#for the love of all that is good and holy in this world

[just-bible-musings]

Agree with most of what @fearofgodandtolkien said, but no, we are NOT "inherently holy." God created us with the capacity for holiness, He created us to experience and live in His holiness, but we are NOT born good or holy.

The heart is deceitful above all things, and desperately wicked: who can know it? Jeremiah 17:9

And Jesus said unto him, Why callest thou me good? none is good, save one, that is, God. Luke 18:19

And all of 1 John 4, which basically says, if you have love, then that love came from God. It did NOT come from yourself.

Also, the KJV version of Galatians 5:22-23:

But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, longsuffering, gentleness, goodness, faith, Meekness, temperance: against such there is no law.

Most other versions that I've seen translate "temperance" as "self-control." This is one of the many reasons why I only use the KJV. The translators chose to use a word that completely removes any concept of "self," which absolutely makes sense, because the SELF doesn't figure into an equation that is 100% the work of the Holy Spirit. The whole point of salvation is to REMOVE the old, wicked, evil, sinful self and replace it with God's holiness:

And I will give them one heart, and I will put a new spirit within you; and I will take the stony heart out of their flesh, and will give them an heart of flesh: Ezekiel 11:19

And be not conformed to this world: but be ye transformed by the renewing of your mind, that ye may prove what is that good, and acceptable, and perfect, will of God. Romans 12:2

In addition, the Bible even says we were born evil:

Among whom also we all had our conversation in times past in the lusts of our flesh, fulfilling the desires of the flesh and of the mind; and were by nature the children of wrath, even as others. Ephesians 2:3

"By nature," i.e., by birth, we were "the children of wrath," i.e., children of evil.

I cannot even begin to describe how thoroughly DISGUSTED I am whenever I see other Christians spreading the idea that "humans are inherently good." That is 100% a worldly (read: Satanic) mindset. I, personally, have spoken with several people who have utterly rejected Christ and salvation because they believed they can learn to be good "outside of religion," as they put it. Satan invented this lie when he rebelled against God. Satan himself believes this lie. That is the ENTIRE REASON he is God's enemy, because he believes he is right/good/holy/justified/<insert word here> without God. And I CANNOT abide seeing other Christians perpetuating this Satanic lie.

Look, we joke a lot, but really, "you were born evil, wretched, worse than the scum of the earth, and it took killing a god to make you salvageable, so now you'd better be grateful to that god and thank him 10,000 times a day for it and fill your thoughts with him 24/7 and abide by the letter of his every word, lest you suffer unimaginable torture for all of eternity" is a truly horrendous thing to believe about yourself and other people

[practicalgauntlet]

τότε μείνε μαζί μου

"Then stay with me."

Spencer's POV

Synopsis- They say there are 5 stages of grief. Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. Well, I'd like to add one more- Revenge.

Category- Heavy angst, retribution

Warnings- feral Spencer, angry Spencer, grieving Spencer, beating someone half to death, blood and gore, thoughts of violence, actual violence, Spencer goes ape shit the way Hotch beat Foyet. Vivid details of someone's nose breaking, blood, lots and lots of blood, OOC, I paint a very graphic image of Spencer's snap.

Notes- I love writing angst, I don't know why I just hope you enjoy it. And I'll make good on my promise for something tooth-rottingly sweet, so don't get too angry with me <3 This goes out to @slipk-holy for helping me edit, you're the best!!!

Wordcount- 3,123

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Spencer sits in the middle of his apartment, his last words to your lifeless body still echoing throughout his otherwise empty mind.

"I'll wait for you my darling, you better be waiting for me on the other side."

Spencer was not a religious man. But when it came to you, he believed in miracles. He believed that someone out there plucked you from your divine path and placed you in his life. Spencer prayed to whoever had put you in his life to return you. He pleaded to hold you in his arms once more, but there was no answer.

He never believed in the afterlife. He thought of it as nothingness, a lack of consciousness where one ceases to exist on any plane. The idea of holding you, of seeing you once more clung to the fibers of his mind. It kept him from breaking entirely.

So maybe Spencer was a man of religion if only it meant you awaited him with open arms.

He hadn't moved in such a long time, his back aching from the upright and cross-legged position on his hardwood floors. Spencer lacked the motivation to crawl onto the couch or drag his body into the shower. He hadn't had the motivation to do anything really, other than replay the memories he held so dear to his heart.

But as he looked around his apartment, still teeming with the life you lived there, disdain rose up his throat like bile; burning a path through his body until he was boiling over with it.

Your most recent book was still open on the coffee table, the collection you brought with you still mixed with his on the massive bookshelf. Your slippers were still haphazardly strewn across the floor where you left them that morning, the echo of your halfhearted attempt to convince him to call in sick was still so fresh.

He felt something hot and putrid clawing its way out of him, singing every piece of skin and bone it touched on its way out. It was nasty, and vile, leaving a trail of change in its wake. Spencer could feel the mutation in his soul. He could feel the emptiness devour him whole, chewing on his bones for every last morsel he had to offer.

All that was left was a devastating rage. A fury that threatened the world around him. An indignation that promised singed handprints wherever he touched. A wrath so powerful he was no longer the man he was proud of. He was a stranger, an offensive mockery of what once was.

And the best part?

Spencer didn't care.

Spencer didn't care as he stood up and kicked the coffee table into the wall sending glass shattering all over the floor. He plucked the book out of the pile of carnage, not giving a shit about the splinters of glass embedded into his fingertips.

Spencer didn't care as he ripped the pages out of the book, hurling the empty hardback through the window. He watched with a sick satisfaction as the destruction sparkled around him.

Next was his bookshelf, the stories and words he'd share with you when the two of you couldn't sleep now flung across the room. The bookshelf was toppled, and not a care in the world was given as it crashed to the floor.

Spencer was a whirlwind of devastation, a tornado of obliteration so fierce there wasn't a corner nor cabinet that was untouched by rage.

Wherever you lingered, he destroyed. The chair you'd always sit at was slammed into the wall. The mug you favored was shattered against the floor. Every instance of your memory, of your ghost, was annihilated by his hand.

When he got to the bedroom, his chest heaving with firey vengeance, he paused.

Your side of the bed was still crinkled, the indention of your head imprinted on the pillow. Your Kindle was still charging on your nightstand. Your knickknacks and decorations still hung in every corner and on every shelf.

It was like you were just at the store and he should start dinner so it would be hot for when you got home. Like you were in the shower or on call. Anything but dead.

He couldn't tear apart the last remaining proof that you lived, that you had grasped his heart with your bare hands and allowed him the same privilege.

No, he couldn't bring himself to taint the preserved capsule of the life he shared with you with anger. Or sadness. Or the grief that left him raw and vulnerable. He couldn't even step one foot past the doorway.

He closed the door.

There was no use in even trying.

Before he could move on to the bathroom, the itch in his fist for more destruction too tempting for someone so usually non-violent, his phone rang somewhere in the apartment.

Spencer didn't feel like answering it or talking to someone about his wife and the chokehold her death has on him. He was perfectly content in watching his world crumble around him alone.

But it rang. And it rang. And it rang.

In a sudden burst of energy, Spencer marched right up to the source of the maddening noise. His mobile phone was neatly tucked into his satchel pocket, at fifty percent, just the way he left it after unceremoniously tossing the stupid fucking bag to the floor.

Spencer grabbed the phone in one hand and his heaviest lamp in the other. There was something so twisted about the relief that flooded him every time he brought the base of the lamp down on the phone.

His teammates would call it overkill if the phone was a person and the lamp was a knife. They would profile him as someone who was devolving, someone so close to snapping almost entirely that they had to act swiftly. In a way, he was. In a way, he was exactly like the monsters they hunted for the bloodlust that raged through him was for one thing only.

No amount of superficial destruction could keep his need for violence a bay. No, Spencer needed something organic to put his fists through. But for now, the insistent ringing of his phone has stopped, and he felt just a tad bit better.

Until his landline rang.

There was no breaking this phone, the technology old but surprisingly durable. So he only had one choice left if he were to save the last remaining shred of sanity he was clinging to.

"What the fuck is so important that you have to call me every six seconds?!"

He seethes, face hot with ire.

"Woah," J.J, breathes into the phone. "Calm down, Spence. I'm just calling to check up on you."

"Don't call me that."

"Sorry, Spen-. I'm sorry. I just needed to know you were okay."

Spencer was beyond annoyed, beyond aggravated. He could feel himself splitting at the seems with hatred and violence.

And Spencer didn't care if he was taking it out on his friend. Spencer stopped caring a long time ago.

"Oh, I'm fucking fantastic J.J. Just beaming with joy! It's not like my wife died not even twenty four hours ago. No, everything's happy unicorns and God damn rainbows."

J.J. just sighed.

"Spencer, I'm just trying to be there for you."

He could hear the desperation in her voice. But instead of comforting him like it should have, like it had done in the past, it irritated him even more.

"Sure, thanks."

Spencer was ready to hang up, ready to unplug the phone and toss it out of the broken window. But he heard something in the background, and his attention was once again drawn away from his agony.

It sounded as if someone were speaking to J.J., their tone urgent and dead serious. Spencer couldn't make out the words, but he could make out the importance of them.

"What's going on?"

"Nothing. We're just having some problems with an unsub."

He knew exactly who she was talking about, knew why she was purposefully vague with him. And the second it all clicked, the second a plan swiftly formed in his head, he was dead set on a path.

"Okay... just- stop calling me for a while."

He played into the grieving husband shtick, not letting a drop of indignation seep through his voice. Arousing suspicion would nip his brilliant plan in the bud, and Spencer just couldn't have that.

J.J. was hesitant to agree, with her being an amazing friend and all, but ultimately relented. Spencer just needed space is all, at least that's what she told herself.

Spencer gently sat the receiver down, an eerie calm settling over him. It was a rage he'd never felt before, one that guaranteed an end. A retribution.

Revenge.

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It was easy for Spencer to just walk into headquarters.

Too easy.

Maybe it was because of the pallor of his skin, or the dark bags that had become so much darker. Maybe it was even the shabby robe he still wore; his pajamas reeking of depression.

Either way, Spencer didn't linger for long. The faster he was in and out, the less suspicion he'd raise. The less suspicion he arose, the longer he'd have with his ultimate agenda.

It was calculated perfectly, executed just so. Swiftly enter the building, sadly waving to the guards all the while mumbling about friends, and help, and shoulders to cry on. Sympathy was so easy to wrangle, so easy to manipulate.

They let him in, their eyes downcast to avoid the miserable expression on his face. He should be upset at how easy it was to get in. There really should be more security. But then again, he didn't really care, did he?

He breezed passed the main office, passed the badge check, and into the elevator. Now would probably be the point where reality would hit. Was he really planning on interfering with an ongoing investigation, just to get answers he could deduce himself?

But none of that even registered as he watched the numbers slowly click up.

The lobby leading into the bullpen was empty, void of his friends or the others he knew only in passing. He was alone. The perfect environment to enable his downward spiral.

That collected calmness puppeteered him like a marionette, its hooked claws pulling the strings of his limbs towards the hallway that led to the interrogation rooms.

This is where he heard the commotion of the BAU in action. Hushed demands, muffled yelling, the occasional sigh of frustration. They hadn't noticed him yet, his socked feet concealing his footsteps.

He popped his head around the corner, watching as Hotch, Morgan, and Emily whisper to each other in front of the viewing window. J.J. and Rossi were sitting inside the room, their backs towards the window and their undivided attention upon Dimitri Cain.

Just the sight of the man had his blood boiling, his fingers twitching, and his throat closing around a violent burst of every emotion possible.

Anger- because his wife was dead and he was the man responsible.

Sadness- because he was reminded that he could never look upon the love of his life ever again.

Jealousy- because he wasn't the one in the room, demanding answers and getting them.

Joy- because he was closer to scratching that itch than he thought possible.

J.J. and Rossi exit the room, their faces grim and arms crossed with frustration. The five of them move away from the interrogation room.

"We need to form another plan,"

He heard Hotch say, his voice tight and stern.

The team agreed and left the door in the hands of a guard whilst they plotted. Now was the perfect time. He couldn't believe the luck he was having.

Maybe there was such a thing as the divine.

"You're not supposed to be here, Dr. Reid."

The guard said as Spencer approached.

"I was called in to help, you can ask Hotch but I doubt he'd enjoy being second-guessed."

"I just don't think-"

"Please..."

Spencer pleaded, and the tone he used was genuine this time. There was no manipulation nor tactic to persuade, only unadulterated desperation.

"I need something to do."

The words unsaid seemed to be as loud as those spoken, the guard's face falling with sympathy as he hesitated.

I need something to distract me.

Only a brief second did Spencer play with the idea of attacking the guard. He knew of all the pressure points to swiftly and quietly take him down; it wouldn't be hard to get what he needed.

But the guard stepped aside.

"Thank you."

The heavy door was opened.

Spencer stepped through, his body tingling with a blazing fire.

The door clicked shut.

He was alone with the object of his undoing. The breaker of his world. And there was nothing more dangerous than a desperate man with nothing to lose.

Spencer sat across from Dimirti, the man in question eyeing him with a speculating gaze.

"You're gettin' nothin' outta me."

Dimitri leaned back and blatantly challenged Spencer.

"I just have a few questions."

"Are you even a fuckin' fed? You look like shit."

Spencer unconsciously mimicked Dimirti's stance, staring the man down with an unbreaking mask of tranquil fury. He let his silence answer for him, folding his arms across his chest and leaning back in the chair.

"Alright, I see how it is."

"And how is it, Dimitri?"

"It's that reverse psychology shit, not gonna work on me."

Spencer just shook his head.

"Just ask me the stupid fuckin' questions already so I can get this shit over with."

Spencer hummed, clasping his hands in front of him and leaning forward on his elbows.

"Why did you take her?"

"Again with this bitch-"

"Watch your fucking mouth."

Eyes wide, Dimitri stilled. Then, realization glided across his face. A slow smile spread, tainting Spencer with its wickedness.

"You're the husband."

It wasn't a question but a mere statement.

You got what you want, I have a husband-

Please! I don't want to die!

Spencer pounced like a lion, toppling the table with Dimitri still cuffed to it. He was lost in the rage, mind, and body willingly subject to the agonizing fury that was slowly becoming a shield.

He couldn't hear anything, not a thought registered. Only the broken screams of his wife as she pleaded to live.

Spencer straddled Dimitri, completly in control as the man beneath him writhed.

Something sick and twisted bloomed inside him with the first punch. With the second, that evil forged a bond with his soul. Once pure and golden, Spencer Reid was now as dark as the blood that seeped from Dimitri's nose.

On the third punch, Spencer could feel the cartilage break. The splintering of his knuckles was nothing but an afterthought to the satisfaction and relief that plagued him.

Dimitri wiggled under him, trying with all his might to kick him off or slide his hands out of the cuffs. But Spencer kept going.

He brought his fist down again, Dimitri's face already swollen beyond recognition. The deep burgundy of Dimitri's blood sprayed across Spencer's face, across his chest, and outward into the air.

Unbeknownst to Spencer, he was giddy. His face stretched in a feral grin, every tooth shining with glee as he continued to pummel Dimitri into the stained marble floor.

Someone was screaming, the ragged and unfamiliar sound muffled like it was underwater. His ears were ringing, adrenaline and undiluted grief pushing everything Spencer ever was deep into an iron box and tossing it down the hole you left in his heart.

It wasn't until he was ripped from Dimirti, that he realized he was the one screaming.

"You killed her!"

Spencer thrashed against the strong body behind him, the grip under his arms unmoving despite his best efforts.

"You killed my wife!"

Feebly, Spencer tried to continue the beating, swinging his long legs towards the motionless body lying on the floor. Something wet hit his face, the sensation shocking his senses back into the present.

Derek was behind him, growling his name like Spencer was a rogue unsub who refused to listen.

He was dragged out of the room, his limbs now hanging numbly at his sides. Cold metal was wrapped around his wrists before anyone even tried talking to him.

Spencer welcomed the bite, savoring the only thing he could feel.

"What the hell were you thinking?"

Hotch was in his face, his eyes wide with frustration. The team was behind him, but Spencer didn't even spare them a glance. He just looked past Hotch, unseeing and unfeeling.

"Spencer!"

Finally, he dragged his emotionless gaze towards his boss who was frothing at the mouth with anger.

"I don't know."

"I don't know, I don't know? What do you mean, 'I don't know'? I should fire you!"

"Then do it."

What did he have to live for anyways?

A team that would only look at him with pity? A family that would treat him like he were made of glass, cracked and begging to be shattered.

Hotch huffed a sigh, hands on his hips.

"Listen, kid. I know exactly what you're going through. Vengeance isn't the answer."

"Says the man who did the same exact thing I just did. The only difference between you and me is that you got your retribution immediately."

Spencer hated the look of understanding that creased Hotch's brows, the empathy that threatened to undo all the apathy that was holding him together.

"This anger isn't going to bring her back..."

Spencer knew this. He knew nothing could bring you back. No amount of praying, religious devotion, and possible rituals would bring you back to him.

The simple truth was that he was lost without you.

He didn't know how to live without you by his side.

Something dripped onto his hands clasped in his lap. When he looked up and could see nothing but his swimming vision, he realized he was crying.

An unstoppable sob wracked his body, forcing his shoulders to cave in and his chest to implode. The damn was bursting, his walls cracking with each broken cry.

When he took a deep breath, a feeble attempt to control the crumbling mess that was his mental state, it all crashed around him.

His throat burned with the intensity of his scream. All his grief, all his anger, and sadness, and desolation were unleashed. He curled in on himself, hugging his sides as if he were able to replicate the feeling of your embrace.

The team surrounded him, hushed assurances, and murmured comfort as they all wrapped their arms around him. It still wasn't enough.

It still wasn't you.

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A/N- This was supposed to cure my writer's block, but it still has its claws in me. I keep comparing my writing and my stories to those I see on my feed and I only get discouraged. But comparison is the thief of joy, so please let me know if you enjoy this. Feedback is very much welcome in any form but I need to know if I'm doing something right.

[princess-of-the-corner]

ML AU - Public Divorce: Lila

Ok, I need to go on with this for a minute cause. This bit was kind of just a joke, but then I thought about it, & now it’s FASCINATING, and-

Like, the joke is just that Chloé’s parents are going through the world’s ugliest divorce, and dragging everyone else with them, including celebs, so by the time Lila turns up, the class is just DONE on celeb gossip. Like. The number of scandals and rumours, and outright BLACKMAIL this class has been witness to is honestly impressive. And these kids are so over it at this point. Chloé most of all, but the whole class is just burnt out on anything relating to high-profile. They regularly see a classmates parents duke it out on Talent Tonight, they want to talk about LITERALLY anything else. So Lila shows up, starts spinning her stories, and gets … . nothing? Polite indifference at best, outright ignored at worst?? What?? At first, she thinks maybe she’s been recycling tales too much, maybe they need to be EVEN MORE IMPRESSIVE, but that has the opposite effect of what she wants, some of her class starts ACTIVELY AVOIDING HER, so nope, stop that! Lila’s just sitting here, stumped, because what the hell? This has NEVER happened, who doesn’t love good old celebrity gossip??

She’s flicking through her phone on a whim, searching for ideas, ANY ideas, (she has literally never needed more than this, she is truly befuddled) when she stumbles across the cute Fox video, and Kim sees it. And calls the class over. And suddenly Lila’s in the middle of the whole group, cooing over adorable animal videos??? What?? But hey! She can work with this! Who wants to see the new baby elephant at the Oregon Zoo?

After that, it becomes a game of trial and error. ANYTHING regarding celebrities or politics is right out, but cute animal videos seems to work! It spirals into video production and quality with Alya, something Lila actually knows a bit about, so that works too! She tries to steer the conversation to actors in movies, but whoops, shutting down again! Until she throws out a frantic production fact about Star Wars (Did you know Palpatine’s chair could only turn at a fixed speed, but it was too fast, so the actor had to use his feet to slow down the chair? So during that scene where Palpatine is confronting Luke, he’s scooting his chair around so it doesn’t fuck up the shot) and suddenly THAT gets everyone interested again! Alright, maybe it’s just CURRENT gossip that’s out? No, no, it’s stuff about people, but production stories are cool??

But it’s not her usual stuff that gets her interest. Someone expresses frustration with a history project about Italy, Lila offhandedly mentions a fact about it, suddenly she’s being begged to help with the project. She gets praised, it’s so cool she knows all this stuff! So ok! Stuff about Italy! She can do that! A random fact about sharks she retained from who knows where generates a discussion that lasts almost two hours, so apparently any facts work! Equally doable! She’s looking up random things, writing down any that snag her interest just so she can pepper them into conversation. Did you know that slugs have teeth with the same composition as diamonds?? How nuts is that!?

And through all of this, some of her actual interests, like history, or masks, makes it in, and people seem to like that just as well (they’re her friends, they enjoy seeing her passionate). Stories about her travels still come up, but they are barely altered or even embellished. She hasn’t spun a proper lie in six months. She’s kind of baffled by how “low effort” this particular group is, unaware that she’s actually spending MORE TIME on shit here, it’s just that she ENJOYS looking up cool facts, or researching history, or talking about how masks get made, or auditioning for the school play. The class gets her mask-carving lessons for her birthday, and Lila almost bursts into tears, cause holy shit, they remembered! (Her mom just got her a gift card).

Running out of steam, but just … I’d call it Lila accidental redemption, except in this, this all happens before she does anything she would need to be redeemed FOR, so.

(Also, ugly divorce is still happening in the background. At one point, André tries to flirt with Lila’s mom. It goes spectacularly badly. Chloé sends the Rossi’s an apology gift basket.)

-

She’s just. So confused

[sorry-not-feeling-it-right-now]

Since you've done Smitten, I'd love to see Damsel for the character meme!

(Ahhhh Damsel… my sweet girl…)

(Can’t believe I went from seeing her as a flat character to relating to her… she’s my pookie…)

(Ask game below!!! As always, excuse my formatting)

(And as usual, it’s getting longer than I’ve expected, soooo I’m just gonna put a cut somewhere)

FAVORITE THING ABOUT THEM

Honestly I think she’s so funny for no reason and I lowkey love that for her. Her preppy personality is honestly kind of endearing once you get through and understood her character. To think I once thought it was creepy…

The fact that she remains preppy is honestly kind of amazing considering what she had went through. She must have been so scared and yet she continues on with a smile anyway.

Her way of coping through pleasing people is also really relatable for me. I’m kind of a people pleaser myself, so I really saw bits of myself in her. I really want to see her grow into something more, and maybe she will get her growth of change through HEA(or at least take advice from her experiences).

Speaking of, I really like the transition from her to HEA. Like her shock when Smitten rips out our heart and shows it to her when she says that she wants to leave is probably such a shocking moment for her. She probably never expected that from you. Also. Parallel with Nightmare showing her heart to you. Oughhhh so good.

LEAST FAVORITE THING ABOUT THEM

In the words of Smitten:

“She is gorgeous! Absolutely Devine!”

(There is none /j)

Ok but seriously it’s probably her inability to say “no”. (Again, this is out of love for her!!!!)

I see a lot of myself in her, so her inability to say no just resonates with me since I used to have that difficulty as well. Damsel simply doesn’t know how to say no, as it wasn’t in her own nature to do so. But with that inability also hurts her and her inner self, which makes her kind of a doormat. I really don’t want her to be stepped all over, so this is for your own good Damsel!!! Protect yourself!!!! DON’T FEEL BAD ABOUT SAYING NO!!!

FAVORITE LINE

“I’m gonna die now ^^ I think that’s what you want :3”

GIRL YOU’RE DYINGGGGG

(The game is funnier then I remember what the hell)

BROtp

Oooooo there are a lot of good options for this actually, I don’t think I could just choose a couple of them

Damsel and Prisoner is a classic. I could imagine Damsel being really naive about the darker and grittier stuff and Prisoner had to teach her to protect herself from the horrors because Pris knows that the world is not as innocent as Damsel believes it to be. I can see Pris being a bit protective over her.

Damsel and Witch is another fun one. Damsel’s naive and trusting nature versus the creature who lies and does a little trickery.

OK WAIT I JUST THOUGHT OF SOMETHING

Damsel and the Cat princesses. Disney Princess and creatur. Holy sh!t.

OTP

I’m starting to fw her with Stranger or Witch as a pairing. I can see the vision.

Stranger cause she is many perspectives at once, while Damsel is, at least on the surface, a flat character fully embracing her role as the damsel in distress. Stranger would be such a comforting presence for Damsel, as she would gently guide her to be more than who she already is. While Damsel, due to her nature, would try and make Stranger happy and please her. She then realises that she doesn’t need to please her since she already loves her unconditionally. It’s just. So fluffy ok.

Damsel and Witch is an interesting one, cause Damsel is basically Witch but if she hadn’t been betrayed. Witch would see her old self in her, and in turn she would teach Damsel to protect herself. Damsel teaches Witch to trust and love herself again. Just. Oughhhh…

NOtp

She and Smitten. I forgot to say this in the Smitten post but. I love y’all individually but get them far away from each other 😭😭

As hilariously sweet these two are together they are literally two people pleasers being put in a room together. Their happiness and emotional stability is fully based on the other’s happiness. They can’t exactly grow from their experiences during their time together and they’re just gonna make each other worse. At least to me.

“But at least they’re happy right???” Oh just you wait when they get themself into a long term relationship. It’s really fricking tiring.

Ik they’re not people so it really doesn’t matter too much on whether it’s an endless loop of trying to make the other happy, but, y’know.

RANDOM HEADCANON

It’s not really a headcanon as it’s heavily implied, but I feel like Damsel would probably be the only one who can’t fight (or at least unwilling to). Like, at all. She has strength yes but she is also really hesitant to use that strength considering that the last time she used her strength it had cost the life of a person she cared for. I feel like if a person she really care for told her to do something like hurting someone else, she would definitely be unwilling to, but would do it anyway because she just doesn’t want the other person to hate her. It would definitely traumatise her further though.

And yes. She does talk to animals like a Disney princess. I just thought it would be funny.

UNPOPULAR OPINION

People often see her as an airhead but I feel she is smarter than we think she is. Or well, not a complete idiot I mean. She seems to be nudging the player to continue believing that as long as they think is possible, then it’s possible. She does have a bit of a grip on how the construct seems to be forcing you to do something that you don’t want to do, and so she acts the way that she is by nudging you to believe that you can best the construct. Kind of like how Prisoner tries to nudge you into getting her memo. Burned Grey kinda reveals that she does know(or had assumed) that the construct is forcing them to hurt each other, so I supposed that is basically confirmed? I dunno

(Feel free to correct me though)

SONG I ASSOCIATE WITH THEM

I don’t have a song that I associate with her unfortunately 😭

At least not at the top of my head…

FAVOURITE PICTURE OF THEM

Determined Damsel!!!

Drew her while reading a fluffy fic teehee

[a-small-batch-of-dragons]

Worship

Hello!!! I thought I'd throw an idea out there :3 So I absolutely love god aus, but obviously you don't have to do that, just a thought, I'm just thinking of Janus or Virgil suffering in some way and Roman doing something to protect them, since they're always the ones comforting him? Might be fun to switch it up If you do decide to do this have fun! If not no worries :3 :3 – anon

Read on Ao3

Warnings: none

Pairings: prinxiety

Word Count: 2232

In a world of many gods and goddesses, one of the lesser-known deities goes without a name, simply known as the Storyteller. Virgil is one of their few followers, living on the outskirts of a densely populated city. His is not an extravagant faith, but it is a potent one.

 

It's the same as it always is. Candles knocked over and his books scattered on the floor. At least they didn't rip any pages out this time.

Virgil sighs, crouching down. He sets his basket on the ground and focuses on making sure none of the pages have creased beyond repair. A few of the books landed on their splayed pages and he winces at the marring of the fading ink, but for the most part, everything looks to be intact. He gathers them to his chest and begins to rearrange them on the small plinth, careful to keep the covers turned toward the flames to reduce the risk of fire. When the books have been arranged just so, he picks up the candles too and reaches into his pocket for his flint and steel.

Out of the many shrines in the city, it's always the ones down at this end that constantly get ruined. Possibly because it's closest to the busy end of the alley, more likely because these gods do not carry the worship of the state. These are the ones that have smaller sects, no grand churches or temples or holy sites, and so they are the ones that require more constant upkeep. Virgil doesn't mind. He has an agreement with some of the people that worship the gods at neighboring shrines. He lets them know when the altar's been ruined, they let him know when his has been. Granted, he's not the only worshiper around here, but he is the most predictable.

At some point, he'll sit back and wonder why it is that this one is the one that seems to be destroyed most often, but that's something he can wonder when his fresh food from the market is not in danger of being swiped by cunning little mouths.

2.

He gets word that the statue on the cliffside had been defaced, and he packs a small bag to take with him. The path is lined with old rocks laden with moss and cracks. Small flowers take root and grow along the edge of the stone steps. At the top of the cliff overlooking the water, there is a circle of stones around the statue. Virgil winces at the crude glyphs painted over the statue's face, hands, and the book it holds aloft.

He sets down his bag and fetches the rag and water. The types of soap he would typically use to clean this are too harsh for the old limestone, and even the water he tries to use sparingly so he won't damage the statue's features. Wind and rain have worn away the details, leaving only the vague outline of a mouth, open in speech, a nose, and kind eyes watching the story weave itself together. As he works, he can help glancing behind himself every so often.

Was this a place where stories were told often? Was it only for special occasions?

Is there a more special occasion than being alive?

The words drift back to him and he smiles, turning his attention back to the statue. As he works, he tells the little stories of being alive. About the cats that run through the alley, begging for scraps. About the new merchants that have come to sell their jewelry and all the other stalls had seen fewer customers that day. About the new recipe his friend had tried and how good it had tasted. Small stories. Short stories. Stories that make up the patchwork of a life.

He wonders if that was the sort of story that would make it into any book, no matter how insignificant. He cleans the statue's hands and wonders if it would be willing to hold such a book.

3.

These were originally sung.

Virgil turns the page in the old book and squints at the faded words. It had been a chance find by an old friend, a book from ages long past that only Virgil had wanted in the end, for he was the only one who could recognize the god's name. He'd taken the fragile thing home wrapped in a cloth and thin string of twine, unwrapping it carefully by his own tiny shrine and reading by the light of the candle. There were words he didn't recognize, words he had no idea how to pronounce, and stories woven in tongues he could never hope to understand.

You could say, then, he was shocked when the thought that they were to be sung occurred to him.

What for? They didn't match any meter or pattern of any song he recognized, nor did he have any inclination as to what the tune was supposed to be. And even if he did, that was no guarantee he'd be able to sing it. No one had ever had the courage to say he was very musically inclined, let alone be able to sing songs of a god that had not been breathed since the book was last opened.

Still, now that the thought's occurred to him, it's almost impossible to get out of his head. So, he starts humming. No melody, not really a rhythm either, just reading the book and letting it decide when he should change notes. He just reads and hums and does his best to let them wash over him. Even if he can't understand it, maybe he can feel what it might have been like to hear them sung.

The candles flicker a little as the sun sets. The book doesn't look as though it's any different, but slowly it occurs to Virgil that he shouldn't be able to see as well in this level of light as he had when the sun was still out. He glances at the candles, then back at the book, and turns the page. Sure enough, the words stand out as easily as they ever have…in fact, they might be a little bit clearer.

He continues humming with a smile on his face.

4.

'Your god should be your focus, your life, your purpose. You should devote your life to theirs, as they have spent their existence to ensure you have yours.'

A lot of people like to talk about their gods like that. There is one house of worship that Virgil journeys past every moon devoted to a dark god—he's not exactly sure what the god's powers are, nor what domain he represents, all he knows are the black tentacle-like tattoos the acolytes wear and the fact that the god, apparently, prefers blondes. Every time he passes, he sees one of the priestesses surveying the courtyard—as if she were its ruler, not the god the temple was devoted to, but her—and the way she looks at him makes him hold his cloak a little tighter around his body. As though he were doing something wrong by not wearing his worship of his god on his skin as brazenly as they did.

Others talk about their gods. All the time. Every sentence, every little thing that happens, is because of their god. The rain, the sun, the harvest, the storm, the way their neighbor smiled at them this morning, the way a bird came and landed on their roof last night. Everything was attributed to some divine message, leaving no room for the quietness of life to breathe. Virgil feels exhausted just imagining that—what would be the point of being so controlling if you didn't have the time to breathe and enjoy the security of it?

And then there were those that thought he didn't worship. Not that they frowned upon him for it, but sometimes the way they talked…as though he couldn't understand what it was like to believe in a higher power. As though he didn't have the discipline to worship, as though he didn't have the faith. As though the shrine in his house didn't exist, as if the hours he spent writing his own story in a leather-bound notebook he'd saved every coin for wasn't worth it, as though he didn't believe.

But his worship isn't for them. It's for him, and his god, and that was enough. And if he arrived home to find a small pot of ink when he'd thought he'd run out yesterday, well, that was between him and his desk drawer.

5.

The thing about stories is that they're meant to be shared. Virgil is many things, but a man with a large group of friends, he is not.

In some ways, he is content not to share his worship. There's something unique, he's found, in storytelling. You can tell a lot about a person by the type of stories they read, or the types of stories they tell. Even if you don't believe so at first, over time, if you hear enough of them, you get to know that person quite well. Virgil is not keen on being so known, not by the sorts of people that he would share this worship with. Because they wouldn't understand, he tells himself, or it wouldn't be fair. He would have to show them how it feels by lying himself bare, with no hope of whether they would understand and do the same.

But sometimes, sometimes he gets…lonely.

His home is small. Humble. His bed has just enough room for his clothes in a trunk underneath. His kitchen is barely more than a stove and a small set of cabinets. He has a tiny desk, crammed into the space under his shrine. He has a few things on the walls, one old bundle of cloth wrapped around his traveling gear in the corner by the firewood. On cold nights, he sleeps right by the fire, and even then, he doesn't feel warm enough.

In the pages of the books, he reads about the importance of companionship. That nights are cold and colder alone, that we were made to warm each other and there is no other warmth quite like it. Sometimes he curls up with one of them, just to read about it and imagine it. He thinks that might be his most poignant worship: a strange yearning, a longing that worries itself into his bones and makes him ache tenderly. His is not a god that values pain and suffering, but he thinks his god might have a soft spot for wanting.

He does not doubt, but he would like to see for himself. Just once.

+1.

There is a man outside his door.

He opens it, a little stunned. Partly because there is no reason for someone to show up as his door unannounced, and partly because this stranger is sublime.

He invites the stranger in, belatedly, and sheepishly offers to cook. It's around that time of day anyways, and he has a little extra of the nice meat from the butcher because he did them a favor last week. The stranger smiles, thanks him, asks if Virgil needs help. Virgil shakes his head and offers the good chair, the one that doesn't creak when you sit on it, and carefully pours a cup of mead too. The stranger takes it and thanks him again.

Virgil tries to keep himself focused on the cooking, but he can't help glancing over his shoulder every once in a while to see what the stranger does. He spends a fair amount of time looking around, at the fireplace, at Virgil's desk, at the shrine, but mostly, he's watching Virgil. To the point where Virgil just starts talking, just so that it makes a little more sense as to why he's being looked at so by someone so…so.

The stranger listens perfectly. Laughs in the right places, hums in the right places, asks questions and offers comments when Virgil pauses for breath. Virgil asks questions of his own, and receives vaguer answers, more cryptic answers, though all delivered with some secret smile like there's a joke the two of them share. When the food has been eaten, Virgil expects the stranger to tell him who he is, or what he's doing here, but nothing comes. Instead, the stranger helps him clean up, and when Virgil says that it's alright, he's capable of doing it, please, make yourself comfortable, wanders toward the shrine. No small lump appears in Virgil's throat as the stranger reaches out to take one of the books.

Do you know, I think you're the only one who tried to sing them.

And Virgil…stares. Because no one should know that. No one does know that. The only way this stranger could know that is if…if…

His eyes widen. The stranger looks at him with a soft smile, and then the book is set down and Virgil's suddenly backed against the wall with that soft smile so, so close.

Oh, God.

The stranger laughs. It sounds like music.

For you, Virgil, you can call me Roman.

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[zeel-zzz]

To be James Potter.

[this a short 'character study' of James in a fic i'm writing]

HUMAN JAMES | JEGULUS | WC : 520 cw; religious imaginary

"James and his need to sin"

Beauty is subjective, but only when you don't have an angel looking at you.

There's no warning. 

A star falls from the sky and an angel falls from the heavens. It's how things have always been. The way the world works.

When the night rises there is one less star to be seen and one more angel who looks at you as you search in the sky.

Fallen angels are punished for disobedience, for insolence, for disrespect and selfishness. If he is an angel he has fallen.

And if he has fallen then the Saints must have intended to bless him because someone as beautiful as him should never be punished. 

Too beautiful for this world. Too beautiful for us, for me.

He is damaged, broken. He will corrupt you, destroy you, kill you.

Then let it be. It's as the Saints intended it.

Why else would he be blessed with such a creature? Beautiful, angelic, perfection in all the ways that matter. 

Devils are beautiful, devils are what the angels turn into when they fall down from the heavens. 

Fallen angels bring corruption. They bring death and disease. 

Following a fallen angel will lead you to the depths of damnation. They lie and deceive as they drag you away from all that is holy. The light, the love, the goodness of humanity.

It would be such a nice way to be taken.

Gray eyes and black hair. Such a gorgeous sight. Red tinted lips and skin that shined like the moon. So pale, so cold, he was so effortlessly beautiful that it was impossible to look away from.

It was the red of his mouth that truly caught his attention. 

It was red, so bright against his skin, a color so bright and full of life that it was practically mesmerizing.

Destruction will follow. Watch your soul, your life, your eyes. They will bring you to sin, to corruption and destruction.

Then let him commit those most sinful acts. Let him be accused of absolute blasphemy. Should he be punished by the Saints then let him have a taste of the very thing that is forbidden.

An angel should not be touched. Far too holy for the attention of man.

But he was punished to walk the world just like any other man. Could he ever return to the heavens if he were to give in to mortal desires? Could his touch be the only thing that truly destroyed him?

"You are far too good for us. You walk through these corridors as if you were light itself, as if the sun has come to greet us. I miss having the sun touch my skin."

It was a plea to return, but if he was the sun would he be enough to replace the light that he was born from. Would he miss the holy air that he was once a part of. Immortality exchanged for a mere mortal?

Who would ever make such an agreement?

No, Regulus Black deserved to return to the heavens. It didn't matter that he was not allowed to touch him like the sun.

SIRIUS | REMUS | REGULUS | BARTY | EVAN

[annah-kitathryne]

@dchuntress this is for you.

My Extreamly Biased Review Of Detective Comics [2016] #1090 - 1093

These are my notes taken as I was reading, and I sum up some of my thoughts at the very end. I said I would only review Scarlett, but I want to wait for the story arc to finish before I do so. So here's my unfiltered notes on these four issues

I don't provide a lot of context to my thoughts, so please either read the issues or remain out of the know.

1090

Morality plot that might be interesting interesting

Saving the life of an abuser, the girl is seventeen, so a child abuser who made a teenager pregnant.

Martha is able to help a new mother, who is seventeen, if that needs to be stated again. This mother is a child herself.

Martha having what appears to be contrasting morals to her husband. Cool.

Bruce needs therapy to deal with his childhood trauma (nothing new). He has the money to afford one and pay them off.

Bruce punches a child who is already apologizing and calling for an ambulance. He could have used his words first instead of assaulting a child.

He put on a tracker to the child who might have surrendered without the need to punch and frighten the child.

The kid Bruce beat up was murdered. I don't want to blame him, but Bruce, you have been a vigilante for at least two decades at this point. You should know better! Eh he has a habit of that.

Perfume = white musk. I know nothing of perfumes, but this reads very much like a play on the white privilege that comes from a system where children being murdered is considered the norm.

Acknowledging, he hit the child. You're doing better than you were in the 90s. Still an apology without change and action means nothing.

Scarlett Martha Scott is pretty, I love her hair color.

They [Bruce and Scarlett] appear to have some history that is nice for a character to have.

Disturbingly cool science that causes a person to decrease age reminds me of that rich guy who gets blood transfusions from his son. Also vampirism.

She has beliefs that contradict those in which Bruce's dad passes to Bruce. Cool point of contention.

"Youth is wasted on the young." She's connected to the murders. We love morally and financially corrupt female characters, though. However, that statement reads very much like what an old politician would say to his buddies behind closed doors.

Plot point reminds me a bit of Batman Beyond Lazarus pit youth plot.

Love that Bruce pointed out that he did not take the Oath because I have words about how he handles things.

Bruce really went: With this purely medical enhancement, I could reverse some aging and ergo help more people.

Thomas releasing Joe Chill. Irony.

1091

Batman is having a nightmare about the kids being Robin and shooting Joker, Batman slaps the kid and that slap kills the kid.

The children's deaths are definitely related to the Holy Grail.

Targeting disenfranchised children who the media and populace are not going to miss.

Bullock assuming Batman is human.

The artwork for the truck scene was beautiful.

I like the colors

Bruce is envious of Damian's ability to fight. [Sidenote: we need to have a discussion on the different abilities and ages all the different Robins experienced as Batman's sidekick. Dick would have been sidekick to a young Batman who was still early into being Batman vs. Damian who is dealing with an older Batman but one who has got the procedure down.]

Bruce having very real knee pain.

Not me forgetting Alfred is dead. Good he's dead.

Is the world truly safer with Batman in it? It's the chicken and egg question. The hero rising to the challenge of the villain vs. The villain is rising to challenge the hero.

Superman being positive.

More than one motive? Scarlett that is suspicious as all hell.

Do the wrong thing for the right reason. Scarlett wants to force the rich to recognize they have to preserve the planet in order to live longer on it, but that won't ever happen. It isn't in the nature of the rich.

Doctor Forster has been blunt. Pfff. Bruce is playing self-consious.

'Biologically younger than your age.' What does that even mean? And with the amount of stress and damage done to Bruce's body? How?

Take some pills and use these creams. Reminds me of those commercials.

I like that Scarlett is smart. We love smart morally corrupt women.

Damian really went: Father, it's 2 a.m., and you have been asleep for 11 hours.

Bruce handing Damian his blood? Bruce, stop being creepy. What is he supposed to do with that?

Bruce immediately tests it after a day. You know. Like an idiot.

Bruce, you care about if there are lives lost but not the medical bills they can't pay.

Yeah, that villain is Forster, Scarlett, or someone who works for them.

1092

Okay, 1. He is a child. How is Kai harming you. 2. [Jump up kick that whip around and spin, now jump back do it again. . .]

So not only is it repairing the damages of you know fighting crime and the natural process of aging but it also enhances the brain. I can't possibly imagine how that goes wrong.

Yep, they are stealing the children's blood. Black market organ harvesting is back in business. Rebranded and even more deadly.

[Full disclosure took a moment to stop and browse Ebay for Red Robin comics. Found some and bought them. The top part of my page of notes is covered in marked numbers.]

Another weird organization is not allowing the GCPD to investigate? Honestly, tracks for Gotham. And because the police are good guys to Batman comics, this group will be bad guys.

I was right they are stealing the blood of children. Bruce is now directly benefitting from the murder of children just like every other rich person.

Vampires!

Bruce 'my son, is hurting, and I will punch these guys to get an ID out of them.'

The I.D. card looking like the grail is 'how to get caught 101'. Should have had that I.D. card be something else.

Okay so she's possibly being threatened. Possibly.

I love her hair and clothes style. We don't see enough morally corrupt people wear pink.

Okay, they [Bruce and Scarlett] do look kinda cute together.

What do you mean there is nothing you can do about your mother?

Aww they beat up muggers together. That's cute. But now you both look suspicious.

Bruce what are you doing?

Omg Bruce!

Barbara calling the grail connection a coincidence? What have they done to you, babs? Have they downgraded your smarts.

Babs, you would be able to crack those encryptions given enough time.

Damian doesn't look enough like Talia. Child, where is your mother's genetics?

His attitude is kinda funny.

1093

Jason shows up and traumatizes another child.

Oh all of them are hunting down the seven missing children.

Babsgirl. . .ehhhh.

Batman sounding accusatory about a child who committed a crime.

Bruce is calling a guy who is head taller than him a 'small, small, man.'

'You don't know what I've done.' Damian and Jason: I've done worse.

Damian was a child, though.

All these Bats are in a room together, and no one is fighting or being snarky at each other? Damn.

Tim and Damian are nearly the same height.

Okay, so that was perspextive. But they should be closer in height than what is being shown.

Casually calling your girlfriend while running down a security guard? Bruce . . .

Never mind he was a merc.

Penguin back again.

The murderer is protected by a secret power? Probably the elites paying money to be medically de-aged.

Asema- quick Google search has the name connected to the Fan word Azema, which means vampire or the Ojibwe word asemaa, which means 'to make'. They are fitting because they are in a way making vampires.

Asema believes that people don't deserve more than one chance. Asema, these are children.

Children who must I mention are being spat back out into a world where they were put into circumstances where they committed crimes? You can't just throw someone, especially children, back into the same situation and expect complete change!

That criminal is a CHILD.

Asema obviously has a lot of trauma that has her targeting the individuals who cause the pain instead of the system that creates the situations that shape individuals. Killing children will NOT solve the problem. It only makes things worse.

Is another kid dead?

Yeah.

You also allowed them to collect your blood idiot.

Can Cass come in and beat this lady up and go all 'No one dies tonight' on her.

And they have your identity. Good going Bruce.

Final thoughts? [So far.]

I'll hold off on character judgment until the storyline finishes, but here are some of my basic thoughts I might expand later. Maybe.

Vampirism as an allegory for the rich and powerful ducking the life out of the people. Shown through the taking of blood from children who have already been victims of the prison industrial complex in order to keep the elite young.

Bruce is actually feeling the natural effects of aging and using his body as a weapon. I fear this is just a plot device that will not continue forward. [Correct me if I'm wrong.]

I actually like Scarlett. Whether she turns out to be the ultimate villain of this arc or villain by being complicit in the continued and growing divide between the elite and the people. I think she is an interesting character. I just hope they don't declaw her potential and present villainy. We see that too much with female characters.

Kinda wanna know if the LoA would have any interest in Grail tech, and how it would interact with Lazarus.

I love the artwork, but Damian looks like a Bruce clone and not a child. Where is your mother's genetics child.

This story gave me a lot of flashbacks to the Lazarus Pit story from Batman Beyond.

The interesting probably unintended undertones with Bruce failing to save several children can be read a lot like Bruce, ultimately being part of the problem. Bruce is still a privileged man who is benefiting from the systems put in place to only ever lift the rich up higher, and because of this, he ultimately ends up hurting those who will always be hurt by the system designed to always harm them. Batman's presence ultimately seems to both inspire those who want to help and hurt. It gives blanket permission to and, in consequence, new villains will always rise to the challenge.

[archivedblog16]

So, hi! :) I'm a new follower of your blog and I heard from a post that you were "a fun person to talk about infodumps, rewrites, and of course, complain about the show...and has good ideas." (from @pleasantspark's critical guide post.

So if you wouldn't mind I'll just drop some info about an OC of mine who will play a major role in the story... The Divine Dramedy on AO3! (combining both Hazbin Hotel and Helluva Boss into a singular anthological story, with sections dedicated to each. More info on the structure in a later ask maybe)

Once the Crown Princess of Heaven, Yesh's new favorite child, she now reigns as Heaven’s Queen and the vessel of the Holy Spirit. With immeasurable power and limitless knowledge, she walks the line between celestial enlightenment and something far darker. Her dominion spans Heaven and the worlds she has conquered, but her motivations remain cryptic. She was once Yesh's beloved experiment (and daughter figure), an angel imbued with potential beyond even the highest orders of seraphim. But power, like knowledge, is a double-edged sword. She did not fall like Lucifer. She did not break like Michael. She adapted. Yesh, of course, wouldn't make the same mistake twice. Now, the Omnisphere watches...

She will also be replacing Stolas' role as Blitz's main love interest in the Helluva rewrite but will also be a bit involved in the Hazbin rewrite as well.

Stolas will still be there but as a villain.

Her appearance:

Darcy's androgynous form erupts in a brilliance that transcends mere dazzle, emitting an ethereal luminance from an immaculate, stark white porcelain-textured surface. This white isn't just radiant; it's an explosion of purity, a blinding beacon of light so overpowering that it seems to tear through the fabric of reality itself. Her skin is not solid material, and drops of pure energy seem to drift away. Her long, wild hair with slight curls starts pitch-black and gradually transitions to a lighter gradient until it turns white towards the ends and ends on her upper back or mid-spine. Additional details include perfect teeth and noselessness, like most other angels.   Her eyes are a dizzying mosaic of unearthly visual wonder. The sclerae are inked in an absorbing vantablack so deep it swallows light whole. In stark contrast, her irises gleam with piercing white with vantablack pupils. They are shaped like stars with sharp edges that could slice through the very fabric of reality. These celestial star-shaped pupils fluctuate wildly in size and form, morphing to mirror her volatile emotions.  Darcy's halo, glowing white, is positioned over the back of her head (to denote her higher rank). It cast a brilliant white light that refracted into pastel colors. The halo slowly rotated, revealing intricate ornate details. Resembling a Kokoshnik tiara, the crown curves gracefully upward like a flat onion dome. The halo has distinct lines that segment the crown, outlined by black flame. Her body is marked by tonal scars that gradually deepen in color, transitioning from her natural skin tone to gray, then darker gray, and finally a stark, inky black that swallows all light. The scars resemble a moving starry night sky, with deep blue and indigo hues interspersed. The ends of her arms are charred black as if burned. This pattern is repeated on her neck and the lower halves of her legs below the knees. Her wings rarely appear on her. They are white colored. They're retractable (not in the techy sense). She has a pair on her back, a pair on her temples to cover her eyes, and a third pair on her lower legs, hidden by her scars. True form Darcy's body is now entirely enveloped in wings. Her existing wings have expanded, and new ones have emerged, creating a layered, robe-like structure. Her wings are not uniform—they have tapered, jagged, and naturally feathered edges, resembling a multi-tiered cloak of living plumage. The uppermost pair has grown significantly, extending outward like broad shoulders, angled slightly downward in a way that suggests both regality and restraint. Her face is completely obscured by overlapping wings, forming a sharp, almost hooded silhouette. The central eye embedded in her "face" remains visible, positioned at the peak of this winged hood. A tiny, separate eye floats just above the highest point, subtly hidden. Her arms are replaced with wings. These wing arms extend outward, creating an imposing, triangular silhouette. Two diminutive eyes are present on the “carpal joints” of her wing arms. Her lower body is entirely encased in wings, forming a flowing, dress (or robe)-like shape that extends down in layered, feathered folds. Her third pair of wings has enlarged, completely covering her legs and feet, making it appear as though she is gliding rather than walking. Her halo is broader, thinner, and more ornate than before, floating above her "head" in the same Kokoshink tiara shape with an eye symbol (vertically placed) in the center. Note - Seraphim fold their wings to appear more humanoid and avoid frightening humans. Darcy's true form resembles the everyday appearance of other seraphim before they fully manifest their celestial forms.

Sera and Emily will have lower ranks. I don't really like how canon shows portray seraphim, the closest angels to God in the hierarchy as coming down so easily to see the Princess of Hell over redemption. I'd imagine they (along with the Ophanim and Cherubim) be more aloof. So now Sera will be a Virtue and Emily an archangel and her assistant. And they have a mother-daughter relationship :)

I can't wait to hear your thoughts :)

The part about Darcy adapting, Lucifer falling, and Michael breaking feels poetic. It shows that Darcy out of all them was about strive and succeed. That’s fair, the way Vivziepop does hierarchy in general is very weird.

Nice to see that Stolas is a villain because he really does fit the role especially watching season 1 and 2. “She will replacing Stolas’ role as Blitzø’s love interest.” Thank god 😂. So, does Darcy visit Blitzø in Hell secretly? I assume their relationship is most likely forbidden.

[amphibious-thing]

d'Eon stated how women are morally superior, sure she's an avid feminist but would that make her a man-hating feminist?

I suppose it depends on what you mean by man-hating feminist.

For d'Eon morality was strictly tied to Christianity. D'Eon believed that God had created men and women as equals but that men had betrayed god by oppressing women. Kates explains:

Although "the intention of the Lord" was that men and women live as equals on earth as in Heaven, men did not live as God intended. They used their physical strength to dominate and exploit women, developing patriarchal institutions that systematically excluded women form positions of status and authority. "Men," d'Eon argued, "who by their strength and their gallantry seem like lions and tigers, have seized authority, all political positions all honors, all worldly riches, leaving women only the pain brought having babies." Men were not simply sexist, then, they used women to indulge in worldly things. Acquiring political power, military authority, material wealth, honors of one kind or another—this is what virility was all about. "The love of vainglory" lay at the heart of d'Eon's critique of manhood. Consequently, for a Christian a man's sexism was only one manifestation of his turning away from God, indulging in pleasures of the flesh. (p284)

In some ways her critique of manhood is mirrored in her critique of the wealthy, she writes:

What will happen to the great Duchesse de Monfalcon, who says that she would prefer to be damned alongside people of her own class than saved with maids and lackeys? Impurity among the privileged is a more dangerous example than among the disadvantaged. This most contagious, most persistent, and most shameful vice makes people suffer more than all the other vices. It has the same effect on the soul as the plague has on the body. (The Maiden of Tonnerre, p103)

Men's privilege makes them more susceptible to the sinful pleasures of the world, in much the same way that the privileges of the wealthy makes them more more susceptible to the sinful pleasures of the world.

It's all very Christian; pleasure is sinful and thus suffering is good.

However there is also themes of war throughout d'Eon's writing on gender and religion. D'Eon is purified by her conversion to womanhood in part because it takes her out of the sinfulness of the male sphere of the dragoon:

I was stripped of male clothing and my uniform, I was dressed in my first dress of innocence and placed among the Daughters of the Holy Mary and the Queen's women only that I might experience a new life and not live the old with a letter of promotion to the war office and the King's certificate sanctioning my service to my rank in the twenty-four regiments of the dragoons commanded by Colonel Beelzebub, head of the dragoons. (The Maiden of Tonnerre, p121)

D'Eon's views on gender were deeply influenced by her own lived experiences, the oppression she faced as a woman and her religious beliefs. As an atheist and a intersectional feminist I don't look to d'Eon for feminist theory and I personalty wouldn't recommend doing so. However her feminist beliefs are an interesting part of who she was and well worth studying in my opinion.

[cloudsmovingcastle]

I am begging, on my hands and knees I am begging people on this godforsaken bitch of an earth

to check the goddamn sources of the posts they reblog

or rather, the disturbing lack of sources

I am sorry but if you want to call yourself an activist you have to do the bare fucking minimum to ensure that you are not actively spreading incredibly fucking harmful and incendiary misinformation

google is free. mediabiasfactcheck is fucking free.

Do better.

[sunsbleeding]

Girl (me to me) you fell in love with a grown ass man with no car and buck teeth, who is a known cheater and liar, wtf were you expecting!!?!??!!

[front-facing-pokemon]

[emotoangel]

things that go hard

[ghost-bard]

Might see if i cant do a little reload to the neve/bellara choice in act 3 (??? Or is it late act 2 i fr do not know) just so i can record davrin stopping deirdre from going after bellara bc that scene and the 3 of them in general live rent free in my head and i was paused right after for so long that the recording i thought i saved was just. My paused screen of elgarnan lmao

[twobellsilence]

Watched Emilia Pérez to see what all the fuss was about. I might drop an essay at some point, or maybe I will write it before angrily deleting it and trying not to think about this crap ever again, but just know that I am absolutely LIVID.

The people praising this are so hypocritical I hope that when this pompous piece of SHIT of a director decides to make a film "exploring usamerican society" where a school shooter transitions and becomes an anti-school-shooting advocate that helps locate the bodies of missing school shooting victims with the help of other school shooters and they die and become a national hero, and also all the actors are like Russian or some shit and don't even know how to speak English for more than two sentences and also the director refuses to record in the US because "it didn't fit his image of the country" despite it literally being the same fucking country he's "inspired" by, y'all praise him once again for his bold narrative and unashamedly "real" representation. Fuck you

[coachbeards]

beard: Ted is my best friend, he is my savior, he is my rock. I will define my life by servicing him as his assistant and I will drop my entire life in the span of three days just because he asked me to. My biggest regret that still haunts me years and years later is that I betrayed him, and I have been punishing myself ever since. He’s an agent of good, I follow him like he is Jesus and I am just a simple worshiper. I love Ted. I have ruined relationships because of my devotion to Ted, my own girlfriend turned wife hates Ted with a passion due to her jealousy. I am constantly having to pick between my girlfriend and ted.

ted: this is my best buddy beardo :{D