#sometimes i remember that bastard exists and it’s over for me

[bethiewhimsy]

can’t believe i’m experiencing “i cant watch anything because nothing else will be as good as this” over BRYCE a show by brandon rogers.

[rowarn]

shadow entity!ghost part: one | two | three

cw: angry!ghost, umm he hurts u )-:, but he feels bad so it's okay, a bit shorter than other parts

the mystery surrounding ghost was driving you insane. living with a primordial entity of unfathomable horrors was already a mindfuck but now you realized it could just...erase people from existence.

no one had asked about phillip, no one had shown up to seek you out since you were the last one to see him before he vanished. you even wandered into the bar he said he frequented -- and he seemed well known in. and...nothing. no one even brought up how he went home with you and never returned. no one asked about him.

it was unnerving. had ghost somehow pulled all memory of this one human out of the world along with its physical form? where did phillip even go? all you remember was being surrounded by the shadow and how hard it was to breathe -- and the horrible, inhuman scream before silence.

it had already confirmed that it wasn't a ghost. so what was it?

"ghost?" you called into the house as you returned from the bar, "can you come out so we can talk?"

as you stepped into the living room, you took a glance at the scorch mark on the floor before your attention was diverted to it -- a shadowy manifestation across from you.

it didn't speak, simply stood there. usually you would divert your eyes from its face because something about it unsettled you, but this time you stared right at it. shapes formed and faded before your eyes, making you wonder if you were really seeing them in the first place. eyes, sometimes two sometimes dozens. a vague, fading silhouette of a skull face. you wonder if it intentionally let you see these images or if it just was.

"i-i want to know..." you swallow thickly around the nervous lump in your throat, "is phillip dead?"

it was quiet for a moment, "not quite."

"what's that mean? where is he?" you prod, furrowing your brows as you stare at it, hoping that it can understand your pleading.

"why do you care?"

"b-because..." you sputtered, licking your dry lips, "i just...want to know."

"he's in the pits," it finally supplies, sounding almost bored.

"...of hell?" you sputter, "so you're a demon?"

"your hell is a bastardization of the pits," it explains, "where i come from is not hell. it's worse, darker. that's where i put the human."

"can you...can you bring him back..?" you whisper.

ghost's shadow flickers and it falls silent for a moment before speaking again, "i could. but you don't want that."

you can't help but think you'll regret asking but you do anyway, "...why?"

"he's not the same anymore," it explains, "it's much kinder to simply leave him in the pits."

you're not sure how to take that. it doesn't answer any of your questions. what exactly are the pits? what happens in them? what is happening to phillip down there?

"ghost..." you take a small step back and you swear you see it's head cock to the side curiously, "what are you?"

"you can consider me a demon if you wish," it responded, taking a step forward to follow you.

your heart skips a beat, "but you're not."

"no," it answers with ease.

"so tell me what you are," you demand, growing tired of these mind games it's playing with you.

"i don't think your human mind can comprehend just what i am," it says.

"try me," you challenge, already mentally slapping yourself.

"no," it responds.

your temper flares, "just tell me, damn you! what the hell are you?"

suddenly, the shadow grows in size -- as do your eyes. you watch as it takes up more space in the room, that overpowering weight on your body making you wince. it makes the room feel so heavy, makes your bones ache to the marrow.

you're not sure how you know -- despite the fact it's not saying anything; you know you've made it very angry. your eyes lock onto his shadowy form, making out the horrible, unsettling images of eyeballs inside the darkness that flicker in and out of your vision.

nausea settles like a pit in your stomach and you double over, dropping to your hands and your knees to keep yourself from throwing up. your head throbs and aches, a ringing in your ears only makes the pain worse. it feels like your eyes are going to pop out of their sockets from the overwhelming pressure growing inside your skull.

"s-stop..." you manage to choke out before you slump against the floor.

then, all at once it's gone. you gasp for air once it finally feels like there's nothing coiling around your lungs and tears trickle down your cheeks. you're not sure if you're trembling from the pain or from the fear you just experienced.

you can't bring yourself to uncurl yourself from the ball you've found yourself in on the floor.

you're acutely aware that ghost hasn't left -- in fact, you can hear it's heavy footsteps on the creaky wooden floor as it approaches you. it kneels down, disturbing the air around you with the movement.

you feel a strange weight on your head and it takes your foggy mind a moment to realize that it's touching you. as if it had reached a hand out and was tenderly petting your head, consoling you.

a silent apology before it vanishes completely.

when you finally uncurl and look around, you see yet another strange, scorch mark on the ground where it had stood.

you realize instantly that those scorch marks are a manifestation of it's anger. pure, unbridled rage that leaves a physical mark on the ground where it stands.

you swallow thickly and close your eyes again, deciding that standing is much too hard for now.

do not repost to third party sites. reblogs okay!

[tricksh0t]

★ comfort

☾ jaime lannister x top m reader

𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘤𝘬𝘴𝘩0𝘵 ⛥ prince charming jaime lannister (s1 jaime) is my fav; also genuinely the first fic of mine where the pairing kisses lip to lip

𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘵𝘴 ⛥ 3.0k words

cw: long intro, lighthearted s*x, reunion s*x, soft, cheating, light incest (don't sue me, it's game of thrones, they're very distant cousins however many times removed) , calling your lover names playfully (bastard, asshole), more plot than porn (entire second part is s*x, but not focused on the s*x)

"Did you grow up with boy-cousins, Lord Tywin? Sons of your father's bannermen, squires, stable boys."

"Of course."

"And you... never..?"

"No."

"Not once? Not in any way?"

"Never."

You were never destined for anything.

You were born a Lannister, yes, but you were so far from the main line that you were set to inherit nothing. You were only a Lannister by name, long lines of second sons marrying outside of important houses over and over until your blonde locks were nothing but dirty.

Your father did not own a large sum of Lannister fortune. His greatest achievement was being the squire of one of Tywin's lesser brothers; but his brother never lead any wars, and so that was hardly a feat anyway.

When you were born, it seemed like you would follow in your father's footsteps. There was hardly anything Lannister about you.

Your greatest feat would probably be setting foot in Casterly Rock to shovel horse shit to and fro. At least then you'd get to admire your distant cousins, the glorious ones, the ones you'd use in your fantasies as the shoes you'd like to wear.

Except, one day you stole a sword and caught the eye of Tywin's lesser brother, the very same that your father had squired for. He showed you, in turn, to his brother, Tywin Lannister.

Under the Lord of Casterly Rock's eyes, you showed promise.

Before Jaime Lannister ever took up the sword with a purpose that wasn't "because daddy told me to", there was you in the training grounds as far as he could remember.

There was you, strong, barely a teen yet.

You became friends, then, under the sword. Tywin bid you an example for his son. As a boy, you were hardly fit to be an example, so instead you became friends.

Between his overzealous sister, his outcast brother, his jealous cousins and the frightened servants, you were the best friend he could ever have.

From friends, you became... not lovers, but something close. It was hardly romance, it was hormones, it was just boys being boys, and it was only fooling around. A kiss or two, sometimes longer, sometimes with tongue; playing at maturity.

With you, Jaime got a taste for breaking the rules and the thrill of sneaking out of his bedroom under the bright cast of moonlight. He got his first taste of romantic companionship, and he liked it.

You were only a couple years older then, but Jaime's dislike for letters caused him to be bound to the book for several hours a day, and so you were the stronger swordfighter.

He admired you. You were more literate than him, though most people are, and stronger, taller, more built, more worked.

You knew hardship and, as the heir to Casterly Rock, he didn't.

He got his first taste of hardship when you were summoned to become a King's Guard, and he did not like it.

Jaime had never begged before. "Don't go. Please, don't go."

And you had never denied him. "I must."

That's why, when you left for the King's Guard, he was left in despair. Despair caused impulse, and he fell back to his sister.

You did not send any ravens the years you were gone, so you grew apart. Jaime held some resentment too, for the first couple of years when he became a King's Guard, so you grew further apart.

He had his sister now, and she was a jealous woman.

The older you grew, the more you thought of your little youthful escapades as just that, things of the youth, inconsequential to anything else of your now adult existance.

Jaime came around eventually.

He became the better swordsman. He was quite fine with letters, and stronger, taller, more discreet, more dutiful.

You were lovers once more, but only that. This time, you knew how to please a man, but again he was only learning. You pleased each other under the influence of wine, or maybe not. Maybe sometimes your minds were unobstructed, and instead, you were more truthful, softer... and some rare nights, you only talked, you shared heart-to-hearts.

But you weren't friends, not by actions. You did not talk often enough, freely enough, unguarded. You were just lovers.

Regardless, to Jaime, there was great comfort in knowing that you were somewhere in the Red Keep, still there for him, still alive. It was one of the things he fought to remember during his year-long journey back to King's Landing.

When you open your door to leave your chambers, you are quickly pushed back inside.

Jaime's there. He's different, but he's there, and he slams the door behind him. You take it as another moment where he seeks the comfort of your body, especially after what you heard had happened to him. The idea occurs naturally to you, even after a year apart.

You kiss him roughly, cupping his cheeks in your hands, because you've missed him.

Jaime breaths hard into the kiss. He's breathing hard in general, and it's more evident when he pushes you away.

You lose your footing in a daze and land on a chair. It'd be a great position, and you'd be quite excited in anticipation, if it weren't for the look on his face.

"Jaime?"

"You didn't come see me." He says, angrily. His arms are crossed, hands—hand folded over his inner elbow.

Standing before you is a shadow of the man Jaime once was. His hair is shorter, darker, his skin is tanner, he's got dark circles under his eyes. He looks worn.

This is a man who has gone through hell. This is a man going through his second war, a man who was held prisoner for a time, who had to kill his cousin, and who tracked through mud and shit to get back to his home. He was missing a bloody hand!

And you didn't go see him.

"No, I didn't." You sit up quickly, fixing the smirk on your lips to a neutral one. "I thought Cersei would keep you, or that you'd be busy recovering...or that our family would want to see you."

"Cersei saw me." Jaime said pointedly. The next moment, he's climbing onto your lap, bracketing your legs with his. "I saw Joffrey and Tommen. Myrcella is gone, and I just found out. Tyrion had his opportunity. Father wished to do nothing but scold me. I was recovering from my journey in my chambers for three days. You didn't come see me."

"I didn't... and now I see I have no excuse." You keep your eyes on him. Past his heavy lids and dark circles, his eyes are the same as you last saw them, a beautiful green.

"All I could think about was getting back to you." He says through gritted teeth, and though it was a lie, you would believe it. He shifts his hips to rub against your length, a subtle grind.

It loses all subtlety when he continues, over and over. Pleasure rises.

"You are." You say with shaky breaths, heavy enough to mirror his. Your eyes close instinctively, head tilted down to the source of your pleasure.

You haven't had him in a year. You miss him, his body. A brothel whore cannot compare.

"Look at me." His teeth are still gritted. He grasps your face with his hand, squeezing your cheeks in the pull to make you look at him.

"Jaime." You say, acknowledging him, looking at him once more.

He looks angry. It's in his gritted teeth and wide eyes and his heaving chest, it's in his words—but he's not violent, no, never to you.

You kiss him, lick into his mouth to urge his tongue to meet yours. His teeth separate, not with a screeching difficulty, but easily. It's almost familiar, the way his tongue feels against yours, the taste of his saliva.

You have known this man longer than you haven't. Perhaps he is missing a hand, perhaps he is wrinkled and older, but he is still the same man you tousled with in your youth.

You find yourselves eventually on the bed, like you have a hundred times before. You on your back, him on your lap.

Except this time it is not quite as swift, and this time he is struggling with the clasps of your armor.

"Let me."

"No."

You do it anyway. Jaime watches you sit up and he sighs. He thinks of himself as helpless, a mope of a man settled on your lap like a peasant sitting on the Iron Throne.

He sighs out of his nose once more, but to you, he only seems like a sad puppy. "Knights can hardly do this themselves. That's what squires are for. I'm sure you've never heard of a one-handed squire."

"That's not helping." Jaime huffs.

"Look," You say, with all the parts of your chest plate, shoulder parts and neck pieces off. You fix his arms around your neck, "you can still wrap them around here. That's all that matters, hm? All you need is to hold on tight enough."

"Asshole." Jaime says as he pushes you onto your back again, though there's a bit of a lift to his lips.

It's the third time he pushes you. "Pushy."

"Asshole." He repeats.

There's little else to remove after that, just the flowing scales covering your crotch that he removes easily with new determination, and your shin guards, but those won't obstruct the path to your dick.

He undoes the laces of your pants with two harsh tugs and then your cock is free to him. With the way he's looking at it like a meal, you're sure he's missed it.

"Do you still keep oil behind the curtains?" Jaime asks, already reaching behind the canopy's bedpost, where the curtain is usually wrapped securely around the flask.

"No." He looks disappointed then, for a moment. "At least it means I've been loyal to you?"

"It can just as well mean that you've only been visiting brothels." Jaime laughs, leaning his forearms on either side of your head to kiss you before you can protest.

You like this, it's easy; it's carefree and humorous. You can feel his smile against your lips.

He shifts his position to press his ass to your cock and grind against the length of it, swallowing your groan with his lips. You hardly noticed when he tugged off his own pants.

For a moment you think that might be how he gets you off, but then one of his arms leaves the mattress, and his fingers are gathering precum from the tip of your swollen head.

It sacrifices his balance, and you catch him before his full weight falls on you. "Bastard." You breathe out a laugh.

"What?" Jamie returns a grin, though it falls open just slightly when he stretches himself out with your precum as lubrication. Quite the sight.

"One journey from the North to King's Landing on foot, and suddenly you don't care for cleanliness?"

He winces slightly, "One, I was also tricked into drinking horse piss. Two, you're cumming inside sooner or later, it's not very different, is it?"

"One," You mirror with raised eyebrows, "what in the Seven Hells? Two, fair enough."

Holding up his thinner body with one hand is easy enough, and if it weren't, you'd have sacrificed the possibility of him falling onto you for the opportunity to hold his face.

You cup his cheek. In another time, a year ago, your fingernails would've been tickled by boyishly long hair. Now, his hair is only prickly.

"Will you grow it out again?"

Jaime thinks on it. He thinks about how it stuck to his face whenever it was dirty with muck or grime, about how easy it was to tug at his hair, how it was used to tug him backwards into horseshit or some other crazed punishment... but he also thinks about how much you liked it, how you often sweetly pushed it off his forehead when it stuck, how tugging at it did feel good in intimate situations such as this.

"I might." Is what he settles for, and he relishes the sight of your smile.

He's good at prepping himself and keeping a smug face. You've seen it thousands of times before, when he's tired of being ordered around and decided he needed to take control for once. You've seen him the other way around just as many times, quite willing to give up the reigns because he's just so tired.

There's just something about another person's hand.

"Oh..." Jaime moans as you push his hand away and replace his fingers with yours.

Furtheremore, you let him slump forward. You're almost—nay, you are cuddling in this way. Your legs even tangle. You've got him right on top of you, one hand over his back and the other prepping him, letting him just relax.

"That feel good?"

He's practically melting on top of you. It's rather funny how nonchalant he replies with the subtle nod of his head and, "Yeah, uh-huh."

You drag your other hand over his spine and up to hold the back of his head. "Tell me about your journey."

"Okay," He hums pliantly, "Robb Stark captured me in an ambush... which, though it cost me hell, is quite admirable for a boy born after the war. I spent several months travelling behind the army convoys as a prisoner, without a roof, without a floor. Just a stick in the mud and a shitty cage."

He recounts the journey while you prep him languidly like you have all the time in the world.

You don't have all the time in the world. You'll only have tonight, and perhaps the next night, thought it is quite unlikely. Before long, you're sure, Cersei will stop this grudge of hers and Jaime will be gone again, only crawling back after another lovers' quarrel.

"Are you listening?" Jaime suddenly asks, voice rather soft. He looks up at you, beautiful green eyes batting under his eyelashes. Yes, you're looking.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm listening." You say dismissively.

"Hold on a moment."

Jaime sits up to straddle you once more. You watch him go up all the way, eyes locked onto his. He's beautiful; different, worn, but still beautiful.

He shakes his head with a small laugh, "What are you looking at?"

You're so distracted with his face that you don't realize him sliding down onto your cock in one swift motion. "Fuck."

"Fuck is what you're looking at?" Jaime teases.

"Bastard."

"Ah, ah, ah," He tuts his tongue, hand on your abdomen as he rolls his hips. "you already used that one once. Be a little more creative, for once?"

You roll your eyes yet reply anyway, "Dickhead."

Jaime grins, "Better."

You settle a hand on his hip, helping guide his movements as well as make sure he doesn't lose his balance, what with the hand and all. It's... he's probably fine, but you can't help but be cautious.

You wrap your other hand on what remains of his wrist, almost as if to hold his hand. He notices the gesture.

His voice is soft when he says, "As I was saying?"

You nod your head, "As you were saying."

"About losing my hand... suppose I was way in over my head. I'd managed to convince that bastard of a man, Locke to leave lady Brienne untouched. I thought I could convince him to do more, to give me a decent meal and a fire, but instead, he convinced me that he was following along with my orders. Next moment, his men are pinning me down and he cuts my hand off himself. For the next months, he ties the bloody thing around my neck and I can't even take it off."

Grueling business to talk about while he rides you, but you've never held off from venting during these moments. It makes release all the sweeter, releasing your problems as well as your pent up sexual frustrations.

It's soft, all of it. The hand holding, the slow pace and desire to clench around every part of your cock, the eye contact, the easy way he tells you the entire story without sparing details to save his dignity.

"I should've gone after you." You sigh, kissing his bandaged wrist.

"No, you're a King's Guard, not a foot soldier." Jaime shakes his head, heaving a sigh. "You–"

You flip him over easily. "I should've gone after you." You say, and it's almost like you have authority over him, leaning over his body. You do, really, you're in control of your pleasure now.

Speechless, Jaime doesn't fight you. "Yeah."

You start up slow again, but quickly build up in chase of his pleasure. Jaime breathes out a shaky sigh, breaths growing heavier with each thrust.

"I'm sorry for all you've been through," Jaime has half the mind to protest, but you give him a look and continue, "and I wish I could kill every man that wronged you myself. I'm glad for Catelyn Stark, and glad for lady Brienne. I'm also happy that you're back, back to me. Happier than women leaving Maester Pycelle's room."

He wraps his arms around your neck, like you'd showed him earlier, and his legs around your waist. He's holding you close, for comfort, as if to make sure you're really there.

It's silly to do so. You're in front of his very eyes, your cock is fucking him open, and you're very much real.

"I'm happy I'm back with you." He mirrors with a grin, "Happier than even your cock is, I'm sure."

You kiss. No teeth, no tongue, just him and you holding it for as long as possible.

Maybe he will go back to Cersei. You think it almost inevitable; but at least you're sure there's a little part of him that loves you dearly, even if you might never admit it to each other.

For tonight, he's yours.

Yours to lavish, yours to pleasure, yours to fuck.

Yours to love.

[lukolathoughts]

The crazy woman in the attic

She glides silently across the deck, a pale spectre draped in a flowing white gown that flutters in a breeze no one feels. Her bare feet make no sound on the worn wooden planks, and her greasy, oil slicked hair streams behind her like seaweed caught in the gloomy moonlight. The ship groans softly beneath her, as if remembering something lost.

Her face is turned slightly downward, eyes shadowed yet distant, fixed on a point far beyond the ship’s railing—as though watching a horizon that no longer exists. A dark shadow clings to her, faint and unearthly, casting a melancholy sheen over the deck and leaving a trail of cold in her wake.

Sometimes, she pauses by the helm, resting a translucent hand on the wheel. Other times, she lingers by the lifeboats, lips moving in a silent litany. Always alone. Always searching.

The fog thickens when she appears, muffling the world into stillness, and though the sea may churn and the stars may shift, she walks on—eternally adrift in the ghost-light hours, a memory carved into the bones of the ship.

One of my favourite fiction novels is Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte. I love this gothic tale of female empowerment, secrets, romance and mystery. I studied it for A Level English Literature in Sixth form college back in the day and I have loved it ever since. I think this is because in my early teens I read novels by English author Catherine Cookson. These were romance novels set in the 19th century North-east of England and involved the upper and lower classes living in the manor estates or the slums of Newcastle respectively. These books were later turned into ITV dramas, for example, Sean Bean from Game of Thrones fame appeared in the Gambling Man in 1995. Many British actors got their big breaks appearing in Catherine Cookson dramas. My favourite one is The Glass Virgin that starred Emily Mortimer and Brendan Coyle. Mortimers character Annabella finds out she is the bastard daughter of a prostitute after being raised as a lady all her whole life. She is forced to leave the manor house with dashing groom Manuel (Coyle) by her side and work on a farm. The two eventually fall in love and Annabella reckons with her past. I especially like this one as it gives a romanticized notion that a big, strong, man will sweep in to save you. At thirteen, I found that idea appealing. Alas, dear reader I was too young yet to have discovered feminism.

Enter Jane Eyre, or 'plain Jane' her cruel cousins and aunt called her. Part of my A Level study was analysing whether Jane was plain, or she believed it due to being called plain her entire life. This is the kind of bullying I find abhorrent to this day. Jane eventually grows up after much maltreatment and a tough stint at a school for orphans, she takes a position at Thornfield Hall. She there meets the charming Edward Rochester. Here's me squealing in my tracks! Aha, a love story! How wonderful. This I can get on board with. Oh, it will be like the Sound of Music - minus the Nazi's. Rochester and Jane will go skipping off into the sunset singing Climb Every Mountain.

Our survey says - loud buzzer! Negative. Spoiler alert, there is something more sinister lurking above Jane every night. The floorboards creak with increasing intensity and Jane spots things from the corner of her eye. Edward reassures her she is imagining things and Thornfield is not haunted. Gaslighting 101 from our male lead. I still do not know what is going, but Jane is freaked out, and so am I. Why can’t Rochester be honest to Jane about what is really going on with his wife? Why all the lies and secrecy that literally ends up with Rochester losing his sight. There are consequences to your actions, Rochester.

Onto Eloise's instalment of the Bridgeton books 'To Sir Phillip, With Love." I love this book as I find book Eloise quirky and funny and Sir Phillip dark and mysterious enough to be unbelievingly sexy. I am going to spoil to fifth book here briefly, and by proxy the show. Let us talk about Marina. Oh, Marina. We last saw the universally loathed character of TV show Marina 'happily' wed to her dead lover's brother Phillip, after Colin makes a visit to Romney Hall to settle his 'unfinished business'. Marina is suffering from what I suspect is post-natal depression, possibly post-natal psychosis and the fact she does not love Phillip. Colin is too absorbed in himself to really understand the nuance of what is going on here and only really hears the word 'Penelope' that makes his head whip around like someone offered him a million pounds. The Nile is a river in Egypt, Mr Bridgerton (cough, Newton). In the books (spoiler) some years after the birth of her twins and the death of her love George, Marina dons a red dress and walks through the ghostly, morning mist and wanders directly into the estate’s lake. Sir Philip rescues her, but it is too late. She dies from fever a few days later.

Marina is dead and I'm assuming the producers of Bridgerton will go down this route in the show as the actress Ruby Barker has her own well documented mental health struggles as well as criticism of Shondland and does not want to be involved in the series. But the spectre of her will always be there, won't she? Eloise has no idea what she is walking into in the aftermath at Romney Hall with 'the ghost' of Marina floating about, emotionally at the very least. Colin and Penelope still have some unresolved issues when it comes to their relationship on the show and how Lady Whistledown saved Colin's ass from the fate of being married to a pregnant woman who tried to trap him into a loveless marriage. I'm sure some of this will be addressed shortly within the show, because frankly Colin should be kissing the ground Pen walks on and I'm sure she does occasionally make him do that.

I find that with Luke and Nicola, art literally imitates life. You can't make it up sometimes. Whether you think of Antonia as Marina - the ghost that wanders around the manor driving an invisible emotional wedge between them. Or Mrs Rochester, the crazy, vengeful woman in the attic who burns down the house. Or Cressida, the blackmailer, who wants money and infamy in exchange for silence. There are many possibilities to choose from. Even as I type this, Antonia is up to some shizz on social media, and I am determined to find out what is going on.

There has been a curious timeline of events since January 30th when Luke appeared out of the blue with Antonia after not being seen with her since July 2024 in Sorrento, where he left alone and two days before the holiday was meant to end. I still remember the shock of that night and thinking what the hell. We have examined Luke’s behaviour, demeanour and aura that night until the cows come home, and I do not intend to rehash old blog posts, however the whole thing really felt like an orchestrated PR set up pushed specifically by Antonia’s team (her parents) and a situation Luke was forced into. His ‘let’s get this done’ comment was a statement sniggered at by Lukola’s all over the world.  As well as witnessing Luke hand swatting Antonia’s hand away as they walked into the event.

Prior to this event, on 20th January 2025, Nicola and Jake papped photographs were released on the ‘carrot walk’ stroll. All of us Lukola’s laughed hysterically about that at the time. It staged and Nicola and Jake thought it was funny too. But what if this was a calculated strike by Luke and Nicola’s PR teams to take some heat of the impending shit show that was coming up with Luke and Antonia ten days later. I think that failed as everyone and their mother was shocked and horrified to see a angry Luke drag out a terrified and stricken looking Antonia. I always thought Antonia would smirk and gloat and relish to be seen with Luke again. Her behaviour seemed so anxious and peculiar; it almost seems as if she was forced into the appearance herself. I will return to this point shortly.

One month later 18th February Luke was solo papped in Kensington in London taken by papazzi photographer Josh Mawr, incidentally the same pap who took the carrot stroll pics of Nicola and Jake. The photos were shared by Deux Moi.  The fandom breathed a sigh of relief, he was alone. He was also alone at the Valentine’s Day event the week before. But he had not been without Antonia at the BAFTA after Party on Sunday 16th February. There was lots of speculation again about Luke’s ambivalent behaviour towards Antonia at this event also. Luke made a point of sharing to his SM that he left the event alone but got into a pasta bed and watched Love Island. Unfortunately, the fandom associate pasta with Antonia. I think we have pasta PTSD. But we also associate Love Island with Nicola, and her love for reality TV. What message was Luke trying to convey here?

Then we had the glory of the SAGS. The whole world was captivated by Luke and Nic and I honestly think after the event, Nicola panicked and went into her default setting of oh shit. We got some suspicious sightings of Antonia suddenly in the LA hotel that appeared to be old and the ‘buddy’ narrative from Nicola. Then Nicola follows Antonia on Instagram. The earth shook. This can’t be right, right? It’s a joke? Antonia eagerly follows her back. I don’t like to pit women against each other, but to me these screams keep you friends close, but your frenemies closer. Also, PR/contract obligation. Antonia gains some new followers, not many and seems to have a bit of actual work going on around the time.

Here comes the big kicker. On 18th March, Luke and Antonia are papped running errands. Antonia looks like she just rolled out of bed and Luke looks like he needs to take something for constipation. He’s also seen picking his nose and looking like rather be anywhere else in the world. Who was the paparazzi I hear you ask? None other than Josh Mawr. Third time lucky, eh Josh? These paparazzi pictures did Luke and Antonia no favours. But as someone just pointed out to me, patterns be patterning. Most appearances from the adjacents or paparazzi shots seem to be around the middle of the month.

A few days later on 21st March, Luke is spotted at his friend Young Blud’s Concert. A fan releases a photo of a furious looking Luke, with Antonia seemingly walking towards him. I have heard from sources a few things about what happened that night, but I cannot share those here. I can confirm that Antonia left the event after Young Blud’s set of four songs and Luke did not. It is interesting to note that the next day, Nicola was seen in the same area of Kensington where Luke was solo papped having a photo with a fan in a juice bar four minutes away from where Luke was papped.

Fast forward to this weekend, yes that right Saturday 19th April and we get a photo of Luke posing in Cyprus with the owner of the restaurant of where Antonia’s father is a chef. There is a lot of speculation about what might be going on here and analysing Luke’s face and clothes etc. Whether recent or not, Antonia is still NOT in the photo. She is still not allowed to post him. She is back to her old tricks of implying she is with him. Yesterday, she posted a selfie with a friend at the same restaurant where Luke was photographed on Saturday. Luke’s photo was shared by the restaurant, and he was tagged in it, as well as Bridgerton UK. How odd that the restaurant where Antonia’s father works at shares a publicity photo of Luke and tags Bridgerton as well? Not suspicious at all. Luke does not accept the tag. Then Antonia goes on a posting spree of random shit. But still no Lukey. How pathetic after over a year, you can’t publicly post your ‘boyfriend’. You push Luke and he pushes back harder. I do not think Luke’s PR team was involved with this as the post is still up and the comments towards Luke are not favourable. It’s all messy and weird and becoming an increasing headache. I also think Antonia’s parents have huge involvement here. They have gotten their pound of flesh out of Luke and for Luke’s sake, I sincerely hope he’s run for the hills and back to the cliffs of Dover.

Whenever I write a blog post, shit tends to hit the fan. I might very well be tempting fate here. There is a pre-Bafta party tonight in London that Luke and Nicola are expected to attend. I am bracing myself for what we will see. I hope it is another SAGS love fest and we will all be rejoicing, as Nic and Luke deserve it. Dragging along adjacents would be a stupid thing to do. I have been criticised again for insisting so strongly that Jake is gay. It is my opinion, but I am simply warning the Jakola’s because the press is coming up for What it feels like for a girl and it is already known to be an all queer cast. I have noted with some wry amusement, whereas previously the Jakolas insisted Jake was straight, now they are saying he is bisexual, and they are holding onto this for dear life. He could be, I do not know Jake. But from looking at his Instagram, I just don’t think he is. But I do agree, it is for Jake to tell us his truth and I’m sure that he will in the next few weeks.

My question is why is Luke so obsessed with keeping his Mrs Rochester a secret? What is Luke hiding in the attic? What is worth all this trouble? Is he protecting his Jane Eyre? We have seen Luke happy and this isn’t it. Granted it is only snapshots in time, but those snaps tell a story.

‘The night - its silence - its rest, was rent in twain by a savage, a sharp, a Shirley sound that ran from end to end of Thornfield Hall.'" Description of Bertha, Jane Eyre.

PS. I did not call into work sick the other day because someone made a nasty comment on YT btw, I was upset going to work and had to calm myself down before going in. I am only human.

PPS. I can see that Jake is getting ready for an event now. I can feel a headache coming already.

[michanvalentine]

I disagree with Astarion's observations on Petras

About him being an idiot I mean

Sure, he's not necessarily a bright spark, nor smooth & suave like Astarion

But

Petras isn't dumb, he's just in denial!

He's bought into Cazador's narratives, specifically "We're a family" & "You will ascend with me"

Because, if Petras were to see the reality of his situation, it would drive him to despair & hopelessness

Denial can be one hell of a coping mechanism

I do think Petras gets a lot less sympathy & understanding from the fandom than he deserves sometimes

Honestly? I don’t think Petras is exactly a brainiac, lol. BUT! That doesn’t mean your point about him being in denial is invalid! The two things aren’t mutually exclusive — in fact, they’re not even directly related. Quite the opposite.

Focusing solely on “Petras is an idiot” prevents us from noticing all the layered implications behind Astarion’s confrontation with his siblings. Context matters. Past experiences matter. Their mental states — both of them — matter. Especially in this case. There’s a lot to consider… and a lot to analyze! Yay!

So, let’s start with context. We know all the spawn are actively looking for Astarion, who somehow managed to escape Cazador’s grasp. We also know Cazador “motivated” them in his own way — though we don’t know exactly how often or how cruelly. And of course, we know he dangled the prospect of ascending together in front of their faces.

That alone provides meaning: “I’m enduring all this pain, all these humiliations, because there will be a reward at the end.” Freedom. It’s an incredibly powerful motivator.

Now, Astarion escapes. He gets free. Right in front of them — while they’re the ones left behind, still enduring the master’s wrath, partly because of him. I think that pisses Petras off — a lot (and not just him). Especially in a group that’s always been trained to tear each other down over even the smallest scrap of favoritism.

In this toxic dynamic, Astarion is the “arrogant spawn” — but also the weak one. The one who, after being buried alive for a year, stopped rebelling and simply obeyed. No more defiance, no more fight. And yet, with his peers? He never backed down. He kept acting like a smug bastard, maybe even a bully. Because he needed to. That arrogance was his armor — a hard outer shell meant to look strong while he crumbled on the inside, just like the others.

We can even imagine a past where Astarion taunted Petras about his intellect, played up the idea of him being dumb, just to make him feel smaller. But that doesn’t mean Petras is truly or irreparably stupid. Any excuse would’ve done the trick. The point wasn’t truth — it was power.

Power — whether wielded or endured — is an omnipresent dynamic when it comes to Astarion and vampires in general in Baldur’s Gate 3. Naturally, the one holding true power is Cazador, but his spawn — desperate, starved, and dehumanized — would do anything to taste even the faintest trace of it. To be able to manage even a crumb of that power, however fleeting. Just enough to regain some semblance of validity. “I exist too. I matter. My presence has an effect.”

Personally, I’ve always felt that during Astarion’s encounter with his siblings — and here I’m focusing in particular on Dalyria and Petras — all the old family dynamics come rushing back at once. Facing his brothers and sisters again, Astarion undergoes a kind of emotional regression, slipping right back into those familiar, dysfunctional patterns. Patterns the others, by the way, never left. By now, after centuries, they’ve become a sort of conventional language between them — twisted, but familiar.

And honestly, the way Petras and Astarion speak to each other suggests to me that Petras might have been Astarion’s “favorite victim” — the one who was easiest to bully, precisely because of his limited intellect. I put victim in quotation marks because it’s important to remember that in this context, they’re all victims — all of them ready to tear each other apart over the tiniest scrap of attention or power.

I’m also certain that, at times, alliances formed between them — temporary, bound to break, yes — but still, I believe every spawn had a sibling they preferred, and conversely, one they looked down on the most.

That’s where I think Petras and Astarion fit in. Their rivalry and mutual disdain seem to exist at an extreme — with the added tension, for Petras, that Astarion is clearly much more cunning than he is.

Within this climate of underlying tension unfolds the very encounter we’re discussing. It’s also worth noting that Dalyria seems to be the sibling with whom Astarion gets along better. This is especially evident when playing as Astarion — there’s a sense of mutual respect between them. Dalyria is even willing to trust him, particularly if you choose the right dialogue options — so much so that she actually asks Astarion to save them, all of them.

This, in turn, greatly irritates Petras — the brother who seems to despise Astarion the most on a personal level. He remains firmly attached to the idea of “family” and to Cazador’s empty promises, despite all the evidence to the contrary.

So when we analyze Petras’ behavior, we can’t ignore these foundations. It’s not just about stupidity. It’s about years and years of learned behavior, of indoctrination carved into them through fear, suffering, and the constant need to fight for survival — not only in the physical sense, but mentally too. Preserving one’s mind becomes a form of survival in a context like this.

And in that moment, the one trying to open Petras’ eyes is the very same brother who — for years — was a conniving bastard to him. So… why should he believe him?

On the other hand, Astarion, the sibling once seen as weak — and who’s now slipping back into old family dynamics — can’t wait to flaunt his new condition in front of the others: free from Cazador, immune to sunlight, finally in a position of overwhelming superiority. And god, does he love it! After centuries of rats and groveling at someone’s feet, it’s a feeling he’s desperate to experience to the fullest. Even better if he gets to do it in front of the bastards who mocked him, judged him, made him feel weak and unworthy.

And again — I say all this without assigning blame, because in this context, they’re all victims, each doing what they can to survive. The situation itself is so toxic that it brings out the worst in all of them.

So, let’s circle back to Petras. Saying he’s in denial — that his mind simply cannot conceive of a world other than the one Cazador, the true and only abuser, promised him — is not only accurate, it’s also entirely separate from intelligence.

Even the smartest person in the world could fall into that kind of psychological trap.

Trauma bonding is a psychological phenomenon that occurs in abusive relationships, especially when cycles of punishment and intermittent “kindness” or rewards are present. The victim becomes emotionally attached to the abuser — often as a means of survival — and begins to interpret control or domination as care, or even love.

That’s exactly what we see in Petras. He repeats Cazador’s mantras — “We’re a family,” “We will ascend together” — not because he’s foolish, but because these beliefs give him a sense of structure, purpose, and hope within a system that would otherwise be unbearable.

When reality is too painful, denial becomes a functional coping mechanism. It allows him to preserve a fragile identity and avoid psychological collapse.

Accepting the truth — that he has no agency, that he’s been groomed and used for centuries, that Cazador never saw him as anything but a tool — would be devastating. So Petras clings to the illusion.

I’d also like to offer another possible reading of Astarion. Astarion has just escaped that system. He’s angry. He’s raw. He’s trying to redefine himself outside of that web of domination.

So when Astarion sees Petras still clinging to the narrative — still echoing Cazador’s language about family and loyalty — it triggers not just anger, but also fear. Fear of where he might have ended up if he hadn’t managed to escape. And a fear that he’s not really as free as he wants to believe.

In trauma recovery, it’s common for survivors to project unresolved feelings onto others who remind them of their past selves. This could be another reason why Astarion’s bitterness toward Petras is so sharp. He’s not just disgusted by Petras — he’s disgusted by the part of himself that once believed Cazador’s lies too.

And in a twisted way, Petras represents safety. Predictability. The devil you know. That’s terrifying for someone like Astarion, who is desperately trying to reinvent himself.

In this readings, when he calls Petras an idiot, it’s not only about Petras. It’s also about how Astarion sees his former self.

I don’t want to go too far or overstate things… but there may also be a component of survivor’s guilt here. We got a glimpse of it when he first talks to Tav/Durge about his brothers and sisters, saying: “And now that I'm gone... I don't know... I pity the other six.”

Astarion escaped. He was “chosen” to ascend. He gained power, freedom, options. Petras didn’t. That disparity stings — and it’s easier to cope with that guilt by blaming the one who stayed than by mourning the systemic cruelty that kept him there.

So, even if the fandom often treats Petras as comic relief or a footnote, he is arguably a narrative foil to Astarion: someone who never broke free, who still lives inside the story Cazador wrote for him. And that makes him tragic, not pathetic.

He shows us what could have happened to Astarion if things had gone differently — or what might still happen if he doesn’t process his trauma with care.

Because — let’s not deny it — whether he’s aware of it or not, Astarion has internalized many of Cazador’s “lessons”, though unlike Petras, they tend to push him toward retracing his master’s footsteps, rather than clinging to him.

[blue-rick24]

“ That ain’t no way to talk to your paw. This is! ”

THIS FORESHADOWING OF HOMESTEADER RICK TURNING OUT TO BE BOSS HOG RICK’S OWN “PA” IS CRAZY…

Is B.H.R. exactly his “son” (because he gave notes on his creation)? Or is he more like… [the physical manifestation] of the brainchild of a board room full of Rick-ecutives (Rick executives, lol)? The idea of his conception is… honestly so interesting! And I think we need to talk about it XD

I wonder how upset BHR would’ve been to live with this knowledge, after Homesteader’s reveal, if had he actually survived to remember it? What that would that have done to change his perspective that Cloned Ricks are superior to others?

Clone Ricks are a very good concept that I’m legitimately so grateful the show introduced… then immediately killed off XDD (I don’t mind that they died, honest. They had a tragic existence and were all up to no good… I’m glad the Mortys got out safely. The Ricks were sadly a bit too far gone… most of the surviving ones, anyway. Homesteader had no other options, really, by the end.)

but ffs. fuckin’— Homesteader just revealed that BHR was his “son” just to unnerve him, though. Right before killing them both XD I may still be slightly salty, LOL… I do feel like BHR deserved somewhat better, as much a bastard as he was

Salt aside, I’ve gotta say…. my angst-depraved brain is so excited now to play with the idea that:

…BHR was literally engineered and ‘artificially’ made to be the way he is, and it was ALL to sell some chain fast food for corporate Ricks, no less…!!!? 😧😦😖💓

If you were knowingly in that same position, wouldn’t that totally fuck with your head and self-worth?

Honestly, when you think about it, did they actually engineer him to be fat??? Is the REASON he is an “overweight Southern railroad baron” at ALL… LITERALLY JUST because some Ricks decided he should be??? 😧 JUST to fill the role of a “Big Rick” for the Citadel’s gumbo chain mascot?! FATTENED BY THE NARRATIVE?????!

I mean, I’m certain that these clone-creating Ricks had the capabilities to do so! Homesteader Rick just entered some code and created an 11-foot-tall, absolutely ripped ASF Monster Morty. I’m sure they could initiate the cloning process with a set amount of mass… with a physical design for this Rick in mind. (These Ricks were literally just cooking up their OWN RICK OCS IN THIS BITCH—)

“ Alright, now! Think that’s large enough… ”

- Top Ten Things I would never say while cooking up a big juicy clone Rick 🤤🤤😮‍💨

Homesteader Rick’s face -> AKA my exact face while I’m cooking up a big fat clone Rick mascot for a Citadel gumbo chain fast food restaurant 😏😏😏(😭OMFG)

AND, UHHH… wouldn’t it lowk be so sexy if some Ricks decided you were destined to just be a big fat guy forever? 😳… (okay this is just borderline a…. new sci-fi clone feederism kink [?!?!] genre now ?!! 🤣🤣🤣LMAOOO.) 🥴

(personally though, I would not mind at all if some Ricks literally created me to be a big fat Rick forever— because that’s actually my Rick OC, “Blue Rick”, whom I [also] created myself… and whom I already do wish I could just be sometimes…. just living in a cartoon world carefree and peaceful maybe eating a burger. that’d be so nice. i can’t lie)

That tragedy of BHR… that angst, the lore; It’s all just finally setting in for me now, a week later, lol… sorry, I was both soo preoccupied already with just how sexy he is in every possible way and busy thirsting over the phenomenal voice talents of Ian 🤤🤭 😍😍🥰💞

HELL, they hardly even gave BHR a name in this episode. He notes that his mascot name was “Big Rick”, and his poster tells us that, too. But nobody feels the need to address him by any name. His fanon title of “Boss Hog Rick” literally only comes directly off of his official character model sheet/turnaround, a term the literal Showrunners of R&M denoted him by, just to tell him apart from other Ricks. He has no name… No unique one, anyway.

(Even “Homesteader Rick” and “Arcade Morty” were called by name throughout the episode, but not BHR. Aside from the name of the restaurant’s mascot he used to be, or arguably, still is. He has no name).

He probably doesn’t have much of any true identity, all he knows is how to act like this fake mascot. He’s damn good at it, too, but it’s not really him. He sounds like such a CUTE silly nerd when he stops doing the voice, jesus christ… 🤤🥰🥰💞

It’s probably why he ended up in the position he was in before Homesteader wrecked the place… He calls it “freedom”, but I think BHR may have just wanted to feel justified and more secure about his place in the multiverse, stranded on that little asteroid. What’s more secure than leader of the brand-new Citadel you’re spearheading the construction and repopulation of, and the bosser-arounder of all the entire community of Clone Ricks and Mortys?

You guys saw how eager BHR was to explain to anyone who would listen why he even exists too, right? To “monologue while we wait”? He’s so so silly shfhffbvj …but I think there is a huge potential for some angst here guys 🫢 🥺💗 I LOVE HIM. SO MUCH, HE’S EVERYTHING TO ME- FHCNCM I NEEED HIIIM . SEE YOU GUYS NEXT TIME I OBSESSIVELY RANT ABOUT THIS HANDSOME FUCK 🥹💙💘‼️‼️

💙~

[i-cant-sing]

Veiled princess reader and yandere Knight Dabi, sitting on their balcony, wrapped in each others arms as they stare at the moon above them. Your head is on Dabi's chest, your veil cast aside now that you're alone with your husband. Dabi is rubbing your forearms slowly, placing a gentle kiss on your forehead.

"What are you thinking about?" He asked. Your eyes met his as you smiled.

He's always able to read your mind.

"Do you believe in God?" You aksed cautiously. Religion was always a sensitive topic for most people.

Dabi exhaled as he pondered over the question. "I didn't used to. I was taught religion as a child, but I never really believed in it. Why would God make me be a "bastard"? But then-" He looked at you. "I met you. And I knew instantly, God existed. There is no chance, no fate, no coincidence that could've made our paths cross. It must be something supernatural for us to meet. And when you took off your veil, I knew only God could've made such perfection. For there is no way, the universe just spontaneously made you. Something Divine must've taken their time to craft you, perfect you, mould you into a little piece of heaven and then for us to be together? Only He could have such power and plans."

He wiped the stray tear from your eye. "I won't say I'm always religious though. I try to remember God as often as I could, but sometimes I get entangled in worldly affairs. Then I'd take one look at you, and I'd remember Him, for He was the one who was benevolent enough to give you to me. Even when I was astray, even when I was sinful, he blessed me with you."

"Dabi~" you whispered. He smiled and kissed your eyes.

"I am ungrateful to Him sometimes. When I don't win the battles, when I don't conquer some land because of traitors, I complain to Him, blame Him when things don't go my way. But everytime I lay my head in your lap and look at your face, I realise how He has already given me paradise in this life alone. I don't need to conquer lands or win gems, for I have the "envy of the Moon" right in my arms." He said as he kissed you, your cheeks wet with your tears.

"I may not get into heaven because of my past sins, my love, but I am forever in His debt for granting me a little piece of heaven on Earth."

[doesthendnlive]

I'm so tired. Sorry for bad grammar or mistakes.

TW for rape/pedophilia/slavery/domestic violence/violence against Indigenous women and girls specifically

It makes me so angry we Sacagawea and "Pocahontas" are known our figure head Native "Women". If you want to go a litter further the fact that "La Malinche" is idolized as well in the same way. But we don't learn about their actual lives.

Why are public schools obessed with these pedophilic relationships between Native girls and old gross ass white males as "The country coming together" or a "unity between 'Indians' and whites'" or "the creation of our mestizo race" or whatever else.

Sacagewa was only 12 when her "husband" bought her, and 16 when he impregnated her. I didn't learn this until I looked it up and searched for it myself.

"Charbonneau was also known for his short temper with his wives. On August 14, 1805, Charbonneau struck Sacagawea during a domestic argument, and was told to stop by Clark. This one incident has led to Charbonneau's reputation as a "wife beater," although it was the only time during the expedition that this type of behavior was noted. Coupled with the rape incident described above, however, Charbonneau seems to have been a sometimes violent person with little regard for women Native girls . His consistent record of marrying Native girls under age 16 also makes one wonder about a possible need to exhibit power over women Native girls

Charbonneau is known to have had a total of five wives, all young Native American women girls whom he married when they were sixteen years old or younger. He may have had more wives who have been lost to the record, however. His last known wife, an Assiniboine girl, was 14 when she married him in 1837; he was more than 70 years old."

Matoaka was even younger if I remember right, the bastardization of her real life story and the fetishization of her story and Native women and girls beause apparently we're all from her people. The fact the "Pocahontas" even exists, the disregard for her actual story and scraping details out to make it more palatable.

Despite the fact the she didn't get to have palatable, she had to endure violence, forced removal, rape, and forced impregnation by her rapist(s). She didn't get to have that comfort or safety but everyone else gets to when 'learning' about her.

"La Malinche" or "Malintzin" (we literally don't know her birth name) was around 11-16 years of age when she ended up on the hands of Spaniards

What makes it worse in regards of "Malintzin" is that Hispanic Males fetishize the "Mestizo race" and the rape of Indigenous women and girls especially to create this race.

They only claim their Indigenous decent when it benefits them, while they are still actively anti Indigenous themselves and hate actual indigenous peoples/communities.

Argentina specifically, it's called chineo, criollo males are known for targeting Indigenous women and girls to rape/gangrape them. It's a old colonial practice that still happens to this day.

Im just so angry that our figure Indigenous "women" are just these little girls adultified into these grown women just to make people less uncomfortable with the power dynamic imbalance and pedophilic relationships and colonialism and colonization in general

Racist white males (Spanish, English, French, whatever flavour of white idc) love this idea of conquering Indigenous women and raping them. I heard way too many gross comments from old white males with rapey undertones to them about them being white and me being a Indigenous girl.

Or even them mocking the sexual violence we face, one of my ex white male friends mocked me for being abused when we got into a argument not related to it at all he also was more and more racist to me as time went on.

In both of the Americas Indigenous people, but especially Indigenous Women and girls aren't safe. It's scary how much violence is forced onto us and how these figure head "Women" are watered down into comfortability for the general public.

The violence we face is pretty much the same in the Americas, and its scary to know we are stuck in places that hate us despite being on our lands in the first place.

all of this but THIS PART ESPECIALLY:

[lair-of-the-white-worm]

Dear Alf...

[art by @this-game-has-themes, text by me, oc Lenny belongs to me]

I wanna know somethin'...

Why do ya only kiss me when you're drunk?

Not when we could start the next day dead, crushed or ground into somethin' unrecognizable, and no one would stop to ask what our names were. Wouldn't even be called a poor bastard, 'cuz it just happens every day.

I do my job. Every day. Always have. I don’t ask questions. I don’t make a fuss. I ain't never had a life outside a' the freight yard.

That’s the way it is. That’s the way it’s always been. For all my life. For all your life. It's the only life we know.

We ain’t supposed to get distracted. We ain't supposed to deviate from that, it's what we do. We ain’t supposed to feel like nobody.

Because what else am I supposed to do?

That’s why I don’t let myself want things no more. Not a full night’s sleep. Not a day without aching bones. Not the softness of a paw that don't pull away. Not you.

And yet, when ya lean in close enough that I can smell the Brew on your nasty breath, wrap your arm around my shoulder and break that gap between us, I let you.

Because when you’re sober, ya don’t look at me like that. Ya punch my arm and ya crack jokes.

Ya call me a schmuck like it’s some kind of endearment. Ya slouch beside me like I’m nothing more than air, and I let you.

You called her eyes pretty. Did you know you’ve seen them before? Did you know you’ve stared right into them for as long as we've known each other? The same eyes you share a bottle with, a laugh with, a joke with? The same eyes you looked into before you pulled away and pretended you forgot?

I don’t ask questions, I don’t make a fuss. That’s the way it is. That’s the way it’s always been.

But sometimes, when the machines are too loud and the smoke clogs my throat, I think about the way you look at her.

Do ya drink to forget, or to remember? I dunno. I don’t know which answer would be worse.

I could run. I could grab your wrist and bolt onto the train. I'd take ya and we'd jump off somewhere. Anywhere. We could disappear into whatever's beyond the tracks, beyond the factories, beyond the machines. We could find somewhere quiet, somewhere the sky is more than just smog. I know it's out there. I've seen it.

I tell myself I don’t want to know. I tell myself it doesn’t matter. I tell myself we aren’t supposed to feel like someone. I ain't no pretty girl. I couldn't be, I wouldn't be. We can't be nothin'.

But then I'm sittin' with you again. And I look at ya. And suddenly, I wish we could be.

I think about her. How you talk about her, how your voice gets all loose and easy when you bring up her name.

But workers don’t run. Workers work. And I am a worker. That’s all I am. That's all you are. That’s all we're meant to be.

So I let the thought die before it takes shape. I crush it down, deep, an' I don't make a fuss over it. like every other Oddamn thing I’ve ever wanted.

Unless you can blame the brew for your hands on my waist, for the heat of your breath against my skin, for the way your face lingers so close like maybe—maybe—you wanna stay there this time.

She’s pretty, you say. She’s confident, you say. She’s out there. Everything I’m not.

You like her.

I know ya do.

And I wanna hate her for it.

I wanna hate the way she gets to be loud, how she gets to be wanted, how she doesn’t have to curl in on herself every fuckin' night because she’s ashamed to exist. I wanna hate that I made her because I was too much of a coward to be her. I wanna hate that you see her, but you never see me.

But then I see ya again, and it’s like it never happened. An' just like everything else, I gotta carry it alone.

But I was hatched to carry things. That’s what I do. I lift, I load, I haul, I sweat an' I keep goin' 'till I bleed. An' I don’t complain, because what’s the point? A worker’s worth is only in the weight he can carry. You know that, don't ya? That’s what they tell us. That’s what I tell myself.

So I let it sit heavy in my chest, let it pile on top of everything else. Because I was made to carry things.

Even this. Even you.

Fuck you, mud. I fuckin' love you.

------------

art by @this-game-has-themes!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Text by me

OC Lenny also by me

[sezja]

And I challenge you to hugs #4 with Elektra and Retsarra.

Touching prompts (still accepting)

4: comforting hugs

Here again. Getting to the eighth-level demolition site was easier than she expected - in her vague memories, there had been security to deal with... but then, security had been there to keep random bystanders from getting involved in a battle between titans. Or perhaps to keep random bystanders from seeing what happened in the aftermath of that battle: when one contender died, irretrievably, gone beyond what even a regulator could salvage.

What does that make me, then?

It still smells like smoke, though the fires burned themselves out months ago; no one's bothered to clean up the wreckage at the base of the tower. Ash pools around the electrope walls and beams.

But the ivy still grows on the walls, green and unconcerned with the destruction around it. What feeds it, Elektra wonders, resting a hand on the thriving vines - there's no water or sunlight here. Aether? Ambient aether? She can absorb some nutrients through light alone, why not this, some lingering trace of who she used to be?

Why am I here?

Footsteps. Elektra sharpens her senses... and then relaxes. She knows those footsteps. She knows his scent. (I know you. I've always known you. Soul-deep, bone-deep, I've known you forever, you're a part of me. Love you. Hate you.) Elektra breathes in, lets Hector's emotions roll over her like a wave. It's getting easier; it gets easier all the time. She breathes them back out, slow, until it settles into a comfortable murmur at the back of her thoughts, and only then does she turn to acknowledge him.

"Retsarra."

He keeps his distance, but offers a smile in greeting. "Aimo was worried," he says, by way of explaining his presence.

She bristles, indignant. "There's nothing down here that can pose a threat to me," she snaps. "And Aimo knows it!"

By the way his smile softens, saddens, she knows it's an anger he recognizes. "I don't think it was that kind of worried."

Oh.

Slowly, he approaches, looking around. "I never thought to see this place again."

(You were never supposed to see it in the first place.) "I've been having... dreams. About it."

"About this place?" He turns, studies her. "Or...?"

Dying?

"I don't know." Only waking up with the vaguest memories of this place, this final place, where Hector burned his life away to prove another man's point. Is she him in her dreams, or herself? She can never tell, sometimes, and she doesn't recall these dreams well enough to know. "I thought if I came, something might click."

"Has it?"

She sighs, impatient with his delicacy. "No. Yes. I don't know! You're not supposed to be here. You weren't supposed to be there."

(Just throw it all away. Burn it all away. Let it be all anyone remembers!)

He blinks. "I wasn't supposed to-"

"Be there." She sighs again, rubbing her face. The air still smells like smoke. "He didn't... he didn't want you to see it." (Any of it. The creature. The death. The truth.)

Retsarra takes a shaky breath, looking away... to the vast empty space where the Brute Abombinator's corpse had been hauled away, carried to the incinerators far below the Arcadion to be disposed of. And if they'd been any faster about it, Elektra might not exist. He stares at the place where his best friend died, and...

"I couldn't not be there." His voice is soft, so soft. "I should have done more, but I couldn't not be there."

(Been through everything together. Bastard. Let me die a monster. Let me die unloved, unmourned. No one loves the Brute Bomber.)

"I'm glad you were," Elektra says, abruptly, cutting through the flow of her not-her-thoughts. "I'm glad you remember him the way he was." Even if he wishes no one did. "Someone should."

"Don't you?"

Caught off-guard, she pauses. Considers. "I..."

He smiles again, warm. "I think it counts in an odd sort of way, don't you?" The smile fades. "Ah, Hector. You always did deserve better."

She hesitates. Then, firmly: "Do you want a hug?"

"Excuse me?"

"Do you want. A hug."

Baffled, he laughs. "Hector was never much the hugging sort."

"Well, maybe he should've been," she says, arms open. "Maybe you both should've been. This place is bad for both of us. All three of us. Get over here."

"I'm not sure-"

"Not asking!"

At last, he laughs and surrenders, stepping into the circle of her arms for a tight, comforting embrace. "Thank you," he says, muffled against her shoulder.

"I've gotten good at hugs," she gloats, and she doesn't even mind the glowing warmth of satisfaction at her core that she knows isn't entirely her own. "You can have one any time."

[mymultiverse00]

Lightning

Baby you’re like lightning in a bottle

I can’t let you go now that I’ve got it

And all I need is to be struck

By your electric love…

Again. That damn song was playing again, and was driving Marcus mad. Always the same part, never the full song. Over and over and over again. Who in the hell only wants to hear one verse of a song on repeat? There were a lot of young ones around the castle these days, since the showdown in Forks; nomads and newborns alike, all flocking to Volterra to learn the proper ways to be a vampire. Perhaps it was one of them? He shrugged off the annoyance and tried to block out the noise as he made his way out to the garden terrace, hoping to find some peace and maybe his new friend, Y/n.

Y/n arrived in the city a few months ago, wide-eyed and curious, frighteningly intelligent, and beautiful to boot. She made friends quickly and had a gift for putting people at ease, with guards and kings alike, all vying to be in her company. She was quite simply a pleasure to be around, and Marcus often found himself seeking her out in his downtime. So what if he had a little crush on her? He was never going to act on it, so it was really a non-issue. They were friends and nothing more and being around her brought some joy to his miserable existence, and didn’t he deserve that much? He thought so.

As he got closer to the garden he heard that blasted song again, this time a little louder, so with a burst of speed he flashed into the courtyard, hoping to find the culprit behind the musical annoyance. Imagine his surprise finding Y/n there, cellphone in hand and a dreamy expression on her face.

“Y/n?” He inquired quietly. “What are you up to and why does it involve playing that song over and over?” He teased her gently, startling her out of her revelry.

“Oh! Marcus!” She yelped, and threw a hand up to her chest to cover her non-beating heart. “You startled me!”

“My apologies, I did not mean to.” He chuckled lowly and smiled. “I was trying to suss out whoever is responsible for playing that blasted song on repeat. It seems I have succeeded.”

Y/n looked down at her phone in embarrassment, clicked the off button on the side before placing the device face down on the bench beside her. “Sorry Marcus. I didn’t mean to be annoying, I just get wrapped up in those videos sometimes.”

“Videos?” He asked, settling into the empty space beside her.

“Yeah! TikTok’s, you know? I’m obsessed!”

“What is a TikTok? I’m afraid I’m a bit behind in the times,” he admitted. “These are music videos?”

“No, not exactly. It’s a kind of social media. People film themselves talking about new products they like or new foods they have tried. Occasionally someone will do something silly and people start to copy them and post their own videos. It’s totally mindless entertainment, but it’s addicting!”

“And this Lightning in a Bottle, it is a TikTok?” He inquired, looking at Y/n with increased curiosity.

“Uh, yeah…” she hedged. “It’s a good one. I watch those a lot.”

“May I see?”

“Umm, suuuurrree…” she reached for her phone again. “I’ll just pull one up for us…”

Marcus watched Y/n closely, noticing her hesitation and increasing uncertainty, and decided he would grant her a reprieve. He never wanted her to feel uncomfortable around him, and it seemed he was heading that direction. He reached out to stop her hand. “You know something? I just remembered that I promised Aro I would help him with something. Rain check?”

Y/n smiled in obvious relief. “Of course! Come find me later, maybe?”

He nodded and smiled tightly, bolting from the terrace to avoid making things any more awkward. Maybe Aro would know something about this TikTok? Only one way to find out.

—————————

Aro, it seemed, did know a thing or two about TikTok and this particular video as well. He laughed, the bastard, when Marcus approached him later that afternoon, and seemed almost giddy as he questioned Marcus about the encounter. “So she didn’t actually get to show you the video?” He asked wryly.

“No.” Marcus shook his head. “She was embarrassed, I think, and I didn’t want to press her when she was clearly uncomfortable. It’s not obscene, is it?”

Aro laughed again. “Hardly! Curious though that she was shy to share it with you. Why do you think that is, brother?”

“I couldn’t say,” Marcus mumbled to his feet. If he was capable of blushing, he would be as red as a tomato at that moment. While he had never mentioned it to his brother out loud, Marcus was certain Aro was aware of the crush he had on Y/n. It was mortifying.

“Well,” Aro began, clapping his hands once to capture Marcus’s attention. “Perhaps you need to ask her. Or watch the videos yourself! Maybe that will tell you something.”

“Yes, perhaps.”

“Good luck, brother!” Aro called out with glee as Marcus left the room. He could not wait to tell Sulpicia about this! Maybe there was hope for his morose older brother after all.

—————————-

One trip to an electronics store and many hours spent with a member of something called the Geek Squad later, Marcus had everything he needed to log into TikTok. Now, where to begin? A search, he concluded. “Lightning song.” No results. “Lightning in a bottle.” A music festival in Southern California, USA. Nope. “Electric Love.” The debut single by American artist, Borns - gained popularity on TikTok with the ‘I kissed my best friend challenge.’

THE WHAT?!?!?! Marcus couldn’t believe his eyes. This is what Y/N is watching on repeat, hundreds of times over? Could that mean…?

He shook off the thought. No way. Y/n didn’t want to kiss him… did she? Is that why she was embarrassed to show him? Maybe he should watch a few of these videos before he got too excited. It could be a prank, he told himself, closing the search app and opening TikTok. He’d watch one or two just to be sure and decide what to do afterward. It was probably nothing.

It was not nothing.

58 videos later, Marcus had decided two things. The first, he hated this song; Electric Love. Bleh. Nothing against the artist, of course. But the song had a way of worming its way into a person’s brain and building a home there, and nothing he could do would evict the damn thing. The second thing he decided on was this: there was a very good chance Y/N wanted to kiss him, and what’s more, he wanted to kiss her back. Now all he had to figure out was how on earth was he supposed to get that to happen?

The humans in these videos seemed to rely on misdirection to achieve their goal, but he wasn’t sure he liked that. To him, the whole concept was in a grey area concerning consent, and he didn’t like the idea of taking something from Y/n if she was unwilling. Yes, she seemed to like watching these TikToks, but that didn’t mean she wanted someone to trick her into participating in one. And besides, he preferred a first kiss be gentle and sweet, something that could ignite into passion, not an awkward encounter with one person mashing their lips onto their unsuspecting partner’s.

He sighed, racking his brain for an alternative when suddenly, he had a moment of clarity; he didn’t need to trick Y/n into reenacting the challenge, he could simply ask her! He wasn’t some inexperienced lad trying to get his first girlfriend. He was a King of Volterra! A vampire with thousands of years of life experience and the ability to read bonds. He was fooling himself by ignoring the connection he knew existed between himself and Y/n. The fates had seen fit to send him another mate after centuries of being alone. He just needed to be brave enough to accept their gift. He knew what he had to do.

Looking deep inside himself, Marcus tapped into the glowing bond ribbon that connected him to Y/n and mentally gave it a little tug. He felt the line start to heat up as it tried to reach out and connect to Y/n, and it was this warm feeling he followed directly to her location. Once again he found her sitting serenely in the garden, watching the honey bees this time instead of her phone.

“Y/n,” he spoke her name quietly, smiling widely as she turned her beautiful claret-colored eyes to him. “I have been looking for you.”

“You have?” She asked tentatively.

“Yes. I wished to speak with you more about those videos you mentioned earlier.” Y/n looked down at her shoes in apparent embarrassment.

“Oh... You did? Of course. Did you… did you watch one?”

He sat down next to her on the stone bench and, with a gentle hand under her chin, raised her eyes to meet his again. “Yes, Y/n, I did.” He spoke quietly and chose his next words carefully. “I found the concept to be fascinating, and I can see why they might appeal to you.”

“You can?” She asked timidly. He could tell he was making her nervous and slowly moved his hand away from her face.

“Yes. It made me wonder… if you ever thought about attempting the challenge?”

“If I… yes.” She whispered. “I think about it a lot.” She closed her eyes to disguise the discomfiture of her confession.

He took an unnecessary deep breath before continuing his inquiry. “Have you ever thought about attempting the challenge with me?”

Y/n’s eyes popped open wide at his question. “With YOU?!?” She squeaked.

His heart sank when he saw her shocked expression. Had he misjudged the entire situation? “Please,” he begged. “Forget I asked. I am sorry… I crossed a line and I should not have asked. I thought… well, it’s not important what I thought. I hope you can forgive me. I’ll just go and leave you in peace. Please, I hope you do not feel as though you need to leave the castle because of my foolishness. This is your home, and you are welcome to stay. I won’t bother you again.” He stood to leave, cursing his idiocy.

“Marcus,” she called, reaching for his hand, attempting to pull him out of his self-flagellation. “Please don’t leave, and please don’t be sorry! You just caught me off guard. I thought I was doing a better job hiding my feelings for you. I didn’t know you were aware of my feelings, so your question surprised me, that’s all! I do think about you when I watch those videos. I just had no idea how you would react if I tried that with you!” She squeezed his hand lightly and rose to her feet in front of him; the sultry look on her face making her intentions clear. “Do you want me to play the song?” She asked cheekily.

He laughed, moving his hands to her waist. “No, Y/n, I don’t think we need the song. I just need to know that you really, truly want this.”

“I do, Marcus.” She replied, rising to her tiptoes to throw her arms around his neck. “Please kiss me.”

In an instant, Marcus tilted his head down and kissed Y/n with utmost tenderness. Fireworks flared behind his eyes and even though they had agreed they didn’t need it, he could still hear that ridiculous song playing in his head. Their bond tie blossomed as the kiss deepened and Y/n fully accepted Marcus as her mate. It was a magical moment, and Marcus would forever be glad it wasn’t the result of some silly internet video.

———————-

Two days later, Marcus found himself in a familiar predicament. He could hear that damned song playing over and over and over again, and it was giving him a headache. Can vampires even get headaches? Yes, he confirmed, from that stupid song! He knew it wasn’t Y/n this time. She was out of the castle at the moment, so who was the culprit? An hour of fruitless searching finally lead him to Aro’s office, and he immediately knew something was up. He quickly stepped into the room and found his two brothers and their lovely wives gathered together, looking intently at something on Aro’s phone. They were laughing and smiling and as soon as the song ended, a quick movement from Aro had it playing all over again.

“What is going on in here?” Marcus demanded. “That song is making me crazy! Can you please stop playing those videos? I can’t take it anymore today.”

“Oh Marcus!” Simpered Sulpicia, dabbing away her venom laced tears with a dainty handkerchief. “It’s just so romantic! We’re so happy for you, aren’t we, Dora?”

“So happy!” His other sister exclaimed, motioning for Aro to play the video again.

“Happy for me…?” He questioned. “What are you all looking at?” His voice was tinged with frustration as he lunged to snatch Aro’s phone away. Marcus groaned as he looked closely at the screen. There he was, large as life, kissing his best friend and mate in the castle’s private garden. Someone had filmed them and posted the video on TikTok, probably Aro, Marcus pouted, hitting replay yet again and taking a closer look.

He looked happy, and Y/n looked absolutely radiant. Maybe having their special moment recorded wasn’t such a bad thing. Marcus quickly sent the video to himself and smiled as he handed Aro back the phone. “Thank you for that, Aro.” Marcus snarked at his brother. “I’m sure Y/n will appreciate your efforts as well.”

“Oh, it was no trouble at all!” Aro demurred. “You wanted to be part of the digital world, and now you are!”

Marcus rolled his eyes at his brother’s obvious glee. “Right. And you do know they say things on the internet live forever, don’t you?”

“Yes, well, so will you. So…” Aro shrugged, replaying the video once more, much to the delight of the rest of his family and Marcus’s annoyance.

“Can you just turn down the volume or something?” Marcus begged. “That damned song…”

A saccharine coo from Sulpicia was the only response Marcus received before the song started up again, forcing Marcus to flee the room. He ran as far and as fast as he could from the castle, allowing the warmth and vibration of his bond to Y/n to lead him to her location in the village.

It wasn’t until he reached the gates of the castle that he realized he was humming that infernal song to himself. He took a second to really think about the lyrics and decided electric was actually the perfect word to describe his bond to Y/n and the way it felt to love her. Maybe he could start to like that song after all.

Maybe not.

Baby you’re like lightning in a bottle

I can’t let you go now that I’ve got it

And all I need is to be struck

By your electric love…

[liondrakes]

“You Can’t Take Me”: To Be Ontopunk in 2025

by Sivaan of Candlekeep

Blurb: Personal reflections on embracing ontopunk ideologies and practices in the wake of today’s climate. This is my final entry for @who-is-page’s Alterhuman Writing Challenge.

Day 30 of the AHPI Writing Challenge

“Don't judge a thing until you know what's inside it. Don't push me, I'll fight it. Never gonna give in, never gonna give it up, no— if you can't catch a wave, then you're never gonna ride it. You can't come uninvited. Never gonna give in, never gonna give it up, no— You can't take me, I'm free,” Bryan Adams.

Sometimes, I change shape based on my emotions. When I’m aggravated, I don’t become a lion. I don’t become a bear, or a gryphon, or a dragon. I don’t become any predatory species I belong to, contrary to the assumptions tied to those ‘types.

No, I become an oryx. I become a gemsbok, to be exact. My anger doesn’t look like unsheathed claws or gnashing fangs. It looks like a pair of slender, black horns, piercing through flesh. If not that, it’s in the form of an elk. It sounds like a furious, restless bugle that’s a little too close, like whatever’s coming is giving its final warning before it charges.

I am a bull who’s sick and tired, especially with the United States as is. I don’t need to air out the list of reasons why my country’s government is looking to fuck over me and those like me. All of those changes in one day make that evident enough.

However, I will make one thing clear. Politicians hold no authority over my identity. Things are bleak, very bleak, but when haven’t they been that way? I can count the times I’ve truly felt safe in this country on one hand, but that didn’t stop me from putting my foot forward and making the effort to see another day.

As years came and went, I grew more determined in spitting on the image of politicians and billionaires since my country is so adamant about propagating their filth. That included those who bootlick them so much that they forget they too are affected by the class disparity perpetuated between them and their “idols”. Said determination also meant emotionally preparing for outcomes like our recent election. It’s hard to find hope under these circumstances, but that doesn’t mean I can’t inspire hope for myself or those around me who need the support.

When the second inauguration of that bastard and his fraternity of fascists unfolded, all I could think of was a song. It was a short and simple song from my childhood, albeit through a DVD bought by my parents many years after it released. Given the topic of this entry, I’ll admit that it’s not a punk song in terms of genre. It’s a song that came from the animated film Spirit: Stallion of the Cimarron (2002). Nonetheless, it still holds so much power to me.

Performed by Bryan Adams, this song, “You Can’t Take Me”, plays as Spirit is dragged to a military encampment where he is expected to become a war horse. Despite how hopeless his situation seems, Spirit himself refuses to give into that hopelessness. He snaps at his captors, fights against their ropes, and digs his hooves into the dirt as the song progresses. Although he made a sacrifice to protect his herd, he is determined to return to them. That means securing his freedom at all costs. “You Can’t Take Me” stresses this in its chorus, but this isn’t the last time that this goal is given focus.

Spirit’s freedom is the heart of the film’s plot. Freedom is also a recurring theme alongside resistance against oppressive systems and solidarity with other marginalized parties. Spirit defends his freedom no matter the circumstance, even when things take a turn for the worst. At the same time, he couldn’t do it alone nor could he abandon those in the same spot as him. Spirit knew a life of exploitation isn’t a life at all, not just in his case but in the case of other captured horses and Little Creek. To me, remembering this song and the context in which it exists may have been coincidences, but they sure were useful coincidences given my position.

Yes, I am angry. I’m not devoid of a conscience, though. I can’t afford to give into hopelessness. No one can. It’s what our pathetic excuse for a government wants, and hopelessness will get us nowhere in the days ahead. Instead, I’m putting that energy into something that will provide better structure to my world view.

Earlier last year, I familiarized myself with two ideologies within the alterhuman community: ontopunk and beastpunk. Both subcultures are alike in their values and practices, but have a set focus at their core. Ontopunk centers radical acceptance of all forms of existence and the autonomy within it, whereas beastpunk centers radical reclamation of nonhuman animal identity. I'm more familiar with the latter of the two since a couple of my friends are beastpunk. That said, I've found myself gravitating more towards ontopunk as a personal ideology.

Ontopunk is often associated with kinpunk, a communal concept that technically predates it. However, I learned recently that the conception of ontopunk and its connection to kinpunk were coincidences. Ontopunk happened to come around the same time as the coining of kinpunk. Created during discussions within the Alt+H Discord server, two terms with similar approaches as kinpunk came to be: alterpunk and ontopunk. From what I could tell, these terms essentially meant the same thing. When kinpunk started floating around on Tumblr, these terms were then suggested as all-inclusive alternatives.

Of the two, ontopunk won out due to its emphasis on being. Since ontopunk’s point of reference is usually a clarification for what the term is and its purpose, I personally go off of Sapphire (@/bigendering)’s proposed outline for alterpunk due to these terms’ shared basis:

Radical acceptance, in which you are what you say you are.

Open exploration of your identity, including exploring and/or supporting affirming practices such as body modification.

Advocacy for the natural world, which includes supporting animal rights and plant/environmental care.

Rejection of anthropocentrism. This includes the idea that people = human, that humans are more important than other life forms, and that humans are better and different than animals in exceptional ways.

Rejection of the idea that the body is the center of identity, that one can have only one identity, and that identity can’t change.

Rejection of the idea that one can't choose one's identity, or that chosen identities are lesser in comparison those that aren’t chosen.

Rejection of intercommunal bias, particularly towards mammals as the nonhuman side of our community contains a vast quantity of mammalian members.

Note: much of this is paraphrased from the original thread covering alterpunk / ontopunk. The original thread is linked in the passage that first mentions ontopunk and beastpunk.

With this considered, ontopunk isn’t exclusive to alterhumans either. It’s open to all. Whether inside or outside of this community, it’s about embracing all who express themselves how they see fit.

Furthermore, there’s the nuances of being besides oneself to acknowledge. Ontopunk isn’t only for those who actively define their own means of being but those who’re treated as if they have no perceivable sense of being as well. Mord (@/vagabondsun) quoted itself on how ontopunk could be applied in this context:

“vagabondsun (77): [...] i think a line in there about like, acknowledging the... not ‘personhood' exactly, but the sovreignity of inanimate objects? I...] especially if we're alluding to ontology, like, object oriented ontology is a philosophical theory that exists which rejects anthropocentrism by saying that all entities, including inanimate objects and concepts, have some kind of (in very simplified and not-quite-accurate terms) a subjective awareness.”

This caught my eye as someone who’s *multiposic (aniposic and psyposic, to be exact). For the objects in my day-to-day life, my relationship with them is usually platonic or familial in nature. Although I don’t always talk to them, I know that they coexist alongside me and are close to me as individuals. I appreciated this approach from Mord since not everyone considers the presence of objects and concepts in these conversations.

*Multiposic refers to an individual who is POSIC+ for multiple reasons; the following two labels are why I’m POSIC+. Aniposic refers to an individual who is POSIC+ due to being a practicing animist. Psyposic refers to an individual who is POSIC+ due to psychological reasons but either chooses not to disclose why or does not know why.

Aside from those details, I thought of my own sense of being. Here are some examples:

I am not from this dimension, at least not originally. Many versions of me exist across different points in my dimension of origin.

I see myself as a scholar, a quest guide and a figure akin to a wise serpent through my archetropy.

I am transspecies. I experience having multiple forms outside of the human body I occupy, specifically through phantom bodies.

I am a fictional character and creature. I hold connections to other fictional beings through soulbonding.

I am also a creature with earthen connections, be it through my experiences with earthen animality or earthen mythology.

I am an agnostic animist. In my opinion, the existence of deities and other manners of higher powers exist solely through the practitioner in question. The act of belief is what makes these figures real; otherwise, all other means of their existence can neither be proven nor disproven.

That said, I believe objects and concepts have their own form of sentience. Lack of verbal, expressive and overall physical communication does not rule out the possibility of said sentience.

I am many, many things that question the boundaries of being as proposed by the society I currently live in. If I said I was any of these truths aloud, I would be given a sideways glance by your average citizen in the United States. I don’t particularly care about that result, so long as I am in the right company. Most of them believe one inconceivable, all-powerful spirit of a man created the pots we piss in, and also use him as an excuse to condemn my existence, but you don’t see me casting judgment upon the possibility of said spirit’s existence or the beliefs inspired by him. The problem is when people fully believe their way of being is superior to others or that someone else’s way of being is weird, questionable, or generally “wrong” when it doesn’t harm anyone.

Perhaps, that’s why I gravitate towards ontopunk ideologies so much. The very margins of how I perceive my existence, the existence of others and the worlds surrounding us challenges those norms. It doesn’t stop at my alterhumanity. It extends into my relationship with my environment and my day-to-day life. It includes how I envision not only my existence in this world, but how I envision the existence of all things. It is thoroughly, unapologetically about embracing what it means to be anything.

So why not embrace all of me? Why not wear that on my sleeve, defying the “policies” proposed by those who aim to destroy people like me? You can’t put a law on existence. Damn them all if they do. I’ll continue to take heed of existence and the autonomy it provides.

Everyone is deserving of ontological freedom. As the coiners addressed before, ontological freedom isn’t exclusive to us alterhumans either. We share many of those freedoms with orthohumans and non-sapient beings simply by existing alongside each other. Hell, I insist that we assert our ontological freedoms even more.

Self-denial has held me back in my past, but I refuse to let it cage me in the future. I will lock my horns together and wrestle hatred to the ground. I will pierce the throats of fear and compliance until my dominance is made clear. I will drive them from my home, from those I share space with and from myself above all else.

I will still be here, and I will continue to be who I am. That is what being ontopunk means to me, especially at the start of this year.

Come what may. Know that I am free.

[stepmarchen]

Analyzing Shuri and Lucas' Relationship

Mostly a Lucas rant because he's one of my favorite characters (even though we love to hate this bastard)

spoilers up to Ch. 126

Despite our not so lovely introduction to Lucas' character in the early chapters of the manhwa, It's so interesting how Lucas' villainy took a complex route in later chapters and the role his strengths and weaknesses play to Shuri's misfortune and favor.

Shuri often recounts memories of Lucas during their childhood in Bretten and we get an inside look on the person he is inside.

"Lucas Ighofer, my brother... He thought I was slow and dull-witted because I didn't know how to be tough... but he would also sometimes step in like an older brother in front of the rough neighbors. Whenever that happened... He made me think that maybe some things would go his way."

- Shuri, Ch. 125

He wasn't exactly "nice" but the two relied on one another in that way that only siblings would relate to. While he totally belittled her, Lucas also trusted Shuri with his earnings, the code to his safe, and defended Shuri like a true big brother.

In a way, I think it's actually thanks to Lucas that Shuri also dreamt of a better life. We see this in the way she seems to remember him in a positive light (literally basked in warm light). There's also major significance in how her core memories of him are usually about his hopes and dreams, as opposed to say, his gambling habits or laziness.

Shuri could've had the same humble dreams as her bff Anna but I think she looked up to Lucas, who was the only real role model in her early life.

The main difference between the two was the vehicles in which they took towards their shared goal. Shuri planned a more earnest living, selling crops for a chicken, and the eggs for a pig, and so forth. Meanwhile, Lucas made bets, resulting in quick and large sums of cash while simultaneously losing it all in the process.

Lucas knows exactly how corrupt the world can be and he's fully willing to go down with it. It's just unfortunate that he's also willing to drag down Shuri along with him.

In the end, Shuri got an involuntary ride to the top of the food chain and Lucas... climbed his way to the capital... eventually.

Now let's talk briefly interlude about Lucas' time in the capital.

While he's a selfish mf that tried to extort his own baby sister (multiple times), he is also one of the most motivated characters in the series, even to the point where he becomes a pest. He'll take all the shortcuts he can take, but if it doesn't work out, he's not totally unwilling to take the long and hard route. In their first on-page meeting, Shuri calls out Lucas for lying about starving for 4 days. But this is never actually confirmed. I want to say that it's pretty likely that he really was starving. Now, the reason why? Proooobably because he gambled away his food money.

Anyway, back on topic.

Eventually, Lucas does make it and opens the Sheiss Gambling House at the call of Cardinal Meissner.

"He used other people's weaknesses for his own selfish interests... yet despised being exploited himself. He, more than anyone... wanted to live a life where he could use others."

- Shuri, Ch. 125

The thing about Lucas is that he's also one of the smarter characters as well. His outer farce makes him seem like a small threat, but he singlehandedly started the gears for the upcoming Holy War.

Think about it. He somehow gathered tons of blackmail on the church because he disliked the idea of being used by Cardinal Meissner over his Gambling Business. Blackmail that at this point, only an insider (with access to secret tunnels in the Vatican) like Richelieu had privvy to. We don't know exactly how Lucas gathered this material... but the fact that he did makes him a pretty big threat.

Which is exactly why the church captured him.

And it's only thanks to years of growing up side by side together that Shuri knew her brother well enough to know that the blackmail existed and where/how to retrieve it.

The only concern now is that Lucas may have also given the Church vital information regarding Shuri. And we don't know what he disclosed.

At this point, we know that Shuri still has some lingering sisterly love for Lucas, but it's unconfirmed whether Lucas feels the same way. Lucas is an asshole but I would like to think that in his final moments, Lucas would still protect Shuri like he did years ago.

In the end, Shuri outgrew her "dim-witted" nature and took advantage of the information waiting in her lap. She evolved past Lucas' shadow used his brains to her advantage. But she never used anything against him. Even in the bitter end, she tried to save him. And he ended up killing himself.

[askdyo]

If Darkrai don't breed, how do they come into being?

I wish I could tell you, but we don't really know, and I can’t really remember. I was never a baby or child which means I was never an egg either. Makes sense on account of us being unable to breed. Every other Darkrai I’ve ever talked to about it has the same story: our earliest memory is just existing.

I think we all started in The Hollow and found our way out from there. The Hollow is familiar to all of us and is why we still chill in there a lot. It's like a home away from home.

I only know that we didn't all come to life at once. I wasn't here at the dawn of time, but I know a few Darkrai who were. Ancient motherfuckers. With no sense of humor, might I add! I've only been around since I think shortly before humans came into existence. I'm talking about early humans. Like, freshly evolved, hairy little bastards. Kinda miss those days sometimes, not gonna lie.

I also know that there haven't been any NEW Darkrai in thousands of years. The Gen Alpha of the bunch. Does that make me, like, a Gen X-er? Huh. At least I'm no Boomer.

None of us are sure, but we also think Arceus made us with the sole purpose to guard sacred places. A lot of us were in forests. Some were over lakes. A few had islands. I have never met a Darkrai that didn't guard some place or person or thing.

I also know way too many of us who failed at our jobs and now we are just kinda... useless. Lost? Aimless? I've known a lot of Darkrai who lost their shit cause of it. I think that's the only reason some Darkrai allow themselves to be caught by trainers. They don't have anything else to lose. No purpose cause their original one is just... gone.

...

Anyway, I'm gonna go get fucked up at the bar now.

[stellisketches]

why? please explain the soldier, port, king in excruciating detail PLEASE

EDIT: ITS FINALLY DONE i'm so sorry this took me like six months I got really busy with school work and I wanted to make sure I wasn't half-assing this anyway thank you for asking please enjoy

For reference I will be quoting the “Poet Soldier King” test on uQuiz as I feel they summarize each role most succinctly.

"You wonder, sometimes, if anger is the only thing you can feel. Remember: love is passion too. You made your own rules and will follow them to death. You try and forget that there is only one rule, and that it is "FIGHT". You are tired of fighting. You try to forget that, too, and keep going. You dream of quiet. Your love is where you heal." -Soldier

It's a subtle element but Vylad’s entire character/existence is about enduring conflict. It's an easy thing to forget due to his calm demeanor, but Vylad has been fighting since the moment he was born (hell, even before). Fighting the ill-contrived gossip of being a bastard son, fighting to prove himself a genuine Ro’Meave, and fighting against Garte and Zane’s abuse over his childhood. It’s a subtler form of conflict, but it’s very interesting to imagine how he was able to put up with all of it (I’ve planned so many prequel fics about the Ro’Meaves you guys). Then there’s the whole shadowknight topic that really is indicative of itself. Vylad's whole arc was based upon leaving behind the violence of his past as a literal soldier within the Shadow Lord's army. Again it’s really easy to forget but this is someone who was revived to burn the world to the ground and slaughter any and every man, woman, and child that got in the way of it. He told Aphmau himself in season 2: “One good deed does not fix a thousand wrongs done. I'm not a good person, let's just leave it at that. Please.” We may not have seen it on screen, but who knows how long Vylad was traveling with Sasha and Gene. I doubt Phoenix Drop was the first village they targeted, and I doubt Gene or Sasha or even Zenix were ever like “oh yeah you can wait outside while we commit atrocities on this Lord and his family and burn the whole village to the ground.” Vylad has a very practical mindset (another trait indicative of a good soldier), and it wouldn’t surprise me if he was purposefully good at his job so it would land him more opportunities to get out of the nether now and again. He enacted violence well enough that he was trusted to be sent outside the nether to go fuck up the overworld. Vylad is a man thoroughly haunted by war and the violence he’s committed against others in a way his brothers just… aren't. Sure, Garroth knows fighting and violence as a means of protection and ensuring the safety of others, but he doesn’t know war. He’s never had someone he cared about die in his arms. He’s never seen a whole village burn to the ground and see innocent people slaughtered left and right. He’s never seen a child screaming at their dead mother to get up. He may use violence, but he was never a violent person. Zane, on the other hand, most definitely was, however, but he hardly ever enacted any of the violence himself. 90% of the time it was jurors or guards he’d given orders to. And while he was more than happy to get his hands dirty every once in a while, he never felt genuine consequence from it. 

Continuing on Vylad’s inner psyche, we see after he still keeps a very practical, soldier-like mindset out of the nether in company with Aph and Co: He gets annoyed at Aphmau when she puts off telling everyone about the Tuu’la invasion. He surveys Laurance from a distance and does not interfere even in danger because he’s aware of the long term effect of distrust it would cause him. Upon the chaos in Narhaka, he immediately goes to burn books that have important locations the enemy could use against them. This is actually one of my favorite scenes because of how subtly status-quo breaking it is. Tell me right now of any scene involving book burnings done by a guy the audience is supposed to root for. Vylad’s view of the world makes him incredibly pragmatic and able to calculate the win-loss ratio of his actions and let that decide whether or not he will go through with it.

Vylad may not have the typical surface-level look of the characters often put into the category, but if you really dive into his past, his mindset, and the way he views the world, he easily fits into the role of soldier; with the final line “Your love is where you heal” setting him on the path of redemption we see throughout the whole series.

"Loneliness. Strength. Joy. You are powerful, but struggle believing it. You think you're not enough. Here's the truth : you are. You sing songs and hope they carry faith, because you have run out of it, and yet you still throw your heart out to the world and hope it makes it through. You convince yourself that pain is art because at least then, you will always have something to create. You are tired of stumbling through life. You dream of a ground you can stand on. One day, you will dance. Your love is where you feel - without fear." -Poet

Now I admit for Zane it does require a more particular perspective to place him as poet, but I’ll start simple and slowly transition to red string and corkboard. Firstly, from the original song lyrics, “He will slay you with his tongue” applies in at least two different ways. The first being obvious: Zane is incredibly charismatic- you don’t just make it to High Priest without a certain degree of people skills included but not limited to negotiating, preaching, and being able to reason your way through any theological question a questioning sinner could ask you. It’s a shame we don’t see it put into use very often throughout the series, but I think his position gives enough testament to his people skills. The second way this line applied is a bit more literal and a bit more dark, which would be the sheer amount of people who were murdered not by his hands directly, but on mere orders. He can quite literally have people slain in just a few words to the right people. Moving to the more esoteric; the line “You are powerful, but struggle believing it. You think you're not enough.” seems like it be a hitch to his characterization, as it first invokes the idea of someone who lacks self-confidence, which is FAR from what we see Zane characterized as in the story. However I see this from the lense of artists becoming blind to the depth of their own skill. Zane is powerful, but it’s not enough for him. He’s become so accustomed to the level of influence he holds he’s become desensitized to it, like how you stop feeling the cold of the water once you stay in it long enough.The power he’s been swimming in his entire life no longer brings that vitalic shudder of control he craves. Thus he seeks power that goes beyond mortal influence to raw, unchanneled divinity, as that’s the only thing that he has ever been told is above him. He hungers the same as any artist— to be something greater than they already are.

“You convince yourself that pain is art because at least then, you will always have something to create.” The idea of creation draws back to Zane’s relationship with control and divinity. I think it's highly debatable as to whether or not Zane has actual “faith” in the divine (i.e, seeing them as gods he wishes to emulate or simply as extremely powerful beings minus the religious element), but in either case it again leads back to desire for more. (sidenote: Zane’s fatal flaw being lust is such a delicious piece of irony and I could make an essay of its own on it). Anyway, back to the point I was originally trying to make: Zane sows pain and destruction as a means of asserting his power/importance both to others and himself. The “pain” spoken of would normally belong to the poet themself— but this is no ordinary poet, and there is no specific indication where said pain emerges from. 

"Duty. Strength. Resignation. You were told to do things and you did them. The world is something that was put into your hands and that you must deal with - so you will. You have a rigid back and steady hands, either metaphorically or physically. Is it nature or nurture ? You don't know. You are tired of being steady. You dream of feeling alive. Not that you aren't, but, sometimes, it's hard to remember that there is a heart between your ribs. Your love is where you breathe." -King

God where do I start. “Duty. Strength. Resignation” It’s like someone just said ‘describe Garroth in three words’. Duty has been his entire life, wanted or not, which leads directly into resignation. “You were told to do things and you did them.The world is something that was put into your hands and that you must deal with - so you will.” He learned his history. He learned the politics. He followed the dogma. He believed in Irene and his father and the glory of O’Khasis and his divine duty to lord over its people. His people. He said it himself in episode 68 he wanted to be exactly like his father, and that he thought to be lord was an honor and a privilege. To him, the weight of the world has rested upon his shoulders for so long that he becomes accustomed to each additional hardship quickly and quietly, never kicking up a fuss about his growing stress and dissatisfaction, like a frog in a pool of water that is steadily increasing in temperature. He locks his festering disdain for glorification of leadership away from his father, his family, and the rest of the world because he cannot show that he is anything but the Atlas of duty he was born to be. 

Until, one day, he has enough. He saw what happens to his dear little brother, likely the only person he felt he could truly bond with, and despite everything he still dealt with it, for the sake of the people around him, but when his father commands him to marry a girl he has never met (likely while he is still processing his grief) in the name of ‘duty’, it is the straw that breaks the camel's back. He sees that everything he has worked towards is meaningless as he will never reach a point where his father will be satisfied with him. That his father will continue to take and take from him until there is nothing left but a soulless puppet that will continue to speak his words even after his reign has ended. Every burden he has carried, every grievance he has hidden, every struggle he’s overcome and the hard work he’s put into building himself a true heir of O’Khasis— it all amounts to nothing.

So he leaves. 

Now, let me ask you: what would you do if you were a runaway prince escaping the crushing weight of expectation? Take a bunch of money from your no-good dad? Buy a boat ticket and live a new life in luxury on the other side of the world? Never work a day again and dive head first into careless relaxation? Surely, you wouldn’t look twice at a dilapidated little village on the coast. Wouldn’t bother to stop by and lift a finger to help it. You're free, you have a whole life of sweet exemption to look forward to. You wouldn’t give it the time of day.

“You have a rigid back and steady hands, either metaphorically or physically. Is it nature or nurture?”

Garroth finds himself in Phoenix Drop— a rickety dead-end little town as far away from home as possible. He stays, and he helps. He keeps the village running, he helps the Lord wherever he can. He takes in the broken, starved boy he finds in the woods. He does whatever he can to improve the lives of the people around him. Why? He owes them nothing, he’s spent a lifetime crushed under the weight of people's expectations and he turns around just to find himself carrying the weight of more lives on his shoulders. He is doing everything he was taught and everything he ran away from. 

But this time it’s different. This time, he sees how he’s helping. There’s no more grating voice telling him none of the effort matters. He has a rigid back and steady hands, metaphorically and physically. For the first time in his life, he can see with his own two eyes that his effort is worth it. There isn’t doubt and lies and corruption floating in and out of his mind. Just the warm, honest smiles of the people he helps. He feels it and it is real. The question “Is it nature or nurture?” is genuine: Is Garroth helping these people out of the kindness of his heart or because it was what he was always told to do, and now that he is without the purpose he was assigned he’s leaning on something familiar? Personally, I think that’s for the audience to decide. I myself would say a mixture of both, leaning more so towards nature. But I digress. 

It’s better then, when he helps and can see that he is doing good, but of course, that peace is not to last him. With the Lord’s death and impending turmoil of Phoenix Drop, Garroth’s role in the village shifts drastically to closer resembling the role he ran away from. People are treating him with near as much kindness anymore, no. The most forgiving are losing faith and the least are blaming him. Blaming him for failing to meet their expectations. Now, as things are deteriorating, he has more than enough reason to leave. He gave it the good ol’ college try, and he failed. With the sentiments of the village becoming scarily familiar to that of his father, he should just say “fuck it” and head on off to that faraway land where no one will know his name.

But still, he doesn’t. We see him in Rebirth and how desperate he is to fix the village, to make it work. Even when everyone else is telling him to give up, he refuses. Even sinking, a captain stays on his ship. (Side note: it’s scenes like this that cause me to start tearing up people’s lawns whenever I see takes that label Garroth as having a “fear of responsibility”). And he is completely ready to either make things work or die trying, regardless of what stands in his way. 

‘You are tired of being steady. You dream of feeling alive. Not that you aren't, but, sometimes, it's hard to remember that there is a heart between your ribs.’

Aphmau wasn’t the first person he saved. Zenix had likely been around for at least a year beforehand. However Zenix was a hothead teenager in need of guidance, which simply made him become another responsibility Garroth set upon himself. Don’t get me wrong, he definitely cares for him, but their relationship is far different than the one he has with Aphmau. 

With Aphmau, he finally has someone who shares the burden. Not only that, but sharing it willingly and with a smile on her face. He’s not used to having a person who presents themselves as an equal sharer of responsibility. Much less, someone who is willing and wanting for him to put his burdens on her (At least, that’s how he sees it). He can’t remember the last time he truly allowed himself to be vulnerable with someone. All the desires he’s pushed down start to bubble back up again, and he starts to imagine things he’d long tried to do away with. He sees Aphmau as a strong leader, one whose idealism is a strength and not a weakness, and how she accomplishes things he never quite got around to doing. An admiration grows for her, yes, but that’s not what makes her different. The difference, he sees, is her vulnerability. How she allows herself to be vulnerable around him. How despite the brave face she puts on, she has just as much fear that she isn’t enough. And she tells him this, directly, because she trusts him. And all of a sudden he realizes that if she can be strong to the rest of the world, and yet still let him see her weakness, her softness, then maybe, just maybe

“Your love is where you breathe.”

He can take his armor off, too.

[askthefivefallen]

Failure to Communicate

Righty blinked.

In her existence, she’d had a lot of interesting experiences. The Exterminations, Falling, working at the hotel- not unique, but interesting.

However, she was almost certain no Exorcist angel had ever been thrown through an infernal portal conjured by an Ars Goetia.

Until her, anyway.

“Uh… okay… guess that was a long shot anyway.” Righty picked herself up off the ground and dusted off her hotel uniform. “Where’d that bastard send me, anyway?”

Righty had seen a lot of Hell by this point. More than when the Exterminations were happening, anyway- she’d been to other Rings, she’d ridden the elevator a few times, all that- but she didn’t recognize the shadowy, fog filled field she seemed to be. Actually, could it even be a field if there was nothing but dirt and rocks? Lefty would probably know.

She spread her wings, intending to fly up and get a better look… but every time she flapped them… nothing… happened? She couldn’t get off the ground. She couldn’t fly, as if something was keeping her in place. But infernal magic couldn’t do that, she was pretty sure; Angel Dust had tested if they could break handcuffs and other restraints their first week working at the hotel for reasons he refused to elaborate on but she suspected were tied to Vaggie’s yelling a few days later.

Which… would imply there’s some… Holy power at work… but where could an Ars Goetia send her that would be under Heaven’s-

“Oh… no… am I in Purgatory? That place actually exists!?” Righty groaned, stamping her foot. “Why? Why here? How the fuck do I get out of-”

From behind, she was tackled to the ground, and she turned ready to shout but a hand covered her mouth as a face appeared over her.

Another Exorcist, still in her black and silver uniform, orange eyes blazing with a long burning fury that pinned her in place. Just beyond orange and brown hair, Righty spotted something truly horrifying flying above- four wings but eyeless, with long pikes clenched in demonic claws, and open jaws filled with serrated teeth. Lesser Dominions, those who could only hear, and listened to purge the souls trapped in Purgatory.

It flew over them, seeking its next target, and the Exorcist above her watched it fly away before glaring and letting her up.

“Thanks,” Righty said, her voice far softer as she pushed herself up and dusted herself off. So much for her one claim to uniqueness. “What’s an Exorcist doing down here?” The question sparks nothing from the other Exorcist. “Um, okay, maybe that’s a touchy subject. Well… uh… my name’s Righty. What’s yours?” Nothing- and now she was walking away. “Wait!”

The moment Righty grabbed her, the Exorcist reacted, and Righty did as well, summoning her halberd to her hand to block… the… fist?

Her brows furrowed while the other’s shot up in surprise. “Where’s your weapon?”

The Exorcist backs away and tilts her head, pointing to her ear.

“You can’t hear me?” Righty presses her lips into a thin line. “I don’t remember that being a rule of Purgatory- oh! Are you deaf?”

After saying the word, Righty remembered that she is, as Lefty often put it, a bit dumb sometimes.

Thinking quickly, she used the butt of her halberd to scratch into the dirt at their feet.

‘Deaf?’

The Exorcist read the word- upside down, because Righty didn’t think that far ahead- and nodded.

Righty smiled. “Okay, now we’re getting somewhere.” She quickly wiped the word away with her shoe and scratched out another word.

‘Name?’

She then pointed at herself and shook her right hand while speaking slowly. “Righty. My name is Righty.”

The flat look she received in response seemed to convey that speaking slowly wasn’t helping. However, the Exorcist motioned for her halberd and Righty handed it over, watching as she scratched out her name.

‘Rin.’

“Rin.” Righty nodded, then looked up to see Rin cross two fingers, then extend her pinky, then loop her two fingers over her thumb. Three hand gestures, three… letters? Was that how to spell her name? Righty raised her left hand and mimicked the motions, much to Rin’s surprise. “Like that?”

Rin tilted her head, her lips curling slightly. She did the motions again, then capped it off by crossing her fingers and moving her hand like… a sword? No, wait- if the other gestures were letters, maybe this was… pronouncing the word?

‘R-I-N, Rin?’

Rin nodded. She did only the gesture and pointed towards Rin and received a nod in response.

“Okay, so I know how to say… er, well… I’ve got your name.” Righty once again resorted to drawing in the dirt. ‘Out?’

Rin shook her head, looking crestfallen.

“Yeah, I figured.” Righty sighed, looking around… but there was nothing to see. So… they had time. 

‘Teach?’

Rin raised a brow, and only then did Righty really adjust to being in Purgatory enough to notice the scars on her face. She’d either had to fight one of the Dominions or… that was from before…

Righty pointed at Rin, then at her own ear. She did the signs for Rin’s name, then wrote her own name in the dirt and pointed to it.

Rin rolled her eyes and turned as if to leave but stopped a few steps away, shoulders falling as she turned back. One of Rin’s wings extended and, for all the time Righty had been gone from Heaven, her stripes remained. While nothing else about them might be the same, their wings were similar enough that Rin turned back, tapped her foot against the ‘g’ in Righty’s name, and made a sign with her hand.

Righty smiled.

Now, they were really getting somewhere!

—

Time didn’t really exist in Purgatory. There was no day or night, just a persistent gray miasma that weighed everything down. After hours of learning how to do the hand language, they started walking. The direction didn’t seem to matter as their footing never seemed to change, just the desolate wasteland of Purgatory. In the distance, Righty could hear others lamenting their fate and the rush of Dominion wings hunting them down, silencing them. There were others in the fog, quieter, but still holding out hope that it might end.

Righty felt bad for them… Purgatory was supposed to have an end point but, after the Exterminations started, Heaven had closed the path up the mountain and shrouded the whole of it in fog. There was no salvation awaiting them. Hope and faith could not save them.

Rin, of course, couldn’t hear them, but she could see their shadows in the fog and steered clear of them. It made sense. They didn’t really resemble the Dominions but mortals would see wings and jump to conclusions. Rin probably would’ve avoided Righty if there hadn’t been imminent danger, and the way the Exorcist tensed, as if she could sense the Dominions’ approach… she’d been there for a long time.

They walked until they were tired, then sat and Righty learned some more. Hunger and thirst weren’t much of a concern but sleep was- at least, for Righty. Rin seemed content to sit, hunched over, and just rest.

Well… none of that.

Righty waved to get Rin’s attention. ‘Down.’

‘What?’

‘Down.’ She didn’t know the word for sleep, so she spelled it. ‘S-L-E-E-P.’

Rin shook her head.

‘N-O T-R-U-S-T?’

‘Yes.’ Righty huffed out a breath and got to her feet. ‘What?’

Righty explained, brokenly, that she’d remain standing until Rin laid down, to which the Exorcist shrugged and acted as if she didn’t care.

So there Righty stood for a few hours, at least, before Rin became frustrated enough to lie down on her back, arms crossed over her chest and glaring at Righty. Righty smiled and sat down, laying the shaft of her halberd across her lap. ‘Me, F-I-R-S-T W-A-T-C-H.’

‘You S-U-C-K.’

Righty stuck out her tongue and Rin rolled her eyes. Little did Rin know, Righty had experience dealing with Ass’ stubbornness, but the cantankerous Fallen had one really solid point: when they were all they had left, it meant they had to stick together. There was no escaping Purgatory. So, for all intents and purposes, it was just her and Rin. They had to take care of each other.

After about ten minutes of glaring, Rin had resigned herself to the situation enough to fall into a short but deep sleep.

Interestingly, she snored. Righty thought it was kinda cute.

—

It took a few nights for the exhaustion to wear off enough that Righty understood why Rin had refused to sleep. Nightmares plagued her, left her gasping and watching with a silent cry on her lips and tears in her eyes. Whatever had caused her to be sent to this place, the wounds were not visible but they were deep. 

Righty felt for her. At least through all the things she’d experienced, she had Lefty at her side. Sure, she was around less after getting together with Tits, and that was… an adjustment, at first. But, still, she had someone. Rin had been alone for so long.

They walked in the same direction every day. Rin eventually explained she wasn’t looking for an exit- she knew none existed- but sitting still would drive them both crazy. They were Exorcists, hunters of Sinners- they were meant to be restless and persistent. So, they walked.

Rin didn’t seem to like talking about her existence prior to Purgatory and Righty didn’t exactly have the vocabulary… but she tried. She explained the hotel, the other Fallen, some of their hijinks; she learned how to ‘say’ their names. Junior got a ‘J’ with both hands, kinda, but it was mixed with the word ‘change’. Lefty got ‘knowledge’ that then formed a ‘L’. Tits was a ‘T’ combined with ‘happy’. Ass got ‘A’ and ‘fight’. The one for Righty, she couldn’t really figure out; it was ‘R’ that Rin shook from her head. She refused to elaborate and Righty accepted it.

But what Rin didn’t tell her, Righty learned in other ways. Deaf she might be, Rin was still an Exorcist with the senses and skills of a trained huntress. She remained calm and poised throughout everything. There was never fear in those blazing orange eyes but just anger, burning just as hot as it had when they first met. Righty never got the sense Rin was mad at her- just… mad at being there, probably.

Honestly? Fair.

—

Righty had first watch again. Rin was beginning to stir from nightmares. She probably shouldn’t but… Righty moved quickly to Rin’s side and put a hand, gently on her shoulder- just to try and reassure her, maybe soothe her back to sleep. Rin leaned her head towards Righty’s hand in her sleep, as if needing the comfort…

She didn’t really… get it, when Lefty talked about Tits. She didn’t understand why Ass would risk her actual fucking existence for a joke. When her heart skipped a beat, though… she got it. She understood why Lefty got so flustered, why Ass faced down Sera’s wrath. Her lips lifted into a smile and she moved her hand to, very carefully, cup Rin’s cheek, avoiding her scars and just soothing her back into slumber.

It was probably stupid of her to think it… but Purgatory might be worth this feeling.

—

Maybe it was just wearing her down or some good, nightmare-less ‘nights’, but Rin started to loosen up a little. She smiled a bit when Righty got through a whole story without having to spell out any words. She even laughed!

Righty wished the others could meet her. Tits would love to learn how to do the hand language and Lefty would find it stimulating. Junior got along with just about everyone. Even Ass, if she’d made it back to Hell, would have a blast learning a new way to curse.

Little daydreams like that got her through the monotony of just… walking. She’d never walked this much before. Even around the hotel, she usually found an excuse to use her wings at least a little bit.

She also found herself wondering if she should say anything… it wasn’t like they were pressed for time. They had all eternity. She could wait.

Honestly, she probably should.

Righty heard the wings first and quickly put her halberd out, signaling to Rin for both of them to kneel down as a Dominion passed overhead.

Rin smiled at her and nodded. ‘Good job.’

She smiled wide in return.

Fuck, she really wouldn’t last long, would she?

—

They sat side-by-side, preparing to get through another ‘day’ of walking. Righty cleared her throat. “You know… I really like you.”

From the corner of her eye, she could tell Rin wasn’t paying her much attention. She couldn’t hear Righty. So, no risk.

“And… it’s weird because I’ve never felt like this before… I thought I was happy just having friends but… I get it now. What love feels like. So… if nothing else, thank you for… being my first love.”

Rin blinked and turned towards her, brows furrowed. ‘What?’

Righty smiled in response. ‘Thinking out loud.’

Rin drew back and raised a brow. ‘You can think?’

Righty shoved at her shoulder, laughing, and saw the laughter in Rin’s eyes matching her.

—

They were walking again, of course, when she suddenly felt a… tug… and stopped.

Rin stopped, too, looking at her with a questioning tilt to her head.

Righty shrugged- then was tugged again, backwards, stumbling a step.

In that moment, for the first time, she saw fear in Rin’s eyes. ‘Rin-’

A portal ripped open behind her and black talons sunk into her. Righty dropped her halberd to reach out for Rin even as the Exorcist tried to grab her- but too late. She was ripped backwards through the portal…

… and into the hotel lobby.

“Righty!” Lefty and Tits spoke in unison, Tits offering her a hand up while Lefty dropped down beside her.

‘Send me back!’ Both of them just stared at her. Right, they can hear her. “Send me back!”

“Absolutely not.” She twisted around, watching as Prince Stolas shook his head. “Opening a portal to Purgatory puts all of Hell at risk. If one of those Dominions gets loose, it will be pandemonium!”

“Okay, then go back and grab Rin!”

Owlish features furrowed in confusion. “Who?”

“She’s another Exorcist- she’s down there and-”

He raised a hand to stop her. “I was only able to get you back because you are not marked for Purgatory. I can’t yank any soul from that dreary place. Lucifer might have that power but I doubt it.”

“Wait, there was another Exorcist there?” Lefty put a hand on Righty’s shoulder. “A Fallen?”

“N-no.”

“Ah, then, yes, she would be far beyond my power to… save.” Prince Stolas bowed his head, truly contrite. “I’m dreadfully sorry, my dear.”

“But… Rin… she’s still there…” Righty looked between the three of them… but to no avail. “No…”

Lefty pulled her into a hug as she started to cry, and Tits joined them. For the first time since Falling, she truly feels like she’s in Hell.

((@lost-rin))