#death war & mental illness TW

[starlightdolour]

𝐀 𝐋𝐎𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐁𝐀𝐓𝐓𝐋𝐄 𝐈𝐒 𝐑𝐀𝐆𝐈𝐍𝐆.

August 21st 2023.

That was the day Calypso was set free.

Ever since, one question permeated through her mind. It refused to grant her sleep. It wouldn’t allow her peace. For every hour of every day, it ate away at her psyche. Would it be so bad if she never found out? Would she be selfish for avoiding an answer that might leave her grieving for the rest of her existence?

If her two children passed away without a mother, would she be able to forgive herself?

— December 28th, 2023 —

Celio had always been a brave boy. His mind was made up that he was going to be a hero. Calypso always tried to warn him of the horrors that ensued during war on account of living through the upheavals of World War II. A trench was no place for her son to live in. Celio used to hold her hand and say, when he grew up, he’d protect her from all the bad things in the world. It was only when he stood at her grave that he understood some things were bigger than him .. so he’d have to be the biggest. As an adolescent, he was dedicated to having muscles like Doug Hepburn and when he was called to fight for his country, he did, going as far as to lie about his age. Years in battle never broke his unwavering spirit, his burning passion to protect others which led to his eventual death during a raid.

Celio Morozova

1955 - 1975

Vietnam

That’s what his tombstone read. A simple gray slab in a sea of tombstones. Knees sinking into the grass beneath her, Calypso knelt by the grave with a pale hand covering her mouth. She couldn’t breathe. She felt sick. They didn’t even have the decency to add a photo of him. He was more than a name and war. That strong kid who’d climb furniture and play with bugs. The little boy that she blanketed in her arms at night, twiddling locks of his hair between her fingers as she consoled him from a nightmare, died somebody’s target? It was all wrong.

A mother should never weep by her son’s grave like this, wondering what his final moments were like. Her little hero needed protecting and it should’ve been her.

— February 5th, 2024 —

Celine was a timid little girl, always stood behind her brother in her doll-like dress with knees pointing inward as she played with the ruffles of her gown. However, when the needle hit her favourite vinyl, she blossomed into the most elegant dancer. Calypso had enrolled her for ballet classes, attending every show at the end of the month without fail — she sat in the audience with the biggest grin on her face.

A nursing home in Graz, Austria.

That’s where she resides.

There was a chance to ask for forgiveness, explain herself or even make up for lost time if she isn’t turned away at the door. Her little Celine-a Ballerina. Would she even remember that nickname? It didn’t matter. All that mattered was their future. However long that may be, they could go on walks or share an ice cream just like she did when Celine was a little girl. The flight felt like it lasted weeks, the knot in her stomach tightening with each hour passing. As she stood at the reception of the home with a bouquet of Scorpion Grasses, her heel tapped against the floor with anticipation. A nurse walks over with a soft smile, guiding the brunette into a room.

There sat her daughter, slightly hunched over with sunlight pouring through a window and against her wrinkled skin. There were multiple framed photos propped up by a mirror. One of Celine dancing, a poised smile across her face .. another of Celio in the army, a gun propped up atop his shoulder. In the center was a photo of the two of them, grinning and either side of their mother who was leaning down to meet the camera’s height. Their gazes lock as Calypso hesitantly approached, placing the bouquet on the table before carefully cupping Celine’s cheek in her palm.

A flinch.

Celine’s empty expression barely shifts as she leans away from Calypso’s touch and eyes clouded with confusion scan her face. A weak voice pointedly utters: “Who are you?”

There was a physical ache in her heart at the sight of the blankness that met her gaze. Calypso’s smile faltered as she stepped back to pick up the photo of the three of them. “It’s me, darling.” She cooed, placing the dusty frame onto her lap. “It’s.. your mother.” Vacant eyes were staring down at the photo, eyebrows furrowing in distress as she grew afraid of the strange woman’s presence.

Who is this woman? Why is she crying?

I’m afraid. I want my mother.

Where is Celio?

I’m calling for him but he isn’t answering.

After the nurse pries Calypso out of the room, she began to explain her daughter’s condition. Late stages of dementia? She was barely able to take in anything the nurse said as Celine cries for her brother behind the door. She had nearly forgotten everything, everyone that was important to her. Gently pushing the door with her hand, Calypso took another glance at her daughter from across the room. All she saw was a shell of the little girl that used to sing and twirl around in her bedroom in the morning. All the dreams of making up for lost time seemed to shatter in front of her completely. The apology she thought over in her head a million times during the flight—- Celine would never know or understand what happened to her mother.

— March 19th, 2024 —

Celine’s condition tore apart the fabric of their bond and left her without recognition or solace for the years of absence. It was too selfish for her to hide away, grieving the loss of her daughter despite the fact she was still alive. Returning to the home was a feat in itself but she refused to allow her little girl to remain alone in that room with the company of strangers.

Calypso stormed into the nursing home, walking past the reception and halting at the door that read Celine Morozova. Taking a moment to gather her composure, a thumb hesitantly traced the rim of the doorknob before she steps forward and enters the room. A large brown box was sitting atop her bed. It didn’t seem like she was in here. The brunette opts to check the box which was full of Celine’s belongings. A nurse slowly entered the room and offered Calypso a seat with a gentle voice.

“Miss Morozova, I’m afraid your daughter passed away shortly after your visit last month.”

She goes on to explain that without Calypso’s contact details, they couldn’t let her know sooner. Everything else, however, was entirely tuned out by a ringing in her ears and a sinking in her chest as trembling hands gripped onto the mattress beneath her. The thought of her little girl passing away without anyone by her side on this very bed made the ordeal weigh heavier on her shoulders. Tears well up and spill onto her dress as she shook her head in denial. How could she lose Celine twice? How could she be so thoughtless? Was she calling for her mother the same way she called for Celio during her visit?

All that’s left is a dusty box of old belongings and permanent guilt she’d carry in her conscience for as long as she lived—- for she had failed at being the mother those children needed not once, but twice.

[heirbane]

4. Five times touched... 🐺🐇 :>

touched. / @daizure

Maybe he was trying to drown. The more he lost, the more glass bottles and thin, fluted glasses graced his lips, sweet and bitter, tolerable and horrid all at once. It helped him sleep. It helped his mind quiet, no longer as loud as the crashing waves against the cliff sides but more akin to the lull against shore, gentle and creeping until he couldn't remember what had plagued him.

Once, he would have thrown himself into his work. Once, Gaius would have donned weighted fatigues and pulled soldiers out of their platoons, running drills and sparring until his heart thrummed in his ears.

He was lost at sea now, without the capacity to run himself until oblivion as he once had. Now he simply had to wait to drown.

He reached out, intending to finish the last of the bottle, the firelight crackling with laughter ahead of him. How he had fallen, it chortled. He had hit the ground and continued unto hell.

When would it stop?

Smooth leather met his fingertips. Gaius felt himself flinch, an action pulled from the depths of his inebriated instincts, and turned his citrine gaze to the man who had crouched beside him.

For a moment, they stayed still. Arye scant looked his way, his smaller hand still gripping around the bottle with such might that Gaius believed he was simply laying claim. He let out a long exhale.

"As you wish."

Arye wrenched the bottle from him. In a swift movement, the man stood, and all at once Gaius watched as the bottle went flying. It collided with the firewood, glass shattering, and what remained of the spirits went up in flames, the fire grateful for the offering.

It continued to laugh, tendrils of heat reaching for the sky, begging for more. That was all it could do.

He wondered when Allie took up collecting.

The barracks of Garlemald's soldiers had always wanted for decor in a way that was intentional. Soldiers weren't to want, nor to have desires: they were to fight, and such things as trinkets and favored items were frowned upon. Humanity made them weak, Solus had believed.

It was a habit that carried into Terncliff, malms and malms from his home, years past being a proper soldier. His cottage was blank. He had bought the necessities and nothing more: his own bed had scarcely more than a single pillow and a single blanket, and, unconsciously, he had forced the same onto Allie.

But it seemed with each passing day that a Moogle graced his doorstep that the house became fuller. At first he had believed it to be his daughter's doings, visiting the market and buying trinkets with her own coin or combing the beach for shells and glass. Lidded jars sat in the windows, frosted seaglass positively glowing in the sunlight; sea shells of all sizes and variety appeared atop the fireplace mantle and on the washroom counter.

That was, until he appeared in a Moogle's place.

Gaius had scarcely felt as dumb in his life as he felt in that moment, fried eggs sizzling in the kitchen and his hair scarcely combed, when he opened his front door and peered down at a white-furred being that decidedly did not say "Kupo".

"Is Allie afoot?"

He paused. He looked over his shoulder, full knowing she wasn't, and spoke:

"No, she's - ... on a date. Brunch."

Arye had pushed past him, as if searching for the teen on his own. When Gaius' words sank in, however, his ears twitched, swiveling his attention to the Garlean.

"Oh."

The eggs sizzled, scorching in their pan. Gaius attempted,

"You could stay, and - "

"No."

He thrust out his armful. Gaius had been so preoccupied by his being that he didn't notice the overflowing blanket that had been carefully folded and held with care. Now, Arye seemed as if the item disgusted him, boots heavy on the stone flooring as he went to take his leave.

"For her. It was too heavy for the Moogles to take from Yanxia," he said curtly. "I'll - be back. When she's around."

Arye fled, the heavy wooden door slamming shut in his wake. Gaius stood, thumb stroking over the intricate weave in the karakul wool.

Huh. Mayhaps it hadn't entirely been Allie's doing...

"Get up. Get up, damn you."

The townfolk that had seen the Blasphemy had claimed it to sound human, that the wicked sound had put a pit in their stomach. As the world began to fall apart, they barely knew what to do with themselves. Once, Garlemald had helped build their seaside home, encouraging trade and advancements in farming. Once, Gaius had walked the stonework and looked for weak points to patch and mend.

He had been trustworthy once, the eldest of them remembered. And so they had come to the old wolf with a chance to redeem himself: not as a Garlean, and not as a Legatus, but as Gaius Baelsar.

He would not tell them no.

He wished he could have.

It was a Weapon. It was half-human and half-machine, sinew replaced with tubing. When it opened it's maw, lined with rotting, steel teeth, it was to jeer at them all. Gaius felt as if he had departed from his own body, his gunblade foreign in his hand.

It unleashed a sound that nigh echoed Valen's laughter, wet and poisonous and rancid.

Gaius didn't remember giving orders. He didn't remember being in his own skin, flooded with recollections of his children as their souls were torn from their aether, as they fused with the machina they piloted. It defied nature. It defied science.

Maybe he hadn't done a thing at all. All at once he was startled awake, gasping for air in a way that felt as if his lungs were on fire. Arye appeared above him, positively blocking out the sun and wearing it's rays as a halo against his locks. He heard Allie weeping not far away.

When had he gotten here? How had he the time to save the world and such a place as this? Had the rest of the realm begged him for assistance, too?

Arye's bare hand fisted the front of his armor. It had been the best the Werlytans could scrounge up, padded cotton and hemp, leather reinforcements for those who stood at the front line. He yanked, forcing Gaius into a seated position even as the world swam.

Allie stared at him. Arye cursed. He felt the man's palm against his back and under his ribs, the action ripping a sound from him that felt black and horrid.

Maybe he was getting to die here, he wondered. After it all. Maybe he would get peace after all.

He could breathe. They were small, shallow things, his subconscious more aware of his plight than he. It was dark and drizzling, the moon but a sliver in the sky as it peered through his window shyly.

He had not died. He had yet to feel relieved in that fact: Gaius simply felt old and haggard, beaten unto oblivion and drug back to the shores of the living. Maybe his age had finally caught up with his spirit.

He heard a wheezy sigh at his side, and then the throaty inhale of someone who had their nose broken too many times. He became aware of the sheer number of people asleep in the dark: the chair to his study had been brought in, as well as the rocking chair from the living room. He felt Allie's small hand in his own, even as she slept turned away from him, a pillow carefully dividing them - her attempt to keep from hurting him in her sleep.

Valdeaulin snored. His feet sagged the mattress where he slouched, his chair at the foot of the bed. When Gaius turned his head, he saw moon-white hair curling on his pillow. Arye had claimed the study chair, contorted in such a way that looked uncomfortable, his forehead on his arm and his hand outstretched in his direction. His fingertips just barely brushed Gaius' sleeping shirt.

He had not died. He felt old and exhausted, weary and threadbare, but his throat was thick and he found it harder to breathe than before. He squeezed Allie's hand, and slowly - uncertainly, unaware of the full extent of his wounds - placed his other beneath Arye's.

He brought their intertwined hands to his lips. The moon watched as he wept.

Gaius had learned far more about the Scions and their small spats than he ever believed he could. Had he been but half a decade younger, he wondered what this information would have done for him in Garlemald.

Perhaps not as much as he wished, he mused. The Lalafell's blackmail attempts aside, they were fairly moot points; the rogue and the celestial mage had not been intermingled until recently, so it would not have been useful then. The witch's shift in aethersight was a boon, despite it's challenges, and the dragoon's fondness for Thavnair was expected. That bit of information was one he already knew - they had crossed paths more than once after their excursion to Garlemald.

But the Warrior of Light was a storyteller, and he would not turn down the chance to hear Allie laugh... even if it meant his daughter telling stories of her own.

(He pretended he hadn't heard her mention kissing the girl she was dating, or that she had trailed off and laughed in a way that he hadn't ever heard, that both were lost under the popping of bacon and popotos.)

Arye appeared in the doorway to the kitchen. His mug was empty, and he gingerly put the tea bag in the trash. With a familiar ease, he dug into the cabinetry, fishing out cutlery and plates for all three of them.

"She hadn't told me she was that involved with her," Gaius grumbled. He heard the man snort, his hip colliding with the Garlean's thigh as they stood side-by-side.

"Maybe you'd know about her if you invited her for breakfast instead of just me," Arye spoke.

It was Gaius' turn to huff, defensive and dismissive all at once. He watched the rabbit's ears swivel, mischievous and coy, as he laid claim to two of the finished plates and disappeared back into to the table Allie sat at.

He was right. Somehow, he usually was. Gaius ran a hand over his face, picking up his plate in one hand and his walking cane in another, and made to join them both.

[badpersonconfessions2]

I see war news and real videos of bombings and people dying and it makes me feel content. I really don't care about who kills who as long as they die. I know I'm horrible but I really don't care. All the pity posting, boycotting, requests for help make me feel giddy

- 🐍🪽

.

[sadistic-softie]

YET ANOTHER VENT

Sometimes, I can't tell if I'm dreaming or not. Is this real? Am I awake? I've been hallucinating bugs lately. My sleep schedule is ruined. I try to stay away as long as possible. I'm scared to sleep. Every time I sleep I return to old dreams and my traumas. I dream of people who hurt me and I dream of horrific war. I didn't dream of trauma this time. I was lucky enough to only dream up the gunshots and screaming. I watched someone get shot diagonally through the ear and survive...disfigured...It was after I had the gun pointed at me and I begged for my life. I dream of screaming more than anything. How are my dreams able to simulate such realistic, loud screams? It scares the fuck out of me. I never hear such visceral, realistic screams of terror and agony other than in those dreams.

Something was crawling on my wall again this afternoon when I woke up for real. Usually things like that disappear when I look right at them, but it was different this time. 2 green spiders. One thinner legged than the other. I watched them make their way up. I was fixated on them. And then I thought, I need to catch them. I need to kill them. But I couldn't move. Sleep paralysis. I tried to wiggle and squirm but I couldn't, I could only watch them slowly crawl as I struggled and tried to scream. Suddenly, I woke up, and the spiders vanished right before my eyes. I had really thought they were real.

I tried to look for them, but they'd just been in my head the whole time. I had thought I'd woken up 3 times already before that, but I know I'm really awake now. This doesn't feel real yet, but I just know it. I feel deeply unwell and unsettled. Paranoid. I need to make the clouds and the sky feel real again. I need to make the grass feel alive again. I need to know it isn't all in my head. I need to see and feel everything. I don't want to sleep again. I don't want to sleep again. I hate sleeping. I fucking hate sleeping.

I'm tired of seeing the people that hurt me. I'm tired of hearing those fucking screams. I'm tired of walking through battlefield gore and viscera watching people be shot in front of me and smelling the stench of the mangled unrecognizable bloody chunks of corpses I walk over. I'm tired of having guns pointed at my head. I've never been in war. I've never even watched war movies or played war games or seen anything of the like. Why do I dream this way?? I'm tired. I'm tired and I don't want to sleep.

I'm losing track of time and reality. Have 3 hours really gone by since I started writing this? Was I wrong about it being nearly 1 when I started? It usually doesn't take me so long. I'm becoming paranoid. I don't know what I should trust. How long have I been here?

[lcngliive]

Was that [VANESSA KIRBY]? Oh no no, that was just [EDLIN DURA], an [ORIGINAL CHARACTER] from [STAR WARS]. They are [THIRTY FOUR] years old, use [SHE/HER], and [ARE] aware that they are not actually from Washington DC. Too bad they can’t stray from this city for long.

how long has your character been here

she's been here for four years.

what is your character's job

edlin is a doctor at george washington memorial hosp.

where has your character been pulled from in their fandom

after her death.

has any magic affected your character

nope!

and any other information you might find useful for us and the other members to know!!

oop here comes jodie again with a tragic star wars milf :)))))

edlin was born on lothal to her parents anther and melia berren.

from a young age, edlin showed an interest in medicine, this was only furthered when she made friends with one of the only doctors in her village, an older man named zano who had once been a teacher on coruscant, but was now retired and living with his wife in the place they had raised their children.

as she grew older, she started to grow a more significant interest, and zano contacted some of his former students, putting the word out about someone who would be a good student when she was of age.

and it paid off, she had a place lined up in the top medical school on coruscant when she turned sixteen. 

her life was happy, up until it wasn't, her father was injured in a factory accident which caused him to be bedridden, leaving her mother to be the primary breadwinner for the family. 

it wasn't long after that when her father passed away, leaving her mother devastated and it forced edlin to go and find a job because her mother was too depressed to move from her bed.

it wasn't long after that when both her parents were gone and she was alone in the world.

zano and his wife lena took her in until she was almost sixteen, taking care of her until she was able to go off to courscant and study to become a doctor.

and before she knew it, she was on a transport off-world heading to the core world to start her new life.

she settled in well, the family she was boarding with were friends of zano's and they treated her like one of their own, she was good friends with their daughters, one of them being the same age as her and one just slightly younger.

edlin took to her studies very well and sailed through her training programme quicker than anyone else - she was good at picking up on details that other people didn't and this would prove valuable for her later in her life.

when she was twenty three, she graduated and started working as a doctor in the same place that she had done training at a few years prior.

during that time, she met her soon-to-be husband and they just clicked instantly. leaving this very vague bc ik maig is putting a wc out for papa dura :)

and they got married and had their first daughter, kriya. and then a few years later kaya followed.

but things weren't going to be happy for the dura family - kaya was force sensitive, and soon the jedi came knocking.

edlin was 100% against giving her baby up - kaya was her child and she wasn't about to let the jedi take her. but things wouldn't go the way she wanted them.

and even though she fought hard, kaya was still taken away from them.

soon after that, edlin started to resent her husband and resent the jedi - for letting their daughter be taken away so easily and the jedi for taking her away.

the days after her daughter was taken, she locked herself in the bedroom and refused to speak to anyone or see anyone, she even started to refuse to eat and go to work.

years passed with her being numb, but slowly she gained somewhat of a normal life back - she went to work and then came home and didn't speak to her family.

which is something she regrets, she regrets shutting kriya out - regrets not being there for her daughter.

one day, edlin just decided to pack a bag and leave, leave her family behind and go out into the world - it was a spur-of-the-moment thing and very much an intrusive thought that she gave into, but she left.

she helped around on different planets for a few years, that was until the clone wars happened and while she didn't like the jedi, the civilians didn't deserve to be caught in their war.

edlin doesn't really remember what happened in the end - but she was killed in an explosion that was done by the separatists and even until the end, she was making sure people were okay.

here in dc

edlin has been in the city for four years and has been slowly adjusting.

she was glad to go back to working as a doctor here, it made her feel better about everything and gave her a sense of normality.

the first year of her being here was very hard for her, she'd been away from what was left of her family for a year now at this point and she missed them, missed what her family could have been.

but she thew herself into work and started volunteering to pass the time when she wasn't working and that led her to work with a few different charities that help children after their parents had died.

edlin has recently been reunited with her daughters, and she doesn't know how that's going to go - with kriya, she knows it won't go well, but she hopes that with kaya things can be good.

[baalfegorth]

x ⸻ : #baalfegorth .. and there will be blood. ❳❳ ❳ לְאַזֵן

Nero Salith Baalfegorth, son of archangel michael, son of devil lucifer and son of the lovely devil queen lilith. conceived by two, each one the opposite of each other, born by one that is cursed to never be able to give any other life, nero's soul's split into good and evil. lost in the loving arms of his mother, chosen to serve one of them, heaven or hell. they'll drag him into the abyss by his broken legs, they tear him into heaven by his heavy arms, to be the one to end all wars, once and for all.

ooc & tw » "own character portrait", independent. no 24/7 - be patient, only in character \ only 21+ minors dni, german preferred, thanks!

please be aware of any triggering content, plotting with me will end in pure gore, blood, sexual topics, mental illness,, death, violence, drugs, religious disputes and every kind of phobias.

to my mother, Lilith ⸻ forsaken. i crawled through the endless screams of the burning desert. drifted thirsty and lifeless over the murky depths of the never ending seas. i was swallowed up by the gusts of wind of the murderous bays without any hold. your love, fed by the hatred of the religious people i got from you, gives me the strength to let forgotten things burn again in the eyes of all people. even if the rotten gates to hell are closed, i always find my way back to you in my damned dreams.

to my fathers, Michael & Lucifer ⸻ divided, but one. never wanted, but forced to be. through the wrath of the devil and the charity of the archangel, an violent, eternal battle between life and death, hate and love, runs through my bloody fucked up veins. your life is worth nothing to me, i'll do anything and everything to bring an end to your unscrupulous, decayed souls. through you, i've become an unstoppable warrior who will tear your everlasting hearts apart.

And when everything falls apart, i'll stand up here and triumph with my flag held high.. forever.

[youremyheaven]

Krittika: The Tarzan Complex & Survival Strategies

TW: murder, rape, genocide, euthanasia, death, violence, misogyny

This is part 2 of my ongoing Krittika series. This research was commissioned by the wonderful, angelic and patient, @rscelestia-blog . Being commissioned to do nakshatra research by you guys makes me feel like I'm a renaissance artist and you guys are my Medici family ✨🥺🫶💛 I'm so grateful for it.

For this post, I wanted to look into how this nakshatra often manifests in men. Whenever I talk about how naks manifest irl, I am talking about a tendency not a rule. Astrology is not a perfect science and it is very much possible that someone could have these placements and not behave this way. Also there are hundreds of different tendencies for each nak, since every astrologer is a mere human being with limited knowledge, what they derive from their studies is perhaps only a handful of such possibilities. Therefore every nakshatra has vast room for interpretation.

All that said, I have often thought that Krittika men were a bit unrefined and mannerless for a long time. I think this broadly applies to Solar men in general because they're a "guy's guy". However, this observation was further cemented by an ask that I received a long time ago where an anon pointed out how many actors who have played Tarzan or Tarzan like characters have Krittika nakshatra.

I will be making a separate post about the 'feral child' trope and how its most acutely manifest in a different planetary type but for this post I want to focus on the 'uncivilized' nature of Krittika/Solar men.

I had mentioned in my previous Krittika post about how since Krittika nak follows Bharani where creation takes place, Krittika is about survival.

In fact, the theory of 'survival of the fittest' was put forward by another Solar man aka Charles Darwin, Uttarashadha Moon

The term was originally coined by Herbert Spencer, Ketu in Uttaraphalguni after reading Origin of the Species

 Alfred Russel Wallace, whose own theory about the mechanics of evolution was almost identical to Darwin's, had a Solar stellium (Mercury & Venus in Uttarashadha and Jupiter in Krittika)

In Nazi Germany, they appropriated Darwin's "survival of the fittest" to eradicate anybody who wasn't Aryan or 'fit'. One of the key proponents of the same was an officer named Alfred Rosenberg, Uttarashadha Sun who was hanged to death after the war. He helped advance involuntary euthanasia to eliminate mentally ill and disabled individuals.

Now, lets go into Tarzan.

Tarzan is from an aristocratic British family and after losing his parents, he is adopted by the leader of the ape tribe, among whom he is raised. He later experiences civilization, rejects it and returns to the wild.

Many actors who have played Tarzan have either Solar influence or Venusian influence. In the 2 dozen actors who have played this character, the majority are Venusian tbh but I'll explore that more on a separate post about Venusian men. I think its interesting how different aspects of this character fit these two planetary types.

Here are some men who have played Tarzan

Johnny Weissmuller, Mercury and Venus in Krittika

He played Tarzan in 12 films and Jungle Jim in another dozen films and its TV adaptations as well.

Bruce Bennett, Krittika Sun (unrelated but i find this pic so funny lmao)

Tony Goldwyn- Krittika Sun and Venus (atmakaraka)

He voiced Tarzan in the 90s film

Tarzan has always been played by other Solar natives like:

Wolf Larson- Uttaraphalguni Moon

Alexander Skarsgaard- Uttaraphalguni Stellium

Now when we think of Tarzan, what do we most associate with him? He is a man who was raised in the jungle by apes since he was a baby, so he is "uncivilized" and by most standards "lacking manners", he is wild, messy, uncouth, improper and defies all kinds of social norms. We usually associate "mannerlessness" with belonging to perhaps a lower class in society but here is where Krittika and Solar men surprise us. They behave this way despite all that they have. They could be from immensely privileged backgrounds and still act like jungle freaks.

They lack social charisma, grace or "politeness". Tarzan is very independent because he was raised in the jungle where he had to learn how to fend for himself. Similarly, Solar individuals also tend to be very socially independent which means they're often not the best at interacting on a group level. In order to be sociable, you have to emotionally connect with others, Tarzan's early life is not something anybody else can connect to, even if he adopts a more "civilized" behaviour, he's still going to stand out because of how he's lived his life. Even if they're welcomed into and accepted by society, Solar individuals struggle to relate to and emotionally connect to them.

Sun naks are generally known for being a bit emotion-less but in Krittika this manifests in a very "each for himself/herself" mentality that ISNT self-serving. I would say Krittika natives are the least selfish and most service oriented of all the 3 Sun nakshatras. They know that its a dog eat dog world, so they almost have a tendency to be the one who does all the brunt work so that their loved ones can be spared of it?

I'll mention some examples of "mannerless" Krittika men now:

Howard Stern, Uttarashada Sun Krittika Rising

This guy straight up is so RUDE and crass and vulgar with ALL of his guests????

Here is him talking to Matthew McConaughey about his father dying and Matt is no better in this clip either but like wtf?? who talks like that???

Lowkey Solar individuals LOVE to gossip and start shit between people.

Here is a compilation of him being creepy and disgusting to women on his show.

Dana Plato, the actress, committed suicide a day after appearing on his show in 1999. The humiliation she endured is said to have been her breaking point. Her son committed suicide on the 11th anniversary of her death.

When I tell you Solar men are emotionally abusive, either by being avoidant and ignoring you or by being condescending, patronising, openly mocking you and treating you like shit, BELIEVE ME.

Jordan Peterson- Krittika Rising

I dont know if I need to explain why Jordan is a mannerless misogynistic asshole.

Here are some remarks made by Kate Manne, a feminist expert, who critiqued Jordan's work:

"There’s an interesting moment in the book where Peterson talks about resentment as a “revelatory” emotion that can mean one of two things. One, you feel it because you’re immature, in which case you just need to buck up. Two, you feel resentment because you really are being oppressed or taken advantage of somehow. Your resentment shows you that something needs to change or that you need to assert yourself in relation to other people.

But there is clearly a third possibility. People often feel resentful because they appear, based on historically entrenched social norms, to be getting a bad bargain, when what’s actually happening is that others are getting a somewhat fairer deal. When you’re accustomed to unjust privilege, equality feels like oppression, as the saying goes." (link to the whole article)

This is such a classic example of the way Solar individuals think. They don't really think in terms of privilege, justice, fairness etc??? They just think you can work hard enough to erase all the other socio-economic-political barriers that make things harder for others?? This is of course until they've had first hand experience of difficulties of this sort lmao but they are naturally not wired to think too much, they're very simple minded, like Tarzan, that's why Sun is the most Yang of energies. Its a very action-goal oriented line of thought. They are almost incapable of thinking in abstract or trying to see things within the context and subtext in which it has occurred.

This is also why they are often very academically gifted. Naturally intelligent people struggle the most in school because their brains are not wired to endure the structure and mechanical system of learning that our education system enforces. Intelligence by definition necessitates that the person possessing it is capable of thinking unconventionally and that means finding the school environment really limiting or restrictive bc schools fr be killing the joy of learning.

Solar individuals thrive within these systems because they seldom, if ever, question the system itself, they just learn their material and write the exam. They do not think "unconventionally" or beyond the binary in any way. They accept what they learn to be true and they are more focused on working within the system to climb its ranks. If this is the system we're in, they want to be THE BEST in it and they will master all of its rules to work with it to beat it??

This is why all Solar naks are at the very top of the caste hierarchy, Krittika is a Brahmin nak whereas Uttaraphalguni & Uttarashadha are both Kshatriya naks

Solar individuals are lowkey one of the least empathetic types. I dont mean this to be harsh but they're not very emotionally intelligent and its really hard for them to read a room or intuitively pick up on how someone's feeling/what's on their mind. You reallyyyy need to spell things out for them. It does not come to them naturally to understand how others think or to put themselves in the shoes of others because for Solar individuals everything is kind of a competition and when its a battle of survival, you dont stop to think how your opponents are feeling? this is not to say that they're in "survival mode",, Solars are too unbothered to be in fight or flight 24/7, its just the Tarzan mindset tbh. If you're an animal in the jungle, the jungle is your home, you understand how it operates, how you must hunt or starve, you know what your odds are, you cant be here feeling too empathetic towards other creatures knowing full well that you have to hunt them down and eat them or otherwise starve yourself to death. Animals are comfortable, secure and chill in their habitat but they also understand the stakes so they're always survival minded? Because it truly is each for his/her own out there.

Mark Wahlberg- Krittika Stellium (Mercury, Venus AK and Saturn)

Wahlberg is an A class asshole. In the 80s he assaulted two elderly Vietnamese men and a group of black children all the while hurling racist abuses at them.

Here is a clip from one of his movies:

I know its a film but this is for real how Solar men view the world. They see everything as a "conquest". (Tarzan mentality)

The simple minded Tarzan mentality is also why in the books and movies, Tarzan is unable to cope with civilization and returns to the jungle. The author said it's because Tarzan saw the world as too corrupt which is perhaps true but it's also because having lived in a jungle where the ruled are pretty simple and standard, being a member of society means adhering to many unspoken ruled and conventions. Solar individuals find it THE hardest to do so and when they're actual being true to themselves, they act like apes of the Howard Stern school.

Salvador Dali, Krittika Stellium (Sun, Mercury & Mars)

To make matters worse, he was UBP Moon (the influence of multiple malefic planets makes one more prone to being an asshole) and I have extensively covered his wrongdoings in my post about Saturnian men

However, for now I want to focus on how Dali was a Nazi sympathizer,

He was also obsessed with Hitler in a perverse way and apparently had homoerotic fantasies of him lmao??

He was once quoted as saying:

"I often dreamed of Hitler as a woman. His flesh, which I had imagined whiter than white, ravished me… There was no reason for me to stop telling one and all that to me Hitler embodied the perfect image of the great masochist who would unleash a world war solely for the pleasure of losing and burying himself beneath the rubble of an empire; the gratuitous action par excellence that should indeed have warranted the admiration of the Surrealists."

He was a big old fascist who also supported the Spanish dictator Franco which made Picasso stop talking to him for the rest of his life.

In 1975, when General Franco executed many people, hundreds and thousands of fascists gathered in support of Franco, chanting his name and making fascists salutes. When the world condemned this appalling act, Dali praised Franco and called him the “greatest hero of Spain.”

George Orwell, a strong critic of the fascist rule in Spain, despised Dali and wrote —

“During the Spanish Civil War, he astutely avoids taking sides and makes a trip to Italy. He feels himself more and more drawn towards the aristocracy, frequents smart salons, finds himself wealthy patrons, and is photographed with the plump Vicomte de Noailles, whom he describes as his ‘Maecenas.’”

Salvador Dali was nicknamed ávida dollars (“eager for dollars”) by his former surrealist friends for selling his consciousness and idealism for money and fame.

Average Solar behaviour

When I talk about Tarzan mentality, I'm referring to how lions dont feel remorse at the thought of killing deers. Its not in their nature to feel remorse. The hierarchy of the eco system is such that lions are predators and its their job to hunt. They are by biological design, carnivores. Its a bit sickening to think of how like animals, who have no choice but to be brutal to survive, Solar individuals often have this ruthless ambition to do absolutely anything to get ahead in life. The world we live in, is a capitalist, patriarchal world and the people who thrive in it are ones who are willing to overlook or dont see the faults in the system at all.

The ones who sit at the very top of the pyramid did not get there by being compassionate angels. 3/4 Brahmin caste naks are "ugra" or violent nakshatras, Krittika is the exception, as it is a "mishra" nakshatra (mishra means "mixed"). The ones at the very top are the most brutal and fierce. There is no other way to get to the top in this world.

Carrie Fisher, Krittika Moon

The singer James Blunt (Shatabhisha stellium) who was besties with Carrie, wrote in his memoir:

“I was closer to Carrie than almost anyone else in the world, except my wife. She told me which girlfriends weren’t suitable, was the first person I told when I met my wife, and we chose engagement rings for her together.

She also knew where every unmarked grave of mine lay and where every guilt stemmed from. She was complicit too. When I arrived home one morning with a love bite on my neck, and my girlfriend of the moment about to arrive, Carrie grabbed her 16-year-old daughter and gave her a love bite as well.

Then Carrie summoned me over, offering her own neck, and told me to give her a love bite. When the girlfriend arrived, we all had love bites.

There was also an issue with drugs. Carrie had long been open about her addiction, but at some point it was obvious enough to be of concern.

I stood many times at the foot of her bed at 3am listening to the laboured breathing of someone sounding close to death on heavy medication. Not long before she died, I asked her to be godmother to my son, telling her that I wanted her to take care of herself so that he might know her when he grew up.

Charlie, her best friend, confronted her more directly and told her she needed to quit drugs, but was ostracised by her as a result. I took a different approach and did them with her, pretending to myself that I would guide her to redemption one day – just not today.

The lies we tell ourselves are the ­hardest to forgive. As a result, her ­daughter Billie blames me in part for her death, and no longer speaks to me. They buried Carrie’s ashes in a giant ceramic Prozac pill. You can see a picture of it on the CD disc of my first album. There are only two of them in the world, and the other one is my most treasured possession.”

Krittika being a "mishra" or mixed nak means that its just as capable of being tender as it is of being destructive. There are only 2 mishra naks. The other one is Vishaka.

Carrie took James in before he had even made his debut and he lived with her and recorded the songs of his first album in her house. They had a long lasting friendship, all of this points to the kind, nurturing, almost maternal nature of Krittika but the other behaviour he mentioned, including the love bite giving lmao?? Krittika is a Solar nak and they wouldnt be who they are if they weren't competitive for no reason lol and ostracizing people who mean well??? Solarcore AF

I assure you trying to give advice to a Solar is pointless because like the Sun, they too are blinded by their own light, they see nothing, they comprehend nothing except their own projections. Plato's allegory of the cave was about Solars, I swear lmao. The truth can be very very obvious to absolutely everybody else but a Solar WILL NOT SEE IT

They embody this meme:

They're very low on emotional intelligence tbh. You could tell a Solar that someone almost murdered you and they'd be like "oh he's not very nice, is he?" 😭😭😭 I think it's also part of their simple minded Tarzan thinking. They take everything at face value and are straightforward to a fault. They just don't know or understand how crooked people can be.

I have Krittika Moon friend who is dating a Hasta Moon man (Solar x Lunar couples 🤧) and he was disgusting to me IN FRONT OF HER and he's been nasty af to many other women we all know and she wasn't his girlfriend at the time. But even after she knew all of this, she went on to date him and now they've been together for over a year lmao 🤮🤢🤮

They do not see the faults with themselves or with people they love. They live in a bubble of delulu and completely believe that all that glitters IS GOLD. They can be soooo naive, its insane. Theyre naive girls in bad bitch packaging.

Solar individuals struggle more than any other type to understand that things are not always black and white and that real life is veryyy complicated because people are complicated. In the jungle, such abstractions do not exist, things are very black and white, you can easily arrive at solutions by thinking in a very binary way. Sun nakshatras are focused on survival and this mentality warps their mindset from perceiving things in a more complex and nuanced way.

I want to emphasize once more that survival mentality is NOT being in flight/fight mode,, its more so about operating from a place of maximum efficiency and cutting out all the unnecessary bullshit. But being in survival mode is not living. We are not animals and there is more to life than just...surviving.. and thriving..

Solar individuals are the type for whom every kind of experience is a status symbol of some sort. Be it being desired, succeeding at school/work, making x amount of money, they dgaf about "enjoying" things, they are absolutely not the "stop to smell the roses" type, they want to be like the people who they envy or look up to, they want all those markers of success. Ask them about their motivations and you'll seldom hear of an emotional one.

They're mostly driven by a need to do well in life just because. We live in a world where money is king, and where certain things are conventional indicators of success and even if they have absolutely no desire for a certain kind of house, or car or brand or relationship, they do not want to be perceived as someone who is incapable of having it???? so they work hard to get it?? They get it for show, basically.

There is a reason why the ONLY nak without a yoni consort is a Solar nakshatra (Uttarashada). The height of Solar energy is such that its truly each for his/her own, no partners whatsoever.

Jack London, Uttarashadha Sun

He wrote books like a The Call of the Wild and numerous other adventure stories which are all about surviving in the wild by yourself lol

Its funny how literally the themes of certain naks and planetary influences are made manifest

 Richard Gadd- Krittika Sun and Venus

He is the star and maker of Baby Reindeer, which, if you really think about it, is a survival story. You have got to ask yourself is someone subject you to brutal stalking of the kind Gadd was subject to, would you spend YEARS of your career performing and reliving it? There could be many reasons why he chose to do so and many have found it highly problematic how a man whose privacy was so brutally invaded for so long would do so little to properly hide the identities of the real people he's talking about (his stalker was found out by netizens and she's been receiving death threats etc).

I feel like it points to the nature of the Sun. They will have the last word always and even when they're losing, they'll drag you down with them. But beyond that, I feel like it points to the ambition and tenacity of Krittika and their sheer will power.

Pitbull, Uttarashadha Sun, Krittika Moon & Rising

His life story is extremely Solar

The "American dream" tbh is a very Yang one and a very Solar one

He was born in USA to immigrant parents.His family has a history of fighting against the Castro regime in Cuba. When he was three, he could recite the works of Cuban national hero and poet José Martí in Spanish. He learned English by watching Sesame Street as a child. His father was largely absent from his childhood; his parents separated when he was young, and he was raised mostly by his mother, later stating: "my mom is my father and my mother." He briefly stayed with a foster family in Roswell, Georgia. His parents struggled with substance abuse; as a teenager, he was also involved with drug use and dealing, which eventually led to him getting kicked out of the family house.

Divorce, war, natural calamities, destruction of any kind is veryyy common for people born under Krittika, Ardra, Uttarashadha, Jyeshta, Ashlesha nakshatras.

Pitbull's parents were separated, they fled Cuba, he was kicked out and was literally left to fend for himself.

He said he chose his stage name of Pitbull because the dogs "bite to lock. The dog is too stupid to lose. And they're outlawed in Dade County. They're basically everything that I am. It's been a constant fight". Literally so Solarcoded??

I'll end this post here, I have more posts to come about Krittika and Solar naks so stay tuned. I hope this was insightful

I am sooooo sorry that I have been soooo slow with my uploads lately,, I just have a lot on my plate atm 😭😭😭I am going to try my best to be more consistent cause I want to finish this series asap as I have several other pending posts to make UGHH

[rippersz]

ᴀ ꜰᴏᴏʟ'ꜱ ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ

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(Brienne of Tarth x Named Reader; Angsty; Hurt/Slight Comfort) (TW: Suic*de attempt; Suic*dal ideations/thoughts; Slight Romanticization of mental illness)

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“An autumn whisper between the maples kept urging: Die with me.” ~ Anna Akhmatova

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A Fool’s Death.

That’s what they call it.

A Fool’s Death. You’re a coward if you do it. You’re a lazy bastard if you live with thoughts of it. You’re a selfish prick of a soul either way.

There’s no winning and there’s no losing. There’s no talk of it. Not even a mention. Not even a whisper. And if there is, you are spoken of. Judged. Scrutinized until The Fool’s Death becomes your death. Until the village and its people and everyone in your family are forced to spit upon your narcissistic bones and claim you disowned even though there is nothing left to claim and nothing left to disown. Just a corpse that is cold and dull and useless.

Cold and dull and useless.

You think that’s how you’ll do it.

Winter has already carried her snow and chill and winds into the region, laying it all upon the land like a warm blanket around a small child’s body. Painting everything white and leaving it to glisten to sludge beneath the eventual heat of the spring sun. A perfect time for rebirth. A perfect time for death.

—

Your hands shake as you slowly pull open the door to your quarters, wincing while it creaks and groans, forcing you to stop every time a noise rings out into the empty hall. Your heart, pounding away in your ears, ruins your sense of hearing while you stand like a statue within your own doorway. Anxiety slips through your bones. Fear pulls at you. The last desire you have is to wake everyone in the castle and call attention to yourself. No, having eyes and ears on you while you lay in the snow and wait for the freeze to set in is less than ideal. A Fool’s Death, after all, is never A Fool’s Death if done with company.

So once you decide that the corridors are empty and you can slip out through the back entrance into the kitchens, you do exactly that. A singular torch is lit, burning away within its stone perch, nearly beckoning you closer with its dancing flame. You trail toward it and stop there, watching it for a moment, reveling in the last bit of warmth that your skin will ever feel. You know that some hours later, when the moon is long gone and the clouds block the sun and the stars keep themselves veiled, you will no longer be able to feel fire. You will no longer be able to feel ice. You will no longer be able to feel the breath in your lungs leave you in short pants. It will all bleed into the same numb feeling. And you will freeze until Mother Nature tells you to thaw. And once your body has been revealed to the changing air of the seasons, once the earth’s creatures start to take advantage of your indirect kindness, you also know that your frozen flesh will not be mourned. Because no one will cry for you. And no one will beg the gods, both old and new, to bring you back. And no one will waste another precious breath worrying about who you were.

You, who were just another soldier out of an army of hundreds. A faceless woman. A person easily replaced. Inconsequential in every sense of the word. Your family was dead, your acquaintances were no more than good mornings and good nights, your position would be filled as soon as you broke rank. And no one would notice your absence. The Lord Commander wouldn’t even blink. The royal family wouldn’t even spare a thought. Though then again, it wasn’t like you deserved their thoughts, their sympathies, their prayers anyway. You weren’t a war hero and you weren’t important and you didn’t do anything beyond follow orders and live your life. Well- that last bit would change, of course. As soon as you pull yourself away from the torch and get going.

The chill of night is a harsh contrast from the few minutes of firelight, but you find that your body, already shivering and slow beneath the thin white nightgown, doesn’t take true notice of the cold. You’re only propelled forward by a distant urge. A previously agreed upon understanding with no one but yourself: This was necessary. This is what it was going to come to anyway, whether you died a fool sooner or later. This was the way of the world and you were just another pawn amongst the masses. Going to war, front of the line, hoping to die in glory.

But there was no glory there. There was no glory in your measured footsteps and there was no glory in your sagging shoulders and tired expression. And there was no glory in your desire. How could there be? How could the good gods ever wish to touch you after your blasphemy? How could you hang your soul out to dry and still expect to find your place in Nirvana? They will call you a coward. They will call you a fool. They will call you a rotten whore and they will say that they wish you’d done it sooner. They will walk past your nonexistent grave without a wandering thought as to what your name was. You could’ve saved everyone the trouble, they will say. Could’ve saved them the breaths. Spared them of your quiet awkward presence. Making everyone uncomfortable. Leaving the men to tease and toss aside the idea of censoring themselves just because you were a woman. Not the only woman, but a woman nonetheless. Of course they held their tongues when The Lord Commander walked past, or sat at the table, or existed and breathed in their general vicinity, but that didn’t matter. Brienne of Tarth was not always around to control them nor comfort you - not that she did the latter anyway. You weren’t important enough for that.

And the universe seemed to agree. The path was laid out before you, lit by the silver moon, traced by the glow of the white ground. You’d decided on your resting place only a few days ago. During a morning patrol with some of the newer trainees, you came across a spot of smooth Earth. Two logs, parallel to each other, framed a large empty patch of snow. From where you stood, it looked like a beautiful painting that had yet to be finished. There was no subject- no goal- no lesson to be learned- no deeper meaning and no unintentional intentional wicked talent. But before that could be rectified, before it could be completed, it would have to be ruined. Once you’re long dead, you’ll find the time to apologize to Mother Nature, but as you trek over the last hill, you’re more focused on becoming one with the frozen ground.

The site of your death is far enough away from civilization, near the edge of a tall cliff, so any wandering strangers won’t bother to come too close. Well that’s what you tell yourself, living in hope as per usual; but in reality nothing is stopping another living creature from stumbling across your frozen corpse. The snow is thick, yes, but not thick enough to hide all of you. And the sun is only some hours away from rising. Oh well. It won’t matter anyway. You’ll be passed out by then, icicles hanging from your eyelashes and blue coating the lining of your lips. Your heart will be quiet, weak, in your frozen chest. Your hands will be limp. And the rest of you will be blanketed by the sweet tasty frost of death, creating a home for its festering teeth. Teeth that will bite and gnash and taste and tear - but their attacks will be in vain. You will be numb. So wonderfully, perfectly, fatefully, numb.

And your fingertips, for what it’s worth, are already tingling with the beginnings of it.

The beginnings of it.

‘It’ being your end, of course.

‘It’ being the thing you want. Desperately.

‘It’ being the Fool’s Death you were born to have.

Oh so poetic it was…

Oh so… lovely.

…

…

You blink suddenly, forcing the chilled tears out of your eyes. Damn wind… so cold… so refreshing… Your knees bend to crouch into the snow, slow and exhausted like the sluggish looking of your eyes. ‘Hello’ the snow grins- beams- smiles so cheerfully up at you, ‘come to see me again, have you? It’s only been a few days. But I have missed you so much. We all have missed you so much.’ And you glance up to take in the ‘we’; the looming trees and the deep blue sky and the twinkling stars and the sweet bright moon, and you nod to yourself. Yes. This is how it is. This is the perfect atmosphere.

This is the glory of a Fool’s Death.

This is the peace of a Fool’s Death.

This is salvation.

No loud men and no flickering fires and no furs and no royals and no company and no messy thoughts and no sleepless nights and no terrifying dreams and no days of forced starvation and no sadness, no sadness, no sadness, no sadness, no sadness, no sadness, no sadness, no sadness, no sadness, no sadness, no hope, no love, no happiness, no reason, no reason, no reason no reason no reason to live live live live live live live- live!

The thin white slip on your body shields you from nothing. Your palms sink into the soft fluff of the ground. Instantly, upon laying down, you’re soaked to the bone. Water finds itself languishing along your body, playing games and laughing while it gathers in your scalp and dances on your fingertips. And the snow, whispering near your ear and beckoning you to salvation, stretches its hands and says ‘Come, dear friend. Come rest here. I am soft. I will give you everything you want.’ So you rest. And you give in. And your body relaxes; your muscles unclench and the tension slides from your shoulders as a sigh bubbles past your lips.

Is it one of relief? One of stress? One of defeat? You’re not sure. You don’t know. Your heart is shuddering- pulsing- with excitement, but it’s a mystery as to why. Death is not supposed to feel good. Death is not supposed to feel powerful. Death is not supposed to feel like you’re finally grabbing life by the balls and saying HAH! THIS IS IT! THIS IS MY MOMENT! THIS IS MY DEATH! MY END! AND YOU CAN NEVER TAKE THAT AWAY FROM ME.

… So why does it feel that way?

Why does it feel so good?

…

…The night is quiet. It does not have answers for you. The moon looks on with unblinking eyes. You feel yourself grow heavy.

But the deed is not over yet. There is still one thing left to do. Slowly, the snow falls away as your limbs stir. They move on autopilot, not drawn by the thoughts in your head but again pushed by that faint desire.

Heels digging, nails running blue, curling into the snow, pushing it away - only to drag it back five minutes later; hastily working to complete the masterpiece. Desperate to become one with the Earth and fall into oblivion. A deep, bone-cold, quieting oblivion that will leave you shivering before it leaves you dead. Even beneath the blanket of snow that caresses your skin, that lays over your bare legs, that nuzzles the sensitive parts of your body, you begin to shake. And you begin to think.

The thoughts, interestingly enough, don’t freeze like the rest of you does. Instead, they grow. Swirl like a winter’s storm. Obsessive and rough, they pull you under like they always did.

This is great, isn’t it?

No, you think in response to yourself. It hurts, actually.

Oh stop whining. It will be worth it.

Why? How?

For years, it has been worth it.

That doesn’t answer anything. How has it been worth it? Is that why I’ve been hurting so much? For the sake of worthiness? Or something else?

Well you never felt worthy of anything else.

But I feel worthy of this?

Death? Yes. Everyone is worthy of death. Even The Lord Commander.

…What does she have to do with this?

You know what.

Your hands grasp at the snow, mindless and desperate. Pulling and pulling and pulling - clawing at the crisp white so it can cover you until no part of you is left to the air. Shielding you from the hatred of the universe. From the angry eyes of the gods. From the venom of the men. From the disinterest of the women. From the world… and its lack of care for you. And its lack of positivity. And its rude- disgusting- vile- way of treating you. And its overwhelming desire to kill you before you could kill yourself.

Too late now. We’re at least one foot deep in the ground! This is it. Keep digging. Keep digging. Keep digging! No stopping here! No energy left. Nothing left, actually. Not a goddamn thing. Nothing. Nothing at all.

Nothing at all….

Nothing.

At all.

Your eyelids flutter shut.

—

It’s two hours later when Ser Brienne of Tarth starts to wrap up her last duty of the evening.

A quick patrol of the furthest border is something not necessarily reserved for The Lord Commander, but is more of a safety measure she enforces upon herself before retiring for bed. Exhaustion pulls at her before she sets out, yes, but sometimes the nightmares… the white walkers… they leave her paranoid. Expectant of an attack that will never come. Worried about an enemy that no longer exists. Thus, she does it alone - and with only the royals’ knowledge.

It’s always a quiet affair, drawn along quickly by her and her steed Valour. They work with sharp eyes and a torch through the dark, stopping every few paces to listen for threats. There aren’t any, of course, but that doesn’t stop her from clip-clopping along the terrain with tense shoulders and keen senses, looking through the din of the torch’s fire in her hand. She has to be careful not to set her furs alight, but it’s not a hard task. Keeping it level, shunting it toward the ground and out toward the trees, proves to be more difficult. There’s no use in a flame if it can’t illuminate a damn th-

HUFF.

Valour’s hooves press into the snow, leaving them to stop - suddenly, quickly, with a jerk - as hot breath puffs from her nostrils and curls into the air. She’s tense, Brienne realizes. Tense and alert, with white ears twisting to take in sound. They stand in silence. Blue eyes watch as the animal’s head turns - first to the left and then to the right. But aside from the night and the usual rustle of the world, there is nothing. Nothing to hear, nothing to notice, nothing to fight or defend. Nothing to… find?

With one last sweep of the flame, she catches something quick. It’s nearly unnoticeable. Buried beneath the snow, but not one with the ground. It’s foreign. Out of place. A mere lump with no distinct beginning and end. Brienne chances a glance down at the horse, interest and apprehension dancing through her veins once she sees Valour’s eyes have caught the same thing. The same… intruder. The same issue.

When she slides off of the horse, half expecting to see the thing rise from the ground, one hand shoots to her sword. It waits. Curls around the hilt. Stretches beneath her glove. Twitches with adrenaline.

But there’s nothing. Not even a tremble beneath the dirt.

“Stay,” she whispers to Valour, moving the hand from her blade to gesture, palm facing the ground, for the horse to stand in wait.

And as cautiously, as quietly, as she can, Brienne approaches the mystery. She rounds one of the logs, taking notice of the odd placement, and tries not to wince each time her boots make a small crunch in the silence. Footprints will no doubt be left behind, but that doesn’t seem to bother her much as she catches sight of another pair in the distance. They’re small, the knight notices. With no distinct shape if not for a slight curve. The snow is kicked up, forced from its smooth blanket. Hurried in their demeanor. But slow in the amount of distance between each print.

Human, she thinks.

Human indeed, the snow hums; bearing all to see as it glistens beneath the firelight of her torch and brings Brienne to her unsightly treasure.

Frosted skin. A soaked nightgown. Arms and legs bitten by the chill.

Dead, she thinks.

No. Alive. The snow breathes.

—

Someone is taking off your clothes. They’re cold, sticking to you, and little grunts follow as bits of your nightgown rip with the effort. Your body is shocked, shivering so hard that the stranger can’t keep you still and isn’t quite sure what to do. Eventually, a mind is made up and you’re stripped completely - then covered with woolen hose. At least two pairs- both of which are too big for you and hang by the feet and are quite loose around the waist, but the dresser doesn’t seem to care. Trousers are next. How many pairs? You don’t know. Then shirts. And furs. And even a pair of leather gloves that droop at the fingertips and gape at the wrists - but they’re warm and lined with wool and you can’t feel your body but that’s okay. You didn’t want to anyway. More grunting and growling and small whispered curses follow until you’re very much tucked into a bed far bigger than your own. It’s warm. Good. You’re numb and half-dead, but it’s good. Lovely, really. And the outside world doesn’t call your name as you close your eyes.

Waking up was not on your agenda.

It wasn’t even in the cards.

And you don’t really want to - but the universe never cared for your opinion. And it did what it wanted whenever it wanted anyway. So you have no choice.

Thus, your eyes flutter open and your lungs expand with breath and suddenly the world comes flooding back in one confusing twist of fate. Nausea wastes no time in tearing you down; instantly going to churn in the pit of your stomach and curl in the back of your throat and pound against the skin of your temples. A deep groan slips from between your chapped lips. The lining of your skull feels as though it’s been replaced with cotton.

The snow really took its chance, didn’t it? Brutal. Ruthless. At least the Earth doesn’t lie to you. At least the Earth doesn’t save you.

But someone did. Someone has.

They’re actually shuffling over; measured footsteps sounding like big loud stomps in your head. You close your eyes. Everything is too bright. Everything is too much.

“Morning.”

Hm. The voice sounds familiar. A bit wonky, like it’s far away, but familiar. You don’t have the energy to respond so you just let out a grunt and allow it to taper off into a weird rumbly hum.

“Hey,” there’s a sudden clicking noise near your ear, making you jolt and snort when your eyes flick open. There are fingers - long pale fingers snapping beside your head, falling silent when you glare up at the offender, only to find-

“Lah Commandah?!” Your tongue and throat are stiff and achy, keeping your speech limited and your voice strangled. You grimace at the sound and instantly try to growl the discomfort away, but she cuts you off.

“Don’t do that- you’ll just make it worse.” It comes out in a huff and silences you with ease.

She doesn’t look or seem very happy, which in turn makes you frown. It was a shot straight through the heart when the Lord Commander was in a bad mood - which surprisingly wasn’t always. In fact, she’d grown a little softer over the years. The tales talk of her unwilling attitude and stubborn pride, but sometimes she’s full of wit and humor. And on the best of days, she’ll give the most successful troops a small smile and a bow of her head. The only sign of ‘You did well’ that anyone would ever get from her. You’d never gotten a reaction like that before.

I wonder why she didn’t leave us out in the snow.

“Can you sit up?” Glacier blue eyes run over your face.

You’re not sure what you look like but you suppose it doesn’t matter. She’s seen worse.

“Dun-no, Lah Commandah,” you breathe, trying to do exactly that.

After the fifth try of shifting your arms and legs and quickly running out of strength, she seems to get the hint and suddenly large strong hands are sliding under your arms and tugging you up, then pushing you back. It’s done in one swift movement, leaving you dizzy while you rest your head against the wooden headboard of-… of a bed that certainly isn’t yours.

No, you’re definitely not in your own room. The layout is completely different. It’s more… it’s not pretty but it’s better looking than your own. Complete with greys and blacks and silvers and even a hint of red here and there. The fire that’s been crackling steadily in the background is clean and well-kept, where your room doesn’t even have space for one at all. And the curtains are drawn over the windows covering the right wall, leaving the place shrouded in a darkness that would have existed there anyway even if the curtains were open - it’s nighttime, pitch black outside, and suddenly you’re very much aware of the fact that you’ve kept your Lord Commander- The Brienne of Tarth- out of her own bed for more than a day.

By the time you blink yourself out of your dizzy distracted haze and try to find her form again, she’s already busy doing something else. Wringing out cloths over a bowl… and then returning to your side. Your lips, chapped and still tinged blue, open in an effort to say something- anything- but then a soft hot cloth is draped over your forehead, covering your temples, and suddenly you don’t have a damned thought left in your mind. The feeling is so nice. So blissful. You could stay like that forever.

If only the universe showed you mercy.

“It’s been two days since I found you,” the Lord Commander says, placing the bowl down gently on the side table beside the bed. Her eyes glance over your coverings, making sure the furs and gloves and shirts are all still in order. They are. She was very thorough before. She would not have made a mistake. There was no room for error.

But there’s room now for judgment. Judgment and disdain, and you’re terrified of those things and you really don’t want to have to hear her tell you that you’re a stupid wench and that the rest of the troops will forever make fun of you for your idiocy, so you swallow and wince and your hands twist together in your lap. The leather of the gloves is soft, well-worn, and the wool is only the tiniest bit matted - and you can’t help but admire the craftsmanship as you bring them up to your abdomen. They’re obviously not your gloves, just as everything else is not yours either, but you don’t know what to do first: apologize or thank her.

Honestly, you don’t really want to thank her - because she ruined your plan - but at the same time, she saved your life. Whether you wanted to end it or not doesn’t matter… because she would’ve helped you no matter what. And perhaps you’re selfish for being a little bit angry about it, maybe you’re being self-centered and dumb, but you can’t help the feeling of bitterness creep into your heart. You wanted to die… and she took that from you. She wanted you to live.

It was a duty. She doesn’t want anything. Anyone would have done it.

But that’s not true.

The men would have left you. Or hurt you. Or anything else.

But there she is, having gone through the trouble of saving you… and she’s looking down at you with a frown on her handsome face and a furrow to her light brows that seems like it never leaves and you wish so terribly that you could just tell her-

“I-m sorr-ey.” It’s a pathetic rasp of an apology, but it’s out of your mouth before you can catch it.

She blinks. You don’t know why her expression changes, why it softens into something less stern and concerned, but when it does you feel your breath catch in your throat. How anyone could see her as anything less than glorious is something you’ll never understand.

“Why were you out there.”

It’s a demand.

You look away, baring your eyes to the fire.

“…I sl-leep-wa-lk someti-”

“Bullshit.” She spits, one hand reaching down to curl into the bit of blanket that drapes over the side of the bed. Her expression has twisted back into one of anger. “Don’t you dare lie to me.”

But what other choice do you have?

How could you be honest?

Why did she, of all people, have to find you? And why like that? Why couldn’t she have walked into the bathhouse during the few times you’ve wept your eyes out in the steamy silence? Why couldn’t she have caught you staring at your horse, dread in your eyes as you fantasized about running away and never looking back? Why couldn’t she have stumbled upon your vulnerability when you were still willing to live?

Why did it take a Fool’s Death to finally grasp her attention?

You want to tell the truth… but you can’t.

You can’t.

So you lie again.

“Was out- on a s-strollll. Got- um- lost.” You try not to cringe at the sound of your own bad grammar. Turns out not having full feeling back in your mouth does indeed prohibit being able to speak properly.

The Lord Commander doesn’t seem to care much. In fact, she doesn’t seem to be focusing on that at all. Instead, her face has grown slack - and she’s looking at you hard. Leaning both of her hands on the side of the bed, broad shoulders going up near her neck, eyes peering through light lashes - like she’s using her stare alone to dig holes into your soul and she doesn’t need to say anything in order for you to understand that she simply doesn’t believe you. And why should she? Your lies are so obviously half-baked; only muddying up the truth; ruining what little of it can be said.

Still. She doesn’t let up. Her gaze starts to burn. Shame tugs at your cotton-lined skull. Guilt claws its way to the surface.

Pink lips, scarred on the top right, part slowly. There’s a soft inhale. You brace yourself, clutching your warm hands into fists.

“You were buried,” the Lord Commander says, barely even blinking as she looks at you. “Covered with snow.” She shakes her head and allows it to fall to her chest, letting out a scoff so quiet you had to strain to hear it. “One of the smartest soldiers I have… and you expect me to believe that you got lost on an evening stroll?” Her head comes up, eyes pinning you in place with such dull ferocity that you can’t look away. “You can’t be serious.”

It’s at that exact moment when you realize that you’re sweating. It is the amount of warm things covering your body? The clothing and the furs and the gloves? Or is it your Lord Commander’s attention? And the fact that it’s never been placed on you like that before? With such… such focus. Such- dare you even think it- care?

You swallow against the nervous lump in your throat.

‘One of the smartest soldiers I have…’

Well if you were as smart as she thinks you are, you’d be fucking honest, wouldn’t you? Yeah. You’d tell her the truth. You’d admit that you’re a coward.

But you can’t.

You can’t.

She spends all of that time training you, keeping an eye on you, making sure you’re fed and well-rested and looked after in her own roundabout Lord Commander type of way… and you repay her with…with what?

With suicide?

So disgraceful.

So horrible.

So shitty of you.

How terrible can a person be?

How-

“Are you crying?” Your Lord Commander gapes, certainly caught off guard by your sudden emotion.

“N-no?!” You stutter, just as shocked to find yourself reaching up and smearing salty tears along your cheeks.

Oh how embarrassing-!

You stupid girl!

This is why you wanted to do it in the first place!

Because all you do is just fucking embarrass yourself-!

“N-no? No- s-sorr-y La-Lor-d C-Com-”

“Enough with the Lord Commander,” she admonishes, cutting off your bumbling apology with a swift tsk. “In private, it’s Brienne.” Then she hesitates before letting out a sigh and taking a seat next to you on the side of her bed. “…I’m not your superior here.”

All you can do is blink.

I’m not your superior here.

So what are you?

That’s all you want to ask.

What are you to me then? What is this now?

But even if you did find the courage, you’re not sure what she’d say.

“Okay,” you sniff, trying your damnedest to stop the tears.

But they’re a direct result of your aching heart. And aching hearts have veins that scream in agony, wishing for nothing but silence. Utterly tranquility. The very absence of tension-filled life. And you can’t get rid of aching hearts and screaming veins without getting rid of yourself…. And your only chance to do that was destroyed. Trampled upon. Interrupted.

I just wanted to die. It rests on the very tip of your tongue but never spills out into the air.

Brienne is so clearly unsure of what to do; she’s sitting rigid in her spot and staring at a mark on the floor. You want to tell her it’s okay. You want to tell her that she doesn’t have to comfort you. You want to tell her to just let you go back into the woods again… let you find yourself back in the snow. And she can go on with her life and forget it ever happened.

But you can’t.

That’s not how it works.

That’ll never be how it works.

Foolish girl.

“…Why were you out there, Anya?” Brienne’s voice is softer than fresh lilies.

You know why.

You know why.

“…I c-can’t- I-”

Her head turns. Midnight blue eyes trace a line from your neck to your face, taking in the exhausted circles beneath your eyes and the blue-ish tinge to your skin and the utterly defeated look that blooms behind your expression. A war happens in you, taking place in the span of a moment, and you can do nothing but blink through lingering tears and stare at her.

“I can’t.” It’s a whisper. A confession all on its own.

I can’t… because you’ll think I’m a coward. And you’ll hate me. And I already hate myself enough for the both of us.

Brienne’s lips form a hard line, but she doesn’t say anything. She just peers back down at the floor and allows silence to creep into the room and lay between you both like a tired direwolf on its last legs.

The fire burns in the background. The sweat on your body cools. The dizziness in your head subsides.

It’s going to be okay, some part of you speaks. It’s going to be okay.

But you’ve told yourself that before, haven’t you?

And look where that got you.

It has to be at least 30 minutes later when Brienne finally speaks.

“There was a girl I knew once, in my early youth,” you watch her mouth move, enchanted and confused. Where was this going to lead? “She was older than me by two years. A pretty girl- like you.” Your heart trips over itself, but you don’t have time to dwell as she continues. “My father saw that, out of the very rare few, she was good to me - and so we were allowed to play often. For her it was ‘horsies’ and ‘hide and seek’, for me it was ‘swords’ and ‘knights’.” There’s a soft smile on her face, half hidden by the natural shadow of her body facing away from the hearth and half lit by the fire that lived there. Her lips twitch and she begins again. “We did everything together. She was a village girl but that didn’t matter… until it did. Time eventually caught up to us and we were forced to live our lives on our own. No more days of play and no more sharing stories.”

A soul-deep sadness settled into her eyes. She had yet to look at you. Maybe because it would make her too vulnerable… maybe because she didn’t want you to cry again. Either way, you felt yourself frown. Why was she telling you this? What happened?

And as if she could read your thoughts, she continues.

“By the time I was old enough to decide that I wanted to leave, she was already married. Kind husband, even though I only met him once. It was when I stopped in to say goodbye. I wanted to tell her that I’d write, whenever I found the time and place to do so.” Her hands, you notice, are fidgeting - running over and pulling each other quietly within her lap. The natural lines in her face grow darker as she falls back into her memories. “…I didn’t know she was struggling. I was so busy with my own life. My father’s wishes, my training, my fights with the men who challenged me… our communication grew slim. So I didn’t- I-… well.” Brienne swallows. “Her husband answered the door and when I asked after her, he burst into hysterics.”

Your heart stops.

She- no… She didn’t….

Brienne’s head goes up, her eyes turning to look at the ceiling - keeping her tears in her eyes, resistant in letting them fall. Resistant in being weak. You want to hold her and let her cry, but you know it’s not the time. She sniffs and her chest heaves with a sigh and it takes everything in you not to start sobbing. Tears build, they fall slowly, but your throat aches with held back sounds of distress.

“…She ended her life two days before I arrived.” A pause. Then- “A butter knife…,” she scoffs out a laugh and shakes her head, still pointing her face skyward - as if the gods have all the answers to her grief. “… I didn’t know what to do with myself. I didn’t know what to do with her husband. So I gave him my condolences and I left. Cried in the woods for as long as I could and kept going. And since then, I haven’t stopped.”

Despite her efforts, tears still creep over her eyelids and race down her cheeks. They mirror the ones on your own face - warm and sad and annoying in the stiff little trails left behind.

And you sit like that for a while, silently crying. Her gaze stuck to the heavens, thinking about the friend she lost; and your gaze stuck on her, thinking about the possible metaphor behind her actions. Behind the full circle-ness of it all. She couldn’t save her friend but she saved you. What did that mean in the grand scheme of your lives? What did any of it mean? How would you continue to train everyday after seeing your Lord Commander cry? After witnessing her care?

She saved us. She saved us. She saved us.

“Thank you,” comes your hoarse whisper- the first in-tact thing you’ve said since waking up.

The sound of your voice tugs Brienne out of her stupor and draws her eyes to your sad face. You don’t have the energy to give her a sympathetic smile, so you settle on a soft look. If it says all you need it to say, she doesn’t show it - but she does look away quickly and reaches up to brush the tears away.

“What for?” It’s rough - hard - a sliver of the tough Commander she’s used to being.

No no no - don’t go back to that. Your heart is safe here. I won’t judge you for your tears.

“…Saving me.” It’s more courtesy than anything as you say that, but it’s fine. You’re not magically going to wish for life again after Brienne shares a sad story with you… though it already has your heart struggling against its achy confines.

Brienne shakes her head, the gold of her hair catching the fire’s light so beautifully that you have to take your eyes off of her in order to catch your breath. If we were her friend in her youth, we would have surely fallen in love with her.

“You shouldn’t have gotten to that point,” her voice is watery- muffled with the lingerings of sadness. “No one should.”

You nod. What else is there to say? What else is there to admit? Clearly she knows. Clearly she understands. And yet… you’re still curious…

“…Why do-n’t you hate me f-or it?” Your words come out in a squeaky whisper, but you don’t care. You just need to know. You just need to make sure that you’re not reading things wrong- that there’s a chance she may actually care- and that perhaps there is a reason to stay…

Brienne doesn’t respond immediately. It’s clear that she takes a few moments to bring herself back to the present. To clear her throat and wipe her eyes again and sniffle a few times and then turn back to you. She’s tried so hard in clearing herself up, but the eyes have never lied. And you see the sadness breeding there. Festering. Sadness is wicked. You don’t know if you’re the cause of it.

“You’re strong, Anya." A pause. "Training wouldn’t be the same without you.”

But you know she means to say Nothing would be the same without you.

---

Something I've been working on for a bit. It's not as good as I hoped it would be, but I'm tired and my back hurts so whatever. I hope you're all doing well.

And if you're not and you need some help, here's the National Suicide Hotline: 988 - And the link https://988lifeline.org/

It's gonna be okay, my friend. One second at a time. - Yours, Rip x

---

[somethingclevermahogony]

An Introduction to Myself and My WIP!

Hello everyone! A confession, this is actually a re-introduction. I've been here on Tumblr for a little less than a year now, but I haven't been the best about being active, life just sort of got in the way. As such I would like to reintroduce myself and what I've been working on.

For the purposes of Tumblr and in the interest of privacy you can call me C. I am in my mid-twenties, I use he/him pronouns, and I am happily married to my partner, who is also a C. I am queer, as is my partner. I enjoy cooking, fishing, Dnd(ing?), reading, and of course writing.

We both originally come from the US but we are currently living on the east coast of Scotland as I pursue my Msc in Archaeology.

I am trying to be a bit more active on here and I am always open to things like tags and asks, even if it takes me a bit to respond.

I think that's about it for me, and so without further ado let me introduce or reintroduce you to my WIP.

Testaments of the Green Sea

Genre: Epic Fantasy

Themes and Tropes (Or more accurately a random assortment of words vaguely related to the plot): Found Family, immortality, loss, love, war, power, memory, magic, insanity, The passage of time, growing up, queerness in the ancient world, violence, spirits, fantasy outside of medieval europe

Summary: Book one of the Testaments of the Green Sea (The lands of the Green Sea are pictured above) follows the journeys of the giant slave Narul and the princess Ninma. After unexpected tragedy forces the two to flee from the Great city of Labisa, they find themselves on a journey which carries them across the ancient lands of Kishetal. Along the way they encounter spirits, demons, war, gods, pirates, and slavers. TW for death/grief, violence/blood/gore, mental illness, physical illness, abuse, and cannibalism, awkward queerness, secondhand embarrasment etc, etc.

Excerpt( First Paragraph of Chapter 1): The blood dripped into the awaiting bowl, painting its alabaster walls crimson. The slave watched the dark liquid trickle down his arm, skirting past the hairs, rolling veins, and moles. Even after these twenty years of weekly blood lettings, he could not shake a creeping feeling of unease as his eyes followed the sanguine river creeping its way across his arm. His own face gazed back at him from the scarlet pool. He could not meet his own eye, could not stand to look that creature. He turned away.

Draft Status: The second draft of the manuscript is currently being edited, I will be looking for my first round of Beta Readers likely before the end of the year.

This is just part one of a much larger series. My partner is currently working on the beginnings of their own series, set in the same world but 3,000 years in the future, roughly aligning with our own Great War Period. I'm so excited to share more with you, and I love answering questions!

Narul and Ninma courtesy of @faeporcelain

[brandileigh2003]

Wolfstar MCD rec list: (drop me any I've missed esp muggle or divergent)

**make sure to read tags bc some of these fics deal with some other TW/CW. Take care of yourself**

-the sea is a good place to think of the future by peachyybabe first in series is happy/open ending. Love them reconnecting and how disability is written. Check tags. 2nd in series has mcd. But it's oh so good, broke my heart

-Forget the World by @amberlink mcd sickfic with mental illness, complicated prongsfoot friendship and black bro dynamics. Greys inspired (ish)

-what a wonder (what a waste) by peachyybabe all the emotions. Magical (divergent)

-This Is the Way the World Ends by @blitheringmcgonagall sad but beautiful

-Casimir Pulaski Day by breadpoetssociety: remus has cancer

--my only sunshine by loua29xx- remus is sick and asks Sirius to help him die

-wolf's heart by mizdiz- heartbreaking. Meet in bookshop, Remus has heart problems, they fall in love, Remus tries to push him away to save pain of watching him die but Sirius won't let him.

-Too Little Too Late By swings_and_roundabouts

-A Duet by mustntgetmy: war divergent, Sirius was in Slytherin

-The Other Side of Sorrow by @thehufflebean

-if i could hold you for a minute by @inevitablestars

- Engaged for 43 years by @halfravenhalfclaw

-Cloudless Climes and Starry Skies by Eniaos ww2

-Five Feet Apart. by mothhair based on movie

-Small Bones of Courage by Anonymous effects of Lycanthropy, remus wants help to die

-Silver Bullets by clandestine_meetings

-a future gone wrong by witchee_writer

-The Care and Keeping of a Pet Werewolf by @theresthesnitch

-these violent delights (have violent ends) by damagecontrol jegulus Titanic

-Art Heist, Baby! by otrtbs jegulus

-Timing is Everything by fruitloopin: also ft fake dating

**2 of Mine with mcd

-Inevitable When you finally fall in love, you never expect that you'll have to lose them way too soon. Cancer fic with MCD. Ending did help me heal some from heartbreak though. (8k)

-Tears of Blood: 1 shot, historical fic exploring Spanish influenza

-My fandom wife has some good ones

---+Ofc there are some canon ones. (Many more than I listed ofc but ... )

Presque vu by bizarrestars explores Sirius' gender and experiences from birth to death

-I Want To Be Good by mightyd0lphin Sirius pov

-choices by MesserMoon

Feel free to check out my main rec list

[questionablecuttlefish]

Some Headcanons 2/3 Jinx. Hoo boy, Jinx, here we go - some TW/s for mental illness, suicidal ideation, self-harm, she's a mess, our girl...

In Ill-Omen's Light, Jinx vanished for a year after firing her Super Mega Death Rocket at the Piltover council.

Her disappearance coincided with the outbreak of the Piltover/Zaun independence war triggered by her attack on the Council.

During this period, Jinx used the chaos of the war raging around her and her own intimate knowledge of the labyrinths of Zaun to slip in and out of the conflict, killing and stealing whenever she wanted to keep herself alive and rub out anyone chasing her, including vengeful Enforcers, Silco's emboldened rivals, and anyone seeking her out for the copious bounty on her head.

By the time the war resolved itself, Jinx had become something of an urban myth, a living cryptid and figure of legend and terror lurking in the Underground and spoken of in whispers or in jest.

Jinx was NOT in a good mental space during this period, keeping almost entirely her own company, falling deeper into her hallucinations and internal spaces, developing even deadlier weaponry, and surviving mostly on loneliness and spite.

The one exception was Ziggs, whom she met early in the civil war and formed a fast - if volatile - friendship based on a mutual love of explosions and the fact she mistook him for a figment of her imagination and kidnapped him for a month to serve as her 'conscience'.

Ziggs tagged along on several of Jinx's adventures, mostly to try to minimalize casualties. Despite a bit of ongoing trauma from having been kidnapped by a mostly feral Jinx and witnessing a lot of her atrocities firsthand, Ziggs has a deep affection and concern for his friend and worries for her when she isn't looking after herself.

Due to the age and species gap, Ziggs sees himself as a kind of 'cool uncle' figure to Jinx ( and is pretty mortified when Jinx later hits him with the TMI about her budding relationship with Lux.)

After a month or two of friendship, Jinx found her intrusive thoughts - her 'scratchies' - telling her to hurt or kill Ziggs more and more often and pushed him away.

The rest of Jinx's time was spent sinking further and further into her, er, 'Gollum arc', sometimes dissociating for days alone in her lairs, before, over time, slowly pulling herself out of it on sheer willpower, spite - and the underestimated power of her boredom.

Eventually, Jinx's volatile thoughts resolved into a new plan; call Vi out to one final fight, see her one last time, and finish things once and for all, going out together the way they came in.

In preparation for this, she interred the dummies representing Mylo and Claggor and prepared to face her last hurrah... ...whereupon her path crossed unexpectedly with a runaway Demacian, in Ill-Omen's Light.

Jinx has a lot of skills an aptitudes, as we've seen in League and Arcane; Genius inventor, skilled at close quarters combat with a nimble, unpredictable, almost inhumanly flexible fighting style now greater enhanced by her Shimmer infusion.

Singed's experiment to save Jinx's life used a rare Shimmer variant that had the unexpected outcome of permanently infusing itself itself into her system; she doesn't have the brute super strength of the more hulk-like Shimmer mutants, but she does have enough to lift Vi's gauntlets unaided and she's extremely fast and agile. Her senses are heightened, particularly hearing and smell, and she can see in pitch darkness. She also recovers quickly from all but the most serious injuries (she's annoyed that she doesn't scar easily anymore because scars are cool).

Her blood, as shown in Ill Omen's series, does have healing properties similar to the potion used in Vi in Act 2 of Arcane; however, as it's a potent Shimmer variant, it has nasty side effects if taken in any quantity.

Jinx is very sensory and smells, particularly human smells, are partly how she confirms her reality; if she can touch or smell someone they might be more real than her hallucinations.

Jinx is very touchy-feely, partly as above to confirm her reality, but also because she loves poking, prodding, climbing on people and getting in their spaces because it unnerves them and throws them off guard.

Sex and romance aren't things she really understands, though; Jinx falls somewhere on the gray-ace spectrum in terms of her sexuality, being mostly disinterested in sex (she's seen things, she grew up down the street from a brothel, but she mostly thinks it's weird and funny) but having very visceral, pleasurable reactions to gunfire and explosions that straddle the line between spiritual and sexual in nature for her.

She does, in some way, see Lux as a 'living explosion' personifying the beauty she sees in destructive power, partially explaining her physical attraction to Lux, which Jinx herself is still figuring out.

Jinx is just as inexperienced as Lux is, having had few opportunities and little interest in exploring relationships - in no small part to Silco being a loving but overprotective (and terrifying) parental figure. As Jinx herself puts it, nobody in his circles would touch her with a barge pole out of fear of both Silco and Jinx herself....

Not unjustified fear.

Lightcannon are both just dorks figuring themselves out, really.

[joleneghoul]

Booster Gold vs Disability

AKA, how Disability is an integral part of Booster Gold’s character

Foreword: This is a LONG personal essay and will use mostly casual language.

 This will be an analysis of the character Booster Gold from the perspective of a physically and mentally disabled reader— thus will include a lot of my opinions. I will consider only canonical moments for this essay, no elseworld or alternate universe comics will be included in this specific analysis. Every image used in the essay is described.

TW: Topics of ableism, classism, addiction, death, eugenics, and violence will be mentioned.

 Thank you for reading.

THE FUTURE, A closer look at 25th Century ideals.

    The topic of disabilities has been ingrained within the story of Booster Gold since his first solo series ‘Booster Gold volume. 1 1986’. This not only is the base point of where his character jumps off from and thus is important to any conversation to be had about this character’s past and future— but also contains the context of the 25th century society views on disability and is crucial to talking about how he would view himself. Specifically within Booster gold Volume 1 we will be looking at the “Back To The Future” arc, aka issues #13-#15. 

    Booster Gold Vol. 1 Issue 13 starts with Dirk Davis, Booster’s manager, telling Jack Soo and Trixie Collins (fellow members of Booster’s team) that Booster is dying and there is nothing they can do about it. Even doctors seem to be “bamboozled” about the origin of his illness but it’s clear it is fast acting and terminal. In order to save Booster (and repair skeets, who was broken in the previous issue) they devise a plan to travel to the future where a cure may be possible. Jack Soo calls Rip Hunter, who he knows from college, and for the first time in the series Booster actively travels back to his home, the 25th century. 

    This arc, besides being the first introduction of some notable characters to the future of Booster Gold (like Rip Hunter and Michelle Carter) gives us an insight to the society Booster grew up within. Specifically, I want to focus on how this society views illness and disability for this analysis. The first bit of information we get is a call to Booster's backstory, the fact his father had a gambling addiction that he inherited as a way to cope with poverty. 

    Illness becomes one of the main themes of this 3 issue arc. At the end of Issue 13, Booster, while dying of his own illness attempts to visit his mother but learns she passed away from an illness shortly after he left for the past. As we move into issue 14 Booster continues to blame himself for his mothers death— claiming it a result of his own greed. This shapes how Booster’s backstory evolves.

ANIMAL, the post nuclear future and eugenics. 

    As we return to Booster Gold Volume 1 issue 14 we are introduced to yet another aspect of the 25th century Booster grew up in. While Rip Hunter and Jack Soo are searching for information of their whereabouts they find out that centuries of information has been lost due to a nuclear fallout. We don’t learn much about this future but one thing we do learn is that eugenics apparently has a place in the post-nuclear government. Eugenics, in general, is known to often have resurgences after and during global catastrophes, war, or pandemics. 

    In this issue it’s revealed that the government hunts down “Genetic Mutations” using people they strictly refer to as “Animals”. While an ‘Animal’ is sent after Booster he tells us that ‘Animals’ themselves have mutations but are raised to be unthinking, ruthless, and loyal to whoever is in control of them. While Animal is a small piece of this story over all, we can use him to look into how the America Booster is from treats people with disabilities.

    Would I say that this character is a good representation of disabled people? Not at all, but it is clear to me what he is supposed to represent. I feel as though the way he is treated is more of a reflection of how a lot of people with mental disabilities/disorders were treated in the media at the time. Animal is shown to have either a limited vocabulary or to be partially non-verbal. When he speaks it is using grunts, made up words, or other sounds. He is large and brutish as well, all of these are tropes that were (and sometimes still are) prevalent in the writing of disabled characters.  

    Though does that mean those traits are always bad? No, of course not. I often find myself feeling the most sympathy for characters like Animal. But instances like this are more like looking at a skewed representation of symptoms me and others have than an actual mirror. It’s a matter of how it’s handled, and here I can’t help but feel torn. 

    We as the readers are meant to feel sympathy for Animal through the arc but it feels as though the narrative treats him more as a tool than a person— which very well may be the point because that’s how the world views him. Animal ends up saving everyone during Booster Gold issue #15, making sure that everyone is able to travel back to the past and escape the cops and his master. In this process Animal sacrifices himself, dying at the hands of his master. Thus he fulfills his purpose to the plot outside of being an actual character himself.

    Furthermore, throughout this arc Booster is terminally ill and is treated extremely poorly despite it. We meet Boderick, Animals “master” and federal agent. He is a cruel man who treats Booster (on account of him stealing a time machine, which is treason in the future) in an abusive/violent manner. A notable scene is when Trixie is begging for them to get Booster help and Boderick taunts Booster’s illness, shoving him out of his chair onto his already broken arm. 

    Within this arc Booster is cured of his illness before his trial and his arm is healed with future technology. Which proves furthermore that they are capable of healthcare but unwilling to provide it to individuals deemed “unworthy”.  

    This story is not the last time Booster will get sick or injured, and in fact it practically becomes a running theme with the character as we move forward. As this three part arc stands in the timeline of Booster Gold, it serves as coincidental foreshadowing of his future.

GAMBLING, Boosters backstory.

    Booster’s backstory gets retold again in both ‘Secret Origins #35’ and ‘Justice League Quarterly #10’. While this is not the first or the last time his backstory will be revisited, I find it one of the most notable. 

    Booster tells his best friend, Ted Kord (Blue Beetle II) and the rest of the JLI, that the main reason he started gambling on his own games was that his mother had a degenerative heart disease and needed to pay medical bills. Booster admits that he couldn’t stop and became addicted to everything gambling brought to him. Addiction itself is a topic that comics in general struggle to portray in a sympathetic light.

      Often people (including writers) will use Booster’s past gambling as a piece of evidence towards a narrative that Booster is a selfish or bad person— and while Booster does have flaws it is harmful to use his backstory to further an ableist ideology. Rather, I feel as though Booster’s addiction and family history is a truthful story of how poverty, disability, and illness can make things like gambling feel like less of a choice as time goes on. 

    A line that gets repeated throughout Booster’s backstories is some variation of “I couldn’t of hurt them more if I were a murderer.” in regards to Booster and his addiction. That quote itself is a reflection of how people view addicts, and in the real world it’s not much different.

    Genetic, environmental, and mental health factors are the main causes of addiction. We see Booster grew up under abuse, lived in poverty, and had a father who also struggled with the same addiction. As previously stated societal shame plays a huge role in Booster’s decision making and view of himself. 

    Continuing with Justice League Quarterly issue 10, within the story ‘Killing Time’, we are told about the Rubenicos. The Rubenicos are a group of sports gamblers who promised to win Booster big money to save his mother, thus kick-starting Booster’s problem with gambling. 

    Only, in this story Booster has a chance to kill Rubenico and insure that his past, in the future, never happens. ‘Killing Time’ while full of action becomes more of an internal struggle within Booster as we see him angry not just towards Rubenico but towards himself. 

    During the climax of the story Booster comes face to face with the chance of killing Rubenico, only Rubenico’s daughter is watching. Ted, stands in the room as Booster tells Rubenico that everything is his fault. But before Booster can kill the man he claims to blame the most, Ted speaks up revealing that the only person Booster blames more is himself. Booster leaves without killing Rubenico.

    Later as the story comes to a close we get one of the most impactful scenes regarding Booster’s view of himself. A conversation between two best friends where Ted and Booster discuss what had happened previously. Booster tells Ted that he had some nerve to step in like he did and Ted explains, maybe but he’s his friend. 

    We get a genuine scene where Ted explains that while Booster may have messed up in the past, he needs to look at who he is in the present instead. Booster balanced the scales the moment he decided to be a hero. Even if it was initially for selfish reasons, as time went on he grew and his perspective of heroism changed with him. 

    The heart to heart concludes with Ted talking about second chances. He tells Booster to stop punishing himself for his past in pursuit of forgiveness— because the only person who can forgive Booster and make himself feel better is himself. 

    This scene also is a reason that in the future Booster ends up viewing being a hero as his atonement for the mistakes in his past and we will see how that challenges him when the cost of being a superhero affects his health.

EXTREME JUSTICE, physical ability vs self worth. 

    When it comes to superhero comics and physical disability it is a real toss up of how things will be handled. These are worlds where magic, hyper-technology, and retcons are abundant. Despite being thrown through walls, beaten down, or even killed and brought back we hardly see the toll on a hero's body as time goes on. Though, sometimes there is an exception to that— and for a moment in the 90s Booster was a pretty good representation of what it’s like to struggle with a new disability and ptsd from a traumatic accident.

    During Judgement Day, an arc that takes place throughout multiple comics,the league takes on The Overmaster. Booster Gold who was a history major in his past proclaims that the league will win the battle and leads everyone into battle. In the process The Overmaster inflicts a critical wound, cutting Booster's arm off.  Later Booster dies on the operating table as the world's best doctors and his best friend, Ted, try to save his life.

    Only Booster doesn’t actually die. Instead due to all new life and all death being paused because of The Overmaster, Booster stays alive. We instantly see Booster struggle with his body, calling himself a “dead man walking” and proclaiming that because of this event everything he knows is out of the window— that he has nothing to go on for. Amidst this Ted manages to get Booster a prosthetic arm from STAR labs as he also builds him a new suit. By the end of this arc, even as the cycle of life is un-paused, Booster manages to survive because the suit Ted built him doubles as life-support— but this is just the start of this era in Booster’s life.  

    During the Extreme Justice series we get a more in depth look at how this traumatic event affected Booster. His life support suit and arm are revealed to be faulty and causing him chronic pain despite keeping him alive. Often Booster is seen hiding this chronic pain from others. There is even a scene where his life support suit stops working, nearly costing him his life in battle, and he begs Ted to not tell anyone. 

    Outside of the chronic pain there is also the mental health factor. It’s clear that Booster views his body as one of his most valuable assets. Booster in the past has viewed his ability to be a hero as his redemption for his mistakes. He has been a model throughout the years to make money alongside being a hero. Further back than that his physical ability to be a star football player is what helped make the money to keep his mother alive. For the first time, Booster is faced with his body having a drastic and detrimental physical change resulting in body dysphoria.

    Constantly through this series Booster talks down to himself. He refers to himself as a “clock-work man” who is breaking down and considers himself a burden to all of his friends. Booster begins to internalize any jokes or snide comments from his friends that in the past wouldn’t have bothered him. As his anger and frustration with his situation builds, more of a strain is put on his relationships, especially with Ted. 

    Ted obviously doesn’t view Booster in a negative light because of his disability. He cares enough about him to have built him his suit and encourages Booster to come to him with any issues he may be having with it. There are multiple instances where Ted promises he will make things better for Booster as he adjusts to his new disability. While all Ted wants to do is help, Booster views this as once again being a burden to his friend.

      This internal struggle is not helped by the fact the main villain of this arc, Monarch, is introduced by healing a kid's physical disability. Making the kid magically able to walk again. An event that Booster is there to see and instantly begins to consider the possibility of Monarch healing him too.

    Booster grapples to find control in his life during this time. A common experience for many people who have a traumatic event happen to them. He ends up going as far to find his old manager, Dirk Davis, who had stolen all his funds in the past, and takes over his company by force. I personally see this as Booster also trying to prove some worth to both his friends and himself internally. 

    Unfortunately this leads Booster down the road of magically wishing his disability away with the help of Monarch. And that causes problems of its own but eventually everything is fine again. While this may seem to be a happy ending to abled people it actually is a very harmful trope. The idea that disabilities can just be wished away or that someone cannot be whole with a disability is a trope deprived from eugenics— not to mention in general is erasure. I find myself wondering anytime this trope is used, what message are the writers trying to send? 

    While it may make sense for Booster to struggle with internalized ableism towards his disability, and want to wish it away, when you consider the society he grew up within. The narrative going through with this only supports those ideals instead of challenges them.

   What purpose does this arc serve when it ends with Booster's possible growth towards learning he is worth more than his physical ability is cut short? This could have been the perfect opportunity for Booster to confront both the ideals he was raised around and his internalized ableism. 

    This is an arc that is important to me as a physically disabled person and IS important to Booster’s character, but the ending never will sit right with me. 

FISH OUT OF WATER, Booster Gold and Neurodivergence.

    When it comes to neurodivergent characters in comics, we typically don’t get a story outright putting a definition or label to a character. This is especially true when it comes to older comics. Instead Neurodivergence lies between the lines and the actions of a character or how they are coded. 

    There is a decent amount of evidence towards Booster being ND both within and outside of the comics throughout the years. In his introduction series he struggles to fit in. He has trouble understanding the society he finds himself in. Even after years of living in the present he still struggles with social cues, so it can’t be solely attributed to being from the future. Especially when there’s other heroes from the future who don’t struggle. 

  We also often explicitly see him not understand when things are jokes as well. In Justice League International issue 18 we see a moment where Booster misunderstands a joke Ted tells him and drops a bunch of debris in the Free’s neighbors yard.  As he gets to know Ted better he gets better at telling when things are jokes or sarcasm. I think this is helped by the fact Ted Kord is a notably autistic coded character himself.

MODERN DAY, how is Booster’s disabled history represented now?

    Unfortunately in the modern days of comics there are far too many portrayals of Booster Gold and his disabilities that are borderline cruel in their depiction. Rather than tell a meaningful story about mental illness or disability instead some writers turn him into a caricature of public stigma of mental illness. Some examples of this are Heroes in Crisis and The Gift arc from Batman. I won't go into further details about this specific writer's works due to personal reasons, and the fact I feel the works are counter productive to representation. 

    Otherwise the topic of disability comes up in genuine occasionally for Booster still. As disability is still a core part of his backstory that gets retold from time to time, Like in Action comics’ “Booster Shot”. Booster and Superman in that story end up traveling to the future where Clark learns about Booster’s past and meets his parents.  Another occasion of when Booster’s backstory is retold is in the early 2000s when the addition of Booster’s father pressuring Booster into gambling is added to the narrative. 

    Mental health (particularly post-trauma) seems to have taken the spotlight in modern Booster characterizations. In the 52 series we see Booster struggle with stability after the loss of his best friend Ted.  Booster is not only shown to be grieving but also to blame himself for Ted’s death because he was in the hospital during the time.

 He puts all his energy into sponsorships and being a public figure. There’s one point in the story where Booster has a public meltdown in front of the press and superheroes because things don’t go as he planned. His relationships fall apart as he struggles with coping and putting up a persona, often having outbursts towards others. These are all signs  of C-PTSD.

    The exploration of Booster’s ptsd continues in Booster Gold Volume 2. Throughout the series Booster uses time travel to effectively re-traumatize himself over and over multiple times. He tries to save Barbara Gordon repeatedly, failing each time, being traumatized and beaten each time. He attempts to save Ted’s life, destroying the timeline and being forced to see all of his other friends die horribly, then in the end loses Ted once again. Later on Booster continues to visit Ted in the past, hurting himself emotionally in the process by reopening trauma. 

    Booster has multiple public outbursts during Booster Gold volume 2, most notably in issue 39. Booster runs into a 16 year old on the street attempting to be a Robin Hood type vigilante. Booster starts to have a ptsd episode, reminded of Ted. He begins to yell at the kid as if he WERE Ted, about how he kept hoping Ted would come back to life like other superheroes but he never did. He shoves the kid to the ground before flying away in the midst of an episode.   

    There are still times when Booster is shown to be physically disabled also. When we have gotten a glimpse of Booster as an older man in modern comics and each time he is depicted as being physically disabled. He has a missing eye and uses a cane for mobility purposes to the point in DC Comics: Generations he uses a metal pipe as a cane in one scene as a backup. He uses a cane as well in the Cybernetic Summer special.

CLOSING,

    Overall I feel as though it’s important to remember Booster Gold when talking about disabled heroes. He has been depicted as being some form of disabled since his introduction to comics in the 80s. To ignore this fact is to let DC comics get away with cruel and ableist modern depictions of the character and other disabled people as well. Disabled people should be allowed to see themselves in hero media as much as abled people are allowed to.  

    I wanted to write this to bring attention to all of the ways Booster is an impactful character, at least to me a disabled fan.This was also a way for me to just infodump and get all of my thought’s i’ve had onto paper.

    Booster Gold is one of my favorite characters ever, next to Ted Kord who is also a canonically disabled hero. One day I might write up an analysis on him as well! 

    I hope that anyone who reads this enjoys this analysis and if you made it all the way through thank you so much!

[notglutenfresh]

Some House of Black headcannons:

TW: Mental health issues (ED, Bipolar, GAD, Schizophrenia), abuse, starvation, slight mention of death

All of them have a mental illness of some sort. Bellatrix has schizophrenia, this developed when she was around 23, before then, while she would've still been a really messed up person, her actions were her own, but I think that the longer the war went on she started worrying about everything because she started hallucinating that the ministry wanted to get her specifically. Narcissa and Andromeda both have very bad GAD: most of Narcissa's anxiety comes from her family situation, namely her husband and sister being a very high up Death Eater; most of Andromeda's anxiety comes from her running away to be with Ted Tonks because she feels as though her family is gonna hunt them down and destroy everything they made together. Sirius is Bipolar, this developed when he was 15 or 16 but before the prank, which I think would've been his first manic episode. Regulus has anorexia and depression: I think Walburga starving him proper messed up his view of his body, as if it was something that needed to be purged- he only eats breakfast when he's at Hogwarts which is normally just an apple and a slice of plain toast, when he's at Grimmauld Place he tries to skip out on meals but when Walburga forces him to eat with her he just makes himself sick afterwards or take laxatives to get all the food out of his body and when he's not in class or doing homework, he's normally on the Quidditch pitch practicing by himself or running laps around Hogwarts for as long as he can before he feels like he's about to pass out.

Narcissa really misses Andromeda and wants to meet her at least one more time before either of them die.

Bellatrix was like Sirius in the fact that she would take punishments for her sisters, which made her fall deeper into her madness rather than being scared of it like Sirius.

When Sirius first went to Hogwarts, Regulus started to get into trouble with Walburga for the slightest misstep. Partially to try and ensure Regulus was in Slytherin, but also because Sirius wasn't around to take the fall for Regulus anymore. By the time Sirius came back from Christmas break in his first year, Regulus had been crucioed so much that he couldn't stop shaking and could barely get out of bed without crying due to how much pain he was in.

Kreacher would help Sirius and Regulus escape punishment if he was certain that Walburga wouldn't find out what happened. Even if he couldn’t help heal them, he would put small portions of healing potions into the dismal meals they were allowed during their punishments.

Orion was an extremely neglectful father basically all year round, yet on birthdays and Christmas' he always managed to get Sirius and Regulus exactly what they wanted without fail. Thinking that the presents would make up for his lack of presence in their lives.

Walburga did love Sirius and Regulus in a really twisted way. She was raised by abusive parents, and she swore to never be like them, but when it came to her own kids, she had no idea how to parent them without the abuse, so she thought it was necessary. In her head, every time she punished Sirius and Regulus, she was showing her love for them. When Sirius ran away, she wouldn't leave her room for weeks. She wouldn't cry she would just stare at the ceiling, wondering why she became exactly what she feared, why she forced her own son into running away out of fear. When Regulus died, she completely broke down. She lost both of her sons because she forced them away from her. She died not long after Regulus went missing.

[blackholesun321]

New One Piece AU dropped focusing around Zoro and Mihawk! You shall be subjected to it.

TW: Long Ask

Okay, so basically, this au has a long title but I dubbed it Child of the Sword. It started off with Zoro being able to see the spirits of the swords since in One Piece, swords are sentient and are possessed in a way. Only Zoro can see these spirits and talks to them all the time. At first, he didn't realize others couldn't see them. My friend and I played around with this a lot, and now's it's developed into a whole thing.

When Kuina died, Zoro's anger and grief erupted and Zoro discovered he was the incarnation of the Ancient Weapon: Ares. Created by the war god Asura. The sensei makes Zoro swear to never use his power in public unless it was life or death. Zoro goes on to see Kuina's spirit tied to Wado Ichimonji. During the shells town arc, Morgan is extra cruel bc he is Morgan, and when Zoro is tied in the courtyard he has the swordsman whipped on the back, marring and littering Zoro's back with scars. Zoro's honor is in shambles when Luffy shows up and helps him. During Baratie, Zoro fights Mihawk and loses, ending up with the scar on his chest. After Zoro promises to never fail, he whipsers "Finally a worthy scar" and Mihawk overhears. Mihawk almost noted how Zoro always seemed to be looking at things that aren't there.

So naturally, the warlord decides to kidnap Zoro instead of Luffy (yes I am mashing up OPLA and the anime, fight me). The Straw hats go on the free Nami from Arlong then make plans to get Zoro back from Mihawk. Zoro is less than pleased to be kidnapped by the strongest swordsman. Mihawk brings Zoro with him to meet with Shanks about Luffy's bounty poster and Shanks convinces Mihawk to give Zoro back to the Straw Hats, but before that happens, Mihawk and Zoro end up talking about Zoro's special abilities. Mihawk comes to the realization of what Zoro is and keeps it to himself.

During the two year time skip, Zoro reunites with Mihawk (even though he never stopped talking with the warlord after being dropped off ((begrudgingly)) at lougetown). Mihawk trains Zoro in the way of the sword AND helps him to realize his full potential.

This is all I have for now, but I have ideas for Dressrosa and Wano. :D

FUCK YEAH ASKS AGAIN! I’ve been ignoring the rest of my wings au ask gotta go finish those up lol just kinda sitting in my drafts. Anyways.

Oh fuck yeah again! I love the guy can see spirits no one else can mixed with reincarnation trope my little Bleach nerd heart is swooning.

But yesss constantly talking to air and technically he doesn’t need to but the swords haven’t told him that because it’s funny. And he’s just this ball of angst plus weirdo probably crazy guy who talks to his swords— so he’d be even more ostracized then in canon yeah the mentality Ill are stigmatized and treated poorly in all universes. Expect he not mentally ill I mean if we don’t count the Kuina trauma ™️ probably which is what gives Ironjaw the gaul and to whip him as well as tie him up to suffer dehydration and probably heat stroke so fun.

Maybe Kuina tags along in the form of wado-ichumongi? Maybe he can talk to her sometimes? Idk I just want him to be constantly fighting and loosing to a preteen girl that lives in his sword, I think that would be funny.

Mihawk please! Mihawk that’s kidnapping! Mihawk you’ve kidnapped a child. Because of course he has and did because Zoro=interesting equals if I leave him alone he could die and with the looks of his crew probably will die. Ugh guess I have to steal him.

You know he shows up at that beach eyeliner on, lip gloss applied and cunting it up to shore and with Zoro trying to stab him every other step. Shanks is very worried and weirded out. But also laughs his ass off because of course this is how Mihawk acquires a kid. But also he’s like Mihawk seriously no bad we don’t kidnap… Whitebeards the exception not the rule!

[until-another-one-comes]

More serial killer Francis headcanons part 8:

Tw for murder, past abuse, trauma, SH, death and suicide

Regarding generational trauma, Francis’s abusive dad (I’ll call him Richard) also had an abusive bringing. To top it all off, he was a war veteran that was discharged from the army with undiagnosed mental illnesses such as PTSD and IED. I’ll just say he was already a horrible human being who treats people like crap and isn’t mentally sound either (like his son). Meanwhile Francis’s mom is a naive country woman who Richard knocked up one night and married her out of convenience. He doesn’t give a crap about his family at all. He treats them like a nuisance and is physically abusive towards his wife and Francis, thus the cycle continues.

As you already know, Francis mom was kind to him but turned psychologically abusive after she had gone insane from her husband’s abuse (it seems that mental illness and insanity runs in the Mosses family). One part I wanted to add to Francis’s story is that while he was treating his mother’s pneumonia, his mother threw the hot water at Francis in her crazed state. She saw her abusive husband in Francis, yells at him to go away and says that she could never love a monster like him. As you can imagine, it traumatised with Francis his entire life.

Francis was a lonely wallflower type of kid at school. While the kids bully him for being an extension of his father, Francis wanted to fit in and be appreciated for once. So he tried his best to help his peers or the teachers anyway they can but they usually turn him down and sneer at him because they saw him as weak and a trashy human being. So Francis gave up on his hopes on being liked by his peers.

Francis hates the thought of serving in the military because a) that would mean he’s following in his father’s footsteps b) drafting himself in the war would make his mental state much worse than it already is.

He found a milkman job through a newspaper ad. Even after he had gone insane after killing his father, Francis wanted to start a new peaceful life for himself (at first). He thought by delivering milk to people would give him some purpose in life since he’s helping the community but after he started his killing spree and his mental health declined, he never saw the point in anything anymore and keeps on working as a milkman as a means to survive.

Francis’s second victim was the first of many housewives he would later on kill. She was also unfortunately a catalyst for the start of Francis’s murder sprees. Francis got a compliment by her a couple of times when he delivered the milk to her. At first, Francis was extremely confused and flustered why she kept flattering him until one day she suggested they have an affair. Francis accepted believing that the housewife might’ve loved him and he thought he can finally be cared for. He was afraid of showing his body to her but he let go of his fears for once just to sleep with her. However once they were about to do it, the housewife was disgusted when she saw Francis’s scar ridden body and backs out. She couldn’t bear to look at him anymore. This deeply hurts Francis because he was only seen as an object for the housewife to escape her mundane marriage. In his eyes, all his value was to her was nothing but a sex object that she can throw away. Francis’s body image decreased significantly and he only saw himself as ugly. In a fit of rage and sadness, Francis tortured and killed the housewife for using him before dumping her body where no one can find her.

From that day on, Francis swore revenge on the housewives who wanted to use him to escape their marriage because he wanted to take his anger out on them for seeing him as a tool they can discard and by extension his father for his infidelity.

Other than that, his co workers and neighbours never bothered to get to know him as a person. Whenever anyone would strike a conversation with him, Francis doesn’t know what to say to continue their conversation. All he does is reply with a short sentence or the usual “mmm…” because he’s never made a friend before so he doesn’t know how he can reply. So everyone ends up ignoring him because they perceive him as a boring man with nothing to offer. Soon, Francis began believing it himself. He has no interests or passions other than killing so there’s nothing he has he can bond with people. He saw himself as an invaluable person with an empty life so why should anyone care for him.

Francis unsurprisingly has self destructive tendencies such as not eating or sleeping when he’s supposed to as well as smoking and drinking on his own. He tried self harming but it only made his scars worse so he stopped.

With his abusive upbringing couple with mental illnesses, his homicidal nature, his misanthropy along with his deep self hatred and negative body image, it’s no wonder Francis is so fucked up. At his core, Francis is an unloved crying child who was never saved. He craved to live a normal life where he can be loved and appreciates but with the lifestyle he led, he knew it was an impossible dream. He was doomed to live a life of misery, violence and loneliness.

Depending on how Francis dies, he’ll live his afterlife as a ghost. If he dies peacefully or kills himself in his own room, his ghost will haunt his own apartment and will cause disturbances and nightmares for the next tenants

If Francis dies via electric chair, his ghost will take on the form of blue light energy shaped into his figure with hollow black eyes and a wide smile like the Hoon Man.

Or if he dies via natural causes, suicide or gets killed, Francis’s ghost will take on a darker, more disheveled form such as having longer shaggier hair, hollow black eyes that cry black blood and with the biggest frown and a loose ruffled white dress shirt drenched in the blood of his victims.

Either way, Francis’s ghost will be transported to the nightmare realm where his ghost haunts the astral circle and its residents. Many of them question why his ghost look like their fellow neighbour Yog Sothoth.

Like the masked ghost, the doorman has to let Francis’s ghost in. Calling the DDD can result in a jump scare and immediate death for the doorman.

Even after death, Francis can never find peace.

So that’s it for now. By the way, I’m writing two fanfics based on this SK Francis now, one detailing Francis’s backstory and the other one featuring milk bread featuring yandere Francis. I’ll send it to you once I’m done.

More backstory time! Off topic but backstories are one of my fave types of headcanons

I really like the backstory you give Francis's parents, especially his dad. It explains his actions but doesn't excuse them

Gah damn not even death can free him thats so fucked up 😭

Oooh looking forward to your fic anon!

[asharkapologist]

CRIMINAL CASE OCS, PT 1

This has been a WIP for quite some time, but I have finally finished the OC sheet for my Mysteries of the Past player character, Ethel Evanoff! (Note: she's not the same player character as the rest of the games). Tagging @chelleinyy as asked! Information about Ethel is found under the cut. Spoilers for Mysteries of the Past, and TW for mentions of mild sexism, physical and mental illnesses, and war.

Born in the United States, parents were immigrants from the Russian Empire

Always wanted to be a police officer/detective, but no one in her local departments wanted to hire a woman. However, she’d heard of Concordia’s progressiveness and willingness to give women opportunities other cities were not, and so she moved to Concordia and worked with the Concordian Police Department.

Over the years, grew irritated with corruption and laziness in the police department, and therefore showed great interest in the Flying Squad when it was formed, and was hired by Arthur at age 28 in December of 1897.

Always tried to be a mediator between suspects and the police, not very prone to anger--the “good cop,” if you will. However, this kindness while still being professional led to her growing quite fond of many suspects and liking them as people. This led to her being more affected than other detectives/officers when they died.

The events of Sinner’s End, Coyote Gorge, and Crimson Banks very negatively affected her. Seeing the Flying Squad’s complete inability to catch the Scarlet Slayer in Sinner’s End until she’d already killed countless young women, being unable to protect Vinnie after promising him protection, and being unable to prevent innocent civilians, including children, from being often fatally dragged into the gang war caused immense guilt, and her mental health began to suffer.

After Capital Peak, she was depressed and traumatized, having lost a friend she cared greatly about and not being able to save enough people who counted on her during her career. Her depression worsened when her parents both died in the early 1900s.

After her parents died and not feeling capable of working in a job where she was never able to prevent death, she retired from the Flying Squad, although she remained friends with her former colleagues.

Instead, she began to train to be a nurse, hoping that while obviously she couldn't save everyone, she would atone for all of the lives she couldn't save during her career by being able to actively work to help and save lives, hoping saving lives would assuage her persistent guilt.

Being a nurse didn't "cure" her depression by any means, but she found more purpose as a nurse than she did as a detective. She always smiled when a patient recovered from an operation or illness and was able to return home, and patients loved her for her ability to listen and her care for each individual in the hospital she worked. Additionally, she was able to befriend several coworkers.

Of course, when doctors failed to save patients, she felt the familiar sting of grief and guilt, even if she had nothing to do with the patient's conditions and any operation that failed to save their lives. She continued in her work, working herself to the bone to do her job as best as possible.

When World War I broke out, she was asked to serve as a nurse, considering her background in being more familiar with blood and violence than other nurses, and her high quality of work. While reluctant, she agreed, influenced and swept up in all of the pro-war, guilt-tripping propaganda constantly bombarding her (and everyone else in the nation), and at least hoping that she could still continue to save lives on the warfront.

While serving as a nurse, she was bit by a rabid racoon that wandered into her encampment. It was able to be put down before biting anyone else, and she was able to get a rabies vaccine before she contracted the disease, saving her life.

The war greatly disturbed her, making her PTSD and depression worse. Although she was indeed able to comfort and help many people in the war, the horrific injuries she saw on young men in the war never left her and joined her nightmares, along with images of particularly bad crime scenes she’d seen in her life. 

However, what worsened her mental health most of all is the fact that all of her brothers--her only siblings-- served in and died in the war.

During the war, she fell in love with one of her fellow nurses. They courted, and he was able to bring some happiness, and companionship to her. They wrote letters while stationed in different places, which was a small comfort through the death of her brothers.

He proposed near the end of the war. However, before they could marry, he died in late 1918 of the Spanish flu, leaving her even more grief-stricken and heartbroken.

After the war, she spent time in urbanizing cities, appreciating the hustle and bustle/noise of industrialization over the quietness of nature, where there was little to distract from her troubled thoughts. She frequently painted as a way to cope with/distract from the death and blood she had seen for years, and frequently painted her would-be husband and family.

When war broke out again in 1939, she was in failing health and could not be a nurse again, and struggled to express herself in her art due to her poor health. Hearing of the violence happening again, on an even larger scale, throughout the world greatly distressed her and brought back disturbing memories of the death she had seen in her careers and personal life.

Kept letter correspondence with friends and colleagues throughout her life, but died alone in 1940 at the age of 71.