#that I even have to say that feels absurd

[virtually-unknown]

I mean, part of the issue with resurrecting dinosaurs is just finding the right remains to resurrect from.

Most dinosaur bones are simply buried too deep to raise without significant effort in excavating them first, and even then the quality and quantity of remains can vary vastly between different dinosaur skeletons. Not much point in raising a skull and single forearm when the rest of the body is missing, and it's especially not worth the effort of mining them out of the rock to do so.

Even if you find a full dinosaur skeleton (or enough similar ones to cobble something together) the fossilization process makes raising them require absurd amounts of power if it will even work at all. Any voids on the interiors of the bones (you know, where you'd normally run the mana channels to bind the things together) will have been packed dense with minerals and petrified. In a lot of skeletons parts of the bones themselves will have eroded away and been replaced with stone. Hell, if you're especially unlucky the whole bone could've eroded away and what you thought was a skeleton is really just a fancy rock filling in where a bone used to be

Ok sure, a petrified bone is way stronger and denser than an ordinary skeleton so it's not like there's no benefit, but you can easily just graft the important bits onto a different skeleton and get the strength and damage output you want without lumbering around with tons of rock embedded in the parts of the skeleton that don't need it. Fossilized teeth are cheap and can still punch through plate armor in an ordinary jaw that fits them. Personally, I've had great success grafting mammoth tusks onto the skeletons of modern elephants. Literal tons of osseous power on a body already designed to use it, doesn't get much better than that.

If you only want something that looks like a dinosaur for intimidation or the like just build an amalgam like the rest of us. Maybe splurge for a skull if you're feeling fancy. There's just no practical reason to use full fossils out in the real world, no matter what those prissy Marrowlark grads say in their papers. Waste of grant money if you ask me.

Dear necromancers, why would you bother summoning human corpses when dinosaurs are an option

[morlock-holmes]

So, people explaining that AI isn't "real art" bother me, not so much because of the answer they reach but because most of the people saying it isn't seem to romanticize not just commercial art production, but also bizarrely to romanticize AI as well, in ways that bother me for subtle reasons I want to try to articulate.

So, first of all, I personally don't think fine art will be changed much by AI.

"What if the artist isn't directly producing the art but instead letting some process create it?"

Convergence by Jackson Pollock, 1952

"What if the so called "artist" is merely rearranging and recontextualizing something that already exists?"

"What if the artist outsources a tremendous amount of work?"

Cambell's Soup Can, Andy Warhol, 1968

The fine art world already confronted these questions and answered between 1912 and, what, 1980 at the latest maybe?

My point here is not to assert the artistic worth of these paintings but to assert their undeniable importance to 20th century art history.

Nobody paying thousands of dollars for a traditional painting on canvas is going to buy an AI version because it's cheaper; such people are already paying a premium for artistic technique and cultivated human talent.

Or, alternatively, I have absolutely no doubt that people would pay a lot for an AI project with, I don't know, Banksy's name on it, even if it was made with freely available, open source tools, because in other cases people are paying for, essentially, a name.

The fine art community already confronted the questions raised by AI art and we're already on the other side of that confrontation. Statistically, the large battles being waged over these issues already finished before you were born.

The actually (potentially) endangered part of the art world is the commercial art world.

Not fine art, but art produced as part of an essentially commercial process in large part under the direction of other people. Fan Art, scripts for films, stock footage, key art used for commercial campaigns, pulp fiction cover illustrations, etc.

And, first of all, the reason that you can be so romantically attached to low-brow, heavily commercial art in the way that you are without feeling utterly absurd about it is Marcel Duchamp's Fountain and the works of Andy Warhol, so maybe have a bit more respect for them and their place in history if you are going to romanticize commercial art production.

Second, because it is those things that are threatened, defenses of human art against AI tend to have this kind of implicit view that the things which characterize commercial pop art are the most important characteristics of art. There is something about this that kind of bothers me for reasons I have trouble bringing up.

Okay, like, one I just watched a YouTube video where the creator said, more or less, "Can you imagine a world where people are so alienated from the production of art that instead of learning to produce it themselves, they type 'woman painting a picture' into a box on a computer and something just pops out?"

The video background was stock footage of a woman painting.

You have this really obnoxious trend of people who make monetized YouTube videos out of other people's copyrighted clips (Claiming "Fair use") talking about how awful it is for AI to "steal" other people's works, and people who fill their videos with stock footage and library tracks talking about how crazy it is that anybody would want to outsource this stuff instead of learning to do it themselves.

But also, beneath that, there is a kind of picture of "What's important about art" that is being built purely out of commercial concerns but masquerading as belief in something higher, and that really bugs me. Stock footage is elevated to the highest of human endeavors purely because it is commercially threatened by AI production.

[kiryoutann]

warning(s): MDNI, ANGST, simon riley being an asshole (like really), kind of gore description as metaphor for REAALLYY desperate love??? non-consensual tracking by reader (SURPRISE!!)

Simon might be the worst denialist ever. Because, how could he say it was all casual?

“I forgot something in your car.” You tell him.

Simon's frown deepened, his head tilting slightly as he seemed to contemplate your words. It was absurd—after all these weeks, here you are, standing in front of his apartment, having somehow discovered the address, and claiming to have forgotten something in his car.

But he doesn't say anything, just continues to make his way to the car. You follow closely behind him. He opens the door to the passenger seat, then steps aside to let you check the car. You stretch your hand under the passenger seat, blindly feeling for anything, brushing through the dust and small gravel collected there until you finally touch something cold and metallic.

Pulling it out, the phone you had planted there weeks earlier came into view. You knew this meant Simon had laid his eyes on it too. It wouldn’t take long for him to connect the dots and figure out you had been tracking him this whole time.

Fucking hell. Simon remembered what he had said about modern phones. He closed the car door with a sharp click, then turned to you.

“So you’ve been followin’ me, then?”

“You didn't return my texts,” you stated bluntly.

"I asked you a question." He growls, almost like he's threatening you.

You observed the anger brewing in the depths of his dark eyes, radiating from him like a hot flame. Good, you thought silently. At least there was something that riled him up; otherwise, you would be suffering alone while he goes to fuck any willing bodies he can get his hands on.

"Why didn't you call me?" You ask again. “Why does it say your number is no longer in service? Why didn't you tell me?”

“Tell you what?” he snap, voice dripping with venom. “You think I owe you an explanation?”

Your blurry vision missed a flicker of change in his expression. When the tears escaped and the world came into focus again, all you saw was Simon gritting his teeth, jaw locked. He turned and began to walk away.

You followed him, quickening your pace to catch up. “Simon! Simon, wait!”

Despite your best efforts, he continues to keep his back turned to you, refusing to even spare you a glance. He fixed his gaze straight ahead, seemingly hell-bent on creating a vast gulf between you. You called out his name once more, your voice echoing in the stillness of the night, but he kept right on walking.

“Yes, I deserve an explanation! I don’t know why you’re being like this. We were fine the last time we were together. What happened? Why did you just disappear on me?”

You reached out, your fingers brushing against the sleeve of his jacket to get him to stop and face you. He came to a halt. A jolt of electricity surged through you as he encircled your fingers with his own, but it soon faded as he let go of your grip on the leather. Something inside you dropped away, leaving a shameful hollow space inside.

Simon towers over you, his stature imposing and intimidating. He locks a hard glare on you. “I asked you a question, didn't I?” His voice fell to a dangerously low tone. “Why the fuck have you been following me?”

The dam holding back your tears broke, leaving you choking on your own sobs. How could he not know? All these tears, all these cries… how could he still fail to see that it was all for him? To be stripped bare only for him to overlook it. Should you skin yourself alive then? To tear your heart out, to hold the raw, bleeding organ in the palm of your trembling hand as an offering?

“Because I want to know where you are,” You settle for the simpler version, hyperventilating as you take a breath. “You know my place, my workplace... You even went to my cousin’s wedding. And yet, I know nothing about you, Simon. Nothing.”

“You think just ‘cause we fucked a few times, that gives you the right to pry into my life?”

A sharp pang of pain shot through your chest. The world was ruby-colored, either from your boiling anger or the hemorrhage from the sharpness of his words. Your jaw clenched, your gaze sharpened.

“Fuck you, Simon,” you spat. “You know we’re not just fucking.”

The clenched fists at your sides tremble, and you don’t know if it’s from anger or hurt or the weight of your own expectation to make him see it. Or perhaps it’s all three. How could he speak like this when there's a specific section in your dresser for the clothes he frequently brings and leaves, when he constantly returns and stays longer even as the morning has risen, when he drove you to the countryside and dances and twirls you around like those old couples do? Not when he embraces you until your tears subside, nor when each of his kisses offers that one thing you've chased your whole life.

There’s no way this isn’t love. He just needs to stop denying it.

Simon's eyes narrowed into slits. "Then you read it all wrong, darlin'."

The way he said it was cold, without a shred of sympathy—but nothing was colder than the way Simon continually turned his back to you as he continued to walk farther and farther away, as if all he wanted was to get as far away from you as possible. Disgusting woman in love. But you never got the hint, did you? You kept following him, running after him like a stupid little dog created solely to love, love, love, and never be loved back.

[sneak peek of chapter 13 of "A MAN'S HEART IS TRULY A WRETCHED, WRETCHED THING.".]

SUPPORT ME THROUGH KO-FI! CHECK MY WRITING COMMISSION.

[le-trash-prince]

To be blunt on this topic:

I 👏 do 👏 not 👏 care 👏 if 👏 people 👏 don’t 👏 like 👏 a 👏 show! I don’t care if you don’t share my ship or stan my fave! That is not what we are saying!

What I fucking care about is:

Pretending your subjective opinions are objective truth.

Refusing to meet art on its own terms and insisting that if it doesn’t do what you want it to, it is a failure.

Acting like queer Asian shows should prioritize Western tastes—YES, even if you are a POC. We are still Westerners! We still have Western, English-language speaking privilege across the globe, and it would be nice if we could stop acting like everything should be about what we want. I cannot believe how difficult it is for people to understand this point.

Making broad, sweeping claims on what is and isn’t queer. It is valid if you do not feel seen by a piece of queer media. But that does not make it less queer or less meaningful to other queer people. You can dislike a show without making it into the Death of Queer Art. Again, your opinions and feelings are real, but that does not make them objective truth.

Also! The double standard of “I’ve seen an increasing number of posts on BL tumblr lately” without mentioning what those specifics are just so that you can just make up what stance those people had. But if other people reference multiple posts without linking or tagging anyone, they are being rude and vague posting instead of, I don’t know, airing out their thoughts on their own blog.

People are not going to remember every post they see and bookmark it in case they come up with a response later. Not everything has to be a dialogue! We do not actually owe anyone a conversation.

I have said it before and I will say it again, but the majority of people complaining about holier-than-thou criticism on BL tumblr lately are actual queer creatives who wish people could approach a story on its own terms. Pretending like that makes us capitalists just to make us look absurd is a take and there’s a reason so many people had something to say about it.

[vyl3tpwny]

genuine question: why is genesis so low on ur topsters?

also, if you can: could i hear why hawaii: part ii is rated 3.5 on ur rateyourmusic? (as opposed to like. anything higher)

(p. s. your music inspires me to be the sincerest version of myself, and for that i thank you. the impact you've had on my life is unforgettable.)

genesis isn't rated low. my number one album of all time is genesis' "the lamb lies down on broadway", for about 16 years running. my topster is organized by relative colour, it's not perfect but it just looks nice!

—

when it comes to talking about music, what i like and like about it, almost 100% of the time i NEVER want to discourage people, talk down to artists, or claim my opinion as fact. the only time i will actively talk down about art is if it's purposefully harmful (see artists like: Tom Macdonald, etc).

with that said, music by miracle musical - and by extension tally hall - often does this thing where there are a handful of really impressive, well written songs that just blow me away. but then the rest of the album outside of those handful of songs are either just ok/catchy or don't interest me very much. the tally hall gang's highs are very high, and equally their lows are just sort of pace-killers for the albums.

it's dynamics like these that prevent me from liking some of my other albums for similar problems! i think albums like queen of misfits and glitter are bogged down by an absurd amount of boring filler that could have just been left out or reworked to be more interesting, it makes it hard to ever listen to those albums front to back. ironically i don't feel that way about fairytails, my 40-song long ass album, almost everything in it still feels rather purposeful to me. i listen to my own music a lot, and once i've finished a project i tend to try and listen to it and enjoy it from an audience perspective rather than an artist one.

while i'm on the topic, i don't necessarily agree with even rating hawaii pt. ii 3.5 because in the past few years i've completely lost interest in the idea of weighing albums by arbitrary scores. nowadays i like to just give 4-5's to albums i like and then ignore anything else. it doesn't really make sense to me to assign a number score to something with good faith, other than to show that score to other people. interfacing with art is not a black and white process. despite the so-called 3.5/5.0 score i gave hawaii pt. ii whenever that was, the reality is that record has influenced me and i've enjoyed it. honestly that's what matters the most. we can sit here and talk album dynamics, technicalities, compositional proficiency, lyric profundity, and """""consistency"""""" (which is a word music critics love to throw around without actually realizing what the fuck they're talking about) all day, but what matters the most is:

Did you like the music? (Yes/No)

Did it inspire you in some way? (Yes/No) [Optional]

Does it seek to do harm? (Yes/No)

Do you respect the efforts and goals of the artist? (Yes/No) [Should always be the inverse of Question 3; i.e; if you answer No to 3, then you should answer Yes to 4]

honestly if you answer yes, yes, no, yes, then it's a good album. i really don't care. not every piece of art has to push the envelope to new heights and be the most innovative thing in the world - i mean wouldn't that be extremely fatiguing and overwhelming? everyone wants to be a critic and tear down shit that doesn't click with them within the first viewing/listen these days, i don't know why, it's probably an ego thing, bred by the echo chambers in the corners of the internet. but a lot of music criticism can be COMPLETELY discarded in favour of "this just isn't for me", and a lot of people go leaps and bounds, doing mental gymnastics over internal compensations, to just avoid saying the dreaded phrase of "this just isn't for me".

trust me, i'm someone who has immense experience with tearing other people down to compensate for my internal insecurities, it happens extremely often which is why a lot of art criticism makes ZERO fucking sense. it's never about making meaningful commentary about anything, it's always just trying to justify in the format of a dissertation - the subjective experience of "this just isn't for me".

so. do i like hawaii pt. ii? yep. is it a perfect album? no. why did i rate it 3.5? probably because at the time i wanted someone somewhere to perceive me as Very Articulated and Well Educated In The Realm of Discussing Art In Front of Other People, in Order to Appear Superior in Intellect and Refined in Taste, Because I'm Insecure Just Like Everyone Else.

[thethronezone]

"What do humans like?"

Fulgrim looked up from his book, a very interesting text about Terran art prior to the Age of Strife, and raised an elegant brow as he stared down his brother Konrad.

"Excuse me?" Fulgrim questioned, mostly out of confusion since Konrad had never asked him for advice before. Konrad who, on his part, shuffled awkwardly where he stood in doorway, half shrouded in shadow. Fulgrim couldn't quite make out his expression but it almost looked as if his dear brother was feeling- dare he say it- bashful.

Clearly feeling out of his element, Konrad avoided eye contact. "Humans. What do they like?" he repeated, a tad agitated. "Food, I know. Alcohol, money, power. But what else?"

Carefully closing his book, Fulgrim leaned forward in his seat, interest piqued. "Well, it all depends on the person. Why? Are you planning of giving someone a gift?" It was an almost absurd thought to Fulgrim but the way his brother's hearts picked up speed, it appeared he was right on the mark. The Primarch had to stop himself from grinning. "Someone special?"

Not one for being teased, Konrad snarled like an animal and took a step into the light. Now that Fulgrim got a good look on his face, it was even more evident that Konrad was feeling flustered. Oh, he might try to hide it but Fulgrim could see it clear as day. Now wasn't this interesting?

"I am not preparing a gift!" hissed Konrad, eyes darting around as if afraid someone might have overheard the conversation and the implications behind Fulgrim's statement. "I'm just-" Konrad took a deep breath and combed his long, dark hair out of his face, "I have my reasons. Now will you answer me?"

Never let it be said that Fulgrim was not a merciful man for in that moment, as he decided to take pity on his brother who was obviously going through something. "Like I said, it depends on the person. Everyone has their own interests, their own taste. If you are not sure then the some of the things you mentioned, food and drink, would be a good start. Everyone enjoys a good vintage and as for the food... Something sweet, to go with the alcohol."

Apparently, Fulgrim's words got through to his brother as Konrad nodded, his face screwed up into an expression of contemplation.

Muttering softly to himself, it appeared Konrad momentarily forgot he was not alone. "Food, drink... Yes, I can do that... I've seen them drink that brand before..." He then snapped out of it and gave Fulgrim a curt nod. "You've answered my question. I suppose I should thank you..." Fulgrim stared at his brother expectantly. Konrad made the face of someone who had just been stabbed in the gut. "Your advice was... appreciated."

Fulgrim supposed that had to do. He just wished Konrad hadn't looked so violently ill as he said it but oh well, beggars can't be choosers. Leaning back in his seat and reopening his book, Fulgrim lightly waved Konrad off. "I wish you well brother. I hope whoever it is appreciates the gift."

For a moment, Konrad looked as if he was going to once again refute the claim that it was supposed to be a gift, but after a second he decided to simply bite his tongue and leave without another word instead.

The moment Fulgrim knew his brother was out of earshot, he darted up from his seat and rushed to the closest communication device. Konrad was going to give someone a gift! A gift that did not consist of cut off ears or entrails! And based on his flustered appearance, it was for someone very, very special. Fulgrim simply had to tell Ferrus!

I am just lowkey... obsessed with the idea of Konrad falling for a singer from Nostromo.

It happens when he is still the Night Haunter, living for nothing more than to kill criminals. Life is nothing but darkness, death, blood and flesh torn from his victim's bodies. Until one day, he hears it. A voice so beautiful it can only be an angel.

Following the voice, he finds them standing on a small stage in a dingy bar. The spotlight makes them glow and they sing with a low, crooning voice about love, hardship and dreams. It's captivating. Hauntingly beautiful. It touches a part of his soul he didn't even know existed. Konrad can't look away and when the song end and the singer bows, he can't help but clap along with the audience.

From that day on, he's their biggest admirer. He goes out of his way to listen to every one of their performances and makes sure to weed out the criminals in the area surrounding the bar, just to keep them safe. Sometimes, he leaves them gifts outside their dressing room. Flowers, food, wine, clothes, jewelry, anything that he thinks they will like.

The world is still darkness, death, blood and torn flesh, but there's a light now. Something good that Konrad can look forward to. The Night Haunter is a monster but when he listens to their angel song, he is but for a brief moment just another man.

[genderqueerdykes]

this is prob silly but i appreciate you being so candid about not interacting with much media (like film/tv/pop culture stuff). it's kind of hard to be on tumblr or really even exist if you're not able to interact with media but it's a big trigger for me so i just... can't. like, i've never had anyone understand that it's not a choice i'm making to be special/different/lazy i just have extreme and unhealthly reactions to most media, except some books and comics. which idk if that's how it is for you (its not my business or anything) but i've never felt seen/represented about it before so im thankful, yk?

i appreciate you for sending this! i don't find it silly at all

i think it's very good for you to acknowledge that you have an unhealthy relationship with most forms of media. i'm sorry that you're going through this, but consuming media is not a requirement nor is it something that you genuinely need for your mental health, so it's okay that that's how you feel. i appreciate this because it gives me a chance to talk about something that is important to me, but people struggle to understand why that is

my parents used to make fun of whatever i was watching or playing as a kid over my shoulder. i used to get relentlessly mocked every time i put on a show i liked or played a game in front of either of them. it caused me to have severe trauma for years where i couldn't watch or play anything around other people at all. i still don't like when people ask me to put on things that i do like for a big group. the stress i feel when other people don't enjoy it is not worth it. i'm still very uncomfortable doing this to this day

i've felt pretty alienated all my life due to this. it seems like now more than ever, media, especially fictional media, is so important to general modern culture that it creates a barrier between people who do and don't engage. and it's not like it's a passive thing, i have people get offended at me when i say i haven't seen a movie or TV show. not talking about anyone on here, or any anons i've answered about media! people have been kind and respectful here. but in my real life and in conversations with other people, i have genuinely been mocked or insulted because i don't engage with most television, movies, books and comics.

i've had people question my autism over this. when i've told people in the past that i do not engage with pop culture, fictional media and so on, i've had people actually say "but i thought you were autistic????" like it's genuinely frustrating that it seems like people have shifted to thinking that autistic people's special interests are always cartoons, games and TV shows. it worries me because at times it feels like people are turning the common definition of autism into Media Consumption Disorder. my special interests are queer history & culture, animals & nature, and medicine & psychology. i genuinely enjoy research, it's something i happily do for hours because it stimulates my brain and motivates me. it excites me just as much as i think fiction excites people who can enjoy it. it's more than okay for autistic people to have a piece of media as their special interest, i'm not saying that its not! but it frightens me that people seem to conflate "autistic" with "loves fictional media".

due to my DID, i can't remember plots. like at all. plots confuse the ever loving hell out of me because i can't keep track of what's going on. real life doesn't have a plot. science doesn't have a plot. i don't know if fully understand the point of a plot, honestly. expecting people to be able to remember such an absurd amount of information in order to figure out something that happens down the road or at the very end feels like a herculean task to me. i can't remember what happened to me 10 minutes ago, there's no way i'm remembering a tiny event that happened hours and hours and hours ago. scripted interactions feel so stiff and unnatural to me

people tell me i'm saying i don't know what they're talking about to "be an asshole". i used to have a best friend who got really into dungeons&dragons and it traumatized me for years because i got into at first, then quickly lost interest once i realized how boring actually playing the game is for me. my friend did NOT take it well. he continued to force me to play. if i would ask him to please change the conversation topic he would start insulting and berating me and telling me that i was pretending to not be interested anymore to be mean to him. he couldn't understand that i grew out of it. he never got any better with this, as he was obsessed with marvel films and would get super pissed off if i told him i had no interest or didn't know what to say to him. it was frustrating because i didn't have a choice whether or not i could like something. it was "if you don't like this, you're an asshole."

and it's not just him that's treated me that way. it's been most of my friends. for whatever reason, when you tell the average person that you haven't seen, or god forbid don't like a piece of media, they take it personally for... some reason. as if i said "no i don't watch that because that's bad" as opposed to what i actually say is "i don't know what that is" or "i haven't seen that". you would not believe how insecure people get when you tell them you don't like a piece of media they like. i'm not sure why people feel like their favorite media is an extension of themselves, but it's an unhealthy relationship. it's not healthy to get offended if your friend tells you they haven't seen a piece of media that you have.

i have aphantasia, which is the inability to picture things in my head. i don't get "sucked into" media like people with clearer mind's eyes do. i don't picture anything cool or epic or fun happening in my head because i can't. as a result, i don't get pulled into shows, i don't get invested in tabletop games, i don't really get that affected by the media that i watch because i am painfully aware that i'm staring at a pre-recorded and scripted show the entire time. i'm painfully aware that i'm staring at an actor in a costume i just cannot get immersed in most forms of media save for very rare video games but even then, i immediately stop thinking about it the second i'm done interacting with it

i just don't listen to music and that one baffles people as i'm punk. most music is just straight up overstimulating to me due to my autism. i'm not saying that music is bad, it just overstimulates the everloving hell out of me. most of the time it just hurts my ears or gives me a headache or triggers my misophonia, which results in me getting irrationally pissed off. it's not something i can control. i prefer to listen to nature sounds, very simple meditation music that is a few simple tones, or nothing at all. i actually enjoy silence. i enjoy not overloading my ears. i enjoy being alone with my own thoughts. i can't think when there's too much noise happening

video games are more enjoyable than anything else due to the interactive element, but that does not mean i am paying attention to the characters or the story. it's very rare that a game can actually make me get interested in the characters themselves. i'm just there for the gameplay. generally i prefer games like rollercoaster tycoon, tower unite and other games that don't have a plot at all and are strictly focused on gameplay. i have no idea how people memorize all the different characters and interactions and story beats in games that have an overarching plot.

it's a personal choice. you're allowed to choose what your hobbies and interests are. if pop culture stresses you out, you do not have to engage. i just straight up do not get pop culture references at all and i've had people laugh at me for it but i just really don't care, it's not what i'm interested in as a person. i feel like a lot of people aren't quite realizing that most popular media is made for profit, not to be something genuinely well written or entertaining. i'm not saying those things are bad but what i am saying is that it's a product meant to be consumed in order for you to help a generally huge company profit. there's very little soul and whimsy when it comes to most AAA games and big box office films. the artistic integrity is severely lacking

anyway, thank you for giving me a chance to talk about this more at length! it's why i'm just very honest about it because i'm not going to force myself to change my interests because some people find how i approach life strange, or take it personally. you're allowed to choose what you interact with and don't. you're allowed to define your own interests and hobbies. and i think you're doing a great thing by acknowledging that you have an unhealthy relationship with pop culture. a LOT of people do right now. it's manufactured to be addicting on purpose. binge watching things is encouraged and is becoming seen as a new norm. i don't think people like you or i deserve to be mocked for approaching life in ways that make sense to us. take care of yourself, i appreciate you!

[jarvewrites]

Heuss Your team 7 headcanons were so good honestly could I request team seven and sibling headcanons? Like how’d they treat their younger sibling?? Ty!

team 7 younger sibling headcanons!

hey there, thanks for the request! i just love sibling headcanons they are so cute and full of fluff. thanks for your support and kind words🌷 i'm glad you enjoyed the headcanons!!

characters : naruto uzumaki, sakura haruno, uchiha sasuke

gn!reader

naruto uzumaki

— so let's say that naruto did have a younger sibling! he would absolutely treasure you, as he would consider them his very first friend. both of them had to go through hard times, such as being unaccepted by other people and misunderstood, but naruto is always here for his sibling, making sure that no one dares to belittle his own blood, even if that means getting humiliated himself.

— in their childhood naruto would spend a lot of time with his sibling and make sure that they never feel that lonely void in their soul. so lots of playing with toys, pretending to be ninjas on a mission, dreaming about their perfect world, where naruto becomes the hokage and he makes sure that every one of your wishes come true!

— supportive elder brother. he would always be glad to hear about your dreams and aspirations, no matter how silly they may sound. «you need to work hard for it!» naruto would definitely remind that to you, as it's important to never give up

— he would try to train them to make sure that they can protect themselves(even though naruto as a kid wasn't a master, he sure did try at least!)

— he's a kind - hearted guy, he always means well for his sibling, but due to lack of knowledge he would make mistakes, such as feeding you mostly ramen(since in naruto's eyes ramen is the best thing ever, he would obviously share it with his little sibling!)

— i can see naruto talking about his crush on sakura with a huge smile on his face! i like to think that naruto and his sibling would be super close, as they got no one but each other.

— as he got older, he definitely was more mature than a kid naruto, but still as outgoing and loud as ever. his dream of becoming a hokage is coming closer and if he sees you accomplishing your goals as well he would cheer for the whole village!

— but there would be teasing as well. sometimes naruto would call you some absurd and silly nicknames or sometimes pretending to act like the all - mighty master(jiraya)

—naruto is confident in you, so when he goes for a 3 year training with the old sage, he doesn't doubt your skills and believes that you can get by

— don't tell anyone, but he would secretly ask sakura to check on you from time to time to make sure that you are alright

— naruto is short - tempered so i can see his sibling knowing his weak spots and purposely hitting them to tease him, like talking about his crush on sakura and imitating how he tries to impress her

— so in short, naruto is nice, sometimes annoying, but always supportive elder brother who loves to tease you, but would never let anyone belittle you for who you are

sakura haruno

— your role model

— sakura is one the prime examples of inner growth and confidence. though she was pretty insecure as a kid, i imagine you always hyping her up, as she was one of the coolest people you knew. pretty, smart and just so cool!

— over time as sakura learned to love herself, she decided to never let you go trough the same thing, so she would always compliment your outfits, how accurately you threw your shiruken and praising you for passing your exams

— as a medic, she definitely takes care of the psychical wounds here in the house, but she's a great listener as well. whenever you have a problem, you can always count on sakura, she will listen and give you an honest and blunt advice, but with affection of siblings

— no matter how well do siblings get along, they still bicker at times. sakura and you are no exceptions. both of you usually argue about something insignificant, like who gets into the shower first, who washes the dishes, who takes out the trash, who never cleans up after themselves and so on

— i can imagine your parents' brains exploding from constant argues

— but the good thing is, you guys make up pretty fast! usually sakura tries to make up with some homemade pie(i just love sakura baking headcanon) if the argument gets too far

—she would give you great lessons on the whole dating world and she is a great gossip buddy as well! i'm pretty sure you guys have a gossip session with some sweets on saturday evening after sakura comes home from training all exhausted and wanting to just relax

—just like naruto, she would never let anyone talk bad about you. yes, she might complain sometimes about something you have done that annoys her, but god forbid if someone actually agrees with her and says that her sibling is a nightmare!

—«excuse me, only i can say that! take it back, shannaro!!»

— sakura is also that kind of sibling to always remind you to wear your jacket, scarf and hat if it gets too cold and tells you that you will get sick otherwise. of course, most of the time you don't take it seriously, before actually getting sick. sakura did some tea for you before preparing the medicine while she shook her head sighing «i told you to be careful!»

— overall, sakura is this cool older sister who helps you find your own style, sometimes makes your life miserable by nagging about the dishes, but always comes first whenever you are in help.

sasuke uchiha

— i can see him with a twin sibling that's younger than him by 5 seconds or a younger sibling with a 1-2 age difference

— sasuke before and after the massacre is a complete different person who behaves differently, so i think i should divide them

— sasuke before massacre is obviously a happy kid with his family and most importantly, his favorite elder brother. but just like sasuke looks up for itachi, you would admire him as well! which would make sasuke a bit competitive at times, but with good intentions

— since you and sasuke are about the same age, you guys would hang out a lot, since itachi is busy with training and missions, mikoto has tons of housework and fugaku is the head of the clan and the police, so i'm sure there's tons of paperwork waiting for him at his desk

— sasuke would train with you, but unlike with naruto, he would be much more serious about it. he would try out Itachi's tactics, sometimes mimicking him, which would just make you laugh.

— «next time..»

— there would be tons of competition. from training with itachi, to who folds the clothes better(mikoto made up that game so that kids would get used to housework as they get older, which worked!)

— those competitive games actually made both of you skilled and smart, which got you to get admired by many. some called you «the uchiha duo» because you were always together and your techniques blended well.

— obviously, everything changed with this tragic event, that definitely left both of scarred forever. now you had one another against this cruelty. sasuke changed, so did you. he stopped smiling, became more serious with his training, treated you with a distance

— but sasuke is still a sweetheart, who just shows his affection differently, more subtly. he would never say anything in words, but his actions show more. like he would give the best piece of meat to you, smirking with pride as he sees you training and thinking about your safety while you are on a mission. he makes the breakfast for both of you while you get up for the academy, makes sure you don't fall behind.

— sometimes you would meet up with his teammates that sasuke was so grumpy about at first. you were glad that he has found his own people and hoped that this would continue.

— sasuke wouldn't want to lose you, so other than revenge, his other goal for becoming stronger is to protect you from danger. he would never forgive himself if anything horrible happened to his last remaining relative.

— you guys would usually train together just to make each other stronger. but sometimes there is need for some peace and quietness, so you would just make some tea and talk about your day before slowly drifting to more subtle hints about the future, the past and the present. sasuke knows his path will differ from yours.

— when he goes over to orochimaru, sasuke doesn't let you come with him, as he knows this is too dangerous and understands orochimaru's motives.

— while revenge eats his alive, you, as his sibling would obviously be worried about his condition that seemed to get worse, so you tried to save him, multiple times, before finally with the help of team 7 saving sasuke and him coming back to the village

— even though so much history has happened between you, nothing made your bond weaker. sasuke is an elder brother who won't seem that affectionate at first, but it takes more to an eye to notice his love and affection for his younger sibling. also, he would make an omelette with tomatoes for breakfast, there i said it.

thanks for reaching this far! i took me a while to think about this whole scenario, but honestly i enjoyed it a lot! if you liked the post, make sure to like and reblog. thanks! 🌷

[dykewithbenefits]

Idea: two big titty dykes being paid by some loser straight boy to let hin fuck their tits.

Normally theyd say no, they have to keep their gold stars after all, not to mention, who the fuck does this limp dick asshole think he is? But then again, that is a LOT of cash...surely it wouldnt hurt if it was just once

So they wrap their tits around his loser dick and let him hump to his hearts content, looking incredibly bored and annoyed all the while. Somehow he manages to go for an hour, cumming a frankly absurd amount of cum all over their titflesh. When he finally passes out, they take the money and a bit more just because of how annoying he is

A couple days later, he comes by with more money asking for the same thing. They raise their prices. He agrees

Two dykes and their loser cash cow obsessed with their big, lesbian tits

I really adore the idea of some boy paying a dyke couple to do all sorts of depraved activities with him. The gals keep whining and looking annoyed while having to do it, but they did agree that he could use them until he was fully drained, and it just so happens that he has both hyperspermia and the stamina of a bull. 

The first few times it's just a simple double titjob—nothing a pair of lesbians shouldn't be able to handle. Then, after a while, he approaches them with a new offer: if they eat his ass, he'll pay them double for the session. They accept, because that is more cash than the both of them would make in a year, and, y'know, just rimming a boy wouldn't make them lose any gold stars.

He keeps raising his demands, but also the amount he's willing to pay, so the dykes keep reluctantly agreeing. Surely, just losing one gold star is fine as long as you get paid for it, right? Surely, you're still a lesbian if a boy is just using your mouth as a fleshlight, right? Swallowing what feels like a gallon's worth of boy jizz isn't cheating on your girlfriend if you both do it, right?

Whichever way it is, you can bet they still keep that same irritated expression on their faces while servicing him. Even if he pays them extra to call themselves his "dirty little cum-swallowing dyke whores" as he coats their faces in ropes of white, they'll do it in the most monotone, unenthusiastic voices they can muster up.

One thing quickly leads to another. Dykes can do anal, right? It's fine for my girlfriend to lick a boy's cum out of my ass, right? If he pays that much, surely, he should be able to use my pussy too, right?

Eventually, the both of them quit their jobs—after all, it turns out it's much more profitable to be some boy's little lesbian sugar babies. They're still very much sapphic, it's just, they spend most of their time being his free use whores, and the only time they ever get intimate with each other is when he's paying them for it, and usually while he's balls deep in one of their holes at the same time.

They're still very much sapphic, right?

[astralikacastle]

The SUPER classic RPGs, roguelikes. There's a lot of numbers-nonsense and system-abusing that ends up in those in chasing philosophies of Complete Simulation over realistic simulation, and I can't say I have a lot of good opinions on how to handle trying to balance that and make it feel good beyond adding more stats that weapons can give you, or... Something. Honestly even just handling the idea of distance a little; a penalty to an opponent's ability to attack multiple times? A lot of my thoughts were around more Final Fantasy flavor turn-based RPGs like Final Fantasy, and actionly stuff like darkened souls and monstered hunters.

And on the idea of weapon fantasies and how they can appear in very unrealistic ways, because in the real world you're so right, the dagger is an absolute backup weapon and there are absolutely choices that in a straight fight are WAY better, and it's usually the distance afforded you with polearms, but to what level does your fantasy also include that in real life, it's pretty easy to just immediately do the kind of damage that renders someone's ability to fight significantly hampered, for possibly forever? Versus, say, combats that involve rising to greater odds, surviving heavy blows, and winning by a hair's breadth, only to be able to come back very quickly from those injuries through magickal restoration and basic recuperation in equal measure? And, for that matter, the way people in full plate moved with much more agility than in fantasy, where the heavy armor is seen as turning you into a sort of Bulwark able to get hit dozens of times without any seeming effect? (Angband seems to, or claims to, be based on Tolkein's work, which makes some of these abstractions seem a little absurd, but in something trying to be more High Fantasy, designing away from realistic combat makes more sense!)

And with the way the image of the assassin, the 'cloak and dagger', gets transformed into that image of Pure Skill And Swiftness, I can't say I'm against the idea of daggers being the kings of speed in weaponry in more classic RPGs, but that should usually come with some other trade-off that can make them not feel worth it without really Leaning Into Some Aspect. Similarly, when you want each option to have its own quirks and let people enjoy trying to build into whatever weapons match the images in their fantasy, you want there to be tradeoffs for certain weapon Types. Maybe polearms grant you greater defense, or are able to reach/do equal damage to The Back Line in games that simulate that basic level of strategy, like some of the super-nintendo era RPGs. (Or just go full high fantasy and make the polearm the one people use like a fuckin' pogo-stick, soaring into the air and plunging into you! The super-acrobatic weapon!!!)

I'm also reminded of a thought that came up when blumineck was talking about bows in action games, and that's trading off realism for Tests Of Skill. Bows have WAY higher range in real life than in many games depicting them, but that dropoff (while also good for practical engine concerns e.g. not having to render enemies a thousand feet away from the player) can help enforce a digital feeling of Skilled Headshots. In a more actiony type of game, you also get a lot of weapons that are treated as being Heavy and Slow despite real-life usage being far quicker than one might expect. Polearms, in that respect, might be depicted as being faster than weapons with similar reach, but with more of an emphasis on spacing (hitting an enemy too close to you ends up smacking them weakly with the handle,) or trading off sweeping strikes and focusing on those pointed thrusts, both of which put more emphasis on harsher checks of skill if you end up fighting multiple foes at once where a sword ends up more easily hitting all three (cuz, well, they don't simulate the way hitting someone *really* stops the momentum of your weapon.) And still we're in games where you frequently hit someone a good number of times before they actually fall, and where their ability to fight doesn't seem affected until the very moment they drop to zero.

Idunno, it's fun to think about those differences when abstracting into fiction and leaning into the ways you might make things Feel Different and Equal to allow the fantasies, and also how to incorporate the real to fuel the fiction!

(Almost non-sequitur levels of tangent, older editions of D&D (and by extension Pathfinder) as TTRPGs give polearms the ability for you to hold them up as a counter to e.g. people or animals charging straight at you with all their weight; was that actually something people regularly did in real life, say, hunting?)

RPG DEV: hello... we've put a lucerne hammer into our game. ME [LEANING FORWARD IN THE THRONE OF JUDGMENT]: yes? RPG DEV: yes, we have modeled it in such ways as we felt appropriate, aesthetically and mechanically. ME: ...go on, please. RPG DEV: well you see, if you are playing as a "Human Soldier Warrior" or similar, you would probably be better served in combat by wielding a dagger. ME: would i? RPG DEV: yes. on account of the quickness and extra attacks. ME [LEANING BACK AGAIN AND CROSSING MY LEGS SUCH THAT THE CUSTOM EMBROIDERY ON MY BIG DYKEISH BOOTS IS NOW CLEARLY LEGIBLE AND SEEN TO READ "THE BIG LUCERNE HAMMER LOVER"]: i see. ME: you have allowed your perceptions to be poisoned. you have created a falseness to further seep these poisons into the world. there is nothing for it. ME: you must do it again but correctly this time.

[patchwork-crow-writes]

No, actually, you get the Kralsei "incest" rant now, I've decided.

The ship being considered incest or incest-adjacent is largely a result of several assumptions that are being made about Ralsei, and to a lesser extent about Kris as well. For this to work, you have to assume the following:

Ralsei is modeled primarily on Asriel

All Boss Monsters of a certain age look identical to one another and are related to one another

Kris had absolutely no hand in Ralsei's creation

Kris is heavily uncomfortable with Ralsei's existence

The entire implied romantic undertones of Ralsei's feelings towards Kris were designed to be incestuous from the start

In order, I shall deconstruct and debunk these. Very long post below the read more, you have been warned.

While it is true that Ralsei does share some superficial similarities with Asriel, he's actually much, MUCH more similar to Kris in many ways. All he shares with Asriel is an anagrammed name and a passing likeness. They're not similar in terms of personality, and that goes regardless of which Asriel we're even talking about. Many people associate Ralsei with Undertale's incarnation of Asriel, who doesn't even exist in the same universe. Any similarities between the two are inferred entirely by the player, aided and abetted by the game making these subtle hints that they're "connected" in some way. Yeah, about as connected as Undertale is to Deltarune. To take this a step further, consider Kris and Frisk. No-one is conflating these two, not in a million years. And yet look, they share an anagrammed name and a passing likeness, so they're basically the same person, aren't they? I mean, we both control them through the SOUL, and they're both protagonists of games made by Toby Fox, so if anything they're more similar to each other than Ralsei is to Asriel. But of course, that's utterly absurd, and we all know it. *

I refer you once again to the humans. And before you tell me "they all obviously look different to each other" - and of course I'm not saying they're not different when they obviously are - consider how a monster might look at these humans if you placed them side-by-side. Pale-ish skin, brown hair, no obvious gender markers, similar height profiles. Any monster who's not intimately familiar with any of the humans in question might perhaps confuse them. And so it is with us and Boss Monsters. Just because Ralsei and Asriel share certain characteristics common to ALL boss monsters does not make them the same, or even similar, to each other. You only have to look at the sprites for the two side-by-side to see that there are plenty of differences between them. And as for Deltarune's Asriel? We haven't even seen this guy, we have NO idea what he looks like. We're just making assumptions again based on incomplete information. And if we assume that all boss monsters are related in some way due to how similar they might appear, then what does that make Toriel and Asgore, two boss monsters who have canonically produced offspring in both continuities? I don't need to say it, do I? *

It should be clarified here that I don't just mean Kris consciously made Ralsei at any point, either as an imaginary friend or monster-sona or what-have-you, but that Ralsei's creation as a darkner is somehow linked to how Kris saw themself/wished to be seen in their childhood. The most obvious piece of evidence supporting this is the horned headband that Toriel mentions at the end of Chapter 1. It's heavily implied that Kris would wear it so that they could be the same as their adoptive family, before they supposedly lost it somewhere down the line. It's not too much of a leap in logic to infer from this that Ralsei was created from that headband, at least in part. That said, there are certain aspects of Ralsei that don't exactly fit this neat mold, and I am willing to concede this point if it turns out that the headband thing is a massive misdirect. Nonetheless, I would say that the evidence we currently have to hand points more resolutely towards Ralsei being an aspect of Kris than of him being an aspect of Asriel. *

So I'm just going to say it: WE DON'T KNOW. Because Kris is our protagonist and POV character, it's incredibly easy to forget that we know next-to-nothing about the inner workings of their mind. They have no dialogue except what we tell them to say, and anything we CAN say about them is inferred from how other characters respond to their tone of voice. Of course, we can infer that Kris doesn't fully consider Ralsei a good friend based on his tea healing 60HP, but that on its own doesn't really tell us anything of much substance because you can't exactly cross-reference those numbers against a handy chart or anything - it's all context-dependent. We do at least know that they are comfortable enough around Ralsei to play the odd prank on him, which we know is something they used to do a lot of with Noelle and Asriel, two people they were close to growing up. They will, of their own volition, interpret our instruction to "take a bite" of Ralsei's dummy's clothes to make it look like they're kissing it on the cheek. I don't think that's something you would do with somebody who freaked you out on an existential level, or somebody who reminded you of your brother. Again, I am willing to concede this point should it turn out my interpretation of these clues is incorrect. *

Ask yourself this: What would Kralsei being incest - or incest-adjacent, or pseudo-incest, or whatever - contribute to the characters of Kris and Ralsei, to our relationship to them as players, or to the narrative or wider themes of Deltarune as a whole? I'll tell you - nothing whatsoever. The most such an interpretation can EVER say is that we as players are so easily manipulated by window-dressing and flattery that we will, knowingly or otherwise, romantically pair two characters together who are related in some way, shape or form. And let's say that this IS the intent behind their dynamic - all it amounts to, all it can ever amount to, is a great bit gotcha from Toby Fox himself. Haha, I tricked you into shipping two characters who are secretly related, isn't that fucked up of you? Somehow, I don't think that was his intention with this, it seems such a petty and small-minded thing for somebody who we know is capable of creating moving, thought-provoking, horrifying and beautiful stories. He's better than that. It turns the entire thing into a glorified skill-check: are YOU smart enough to identify that you're being encouraged to engage in incest-shipping, or are you a dumbass who only sees what's presented to you and doesn't ask questions about it? Contrary to popular belief, we're not all 5-D chess grandmasters, and shockingly not everybody is going to interpret the clues in this way. All it does is make people who DO earnestly ship Kralsei feel bad for something the game WAS ENCOURAGING THEM TO DO. Which would be fine if we were playing, say, Spec Ops: The Line, which is very much built around that conceit. And hey, if you wanna feel shitty about shipping two characters together in an extremely unhealthy and harmful manner, Snowgrave is right there. The difference here is that the weird route is A) completely optional, B) difficult if not impossible to accidentally trigger, C) completely derails the game's story and emotional beats, and D) doesn't rely on the shock value of surprise incest to carry it. Snowgrave actually has something INTERESTING to say about the nature of former friends, forced romance, a player's control over a protagonist and how people can be manipulated to do horrendous things by proxy. All the incest interpretation of Kralsei has to offer is that... it's incest, and you're a bit yucky for partaking in it. I'll wrap up this point by saying: incest is a very emotive topic and produces visceral emotional reactions in a lot of people. It's very clever that people have looked critically at Kralsei and observed the possibility, the interpretation, that this could be what's happening, but if the aim in doing so was to promote debate and analysis on the topic, I'm afraid it's only succeeded in doing the exact opposite, causing people to disengage from it entirely. And I strongly believe that's going to severely harm the state of discourse going into Deltarune's future chapters, because how are you going to talk about the game and what it's trying to say if you keep dodging a major part of it for fear of being thought of as pro-incest? It sucks if you're invested in the ship because no-one wants to discuss it, it sucks if you're NOT invested in the ship because it's not likely going to just evaporate come chapter 3, it sucks for everybody.

Now, having said all of that, I am not here to convince you that Kralsei is the truth and the life and what-have-you - you can read any of my other essays on the topic if you want to be preached to in that manner. You're valid and based for not liking Kralsei for any reason, and I wholeheartedly respect your opinion. All I'm trying to say here is that, calling it incest because "Ralsei is/looks like Asriel" or "Kris hates Ralsei" or whatever doesn't do anything for anyone. There are plenty of valid reasons not to like the ship, I just don't think that this is one of them.

Rant over, have a lovely day :D

[theonlyqualitytrash]

Creatura innocentiae - Fyodor x Reader

PART I PART II

Synopsys: In a secluded village ruled by devotion, where sacrifice is a form of love and faith demands blood, you are forced to choose between Scylla and Charybdis.

Warnings: No ability au, cult themes, religion, manipulation, murder, death, graphic violence and depiction of blood, dehumanization, power imbalance in relationships, emotional and physical abuse, self-harm, gaslighting, brainwashing, philosophical musings on love, faith, and autonomy.

These themes will be present throughout all parts of this fic. Please read with caution and take care of your mental well-being. If any of these themes are distressing to you, proceed carefully or consider skipping this fic.

A/N: Welcome to the second part of this little story! I've already written a rough draft of the third part, thanks to winter break, which has given me plenty of time to write until my fingers ache and my mind turns to mush. As a fun fact: before Creatura innocentiae, the title of this fic was Nitimur in vetitum, which translates to "We strive for the forbidden."

Word count: 10,000

The next week crept by like molasses, each day heavier than the last. 

Being engaged should have felt like a blessing. You had been told that often enough. But no matter how hard you tried, the feeling eluded you. Abel, on the other hand, wore the engagement like a new skin, radiant with a purpose that seemed to brighten his every step. 

Every morning, he waited for you, his patient smile unwavering as he offered to walk you to the clearing where you prayed. He had taken over bandaging your wounds after ceremonies, his hands clumsy but careful, his brow furrowing with the kind of earnestness that made your chest tighten. He also brought you gifts—wildflowers, a wooden carving of a dove, even a piece of honeycomb—they piled up like the tokens of devotion they were meant to be. 

He was everything they said a husband should be. Gentle. Devoted. Perfect. 

And yet, you almost hated him for it. Or perhaps, you hated yourself. 

The dirt path stretched ahead, quiet but for the crunch of your footsteps. The sky above hung heavy and gray, dulling the world into muted shades of itself. Abel walked beside you, his easy gait a sharp contrast to the hollow weight dragging at your steps. His hands swung loosely at his sides, as though they belonged to a man without a care. 

You didn’t want to be here—not with him. 

“Quite gloomy today, isn’t it?” Abel’s voice broke the quiet, gentle and familiar. He glanced at you, his smile as practiced as the line itself. Then, softer, he added, “Though somehow, you always seem to brighten days like this.” 

You nodded, your gaze fixed on the ground. The words you wanted to say coiled tight in your throat, sharp and unspoken. 

He was trying. That was the worst part. 

Would Abel understand me? 

The question gnawed at you, growing louder with every step. It was his voice that answered—not Abel’s, but Fyodor’s. His voice. His damning words clung to you, weaving through your thoughts: a predator circling its prey. 

“Abel...” you said softly, the sound of his name almost foreign on your lips.  

He perked up immediately, his head turning toward you with that ever-present smile. “Yes?”  

Your heart began to race, a faint tremor coursing through your hands as you struggled to voice what had been gnawing at you. “What do you... like about me?”  

The question felt absurd as soon as it left your lips, yet it hung in the air between you like a weight. You didn’t dare look at him.  

Abel stopped walking.  

You hesitated, realizing he had turned to face you, his expression softened by surprise. “What do I like about you?” he repeated, his tone gentle, as though you had asked him to describe something sacred.  

“Yes,” you said, barely above a whisper.  

His brow furrowed slightly, his smile fading into something quieter, more thoughtful. He shifted his weight, his hands clasping in front of him as he considered your question.  

“Well...” He exhaled softly, and when he spoke again, his voice carried the same warmth he always offered. “I like how kind you are. How selfless. You carry so much for all of us, yet you never complain. You give everything, even when it hurts you.”  

Your hands clenched into fists at your sides. His words landed like stones in your chest, each one heavier than the last.  

“You’re...” He hesitated, a faint blush rising to his cheeks. “You’re radiant. Like the sun breaking through clouds. You remind us of what it means to be good, to have faith.”  

His gaze flicked to yours, shy but earnest. “I admire you,” he added softly, his voice almost trembling. “You make the rest of us want to be better.”  

A bitter laugh rose in your throat, but you swallowed it down, unable to let it escape.  

“Is that it?” you asked instead, your voice trembling with something you couldn’t name.  

Abel’s brow knit in confusion. “What do you mean?”  

You looked at him then, truly looked at him, and the sight of his gentle confusion only sharpened the ache inside you. “You admire me because I bleed for all of you. Because I make it easy to take.”  

His eyes widened, his lips parting in shock. “That’s not—”  

“Isn’t it?” you interrupted, your voice rising, sharp and brittle. The words came unbidden, spilling out. “You like me because I don’t fight. Because I smile and give and never ask for anything in return. That’s what you admire, isn’t it? That I make it easy for you to love me?”  

The silence that followed was deafening. Abel’s hands trembled at his sides, his expression stricken.  

“I...” He faltered, his voice cracking slightly. “I never meant... I just—”  

“You don’t know me,” you said, your voice breaking. “You don’t know anything about me beyond what I give. Do you?”  

He took a step toward you, his hands reaching out as though to steady the space between you. “That’s not fair,” he said quietly, his tone laced with desperation. “I care about you. I’ve always cared about you.”  

You stepped back, shaking your head. “You care about the idea of me. The savior. The lamb. But what if I wasn’t any of that? Would you still—”  

“Stop,” he interrupted, his voice firmer now. “I care about you because you’re strong. Because you carry so much and still find a way to be kind.”  

His words hung in the air, but they felt hollow. Kindness. Strength. Radiance.  

They were the same words you had heard all your life, spoken in reverence and admiration. But they weren’t about you. They were about the role you played, the mask you wore so perfectly.  

Your breath hitched as you turned away, staring at the horizon where the clouds pressed low against the earth. “You don’t understand,” you whispered.  

Abel didn’t press further. He stood there, silent and unsure, as you began walking again, your steps hurried and uneven. He followed at a distance, the tension between you stretching.

The ache in your chest deepened with every step, the memory of Fyodor’s voice echoing louder than ever: You bleed for them. But will they bleed for you?  

For the first time, you began to think you already knew the answer.  

---  

The late afternoon sun slanted through the gaps in the wooden walls, casting long, wavering stripes of light across the floor. Dust particles swirled lazily in the warmth, their slow drift a reminder of the barn’s stillness. The soft sounds of the space were familiar, grounding.  

You had watched Abel and Fyodor disappear inside the barn a little while ago, tasked by the elders to tend to the horses. A routine chore—unremarkable.

They were not made equally, you thought. Abel was very kind, too kind. It was the kind of kindness that made your insides burn, that felt like a performance rather than a truth. The interaction a few days ago had only solidified that suspicion. Abel got complacence, while Fyodor...  

Fyodor got ambition. It was an unsettling kind of ambition, sharp-edged and systematic. You didn’t know what he intended to use it for, but the thought lingered, prickling at the edges of your mind like needles. 

Not wanting to dwell on the two of them, you turned back to your duties, trying to shake the unease.  

Inside, the barn was still and calm, save for the steady rhythm of Fyodor’s hands working, methodical as ever. He brushed down one of the horses, his motions slow, as if the action itself demanded careful precision. His brow remained unfurrowed, his focus unshifting, as though he were a part of the barn itself, fixed and immovable.  

Across the barn, Abel’s voice filled the stillness with a casual stream of conversation, his words light and unguarded—too unguarded. He spoke of the harvest festival, of traditions and preparations, his tone tinged with forced enthusiasm.   

“I think they’ll love it,” Abel said, glancing over his shoulder at Fyodor. “The festival, I mean. It’s their favorite time of year—dancing under the lights, celebrating our comunity’s hard work. I feel lucky, you know? To be the one by their side for it.” 

Fyodor didn’t respond immediately. He didn’t need to. His silence filled the barn like smoke, creeping into all corners until Abel shifted uneasily. 

“And what makes you so sure they love it?” Fyodor asked at last, his tone quiet, almost idle, as if the question were an afterthought. 

Abel chuckled, though the sound carried a slight tremor. “Because it’s simple, I suppose,” he replied, turning his gaze to the window as though the answer might lie somewhere beyond it. “It makes them happy.”   

The rhythm of Fyodor’s brushing didn’t falter, but the air seemed to grow colder, as if his presence had drawn out the warmth. His head tilted slightly, the faintest gesture of consideration, though his gaze remained fixed on the horse.   

“Do they seem happy to you?”   

Abel stilled. His hands paused in their work, his fingers curling reflexively around the armful of hay he was gathering. He turned his head toward Fyodor, confusion shadowing his features. “What?”   

Fyodor straightened, setting the brush aside. He turned, his eyes meeting Abel’s. They were calm, but there was something unrelenting in the sharpness of his gaze. “I asked,” Fyodor said softly, “if they seem happy to you.”   

Abel faltered, his brow furrowing. “I mean... they don’t complain,” he said, his voice carrying a faint defensiveness. “They devoted to their role. That’s what happiness is, isn’t it? Accepting your place?”   

Fyodor’s lips twitched—not quite a smile, but something faint and unsettling, a ghost of amusement. “Devotion isn’t the same as happiness. Compliance isn’t the same as understanding.”   

Abel frowned, his confusion deepening as he turned fully to face Fyodor. “I don’t see the difference,” he said after a long moment, his voice quieter now.   

Fyodor took a single step forward, closing the distance between them. “Of course you don’t,” he said, his tone low, almost kind. “You don’t have to.”   

Abel blinked, his expression faltering further. The cheerfulness that had cloaked him earlier seemed to dissolve, replaced by a flicker of something more vulnerable—a faint crack in the armor of certainty he had always carried.   

“They’re devoted,” Abel said again, though his voice wavered. “They’re strong. They’re... They’re everything we need them to be.”   

“Everything you need them to be,” Fyodor corrected, the faintest edge creeping into his voice. He leaned back slightly, his posture relaxed but his presence unyielding. “But tell me, Abel—what do they need?”   

The question hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. Abel opened his mouth to respond, but no words came. His hands tightened around the bundle of hay, his gaze dropping to the ground. 

Fyodor let the silence stretch, his gaze unwavering as he stepped back toward the horse. “They carry the weight of your love,” he said quietly, his voice almost a murmur. “But love, without understanding, is just another burden, no?”   

Abel’s head snapped up at that, his eyes narrowing. “I do understand them,” he said, though the words sounded hollow even to himself.   

Fyodor tilted his head slightly, his expression softening—not with kindness, but with something closer to pity. “Do you?”   

The question wasn’t sharp. It wasn’t even accusatory. And yet, it cut deeper than anything else Fyodor had said.   

Abel turned back to his task, his movements slower, more hesitant now. The steady rhythm of his work had faltered, becoming uneven as though each action required conscious effort. He didn’t speak again. The air between them grew heavier, oppressive in its stillness—you could have heard a pin drop, but not the whisper of Fyodor’s steps as he moved across the barn. 

Reaching one of the horses, Fyodor untied its reins with quiet precision, dragging the rope across the floor as though absentmindedly. He let it fall into the straw, its coils half-buried and unassuming, before reaching for the feed bucket to distract the horse with its meal. 

His mind drifted again, to that familiar thought.   

You construct intricate rituals to appease deities you came up with to avoid being your own judge.   

He studied Abel’s back, hunched over as he worked, and the words solidified in his mind.   

God can’t hear you beg for forgiveness, and She doesn’t care about the sacrifices you make to prove your repentance. You stand in front of a mirror, begging for someone else to try you for your crimes.   

He stared at Abel, who was so eager to please, so content to remain blind to the walls around him. Abel wasn’t chosen for his understanding—no, he was chosen because he would never question the system. Because he wouldn’t ask the hard questions that would tear the gilded cage apart.   

“Abel.”   

Abel turned toward him, his brow furrowing in confusion, the ever-present warmth in his gaze replaced by something guarded. “Yes?”   

“You truly believe you’re enough for them?” Fyodor asked, taking a step forward. His tone wasn’t mocking; it wasn’t even cruel. It was simply curious, a calm inquiry.   

Abel blinked, clearly caught off guard. “I... I am enough for them!”   

Fyodor tilted his head slightly, his gaze unwavering as though he were studying a puzzle. “Are you?” he murmured, the question barely louder than a breath. 

Abel stiffened, his hands clenching at his sides. “Of course I am. I’ve done everything right—followed every rule, every tradition.” His voice grew firmer. “I care for them. I protect them. Isn’t that enough?” 

Fyodor’s lips curved into the faintest of smiles. “Enough for you, perhaps. But is it enough for them?” 

The barn seemed to close in on them, the air thickening with the weight of unspoken truths. Abel took a step forward, his expression darkening. “They’re happy,” he insisted, though his voice wavered at the edges. 

“You don’t see it, do you? The way they looks at you—not with love, but with duty. The same way one might look at a burden they cannot put down.” 

Abel’s breath hitched, his face tightening as the words hit their mark. His grip on the hay trembled, as though he were fighting the urge to throw it down. “Shut up,” he said quietly, his tone laced with warning. 

Fyodor didn’t flinch, his expression calm, almost pitying. “Do you even know them, Abel? Beyond what they give you? Beyond the mask they wear for all of you?” 

“I said shut up!” Abel’s voice cracked, his hands trembling as he took another step forward. The warmth in his gaze was gone now, replaced by something desperate and raw. 

Fyodor held his ground, his composure unshaken. “If they took off the mask,” he said, each word deliberate, “would you even recognize them?” 

The question hung in the air like a guillotine, and Abel snapped. His fist shot out, catching Fyodor in the chest and driving him back against the stall. The horses stirred, their nervous movements filling the barn with sharp, chaotic sounds. 

“You don’t know anything about them!” Abel shouted, his voice reverberating off the wooden walls. “You think you’re so clever, don’t you? But you don’t belong here—you’ll never belong here!” 

Fyodor staggered but recovered quickly, brushing the dust from his robe with infuriating calm. He straightened, his violet eyes meeting Abel’s with a steady, unsettling intensity. “Neither do they,” he said quietly. 

And when those words came down like a blade on his neck, Abel’s fury boiled over, spilling into every clumsy, uncoordinated movement. His hands found the pitchfork leaning against the stall, gripping it as though it might anchor him against the storm inside. His breath came in ragged, uneven bursts, the sound filling the barn.

The horses, restless from the noise and the charged atmosphere, shuffled in their stalls, their hooves striking against the wooden planks with growing urgency. One whinnied sharply, the sound slicing through the oppressive quiet. 

Abel lifted the pitchfork, his knuckles whitening around the handle as if he intended to use it, but the weight of his rage made his movements slow and unsteady. His chest heaved, his eyes wild and unfocused as he turned toward Fyodor, the object of his unraveling anger. 

The untied horse jerked sideways, its powerful body slamming into the stall with a hollow, reverberating thud. The motion sent a cascade of hay spilling onto the floor, and Abel flinched at the impact. His grip on the pitchfork wavered, the handle slipping in his sweaty palms. 

“Stay back!” Abel shouted at the animal, though the command sounded more like a plea. His voice cracked, raw and uneven, as though it might splinter under the weight of his panic. 

The sound of hurried footsteps approached, their rhythm halting just outside the barn’s threshold. Someone had heard the commotion—they paused at the doorway, their shadow stretching across the barn floor, trembling as it mingled with the fractured light. Their eyes darted between Abel’s hunched form and Fyodor’s measured stillness. The air felt too heavy to move through, suffocating in its intensity. 

Fyodor’s violet gaze flicked toward the figure, so quick it was almost imperceptible, before snapping back to Abel. He didn’t acknowledge the witness further, his expression settling into something carefully controlled, slightly startled but otherwise unreadable. 

“Is that how you’ll prove your worth?” Fyodor asked, his voice calm, but now carrying the faintest thread of something softer—fear, or perhaps pity. He took a half-step back, his hands raised slightly, palms outward, as though placating a dangerous animal. “By threatening me?” 

Abel’s grip on the pitchfork tightened, his knuckles trembling. “You don’t understand! You don’t belong here!” he bellowed, his tone cracking under the strain of his rage. 

The horses, restless and panicked, stamped and snorted in their stalls. Abel lifted the pitchfork slightly, as if to strike, but the motion only fed the chaos around him. One of the horses reared, its hooves crashing against the stall. 

But Fyodor didn’t move. He stood as still as the barn walls themselves, his gaze steady, unyielding. The horses, by contrast, were all motion—rearing, kicking, their wild eyes flashing in the fractured light. The largest of them stomped violently, its movements frantic and unpredictable. 

Abel staggered, his foot catching on a length of rope half-buried in the straw. He teetered for a moment, his arms flailing as he fought for balance. The pitchfork clattered to the ground with a dull, jarring sound. 

The horse’s agitation grew, its hooves striking out as it reared again. Abel’s flailing carried him backward, the momentum of his stumble drawing him directly into the horse’s path. 

For a moment, time seemed to slow. The animal thrashed above him, its front hooves coming down hard, directly onto Abel's head with a sickening crack. Then, silence—the kind that could make a man go insane the way it seeped into your bones, raw and unrelenting. The horse pawed at the straw with uneasy, jittery movements, its breath loud and uneven. Each scuffle of its hooves felt like an echo of the chaos that took place, a ghost of the violence that now lay lifeless on the barn floor. 

The oppressive tension lingered, heavy and unshakable, as Fyodor’s gaze shifted to the lifeless form. Abel was now crumpled on the ground, his body folding like a discarded marionette. The pitchfork lay a few feet away, untouched and irrelevant now. 

A scream tore through the barn as the witness finally found their voice. It was raw, piercing, and shattered the suffocating silence like glass. 

Fyodor flinched, a reaction born of necessity. There was no pleasure, no satisfaction in the moment—only an emptiness, as if he had simply carried out a necessary task. The rope had been placed just so, half-buried in the straw, waiting for the inevitable misstep. The horse, its reins had been untethered just enough for it to start galloping around. Abel’s demise hadn’t been a matter of chance—chance was too chaotic. No, it was only a matter of time before Fyodor took advantage of Abel’s rage.  

The scream was a spark, igniting a flurry of footsteps and hurried voices as others rushed toward the barn. The commotion fed on itself, a breeding ground for curious eyes and frantic questions. 

Some pushed inside, drawn by the noise, while others hovered at the edges, hesitant and afraid. A few rushed to Fyodor, their voices trembling as they asked if he was hurt. He played the role of the bewildered innocent, his hands clean, his expression clouded with confusion. 

“I…” he began, his voice soft, trembling just enough to appear genuine. “I don’t know how it came to this.” 

The barn felt smaller with so many bodies crowding its space, their overlapping whispers and gasps weaving into the lingering tension. 

Fyodor’s mind remained clear, though something twisted deep in his chest, an unfamiliar discomfort he couldn’t easily shake. 

The scene was immaculate. The horse’s agitation blended seamlessly with the chaos he had crafted—a tragic accident, nothing more. Fyodor lingered for a moment, staring at the wreckage he had orchestrated. He felt no satisfaction. No triumph. Only the steady weight of grim resolve. 

When the questions grew too insistent, a few of them gently urged him away from the barn, their hands hovering as if to steady him. He let them guide him, his steps measured, his gaze distant, his expression carrying just enough of a dazed quality to appear convincing. Yet, even as he moved, his thoughts were already elsewhere. 

They turned to you—the way your voice had trembled when you spoke of your role, the soft, resigned look in your eyes whenever Abel’s name came up. He almost felt pity for Abel. Almost. 

Abel was part of the cycle—a lamb to be led to slaughter, a cog in a system that would never change. But you—you were different. You didn’t belong to this hollow cycle of devotion and duty. 

And that was why Fyodor wouldn’t let you rot alongside them. 

---  

The news left you reeling. Abel, dead? The words didn’t seem real. You hadn’t loved him—not the way a fiancé should love their betrothed. But your heart, too soft and too big, carried the weight of his loss as though it were your fault. Guilt tangled with disbelief, twisting in your chest. If only you had loved him more, would he have been more careful? The image of the horse flashed in your mind, its startled movements, its strength. Why hadn’t Abel been more cautious? The questions circled endlessly as you stepped into the church, the air pressing down on you like a silent rebuke. 

The apse feels colder without the soft façade your mother usually wears in public. Her practiced kindness is gone, leaving behind the sharp, calculating presence of the High Priestess. You’re not supposed to be here. You hesitate by the doorway, drawn by the tension in the air.  

Fyodor stands before her, calm as ever, his posture betraying no unease. He looks at her with an air of quiet reverence, his composure a sharp contrast to the tension that fills the room like a rising tide.

“Abel is dead,” she says, her voice cutting through the silence, deliberate and sharp, like the crack of a whip.

Fyodor inclines his head slightly, his expression shifting into something akin to concern, though it never quite reaches his eyes. “A tragedy,” he murmurs, his tone measured and solemn. “I was there, High Priestess. Tending to the horses with him, as requested. It all happened so quickly.”

“Quickly,” she repeats, her words laden with disbelief. Her gaze hardens, narrowing in a way that feels like she’s trying to pierce through him. “And yet, here you stand. Unscathed. Untouched.”

His lips part as if in a sigh, but his voice remains steady. “I wish it were not so,” he says softly, his hands folding behind his back, the imagine of obedience. “There were others who saw what happened. Abel was not himself. His anger… it was consuming him.”

Her eyes flash, the subtle narrowing of her brows the only betrayal of her rising fury. “And what of your role in this?” she asks, leaning forward slightly, her presence pressing into him like a blade against his skin. “What did you do to quell this supposed rage?”

“I stepped back,” Fyodor says, his voice a quiet confession, tinged with what sounds like regret. “To keep myself safe. The horses were startled. Abel was… consumed by his emotions. I feared escalation, and yet…” He lets the sentence trail off, as though the memory itself pains him.

Her hands tighten on the edge of the table, knuckles whitening as she leans further forward. “Convenient,” she says, the word dripping with venom. “How fortunate for you that his anger left little room for blame to fall elsewhere.”

He tilts his head slightly, meeting her gaze without hesitation, his expression serene. “I did only what I could, High Priestess. The others will confirm as much.”

Her lips press into a thin line, her silence growing sharper, heavier. “Do not mistake my silence for ignorance,” she says at last, her voice dropping to a low, dangerous register. “I know what you’ve done.”

For a moment, the faintest flicker of amusement dances in his eyes. It vanishes as quickly as it came, replaced by a carefully composed neutrality. “And I await proof, High Priestess,” he says, his voice unwavering but carrying an edge now, subtle but unmissable. “The truth, after all, always has a way of revealing itself.”

The room feels suffocating all of a sudden. You realize too late that you’ve stepped too far into the doorway, drawn in despite yourself. Her gaze snaps to you with the precision of a hawk catching its prey. “What are you doing here?”

“I—I didn’t mean to interrupt,” you stammer.

Her expression softens slightly, but only enough to mask her irritation. “You have duties to attend to,” she says, her voice firm. “Go.”  

You hesitate, your eyes flicking to Fyodor. He meets your gaze briefly, his violet eyes calm and unbothered, as if none of this concerns him. Something unspoken lingers in his gaze, something you don’t fully understand but can’t look away from.  

“I said go,” your mother repeats, and her voice leaves no room for argument. Reluctantly, you turn and leave, the door closing behind you.  

Her next words are muffled by the thick wooden door, but you can hear the warning in her tone, the anger simmering just beneath the surface. “And stay away from my child,” she says. There’s a pause, heavy and menacing. “You may have charmed the others, but insolence has its limits.”  

Fyodor’s reply is quiet, but there’s an edge of amusement in his tone. “As you wish, High Priestess.”  

You stood just beyond the door, your heart pounding as you strain to hear what comes next. There’s a long silence, followed by your mother’s voice. “Be careful, Fyodor. You walk a fine line.”  

The door creaks open behind you, and you jump back as Fyodor steps out. He closes it softly, his expression calm but unreadable as his eyes meet yours. 

“You shouldn’t eavesdrop,” he says, his voice quiet, carrying a faint trace of humor. 

You flush, clasping your hands in front of you, “I wasn’t—” The words stumble out, unconvincing even to yourself. “I mean... I didn’t mean to.” 

He tilts his head slightly, his gaze sharpening, though his faint smile lingers. “No?” he murmurs, the word soft, almost indulgent. “Then why are you still standing here?” 

“I...” Your voice falters, the weight of his presence bearing down on you. The shame burns in your chest, but it’s tangled with something else—an aching need to know. “I was worried,” you admit quietly. “About what she was saying. About you.” 

His expression shifts subtly, something unspoken flickering behind his composed façade. “And why would you worry about me?” 

The question throws you off balance, and for a moment, you can’t find the words. “She... she doesn’t usually speak like that about anyone,” you manage. “And—” You hesitate, then push forward, the words tumbling out before you can stop them. “Did you have anything to do with Abel’s death?” 

For a moment, there’s silence. Not the calm, expectant silence he so often wields, but something heavier. His violet eyes remain locked on yours, unblinking, as though he’s weighing every possible answer against the consequences it might bring. 

“Do you think I did?” he asks finally, his voice low and steady, yet there’s an edge to it—a challenge hidden beneath the softness. 

Your chest tightens under the weight of his question. “I don’t know,” you admit, the words trembling on your lips. “You always seem to know things—things no one else does. And she sounded so certain, like she has proof.” 

“Proof,” he repeats, almost absently, as if the word itself is a curious puzzle. He looks away, his gaze lingering on the shadows flickering along the church walls. When he speaks again, his tone is quieter, more thoughtful. “Certainty and proof are not the same. Certainty is... convenient. It can mask fear. Or doubt.” 

You search his face, desperate to read the truth in his expression, but his features remain infuriatingly calm. “So it wasn’t you?” 

This time, his hesitation is so slight you almost miss it. But it’s there—an imperceptible pause, a flicker of something in his eyes. “I had nothing to do with Abel’s death,” he says, his voice quiet but firm. “He was... a kind man. His loss is a tragedy.” 

His words soothe something in you, yet they also stir a nagging unease. You want to believe him. You need to. But the shadow of doubt refuses to leave you entirely. 

“I shouldn’t have asked,” you whisper, your hands twisting the fabric of your robe. “It’s not my place.” 

“Questions are not a crime,” he says, his tone softening. “But sometimes, they lead us to answers we aren’t ready for.” 

He steps closer, and you can feel the weight of his presence, the quiet intensity that seems to draw everything toward him. “Your mother is a formidable woman,” he continues, his voice barely above a whisper. “She cares for you deeply. But her care can be... suffocating.” 

You look up at him, startled by the edge of empathy in his tone. “She’s trying to protect me,” you say, though the words feel hollow. 

His faint smile returns, tinged with something almost bitter. “She sees danger everywhere,” he says. “Even where there is none. Her warnings... they’re for your sake, not mine.” 

“What danger?” you press, your voice trembling. “Why would she think you’re a threat?” 

He pauses, his gaze slipping past you as if searching for an answer in the dim light of the church. When he looks back, there’s a shadow in his expression—an emotion you can’t name. “Perhaps because I don’t fit neatly into her world,” he says finally. “People fear what they can’t control.” 

The words settle heavily between you, and you can’t help but wonder if they apply to more than just your mother. “But you’re not a danger,” you say, the statement more a question than you intended. 

His smile deepens, though it’s far from reassuring. “Would it matter if I were?” 

The question takes your breath away, and for a moment, you can’t respond. He steps back, the moment slipping away as quickly as it arrived. 

“I should go,” he says softly. “Your mother would not be happy if she saw us talking.” He steps past you, his presence lingering even as he walks away. You turn to watch him go, your mind can't seem to let go of the subject. 

“Wait,” you say, your voice unsteady. “What does she fear? Is it really you?” 

He hesitates at the door, his hand resting on the worn wood. “She fears many things,” he says, his tone almost gentle. “But most of all, she fears losing you.” 

He glances back at you one last time, his gaze lingering in a way that leaves you frozen in place. “Be careful,” he says, his tone softer now. “Sometimes, it’s better to leave things alone. For your own sake.” 

With that, he’s gone, leaving you alone in the quiet of the church.  

---  

The preparations for the interment felt like a hollow ritual, a series of motions drained of meaning. You were no stranger to death—it was a quiet constant in your duties. Tending to elders who had lived full lives or stillborn children who never had the chance to begin felt like an extension of God’s will, a cycle you could accept.  

But Abel? Abel’s life was brimming with potential, his laughter still echoing faintly in your mind. To see him reduced to this—motionless, silent, stripped of the warmth that had once defined him—felt profoundly wrong, almost cruel. Yet beneath the grief and guilt, another emotion lingered faintly—a weight you could not name lifting from your chest, leaving behind an ache you didn’t dare yet examine. 

The river is calm tonight, its surface reflecting the firelight as if the water itself mourns. Abel’s body lies on a small wooden boat, his head covered by a white veil, his hands crossed over his chest. Flowers are tucked around him—delicate wildflowers from the fields, their petals already wilting under the heat of the torchlight. Gifts surround his body: a carving knife, a jar of honey, and a lock of your hair tied with a red ribbon. 

You stand at the edge of the gathered mourners. The High Priestess holds the ceremonial torch, her expression somber as she recites the prayer of passage. 

“May this fire guide you Abel,” she says, her voice steady, resonant. “May the waters carry you to the eternal embrace of the divine.” 

She hands you the torch, her fingers brushing against yours. You step forward, your legs trembling as you kneel at the riverbank. The crowd watches in reverent silence as you lower the torch, lighting the pyre. The flames catch quickly, crackling and consuming the dried wood and herbs. The fire comes to life, its reflection dancing on the water’s surface. 

Then the boat drifts slowly into the river, carried by the gentle current. You can feel the weight of their gazes on you as the flames climb higher, engulfing everything. The chanting grows louder, filling the night with its haunting melody. You bow your head, but your thoughts are elsewhere. 

Somewhere in the crowd, Fyodor stands apart. His face is unreadable in the flickering light, but you can feel his gaze on you. It’s like a promise, something you can’t sever no matter how hard you try. When you lift your head, your eyes meet his across the riverbank. He doesn’t look away, but you don't either.

The embers of the funeral boat glow faintly on the surface of the dark water, their light flickering like dying stars. You linger by the riverbank, unable to leave, even as the others return to the village. The weight of Abel’s death presses on you like a shroud. You tell yourself it’s the grief of the community—of your mother—but a deeper, more private part of you knows the truth. 

You feel relieved. 

The realization sits heavy in your chest, twisting into a knot of guilt. He’s gone. Abel is gone, and you will never have to kneel at his side, never have to smile through vows that made you feel small, never have to endure his kind, earnest gaze, so full of devotion it almost made you cry.

And yet, the relief doesn’t quiet the sadness. Abel hadn’t deserved this. He’d been kind, gentle, and undeserving of the violence that stole his life. You shiver, clutching your arms as though to hold yourself together. 

The sound of footsteps pulls you from your thoughts, soft against the earth but unmistakable. You don’t need to turn to know it’s him. Fyodor’s presence is unmistakable.

“I thought I might find you here,” he says softly. His voice carries no judgment, only a quiet understanding that feels too sharp against the tumult of your thoughts. 

You don’t respond. You keep your gaze fixed on the water, the last embers of the funeral pyre drifting away on the gentle current. 

For a moment, he says nothing more. He steps closer, his movements unhurried, as though he knows you won’t send him away. He stands beside you, his presence warm despite the chill in the air. “You shouldn’t linger,” he says eventually, his tone as soft as the breeze. “The night is cold.” 

“I know,” you whisper, though you make no move to leave. 

Silence settles between you, broken only by the faint ripple of the water. Fyodor doesn’t press you for words, doesn’t fill the quiet with questions or platitudes. He simply waits, as if he knows you need space to untangle the knot inside you. 

“It’s wrong,” you murmur finally, your voice trembling. “To feel this way.” 

His gaze shifts to you, steady and patient. “What way?” he asks gently. 

You shake your head, unable to meet his eyes. “I shouldn’t feel relieved. I shouldn’t feel...” You falter, the words catching in your throat. “Happy.” 

“Happy?” he repeats, his tone light, as though coaxing the truth from you without force. 

You swallow hard, your chest tightening with shame. “That I’m not marrying him anymore,” you admit quietly. “That I don’t have to...” Your voice trails off, and you squeeze your arms tighter around yourself. “He didn’t deserve this. And I feel guilty for being glad.” 

The words hang in the air, fragile and raw. For a long moment, Fyodor says nothing, and you fear his silence more than anything he could say. But when he finally speaks, his voice is quiet, almost tender. 

“Grief and relief can exist together,” he says. “Feeling one doesn’t erase the other.” 

You glance at him, startled by the gentleness in his tone. His expression is calm, but there’s something in his eyes that you can’t quite name—a depth, a quiet understanding that makes your chest ache. 

“It doesn’t make you cruel,” he continues. “Or unkind. It makes you human.” 

You lower your gaze, tears stinging your eyes. You want to argue, to tell him he’s wrong, but the words won’t come. Instead, you find yourself leaning into his presence, drawn to the strange, steady calm he exudes. 

“I didn’t want this,” you say softly. “I didn’t want him to die.” 

The silence stretches for a moment, soft and heavy, before you find yourself asking the question you’ve been holding back since the funeral.

“How was he?” you whisper, your voice trembling as you force the words out. “When you saw him last... what was he like?” You search Fyodor’s expression, desperate for something to soothe the ache that’s been gnawing at your chest.

Fyodor doesn’t flinch. His answer comes after a brief pause, as though he’s carefully turning over the words in his mind. When he speaks, his voice is calm, steady, yet imbued with a softness that feels almost kind. “He was troubled,” he says, his tone measured, “but he was trying to find peace in his own way.”

Your chest tightens, a bittersweet mix of guilt and relief clawing its way to the surface. “Troubled?” you echo, your voice cracking. “I... I wish I had known. I should have seen it.”

“You couldn’t have known,” Fyodor says, the words quiet but firm. His gaze holds yours, steady and unyielding. “Sometimes, people carry burdens they cannot share. His anger wasn’t about you—it was about the expectations placed on him. Expectations he could no longer bear.”

The weight of his words settles over you, heavy but grounding. Your throat tightens, and the tears you’ve been holding back spill over, unchecked. “I just… I wanted him to be happy,” you whisper. “He deserved that much.”

Fyodor watches you for a moment, before he speaks again. “Happiness isn’t always something we can give to others,” he says softly. “But he knew you cared. In the end, that mattered to him.”

You let out a shaky breath, clutching at the fragile comfort his words offer. “Thank you,” you murmur, your voice hoarse with emotion. “For being there. For trying to help him.”

Fyodor inclines his head slightly, his expression gentle but inscrutable. “It was the least I could do,” he says, his voice carrying a quiet gravity.

His words linger between you, heavy with unspoken meaning. Somewhere beneath the surface, you feel a current of something darker, something you can’t quite name. But you push the thought aside, holding onto the solace he’s given you instead.

And that night, you finally let yourself cry—small, quiet tears that fall into the stillness. Fyodor doesn’t move closer, doesn’t try to touch you. But his presence remains, solid and grounding, as though he knows exactly what you need. 

And as the last embers on the water fade to black, so too does the knot in your chest. It doesn’t disappear completely, but for now, it feels lighter. 

--- 

As swiftly as Abel’s passing came, so did the murmurs of his replacement. The inevitability of it clawed at your chest. Who would they choose? The question lingered, heavy and suffocating. You didn’t love anyone in that way—you weren’t sure you even knew how. But it didn’t matter. It never had. Love was a luxury reserved for others, not for you. Your duty to serve and protect stood above such things, an immovable force that demanded everything, leaving nothing for yourself. 

The sacred chamber bared the weight expectation. The candles lining the room burned low, their wax pooling like spilled offerings onto the scarred surface of the circular table at the room’s center. Icons glowed faintly in the flickering light, their intricate patterns seeming to pulse as though alive. 

You sat at your mother’s right hand, your presence as ceremonial as the candles. They had positioned you carefully—not as a participant, but as a reminder. A living symbol of the decision they had gathered to make. 

The council of elders surrounded the table, their robes pooling around them. Their faces were worn and lined with years of devotion, their gazes sharp with the weight of tradition. Their voices, low and murmured, weaved a thread of tension through the room, a quiet hum that settled in your chest. 

At the head of the table, your mother sat straight-backed and composed. Her silver hair caught the light like threads of spun steel, and her white robes were pristine as ever. Though she hadn’t yet spoken, her presence was enough to keep the room in balance, every elder’s words carefully measured, every movement deliberate. 

You remained silent, your hands folded neatly in your lap, your gaze fixed on the candlelight as though it might offer you some form of escape. 

The conversation began predictably, each elder taking their turn to speak with the slow gravity of a ritual. 

“We must consider their future,” one said, his voice rumbling like distant thunder. “The vessel cannot remain unbound.” 

Another nodded, her fingers steepled before her. “It is not just tradition—it is their purpose. Without a partner, their role is incomplete. Unity is required, both for them and for the community.” 

Their words surrounded you like a net, each thread tightening with every passing moment. They spoke of you, about you, but never to you. You were not a person here. You were an offering. 

The discussion turned to Abel’s death. 

“It was a tragedy,” one elder murmured, shaking his head. “He was a promising match. His devotion was unwavering.” 

“But it leaves us with an opportunity,” another interjected. “We can find a match that will strengthen their position further—someone who embodies not just faith, but leadership.” 

The High Priestess remained silent, her sharp gaze sweeping over the elders. Though her expression was serene, you could see the faint tension in her jaw, the slight tightening of her fingers around the edge of the table. 

And then, a new name entered the conversation. 

“What of Fyodor?” 

The murmurs grew louder, the elders turning toward the speaker with surprise and curiosity. 

“He is young, yes,” the elder continued. “In his short time here, he has proven himself. Devout, polite, eager to serve. He carries himself with dignity.” 

Murmurs of agreement rippled through the chamber. 

“He performs every task with care,” another said. “Always thoughtful, always measured.” 

“And the people respect him,” someone added. “The children adore him, and the elders speak of his humility. He has shown the kind of character we need.” 

Your mother’s frown was almost imperceptible, but you saw it. Her fingers tightened on the table’s edge, her composure flickering like a candle in a gust of wind. 

“He is still an outsider,” she said, her voice cutting through the murmurs. “A man we barely know. Devotion takes time to prove.” 

“But his actions speak for him,” one elder countered gently. “Even you must admit he has adjusted seamlessly to our ways.” 

“It is his seamless adjustment that concerns me,” your mother replied, her tone sharp. “No one adapts so quickly without intent. Devotion should be earned, not performed.” 

Her words hung heavy in the air, silencing the murmurs for a moment. 

You sat frozen, your gaze dropping to your lap as their words swirled around you. They spoke of Fyodor with admiration, of Abel with reverence, of you as though you were an extension of the altar itself—a sacred object to be placed, given, assigned. 

You felt your throat tighten as one elder leaned forward, their voice soft but deliberate. “Mother Maria, with all respect, we cannot deny the strength of his character. He has brought stability, even in the face of tragedy. Perhaps he is exactly what they needs—a man who can uphold appearances while serving the divine.” 

Your mother’s gaze darkened, her frown deepening. “Appearances are not enough,” she said sharply. “The vessel must be bound to someone who embodies faith and tradition. Fyodor is neither. He is an outsider, a stranger who has only begun to understand our ways.” 

Another elder shifted in their seat. “And who, then, would you propose?” they asked carefully. “Abel’s passing has left us with few options. The sacred vessel cannot remain unbound.” 

The room grew heavy with silence, the air thick with unspoken tension. 

Finally, your mother spoke again, her voice steady but cold. “There are others. Men whose families have served this community for generations. Men whose loyalty is proven, not assumed.” 

Her gaze swept across the room, her authority pressing down like a weight. “We will not make this decision lightly. And we will not make it tonight.” 

Her words were final, the tone leaving no room for argument. The murmurs faded into uneasy quiet as the elders began to rise, their robes rustling softly as they filed out of the chamber. 

You remained seated, your hands clenched tightly in your lap. The flickering candlelight cast wavering shadows on the walls, but the weight in your chest remained still, solid. 

When the chamber was nearly empty, your mother turned to you, her expression hard but laced with something else—something close to fear. 

“I will not allow this,” she said, her voice low. “You may think him charming, but I see what the others cannot. There is something... unnatural about him.” 

Her hand rested on your cheek, soft almost possessive. “You will be promised,” she continued. “But not to him. Never to him.” 

She rose, her robes sweeping the floor as she left the chamber. The sound of her footsteps faded, leaving you alone in the suffocating quiet. 

You stared at the candlelight, its faint glow reflecting in your eyes. You wondered if she was right to be afraid. 

--- 

Days passed, but the elders’ conversation lingered—a quiet echo in the moments you least expected. Would Fyodor be a good match? The question felt like a cruel jest. It didn’t matter, not really—not when your mother had made her feelings about him painfully clear. Her disdain, her insistence that his presence near you was sacrilege, kept him at an arm’s length even now. 

And yet, for all her hatred, Fyodor stood apart from anyone else. Abel was predictable, the others distant, and even you could only see yourself in fragments. But Fyodor? Fyodor saw you whole. 

And what he saw terrified you. 

It wasn’t just that he seemed to know you better than anyone else. Sometimes, it felt like he knew you better than you knew yourself. 

But more frightening than that—the thing you couldn’t admit, not even in the quiet of your mind—was how you reached for him in return. Like forbidden fruit, dangerous and tempting, he pulled you in with a force you couldn’t resist.

The embers of the ceremonial pyre glow faintly against the night sky, casting restless shadows over the clearing. The others have gone, their murmured prayers and reverent footsteps swallowed by the forest. You should have left with them. You should be anywhere but here, but the ceremony lingers in you like a weight you can’t shake off. The sacred blood on your arms feels heavier than it should, its warmth long gone.

You stare into the dying fire, hoping its last flickers will burn away the unease twisting inside you. But it doesn’t. It never does. 

“Still here?” Fyodor’s voice drifts toward you, as though he’s been waiting for the moment you’d be alone. 

His voice slips through the stillness, soft and smooth. You don’t turn. You don’t need to. Fyodor’s presence isn’t loud—it doesn’t crash or demand attention. It seeps into the space like smoke, slow and inevitable. 

“You seem to always find me,” you say, your voice quieter than you intended. 

“I wasn’t looking,” he replies, his tone smooth and unhurried. “It’s just that you’re always where I expect you to be.” 

You glance over your shoulder and find him leaning against one of the great trees that ring the clearing. The white of his robe catches the firelight, making him look ghostly against the shadows. His posture is as it always is—calm, controlled—but his eyes hold something sharper, something that makes your pulse quicken. 

“I needed a moment,” you murmur, turning your gaze back to the fire. 

“To think?” he asks, stepping closer. 

“To breathe.” 

“That is because you give so much,” he says softly, and his words cut through you with an unsettling precision. “But what does it give you in return?” 

You flinch, the truth of his question striking a nerve you didn’t know was exposed. “It’s not about what I get,” you reply, though your voice trembles. “I told you before...It’s my purpose.” 

“And who gave you that purpose?” he presses, his steps slow as he closes the space between you. “Did you choose it? Or was it chosen for you?” 

His words dig into you like thorns, and you pull your arms closer to your chest, as though shielding yourself from the weight of his gaze. “It doesn’t matter,” you say sharply. “It’s what I’m meant to do.” 

“But does it feel that way?” he murmurs, his tone softening in a way that feels more dangerous than his earlier sharpness. 

You look away, your breath hitching as his presence presses against you—not physically, but in a way that feels just as real. You want to step back, to break the pull he seems to have on you, but instead, you find yourself leaning toward him.

“The divinity that was pushed onto you,” he murmurs, his voice dipping lower, almost reverent. “It will stain your fingers and mouth like a pomegranate. It will swallow you whole and spit you out, wine-dark and wanting. And still, you’ll reach for it, again and again.” 

You take a shaky breath, your chest tightening. “Why are you saying this?” 

“Because you deserve to ask the question,” he says simply. “Because no one else will let you.” 

You want to argue, to push him away with words that make sense, but all you can feel is the ache in your chest, the way his presence seems to burrow under your skin. His words are too sharp, too close to truths you’ve tried to ignore, and yet you can’t bring yourself to step back. 

You glance at him, searching for something in his expression—mockery, cruelty, anything that might give you an excuse to dismiss him. But his gaze is steady, unflinching, as though he’s been waiting for this moment. It unsettles you, the way he looks at you. Not with reverence, not with the awe you’re used to, but with something deeper. Something you can’t name. 

“I should go,” you say finally, though the words feel hollow, turning away from him and started walking.

“Should you?” he says, his soft but relentless, stopping you in your tracks, “You are trying to flee from the truth.” 

The weight of his words pulls at something deep inside you, something you’ve tried to bury beneath years of ritual and obedience. Your chest tightens, your heart pounding against your ribs as you search for an answer, but none comes. 

“You let it take everything,” he continues, stepping even closer, “and you ask for nothing in return. Not even its mercy.” 

“Stop,” you whisper, though there’s no force behind the word. 

“Why?” His gaze burns into you, the intensity of it making your skin prickle. “Because you’re afraid of the answer? Or because you already know it?” 

The air feels too thick, too heavy, but you can’t seem to move. You lower your gaze, the words tangling in your throat as your chest tightens. “I don’t... I don’t want to—” 

“To think about it?” he finishes your sentence for you, his voice softer now. “I know.” 

His words hold no malice, no triumph. Instead, there’s something almost tender in the way he says it, as though he sees the storm inside you and knows exactly how to navigate it. It’s too much, and yet you don’t push him away. You tilt your head, giving him the space to press closer. Letting his words sink into your soft skin.  

Fyodor stands close now, his presence steady but overwhelming, like a shadow that refuses to vanish. His words linger in the air between you, carving truths you don’t want to face. 

“So, this is where you are.” 

You stiffen, the sound like a blade slicing through the fragile stillness. Your mother, the High Priestess, steps into the clearing, her purposeful gait as deliberate as the firelight still flickering behind her. Her face is carved from stone, her fury tightly leashed. 

“Mother,” you say softly, turning to face her. 

Her gaze doesn’t land on you. Instead, it pierces Fyodor, her eyes narrowing with a quiet, terrifying intensity. “Fyodor,” she says, her tone dangerously calm. “You have a habit of overstepping your place.” 

He inclines his head, his posture unshaken. “High Priestess,” he greets her, his voice a smooth undercurrent. “I deeply apologize, I wasn’t aware I had stepped beyond the boundaries.” 

She steps closer, her movements slow and deliberate, the weight of her authority filling the clearing. “You are speaking to my child,” she says sharply, motioning toward you with a flick of her hand. “That, in itself, is overstepping.” 

Your mother’s gaze flicks to you then, her expression unreadable but heavy with disappointment. “And you,” she says, her voice quieter now but no less cutting. “Lingering here with him when I warned against it. Have I not taught you better than this?” 

You open your mouth to respond, to explain, but the words die in your throat. “I—” 

“Silence,” she snaps, the single word ringing out like a whip. “You shame me.” 

Her hand moves suddenly, and you flinch, expecting a blow, but instead, her fingers close around your wrist. Her grip is ironclad as she drags you forward, pulling you closer to where Fyodor stands. He watches silently, his expression unreadable, though his eyes follow every movement with unsettling calm. 

“This ends now,” she says, her voice a low growl. “If you cannot respect the boundaries I’ve set, I will remind you of them.” 

Her other hand rises, striking you across the cheek before you have time to process her words. The force of it makes your head snap to the side, your skin stinging as tears spring to your eyes. You bite your lip, refusing to cry out. 

Fyodor shifts, a flicker of something—anger, perhaps—crossing his face, but your mother’s gaze cuts to him before he can speak. “Do you think you’re exempt from consequence?” she says, her tone sharper now, laced with menace. 

“I wouldn’t dare,” he replies, his voice smooth but edged with defiance. 

Her eyes narrow, and she steps closer to him. Though she is smaller in stature, her presence feels overwhelming, like the weight of the heavens pressing down. “Kneel,” she commands, her voice heavy with authority. 

For a moment, you think he won’t obey. The air in the clearing is thick with tension, the space between them crackling like a live wire. But then, slowly, deliberately, he lowers himself to his knees, his posture still calm, still composed, as though he’s granting her a favor rather than submitting to her will. 

Your mother circles him like a predator, her steps slow and deliberate. “You think you’re clever,” she says, her voice venomous. “You think I don’t see what you’re doing, creeping into my flock, whispering your poison.” 

He doesn’t respond, his gaze fixed ahead, but you can feel the weight of his composure, the way it unsettles her. 

She stops in front of him, her hands folding neatly in front of her. “I warned you to stay away from them,” she says. “You chose not to listen.” 

She raises her hand, striking him across the face with the same force she used on you. The sound is sharp in the quiet night, echoing through the clearing. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even blink, as though the blow hadn’t even registered. 

“Your defiance will end,” she says, her voice cold. “Do not mistake my mercy for weakness.” 

Fyodor tilts his head slightly, and though he doesn’t smile, there’s something in his eyes that feels like a challenge. “Of course, High Priestess,” he says softly. “I am yours to punish as you see fit.” 

His words are obedient, but the tone beneath them feels like something else entirely—something darker, something that tightens the knot in your chest. 

Your mother turns to you then, her expression cold. “Look at him,” she commands. “This is what happens to those who forget their place.” 

You lift your gaze reluctantly, your eyes meeting Fyodor’s. There’s no trace of the humiliation your mother intended to inflict, instead, his gaze holds yours steadily, the weight of it grounding you in a way you don’t understand. 

“Do you understand?” your mother demands, her voice breaking the moment. 

“Yes, mother,” you say softly, though your chest feels hollow as you speak. 

She straightens, her authority radiating outward as she looks between the two of you. “This is the last time I will address this,” she says. “Please do not make me do something I will regret.” 

With that, she turns and strides out of the clearing, her long robes sweeping the ground behind her. The silence she leaves behind is deafening. 

You stand frozen, your cheek still stinging from her blow, your chest tight with shame and something else you can’t name. Fyodor rises slowly, brushing the dirt from his knees.

“You didn’t have to kneel,” you whisper, your voice trembling. 

He glances at you, his violet eyes sharp in the faint light. “Didn’t I?” 

His words twist in your chest, but you don’t have the strength to respond. Instead, you look away, the weight of his gaze almost too much to bear. 

“She sees you as her lamb,” he murmurs, his voice quiet but firm. “But even lambs grow restless.” 

You shiver, his words digging deeper than you want them to. Before you can reply, he steps closer, his presence steady but overwhelming. 

“Go,” he says softly, his tone gentler now. “She’ll be watching.” 

For a moment, you hesitate, your body refusing to move. But then you nod and turn, your steps unsteady as you leave the clearing. Behind you, the air feels heavy, as though it will never truly clear. 

That night, you were restless. Sleep didn’t come easily, your mind replaying the scene in the clearing over and over again—the sting of her hand, the weight of her gaze, and the calm defiance in Fyodor’s eyes. You felt raw, stripped bare in a way that made your skin prickle even in the stillness of your room. 

You avoided your father as much as you could. His presence, always so quiet, so small in the shadow of your mother’s, felt unbearable now. When he glanced at you during supper, his eyes gentle and searching, you looked away, unable to meet his gaze. 

He didn’t ask what happened. He never asked. But you knew he could see it in the way you held yourself, in the silence that stretched between you like an unspoken confession. 

And still, he didn’t press. He never did. 

The house was silent, but your thoughts were loud, the echoes of your mother’s fury and Fyodor’s calm threading through your mind until they tangled together, like wire impossible to separate. 

Even as exhaustion weighed on you, you lay awake, staring at the ceiling, feeling the sting of everything you couldn’t say. 

[class1akids]

Other than it being used as a piece for Bakugo’s redemption, what do you think of Midoriya becoming a teacher?

On paper it fits the theme of everyone can become a hero, but the execution was extremely poor.

First, there is no build-up of Izuku wanting to be a teacher or having a special talent for it (e.g. Momo and Bakugou got scenes of tutoring their classmates and being good at it or TDBK had the babysitter stint). It should have been an emotional moment of Izuku losing the last embers, being sad about it, searching for new meaning and then having a moment of realization that he can make a difference in other careers, like All Might suggested to him during their first encounter. Of being inspired by All Might, Aizawa, or other teachers at UA. But there is nothing.

Second, there is no connection between being a teacher and saving Tenko. Ochako's quirk counselling at least links back to Toga on paper and Shouto's interest in food / handmade dishes also ties in with his common interest with Touya that was the oay-off for their conflict. But Tenko who never went to school in the first place could not be saved by a hero school teacher. Or I guess you could make some kind of argument for indirect saving, because of Tenko's anger about "no hero came" and "he's smiling like there is noone he couldn't save", but then we should have seen Deku teaching lessons specific to Tomura's needs. But we don't see him teach at all.

Third, teaching in an elite hero school where the kids with the best quirks go feels like a privileged job he got thanks to his past deeds / connections, and less like saving the world. Not to mention the plothole of saying that heroes are becoming obsolete - but then how is Izuku going to make a difference teaching heroes who will be jobless in the future? It really falls apart once you look more deeply into it.

It's absurd that a small side-character like Fuyumi has more background to why she is a teacher than Deku. Not to mention Aizawa, who gets an entire arc in the Vigilante spin-off to explain how and why he chooses to be a teacher and it's a really well thought-out story.

So it's kind of weird that for Izuku after 400+ chapters and 6000+ panel time we get such a sloppy, haphazard career change where the "even if I had OFA, I'd still want to be a teacher" is a completely unearned line that has the audience rolling their eyes. (Maybe if Hori didn't waste 2 chapters on Ochako crying and 22 pages of the new chapter highlighting her butt, he would have had the time to pay attention to Deku's motivation and draw his ending more carefully).

[mullermilkshake]

My own little spin on something I hold very close to my heart, I hope this is a lil something you're looking for!! <3 @your-boba-tea

Phantom theOpera!SatoruGojo x Fem!reader

Feat. Suguru Geto, Masamichi Yaga, mentions Ino, Maki, Miwa.

Tags -> Yandere!, mentions and implies hanging, stalking, violence, obsession, dark, mentions of death, manipulation, physical harm

“Alright people, that's a wrap for now, go take a break!”

You slouched and groaned, the heat of the stage lights practically melting your makeup from your cheeks all the while still hung in Suguru’s arms as your cue dictated.

“This corset is really starting to kill my hips, I don’t know if I can keep this going until the end tonight.” You pulled away from him and waved the director off, adjusting yourself and slipping off the little shoes so that your feet were now bare.

“You’ll do fine,’ Suguru said, sliding off his own jacket and folding it neatly over his arm. “You were made for this part and after you do this show tonight, you’ll breeze past the others.”

It wasn’t the first time you had taken to the stage alongside Suguru Geto and it sure wasn’t the last either. Being veteran’s on stage sure helped create chemistry like no other, in fact you had not met someone like Suguru who made everything so effortless. So exhilarating.

You started your walk off stage, raising your arms and stretching your back out as much as the corset would allow. “Yeah… I just wish Miwa would sew in more flexible fabric, I feel so stiff.”

"Given the time period, it’s incredibly accurate.”

A scoff fell past your lips, “I don’t know how people sang opera in these, I can barely breathe.”

“Yet you have the voice of an angel.”

“You flatter me too much, Suguru. Some people might think you have a thing for me.” You paused and eyed him closely and he stopped just as you did just shy of the gathered stage curtain.

As though on cue, Suguru and yourself cringed at the mere thought of a relationship. Suguru shook his head, “Don’t give me nightmares, I won’t sleep otherwise.”

The absurdity of it made you chuckle. “Come on, you love me really, right?”

Being as close as you were, the pair of you were often met with speculation and assumptions to what your relationship really was. The two of you often shared a dressing room for the hell of it which usually led others to think the worst in your eyes, though you didn’t care.

Suguru had seen you naked more times than you cared to think. Kissing on stage came as naturally as taking a breath. But he just wasn’t your type. And you weren’t his.

He shook his head and playfully shoved you with his shoulder as he led you down to the dressing room. “I wouldn’t go that far, you whine a lot and it makes my head hurt.”

“Pfft! We all know you’re the biggest diva here and you should have taken the role of Carlotta. Such a primadonna.”

Suguru had a complaint about anything and everything, often stalling his cue because his hair just wasn’t right. Poor Maki’s body language brought her close to blowing a fuse huffing in front of him to put that strand of hair back in place.

“I was sure Maki was going to throw that blow dryer at your head the way she was cursing to herself.” Shaking your head disapprovingly, you wandered towards the little set of stairs to the dressing rooms.

“Thirty minutes you two, don’t be late and miss your cue this time.”

“Yes Masamichi.” Why the man was even saying your name was a mystery, you were on stage perfectly on time during every rehearsal.

Suguru matched your pace and leant over so his mouth was as close to your ear as he could. “He said your name because you’re insufferable.”

“How am I?” One step at a time, you stomped down them with a huff. “At least I’m on time.”

“You left to get take out and ended up twenty minutes late-”

“That was one time, Suguru. I thought we’d dropped that already?” You stretched again and opened the door to your dressing room, he followed you inside.

A chill ran down your spine and spurred on goosebumps down your bare arms. “Man, this dressing room always gives me the creeps, I always feel like I’m being watched. I really ought to ask Masamichi for a new one.”

“Like he’d actually allow it this close to the opening of the show. You’ll be fine, just don’t think about it.”

You sat down and faced away from the weird looking doorway which had long been wallpapered over, but the paper lining always seemed to deteriorate quickly no matter how much paper covered it. By now, there were countless theatre posters and programmes from previous endeavours stuck along the door line to hide it.

“That’s easier said than done. It’s like I'm being leered at all the time by some weirdo.” You stared back at the sealed door and tried to cast it from the back of your mind.

“Maybe it’s the ghost-”

“Don’t joke about that stuff, Suguru!”

“What?” He dodged your poorly thrown pillow and did his worst to hide his laughter. “There is a ghost here… some might even say a phantom-”

“I said stop it! You aren’t funny. There’s no such thing as ghosts.”

Suguru shrugged, flopping down on the little seat next to you in the corner and pointed his thumb over his shoulder to the dressing room door. “Do you remember the time that Masamichi called in sick and Gakuganji took over in his place for that week?”

You nodded with reluctance and Suguru continued his story. “He told me that there was a shadow of a man as tall as me running about the place up in the rafters with a scar running from his forehead, down to his chin. A phantom… And he just so happens to attach himself to one person in particular, wanting to give them tips and advice on how to improve their skill." He wiggled his fingers to enhance the creepiness. "I mean, who keeps giving you roses after each performance?”

“That’s you giving me roses every time, don’t act smart, asshole. And, now you’re just reeling off the plot for the performance tonight. You aren’t fooling me, Suguru Geto. I’m having a hard enough job trying to nail these notes, opera isn’t my strongest suit and I don’t need you putting childish stories into my head, you’re such a dick.” 

“And…” He paused dramatically. “I heard this ghost was even responsible for that death last year, you remember what happened to Ino?”

You shook your head and frowned at him. “That was an accident and you know it. The ropes got all tangled, it can happen.”

“Can it? Did you ever stop and really think about it?”

“Stop, you’re creeping me out.”

Suguru sat closer and wrapped his arm around you for comfort, pulling you in and resting his head on yours. “I’m sorry, I’m only kidding. But who knows, maybe the ghost will show up in the performance tonight? Will you really be kissing Nanami as the Phantom? Or will it be the ghost- boo!”

You flinched at Suguru’s fingers moving to poke you through the uncomfortable corset. “Suguru you fucker!”

This time, the pillow did not miss.

He laughed again and climbed up from the chair to avoid the barrage of pillow swings.  “I’m kidding- I’m kidding!”

“You better be!”

“Don’t be so dramatic, you scaredy cat.”

“I’m not dramatic, don’t be a shit stirrer!” Folding your arms angrily you got to your feet too.

His cheeky grin made your anger fester and he must have noted that because his expression fell just a little. “Wait here and I’ll get us a drink, you want some chocolate?”

“Of course. I do.” You poked your tongue out at him and watched him turn to leave.

“Anything for the lead star.”

“Ugh!” It was a little growl that left your throat once you were left on your own in silence. “He’s the insufferable one!”

Suguru Geto always pulled stunts like this. A main reason why he would never ever be your type of man to sweep you off your feet and cast in his arms towards the sunset. You wanted a man who cared for you and stopped others from putting you down whilst you lived your dream on stage.

The one thing you always wanted since you were a child.

And now you were doing just that.

Clearing your throat, you practiced some warm up and trilled your lips to loosen them and shivered. Turning to face the rest of the room, you froze on the spot and not because of the drop in temperature, but because the sealed door adorned with paper was now open.

It happened so…

You had no words. It just opened and you were none the wiser. 

“Suguru?” You called to no one, the whistled draft filtering out of the long tunnel as though calling you to enter it.

“Suguru, this isn’t funny.”

Still, there was nothing.

You took one step at a time, creeping towards the threshold to hold onto the flapping papers taped to the door. “If this is a joke, it’s not a funny one.”

No one responded.

I didn’t even know there was a tunnel behind this door.

Leaning past the threshold, your feet remained stuck where they were in the safe confines of the dressing room. The closer you got, the more the whistling air sounded like words.

You gasped and tripped, falling back right onto the floor. The wind had spoken your name. “Who’s there?”

The ghost- you shook your head as hard as you could to push the words Suguru tempted you with from your head. Stories like that could not come true, just pure fiction and it startled you over a bit of wind.

Suguru would not let you live this down.

There came that sensation of being leered at, right down the end of that tunnel. It set every single alarm bell off in your gut, yet it did nothing to stop you from getting up and taking another look.

“Show yourself!”

Movement from the end of the tunnel took your breath away but it did not cast you away. You remained where you were and waited for another bump of movement. All that came was your name again.

Had time slowed down? You finally stepped over the threshold and planted your barefoot on the scratchy cement, little rocks and dust collecting on the soles of your feet yet you didn’t care.

Even blinking took effort, though walking towards the sound became effortless as if it was coaxing you towards it, begging you to just take one more step.

Just one more step.

And another.

One more.

A second had passed you thought, yet you were at the end of the hallway looking back towards the dressing room, noting how the door seemed to close on its own. You did not pay too much attention until you were off again.

“I should… go back.”

Should you? Was it a good idea, or a bad one? You weren’t even sure where you were anymore, but you did not care.

Suguru will be looking for me… when was my cue again?

Blinking became difficult, breathing laboured enough to make you light headed and unable to realise at first that you had finally stopped walking. You were left stranded in silence with only the breathing of the room as though it were a rickety old rib cage expanding and retracting and struggling to keep its shape.

“I should…”

You noticed the music immediately and it sort of brought you out of your thoughts for a brief period of time. Music you had never heard before. Beautiful music. Stunningly played and well written wit a dark drawl in its notes with a hint of sadness like an aftertaste.

Stepping into the room and down the three little steps, a corner of the room came into focus that hadn’t been there initially. Someone was playing on a grand piano that could have been taken from the orchestra pit upstairs, in fact the person playing such beautiful music could have been someone from the orchestra pit.

No. That was an insult to the player, for they were far beyond the orchestra’s limits. Whoever it was, played the notes in such a way that it made your eyes weep and dampen your cheeks.

“You..” What could you say to this mysterious stranger?

“So you finally made it then?” He said, his arms moving so delicately along the keys they almost never touched.

“Uh… I don’t-”

“Come over here.” He did not turn to you, he just kept playing.

And like that, your feet were taking you over there straight to the mystery man who bore no aggression to you for infiltrating his… home? He never showed care it seemed, not until you stopped right beside him and observed him play.

The music stopped abruptly, his breathing lulled you into a sense of security when he stood where the height difference mattered. “Welcome home.”

Home? You were not home… Wait, where were you?

This stranger smiled at you like you were familiar. Like how Suguru would treat you. This man was nothing like Suguru, white hair fairer than snow, perfectly brushed back and flat as though he was ready to take the stage on Masamichi’s cue.

You might have even called him handsome had you gotten a good look at him in the low lit room of flickering candles. Half of his face had been hidden by a face covering. 

Just like the Phantom of the Opera…

“Who.. who are you?” You hadn’t pulled yourself from this trance you were in, but you were trying.

Was this who had been giving you the creeps from that dressing room this whole time?

“You don’t remember?” A flicker of annoyance moved past his face. His eye twitched a little whilst he studied your face.

“I don’t.” Shaking your head made the room spin. “I...I can’t remember you. I’m sorry.”

Now that the music had ended, you were certain that it was making you drowsy, so you intended to go back to your dressing room. He caught you as you turned to leave back the way you came, digging his nails into your arm and that seemed to wake you up.

“Ouch! Please don’t do that, I want to go.”

“I do so much for you and you repay me by doing this?” He almost growled, it stuck in his throat to threaten you.

“I really don’t know who you are, please let me go.” Tugging away from him only moved you. He stayed as he stood and glared at you like you had done something so unforgivable.

“Y’know, I waited. I bided my time until that weak little man left your dressing room for once to finally speak to you and you do this? You rub him in my face across the whole theatre like you know what you’re doing. Seeing that man kiss you makes my stomach churn and twist like it’s on fire- how could you do this?”

“I don’t know what you're talking about, I’m just a performer, it’s my job!”

“You’re so much more than that and you don’t even see it. I’m stuck down here, you’re a world apart and you are squandering it.” His tone was so calm, his grip never loosened. “He is stopping you from reaching your full potential.”

He, as in Suguru? You were fully aware of your situation and the room had twisted and morphed into something dilapidated and dusty. Forgotten. The pristine and perfect vision of music was shattered like glass.

“Please… Please let me go.” 

“You really don’t know who I am, do you?”

Reluctantly you shook your head and awaited his next emotional change, yet it never came. “This won’t do. You have a show tonight and I never miss your performances. I can’t keep you here, but if I let you go I’ll be forced to apprehend you if you try and leave.”

His expression was conflicted, his fingers around your arm never eased off and matched his wooden glare across the makeshift room. “You’ll do your part and I’ll come and get you after, no one will interfere, not if they don’t want another accident like last year.”

You couldn’t breathe, the air had gone from the room. ‘I heard this ghost was even responsible for that death last year, you remember what happened to Ino?’

“You can’t be the- Look, I don’t want any trouble, I just want to go back and play my role so I can go home!”

“And who do you think got you that starring role?” He yanked you back, closing the gap so that half of his exposed face was almost flush with your own. “I put your file on top of the pile when no one was looking. I got you that dressing room so we could be close to each other and I put those roses in your dressing room after every performance and you never noticed… I only want you to do your best.”

If the horrid pause in the room weighed any more, it would have crushed you. “I love you. I always have.”

Love? You didn’t even know the man.

“I’ll teach you, guide you and protect you so that you can be the best. But you have to trust me.”

That was the thing. You didn’t trust this man as far as you could throw him and he’d just admitted to stalking you and murdering someone.

It was paramount that you approached this with caution. “Okay… I’ll go now so I can get better for the show tonight.”

Fuck the show. I’m leaving and never coming back.

“You liar.” He said, his voice so low it was practically non-existent.

“What? No, no I promise!”

“Shit!" His breathing became ragged, his eye wider than before. "I have no choice... then you aren’t leaving until I can trust you.” He tugged your arm and pulled you towards the door you came through, kicking it shut and locking it tight right before your eyes. “You’ll just leave me like the others did, but I won’t be broken again.”

Others?

“I won’t, I’ll come straight back- please I promise I won’t do anything bad!” You struggled and pushed against him, never really noticing where your hands were moving.

You pulled the covering from his face and gasped at the long forehead to chin scar down his face, just like Suguru had said.

The Phantom was real?

The Phantom was real.

The Phantom was real and stood right in front of you, threatening your freedom with one tight grasp and an expression of hurt and betrayal laced in his eyes. Would you ever get past that locked door?

You missed your cue, again.

Okay but HEAR ME OUT YALL

Gojo as phantom of the opera??? I’m screaming.

I WILL PAY FOR SOMEONE TO WRITE OR DRAW THIS IM BEGGING ON MY KNEES

[atopvisenyashill]

Might be pretty puritan of me but i cannot bring myself to watch GOT completely by the absurd quantity of sex that there is in the show. I know that the books also have sex but idk It feels like if George actually wants to tell us something trough It and the one in GOT is just there to bait people in because sex sells.

YES like there’s no deeper meaning to like, bronn telling the rains of castamere story with a naked woman in his lap, they just did it that way bc they needed to fit their tiddy quota. and it doesn’t help that the sex scenes in got are kinda notoriously terrible to film & they also weren’t optional for women. they told sophie turner they were giving her a love story & then she got the scripts & she’s marrying ramsay & she’s said (and walked back in a suspicious way) that it was very traumatizing to shoot those scenes. it’s p common knowledge that esme bianco was not fond of being naked all the time. there’s very infamously a moment where the rape scenes w dany & drogo were so badly done that jason momoa had to yell “can someone get her a fucking robe” bc they just like. made emilia chill out naked when they called cut! it’s very difficult to get excited about like, the gendrya sex scene later on for example bc it’s like. did maisie feel pressured into this? it’s not like it’s uncommon! ya carice van houten is very sexy but if she at any point ever said “can i do this scene with my top on” would they have fired & replaced her like they did to the myrcella actress?

and it’s not even to say that george doesn’t have his own hang ups, but cersei isn’t just doing girl in girl to be titillating, there IS a reason for it! ya the way george describes the sex scenes like drogo/dany or the twincest sept sex is maybe kind of weird but there's a point to all of it, he follows those threads in a way the show really doesn't like to. like yeah of course part of jaime and cersei's divorce is jaime showing up and being um, incredibly pushy and rapey next to the dead body of their son, that's how those two use sex with each other, as a weapon, as a way to ignore their real issues, and jaime does it because he's upset about his hand and his attraction to brienne and the resurfacing of his feelings about being a knight and he's taking it out on cersei, while cersei lets it happen because she's grieving, because this is how sex is for her, its someone taking and her being forced to let them, at least with jaime it doesn't hurt. in the show they just like. basically just have him get mad and rape her and then never address it again. she kisses his stump. even when they adapt the stuff that's in the book, they strip it of all the context until it's just another rapey sexy topless scene.

it definitely doesn't help when we have hotd to compare either - yeah obviously they were really pushing the "look we had full frontal male" stuff (because sex sells) but aemond and sylvi and aegon are all Doing Something in that scene! they're not just talking shop at a brothel so we can have some sexy ladies in the back like decorations, like varys and littlefinger and bronn and tyrion are constantly doing.

[cinderblockgabbs]

Who is your favorite mark ego? And in wkm specifically? :D

DEFINITELY WILFORD Or William whichever one people like to call him more. I like him because even though he’s like weird as hell he’s also pretty sweet and whatever like he’s got this really cool duality to him and I love dualities in general.

One of my favorite things about him that I don’t really see that many people talking about (hopefully cuz I’m looking in the wrong places) is like HOW he changed from wkm to wmlw.

OBVIOUSLY when we see will go insane after wkm we’re like, “yeah that’s the change he’s just crazy now” And there’s not much further to go into cuz you already get the big picture you don’t have to go in depth to understand more that he’s not all there.

But if you do go into depth for him, you kinda notice that after wkm he regresses, stays the same AND grows all at the same time which I appreciate cuz that’s VERY realistic I’m like wow :DD

Regressions:

He witnessed a very anomalous thing of the DA and Damien and Abe and mark surviving thru things that definitely should’ve killed them (it did kill some of them but I’m sure Wilford never realized except for the DA). This messed up his interperatation of death to the point where he believes that sometimes people just come back to life like cockroaches or something. This makes him more prone to doing destructive and violent things cuz he thinks everything is a damn game.

TLDR his regressions are being more violent and more ignorant about other peoples safety

Stays the same:

Through wmlw and wkm he still holds the idea of like “life needs a bit of madness” so he still likes his absurdism. In the ddlc poems he says that it took a while to realize the world was “full of pricks” but I think he still operated like that back in wkm, he just didn’t ever consciously realize it. He’s still temperamental but to a lesser degree. He still likes being a jolly old chap ermmmm yeah

Oh yeah and he still drowns in his own denial and he knows it but that terrible guilt is something he just lives with like whatever

Growth:

After realizing everyone sucks he dawns this moral code of optimistic nihilism. If nothing in life makes sense and he can’t control what he doesn’t understand then he just appreciates life for what it is.

He also grows to become more understanding, cuz I’m wmlw when he sees that Abe is struggling to grasp onto his directionless reality, Wilford doesn’t just leave him like that with nothing to hold onto. he stops cuz he realizes he’s overwhelming Abe, he finds a way to relate to him with him saying “it was a bit of a Shock for me, too” and then gives Abe something that he’s familiar with, a direction to just “have fun” ISNT THAT SO BITTERSWEET UGH.

He says in Adwm that he’s “a forgiving person” i like thinking of that line as a Freudian slip. it’s not like he has that many things that he knows he should be forgiving for, but there are a lot of things that he wants people to forgive HIM for. I THINK this is a growth cuz he was pretty crazy about not wanting to feel like he was in the wrong and not caring at all about what anybody else thinks in wkm.

He’s apologized to like, Abe, the viewer, maybe like SOME other dudes not that much whatever but I like thinking he really wants to see mark again to apologize to him but that’ll probably NEVER HAPPPENN IN A GOOD NARRATIVE SENSE

He did see mark in the warfstache interviews Markiplier thing tho and tbh it feels like big brother doesn’t care about little brother for 5 minutes except for the part where he literally kills him. Again.

ANYWAYS YEAH I STARTED RAMBLING CUZ I LOVE WILFORD TOO MUCH maybe the duality thing I said is wrong I think hes less of a duality and more of a like spectrum maybe THANKS FOR ASKING THO AHHAHAHAHAHAH