#no need to insert a god into the equation

[lenbryant]

Authority vs curiosity

[zstartrixxx]

How do you think Jack O’Connells characters would handle a break up, them doing a break up vs being broken up with?

maybe this will be a lil' bit dramatic (but I can't help my dramatic streak so—)

I think most of them would just... collapse. Each in their own way. Even if they're the ones ending things, they'll come out more messed up than you in this bitter equation of a breakup—and sometimes it was just a "situationship" between you two, but he (insert any of his characters here) was already so invested that the ending just breaks him.

Like, if you break up with Remmick, this vampire becomes the most pathetic creature in the world, dragging himself wherever you go, hands clasped as if begging Jesus Christ himself for forgiveness—whimpering, lamenting—even covered in fresh blood from hunting, begging you to come back to him, to be his again because "without you I'm just a lost vampire wandering my lonely road", and such. Or alternatively, he becomes like a shadow, lurking at windows and in dark corners, eyes blazing with desire and hatred, watching you with another man, drooling at the thought of making that man his next meal while dragging you away by his claws to show you: "How dare you belong to another when you're eternally mine?", revealing his most monstrous, feral side. Awful, oh... Can you imagine? After turning your new lover into mincemeat, spitting blood, eyes bloodshot... God.

Lion Kaminski would withdraw from everything. Curl up in a corner, try to hold back heart-wrenching sobs, keep envisioning the lost future, endlessly remembering the last time you made love before you disappeared (obvious movie references, sorry lol) and wondering where the hell he went wrong. Even with something important to dosituationshipa fight to win—he'd be shattered. Worse than any knockout, I'd say. Our poor boy... Don't break his heart!

When I think about Roy Goode, I love imagining this almost fallen-hero aura about him, so he'd be the one to end things; not because he stopped loving you—quite the opposite! He'd do it with his heart in tatters like the last letter he left you before riding away, fearing for your safety—knowing how visceral and dangerous the real world is. But he'd probably regret it, realizing he committed an act of cruelty—and he's not truly that cruel—and come riding back. Back to your arms.

Now Patrick Sumner would definitely be one who might end things too, holding himself together not to fall apart, but out of pride. Something slipped from his control, maybe made him lose the charm, or he simply needs to leave—so he goes. Look, among Jack's characters, Sumner (to me) is one of the most complex because he's a man who gets destroyed countless times, gets reborn from a bear, and starts seeing the world differently. Being with him would always mean living in strange lands. So he'd dissociate from his own body, try to analyze the situation from outside himself, and even in shards of glass, he'd keep living.

Oliver Mellors is the counterpart to Sumner's reason: he's heart. Love. Heartfelt—literally, heart; that feels things deeply. This man breathes and lives for you, for his beloved, for life, no matter how hard it's been... So when he suffers because you have to leave, he'll suffer even more if he's the one who has to do it. In a perfect world, there'd be no breakups, no separations, because he can't even conceive a reality where you're not together.

Please, don't make this man suffer!

[dustyrkives]

No One But Me

PAIRING: Ada Wong x fem reader

WARNINGS: RE6 Ada, dark Ada, stalking, infatuation, possessive behavior, obsession, dubious morality, yandere-tendencies, psychological horror, st@ged k!dn@pping, v!olence, manipulation and that's about it, I think.

SYNOPSIS: Ada Wong has always been a woman of control, precision, and purpose. But when she sees you—a scientist entangled in the chaos of bioterrorism—something shifts. What begins as mere curiosity festers into something deeper, darker. You are hers. You just don’t know it yet. And Ada? She’s more than willing to teach you. PS: this is also based on my old published works. Feedback is appreciated <3

MEN, MINORS DNI

One, apathy

I am what I am, and I am nothing.

Eyes wide like a deer in headlights, soft skin, and plump lips–oh, Ada knew she'd be thinking about you for the entirety of her mission.

Two, disruption.

Now what's a pretty girl like you doing in the submarine she's infiltrated? And why were you escorted out with security carrying a briefcase handcuffed to your right hand?

Three, curiosity. One quick moment to crane the neck.

Before the mercenary can satiate her curiosity about you, shouts of armed men alarm you of her presence, hence your adorable expression as your guards quickly drag you across the hallway–and matchless against the men, Ada ran begrudgingly.

Now, Ada couldn't care less about how others perceived her, but she felt like she had just made a fool of herself before you.

Ada's face burns as she slams the door behind her, she fixes her expression. Sharp eyes narrow to slits as she finds herself fooled by Simmons; gloved hands nearly crush her device–not only did she make a fool of herself, she was deceived by her employer too.

Cold, brown eyes snap to the photo displayed atop the oak desk. With slow, sure strides–Ada approaches, careful for any traps engineered in the room as she finally takes the photo, most of the subjects were unknown to her until she sees those familiar summer-like innocent features while you stand with your fellow scientists and researchers. Ada despised how her eyes greedily searched your picture, searching for anything–nothing.

But no matter.

The short-haired woman tears your picture from the other scientists and rolls it carefully before inserting it into her utility belt before fleeing from the self-destructing submarine for one: to solve whatever game Simmons drags her into and, of course, an excuse to find out about you: what did this have to do with you? And what was in that briefcase?

Such exquisite excuses–masked by the investigative query.

And Ada knew better than to fool herself, but for now–that wasn't her focus.

Not one to enjoy being left in the dark, she sets her next destination: America.

True to his words, Simmons did launch a bioterror attack in Tall Oaks, word has it that the president was infected and killed.

But that isn't her concern–for now.

She came here for answers, and she will have them.

Always possessed by the insatiable need to see what happens inside the room.

Her skin is soaked with sweat–and perhaps the fluids of the infected she had just taken down. Her lungs burned for oxygen as she scanned her surroundings, intelligent, cold, unfeeling eyes examining the lab. Finally. She is where she's supposed to be.

Gloved hands meticulously searched the lab, plans, equations, and names of associates–shareholders. Trained eyes swallowing one detail after another–until she sets her eyes on a tape.

A frown graces her elegant countenance as she plays the tape.

Lo, a wellspring of knowledge. Of feeling, of sensation.

Harrowing, overwhelming.

I will dislocate my jaw to fit it all in.

Ada sees a copy of herself born from a cocoon, dazed and besotted. She stands there–what was supposed to be the most destructive moment of her life–cut short after seeing a familiar innocent face in the background, mirroring the uncomfortable display of god-like calamity as it pans to your face, you look away shameless as Simmons praise you for your input with his new creation.

The mercury pauses the tape at the exact moment that you finally show your face–you force a polite smile, but your eyes gleam with disgust.

Oh, the camera does not capture your beauty the way her memory does.

Angered, she thinks: How can you show disgust when you create something out of her image?

If anything, you should be in awe.

But Ada excuses it–you are innocent and at the same–you are not.

You just don't understand it yet.

Ada finds herself reaching for you as if to ease the disgust and horror that swims in the crevices of your beautiful eyes. A burning sensation ripples through her. Oh, such soft features tainted by your employer and superior.

Five, aggrandization.

Send down your cordage of suffocation and let me in

Begrudgingly, she tears her gaze from your projection. She searches, frantically–the lab should be able to contain any information about you, right?

It has to!

Grabby hands, shallow breaths, frantic eyes.

Finally, her efforts have come to fruition.

The dossiers of you and your peers are clad in white. Eyes greedily scheming through the pages until her eyes finally land on your name.

Beautiful, just like you.

And turns out you're one of the few scientists that help Simmons with his... fixation. Second, her doppelganger is wreaking havoc and threatening the stability sought by The Family–and she can not sit idle while her knockoff is paraded about: eliminate and then have you as a reward–and it just so happens that it states your next location: China.

Ada revels in triumph as the revelation sinks in; after all, she is the real Ada, surely, you must recognize her as the one worth your attention.

Not the fake one.

Six, delineation

I want to know what God knows, and I will take it from Him.

Set over the edge, I sigh.

Ada follows the trail of Neo-Umbrella to China, where a bioterror incident dwarfs the recent Tall Oak attack occurs. Her fingers tap against her thigh as she meticulously plans her objectives–hoping to see you amidst the chaos her doppelganger has created.

Picking up BSAA transmissions, Ada locks down her imposter's location, encountering a few agents on the way–most importantly, you.

Her trigger finger stills as her eyes zero on your retreating figure from her sniper, breath hitching as she sees you running away from the infected citizens. The mercenary seethes.

How DARE they come after you?

The older woman's hand clenches on the grip, her chest heaving as cold possession seeps into her veins faster than any virus.

Swiftly, she riddles them with lead, watching you scramble from the floor, looking around for your unknown savior.

Her crosshairs glide down your body, committing every frantic motion to memory. Vulnerable. Precious. Hers.

Ada's stomach churns at how adorable you look. You look distraught and shaken before running into safety. Although the encounter was brief, it was enough for Ada to keep her patience at bay–patience is a virtue, is it not?

With a cold smile, she whispers your name–hoping the troubled wind will carry it to you, make you know that she is watching you, looking out for you in her own way. Then, a realization: you are in need of someone capable, someone who won't hesitate to leave a trail of bodies for your sake, someone devoted to your well-being, your safety, your comfort.

She believes only she is fit to protect you.

Who else but her? No one else is worthy. No one else understands.

Ada is the perfect candidate. She is a woman of many talents and skills–you will need her.

Seven, perversion

It's no good bearing false witness.

On the aircraft carrier, Ada finds documentation regarding the creation of her imposter.

This all stemmed from Simmons' deep-rooted frustration with her not being the docile, obedient soldier he expected. This frustration bore a twisted need for revenge, which came in the form of creating a facsimile of Ada—a clone that would obey Simmons and only Simmons. The road to perfecting the clone was long and littered with failures—countless test subjects used and discarded—until finally, with the discovery of you, success was had in injecting the C-Virus and a sample of Ada's DNA into Carla Radames, a scientist working under Simmons and was one of your peers.

However, this success was short-lived. Carla's buried consciousness slowly awoke to her situation and began to seek retribution against Simmons.

She looks down at her clone's body, unmoving. Ada moves her line of sight to the city in ashes–are you safe? Did you make it out alive?

Just as your safety floods her thoughts, Carla lunges at her–the clone's body undergoing violent mutations as she shrieks that she is the one and true Ada Wong.

The mercenary scowls before irritation twists in her features. Wonderful, another obstacle comes between her and you.

It's a struggle, everything's a struggle, Ada eventually defeats her clone–now she has to tie loose ends and find you–her price.

The sinner's errand.

Of course, Ada knew you weren't as innocent–you knew that too...

You help create a monster from her image. She may acknowledge that you are hers, but that does not excuse the damage you had caused, so what more than to punish you accordingly?

After she accepts another mission, Ada makes it a task to track you down and weave her way into your life like a mismatching thread. A flower shop? Oh, how quaint. Look at you living peacefully while Ada had to push the gnawing need for your presence.

She visits you under the guise of getting the perfect flowers–only for her to purchase and give them to you with the most charming smile she can muster. The way your cheeks turn red has her empty heart swell with joy and warmth–but not enough to forget she has to cleanse you of your sins first.

When you first ask for her name, a strange smile graces Ada's lips as you look at her with unmistakeable intrigue and interest.

This is perfect. The plan falls into place bit by bit.

Days turned to months, and Ada got what she wanted: you.

And oh, how easy was it to have you at her whim, pliant and obedient, especially when she needs you.

Your lungs burned for oxygen after Ada chases your lips.

Searing, all-consuming, and it keeps you at bay.

Her arms snake around your waist, pulling you close to her as she devours your lips like a woman deprived of resources as you two make out on the couch of your shared apartment.

Ada does this because she knows–when the hired man takes you from your flower shop, her lips will hunger for yours, and her cold body will search for your warmth.

A pained yelp tumbles from your lips as the assailant throws you on the ground, your wrists are bound, save for your legs.

It was dark, and you couldn't tell where you were–they had blindfolded you on the way to your new prison. Trembling, you scramble to the locked door, your pleas for freedom and empty promises fell on deaf ears.

Your pulse throbs against your ears, your body cold with trepidation as the darkness consumes your whole being.

"Let me out! Please, I'll do anything!" You sob as you press your body against the locked, solid steel door.

Oh, Ada would be upset if she knew what had happened–they had taken away your phone, they should've snapped it in half but they didn't. Why?

Your throat aches as you keep pleading for your case until one of them barges into the room.

"Shut the fuck up!" The masked man roars before slapping you across the face. The side of your face stings red, and he hits you again. You're sure that their fate will be worse than death; Ada hates it when you get hurt.

You curl against the cold pavement, tears streaming down your face as you pray for salvation, specifically Ada's.

I was an angel, though plummeting

The stars are as beams shining through the wheel.

Perhaps crying and begging wore you out because you were awakened by Ada's soft hand caressing your cheek while she cradled you.

"A-Ada," You breathe. Impossible, you should've heard her come to you. Your hands shakily reach for her face before craning your neck, blood running cold at the sight of the men's twitching bodies while they choke on their blood, twitching.

God, they're still alive?

"Darling, look at me." Your lover coaxes, you obey, and your eyes subtly widen. Ada, compared to her victims, looks neat and presentable, except for the blood splattered all over her black button-up shirt, soaked with blood, some on her face like a demented blush.

But oh, she is gorgeous.

"Th-they–"

"It's okay," She whispers and pulls you closer to her, pressing the side of your face against her bloody chest while her hand delicately holds your head. "I'm here now, my love. No one's going to hurt you."

"A-are they still alive?" You squeak as she effortlessly carries you. Her chest rumbles with a sinister chuckle. You see something strange swirl in your lover's dark brown eyes, something akin to delight.

Twisted delight.

"You know what they say about dull blades, darling. They are painful compared to fresh steel. I will leave them to suffer for touching you, hurting you."

She kicks the door open, revealing an isolated area. You take a look at your captors as they lay in the pool of their own blood, dull knives lodged into their bodies.

"Do you remember the first time I bought you flowers?" Ada queries, forcing you to tear your gaze from the men to answer her. "Of course,"

How could you forget? It was a cherished memory.

"I visited you every day, wrote to you even when I knew we lived in the modern age." She reminisces with a soft, rare smile. "And your love for carnations," Ada adds, "Am I right, doll?"

"Yes," You sigh, leaning against her.

"When we're finally home, you will rest, and I'll take you to your favorite flower park so you can look at the flowers."

She approaches the familiar Bentley and opens the door, setting you down in the passenger seat. Ada stands in front of you, taking in your tired appearance; the older woman heaves a sigh, almost apologetic, as she takes your hand, rubbing her thumb against the back of your palm soothingly.

"You're safe with me," Ada murmurs, bringing your hand to her lips as it ghosts over your knuckles.

And there it is again, the dark gleam in her eyes.

"No one will harm you or touch you again."

I am what I am, but we are not the same.

[physalian]

The Dos and Don’ts of Giving and Receiving Constructive Criticism

Some of these should be painfully obvious and yet. They come from experience.

Receiving feedback:

Do

Understand that a criticism of a character’s thoughts, actions, morality, and choices are likely not a criticism of you as an author, unless the character is an author insert

Understand that they are being paid to critique how successfully you told an entertaining story, not pander to your trauma dumping

Understand that critiquing a book’s success as an entertaining story means that how much you yourself connect with or love a character or scene or plotline is irrelevant if it doesn’t make a compelling narrative

You might have written your book for yourself. Your editor is a different person with their own human biases and perspectives. If you just want to pay someone to stoke your ego, make that 100% clear up front.

Stand up for yourself and clarify where necessary if some details were overlooked or if explaining outside the narrative can better contextualize anything confusing or lacking detail.

Stand up for yourself in what feedback you are expecting, and what degree of criticism you’re willing to endure. An editor can let more or less of their own views show depending on what you ask for.

Stand up for yourself if your editor delivers inadequate or useless feedback. You’re paying them for a job, and you deserve to have it done properly.

Try to separate dislike of a book from dislike of yourself. It’s not easy, but the goal is to fix your book that you’ve already spent a lot of time writing, and they’re only trying to help.

Remember that your author insert is subjected to the same level of criticism as any other character, and that you asked for this.

Keep an open mind and be prepared for feedback that you don’t like, because you can’t please everyone. Your editor should be able to tell you whether or not a scene or character, or plotline works separate from their own personal tastes.

Don’t

Argue with your editor over their religiosity or lack thereof and insist that adhering to genre expectations means they “worship the god of [genre]”. (really, argue with your editor over anything like this, e.g. their own sexuality, religiosity, gender, socioeconomic status).

Argue with your editor while still expecting more work from them as if your aggression will in any way positively impact their perception of your book.

Insult your editor’s intelligence for not understanding your jargon and attempts to sound smarter than you are.

Get mad when your editor sees right through your BS and calls it like they see it, specifically your self-insert Mary Sue protagonist.

Insist that the solution to better understanding your book is for that editor to do extensive homework on your niche topic. If it’s a niche book for niche audiences, hire an editor who’s already knowledgeable about that niche topic.

Equate a bad review and opinion of the book with unprofessionalism. These can overlap, but they are not interchangeable.

Forget that your book is probably meant for leisure and entertainment, and your audience is under no obligation to read “until it gets good,” when they can go do literally anything else. Your first job is to entertain, if you write fiction.

Giving Feedback:

Do

Pay attention to your client’s wants and needs and expectations. If they’re more sensitive to bad feedback, do your best and stay as objective as possible. You can’t please everyone, either.

Helpful feedback includes an explanation of why an element needs work and how it can be improved. Saying “I hate this” with nothing else helps no one and just makes the author feel bad with no direction of how to make it better.

Communicate beforehand how much of your own personality your author wants from you. Do they like personal opinions and your personal reactions to the text, or do they want it as impersonal as possible and solely focused on the structure of the narrative? This might avoid a mess.

Remember to leave notes of where things worked well to balance the criticism. Even a simple “this is good” highlighting a line or a paragraph or two helps keep authors motivated to keep writing. I firmly believe that no book is completely unsalvageable.

Make it painfully clear with no room for debate that criticism of a character is not criticism of the author, unless it's an author insert, in which case the author absolutely asked for it.

Make it clear that you are just one person and these are all suggestions, not laws.

Don’t

Let your own personal opinions cloud your judgment of whether or not someone with different tastes could enjoy the book.

Unless given permission, get too personal with the narrative and reach beyond what’s written on the page.

Do more than what you’re paid for. You’re an editor, not a therapist for the writer’s trauma dumping.

Forget to wrap up all your thoughts in a condensed format that the author can reference, as opposed to endlessly scrolling through the manuscript trying to summarize your points for you.

Walk away with absolutely nothing positive to say about the manuscript. Even if it’s awful on every front, the writer still tried and that deserves merit.

This is from my personal experience beta and sensitivity reading, and dealing with other beta and sensitivity readers. We are all human and these jobs are not one-size-fits-all and there aren’t really hardline rules as every author, editor, and manuscript is different with different needs.

Just some things to keep in mind.

But also, for the authors who do write self-insert Mary Sues: You are in for a very rude awakening if you expect anyone other than yourself to adore your book with zero criticism. If you really just want someone to proofread and look for typos, tell them.

[pomrania]

Could They Survive Investigating Kira?

To clarify, this is about the Kira murders from Death Note, not the other manga/anime which has a serial murderer named Kira who kills via supernatural means. Insert "two nickels" meme here.

@couldtheycatchkira asks if a given character could catch Kira, and would they survive. Here, I'm focusing on the second part, and how to consider it. I've broken it down into four major questions:

Are they capable of dying (and staying dead)?

Are they capable of being killed by the Death Note?

Would Kira be able to kill them?

Would Kira choose to kill them?

1. Are they capable of dying (and staying dead)?

If a character cannot die, cannot be killed by any method whatsoever, won't even die from old age, then they survive investigating Kira; they survive ANY circumstance. You don't need to look at any further question, in order to get your answer (although you might choose to, just for enjoyment purposes).

Under this category, I'd also include characters with explicit good luck and/or uncanny ability to survive situations that should have killed them, where they're theoretically capable of dying, but circumstances arrange themselves such that it never actually happens. Not to be confused with "protagonist immortality", where a character survives because if they died the story would be over; this is a character who basically has indirect immortality as a superpower. Or they could fall under the category of "God's favourite chew-toy", where some higher (or lower) power simply won't let them die or stay dead.

Conversely, is the character capable of SURVIVING? In other words, how inherently doomed are they? If they were in a story where "character death" is a possibility, are they a character who's guaranteed to die? Note that this is distinct from being "doomed by the narrative", because that's doomed by ONE PARTICULAR narrative, and "getting Kira-murdered while investigating" might or might not fit their narrative doom.

This is also where I raise the issue of resurrection, and limited immortality. If a character dies but comes back to life, then they count as "surviving"; they need to STAY dead, in order to count as "does not survive". And if they're generally immortal (or at least unkillable), but can be killed under certain specific circumstances, then the question moves to "would Kira be able to figure out, and create, those circumstances".

2. Are they capable of being killed by the Death Note?

If they're immune to Kira's only real weapon, then they won't be killed by Kira; and unless they're otherwise doomed (see above), they'd survive.

Some characters, while capable of dying, outrank shinigami, or have connections that equate to such. The Death Note wouldn't work on them, for similar reasons as how an employee can't fire the head of their company.

Then there's non-human characters. This can be tricky, because in the world of Death Note, there's humans and there's shinigami, and the Note explicitly works on humans but not shinigami. To keep things fun and interesting, I'd say that any type of sapient mortal counts as a potential Death Note victim in the same way "human" does, because otherwise it gets boring; blanket immunity should be reserved for characters who specifically have it.

As for non-sapient and/or non-mortal characters… I don't have any overarching advice for them, except maybe see if you get a definitive answer in the next questions, and if not then you can use "might or might not be able to be killed by the Death Note" as a tie-breaker.

I think this is also the level to look at "characters who couldn't die from a heart attack". The Death Note CAN kill via other methods, but "heart attack" is the default. For this, you need to consider if Kira would REALIZE that simply writing the character's name down (to give them a heart attack) wouldn't suffice, and if he'd be able to figure out a method that WOULD work; but that shades into the next question.

3. Would Kira be able to kill them?

There's two major categories to this question; the issues Kira ran into in his story, and issues we get from characters who aren't "baseline human". I'll start with the second category.

Some characters have unorthodox death requirements, like non-human biology (or equivalent processes if non-biological), or limited immortality. Would Kira be able to figure out that he needs to do something different to kill them, and would he be able to figure out WHAT he needs to do?

Then, the "standard" issues, and what people first think of when they consider "would this character survive investigating Kira". In order for Kira to be able to kill someone, he first needs to know that they exist; then, their full name and how to spell it, and what their face looks like. If he doesn't have all three of those, then that character is safe from being Kira-murdered (but might still die in other ways).

4. Would Kira choose to kill them?

This factor seems to get neglected a lot, judging from the amount of times I've seen "lol they're a public figure, they'll die immediately". But Kira doesn't kill everyone whose identity he knows, because otherwise he'd be easy to locate, as the epicentre of mass death.

First, does the character fit his normal victim profile? If so, then he tries to kill them (which might or might not succeed, as detailed in the previous three questions), even if he doesn't know that they're investigating him.

Next, does he consider them a potential threat? If he doesn't know the character is even INVESTIGATING him, or if he thinks they're incompetent as an investigator, or if he believes he's sufficiently outsmarted them, then they're not a threat, and he has no reason to kill them.

Finally, does he have a reason NOT to kill them? Does he believe they should be left alive, on their own merits; or, more commonly, does he feel that they'd pose more of a threat to him dead than alive? For example, this could be them having information that would get sent out automatically upon their death, or being in a situation where suspicion would fall on him specifically if they die in an unnatural manner.

[moobloom-mention]

To Wait for You Would Mean to Wait an Eternity (And By Then It'd Be Too Late)

Part 1 || Part 2 || Part 3

Summary: Macaque escapes his own death by refusing to interfere with Wukong's JTTW. Besides, Flower Fruit Mountain needs a king that'll nurse it back to its golden age, a role he believes he'll fit quite well.

Too bad Wukong isn't one to enjoy returning to his kingdom to find it overthrown by his own moon.

Content Warning(s): Implied Death

Word Count: 5758

----------

If Macaque was asked what his favorite thing about Flower Fruit Mountain was, he’d be the first to admit his fondness for its consistency.

Having risen amidst the calm waters of Earth’s equator, the island had never known the harsh bark of seasons demanding a change of climate, forever encapsulated in a state of spring if only to nurture its vibrant garden of flowers and trees.

The sky, too, never strayed far from the familiar status of clear, the sun’s routinely appearance a gentle glow everso eager to warm the fur of whatever little one had chosen to lounge about in its rays. Rarely was the sun ever blocked by the startling appearance of clouds and rain, their designated gods not daring to tread foot upon the island less it’d been deemed absolutely necessary.

Macaque supposes their fear of going anywhere near Flower Fruit Mountain meant that at least something good to come out of Wukong’s past claim as king. The sage may have disappeared from the mortal plane at least a few centuries ago, but not many beings were willing to take the risk encountering the ire of Wukong just to step on the island’s beach.

But whilst the implied protection very-well scared off any celestial beings or demons seeking new territory, it’d never exempted Macaque from needing to console little ones and fix whatever problems that’d frightened them.

He’d long outgrown the capability of counting on his hands just how many times he’d awoken at the first mention of sunlight to small monkeys hopping frantically atop his bed with urgent cries- ones painfully dismissive of his six ears -howling, “Macaque! Macaque! We lost [insert random number] banana trees last night-!”

Of course, Macaque- even amidst battling the thrall of sleep and his newly formed migraine -would always be mindful in comforting whomever had woken him, reminding them that he’d assist with planting more trees to replace whatever they’d lost. Sure it’d take a good year for the saplings to sprout and bear fruit, but that’d give them plenty of time to ensure other food alternatives remained bountiful.

Besides, if finding a few dead trees ended up being the annual tragedy his kingdom would need to face, Macaque couldn’t find himself bothered by the occasional rude awakening.

But to be savagely dragged from the comforting embrace of sleep by something heavy thumping hollowly against his forehead?

Yeah, no. He’ll take small hands shaking him awake anyday.

“Wha-?”

“Oh good, you’re not dead,” a familiar voice heaves somewhere to Macaque’s left, and he winces as the same hollow sound- which he now recognizes is a scroll -clatters violently against the stone flooring of his bedroom. It’s a harsh noise that harmonizes awkwardly with the distant chitters of other little ones roaming about the upper tunnels of the cave system. “I was beginning to think I’d have to handle the end of the world by myself-”

Now that puts distance between Macaque and the thick tendrils of sleep he’s still partially ensnared by, the king’s ears flattening in brief sorrow as he forces himself from the comforting warmth of his bedsheets and onto his feet.

He’s almost certain the little one that’d struck him is Èzuòjù, a blonde gibbon that’d never been the type to fear Macaque growing angry over his wild antics. Of course, Macaque’s genuine temper was a difficult thing to evoke, but it was the youthful spirit’s bravery that’d gotten him in good graces with the antisocial king in the first place.

Alas, it isn’t the familiar grin of a gibbon that greets Macaque’s brief scan of his bedroom, his eyebrows pinching as he finds an oddly short wall of bamboo scrolls seemingly floating across the floor. It takes an embarrassingly amount of time before he realizes that his library hadn’t suddenly learned the art of levitation, but that it was Èzuòjù himself dragging the heavy things across the room.

It’s an odd sight, really, the little one never having been the type to take an interest in reading. Learning to verbally translate Mandarin? Sure. But stealing Macaque’s reading material?

Maybe the world really was ending.

Wait-

Macaque hisses as the damning thud of a migraine vibrates against his skull, pressing a hand to his eyes if only to quell the pain and attempt to chase aside the fog of sleep still triumphantly seeking refuge behind his gaze.

The noise of discontent that’d managed to surface feels far too muted as well, his tongue heavy and uncooperative despite the verbal communication and sheer mental load this situation is bound to demand from him. “Why- my scrolls? And the world- why is the world ending?”

“The sky’s black,” Èzuòjù announces, helpful as per usual in his report. The wall of scrolls hesitates once before it clatters to the ground, Macaque’s thudding ears echoing the unapologetic “-oops-” that’s carelessly tossed his way.

“And,” the little one drawls with newfound disinterest in the pile of scrolls as he lifts his gaze toward the other. Macaque blinks expectantly when Èzuòjù suddenly pauses, the gibbon’s previous expression of quiet triumph quickly dissolving into one akin to shock. “Holy shit, you are dark.”

Ok-ay.

The world is ending.

The world is ending and it’s all because…the sky is black.

And because Macaque is dark. Whatever that could mean.

A disorientated sound claws its way up the back of his throat and he almost entertains the thought that this could all just be apart of some prank. Macaque was never the quickest to gain coherent thought after being abruptly woken, and Èzuòjù wasn’t the type to pass the opportunity to terrorize Macaque’s occasional moments of peace.

The worlding ending wouldn’t even make sense in the first place; Earth was far too early in its cycle for the Heavens to let it die, and well, the sky being black wouldn’t be anything new.

It’d only mean that the moon was still in its first phases, too weak for its light to reach the Earth and declare that Macaque should definitely be fast asleep instead of doing whatever this is.

“…and?”

The gibbon stares a beat longer before visibly shaking himself from whatever spell had possessed him. “It’s noon.”

Heavens above, no wonder Èzuòjù thought he died. He’d overslept, badly, and now it was noon.

Actually, no. He’d overslept and now the world was apparently ending, all because the sky is still dark and it’s supposedly noon-

Oh.

Oh.

“There it is.”

There’s a shrill yelp as Macaque flings himself toward his wardrobe, unguilty as he disregards the indignant expression that crosses Èzuòjù’s face.

“The world is ending, and you’re getting dressed?” the gibbon asks, incredulously.

But Macaque pays no mind toward the question, clawing desperately through his drawers in search for the familiar rough fabric of his yellow and black hanfu. It was an article of clothing that the king had practically been raised in, and he’d made dozens of copies in the past few centuries if only to keep the original hanfu safely contained within his wardrobe.

On a normal day, Macaque would’ve hissed at the idea of wearing it outside, fearful the Heavens would take his boldness as a taunt to destroy it, but today was anything but normal.

His world was soon to end, and the king could care less for his hanfu’s safety as he dressed himself in red pants and a waistplate tied to his hips by a sash only a shade lighter than his pants. His iconic scarf is the next item to wrap around his neck, Macaque certain it’d match with the pale complexion of his fur.

(“Reds and yellows, bud, reds and yellows. Lemme tell ya, they’ll change your life!”)

He almost hesitates as his hand fastens around the decoration to coincide with his outfit: a gentle crown with leaves that’d been chain-linked together by little ones. It wasn’t a sturdy headpiece by any means, and it needed to be remade as least every three months, but Macaque had never minded such a fact.

The little ones were more than happy to remake him his crown and graciously bestow it upon his head with chants of, “Our king- our king-!”

“The world isn’t ending,” he manages to murmur whilst blindly adjusting his crown, his other free hand naturally clenched at the scarf around his neck. He knows that reds and yellows will never quite fit into his albino color scheme, but Macaque would be damned if he wasn’t draped in clothes that sang of nostalgia for his own king’s return.

He dares a glance at the mirror he’d previously leaned against his wardrobe and-

…and he pauses.

Because surely, that couldn’t be him?

It resembled him undoubtedly, the reflection standing with its own expression of shock and nostalgia as a hand lies frozen against its scarf. There’s even an awkward tilt in the leaf crown it wears, the gentle vegetation having given way to stray fur still tussled from sleep.

A glance toward his arm only confirms his fears, chest squeezing with an emotion he refuses to put a name to.

Gone is the familiar shade of white fur that Macaque had grown to adore amidst his centuries of life, replaced by a pelt bearing an almost navy shade of black.

It isn’t unlike the color of the sky just beyond his window, not quite able to be called black as though whatever deity had cursed him had taken into account the sun’s weak attempts to bring light to Earth.

He looks every bit the king he’d sworn himself to become- even adorned in colors that finally compliment the red masking around his eyes.

Macaque stares and what the fuck- what the fuck-? Why- this had to be His fault- He isn’t here by my side and it feels like a brand, get it off- get it off-

Èzuòjù’s tail flicks, hesitant in the corner of Macaque’s eyes and his mouth instinctively clicks open. It’s only habit as his mind combs desperately for something to say, anything to reassure the little one so blatantly unnerved by the scene.

But it proves to be pointless, his jaw clamping shut once more as a purple vortex pools beneath his feet. The shadows hiss with discontent, a second voice to Macaque’s blinding panic whilst they lash relentlessly at his ankles.

It isn’t until his ears flatten that Èzuòjù suddenly leaps from his state of uncertainty, hand outstretched as though to stop the other.

“Wait, Macaque-!”

But the king only falls blissfully into the familiar snare of his shadows, the temporary comfort that the portal brings short-lived as he’s spat violently somewhere amidst the cave system’s Eastern Tunnels. The spare shadows still lurking at his feet rumble with a silent fury, but for once the apathy his shadows seek appears only in the truth that their master could care less for the rebellious behavior.

He’d been long deserving of the ability to freak out, and today was the day he finally had a reason to do so.

After all, Macaque was nothing but a dead monkey desperate to breathe meaning and control into his final moments of life, certain he’s soon to become the very image of a dead king that Macaque had once proclaimed Wukong to of been.

The only difference will be a body to prove the other’s death.

“…que…!”

No, he doesn’t have the time to think about that. It was noon, and Wukong could very well burst through the waterfall at any moment, seeking any ounce of attention the island could afford.

The great sage might even demand a banquet at once and of course that’d leave no room for Macaque’s tongue to intervene, it never had before. Wukong would do anything to avoid confrontation that he’d inadvertently caused, including using the excuse of hunger like he used to amidst the Brotherhood.

“…caque…!”

His excitement may even gloss over the blatant evidence that a coup had taken place in Wukong’s absence; one orchestrated by his best friend nonetheless. The blissful peace that’d come with the sage’s oversight wouldn’t last though, especially with regard toward the fact that Macaque would refuse to let the little ones approach him.

Maybe he could…oh gods, do what?

Just turn the “Great Sage, Equal to Heaven” away the moment he attempts to step foot on the island?

The bastard would be furious.

“…slo…own…!”

…or maybe he wouldn’t. Wukong’s temper had always been something that’d needed to be fed and nurtured through mutual anger, surely that could be useful. Should Macaque at least attempt to remain calm and blunt, then the sage would have no room to be combative, right?

It wasn’t perfect, but gods was Macaque reaching desperately for straws- anything to preserve the prosperity he’d sworn to eternally gift Flower Fruit Mountain and the little ones.

Besides, Wukong wouldn’t dare do something drastic and violent against someone who’d protected his homeland for centuries, let alone his best friend. There’d be no need for him to summon his staff and-

“Macaque!”

The king freezes at an instant, terror striking behind his gaze as he searches frantically for whoever had called his name. There’s a flash of golden fur- one that looks a little too familiar -and Macaque almost shrieks amidst in his attempts to not stumble.

The suffocating blanket of panic quickly sheds to make way for guilt as he finds Èzuòjù staring, the gibbon’s eyes the size of rice bowls and his fur puffed out in clear concern.

His shadows must have teleported him not far from the confinements of his room, only forgiving enough to gift him a few seconds to breathe.

“Èzuòjù,” Macaque swallows, a hand to his chest if only to calm down its rapid beat. “You scared me.”

“I scared you?” the little one questions and Macaque can do nothing but weakly offer his arm for the gibbon to leap upon, a small olive branch that’s taken almost instantly. “What is going on? The sky’s black, you’re black, the world isn’t ending apparently, but you still disappeared on me, and are we going into lockdown or-?”

“Yes,” Macaque interrupts, lunging at the opportunity to escape the ontourage of questions bound to be sitting on the gibbon’s tongue. He could barely keep his own head straight, let alone try and answer Èzuòjù’s questions should they continue.

…but going into lockdown would be a good idea. It’d certainly keep the little ones far from whatever reaction Wukong could potentially have.

“Look,” he breathes, praying that he doesn’t sound as exasperated as he feels. “Long before you were born, the Jade Emperor foretold an event that’d occur amidst the next eclipse- today’s eclipse.”

“Eclipse-?”

“The sun and moon will merge together, and when they do, a…demon of sorts will appear on Flower Fruit Mountain.”

There’s a beat of silence and Macaque almost fears that the gibbon will claim the excuse to be as phony as his weak attempts to seem collected. Èzuòjù had always been good at that.

But the gibbon only stares a moment longer before his eyebrows knit. “What do you need from me?”

Heavens above, for all the grief he gives Èzuòjù, it’s moments like this that remind Macaque exactly why he doesn’t mind the little one’s mischievous antics.

“I need everyone in the Upper Tunnels of the Western Caves, and no matter what happens, they aren’t to leave. I’ll portal anyone I’m able to find in the Eastern Caves, but a mouth to explain the situation or at least warn others would be helpful.”

There’s only a firm nod before the gibbon scampers off, presumably to locate the desired caves and provide relief to whatever panicked brother needed it.

The crushing wave of relief at being alone once more collides oddly with the cautiously suppressed anger that’d been arising within Macaque’s stomach, a dangerous concoction of panic and frustration over the situation at hand.

Wukong was never meant to return, and it was such a fact that had gifted Macaque the boldness to ascend the throne in the first place.

Macaque might as well surrender his title of king anyway, now sharing more in common with a wife whose husband had come home early and was soon to catch her amidst her affair. For Heaven's sake, he was stumbling about the extensive cave system if only to portal away any little ones like a wife would her paramour.

It’s a measurement of safety, he tells himself if only to comfort his mind.

History was not one to take kindly to being rewritten, but two centuries had proven Macaque’s attempts to be a blinding success. He refuses to give Wukong yet another chance to ruin everything he’d done to protect both their subjects and the sage’s legacy of chaos.

It’d only take one stray slip of tongue for his life’s work to be uprooted. The little ones would learn that Wukong was in fact not deceased, and that Macaque had sworn the sage’s allegiance where it didn’t belong.

After all, Wukong had never proclaimed himself to be allied with the subjects of his mountain; it was only the pride that came with claiming ownership to a kingdom that he had entertained.

You are not ruining this, Macaque swears, and the mantra continues in his attempts to seek out any stray little ones.

It’s only once the panicked chatter of ape-speak settles toward the western side of the cave system that Macaque finds himself content pacing the Central Cave. It was a gracious clearing, full of vegetation and still bearing the same hut that Wukong had built nearly a millennium ago. If there was anywhere the sage would seek company first, it would be here, only a short journey from the cave’s initial entrance.

Macaque isn’t sure how long it takes for his theory to reign true, his ears flicking as the soft hiss of a cloud dissipates somewhere beyond the cave’s waterfall. Clumsiness writes itself in the heavy thrum of each step, the familiar sound not unlike if Macaque attempted to recognize someone’s handwriting.

The note of recklessness continues as the steps grow closer, and Macaque is certain that even if he lacked six ears, he’d still be able to hear the sheer weight behind the sage’s feet.

“Mihou!” that damned voice sings, not unlike a demon outstretching their hand in faux kindness. “Little ones! I’ve returned home!”

Home.

Macaque tries his hardest to chase the anxiety and bittersweet sorrow that laces his tongue, bidding his lips to remain firm in an expression of displeasure.

Perhaps in another life “Mihou” would’ve been all Wukong needed to say before Macaque would spring into chirps of glee, smiling fondly as little ones tackled their righteous king to the ground. Apologies would cascade from the sage’s mouth like a waterfall, and tearful laughter would consume his six ears as they attempted to make up for the time they’d regrettably lost in the other’s absence.

Faintly his mind traces another life, in which Wukong calls only out to the little ones, far too acquainted with the concept that Macaque would never again be able to step foot on Flower Fruit Mountain.

But such fantasies would never be the life Macaque could live within; they’d died the day that the ex-moon had been gifted a choice:

Mourn and daydream over the useless taunts of “what-if”, or focus on protecting the little ones and ensure the prosperity of their lives.

The decision was obvious, so both he and Flower Fruit Mountain had been forced to cut the strings of codependency that’d once kept them enthralled with their past king.

Wukong’s voice yells throughout the cave once more and Macaque hates how heavy the crown sitting atop his head has grown.

Wukong had never needed a crown to proclaim his status of king. His very essence exuded that of power, an ambitious conquest that Macaque had never found himself caring enough to venture toward. He wasn’t king through acts of bravery, nor because he’d inherited it righteously in the death of his best friend.

Macaque was only king because he’d been left to his own devices, and because the crown atop his head exclaimed that such a statement must be true.

A flash of gold finally peaks into the cave’s clearing, and Macaque swallows the desperate whine that’d made its home within his throat, forced into silence out of fear he’d call out for someone he’d sworn he’d buried nearly two centuries ago.

Wukong was meant to be dead and yet here he stood, uncharacteristically shy as he sought refuge behind a grand fern.

“Wukong.”

Said monkey’s head snaps to meet Macaque’s wide gaze, those familiar golden eyes crinkling into something akin to joy before they flee back toward the vibrant greenery in a nostalgic display of guilt and panic.

If not for the sombersome scene, Macaque is certain he would’ve smiled at how familiar the expression is, not unlike the reaction Wukong would have whenever Macaque smacked him upside the head for doing something stupid. It’d all been in good fun, amidst a fun when they’d all been so young and naive, too focused on lounging about and cracking jokes to worry themselves with immortality and power.

The clearing stills, and for a moment, he fears that they’ll both continue the awkward stalemate.

But the anxiety on Wukong’s face quickly falls apart, giving way to a quizzical expression as their eyes meet once more. The sage isn’t unlike a rabbit as he bounds forward, Macaque’s rule of personal space forgotten in Wukong’s eagerness to get a closer look at the newly-turned-black monkey.

“Something's…different about you,” the great sage begins, ever-so-observant as Macaque tries not to squirm beneath his gaze. He doesn’t care to denote the uncomfortable stance of the celestial monkey, springing up dramatically as he chitters with excitement. “Oh, I know! C’mon, bud, even I’d be able to tell you’ve dyed your fur. Kinda miss the grey, though.”

“White,” Macaque corrects, far from amused.

“Pfft, same thing.”

Well, Macaque supposes there is one thing he could always trust Wukong to do; disappoint him time and time again.

“Fun crown, too. The little ones manage to strangle you into it?”

And how could he forget Wukong’s habit of releasing tension through attempts to embarrass those around him?

“No, actually,” Macaque grits, trying his hardest to maintain poise. The crown had been a thoughtful gift bestowed upon him, and as much as the thought made his six ears turn red, Macaque felt much more at-ease wearing it in the face of his past king.

(“You deserve to be king,” the crown sang, sitting content atop his fur. “You wouldn’t of been given it otherwise.”)

“It was a gift. They missed having a king, so…”

So they’d wrapped Macaque in the finest jewelry and armor of Wukong’s treasury, completing his coronation with a carefully weaved crown and Macaque’s now infamous red scarf, whose unique red hue was the result of a dye from the flowers of Flower Fruit Mountain and a few feathers that’d been “borrowed” from a Phoenix.

“That’s adorable,” Wukong grins, an almost knowing expression on his face. “Ya’ think they’ll make me one if I ask them?”

“I didn’t have to ask for mine.”

“Is that a no, or?”

“It’s a no.”

“…it’s my turn, then.”

And Wukong bows, his chest low to the ground as though he were expecting for the crown to be transferred onto his head.

Oh, Macaque realizes, dumbly. Wukong does expect the crown.

His heart makes an ugly snarl, but the sound that comes from his throat is nothing but unkempt laughter. Quickly he swipes a claw at the tears forming at his eyes, if only to keep the salty water from dampening his fur. “You expect me to give you my crown?”

“I mean, every king does need a crown, doesn’t he? C’mon, Mac, just share this once-”

Wukong lunges and adrenaline collides violently with the blood cells running through Macaque’s veins. His brain feels as though it’d been dowsed by the ice-cold bucket of panic, falling into a state of defense even despite the fact the Wukong had clearly aimed only for the crown.

A furious shriek beats Macaque to the punch, fangs entering the scene before being followed closely by the harsh sound of Wukong screeching.

Macaque blinks once, vision clearing to reveal the “Great Sage” himself flailing his arm like a helpless infant and Èzuòjù’s fangs sunken deep into scarred flesh.

“Let go!” Wukong shrieks in Mandarin, and Macaque knows damn well that Èzuòjù understands the command.

After all, the gibbon had been the one to demand that Macaque teach him Mandarin in the first place, now well-educated in translating the language despite the fact that Èzuòjù’s vocal cords would never enable the gibbon to speak it.

Wukong is pleading on deaf ears, as the king of Flower Fruit Mountain has yet to demand the gibbon to release his prey.

It isn’t until Macaque extends his own arm that the gibbon returns to his righteous king’s side, snarling once toward Wukong before settling down at Macaque’s shoulders.

“Little one,” Wukong whines, exasperated as he cradles his wounded arm, and the noise feels…odd as it bounces against Macaque’s thrumming eardrums. It’s a form of ape-speak that the king hadn’t heard in over seven centuries, old but blatantly familiar dripping from the sage’s tongue.

Heavens above, Wukong hadn’t even attempted to keep up with the rapidly changing dialect of his mother tongue.

It’d been at least a handful of centuries since “little one” had turned into the gentle chirp of “little one”.

“I thought I told you to stay with the others,” Macaque begins, forcing himself to ignore Wukong’s noise of confusion. Perhaps if the “Great Sage” had put effort into his own mother tongue, then he’d have the right to tune into the conversation. “What if they come searching for you?”

“They won’t,” Èzuòjù huffs, teeth still bared but certainly not toward Macaque. “And who-? Is that the demon? He could’ve done something if I hadn’t appeared!”

“He woulda just stolen my crown for a moment,” Macaque murmurs in a desperate attempt to diffuse the situation. “He wouldn’t have hurt me.”

Still, Macaque finds himself doubtful of his own words. After all, Wukong had still yet to understand the reason behind Èzuòjù’s aggression.

“Mihou,” the sage complains. “You better be reprimanding him for biting me.”

“Of course, Your Majesty,” Macaque rolls his eyes before gently petting at the fur surrounding Èzuòjù’s face. “But I’m glad you bit him, I was seconds away from doing it myself.”

“That does not look like reprimanding.”

“You deserved it,” Macaque shrugs. “Don’t try and swipe what isn’t yours.”

“But I’m the king! I’m in need of a crown.”

“The King of Flower Fruit Mountain already wears one,” Macaque hums, bowing his head slightly if only to allow Èzuòjù to try and straighten the tussled crown. “I don’t think I see any other kings in need of one.”

Wukong freezes, and for a heartbeat Macaque almost expects to be punched, even with a little one crouched on his shoulders.

But the Great Sage only stares with wide, uncertain eyes. “You wouldn’t-”

“Èzuòjù,” Macaque interrupts, his voice uncharacteristically harsh as his ape-speak blends into Mandarin. “This is not a conversation for you to hear.”

Èzuòjù’s eyes almost match that of Wukong’s, though a deeper shade of concern versus betrayal runs rampid. “But, Macaque-”

The gibbon is given no further chance to speak, quickly whisked into a vortex that’d put the little one with his siblings in the Western Tunnels. This fight would not be Èzuòjù’s to hear nor attempt to interfere with.

“You’ve been gone for several centuries,” Macaque continues, quickly dismissing the bitterness that’d threatened to lace his words. “Y’know, when you told me to do anything to protect Flower Fruit Mountain, I took it to heart.”

“I didn’t think that meant ‘take the throne’!” Wukong gapes, throat raspy with what Macaque can only hope is disbelief and not strain from attempting ape-speak.

“Oh, of course,” he agrees and now he allows sarcasm to drip from his tongue. “‘Suppose I was just meant to, y’know, keep it warm and then lay down like a good dog, yeah? ‘Heel, Mihou, your king has returned’!”

The words taste as bitter as Macaque recalls them to be, still clear in his mind despite them having been uttered nine centuries ago when they were still on good terms with the brotherhood. He only has Wukong to blame, who’d never let his companion live down the embarrassment he’d caused during one of their many meetings.

Amidst his own exhaustion, Macaque had accidentally stolen Wukong’s seat at the end of the table, a mistake that the table had at first brushed aside. After all, the closeness of the two monkeys could easily explain this odd occurence to of been planned.

Macaque would sit in Wukong’s seat, and Wukong in Macaque’s.

Alas, there’d been a soft croon of “Aww, Mihou, keeping it warm just for little ol’ me? No worries, your king has returned-” before the table realized that the white monkey had indeed made a genuine mistake, bursting into laughter whilst shades of red painted Macaque’s face and ears.

His expression hardens.

“I refuse to kneel before you again.”

“But I am still your king,” Wukong deflects, bold. “And this is still our home.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Macaque shrugs, nearly shocking himself with how nonchalant his taunts sound. It’s a stark contrast to the consistent stutter his heart bears and he’s almost grateful that Wukong doesn’t share his enhanced hearing. “It took centuries, but Flower Fruit Mountain doesn’t remember you anymore. At least, not as anything but their island’s first king, who’s long gone in history. You can’t remain here and call it home.”

Wukong’s smirk is nothing but teeth, lips curled into an ugly expression of gloat. “So, you’re, what? Banishing me from my own kingdom?”

“Yeah.”

Heavens above, Macaque almost swoons over the way the sage’s smug expression drops into something more masked and deadly.

“Don’t be cruel,” Wukong growls. “You’re being cruel.”

I’m terrified, he instinctively corrects. Not cruel.

Wukong merely could not stay on Flower Fruit Mountain. Macaque had built a life that the island’s prior king could not be apart of.

Macaque’s ears flatten. Perhaps he was being cruel.

But who would cruelty’s mother be if not terror?

“Your stupidity and absence killed this island- killed me before I ascended the throne,” Macaque reports, his tail rigid as he stares at the ape he’d sworn he’d buried. No, he thinks, he’d only buried the memory of Wukong amidst his begging to the Heavens that the bastard would never return.

But an eclipse rages on just beyond the curtained waterfall.

And Macaque’s fur will never be white again, forever branded by Wukong’s misdeeds.

“For centuries I called for you, begging the stars to let you return to Flower Fruit Mountain once again, but never once did you heed my call,” he tsks, “You stood tall, strong as ever in the face of freedom, even as I mourned the very thought of you.”

And Macaque hates how his own conscious yearns to protect Wukong’s mistakes, with screams that selflessness and vulnerability had never been the melted rivers of iron that Wukong’s strength was forged within. Neither was it true that kindness was the native tongue the “Great Sage” could conjugate the words of with ease.

Only the familiar sensation of anger could appease Wukong in the face of confrontation, like a heron poised but still ever-so irritated in its wait for prey to arrive.

But unlike the common tale between a heron and fish, Macaque does not quiver nor dart beneath the venomous stare of death itself, standing tall and arrogant as Wukong does before him.

He cared not for the sage’s opinion on that fact that Flower Fruit Mountain was now Macaque’s to protect, and whether such protection was against outside demands or the island’s own previous king would never matter; Macaque would rather face death itself than forfeit his centuries of work.

“I haven’t killed you,” Wukong breathes, voice an inch from being a hiss as his shoulders sit strained with what Macaque can assume is the thin lacing of desperation. “If I had, you’d already be haunting me. In death you would have followed me, taking any form- moon or shadow -just to argue and speak with me.”

And like a newborn fawn, Wukong lurches forward, a hand clenching tightly over his chest as though he were soon to burst into laughter. “It’s in life that you refuse to follow me. You’ve agreed to abandon me and try to banish me from our home.”

Ironic, for Wukong to claim he’d been the one thrown aside.

Macaque stands firm, gaze unwavering. “The ‘Great Sage’ doesn’t need me to find some other island to conquer. Your lust for power has already settled any domain of this realm yours to take.”

There’s a beat of silence, and a vicious snarl hovers atop Wukong’s lips.

Perhaps in another life, amidst the gentle mantras of tranquility and suffrage, Wukong would have paused to acknowledge his misdeeds and agreed it to be best that he found a new kingdom to proclaim as his own. Or perhaps in another life this situation would have never existed, as Wukong chose to live his days peacefully on Flower Fruit Mountain instead of daring to wreak havoc on the Heavens.

But Macaque can only mourn for what could have been, for in this life Wukong was still a creature birthed with the knowledge he’d need to fight his way through life, a mantra that’d grown him obsessed with sneaking past the title of “distrustful and cunning” and proclaiming the words to be sisters of “ambition”.

Macaque knows well that Wukong is an unstoppable force that now stands firmly before an immovable rock, one not unlike the one Wukong had destroyed the moment he was born.

Today will be the day legends will speak of, the Heavens concede, safe from the sage’s wrath amidst the clouds. They’ll pass stories of the rivalry that’d caused the obsessive relation between shadow and host.

For if the Great Sage, an Equal of the Heavens, could not have his moon by his side, then he would have him forever in his shadow, lying in wait for his righteous king to order him about.

Today, Macaque would learn the true sensation of dying, if only to return and haunt Wukong at every turn.

[licorice-tea]

I’m A Ghost Of You, You’re A Ghost Of Me

Pairing: Roronoa Zoro x reader

Content: right person wrong time kind of (but not angsty!), fire/bonfire, first meetings, pre-romance dawn era, reader has some lore/has a bow and arrow/is from a noble family!

Word Count: 1.6k

A/N: This is loosely inspired by “San Luis” by Gregory Alan Isakov (which is where I got the title from, too.) It also kind of sets up for when Zoro and reader could meet again, so let me know if you want this to be a series!

Part 2

You and Zoro had known each other for a year before Luffy even set sail to chase his dream. Being a bounty hunter lead him to having connections, albeit reluctantly, and a sort of network of people who could get him things he needed. Information, a place to sleep, whatever.

One such connection was to a mildly corrupt marine officer who had asked him to take on a few jobs in the past. This time, the swordsman/pirate hunter had been asked to take on a sort of odd job, and he agreed because of the promise of a hefty reward. He’d landed on an island with a heavy marine presence, but wasn’t technically a wanted criminal himself (yet), so he wasn’t nervous. The place also reeked of nobility, so it was no surprise when a marine officer approached Zoro with a task as a favor to one of the noble families of the island.

“The l/n family… their heir is, how do I say this politely…” the marine looks over his shoulder at your father.

“They’re difficult. And this isn’t the first time they’ve left home, but they…” he sighs and rubs his temple. “They won’t come back unless someone makes them.”

“How old are they?” Zoro asks, looking for information on your skill level, how strong you are, what kind of weapon you carry, etcetera.

“18.” The same age as him (at the time.)

Zoro shrugs and crosses his arms. “18 is old enough to leave home. Just let them.”

“Please! They-they can’t just leave. There are pirates on the seas!” Your mother cries, but honestly she seems more angry than truly worried.

Your parents are hiding something, he can tell. And, he intends to find out. “Fine.”

They hand over a quarter of the reward money for your safe return, and show proof of the rest. Satisfied, Zoro takes what little information they’ve given about you and sets sail.

He finds you on a neighboring island, dancing the night away at some sort of beach party. You don’t seem particularly threatening, but you don’t appear naive or weak either. You’re not even doing anything wrong; to him, it just seems you want to live your life. Still, he watches you for the better part of an hour (as it would make him naive to equate your joy to weakness.) He tries to insert himself into the party scene, walking along the shoreline until he’s a part of the crowd. You’re dancing around a bonfire with some other partygoers, and when you finally turn in his direction, he’s mesmerized. Zoro never really considered himself a love at first sight kind of guy, nor a romantic in any way, but god are you pretty. The glow of the fire behind your illuminates the contours of your neck and shoulders, and the moonlight from above seems to make your eyes light up.

“Like stars.” he thinks to himself.

The swordsman is so lost in you that he doesn’t realize he’s staring. And by the time he does, you’re making your way over with a smile. He seems familiar to you, and around your age, so maybe you’d met him on one of your… previous escapades.

You had walked up to him with all the poise of nobility, but no hint of a feeling of superiority. “Hi!”

“…Hi.”

“Wanna dance?” you extend a hand, offering friendship and possibly more to the quiet man.

Zoro snaps out of his trance and uncrosses his arms. “That’s alright.” He silently wrests a hand on the 3 swords hanging from his hip.

Oh. Oh.

“Ah…” you retract your hand awkwardly and take to cradling your arms while looking away, toward the sea. “You’re that bounty hunter, I recognize you from the newspaper… Are you here to take me back?”

You’d clearly done this before, he realizes, as your previously bright smile turns bittersweet. “Yeah.”

“Hm.” your sullen expression turns to curiosity. “And if I refuse?”

“I don’t carry these as accessories.” he taps the hilt of one of the swords.

You laugh, genuinely amused by his dry response, and your hand comes to rest on something hooked over your shoulder. He had mistaken it for the strap of a bag, but upon closer inspection it was a bow. “Neither do I.”

So that’s how you survived so long on your own all the times you ran away, and why your parents were reluctant to speak of your capabilities in front of a marine. You were practically an outlaw already, assuming you were as skilled with your weapon of choice as you were charming.

“I’m not looking for a fight tonight.” This is half true- he had come prepared of course, but now that he had met you… Well, he’d rather get to know you first.

“What?” he asks as you continue looking at him. No, not just looking- observing.

“Hm, sorry, I just- Well, usually my parents send marines to collect me.” You take a hand off your bow and seem to relax again.

“And you let them?” Zoro asks, surprised.

You shrug. “I go back with them or I end up on a wanted list for assaulting a marine. And I don’t think I’m ready to be a wanted criminal yet.”

This time, he’s the one observing you. Again. You’re just a teenager, really. The same age as him- but with none of the freedom.

“Then why do you keep running away if you know you’ll be caught?”

He can see the gears turning in your head as you look at him with surprise. Nobody has ever asked why you keep trying to leave, people usually assume you’re just rebellious.

“I…” you swallow thickly, suddenly nervous. You weren’t used to being known- or seen, rather- for who you truly are. “Well, I have a dream.” You say this with a raised chin, clearly more prideful about your aspirations than your noble upbringing.

“Yeah?… Me too.” his response makes you smile again.

“What’s your dream then, bounty hunter?”

Zoro thinks for a moment, then smirks and raises his chin as if he’s offering you a deal, “I’ll tell you next time we meet, and when you’ve gotten started on yours.”

Your face lights up once again in a smile. “Thank you.”

He nods, “Don’t mention it.” And with that, he turns and strides across the shore, going who knows where. You watch as he goes in the opposite direction from where he came, until he’s on the other side of the bonfire from you. The flame gives his already tan skin a warm glow, and reflects off all 3 of his earrings and swords.

You grin and laugh quietly to yourself- not because anything is funny, you’re just amazed. Despite the amount of money you knew your parents had probably promised him, he wasn’t going to try and make you go back. (Not that he necessarily could, either.) Instead, he’d respected your decision as someone else with a dream- and as his equal. How very noble.

“I hope we meet again!” You call after him, and he looks back briefly. He’s on the other side of the bonfire now, and it illuminates your face as you wave goodbye. Your eyes really are like stars; and the embers flitting off the fire dance around you like the flares on the sun.

“Hell,” he smirks to himself, “you’re a whole universe.”

He waves back silently, not quite knowing how to convey these sudden feelings for a near stranger, but hoping you understand that he also wants to see you again someday.

A few months later, Zoro would see your face on a bounty poster. There were no serious crimes listed, besides evading arrest and unlicensed use of a weapon, which made him chuckle. He thinks of you often; wondering if you’re following your dream now, and if it has anything to do with being an archer, or if you ever thought of him the way he did you. He really did want to see you again someday. For now though: he’d continue pursuing his dream to be the world’s greatest swordsman, and keep on with his “job” as a pirate/bounty hunter.

But your bounty? Well, he had no intentions of collecting it.

[rinazurine]

This isn’t a commentary on intelligence, it’s about environmental surroundings.

As a person who grew up in Texas, we don’t have grass, we have concrete. Statically speaking, Leo wouldn’t have eaten grass. Also he’s smart (Did college math equations at age 8).

For Calypso, she was immortal in her childhood so I feel grass wouldn’t affect her in the slightest and she’d just go on with her day.

This joke looked like a nice time to draw how I headcanon Calypso to look.

1. I feel like she ties flowers into her hair and braids her hair in different styles since one of her pass times is weaving

2. I gave her vitiligo since I saw that people already headcanoned her to have it. Idk the og reason but my interpretation is that it makes her face look like a bunch of islands.

3. Calypso’s mom isn’t clear but with the consistency of it being tied to the ocean and Calypso’s dad canonically being Atlas, I thought to myself “What’s the sky and sea if not islands inbetween?” And Gods do love their ironic punishments. (I definetly need more practice on that part of the design)

4. I gave Calypso a Polynesian look as more diversity seems to be being added to the live action remake. Additionally, Polynesian translating to “Many” and “Islands” in Greek.

(If there are any Polynesian viewers, if I got anything wrong or if there’s a way to make the design more accurate, I’d love to know)

I tried putting symbolism in the flowers Calypso has in her hair but ended up messing with the coloring.

(I do want to put insert some butterfly weed in a future design)

Still on hiatus cause of stupid life stuff. But this keeps my brain occupied. I got 3 word docs of analysis.

[patty-propaganda-archive]

I have played just a bit of Astral Chain, and GOD does that game made my 'Hunter Patty with demon summons' thoughts come back with a force.

That game has basically the perfect setup/structure to insert her in and make Patty a formidable opponent, while also keeping her, you know, grounded and human. So I propose a shameless ripoff of gameplay mechanics and themes for her in a DMC-universe.

(these rambles are sponsored by my maybe two hours playtime of Astral Chain)

A quick intro about Astral Chain - it's a Platinum game that is set in a sci-fi universe which basically demons invade. Humans set up a special forces division that mixes some captured via Chains demons with human material, and the result are Legions that get paired with an operative and they work together.

Important note here is that the chained demons are exactly that - chained, and they aren't really happy with their predicament, so they try to escape if they aren't controlled properly. That said, they aren't mindless either, and can operate on their own, but are normally tightly ordered around and kept on a strong leash.

I think this setup in itself is very interesting - the humans are trying to fight fire with fire, while fully aware said flame might turn on them if used too freely.

Another thing I'd like to highlight is feel of combat in Astral Chain. The characters fight demons with guns and batons, which, well, doesn't exactly do much damage. The main damage dealer in this equation is, of course, the Legion under the human command.

You can do the normal button-mashy 'attack unless dodge then attack again', but really, in this game it feels like it pays to play Smarter, not Harder. The chain that binds demons is very physical, and with proper Legion positioning you can trip charging enemies or bind them in place for a time. This translates to me that the key is getting the upper hand in a fight, and no 'power level' or some other imaginary number will truly decide the outcome.

Last thing - the main character of the game is a sort of police officer, and they get a lot of requests to help civilians around. Even while on a big demon hunt, the priority for them is protecting humans, and getting to the big bad only after they are secure.

Why I think all of this works Perfectly Well for Patty:

The main premise of 'fighting fire with fire' is something the Order demonstrated quite well in DMC. They went so far in their studies as to develop stable technology based on demonic, and relatively safe enough for human use!

That said, Patty is no martial fighter. She is a human, and she physically cannot compete with demons, even easier ones. She needs as edge in a fight - this is where the idea of playing Smarter comes in.

I have been advocating for Patty getting a summons-based combat style, based of V(ergil) in dmc5, for a while now. I'll keep the design stuff under wraps, but I think that turning the demonic against demons seems very much up Patty's alley. Especially given her sourceress heritage, which, to be fair, we have no idea if it does anything, but hey, why not an ability to bind some demons to herself right? Or well, maybe some new demon-based tech helps her do that, but the technicalities don't really matter.

Plus, DMC demons already Do have a 'binding' ritual of sorts - the Devil Arms. Humans certainly can't wield those, so that's out of the question, but a simpler demon? Bound for a time even maybe? Not a bad substitute.

So, Patty gets herself a gun for long range, something close-range (rapier) for self-defence, and acquires a demon binded for herself.

Another idea I read a few times was Patty trying to get herself a position...close to the demon-hunting, but not the task itself, as she's not suited for continuous fighting. Something more about helping people, organising them and other supportive roles for when invasions happen.

Needless to say, I think that after how Dante disappeared on her, Patty would want to keep a Very Close ear to the ground about demons. She wouldn't be able to just stand aside either, so I think she'd volunteer to help there and then keep it up.

Having an ability to Bind demons would be a valuable ability in this situation, as her main focus would be on helping and defending civilians, instead of mowing down hordes on her own.

This can be up for debate, but I think the idea of demon binding being situational is more useful than getting a single demon bound permanently. Permanent binding would probably be harder to keep up, mostly in terms of mental/magical(?) effort, and I don't think Patty really needs that ability on all times. A spontaneous binding of a single demon out of the attack group though? More sudden, adaptable and, depending on the power of the demon chosen for binding - more cost-efficient, or at least you save up on the cost outside of fighting.

Another option is a 'pokemon' situation, when the binding requires energy only for the initial bind, but the upkeep is cost-free. So, she needs to change demons only when the bound one is too weak to fight anymore. Though I don't think that fits the other dmc demons rules, and the situational bind situation is better.

tldr Astral Chain gave me the perfect vision of Hunter-Patty, which is pretty much a ripoff of abilities from that game. It fits Patty very very well in my opinion though

So yeah, Astral Chain basically gave me a fully-realised Hunter-Patty fantasy, and I really love this mix of ideas for her. The game itself is also very fun, and I highly recommend everyone tries it out, if you can (curse you nintendo for holding it hostage). Thank you for reading this ramble)

[artmolonara]

Some more doodles from my work, featuring a breath of my original characters in concepts.

First is FET, whom I have been using as a self insert for a while, though she is also her own character. She's got a shapeshifting thing going on, which can't fully be perfect, as she always seems to sprout the antenna/horns over her right eye, no matter what her form. I'll go into more about her eventually, but one thing I'll say is she is kinda like a USB if a universe was a computer, and she is tasked with extracting characters at the behest of a demigod of fate and death.

Next is an ice dragon, which isn't as forward a concept as you would think. In FET's universe, there are elementals that can be conjured into physical form via making a vessel for them, and inserting a charged color object (probably a ZG crystal) into it. There are 26 different elements that correspond to the alphabet, and among certain cultures, it is important to find the opposite elemental to that of your name. Since FET's name element is Fire, Ice is her balanced opposite, and thus she conjured this guy by sculpting a dragon skull and putting a charged ZG crystal within. Elementals do not have to form into dragons, they more so take on the form of whatever vessel they are put into.

Finally are the Guardian Angels/Patrons, which are the mirror opposite to the Elementals. While the Elementals could be synonym with emotions or the right brain, the Angels are math and left brain oriented. They are formed when consciousness, which in FET's universe is almost like dark matter, is trapped inside the middle space of a collapsing worm hole. The resulting entity takes the form of a geometric concept, and are analytical beings. Among them, they are themselves immortal, but know the paradox of infinity. As they cannot compute being divided by zero, they seek to become a patron with a living being, which will then tie their fates together. The host will no longer age, being immortal, but not invincible. Once the host dies, the Angel will die as well, which is their main goal; to experience death, the final equation. I originally envisioned that they would get their headless bodies and glassy wings once they are tied to a person, but I'm still work-shopping that idea. I at least know the wing color will correspond to the elemental opposite of the host. FET has a patron, not pictured, she has named Chestnut. He's similar in shape to the main Angel pictured, but with a cube head (he had light blue glassy wings).

God, I'm getting old, I really need to start getting the concepts and ideas for my planet, Molonara, out there (which if you've ever wondered, that is why my blog is called this, been creating this for years)

If you like my art, and want to support or commission me, please check out my Ko-Fi. Starving artist over here, and could really use the help.

Buy Me a Ko-Fi

[icommitedcrimesasatoaster]

I hate school

It’s something that just keeps bothering me because anytime i do ANYTHING in the system i just get a 1 (or F) like I LOVE writing, but anytime i write anything in Polish I just get a one, or i try at math (which i know im good at) I also get a 1

And i think its just because everyone just speaks to me in riddles! Like please explain to me what did i do wrong, how do i solve this actually and not jsut “oh its just bad”. WOW THANKS SHERLOCK, I can see that with the big ol 1 in the middle of my work.

And I know im smart, math is something i enjoy I like doing calculations because i enjoy it. And art and writing is something i also love! Anytime im left to my own devices I prove that I can be smart!

But honestly my school has bren digrading my self worth in my mind that im starting to question if im a dumbass masquerading as a smart person.

Like, being neurodivergent is cool ins ome aspect but god is it a pain in school, because ive just given up on grades at this point. I know I’ll get a shot grade and even if i try my hardest it wont work out.

And worst part is my classmates always ignore my grievances because I cant pay attention or I get bad grades. Im sooo sorry that my brain cant focus on things that don’t intrest me and i get bored so much it physically hurts. Its just frustrating.

Honestly for a while I’ve just thought of my self as stupid. My mom tells me im really smart but anytime i do anything in school, the place that supposed to tell me if im intelligent or not it just… always gives me the dumb grade. And I can’t even voice my grievances to the people in my life because i feel like ill just get shunned.

And I cant just not succeed. If i dont i wont get anywhere in life because people will just inherently think “oh she got bad scores in math, she must suck at *insert whatever*” and I can’t do anything to prove that no, I can, I can’t make equations in my sleep! I can write 400 word essays with ease!

Its… its honestly hard. Anytime i try to get up I just get another boot in the stomach. The cycle will probably only end if I get out of my school. I just want someone to see that I do need help, individualized help. I noticed that i learn great with just another person and I work better in teamwork rather then competition.

I know what I need, but people wont give it to me simply because I appear high functioning. I know it may appear as self pity but I truly just want someone to notice that I need the help.

[katyspersonal]

Velka and Fia are the same picture philosophically. Change my mind.

WhaaaAAAA you challenge me in a philosophical debate??

I WILL change your mind, your birdbrain! :p

As for "wishing to protect those oppressed or discarded by current system", Fia has a focus on Those Who Live in Death! And TWLiD are technically Hollows - they are bodies without souls, likely still with some sentense yet because just zombies would not gather so much sympathy, but existing in pain and often hostile!

Had Velka been equivalent of Fia philosophically, her focus would be to protect/legalize? Hollows/Undeads! That doesn't happen until Dark Souls 3, and it doesn't look like it is linked to her beyond Sable Church appropriating like, one (1) of Velka's miracles? Otherwise there are Hexes / black flame, which are initially result of humans discovering magics corrupted by Dark of Manus! They also appropriated specifically Velka's miracle that negated magic effects of Gods miracles when they are hostile to Way of White, so sounds like a rational decision rather than connection! We also know Kaathe was the one to "pass the torch", not Velka!

Velka's primal motivation is also to punish the sinners and possibly give atonement to those who truly regret and seek it! Her other miracle, at least one of her clerics and her crow-like followers are found in Painted World of Ariamis, but we don't know whether she chose to go there herself or was banished! Or only her worshippers were? We don't know why exactly Gwyndolin is now doing her job - because she abandoned it and passed the torch, or because she got yeeted from the Gods as heretic but they still needed the assassination as a concept!

Again, Painted World welcomes everyone who didn't find place in outside world: not just Undead (we literally already have Londor ffhgkcg) but also some skeletons that lost the group in Catacoms, Izalith people like Jeremiah and Undead Dragon (second halves of Undead Dragons are in Izalith and Daughters of Chaos invaded Catacombs once) and Priscilla!

Fia also not only wanted to just protect TWLiD, but also searched Godwyn and second half of death mark to create a Rune that would insert Death, once removed from Elden Ring, back in it and even normalize Living in Death! I remind you that living in death kinda sucks, too! You can still sympathize with Fia here, of course; in a strange way, it is something that would equate everyone! Golden Order was created on removing Death from it, so everyone who dies gets buried in Erdtree roots and reincarnated, unless they have Omen Curse and left as cursed spirits (Revenaunts and their followers I assume, since horns do vanish upon death and both these and Omens are connected with Wraiths)! Only Marika (rather, Maliketh) can give true death, and Tarnished were created to multiply population through centuries of survival in harsher world as their number was not limited to each soul and could multiply forever!

Normalizing living in death is "rebellious" in a sympathetic way, as it gives death back to people away from will of any God, as well as doesn't return it to the state where Deathbirds burnt it before age of Erdtree! It seems that what she wants is sort of borderline state that eventually would turn everyone into undead/zombies. People can't live forever, so eventually everyone would die.. and raise again, it seems, but as husks of former selves. Similarly to Age of Despair ending, where eventually everyone ends up as Omens! Dung Eater and Fia come from very different feelings in their goal, but destination of both is "if everyone is oppressed, then no one is oppressed"! Both endings turn the world, primarily humanity and equal species, into strange stasis that doesn't fall into life or death, but rather (ultimately) keeps everyone right amount of miserable for existence to be "bearable"! It IS a way to snatch existence out of control of anyone, as well as to reach some sort of "stability". I think Fia felt like the world deserved eternal rest from the shocks of changing eras and rulers, and that TWLiD was the best way to set everyone free from anyone's will.... (only, it is Fromsoft, so we all know Age of Despair would also end somehow!)

THE closest thing in Dark Souls to Fia's Age of Duskborn Ending is Lord of Hollows ending in Dark Souls 3 which, likewise, gives people back their "freedom" but at the cost of "misery" that yet doesn't make existence UNbearable, it just kind of sucks to be Undead and especially Hollow lol. They even have similar themes - eternal dusk and eternal twilight, as the way to not fall into either light or dark! And once more, Lord of Hollows ending can't be linked to Velka, only to Kaathe if anything, and Kaathe desires Dark rather than 'twilight'! Alteration of that idea into something "tamer" yet still not very happy all things considered was on Yuria and others!

Now, we don't know whether Velka had the plans to "fix" Way of White's order, but if she did, I'd say her way to change their injustices would not include normalizing living as Hollows! She is associated with Dark, right, but she is also a Goddess of Sin who defines punishment for the guilty as well as atonement for those who seek it! If anything, the "extremes" are in tune with her nature, and she might be not very thrilled with the vague, borderline state of living! I think she prefers to draw a clear line between light and dark, life and death, bliss and misery just as she prefers to draw a clear line between innocent and guilty! I think what drawn her to Dark was its flexibility in judgement that includes nuance and context rather than only law word of people in power, as well as feeling that Gods were no wiser or kinder than "eeeevil hoomans" they claimed to shepherd towards no longer being "inherently dangerous", but to "free" humans by subjecting them to eventual existence as Undead/Hollow, that kinda sucks, would not be her answer!

The way I see it, she'd struggle to answer what is the best era for everyone living and would prefer to roll with whichever it is now convenient with her role as one who delivers punishment or mercy! What is there to deliver or determine, when humans achieve their "true" form, that makes dark things she judges the norm of living? Gods or humans or any other lifeform, they all are capable of sin and should be eliminated OR become better! This is just how life is, everyone can do better without sacrificing what makes them living and thinking beings capable of choices to begin with! People who are responsible for Lord of Hollows ending didn't "do better" for sure, in fact, it is about sacrifice for the "greater good" that isn't even THAT good. 🤔

[goetzjpvis]

Heart of Thomas was one of the most convoluted plots I had the simultaneous pleasure and displeasure of following, and I did NOT expect it to be during the "Yaoi" section of class!?

Aside from reading and rereading multiple sections, and checking the wiki, what I can gather is that Heart of Thomas effectively serves as a contemporary Boys Love (BL) piece, but it honestly felt like much more than that! It felt like a drama, a whodunit (in a sense, we have to ponder what circumstances led to Thomas committing suicide), littered with themes of grief and moving on from abuse (we can see this in the latter half of the manga in which there are multiple metaphors equating Juli to a fallen angel).

I often felt like the romance was more of a subplot than a genre, but I suppose the sheer amount of separate romances helps solidify Heart of Thomas as a BL, and at times its shoehorns felt awkward inserted into the plot. However, I also think that the author did a wonderful job with its placement in the sense that the story did not feel like a work of fetish art but passive appreciation for queer storytelling? I guess? I don't really know. This kind of stuff alludes me. But my main point is that the romance was very natural, and it felt like a normal drama except in which "gay is the norm".

This weeks reading for class was SUPER LONG and there was a lot to get from it, but the two facts I found the most surprising is what "Yaoi" really meant to its readers: "no climax, no fall, no meaning", which kind of implies a plotless, fetish-centered story that Heart of Thomas certainly was NOT. I wouldn't call this yaoi though because there was definitely purpose and delicacy with the way the plot and its themes were handles. Yaoi is like porn, and BL is not all porn. Also, i found the large amount of lesbians consuming this content ironic as well, especially since they are.... women that love women..... how do men fit into the equation lol (Maybe it's framing of men in a romantic aspect? There are many reasons why one could be into this, though).

Anyways, Juli and Eirch need therapy, half the teachers at the school need to be fired, and Oskar needs to half a LONG talk with that one little boy about consent. God!!!

[thedarklingdude]

#YES YES YES THIS #i have had this as a headcanon floating around in my head for a long time #Like low key imagine Ford builds the house out of some enchanted wood for it's mild self-regenerating properties #but its actually mildly more alive than the average tree and has like a cat/dog level intellegence at maturity; but it takes a LONG time #to mature to that level (its a tree. they're slow. its how they go lol) #(and maybe its sustained by the emotions of creatures around it. birdsong and happy squirrel-chirps and gnome laughter. idk) #and at first Ford takes such good care of it. and it wakes into sentience slowly. it wakes to laughter and magic and equations and warmth #but then Ford starts inviting all these dark terrible things in. and it isnt being taken care of anymore. and the laughter dies #Building the portal in it's basement is like surgically inserting a parasite; a viscous cancer into her core that slowly eats at it #it tries to protect. (but it's so very young) and it's fight drains. and it shrinks into itself and fades #but then comes stanely after the fight. and like- Stanley's never kept a house. he doesn't know shit about it #But Stanley's kept his (ancient ass) Stanley-mobile in driveable condition for 60+ years #and he's got a brother he's trying to get back. and he's gotta live here. so by god he's gonna take care of the ol' thing #So he grabs (steals) some wood-putty for the cracks and some spare 2 by 4's to patch the rotten floorboards and gets to work #Superficial work at first. just enough to make the place livable; but then structural. foundational. #and the house- the Shack- she slowly wakes up. #(And isn't that nice. she's a “her” now. Because Stanley calls her “old girl” and “the shack” and- and he talks to her.) #sure. she wakes up to loneliness and quiet- but she wakes up to laughter too as the tourists come in. #To creativity. to /care/ and /devotion/ And slowly that tumor in her belly fades to a dull ache #and she grows proud. she is a museum. she is something that brings awe and joy in the daytime. #and at night she is a home and a shelter and a man's last hope.... #ugh i need to write this fic #anyway #Sentient Shack Au

tags from @coffee-shop-gay get peer reviewed, also sobbing

Sentient Mystery Shack, who is really biased towards Stan, so when Ford tells Stan he has to give it back after the summer it’s on sight.

Ford keeps tripping over nothing, nothing is where it's supposed to be and somehow he keeps running into closets when he tries to go outside.

But the worst part, the WORST part is that Ford's lightbulb just won't. Work. No matter what he does it keeps flickering and exploding.

Ford is spiraling. 

There is no reason why it shoudln’t work. All his trial runs work perfectly. He’s already checked the Shacks wiring three times and relearned this dimensions science from the ground up. 

Nothing works.

The Rift? Bill? The impending apocalypse? Eating? Sleep? Who cares about that. 

WHY. WONT. THE. LIGHTBULB. WORK???

It doesn’t help that Stan keeps laughing at him.

“Then you do it!” Ford eventually snaps at Stan.

Stan shrugs and with a little song under his breath screws his own lightbulb in. It works perfectly.

Stanford screams.

[youreavicioustrollop]

S5 E5: Peer Pressure

empty city streets! intriguing.

taylor at buck's place in the morning! nice to see them looking domestic.

awww, chim and maddie are BOTH not texting buck. because he told maddie about chim going after her, and chim is still mad for the reasons he punched him! :( and now things are weird at work, hen and eddie acting off, too ? oh no. :( but taylor knows that no one blames buck as much as buck blames himself.

"she was in pain" taylor telling buck that not everything is about him! that's good!

okay, i'm getting my first inkling of the episode title. even though narcissus is So Annoying.

aww, "buck, eddie is with hen, so you and ravi..." bobby breaking it down! probably not for buck bc why would he not know this prior? but for the audience! we get different pairs, this is nice! buck and ravi and hen and eddie! lol, hen telling eddie not to step on her toes. and buck teaching Ravi! and letting ravi do the ramming!! Notable!

"there's a mirror called narcissus?" "somebody didn't read to the end of that story" lol, yup! and buck is a grouchy teacher! although to be fair Ravi is NOT being a good student. comparatively the friction between hen and eddie is nothing! lol, dude saying "you guys are jacked" about eddie and buck. yes, yes they are.

athena and may! yes, you cannot be mom to the rescue in this scenario! the complaining about it is what may needs at the moment.

love harry putting bobby down as the parent. but he punched another kid! yeah, that's not ill-tempered! that is much worse! lol, harry trying to butter up bobby as the step-parent in the equation!

okay, see, why are you glaring at a colleague as they make their way to their desk? don't you have better things to do, claudette?

ah, the classic younger employee thinking they know better! i'm sure on this, a show about emergencies, that will go well.

okay, claudette, why are you muscling may out of the way? do you not have your own calls??? OH MY GOD?????? "ravi if you're gonna vomit do it somewhere else" and then he literally has to go kneel somewhere else!

"we're gonna drive very carefully" hen are you saying eddie does not drive very carefully???

BITCH SHE DID NOT NEED HELP YOU INSERTED YOURSELF WHERE YOU WEREN'T NEEDED AND TOOK OVER HER CALL.

i like that harry went to may, don't love that he didn't tell anyone!!!! don't love that the verbal fighting turned to athena hitting harry! yikes. YIKES

LOL! buck going around the firehouse with a chainsaw shouting "probie!" but at least he had a good reason, wanting to show him how to disassemble it. "he would call it a teaching tool" Buck is a drill sergeant from hell to Ravi (he started out nice!) so he's hiding from him. aww. but hen explains he's being hypervigilant about it! bc 118 is the family he has!

nonsense at the old folks home!

okay, buck yelling here when ravi does One thing wrong resonates with me strongly, in a way that his neuro-spicy bits mirror mine. the tiniest thing would set me off, too.

buck does not sound particularly happy about handing out that congratulations to ravi! but it is good and right he gave it.

awww, buck is trying to call maddie and then tries to call chimney and he looks so SAD and SMALL and neither of them want to talk to him! so he yells at ravi instead! :((((

"didn't wanna trigger me so soon after turning my gurney into a taco" awww. AWWW. wait, buck wants to transfer out of the 118 so ravi can take his place???? but bobby is shutting that down! (kind of dismissively, except for the "i'm the captain here" part) and now everyone else is speaking up saying that they told chimney to go, that it was the right thing to do. in a very, VERY roundabout way saying that they don't think it's buck's fault that chimney left, saying that chim is coming back! and they're basically refusing to accept his self-sabotage. "you're stuck with us" from eddie. WELL, can you maybe act like you like him there, then? he's fucking spiraling!!!! he's trying to transfer out!!!! i mean i know buck looked relieved at that but it was unsatisfying for me.

is claudette just listening in for more interesting calls than hers?? she's not even near may! why are you HOVERING?? you do not know may and you do not know that may knows EXACTLY what she's doing??? which. this is a very tense scene! "my partner" you are NOT partners! and just taking over the call absolutely ruins the report she has been establishing with the victim!!!! may is sooooo smart in how she handled the call!

"i ride you pretty hard because i can see you have the potential to be great." okay, that's not your job. "but you ain't great yet" uh, WRONG you just watched her be great!

buck in pink again! and calling ravi Ravi! he's looking happy again, which is nice.

oh, see, athena does need therapy. but she's so resistant to these kinds of things! but michael bringing out the big guns that "we said we'd never hit our kids" and like! yes! that is something you step in about!

aww see, taylor made something Just About Him! which he needed! okay, wait, he thought that chimney left and didn't talk to anyone else before leaving? he thought that no one else got to say goodbye??? is that because that's how buck feels their interaction went? OOF. like i guess his actions/the resolution makes more sense now. but either way, i like that taylor reiterates that not everything is about him, just like she said! but she does it in a nice way.

harry reading up about rogue cop athena grant? okay!

MADDIE CALLED BUCK!!!!! and she's asking about chimney because HE EMAILED HER A VIDEO OF JEE-YUN CRAWLING!!!!! but buck is focused on Are You Safe and Can We Come Get You Please???? but i love buck and taylor all soft and sleepy :)))))) and buck thinks he knows where maddie is because of the bells in the background!!!! which, lots of places have bells. but i'm assuming he's connecting the bells to a particular thing he knows about maddie.

[curtklingermanposts]

A Winning Resolution

The Problem with New Personal Resolutions

People want change for the better, hence the all the personal resolutions, which includes the one made on New Year’s Day. It’s the reason for the self-improvement craze. The problem is it’s about the self, and the self does not really know its own design. Which brings us to self-discovery. Individuals get lost in trying to figure out who they are, even to their own detriment.     How many try to “recreate” themselves? They imagine a better version of themselves. More often than not, their vision of that new creation is a culmination of what others say is important. Especially, those whom they hold in high esteem, or even idolize, and want to emulate. Without realizing it, they desire to recreate themselves into someone else’s image. Do you see a problem with that?     In Whose image are we created, and to Whose image are we supposed to conform? One may actually place another’s opinion, or lifestyle above God’s perspective of these things. This subconscious veneration can become a form of idolatry. Anytime a person elevates someone above God, that human has become a god. It is important to keep God at the focal point. What is God’s intention for our lives?     Romans 8:29 For whom He did foreknow, He also did predestinate to be conformed to the image of His Son, that He might be the Firstborn among many brethren.    Self-improvement tends to lead people to doing things their way, which is never satisfying in the final analysis. The journey to self-actualization never ends, because there is no arrival point. For example, an athlete might win the gold medal, and feel ecstatic in the moment. However, the excitement wears off, and he find himself chasing another one. It doesn’t help when being the gold medal winner becomes his identity. So, the trophies, money, positions and possessions are never enough.  Where’s the contentment in any of this?      For whose glory is any of this being done? How many resolutions are based on pride?

How to End Personal Resolutions

Following Jesus, and conforming to His image puts an end to the need for self-improvement. Think about it, if we conform to the design of our Maker, would there be a need for self-improvement? When we truly follow Jesus, it becomes a moot subject. How so?    Matthew 16:24-24 Then said Jesus unto his disciples, If any man will come after Me, let him deny himself, and take up his cross, and follow Me. For whosoever will save his life shall lose it: and whosoever will lose his life for My sake shall find it.    When we deny the self, we no longer insert ourselves into the equation by submitting to the desires of the Lord. Instead of walking in our own ways, we follow His. We are no longer self-reliant in the sense of trying to being self-made. By the way, there is no such thing as a self-made person. By denying ourselves, we allow God to decide what is best for us. Peace and contentment are found in our true identity. How can anyone improve perfection? Consider the following verses of Scripture, and take them to heart.    2 Corinthians 5:17 Therefore if any man be in Christ, he is a new creature: old things are passed away; behold, all things are become new.     Ephesians 4:23-24 And be renewed in the spirit of your mind; And that ye put on the new man, which after God is created in righteousness and true holiness.    Romans 13:14 But put on the Lord Jesus Christ, and make no provision for the flesh in regard to its lusts (NASB).    Our new man is perfect, and does not require improvement. Self-improvement is actually based on the world’s standards; not God’s. It’s a trap, and a rat race, with no real rest in sight. When we allow Holy Spirit to lead us in our day to day living, we’ll be who we need to be, and do the things most beneficial. In this, we also find rest for our soul. There is no need for those resolutions when we are Spirit-led. Incidentally, this does not mean to say you cannot read books, workout, or any other of those things you may enjoy. That’s between God and you.

Perfectfaith.org