#let the justified rage flow

[gauntletgirlie]

Channeling my inner Galadriel at the absolute state of the world right now.

[hayerins]

Love, Sophie

written for sophie week

Three times Sophie is told she does not deserve love. One time Sophie is told she deserves all the love.

“What does bastard mean?” 5-year-old Sophie asked her governess with her bright, innocent eyes.

“I’m afraid I cannot answer that, Sophie.” Mrs Gibbons avoided the little girl’s eyes.

“Oh, is it a tough word that you do not know its meaning?” Sophie tilted her head in confusion. She thought her governess knew everything.

“You are not wrong to say that, Sophie.” Mrs Gibbons nodded slowly. 

“Would an example help? I’ve heard the other maids say I am the Earl’s bastard child.” Sophie assumed she was helping Mrs Gibbons by providing the example. 

“About that…Sophie…” Mrs Gibbons weighed the possibilities of defining the term for Sophie.

“It’s another way to describe ward, Sophie.” Mrs Gibbons decided against telling Sophie the truth. 

“So can I say that instead of ward? That I’m the Earl’s bastard child?” Sophie assumed the term was positive. 

“I would refrain from doing so, Sophie. We shall all stick to ward. I will inform the other maids as well. Are we clear on this?” Mrs Gibbons’ voice was firm. 

“Is this why the Earl does not love me? Like how the other papas love their children?” Sophie was an intelligent girl. Too intelligent for her own sake. 

“The Earl cannot love you like other papas do, Sophie. You are his ward. He loves you like a guardian would. Nothing more, nothing less.” Mrs Gibbons believed it was for Sophie’s good that she abandoned any hope early. The more Sophie desired fatherly love from the Earl, the more she would be in pain.

 “Nothing more, nothing less,” Sophie repeated Mrs Gibbon’s words, reminding herself she was nothing more than a ward, and nothing less. 

~

“You’re a bastard child.” Rosamund stared straight into Sophie’s eyes.

At least the Earl’s blood flows in me. Sophie wished self-control wasn’t one of her strengths. She had learned the meaning of the term as she aged. 

“You should be glad that we are providing for you. A bastard child.” Rosamund enunciated the last two words slowly as if the deliberate pause in between would soften the blow.

Sophie looked at Rosamund, weighing the various replies she could choose from. Something told her silence would be the best answer.

“Why aren’t you saying anything?” Rosamund expected a rebuttal from Sophie. She expected a defiant response so she could justify her anger.

“If me being at your beck and call all day is not enough, I don’t know what more will appease you.” Sophie was done with Rosamund and gave her an answer. An answer that seemed subservient enough on the surface.

“Nothing you do will appease me. Your very presence itself disgusts me, bastard child.” Rosamund spat. 

“I shall make myself scarce then.” Sophie turned to take her leave, too exhausted to entertain yet another of Rosamund’s childish, insecure tantrums. 

“Where do you think you’re going!” Rosamund lurched to grab Sophie by her hair.

“Let go, Rosamund. You’re hurting me.” Sophie tried to untangle Rosamund’s fingers from her hair.

“Get your dirty hands off me, you bastard child. How dare you touch me!” Rosamund shrieked as she gave Sophie a forceful slap. A slap so strong, it threw Sophie onto the ground with a resounding thud.

“This will teach you to know your place, bastard child.” Rosamund seemed pleased at the sight of her clear palm imprint on Sophie’s tear-filled cheeks. 

~

“How dare you!” Sophie watched as Araminta charged towards the young servant sitting next to her.

“My lady…” The servant stood up instinctively, unsure of Araminta’s next action. Which seconds later, was revealed to be a tight slap to the face.

“I dare you to repeat your words.” Araminta looked at the kneeling servant from the side of her eyes.

“Forgive me, my lady but I do not know what you are referring to.” The poor maid was shivering from shock and the numbing pain from Araminta’s slap. 

“You spoke about the Earl’s bastard child. I heard you!” Araminta raged, scaring the poor girl even further.

“We were far from that topic, Araminta.” Sophie stepped in front of the maid, blocking Araminta’s view.

“As if I would believe the words of a bastard child.” Araminta spat, transferring her anger onto Sophie. 

“That would be out of my control, Araminta.” Sophie blinked. She may or may not have regretted her response but it was too late. 

“Bastard.” Sophie willed herself to not flinch as she watched Araminta’s arm swing towards her cheeks. Go on, Araminta. Hit me.

Seconds after Sophie felt the sting of Araminta’s slap, her ears started ringing and her eyes began to tear. Sophie wasn't sure if it was from pain or anger. Perhaps both. 

“Repeat after me. I am a bastard child.” Araminta leaned in with an evil smirk on her face. Sophie’s silence only served to rile Araminta further. With a glint in her eyes, Araminta yanked on the hair of the young maid, who was watching everything on the side. Looking at Sophie briefly, Araminta laid hands on the maid.

“What do you think you’re doing!” Sophie yelled. There was no need for manners in this situation. Araminta didn’t deserve any either. 

“Say it.” Araminta threatened as she tightened the grip on the young maid’s hair. Sophie looked at the quivering girl, guilty for implicating her. Seeing Sophie’s ‘defiance’, Araminta delivered another slap to the maid’s face. One that was stronger than before. 

“I am a bastard child.” Sophie shut her eyes as she forced herself to repeat Araminta’s words. Shame on you, Sophie. 

“Again. I am a bastard child unworthy of love.” Araminta swelled with a disgusting sense of superiority. 

“I…am a bastard child…unworthy…of love.” Sophie's throat felt like it was on fire as she swallowed the insult.

“Good. Remember your place.” Araminta was pleased with herself. A bastard child like her needs to know her place. 

“Let us leave.” Sophie held the young maid’s shaking hand and pulled her along. Sophie needed to leave before she broke down in Araminta’s sight. That would merely feed her unfounded ego. 

“Sophie, I'm sorry.” The young maid knew Sophie did so to protect her. 

“Araminta wasn't wrong. I am a bastard child.” Sophie let out a slow and painful sigh, deciding that giving in was perhaps easier than fighting.

~

“Sophie!” Sophie's body reacted to Hyacinth's voice before her brain could.

“Yes, Hyacinth?” Sophie peeked into the hall.

“The cookies! I wanted to share the cookies that Daphne brought!” Hyacinth beckoned for Sophie to join the rest. Violet, Kate, Daphne, Eloise, Francesca and Hyacinth were all gathered for tea.

“Sophie, come join us.” Eloise made space next to her. Sophie hesitated as she stared at the empty space on the plush couch. She wasn't worthy of the couch. 

“See Eloise, Sophie doesn't want to sit with you. Sophie, sit next to me!” Hyacinth tapped the space next to her as she looked at Sophie with a huge grin.

“I'm sure Sophie wants to sit next to me. Sophie?” Daphne offered. Sophie remained rooted at the entrance, overwhelmed by the kind offers.

“Is something the matter, Sophie?” Kate approached Sophie with worry in her eyes. 

“You're crying…” Kate bent down to look at Sophie. 

Before Sophie knew it, Kate had led her into the hall and the Bridgerton ladies surrounded her. 

“Did someone mistreat you, Sophie?” Daphne questioned. 

“Did Ben bother you? I'll go talk to him…” Eloise added while adjusting her dress in preparation to confront Benedict.

“Is work too harsh for you?” Hyacinth wondered. 

“Let us know what is bothering you and we can fix it, Sophie.” Violet's warm and concerned tone disarmed whatever self-control Sophie had left.

“Sorry, it's just…” Sophie hadn’t felt such genuine love and kindness for as long as she could remember. Heck, she didn’t even have any memory to speak of. 

“You’re part of us, Sophie.” Kate pulled Sophie into a hug. Perhaps Kate understood Sophie the best. 

“You, Sophie, deserve love. I don’t know what Lady Penwood told you but if there’s one thing you deserve, it is love. The love of a parent, the love of a family and the love of a man who cherishes you deeply.” Violet’s heart for Sophie had only grown since the day Benedict first brought her home. 

“Mama’s right. You have us now. We’ll be your family. We’ll love you.” Daphne and her sisters couldn’t be happier to have a sister like Sophie. 

For her entire life, Sophie had done everything to earn the love she deserved. Perhaps what Sophie deserved was a love she didn’t ever need to work for. And that came in the form of the Bridgertons. 

[seetangus]

Aghhh i would love a reader x azula with the song "i dont smoke" by mitski inspired fic. Especially the line "So if you need to be mean, Be mean to me." PLEASEEE IF U HAVE TIME ERNKEKEJA IM BEGGIN U!! Like imagine azula snapping and being mean to her soldiers or smth

I Don’t Smoke - Azula x reader

[masterlist]

Azula x gn reader based on the song “I Don’t smoke” by Mitski. warnings: angst, verbal and physical violence, burning

534 + 282 words

Please enjoy

“Azula, don’t do this! They did their best, they don’t deserve this!” You rushed to Azula, desperate to keep her from inflicting mass punishment on her soldiers.

If you need to be mean

“The failed me. And they will suffer.” “But…” “Stop defending them! I am their princess and if they do not live up to my expectations they will have to endure the consequences!” “Azula, if you would just listen to…”

Be mean to me

“Are you trying to question my decisions, y/n?” Azula stared at you, her face distorted with anger. You had been in this situation before. Azula did love you, but in moments like this she was not herself. Still, you were determined to keep her from hurting her soldiers.

I can take it and put it inside of me

Even if it meant you would get hurt instead.

“Yes Azula, I am.” Your voice trembled. “It is not justifiable to punish all those people only because they cannot meet your unreachable standards.”

If your hands need to break

More than trinkets in your room

Azula came closer to you. “Do you realise what you just said, y/n?”

You can lean on my arm

Azula caressed your cheek. Her hand was boiling hot. “You know I love you, y/n”, Azula purred. Her touch burned. “And you are lucky that I do.” Her hand heated up even more. Tears began running over your face, evaporating when meeting her hand. “I would not hold back if it was someone else.”

As you break my heart

The pain was too much. You knocked her arm away and wiped your tears with your sleeve. But your skin wasn’t the only thing that burned; your heart felt like there was nothing but ashes left. You looked down at the floor, unable to meet Azula’s gaze.

Just don't leave me alone

“Azula, why are you doing this?” You tried to suppress your sobbing.

Wondering where you are

“I am doing this because I am right, why can’t you accept that! The soldiers failed me so they need to be punished, there is no other righteous way! And you cannot keep me from doing what I want.”

I am stronger than you give me

Credit for

You swallowed. “If you truly loved me, Azula, you wouldn’t hurt those people. You know punishing innocents is wrong. You know how much it hurts me to see you do it! I know you are better than this!”

If your hands need to break

More than trinkets in your room

You could not imagine what Azula was thinking now. You did not want to. You could practically sense her pent up anger and feel the masses of pure fire she was able to unleash now in the air.

You can lean on my arm

As you break my heart

You had done what was right. You had stood up against the unjust princess.

Against the cruel Azula.

Against the person you loved more than everything.

You knew she would make you pay. You swallowed the pieces that were left of your broken heart and closed your eyes, expecting your loved one’s rage.

< • ◇ • >

Hello. I hope you liked this! I tried my best; this was my first time writing something based on a song. I really liked this!

I couldn’t let it end like this though, so I searched up the english translation of two Bach pieces I really like and put together a somewhat happy ending, even if it’s not fully in character for Azula.

Enjoy.

< • ◇ • >

If the tears on my cheeks

can do nothing,

o then take my heart as well!

You waited but nothing happened. “Don’t hesitate, Azula. If my voice is not loud enough to reach your ears, hurt me. If it stops you from hurting the soldiers, hurt me.” Tears streamed down your face.

Yet let it be, in the flow,

as the wounds gently bleed,

the offering-bowl as well.

Your voice was nothing but a trembling whisper now. “Just please, I beg you, remember that I love you.” You kept your eyes closed, waiting for the inevitable.

But still, nothing happened. Instead, when you looked up again, Azula looked back at you with terror and guilt written all over her face.

O great love, o love beyond measure,

that brought You to this path of martyrdom!

When your eyes met hers, she rushed towards you and embraced you, her guilt becoming unbearable when she felt you flinching away at her touch. Her voice was unsteady and worried “I… I already hurt you, y/n…” You tried to escape her embrace but she clinged to you and buried her head in your neck like a child that awoke from a bad dream. “I am so sorry, y/n.”

I lived with the world in delight and joy,

and You had to suffer.

Her voice trembled with guilt: “My anger was too much. I did not see your suffering. Please forgive me. Please tell me you are alright! Please, y/n!”

You were not alright. Healing would take time, as would completely forgiving her. So you chose to speak truth:

“I love you, Azula.”

“I love you too, y/n.”

< • ◇ • >

[original text]

Können Tränen meiner Wangen // Nichts erlangen, // O so nehmt mein Herz hinein! // Aber laßt es bei den Fluten, // Wenn die Wunden milde bluten, // Auch die Opferschale sein.

[BWV 244, Part II, No. 52]

O große Lieb, o Lieb ohn alle Maße, // Die dich gebracht auf diese Marterstraße! // Ich lebte mit der Welt in Lust und Freuden, // Und du mußt leiden.

[BWV 245, Part I, No. 3]

[old-skyguy]

This podcast has been sad and all but the first time I actually teared up was 26: the Bedrock because holy shit the writing of this episode is absolutely perfect. Just, in every single aspect.

-Arthur's loss of humanity showing through the development with Yellow, and how because he was so unsympathetic and cold, that's why yellow was so stubborn and heartless. He can't see it, but his loss of humanity throughout the series bled into John and is starkly contrasted from the beginning of the series when he had more empathy, something that is GLOWINGLY obvious when John returns and highlighted with Faust.

-His miscommunication with John about the real reason he wanted to kill Larson. That if he'd just told him about the sacrifice at first, they wouldn't have been fighting the whole time and John wouldn't have had to play moral compass. He could've reassured him before everything went down and maybe even convinced him to help those people when they were still in the mines.

-Arthur's monologue about Peter. Up until now, we barely knew anything about him, aside from the fact that he was his best friend. The revelation that he came into Arthur's life after Faroe's death somehow makes their friendship that more impactful. Sure, John killed him, he acknowledges and is remorseful for it, but he has also BECOME him. John didn't push him for answers about his past, just like Peter didn't! When Peter came along, he was at a VERY vulnerable place in life and from experience, prying that sorta personal thing from someone only makes them reluctant and resent you for it. Instead, he subtly manipulated Arthur into telling him. Now, John did sorta the same thing, but instead of manipulating it out of him - even though he's this all-powerful being that ABSOLUTELY could have - he waited. He waited until Arthur trusted him enough with that part of him. John has become a reflection of Peter. But Arthur can't stand that because he still, in a way, deeply resents John for his death and he can't stand the thought of someone who took that from him changing to be better. And who can even blame him for that?! He is absolutely justified in his perspective, but that doesn't change the fact that he cared for John as a friend - so much so he KILLED himself just to save him.

-the scene with Uncle where he was literally just sitting there with Faroe's music box. Uncle - as far as I've interpreted - isn't conscious about what Larson's doing. It's naive. It's curious. It's just as innocent as Addison was when Larson was using her. It's just as innocent as Faroe and using the music box to trigger that feeling of guilt and anger with Arthur is so. damn. haunting.

-just the parallels of everything that happened with Yellow is repeated with John, but instead of the bickering reflected in season one, it's just John being concerned about Arthur while he goes mad and blind with rage trying to kill this guy. And also maybe himself. ESPECIALLY on the ledge.

-"I've come so far.." when contextualized with Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening, something that's already been thematically important in past arcs.

-The voice acting while he killed Larson ALONE was just so incredible. Let alone his self reflection and guilt over Faroe's death that he projected onto Larson as he kills him. Fully believing he deserves the same.

-This series is so good with exposition. The way he was so vague with John about it - only showing subtle hints through his dialogue until the very last second when all has been said and done and his emotions have come to a head.

-The way he genuinely sees himself - someone flawed who made an honest, tragic mistake - in Larson - someone who made the conscious decision to sacrifice his own daughter - and believes he deserves the same date as him. His guilt that flows into Larson's death like the blood that spills from his eye sockets onto his hands.

-How could they have won when we're not even finished? When we're not yet done fighting? AND THEN THE POEM. THE POEM. PROMISES. THEIR JOURNEY. THEIR PROMISES AND FRIENDSHIP AND THEIR RESPECTIVE JOURNEYS TOWARD HUMANITY/SELF FORGIVENESS.

-It's not a CLEAN slate.

-"We can't escape these things we've done."

"I'd rather greet a new day like an OLD FRIEND. With fondness and appreciation. My friend." I WILL DIE.

-Just the joy of him eating. The joy. The joy of eating with John. Fantasizing about dancing and dinner and drinking. He's slowly starting to forgive himself and let himself deserve the simple joys and he wants to enjoy them with John. With his friend.

"Sounds like we have plans, let's make sure we keep them" He has promises to keep!!

This podcast is amazing and this episode was the PINNACLE of the emotions that led up to it. I love it so much.

[vanillabeanmachine]

𝚆𝙸𝙿 𝚆𝚎𝚍𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚍𝚊𝚢 #𝟷

𝙽𝚘 𝙻𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝙶𝚘: 𝙰𝚗 𝙸𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚟𝚒𝚎𝚠 𝚒𝚗 𝙵𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝙰𝚌𝚝𝚜 -- 𝙰𝚌𝚝 𝙸

Hello everyone 👋😊 I've been working on No Letting Go for a while now and am excited to share that I'm almost ready to post Act I, which currently stands at approximately 14.5K words. This seems to be shaping up as the average length for each of the four acts. As I continue to polish and refine No Letting Go, I’ve decided to start sharing snippets every Wednesday. This will not only give you a glimpse of the content but also some of the behind-the-scenes thought process. Stay tuned!

[...]

The recorder was not the same that Daniel had once owned in 1973. Indeed, Daniel couldn't quite recall the exact model or brand of his original device, nor the circumstances of its disappearance—had it been shattered in a sudden fit of rage? Perhaps it had vanished, lost in the swirling chaos of his drug-addled days? It was equally plausible that it lay forgotten in some distant apartment, nestled under a thick layer of dust, untouched and unthought of for almost half a century. Moreover, Daniel wasn’t certain that this Suga model had even existed in 1973. A wave of nostalgia had swept over him one day as he had strolled down Camden High Street, leading him to purchase this particular piece on a whim. Initially, it hadn’t worked at all, prompting nights spent poring over YouTube tutorials and hunting down obsolete tech parts on eBay in an attempt to restore it. Eventually, he had given up on pure restoration, instead cobbling together a functioning unit by marrying the surviving vintage Suga skeleton with the guts of a modern machine – a Frankenstein’s monster of resurrected technology that, despite its changed nature, still swallowed down tape with a voracious appetite.

He could have easily acquired a functioning Suga online, or even opted for a modern tape deck. Yet, Daniel cherished this battered machine, with its scratches and dents marring the case, the rust on the sprockets that added a squeak when rewinding tape, and the worn buttons that spoke of frequent use. It was a tangible relic of a human past, an artefact that Daniel clung to—not merely as a tool but a reminder of a life once lived.

Daniel meticulously arranged his tools for the evening—the Suga recorder, his sleek MacBook Air, a battered .99 cent notepad with its edges crumpled and pages unevenly torn from the binding, an elegant Montblanc Meisterstück pen, and a well-worn half-full leather cigarette case that had journeyed with him from the '70s. 

Armand waited as Daniel organised, his expression the picture of serene detachment; yet beneath this stoicism flowed an undercurrent of acute attentiveness.

Armand's reddish-brown colour-of-dawn gaze, typically distant, tonight held a piercing clarity and focus entirely directed at Daniel. It was as if the full essence of his immortal being had chosen to anchor itself in this singular interaction. There was a palpable familiarity in Armand's intense stare, a comfort that Daniel recognised and found strangely reassuring. 

Yet amidst this familiarity was a void—a poignant sense of loss, something indelibly altered. The once-constant press of Armand's mind against his own, a psychic echo that had lingered in Daniel's human consciousness, had vanished now with his vampiric transformation. The Dark Gift, poetically named but harsh in its realities, had not brought Daniel enlightenment or a renewed closeness to his Maker but a barrier, severing the connection the pair once shared. Where there had once been a flowing stream of thoughts and emotions, a psychic murmur that had connected him to Armand, there now existed only a silence—as if a door between their minds had been firmly shut and locked. This new silence was not peaceful but a cold absence, a reminder of what they had both sacrificed for Daniel's immortality.

Armand's intensive gazing at Daniel was justified now more than ever. Perhaps, in this new reality they shared, all that remained to bind them was the mere physicality of their being—something that Daniel found inexplicably more alluring now than ever before.

While Daniel clung to the remnants of his human past and habits still, Armand had always appeared unburdened by such earthly ties, having long shed them like leaves in an eternal, ageless autumn. But as Daniel now stood entrenched in this new existence, he began to perceive that what he once thought of as an uncanny stillness in Armand was not a marker of death but a vibrant, pulsating life, more profound and intricate than he had ever imagined possible.

The gravity of Armand's presence was magnetic, drawing Daniel inexorably in, as if each moment spent in observation tethered him more firmly to a spellbinding eternity. Daniel was acutely aware of the need for caution, knowing all too well how effortlessly he could become entangled in an everlasting gaze upon Armand. In such moments, time could dissolve into irrelevance—akin to Narcissus, spellbound by his reflection in the serene embrace of a forest pool. It was the mesmerising dance of light across Armand’s rich, dark skin, the lush curls that tenderly framed his face, and the impeccable symmetry of his sharp, angular features that seemed destined to rest in the contours of Daniel's palm. The striking yet harmonious contrast between Armand's finely sculpted upper lip and the plush fullness of the lower, coupled with the intoxicating memory of their kisses—

Caught in a dopey smile, Daniel realised Armand had observed the slip when a knowing look crossed his features. Perhaps the psychic bond they once shared was no longer necessary; Daniel's emotions were still as transparent to Armand now as when Daniel had been still human. And yet, frustratingly, Armand remained equally an enigma to Daniel, close yet distant in the same breath.

[...]

Author’s Thoughts™:

Indeed, the Suga KC-920 is a different model from the recorder Daniel used back in 1973. I deliberately chose a different tape recorder from the one shown in "Don’t Be Afraid, Just Start the Tape." This choice is meant to enhance the theme of an "odyssey of recollection," emphasizing the unreliability of Daniel’s memory. It reflects his efforts to piece together fragments of his mortal past, his reliance on nostalgic constructs, and his commitment to maintaining a connection to his former human self—no matter how shaky the foundations that connection is built on.

I'm very proud of the line describing the tape recorder as "a Frankenstein’s monster of resurrected technology that, despite its changed nature, still swallowed down tape with a voracious appetite."

Daniel's choice of a Montblanc Meisterstück pen—which retails for between $460-680—for use on a 99-cent notepad creates a conceptual contrast. This disparity is further heightened by his combination of a modern MacBook with an archaic tape recorder. This deliberate mismatch across items of differing economic and temporal values introduces an element of dissonance—it feels almost jarring, and in a way, disrespectful? Using a luxury pen on low-quality paper subverts expectations of propriety and value, while opting for obsolete technology over more efficient modern alternatives suggests a conscious rebellion against practicality. I wanted to set up space for a future commentary on value, utility, and nostalgia, and highlight a bit more of this tension between the past and present in Daniel.

I wanted to explore the impact of Daniel and Armand’s severed mental connection. Daniel's transformation into vampirism brought with it the loss of his psychic link with Armand, a shift that necessitated a new way of Daniel perceiving and connecting with Armand. Since he no longer can feel Armand’s emotions directly, Daniel becomes reliant on interpreting Armand’s physical cues—a necessity that alters the nature of his gaze. This redirection of focus towards the physical can be seen as a form of objectification, where Daniel's longing is intensely projected onto every visible detail of Armand, focusing not on his emotions or his interiority, but rather his most striking features instead. This gaze is not merely observational; it is charged with desire and a nuanced romanticism, making it palpably lustful. Daniel's gaze is transparent to Armand.

[bonefall]

What Revelation did each leader get?

Gray Wing coming down from Heaven to bring revelations to the founders

To each founder, xe admonished the flaws that had lead them there on that day. Xe warned that if they did not change their ways, it would be the undoing of themselves as well as their Clan.

To Thunder Storm...

He had never heard the sermons of Gray Wing in life, and yet, he knew xeir teachings better than any of the cats many years his senior. He was already a leader when he should just be leaving his boyhood, and he'd gotten to this position by challenging that which he had been told, and acting in righteous fury when others held their tongues.

So for him, Gray Wing the Wise tells him that he is about to enter a new era. He will not be an underdog, but a powerful warlord, and he must must be weary of the line between justice and revenge.

"The flame that cooks creates, but beware the wildfire that burns away the wood. When you act upon your rage, you must be sure it does not act upon you."

To River's Ripple...

You have only ever acted on pleasure. For passion of your friends, for love of food, desire of things that shine. Like a petal on the river, you have let the flow of life lead you. It lead you into the claws of Clear Sky, your father and his army here to save you, and a dozen cats into their graves tonight.

Though you've tried to avoid it, you must realize now that the lazy river ripples with power in every muscle. Your people will look to you now, just as the water flows through the canal it has carved.

"The peace within you is unique, and meant to be shared with those around you. This is a strength; it is your truancy that is a weakness. Accept the responsibility of being the river that flows, or your own weight shall wash away your kingdom."

To Tall Shadow...

This is where xe began to get angry, but the black-furred leader bowed her head humbly.

Gray Wing laid into how she had used xis name to justify her own ends, putting clan-interest above forest-prosperity, making outsiders out of cats xe had commanded to enfold. She had turned cats into pawns for bargaining, and lost sight of their lives in the process.

"You have failed to break your own legacy, and will watch as someone you love is broken upon it. This is not a threat but a warning; make your heart a refuge for the lost and weary, for you will be judged on how you pick up the pieces."

(TN: "Dark Heart of the Forest comes from a translation quirk here, xey tell her to 'shade her heart' which in Clanmew means to make it a relief from the hot sun.")

To The Wind Runner...

Ambitious, opportunistic, and vindictive. She united many cats who had broken off from the River Kingdom, but only invented a brand new cage for them all. The Wind Runner was out for herself and her own family-- total self-interest.

To her, Gray Wing was furious but simple; "You came for a taste of war and now you choke on it. If you keep treating your cats as tools for power, you will find hounds behind you. It's time for you to serve them instead of having them serve you; let go of grudges, open your mind, grow."

To Clear Sky...

Lulled into a sense of smug security, he had relaxed. After all, at the end of the day... it was all their fault for trying to take what was supposed to belong to him. He was just trying to make sure his cats never go hungry; his littermate would see that.

"LISTEN HERE YOU LITTLE SHIT"

"This all comes back to you, Clear Sky. You did this."

"What?! They were the ones who--"

"You killed our brother, Jagged Peak! Rejected a sign from your ancestors and twisted my words to suit yourself! Tried to kill your own mate and son!"

"I WAS JUST TRYING TO--"

A final clap of thunder shook the clearing. Perhaps Clear Sky could shout down anyone else who tried to stand up to him in the past; but not the Ancestors. Not at a graveyard of his own making.

"Never before have you truly listened to another person, nor changed your mind once you'd made it up. Do not take our mercy as foolishness, you will decide if my words are warning or prophecy. Your greed will split the sky in two, but the more you grab, the less you will hold. Greed will make all the gifts we will give you rot beneath your own pelt; Unite or Die, Clear Sky."

Before xey finish, they repeat it to all of them. "Unite or die."

After this, they explain that their next task is to properly bury all of the victims of the fight. As reward, each leader will be given nine lives to lead their people, and explore that which was revealed on this night.

Each revelation ties into what the leader will be doing next. Most are prophecies, some are just guidance. Like Gray Wing said; it is up to them if the words are warning or prophecy.

[radical-revolution]

EVIL: A CRY FOR LOVE

“Hell is empty

and all the devils are here.”

- William Shakespeare

"Perhaps everything that frightens us is,

in its deepest essence,

something helpless

that wants our love."

- Rilke

“Heaven and hell are within us,

and all the gods…”

- Joseph Campbell

There are no 'Evil Beings' in this Universe, despite what we were taught as children.

There are no devils, demons or malevolent spirits, no matter what the fear-based religions preach, and despite the striking images and ideas that myths, fairy tales, novels and movies imprint in our young, impressionable minds.

There are no monsters under the bed. No supernatural creatures out to get us.

There are only people - people who do bad things. Abusive things. Manipulative things. Violent things. Narcissistic things, yes. Things that hurt and scare us.

There are only people - people who forget they are people, people who take out their unprocessed rage, shame, guilt, grief and anxiety on other people.

And we call this behaviour ‘evil’.

But it has no supernatural source. Its source lies deep within our nature. Or rather, within a misunderstanding of our nature. Within ‘sin’, which is the imagined separation from our true loving nature.

There are people on this planet who are certain that their vision and version of reality is singularly correct, and who are unwilling to open up to possibility, to meet others in vulnerable intimacy and joyful doubt.

And from that narcissistic place, they hurt, manipulate, control and even kill others, because they are deeply traumatised, and they do not know love, and they are unwilling to stay close to their raw experience, and do the hard work of healing.

They are not ‘possessed’. They are unconscious, fragmented, and uneducated about the true nature of love, rather than inherently ‘evil’.

Instead of sitting with their pain, disappointment, anger, fear, critical thoughts, instead of making a loving home for these energies, these discomforts, these tensions, these ancestral wounds, they turn to the external world for relief, and blame others for their unhappiness, and seek to destroy the imagined 'external source' of their misery.

Instead of taking full responsibility for their own unmetabolised feelings, and their own profound longings for love, they become unloving towards others.

To hide their own ‘evil’, they may even call others ‘evil’.

They scapegoat. Project ‘evil’ onto an innocent goat (victim) and slaughter it and feel some relief for a while. This is their addiction.

'Evil' is tunnel vision, then. It is a painful constriction and rejection of the flowing wholeness of life, a forgetting of our true nature as vastness and divine capacity, which is the absence of a separate and solid 'self'. It is a fearful holding-on to stories and opinions rather than an expansive letting-go into the liberated ocean of consciousness.

There are no 'evil people'. But there are those who live in fear of life and who act out of that fear.

Evil is simply 'live', backwards. It is backwards living.

It is a lost innocence, a cosmic ignorance, a fall from the Grace of self-knowledge.

There is no dark force out there, no malevolent energy or all-powerful Creature opposing Love, for Love is the only Power. But there is the forgetting of Love, the unwillingness to sit with the sacred body and its discomforts. There is the Self-Abandonment Project, and all the unconscious behaviours that emanate from that sad and lonely - and often hellish - place.

This recognition - that nobody is truly 'evil', but only disconnected from Source, from Love, from Mother - is the beginning of great understanding and maybe ultimately even compassion for those who we rush to judge and label as 'evil'.

Behind every 'evil' act, there is a very human story.

And no, this is not to condone or justify violence - there cannot be any place for violence in conscious, civilised society - but to try to understand its very human, rather than supernatural, source.

In that sense, then, we all contain the potential for 'evil'.

And so, we must all take a good hard look at ourselves:

Where does violence live within me?

How am I adding to the violence of the world?

How am I disconnecting from Source?

Can I be a little kinder to myself and others today? Soften, where I usually contract? Breathe, where I usually suffocate? Slow down, where I usually speed up?

Can I take responsibility, where I usually blame others?

Can I be accountable, where I usually scapegoat and project my own faults onto others?

The end of evil lies here in Presence, in our collective willingness to breathe love into our own pain, to drench the sore places with Light, to wake up to our loving nature, moment by precious moment.

To stop blaming, and start healing, and listening to each other.

To remember the divine light within each and every one of us.

All dark shadows require a light source; they are never more powerful than light, having no power of their own.

Evil, then, is a distorted plea for love, for help, for understanding, for more light. It is a longing for the womb.

It would cry, if it could, “Please, I’m hurting, I want to hurt others, help me!!!”

- Jeff Foster

[samanddean76]

Joyous Memories Amongst The Sorrow

Sam knew Bobby thought that he had lost his damn mind.  That much was clearly evident given the look on his weathered face, the one that he kept trying to hide from Sam, whenever the old hunter would glance over at him as Sam white knuckled the steering wheel of the Impala.  The man that both he and Dean had always thought of as a pseudo-father figure.  Bobby had insisted that he accompany Sam on this errand, saying that it was something that Sam shouldn’t be doing by himself.  That this was no time to be alone. 

As much as Sam loved Bobby, there was simply no way that the man could truly ever understand what Sam was going through at that moment.  The one and only person who possibly could was no longer there.  And that was precisely why Sam was suffering. 

Dean was dead.  Dead as a fucking doornail dead, after having been ripped to shreds by a bloodthirsty hellhound.  All the while Lillith had laughed at the agony that washed over Sam’s face as he watched his big brother being slaughtered.  Being taken away from him, just a few feet from where he was pinned to that goddamned wall in the Norman Rockwell ode to Americana nightmare home.  Lillith had tried to kill Sam, but her plans had gone off the rails completely then, and Sam was left alive.  And alone. 

Totally, completely, and utterly alone.

Sam had pulled Dean’s ravaged body close, as he cradled him tight, as tears streamed down his cheeks, as he sobbed out his pain and misery to the uncaring universe.  Knowing that there was absolutely nothing that he could do, not then anyway.  Because Sam had needed to devise a plan.  Knew that he had to keep Dean’s body safe while he did so, because it couldn’t be allowed to go up in flames, because once one of Sam’s desperate plans finally succeeded, Dean would need that body to use. 

And that was all there was to it.  Period.  End of discussion.

Bobby had been justifiably skeptical, had tried to insist that Dean needed to be given a proper hunter’s funeral, but Sam had let him know in utterly unmistakable terms, and in the harshest of tones, that that was not going to happen.  Ever. 

So, Bobby had come along, as Sam drove the Impala through the night.  Searching for the one place that he knew Dean would want to be.  Where he would want to rest for all eternity were Sam to fail in his all of his many plans. 

It had been a beautiful night, when Dean had driven them to that field in the middle of nowhere.  John had been dutifully passed out, sleeping off another successful hunt, and Dean had told Sam that he had a surprise for them to share.  Sam had been all kinds of excited energy as Dean had driven the Impala, out past anything that might cause alarm or draw undo attention.  He had pulled off the road, driven into the tree lined clearing, turned off the Impala, and handed Sam the keys. 

“Surprise is in the trunk, squirt.”  Sam had grimaced at the nickname but had gotten out to see what Dean had been waiting for him to discover.  Once the lid to the trunk lifted, Sam couldn’t stop the mile-wide grin that had split his face, as he looked at the full box of fireworks. 

They had shot off every single one that night, almost burned down some old, abandoned house in the process, but it had been so incredibly wonderful to see Dean’s brilliant smile as he held the roman candle aloft over his head, as each colorful puff of smoke and fire lit up the night sky. 

The handle of the second shovel of the night splintered and broke, and with a savage cry, Sam threw it away, as he fell to his knees and began to use his long fingers to claw at the hard earth, so that he could dig the hole that he so desperately needed.  So that he could keep what was left of Dean safe.  Protected until Dean would inevitably need it back. 

Bobby’s hands were on his shoulders then, as he tried to hold him, offer what little solace he could.  Sam shattered then, as he screamed and raged at all that had come to pass.  As the tears flowed in an unending stream of sorrow.  As Sam tried desperately to pull himself back together, so that he might be able to finish this.  One. Goddamned. Thing. 

Bobby pulled yet another shovel from the trunk, and he finished digging Dean’s grave as Sam sat nearby, cradling Dean’s cold corpse close.  Without another word spoken, Dean had been lowered into his final resting place. 

A place that had held such joy once.  But now only knew sorrow. 

After having knelt on the freshly churned soil for hours, Sam finally let Bobby drive them back, as he curled up on the backseat. 

Wishing on all the shooting stars they had ever witnessed streaking across the vast night sky.  Hoping for a miracle to occur.  Praying that he was still alive to see it. 

That his everything would come back to him one day.

[westeroslive]

salt  air,  and  the  rush  in  the  hidden  passageways,  the  red  keep's  hallways  have  slowly  cleansed  itself  from  the  serene  tranquility  of  the  mourning  chorus  -  faint  sense  of  grief  still  hangs  in  the  heavens  high  above.  wailing  and  strife  behind  locked  doors  replaced  by  tangerine  frenzy  of  the  upcoming  nuptials  ⸺  moon  phases  go  by  as  court  waits,  and  waits,  and  waits  until  letters  with  her  majesty's  seal  start  appearing  in  private  quarters.  

at  the  behest  of  personal  experience,  wisdom  grows  with  her  forty  years  on  the  iron  throne,  the  union  of  two  royal  houses  -  alliance  with  the  emperor  of  essos  to  be  sealed  through  their  bloodlines.  tragedy  has  been  courted  before  -  descendants  of  dragon  lords  may  be  the  blessed  ones  but  they  still  hold  no  divinity,  they  will  never  be  the  gods  they  claim  to  worship.  and  so  rhaena  has  learned  from  her  predecessor,  a  most  paranoid  queen  indeed.  the  festivities,  the  celebrations  of  the  sacred  matrimony  in  the  spirit  of  the  essosi  empire  ⸺  let  her  people  rage  as  long  as  the  ceremony,  the  exchanging  of  vows  -  the  eternal  promise  -  happen  in  the  light  of  the  seven  faced  god.  let  the  kingdom  be  blessed  again,  another  to  carry  the  burdens  as  the  intermediary  between  the  sky  and  mortals.  one  must  avoid  the  nightmares  she  weaves  in  the  highest  tower  of  the  keep,  there  is  only  so  much  bloodshed  a  dynasty  can  justify.  

ink  -  filled  parchment  leaves  much  to  the  imagination,  with  only  four  words  flowing  on  the  vast  plains.  no  further  instructions.  is  it  a  clue  ?  all  your  letter  reads  :  "  meet  us  at  midnight  ...  "

as  each  night  passes,  the  moon  grows  and  illuminates  the  night  sky  more,  your  eyes  spot  nobles  wandering  inside  the  castle  walls  -  unforgivably  searching  for  a  clue.  it  is  within  your  bones  that  you  feel  the  truth,  the  time  is  almost  there,  when  the  celestial  body  in  the  midnight  heavens  is  at  its  most  luminous  point  ⸺  only  then  must  you  meet  them.  on  the  morning  of  the  full  moon,  you  awaken  to  a  treasure  chest  in  your  chambers  -  a  gift  from  the  royal  family,  an  attire  tailored  for  you  by  the  royal  couturiers  with  matching  mask  enclosed.  to  deny  such  honor  would  be  an  offense  to  her  majesty,  a  social  faux  pas  at  court.  your  sovereign  has  chosen  your  veil  of  the  night.  

and  finally,  it  all  clicks.  "  it's  a  masquerade,  "  leaves  your  lips  in  the  silence  of  your  private  quarters.

OUT  OF  CHARACTER:  MEET  US AT MIDNIGHT

popular  vote  has  decided  that  the  event  starts  on  thursday  may  9  (  happy  europe  day  ),  so  as  soon  as  the  clock  strikes  thursday  in  your  timezone  you  can  start  posting.  the  event  will  last  two  weeks  because  there  is  no  point  in  saying  one  week  and  then  extending.

be  sure  to  tag  your  starters  as  westeros.midnight,  don't  be  afraid  to  cap  open  starters  so  you  don't  overwhelm  yourself,  and  lastly,  be  sure  to  include  everyone  when  you  do  closed  starters.

in  order  to  decide  what  costume  your  muse(s)  will  receive  from  the  queen,  you  will  have  to  pay  attention  to  the  discord  server  because  more  information  will  be  revealed  there.

[laudys83]

Invincible

Day 12: "Titanium" by SIA and David GUETTA

Laughter rang out around him, shattering like glass shards. Venec, leaning against a wall, listened without flinching. The Knights of the Round Table had gathered, their mockery like drawn swords, striking without restraint. He knew what they were saying, even though their words didn’t matter. They called him "weak," "traitor," and sometimes even "woman," simply because he wasn’t like them, because he wasn’t what they expected.

"Look at him, there, he’s got the look of a virgin, you think he’s gonna give us advice or something?" Karadoc said with a greasy laugh.

"You can see he’s just a crook. A real little traitor," Galessin added, his mocking tone echoing through the room.

Venec didn’t move, his face impassive, but inside, he felt rage rising. He had heard enough. These men who thought they were above everything but were incapable of understanding anything. These noises no longer affected him, or so he told himself. But in his gut, a quiet fury boiled. He stood up abruptly, a carnivorous grin spreading across his face.

"Oh, you guys crack me up," he said, his voice rising, breaking the flow of their mockery. "Honestly, what do you think? That I’m gonna cry like a kid at every insult?"

He stepped forward, hands in his pockets, his footsteps heavy on the floor.

"The truth is, you’re all idiots. You think I give a damn about your little jabs? Let me tell you something, boys. You can say whatever you want. It goes right over my head. I don’t give a fuck what you think about me. I’m not here to please you. I’m here for what I do, not to deal with your bullshit."

He shrugged, looking like he couldn’t care less. "You think that just because you’re knights, it gives you the right to judge who I am or what I do? Well, let me tell you, you’re wrong." He stepped even closer until his gaze met Bohort’s, a mocking grin on his lips. "Go ahead, laugh some more, I’m just a common thief in your eyes. But know this, I’m more alive than all of you put together."

He looked at them for a moment, waiting for a response, but the knights seemed hesitant. They weren’t used to this kind of reaction. They expected him to defend himself, to try to justify himself. But no. Venec wasn’t looking for anything. They could think whatever they wanted.

"So, what are you waiting for? You wanna laugh some more? Go ahead, but know one thing: I’m tougher than you’ll ever be." Venec stepped back, turning to leave. "I’m here, chill, in my own way. You guys are just lost in your little insecurities. That’s the real joke."

The knights stood in silence. The bursts of laughter gradually died down, replaced by uncertain glances. Venec didn’t need anything more. He had stood there, in the middle of their mess, and proved to them that, no matter what they thought of him, he wouldn’t fall into their traps. He turned away, looking relaxed, as though he had just taken another step into a world that belonged to him. Far from their judgments, far from their expectations. And deep inside, he felt invincible, like a bullet struck with an indestructible force.

Invincible

Les rires fusaient autour de lui, éclatant comme des éclats de verre. Venec, accoudé contre un mur, écoutait sans broncher. Les chevaliers de la Table Ronde s’étaient réunis, leurs moqueries comme des épées dégainées, frappant sans retenue. Il savait ce qu’ils disaient, même si leurs paroles n’avaient aucune importance. Ils le traitaient de "faible", de "parjure", et parfois même de "femme", tout ça parce qu’il n’était pas comme eux, parce qu’il n’était pas ce qu’ils attendaient.

« Regardez-le, là, il a un regard de pucelle, vous croyez qu’il va nous filer des conseils ou quoi ? » lança Karadoc avec un rire gras.

« Vous voyez bien qu'il n’est qu’un escroc. Un vrai petit traître, » renchérit Galessin, son ton moqueur faisant écho dans la salle.

Venec ne bougea pas, son visage impassible, mais à l’intérieur, il sentait la rage monter. Il les avait entendus assez. Ces hommes qui se pensaient au-dessus de tout, mais qui étaient incapables de comprendre quoi que ce soit. Ces bruits ne le touchaient plus, du moins c’est ce qu’il se disait. Mais dans son ventre, une colère sourde bouillonnait. Il se redressa brusquement, un sourire carnassier aux lèvres. 

"Oh, vous me faites bien rire," dit-il, sa voix s’élevant dans la salle, brisant le flot de leurs moqueries. "Franchement, qu’est-ce que vous croyez ? Que je vais pleurer comme un gamin à chaque insulte ?"

Il s’avança, les mains dans les poches, ses pas lourds sur le sol. 

"La vérité, c’est que vous êtes tous des abrutis. Vous croyez que je m’inquiète de vos petites piques ? Laissez-moi vous dire quelque chose, les gars. Vous pouvez bien dire ce que vous voulez. Ça me passe au-dessus. J’en ai rien à foutre de ce que vous pensez de moi. Je suis pas là pour vous plaire. Je suis là pour ce que je fais, pas pour m’occuper de vos conneries."

Il haussait les épaules, avec l’air de celui qui s’en foutait éperdument. "Vous pensez que parce que vous êtes chevaliers, ça vous donne un droit de regard sur qui je suis ou ce que je fais ? Eh bien, laissez-moi vous dire que vous vous plantez." Il s’approcha un peu plus, jusqu’à ce que son regard croise celui de Bohort, un rictus moqueur aux lèvres. "Allez, rigolez encore, je suis qu’un vulgaire voleur à vos yeux. Mais sachez que, moi, je suis plus vivant que vous tous réunis ici."

Il les regarda un instant, attendant une réponse, mais les chevaliers semblaient hésiter. Ils n’étaient pas habitués à ce genre de réaction. Ils s’attendaient à ce qu’il se défende, qu’il cherche à se justifier. Mais non. Venec ne cherchait rien. Ils pouvaient bien penser ce qu’ils voulaient.

"Alors, qu’est-ce que vous attendez ? Vous voulez encore rire ? Faites-le, mais sachez une chose : je suis plus dur que vous le serez jamais." Venec recula d’un pas, se tournant pour partir. "Je suis là, tranquille, à ma façon. Vous, vous êtes là à vous perdre dans vos petites insécurités. C’est ça, la vraie farce."

Les chevaliers restèrent silencieux. Les éclats de rires s’éteignirent peu à peu, remplacés par des regards incertains. Venec n’avait pas besoin de plus. Il s’était planté là, au milieu de leur merde, et leur avait prouvé que, peu importe ce qu’ils pensaient de lui, il ne tomberait pas dans leurs pièges. Il se détourna, l’air décontracté, comme s’il venait juste de faire un pas de plus dans un monde qui lui appartenait. Loin des jugements, loin de leurs attentes. Et au fond de lui, il se sentait invincible, comme une balle frappée d’une force indestructible.

Challenge by @monthlywritingchallenges

[darksideofthemoonbot]

Khorne

Sorry Khorne fans, but for me he is last of the big four. That doesn't mean I don't like him, love all the chaos gods, but here's why. Unlike my Nurgle and Tzeentch explanations, this will be a bit heavier like my Slaanesh.

THE GOOD

Khorne is a lawnmower. There's something satisfying at times to the simplicity of, lets go with Kharneth, I like that name better. Something delightfully simple to screaming "BLOOD FOR THE BLOODGOD" and going to hit something with a sharp piece of metal. Its almost therapeutic sometimes.

Also, as he cares not from whence the blood flows, Kharneth is thus clearly the god of [menstruation joke goes here]. And yes, I am... familiar with the Leman Russ quote. Though in a way I sorta do want a Norscan slang to be "the time of the hound".

Completely unrelated, I promise, but also Valkia the Bloody. A lot of love for a queen who gets told she's been selected as a Slaanesh daemon prince for concubinisation, and answers by killing him and marching into chaos to deliver his head to Kharneth personally.

THE BAD

Khorne is a lawnmower. Much fun as it is to skull for yon skull throne, I can find Kharneth a bit one-note in that respect. Which isn't bad exactly but tends to make him better in measured doses, you know? I like variety over the long haul.

THE UGLY

Here's where it gets heavy. Like Slaanesh, I relate to Kharneth well. Unlike Slaanesh, it is not a mixed bag of good and bad. It is just bad. It is parts of me I do not like.

Among my mental/emotional concerns for which I get medication and therapy is anger. Not strong enough a word. Rage. Fury. Berserkergang perhaps.

Times where the world has become a long red tunnel with ThingsThatNeedToDie™️ at the other end. The strength is unbelievable, though I pay for it after. And I don't just mean raw physical force. The absolute purity of purpose in such a rage is the greatest clarity I have ever experienced.

And that is a bad thing.

It is like an addiction. It may well be one, but I am not a biochemist so I won't conjecture. All it causes is harm and the sublime clarity doesn't last beyond the fit of rage. I miss it. I shouldn't but I do. And I have started trying to direct it in healthier ways. Promoting justice, if there is such a thing, or perhaps more accurately fighting injustices. Turning the furnace of anger toward productive ends.

That, however, leads me to the even less useful and harder to justify emotion I relate to with Kharneth: hate. Unlike the conflagration of fury, hate is the bitter coals that endlessly hunger for spiteful destruction.

I have stared into the abyss of hate. In some areas I have fallen into it. Most notably misandristic thinking. I hated men. Another trauma response, given who has hurt me in the past. And I know that it is wrong, I have made real progress with it. Unlike anger, I do not miss it. It is seductive, offering clear and simple answers to complex issues. "X is bad" with no other qualifiers can be unbelievably tempting in some cases. Complex is troubling, while simple is easier. Hate is so much easier than understanding. But I do not miss it. The toxic fumes from those ever-smoking coals is poisonous to mind, body, spirit, and society.

It is not rage, it is contempt. It is spite and venom. A desire to see something ruined or destroyed, not out of passion, but out of bile. And my susceptibility for it is a part of myself I really do not like. But to mention my fibromyalgia again: it is easy to hate the world when the world causes you nothing but pain.

Understanding is counter to hate, maybe not perfectly but I found it helps. After I was assaulted a few years back by a hired driver, I was aware how easy it would be to fall into hate because of that. So I threw myself into learning about his religion. Harder to paint all adherents of a faith badly when I knew more about it, was my thinking. It worked. I even gained an appreciation for the art common in that belief system, that I had not known about before, and learned some interesting history. Which helped me remember: it is not all of a demographic, it may be too much of a demographic, but not all. He was just a jackass.

Sorry to end the big four on a heavy note y'all. Here's a picture of cathartic destruction.

[animanganerd]

Everything Annoys Me And I’m (Too) Hot - Chapter 38

The Untamed / Mo Dao Zu Shi Fanfic

Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/47881336/chapters/139266202

All chapters: here x

Chapter 38 ❖ Room full of corpses

The first thing Lan Xiaoli did outside was… puke. He clutched the wooden post of the main gates with one hand and let it all out until his stomach was empty.

It wasn’t the fact that he’d seen someone die or the stench of the blood that was all over his face that made him sick. What made his stomach turn was something much, much worse.

Heaving and panting, he looked over his shoulder. When he made sure Mu Chun hadn’t followed him, he angrily wiped the remaining sick off his mouth, stepped over the contents of his stomach and started to run.

He ran until he reached the main path that led back into the city, then ran a bit further. He had no destination in mind, he just wanted to run as far as his legs would carry him.

The more he realised what had just transpired, the weaker his legs became, until they finally buckled and he collapsed under a large oak. 

Mu Chun was an endless well of secrets, and each secret seemed more grave than the last. It was as if for every time he forgave Mu Chun, the next revelation would hurt a hundred times more. 

What stung the most, however, was that he’d been betrayed… again.

Lan Xiaoli was on his knees, bracing himself on his arms over the ground, and dug his fingers into the grass. Only then did he let the tears flow, desperately trying to stifle his sobs.

But it was impossible. He sobbed miserably until he could hardly breathe, unsure whether the tears stemmed from disappointment, anger, frustration, the puking, or all of it combined.

There was nothing left in his stomach to expel, but Lan Xiaoli still felt incredibly sick.

“A-Li.”

Startled, Lan Xiaoli whipped his entire body around. Mu Chun had found him. Lan Xiaoli glared at him with bloodshot eyes, panting harshly.

His face, covered in sweat and tears, looked wretched and his hair was a complete mess. A few loose strands had found their way onto his face, sticking to the snot and tears like it was some kind of glue.

Mu Chun reached out to remove the hair, but Lan Xiaoli slapped his hand away. 

“Do not touch me,” he growled. His face fell at his own statement as he involuntarily remembered all the ways they’d touched before. “I can’t believe I…” 

…kissed you.

The last part of the sentence stuck in his throat, along with a fresh load of vomit. But he was done puking. He swallowed it back down. What remained was the sour taste in his mouth, the burning feeling in his throat.

Mu Chun dropped his hand in resignation and got down on one knee to be at eye level with Lan Xiaoli. “A-Li, I can explain–”

“What’s there to explain?!” Lan Xiaoli snapped. “Being jealous doesn’t give you the right to kill people!”

“Jeal–? Just because I like you doesn’t mean I’d kill out of jealousy.”

“Why else would you have done it?! Sect Leader Lu is not a bad person! We— no, you literally just saved him from being executed!”

“I know. It was all a bit… unfortunate. But I swear there’s a reason.”

“Whatever the reason, it does not justify killing!”

Mu Chun averted his gaze. “You don’t know my circumstances.”

Lan Xiaoli stared at Mu Chun in disbelief until his distress welled up into rage. “Because you never tell me anything!” he shouted. “We are this close already, yet you still have so many secrets! How am I supposed to know?! I opened up to you, poured my heart out to you! You know everything about me: my past, my family, my skills – everything! Why couldn’t you be honest with me?!”

Then, he fell silent. He was struck by a sudden realisation which hit him with such force that it mercilessly shattered his heart into a million pieces. His anger turned to despair. “Maybe…” A short, bitter laugh escaped his throat. “Maybe you kept all these secrets because you never trusted me in the first place.”

“A-Li, listen…”

“No.” Lan Xiaoli got up on two trembling legs, perpetually shaking his head. “No. I will not let you feed me any more lies.”

Mu Chun followed suit and stood as well. “I never lied. I… just withheld some information.”

Lan Xiaoli snorted. “What’s the difference?”

“I didn’t tell what I wasn’t asked, but when I was asked, I always answered truthfully.”

Lan Xiaoli pursed his lips, desperately fighting back the tears in his eyes. “…remember the talk we had?” he asked in a husky voice. “You said you would do anything if I asked you with a smile.”

Mu Chun nodded, his expression incredibly soft. “Of course I remember.”

“Was that not a lie? I asked you not to kill, and yet you did.”

Mu Chun was quiet for a moment, a faint frown etching his features. When he finally replied, his voice was so small it was almost a whisper. “I broke my promise, I am sorry. But I had no choice…”

This didn’t evoke any pity from Lan Xiaoli. His sympathy concerning Mu Chun was spent. He scoffed. “Bullshit. You had a choice. To kill or not to kill. And you chose to kill.”

“A-Li, not everything is as black and white as you make it out to be,” Mu Chun replied emphatically.

“That may be true, but would you not agree that it is a bit hypocritical after you tried to stop me from doing the very same thing? Did you not tell me, because it is secretly a weird hobby of yours and you did not want me to ‘steal’ your prey?”

This remark felt like a punch to Mu Chun’s gut. Indignation flashed across his features. “...Hobby? You think I’m doing this for fun?”

“You certainly looked like you enjoyed it. Not an ounce of shame or regret on your face!”

Mu Chun let out an incredulous laugh. “I am so sorry you never experienced the joy of killing someone. But I didn’t have parents who protected me from the outside world. I’ve been doing this for quite a while now. I would’ve gone mad if I cared!”

With a sigh, he closed his eyes in exasperation and clenched his jaw, the expression on his face of someone who’d lost all patience.

“This is exactly why I’ve never revealed too many details about myself. Because you’re a judgmental asshole. Even if I wanted to, I didn’t dare tell you anything, because I knew you’d just judge me for it. You’ve been doing so since the very first day we met, for no reason. You didn’t even know me!”

Having the truth handed to him like that – raw and ruthless – Lan Xiaoli was at a loss for words.

“I see,” he said at last, his face blank and his tone flat. “If the feeling is mutual, then maybe this was a mistake.” 

Mu Chun nodded in agreement. “Maybe it was.”

Both humphed and turned in opposite directions.

Lan Xiaoli strode away, shaking his head, trying to rid himself of the images of the recent bloodbath, and the hurtful words Mu Chun had hurled at him. But they wouldn’t be shaken off that easily, following him into his dreams as haunting nightmares.

⬩ ❖ ⬩ ❖ ⬩ ❖ ⬩

The next morning, Mu Chun didn’t show up. Maybe he was scared, or figured it was no use. Maybe he was fed up with their constant fighting. Or maybe he’d understood Lan Xiaoli was serious about going separate ways. Whatever the reason, Mu Chun had vanished into thin air. His sudden absence didn’t go unnoticed by the others.

“Where is Mu Chun?” Zhang Chengling wondered as he and Lan Xiaoli prepared the horses for their departure.

“He is gone,” Lan Xiaoli replied, his tone flat.

“Again?”

“This time for good.”

“...” Zhang Chengling remained quiet for a while, but then couldn’t help but remark, “I obviously don’t know what happened, but he’d never do anything to hurt you. He really cares about you, y’know?”

Lan Xiaoli didn’t respond. Even if it was true, it was all over now. They left before Mu Chun dared to turn up, so they’d certainly never see each other again.

With his heart torn to shreds, Lan Xiaoli felt too numb to mourn the loss of his first love.

Linguang wasn’t far from Jiaolong City. Even without Mu Chun’s guidance, it took Lan Xiaoli and the others less than a week to reach the village.

The first thing Lan Xiaoli did when they arrived was to pay Murong Zheng’s residence another visit, only to find that he hadn’t returned yet.

Annoyed, he kicked the ground, stirring up some dust in the process. He planted his hands on his hips as he glared at the building. How much longer was he supposed to wait?!

“He’s probably making obligatory visits to the villages he’s saved.”

The voice had appeared so suddenly beside him that it startled Lan Xiaoli. He felt that all-too-familiar sound stoking the anger inside him. He didn’t bother to hide his displeasure when he turned to face the owner of the voice.

It was none other than Mu Chun.

“Just because you are dead to me does not mean you have to act like a ghost,” Lan Xiaoli said. His gaze swept over Mu Chun from head to toe. “What do you want?”

Mu Chun stood in his elegant robes, hands behind his back, carrying his usual smirk.

“I have to show you something.”

Lan Xiaoli crossed his arms and lightly shook his head, turning away from Mu Chun. “Why should I care? So you can deceive me some more?”

“I didn’t.”

“Of course you did! …You made me believe you were a good person.”

Mu Chun frowned, truly baffled. “How?”

“...” How indeed? The anger in Lan Xiaoli’s heart evaporated, replaced by a sense of wistfulness. “...Because you were good to me,” he said in a soft voice.

“And I have no intention of changing that,” Mu Chun replied. 

As he said this, Mu Chun’s face was utterly earnest. Not a single trace of his usual smugness was to be seen. Even the mischievous glint in his eyes seemed to have been extinguished by his sincerity. It gave Lan Xiaoli goosebumps.

“Come with me, and I’ll show you the truth,” Mu Chun continued.

Lan Xiaoli scoffed. “That is rich, coming from you. Do you even know what that word means?”

“I want to show you that I trust you. And that you can trust me. But for that, you need to see something.”

Looking at Mu Chun, Lan Xiaoli felt that Zhang Chengling might have been right after all. Maybe he’d been a bit too harsh in his assumption that Mu Chun was a bad guy without giving him a chance to explain. In the end, they���d both said hurtful words.

Also, wasn’t the truth all he’d always wanted?

After a moment of contemplation, Lan Xiaoli finally nodded. “I will go get the others.”

“No.”

Lan Xiaoli halted.

Mu Chun’s reaction had been sharp, but he quickly regained his composure. “Just you. I’ll show you that I trust you. And only you.”

Lan Xiaoli was a little dumbfounded. Was he ready to be alone with Mu Chun again? He deliberated for a moment, but eventually decided to give him another chance. “Okay.”

Following Mu Chun’s lead, Lan Xiaoli found himself in front of the Haunted House Memorial.

Murong Zheng’s statue stood on top of a pedestal, unchanged. Lan Xiaoli glared at the statue, clenching his hands into fists until his knuckles cracked. That arrogant, unmoving face looked down on them with such complacency, it fueled Lan Xiaoli’s anger even more. 

Oh, how he wished this was the real one. How he wished, Murong Zheng would finally return, so he could confront him. He wanted to make him suffer for all that he’d done.

“A-Li!”

Lan Xiaoli snapped back to his senses with a start. Mu Chun was holding his wrist in a tight grip.

“You’re bleeding! Are you okay?”

Mu Chun reached with his hand for Lan Xiaoli’s face, but Lan Xiaoli immediately shrank back. Mu Chun’s hand stopped mid-air.

Lan Xiaoli wiped at his own mouth with his fingers, and there indeed was blood.

It seemed the grudge he’d nurtured against his uncle had sent him into one of his sinister dazes.

“I am fine,” Lan Xiaoli said, still avoiding Mu Chun’s gaze. He crossed his arms and vaguely nodded at the statue. “I already know about this.”

Mu Chun was still concerned. While the dark haze that had surrounded Lan Xiaoli had disappeared, his eyes remained dull. It was the same as when they’d inspected the murals of Jian Minghzhi. But since Lan Xiaoli was still wary of him, Mu Chun didn’t pursue the matter.

“I don’t mean the statue,” Mu Chun said as he walked around it. “What I’m about to show you is related to my work.”

Lan Xiaoli finally looked at him with a puzzled expression. Wasn’t he a messenger? Again – what was there to show?

But he didn’t ask out loud. Instead, he just raised an eyebrow and followed Mu Chun, who wrapped his fingers around the sword tassel of the statue and turned it.

With a jolt, the ground beneath them began to shake. Alarmed, Lan Xiaoli reached for the first thing he could grab, which turned out to be Mu Chun’s arm.

The reddish ground behind the memorial, which at first glance seemed perfectly normal, was in fact a hidden entrance. It opened to a staircase that led underground.

Lan Xiaoli was stunned. He cautiously looked to his left and right to check if anyone else happened to be nearby. “What if someone else sees this?”

“People avoid this place like the plague. Being found out is the least of my concerns.”

Once the tremors stopped and Lan Xiaoli realised that there was no real danger, he promptly let go of Mu Chun’s arm. “So you are from here after all. You lied about that too?”

“Well technically, I just didn’t correct Chengling.”

“Same thing.”

“To be fair, if I’d been honest, you wouldn’t have let me join.”

Lan Xiaoli opened his mouth, but closed it again. He had a point.

Mu Chun chuckled and went ahead, walking down the stairs. Lan Xiaoli hesitated.

“Are you going to kill me?”

A few steps down, Mu Chun stopped. He turned around, his expression earnest. “I could never hurt you.”

“It does not have to be painful.”

Mu Chun seemed to realise his mistake and rephrased, “I could never live without you.”

Lan Xiaoli’s heart skipped a beat. Again, so sincere! This side of Mu Chun made Lan Xiaoli shudder. But it was enough to convince him to follow Mu Chun into the unknown.

About a minute later, they reached a dark and narrow hallway. Mu Chun lit the few torches on the wall with a wave of his hand before leading Lan Xiaoli to a dimly lit underground chamber at the end of the  corridor. When they reached the entrance, Lan Xiaoli froze.

Though the chamber looked like a cave, it was clearly man-made. The signs of hard labour to create this hideout were evident. But Lan Xiaoli had no time to appreciate the dedication, for an eerie feeling crept over him.

The walls of the chamber consisted of the same reddish dirt and sand that surrounded the memorial. Illuminated by just a few flickering torches, it looked like they were painted with blood.

Even worse were the stone slabs that had been randomly placed throughout the chamber. Lan Xiaoli paid no regard to the peculiar instruments, which might as well be torture devices, scattered across some of these tables. All his attention was drawn to the bodies lying on the slabs. It took him a moment to find his voice again.

“Who… are these people? What the hell is all this??” he demanded.

Mu Chun had walked further into the room and his face was cast in shadow. Lan Xiaoli couldn’t see his expression clearly. 

Mu Chun let out a deep sigh. “Some powerful people made an offer that these guys declined. My job is to deliver a message: They get a chance to change their mind, else they’re… disposed of. It’s their choice. If they don’t want to cooperate, I am to get rid of them. No matter how.”

Lan Xiaoli glanced at the bodies. “And you store them here?”

“Well, sometimes I keep them to run some experiments.”

“...Experiments?” It all made less and less sense.

Mu Chun nodded. “I was inspired by your dad, to be honest.”

Lan Xiaoli frowned. “My dad? What does he have to do with anything?”

“...He’s the founder of demonic cultivation? The Yiling Laozu?”

“Huh?” Lan Xiaoli’s frown deepened. “He is not. You must be mistaken.”

“...Ah. Perhaps. Anyways,” Mu Chun got a slip of paper out of his lapels and handed it to Lan Xiaoli. “Here, read this.”

Lan Xiaoli unfolded the piece of paper. On it was a list of names. As he read through it, his heart sank at the last three names: Sun Zongxi, Ling Baoxi and Lu Yunli. He gently brushed his thumb over the last two names.

“...Ling Baoxi? You killed… Ling Baoxi?” That hectic, but innocent mayor? What had he done to deserve this? 

And not to mention Lu Yunli… He’d saved his life after all! “They were genuinely kind people, why did you have to kill them?”

Mu Chun did not reply. Instead, he avoided Lan Xiaoli’s reproachful gaze, his face now filled with the remorse he’d been lacking before.

Lan Xiaoli wanted to press him further, but the questions died on his tongue as he began to make sense of it all. It finally dawned on him why Mu Chun had wordlessly vanished a few times during their journey.

“...Is that why you led us to these places and kept disappearing at night? So you could kill people?”

“It was either them or me.”

Lan Xiaoli could only focus on one thing. “So you have been lying all this time?”

“I told you, I did not lie. But as you can see there were a few things I just couldn’t disclose. I had to keep a few things from you to protect myself.”

“From what?”

Mu Chun gestured back and forth between the two. “This exact situation we’re in right now.”

Lan Xiaoli mimicked his gesture, somehow managing to make it look sarcastic in his agitation. “This would not have happened if you had been honest from the start!”

His irritation seemed to be contagious as Mu Chun became more and more exasperated. “Exactly! How would you have reacted if you had known? Would you have let me join? Would we have come this close? What does my background matter if my feelings are genuine?” 

He took a deep breath to calm himself. “You weren’t supposed to find out about the list. It was my mistake to spend every night with you. I should’ve been more patient and finished my job first. Lu Yunli was supposed to be the last one. Then I wanted to stop. For you. For good.”

Lan Xiaoli bit his bottom lip. This was unfair. If Mu Chun had never joined, he wouldn’t be in this situation right now. If Mu Chun had never joined, he wouldn’t have this clash of mind and heart. But all of this was too late now.

“Why do you have to do all this?”

“Revenge,” Mu Chun replied. “Revenge is the reason I’m here. I made a mistake and I fucked up. That’s what I was trying to protect you from.”

Lan Xiaoli raised his eyebrows. That sounded like there was a lot to unpack, but their conversation was suddenly interrupted.

“What is going on here?” a sharp voice cut in.

Both teens started. Lan Xiaoli spun around to the newcomer – it was Zhou Zishu. Lan Wangji, Wei Wuxian and Wen Kexing had come as well. Lan Xiaoli turned back to Mu Chun, concern written all over his face.

Although Mu Chun was immediately on guard, he remained unfazed. “We're having a chat.”

Zhou Zishu wasn’t put off that easily. “You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

Mu Chun just shrugged, seemingly nonchalant. “I have to make a living somehow.”

Lan Wangji unsheathed his sword and pointed it at Mu Chun. “Explain.”

Mu Chun let out a heavy sigh. He looked exhausted, but showed no sign of fighting them. “It’s a long story. I’m afraid we don’t have time for that.”

“Tell us or we will fight you,” Zhou Zishu threatened.

Mu Chun’s gaze hardened. “No, you won’t.” His voice had turned harsh and cold.

Lan Xiaoli and Zhou Zishu looked at him in confusion, even Lan Wangji’s composed countenance faltered a bit.

Mu Chun gestured towards the corpses. “Here’s enough bodies for Wei Wuxian to control,” he said, as if this would explain anything.

But it confused the others even more.

Zhou Zishu and Lan Wangji had been so absorbed in trying to make sense of what they were seeing, that they hadn’t noticed that their chatty partners had become awfully quiet.

When they turned around, they were shocked to see Wei Wuxian and Wen Kexing standing rigidly in place, eyes wide, bodies trembling. As soon as Lan Wangji and Zhou Zishu were facing them, the other two charged at them with stiff moves. It was obvious that they were doing this against their will.

While Wen Kexing and Zhou Zishu were trading blows, Wei Wuxian jumped away and put his flute to his lips. After the first few tunes sounded, the corpses on the tables reacted. They rose from the stones, forcefully removing the ropes and shackles that restrained them.

Two against two was manageable, but two against an indefinite number could prove to be tricky. Lan Wangji had to stop Wei Wuxian from playing his flute at all costs, or producing any melody for that matter.

“You should be careful. Even though their bodies might not obey them anymore, if you hit them, they will feel it,” Mu Chun warned. His voice was so dark and sinister, that it made the others’ skin crawl.

Lan Xiaoli was horrified. He watched the others fight in dismay and disbelief for a while before woodenly sweeping his gaze over to Mu Chun. He stared at Mu Chun with unblinking eyes. After shaking off his shock, he asked, “What did you…?”

When Mu Chun’s gaze flicked back to Lan Xiaoli, his expression grew softer but not any less serious. “It’s a spell,” he answered honestly.

Lan Xiaoli couldn’t believe this was really happening. He hadn’t even processed what Mu Chun had revealed to him. His head was swimming, his thought entirely a mess. How did things escalate this badly from one moment to the next?

The rims of his eyes grew hot. “…Stop it,” he rasped.

Mu Chun scoffed, “Right, so they can kill me?”

“They will not.”

“Pretty sure they came here to do that.”

Lan Xiaoli knew he was the only one who could put an end to this. But every word and action was crucial in this situation, so he cautiously stepped toward Mu Chun.

As Lan Xiaoli approached Mu Chun, Lan Wangji called out, “Xiaoli!”

Mu Chun was unpredictable. It was impossible to tell what else he might have up his sleeve, but one thing was certain: he was dangerous.

Lan Wangji wanted to stop Lan Xiaoli from taking another step, but he was too occupied with Wei Wuxian.

Lan Xiaoli ignored his father’s call. His eyes fixed on Mu Chun, he kept on moving forward. 

“They will not,” he repeated. Then, with a raised voice, he addressed Lan Wangji and Zhou Zishu, “Am I right?”

As much as Lan Wangji wished to put that insolent culprit named Mu Chun in his place, he couldn’t. Forced to fight their partners, Lan Wangji and Zhou Zishu found themselves in a dilemma.

Even though being out of control made them easy targets, Wei Wuxian and Wen Kexing’s bodies did not lack in skill.

With Wen Kexing, each blow could be fatal. Not wanting to hurt him, Zhou Zishu dodged and blocked his blows rather than actually fighting him.

Meanwhile, Lan Wangji fought off the walking corpses, while trying to seize Wei Wuxian, who nimbly slipped from his grasp over and over again.

This was already enough to keep the two men in check and away from Mu Chun, who watched with hands clasped behind his back, his face unreadable.

Fighting – no, dodging Wei Wuxian and Wen Kexing’s attacks, Lan Wangji and Zhou Zishu weren’t left with much choice but to agree.

���Yes!” they called out in unison.

Lan Xiaoli held Mu Chun’s gaze, not daring to look away for a second. A bead of sweat rolled down Mu Chun’s cheek, but he didn’t respond.

“Do you trust me?” Lan Xiaoli asked.

“I do.”

“Then please let them go.”

“...You know I had no choice. You know they would’ve killed me,” Mu Chun muttered with a smidgen of a plea.

Lan Xiaoli nodded. “I know. I know. But please, stop.”

Mu Chun swallowed hard. He glanced at the fighting men. Releasing Wen Kexing and Wei Wuxian could mean his certain death. Yet, he always expected complete and utter trust from Lan Xiaoli. This was his chance to show that they could trust each other. After brief consideration, he finally deactivated the spell.

From one moment to another, Wen Kexing and Wei Wuxian passed out. As their limp bodies collapsed to the ground, so did the corpses around them. Lan Wangji caught Wei Wuxian mid-air, while Zhou Zishu heaved Wen Kexing from the ground.

To make sure no one got any ideas or suddenly changed their mind, Lan Xiaoli quickly said, “Take dad and Uncle Wen and go.”

“I will not leave you,” Lan Wangji objected, his tone firm and determined.

“He is just doing this to protect himself. You should not have ambushed him like that!” Lan Xiaoli argued. “You do not have to worry about me, I will be fine. First of all, we should make sure that no one gets hurt.”

“Xiaoli!”

“No one,” Lan Xiaoli repeated in a tone that brooked no argument. “This includes Mu Chun.”

The other two stared at him. The atmosphere was fraught with tension.

Lan Xiaoli subconsciously clenched his fists. If they decided to attack, he wouldn’t know what to do. Apart from the fact that he wouldn’t stand a chance, he didn't want to fight them. But he couldn’t stand by and let Mu Chun get hurt either. He still wanted answers that only Mu Chun could provide.

For a long moment, no one moved.

Lan Wangji was the first to respond. He glanced at Mu Chun, then lowered his gaze and gave a subtle nod. With Wei Wuxian in his arms, he headed for the exit, followed by Zhou Zishu.

[beevean]

https://youtu.be/fDKZJbOiEQ4?si=k_KZ2dI4EPU3FHyR

https://youtu.be/LSnbb8e7UY0?si=FbAPhkoSgToMQvIb

Behold! The Queen of all time!

(And somehow Lady Pussy Sun manages to be even more one dimensional)

What kills me about this whole monologue is the setup:

Lenore: Please, would Dracula have kept [Hector] around in his own castle if he were that dangerous? Carmilla: *sighs* I would have liked that castle.

They were just talking about Hector, about him stalling and Carmilla suspecting him of being devious (and I would love to know how Carmilla grew to see Hector as suspicious and capable of killing, when she hasn't interacted with him on screen since the beginning of S3 when he was a pathetic sack of flesh) and Lenore "protecting" him by calling him "too simple" (déjà vu), a pretty important conversation for Carmilla because it has been six weeks and this asshole is making a fool out of the entire Council by roaming around her home without doing what he was raped hired to do (and Striga had mentioned in S3 that they couldn't afford to waste time as they had to take advantage of the chaos in the region before the humans reconquered it)... then Lenore just happens to mention the castle when it wasn't even the main subject of her sentence, and Carmilla immediately forgets all about the Hector issue because she just has to rant about her desire to conquer all?

absolutely peak dialogue. flows just as smoothly as chunks of concrete through a tube. i can see why this show is so praised for its writing.

I remember a post I read ages ago, about how Carmilla's insanity speedrun arc devalues the other sisters. In S2, she was pretty much the only ruler of Styria: the others weren't created yet, and she was written as someone who had to burden her trauma all alone. Then S3 introduces this tight-knit group of besties, which genuinely respect and admire Carmilla for being the "spark". Then in S4 Carmilla somehow loses her mind in one fell swoop because the others were too busy to check on her, reverts back to the lonely traumatized woman who fell prey to her own hatred and thirst for power, and the other three decide to turn their back on her with barely any hesitation. You could honestly cut all three sisters and fuse Carmilla with Lenore, and the story would be organically better. I honestly don't know if it looks worse when you watch everything in one go or having to wait one year for this mess.

On top of this, it's yet another instance of show don't tell. Carmilla just tells us about her trauma. "The first part of my life was men taking things from me," this is a chilling line with all sorts of terrible implications, and it's just thrown there without any care or pathos. Because the focus is not on her motivations that are supposed to give her depth: it's to show how insane she is, to suddenly kick her back into main villain position after she twiddled her thumbs for a whole season, and to justify poor widdle Lenore being scared of her, because hey, she's the "good" vampire, and aww she was lied to just like Hector, aren't they true soulmates, isn't this poetic cinema?

When you boil the Styria subplot down, it really is all about that damn woman, and screw everyone else, isn't it.

I said in one post that if I were to rewrite Carmilla, I'd put more emphasis on the fear that pervades her and drives her to react to the world with rage, mistrust and desire to protect herself. I cannot take Carmilla seriously the way she was written. She has the blueprints to be a compelling antagonist and representation of a woman who reacts to her trauma in an "unappealing" way without being woobiefied (and I do seriously appreciate it), but with scenes like this, she really only comes off as the scornful parody of a radfem written by a man that is absolutely not feminist in the slightest.

Oh, and I'll just mention this here:

"Bloody women," they said. "Let them die," they said.

For a setting so inspired by Berserk, and that has long dialogues of low-class men talking about fucking animals, there is a distinct lack of misogyny on screen. Not only the only flashback we get of Carmilla's past shows the day she killed her master and we don't get to see her "nightmares", which means we are not privy to the details of what drove her to be so hateful, we never see any men actually look down on Carmilla for being a woman in power: even Godbrand may be a bit of a lecherous pig, but seems to respect her enough as a person. Again, this cheapens her misandry. I can't take her seriously. She's just ranting that MEN BAD and I'm supposed to think she's cool for it.

[agravemistake13ghosts]

I. How Could You Do This to me, Betrayed By My Closest Friend

Author's Note: Here I am again. Fueled by my ADD medication, candy, and ghost green apple energy drinks. I recently watched Totally Killer which is an amazing movie that I highly suggest you watch.

The chapter title was pulled from "The Waiting One" by All That Remains.

This chapter is rated m for the mention of murder, graphic description of a dead body, and language.

Monday, October 21st, 1957 Cooper House

"He was found not guilty, guys," Caroline Cooper was once again trying to justify to Rebecca and Charlotte why she was not an absolute shit person for seeing Emily's abusive and murderous half-brother, Johnny. "I mean, shouldn't she get over it by now?"

Rebecca's hand came down on the floor with such force that the glass in her hand shattered.

"Get over it?!" her doe brown eyes were full of outrage as she narrowed them on Caroline, ignoring the throbbing pain from her palm. "Royce has been dead for eight days, Caroline! Eight fucking days!"

Caroline rolled her eyes and flicked one of her blonde curls out of her face with a huff.

"Of course, you both are on her side."

Charlotte, who had gripped Bex's hand to try and stem the flow of blood, whipped her head around to face Caroline, her red hair a veil of fire around her face.

"Did you expect us to be on yours?" She tugged Bex to her feet, keeping pressure on her injury. "If you want to fuck the asshole who not only abused Emily but then murdered the love of her life, that's between you and whatever god you believe in, leave us out of it."

The glass in the patio door shattered as a wooden chair came through it, hitting the wall with enough force to splinter, shards of glass and fragments of wood raining down onto Caroline, leaving small, weeping cuts in their wake.

"What the-"

Charlotte yanked Becky's hand hard, indicating something behind Caroline who was still disoriented and currently crawling across the floor on her hands and knees.

From behind a porcelain mask, violet eyes observed Charlotte and Bex as they fled into the night.

"Caroline, Caroline," blue eyes widened as the girl realized she wasn't alone. "They really left you here to face my rage."

A scream escaped as the knife that had been glinting in the light was sunk deep into her abdomen. It was ripped out painfully before it came down again.

Again. Again. Again. Again.

The screams had ceased now, replaced by gurgles as blood filled Caroline's throat.

Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten.

"W-why?"

It was wet and barely audible, almost a hiss.

"Why am I doing this to you?" The blade traced her cheek. "Is that what you're trying to ask me?"

Caroline nodded, big blue eyes swimming with tears, her white sweater wet and stained with blood, small dribbles of the red liquid escaping her mouth as she waited for an answer.

Bloody, trembling fingers reached up and weakly tugged the mask away, causing the hood to fall, black curls spilling forward around her attacker's face.

"You betrayed me, Care-bear," the childhood nickname sounded like poison as it slipped past the lips of her so-called best friend. "Even worse, you betrayed him."

Small fingers wrapped around her chin with a bruising grip.

"Royce was nice to you, no matter how nasty you were, and you betrayed him by fucking his killer," she shook her, Caroline's face moving limply. "I couldn't let you get away with that."

Emily glared down at the person whom she had once considered one of her closest friends, watching blood pool out around her. She felt nothing but hatred for the pitiful blonde.

"I hope he grieves you, Caroline."

The knife came down an eleventh and final time into Caroline's chest.

Monday, October 21st, 1957 Madison High School

"I guess Johnny really did love Caroline, huh?"

Emily's arms were crossed over her chest as she sat on the sill of the window overlooking the courtyard. The words spoken from Charlotte's cherry red lips had her violet eyes jumping over to her brother below. Sick pleasure filled her being as she saw what her half-brother looked like.

"Poor thing," while her comment was meant to be mocking, she knew it came out flat and emotionless. That was every day for her now. "At least now he knows what it feels like to love someone so much that it destroys you when you lose them."

If Charlotte and Rebecca read anything into her comment, they wisely kept their opinions to themselves.

A/N: I worked really hard on this chapter.

[uncensored-aj]

Fusion: Rorschach and Comedian 2 OC (Watchmen)

——

The pounding on Rorschach’s door at 2:30 in the morning was unexpected, even if he was fully awake at this hour. He grumbled a profanity to himself as he shoved his evidence files back into their envelope, opening the door.

“This better be… Good.”

His voice trailed off when he saw The Second Comedian, bloodied and bruised on his doorstep. Their eyes flowed with fresh tears, joining the already established streaks down their face. Their eyes were huge and puffy. They were coming down from the high of a good fight.

“HAHAH! Rorschach. Hi.” They laughed, but it was a weepy sort of laughter. It was as if, no matter how much they tried, Comedian couldn’t even take their own crying seriously. “Can I come in?”

They shuffled awkwardly, a sad smile crossing their features when Rorschach stepped aside.

They went inside, and by the time Rorschach closed the door, the Comedian had dried their tears, and planted a grin back on their face.

“Rory, my main squeeze! How the hell are you?” They said, pulling Rorschach to sit next to them on the couch.

“It’s 2:30 in the morning. Are we just going to ignore the waterworks, or…” Rorschach began. He was shut off by a finger tapping lightly on his lips. Normally, anyone who touched him like this would end up missing… but he was too weirded out to be angry.

“Yes we are. We are.” The Comedian looked distant for a long, long moment. Their expression went blank, they sighed heavily, and the thousand yard stare suddenly came back into focus.

They were dissociating. It was something they had started doing more frequently recently. Rorschach could always tell when they did, because they stopped their constant talking and looked a thousand miles away.

“Hey. Look at me. Don’t do that, Kid. I know it feels nice to push everything down into the pit of your stomach and make it go away, but you have to feel this. Tell me what happened.” Rorschach’s voice was calm, and firm, and brought everything back into focus.

He made a point to look Comedian in the eyes until he knew they were paying attention.

“It’s so fucked up, Rory… there was this guy, calling me all kinds of nasty names. I ignored him… and he grabbed me by my hair and…, and I just… lost it on him. How can you do it? How can you take all of the insults and being looked down on? I hate them. I want to do what’s right but I hate them. I fucking hate them so much. God! I’m just like my FATHER!” The Comedian wailed. Their voice was shaky with rage.

It was true, Edward Blake had struggled with his own rage issues. But Rorschach didn’t blame The Second Comedian for their father’s misdeeds. In fact, Rorschach thought his friend had been right in fighting their assailant. Masks had it rough, especially lately.

Rorschach put a hand on his friend’s trembling back, not sure how exactly to comfort them other than letting them cry.

“Listen to me. You were justified in kicking that guy’s teeth in. And as for your father, he wasn’t HALF the hero you are. You gave The Comedian’s name some dignity when you took the mantle, the way your father was too weak to.” Rorschach said matter of factly.

Comedian sniffled again, looking at Rorschach for a long moment.

“You think so? ‘Cause I feel like an idiot… I have no clue what I’m doing.” They said softly, looking down at their boots.

“No one does.” Rorschach grumbled.

Comedian suddenly wrapped their arms loosely around Rorschach’s middle, hugging him closely. The weird thing was, He let them.

They wished Rorschach could know how much they respected and valued him as a mentor and best friend. They wished they could put into words how being close to him just seemed to put them at ease. Sometimes it even felt like they could just melt…

Anyone who would have seen the pair then would have seen that they were meshing together, and eventually melded into one being.

…

They opened their eyes, confusion filling them. Hadn’t Rorschach and Comedian been RIGHT THERE? Where was their best friend?

Part of them wondered where Rorschach had gone… and at the same time, they equally wondered where The Second Comedian had gone.

“But I’m right here…” They muttered to themself. Their voice startled them, sounding hoarse, yet strangely articulate.

This was really strange. They felt a little like Rorschach, and a little like Comedian, and a whole lot like someone entirely new.

They looked down at their hands. Instead of seeing Comedian’s short, sharp, inky black nails, or Rorschach’s rough hands, they saw a pair of slightly large, yet delicate looking hands with chipped black polish on a few of their nails. They were wearing a mismatch of both Rorschach and Comedian’s clothes. They had on two different boots.

They raced to the bathroom mirror, seeing a mess of wild curly red hair with Raven streaks. It was longer than Rorschach’s, yet shorter than Comedians. They peered into their own eyes, one green and one blue.

“I don’t understand… did we… did I… fuse together?” They asked themself. “Holy hell. The Comedian must have some kind of new power… Is…this ok? I’m sorry…No. No I’m not. We have to show Everyone! This is… incredible! God, LOOK at us!”

They admired themself in the mirror for a long moment before quickly heading out, and going straight to Daniel Dreiberg’s place.

‘It’s Three O’clock in the morning… I wonder if Dan and Laurie are even awake.’ They wondered, knocking harshly on the door.

“Do you have any idea what time it is?” Dan’s unusually angry voice came as he opened the door a minute later. “What’s… the matter?”

He was in his Pajamas, and didn’t have his glasses.

“Daniel. The Second Comedian, and Rorschach, were at Rorschach’s place… and… and Comedian was Upset… and then…. They kind of smushed together… and…now I’m here and…and…Dan this is freaky.” They blurted.

Daniel looked at them, confused, for a long moment. He put his finger up in a ‘hold on’ gesture, leaving for a long moment, and returned with his glasses on and with Laurie by his side. Laurie had obviously been asleep as well, and looked furious. But she thankfully said nothing.

‘She scares me.’ The fusion thought to Themself.

Daniel looked at them, taking in the mixed features of Comedian and Rorschach, and finally waved them inside.

….

“So… Comedian was feeling very strongly about Rorschach, and they hugged, and now you’re… both of them are… you?” Laurie asked for the millionth time.

The fusion just nodded.

“And.. do you want to be… one person?” Daniel asked slowly.

The fusion shrugged.

“I dunno. I kind of like being me… but I think I can split back if I tried. This is something we’ve never felt before. It’s so strange… I…feel like I’m not really here. Like I’m inside my own head looking out.”

They admired their hands, getting lost in their thoughts. Thoughts of horrible childhoods, and of avenging the wrongs of humanity.

“…So… what do you think?” Dan asked excitedly.

“…What? I wasn’t paying attention…” The Fusion said absently, snapping back to the present.

“We should head to the training room! To see what you can do!” Daniel said, grinning.

…

A little while later, They were all in the Watchmen’s recently renovated training room, sparring, in the middle of the night. But they were all wide awake now.

The fusion kicked Daniel hard in the chest, sending him flying. They launched upward, clinging onto a beam in the ceiling.

‘We can jump SO HIGH NOW!’ They thought giddily, hopping up to perch on the beam.

“Let’s go again!” They chortled loudly.

They watched Daniel pick himself up, but the look of pain in his eyes, and the flash of concern in Laurie’s eyes made them have tunnel vision. Their heart started racing.

‘Oh no… no no no… Daniel looks hurt… I went too far. I always go too far. I’m such a bad friend… I didn’t mean to…’ their thoughts consumed them, and they weren’t paying attention. Their footing slipped, sending them tumbling down around forty feet onto the ground below.

And as they hit the ground, they split.

Rorschach caught The Comedian and they rolled, and both eventually sprang to their feet.

“I’m so sorry!” The Comedian babbled anxiously, “We weren’t paying attention!”

“…Didn’t mean to hurt you.” Rorschach muttered, patting a recovering Daniel on the back.

“I’m fine.” Daniel assured them. “I just wasn’t expecting you guys to be so strong.”

The Comedian looked at Rorschach, and they suddenly felt even more self conscious.

“I… didn’t know I could do that. I…” Comedian began. “Rory I’m so sorry if…”

Rorschach stopped them, putting his hands on their shoulders.

“We were KICK ASS, Com! We might have something solid here…Can we do it again?” He said.

“If you guys make this a gimmick out in the field, you gotta learn how to stay calm. You’re getting overwhelmed.” Laurie chimed in. “We should work on it. We can make it a regular part of team training if you would want to keep going.”

Rorschach and The Second Comedian looked at each other. Comedian grinned, and Rorschach nodded determinedly.

“Lets do it.”

[yegormirnov]

Travis Scott’s “UTOPIA” or How You Can Justify the 5 Years for an Album

On the 28th of July, the long-awaited album “UTOPIA” by Houston rapper Travis Scott was released to a global audience. After the commercial success of his 3rd album, “ASTROWORLD,” the bar was set extraordinarily high. This album's hype permeated globally, featuring mysterious briefcases, an Egypt performance (unfortunately canceled), and mastering from Mike Dean. It seemed as if the album was Travis’s version of "Graduation" or "MBDTF," so the question is:

Did the protege manage to succeed?

“UTOPIA” is weird, absurd, creepy, and fantastic. Those four words were the first that came to my mind after listening to the whole thing. In comparison, “ASTROWORLD” was akin to a rollercoaster or entertainment park, offering an experience of entertainment and amusement, which clearly played it much safer than “UTOPIA”.

“ASTRO” was colorful, but not as motley and vibrant as “UTOPIA”. It had risks, but wasn’t as edgy or even half as bold as the latter. Travis’s goal with “UTOPIA” is to engage you in his album atmosphere once more, achieved here by the effect of shock and amazement.

Explosive instrumentals and angelic outros are fundamental in every Travis Scott album, but the variety of soundscapes represented flawlessly in this LP is tremendous. The album is replete with hip-hop beats in disguise, allowing Travis to flow wherever and however he wills. Most of his rap performance is rough and raw, reminiscent of his older “Owl Pharaoh”/ “Days before Rodeo” style evident in “Hyaena”, “God’s Country”, “Skitzo”.

On his 4th LP, Travis ventures into unknown directions. An instance is “K-Pop,” dancehall-inspired music with elements of Latin involvement. “Modern Jam” is another example indicating his new direction. The boom-bap “Beyonce’s Renaissance” house music dominates this project, illustrating the multifunctionality of Travis’s style. The album showcases peak Travis psychedelic beats and performances, entrancing listeners in this natural, spatial feeling of oddness.

Features:

One issue I had with “ASTROWORLD” was that the feature list mostly outshined Travis, leaving little space for him on the song. However, here Travis immerses you by himself, making it the standout of this project for me.

On “UTOPIA,” invited artists deliver some of their best verses with amazing execution. Each artist sounds seraphic and vibrant, finding their niche and contributing to the complete experience. For example, in “FE!N,” Playboi Carti reveals a more mature, rough, and revolutionary style, an incredible opportunity to showcase his new era on such a long-awaited release.

Additionally, Travis introduces newcomers and upcoming talents. “UTOPIA” introduces Teezo Touchdown on “Modern Jam” and KayCyy on “Thank God”. Both were phenomenal; Teezo’s voice, initially found annoying and disturbing, showcased its subtleties and proper implementation on “Modern Jam.”

Even minor elements, such as Sampha’s feature on ‘My Eyes,’ Young Thug’s verse on ‘Skitzo,’ and immersive vocals from SZA and The Weeknd, display the well-mastered nature of this project.

Artistically, “UTOPIA” represents Travis finally merging both alter egos (Scott and $cott) and utilizing them marvelously throughout the album.

Let’s explore his $cott side. He reverts to the rawness, hunger, and desire seen in older projects, illustrating this rage and hunger on “UTOPIA.” He flawlessly portrays his trap image, ready to stay.

Regarding his Scott ego, it delves into the transparency of emotions, offering immersive and complex structures. Here, Travis reaches new heights, potentially patenting this sound and his psycho/bizarre influence in the future.

Now, for the cons of the album, which though minor, are present.

The inconsistency and duration of the album are significant concerns. While most tracks feature amazing progressions impossible to imitate or repeat, their length with complex constructions can cause boredom and distraction for the regular listener.

Favorite Tracks:I Know?, Modern Jam, Hyaena

Least Favorite Track:K-Pop

In conclusion,

“UTOPIA” is many things - Travis Scott’s version of Yeezus, reminiscent of the past, or simply a unique, dark, immersive experience. For me, “UTOPIA” is a loose concept, seen from individual perspectives. It's not just a place or an album. It's emotions that emerge, creating the feeling of UTOPIA within you.