#they know that those who cannot sacrifice anything will lose everything.

[qiu-yan]

based on this poll it seems we don't want lan wangji as chief cultivator

someone help him he's too morally good for politics :(

[iminmywritersdungeon]

Been thinking about Arcane and good parents v loving parents. Parents who care so so deeply but are toxic and poisonous.

Silco loves his daughter but he put a gun in her hand. He would give his life for that girl but he wouldn’t heal for her. He would burn the world to the ground but he wouldn’t plant a tree.

Vander seems cold and uncaring but he fights for those kids until his dying breath. He’s gruff and mean, he takes his kids things and he punishes them but he shows them what it means to live the way they do, what it means to be angry and to see where that anger goes.

Ambessa Medarda loves her daughter but she is a warlord, a conqueror. If her daughter fails to fit the mold then she will be conquered too. She will chisel away at the marble of her children and when the cracks become visible she will toss them out, and when golden tears bleed through the chips in the stone she will cry out “I did it for you!” And yet they are empty words. The golden sunburst of her daughter will wilt in her shadow.

Cassandra kiramman is so cold and venomous and like a disease to everything her daughter loves, but she also gets them a meeting with the council. She spreads her vulture wings over her daughter, clouding the sun, drowning her, and still dutifully feeds her when she asks oh so nicely, when she can no longer deny her.

Ximena Talis is both loving and good because she does what she needs to keep her son safe and by god does she love him. She will make the sacrifices and make the choices and make sure her son can live the life that he almost lost.

Singed is like Viktor’s father, but Viktor will be crushed underfoot if he cannot make sacrifices, love and legacy. He will tear his own body to shreds and he will look into that scarred face and he will feel his body destroy him.

And of course, there are Jinx and VI’s birth parents. We know nothing about them, not their names, who they were, whether they were cold or warm or caring or cruel. What we know is that they were on that bridge. What we know is that they wanted better.

Parenthood will rip you to shreds if you cannot handle it. It will riddle you with bullets and it will cry over your corpse are you willing to lose them, are they willing to lose you?

Is there anything so undoing as a daughter?

[nightprompts]

&. 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐚𝐭 𝐨𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬.

( dialogue  prompts  taken  from the script of  everything  everywhere  all  at  once  (2022),  directed  by  daniel  kwan  and  daniel  scheinert.  feel  free  to  edit  and  change  as  you  seem  fit. )

❛ you look really pretty right now. ❜

❛ stop changing the subject. ❜

❛ every day i fight, i fight for all of us. ❜

❛ what are you doing? what is wrong? ❜

❛ if i have to think about one more thing today, my head will explode. ❜

❛ you may be in grave danger. there is no time to explain.❜

❛ we can make our own way. please, come with me. ❜

❛ don't even talk to me about this because i won't remember.❜

❛ i am not your husband. at least not the one you know. i am another version of him from another life path, another universe. ❜

❛ i’m here because we need your help.❜

❛ sorry, very busy today. no time to help you– ❜

❛ all those years of searching have brought me here. to this universe. to you. ❜

❛ i’m here to tell you every rejection, every disappointment has led you here. to this moment. ❜

❛ i'm not ready to fight yet. ❜

❛ maybe we don't have a choice. ❜

❛ now, you can either come with me and live up to your ultimate potential, or lie here and live with the consequences. ❜

❛ i... want to lie here. ❜

❛ how often do people literally die laughing? ❜

❛ my husband won't even kill a spider. how are you the same person? ❜

❛ we are talking about infinity. if you can imagine it, somewhere out there, it exists. ❜

❛ how did i die? ❜

❛ i've seen you die a thousand ways. in a thousand worlds. in every single one, you were murdered. ❜

❛ what!? who wants me dead? ❜

❛ you’ve been feeling it too, haven’t you? something is off. your clothes never wear as well the next day, your hair never falls in quite the same way, even your coffee tastes... wrong. ❜

❛ maybe we would have been better off if we had never gotten married. ❜

❛ i never said that. ❜

❛ you didn’t have to. it’s the way you look at me. ❜

❛ can’t you see it? how wonderful it would be if you came with me? ❜

❛ i saw my life without you. i wish you could have seen it. it was beautiful. ❜

❛ shhh, you're not thinking straight. ❜

❛ what is worse than death? ❜

❛ i saw your face on a billboard and — this is silly — i wondered if you remembered me... ❜

❛ is it that i can’t be here, or that i’m not allowed to be here? ❜

❛ there is no good, there is no evil. there is only “goovil”. ❜

❛ if you can imagine it, you have fucked it. ❜

❛ do not be so closed minded that you blind yourself from the truth! ❜

❛ don’t make me fight you. i am really really good. ❜

❛ you're capable of anything because you're so bad at everything. ❜

❛ you can't remember anything because your bodies were under the control of other universes. ❜

❛ you were like puppets. and you could do things you normally can't do. you were like, what's that movie... raccaccoonie? ❜

❛ how can you defeat her in every universe, if you can't even kill her in one? ❜

❛ the sacrifices necessary to win this war... i know all too well. ❜

❛ i cannot lose another loved one to the darkness. ❜

❛ i know you have feelings. feelings that make you so sad. that make you just want to give up. that is not your fault. ❜

❛ i'll see you again soon, somewhere out there in all that noise. ❜

❛ just think happy thoughts. ❜

❛ you okay? caught you staring off into space again. ❜

❛ i'm the one you've been looking for. ❜

❛ i’m the one who will defeat you. ❜

❛ you’re finally free, like me. ❜

❛ you don't have to choose anymore. between loving me or hating me. you can do both at the same time. ❜

❛ before, you were asking about "our daughter". it's crazy, but it really got me thinking. what if you had come with me all of those years ago? ❜

❛ all of this time, i wasn't looking for someone who could defeat me. i was looking for someone who could see what i see, feel what i feel... ❜

❛ oh, good, you're here too. ❜

❛ i'm sorry about ruining everything, i– ❜

❛ we're all stupid. small stupid little humans. it's like our whole deal. ❜

❛ everything is going to be okay. ❜

❛ you think i’m weak don’t you? ❜

❛ when we first fell in love all of those years ago, your father would say i was too sweet for my own good. maybe he was right. ❜

❛ please! can we just stop fighting! ❜

❛ you tell me that it's a cruel world and we're all just running around in circles. i know that. i've been on this earth just as many days as you. ❜

❛ the only thing i do know is we have to be kind. be kind. especially, when we don't know what's going on. ❜

❛ i know you go through life with your fists held tight. you see yourself as a fighter. well, i see myself as one too. this is how i fight. ❜

❛ in another life, i would have really liked just doing laundry and taxes with you. ❜

❛ you know what i say? cold, hysterical, unlovable bitches like us make the world go round. ❜

❛ you aren’t unlovable. there is always something to love. ❜

❛ even in a stupid, stupid universe where we have hot dogs for fingers, we’d all be very good with our feet! ❜

❛ in a universe where we both agree that no one could love you, if we look hard enough, something will prove us wrong. ❜

❛ we are all useless alone. so its good you're not alone. ❜

❛ maybe you win in this universe. but in another, i beat you. or we tie. or we eat crepes. ❜

❛ i don't want to hurt anymore. and for some reason when i'm with you, it hurts both of us. ❜

❛ out of all of the places i could be, why would i want to be here with you? ❜

❛ i still want to be here with you. i will always want to be here with you. ❜

❛ i will cherish these few specks of time. ❜

[milkywayes]

just… thinking about the tragedy of shepard and garrus. their relationship evolves as we watch - from mentor and mentee, to trusted friends, to supportive partners. the field between them evens out. walls are broken down. thresholds are crossed. she goes from ‘the best humanity has to offer’ to disavowed shadow operative to the tip of the spear in a probably-unwinnable war. he goes from eager-to-prove-himself hotshot to disillusioned outlaw to what’s probably the second most important person in the hierarchy.

it’s such a long way to come. there’s so much to get through to end up where they are.

and both of them only really come into power once it’s already almost too late to do anything with it. everyone else is also facing extinction but these two feel the weight of all those lives so acutely because of the positions they’ve been given.

but if they’re in love. if they go through all of that and fall in love in the process. if they open their hearts while everything around them is literally about to end forever. if he’s the glue holding her together and she’s the only hope he can still believe in. then they’re building their partnership in a graveyard. they both know, this might be all they get. this is probably it. and everyone else - they have it bad, but there’s just a unique tragedy here with shepard and her love interest in that she will save the galaxy, but chances are, she cannot save herself and that means she also cannot save the one who loves her more than anyone else.

these two people working tirelessly to stave off the end of everything, the weight of the galaxy on their shoulders and only each other to lean against, and they’re the ones who pay the price to end the war. they come all this way only for her to give up everything, and for him lose the only guiding light he’s ever had - at best, for a time, and at worst, forever. he might put the plaque on the memorial wall or he might not, but either way their sacrifice is so fucking heavy.

he holds her together until the end and she’ll use it to shatter herself on the citadel. she’s his guiding light and it’ll go out when the path ahead of him is at its least clear, its most daunting.

the war is won, but they’re the ones who lose, and it makes me insane just to think about.

[nthspecialll]

When it comes to Dutch Van Der Linde and Evelyn Miller, it is natural that there are going to be parallels, such as they both excuse their suicides by not being able to fight their own nature, as Dutch was an avid follower of Evelyn, however it goes way deeper than that.

The main theme of the three Evelyn Miller books is that man is a creature of both action and thought, if he was just action he would be animal, was he just thought he would be god, however America in its attempt at bettering itself has denied itself thought and descended to the way of animals and as such is being led by a desire for desire for earthy possession to its death.

"Men are fixated on greed, on desire, and on the acquisition not of experiences or pleasures but the ability to acquire. People are fixated on wealth. Man is reduced to the desire for desire. Wanting is all that matters. Not loving, not being, not having, but wanting. We are killers for desire."

Man does not want something, the man wants to want, and while it has cut itself from thinking, it has cut itself from loving, from feeling, from being. And while Dutch seems to want to change this America and slowly descend into the wanting man, he was always the wanting man.

While the want for a better world seems to be making Dutch a better man than a person like Colm who simply desires money, it is not truly the only desire he has. Dutch shows desire from the very start from the small thing.

He has a stunning woman like Molly who has given him everything, yet he wants a young girl like Mary-Beth whom he practically raised.

He has, yet he still wants.

Throughout the game, Dutch asks for loyality, for faith, but he cannot get more for the entire camp has given it to him, they have given him their life for him to lay in the ground should he so wish. He has it, yet he wishes for more, he asks for more, and as he asks for more he gets less. It is his constant asking, pleading as if he has the right to their lives that causes them to take it from him. They realize his greed and withdraw because it isn't that they will not give more, it is that they cannot.

Dutch is the symbolism of the America that Evelyn Miller hates, the man who takes and takes, the man who does not desire for anything other than desire itself. Even with all the talk of heroism and ideolism, he is as much as a slave to desire as the America he has vowed to hate.

"For inside, he is nothing, so all that moves him, all that he understands is the external, the great churning sea of desire. It is not freedom. It is an impression of freedom for people who have not the capacity to see further. And why can they not see further? Because they have not been taught to see."

He might be aware of this desire, because he knew that like a drug he was addicted to desire and if not freed he would lose himself. He reads Evelyn Miller not for the chance of a better world but for the chance of an out. He knows he is empty, he knows he is desire and he wishes to be freed from it.

He watches as he hurts, he watches as he pushes away all those around him because desire overtakes him. While freedom from the desire he is a slave to seems better, the urge to continuing the search is stronger, continuing to desire is stronger, what morphine is to Swanson, desire is to Dutch, while Swanson found salvation, Dutch found a steep decline.

"Mutate us into thinkers who can never quite think for we have been denuded of the ability to feel?"

For in the end Dutch lost himself, his desire took away his ability to feel, his emotions, in the end Dutch's desire to desire became stronger than his desire to help his family, his people, the people he had vowed to protect. He would rather sacrifice those whos trust he had gained and had abused, yet continued to demand, than he would sacrifice his desire for desire.

"We are not fools, for fools cannot see their idiocy. We are somehow, worse than fools, for we will ourselves to do things of such profound stupidity despite knowing that we hate what we have built.-" "-we are as Adam, eating once more of the apple, only this time knowing full well of the consequences."

Dutch continues to rage on, he continues to hurt, he continues to demand faith, loyalty and life knowing that he hurts those around him, knowing what the outcome will be, however he cannot stop. He is a fool for he knows the outcome will not be good, he knows he is driving Arthur, John and Susan away, he knows that they are finally starting to see who he is, whom he has always known he is but has hidden from their sight, fearing that they will leave him. His desire for unending loyality is as based in fear as it is in desire itself. He needs them to rely on him to be able to feel achieved, to be able to justify his desire and mask it as a search for a better world.

And while Dutch may be aware of this, he has yet to admit it as Evelyn does in his final book which he died writing.

"But still my thoughts came upon me like wolves. My needs swamp me. My desires overwhelm me."

But what came of his desires in the end, at the end of his life? His desire had changed, while he still desired, he did not desire for desiring, he desired for an end, for the hurt to stop, he had seen what he had caused yet he could not admit to it openly. In the end he jumped because he could reach his desire without breaking the facade that he had build.

"I ran mostly because I am a terrible coward, but also in part because I was searching for something. In this way, I was both vain and a coward."

Is part of Evelyn's final book, he admits his cowardism and while Dutch never came to read this and would never have admitted to his own cowardism, he would have understood, however not in the way that Evelyn Miller wished to be understood because that kind of understanding required self awareness and acceptance that Dutch could never dream of achieving.

Evelyn Miller swore to finish his book before eating and as the book did not come together he knew that his end was near. While food was laying in his cabin he had the strength to starve himself to death, he had the strength to be able to stick to the promise he had made, and he knew he was dying because he wrote that he wished to be burned so he could fly with the eagles rather than rot in the ground with the worms, and as so he did.

Evelyn's death might seem foolish, because how can he continue on his desire when he is dead? But the truth is that from an academic point of view it makes sense because he pursued knowledge not for the practical use but for the beauty in it. He died searching, he died following his desires yet his death was not his final desire. He knew that by sticking to the promise that he would not eat before he had finished writing meant that he would never be able to continue searching, he would be obstructing himself from ever pursuing his desires again and because of that he freed himself from them. In his death he was free from his desires and he gained the freedom of the eagles he wrote about in his final wish.

Dutch on the other hand, his desire was death, he gave in to his direct desire and because of that he was trapped by them even in his after life, he was trapped to the mortal desires in death and as such trapped to the ground with the worms while Evelyn were free to roam the skies.

[babbling-idiot]

I feel like I'm speaking to an empty audience, but the lack of content for Kanduu is so shocking :o His character is really interesting to study and I'd love to read some romance on him yk? Idk, what's your take? I'd take any writing on him at this point lol 🍂 hope you have a nice one :)

(The speed in which I wrote this is record setting. So please enjoy this!)

It's 1879, and Kanduu is a mere two weeks away from going to war. He knows he cannot escape this and is completely prepared to sacrifice what he must, to win the battle. His mind is racing with thoughts of the inevitable deaths of his comrades. On the outside, he is a fearless leader, stone-cold and cunning. He fears nothing, has nothing to lose, and nothing holding him back, he says to those who question him. On the outside, he is a mere tyrant of the British military. Sadly, on the inside, he is nothing of the sort. He does have something to lose and he does have a great fear. You.

When he met you, he was speechless. You were this beauty. This extraordinary human being whom he enjoyed the presence of. He couldn't say the same for others. All the other people who he fancied were only there for a moment. Not staying long enough to create a real memory of any kind, ones that mattered. They all only wanted him for the pleasure of his body. He wanted something long-lasting, something he could create life with. A family. You were everything he wanted and more. You were perfect in every way.

The day he left was the day he promised you the world. He promised a ring, a home, a family if you wanted it, happiness, and anything and everything you could possibly want. You told him you'd wait for him. You would be there when he got back.

You were true to your word, but fate was not on your side. The day he left; you were taken from this life in a freak accident. Taken back to your home country to a gravesite unknown to the public and buried with past family and ancestors.

The following events in his life came quickly and were over before he could take it all in. He had found the mysterious carving in the temple he had been thrown through. After the words he spoke healed him, not only did he realize his true path, but he also realized that this newfound power could give you more than just everything. He could give you the world. So, with excitement, he was able to get back to the place he had met you before. However, when he asked around about you, everyone gave him the same look, sadness, sorrow, and condolence. When he finally questioned these strange looks, he was met with the sad news of your passing. He looked everywhere for your grave. Nearby gravesites, neighboring ones, and further. Sadly, your name was never found.

Heartbroken and angered, he went along with his plan.

Many long years of life and concealment later. You were born yet again. Your ancestor who had passed from that unfortunate accident and buried in their family gravesite had a sister, who had her own children, and so on. In which you were brought into this world. You had been traveling for some time and had decided to stay in a town named Port Lawrence. You loved it there. The school and everything reminded you of your own hometown. You decided to work at the school, specifically in the library. You were known among the children as a chill and cool person. Which they all felt comfortable with. They couldn't say that about some other teachers. You had gotten the job and had the extreme pleasure of meeting a man named Nathan Bratt, who was the English teacher who had just arrived not long before you.

A certain group of seniors had just left for a trip to Seattle. Nathan Bratt had just retrieved a certain ventriloquist dummy, and you had no idea of the horrific events that would take place in mere moments outside of your front door.

You are sitting in your living room. A book in your hand and a warm beverage on a coaster. Soft music is playing, and you have no worries at all. Realizing you are feeling a bit hungry, you get up to see what you have stored in the kitchen. Before you can make it far, a knock sounds through your house. You aren't expecting anyone, but you answer anyway. Walking to the front door and looking through the peephole, you see nothing. Opening the door cautiously, you still see an empty porch. Opening it fully, you step out and look around. As you scan around, there is no one in sight, that is until you look towards your mailbox and there you see a man. He is tall with shoulder-length dirty blonde hair. He wears a wonderfully tailored suit that compliments him well. The red ascot around his throat sits snug inside his jacket. His face is yet, so familiar. You feel like you know this man.

"Hi! Can I help you sir?"

He just smiles and continues to look at you. The wind blows softly, and something speaks to you. As if beckoning you closer to him, you listen to it. You step off your porch steps and begin towards him. He walks toward you as well. Though you have a curious look on your face, the look of shock, happiness, and love on this man's face outmatches yours. When you are mere feet away, he takes a deep breath and swallows the lump in his throat. He looks to his feet.

"I know I am unknown to you. You do not recognize me. A long time ago, I fell in love. The person I loved, who I planned to marry, was taken away from me in a tragic accident before I could do so. I wanted a life with this person. I had to leave for the war, but I said I would be back to make my promise true, but I was too late. It broke my very being, my heart wrenched at the news of the passing. You may not recognize me, but my dear, I recognize you. And if you'd allow me, I would very much like to know more about you."

A moment passes and the breeze brushes your skin yet again.

"You're right. I don't recognize you."

His expression falls for a moment before you continue.

"But you do look very familiar. I know I've never seen you before, but I feel like I should know who you are. I guess only for a quick chat, you can come inside."

Something deep within you trusted this man with everything. You led him to your home and inside. He looked around your home for a moment before following you to your living room. Sitting on the couch, you begin talking. For hours. You talked of his life and his time with your ancestors. You told him of your life. Only after telling him of that, the silence overtook the room. Time seemed to slow down significantly as he slowly started to scoot closer and closer. Soon, his thigh was pressed against yours. His face was inches away, and you could smell his scent. It invaded your thoughts. Soon, the scent alone made your brain so foggy that all you could focus on was his lips and his eyes. The way he would smile and smirk, knowing exactly what you were thinking at that moment. You would look into his eyes and would catch him looking at your lips. He leaned closer, ghosting his lips over yours before teasingly pulling away to bring his lips up next to your ear before gently whispering.

"I want you. So badly."

He says as he kisses the lobe of your ear and moves down slowly to the side of your neck. He kisses there for a few moments before nipping at the sensitive skin there. He chuckles when you gasp loudly. At this point, you both have begun to get restless. He is panting against your neck as he bites and nips at you. Occasionally kisses the place he bit. He is desperate to make his brain realize that this is real and not some cruel dream his mind made up to torture him. You are panting as well at the feeling of his lips working your sensitive skin. He finally begins to stand and grabs your hand to bring you along. He continues to kiss, nip, and suck small bruises in each place his lips touch. He walks you both toward the nearest wall. Your back hits it and he is looking down at you with a look of pure lust. He seems satisfied with his work on your neck before finally moving to your lips. He kisses you, only for a moment before pulling away with a look of heartbreak.

His hands clench in frustration before he unclenches them and places them delicately on your cheeks. His breathing is almost labored.

"I dreamt of you. I wished for you. I searched the world for ways to bring you back to me. If you leave me again, I'm afraid I may never recover. Please, please don't leave me again."

He says as his eyes water slightly. You place a hand on his cheek, leaning close, bringing your lips to his in a sweet and soft kiss. Pulling away, you look into those blue eyes.

"Never."

[revelisms]

Braindumping about Silco and Vi, because these two are such fantastic narrative foils for each other—and, in the same breath, completely cut from the same cloth.

I keep wishing they had more scenes together, another square-off, something to put them head-to-head—because there's so much potential for them to counteract the layers of each other.

At the root of it all, Vander's looming between them, this monolith of a presence that ties their pasts together. But above that, still, we have Jinx—who not only is their driving tension, but their greatest possibility for reconnection.

Here, we have Vander's daughter—someone who, for all intents and purposes, has become what he wanted, but who has also been someone he saw too much of himself in; who he did his best to reshape, instead of enable, and who put him on a pedestal, and truly saw him as hers, more than perhaps anyone (except, well, Silco).

Vi treasured Vander, fully looked up to him as her father—and losing him shattered her. In between all the layers of it, there's this underlying thread in his actions towards her, a tension that just sits with her through Act 1—Do as I say, not as I do (or, rather, as I did).

Here, we also have Vander's partner—someone who knew him before, knew what he was, what he resented, and what he became, instead; and who bears the scars of what all their fallout grew to be. Someone who holds the memory of him tangibly, in multiple respects, as though it is something he physically cannot sever: Vander's knife, the Drop—and even, in some ways, Jinx.

Silco is still clinging to the idea of Vander, throughout the entire series. To the potential in their reunion at the cannery; to the reassurance of what he knew him to be (I knew you still had it in you; Vander wasn't the man you thought he was); to this need he has to still speak to him, even after everything.

But Vi was raised with the burden of being the eldest; being the one most capable of providing protection—and, as a consequence, with the burden of responsibility.

She's not only a sister to Jinx. She's a guardian to her—and in many respects, a stand-in mother. And Silco, as a surrogate father, is standing right in the middle of that. A roadblock between "Powder," as Vi knows her sister as, and "Jinx," as Silco knows his daughter to be.

Right at the forefront, we have so much conflict here. Vi is so similar to Vander, to the point that she is nearly his spirit incarnate—so much so that having her resurface from a presumed grave just sets fuel to fire for a vendetta Silco has never been able to snuff out.

But beneath that—far beneath that—they have so much in common. Vi's headstrong rebuttals in Act 1 about going against Piltover and striking them down, about being made to feel lesser her whole life and needing to fight against it, just sings with Silco's anger in the cannery (You'd die for the cause, but you won't fight for one?).

These are two kindred spirits, two revolutionaries willing to do anything for their city and those they love, and who aren't afraid to fight for it. Who want to fight for it.

But trapped between it all, we have Jinx. Someone Vi is not willing to sacrifice (i.e., her memory of Powder), and who Silco, by the end of the series, isn't willing to sacrifice, either (i.e., his loyalty to Jinx).

Vi, of course, could never fathom Silco being a father to Powder (how could she, after he is the reason Vander was taken from her?)—and looks for justifications for her hatred, in everything he does.

But the unfortunate truth of the matter is that for all Vander cherished and nurtured Vi as a vision of himself—so has Silco, to Jinx. He sees himself in her. He has empowered her, cherished her. He is so incredibly tender with her, in his own ways. And—for all his absolute faults, his skewed morals, his tunnel-visioned zealousy to achieve Zaun—he is a good father to Jinx, just as Vander was a good father to Vi.

The question I keep finding myself mulling over, though, is whether these two could find elements of that, once again, in each other.

There are so many things Silco isn't—not only in Vander's shadow, but simply in the character that he is. He doesn't come in swinging; he plots, he strategizes, he fights with words. He isn't a warm presence, or a jovial one; he's chilling, he's dry, he's distanced. There are countless contradictions one can draw between the two of them—and so many layers one can tease apart, on how their opposites attracted each other, how they worked (a balance that will no longer ever be).

But there are so many things Silco is. He's critical, he's fiercely rational, he knows how to weave a crowd around his finger with a single intonation. He admires the outcasts, the scrappers, those that have dredged through society to claw for what they can. He surrounds himself with them—and he operates alongside them, as an equal as much as an usurper.

He's a flavor of parenthood Vi didn't receive, but could have—the one that would have validated her need to fight; who would have taught her that strength comes in numbers, not in one's single ability to protect; who would have seen her snarkiness, her quick wit on her feet, and taught her to use it to her leverage.

The tragedy of the whole series is that Jinx needs them both to have balance in her life—to keep the tether of her child self and her trauma from splitting her apart at the seams—yet for Silco and Vi, as the narrative destines them for (and as it destined Silco and Vander for), any semblance of a connection between them is doomed for destruction.

There's too much they hold fiercely to themselves, in their own traumas, that they cannot set down—even for the sake of Jinx's needs. They are equally selfish, in that way. They want the version of Vander that they are not willing to let go of; and they want the version of Jinx that they know her to be.

But they could change. They could.

Silco did, by the end. Chose his daughter, his legacy, over the cause, over his vision of progress. And Vi did, too. Chose "peace," chose to set down the gauntlets, chose politics (and—arguably—complacency, in the same way Vander did) as the path forward.

But what if they set it all down, for Jinx? What if they became what she needed, on both sides? A father who sees her, nurtures her, like Vander saw and nurtured Vi—and a sister who loves and protects her, like Vi loved and protected Powder; who could learn, maybe, to love and protect "Jinx," too?

And maybe—just maybe—Silco and Vi could learn to appreciate each other, for all their surface hatreds. Find mentorship, find balance again, in each other. And through it, Vi could learn that protection, responsibility, isn't the only quality to strive for. That even she can be nurtured again, too.

[thegeminisage]

star trek update time. last night we watched ds9's "favor the bold" and "sacrifice of angels."

favor the bold:

worf rescuing dax during these wartime bits is EXTREMELY sweet. i think this is like 2 or 3 times now? he loves her 🥺

i love all the big cgi shots of all the different ships...i feel like i could look at those forever just noticing the various differences

quark in this episode......................

quark e kira in charge of breaking rom out. quark/kira. QUARK/KIRA! odo who? he sucks. fuck odo.

i don't mean it. i'm actually going to try as hard as i can to forgive him because it would be too exhausting to hate him until the end of the series. but FUCK ODO!!! kira doesn't need him...quark is right there...

like, odo being busy in his room fucking the mommy changeling or whatever while rom was in JAIL and kira and odo weren't allowed to see him!!!! fuck off

THE BRIG SCENE???? where rom my king rom was like. like quark was fucking. TRYING TO COMFORT HIM? and rom was just like. brother you cannot save me from execution you've got to focus on saving everyone else first. and quark was like what the fuck is wrong with you. and then proceeded to save everyone else first???

AND THEN. HE FOOLED? DAMAR? INTO THINKING HE WAS ON HIS SIDE?

kira was also in amazing form this episode. first of all, her fucking beating damar to a pulp and daring him to do anything about it. her getting ziyal to finally turn on her dad. and most of all telling odo to sit on it and spin. literally go fuck your mother. she's amazing

nog!!! nog's little promotion. wah. about time.

sacrifice of angels:

WORMHOLE ALIENS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! i'm actually really nervous about it cuz sisko was like bajor is my home when i retire when i go home it's gonna be to bajor and they were like you will never find peace in bajor :)

it was still really cool to see them again though. i'm fucking obsessed

and like...imagine being kira, or any bajoran. and you work with sisko for five years and he's like man cmon im not jesus. stop treating me like im jesus. i dont believe in that shit. and then he goes into the wormhole to face down 2800 enemy ships and vaporizes them with his mind. buddy you're not beating the jesus allegations anytime soon or like ever

QUARK IN THIS EPISODE ALSO. everything up to him because everyone else got thrown in jail for being rom sympathizers. him kidnapping ziyal for help was brilliant. they made a good team for .5 seconds. i love also that he 1. murdered two guys 2. freaked the fuck out about it, which is exactly what he did in that one episode with the klingon lady

also, QUARK E KIRA!!!! "i'd kiss you quark but" NO! KISS HIM!!!!!!!!!!

ziyal......girl, rip. she got there in the end i guess. but holy shit, i didn't realize damar had it in him. if im being honest im glad they killed her and not rom, it looked dangerously close to heading that way i know i checked up on him on memory alpha but STILL

what was really fun about it was dukat snapping. that wasn't where i saw his arc going but him totally losing it and then giving sisko back the baseball vs sisko triumphantly taking the baseball back...wow. that prop held so much weight over these 6 episodes and i was wondering how it was gonna pay off and it paid off REAL good

odo's change of heart.....................................

look. in theory, i LOVE him having a struggle and coming down on the side of the federation because of, primarily, kira. i just think his "betrayal" came out of nowhere, he was instantly telling this mommy changeling all his deepest secrets and then linking with her without any lead up or build up. if he had been struggling beforehand, if he had still been human and wanted it taken away from him, this i would understand. but his "betrayal" had no meat to it, so his change of heart doesn't feel very meaningful either. so like i want to care but i don't.

that said, when she asked why he changed his mind and he said "i think you know the answer" that was. pretty good. that was pretty good. it makes me hopeful that odo and i can get past this very rough place in our relationship :(

TONIGHT: finally back to voyager to catch up on all the voyager we skipped to watch ds9 three nights in a row. we got "day of honor" and "nemesis," for realsies this time

[daybreakrising]

AN EYE FOR AN EYE - A VAUTRIN DRABBLE

i hope you guys are ready for 4,000 words of pure suffering-

CONTENT WARNING: as this focuses solely upon the crime he committed, there will be depictions of death and violence, mentions of blood and other grisly details (but nothing overly graphic!), and there will be references to carole's 'self-sacrifice' (again, in no great detail). if any of these things make you uncomfortable, either proceed with caution or give this one a skip entirely. your choice. (as anything potentially triggering is going to be under the cut and therefore requires your decision to view it, i won't automatically be tagging this post with content warnings - particularly as i've already given a warning above. but, if you need me to tag something, please just say the word and it'll be done!)

He has always been a man of resolve.

Once he sets his mind to something, he cannot be persuaded otherwise. There is no chance, however slim, to sway him from that which he has committed himself to. In the past this has been both a blessing and a curse – it has earned him praise and acknowledgment, situated him in a position of great privilege and respect, but it has also stripped him of his family, soured what were once fond memories and joyful hobbies. Tonight, he cannot tell which way the scales tip. Perhaps, he muses, it is an even balance of both.

It has been a long time coming, he thinks. Perhaps he has simply been doing this job for too long, but he has become increasingly disillusioned with the system he has stood for his entire adult life. He has grown weary of the injustice running rampant in the courts; embittered by the prejudices of the people around him. They will never learn, he tells himself, until they are given a lesson they cannot forget.

He had hoped – oh, he had hoped – that he would be proven wrong. That his endless pessimism, as Carole had called it, would be thwarted. That he had dared to dream at all is telling enough of her influence upon him. She gave him that hope, and it nearly died with her. But he is nothing if not resolute, and there is but one small spark of hope left within him. A singular light in the dark.

If there is anyone who could threaten his unshakeable resolve, it is the Iudex of Fontaine.

Already he can visualise the man's face as he looks down on him from his seat of power – a seat that represents justice – and the expression that will likely sit upon that striking visage. Stoic, unreadable, to the common eye, but he will know better. He will see so much more in those otherworldly eyes, in the slightest furrow of his brow. Will it be anger? Grief? Betrayal?

Disappointing Neuvillette is the price he must pay, and it is a heavy price indeed. His chest aches with the thought of losing his last remaining connection on this earth. He is not simply cutting the ties that bind them – he is burning them. There is no going back after this. They can never go back. It is a loss that sears him from the inside, a loss that melds with the grief still raw and agonising in his heart. He would go mad with it, were it not for the purpose he has still to serve. The purpose that puts one foot in front of the other, that carries him along his path even when the weight of everything he must do threatens to bury him.

The list of names sits within the inner pocket of his jacket, but it is merely for evidence – those names are burned upon his memory like a brand. Many of them are already familiar to him, subjects of interest in the increasing protests against Melusine cohabitation. He has personally arrested some of them before for disturbance of the peace, for vandalism, for threats of violence. Yet here they are, free to continue their crusade of hatred.

It has to end.

He finds the first exactly where he expects to: a quiet side street commonly used as a cut-through by drunkards staggering home after last orders. The man leans against the stonework, fumbling with the buttons of his breeches, predictably about to commit a minor offence that would likely earn him nothing more than a fine and a slap on the wrist. His muttered curses drift through the still and silent night as Vautrin approaches like a ghost. If the man hears the soft whisper as a blade is drawn from its sheath, he is too late to react – Vautrin's hand clamps over his vile mouth to quell the choked gasp of breath as steel punctures through cloth and flesh alike.

The man is tossed to the ground like the trash he belongs amongst. Dark eyes watch as a single hand gropes across the now slick pavement, reaching for – what? Help? Pitiful. There is no one to help him here. It only takes a firm nudge with the toe of his boot to roll the man onto his back, to force him to look at his assailant. Vautrin wants him to know who did this to him. He wants him to know why. But there is no recognition in eyes now wide with fear, and there is no time to enlighten this worthless bag of bones.

The tainted steel of his blade catches the glow of the streetlamp at the end of the street as he raises it a second time. There's no need to muffle his dying gasps this time. He no longer has the vocal cords to utter them. The captain crouches to watch the light leave those frantic eyes, to be certain of the end. He reaches into his pocket, withdraws the list so neatly folded within. A single swipe upon the page and a name is crossed out.

Then he stands, sheathes his blade. He still has work to do.

His second name is an equally easy target. Sprawled upon a bench, halfway to unconsciousness, it is almost an insult that he leaves himself so vulnerable. It disgusts him. These people – these people – are seen as fit to dictate who should be allowed to live peacefully in Fontaine's walls? Men who reek of sour alcohol, who foul in the streets, who stain humanity with their existence? Brutes and thugs who are free to live their lives when someone so pure and gentle had theirs cut so cruelly short? Where is the justice in that?

Something bursts deep within his chest, erupting with a fire that embraces him like an old friend. He remembers this feeling. He remembers the haze of red that clouded his vision, the primal instinct to rip and tear, to savage. At his sides, one hand balls into a fist; the other reaches for the faithful weapon at his hip. This one gets no opportunity to know who steers him to his end. The blade slices him from throat to groin before he can even open his eyes.

It isn't fair. The words ricochet around his head, stoke the flames in his heart. He conjures a vision of Carole's face, vibrant and full of life, laughing at something – him, no doubt, for she was forever teasing him. He hears her cheerful voice, chiding him for being so stubborn. But there is a second voice, underneath Carole's. A soft, musical voice. The voice of a child, because she would never be anything else.

'Don't be so stubborn, Vautrin!'

His chest tightens, squeezes the air from his lungs. His teeth grit together first in pain, and then in fury. No, it isn't fair. Nothing is fair. Not yet – but he will set things right. He knows this will work. This has to work. If there is to be any hope for Fontaine, it has to work. But in order for it to work, he must first finish what he has started. And so he soothes the flames down to a simmer and crosses another name from his list.

To find the next names, he must descend into the bowels of the Court. Not all who reside in the Fleuve Cendre are of the unsavoury kind, but they are outnumbered by those whose morals are somewhat to be desired. Life down here is never black and white, rather more of a murky grey. Under normal circumstances, the presence of a garde amidst the grime would be widespread news in mere moments. But these are not normal circumstances, and Vautrin knows how not to be seen. He did not rise to captain so young for nothing.

The irony of his situation does not escape him: that to right this wrong, he must become the very thing he has fought against all these years. That, too, is a price he must pay – but this one he pays willingly. He will tarnish his name, his reputation, everything he has stood for. He will strip away every scrap of the identity he has forged for himself. He will become the monster of this story. He will do it all, for her. For him.

Names three and four huddle together beneath the rusting struts of the ramshackle building Vautrin knows this group has been using for their meetings. Tendrils of smoke rise between the grates that make up the walkway that surrounds it, harsh laughter echoing as it bounces around the metal walls of this seedy underbelly. These two, he knows, are the watch. His eyes and ears within the undercity keep him well informed of the comings and goings from this particular den. He knows he only has to wait but a few minutes before opportunity walks his way.

Or shuffles, in this case.

The men part ways with a clap on the shoulder, each stalking in an opposite direction, casting their gazes subtly about them. There will be a signal, a code, that will alert each other to any threat and summon the other to their side. Vautrin knows these, too. He waits amongst the shadows as the shuffling steps inch closer, counts down slowly to ensure his timing is precise.

He cannot tell in the gloom if this is Three or Four, but it matters not. His blade will sink just as easily into either one of them.

And it does: he buries his sword to the hilt into the man's stomach in less time than it takes for the fool to acknowledge he is not alone in this dark corner. The man's mouth falls open, a groaning gurgle bubbling in this throat, threatening to escalate into something that could draw attention. Well, that won't do. He's not finished yet. There is an elegance to the way Vautrin shifts his weight to his back foot, whips his blade free and executes a perfect pirouette. There is nothing elegant about the way the man crumples to the floor, hands pawing at the new red smile of his throat.

As the man twitches at his feet, Vautrin lifts his fingers to his lips and gives a soft yet piercing whistle – two short breaths followed by one longer. Danger. The answering sound of rapidly approaching steps is music to his ears. He steps back amongst the shadows, blade angled behind him. There is little light down here to begin with, but the glint of steel is unmistakable, and he doesn't want to give away his position.

"What the-,"

The hulking shape looms over the corpse on the ground, posture tense, braced to fight. Vautrin sees him cast his gaze about frantically, seeking the source of such violence. Faced with this brutal assault, the man has a choice to make: sound the alarm, summon aid from those within the den, or tackle the problem alone. His broad and muscular figure is suggestive of a brawler, his attitude one of anger rather than fear. Vautrin knows that both Three and Four are former residents of the Meropide with colourful histories of bar fights and violent assaults.

He knows his targets. This man won't call for help. He believes he is untouchable. No doubt his friend thought that, too. There will be another lesson taught here in the Fleuve Cendre: no one is untouchable.

This one he carves into three. The first strike disables his right arm – both Three and Four, according to records, favour the right – and cuts deep into his side. The second opens up his guts. There is a pause before he delivers the third, a pause in which the man's eyes flicker with recognition and his expression twists into something caught between disbelief and horror.

"You�� you're the one who worked with that Melusine-"

How dare you speak of her?!

The third strike slashes across the man's face, cleaves open his jaw and severs the tongue from his mouth. Fingers grasp the man's throat as he gasps and gurgles, drowning on his own blood. Fury burns in cold, dark eyes and venom drips from every word as he snarls into the man's face. "Her name was Carole."

He releases his grip, watches the brute sprawl uselessly atop his companion. He pauses in the silence that follows, listening for any sign that more might follow in his steps, but there is nothing. Scuffles are a frequent occurrence down here – the sounds of violence are as commonplace as the steady drip of water and the creaking and groaning of metal.

He crosses two more names from his list.

The air outside feels fresher when he emerges again from the undercity, though anything would seem a vast improvement after the damp, dank squalor that lurks beneath the beauty and splendour of the Court. It is, he muses, an apt reflection of Fontaine's people – beneath the pleasantries, beneath the finery, there is nothing but stink and grime. It is but a façade meant to disguise the filth inside. And he has found, over time, that those with the finest exteriors often harbour the vilest hearts.

His last two names are a prime example.

His path takes him now into old ground. Here, Fontaine's upper class can separate themselves from far more common folk. The houses here are grand, beautiful, reeking of wealth and privilege. The people behind these doors do not have to fight for scraps of food like they do in Fleuve Cendre. They don't have to work themselves to the bone to support their families. They do not have to worry about crime on these streets. They are safe, protected by the gardes that patrol their haven.

No one is safe. A lesson he himself learned long ago, back when he was counted amongst them. No one can escape the cruelty of people. He is living proof of that: his sister is not.

He knows these streets, remembers every shortcut and secret. He slips past the garden he once played in as a child and spares a fleeting thought for the older couple tucked up in their bed inside. Look, Mama. Look what your boy has become. Aren't you proud? He thinks of the shame that will consume them when the news hits the papers. Neither of them will take to the stage again, he is certain. Their names, alongside his, will be tainted forever. Good, a bitter voice hisses in the night, but he knows they do not deserve the storm that awaits them, for all their faults. They were not bad parents – not good ones either, but grieving ones. Perhaps, one day, he can find it in him to forgive them.

But now his target is ahead, and all thoughts of forgiveness are pushed from his mind. There is no forgiveness to be found here – only vengeance. Names One and Two, the instigators of injustice, the key figures responsible for Carole's self-sacrifice. The only names on his list who don't have criminal records, who are, to the untrained eye, model citizens of Fontaine. Mora can buy a great many things to those with a surplus of it – silence included.

He has thought a lot about how he would approach this last act. He debated putting on a performance, using his uniform and his name to get in the door - terribly sorry to disturb you, but there's been an incident in the area – but ultimately decided against it. If they recognised him too soon, it would complicate things. Risk upsetting everything. He couldn't chance it.

So, instead, he does what any monster would do: he breaks in.

During his experience as a garde, he has seen all sorts of things. He has apprehended pickpockets, thieves, scammers and murderers alike. In working those cases he has learned many things, too. And he has come prepared. It is surprisingly easy to muffle the noise of a window breaking if you know how, and easier still to reach through and unlatch the lock. But it is his experience upon the stage that aids him once he is inside – he has always been light of step, quick on his feet. His colleagues have always assumed it was learned on the job, but it was merely honed. Years of practice, day after day, under the critical gaze of his parents, have trained him to move like air.

It would be chilling to realise how easily one can infiltrate a seemingly safe and secure home, how easy it is to stand over sleeping bodies blissfully unaware of your presence, if he were observing this moment from the outside. Horrifying, in fact, to acknowledge how truly vulnerable a person is while they sleep, how much trust they put in the locks on their doors.

Were they anyone else, he might feel uncomfortable butchering them in their beds, but they do not deserve a fair chance. They gave up that right when they framed an innocent soul for murder simply because she was different. There is no hesitation in his heart as he quietly slides the sword from its sheath, now tacky with the congealing blood of the four others who came before. There is no hesitation in his hand as he stabs downward, again, and again, and again, until the white silks turn black with blood and Suavegothe jolts awake with a scream that pierces the silence like a klaxon.

Later, some unfortunate garde will be forced to count the wounds inflicted upon this noble lady of Fontaine. He will get to thirty before he cannot go on. His colleague will marvel at the strength and stamina required to stab someone thirty times and still go on to commit further atrocities. The newspapers will refer to it as a 'frenzy'. Others will claim that madness fuelled this savage attack.

Not madness, but rage. Rage, white hot and ferocious, that tore through him like wildfire at the sight of her sleeping face, peaceful and content, no trace of guilt for what she'd done. Rage that consumed his mind, conjured a red haze that descended over his vision. Rage that whispered in the back of his mind to make her pay, give her what she deserves, deliver her the rightful sentence for her crime.

An eye for an eye.

Thibert, far more sensible than the Fleuve Cendre thug, chose to flee rather than fight upon waking to find his partner being savaged by a demon in the night. Unfortunately for him, this would no sooner save him than fighting saved the thug. Vautrin followed his frantic, panicked scrambling with careful, measured steps, accompanied by the steady drip, drip of blood from the tip of his sword, leaving a gruesome breadcrumb trail that the gardes would soon follow to the horror left in his wake.

To his credit, despite his panic, the man managed to make it to the front door. Vautrin heard him scrabbling at the latch, felt the sudden draught of cold air rush in as the door swung open. But Thibert made the fatal mistake of hesitating, of looking behind him. He opened his mouth, sucked in breath to scream for help-

A wrong for a wrong.

-and was seized by a hand with an iron grip and dragged – sobbing and pleading – back into the gloom of the house.

-

He gazes down at the ruin he had created, chest heaving with every breath dragged through his lips, and exhales a long, slow sigh of relief. It was done. There were no more names to cross from the list once more tucked securely into his pocket. This part of his plan was complete – but there was still more yet to do. The evidence he had left at each scene should be enough to tie everything together, but he had to be sure.

He bends amidst the gore, swipes a hand through the spreading lake of blood slowly seeping into the rug. They'll never get that out. He straightens, turns to the expanse of wall above the hearth – the perfect blank canvas. The rage within him is subsiding, the flames reduced to embers, but it lingers long enough to guide his hand across the wallpaper. The fury that had given him the strength to do what was necessary has been sapped – he can feel the weariness creeping into his bones, his body aching with the effort. But he cannot rest yet.

Suavegothe's screams will have alerted someone. Violence may be commonplace in Fleuve Cendre, but here in the height of society, it is unheard of. Someone will have woken, called for the gardes. A patrol may have heard the screams themselves and raised the alarm. His time is limited.

He sinks into an armchair, rests a boot atop the savaged body on the rug. He lays his sword across his lap, withdraws a rag from another pocket. Reclining, he begins to slowly, methodically, clean the blood from his blade.

Now that his rage has burned cold, he has time to think, and he thinks of Neuvillette. He cannot imagine the shock, the horror, that the Iudex will feel upon learning of his crimes – and that will just be the beginning. A familiar ache settles in the captain's chest as he thinks about what he must do, of the worst betrayal that is yet to come. In the gloom of this house of horror, a choked sob breaks the silence.

He cares nothing for his name, his reputation. He can give up his freedom. He can brand himself a murderer, a monster, for all of history. A great cost, for sure, but a necessary one – one he knows will be worth it when his plan succeeds. He would give all of these things and more without question. But the one thing that pains him the most, the greatest price he must pay for Carole's dream, is losing the last person who means anything to him in this cursed, hateful world – for if Neuvillette can be seen to be undeniably impartial, for there to be no doubts about his position, for him to become the icon of justice in Fontaine, then he must sentence his best friend, in a public court, to a lifetime within metal walls.

And Vautrin must hate him for it.

His hand clutches at his chest as if to quell the ache within. He ought to compose himself – the gardes could be here any moment. Yet he allows himself this moment of weakness, this moment of truth, because he knows he has an act to play that cannot waver, not for a second. If he is to be believed, then he must hate Neuvillette with the same ferocity that he loves him.

So he weeps for the truth he understood too late. He weeps for the bond to be shattered and never repaired. He weeps for a future that will never be – of him, working at Neuvillette's side until retirement, of being his friend until his last breath. He weeps for the future that will be – of going to the grave knowing Neuvillette will never know the truth. And he weeps for the little sister that will never grow old, who set him on the path of justice to begin with. He weeps for the Melusine who wormed her way into his heart only to leave a gaping wound behind – whose voice he now hears, chiding him yet again:

'Come on, blockhead. It's not over yet!'

Then he gathers himself, wipes the tearstains from his cheeks. He summons that resolve once more, schools his features into that of a man who holds no regrets, who feels no guilt. And when the gardes at last arrive, they find him exactly as he is: reclined in an armchair, boot atop his last victim, methodically cleaning his blade beneath a statement painted in blood upon the wall:

HER NAME WAS CAROLE

And as they gape at him in horror, recognising both his uniform and his face, he utters four words – the same four words he left at each crime scene, painted in the blood of his victims.

"They had it coming."

[wisteriadaydreams]

Can you make a part 2 of party crasher it was so good!!!

THREE'S NOT A CROWD

pairing: Kamado Tanjirō x fem!reader

genre: fluff

words: 2.1k

Part 1

You didn't think any of it when Tanjirō first interrupted your alone time with Nezuko, nor did anything cross your mind the second or third time.

After all, it wouldn't be strange for a brother to want to spend time with his sister, would it? And this is Tanjirō you're talking about, too. Dedicated, determined Tanjirō who would sacrifice a life of simple pleasures and coal-streaked hands for a life wreathed in shadows and the smell of acrid blood to turn his sister back into a human. Tanjirō who would sacrifice anything for Nezuko.

Their bond is one that you often find yourself be envious of. It's one built on years of mutual trust and support, and now even with Nezuko's inability to speak, they're still able to communicate as easily as ever before. One of the things that always bring a smile to your face is seeing the siblings interact — Nezuko making muffled sounds and gesturing animatedly in an effort to convey her thoughts, and Tanjirō nodding along and even asking follow-up questions as if they're having a normal conversation. There's no doubt in your mind that they understand each other, theirs is a bond that surpasses verbal words.

And perhaps another reason why it doesn't bother you is because you enjoy his company too much.

You're convinced that it would be hard-pressed to find anyone who doesn't want to spend more time with Tanjirō once they got to know him. (You know Inosuke does as well, even if he tries to deny it indignantly and loudly.) He goes above and beyond in helping others, and he spends time with people because he genuinely wants to get to know them. You can say something flippantly once and he'll somehow magically be able to remember it. You'll never forget that time when he brings you your favorite late night snack even though you've only mentioned it in passing once.

He's sweet and too kind for his own good and deserves everything good that this world cannot offer to him, so it's only right that you like to be around him so much, wouldn't it? Is it that unusual that even though you're already spending time with him during the day, you hesitate to tell him to leave the room because it never feels enough?

Though you think nothing of it, Nezuko seems to believe otherwise.

You like to say that you've become more attuned to your friend's thoughts and feelings, so you didn't miss the looks that would constantly flit between Tanjirō and you — pensive, with a knowing glint that makes her rosy eyes shimmer for a moment. On one particular evening, when the aforementioned boy has yet to barge through those shoji doors, Nezuko pulled you aside, her face knitted in determination.

Your senses tingled as you watched her write rapidly on your palm as if she has no time to lose.

"What do you think of my brother?"

You registered the question and thought about its motive for a moment, but the answer is already bursting onto your tongue before you can stop it. "I think he's a great friend. He never hesitates to lend a hand and he's always gentle with others. He's considerate and compassionate, and his strength always inspire me every day. I think you of all people know how wonderful your brother is, why are you asking me this?"

"Do you only think of him as a friend?"

You stared at the words even as the touch of her fingers have left your hand, something crackling under your skin like electricity.

"What do you mean? Should I be thinking of him as anything else?"

Nezuko gazed at you with that same knowing look as if she already knew the answer. You didn't understand why, but your heart started beating faster as you turn over her question in your mind. There's no doubt that you care about him. You would do anything to ensure his safety, from having his back in battle to tearing a piece of fabric from your clothes to put pressure on his wound. You drag his limp body inside after training and make hot drinks when both of you are in the kitchen, the moon high and the hallways quiet. You do all these things and more, and you know that he would do the same for you.

Isn't that what friends do when they care about each other?

But then there are the inexplicables. The light tremors that send your heart bouncing around like it's actively trying to escape from your chest. The way your stomach would flip and the hairs on your arm would stand up when he happens to move a little closer to you. The sense of belonging and comfort that turns your mind into a bed of clouds, something that you've only felt when you're with him. There are times when you feel like being around him is like standing too close to the sun — resplendent and blinding, burning down all of your defenses and filling you with light.

(You think you understand why a moth is so tempted by the flame.)

Nezuko's fingers moved to construct the beginning of another sentence, but the sound of the shoji door opening interrupted her. Tanjirō walked through and the wisps of her words is a thought unfinished, but you're able to fill in the gaps nonetheless.

Despite what you believed, those questions may be buried somewhere deep in your thoughts, but they never truly escaped. You still care deeply for Tanjiro, but those inexplicables have become more noticeable, more nagging and pulling at the strings of your mind. You like to think that you still acted the same around him, but perhaps the implication that your actions haven't changed is even more telling.

(And perhaps you're just afraid to give a name to what you can already explain.)

You knew you needed to talk to Nezuko and for once, as you walk towards her room in the middle of the night, you hope that Tanjirō won't be there. The noises of the peaceful night is lost on you as you focus on one destination in mind, but even as your ears seem to tune out the world, you're still able to notice the thump of very familiar footsteps.

"(Y/N)!" His voice is not loud enough to bounce off the walls, but enough to kick your heart into overdrive.

"Tanjirō?" Though you were hoping to not run into him, a traitorous part of you can't help but feel happy. "What's wrong? You looked like you ran here." It's barely noticeable, but you hear him panting a little, his chest rising up and down more than usual.

"There's...something I need to talk to you about. Can–can we go somewhere else?"

You silently debate on what to do in your mind. Although you really really want to talk to Nezuko right now, it's hard to deny him. So, after an arduous mental battle with yourself, you finally find yourself nodding. He takes you to a secluded spot in the garden that you showed him, where you know no one would interrupt you. It makes you wonder what is so important that he wants no one to walk in on you.

The moon is a beacon of light, and even the butterflies seem to have ceased their flight to make way for the silence. Even then, no one said a word.

You couldn't recall the last time you felt this jittery around him. He has always been able to make you feel comfortable, no matter the time or situation. So it's almost strange to see him like this, his feet rooted to the ground, him wringing his hands together, his eyes darting all over the place but never on you.

You think you should say something, but your tongue felt like it just turned into dead weight in your mouth. Inevitably, your eyes land on each other, but it manages to make both of you almost jump out of your skins and immediately look away.

"So...uh—" The act of talking somehow become an entirely foreign concept to you. "You wanted to talk to me about something?"

"Right! Right...umm..." Tanjirō is just as tongue-tied as you are, his bottom lip being gnawed between his teeth. Finally, you see him take in several deep breaths, and after what seems like an internal battle, he gains back some of his confidence. He looks at you with that familiar, resolute spark, the one that always make you unable to tear your eyes away.

"I want you to know that I care about you, and not in the way you think. Well, no, actually, maybe yes like the way you think. I do care about you that way, as a friend and companion." His previous confidence slowly dissipates as he rambles, but you patiently listen to him. "But the thing is my care for you runs deeper than that. Whenever you get injured, I feel like I'm also the one that got hurt. All I wanted is for you to be safe, happy, and smiling. But then I realized...that I want you to always smile at me like that." His words make your breath hitch, but you're barely able to recover as he continues. "Your smile makes my day better no matter what, and I find myself wanting to talk to you, want to be with you even if it's too late to be awake. I admire how strong you are, admire how you're able to stand up no matter how many times you fall. I like how you would hum a little song under your breath while you're doing something. I like how you would close your eyes in satisfaction whenever you eat. I like how you would deny that you're sleepy even when tears form in your eyes from yawning. I like how you would grumble when it's too early in the morning and Inosuke's already causing a ruckus. I like them all...and I realized that it's because I like you...I like everything about you."

He stops for breath, his entire body shaking and his knees going weak as if he just went through the hardest training in his life. You, on the other hand, while your brain is desperately gobbling up everything that he said and examining them over and over again in disbelief and shock, your heart finally gains the courage to give the inexplicables the name that has been right there all along.

"...(Y/N)? D-do you want to say something? You don't have to answer anything right now if you don't want to! I-I just want to know what you're thinking."

"Oh. Oh." The word is soft as it spills from your lips. Raw, unbridled waves of emotions too rapid for you to place buzzes to the very tips of your toes, making your hands fly to your mouth when tears begin to form in the corner of your eyes. "I can't believe it."

"(Y/N?! What's wrong?" Tanjirō immediately panics at the sight of them. "Was it something I said?"

"No, no, it isn't that." You wave your hands around and let out a bewildered chuckle. "Do you want to know why I was walking through the estate this late at night? I wanted to talk to Nezuko about you, about how I've been feeling different around you. But now, I don't need to do that anymore. Because I realize that I like you. I like you so much, Tanjiro."

"Oh my gods." His eyes are wide like the moon. "I was just with Nezuko. She was the one who got me to acknowledge my feelings for you. She told me I kept interrupting your time with her because I wanted to spend time with you, and she's...not wrong about that." He avoids your eyes as a blush overtakes his cheeks.

"Oh, I see. Well, I like spending time with you too." Now it's your turn to feel butterflies in your stomach. All those moments run through your mind, and you seem to see them in a new light. "So, where do we go from here?"

"I know that being a Demon Slayer throws us into situations that we can't anticipate. There's no telling what will happen in the future, what may happen to us. But even with such uncertainty, there's no doubt in my heart that I want to be by your side. I want to hold your hand and watch the stars with you. I want to eat meals with you and hear you talk. I want to lay on the grass and watch the clouds go by with you." There are many more things that Tanjirō wants and wants, but they can reveal themselves another day. "If that's alright with you."

His eyes burn like smoldering cinders, and you know that there's nothing he can ask of you that you would deny him of.

"Of course." You step closer to him, in search of that warmth that radiates like the sun, enough to finally understand what it's like to be set ablaze. "Of course."

(You're getting Nezuko whatever she wants the next time you see her.)

©️ wisteriadaydreams

➺ All of the following works belong to me. Please don’t repost, copy, or steal my content off of Tumblr. Plagiarism will not be tolerated.

[tinycurlyfry]

OP Chapter 1081 Spoilers

Okay now that the official translation is out I have so much to say ;;;;;

Yes it’s going to all be about Law and the Heart Pirates, I am DEVASTATED

Other people have said it too, but the thing that really gets me is just how much Law can NOT catch a break and keeps ending up losing or nearly losing what matters most to him AND HE’S NOT EVEN TRYING TO GET THE ONE PIECE !! Outside of knowing what it is, I mean. He’s not trying to be the strongest, or the king of the pirates, or become an emperor of the sea. He just wants to know about the history behind the origins of his name and what secrets the World Government goes to such lengths to hide from the world. This man’s new purpose in life now that he helped take down Doflamingo is to figure out who he is and why it seems like he keeps being kept alive; To try to figure out who he is or what those who came before him believe he represents. It’s just that his pursuit after the secrets of the world’s history keeps putting him in the path to collide with the most dangerous people in the world!

What he wants more than anything however- what we’ve seen time and time again- is keeping his crew safe. They are his family, the Polar Tang was his HOME. This man has already lost his place in the world TWICE. Has lost those he’s considered family TWICE. And even though I believe- I HAVE to believe- the Heart Pirates will ultimately be okay, Law thinks he’s left them to die. And my god thank goodness for Bepo because Law would have absolutely gotten captured or killed by Blackbeard and BB or any of his crew getting the Ope Ope no Mi would be SO CATASTROPHICALLY BAD! 

Law didn’t even pick a fight with this man!! He didn’t initially want to fight Blackbeard! They were just coming out of fighting against Big Mom an Kaidou, Law during which was like ‘the things one has to do just to learn about history!’ (Though yes, I do think Law cared about helping the people of Wano. He is a kind person and a doctor after all). BUT when we first see the Heart Pirates in their run-in with Blackbeard THEY’RE TRYING TO ESCAPE! Law didn’t want to get his crew in that fight!!! But when it was obvious there was no getting away he did what he does best and went into strategy mode to guide his crew through the fight. If they were going to be forced into a battle against Blackbeard and his crew, might as well take the information from the poneglyphs he has. To at least maybe have this be a step towards his goal.

But the last thing he wants, the thing he fears more than anything, is putting his crew into danger. This man is ready to sacrifice himself for their safety at every turn. And then he has his ship destroyed. He cannot even use his powers to save his crew from being stranded deep under water, (some of them) likely to drown if BB’s crew don’t get to them first. Bepo has to get Law out of there by force not just because Law is severely injured and thoroughly drained of energy from his fight against Blackbeard, but also because Law would absolutely get himself killed to save even one of his crewmembers. To not lose another family member.

I am so pained to see the Polar Tang destroyed. Again, I have to believe at least a number of the Heart Pirates are okay, but my god I hope Oda gives this poor boy a break?! I don’t know if Law and Kid are going to meet up, or if Law will get the Pluton now that his own ship is destroyed (and maybe Law is back on a revenge track) or if it’ll be through Law that stumble upon who this ‘man marked by flames’ is, but MY GOD I hope Law gets to have a happy ending. It would be so fucking heartbreaking if after all he’s been through, after all he’s lost, after all this time of just trying to keep those he cares about the most safe and to know why he’s still alive, he dies or loses everything once more. If he meets his end sacrificing himself or dying before he gets to live the life of freedom and happiness Corazon died to give him I am going to be RUINED.

A small part of me wants Luffy/The Straw Hats to find out what BB did to Law and go APE SHIT, but more than anything I just want Law to finally find happiness and the ACTUALLY KEEP IT!!! Stop having his crew/family taken away from him!!! This man has already had so much tragedy in his life he doesn’t need any more!

I do not know if this is Oda building up to a defeat for the Straw Hats as well, Luffy and Zoro being members of the worst generation like Kid, Killer, and Law or if this is Oda emphasizing that Luffy is on the level of the other Yonkos now and on a different level than Kid and Killer. The Straw Hats already had a moment of major defeat in Sabaody and Luffy has been built up so much for coming end-game fights against the World Government, Shanks, and Blackbeard that I’m inclined to believe Egghead isn’t going to end horribly for them, but this truly is the first time since catching up that I am so scared/anxious to know what’s going to happen next and I just do not know what direction Oda is going in.

[winniethewife]

Eclipsing Love

(Marc Spector x Mafia!OC)

Last chapter ~ Next chapter

Chapter 11: Losing me

Words: 1089

It had nearly been a year since they had met. An adventure every minute of it. Now they were out in the streets of Vienna, in the dead of night. The scent of blood taints the air.

“We’ve been at this for too long.” Charlotte hissed as she was back to back with Marc fighting off another group of violent mobsters, from the other side, a rival crime family that had caused the massacre the year before. They had been in a bitter war ever since, drawn out by more death, more sacrifice, more and more loss. Until Charlotte couldn’t argue with Khonshu anymore and things were taken in to their own hands. She pulls out her Knives in either hand, her hood pulled over head, she stares down the man in front of her. Marc presses his back against hers as He holds the crescent darts in his fists ready to fight again.

Swing, punch kick, Swing, punch, upper cut, kick.

Again

Swing, punch kick, Swing, punch, upper cut, kick.

Again

 “It ends tonight.” Marc growls. His deterimination to bring this nasty turf war to an end, to finally bring vengeance for those who they had lost, finally bringing an end to the funeral parade they had been dealing with for months. As the leaders of the Walker family they were required to be at every funeral. Charlotte had given so many Eulogies, No more. Marc was determined there would be no more. Not another funeral, Not another fight, He was going to actually get her out her out of this life.

~

Marc lay with Charlotte in their bed, an arm wrapped around her as she had already drifted off to sleep, her soft breathing and the soft music she played to sleep to the only sounds in the room. After the long fight he couldn’t sleep. His eyes still wide open as he held her close. He was thinking back on the last year. Everything that had happened, everything they had done. He couldn’t help but feel like he had failed her. He never got her out, like he had promised. Her involvement with Khonshu had only solidified her place as the leader of the Walker family. Her role as Eclipse took on more and more of her, sometimes he couldn’t recognize her as the woman he had met all that time ago. He notices it most when they were alone, in the evenings on the couch, he can see her slowly falling apart. The broken look behind her eyes when she starts to zone out, it breaks his heart every time. Even now as she sleeps, something about her feels more broken. He kisses her forehead her face reacts to the touch, her nose scrunching up in her sleep. Marc smiles, despite it all, despite how much this all weighed on his heart. He loved her, more than anything. He needed to save her, get her away from all this. As he thought this he felt the familiar cold feeling creeping along his spine. The words echo in his head again.

"She's on a path, you're not going to like that path. You cannot prevent it, but you can make it easier."

“I can’t prevent it, but I will stop it. She should be free. She should be allowed to live her life how she wants to...” He mutters knowing the god is looming. Knowing this would only make him angry.  He felt the tense feeling of the gods grip on him tightening around him, the pain is intense, but he used to it. The feeling of his grip is cold and firm. He tried to stay silent but a pained grunt escapes him. Charlotte stirs.

“Marc?” She mumbles softly in her sleep, he feels the pressure release, but before it does he feels something from the old bird. Fear.  What does that mean?

“I’m okay…I’m right here.” He softly runs his fingers through her hair, thinking it through. What on earth was Khonshu afraid of? What does this mean? What is the god of vengeance hiding now? ~

Marc would spend the rest of the week asking the same question, Khonshu was starting to act even weirder than normal. Where he used to come to Marc or Jake with everything he was starting to rely heavily on Charlotte. Which was extremely taxing on her.  Charlotte was less often in bed at the end of the day and harder to find throughout the day. Marc couldn’t help but worry, and worrying is never productive. One night he walks into the bedroom to find it empty again and Marc decided he’s not doing this anymore. He is not some war wife waiting for her to come home. He hears the cautions of his alters in his head but he blocks them out as he storms through the house searching for her. He final finds her in the hall way to the garage her motorcycle helmet under her arm, her road leathers on.

“Where are you going?” He huffs.

“Out.” She replies and eyebrow quirked at him. “Is there a problem?”

“Don’t ask me that like you don’t already know.” He grumbles.

“I don’t know. What are you on about Marc?” She looks at him, she doesn’t want to start a fight, but he seems itching for one.

“You’re either avoiding me or something is going on. You’re hardly around and anymore and I don’t know where you’re going. I was trying to be understanding and give you time but this is getting out of hand. I feel like I haven’t seen you since we left Vienna!” Marc is trying desperately not to yell about this. He reaches out for her, grabbing her arm tightly His brows furrowed up in worry. “C’mon Baby, talk to me.” He asks his voice filled with anxiety. He didn’t want her to leave him, he couldn’t be forgotten, not again. Charlotte’s eyes are full of genuine sadness, she couldn’t help but remember being in this space before, For a second Marc’s dark eyes were replaced with Hazel ones. Elizabeth. She shook her head and pulls away from him.

“I…I can’t. I can’t let you get hurt. I can’t lose you too.” She pulls her helmet over her head and leaves through the back door. As Marc hears the engine of her motor cycle roar to life, he feels his heart breaking. A tear runs down his face as he feels his legs give out from under him. He was losing her.

Masterlist

Tag: @ominoose

[blueskyandpudding]

Exploring Toxic Family Dynamics through Aziraphale and Crowley's Relationship with Heaven

⚠️ Spoiler Alert: Mostly doesn't contain spoilers but I'll put a sign when there is

Good Omens portrays Heaven as a vast corporation with hierarchical levels, various projects, and tasks, all managed by "employees" - the angels, who are always ready to meet their KPI. If this corporation were to post a job ad on LinkedIn, it would probably boast a slogan like "We treat each other as family."

Referring to them as a family is fitting because, in essence, God created all beings, including angels, in a manner similar to parents giving birth to their children. Hence, using the context of a corporate environment or a family-like company, we can still see the presence of chaos in Aziraphale and Crowley's relationship with this "Heavenly family."

When someone grows up in a toxic family, the parental figures or authority figures in that family tend to view the child as a miniature version of themselves or an extension of their own identity, treating them almost like a doll. In their subconscious, the child exists solely to fulfill the parents' desires; they expect the child to conform to their likes and cater to their needs.

Children raised in such an environment with their family are not allowed to have personal needs, express their own opinions, have their own preferences, or even have different viewpoints from their parental figures.

This mirrors the operational style of Heaven.

Anything deviating from the norm is seen as a threat to the established order, all justified in the name of "God's will."

In such an environment, a child (an angel) has two paths to follow: either become the child who can comply or rebel against the system. Both paths ultimately lead to tragedy.

Aziraphale and Crowley, from the beginning, were angels assigned to important tasks for God, devoted to honoring and worshiping Her. Aziraphale takes his beliefs more seriously and never dares to disobey his superiors. In contrast, Crowley is akin to a curious child, always enthusiastic about creating and questioning.

Aziraphale stays in Heaven not because he resembles the other angels, but because he excels at concealing his "differences." Aziraphale is the child who can comply.

In order to gain approval and agreement from his superiors, to be seen as worthy, this "child" must sacrifice its true self. Aziraphale has experienced many instances of disagreement with Heaven's methods, yet he covertly rebels and consistently resists the divine plan. Deep within him, there is an urging, something that sets him apart and makes him unique. However, for the past 6000 years, he has suppressed that feeling, acting as if it doesn't exist. He cannot live and act according to his rightful will, as it would require him to challenge his relationship with Heaven and, most importantly, his core belief - that Heaven is utterly perfect.

The pain of the one who chose the path of hiding their true self is a subconscious notion filled with shame and humiliation as their beliefs contradict those of the admired figures in their life - their "Heavenly family." They knows who they are and understands that being true to themselves would disappoint their "family" and possibly lead to punishment. Consequently, they feels ashamed of themselves.

This one will grow up to be the kind of person who pushes others away. Though they yearn for intimacy with others, they have learned from their family that love and closeness come at the cost of losing their own identity.

Aziraphale genuinely loves Crowley. And Crowley loves Aziraphale wholeheartedly. But somewhere deep down, Crowley's beliefs represent the aspects that Aziraphale cannot accept within himself. Hence, being with Crowley also means betraying everything Aziraphale learned while growing up. He still feels shame for his true essence and is not ready to confront it.

The path chosen by Crowley represents the direction of the child who refuses to abandon their true self.

This child is rejected by their parent because their emotions, thoughts, and desires are too overwhelming and uncontrollable. In turn, the parent feels ashamed and deflects this shame by blaming the child, making them the source of all problems.

"For one prince of Heaven to be cast into the outer darkness makes a good story. For it to happens twice, makes it looks like there is some kind of institutional problem."

Exiled from Heaven and unable to find a place in Hell, Crowley embarks on a journey to explore the world, wandering through streets and alleyways, traveling across continents in search of a place where he feels a sense of belonging, warmth, understanding, and love. Because he couldn't find that with his own “families".

Crowley only considers Aziraphale the most important person in his life because their love for humanity is genuine and their ideas are aligned at the core. However, this relationship also reflects the tragedy of a child rejected by their family, growing up and finding love, as the person they love is often emotionally unavailable. They are afraid of opening their heart, as when they do so, they face rejection, which ultimately is a repeating pattern of their own family dynamic.

⚠️ Spoiler Alert for Good Omens season 2 below

Crowley confesses his love to Aziraphale, even after Aziraphale made it clear he wanted to return to Heaven and could help Crowley become an angel again. The way Neil Gaiman portrays the characters' psychology is incredibly well done.

If you've been hurt and haven't healed, it's likely to lead to various relationship issues. Like when Nina said she couldn't be with Maggie after leaving a toxic relationship because she would simply be using someone new as a rebound.

Anyway, after both of them became Heaven and Hell’s outcasts in season 1, Aziraphale no longer clings to his place. When Metatron invited him back, he immediately replied, "I don't want to go back to Heaven." However, Aziraphale, with his inherently good nature and core belief that Heaven is absolutely good, only troubled by the authority figures. If the coffee theory isn't true (I hope it isn't because haha), Aziraphale probably thought, "Now I can do things as I want, meaning I can make Heaven a place worthy of Crowley."

Meanwhile, all Crowley hears is, "You're not worthy enough as you are right now; you can only be worthy by returning to Heaven as an angel."

It must have hurt Crowley so much because rejection for being himself is the core of his pain.

Crowley and Aziraphale understand each other to the extent that one knows each of the other's tones, and the other always asking for the other's opinions, even remaining at ease in any situation while waiting for the other to save them because it makes the other happy. But they have never touched the pain in each other's hearts and don't understand each other's perspectives. Thus, they haven't found a common language or a middle ground.

With that being said, all relationships can hurt us if we fail to understand or confront our own pain.

Watching the show felt deeply satisfying to me, as it addresses family dynamics and communication issues, even within a story involving angels, demons, and magic. I felt so seen for this haha.

Anyway, thank you for reading this far, and I wish you all healthy and happy relationships. See you in another post.  . . . . (This meta is original written in Vietnamese. READ HERE.)

[narvana27]

Why in my headcanon Raimundo is depressed after becoming a leader:

   Years ago I did get an idea to make Rai really, like heavy even depressed in the stories I was making in my head back then. I think that thought came to me while I was listening to some rap song about depression, and I did this thing when I tried to make a story that would match a song. And the rest is history, but it makes sense to me honestly, and I will explain everything below (disclaimer: I do not romanticize depression or anything related to that in this post, I know what depression feels like and I do not have any bad intentions making these. It's just a headcanon on a fictional story. If u struggle with depression, try seek help). So, Rai becomes a shoku warrior, a leader. That title is different than any other the monks have earned, and it belongs only to one of them. The ,,chosen one" from now on doesn’t walk WITH them, but must protect them and lead them (as the word " leader" says). As a leader you have to make decisions, sometimes very quickly, and those decisions can be very, very hard, and can have impact on the whole world. And your friends, that basically are your family at this point. How can you not feel pressure when you think about how you're responsible not only for the lives of 7 billion of people on this earth, but also about 3 lives of your friends? You have to protect them all at all times, at all cost. Even if the price is your life. And Rai knows that & he's thinking about it all the time, it 

consumes him. He's not the type of guy who thinks about his problems often, but he

feels like now, when he's a shoku, he CANNOT not think about it, you know? He constantly tries to predict what Heylin will come up with next, and tries to find a solution. He's ready to take a risk no matter what it is and what it might result with. He came to peace with a thought he probably at some point will have to dedicate his life for the sake of the world & his friends. He's ready for that, and the reason is he knows that if anything bad would happen to any of them: a bad, serious injury that is not curable or even a death - he would not survive that. He would simply, more likely sooner than later end his own life because of the guilt he would feel. It's better to sacrifice his one life, than lose two. That's how he sees that. But that's not the main part that makes him depressed. What really gets him is the fear. Fear that even tho he tries so hard- he will not be able to predict everything. To prevent everything. To save his friends lives and the lives of many people he doesn’t even know, but he's still responsible for. He feels like the world is on his shoulders, and it almost literally is. I mean he’s like what, 18 or 19 at that time? And his job is to protect basically the whole planet now. He did it for couple of years, yeah, but he did that along side of his

friends, they were all equal (besides when he wasn’t due to his betrayal but anyways) and they were in this together. Now they're also together in all of this, but he's kinda above - he's a leader. He has to lead, and they have to listen. That's a wild concept to him and them at the beginning, but after some time they all are used to it. But the pressure and the fear are always there with him. He's not sleeping much, hi's skin lost it’s colors, he's not so funny as he once were, and he even lost some weight. He reads a lot of scrolls, makes notes and writes plans "just in case" & "what if���s”. He helps his brother Cesar who now lives in the temple with him with his music career, so he's not having a time for himself in between this and saving a world. He does drugs to sleep, calm himself or get a buzz to be able to work & function when he's tired, or to help with his panic attacks & anxiety. The pressure is bad, his mood is bad... He's stressed and depressed. The rest of the monks, Master Fung, Dojo and the Heylin side knows this. The villains want to use it and his friends want to help him, but they don't know how. When they try to approach him and talk about it he always claims he’s “alright” and they don't have to worry about him. He has moments of doubt and he thinks about quitting and giving his title away or even…ending his life, but he doesn’t do that cuz he thinks it’s better if his life will be sacrificed for the sake of something rather than wasted and ended just because he’s in emotional pain. He suffers a lot, but after some time comes the cure - He finally starts to realize that he’s wasting his life by this mindset and it’s not who he ever imagined himself to be like. He always was the funny guy who got the best jokes, the “life of a party” guy, and now his miserable? And also - he’s not a god leader and he’s not capable of doing a good job at protecting his friends in that state. So he finally did seek help of his friends and a professional therapy. Then he has some sort of quick fling with Kimiko that didn't last too long,but it helped him with recovery. And then…Rapunzle comes in…🫢 But THAT is a story for a different post. 😏

[the-gayest-tree-you-ever-did-see]

drop the lore for your song !

(insert "sorry i put this in drafts and immediately forgot about it" cake here. sorry i put this in drafts and immediately forgot about it!!!)

okay so first i guess we should probably drop the lyrics, theyre on bandlab but also who give a shit. here you go:

-and you sit there like youre some starry-eyed god

asking for sacrifice, knowing what i lost

and what can i do but follow you?

i made you my temple, just follow through

and your honor, you sit and stare as i stand witness

to this man burning everything i love down with this building

and from the ashes his eyelash comes falling, i make a wish

it wont ever come true but ill make him pray it did

and god, my god i would follow you to death

you know this so you hold a blunt knife to my neck

i am more than just your satisfactions and regrets

but you are less than i thought, you are less and you're not even worth it

i am breathing just a little and calling it a life

you are walking in the wild with a mass market knife

and it feels so juvenile to talk it all through

we are teenagers at battle, we are always coming true

HOW DOES IT FEEL TO KNOW YOU COULD NOT HAVE SAVED ME?

AND DO YOU BELIEVE IN EVERYTHING YOU SEE ON THE NEWS

CAUSE YOU SHOULD KNOW BY NOW THAT ALL KIDS DO IS LOSE EVENTUALLY.

I HATE THAT YOU COULDNT SAVE ME.

that must mean im stronger.

you said you would protect me.

but im like ocean water.

and youre like twenty three!

so i choose now between honesty and dignity

and i cannot worship a god i cant believe

yeah i tore my palms down your altar

for war, blood must taste sweet

i dont know what to do to make you believe that im insane

you made me, made me you, made me who i am

no you didnt make me, i made me, you were just a tool

ill say anything so ill sleep the whole night through

first piece of lore: i did in fact write this in tumblr drafts. people tend to not believe me when i tell them but notes app is far too open. tumblr drafts is for the arteries. also the sense of danger from my drafts being cleared or my account being deleted (which happened) keeps me on my toes.

second piece of lore: this is less of a song and more of a conglomeration of words i thought go together good. i didnt really have a plan for this as i was writing it, it sort of formed the image and story it has as i wrote and only when i was "done" (the song isnt complete but im done writing it for now) did i have it completely. my sister said the phrase "starry-eyed god" and i ran from there! i was kind of toying with the idea of being hurt by someone who doesnt really believe they are harming you, and sort of falling across that line all the time of are they really innocent or are they playing innocent.

i also liked the idea of being so in love with someone that you'd worship them, not understanding that that isnt love, its obsession. lots of misunderstandings and insanity in this bad boy.

this is also definitely the ending half of the song. in my recording the end is a little fucked because, third piece of lore, i accidentally slammed my hand on the table out of passion and spent the rest of the song trying not to cry in pain. why did i push through, you may ask. why didnt i just stop and rerecord in a minute. well im something of an artiste (idiot)

that bit on "what can i do but follow you/i made you my temple just follow through" where im high and singing almost reverently is what i want more of the beginning to sound like. for this section we have more of those divine chorus vibes peeking through every once in a while, so the beginning will have this almost spoken desperate vibe peeking through, but majority of that high angel voice for most of it.

okay this is already long so im gonna stop here with general lore -- if you want me to go through the lyrics as well and talk about that, i am more than happy to!! lyrics are my favorite parts of a song, especially writing-wise, so i would love that actually. some of the lyrics in this are inspired by poetry so its pretty fun to look back and see.

thank you for asking!! i love you sm <33

[candlemystar]

We have been accustomed to thinking of religious ecstasy as a thing found only in primitive societies, though it frequently occurs in the most cultivated peoples. The Greeks, you know, really weren’t very different from us. They were a very formal people, extraordinarily civilized, rather repressed. And yet they were frequently swept away en masse by the wildest enthusiasms—dancing, frenzies, slaughter, visions—which for us, I suppose, would seem clinical madness, irreversible. Yet the Greeks—some of them, anyway—could go in and out of it as they pleased. We cannot dismiss these accounts entirely as myth. They are quite well documented, though ancient commentators were as mystified by them as we are. Some say they were the results of prayer and fasting, others that they were brought about by drink. Certainly the group nature of the hysteria had something to do with it as well. Even so, it is hard to account for the extremism of the phenomenon. The revelers were apparently hurled back into a non-rational, pre-intellectual state, where the personality was replaced by something completely different—and by ‘different’ I mean something to all appearances not mortal. Inhuman.

We don’t like to admit it but the idea of losing control is one that fascinates controlled people such as ourselves more than almost anything. All truly civilized people—the ancients no less than us—have civilized themselves through the willful repression of the old, animal self. Are we, in this room, really very different from the Greeks or the Romans? Obsessed with duty, piety, loyalty, sacrifice? All those things which are to modern tastes so chilling?

And it’s a temptation for any intelligent person, and especially for perfectionists such as the ancients and ourselves, to try to murder the primitive, emotive, appetitive self. But that is a mistake.

Because it is dangerous to ignore the existence of the irrational. The more cultivated a person is, the more intelligent, the more repressed, then the more he needs some method of channeling the primitive impulses he’s worked so hard to subdue. Otherwise those powerful old forces will mass and strengthen until they are violent enough to break free, more violent for the delay, often strong enough to sweep the will away entirely. For a warning of what happens in the absence of such a pressure valve, we have the example of the Romans. The emperors. Think, for example, of Tiberius, the ugly stepson, trying to live up to the command of his stepfather Augustus. Think of the tremendous, impossible strain he must have undergone, following in the footsteps of a savior, a god. The people hated him. No matter how hard he tried he was never good enough, could never be rid of the hateful self, and finally the floodgates broke. He was swept away on his perversions and he died, old and mad, lost in the pleasure gardens of Capri: not even happy there, as one might hope, but miserable. Before he died he wrote a letter home to the Senate. ‘May all the Gods and Goddesses visit me with more utter destruction than I feel I am daily suffering.’ Think of those who came after him. Caligula. Nero.

The Roman genius, and perhaps the Roman flaw was an obsession with order. One sees it in their architecture, their literature, their laws—this fierce denial of darkness, unreason, chaos. Easy to see why the Romans, usually so tolerant of foreign religions, persecuted the Christians mercilessly—how absurd to think a common criminal had risen from the dead, how appalling that his followers celebrated him by drinking his blood. The illogic of it frightened them and they did everything they could to crush it. In fact, I think the reason they took such drastic steps was because they were not only frightened but also terribly attracted to it. Pragmatists are often strangely superstitious. For all their logic, who lived in more abject terror of the supernatural than the Romans?

The Greeks were different. They had a passion for order and symmetry, much like the Romans, but they knew how foolish it was to deny the unseen world, the old gods. Emotion, darkness, barbarism. Do you remember what we were speaking of earlier, of how bloody, terrible things are sometimes the most beautiful? It’s a very Greek idea, and a very profound one. Beauty is terror. Whatever we call beautiful, we quiver before it. And what could be more terrifying and beautiful, to souls like the Greeks or our own, than to lose control completely? To throw off the chains of being for an instant, to shatter the accident of our mortal selves? Euripides speaks of the Maenads: head thrown back, throat to the stars, ‘more like deer than human being.’ To be absolutely free! One is quite capable, of course, of working out these destructive passions in more vulgar and less efficient ways. But how glorious to release them in a single burst! To sing, to scream, to dance barefoot in the woods in the dead of night, with no more awareness of mortality than an animal! These are powerful mysteries. The bellowing of bulls. Springs of honey bubbling from the ground. If we are strong enough in our souls we can rip away the veil and look that naked, terrible beauty right in the face; let God consume us, devour us, unstring our bones. Then spit us out reborn.

And that, to me, is the terrible seduction of Dionysiac ritual. Hard for us to imagine. That fire of pure being.

- Donna Tartt, The Secret History (1992)