybe?”

He sighed, shifting on the bed, his hips rising up. “I need help with this.”

Your eyes were drawn to his erection again and you shake your head, biting your lip. “Vox?” You broke, finally using his name.

“I know what the drug is, I know its effects. Because I’m an Overlord it won’t affect me as badly, but I’ll still need your help.”

You swallow down your nerves, not sure what to make of this situation. “I don't… I don't want to take advantage of you.” You finally say.

He chuckles, meeting your gaze. “Trust me, I'm conscious enough to know what I'm asking. Besides, it'll be worse if you don't help me.”

You take another tentative step forward, still keeping your attention on his face. “Worse how?”

“If I don't cum soon, the effects are just going to worsen. It'll get painful and I might lose control with someone else.” His voice was strained, sweat beginning to bead of his digital visage.

You could see the strain in Vox's shoulders, his teeth clenching as he struggled to maintain control over his body, over the effects of the drug.

“Okay.” You whisper, kicking off your shoes and climbing onto his bed.

The Overlord breathed a sigh of relief at your acceptance, which quickly turned into a moan as your hand wrapped around his cock. He watched you, his eyes growing half lidded, never leaving your face as you leaned towards his erection. You took a deep breath to calm yourself, after all you were about to suck off your boss in the comfort of his own home. The idea sent a thrill running through your body, lighting a fire in your core.

You kitten licked the precum off his slit, swirling your tongue around his tip. You were attentive, slow in the licks you made up his shaft, slowly dampening his cock. Every groan from Vox made you bolder, encouraging you to continue pleasuring him. Your mouth closed around the head of his cock, swirling your tongue around him and sucking lightly.

“Fuccck.” He groaned, his hips lifting, his cock slipping deeper into your mouth.

You pull back slightly before sinking back down onto his cock. Each pass you take more and more of him into your mouth.

“Oh, fuck, just like that.” Vox moaned, his hand coming to the back of your head, his fingers intertwining with your hair.

You hum around his cock, allowing him to push you down further until you choke. You pull off him completely, drool dripping down your chin as you catch your breath. When you were ready you took him back into your mouth, your tongue sliding and caressing the bottom side of his cock. His length twitched in your mouth, the tip hitting against your throat causing you to gag. You swallowed around him, tears biting the edges of your eyes as he began to thrust into your mouth. You were forced to breathe through your nose, which was hard in itself as each thrust pressed your nose against his skin.

“You look so beautiful sucking my cock.” He muttered, “maybe I should promote you to sucking me off full time.”

His words caught you off guard, making you laugh and subsequently choke around his cock. You pulled off of him, coughing for a few moments.

“You okay, Doll?” Vox asked, his voice slightly less strained.

Your breath was ragged as you finally stopped coughing.

“Don't make me laugh when I'm sucking you off.” You scold softly, a smile taking over your face despite yourself.

Vox brushed your hair out of your face, his touch tender. His thumb gently stroking over your cheek.

“Sorry.” He apologizes after another beat.

Your expression softens and you smile again. “It's okay.”

You lean back down, once again taking him into your mouth. His cock was heavy against your tongue, warm from a mixture of his body heat and your mouth.

You added your hand to the mix, pumping his length in time with your mouth. Vox's groans grew louder, his hips stuttering as his hand tightened in your hair again. You lost yourself in the act of pleasuring him, almost zoning out as you kept a steady rhythm.

“Fuck.” He gasped above you, his voice hoarse and wavering slightly.

You broke from your stupor at his curse, recognizing that he was close. You doubled your efforts, taking him deeper. His cock-head hit the back of your throat but you swallowed around him. At the sensation, his hand pushed your head down as he thrust upwards, finding his release.

“Fuucccck!” His voice glitched out, in time with his seed hitting the back of your throat. You pulled off him slowly, allowing him to finish in your mouth. You swallowed his release, not knowing what else to do.

“Oh shit.” Vox said, his eyebrows raising in surprise, his cock twitching as it hardened again.

You meet his gaze, “How are you feeling?”

He flashed a cocky smile, “Like a million bucks. The effects will lessen now, thank you, my dear.”

You felt your face flush at his words. “R-right.”

He chuckled, reaching up to cup your face again. “Don’t go shy on me now, doll. I still plan to fuck you.”

“Okay.” You whisper.

You were in for a long night.

[thegambitgazette]

Existentialism and Idealism in the Obsessed Artist Trope: The Role of Destruction in the Pursuit of Authenticity

A/N: this is long (2,455 words) and I’m sorry

Index

Introduction Existentialism and the Obsessed Artist Idealism and the Obsessed Artist The Search for Authenticity The Comfort in the Familiar Hurt So... What Now? Closing Words

Introduction

There is an odd sense of awe in losing one’s sanity for their passions… at least, that’s what characters like Nina Sayers (Black Swan) or Beth Harmon (The Queen’s Gambit) portray.

The Obsessed Artist trope is a prevalent motif in literature, art, and popular culture, depicting individuals consumed by their creative pursuits to the point of obsession. While this trope often romanticizes the notion of madness linked to genius, it also serves as a cautionary tale. The Obsessed Artist character often pays a heavy personal price for their single-minded pursuit of artistic perfection, sometimes culminating in self-destruction. The trope therefore underscores the potential dangers of obsession, illustrating how the relentless pursuit of an abstract ideal can lead to isolation, mental health issues, and even physical harm. Yet, despite these risks, the Obsessed Artist remains a figure of fascination, embodying the human struggle to create, express, and find meaning in a complex universe. Why is that?

In trying to unpack why I was so obsessed with the Obsessed Artist trope, I had to do a little digging into my own patterns. I realized that watching people deteriorate because of something they're passionate about is probably the epitome of tragedy, in my opinion; and it’s not because I like seeing people suffer. It’s more so because it’s cathartic, in a way.

I can see myself in them. That’s the easiest way to put it. I think of what I am passionate about and feel like it would never be enough for a number of factors. To dig a little deeper: I feel as though my work won’t be valid unless I’m hurt because of it, like there’s a semblance of pain that needs to be paid in order for something to be valuable.

Now, as it’s written, that’s not a healthy outlook; but, I thought, “But that’s normal, isn’t it? I mean, nothing worthwhile is ever easy.”

Existentialism and the Obsessed Artist

Now, I want to pose a scenario for anyone reading: If a golden chalice was on the opposite side of a rose bush, would you go through its thorns? And if you were to discover that there was nothing in that gold chalice, that it was left behind for a reason, what can you say about your pain then?

In one post, I talked about Kierkegaardian Despair and how Kierkegaard was an existentialist that talked about utilizing one’s own despair since despair is inevitable. I thought that answered the question as to why I believed I had to suffer in order to achieve things: existentialists argue that individuals must confront suffering and embrace it as an integral aspect of their journey towards authenticity and meaning. This does not necessarily mean seeking out suffering for its own sake but rather acknowledging its presence and learning from it in order to live more fully and authentically.

The trope of the Obsessed Artist often intersects with existentialist themes, particularly in its exploration of the relationship between passion, suffering, and creative expression. The Obsessed Artist archetype typically depicts individuals who are consumed by their artistic pursuits to the point of obsession, often sacrificing their personal well-being, relationships, and even sanity in the process.

From an existentialist perspective, the Obsessed Artist embodies the existential struggle to find meaning and authenticity through creative expression. The artist’s obsession with their craft can be seen as a manifestation of their quest for purpose and identity in a world devoid of inherent meaning. Suffering, whether self-imposed or external, becomes a central theme in the Artist’s journey, driving them to confront existential questions about the nature of existence, the value of their work, and the significance of their artistic vision. We’ll get to more on authenticity later.

To put it simply, perhaps the Artist chooses destruction, subconsciously or otherwise, in order to feel something about themselves. However, I still felt that something was missing.

Idealism and the Obsessed Artist

For me, the relation to the Obsessed Artist trope wasn’t too much in asserting my own agency and knowing myself as existentialist thinkers would say. There was something more, something that had to explain why I believed that “madness” was worth the goal, or why the goal required despair or pain.

In other words, “Perhaps the ‘why’ is answered in the ‘what.’” As in, what we are trying to create. Perhaps another reasoning behind the Obsessed Artist’s descent to madness and suffering is explained in what they are trying to produce. For example, going back to the Golden Chalice scenario, the Obsessed Artist allowed themselves to be cut by the thorn bushes because they wanted the chalice.

Once again, I looked into my own art. My writing projects and most of my art pieces, such as “Resemblance,” has a theme of connecting the mundane with the metaphysical. Idealism, as a philosophical perspective, posits that reality is fundamentally mental or spiritual in nature. It emphasizes the role of transcendent truths and spiritual insights in shaping human understanding and perception of reality.

From an idealist perspective, creative genius is seen as a manifestation of their ability to tap into higher forms of consciousness or reality. A creative’s heightened sensitivity to the world around them allows them to perceive and communicate truths that are inaccessible to others. This notion of genius is closely intertwined with the idealist belief in the existence of transcendent truths or spiritual insights that lie beyond the material world.

A/N: Even though I can resonate with this notion in a spiritual sense, this does not mean that one has to be religious or anything similar along those lines in order to comprehend it. One can still apply this connection to “transcendent truths or spiritual insights” in the sense of understanding other complex natures such as how human nature works or whatever one’s thoughts are about our connection with the universe and those around us

Idealism offers a nuanced understanding of the link between genius and madness by recognizing the Artist’s struggles as integral to their creative process. The Artist’s experiences of mental illness or psychological instability are not simply signs of pathology but are also seen as expressions of their heightened sensitivity and depth of perception. In this way, idealism provides a framework for appreciating the complexities of the Artist’s psyche and the role of mental health in shaping their artistic vision.

The Search for Authenticity

Now, what does it mean to search for authenticity and how does relate to the role of suffering in pursuit of purpose?

Existentialism

Existentialist thinkers such as Jean-Paul Sartre and Friedrich Nietzsche argue that individuals must confront the reality of their existence and make choices that align with their authentic selves. For the Artist, authenticity plays a crucial role in their creative process and pursuit of their dreams. The Artist seeks to express their unique perspective, emotions, and experiences through their art, striving to create work that is genuine and reflective of their innermost self. This authenticity is not merely about artistic style or technique but extends to the Artist’s willingness to confront their own vulnerabilities, uncertainties, and struggles in their creative endeavors. Suffering, within the context of authenticity, becomes a means through which the Artist asserts their individuality and autonomy. By embracing their experiences of pain, hardship, and adversity, the Artist affirms their authenticity and commitment to their artistic vision. Suffering becomes a testament to the Artist’s willingness to confront the complexities of existence and express themselves truthfully, even in the face of existential uncertainty.

Idealism

At the same time, in idealist philosophy, authenticity is often associated with aligning oneself with transcendent ideals or spiritual principles. The quest for authenticity involves seeking to live in harmony with these higher principles and values, rather than being driven solely by material desires or worldly concerns. Idealist thinkers argue that true authenticity lies in recognizing the ultimate reality of the spiritual realm and striving to live in accordance with its principles. From this perspective, the Obsessed Artist's quest for authenticity may involve seeking to express and embody transcendent beauty, truth, or spiritual insight through their art. The Artist’s dedication to their craft and their willingness to confront their own psyche and emotions may be seen as manifestations of their quest to understand higher forms of consciousness or reality. Moreover, within idealism, authenticity may also involve a recognition of one’s own intrinsic worth and value as a spiritual being. The Artist’s pursuit of authenticity may therefore be intertwined with a deeper understanding of their own identity and purpose within the larger cosmic order. Suffering does not have the same sense of inevitability in idealism as it does in existentialism, but idealist aspects can explain why suffering exists. In this trope, it may be used to channel into the Artist’s creative process as a means of expressing and grappling with existential questions, emotional turmoil, and spiritual insights. Art becomes a vehicle for transcending the limitations of individual suffering and connecting with universal themes of human experience, ultimately contributing to the search for authenticity both for the Artist and the audience. Perhaps I can write another post on literary devices that use idealist methods of transcending suffering; but, as this post deals with trying to understand why one can feel the need to suffer in order to have something valuable, it does not quite fit.

The Comfort in the Familiar Hurt

Alright, so perhaps I feel the need to suffer in order to validate my work because there is something authentic in that validity in comparison to art without pain. Whether it’s because there is a strong sense of self-awareness in recognizing suffering as a necessity or in that suffering is a tool that links the mundane with the metaphysical, I will subconsciously await that despair and pain while in pursuit of my own truths and happiness.

So, if the why behind the Obsessed Artist’s spiral is explained by the Artist’s attempt to physically represent their own psyche or mental health and how they view the world and/or their attempt to understand themselves amidst all of that, what does that say about destruction being a manifestation of those attempts?

For that, the answer seemed simple enough: it’s easier to destroy than to create.

After all, the Obsessed Artist destroys themselves, their relationships, their livelihood all in their attempt to create something. They seem to cause more harm to the point where it becomes second nature for the character for a number of reasons:

Catharsis and Release: Destruction can serve as a form of catharsis for the Artist, allowing them to release pent-up emotions, frustrations, and existential angst. The act of destroying their work or their surroundings may provide a temporary sense of relief from the pressures of creativity and the burdens of self-expression. By relinquishing control and succumbing to the chaotic force of destruction, the Artist may experience a momentary respite from the turmoil of their own psyche.

Escape from Perfectionism: The Obsessed Artist may struggle with perfectionism and an insatiable desire for artistic excellence. Destruction offers a way to escape from the relentless pursuit of perfection and the anxiety of never being able to live up to their own high standards. By destroying their work or sabotaging their efforts, the Artist can temporarily alleviate the pressure to create something flawless and unattainable, embracing imperfection and embracing the inherent chaos of existence.

Expression of Inner Turmoil: Through the act of destruction, the Artist externalizes their internal struggles and confronts the inherent contradictions and complexities of their own psyche. This outward expression of inner turmoil serves as a form of self-validation, allowing the Artist to confront their demons and make sense of their existential predicament through the medium of destruction.

Rebellion Against Conformity: The Obsessed Artist may rebel against societal norms and expectations, seeking to carve out their own path and assert their individuality in a world that often stifles creativity and authenticity. Destruction becomes a rebellious act of defiance, a way for the Artist to break free from the constraints of societal norms and expectations and assert their autonomy and independence. By destroying their own work or rejecting conventional notions of success, the Artist asserts their freedom to create on their own terms, even if it means embracing destruction as a form of creative expression.

The Artist becomes locked in a cycle of creating and destroying, each act serving as a manifestation of their ongoing quest for self-expression and existential understanding. The destruction wrought by the Artist extends beyond their artistic endeavors to encompass their relationships, livelihood, and ultimately, their own sense of self.

The belief that it is easier to destroy than to create reflects the Artist’s profound existential struggle and the overwhelming weight of their creative burden. The act of destruction becomes a coping mechanism, a way for the Artist to release pent-up emotions and navigate the complexities of their own psyche. Yet, paradoxically, this destructive impulse only serves to perpetuate the Artist’s suffering, trapping them in a cycle of despair and existential turmoil.

So… What Now?

Again, the Obsessed Artist is a cautionary tale. Hopefully, it’s not a person’s desire to emulate the behaviors shown in these characters. In fact, by learning from the Obsessed Artist and integrating these philosophical perspectives into our approach to art and self-expression, we can cultivate a healthier and more sustainable creative process.

Embrace Authenticity Without Self-Destruction

Recognize that authenticity in artistic expression does not necessitate self-destructive behavior. While existentialist themes may highlight the importance of confronting inner turmoil and existential angst, it’s crucial to find constructive outlets for these emotions rather than resorting to destructive habits. By channeling existentialist ideals of authenticity and self-awareness into positive and productive avenues, we can create art that is both genuine and nourishing to our well-being

Challenge Perfectionism

Challenge the notion of perfectionism and embrace the imperfections inherent in the creative process. Incorporate elements of idealist philosophy by recognizing the beauty and value of authenticity over flawless execution. Allow yourself the freedom to experiment, make mistakes, and learn from failures without succumbing to self-criticism or destructive habits. Embrace the journey of self-discovery and growth inherent in the creative process, rather than fixating on unattainable standards of perfection.

Closing Words

Ultimately, this engagement with the Obsessed Artist trope can potentially furnish us with a roadmap towards a more enlightened and fulfilling artistic vocation, one predicated upon the transcendence of personal limitations and the cultivation of a more profound artistic ethos. In so doing, we may embark upon a trajectory characterized by a fidelity to authenticity, an attunement to self-awareness, and a fortitude in the face of adversity.

Of course, these thoughts are just that: thoughts. All of this is merely my own attempt in understanding my fascination with aspects of literature, art, and life. You may resonate with it or disagree entirely or feel something in between.

[uten4]

Khun is so extremely in control of his feelings. As far as I remember, he does not state his more insane professions of devotion to Baam directly. He shows concern constantly for Baam's well-being, but he p much never has emotional outbursts, despite feeling that Baam is his reason for living. He does not cry. He believes that the most important things he has to offer Baam are logical answers, strategic help, physically fighting for him. He doesn't see himself as being good with pep talks, and when he gives them he does so in a very sincere way, but not an emotional way. He held Baam to his chest while wearing the straightest face in the world.

He does not see his emotions as something worthwhile to offer Baam. He already sees himself as a potential burden. Despite his intense possessiveness since he was a child, he seems to be trying to hold back his obsession. He says, "At least tell us if you go somewhere, so I can chase anytime." He does not say, "Don't leave me, take me with you." He wants to get higher to reach Baam, not ever give Baam a reason to lower himself for Khun.

The two of them are best friends, but-- and maybe I'm biased because of my own life experiences when I say this-- I feel like they have this palpable distance and awkwardness to their relationship...? I think it's a combination of Baam not communicating or emoting in "normal" ways in general, and Khun having this intense emotional reservation.

All that is to say, if I were SIU, then I would take the years and years and years of setup that's been given and certainly push Khun to whatever point will make him finally emotionally break down in a huge way and explain how he feels. And then show Baam reacting to it and realizing just how much he cares. Is that too cliché? I feel like it'd be pretty juicy. And it's not exactly that I wish for it; I just wish I had come up with a similar dynamic or better first x) Well, I could still do it, with my own twists...

By the way, it's interesting that the obvious answer for promoting the emotional breakdown-- Baam dying or being grievously injured-- isn't an option here, because that already supposedly happened at least once and Khun was pretty stoic. It would just feel weird and contrived to make it happen again.

[scarletwritesshit]

⚰️ Luocha x Sunday ⚰️ Tangled in a Devil's Deal

An ashen-blue dove was entangled in thorned vines, pinned firmly against the wall. His hands and legs were tightly bound, eliminating any chance of a successful struggle. The vines wrapped around the entirety of his body, piercing every inch of his flesh with the slightest twitch of a nerve. He could not allow himself to move, not to struggle, not to readjust, lest he wanted his flesh to be sliced further.

His wings were rendered as worthless as the rest of his limbs, regardless of his movement ability. They had long since been clipped, and the feathers of his that were spared were ruffled beyond useless.

The dove was left to bleed out and die nailed to the wall by the thorns of his sin. His brief time of flight had concluded, and his heart was torn open dripping blood onto the stone floor. Robes that were once white with purity were now stained red as an eternal reminder of his fall.

His head slumped, sides of his face being scraped and cut open as it dangled. The bleeding heart dove could no longer muster the strength to keep his head up.

After his fall from grace, the only path left for him to traverse was the slow and bloody journey towards death.

In a miraculous twist of events, the attention of a wandering merchant was piqued when his white boots were stained with the splashes from the blood puddles. Luocha, this man claimed to be called, possessed the most interesting traits of long blond hair and a dastardly smug demeanor, something perhaps too familiar to an angel such as him. The healer’s garbs were nothing more than a deception, for the devil walked amongst him clad in holy white. And on a Sunday, nonetheless.

Luocha spun his golden cross necklace around his fingers and looked up at the Halovian nailed onto death’s door.

"Little birdie, you’ve found yourself in an awfully compromising position," Luocha said.

"What? Come to laugh at an angel’s fall from grace?" Sunday spat, blood rolling from the corner of his mouth.

"Laugh? I find no humor in your situation. Rather, I see this as an opportunity."

"An opportunity for what? Defiling what’s left of me with your devilish hands?"

Luocha caught the cross charm in the palm of his hand. "Quite the opposite, actually. I’m here to help you take flight once again and heal the wounds that taint your body"

"...Heal?"

"Indeed. For nothing more than a small price, of course."

"You would ask a man with a value of zero to repay you?" Sunday asked, baffled.

"Don’t let such lies escape your lips," Luocha said, reaching out the tip of his rapier to prod up Sunday’s chin. "I’m not here for what you have, but rather, what you are."

Sunday drearily looked at Luocha with what little strength he could muster.

"You’re the closest anyone has come to true Aeonhood," Luocha said, gently stroking the lid of his coffin with his free hand, "and I have a task suited to only someone of such caliber."

"You see an Aeon in this dead dove?"

"I see a dove that has yet to take flight… one that still hasn’t realized his potential."

Luocha swung his rapier aside, scraping Sunday’s throat as he allowed his head to droop once more.

"All I ask is for you to strike a deal with me to amend your wounds.”

"So I was right. You want to defile me and what my existence once stood for."

"Don’t be hasty, darling. I haven’t even had a moment to explain myself. My intentions are the exact opposite of what you presume, as I only desire to allow you to rise once again."

Sunday’s head perked up a little and he looked at Luocha with wide eyes.

"Alas, to make my sacrifice worthwhile, I need you to do my bidding for a short time," Luocha said, running his fingers along the coffin lid. "I have a… friend here, and I need an Aeon’s power to bring her back."

Sunday scoffed and fell completely silent.

"What happened to wanting to make everyone happy? Allowing yourself to die here when I am offering up my hand is the most selfish course of action you could possibly take.”

"That dream is dead, you devil," Sunday snapped with the last of his energy.

`"Little dove, why do you close your eyes to the sensible truth in front of you? Think of those who still depend on you. Think of Robin."

Right. Her. If Sunday had any reason to desperately free himself of those thorns, it would be for his beloved sister Robin. If he allowed himself to fall here, he had no other way to guarantee that this bastard wouldn’t say something to Robin that she was better off not hearing.

At the mention of her name, his wings began to flutter, and Luocha took great delight in seeing this.

"Ah. I knew that had to be enticing to you," Luocha said.

He put his palm on the coffin and it began to emit a strange green light. The vines entangled around Sunday mimicked this effect, and their hold on him gradually loosened. The thorns withdrew from his flesh, leaving now-dried bloody lacerations open across his body. With his body weak from the hefty blood loss, Sunday was rendered unable to brace himself for a fall, and so he accepted his fate of crashing into the ground once the last of the vines holding him up slithered back.

His fall was unexpectedly gentle, as Luocha held out his arm and caught the pale angel. Luocha’s grace was short lived, as he tossed Sunday down onto the ground with his back slumped against the wall.

"But before I can trust your loyalty to the deal, come forth and bow before me."

Sunday could not muster the strength to push himself forward onto his hands.

"I said bow."

Luocha grabbed his rapier once more and nudged Sunday down by the back of his head. Unable to reach out his hands to steady himself, Sunday bowed down supporting his body with his arms while Luocha kept him firmly in place with his rapier pointed at his throat.

"A soul for a soul is a fair exchange, wouldn’t you agree, little dove?" Luocha said, prodding his throat.

"Ngh…I have just...one request before I can agree to being in your service," Sunday coughed.

"I gave you life, what more could you possibly ask for?"

"...I beg of you, do not allow my sister to see how far I have fallen."

"Perhaps...if I am feeling a bit generous, I’ll spare her the pathetic sight of her brother kneeling to me in submission."

[jumpywhumpywriter]

A Life in the Hands of the Enemy -- Villain reluctantly saves Hero's Life part 4

Warnings: violence, bleeding, near-death experience, captivity whump, cruel Villain whumper

Amber stayed quiet. Zack's frustration bubbled to the surface. All he wanted was an explanation. Was that too much to ask for?! With a growl, he suddenly reached out and pushed her against the wall, pinning her there, before digging his fingers straight into one of her bandaged wounds.

An agonized scream of pain tore loose from her, and she doubled over, coughing violently and shaking all over.

"Let's try again, shall we?" Zack's voice dripped with venom.

"OKAY, okay! You win..." Amber rasped weakly, head drooping. "The enemy I faced... was like no one I've ever met before. He was so, unnaturally strong..." She trailed off, gaze growing distant and foggy. "His power... he had powers like mine. Which should be impossible, considering he was merely human. Only people like me have that kind of magic potential." She leaned back against the wall with a wince to rest.

"He wasn't alone, either. I walked straight into an ambush. And his henchmen... there were only three of them, but they were strong. Strong as I was. And I..." She hesitated. "I... I got in over my head, okay?" She finally spat.

"Huh. And I never thought I'd see the day a normal human laid you low..." Zack scoffed.

A long silence fell between them, before Amber spoke again. "If I may ask... Why did you save me?" She croaked, changing the subject.

"Because I've seen you fight before... I've fought you before. I know how powerful you are. And how much it takes to truly hurt you. So seeing you so gravely wounded... I knew that whoever inflicted the damage must have been pretty darn strong." Zack got up and started pacing.

"And the problem is, I'm smart enough to know my own limits. I accept and acknowledge that you can usually beat me in battle. In the past I've only escaped you because of sheer luck, nothing more, hard as it is to admit. Which means... that if someone strong enough to nearly kill you is out there, I better make sure they're not my enemy. And if they are..." He paused, fixing her with a grave look.

"I might need extra firepower to eliminate them. I might need a weapon like you."

"I'm not a weapon," Amber spat. "I'm a person with powers that can be used to either help or hurt."

"Power is power." Zack shrugged indifferently. "Basic point is that saving you might be worthwhile for me. On any other day I wouldn't care less if you live or die... but now, we might have a common enemy, one that I may not be strong enough to take out on my own. I look forward to seeing how the situation plays out."

"And how do you plan to proceed, now that all cards are on the table?" Amber challenged.

"I'm going to see if I can track down this new character, determine for myself if they are friend or foe. Who knows, maybe I won't need you alive after all! How fun would THAT be?" Zack cackled darkly, a loud, cruel sound, before becoming serious again. "Oh, and one more question... how did you find me? The alley you were in was only a block away from my hideout. If that's a coincidence, I'll be darned. Were you trying to find me to help you or something?"

Amber averted her gaze, shifting uncomfortably.

"Answer me!" He snapped, and she winced.

"Fine. Yes, I knew where your hideout was. I also knew I wouldn't make it back to my headquarters, as injured as I was. My only hope was to try and make it to your hideout and beg for help, pathetic as that is. I've been keeping tabs on you for longer than you realize," she replied, lifting her head to meet his eyes.

"W-What?" Zack sputtered. "That's impossible! My security is impenetrable!"

"Clearly not, because the proof is sitting right in front of you." Amber gestured meaningfully to herself.

"Then why not strike sooner? If you knew where I was hiding, why didn't you attack?"

"Because I had larger threats to deal with at the time. So I had to prioritize. Also, I couldn't risk you moving to a new location. I knew where you were, so I decided to let you stay there until I could find time to swing by. Didn't imagine it would be quite like this, though." She let out a single wheezing laugh but clutched her side at the pain it cost her.

"I'm not sure if I should be offended that I'm not higher on your threat list." Zack folded his arms over his chest and glowered.

"Believe me, in the kind of life I live, you're the least of my worries. Fighting you is a walk in the park compared to some of the other villains I'm up against."

"Mmhmm..." Zack tapped his chin thoughtfully. "And why me?"

"What?"

"Why did you come to me for help? I mean, what were you thinking?"

"I wasn't," Amber admitted grimly. "I only knew I was too injured to make it back to my headquarters, and your hideout was the closest place I knew of. I obviously couldn't show up at a random civilian's house. Imagine the chaos that would cause." She shuddered.

"...So your plan was seriously to just hand yourself over to your greatest enemy and hope they didn't kill you?" Zack gawked at her in disbelief.

"Pretty much. And it worked, didn't it? I understand your thought process. I know how you work. You're an analytical thinker. Always analyzing possibilities and outcomes, inquisitive by nature. I hoped that you would want to keep me alive for questioning, thus creating internal conflict between killing me or satisfying curiosity." Amber quirked an eyebrow. "Your mind is your greatest tool, but also your greatest weakness. You're more predictable than you think."

Zack was seething mad, but also deeply unsettled by how accurate it was. She knew him better than he thought.

"Hmph. Clever," he snorted. "You're lucky my curiosity won out in the end."

"I suppose I am," Amber answered smugly.

He bristled even more. He hated it when people agreed with his barbed remarks. Took all the satisfaction out of it. He spun on his heel and started stalking out of the room.

"H-Hey! Wait! You can't leave me here! My team members will be searching the whole city for me! And if they find me here--"

Zack cut off Amber's protests with a raised hand, turning back to look at her with a smug, wolf-like grin. "I don't think I have anything to worry about. They don't know where my hideout is, do they?" Her reaction confirmed his suspicion. He was always five steps ahead.

"Ha! I knew it! You're not the only one who does their homework. You like to categorize information on your enemies by yourself, leaving your 'team members' out of the majority of your plans. They don't have a clue I live here, do they?" He laughed at her dry scowl. "Classic uno-reverse." He chuckled to himself as he turned and walked out of the room, even as Amber shouted threats after him.

"You're in MY house, so you better follow my rules! Keep yelling, and I'll gag you!" Zack called over his shoulder. He smiled at the immediate silence his words created. She knew him well enough to know he wasn't joking.

⏪️ Back Next ⏩️

Masterlist

[inconspicious-random-thoughts]

How Valentino got Angels Soul

I just realized something about the dynamic between Valentino and Angel Dust. It rather obvious now I look back on it, but with all my rewatches, I sort of took the two together at face value.

I assumed, without much thought, Angel Dust was a new soul. Scared shitless and took the first deal that offered him some type of protection-Valentino. It's just the vibe I picked up on.

But I actually, thought about them more today and realized how wrong I was with that point blank view.

Angel died in 1947 while Val was 1970's. Angel been wondering around Hell with his own soul for minimum of 3 decades and been going by the name Anthony the entire time. -'Im putting Valentino being powerful overlord in the 80s.

Side note: I personally headcanon, it takes a new soul to achieve overlord power the minimum of 10 years with the exception of Alastor. The new sinner need time to adjust to their new bodies, learn their abilities, and the politics and ways of Hell. And the sinner needs to gain their power a little slowly, I think if they go to fast it alarms other overlords and just make the wannabe overlord a target. So, I say 10 years minimum to achieve overlord power. 10 years a drop in the bucket in eternity)

Other side note: I think Angel Dust soul is actually older than Val if you combine their biological age and their time in Hell. Weird right? What's weirder is Angel biological age is a few years younger then Alastor. whaaaaa? Angle just vibing he is much younger then Alastor when they were alive but apparently Angel died in his 30s, while Alastor is 30-40s

So how did the two got together?

Well, for starters, I think Angel was just scraping by Hell for those first few decades. He lived literally in a Hellhole. Get it? because they are in Hell? nevermind. Anyways, his living quarters was probably literally some hole in a wall that he found and probably have to share with other unfortunate souls. Any money Angel scraps up and spent on drugs. He lived his days getting fucked up by drugs or suffering withdrawals. He sold himself for quick cash grabs for more drugs.

Then one night, Valentino found Angel trying to do one of these quick cash makes. He saw a lot of potential in Angel. He so gorgeous. He promise to make Angel night worthwhile if he gets in his limo. Which to be honest, is the fancy place he done in what he felt like forever.

Angel didn't realize who he was dealing with. A freshly raisen overlord. "He doesn't pay attention to politics" remember?

It was a grand night. The drug flowed and Angel basically had the taste of the high life hanging with Val that night. Angel tried new drugs that night too. He usually strapped for cash so when he bought drugs, it was something familiar. He didn't want to spend his nearly non existent cash on something he didn't know on how it hits. Eventually Val took Angel to his place and had sex. Val purposely wasn't ruthless during this. In fact, Angel never felt more safe since he landed in Hell.

Val try to sway Angel to selling his soul to him. Making promises that were too good to be true. "I'll make you a star, famous!" "No one will dare harm you if you are contracted to me." All the while, blowing smoke in Angel face and other pheromone based moves. Angel was tempted but there no way he was selling his soul.

"I only own you partially...I will only own you while you are in my studio...I own you part time and you get the full time benefits."

Angel was still on the hesitate and left. While Val cooing "you know where to find me when you change your mind."

Angel return to his shit hole home. After the night of spent living the good life...it was extra miserable. Val pheromones was still in his system. He missed feeling safe in Val four arms with the promise of protection. The new drugs...which he starting to crash from pretty hard. He needs that fix again...bad.

Angel returned asking if the deal still available. One that can make him famous and be protected by Val.

-yes

"I can still keep my soul? that you only own it while in your studio?

-yes. Sensing Angel is still hesitant and using the knowledge that Angel complained about his living situation after seeing the sweet grand living space Val has. "How about I sweeten the deal...I'm feeling very generous. I can offer you room and board if you were more hours to earn it." Angel perked at this. "You will have your very own room...right at the studio...how convenient is that?" Angel was ecstatic about the idea of his own space. privacy and comfort. Fuck yea.

(Im sure theres more technical bits like, Angel required to work minimum of 40 hours a week to however long Val wants him. That way Angel can't just walk away when he had enough. It also give Val a loophole of making him work longer hours)

Which is why Val was so furious when Angel moved out. He lost complete control on Angel soul by that. I wouldn't be surprised actually forgot that clause and was pleasantly surprised when he realized he didn't feel the constraint invisible chain outside the studio.

"It's a deal" Not fully realizing that Val owns his soul outside of filming while in the studio. Angel signed and Val set out some celebrotory drugs.

Angel recognized it from the other night and its the new ones that he really enjoyed. "What's this stuff called again?"

"Angel Dust, its popular in my time." Val answered without looking up from the newly signed contracted. "Hey darling, you need to pick a stage name, Anthony not going to cut it."

Angel considers it for a moment as he done a line. Drugs got him into Hell, this drug got him back to Val it seem only fitting and it sounds pretty. "Call me Angel Dust."

Again, its pretty obvious why Val was so upset that Angel moved in retrospect but their dynamic changed a lot to me once I looked more into it. It explains why Anthony signed his name with his real name...because he didn't have his porn star name yet. Angel Dust was huge during Val time and not really around as much during Angel. So I can see Val introducing it to Angel and getting him hooked on it and also inspired his porn star name.

Just my idea but who knows, some of you might enjoy it.

[denybunnyforgood]

How often does edgebunny edge? I saw it doesn't get to cum, and I like that it's specifically to make its life worse, not better, but that makes me wonder if it edges all the time to make but cumming harder, or rarely because edging can give it pleasure.

its answer isn't very inherently interesting here unfortunately--a lot of things it does in its life are pretty systematized or habitualized in some way because it takes immense discipline to do something you know will make your life worse. But despite edging being rather central (though it isn't the most central thing, it's just tumblr won't let it speak publicly abt its gender in full so w/e, trying to make a second account on bdsmlr where it can talk abt other things) to its whole deal, the only habit it has ingrained is it stops pretty soon after it reaches the edge and it can feel that thrum inside its tummy climbing up its chest, like that "God if you let me cum to anything let it be this" kinda feeling.

When it comes to when it edges it just does it whenever it really wants to. The main reason is that whenever it does stop right at that thrum, it's consistently a net negative, and that thrum is only possible when it's in a particular kind of mood.

The only way really that it can become a net positive is if it stays in the pleasure for long enough that it outweighs the tight, intense discomfort in its hips radiating through itself that comes when it denies itself. But because it doesn't do that there's very little need for any rules or discipline or habit, aside from just making sure it stops when it reaches that point of maximum need.

How frequent "whenever it feels like it" is depends on its situation. Like right now it hasn't been able to post for a while because it and its loved ones ended up getting chased out of a home (again) and being unhoused for a while doesn't really spare the thrum-potential, even with permanent denial. Like it always experiences this ambient yearning for trying to cum but it's comparatively subdued when there's hardship of the uninteresting variety in its life.

You might think that being born to have a worse life is easy because it's so easy for life to punish you, but the truth is that there are interesting and uninteresting ways to have a terrible life and only the former is worthwhile.

But your question is prob abt like, USUALLY how frequent is it? (it's getting to your question the long way, yes), and it would say probably like once a day on average.

it realizes this is getting long-winded but just to reflect on that some and hopefully make this answer interesting, it's written before abt the conceptual framework it has for orgasms. If the concept 'orgasm' marks out those desirable climactic sexual experiences, then the sensation that we refer to as an orgasm should be very different for everyone. For instance, what if you like and really want the intimacy of playing and being close to someone, and that's the height of the experience for you? Can't that be an orgasm instead of the specific rush of dopamine we tend to associate the concept with?

it was born an object whose pleasure has zero moral worth, but it being violated in interesting ways, being denied right at the edge, being brought to tears, having its throat brutalized until it starts heaving, these do add moral value to the world in all kinds of ways. And so those are the most desirable experiences. So when it used to have the kinds of orgasms people had, those were fake orgasms. it used to have those twice a week, and these real orgasms are literally more than one per day. For people they're real orgasms but for it they're fake orgasms. The real orgasms are those violations, denials, sobs and throatgasms. And it isn't fair if the people who violate it have real orgasms and it has a fake one. They're making themselves vulnerable to it and it's being insincere.

That's a huge part of why it's so absurdly important to it that when it has sex it does whatever it can to make sure it doesn't enjoy it and that what it wants or what it's okay with doesn't matter. it wants the experience to be authentic, and if it's pretending to be a person when its partner isn't pretending to be something they're not, that's not fair to them and that's not something they'd consent to.

And the fact that these real orgasms are so much more frequent and forthcoming than fake orgasms is just one of those small pieces of evidence it holds onto to affirm itself. it often has doubts, as many do abt their identity, and that can be dangerous because the moment it isn't convinced it's morally obligated to go down this route it'll spend years trying to achieve personhood.

Holding onto these little pieces of evidence is one of the ways it affirms its objecthood so it can keep nurturing it. It's not its main method, that would be surrounding itself with peers who understand and do what needs to be done when it has its...moments of doubt, but even this tertiary method is effective and has positive side effects.

Okay hopefully that's answered your question and more? But it understands if this ramble left you more questions and it's happy to answer. Actually typing this did do something for it so it'll edge right now :)

TL;DR: Nothing interesting rly just whenever it feels like it, which is once a day average.

[wishcamper]

loving acovav and your family systems posts, it puts into words and pulls together so many problems that exist within the ic and relationships in the book xx

though i just have to say it absolutely KILLS me that sjm somehow accidently created such interesting and complex character dynamics (even though there is still a fair amount of inconsistency)

Thank you so much! I was glad to find I wasn’t alone in being baffled/infuriated by the books lol

I think sjm does have the ability to identify the conditions for conflict, but kind of all of us do. Blending families can be hard, involved power struggles. Entering a new world creates cognitive dissonance and grief. People react to trauma differently, and don’t always understand others’ reactions. Romance inside a friend group creates tension. These are things we all know if you think for a moment. But her weakness is that she’s often bad at predicting how people would react to these conflicts, and she definitely doesn’t understand why and how people change.

On the whole, the “themes” she explores are pretty universal. That’s why her premises have so much potential but don’t go anywhere emotionally satisfying. And universal stories are satisfying, that’s why we tell them over and over a la the Hero’s Journey. ACOTAR is Beauty and the Beast. ACOSF is essentially The Taming of the Shrew with more push-ups. But where a different telling like 10 Things I Hate About You says something new about that story- that we are more than stereotypes and can find authentic connections when we transcend them - her conclusions are straight up weird. Like, ACOSF says: be who everyone wants you to be and life gets better. Uh?? In what world is that a hopeful takeaway??

That’s why even her own characters seem out of character, because the inciting events and the reactions they elicit don’t make sense half the time. I think it’s because she doesn’t have equal compassion for her characters (some none at all) so the ones she likes get every motivation for their actions upheld as worthwhile, and the ones she doesn’t like are either two dimensional or have to suck up to the characters she likes for redemption. But she doesn’t recognize that this communicates something, even if it’s unintentional. It’s like she doesn’t realize there’s a subconscious story underneath the surface one, that we can see her thought process through the choices she makes AND the ones she doesn’t.

I know she’s talked about how she puts a lot of her own experience into the books and I think that shows but mostly through her internal and external biases, unfortunately. She only ever affirms her own beliefs through the text, and ultimately says something obvious or straight up distasteful without meaning to (I hope). Other people have detailed her misogyny more thoroughly than I can here, but the disdain for her female characters is so obvious. And that’s not even starting on the racism. There’s a very clear thread of personal responsibility that ignores all the systemic, identity, and cultural factors that make us feel, think, and behave in certain ways.

All this is to say: agree, it’s so annoying because it’s like she had all the ingredients for a cake and somehow made a pizza instead because she likes it more. It doesn’t make sense. I don’t know how you got from there to here Sarah, and you seem happy but I still want cake!

Anyway, thank you for the ask, and letting me indulge in affronted literary criticism, which is my favorite thing to do 🤓

[who-is-page]

🌃 ThisIsAPlaceholderSoPeopleDon'tThinkIWroteThisPic Follow

~~~

🌇 OkayNowHere'sMySection Follow

(I spent like ten minutes writing a response to this post + some of the reblogs that it had accumulated and then the OP disabled reblogs JUST as I hit post, but by god I am gonna say my bit. I've removed OP's name from the post and they've deleted the body of the post on their main blog, so don't any of you try looking them up to bother them, either.)

I'd also like to add on to this discussion regarding criticism and the points that have been brought up there-- it's true that no one is free from criticism, as OP points out in the original post. But having that sort of hyper-aggressive attitude towards fiction, especially without taking potential authorship into account (or worse, taking it far too much into account to the point where you harass the person who wrote it), can result in unintended harm towards real people. It's how you end up with situations like Isabel Fall de-transitioning and winding in a psychiatric institute under suicide watch because people mistook a transgender author's exploration of a transphobic stereotype as a topic as a story intended to be a transphobic stereotype itself.

The Vox article about Isabel has the quote, "Sometimes, the path to your personal hell is paved with other people’s best intentions" (Source). I think that's a very poignant and relevant perspective, where sometimes people--like OP--may think that they, as global citizens, have a duty to uphold morality and righteousness in their online spaces for the safety of themselves and their communities... but in actuality, their actions end up having negative effects far, far beyond their intentions, and don't end up protecting or saving anyone much at all. It can be a hard pill to swallow to realize that, but the real actions that people do in retaliation to fiction often create far, far more damage that the fiction ever does existing on its own. For another example, just look at the creator JoCat, who left his YouTube career this year because of the harassment he faced due to his 2020 35-second long video game animation and song, "I Like Girls" (a genderbent parody of Lizzo's Boys that he'd verbally improved on the spot during a Twitch stream). In his goodbye post, he wrote:

"[...] Granted, a lot of this has been primarily on twitter, where I could simply log off and ignore the haters, but no small amount has leaked into other parts of my regular day to day that is harder to ignore - private DMs over discord and twitch, suspicious packages being sent to my family - but I’ve always kept quiet about it because speaking out about it publicly, defending myself, any reaction to it would just encourage more, and be presented as my own fault as well. But if that’s the tradeoff to do something like share the things I make that I’m proud of on the internet, seeing as I’m writing this, it’s probably an indicator that I’m just not cut out for it, and the best thing for everyone would be to stop and pursue something else. Despite being very grateful for what this job has done for me and my family, I’m simply not strong enough to keep doing this if it means having to just accept this kind and amount of distress." (Source)

I think there's worthwhile conversations to be had about the necessity of criticism as a tool to critique common issues with genre, tropes, and popular media in fiction. But I feel like what is being spoken about here, in this post and in these examples-- criticism not as a tool of critique, but as a personal and direct attack, an unveiling of what the criticizer interprets to be the secret and impure Self of the artist or author--is another beast entirely, and one that typically shouldn't be brought to the forefront. It's turning real, thinking individuals into monsters in the eyes of audiences ready to devour them for the slightest transgression, and does that actually help anyone? Rarely do artists and authors deserve to be publicly ridiculed en-masse for their work to the point where they walk away from it, and doing so doesn't actually help make positive changes in any way... because the people who you could have those important discussions with, about the things that both you are critical of in certain genres, writings communities, stories, tropes, etc have now packed up their bags and left.

Everyone is familiar with the "You are not immune to propaganda" Garfield meme. And while it may be funny, it's also true. People make mistakes and create things which are unintentionally insulting, either because the author is leaning on offensive stereotypes or tropes without realizing it, or because the author isn't worldly to the baggage that certain subjects carry within them (such as people who reference Lovecraft's work without having the background information that he was a horrible racist, sexist, and xenophobe). But heckling them and telling them that they're secretly terrible people and should never create anything ever again isn't going to inform them about these subjects. It's going to result in them getting defensive, prickly, and running off. There is no net gain to this scenario. The amount of Good in the world has not increased from this interaction.

This all isn't touching on people who intentionally play with stereotypes or tropes in their writing, nor is it touching on the inherent religious bigotry and Christiancentrism wrapped up in the idea of someone's fictional stories or writings being reflective of their innermost desires and morality, because this is getting pretty long. But I wanted to put out my own thoughts on this in addition to what's already been said.

[kadavernagh]

TIMING: In the Winter after contest prizes LOCATION: The Party Thrifter PARTIES: Regan & Leila SUMMARY: Leila has a screaming mood ring stuck on her finger that she's getting a little tired of, and Regan is extremely helpful, all the time.

“YOU BROUGHT THE DAMNED THING WITH YOU????”

It took the breaking of glass, or at least splitting of flesh, for Regan to be impressed by a scream. Humans had a rather insulting idea of what “loud” was, and though Leila had… a condition (cadaveric torpor was her favorite terminology for far), Regan wasn’t especially confident she differed from others in matters of screaming. So it was with extreme skepticism that Regan headed to The Party Thrifter to see this “screaming ring” that Leila acquired. If it had any worth, it belonged in her possession, and she would bring it to Saol Eile to be with its kind. If not, then she would need to set the record straight.

To be fair to the ring, she could hear it from outside – the scream more metallic and clangy than human, but with some character to it. The sound did not dampen when she pushed through the doors, but some of her eagerness did, as it didn’t sound that much louder from in the store. Leila was even less enthused, though, keeping the thing at arm’s length, smothered under a pile of clothes. Regan was pretty sure her voice could cut over the sound. “Hello. I’m here to inspect your ring.” She looked down at the clothes pile Leila was pressing on. “Under there, I take it? Has it been doing this non-stop?” 

------

There were a plethora of unfortunately cursed or otherwise magical items tucked away at The Party Thrifter. Leila had taken to testing every new item that found its way into the shop, so as to avoid selling unwitting shoppers of the potential of some items. It was safer that way. For them and for her. But of all things, she hadn’t expected a prize from an ugly sweater contest to be so… well… 

Even under a mound of the thickest sweaters and coats she could find, the ring’s screams were unbearable. They were tinny, loud, and piercing. She couldn’t tell what the ‘mood’ was behind them. If it was a mood ring, the screaming ought to have a mood, shouldn’t it? But the screaming was some mix of horror and frustration and woe, all mixing in and out of each other. The longer it screamed, the less sense she could make of it. Perhaps the worst part in all of this was that the ring had gotten stuck on her finger. No matter how hard she pulled, it remained set there. 

Leila hardly heard the doorbell jingling beyond the slightly muffled shrieks of the ring. She had taken to thumping her head lightly against the counter, trying desperately not to lose her resolve. It was a ring! A silly little ring that ought to come off. She would have tried breaking it off if she hadn’t thought that would release whatever curse or magic it held out into the shop or the town itself. Regan’s voice cut through the screams, and the mare looked up, exhausted relief cutting across her face. “Oh thank god- Yes. Yes, it’s under here. And yes, it has not stopped. Please make it stop…”

------

The ring’s scream had charm, Regan decided. It was no banshee, but perhaps it belonged in Saol Eile anyway. If nothing else, the others might find it neat, something worthwhile to engage with. There were few things to break up the monotony of living there, and they might appreciate the novelty of the ring. While Leila’s face was scrunched up against the noise as she struggled to speak over it, Regan preferred to take it all in, and her voice didn’t have much trouble slicing through the noise. “I don’t know about making it stop. Why should– I mean, why don’t you simply get rid of it? Give it to me. I will take it off your hands.” Something about the way she said that, combined with Leila’s desperation, made a realization spark in Regan’s mind. “Wait, is it stuck?” She studied the way Leila had half her arm under the pile of clothes, craned down uncomfortably. “On your hand, I mean? Is that why you’re–” Regan gestured to the pile, “you know, halfway under there. Um, I can help… I think.” Her first idea was removing Leila’s finger. That probably wasn’t going to go over well, and she preferred something less drastic, anyway (as curious as she was about Leila’s physiology, and seeing what her blood looked like).

“Give me one minute.” She held up a finger, then dashed out of the store and right back over to her car. She knew exactly where she had left what she needed, tucked into her trunk and waiting for a moment like this. It wasn’t exactly a thing of grease, but it was probably similar enough. And she had far more than she knew what to do with, thanks to the Mayomobile of Moosehead Lake. Regan dug the tub of mayo from the trunk and ran back inside with it like it was a first aid kit or defibrillator paddles. “Here, this might work. It’s mayonnaise. You can probably read that on the container. Nevermind.” She urgently screwed the lid off. “Put your hand in it!” And, in case Leila needed convincing: “I am a medical doctor.”

------

Regan didn’t seem the least bit bothered by the tinny, unending shrieks emitting from the ring on her hand. Leila wished she could be so calm. But then again, she was the one who had been sitting with her hand crammed under clothing to diminish the noise just a little bit. She was the one whose teeth had been clenched together, praying the stupid thing would shut up. If her ears would stop ringing, perhaps the mare would have been able to be jealous. “Believe me, I tried getting rid of it.” The words little more than a mumble in the din the mood ring was creating, especially since the mere suggestion of its disposal had the shrieking growing louder and louder. She shoved down on the clothing pile, not caring how hard she was squishing her hand. 

“I put it on, it started to scream, and when I went to take it off, it felt like a vice.” It was as if the ring was demanding to be heard. The mere act of putting it on her finger had given the mood ring a voice. A horrible, tinny, shrieking, screaming voice. And it would be damned if it wasn’t heard in its entirety. “I’m willing to try anything at this rate.” 

That seemed enough to send Regan back out of the shop. Leila said a silent prayer that the woman would actually come back and wasn’t abandoning her to deal with the screaming ring all on her own. The shrieks emitting from the ring made time seem to stretch on forever. Just as the mare was beginning to give up hope that the other woman would really come back through the door, the doorbell jingled again and in waltzed Regan. And a jar of mayonnaise. 

Despite her best efforts, the mare’s face scrunched up. 

“... you want me to stick my hand in a jar of mayo??”

------

“Did I stutter? Put your hand in the mayonnaise.” Regan was pretty sure she saw this trick in a movie, or read about it in a book, but it was hard to remember, like so many other smudges from the before. “Besides, what is the objection? I assume you’re not planning on keeping your entire arm stuffed under a pile of old clothes for the rest of your life… however, uh, long that is.” The ring, she noted, did not seem at all fatigued; its screech was ringing just as loudly as before with no sign of letting up. In contrast, Leila seemed exhausted. Could something that claimed to be dead be exhausted? Regan wasn’t sure. Her decedents rarely looked anything but peaceful. She had plenty more questions for Leila once the woman was comfortable enough to answer them (physically – she had hardly a care for the soggy kind of comfort). 

Regan nudged the open jar toward Leila, prompting her once more. “Will the ring cause hearing damage, I wonder? Surely it’s at least 100 decibels. Closer to 120, by my estimation. You must be in a hurry,” she said pointedly. Pushed the jar a tiny bit more. “If this doesn’t work, I will come up with something else.” A strange thought occurred to her. An unbelievable one, really, but hadn’t Teddy sent her a bone from their finger, which was seemingly once more on their hand? “Say, if we cut your finger off, will it grow back?”

------

Oh, god, she really did mean it. Leila eyed the jar a moment longer than she probably should have. She had done some very strange things in her centuries of life. Had seen some very strange things, too. But to stick her hand into a jar of room-temperature mayonnaise to remove a screaming mood ring was probably the strangest thing she’d ever stumbled into. Unfortunately, there was no better option at present… 

Slowly, with all the reluctance in the world, the mare started to move her hand out from under the pile of cloth that muffled the shrieks. The moment the ring was out in the open, it seemed to double down on it’s efforts of destroying all hearing in a two-block radius. It wailed, louder than it had before, louder than she’d heard anything- human or creature, alive or undead-  scream before. Leila jammed her hand into the condiment jar as quick as she possibly could, cringing at the consistency as well as the noise of the slightly muffled, gurgly screams of the ring. 

It took a moment for her to process the question being asked. Cut whose finger off? Hers? Her lips creased in a thin line. Between the discomfort of the noise, the sensation of a hand covered in mayo, and the question of if she could spontaneously regenerate a finger, the mare was reaching her wits end. “Er, no. I would then be missing a finger for all eternity. And I like my fingers where they belong, attached to my hand.”

------

Freed from the confines of the clothes pile, the ring sounded a little more impressive now, but not by a great margin. Not compared to banshees. Regan would concede that it was the loudest ring she’d ever heard, though, and it was such a lovely thing in that regard. She would take it as her own and bring it back to the banshees, she decided. Unless… if she gave it to Jade, would it remind her of her? No, no, there was something better, and the brief glimpse Regan had at the jewelry gave her the impression it was a little tacky.

Leila dunked her entire hand into the mayonnaise, which really was admirable when she could have just stuck a finger in. Regan stood on her toes, trying to see every bit of the action. The top layer of the mayonnaise – rather greasy – began bubbling, splashing mayo onto Leila’s wrist, and Leila’s face twisted up like she’d just lost a fresh carcass to the vultures.

“Okay, okay, no cutting off your finger, then,” Regan agreed like it was her call to make, though ‘all eternity’ had to be an exaggeration. “Take your hand out, now. I’m going to try to pull the ring off. I won’t, uh, dislocate anything. I’ll be careful.” There was a puckering noise underlying the shrieking as Leila ejected her hand from the mayonnaise, and the ring screamed louder, no longer muffled. Regan grabbed one of the shirts that Leila initially had her hand under – perhaps much to Leila’s chagrin – and tried to wrap a small section of it around the ring for leverage (what? She didn’t need mayonnaise on her hands). She started with only a small amount of pressure, hoping that would be enough to pry the ring from Leila’s finger, but it wouldn’t budge. A little more. Not a millimeter of movement, from what Regan could tell. “Do you feel it moving at all?” If it had moved, she wasn’t sure Leila would have noticed; the woman looked like her head was about to explode. Regan pulled even harder – as forceful as she was willing to go without risking injury to anyone.

Nothing. She huffed and let go, nearly tripping backwards at the release of pressure. Without the shirt swaddling the ring, the sound pierced through the air again, uninhibited. 

Regan frowned, assessing the situation, and coming up blank. “The mayonnaise didn’t work and I can’t remove your finger. Well, that’s it. Those were my two ideas.”

------

How in the holy hell had the ring gotten louder??? She’d pulled her hand out of the goopy, slimy jar with a sickening thwworp only to be greeted by the shrieks of the little metal ring. In that exact moment, Leila decided that mood rings would no longer be sold at The Party Thrifter. To hell with all the mood rings in the world, screaming or silent.

The mare tried not to cringe as Regan grabbed a cashmere sweater and put it over the goop-covered ring to yank at. Ruined. Great. But that wasn’t the worst part. No, that would be too simple. Even with her hand covered in the slimy, lukewarm mayonnaise, the ring would not yield an inch to Regan’s attempts to pull it off. Leila stifled a wail of frustration between clenched teeth. Of all the cursed items that had found their way into her little store, this one was perhaps her least favorite. She trudged into the back to rinse off the mayo, all the while letting loose a string of profanity, one more vile than the next. 

“That can’t be it.” Leila’s voice betrayed the anger that she tried so desperately to contain. She rounded the corner on a warpath towards the counter. Without another thought she whacked her hand against counter, letting the ring crack loudly. When that didn’t work, she did it again. And again. Her voice welled up in a shout to match the piece of jewelry’s. “Crisse, Laisse-moi!”

------

“No, those were my only two ideas.” Regan said a little coolly, disliking being challenged. But at the same time, challenge always made her brain whirr a little harder, and it occurred to her again that her voice was doing a decent job of cutting over the din from the ring. Two rights did not make a left, generally, but what if, like she was subservient to her grandmother, yielding to her superior control and volume, the ring would confer such respect upon her? It would be a first. For anyone, not just rings that shouldn’t exist. “I could try screaming at it, I guess,” she offered with no explanation at all, which by the confusion furrowing between Leila’s pain and mounting frustration, was not helping things. Fine. “I am a banshee. I scream. Louder and more impressively than your ring, if I might add. Maybe it’ll break it, or the ring will… detect the vibrations and shut itself off. The only problem is, well, the ring is on you. So I can’t, um… direct…” This might be a bad idea. “This might be a bad idea.”

There was movement in the corner – some big rat or stray cat scurrying around the perimeter. Regan sighed. Did Leila still have a pest problem in here? No, it was probably nothing. The ring demanded her attention more than some shadow in the peripheries of her vision, which might not have even been real. (Though since Jade had told her about some of the world she was familiar with, Regan had started descending into a mental spiral of wondering if maybe some of those things, those blurs, were not just paranoia.) Now was not the time to voice that, because the burning determination in Leila’s sharp eyes said they would do anything to make this stop. 

Regan winced as Leila smacked her whole hand against the counter and a screeching crrrrk filled the room. Nothing seemed to break off, and certainly not the ring itself. Repeated attempts were just as dire. Regan came closer to try and coax Leila into stopping before she hurt her hand, but something quick and dark dropped from the ceiling like a ninja and fell right over Leila and knocked the mayo off the counter in the process, in the time it took Regan to blink.

------

Banshee. So that’s what Regan was. She’d heard of them, though it’d been an awfully long time since she’d heard stories of them. Back when she was a wide-eyed girl listening to ghost stories with other children around bonfires in the height of summer, back when banshees and vampires and nightmares were just things of the imagination. Leila would have asked questions, had it not been for the ring. 

If her screams could break things, then the shop was not the ideal place for Regan to banshee… Was the verb ‘to banshee’? More questions she didn’t have time for. “It’s worth a try… but maybe let’s go ou-” Before the mare could finish her sentence, something dark and fuzzy descended on her, turning her whole world dark. Her hands shot up to her face, trying to remove whatever was wrapping itself around her face. It felt like fabric. What the hell was fabric doing in the rafters of the shop? But then the fabric was moving off her head, wrapping around the ringed hand with near strangling force. That’s when she recognized it. It was dirtier now, but the hole that marred the now-tattered fabric was still there. The turtleneck. The same possessed turtleneck that had attacked last time Regan was in her store. 

“YOU BROUGHT THE DAMNED THING WITH YOU????” Leila all but shrieked as she tried to shake herself free of the sweater’s grasp. But then, the strangest thing happened. The ring pulled. It was as if the thing was trying to pull away from her hand and flee its current situation.

CLINKCLinkclink…EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE 

The ring suddenly went flying out of the sweater like a rocket and hit the floor, screaming all the way.

------

It was reasonable to think it was a bat. Or a chunk of mold. Or something else that might drop from the ceiling of an old store, an old building. But when Regan got a real look at the black blob that fell on Leila’s face, saw the soft material and lack of a head and patchwork of holes, she not only realized this was somehow a rogue turtleneck, but it was one she knew. They both knew it. It was worse for the wear but full of fight (and rodents? Was that still realistic to cling to? Probably not.)

As quickly as it leaped on Leila, it scuttled off and… the ring. It pulled it clean off Leila’s hand. How? Regan couldn’t do that, mayonnaise couldn’t do that, so how could an unfathomable turtleneck? The ring shot across the room and the turtleneck was hot on its tracks, diving on top of it. The garment threw itself and the ring around the store with athleticism it shouldn’t have possessed. It looked almost like a plastic bag blowing in a fierce wind, the way the sweater tumbled around by itself, the ring tangled up inside of it. The turtleneck was constricting around the ring again, the screeching becoming muffled then clear then muffled again as the two inanimate objects somehow tussled, the ring managing to slip out of the shirt’s grip every so often. Regan hopped back as the skirmish was brought to her feet, bridging over to the counter and clinging for balance (hard when almost slipping on mayo). “WHAT is happening?” Her own scream nearly joined the chaos, but she tightened her grip on her lungs and stopped her voice from twisting into something painful for Leila’s sake.

The accusation that she’d dragged the turtleneck in here changed that. “I had nothing to do with this!” Regan insisted, firm enough that a couple of lightbulbs burst – thankfully they were hanging over the sweater-and-ring combo. She took a long breath, steadying her voice, which was not an easy task with the ring’s shrieking and turtleneck’s turtlenecking everywhere. “I haven’t seen this thing in months! It only seems to appear around you. Besides, you’re the – you’re the one selling clothes, here. It’s yours. Why would it be mine? My turtlenecks behave far better than this.” Speaking of – the sweater rolled through the broken glass until it reached a couple larger shards of glass. Its tattered sleeve looped around one of the shards and held it firm like a fist. Like a weapon. 

------

What the fuck was she watching??? 

The ring had shot across the room like a rocket, and the sweater from hell had tore after it in hot pursuit. The turtleneck kept twisting about, trapping the ring in its fuzzy grasp at every turn. The mood ring, ever the loudmouth, continued its shrieks as it tried desperately to escape the angry shirt. Leila couldn’t help but stand there and stare, slack-jawed, as the shirt and the piece of jewelry wrecked the front of her store. 

She gave a little yelp as the light bulbs shattered overhead. Angry banshee, angry turtleneck, angry ring. Recipe for disaster. “Are you sure it wasn’t stalking you or something??? You wear shirts like this!” Leila hissed as she scrambled across the room, trying to avoid bits of glass and get to the turtleneck. It had wrapped up a piece of glass in the cuff of the sleeve and was stabbing down frantically as the ring kept rolling around in avoidance. 

Enough. There were too many stupid cursed or possessed items in her store, and the mare had had enough of them. It took a bit of navigating around glass, but she managed to get to a witch’s broom that had been on display. Without a seconds hesitation, Leila brought it down on the pair of possessed objects, whacking them as hard as she could. 

“GET OUT OF MY SHOP!!!”

------

There was a mobile turtleneck in a dogfight with a screaming ring, and Regan’s list of potential explanations had been exhausted (much like her ring removal technique list, it was very short to begin with). All she was able to do was look on incredulously as the duo tumbled into racks and shelves and soon most of the glass on the floor was obscured by displaced clothing. Leila was more proactive, and the new accusation lobbed at Regan shook her out of her stupor. She didn’t dare take her eyes off the sweater as she defended her presence. “You think this is my fault? Sure, blame the one who wears all the turtlenecks. If all of your lights broke right now would you blame the banshee?” That probably would have been fair, actually. “I suppose you think I have something to do with the screaming ring, too.” 

In fact, out of the two of them, it was Leila who seemed more comfortable around… this kind of thing (what kind of thing? She wasn’t going there). So maybe it was Leila they were stalking. Or perhaps being a… what Leila was, exposed her to all of this. How old was she again? Regan was so focused on the turtleneck and ring, she felt Leila leave her side before seeing it. Where was she – the broom. Was she going to – they were aggressive, that didn’t– “Are you sure that’s a good–” Regan’s question didn’t matter. The THWAK was almost as loud as the ring’s scream, echoing through the high-ceilinged store.  

If a piece of clothing could yip, she was pretty sure that’s what the turtleneck would have done. The ring, for its part, went silent. The sweater folded in on itself for a second then, quick as a cat, its sleeves launched itself toward the door. The ring was lost somewhere inside of the turtleneck, and when it scuttled out the door as fast as its arms could carry it, Regan heard a scream growing distant, distant, distant, before it died off completely. Inside, it looked like a tornado had swept through Leila’s livelihood. But it was as quiet as the morgue. Quieter. Not even the hum of the fridge.

Regan turned to Leila, who was still clutching the broom, her shoulders heaving. “That ring should have been mine.”

------

Silence. Beautiful, unadulterated silence. 

The ring’s screams grew quieter, quieter, quieter as the sweater carried it down the road until they whimpered out completely, leaving the shop stiller than it had been in hours. The only sound was her own breathing, ragged with frustration. If it was the last time Leila saw that godforsaken sweater and the stupid ring, it would be too soon. The soft tinkling of glass and Regan’s voice made her cringe. No more noise. Just silence. Silence for the rest of the day. 

The broom was placed gently back on the ground so it would not to make a sound. “Well… if you feel like chasing a feral turtleneck…” Her words were more clipped than usual as she made a gesture towards the door. She certainly would not be following. The mare sidestepped her way through the shattered glass of the lightbulb and made her way to the window (that was thankfully still in one piece). The sign was flipped quickly, a red and black Sorry! We’re Closed! scrawled in swirling letters for the world to see. 

“If you want anything, just take it… And take the mayo with you, please.” And without so much as another word, Leila trudged into the back of the store, shoulders sagging lower with every step. 

[soulsxng]

@arcxnumvitae and @fatestouch replied to your post:

WHAT?!

👀👀👀

"It is not an issue of having grown tired of my position, or anything of the sort...though it would likely be a lie if I were to say that I were not feeling somewhat drained."

There's a small hum, and Sivel finally lifts his gaze from the mage pools to regard Ranadi and Alsina, who had eventually begun with a steady (albeit nervous) stream of questions. Why he had brought this up. When he had begun to think about it seriously. Would it be temporary, or permanent? Who would replace him, and what he would be doing, instead?

...What had happened to make him want to abdicate in the first place?

"I love Vasyri...I do. And I love my people just as deeply. But over these past few years, I have come to wonder if, perhaps, I have done all that I am able to for them. Vasyri deserves someone with a fresh outlook on things. Someone who does not look at potential alliances and associations that could benefit us, or end up overly focused on how things might go wrong. Someone that does not feel compelled toward the need to do things on our own, even if we do have allies, so as not to potentially open ourselves up to further threats."

"I think about my home, and I think of what I need to do so as to not fail them again. How I do not think I could stand to see any of my people suffer as they did in the past. And no matter whether I realize that or not, I am never able to shake myself from being almost as overprotective of them as I am of all of you. Of my family..."

"That makes any growth or evolution difficult, if not outright impossible. I know that, and yet...I find that, more and more, I am unable to justify the risks necessary to see much worthwhile change take place. So...while I do not necessarily believe myself to be a poor leader, I feel as though things have grown to be stagnant."

"And all of that is without mentioning the ire that so many outside of Vasyri view me with. I worry that, as long as I am Luminary, the stigma attached to myself and my deeds will continue to weigh Vasyri as a whole down, as well."

He talks through everything in a soft, even tone. It's obvious to both Ranadi and Alsina that this is something he had put a good deal of thought into, since a year or two ago, when he had commented half-jokingly about it to the pair of them.

"Besides...I miss it. How things used to be, when we were younger. Being able to go wherever we fancied at a moment's notice. Exploring and experiencing things with our claim-- something that I have never had the opportunity to do with Ania or Cyrus even once. It feels like, by becoming Luminary, I somehow came to believe that I had to give up so much of myself that, even in my earlier years of ruling, I would never have imagined doing. As if I gave up a part of my culture, pieces of who I am, moments with my loved ones...I look at the person I have become on occasion, and oftentimes, I do not like what I see. What I turned myself into, simply because I thought it was for the best of everyone involved. Because I thought that people would be more impressed, or more intimidated."

"...I do not intend to leave Vasyri forever, nor is this something I intend to rush. I want to be sure that whoever I pass this title onto, they are going to be the right fit. I still want to be around here and there to offer my support and assistance, and to teach people where I can-- both the new Luminary, and whoever else may want to learn from me. And when I'm not doing that, I think I would like to start by going along with Ania, Cyrus, and Sivan on one of their expeditions. After that, maybe I will take them on a trip to some of the spots that mother and father used to bring us when we were younger, with Naya and Nesimah...perhaps Quella. Both of you as well, if it is something you would be open to? It would hardly be the same, otherwise."

"Going back to my abdication, however. As I said, it is not something I intend to rush. I...am coming closer and closer to the conclusion that it is simply my time to take a step back, is all."

[stiricidewrites]

The Damage You Do: ch 26, pt 4

A few people guessed it was lxc who visited lwj, a few guessed jgy. It was in fact lxc.

Previously

~

Perhaps, that was also what the kiss was about? About making him feel better, when he obviously had not been looking forward to the impromptu chat with his older brother?

Then again, out of all the annoying things lxc had said the night before, the suggestion that wwx had kissed him because he had been staking his claim had been an enjoyable one—even if his brother had immediately laughed, insisting it was a joke, as it was impossible; they looked far too similar for anyone to not immediately realize they were related.

lxc hadn’t met wwx though, and while lwj would generally agree that the two of them looked more like twins than simply siblings, wwx could be… tragically unobservant. If he were worried about whatever energy lwj had been emitting at the time and potentially a bit jealous…

“No, wy,” lwj assured his cute little sub. “You are not interfering with my thinking about the conversation. There was nothing worthwhile said. If anything, I appreciate having a… yoga session so early, as it has been helping me put the conversation aside.”

wwx lit up at that—at learning that his mission had been a success? lwj was going to have to be sure to ask the man for specifics on why exactly he had shown up so early. Normally, on the occasions where his subs had randomly dropped in, he had been more suspicious of their motives, but he had been unable to ask wwx—been too eager to bring him inside and fuck him silly.

Part of it was the newness of their relationship, part that he was always itching to touch and fuck and talk to the other man. Mostly, it was that he couldn’t bring himself to believe wwx could possibly have any ulterior motive he should be concerned about. Usually, when his subs turned up without prior planning, they had simply wanted more money, and it was easy to fuck and pay them and maybe take them out for something extra.

Once, however, one of his long-term subs had dropped in and tried to steal a number of important documents. They had been approached by another, much smaller group. lwj hadn’t needed to ask to know the group had been promised nothing more than the safety of the man’s family. Unfortunately, what they had wanted was not something he could have easily given, even with people’s lives on the line—the information would have put members of the Lans and their own families at risk in return. He wasn’t so cold-hearted as to throw the sub out without offering some help, but while the Lans—along with some borrowed staff from nhs—had been able to grab up the man’s local family and put them under some protection…

The Lan’s reach in China wasn’t as great as it once had been, both his father and uncle having viewed it as too much work and had let their connections fall away. The majority of his former sub’s family there had been killed, only a few children swiped from school by their connections in an attempt to keep them alive. The man had been understandably upset—not to mention placed effectively under house arrest as there were still active hits on him and his family—and it had been around then that lwj had begun to almost exclusively find subs from nhs.

[funkymbtifiction]

I finished my third re-write of my current novel (… it would go so much faster if I didn’t make twelve false starts every time because I have too many potential ideas, thanks Ne-dom brain), which means I don’t have much to “do” today. It’s the week after my heaviest work week, so I’ll be home. And there are little things to do, but… it’s on days like this when my sp/so 613 really becomes apparent. Down time is boring to me – I need projects, goals, something to work toward; a day after finishing a huge rewrite should be enough to launch back into the final edit, right???

What do normal non-136 people DO on their days off? (I usually clean house, write character profiles, stock up the queue, answer asks, write reviews, clean out my computer, get bored, get annoyed that none of my friends are online to chat, and then get angst-full.) I’ve been binge-watching New Amsterdam on Netflix after work, but if I watched that all day long, I’d feel like I was “wasting time.” I am jittery and impatient for the next step in my process, but also aware of being emotionally and mentally exhausted and needing to rest. Mentally, I know I need to take time away from my manuscript and return to it with fresh eyes, but I find that hard to do.

It reminds me of when I had my wisdom teeth out a couple of years ago, and my face swelled up like a chipmunk and I was in terrible pain, and I was pissed off because I had wanted to paint my bedroom while being on painkillers (because I knew I wouldn’t be able to write/think coherently, I scheduled something else “productive” to do that didn’t require concentration) – so I doped myself up and did it anyway as soon as I could move my head without pain. I just have so much “driven” energy that I don’t make a good “vacation” person. It’s fun for about four hours, and then I kick back into “well, what can I get done???” mode.

There’s something lousy about every tritype, and I’m only now fully realizing how driven mine is, and how it keeps me constantly productive and “on edge.” How hard it makes it for me to just … chill. Or even to put effort into things that don’t seem worthwhile. If it doesn’t work or succeed or generate interest, why do it?

[alyjojo]

Love Reading ⚧️ - February 2024 - Taurus

Singles:

Who is Coming In: Ace of Wands & 4 Wands

Regarding: 6 Cups

Long-Term Potential: The World rev

This person has issues, you already know that because you’ve already been with them. I’m not sure you take this connection as seriously as it is, I’m picking up on a soul contract and possible past life energy with this one, shit runs deep. One of you makes the other one feel like they’re not good enough, pretty enough, make enough money possibly, Lilith could play a role in this connection (she only does when closely aspecting something in you/synastry). Whoever has gone through this feeling was supposed to, it has a purpose. Fiery passionate energy, if they’re not a fire sign they have a potent fire placement somewhere. I’m not sure how things went the first time, it doesn’t clarify much, but they want you back, you may have inspired them to do “the right” thing, I’m not sure how or what you want out of this person. They’re almost desperate. They want to have a stable relationship with you, maybe move in together and have a family, they can definitely see you being *the* one for them. Long term, there’s unfinished business being handled and a chance at something stable. Ace of Pentacles is worthwhile, Pentacles don’t get thrown around for nothing, this is an offer they mean and will try to prove to you - if you let them. They still have issues, and aren’t the most secure or confident person for all of this fiery energy. You could be the one that makes them feel that.

Messages:

- You inspire me in every way.

- I just want to START OVER!

NOT ENOUGH 👺

- Lacking Confidence

- Self-Sabotage

- Ego & Fear

- Frustrations

Signs you may be dealing with:

Scorpio, Leo & Sagittarius

Couples:

Them: The Sun, 3 Wands & Wheel of Fortune

Regarding: 6 Pentacles

Your side is the one with the issues, their side is the one with mind games, it’s not the greatest energy, but it feels like things are progressing at least this month. Eventually, maybe, it’s a process. You two could be newly dating, still unsure or uncomfortable regarding boundaries and truths of situations, this person in particular seems to enjoy making you jealous or pushing your boundaries, just to see how far they can take it before you get pissy, or stand up for yourself. Pretty immature but there it is, for someone. For most I’m getting this person being generous towards you, kind, loving & supportive, and they’re keeping a tight rein on how they really feel (you both are) maybe *because* it hasn’t been very long and they’re still learning you. They seek to match your energy, so if you’re going out a lot, so are they. If you’re acting busy, so are they. If you’re interested and wanting to talk, so are they. They want to get what they’re given, and they’re waiting for you to either realize, read their mind, pick up on cues, come around to their side of things…without actually verbalizing what that means. Thus mind games, they’re someone you have to read non verbally and guess. Good luck with that 💯 With that being said, the opposite may be true as well, they may not do certain things until you specifically address them or set a boundary, like why is that necessary? They like to mess with you, and they like the attention. For maybe one person, if this is a long distance or online thing, they could be telling you they need to save money, all about their financial problems, or could take some time, but is that just an excuse? That seems to be where your mind is at anyway. Or switch it. If this is business, your person supports you, even financially if necessary. They could give you something they’ve had to save up for, like a gift. If they feel like you’re the one playing games, they could be giving you enough rope to hang yourself, without saying anything. Or switch it.

Messages:

- Mind Games 😵‍���

- Kind!

PARTYING 🥳

- Time With Friends

- Having Fun

- Happily Single

- Living in the Moment

Answering the Call 📱

“The time is now.”

You are unique. There is no one quite like you in the universe.

You: Queen of Wands, 3 Cups & Page of Pentacles rev

Regarding: 8 Pentacles

There’s a lot you don’t tell each other, and I don’t get it being sneaky per se, maybe some, or a particular thing. You may feel like you’ve put a lot more work into this than they have and you’re pretty ticked off about it, maybe you’ve started pulling back from them, already aware you’re giving way more to it. Or switch. Time is necessary with you two, or maybe you feel like it’s been enough time and they need to catch up already. It’s possible they have a particular friend that pisses you off, or you do, it’s not a real friend they’re just attractive, flirty, and you/your person are in a relationship so why is this person bothering that? Allowed to* Boundaries need to be set, within reason. I don’t see any toxicity here so I’ll assume there’s a good reason. Your person could enjoy making you jealous, or you do, purposely not responding, purposely acting too busy, putting other people before your partner, etc.

For others this is about work, you have some amazing inspired idea to head down new paths (your Oracle confirms this), and you may be celebrating with some and keeping quiet with others that wouldn’t get it. Maybe you celebrate love, you say it out loud, but there are no plans for commitment, it just stays in the dating phase. Someone wants it that way, could be either side, and both of you having options seems to be the mutual issue. You haven’t stated your caution, distrust, feelings, or reasons for being kinda upset, there has been no effort towards discussing what really matters. The same goes for if you’ve seen this person recently and you two never really can, you’re not gonna mess it up with issues and bs, you just want to have a good time…but the issues and bs are still there, like elephants 🐘

Messages:

- LESSON 💯

- I imagine us together forever.

TALKING 🗣️

- Interested

- Awaiting Messages

- Texts, Calls, Etc.

- Talking More

Faraway Places ✈️

“Get ready for new horizons!”

Don’t let your feelings be hurt by someone who doesn’t have the soul to judge you.

Mutual: 8 Swords, 4 Cups & Knight of Swords rev

Regarding: 5 Wands

The Oracle here is a clear message from Spirit to trust the messages, insights, and signals you’re being given. Not all is as it seems, and if you’re suspicious then there’s probably a reason. I’m not getting unreasonable people here, but your person likes to test your limits and you may not even know the extent to exactly what that is. You’re both afraid to confront any issues between you, it’s not your job to set strict boundaries or keep people from being happy, you both feel that way, you both could be single & happy people that are kinda involved but…how long are they gonna keep up this bs? Or vice versa. Communicating your needs, fears, desires, everything - is necessary for a healthy relationship. Even new ones, why waste your time? You’re both conflicted over approaching subjects open & honestly, you both refuse to and you’re both irritated that the other one won’t. For some of you, talking may not be necessary, especially if the issue is due to some holiday, event, a friend in town, a special occasion, it’s like either this is temporary, something outside you both, or the problem may take care of itself in time. Maybe you both just hope so. Neither wants to push the other person or piss them off, but things need to be said, agreed on or not, where is this even going? - being one of them. The more you’re both quiet about your dissatisfaction in a situation, the more irritated you may become. Some of you are all talk no action, and it gets on the other person’s nerves - either. You could also feel they’re hot with little substance - and this is all switched. But for now, you’re both dissatisfied and don’t feel like the other’s priority, possibly due to outside parties, friends, flirty people, etc. The simplest way to interpret this is possibly getting a gift you don’t really like but don’t say that, so now this person buys you lavender scented everything and you’ve never liked lavender a day in your life, but you can’t say that now. Page of Wands at the bottom can show a need to share your passions! You don’t have to make it a weird conversation about what you don’t like, just be honest about what you do! If boundaries are needed, say so, bring things up, or you’ll never know. Assuming is no bueno.

CLOCK 🕰️

- Needing Time

- Cycles & Takes Time

- Time to Heal

- Progressing

Journey By Moonlight 🌙

“Believe in Magic!”

Remember, you can’t expect something for nothing, especially love. You have to give it out to get it back.

Signs you may be dealing with:

Heavy fire 🔥 Aries, Virgo, Sagittarius, Leo, Cancer & Gemini

[the-least-undefinable-ordinal]

hello! in a recent post you ask:

what would happen when people realize there is no punishment for violent crimes?

this has an interesting parallel to a question i often see christians ask atheists which is:

what would happen if people decide there is no god to punish sins? if murder isn't a sin why wouldn't people just go out and kill everyone they dislike?

I think the responses to both of these questions are potentially very similar.

neither the police nor god even pretend to prevent crime, they merely punish it. its well established that increasing threatened punishments is not an effective method of preventing crime. most people simply don't have an urge to do such things and threats from the gods or from the state are mostly not needed to prevent such actions.

being overly concerned with punishment seems counter productive. providing greater quality of life, and stability that gives faith in a meaningful and worthwhile future is a much more effective method of preventing crime. its hard to say specifically how to address the crimes that would still occur after this, but it seems to me that the question should be how to redress people who have been harmed and how to minimize potential for future recurrences. i don't think punishment is a great answer to either of these questions.

i don't really expect this to full persuade you away from wanting to depend on punishment, but i do hope that this at least feels worth thinking about, and hopefully you'll be slightly more open to the possibility the next time you meet someone arguing against punishment as a solution for crime or social issues.

i hope you're doing well whenever you read this.

I know I'm setting the bar really low, but I appreciate the respectful way in which you sent this, police abolition seems to be a topic that riles people up in here I expected this ask to be a death threat or something.

I am an atheist and there are two main reason I don't commit crimes: I don't like the feeling of harming others and I understand the society I live in would be improved if everyone tried to follow the law.

Both of these reasons could be discarded if I was desperate enough, if I had to choose between going hungry and harming others I don't think I would be above the latter.

You mentioned that increasing punishments does not necessarily prevent crime and while I haven't seen the studies proving that, I don't find it hard to believe: if I was going to prison for stealing it wouldn't affect my decision too much if I was going 5 or 10 years.

However, I'm not talking about increasing or decreasing punishment here, I'm talking about the existence versus the non-existence of punishment; I don't know if there are any good studies documenting what happens when people know they can get away with anything, what I do know is in my city the police went on strike for a couple of days about 5 years ago and it was mayhem: the hospitals were overflowing with stab victims, stores were cleaned out (not just the big ones leftists love to brand as enemies), my friends had to stay away from the windows because they kept hearing gunshots.

Again, I don't have much hard data on this, but I am inclined to hope most violent crimes are commited out of necessity and the most effective way to prevent them would be to better the material conditions of the possible perpetrators; but this is an incredibly difficult problem and in fact one that hasn't been solved yet on a large scale.

The existence of punishment works as a deterrent, as it is in practice it's horrible and it is about reformation only in name, but it will be a necessary evil as long as there are people who suffer and are willing to cause harm to others to end or postpone that suffering.

To conclude, I don't think I'm overly concerned with punishment, I just think it's a necessary part of a flawed system with no known improvement.