#but they are also undeniably fundamentally different.

[lucius-beaumont]

Cecil knowing his assistant of 20 years is fundamentally different and that he'll never see his original self again is SO angsty i LOVEE. Tell me why they couldn't save regular civilians but can recover a man thats been splattered ?? Cecil tries his best to respect and care for every life equally but he's undeniably selfish when it comes to Donald. Whether it be platonic, family or romantic. Donald is Cecil's one and true shawty. Call me dramatic but I do genuinely think Cecil staying morally grey and trying to be as humane as possible is largely because of Donald, and that if Donald had died years prior Cecil would've ended up a lot worse than he already is. It's shown Donald is and will always be heroic and kind. While Cecil is factually heroic (facing Omni man first hand, sacrificing his skin and life again and again) He is not always kind, or emotionally smart/ or down to earth- which is what Donald is great at. The white room incident wouldn't have happened if Cecil called in Donald. He was able to comfort and get Rick to back down from jumping, between the two of them, Donald wouldn't have been throwing salt in wounds and antagonizing Mark for just being a bit naïve.

They definitely erased a bit more than normal memories if Donald hasn't noticed Cecil's older than him even though they were similar in age 20 years ago. But if Cecil was around every time Donald had an existential crisis about the fact he was less human, I understand it was better for the both of them that Cecil kept lying and tweaking his mind.

Almost irrelevant but Donald sneaking behind Cecil's back and interacting with Mark to help him is also another solid reason on why he's super essential. Mark has had blood with everyone in the GDA but knows Donald is kind enough to help him and believes him when he says the spyware wasn't Cecil's doing. This show is gonna be the death of me I love everyone in it, except Angstrom hes fucking nuts

rewatching invincible s2 right now and noticed some fascinating stuff about my goat, donald ferguson. especially in s2ep4, where he’s sort of figuring out that he’s kind of… not entirely human.

more specifically, how insanely detailed the tech he’s made of must be. in s1, this guy gets blown to bits. to our knowledge, this has happened at least 38 other times, all of which were followed by donald realizing he’s a robot, raging on cecil, and then learning that he willingly had his memory wiped… and then dying while saving others again. donald is a real and true hero, but there’s also something about harm reaction.

this metaphor is more commonly used to explain like… demand avoidance in adhd, where you can put your hand over a hot stove and even if you really WANT to push your palm down on it, your body won’t do it. it has a sense of internal self-preservation.

when donald is taking the switchblade to his arm to confirm that he still bleeds like a man, he hesitates. he doesn’t WANT to hurt himself; his robot body — and i’m pretty sure his brain is somewhat robotic, either that or cecil has clones of his brain courtesy of the mauler twins or something… — has a sense of self-preservation.

(or cecil programmed in safeguards to try and keep donald from spiraling over this again and again, but i don’t think he’s that way with donald. the guy isn’t a contingency, this guy is his friend — if not the closest thing he has to family.)

that self-preservation is a ridiculous thing to put in technology, along with an entire fake circulatory system. this isn’t even sinclair’s tech, which implies a genius — or a team of them — who can fucking make robots that are unaware that they are even robots, maintaining the traits of their human body and mind. (there is like no way the maulers didn’t have a hand in this dude, maybe the GDA has a mauler clone that they retrieved from a battle and reconditioned to help them out?)

but beyond that… he’s denied that self-preservation in almost 40 different instances, and continues to do so. donald is an INSANE character. he willingly has his memory wiped with the full knowledge that he will always be the guy on the front line, running in to save others.

give this man a MEDAL he’s like the real captain america here. incredible.

[moe-broey]

Ohhhhhhh. Okay.

(thoughts/revelations about bride alt Sharena jumpscare)

[entity56]

i think what people struggle fundamentally to understand is that schizophrenic and schizophrenic-adjacent people often hold so tightly to their delusions not just because that's the nature of delusions in and of themselves, but also because it's often the ONLY thing they can trust. (at very least in my experience if not a general thing. please correct me if i'm wrong.)

i implore you to imagine this for a second: you can't trust ANYTHING. you don't know what's real or fake. there are a bunch of different people and things shouting different ideas and opinions at you at all times all day every day and you dont know what to believe. it's like having a blindfold put on while people spin you rapidly in a chair and then let you go to stumble towards a moving goalpost.

it's not just opinions, either. it's people, and yourself. but let's focus on the former for a second. you don't know who to trust anymore. this black and white way of thinking makes you suspicious of everybody, because in your mind, you HAVE to be. otherwise you trust the wrong person and get hurt. it's like BPD in that way.

and you can't trust yourself, either.

so eventually, something comes along that, to you, feels like Undeniable Truth. in the case of delusions, it's not actually True, but you can't (fully) convince your mind of that, regardless of who or what tells you it isn't real. your mind has clutched to that truth like a vice because it's the first truth you could actually rely on in a while. it's security in a world that doesn't otherwise have it, regardless of how unpleasant the delusion is. a little part of you, conscious or subconscious, takes comfort in it.

that's why delusions are such a struggle. it's not just 'ooh i got abducted by aliens hehe i'm crazy'. delusions are both a symptom and a coping mechanism for other symptoms. at very least for me.

[valtsv]

I know people who don’t like alt fashion often think we are annoying or think we think too highly of ourselves/ are attention seeking. I don’t think they understand that more often than positive reactions people are genuinely cruel and sometimes violent about it. “Attention seeking”…The attention I get is getting harassed on the bus for the crime of wearing an outfit some stranger thinks is weird.

honestly. i was actually talking to some friends, several of whom are more visibly and openly queer than i am, at a party last month, and at ond point the topic turned to the struggle of choosing how to present yourself and weighing up the benefits of that against the potential risks of being identified as a queer person and hatecrimed for it - wearing a skirt outside the house when you're still in the early stages of transition, cutting your hair short, etc. and i expressed solidarity with them by pointing out that, although i wasn't trying to compare our experiences because theirs were undeniably more serious, i understood to an extent what they were going through because i've also experienced harassment for the way that i dress and my general outward physical appearance. which led to us discussing that, actually, although being free to express fundamental parts of your identity in a society where those aspects of you are marginalised and oppressed is without question more of a human rights issue than being able to explore alternative fashion styles, they're both rooted in the same foundational attitude - that being that any deviation from the norm is perceived as a threat by some people, who may decided to uphold that status quo with violence because they're confident that the majority will support them and blame the victim for inviting it upon themselves through their "lifestyle choices". there's a reason so many alt fashion styles have their origin in specific subcultures - they're a way of showing belonging, but also a way of openly demonstrating difference, and rejection of certain normative ideals. which is important to understand if you have a genuine interest in alt fashion - you will be perceived as making a provocative statement by some people, whether that's your intention or not. it's good knowledge to have if it's something you want to commit to.

[venussaidso]

𝐃𝐎𝐑𝐈𝐀𝐍 𝐆𝐑𝐀𝐘'𝐒 𝐈𝐍𝐅𝐋𝐔𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄 — Vedic Astrology Observation (based on shows/films part 5)

The lyrics of the song suggest a deep yearning for connection or depth, describing a sense of distance or separation. Something can be fading away, like a memory you can’t quite grasp. Something is lost and obscured.

The character Dorian Gray is the most perfect example of the negative influence of Ketu, in the way that he has a corrupting influence of those around him due to his extreme yet effortless magnetism.

This character's magnetism works quite like a void, sucking others in, promising fulfillment, but he is fundamentally empty -- again, like a void. He is known to be a depthless, yet mystifying being. Ketu is still an illusory planet, and we are reminded of this from the way he draws people in as if he possesses something profound to give, only for this perception of depth to turn out to be an illusion. Because, ultimately, Dorian is devoid of true substance. Yet there is no denying the subconscious effect he has on people; so strong, in fact, he unintentionally sends them to madness. He always seems to leave behind a trace of chaos wherever he goes.

His entire being works like a gravitational force. The modern iterations of this character usually being portrayed by Ketuvians, we see him absorb everything he effortlessly magnetizes. The admiration, unlimited energy, and desires of others, pulling them into his orbit. His beauty is mistaken for substance, his allure for depth. Yet, as people draw closer, that's when they start to lose something of themselves. As we know, Ketu drains and destroys. He quite literally functions like a blackhole. His influence is so extreme on a subconscious level that it shoves people to abandoning their convictions, indulge in their darker instincts, and stray from their true selves. This is because Dorian, though vibrant in appearance, is a hollow shell that paradoxically creates a vacuum around him as he consumes the life and energy of those who fall under his spell.

It comes as no surprise that the version we know him as is played by the Magha Sun native Ben Barnes. Mula native Stuart Townsend also played him. And a version of Dorian Gray in "Penny Dreadful" is played by Ashwini native Reeve Carney.

On that note, Reeve Carney's Dorian Gray was tangled up with a double Ketu native in Penny Dreadful in an intoxicating affair. As usual, Ketu people are mutually drawn to each other immediately. In Penny Dreadful, Dorian is captivated by Vanessa Ives, who is played by Ashwini Moon, Magha ASC Eva Green. He is taken in by her mysterious intense nature, seeing in her a reflection of the dark beauty he already embodies. And Vanessa is drawn in by Dorian’s undeniable charm and darkness, a darkness she feels within herself too.

There is always mutual recognition between Ketuvians, their attraction always feeling fated yet so short-lived by either 8H circumstances or extreme unfulfillment (in this case for Vanessa and Dorian, who are different manifestations of Ketu. Vanessa, who has inner turmoil, seeks spiritual depth. Dorian, who is internally empty, lives to absorb worldly things and people, sucking everything around him dry).

Although it turned out he'd never felt for anyone as he did for Vanessa (to the point of seeking her out, something she could only capture as he became magnetized by her Ketu force), in the end, their relationship is one more moment in his endless cycle of shallow, unfulfilling experiences. This exploration of his Ketu influence also reminds me just how similar it is to Rahu because, to some extent, Rahu deals with these same themes too. My vampirism exploration for the nodes validates just how illusory and consuming these shadow planets are.

As some of you know, I'm of the unpopular opinion that Tom Hiddleston is a likely Ashwini Moon. I wanted to use his character in "Crimson Peak" as addition to this observation.

Thomas Sharpe's magnetism is predatory, having a rather vampiric quality as he embodies this tense nodal energy. Though he has more depth than Dorian Gray, in the end he is still nothing more than a beautiful illusion with darkness surrounding him. Typical as he consumes those who become ensnared in his web, draining their spirit. Unlike Dorian, he deliberately devours the resources and life force of his victims. Another nod to this theme of Ketuvians who, intentionally or unconsciously, function like black holes themselves. Leaving those who become sucked in to ruin.

In the film, the female lead embodies the final girl nakshatra trope, being his only victim to get away. She is portrayed by Magha Moon Mia Wasikowska. Ketu-Ketu pairing gone wrong.

Also, Ketuvians are often seen playing ghosts or are casted in projects that have this supernatural element! Moon nakshatras come second in the horror genre, too.

The main stars of the film either have Ketu Moons or a Moon nakshatra in their lunar mansion.

The film is literally written & directed by Hasta Sun Guillermo del Toro.

You will often see Moon nakshatra natives working with Ketu nakshatra natives. I see these pairings in friendships and other forms of relationships a lot; [Tate x Violet from AHS].

Ashwini Moon Tom Hiddleston portrayed Thomas Sharpe's ghost.

Magha Sun Patrick Swayze in the film "Ghost".

Mula Moon, Magha Sun Taissa Farmiga and Hasta Moon Evan Peters as ghosts in American Horror Story.

[bigskydreaming]

Imagine looking at a character whose entire premise is that in every stage of his life, he's made every version of himself into someone that inspires people to such a degree that EVERY SINGLE VERSION OF HIM has people wanting to literally follow in his footsteps in some way or another.....

And coming to the conclusion that like.....the most important things about him are the sum of all his trappings. His entirely homemade developed from scratch could not exist if not for what he already was and brought with him BEFORE crafting this newest version of himself trappings, with his greatest trait throughout all of it being his adaptability; his ability and willingness to roll with the punches and not try to simply weather any opposition or changes to his life but instead reshape himself as needed to better fit INTO whatever new shape his life and the world around him takes. All while managing to carry the most innate, fundamental and necessary aspects of himself from one version to the next. Thus every single version of himself is different but simultaneously every single version of himself is also undeniably the same person.

The strength of this character, to me, will always be that he can be so many versions of himself, he can become so many things, all without ever actually losing or discarding any of the aspects of himself he considers most essential, the things he's not willing to lose or give up just to keep going. Finding that road not taken by most, usually because most never even think to look for it as an option. But one that he's always able to find because the one trick he's mastered in his tumultuous life is threading that needle of not just digging in his heels in an unproductive way but rather being selective about when and where he makes a stand and decides "this is not a thing I'm willing to compromise about" but here are places and ways I can and will change and evolve and adapt in order to make it possible for me to hold onto these parts and keep them as they are.

And that's why its always so mind-boggling to me that so many writers can't seem to think of anything else to do with Dick Grayson other than invent some new reason for him to just....not be that person, or to like just take the character whose most basic fundamental trait he's NOT about to compromise on is willingly giving up his spot in the driver's seat of his own life.....and make him just a passenger in his own life and stories.

Dick Grayson at age nine....at age nineteen...at age twenty nine....the one core thread running through all versions of him is the only way he's standing back and letting you call the shots for him or putting him on the sidelines in some way is over his dead body.

HOW he goes about that, what that looks like, who he becomes and what aspects of himself he plays up at some times and what traits he lets fall by the wayside at other times when they offer less in service to his primary goal here....that changes constantly. He changes constantly.

But those changes are almost always (or at least they used to be/should be IN MY OPINION) made with the intention of keeping certain things about him or his life as consistent as possible.

That's the duality of Dick Grayson that I'm here for. The inherent contradiction of him that COULD allow for endless conflict and breaking new narrative ground in all sorts of ways if mined properly:

His eternal willingness to compromise....but only ever in pursuit of doubling down on the ways he's not willing to compromise.

Forever walking that tightrope in ways that only a kid born and raised in a circus could ever hope to.

[nevertheless-moving]

MDZS AU #7: Jiang Wanyin’s Dog

Jiang Cheng & Wei Ying time travel back to the Wen Indoctrination camp.

They didn't ask for this. Wei Wuxian's Happy Ending is gone. Jin Ling's Whole Life is Gone. But no time to unpack any of that, they fight the Xuanwu of Slaughter the day after tomorrow. They have to get on the same page. Their family is alive again. They have to get this right.

Last time around, Wei Ying created distance between his actions and Jiang Cheng’s orders.

(Partially in order to excuse his shidi from blame when he did something grotesque or anti-establishment or unsuccessful. Partially to obscure which orders he physically couldn't follow. Partially because his mental health was truly, exceptionally bad — he distanced himself from lots of things!)

It could be argued that this strategy didn’t pan out super well, in the end. Not a very fun conclusion.

And the reasons for that distance don't exist anymore considering 1) Jiang Sect is un-massacred and can properly throw their weight around to shield their terrifying unorthodox disciple from backlash when he does terrifying unorthodox things. 2) Wei Ying doesn’t have a golden core shaped secret to hide from Jiang Cheng. Wei Ying has less secrets from Jiang Cheng then he’s ever had.

(Mental health could be better, but it also could be a lot worse)

So they come up with a different plan, whispering furiously under Wen guard, bedrolls pressed close together, cheeks still holding a little babyfat.

Wei Wuxian will be the perfect servant in public, obeying his gongzi’s orders without question. In exchange Jiang Wanyin won’t order him to do anything he wouldn’t want to do anyway. Wei Wuxian will still get to do all his stupid heroics — he just has to wait for the go ahead, to provide the undeniable impression of perfect unity. Jiang Wanyin will give that go ahead, even if it has to be through gritted teeth.

Bear with me now: this leads to a gradual yungmeng bros reconciliation. Basically the emotional equivalent of tensing a muscles as hard as you can on purpose so that when you relax it, the background strain also releases a bit.

To start — Wei Wuxian is the new core melting hand, except even scarier.

Did you hear he summoned an ARMY of the damned to protect Lotus Pier?? And that the only one who he listens to is Jiang Wanyin? Apparently Jiang Wanyin confronted Wen Chao over using human sacrifices, and when Wen Chao threatened him, Jiang Wanyin gave the word and Wei Wuxian killed a hundred Wen AND the Xuanwu of Slaughter!!! Did you hear he ripped Wen Zhuliu heart out of his chest?? What a terrfying head disciple! How long has Jiang sect been hiding this??

The two really, really have to work together, very consistently, without hiccups, and as much practice as they have fighting this specific war together, they also have hella baggage and different priorities and Wei Ying is NOT keeping up the Super Serious Servant act in private.

(they can’t speed run, alright? Wen Chao's early death and the Jiang Sect surviving pretty fundamentally alter following events, rendering specific future knowledge less useful. Not to mention, it takes time for Wei Wuxian to figure out how to balance his golden core with massive amounts of resentful energy. He's got qi to deviate, and there's a good few months where they're fairly sure he's driving himself into an even faster grave than his first life. I mean he figures it out, he's a fucking genius. But early on there's a non zero amount of bleeding from the eyes and running into bushes to puke blood while Jiang Cheng pretends that he's only stressed about this for purely pragmatic reasons.)

So daily private meetings to debrief and strategize and yell at each other and maybe horse around a little. It's the only time they get to step back from the terrifying teenage war leaders thing and be a more raw, complex version of themselves. Getting back in sync after everything. Maybe getting in sync for the first time — how much of their childhood were they dancing around issues of worth and place? How many of their worst arguments stemmed from one giant secret?

Jiang Cheng making progress on his Wuxian shaped self-esteem issues largely by faking it-till-he-makes it.

“You think I feel embarrassed to be second best to my own disciple. What, are you fucking stupid?? How do you compare to him, huh? He’s going to ascend to be a death god or some shit like that. It’s a ridiculous comparison — I’d like to see how you would have done, growing up his shidi. Grow up and fuck off.”

Say stuff like that enough times and you might… actually start to believe it. Huh.

Both of them somewhat expecting cocky, mouthy Wei Wuxian to bristle more about the subservience thing, but honestly? It's cool.

For years, supporting Jiang Cheng was the only thing Wei Ying truly wanted. Yes, he wants other things now too, but Wei Ying still wants to follow Jiang Cheng.

Jiang Cheng is good at politics, at leadership. He rebuilt his sect back to greatness from the ground up. Wei Wuxian's 'leading a sect' experience culminated in being feared by the world and slowly starving to death on an all radish diet. (yes, obviously, there were extenuating circumstances, but regardless — I don't think leading anything larger than a night hunt is on Wei Ying's to do list).

Jiang Cheng expecting criticism in private and not getting it. Waiting all day to be torn apart for his fuckups by an unfiltered Wei Wuxian, only to instead be praised for his battlefield calls and handling of difficult negotiations.

He was a sect leader for two decades— his stupid shixiong's approval should not be able to affect him like this.

The thing is, Wei Wuxian's got effective free reign on his areas of interest — protecting people he wants to protect, inventing, and fighting people he wants to fight. Wei Wuxian has bountiful self esteem. It's annoying to not say whatever he wants whenever he wants, to bow that low, to mind his titles, to walk five steps behind, but it doesn't actually make him feel bad.

Once they’re eating A-Li’s soup … and it sinks in that their parents, their sect, their sister is alive… and they're drunk crying together... and they really really really did miss this, having someone who got their jokes, who could distinguish between their mock outrage and real fury…

Reconciliation starts completely in private but frankly enough time of Wei Wuxian Perfect Discipleing in public? Jiang Cheng is like… ok I thought I wanted this... but its actually not my kink. Please push back when the Jin start talking shit. I’m so, so tired. I've been tired longer than you've been alive. I don't want to reserve all my amusement for hidden moments any more.

Almost seamless public facing transition from ‘rabid dog on a short chain’ swinging to ‘my good right hand.’ Wei Wuxian gets to start being a little shit again in public, but he reigns it in quickly at Jiang Cheng's signal, and teasing A-Cheng stays private. Honestly — a boundary that might have helped them a lot in their first life!

As a result of gaslighting people that however they act that day is how they've always acted, most people are left with the general impression of Wei Wuxian as ‘trusted loyal hound,' who also happens to be absolutely fucking terrifying. Which. Isn’t exactly wrong so, fuck it, fine. Wei Ying honestly could not give less fucks about 99.9% of people’s opinions.

...Lan Zhan is living a dark romance novel, but that's a different post.

Part Two My MDZS AU Masterlist

[milksnake-tea]

Imagine Yaoshi x Reader x Nanook. With how they act in lores and how there is not much canon information about the personalities + encounters or interactions yet. My brain already has so much ideas about what's gonna happen if we put them both together :)

pairing: nanook x gn!reader x yaoshi (general relationship hcs)

word count: 785

warnings: possible spoilers for hsr !! involves xianzhou stuff iykyk

a/n: it's the way that i knew this would be a request- also this got long i apologize HAHSHSHH

First off, congrats. I have no idea how you managed to coerce these two into sharing because the last thing either wanted was to share something with the other.

Compromise is absolutely fundamental in this relationship. Yaoshi and Nanook are Aeons whose ideologies are in direct conflict, and you'll have to act as their middle ground. Arguments aren't common (they both believe that they're above such petty disputes), but in the beginning of the relationship, the tension was undeniable.

Nanook firmly believes that civilization was a mistake, and neither Yaoshi nor you can change that. Yaoshi can pout and give Nanook the look all they want, but nothing is stopping Nanook from bringing planet after planet down.

Likewise, Yaoshi's gifts of immortality, along with their side effects of mara, tend to irk Nanook, only furthering their belief that destruction was the only salvation left for the universe (Yaoshi would continue to assert that the mara wasn't their fault).

But when you come into the picture, you force them to put their differences aside - because if there's one thing that the two of them can agree on, it's you. If it's for you, they're willing to push aside their ongoing war with one another. If it's you, they'll ignore the fact that they openly hated the other.

Yaoshi thought that such a cold being as Nanook wasn't deserving of a partner such as you. Nanook didn't love or embrace you like Yaoshi did, didn't cradle and pamper you like the Abundance.

As a result, Yaoshi loved to remind them of their negligence, although now, it's more of a playful jest if anything. They'd whine about how Nanook was barely home, despite Yaoshi constantly being on the run themselves, and the fact that as Aeons, they don't have a set "home".

For the most part, Nanook was unbothered by Yaoshi's remarks, with the most coming out of them being a roll of the eyes. They didn't care how their affection may have come across, the only thing mattering to them was that you were safe and happy.

The two of them used to fight over you all the time - Nanook would often snatch you right off of Yaoshi's lap, and Yaoshi would refuse to hand you over. But soon, they learned to tolerate the other's existence, and eventually that tolerance would turn into a begrudging adoration.

In this relationship, Yaoshi is inertly more affectionate (and possessive) than Nanook is. Nanook isn't... They're not exactly in tune with desires of any kind, much less the kind that comes with a romantic relationship. Yaoshi, on the other hand, is an empathetic soul who loves and sympathizes with creatures from all walks of life.

Yaoshi coddles you, and makes sure that not only are you loved, but that you feel loved. They are gentle and tender with you, often playing with your hands or hair, and pressing kisses wherever they can. They sing you praises to their Disciples and the Denizens, who adore you just as much as their Aeon.

On the other hand, Nanook's "love", if you could even call it that, comes in the form of protection. The Antimatter Legion, when they're not wreaking havoc upon other planets, become your personal bodyguards. Yaoshi in particular takes advantage of this, often using the Legion to fend off any Xianzhou ships looking to hunt them down.

But this isn't to say that Nanook doesn't have their moments. When they manage to pry you away from Yaoshi's arms, Nanook likes to hold you as they go about their business. You'd be laying in their arms, pressed against their chest as you watch the destruction of a planet as you would a movie. Rarely are any words said in these moments, but they are just as intimate as Yaoshi's affections.

The universe knows you as the Mediator, the tamer of the two most hated Aeons in the universe. Being the significant other of not one, but two Aeons certainly comes with its benefits - and that being that practically nothing can touch you. There are some who feel pity for you, others who envy you.

But there are also those such as the Aeon Xipe who are grateful for your existence, for you are responsible for keeping Yaoshi and Nanook in check. In Xipe's eyes, if such opposing Aeons as Yaoshi and Nanook can work in tandem, then there is hope for a unified universe.

All in all, this relationship can only work if each member puts forth the effort to make it work. It's rocky in the beginning, even more so than others, and requires so much more patience. But if you can manage to pull through, the rewards are sweeter than any fruit.

[spankingtheatre]

Authority

Fundamentally, we all want someone authoritative to mark our homework, to tell us we've done such a great job, and hear confirmation they're so proud of our efforts.

We all visualise our imaginary authority figures differently. Some will eroticise them, transmuting them into fantasies of strict Daddies, Teachers, and Governesses. For those who read this blog, it's extremely likely these fantasy figures believe in bare bottom spankings.

Yet many can find themselves confused by their own adoration of authority. It seems quite at odds with the personal freedom we cherish so dearly.

Even so, there's also an undeniable attraction to accountability, and many find great reassurance in the certainty strictness brings. It seems whether we obey them or take delight in mischievously circumventing them, rules are at the heart of what we find erotic.

So maybe our desire for authority and strictness isn't so much of a puzzle after all.

Maybe when someone who cares about us is strict with us, we can finally be much less strict with ourselves.

[kaiserin-erzsebet]

So, here are my long thoughts on The Last Voyage of the Demeter because I'm jetlagged and trying to keep myself awake.

I'm going to organize it from my biggest issues to my smallest nitpicks. Because I am aware that some of the things that bother me are nitpicks. Also this movie is old enough that I don't think spoilers are out of line.

Anyway, here are my thoughts:

I don't think I can fairly judge the movie as an adaptation of Dracula. This would be a short review if that was my standard, because it is a bad adaptation. There's a laundry list of reasons why, and I'll get back to one of them because I think it is indicative of how this movie fumbled the story. It takes a very loose approach to the book, and that wouldn't be entirely fair to fixate on. But I will point out where I think the book executed a theme or tone element more effectively.

I fully went into the movie ready to judge it on its own merits as a self-contained horror story. That's why I was surprised that I disliked it so much, because it doesn't hold up as a piece of horror media. I think the core issue is that the screenplay fundamentally was thinking of itself as a movie about people fighting a monster.

In that respect, it does away with something that makes the Captain's log such an effective part of the original book: The mystery.

The original section is an exercise in dramatic irony. You, as the reader, have already seen the thing making the crew vanish, because you read Jonathan's diary and know what is in the boxes (even if you were reading it for the first time and didn't have the cultural osmosis of knowing who Dracula). You know why they are in danger. The captain doesn't. He spends most of the log trying to figure out what is going on and if it is misfortune or something really on board with them. He only sees Dracula at the very end of the log, when there is little he can do except tie himself to the wheel.

The book answers the question of "why don't they make port or throw the boxes overboard?" with saying that the captain doesn't know for sure if it is actually something malicious related to the cargo. The Romanian first mate has to slowly come to the realization that he does know, because he's resisting believing in superstition. Only when the knife passes through Dracula without harming him does he panic because it's undeniable that he's facing a folklore monster.

That build up is entirely absent from The Last Voyage of the Demeter. Anna just tells them within the first half hour of the movie (she's also a very inconsistent character, but I'll get back to that), and within days the crew has literally seen Dracula multiple times. People aren't mysteriously vanishing; they've been killed pretty clearly and there are survivors with bite marks. The deck is littered with body parts at points. It makes the voiceovers about "some doom" being on the ship seem comical, because the captain has seen with his own eyes what is going on.

The only reason given for why they can't make port to deal with the issue is that they're too far away, I guess? Which is also not the case for a ship sailing that route. This isn't an open sea voyage.

While the pacing of a movie and the pacing of a show are different, The Terror did this so much better. You don't get to see the Tuunbaq clearly until quite late in the series. People just vanish or get mauled by...something. That sense of mystery is just gone in The Last Voyage. And it is disappointing because that was a huge opportunity to nail the tone.

If I had to come up with the key elements of what the Demeter section is, it would be: A Horror Story about a ship with a tragic ending.

They didn't nail the horror, but what about the other two?

There's also a puzzling lack of understanding of the dynamics on a ship throughout the movie. One glaring example is that the First Mate and Clemens make the decision to sink the ship without even asking the captain first. I know this is the merchant navy and not the navy, but that is still a galling lack of discipline. The captain is in charge and his duty is to the whole ship and the crew.

The original captain's log makes use of this. Dracula more or less kills his way up the chain of command because he's a sadist. He's forcing the commanding officers to feel more desperation as they fail in their duty to protect their crew.

The Last Voyage makes the captain a very minor character, which at least to me reveals a misunderstanding of how hierarchy works in a ship. While I don't think including new characters is necessarily bad, Clemens and Anna make most of the important decisions, and neither of them particularly have standing with the crew. It undercuts the idea of responsibility and letting people come to harm under your care (which carries through later to Lucy and Mina).

I'll return to other ways the ship setting feels incorrect later, because those are closer to nitpicks.

So, third element: is it a tragedy? Does everyone on board die by the end?

The opening scene may make you think so. But no, actually they don't. Clemens escapes and ends the movie vowing to hunt down Dracula. For one, this is where it is a bad Dracula adaptation because that simply cannot happen and maintain the plot of Dracula. Unless he was rather dense when he read about the Bloofer Lady in the paper and decided that wasn't related. But additionally, the tone of the ending radically changes. It isn't a tragedy where the last act of a brave man is to stay at the wheel, because he isn't the lone survivor left to be battered to death by either the storm or Dracula anymore. In fact most of the crew is still there for the multiple people vs Dracula fight.

This is where the tone really failed for me: the story has a winner, a hero, someone who can make it out alive. And it's the new character. That just did not sit well with me when the original is such a poignant tragedy.

The First Mate, who is the character most primed to come to a realization, hardly has an arc in The Last Voyage.

The insistence that they can fight and maybe even win also makes both Clemens and Anna incredibly inconsistent characters. She especially suffers from this, because she should in theory have the knowledge of how to repel a vampire (the villagers certainly have some idea in the book), but then she says things like "do you think I have the faintest idea how to kill him?" and in the next breath is urging the crew to kill him before he reaches London. She also says Dracula is going to London because "there is no one left in my home country to feed on" but her backstory is that she's on the ship as a deal so Drac can have a snack. So, clearly, he can get people to feed on if he wants.

Clemens is the "too smart and rational" character. But he also never thinks maybe they should expose the boxes to sunlight even after seeing people combust in sunlight after turning. It's all terribly inconsistent.

The decision to not write the story as a tragedy ends up cascading, and that's the root of the issue. They can't win and kill the monster without completely changing the story of the novel, so they are only competent to a point. It makes it a worse horror movie, even disregarding it as an adaptation.

Now for the nitpicks, including quite a few about boats that probably only I noticed:

The aesthetics are all over the place in terms of period. Clemens spends a large part of the movie (which is set in the 1890s) running around in a lace up pirate shirt. No one on this ship owns a period appropriate boat cloak. None of their shirts have remotely the right collars, giving the sense that nautical fashion was sort of vaguely consulted over the long 18th to 19th century-ish.

Please look at this and tell me that it is even remotely late 19th century:

Here's Olek from 1899 for comparison (note the correct high collar and undershirt):

The dialogue suffers from this too. More than one person uses the word "heathen" which just feels wildly out of place in something that is supposed to have rationality and superstition as the key touchpoints (at least if it wants to be like Dracula). It sounds weird coming from a time period 20 years before World War 1. Sailors especially were more likely to be vaguely Christian but mostly superstitious, not zealots using terms like "heathen."

Additional aesthetic nitpick: The ship looks way too old for the period. That is an early to mid 19th century ship sailing in the 1890s without any retrofitting. There's a throwaway line about the captain not wanting a fancy new steamship, but that doesn't account for how antique the captain's quarters are or the lack of metal on the hull. Again, the nautical aesthetics are all skewing too early. If this ship was still a Russian ship like the original, an older sailing vessel might have said something about the lag in Russian shipbuilding, it works less with an English merchant ship.

There's some functional issues about understanding sailing: The ship is way too spacious inside. Really tall men are standing up straight and walking around the hold with no trouble. That may seem like a small point, but imagine what actually exploiting the claustrophobic feeling below decks could have done for the ambiance.

The ship is definitely undercrewed given the number of masts they are showing. That many men would really struggle to reef all of the sails in a timely manner (which would matter in a storm). The writers put a crew of a small fishing vessel on a ship that is much larger and requires more hands. And it is puzzling because more people would mean: more kills and disappearances as well as giving a progression of being unable to raise and lower the sails and also keep someone at the wheel. Which, I will note, the original log does.

My first red flag about this movie was having seemingly no Slavic characters on a ship that was Russian in the original. But now that I've seen it, I'm even more annoyed that the one Russian character exists to: call a woman a slur, call a black man a slur (a rather British one imo), and then immediately be murdered on screen. Can't have nuance in how we portray Slavic people in Western media, huh?

I also get the sense that the screenwriter didn't know the difference between Romanian and Romani, because the first mate is vaguely hinted to be Romani (the kid mentions "Wojchek taught me some words in Romani") and has a Western Slavic first name, not a Romanian one. When in the book he is explicitly Romanian.

Rapid fire ways the movie gets the book wrong on a nitpicky level: Dracula doesn't get more human looking as he nears London, a vampire who prides himself on being aristocratic isn't going to drink from pigs or rats, the vampires in the book can go in sunlight but are weaker, religious artifacts are way more powerful deterrents in the book, and Clemens is way too casual about transfusions. It makes Van Helsing doing it seem less like an act of desperation. Anna gets Mina's ability to sense Dracula without putting in the effort to reverse engineer the connection.

Someone please tell me that Nosferatu is better. This was honestly very frustrating.

[maxdibert]

Hey, I’ve been reading your posts, and while I appreciate your analysis of the characters, I don’t fully agree with your interpretation of Lily and the Marauders. It feels like you're projecting your personal experiences with privileged figures onto them, which leads to fundamentally misunderstanding them at their core. These characters are all human and layered, just like Snape, and reducing them to a single aspect is oversimplifying them.

I also feel like your view of Lily is influenced by your dislike of James. Marrying someone wealthy doesn’t automatically make her a “social climber.” Especially not when she is actually consistently acting on her morals and values throughout the few memories we see of her. You draw a parallel between Lily and Petunia and assume they have the same “agenda,” but you overlook their vastly different personalities that directly contradict the idea that they had the same goals.

Regarding James; while he certainly had flaws, he was also a decent person with strong values, beyond his arrogant school years and bullying of Snape. James and Lily were in the same house, and it's not far-fetched to assume that she saw a different side to him, one with qualities she admired, which is likely what drew her to him, even if his arrogance initially repulsed her.

Sorry but no. A big NO.

First of all, I analyze things based on how social issues are reflected in group dynamics. And yes, I use personal examples, but just as I’ve met rich people who are complete idiots, I’ve also met wealthy people who are absolutely lovely. That’s not the case with James or Sirius. Following a certain political ideology, no matter how positive or good it may be, doesn’t automatically make you a good person. For example, what’s the point of being anti-racist if, in your day-to-day life, you go to a restaurant and treat the staff poorly? Or what’s the use of proclaiming yourself a feminist if you then display behaviors that perpetuate gender hegemony? Sure, your vote will help implement certain institutional policies that benefit minorities, but that won’t mean much in day-to-day life if you’re incapable of deconstructing your biases, recognizing your privileges, and engaging in social self-criticism about them.

And that’s essentially what happens with James: he talks a big game, but when it comes down to it (and this is undeniable because it happens canonically in the books), on the very first day of school, he took an instant dislike to a boy who was much poorer, much more vulnerable, and lacked even a fraction of the resources he had—and he decided to torment him for seven years. This is indefensible. Minimizing the violence exerted from a position of privilege toward someone in a much weaker position, by appealing to some kind of moral high ground is a dirty tactic. It reeks of internalized classism and an astonishing lack of understanding about social dynamics and power inequities.

The fact that Lily’s morals and values aligned with ending up with a bully isn’t incompatible with her character. That bully was a social justice warrior (when it suited him), and the very causes he claimed to advocate for were those that benefited Lily. He represented a faction of the magical elite that defended people like Lily, so it’s consistent for her to choose someone whose ideology worked in her favor. But the fact that she constantly downplayed the violence the Marauders inflicted on other students, using the excuse that they didn’t use “dark magic,” reveals cognitive dissonance in her moral judgments. Violence in schools is violence, no matter where it comes from. You might find the bigoted, violent ones worse, but that doesn’t mean the others—no matter how good their ideas might be—aren’t also abusers.

Let’s be clear: no one with any sense would see a group of guys deliberately targeting others to the point of stripping someone in public and ever consider dating one of them. If Lily did (and if we accept Rowling’s own claim that she liked James before he “matured”), two conclusions emerge: either she was a complete dick, or James had something beyond his terrible personality that interested her. And in the early stages of a war where people like her were going to be a primary target of one side, it’s clear that “something” was security. And that doesn’t make her a bad person—it just makes her human. It’s human for a working-class teenager who’s suddenly thrust into a world where many people believe she doesn’t belong to feel attracted to the rich, socially powerful guy who’s willing to defend her rights and validate her as a member of that society.

And the fact that she and her sister had very different personalities doesn’t mean anything. Both grew up in a lower-middle-class neighborhood and received the same values from their parents. Just as Sirius shares many traits with his cousin Bellatrix and his own mother, Walburga, Lily shares many traits with her sister (which makes sense given the social context they grew up in). Ignoring this is to ignore how class dynamics and social expectations work, especially in certain European contexts of the 60s and 70s, where societies were still heavily influenced by classism rooted in deeply ingrained monarchical and aristocratic systems.

As for James, I’m sorry, but he didn’t just have “flaws.” James was a bully and an abuser who used his social and economic security—and that of his best friend, Sirius—to attack other people. And instead of targeting pure-blood Slytherins from wealthy, influential families, he conveniently chose a half-blood with no money or connections. That’s not arrogance; that’s violence. Even after promising Lily that he had changed, he continued doing the same thing behind her back.

I think I’ve provided enough arguments and evidence to support my stance, which is more than I can say for you. Your analysis is utterly superficial, and you still see James as a jokester rather than the abusive bully he was. Stripping someone naked in front of the entire school isn’t arrogance—it’s sexual abuse. Full stop.

[acti-veg]

Aren’t zoos accredited as wildlife preservation and educational and they use the money from people visiting to help animals and the animals have the option to avoid visitors bc of how their enclosures are set up (which are WAY better than what they used to be and continue to improve)? I’m pretty sure sanctuaries have way less requirements to be labeled as such and that’s how we get stuff like tiger king. Also there’s definitely endangered animals at zoos? Lions and tigers come to mind. Sorry if this seems hostile, I’m genuinely asking questions here bc I’ve always seen zoos as overall good. Like, yeah it sucks people have to go gawk at an animal in an artificial approximation of their natural habitat for them to care but without that then way less improvements would have happened to the various species natural habitats and there’s also rewilding programs etc that zoos do to put animals back in their natural habitats

According to the AZA themselves, about 46% of their accredited zoos are run for profit. Of those that are non-profit, it does not follow that there isn’t a profit incentive, because decision-makers have their salaries and bonuses to consider, which are often performance based. Incidentally, The GW Exotic Animal Park featured in Tiger King was a for-profit zoo, not a sanctuary.

OP was not saying that there aren’t endangered animals in zoos, they said a lot of the animals kept in zoos aren’t endangered. This is true of many popular zoo animals, and it begs the question of how zoos can primarily be about conserving endangered species, when many species bred and housed in zoos are not even at risk. Why are all those other animals there?

Some real conservation success stories have come out of zoos, but this is very much not the standard. Most of the largest conservation and captive breeding programs are run by conservation charities and research institutes, not zoos. Putting an animal on display to the public in an artificial environment is directly antithetical to ever being able to release them. It is highly unlikely that any animal you have ever seen in any zoo will ever be free, and it is almost as unlikely that their children ever will be.

As for education, what can we really learn about wild animals from observing their captive counterparts in completely artificial surroundings, in unnatural social settings? I’m not convinced that the average member of the public who goes to a zoo learns more then they would have by observing wild animals through the lens of expert by watching a documentary than by gawking at animals in cages and scanning over the little signs next to them.

This is true even for academics trying to learn from zoo animals. Some of the most enduring falsities about animal behaviour came from observing animals in zoos, most notably the concept of ruthless, survival of the fittest pack hierarchies in wolves. I mean, do you think it would be wise to come to any conclusions about how humans behave in general, based on how they behave in prisons?

Animals in zoos are in atypical settings and therefore behave atypically, including the prevalence of zoochosis, depression, increased aggression and repetitive stress behaviours. A lion outside of her natural setting, who has never even seen the savannah or an antelope, is fundamentally a different animal. This is true even physically, to a degree that few people realise. The microbiome of captive animals is radically different from wild animals, and we’re only just beginning to scratch the surface of the impact that has on everything from behaviour to feeding.

Conservation needs to focus on the conservation and restoration of wild habitats. I applaud zoos when they do this, but the undeniable fact is that this is just not their priority. Zoos spend very little on these efforts, comparative to what they spend on advertising, for example. Conserving an animal to exist only as an entertainment piece for the amusement of humans is just not meaningful conservation. The real work is being done by conservation organisations, that is where we should be putting our money instead of handing it over to animal entertainment industries.

That is probably enough to give you a basic idea of what the objections to zoos are. It has occurred to me that I don’t have an article going into the detail on this though, so I’ll go away and write one. It’ll appear in my ‘zoos’ tag soon, so check back in a week or two if you’re still interested.

[hrizantemy]

The priestess hesitated.

Nesta could see it—the slight flicker of uncertainty in her expression, the way her fingers twitched at her sides, as if debating whether to keep her hands folded neatly or to wring them together like she was battling a decision that had already been made. There was a long pause, a silence so thick Nesta could feel it settling into her ribs, a quiet that stretched between them, curling around them like a tension neither of them could escape.

And then, finally, the priestess let out a slow, steadying breath and said, “You must understand, Lady Nesta, that normal priestesses and High Priestesses are very different.”

Nesta’s brows furrowed, a flicker of something unreadable moving behind her gaze, but she said nothing—let the priestess continue, let her explain the weight of whatever knowledge she had been withholding.

“High Priestesses are not merely selected by their temples, nor are they appointed by those who govern our faith,” the priestess went on, her voice lower, carefully measured, as if she were unraveling a sacred truth, as if the words she spoke had been etched into time itself. “They are chosen by the Mother herself—not just for their faith, but for something far greater, something even we cannot always understand.”

Nesta’s heartbeat quickened, her breath catching in her throat, because there was a finality to those words, something deeper, something bigger than she had anticipated.

“Taryn herself was chosen when she was no more than a child,” the priestess said, and that—that was the moment Nesta felt her world shift beneath her feet.

She hadn’t expected that.

Had never imagined that Taryn had been there since childhood, had never considered what that meant—that she hadn’t just been a priestess who had taken her vows later in life, that she hadn’t simply chosen the path of faith, but that she had been placed there, shaped by it, formed by it from the very beginning.

Nesta had always assumed Taryn had lived a life before the temple, had come to it as an adult, seeking refuge or purpose in the way so many did. But no—she had been a child, had been called to it, had been claimed by it before she had ever had a chance to be anything else.

Nesta’s hands tightened at her sides, her thoughts racing, because this—this was something she had never even considered before.

And if that was only the beginning, if that was the foundation of who Taryn had been, then—

What in hell had happened to make her run?

The priestess sighed, her expression shifting into something more serious, something that made the weight in Nesta’s chest sink lower, heavier, like she had only been given the edges of something far greater, something that had been left unspoken for too long. There was a finality in the way she exhaled, in the way she seemed to brace herself before speaking again, and Nesta knew—whatever she was about to say next would change everything.

“You must also understand,” the priestess said, softly, but with an edge of certainty, of history, of undeniable truth, “that High Priestesses do not get a choice in whether they leave or stay in the temple.”

Nesta’s breath hitched, her mind slamming into a halt, the words reverberating inside her like a chime struck at the exact moment of disaster.

“What?” she breathed, but the priestess only shook her head.

“It is where they are meant to be,” she continued, as if she hadn’t just shattered another piece of what Nesta thought she knew, as if she hadn’t just confirmed something so fundamental, so twisted, that Nesta’s own instincts recoiled at the very idea of it. “The Mother chooses them for a reason. Once they take their place among the temple, they do not simply leave. They are not allowed to.”

A chill slithered down Nesta’s spine, something cold and dark twisting in her gut, because—because this wasn’t faith.

This wasn’t a calling.

This was something else entirely.

“So she was a prisoner,” Nesta murmured, more to herself than to the priestess, but the words left her lips before she could stop them, the realization hitting her hard.

Because Taryn had not chosen this life.

She had not walked into the temple one day, had not decided to dedicate herself to the Mother out of pure, unshaken belief. She had been taken, placed within walls she was never meant to leave, given a role she had never had the freedom to deny.

And then—she had run.

She had escaped something Nesta hadn’t even known she needed to escape from.

And suddenly, suddenly, everything made sense.

Why Thesan had assumed her dead.

Why she had never told Nesta the truth.

Why she had hidden herself for so long.

Because Taryn had not just walked away from her place at the temple—she had fled it.

And Nesta—Nesta had never known.

The priestess shook her head, her golden robes shifting with the movement, her expression turning somber, as if she had long since come to terms with what she was telling Nesta—but still, there was something hesitant there, something that suggested she wasn’t sure Nesta was ready to hear it.

“No,” she said softly, but the word held weight, finality. “Not a prisoner. Not in the way you are thinking. But you must understand, Lady Nesta—with the power High Priestesses possess, with their connection to the Mother herself, they are not merely allowed to go where they please. They are not just vessels of faith, not just guides for those who seek wisdom. They are something more. Something…” She exhaled, as if searching for the right word, before settling on, “Chosen.”

The word slithered through Nesta like a blade, cold and foreign, something she did not like, something that did not sit right in her chest.

“Chosen?” she repeated, because that word was a lie. A lie wrapped in something holy, in something meant to sound reverent, something meant to make servitude sound like a gift.

The priestess met her gaze, unwavering. “Yes. Chosen. The power they are gifted with, the wisdom they hold, the way they can touch magic in a way no others can—it is not something that can be allowed to roam freely, Nesta. It is not something that can be wielded without care. They are bound to the temple because that is where they are meant to be. It is where they are meant to serve, where they are meant to stay.”

Nesta’s fingers curled into fists, her stomach twisting, because the priestess was speaking as though it was right, as though it was natural, as though it was the only way things could be.

But she had spent too long being caged, too long being pushed and pulled, shaped into something she didn’t want to be. And now, now she knew Taryn had lived that life too.

Except Taryn had lived it since she was a child.

Since before she had even known what freedom was.

Nesta’s jaw tightened, her breath slow and controlled, but her pulse thundered beneath her skin, her entire body coiled with something that felt too much like rage, like understanding, like the sharp edge of something she wasn’t sure she could accept.

“And yet,” Nesta said, her voice low, steady, but laced with something deadly, “she still ran.”

The priestess hesitated again.

And then, very softly, she murmured, “Yes.”

Nesta’s lips parted, the sharp edge of her breath barely audible over the silence stretching between them. The pieces were there, laid out before her like an unfinished puzzle, but the shape—the truth—was still just out of reach, still shrouded in something she did not yet understand. Her fingers twitched at her sides, her body coiled with tension, as she took a step closer, her voice low, unforgiving.

“Then what was she running from?”

The priestess stilled, her shoulders tightening, and then—slowly—she looked around.

Not in the way someone might when searching for an answer. Not like she was merely gathering her thoughts. No. She looked around as though there were eyes on them, as though even here, even now, with Nesta alone in the halls of the Dawn Court, there were things that were not meant to be spoken aloud.

The way her gaze scanned the empty corridor, the way her fingers twitched against her robes, as though fighting the impulse to make a warding sign, made something deep in Nesta’s chest tighten.

“It is not only the duty of the High Lords to protect the High Priestesses,” the priestess finally murmured, her voice quiet, but not soft. No, there was something else in it. Something carefully weighed. Something dangerous.

Nesta’s stomach twisted, something cold rippling through her at the weight of those words, at the way the priestess spoke them like they were truth, like they were law, like they were something she should already know.

“Dawn itself looks to the High Priestess,” the priestess continued, and though she did not say the rest—though she did not need to—Nesta understood.

Taryn had not simply been a priestess.

She had not simply held power.

She had been something more.

A symbol. A pillar. A figure to be protected, to be revered, to be preserved at any cost.

And she had run from it.

Nesta’s breath shook, her hands tightening into fists, because she did not yet have the full picture, did not yet know what had happened, what had made Taryn flee from a temple that was meant to shelter her, a court that was meant to rely on her.

The priestess sighed, her golden robes shifting with the movement, her fingers twisting slightly, as if she were weighing something heavily, as if she were about to speak words she had long kept buried, words that were not meant to be shared lightly. Nesta watched her, feeling the tension in the air coil tighter, an invisible string pulling taut, as though they were standing on the precipice of something dark, something that had remained unspoken for far too long.

“When Amarantha ordered the slaughter of the High Priestesses,” the priestess finally murmured, her voice low, as if the very act of saying it was dangerous, as if it still carried the weight of a memory too terrible to be spoken above a whisper, “many of them stayed in the temples. They did not run. They could not. The temples were warded by the High Lords’ magic themselves, ancient protections woven so deeply into their foundations that even Amarantha’s forces could not breach them.”

Nesta’s breath hitched, her body stilling, because she could already tell—already feel—that whatever came next would be worse than she had anticipated.

“When Amarantha’s armies couldn’t get in,” the priestess continued, her eyes flickering toward the empty hall once more, as if ensuring they were truly alone, “they resorted to… extreme methods to make the High Priestesses come out.”

The air in Nesta’s lungs turned cold, and yet she couldn’t force herself to move, couldn’t force herself to interrupt, because she knew—knew—that stopping now would mean never knowing.

The priestess inhaled shakily, her hands pressing together in a way that almost seemed prayer-like, as though this was a story she had uttered to the Mother herself, as though it was something that had haunted her, haunted them all, for years.

“They would take citizens,” she finally said, “and they would bring them before the temple.”

Nesta’s stomach twisted, but she didn’t dare interrupt.

“They would slaughter them in front of the temple gates, so the High Priestesses could hear,” the priestess went on, her voice distant, as if she were detached from the horror of it, as if she had told herself this story so many times that she had learned how to remove herself from it. “They would scream for mercy. They would beg for help. And the High Priestesses had to listen. Had to stand behind those walls and do nothing.”

Nesta’s entire body tensed, her breath coming sharp, because—because that was worse than anything she could have imagined.

Not just knowing that the world outside was burning.

Not just knowing that Amarantha’s armies were tearing through Prythian, that people were dying in the streets.

But knowing that the people they had sworn to protect were being murdered right in front of them.

And that they could not save them.

That they had been forced to listen, night after night, day after day, to the wails of the innocent, to the pleas for salvation, to the sound of their own people dying, knowing it was meant to break them, meant to force them to walk out of those doors, to surrender themselves in the hope that it might end.

Nesta swallowed hard, a sick, twisting weight in her chest, because she understood now—truly understood.

The priestess’s hands tightened, her fingers clenching together, her breath shaking ever so slightly, but still, she spoke, still, she continued, as if she owed it to those who had been lost, as if she owed it to Taryn to say what had long been left unsaid.

“Taryn wanted to come out,” she admitted, her voice quieter now, but still carrying the weight of something unshakable, something that had never been fully forgiven, something that had been etched into the history of those who had survived. “When they began with men and women—when they forced them to their knees outside the gates, when they begged for mercy and were given none—she was ready to walk through those doors. Ready to surrender herself if it meant saving them.”

Nesta’s heart clenched, her nails digging into her palms, her breathing shallow, because she could see it—could picture Taryn, standing behind those unbreachable walls, listening, listening, as people died begging for her to save them, as she pressed her hands to the stone, as she screamed that they had to do something, that they had to let her go.

But they had not.

They had stopped her.

“And when that did not work,” the priestess whispered, her gaze flicking away, her voice barely more than a breath of remorse, “they moved onto the children.”

Nesta swayed, just slightly, her vision blurring at the edges, because—because that was a horror beyond imagining, that was something worse than anything she had ever heard before, something worse than what had happened to Velaris, worse than the battlefields she had stood upon, worse than the nightmares that sometimes still clawed at her when she closed her eyes.

“Babies.”

The word was soft, but it cut through the silence like a blade, reverberated through the hollowed-out part of Nesta’s chest like an echo of something broken, something that could never be repaired.

“And since we could not go out there, since we could not stop them, we had to stop her.” The priestess exhaled sharply, her hands wringing together, but she did not try to justify it, did not try to make it sound less than it was. “By force.”

Nesta’s throat closed, her body tight with something too terrible to name, because she knew what that meant.

They had restrained her.

Had held her back as she fought against them, as she screamed to be let go, as she begged them to let her save them, to let her do something, anything to stop what was happening outside those walls.

And when she had still struggled, when she had still fought, they had used force.

Had done what was necessary to keep her inside, had done what was necessary to ensure that the High Priestess of Dawn did not surrender herself to slaughter.

She had never come back.

Had never spoken of it.

Had never told anyone what had been done to her.

Nesta stared at the priestess, her entire body numb, her mind spinning, and she knew—

The priestess’s voice was a whisper, but the words carried the weight of years—of history, of grief, of something that had never truly been spoken aloud.

“And then… when Amarantha’s forces finally broke the wards, when they pushed through the protections we had relied on for so long, when they came in—” she paused, inhaling deeply, but it did nothing to steady the tremble that ran through her. “They slaughtered everyone.”

Nesta didn’t breathe. Couldn’t.

“The High Priestesses fought,” the priestess continued, her voice tighter now, her golden robes shifting with the way her hands clenched into fists. “With all their power, with everything the Mother had given them, they made a dent in the army, they burned through them, they tore them apart—but it wasn’t enough.”

The words sank into Nesta’s chest, heavy and crushing, the image of it searing itself into her mind—the temple in flames, blood splattered against the sacred stones, the cries of warriors, of priestesses, of the dying and the dead.

“So many sacrificed their lives to ensure that Taryn survived.”

The way the priestess said it—so final, so certain, so full of something painfully reverent—made Nesta’s stomach turn.

“She was the only one left.”

Nesta’s pulse pounded, her hands trembling slightly at her sides, because this—this was not the story she had known.

She had believed Taryn had escaped. Had believed she had run when things became dire, had left because she had no choice. But the truth—the real truth—was that people had died for her to live.

They had pushed her forward, had fought to the last breath, had ensured that when the temple fell, when the walls collapsed, when the sky burned red with slaughter, she made it out alive.

“And when Amarantha was gone,” the priestess continued, “when she was dead, and we were finally free, we thought—” she hesitated, exhaling shakily, before pressing forward. “We thought she’d return.”

The silence that followed was absolute.

“But she didn’t.”

Nesta’s vision blurred, her chest tightening, because this changed everything.

Taryn had not merely disappeared—she had been expected to come back. She had been meant to return to Dawn, to reclaim her place as High Priestess, to be the last survivor of the temple, the last of the sacred line.

But she had chosen to stay gone.

Had left them to believe she had perished, had walked away from the court that had fought for her, died for her, sacrificed everything to make sure she lived.

She could understand—of course, she could. Who wouldn’t run after something like that? Who wouldn’t flee after surviving something so unspeakable, something that had torn through the very foundation of who they were and left them standing in the ruins, bloodied and alone? Nesta had spent months feeling like she was drowning, like she was lost in the aftermath of the war, like she had been carved out and left with nothing but emptiness.

So yes—she understood why Taryn had not returned.

Because going back meant facing it.

Going back meant stepping into a place where ghosts walked, where every hallway whispered of those who had fought and died for her, where every breath she took was a reminder that she had survived when they had not. It was easier—simpler—to disappear. To become something new. To rewrite herself into someone who had never been a High Priestess at all.

Nesta knew what it was like to look at the past and feel nothing but rage and grief and exhaustion.

She knew what it was like to run.

Nesta’s breath hitched, the tension coiling so tightly in her chest she thought it might snap. Her mind was still spinning, still reeling from everything she had just learned, from the weight of Taryn’s past, from the way it mirrored her own in ways she did not want to acknowledge. But one thought cut through the storm, one question lodged itself in her ribs, demanding to be asked.

“What will happen to her?” she said, her voice low, controlled only by sheer force of will.

The priestess let out a slow, measured sigh, her eyes flicking to the grand windows overlooking the vast golden sprawl of the Dawn Court, as if she were looking beyond it, as if the answer was already written in the light itself. “There will be a trial,” she murmured.

Nesta’s entire body froze.

“What?” The word was sharp, too sharp, her voice cutting through the air like a blade unsheathed, but she didn’t care.

“Of course,” the priestess continued, as if she hadn’t just said something that made Nesta’s blood turn cold, as if she weren’t speaking about something that could change everything, “Taryn will come back. She will reclaim her position as High Priestess—she is still chosen, still bound to the Mother’s will. But before that—” she inhaled, steady, as if bracing herself for the impact of her own words, “there must be justice.”

“Justice?” Nesta’s breath staggered, her hands clenching at her sides, fisting into her skirts, because she did not like the way the priestess said that word, did not like the finality in it, the certainty, the way it rang like something that had already been decided. “What kind of justice?”

The priestess turned to her then, her gaze calm, but there was something unmovable about it, something that told Nesta she would not like the answer.

“She abandoned her people, Lady Nesta,” the priestess said, softly, but it might as well have been a sentence passed. “She left when they needed her most. She let them believe she was dead while they grieved her, while they rebuilt without her, while the ones who survived lived under the weight of what they had lost. This court has spent years trying to heal from what was done to us. And now she has returned.”

Nesta’s heart pounded, something thick and hot curling in her chest, something that felt a lot like fear.

“What will happen to her?” she asked again, her voice quieter this time, but no less demanding.

The priestess hesitated.

And that—that made Nesta’s blood run cold.

Because it meant whatever came next would not be good.

The priestess hesitated, her fingers twisting slightly in the fabric of her robes, her gaze flickering to the golden floors, as if the answer might be etched there, as if looking at Nesta would only make this worse. That hesitation was enough—enough for Nesta’s stomach to twist into a tight, unrelenting knot, because if she didn’t know, that meant it could be anything.

“I don’t know for certain,” the priestess admitted, her voice softer, though not gentler, because there was no way to make this truth easier. “The decision will fall to the ruling council, to Thesan, and to the elders of the temple. But…” she trailed off, as if the words were too heavy, as if saying them aloud would make them real.

“But what?” Nesta pressed, her breath tight, her pulse pounding.

The priestess sighed, her fingers loosening, and then—slowly, carefully—she spoke. “There are traditions for when a High Priestess abandons her post.”

Abandons. The word cut like a blade.

“One of the possibilities,” the priestess continued, her gaze level, unreadable, “is exile. True exile—stripped of her title, of her power, of any right to the Mother’s blessings.”

Nesta stiffened, her body coiling with something sharp, something furious, because she could imagine it too clearly—Taryn, cast out, left adrift, left with nothing, left without the very faith that had defined her since she had been a child.

“And the others?” Nesta forced herself to ask, her throat tight, her breath too shallow.

The priestess’s lips pressed together, as if she truly didn’t want to say it, but she did.

“Public atonement.”

Nesta’s stomach turned.

“What does that mean?” she demanded, her hands curling into fists, though she already had an idea, though her mind was already putting together the worst possibilities.

“It means she would have to pay penance for what she did,” the priestess explained, though her tone had a careful edge, as if she knew exactly how Nesta would react to this, “through labor, through service, through a public display of remorse, decided by the elders. It could be anything, depending on what they deem appropriate. Days, weeks, months of servitude to the temple, to the people she abandoned.”

Nesta’s jaw clenched, because none of this sounded like justice. It sounded like humiliation. Like they wanted to make her kneel before them and prove herself again, as if she hadn’t already lost everything.

“And the last?” she asked, because she had a terrible feeling that there was more.

The priestess hesitated again, and that was answer enough.

“The worst punishment is imprisonment,” she finally said, the words clipped, tight, as if she did not wish to speak them aloud. “Not in a cell, not in chains, but in the temple itself. Confined within its walls, forbidden from stepping beyond its sacred grounds, never to leave again.”

Nesta’s breath hitched, because that—that was worse than exile. Worse than penance.

That was a life sentence.

That was caging her inside the place she had once fled from, forcing her to remain there forever, to serve until she died, to pay for her crime by never being free again.

Nesta’s heart pounded, the weight of it slamming against her ribs, because she knew—she knew—that no matter what they chose, no matter what form this justice took, Taryn would never be the same again.

Guilt settled into Nesta’s bones like a cold, relentless weight, pressing into her chest, her ribs, her throat, making it hard to breathe, hard to think around the sheer crushing reality of it.

This was her fault.

For her.

Taryn had returned for her. Had written to Thesan for her. Had bargained, pleaded, risked everything—not for herself, not for her own sake—but for Nesta.

Nesta, who had spent her life running, who had spent months clawing her way out of one cage, only for Taryn to walk willingly into another.

She had thought she was protecting Taryn. That the two of them had been hiding together, that they had been equal in their defiance, two women who had seen what the world wanted to make of them and had said no, we will be something else.

Nesta’s fingers tightened, her nails biting into her palms, but she barely felt it—barely felt anything beyond the sharp, twisting weight of realization, the knowledge that no matter what happened, no matter what decision was made, Taryn would suffer for it.

Because she had asked for Nesta to be taken away.

Because she had told Thesan the truth—that Nesta could not remain in the Night Court, that she would never be safe there, that they would never let her be anything other than a tool to be wielded.

And Nesta—Nesta had let her.

Had let herself be brought here, had let herself believe that this was freedom, that Taryn would be safe too, that it was a choice they had both made.

But it hadn’t been a choice at all, had it?

Taryn had made sure Nesta was saved, even if it meant damning herself.

The thought made something inside her twist and snap, a deep, hollow ache she didn’t know how to fill. Because Taryn had been the only one who had fought for her, truly fought for her, and now Nesta had let her walk into this alone.

Had let her free Nesta from one cage, just to lock herself inside another.

Nesta’s hands shook, her breathing ragged, her heart hammering so violently she thought it might burst free from her ribs.

“She didn’t do anything wrong,” she said, and the words were firm, unyielding, but there was something else in them, too—something pleading, something desperate. “Surely there are other ways. Surely—surely this doesn’t have to be the answer.”

The priestess simply watched her, something solemn and knowing in her gaze, something that made Nesta’s stomach tighten.

“She was a child when she first entered the temple,” Nesta pressed, stepping forward, her hands fisting at her sides, her fury barely contained beneath the rising tide of emotion she couldn’t name. “Did they even ask her what she wanted? Did anyone ask her if this was the life she chose, or was she simply told it was her duty and expected to obey?”

For the first time, the priestess hesitated.

But when she finally spoke, her voice was calm, steady, as if she were merely stating a fact, as if there was no room for argument, no space for questioning what had already been decided long before Taryn was even born.

“Those blessed by the Mother,” the priestess murmured, her hands folding neatly in front of her, “already have a destined path. It is not for them to choose, nor for us to alter. It is a path that is never meant to be strayed from, no matter how difficult, no matter how sorrowful.”

Nesta stilled, her entire body tensing, because—

Because that was it, wasn’t it?

That was the root of it all.

They didn’t see Taryn as a person.

They saw her as a vessel.

As something sacred, something meant to serve the will of a higher power, something that had no right to desire or choice or freedom.

Nesta’s breath came harsh and uneven, her fingers twitching with the need to lash out, to tear this entire court apart, because how could they not see it? How could they speak of faith and duty without recognizing the cage they had built for her?

And worst of all—

How could Taryn have spent her entire life knowing this and still come back?

The priestess said nothing else. Perhaps she could sense the storm raging inside Nesta, the way her fingers twitched, the way her breath was still too uneven, the way she stood so rigidly, as if she might snap in two if she let herself feel any more of this. Instead, she merely turned, her golden robes whispering against the marble floors as she led Nesta through the quiet, opulent halls of the Dawn Court palace.

The air felt lighter here, the walls glowing warm and golden, bathed in the soft afternoon light spilling through the carved archways, but Nesta barely noticed. The beauty of it, the softness, the sheer contrast to the cold stone of the House of Wind, meant nothing to her now. She followed in silence, her thoughts a tangled mess, her stomach a knot of rage, grief, and guilt that would not untangle, no matter how many steady breaths she took.

When they reached the door, the priestess turned to her, her expression unchanged, still carrying that same quiet reverence, that same unshaken belief in the way things were meant to be. She bowed her head—a sign of respect, a formality, but Nesta didn’t want it. Didn’t deserve it. And then, without another word, she turned and walked away, disappearing down the golden-lit halls, leaving Nesta alone.

She stepped inside, her boots clicking softly against the floor, and immediately, she was surrounded by finery. Everything was immaculate, from the intricately woven rugs to the smooth, hand-carved furniture, to the wide, arched window that stretched almost from floor to ceiling, offering an uninterrupted view of the endless sky, the golden rooftops of the palace, the warm, rolling hills beyond. It was a room made for comfort, for luxury, meant for someone who was welcome here, who belonged here, who had earned a place in the High Lord’s court.

But Nesta felt none of that.

Instead, as she stood there, surrounded by all this wealth, this warmth, this carefully curated beauty, all she could think about was Taryn.

Taryn, who was still asleep, who was still unconscious, who had thrown herself back into the very fate she had escaped for Nesta’s sake. Taryn, who had spent years running, hiding, and now, just like that—she had stopped.

Nesta moved toward the window, pressing a hand against the cool glass, staring out at the sky without really seeing it.

She hoped Taryn stayed asleep.

Hoped that, for a little while longer, she didn’t have to wake up and face what was coming.

Because once she did—once the trial began, once justice was handed down—there would be no escaping it this time.

Tag list: @litnerdwrites @viajandopelomar @wolfinsocks

[k0fii]

Mutual Love and One-Sided Obsession

Love is mutual and that's the fundamental difference of MiziSua and IvanTill. That's what Ivan understood in his final moments - and that's why he said his feelings were shallow.

Prefacing this, not really an analysis but more of a personal connection and overview of the songs of alnst, with a quote from Richard Siken on love.

"If it was unrequited, it wasn't your first love, it was your first desire. You've got all your loves ahead of you. That sounds pretty great to me."

My Clematis; Love and the Significance of a Duet

My Clematis is a song that stands out amidst all other Alien Stage performances. Not only because it's a duet with the intentions of a tie, but also because Mizi and Sua are singing this song to and for each other. Instead of catering to the audience before them, they look to each other. In an act of defiance, they love each other. Sua sings to Mizi, as Mizi sings to Sua and this performance isn't for anyone else but them. It's beautiful, enchanting and Sua's death is made more painful by that love that's so clearly shown to the audience. Even as Sua is taken away from Mizi, nobody can deny the fact that they love each other. That the feeling between them was undeniably love.

Unknown (Till the End...); Idolization

In juxtaposition to My Clematis' heavy focus on the duet between Mizi and Sua, UTTE makes it a point to show how Till takes the spotlight all for himself one-sidedly, not even allowing his opponent to sing. In a way, this represents the extent of Till's idolization - only his feelings, the admiration for this idealized version of Mizi he has in his head are sang and borderline shouted out. The other singer is drowned out in Till's intense voice and declaration of love;

"Ain't nobody but you're the one that I'm feeling it's love"

However, Till fails to realize that the thing he wanted - Mizi's gaze to look back at him too - is rooted in reciprocity. It means allowing the other singer to get their voice out, it means allowing this preconceived notion he has of her in his head to be shattered by the reality of who Mizi truly is. UTTE is a representation of how Till's deluded image of Mizi overpowers the reality he currently lives in, it's a form of escape for someone who has always been shackled by chains.

It's a contradiction present in the song itself;

"I wanna know all about you (ya)"

For all Till sings that he wants to get to know Mizi, he never attempts to get closer to her and always, in his view of her, she's far away like an idol he can't reach. Like a god to a sinner that needs saving. It's the first desire of wanting to be saved, of wanting a saint to reach out their hand to you. And that first desire, as much as Till proclaims it to be love for its intensity, is known as something that's not love, something closer to obsession because of that very same intensity. Because that intensity prevents him from loving who Mizi truly is apart from who she represents in his head - again, it drowns it out.

Black Sorrow; Unrequitedness

Black Sorrow starts off with an admission; Ivan can't reach Till. He'll always follow him, even if he recognizes that all this will end in is tragedy. He constantly speaks of an absence - foreshadowing of Cure perhaps, but also of Till leaving him and turning back, of Till always choosing to not stay by his side, to chase for an unreachable idol. To the viewer, Black Sorrow is a song solely focused on Ivan but we can see in the video that Ivan allows his opponent to sing - a representation of his subservient nature but also perhaps of the fact he sees Till. He allows Till to sing out in deafening roars and sees him for what he is, and admires him for that. In contrast to UTTE's idealistic nature, Black Sorrow is very much rooted in reality. Till is pointedly not awake during this song - once again, he doesn't see Ivan but also he is not woken up to the reality that Ivan forces him to face. If not rooted in love because of the acknowledgement of unrequitedness, then what is Ivan's desire? It's to drown in his chosen black sea of sorrow.

Cure; Obsession and the Significance of a Duet

Ivan and Till both sing to someone who is not listening, they both sing to someone who is not looking at them in contrast to My Clematis.

"Dissolve me in your gaze

...

Please, leave me scars

Please, hurt me so that

Not a single drop of me remains

Let me drown in you"

Till wants to drown in the fantasy he's created for himself - going back to the sinner analogy, he wants everything of him that he views as wrong cleansed by Mizi's saintly presence. For once, Till lacks the same conviction he did before - he's pleading now, and asking as if praying to a dead god. Maybe it's because he thinks Mizi is gone, maybe it's because he thinks he's beyond saving.

"May they linger on your tongue

You can break me apart

...

I'll drown in you"

Ivan remains the same, steadfast in his determination and doubling down on his declarations in Black Sorrow. He doesn't ask - he knows his 'love' is unrequited, but that he will drown in it anyways.

"To this everlasting melody

Face to face we dance

With our story

Lost in forever's embrace"

Despite the lyrics stating that they stand face to face, they don't - one is always looking away. That's why, the story of what they are and what could've came to be is lost in the embrace of a time that's both not there and forever there. What they could've been is not what they are because of that everlasting melody, the obsession the two of them have that is distinctly not love because it's unrequited. Because they will always ask to be consumed in another's gaze instead of simply looking at each other and seeing. Because Till's first desire is to be saved and Ivan's first desire is to drown, the round would have always ended that way.

"Thank you for being the victim of my shallow emotions."

Ivan thought he and Sua were similar at one point. He felt jealous when he realized that the fundamental difference between them was that Sua was loved, and he was not. I think that in his final moments, he recognized this jealousy for what it was - the incessant human need to be loved and to be wanted. And what does that love entail? He sees it in Mizi and Sua, it means loving and being loved in return. That's what love is, and with heartbreaking clarity, he understands that it's not what has driven him or Till this far. A one-sided obsession could never be love, because love is always mutual. To love is to be seen, to be known. Ivan was not the former, Till was not the latter.

He steels himself, he will drown in these shallow emotions, just as he always planned (even if the sacrifice was not). He knows this sacrifice seems hypocritical, but it couldn't be with such a simple yet clear difference.

Compared to the deep grief brought about by the deep and intense emotions of love and loss, the pain he will cause Till will only be as shallow as his own emotions. Because it only reached Ivan, only drowned him and it never seemed to reach Till.

[thestarastro]

North Node Aries / South Node Libra

My own observations, take what resonates.

18 y/o over due to sensitive topic nature, thank you.

Soul color: Red

Your destiny point: independence in all relationships and feeling accepted for who one truly is, a firm grasp on who you are, be meaningful, and have confidence to feel comfortable in your own skin.

How to overcome: stop worrying and letting your life get so defined by what people think of you or how someone decides to validate you. Find an actual sport to help with issues of insecurity brought on by competitiveness and learn when to walk away from confrontation.

Childhood: An Aries NN is always interesting in the dynamic of the home. A lot of repressed conflict here. Most likely, a lot of arguing in the home (between siblings, between parents, maybe everyone) and often times the fights were intense and the resolutions were passionate and heartfelt. This placement has an undeniable sense of feeling mistaken from all angles, feeling unusual. Because of this, the placement will go to great lengths to seek validation from family and friends. In addition to the validation needed at home and with friends, the media plays a big role in validating this placement and often what we are taught to be “standard” is actually unobtainable and sometimes impossible. There were probably a vast amount of different social groups and cliques growing up. This placement certainly didn’t want to lose out in popularity so may have been the most popular in school or may have been everyone to everyone, losing themselves in the process.

Also, there are moral issues here, embrace what is different and cool and genuine to you or stay in the crowd? This placement stays with the crowd, there’s more protection and the friends are a way to escape the confines of the home where it’s easy to not feel like enough with everything going on (sports, grades, finances etc.) This placement may have also had to mature early, maybe even having jobs at young ages.

Adulthood: This placement may still be in contact with same friends from high school or college because community are the social checks and balances Libra south node loves. Media is a big influence in this placement. A BIG shift from repressing what makes them feel uncomfortable or insecure in childhood to a lot of self help and self discovery in adulthood. This placement will learn to part ways with what no longer serves them, after a couple of mistakes learned the hard way, usually. Then, the Aries NN will go on to keep digging to discover themselves and where they may have gotten lost in childhood. This placement may put an emphasis on finding the one answer or the one thing that will make all of these uncomfortable feelings go away, but really it’s the Libra’s south node obsessions and perfectionism that is causing this placement so much heartache.

Libra, being an air sign, intelligence & debate are happy places for this placement. Loves to argue for their ideals, beliefs, and community. The placement feels validated in arguments by their own research and intellect and the people who support them. Conflict can grow too comfortable here.

Imposter syndrome could be strong here.

How to overcome: The nodes are axis points of fear, things we need to overcome to see the bigger picture. In tarot, these nodes are represented by The Fool & The Emperor or Empress. In particular to this placement, true healing comes from walking away from a fight, laughing at the ridiculous standards being imposed by media, choosing their own image and story, and having faith. This placement will actually have a lot of growth in the breakup of relationships and self determined individuals will use the trial by fire to keep moving in their interests and truth. This sign is fundamentally unique, a trailblazer, and a little quirky. This placement needs to believe in themself and get in touch with the fundamentals of who they are.

Also, Libra needs an outlet for all of that competition so go be the best at something (strong encouragement for competitive sport) and don’t worry what others think!! You got this!! You are enough and you were born with sound mind.

— Casper

[spacemilkies]

fractured confections, bittersweet absence (1/?)

pairing: Earth—42!Miles Morales x Spider!Reader wc: 3k+ rating: teen a/n: don't look at me. i'm just writing as it comes to me. we'll see there all these different fic ideas take me. for this in particular, i have everything up to the movie start outlined. i took a few liberties with the timeline. i just have to push myself to write it :(

synopsis: Miguel relies on you to discover a potential anomaly  and somehow you become it

Or the one where world 42 never had a Spider-Man but then they do

In a world where alternative universes were nothing more than clichés confined to the pages of fantasy novels, your concerns as a teenager barely in your teens extended far beyond such fantastical notions. The recent addition of supernatural abilities, acquired through a fateful encounter with a dubious arachne during a field trip at a lab conglomerate, had consumed your thoughts. However, all of these preoccupations suddenly lost their significance as the very fabric of your existence crumbled before your eyes.

Echoes of terror-laden screams still reverberated in your mind, mingling with the chaotic symphony of pedestrian and automotive traffic desperately attempting to outrun an impending fate. In the midst of the pandemonium, you struggled to harness your newfound abilities, desperately weaving through the fragmented bodies of disrupted individuals, ephemeral apparitions on the brink of annihilation.

Yet, amidst the turmoil, one memory remained etched in your consciousness with unwavering clarity. It was the image of your best friend's father, seizing you mid-swing, his shattered gaze suddenly focused with newfound purpose. Together, you both tumbled headlong into a blinding burst of radiant light, a tumultuous journey to an uncertain destination.

As you gazed down at the device that had never left your wrist since that pivotal day nearly a year ago, your contemplations shifted from the intricacies of alternate realities to a more fundamental question—what would become of your existence without a tangible world to call your own?

Miguel, whom you swiftly discerned to be a distinct entity from the Mr. O'Hara who once chauffeured you and his daughter to softball practice every Thursday evening, had failed to provide a concrete understanding of the complexity surrounding your being. The only undeniable truth was that as long as the watch remained securely fastened to your wrist, you would be spared the agonizing disintegration that awaited Earth-702, the last vestige of a fading existence.

Earth-702.

The only life you had known reduced to a number.

This enigmatic state of being mirrored the ambiguity that plagued your emotions—a blend of forgiveness and gratitude, still unquantified and unresolved. How could you appreciate and resent the man who had saved you, yet inadvertently led to the destruction of everything you once knew?

For now, you exist as an anomaly entrusted with the task of investigating other anomalies, akin to yourself. A spider-being devoid of a world to safeguard was destined to remain just that—a solitary guardian without a realm to protect.

As you attempted to open the door, your progress came to a halt as LYLA materialized before you. In this constant state of existence, where alternate spider beings surrounded you, the presence of an artificial intelligence like LYLA was a welcome divergence from the norm. If you could practically call it that.

"You just missed Miguel," LYLA chimed, breaking the silence.

A tinge of disappointment washed over you. Miguel was supposed to provide you with an assignment today, and you had eagerly anticipated the opportunity.

“How convenient of him.”

The vague shrug from LYLA hinted at the lack of intention behind the promise from the beginning. With a restrained sigh, you pressed forward, traversing the brief hallway that led to Miguel's office—a space that also doubled as your own.

In the spider-verse association, you held the esteemed position of being its first official member. In simpler terms, you possessed the most comprehensive understanding of the intricate web of activities that kept the organization afloat. You were present when the second spider-being entered the headquarters, and you witnessed firsthand as the building teemed with more individuals from myriad Earths than you could have ever imagined.

With the proliferation of these spider-beings, it became increasingly challenging to distribute the workload. Each spider-being had their own set of responsibilities, both in their home realms and in dealing with one another. Amidst this sea of spider-beings, you were supposed to shine—a silent guardian with untapped potential.

Instead, you found yourself assigned to a desk, monitoring the overall progress of the operation. Miguel preferred to dress it up as a trusted role, acknowledging that not everyone possessed the capacity to grapple with the harsh realities at hand. It was amusing how he believed a teenager trapped within their formative years could shoulder the weight of these adult concerns.

Nonetheless, as an anomaly yourself, you held the title of subject expert in identifying and executing operations to resolve other unfortunate anomalies. Recently, you had grown restless and began to pester Miguel for more opportunities to explore other Earths. It wasn't to say that you hadn't ventured into different realms before. In the beginning, Miguel had no choice but to rely on your abilities in every capacity. However, a persistent fear loomed over both of you—the potential consequences if your device were to be disrupted for even a fleeting moment.

Indeed, that fear coursed through your veins, but you refused to allow it to dictate your life. That was precisely why you had all but demanded to be sent on the next assignment—an insistence that Miguel had skillfully evaded, leaving you feeling slightly defeated.

As you slumped into your seat, a heavy sigh escaped your lips. "What Earth is he even on?" you muttered, the weight of annoyance settling upon you. Almost as if in response to your presence, the displays surrounding your desk hummed to life, illuminating the space with a soft glow.

LYLA materialized by your side, her voice offering a prompt update. "Villain captured on Earth-343. They should be wrapping up soon."

The task at hand hardly posed a challenge beyond your capabilities. There were younger spider-beings grappling with far more daunting situations. You ceased dwelling on what your life would have been like as the Spider-Man of your Earth. You had been too young to even envision your future, let alone prepare for the colossal role thrust upon you in the wake of your transformation.

Amidst your operations, you had heard murmurs of other heroes around your age. 

Gwen Stacy from Earth-65.

 Pavitr Prabhakar from Earth-50101.

And Margo Kess from 22191. 

Their presence evoked a feeling in your chest that you wouldn't readily label as jealousy, but rather a simmering ember that burned hotter than mere contentment.

Occasionally, you engaged in conversations with them, often through the watch devices that connected your disparate realities, providing updates and exchanging information. But there were rare instances when you met face to face. Miguel had often categorized you and Gwen as the "troublesome" stage in your teenage years, a time when you grappled with the complexities of your individual realities. And while he wasn't entirely mistaken, the weight of those challenges felt more pressing in your lives.

Gwen, unlike some of her counterparts, preferred the sanctuary of the headquarters over returning to her home Earth. She seemed perpetually ready for missions, always on the edge of her seat. Upon meeting her, she shared the details of her eventful exposure to the multiverse, beginning with the collision event on Earth-1610B. She had crossed paths with that other Spider-Man... what was his name?

Rising from your slouched position, your fingers danced across the keys, retrieving the name from the recesses of your memory. You settled back into your seat, watching as the screen filled with the image of Miles Morales. 

He was certainly... something.

Admittedly clumsy at times, yet he possessed a reasonable level of control over his abilities. Enough, at least, to keep him off Miguel's list of reprimands. Out of curiosity, you toggled his biometrics, allowing the spider DNA coursing through his veins to reveal his Earth designation. But it was within the uniqueness of his profile that you discovered a divergence—his DNA did not match the status of his home Earth.

Earth-42.

You have come across reports mentioning it. According to Miguel, without a Spider-Man to inhabit it, there were no canonical events to monitor. From an operational standpoint, he was correct. However, as you pondered the situation now, you couldn't help but wonder what a world without a Spider-Man truly looked like.

With a few keystrokes, you accessed the live feed, ready to uncover the truth of that reality for yourself.

What you saw, ripped away the lingering shred of sense you had in that moment.

˚₊𓆩༺🕷༻𓆪₊˚

"This is a very bad idea," the voice persisted, echoing through your wrist. However, your dimension device possessed its own isolated network, impervious to interference or removal without Miguel's biometrics. It was a safety measure designed to keep out unwanted disruptions, but it inadvertently granted you a sense of freedom.

Clinging to the shadows, you effortlessly scaled the side of a building, preparing yourself for the leap to the next rooftop. The act of calculating the jump served as a convenient distraction from the persistent voice reverberating from your wrist.

"Like a very bad idea. Miguel is not going to be happy," LYLA warned, its concern palpable.

You let out a snort that held no trace of humor, grunting upon landing and quickly scrambling up the higher section of the architecture. "When is he ever happy?" you muttered. Miguel seemed to perpetually wear a mask of displeasure, never quite content.

Your response sparked yet another stream of concern from LYLA, but at this point, you had effectively tuned her out. The image feed from Earth-42, displayed on your device, paled in comparison to the chaotic reality that enveloped the city. From open flames licking at structures to blaring sirens piercing the air, there was not a single sign of peace to be found.

From your vantage point, you had always recognized the significance of a spider-hero. Yet, in the absence of one, you had simply assumed that matters would resolve themselves. After all, society was an ever-adapting complexity that spanned countless universes. Surely, there were individuals capable of managing the daily operations without the presence of a superbeing.

As you swung through the air, your mind wandered, delving into the intricacies of divergent paths taken by each reality. You contemplated the weight of the missing Spider-Man in Earth-42 and what it meant for the inhabitants of this dimension.

Lost in contemplation, you find yourself perched upon a lofty rooftop, gazing out at the sprawling city below. The bustling metropolis pulsates with life, its energy reverberating through the very fabric of existence. Yet, amidst the towering structures and bustling streets, your attention is drawn to a nearby building adorned with a larger-than-life mural.

The mural, a masterpiece in its own right, pays homage to a fallen police officer—an embodiment of courage, sacrifice, and unwavering dedication. It is a work of art that transcends the limitations of paint and brush, capturing the essence of the hero's spirit. Vibrant hues dance across the surface, blending seamlessly to form intricate details that breathe life into the mural. Each brushstroke tells a story, whispering of the hero's indomitable spirit and the impact he had on those he protected.

As your eyes wander over the mural, a bittersweet mix of emotions washes over you. You are intimately familiar with the displaced canon event depicted within the artwork, having witnessed its replay countless times. However, the absence of the defining factor—the presence of a Spider-Man—leaves a void, an inexplicable emptiness that permeates the scene. It raises profound questions about the nature of fate and the purpose of heroes. Who, or what, would subject people to a twisted reality without the counterbalance of justice and redemption?

But even in the absence of a Spider-Man, you know that humanity possesses an innate resilience. It is a resilience that gives rise to captains of justice, individuals willing to step forward and fill the void, even at the cost of their own lives. The mural becomes a symbol of that resilience, a testament to the indomitable spirit of the human heart.

Lost in your thoughts, a faint sound interrupts the silence, drawing your attention downward. The scuffling of feet resonates against the pavement, and your senses come alive, attuned to the presence nearby. Your head swivels, and your gaze lands upon the source of the sound.

Beneath the grand mural, the atmosphere hangs heavy with a mix of sadness and reverence. The vibrant colors seem to cast a somber aura, amplifying the weight of the fallen hero's sacrifice. It is there, in the fading sunlight, that you spot a solitary figure—a teenager whose face bears a defiant expression, despite the trails of tears glistening in the soft, golden rays. There is an air of vulnerability about him, and his presence captivates your attention.

With nimble and cautious steps, you descend the side of the building, blending seamlessly into the shadows. Your spider-like agility allows you to approach unnoticed, maintaining a respectful distance. The teen remains oblivious to your presence, engrossed in his own world of emotions.

In the pool of fading sunlight, his tear-stained face reflects a myriad of conflicting emotions. It speaks of loss and grief, yet his expression hints at determination and resilience. You are drawn to his vulnerability, unable to resist the urge to understand his connection to the fallen hero immortalized on the mural. It is evident that the departed officer held a special place in the hearts of many, leaving behind an irreplaceable void in the lives of those he protected.

As you observe the teenager's reaction, a sudden crash and the shattering of glass reverberate through the air, snapping your focus away from the impending danger nearby. The symphony of chaos begins to unravel, growing louder with each passing second. Instinctively, your senses heighten, urging you to intervene and prevent the imminent turmoil. Yet, you understand the delicate balance of interfering in the affairs of other realities, knowing that it may have unforeseen consequences.

Choosing to prioritize the safety of the vulnerable individual, you turn your attention toward him, hoping to offer guidance and solace. It is a decision that carries its own weight, for the unknown intricacies of interdimensional travel have taught you that nothing is ever certain or predictable. With a calm yet concerned voice, you address him, your words laced with empathy and caution.

"Hey, it's dangerous for you to be out here," you gently express, aware of the unexpectedness of your presence. However, before you can fully comprehend the impact of your presence, the teen’s demeanor shifts into something decidedly defensive—an oddly quick but reasonable response, given his environment. In that moment, you realize the jarring sight you must present—a being that embodies the traits of both human and spider, suspended in an upside-down stance before him.

As the boy's awe and curiosity leak through his initial defiance, you notice the hard lines of determination softening under the weight of change. There is a sense of similarity there, lost teenage years consumed by destruction.

His bewildered voice breaks the silence. Despite the perplexment, its gruffness cannot mask his genuine curiosity. "What are you?"

A playful smirk dances across your face, defying the gravity of the situation. The opportunity slips from your lips before you can fully understand the weight of your words.

"I am your friendly neighborhood spider," you reply, the words dripping with both sincerity and light-heartedness. Those wide, capable eyes, tinted with distrust, rove over the intricate design of your costume, searching for answers in the fabric that binds you.

His response is swift, his youthful candor cutting through the tension. "That's a dumb superhero name," he remarks, not comprehending the magnitude of the reality he has stumbled upon. You merely shrug, understanding that you are not the Spider-Man he knows, nor are you bound by the conventions of his familiar world. Here, in this fractured reality on the brink of collapse, your mission transcends trivial matters such as superhero aliases.

"Well, stupid or not, I can't leave you hear," you declare with resolute determination. Before he can fully grasp the gravity of your words, you swiftly encase him in a web cocoon, launching him skyward along the building's side. He puts up a surprisingly capable fight, thin braids swinging to and fro within his captivity.

"Aye, loco! Lemme me go!" he protests, his voice carrying a hint of frustration.

 Huh, Spanish. Miguel would be proud.

 Together, you ascend to the pinnacle, where the world seems both smaller and more expansive all at once.

From this vantage point, a distant commotion clamors through the night, a discordant symphony of chaos that taints the air with unease. You can sense the imminent danger lurking down the dimly lit streets, threatening the fragile remnants of this crumbling reality. 

The boy's now angered gaze fixated upon you, “I can take care of myself.”

You resist the strong urge to volley him, if only to jerk the too-adult pinch from his brow with the promise of fear and your strength. Instead, you guide him to to an adjacent block away from the disruption and drop him to his feet carefully, save for a brief stumble.

The pointed glare focused on you is not the impression you would have imagined from a rescued individual, but you were new to this so maybe not all went to script.

You were feeling a little less confident as you approached.

"I'm going to release you now."

The teen only jerked his chin in response.

Hooking a finger under the webbing, you use the trick Miguel taught you to loosen the bindings. The warning came a split second after he worked an arm free, giving you a brief opportunity to pull out of reach as he swung back.

He was definitely a product of his environment, whether for the good or better was not disclosed. 

There was a notable fire in his gaze as he challenged you.

“Next time, keep your freaky abilities to yourself. I don’t need no hero.”

Suspending yourself from the light fixture above, you test your impact on the Earth a length more. You think about all the other Earth’s whose spider-beings who press forward despite the backlash, determined to save what they hold dear. 

They might say those words, deflect the help offered to say they didn't need a hero because they were one.

But this teen didn’t give you that impression. His presence vaguely tipped the compass in a different direction.

“Maybe not, but you’re only one person.”

Scoffing, the teen ripped away the rest of the webbing. “No hero has a place here. Everyone agrees on that.”

Shoving his hands in his pockets, he turns his heel at that as he descends down the street away from you. 

Earth 42 was indeed a reality without a spider-being. 

But what proliferated in its absence, was something you felt, would test the universe in its own way.