#from a historical perspective

[philosophicalparadox]

Also, I have no idea if Miura was keeping this in the back of his head given the amount of research he did, but medieval views of homosexual behavior were…well not actually that “medieval”.

Like, yeah, the church definitely frowned on that, but the whole corporal punishment thing wasn’t really enforced even after it became a cardinal sin circa the 1280’s. It wasn’t until after the 1560’s and well into the renaissance that homosexual behavior became a Big Deal and people were intentionally killed for it. Prior, the punishment for serial sodomy (which as a legal term included things like pedophilia and BDSM in most places) was castration, which incidentally killed about half the people it was done to by way of infection. But those who survived, interestingly, were often all but forced into the Church ironically enough, often as monks or infamously choir boys,less because no one else would take them and more because they had to serve penance and if you were too poor to pay the fine, you basically became a monk or nun and toiled away the fee.

Aaaanyway back on track: The overarching view of homosexual behavior was that it was behavioral; there was no such thing at that time as a “gay” man, only a man who engaged in homosexual activity. Which many straight men did and still do selectively, I.e oral and “helping hand” type things between friends to demonstrate comraderie and/or to assert power or control over another man.

To this end, Miura did actually depict the unfortunately common practice of militaristic men “hazing” the newbies by doing sexual things to them, though raping them is an extreme example. That was a thing that happened with surprising regularity if the casualness of the few sources there are is any indication. They did this not because they were gay, but for the exact same reason frat houses haze their newbs - to establish the pecking order and display dominance, which is essential to the functioning of any military operation, but more so when your men are in a mercenary Band as opposed to a company; the former being smaller, less well organized versions of the latter, usually started by men that didn’t have the tenure to form or join a Company, which was made up almost entirely of retired knights with years of experience. Consequently Companies could be very very picky about their recruiting. Bands were less so, and often fizzled out or turned to criminal behavior because they lacked the discipline(and financial backing) of a Company. Miura depicted that element quite accurately too, with the Band of the Hawk engaging in robbery and in particular pillaging for resources. (That is the entire point of raiders by the by; their sole purpose is to raid, intimidate, and all around be jerks and thieves who dgaf about being either)

Point being, while there’s likely a correlation between Miuras personal interests and the quasi- homosexual lusting after Griffith for his androgyny, it also would not be considered unusual at all in the setting to find him attractive or want to bed him, especially given that he holds so much authority.

Part of why I think Miura threw in the jab Corkus made about Guts being a fag is to further accentuate not only Griffiths attractiveness but the implication that those feelings were not necessarily out of place for the setting. Frowned upon maybe, but not uncommon. Even in medieval times there was definitely an existing double entendre to the phrase, courtesy the aforementioned hazing behavior, implying that Guts might be using “favors” to get Griffiths approval. That he said it in public makes it feel like it leans more towards the slightly more literal archaic meaning someone who is inherently subservient (or the very literal one; fags were below pages in the order of things, so that was about as low as you could go) but that doesn’t really vibe with Guts personality or the fact he is at that point well known as a commander, (albeit maybe not to everyone) so I have to assume that what Corkus meant was intended to be suggestive, unless he was being hyperbolic in his distaste of the man - either way its an interesting addition personally, and as is the case with much of Miuras writing, very up to interpretation.

Anyway TLDR is that it wouldn’t have been remotely out of place in a realistic medieval setting (which, barring some anachronisms and typical Manga/ fantasy things, Berserks world is actually pretty accurate to the 1420’s period) for even “straight” men to find Griffith attractive or even sleep with him, for power/status reasons.

Is there any straight explanation for how a lot of men in the manga are textually thirsty for griffith? Like what was the point? And also i feel like Miura be projecting his own atracttion into it... Like he really wants to fuck him i get uncomfy sometime, idk if that makes sense

Based on at least this interview Miura did have a thing for androgyny so yeah that's likely a factor, though I don't find it uncomfortable. Who doesn't want to fuck Griffith, good for Miura if he wanted to too.

That said, it does fit the themes lol. There's no straight explanation, but imo there is an explanation that goes a little deeper than fun homoeroticism. I've discussed aspects of it before so I'll link a few things.

I have this post about people pedestalizing Griffith and how it facilitates the tragedy of the Golden Age.

This post about how Griffith is a symbol to people and his beauty reflects that.

And this post about his sexual vulnerability and how that's a major theme of his narrative wrt trauma.

Basically Griffith's attractiveness fits his narrative perfectly because his narrative is all about embodying an idealized image of himself to achieve his goals and deny his own vulnerabilty, and how that ultimately fucks him over when everyone including Guts believes that image and doesn't see the real person underneath, and results in him eventually losing everything human about himself and more literally becoming the image when he becomes NeoGriffith. And this is all tied up in trauma as well, which is also related to his beauty, eg Gennon.

Thanks for the ask!

[marzipanandminutiae]

tumblr: your boss is not your friend! they shouldn't be making you do emotional labor! work-life balance! do only what they pay you for and then check out! [to be clear, I agree with this sentiment]

also tumblr: omg why is this literary protagonist saying she's LONELY when there are SERVANTS ALL AROUND HER?! what a SNOB she is to not BEFRIEND THEM AND TELL THEM ALL HER TROUBLES!!!

[luthanraels-bignaturals]

I don’t think I’ve seen anyone else talking about how karmic Fitzjames’ fate was.

From the perspective of the artic, it’s a revenge story. His wounds- the wounds he always bragged about, which he got from helping imperialize and plunder, wounds he got from people trying to protect their homes- literally reopening themselves???? This place wants us dead??? “Our ghosts have strong hands and long memories” type beat????

[theactualsunshinechild]

I think Aventio and Screwtio shippers shouldn't fight. After all, Ratio has two hands!

That's right. Two hands.

One for his chalk.

One for his codex.

Both of which he's holding in an embarrassed death grip as they chat away with each other about him.

[curse-of-dming-strahd]

I was trying to explain to my group that Barovia is the whole valley but for some reason the game designers decided the little village at the base of the mountain is also called Barovia and it's confusing and I don't know why they did it

and one of my players just goes, "Oh, like New York, New York."

and I'm more okay with Barovia, Barovia now.

[ellmovy]

My Dearest Enemy Act II: 1066 - 1453 // 'An expert in a dying field'

The Chronological FRUK Playlist Part 2/6

Here we go it's enemy time. More genre variety as well now!! I really like this one lol

Part One

[fallowhearth]

I don't know how many people remember this, but 2000s internet feminism was obsessed with trying to rehabilitate the reputation of periods with all kinds of stupid reheated divine feminine, feel connected to your womanhood, all negatives are socially constructed, etc bullshit. 4chan had its fun creating extreme versions of this stuff, but they didn't invent it whole cloth. It was inescapable. Anyway, I'm so glad people have moved on and are no longer trying to convince everyone that periods are awesome. So happy that it's now uncontroversial to say that shit sucks.

[ehlnofay]

One day – as far-off as a century, as near as tomorrow – it will all be a grand old story.

The stories will speak of a handful of champions, rushing headlong against time and logic to save the world; the last Blades, the last Septim, and his hanger-on Hero, carving a bloody path to the Temple doors. The stories will tell of skies like burned blood, of fire and ash and uncountable legions of monsters – hundreds, thousands, millions, the quantity rising with each telling – the city streets cracked and quaking, every civilian locked up in their homes and businesses and praying for deliverance. The stories will tell of the appearance of Dagon, red-hot and roiling, a gory perversion of the sun; they’ll tell that when all seemed lost, Martin Septim sacrificed himself in a blaze of glory, calling down the avatar of Akatosh and casting Dagon and his ilk back whence he came. They’ll tell that the golden dragon threw back its head and roared, and the sky cleared and brightened at its word; they’ll tell how it petrified in place, a magnificent pillar of stone, a sacrosanct statue. A site of pilgrimage. A shrine, to the grace and glory of the gods, and the bravery and benevolence of the last Emperor, the best of men.

It will be a good story. All splendour and triumph, a bittersweet victory right out of the epics; the pages closed, the crisis done, the world saved in as golden a resolution as could be asked for. It doesn’t get better than this, a perfect saviour, a hallowed end.

What the stories won’t tell is how, under clear skies and sunlight, the Hero of Kvatch falls at the statue’s marbled feet and howls like the world is still ending.

“You fucking coward,” Pax is screaming, as best as she can. Her mouth tastes like smoke. Her voice is hoarse. “Stupid worm, fucking – selfish bastard – what’s wrong with you?”

His head is swimming, a bit; he shouldn’t have tried to stand, but he – but – he’s dragged himself up to the dais, just about, and managed to sprawl himself over the edge, a snail’s trail of blood smeared along the floor behind him. The copper tang of it is strong in his nostrils. The statue stands, proud and silent, one marble claw dug into the cracked stone of the rostrum. His whole body is beginning to ache – just because of a stupid stab wound in his side, he’d swear he’s had worse, it’s not that bad, it’s not that bad. His throat burns. He isn’t crying. He isn’t.

The sky is so fucking blue.

“What’s wrong with you?” he demands, again, and brings the heel of his hand thudding against the clawed foot hard enough that he feels the impact down his arm, through his blurry head. “Why would you – piece of shit – sorry spit-gill – I thought –”

None of their thoughts will go through to the end. “I thought,” Pax says again, and she’s not crying, and it hurts so much it’s looped back around to not hurting, and it’s all getting fuzzy at the edges, all the world narrowed down to this and this and this and all fucking hell she’d rather be anywhere, anything else. The statue is cold. Her throat is scraped raw. “Come back,” she’s begging without quite meaning to, “come back,” and she drives her palm into the stone again, and the pain sets her reeling.

And all hell, the sky is so blue; the statue enormous; and here they are, at its feet, vision blurring, staring up at its cold marble face. It’s so fucking tall, so proud, face tipped up towards the new-appeared sun, away from them.

“How could you?” Pax says, and then they can’t even see it anymore, blood unspooling from them like skeins of madder-dyed thread. Red has never been their favourite colour. The shape of the dragon, glowing like the sun, is fixed forever on the backs of their eyelids; gold, they think, is worse. The world is detached and floating about them. They taste smoke and then bile. Stone digs fierce into their spine.

It burned like the sun, the dragon; like all the divine light of Aetherius come to earth just to sear the moisture from her eyes. Where it clawed Mehrunes Dagon, his blood boiled; when it screamed, the world moulded itself to its call. Pax hadn’t known what was happening, while it happened; sure as shit doesn’t know now. What they do know is that he’s gone. What they do know is that the dragon didn’t look at them once. They don’t taste ash on their breath, now; just fear, stagnant, sour, blood jangling bitter in their veins and seeping out to soak their gambeson.

It doesn’t hurt, anymore, there’s just this spreading, vague numbness. It doesn’t feel like their body. It’s just a thing they’re putting on. Their ears are still ringing from the crashing-in of the Temple, but there’s a faint buzzing of noise outside. They might be dying. They can’t be assed to get up.

Skeeving asshole. They’re getting blood on the dragon’s immaculate feet. The hollow sounds of voices feels distant. Could well be worse.

Then, “… a healer, here!” they hear, much closer than anything else had been before, paired with the faraway thudding of the door, and “Pax. Pax! It’s – where’s –” and there’s hands on him, a cautious manipulation of his neck, a shifting of his legs. Pressure on his sternum, and then his stomach, and a pained grunt slips out of his mouth, bound up with a slurred curse.

“Stay calm,” says an unfamiliar voice, soft and steady. “I’m just accessing the wound.”

“Go away,” Pax says, or tries to say, but his voice is whispering-hoarse and the dragon looms in the dark even still. He could open his eyes, but what would be the point?

The hands stay on him even when he bucks, holding him steady; they whisper over the stab in her gut, pulling at the drying blood, mumbling words that she can’t be fucking bothered to listen to, one voice known to her already, one voice not; pressure again on the injury, and they try, half-heartedly, to breathe out a swear – and then light, copper-bright, behind their eyelids, and burning heat, and pain pain pain eclipsing all else as something inside them wrenches back into working order, and then their eyes are open and the sky is blue and they are very fucking aware, thank you.

Pax sits up, fast enough to send the world dizzily whirling, and shoves the mage-medic away from them.

“Piss off,” he says – and it’s still hoarse, smoke-throated and scraped raw, but there’s more bite to it this time, more sound. The strange hands fall away from his side, and he looks down. His gambeson is hanging open, cords untied, the emblem of the wolf split clean down the middle. His undershirt is rucked up around his chest, too, so much of his skin is bared to the clear, bright air; all to get to the wound tucked just under their ribs. It’s an underwhelming thing – smaller than they would’ve thought, a thin short slash like a very red mouth has opened itself up in their gut. It’s stopped dribbling quite so much blood, gone scabby with rough healing, though the stuff is still smeared all over their skin, damn near enough to bathe in. It’s barely anything, really. They’re barely even hurt.

“I’m not done,” says the mage-medic, all stern. The wound itches, the taste of hasty magic gone sour in the back of their throat with all the rest of it. “I might have to find my suturing needle. It isn’t too bad, but it can’t be healed all at once.”

“Piss off,” Pax repeats – and all fucking hell it hurts, and he’s sitting up against the statue, legs lolling. He’s dizzy. He ignores it.

Ocato – his fine clothes sooty, face tight as a wound-up spring – says, “Calm down, please – he’s a skilled healer, he knows what he’s doing.” His eyes keep skipping around the room like he’s searching for another enemy lurking hidden in the shadows. “What happened? Where’s the Emperor?”

Ah – not an enemy, then.

Pax tastes bile.

“Not very quick on the uptake, are you?” she says, elbow braced against the statue’s massive marble claws (she hates touching it, she hates it, she hates it, she wants to set it crumbling apart, she doesn’t want to let anyone else touch it ever again). She can’t stop leaning because then she might topple back down again. Fuck, she needs to keep her head on straight – or lose it altogether, whichever happens faster. Her fingers feel cold. “How’re you going to run an Empire when you’re this fucking clueless?”

Ocato looks them in the face; his brow, high and slanted in that way elves have, furrows. “You’re hurt,” he says, in a tone like he expects Pax to argue with him. “Martin Septim–”

“Can’t you see him?” Pax demands, tone torn in half and uglier than they’ve ever heard it before, and they slam the back of their hand against the stone for echoing emphasis. (They want to shatter all the bones in their knuckles, break every piece in their hand one by one, like wishbones. They want it bloody and bruising. They want to scratch its polished-smooth surface until their fingernails tear. They want – they want – they want –)

Ocato, the Empire’s de facto leader, says, “Ah.”

In his plummy robes, all fruit-rich and stained with ash, he looks very stark against the Temple’s cracked marble floors.

“The Avatar,” he says. “If – the Amulet – joined blood of kings and gods –”

“Ocato,” says Pax, leaning heavy against the statue’s hateful foot, “shut up.” Their voice is bowstring-taut; he looks at them, his eyes too golden to meet. His mouth twists. They tip their head back against the stone, glaring up at the chips of blue sky shown in the crater where the roof once was, and try hard to ignore the tugging ache hooked behind their ribs.

It really fucking hurts. Worse than it did before, maybe, like some gauzy veil has been ripped from it. A veil has been ripped from the world. All the colours are too-bright, hideous. Pax breathes, because there’s no alternative, and waits for the pain to ebb.

(It doesn’t, really.)

“The Gates are sealed,” Ocato says, slowly, and he��s looking at her again, she can see out of the edge of her eye. “We will speak later. I’ll have you put up in the Palace until you’re healed. Ah – Quintus, does –”

“As long as she doesn’t go back into shock,” says the mage-medic, busily flipping through some kind of supply bag at his belt, “her odds are good. Lost blood, but I don’t think anything important was too damaged – get a proper examination, all I did was give her a second wind. Stitches, rest, fluids should do it, with luck.”

“Can she stand?”

“Can or should are –”

“Shut the fuck up,” Pax snaps, “I’m right here.” Her back pressed against the cold marble of the statue, her plait half-loose and knotted, filled with ash. The sky is so fucking blue. It hurts like hell – if the healer took her out of shock, then shit, she wishes he’d put her back in. She can see in too much detail. She can feel the skin, damp and ragged and angry. She presses the heel of her hand to the injury; her palm is crusted with dust, tacky with the same half-dried blood streaked over the floors.

Ocato, in the edges of her vision, shifts, all a blur of rich clothes and sympathetic eyes and solemn voice turned soft like he’s talking to an easily spooked horse. “I know.”

The mage-medic clucks his tongue. “Let me take another look first,” he says, and takes a step forward –

Pax kicks out at him before he even gets close. “Don’t fucking touch me!”

“Pax,” says Ocato – and why, why the fuck is the Empire’s de facto leader here, now, babying them like a whimpering little puppy instead of anywhere fucking else, why is he bothering to talk to them all patronising soft, why does he care? They’ve barely fucking met – talked twice, if you can call either of those times talking. Is it because they’re the Hero of Kvatch? Is this what they’ve earned – a bit of leeway as they throw a tantrum, bleeding out at the marble feet of that stupid bloody statue? Ocato looks so fucking tired; Pax wants to hit him in the nose. “You need care.”

“I need –” and Pax chokes it off in a puff of air. The statue looms behind them. There’s blood on the floors. (Traitor liar coward come back come back I hate you come down I’ll knock your fucking teeth in stupid selfish fraud come BACK. LOOK AT ME.)

Pax closes his eyes.

“My gratitude,” Ocato says, “ – our gratitude for what you’ve done cannot be overstated. The Crisis if over. The gates are sealed. Mehrunes Dagon and his ilk can never threaten Tamriel again.”

The knobs of Pax’s braid are pressing uncomfortably against their scalp. They can hear footsteps, coming closer. They don’t respond.

“It’s a great shame we had to pay such a price,” Ocato says, and Pax would fucking love to know who’s we here, “but it’s done. Dagon is defeated. We’ve won.” He’s much too close, now; his voice pitches softer. “Martin – is dead. But he died an Emperor – and a hero to rival Tiber Septim.”

Pax shoves him.

It’s a good fucking shove – knocks him right to the ground, his elbow hitting the marble with a painfully audible crack, Pax standing over him, shirt rucked up, their handprint on his shoulder marked in blood. “You useless, prattling jackass!” they spit, hoarse, and deal a swift, savage kick to his side. “How dare you act like this is a victory! It should have been me!”

Then their head swims, and they’re sitting again on the edge of the dais, palm pressed to their side, the sweaty cloth of their gambeson pushed half off their shoulder and its cord biting into their hand. The mage-medic is kneeling over Ocato, who still lies, stunned; Pax can’t see his eyes, now, but they remember them, brassy with shocked fear. Their bow is off by the wall where they left it. Pax’s palms are sticky with blood. The sky is so fucking blue. No matter how hard she rages the dragon won’t look down at them.

By the time the mage-medic has helped Ocato up, they’re gone. The Kvatch guard gambeson remains, smoke-smelling and crusted with blood, left like an offering at the statue’s feet. The Hero of Kvatch is never seen again.

[ameliafuckinjones]

Reading this article about how the James Bond films/books embody the 5 stages of grief that British society/a generation (especially the author who lived during the twilight years of the empire) went through after the loss of the empire and how Bond is supposed to represent the British pov and its new role on the world stage as America assumes the role of superpower and engages in a cold war with Russia. It talks about the nostalgia and anger and resentment that the author channeled through his writing at each stage the empire was taken apart (From Indian independence to the Suez Canal crisis). The article suggests that the books/films engage in the fantasy of Britian (or British agents) still being capable and perhaps a bit better than their American counterparts despite America's technological and economic dominance. Also, the constant fantasy of being the only one who can save America and the world. I kind of like it because in a way it fits my own personal head canons about how England came to view his relationship with America, paired with the constant need to give into fantasy/delusions and illusions at odds with reality which kind of goes with his astrology (Neptune in his first house):

I love entertaining the thought that England doesn't start being truly angry with America until AFTER his empire falls and America replaces him. Before that, he viewed America how one might view an aggressive chihuahua: a bit annoying and perplexing, but easy to ignore or placate. That is no longer the case post-WWII, and it pisses him off to no end. He compensates by trying to take a more dominant role in their relationship, though on the social/personal level. He did become a bit more dominant/aggressive on a geopolitical level during the Falklands War, when America under Reagan tried to caution the UK from going to war over the Falklands and England basically said "fuvk OFF" and then America ended up siding with him ANYWAY and he hadn't felt that alive in YEARS.

In my mind, modern England as a character is a bitter old man who still holds in his heart an insatiable lust for a "larger than life" existence with no outlet for that lust in the modern world (where he is no longer the Empire) and it is driving him insane. Comparatively (and to a go a bit off tangent) America is being driven insane by anxieties over his pre-eminence as the worlds first superpower -a role he believes he wasn't ready for though he'll never give England or anyone else the satisfaction of knowing that- and his own mortality due to being so young and in his mind in much more danger of seizing to exist in comparison to older nations (though in truth he shouldn't worry so much, after all France is still around and he literally went through a death and rebirth during his Revolution. It takes a lot to completely disappear a nation).

[goldenstarprincesses]

Out: Puritan and Quaker America

In: America lived with the Shakers because they saw him as just another sad little abandoned orphan and with their interpretation of God leaning more mystical they weren't freaked out by him not aging normally

[henke-penke]

Until Death.

Tumblr exclusive prequel to There's Something Off About Heather ! I highly suggest you read that before this one, because the best way to experience that oneshot is if you know as little about it as possible, and this oneshot spoils the whole mystery part imo.

To the people who have read the first oneshot, enjoy :> !

(If there are any spelling mistakes in this no there aren't)

Content Warning: Semi-graphic descriptions of murder and violence. Morality being thrown out the window. Slight possessiveness (it's nothing crazy, just a line here and there alluding to it, but it's there). I may or may not have gone a bit too hard on framing murder as romantic, but this is horror so it is what it is.

“Sometimes I wish they were dead.”

Alejandro didn't mean it. Never ever would he wish harm upon his family. It was a slip of the tongue, occurring one night when his emotions had gotten the best of him. When the stress had gotten too much to bear. 

Neither Heather nor Noah had said anything about it. Just held their partner through his turmoil in gentle hands reserved only for each other. 

It was a slip of the tongue. 

Yet it lingered in the back of their minds. 

During every dinner party they attended out of nothing but polite obligation. Every time they read their demeaning letters and forced themselves to write back. 

It would forever remain unknown who made the first move: who gave that final push. But soon enough, a plan was made. One they prepared for over the better part of a year. Memorizing routines and creaking floorboards. Marking trails in the forest surrounding the Burromuerto mansion under the guise of getting fresh air. Getting their hands on the axe José, Alejandro’s brother, had been gifted years prior. 

In the middle of the night, May 5th, 1941, they arrived at the mansion. Veiled in darkness, wearing gloves and strangers’ shoes to obscure their trails. 

They entered the house with no problems, and snuck up to the second floor where Sr. and Sra Burromuerto were fast asleep. Unaware of the retribution to come.

Alejandro held José’s axe aloft and stared down at the still form of his father. So peaceful, so harmless. Like an innocent man. It filled Alejandro with unbridled rage.

The axe came down to bury itself deep in the man's abdomen. He awoke with a pained gasp far too late. Alejandro dislodged the axe and struck again and again. Falling into the familiar rhythm of chopping wood for the fireplace.

Blood splattered about, staining the bedsheets and Alejandro's face. His mother awoke at some point, screaming in terror as she tried to escape. But Heather and Noah blocked her path. They held her down while Alejandro wrapped wire around her neck and pulled it tighter and tighter. It cut through her skin, her muscles, her veins. Turning desperate gasps for air into thick gargling as blood flooded her throat.

There was resentment in her eyes— searing through the panic of her life being forced away. The eyes staring back down at her did so in absolute hatred and without remorse. 

With the world two lives poorer, they began to clean up whatever tracks they had left and then set the stage. The perfect framing of José Burromuerto— an impatient and greedy man, who thought he could get away with speeding up the process of gaining his share of the family fortune. Who snuck in through the backdoor, murdered his parents, and buried his axe out in the forest. 

Unfortunately for him, he forgot to rid the imprint of his boots on the carpet. Forgot that he left the spare house keys his mother had entrusted him with at the scene of the crime. 

As they intended, José was arrested for the murder of Sr. and Sra Burromuerto less than a week later. And as an added bonus, he was given the death penalty. They took the news with feigned devastation, Alejandro shedding crocodile tears. An award-winning performance that left the audience none the wiser as they sang their sympathies. 

And maybe they should've stopped there, but they didn't. 

It was three months after the death of his parents when Alejandro surprised Noah and Heather with intricate bouquets of roses— and an unconscious body in the basement of their house. He was gifted gleeful smiles and kisses in return, and then they got to work.

Heather slammed a hammer against ankles and wrists— splitting skin and cracking bones. Noah twisted the knife each time he buried it in the flesh, scraping at the insides. And wielding his own axe, Alejandro dismembered the body. 

It was a near bloodbath. They could afford to be messy, to be less organized. There was no plan; just a body and pent-up grievances with having to play nice. Never had they expected it to be so liberating to let go of decency and politeness, and be truly horrible. 

There was also something so undeniable about the sight of their partners covered in somebody else's blood. A sight meant only for them— a reminder of just how dangerous they were. And how until death, and beyond that evermore, they’d never allow harm to befall their lovers.

Not to mention how absolutely divine they looked in red.

So they continued, treating it as any other date activity. Candle-lit dinners and a body in the basement. Strolls through the park and a victim to hunt. 

Sometimes they did it slowly; Pulled out teeth one by one, injected poisons to watch death make its agonizing claim.

Sometimes they did it quickly; A bullet through the brain, a knife across the throat.

Some were picked at random, simply for being at the wrong place at the wrong time. Others were targeted with reason, simply for being unpleasant to either one of them.

Some they brutalized beyond recognition. Others they left as though untouched.

There was never a pattern to string the deaths together, leaving the police in disarray as they tried to wrap their heads around the cases piling up. They paid little mind to them, they didn’t matter. Not in the slightest. Not when their crimes were so intoxicatingly dreamy.

Gentle hands caressing blood-stained cheeks after bashing someone’s head in. The softest gazes watching grim acts play out. Passionate kisses shared over fresh corpses.

It was the same love that had always been there, as strong as it’d been before— just felt through a new avenue. One meant just for them. One where anyone else would be horrified and call them monsters.

Alejandro couldn’t fathom the idea of anyone viewing his loves as monsters. If anyone did, best it be kept to themselves lest they fall victim. 

On July 23rd, 1945, they stood surrounded by the mangled remains of some poor saps hanging from the trees. Purposefully so, to taunt the police and give the townsfolk the scare of their lives. That was when Alejandro— still covered in blood and viscera— removed his gloves and got on one knee. Presenting Noah and Heather the rings made special for them. 

He knew the answer before he’d even finished his question, and he was overjoyed. They all were. Though of course, someone had to sour it.

So was it really a surprise, that when Heather's father went on a critical tangent— questioning how anyone could love his daughter, the thought crossed their minds;

I wish you were dead.

[fluentisonus]

guys I'm going to be honest with you I don't think this is a fair comparison at all

[smidge-j]

I went to see the first major hydroelectric system (not a dam) built in New Zealand today

Coleridge Power system in Canterbury, New Zealand

Water in the natural Lake Coleridge is diverted through some tunnels (pic 3) under a small mountain, then down the side of the hill through the penstocks (pic 1), where it goes through turbines to generate electricity before being discharged into the Rakaia River(pic 2), which runs parallel to the lake, at a significantly lower elevation. It is not a dam, like most hydroelectric systems are, instead using the natural elevation and tunnels to power the turbines.

Stats:

Operational in 1914

The tunnels through the hill are around 2km long

Elevation difference between the lake and the turbines is around 160m

Output of 270 gigawatt hours annually.

Tagging @possumofdoom because I know you are also interested in hydroelectricity

[alicentflorent]

The problem is that Condal and Hess not only disrespect the source (the book) but also mock it, I read some of their interviews and get the impression that they clearly consider themselves smarter than Martin and think that they understand lore better than the person who created this universe. Like, it's okay when you've read a book and you have some thoughts of your own about this or that, you can express them, but you're not making some kind of a fanfiction, it’s not a retcon or an alternative universe, you're making a tv series based on the book, so be kind and follow its plot, and leave your canons in your head, no one cares about them. All these claims that the book is green propaganda, or it's a maester conspiracy, or only Valyrian blood ppl can ride a dragon and it's Targ propaganda and all the other shit they said in interviews is all their headcanons that has nothing to do with the source. And to criticize it and then intentionally change it show because you don't like it and you don't agree with it is the wildest disrespect to Martin as a writer.

I agree and I’ve seen them doing this too. Like it’s fine to have your own opinions and even change certain things but the people involved in creating the show should be able to behave in a professional manner and adapt the content they’re working with. They also aren’t professional in interviews and criticise the source material (which they aren’t familiar with) and clearly want to create an entirely different show. Their biases also show through the writing and the show suffers because of this.

[sketching-shark]

Starting Journey to the West assuming its the story about a silly goofy monkey going on monster-of-the-week adventures with his friends:

Reading about Sun "was-definitely-a-warlord" Wukong smashing the upteenth person's head into a meat patty but a few chapters in:

[aheathen-conceivably]

Violette had a plan, and only the first step involved acquiring her mother’s permission. She had hoped that it would work, but after countless times of being told to stay in her room, she didn’t truly think that it would.

So near bedtime, she asked her Tante Marguerite to read her a story, knowing that the old woman would almost certainly doze off before the princess found her prince. Even once the book had been shut and her aunt’s eyes closed, Violette sat on the rug, innocently playing with her doll and waiting patiently.

Once the woman began to snore Violette knew that she was in a deep sleep. Still clutching her doll in case she needed to play innocent, Violette stood to count each snore: one, two, three, four, five. That was her cue, so she swiftly and confidently slipped on her shoes and snuck away from her charge.

Downstairs. You are never to go downstairs, Violette. Yet even from the top of the stairwell she could hear the music. It was faint from there, but with every step down the hallway it grew louder and clearer.

For as long as she could remember, she had heard the sound of music in the night moving through the hallways like waves, calling to her and fascinating her. She knew that it was her mother and father, since she heard them practicing, but she had never seen them play together, never knew what they were like or what this magical place that she only knew as downstairs could possibly look like.

Violette followed the sounds through the rooms, down one flight of stairs after another until she reached the door that led from their apartment to the street. Across from it was the stage door, the one that her parents had always told her was strictly forbidden. Violette reached her small hand forward to open it, and then worked her way down a dark hallway before she emerged through the beaded curtain into the red walled club.

The intensity of music there was louder than she had ever heard, seemingly deafening everyone in the club to her footsteps. A heavy cloud of smoke hung in the air, mingling with the adult's preoccupation to conceal her there, skirting along the walls until she could see her parents up on stage.

She stopped at the edge of the crowd, looking up toward her mother and father. As she gazed up her mother hit a note more clear and piercing than any she had ever heard on the radio; suddenly her voice tapered off into a soft but immensely sad hum, the sound almost low enough to be sorrowful, until her father began to play the piano again, the notes seemingly discordant but somehow perfectly arranged.

They were like stars in the night, shining atop the crowd of dancing bodies, setting the tempo of the whole room. She was fascinated, entranced, and riveted that they could be this way, so magnetic and raw. They were never like this upstairs, always reading or talking quietly with one another. Up there they seemed more real than ever before.

The heels scurried closer to her, the tempo growing faster. She moved toward the crowd, no longer caring if anyone were to notice her or push her aside as they danced.

“Lottie!” A voice suddenly hissed. Turning, Violette spotted her Aunt Josephine approaching. Before Jo could utter a stronger admonishment, Violette gave her a mischievous grin and ran away.

Now that she had seen them, her mission was complete. She could safely go back upstairs to listen to the show through the parquet floors as she always did. In the months since she had returned from England, she had placed her ear on every intricately designed floorboard to find exactly the spot where the music was the loudest. Now, as she listened to the muffled sounds from below, she could imagine what her mother must feel like up there on stage, shining like a star in the night.