#towards tyranny spoilers

[crystal-overdrive]

Snippet Sunday Monday!

Tagged by @darkurgetrash 🖤 Under the cut because the upcoming chapter of Towards Tyranny is very naughty...Tav gets her "trapped in Wyrm's Rock" fantasy fulfilled. 😘

There was a tremor in her voice, a hitch in her breath. ‘What?’ Gortash regarded her with a cold stare before repeating himself. ‘Take. Your. Clothes. Off.’ Instinctively, she wrapped her arms around herself, as if to shield her body against his probing glare. His dark eyes seemed to bore into her, like he could see past the dark velvet that covered her body, past her body itself, and into her soul. He shook his head; his voice was clipped, impatient. ‘This won’t do.’ In a flash, he strode across the room and gripped Tav’s wrists, wrenched her arms away from her form. He transferred both wrists to one hand, and held her arms above her head, just too high, so that a sharp stretch reached from shoulder blade to wrist. She strained against it and drew in a sharp, pleading breath. ‘Please. This isn’t what I’m here for.’ This drew a dark chuckle from her captor. ‘Isn’t it?’ His free hand gripped her chin, and the claws of those cold, metal gauntlets dug into her delicate skin. ‘You’re here for whatever I want, little hero.’ His unfeeling eyes flicked to her lips. He kissed her, roughly, pushed his face uncomfortably against hers. She tried to turn away, but his grip on her chin held her firmly in place. When he eventually broke the kiss, a thin strand of saliva continued to join their lips together. ‘You’re disgusting,’ said Tav. He wiped the spit from her lips with a gilded thumb. ‘You won’t be saying that later.’

[yappacadaver]

Crazy wild shit man

[lenaswritingandstuff]

Right again • Tom Riddle x f!reader

Requested: No

Pairing: Tom Riddle x f!reader (+ SPOILER x f!reader)

Summary: Tom, who always thought relationships were meaningless, changed his mind when he met y/n. He plans on telling her how he feels, however, it doesn't go as planned, and he finds himself to be right - again.

Word count: 1.1K

Warnings: Fluff; angst; English is not my first language.

A/N: It wasn't supposed to be this long lmao. I will write the same plot with Mattheo, Lorenzo and Theo in the future - hopefully with a better title lol. PLEASE PLEASE DON'T LET THIS FLOP OR YOU WON'T SEE ME ON HERE AGAIN LOL. Comments and feedback are always appreciated. Sorry for the typos. Hope you enjoy it! xx

Tag list: @helendeath @im-jesus @wolfyychan @blocked-zombieartist

Tom Riddle was in his dorm, one of the only places in Hogwarts where he could be by himself, and where he could be doing the things he enjoyed the most - studying and reading, both in silence. But, despite being currently sitting on his desk - always perfectly arranged -, he was not currently reading a book or studying. Instead, he was doing something he never thought he would do and was feeling something he never thought he would feel: thinking about a girl, and being nervous about a girl. 

Contrary to Mattheo and his friends, Tom has never cared for relationships - he could barely bear being around Mattheo’s friends if serious, meaningful discussions or activities weren’t involved. Sure, he cared for Mattheo, more than he cared to admit, because they were of the same blood. And for Tom, blood was one of the things that mattered the most, alongside loyalty, knowledge and influence. 

And y/n. 

Tom had always thought Mattheo was the only person he could ever care for - after all, they needed to have some sort of loyalty towards each other if they wanted to have a chance to fight their father - but, just like he was surprised to learn he did not want to follow his father in his quest for tyranny, Tom was surprised to find himself caring for y/n. 

Just like he had never cared for friendship, Tom had never cared for love. He did not think it was a weakness as his father did, but he did think it was not as important as people made it out to be. And, also, why care for love when something terrible, something that would likely cost lives was being prepared? 

But then again, y/n challenged that idea. Despite being in the same house and the same year, it took Tom several years to properly notice her. He knew she was one of Mattheo’s close friends outside of his usual group, and that gave them occasions to spend time together. Strangely, Tom had first found her company more tolerable than the others - she seemed to understand his will for silence, deep conversations and his interests, seemed to have the same thirst for knowledge. She was kind as well, having what people called “a heart of gold”, always ready to help anybody in need. She was also warm and funny, two things she shared with Mattheo, and it usually didn’t take people enough to want to be her friend. Tom had considered y/n the closest thing he had to a friend, and he thought he would stay that way until, one day, he saw her and Mattheo sitting closer to each other than usual, and he felt something strange, something he didn’t expect to feel, and something he struggled to understand - jealousy. He didn’t think it was that at first, but it became obvious it indeed was jealousy when he found himself wishing that he was the one sitting next to her, and not Mattheo. 

From that moment, he kept thinking about y/n in ways he had never done before - how beautiful she was, how he loved her smile, how he wanted to hold her hand, to smell her addictive perfume, to be the person who mattered most to her… how he wanted to hold and kiss her. He had considered those thoughts as foolish at first and tried to not have them, but everytime he was with y/n, they came back running, and he sometimes had to restrain himself from sitting closer to her just to smell her perfume when they were in class, or to hold her hand when they were studying in the library. He didn’t have anybody to ask questions to - Mattheo would laugh at him - so, like he always did, Tom gave himself the answer: it was love. At first, he thought it was only temporary and it didn’t even cross his mind to tell her about it, but he was forced to admit that, instead of disappearing, those feelings became stronger with each day passing. The idea displeased him, and he tried to avoid y/n so these feelings would go away, but it was in vain, and only made him miss y/n - and made him love her more. But one day, as he was sitting on his desk busy thinking about her instead of studying, the idea of just telling her how he felt seemed right. Of course, the idea of rejection secretly terrified him, but he would accept simply being her friend. y/n deserved a loyal, sincere friend and that is what Tom was. All she had to do was give him a chance he could be the boyfriend - the word seemed so meaningless compared to what he felt - she deserved, a boyfriend who would be loyal, caring, sincere, and who would put her and her needs and safety first.  

Thus, he got her favorite flowers, and, having thought about what to say to her for hours, decided to go and ask her to have a moment of her time. And now the time had come. He grabbed the bouquet, and, trying to pull himself together, left his dorm. At that hour, y/n should be in the common room. With a bit of luck, she would be alone. Tom headed for the common room, which was nearly empty except for two first years laughing. He started looking for y/n, and his heart, which had started to beat faster with nervosity and hope, almost broke. 

y/n was indeed here, standing in a corner of the room - kissing Mattheo, who had a hand on her waist and the other in her hair. He broke the kiss, looked at her in a way Tom had never seen him and y/n had a smile before Mattheo pressed his lips on hers like he couldn’t help it. 

Tom took a step back, and the only thing that stopped him from dropping the bouquet was the noise he knew it would make. He turned around and quickly yet silently went back to his dorm - where the flowers finally met the ground. His back against the door, he almost wanted to laugh now. How could he have been so foolish? It should have been obvious to him from the start that y/n, warm and kind y/n, would prefere Mattheo, Mattheo would everybody loved or at least fond of, who had no problems making friends and be with people, Mattheo who had never been anything like their father. Mattheo, who people didn’t intimidate or rightfully found cold and strange. 

You’ve won, brother. 

As always, Tom Riddle found he had been right. Love was meaningless, and he should never have cared for it - should have never cared for her - in the first place. 

He was right, but for the first time in his life, he wished he wasn’t.

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[yanderestarangel]

HEADKANONS MK1 - TRIO LIN KUEI + FRIEND!READER | SFW

TW: gn reader, sfw, headcanons in general, spoilers about mk1, platonic relationship, little angst.

˚｡⋆.☆Do you want to make a request? Read my blog rules in the pinned post, comments and reblogs are welcome♡

A/N: I'm just used to writing smut things, but here's something softer. Maybe I'll do a part 2 after Bi Han's betrayal with his brothers and his reign of tyranny, what the relationships would be like, but just maybe.

You were friends with all of them, since you were a teenager. The first to bestfriend you was Kuai Liang, he was always the most communicative of the trio of brothers - he saw you training with other newly arrived ninjas and decided to welcome you into the clan, you were friendly towards him, which Liang was Unaccustomed, he really liked you so he invited you to dinner at one of the local restaurants - perhaps Mrs. Bo's - You really didn't want to bother him, after all, he was the grand master's son but he was extremely simple and humble, even offering to pay for the meal, so you accepted.

When you got there you met the shy Tomas, sitting alone at a table and eating in silence, he got a little clumsy when he saw you - the poor boy had no social interaction skills, he still doesn't have any to this day - so he stays quiet, just watching you talk to the his brother but soon he starts to loosen up more, laughing and talking to you too - and the two of you become closer than you and Kuai -

Over time, you became so friendly with the two that you started visiting their house, meeting their father and mother and being welcomed as their son too, but Bi Han looked at you crookedly and coldly - as he did with everyone - however he began to see potential in you, a future ally and skilled ninja and also you miraculously made him laugh even if a little, it was the beginning of the three of you's friendship.

You train with Bi Han, and he goes hard on you not because he hates you but because he sees you as a future ally, even his right-hand man after you prove your loyalty to him - even more loyal than Kuai Liang - "-You have a lot of potential (Y/N) just don't fall." -Bi Han is serious, however, offering you his hand after knocking you to the ground in one blow, lifting you up and helping you shake off the dust from your body.

Kuai Liang likes to talk and ramble with you, he would sometimes skip class with you to stroll through the cherry blossom gardens or just practice fighting in other places - once Bi Han caught you two skipping class and almost killed you both, Kuai ran with you on his back across the roofs of the houses in the local village -

Tomas likes to sleep with you and this was a habit he got used to doing even after he was an adult - on the days you went to sleep at their house you always slept between Tomas and Kuai Liang, Bi Han would stay in a separate bed in the same room . Tomas hugged you tightly and the next thing you knew he was clinging to the ninja's arms with him accidentally suffocating you with his chest and Kuai sleeping crookedly next to you, drooling on the pillows and with his leg over you, accidentally - Bi Han also snores at night, meaning he gets used to the loud noise.

On summer days you played games... Not very conventional - one of them being you, Tomas, Liang and Bi Han on a calm day doing a mouth-watering challenge, whoever smiled first would pay for the other's dinner, you all got dirty of water because of Liang who tickled you, making everyone laugh and lose the challenge, the last one to laugh was Bi Han who was extremely competitive, but after being spat with water in the face by Kuai Liang, laughing and then doing an ice dagger to run after his brother - while you and Tomas watched Liang laugh as he ran from his older brother -

Speaking of competition, Bi Han likes to play fights with you, but please don't go any further, he is very competitive and will end up putting you in a headlock and really hurting you - without meaning to -

On missions, everyone will be super protective of you, especially Tomas and Bi Han, in different ways. Tomas wants you 100% safe, without a scratch even if it's impossible sometimes. "-You're my best friend, I don't want you to get hurt (Y/N)." -Vrbada spoke worriedly as he followed you with his brothers.

But unlike his younger brother, Bi Han liked to see you in challenges, obviously he cared about you but he knew that evolution came from competitions. "-You are my best ninja and... Friend, come back alive (Y/N) I know that you are capable of many great feats, because I trained you." -Bi Han spoke seriously and arrogantly as always, but with a little concern in his dark irises, a reminder from him for you to return alive to the Liu Kuei clan and into his arms.

You, Tomas and Kuai wear friendship bracelets, the bracelet was made of strong fabric with the colors yellow, gray and blue mixed. The only one who didn't wear it was Bi Han - but he kept the bracelet in his pocket, he always put his hand in his pocket and brushed his fingertips against the accessory, smiling slightly behind the sub zero mask, it was good to know that he and his brothers They had you as a friend.

One day, when you and Kuai had no training he let you touch his hair, ending up with Liang with two braids in his hair, Tomas also wanted to do it but his hair was too short to style.

"-You can't do it on mine because it's too short?:(" -Tomas said sadly as he lowered his shoulders in defeat - he let his hair grow after that, just so you could style it - Bi Han said that was nonsense , but soon ended the day with two braids raised with colorful clips, arms crossed and sighing "-I'm only doing this because (Y/N) insisted a lot" -He said, looking at himself in the mirror irritated, it was a lie, he himself had offered to be your hairstyle "model".

You and Kuai had a game of slapping each other's asses, but one fine day, you confused which ass you were going to hit by slapping Bi Han's ass hard - he was on his back and wearing neutral clothes, you saw his round ass and gave a hard slap, soon seeing Bi Han jump and look at you with a murderous look, you had to use all your skills to run away at full speed to escape the grand master's attack, then you only came back at the end of the day seeing Bi Han with an ice complex on his ass. -

"-YOU WILL PAY ME (Y/N)!!!" *starts saying something about being the grand master and needing to be respected and about the honor of the Liu Kuei, typical boring talk from Bi Han* -He shouted pointing to you while Kuai Liang walked in between the two of you, trying not to smile, while Tomas was practically laughing, crying with laughter while Bi Han was still holding the ice on his ass.

(Y/N): "-Pikmin:3"

Bi Han : "-I'LL BREAK YOU (Y/N) I'LL DESTROY YOU I'LL-"

(Y/N): "-Pikmin:3"

When you had a birthday, everyone gave you a gift. Tomas gave you a little letter about how important you were to him, with some detailed drawings of the two of you together - Vrbada knows how to draw very well, with his favorite pastime being drawing you or the two of you together. "-I hope you know how important it is to me (Y/N)." -Tomas said while smiling, giving you a chaste kiss on the cheek, blushing to see that you were moved by his letter.

Kuai presented you with an outfit that you had wanted for a long time, a fine fabric from the best store in the village and the best seamstress of the Liu Kuei clan, it was fabrics in your favorite color, a luxurious and soft silk. "-I knew you had your eye on this outfit, so I decided to buy it for you (Y/N), I hope you like it, it will look beautiful on you." -Liang speaks with a soft voice and a smile, ruffling your hair.

Bi Han pretends not to remember that it's your birthday but obviously he does, he's a serious man and cares about you - so, when everyone goes to sleep he calls you into his living room giving you a custom-made and personalized katana, with purple blade and your name engraved, along with a phrase: "From: Grandmaster Bi Han, To: (Y/N) (L/N)". - you are extremely happy as you saw Bi Han cross his arms and also smile a little. "-This is a useful gift for you (Y/N), which will remind you how important you are to the Liu Kuei clan." -He speaks in a confident and happier voice, as he walks towards you, placing a hand on your shoulder "-And important for me too, happy birthday little one." -Bi Han gestures with his head, while smiling, it was one of the few times he showed feelings, on your birthday.

Every time you see a kitten in the windows of the tallest houses, Tomas will help you pet them, easily lifting you on his shoulders while Kuai and Bi Han watch, Kuai would laugh at the cute moment while Bi Han would say "-that was silly." but deep down I also thought it was adorable, even if I would never admit it out loud.

One time Bi Han saw you, Tomas and Kuai watching some random cartoon on television, rolling his eyes while giving a lecture about "You're too adults and too old to watch silly children's cartoons." In the end, Bi Han was also sitting on the couch with the three of you and focused on drawing - yes, it was my little pony and he marathoned everything with you that afternoon -

When you went shopping in the city, the four of you would stay on the sidewalk in the late afternoon, sitting on the asphalt curb, watching the cars pass by, with the joke of "that's my car", Tomas would always stay and point to the white ones in the city, Kuai for the red ones and you for the colored ones (which rarely passed), Bi Han just said "this one", pointing to the black cars, it was a silly joke, but you liked it.

When the betrayal happened, you were torn between helping Bi Han or your other two friends Kuai and Tomas.

If you chose Bi Han's side, you would have his approval and pride and as you always believed in your potential to be his right-hand man in a new era of the Liu Kuei, you would be treated like royalty, having respect from everyone, but leaving Kuai and Tomas extremely sad and swearing to themselves that they would rescue you one day from Bi Han's clutches - even if it had been by their own choice -

If you chose Kuai and Tomas' side, they would welcome you with open arms telling you how you would make a new clan without Bi Han's tyranny, but Bi Han would be extremely disappointed in you, even if he masked it with anger and hatred. In his speech, deep in his eyes you would be able to see his pain at not having you around anymore, he would swear to take revenge on his brothers and get you back to the Lin Kuei clan and to him.

©YANDERESTARANGEL 2023

[it-happened-one-fic]

Ink and Magic - The Rose-Red Tyrant

Author Notes: So this is a sort of halfway non canon compliant what if with the overblots and their aftermath. I've been considering, for quite some time now, why the Prefect (reader) gets to see what amounts to the overblot victims memories and hear what seems to be their thoughts regarding said memories. So I guess you could say this is a kind of headcanon for what happens in those moments. This isn't exactly romantic. in fact, I would say it counts as more platonic, but it certainly can be taken as shippy. This will also be a series, though the Diasomnia section won't come out until that entire matter is resolved in game. As per usual, reader is gender-neutral. I hope you enjoy!

Spoilers for Book 1: The Rose-Red Tyrant!!

[Heartslabyul: You're Here!] [Savanaclaw] [Octavinelle] [Scarabia] [Pomefiore] [Ignihyde] [Diasomnia: To be released]

Type: Gender-neutral reader/ fic series/ Can be platonic or romantic/ fluff/ angst/ comfort/ Spoilers for Heartslabul overblot.

Word Count: 2311

The ground was a brutal red. Covered in crushed and bruised rose petals that mixed with dark ink and made everything slippery. 

All I could hear were the screams and shouts from those nearby, but rather than fleeing or continuing to shout directions and warnings until my voice was hoarse, I stood silently. Watching in quiet horror as Riddle stumbled, reeling from the magical attacks he’d just received from his fellow dorm-mates. 

His once soft gray eyes were a violent red and wide open as he stared at me with an expression that spoke of shock. Like his entire world had just come crashing down like a house of cards around him.

He was no longer a form of horror, as the monstrosity behind him collapsed in a flood of ink that spread across the already-soaked ground. 

Instead, Riddle now looked pitiful. Like a lost child. He was trembling all over, but he’d at long last stopped attacking, and I honestly wondered if he’d simply run out of steam.

But as I looked at him, an unexpected sorrow swelled within my heart and caught me off-guard as the young man looked down at his hands, still blackened with ink stains.

Bitter tears began to fill his red eyes, and his previously loud voice wavered as he began to speak, “I…. I was wrong?! But that’s…. Impossible…..” 

His hands came up to cover his eyes and hide the tears that now threatened to roll down his too-pale face.

 He was no longer a creature perfectly fit for nightmares, and my heart seized painfully at his next words. So soft and broken that they were barely audible, “Isn’t it…Mother?”

 With those words, he gave a shudder and stumbled forward, his hands limply falling away from his face, which was now streaked with ink from his stained hands.

This was a Riddle I’d never seen before. One that was completely different from the mature but tyrannical young man I’d met.

 This was a young boy who was lost, broken, and one that I simply couldn’t abandon in this moment.

I didn’t know if it was instinct or something else, but something drove me forwards. Spurring me into running towards the young man, who had begun to collapse forward. 

My feet slid against the inky but tattered rose petals that littered the ground. Evidence of the horror we’d all just witnessed. The other students' voices followed me as they let out alarmed cries. Ace’s voice was perhaps the most prominent as he shouted my name. 

The panic in his voice almost made me want to stop even as my tired legs continued to carry me forward.

In truth, I had only one thought in my mind: that the young man in front of me, Riddle, didn’t need to be alone. 

It was a truth that was whispered to me from within my own mind. Something I knew as a solid fact even though I had no proof.

I barely even knew Riddle. All I knew of him was tyranny.

But I held out my arms, catching the small young man that I now realized was quite frail despite the immense magical power he possessed.

 He clung desperately to my shirt with trembling hands, and a sob tore its way out of him. I could practically feel the cold ink staining my shirt as it seeped through the thin fabric, and we both sank to the ground. 

He was exhausted, with his head drooping towards me like he could no longer stay awake. And as my knees hit the soggy ground, a wave of fatigue washed over me that promised me peace if I would just let it carry me away. 

I faintly heard my name get called yet again, but it sounded far enough away to be in an entirely other world.

Perhaps it was a voice from my world, trying to call me back home.

But even with that thought in mind, I didn’t respond. Instead, I fell into a darkness that consumed me, and I slumped forward. Still holding the small, broken boy close to me. As if that could bring him the peace he seemed to so desperately need.

But I wasn’t meant to slumber peacefully here, and though the deep darkness of what I thought was deep sleep surrounded me, I was not truly resting.

I looked around in confusion, looking for someone else in this deep darkness. After all, it didn’t feel like I was alone. It felt like I was surrounded in a space that was filled with only myself and one other person.

 It was a strange sensation, one that left me feeling out of my depth as I glanced around in confusion. Finding that here, I was no longer exhausted or sore from the events that had just unfolded in Heartslabyul. 

Like a glitch on a television screen, the blackness flickered, and a hazy scene appeared. That reminded me of an old black-and-white movie recording. 

Even the voices were crackly.

“Happy 8th Birthday Riddle….” I frowned slightly and shook my head, wondering what I was seeing. 

I had to be dreaming, but…. Something about this didn’t feel like a dream. It felt more like I was trying to sift through my memories and was instead being faced with wholly unfamiliar images. 

A large woman stood, smiling down at an adorable red-haired boy whose face I immediately recognized with an alarmed jolt. 

Riddle. Without a doubt, that was the very same young man who’d just attacked me, my friends, and the other members of the Heartslabyul dorm in the midst of what I could only describe as a psychotic break.

I stared in a strange mixture of fascination and confusion at the scene before me as a voice that, unlike the others, was perfectly clear began to narrate the scene that lay before me. Riddle’s voice.

It sounded like he was right next to me, but when I turned, he was nowhere to be seen. Instead, I appeared to be alone. 

Alone, but I was wholly surrounded by the scene of what seemed to be his, Riddle’s, childhood.

 “I’d always wanted to try one of those tarts with the bright red strawberries….”

His voice was as solemn as ever as it calmly explained the thoughts and feelings of the child Riddle, who seemed to star in all of these scenes. But the image before me did not stay peaceful, and I soon came to realize a darker truth about what was unfolding in front of me.

I listened and watched with mounting horror as memories from Riddle’s childhood, barren of playing and fun, played in front of me like a film. Every bit of it was narrated by a numb-sounding Riddle himself.

My eyes went wide as a young, brightly smiling Trey flashed in front of me. He was accompanied by another boy, whom I soon realized was that cat-like fellow I’d met in the Heartslabyul maze. Chenya, I believed his name was.

It was then, right after their appearance, that everything truly began to snowball out of control. 

Tiny Riddle finally got to experience the joys of childhood, only to be caught by his mother, who enforced even more rigorous rules on him. And it was painful to see the small child, who would someday become the young man I’d met not too long ago, weep as he was denied some of the most basic aspects of childhood.

I was beyond enraged on behalf of the small child in front of me. But what made it worse was Riddle’s voice, which was still narrating each scene even though tears were slowly beginning to choke off his voice, “But Mom… Why? Why does my heart hurt so much?”

I covered my mouth, as if that could somehow help me cope, as I listened to the young man whom I could hear crying, but I couldn’t see nor comfort.

The scene in front of me slowly faded to black, leaving me only with Riddle’s voice, begging for an explanation as I turned, searching for him in vain. But he was invisible, in this darkness, as he pleaded for an answer to his questions, “Tell me, Mom, please….. What rule do I need to follow to make this pain go away?”

I closed my eyes, shaking my head as if that could somehow help me figure out what to do, and then, like flipping a switch, it all stopped.

I opened my eyes wearily, only to find I’d been crying silently as I‘d held Riddle close to my chest. My cheeks were even still wet, judging from how cold the breeze was on my face.

Riddle himself was still asleep. His expression slowly relaxed from an upset that matched his tear-choked voice, which I’d just been listening to, to a more peaceful one that suited him far better. 

And it was a relief to see him relax after having seen what I’d just witnessed in whatever that dream was.

 One of his hands was still fisted in my shirt as he clung to me like a small child, causing me to smile slightly even as I shifted to better examine him. I froze mid-motion as I heard a sharp inhale from just next to me. It was then that I realized that both me and Riddle were not, in fact, being supported by one another.

Instead, it was the young man who knelt next to us who held us upright with his arms wrapped securely around the two of us in a sort of embrace.

I looked over and made eye contact with warm, honey-colored eyes that stared at me, relief sweeping through them as I managed to croak out the man’s name, “Trey.”

He let out an exhale, a relieved smile appearing on his face as his grip on my arm tightened ever so slightly, almost like he was trying to reassure himself that I really was present and that all was well.

“Thank goodness. You’re back,” His voice was soft, more of a breath than anything, and I couldn’t help but wonder what he meant by ‘back’. 

But I didn’t get to ask, and he didn’t get to continue since I heard three familiar voices both yell the same name at the same time.

“Y/N!” 

I half turned, finding I was still exhausted and slumping against Trey a bit more as I spotted Ace and Deuce both staring at me in wide-eyed relief before they both took off as Cater, who was right behind them, was still turning to look at me. 

The two boys' feet dug into the still-inky ground as they darted towards where I knelt with Trey and Riddle. 

Deuce reached us first, hitting his knees and grasping my arms as he scanned me for injury, “Are you alright?”

His voice was trembling as he questioned me, looking up at me with wide, panicked eyes. His expression was mirrored by Ace, who was desperately asking me what had happened while Cater appeared behind them. Carefully scanning both me and Riddle.

“Hey, hey. You’re crowding them. They only just came too,” Trey’s grip on me shifted in an almost protective fashion as he spoke, and I realized I was still relying heavily on him for support.

Crowley walked up far more slowly than the others, his eyes on me and a frown on his face as he began to open his mouth to say something. 

But before he could speak, one of Riddle’s hands, which had been gripping my arm this entire time, tightened slightly, and he made a mumbling sound.

All eyes darted to the young man, who slowly opened his eyes, once more a soft grey not unlike that of a dove’s feathers, with a groan. 

He looked up, making eye contact with me before looking at Trey and then back at me. 

Cater was saying something to both of us, but I'd tuned it out almost completely as I scanned the boy for any injuries. 

Riddle continued to look up at me with hazy eyes as I carefully scanned his small form, frowning as I noted exactly how exhausted he still looked. 

After a brief moment, though, he pulled away from both me and Trey. Distancing himself as his eyes slowly cleared and the gravity of the entire situation sank in.

From there, the situation devolved fairly quickly, with numerous questions being asked and reconciliations being made. Trey swept in towards the end of things, with Cater by his side like two concerned parents. Demanding that me and Riddle both go to the infirmary for a checkup.

It wasn’t until we were alone in that cold room filled with cots that Riddle made eye contact with me once more, “My… memories. You saw them, didn’t you?”

I was silent for a moment as I recalled those strange scenes in flickering black-and-white before I at last nodded, “Yes, I don’t know what caused it but…. Yes, I believe I did…. I heard you too.”

He nodded, falling silent as we waited for the nurse to enter and give us a clean bill of health. After a few moments, he met my gaze again, “I think we…. Connected for a moment there. I don’t know how, but you saw my memories and heard my thoughts. And I… I felt you there.”

I watched him quietly, not sure of what to say as he fell silent. But I couldn’t blame him. I too wouldn’t know what to say or think if some had seen my memories.

After a moment, though, he looked over at me with a troubled expression before he spoke  quietly, “If I were you, I would tell the Headmaster about this.”

I nodded, unsure of what to say since something told me neither of us knew what this meant for me or him.

[short-wooloo]

The thing that really jumped out to me about Transformers One was how relevant Megatron and his "burn it down" view is in the current day

I see it so often, young (often leftist and/or communist) people who declare that the only solution is the destruction, at best not thinking about the innocents who will disproportionately suffer from it, and at worst deliberately ignoring the suffering, or worse declaring the death and suffering to be "acceptable losses"

(Spoilers under the cut)

And we see this in the film, Megatron has won, Sentinel Prime is beaten, injured, has been exposed as a fraud, and lost any support he had, but it's not enough for the newly christened Megatron, the only thing satisfactory to him is total, unnecessary destruction, he brutally kills Sentinel (there's something there to be said about revolutionaries declaring themselves judge, jury, and executioner), Murders Orion in the proccess, and has the proto-Decepticons start indiscriminately firing in order to "burn it all down", endangering the lives of other bots-including his fellow miners!-in the process

But this is fine to Megatron, because to him the goal makes it ok, "the ends justify the means"

But "the ends justify the means" always leads to a dark place, and that is what "burn it all down" is at the core, the willingness to sacrifice so many innocent people for a hypothetical

But there's another way Megatron feels very similar to the "burn it all down, damn the collateral" crowd

The way both deem those who prefer reform over destruction to be a traitors or just, if not worse, than what came before, real life "burn it down" types tend to hate reformists and realists (ie normie libs) more than the fascists and racists

And lastly, there is the Tyranny

We all know Megatron's story, what he will becone, a Warmonger, genocidal towards non Cybertronian-especially organic life (who wants to bet in the sequel Megatron's solution for dealing with the Quintessons is to Slaughter them to the last?), a mass murderer, destroyer of worlds, and above all, a Tyrant

That is where his revolution leads (oh hello russian/french revolution and civil war/napoleonic wars, I didn't see you there), because Megatron sees violence as the only answer, violence will be his only answer, violence is what keeps his followers in line (Starscream), and if he successfully comes out on top of the coming war with the Autobots, violence will be the only means he'll remain on top, because that's the only reason he's there in the first place

The "revolution, burn it down" types of the real world already have a nasty pro authoritarianism streak, between their dictator worship and belief that they know best and everyone who disagrees needs to shut up/is a traitor and must die (but leftistly), why would that change if they get their wish of violently burning it all down?

[tossawary]

(SPOILERS for "Transformers: One!) I'm about to go see the movie again, so I may come back with better details later, but I saw a negative take that I thought was... understandable but also ungenerous towards the film... and I want to get some thoughts out about it now.

Sentinel is an unreliable narrator!!! It would be kind of flat story-wise if Sentinel had honestly betrayed the Primes just because he was "bored of all their talking" and just wanted all of their power for himself. Selfishness and ego aren't spectacularly interesting motivations, sure. I enjoyed him personally, but I also really don't think that anyone is obligated to find Sentinel interesting or fun as a villain; if you didn't enjoy him, that's fair.

But Sentinel is a showman!!! These are the claims that Sentinel makes to his ENEMIES, including Zeta Prime and Alpha Trion and the High Guard. Of course he's going to try and save face in front of them? And in front of his own subordinates? He's acting like he's disaffected by all of his enemies, like the return of a Prime doesn't scare him at all, like the loss of the Matrix doesn't matter to him, like the threat of the Quintessons is nothing to him... Like these people can't hurt him, no matter what they say or do, because he doesn't care about them.

And maybe Sentinel is that careless! Maybe he genuinely believes his own lies at this point! It's been a long time, his ego is swollen, the power has gone to his head, maybe he's convinced himself that the Primes just bored him, or maybe he's truly always been an apathetic twit. But either way, why in the world would Sentinel admit to vulnerabilities in any of his villain speeches to his enemies?

During Sentinel's encounter with the Quintessons, you can see that he's TERRIFIED of them. (For good reason! They're scary here!) Maybe he betrayed the Primes partially out of fear for his own survival; because he thought that brokering a deal of submission was the only way out of the war for himself. But this golden Prime, sole ruler of Cybertron, after years upon years of smiling tyranny, is probably not going to admit to his old foe, his living mistake, Alpha Trion, that he was and still is scared out of his damn mind.

(EDIT: One of the things that Sentinel says to Alpha Trion is that he had to spend half of his time watching the Primes "lose a war" and the other half of his time listening to them go on about "honor". I think the first part of that sentence demands some attention. Sentinel potentially genuinely thought that the Primes were going to lose the war! Or he's just insulting Alpha Trion because he's an asshole and he can, but it's possible that part of his motivation is that he lost hope and saw surrender as the only avenue of escape.)

Sentinel stole Megatronus's transformation cog! He set himself up as a false Prime! There's a lot to be inferred there about envy and jealousy and a desire for glory and worship. We don't know the exact societal setup under the original Primes, but it was also wartime, so maybe Sentinel's life as a not-Prime during a grueling war sucked somehow and his resentment eventually boiled over. Maybe his life was actually pretty good and he just snapped because he wanted everything. But either way, this smug villain high on his victory, boasting to his prisoners, is not going to suddenly admit to seething feelings of inferiority and/or confess the details of his wartime suffering to STARSCREAM.

It's possible that Sentinel genuinely thought that he was meant to be a Prime! Maybe he thought that the Matrix needed someone new to wield it to be effective! Maybe Sentinel used to be religious and thought that the war was going badly because the wrong person had the Matrix and thus Primus was unhappy with them all. But then the Matrix straight-up dissolved in his hands and his dreams and faith all came crashing down! (I'm aware that there's no proof of this! My point is...) But someone as proud as Sentinel is not going to talk about the excruciating dismay of not being considered worthy to the likes of D-16! Sentinel is too busy being cruel!

Like, I do understand personally not enjoying Sentinel as a villain! That's fine! I liked him, but I will easily agree that there are tweaks that could have been made to give him greater depth, to show greater depth, as could have been done with all of the characters here. I would argue that his relative simplicity allowed for more room for the arcs of Optimus Prime and Megatron, but he could have definitely been more interesting. For sure! They could have given him some different scenes where he might actually voice more vulnerabilities.

But it bugged me from a general characterization standpoint that this lying liar who lies might be taken entirely at face value regarding his motivations. Especially when talking to his enemies. Like, come on.

[shadohood]

"Frisk. I'll be honest with you. Chara hated humanity."

What if their hatered was more then justified? Afterall humanity did seal Monsterkind under the mountain Ebott and potentially shunned a child to the same fate. CR!Underfell (short for "Chara was Right" Underfell) aims to explore a version of the underground and surface where humans were even more hostile towards monsters and each other.

Every fallen, be they a child or grown, tried to eradicate Monsterkind, taking more and more from them. The only thing the King of monsters could do is prepare his people for the next fallen, handing all the power to the royal guard. Like in the original Underfell, monsters became cruel and rash just to survive the tyranny of humanity and their own rulers.

Ruins, like the underground itself, is a place of exile. All of those who were called for the war on humanity, but refused to fight are sent to the old ruined capital, cursed with isolation, closeness to the birthplace of the fallen and raids of the guard.

Flowey, at least that's what it calls itself, can be seen everywhere in the underground, holding some power over it. Unlike the OG Flowey, he doesn't seem to hide or work from behind the scenes and is more powerful for spoiler reasons.

The mourning mother, a mysterious woman wandering the old capital. It is dangerous to cross her, fire seems to be her main weapon that she uses recklessly, it seems like she just wants to be left alone. She seems to be afraid of children, to the point when the kind exiled folk had to abandon the stiped clothing tradition. The exiled of the ruins often hear cries from the birthplace of the fallen, as if the mother is mourning them. Some monsters say that she holds on to a relic of one of the fallen that she at one point seen as her child before they lashed out on the ruins' population to find an exit.

A portion of the ruins is believed to be haunted. The ghosts are one of the few monsters that cannot be attacked with physical damage, making them way less likely to be killed by the more often then not magicless fallen. This quality makes them especially valuable for the royal guard, hoarding power for their war on the fallen. Napstablook was once called for the war, but the guard couldn't force them to intentionally use their power against others. The fierce "training" of the guard seems to have broken the ghost's will which made them useless for the guard. Now they wander the ruins as their place of comfort.

Training dummy of the ruins suffered a similar fate, but wasn't seen as useful to begin with. The guard is known for preventing possession of the ghosts, as they lose their ethereal qualities in the process.

The ruins are full of other monsters, exiles from the outside and "order enforcing" members of the guard. Many here have scars from fights and raids.

CR!Underfell navigation: (Snowdin) Next <-- --> Previous (humans)

(To The CR!Underfell masterpost)

(Btw, I take commissions)

[invinciblerodent]

have you ever tried to draw a five-point Venn diagram

it is. how you say. difficult.

....anyway, this is better than my 5-minute thrown-together graph from last night, but even this isn't entirely perfect (I ended up needing multiple references lol and I didn't even put in ALL the named ones, but this is just where I'm gonna leave it, because I've been at this all last night and this morning.)

could this all be fully contradicted by Veilguard, or even just info that's already out and I've just been avoiding it to not get spoiled? possibly. If not very, very likely. (no spoilers, please.) But I've been thinking far too much about Dragon Age demons these past few days, and this is the kind of thought that needs to get out before it'd rot in my mind.

I've never seen anything like this before so I'm flying by the seat of my pants here, but I think it has already been said that Spirits (which are complex, often unique entities) fall some ways outside of this kind of classification- but I'd argue that individual Spirits can be closer, or farther away from being able to be assigned to a domain.

Demons are a fair bit simpler, more base creatures, and as of right now, the ones that we have seen can more or less be sorted kinda neatly into these categories.

I propose that, upon being corrupted by some outside force, the domain a Spirit was closest to originally, and the force that corrupted them, both could influence the kind of demon they become.

Like in my head, Love and Compassion lie a bit closer to the realm of Desire, and Command and Faith lie closer to Pride than, say, Hope or Wisdom are to any domain. But, they can all be corrupted in different, distinct ways: Love could turn to Jealousy, Hatred, and Betrayal, Compassion to Anguish, Disgust, and Resentment, Faith to things like Zealotry, Treachery, and Dismay, Command to Arrogance, Greed, and Tyranny, and all of them a bunch of other, potentially very different things, depending on their circumstances. Justice is sort of in the thereabouts of Pride, and upon being exposed to Rage and Despair for a prolonged time and in a very intimate way (though personal experiences outside of the Fade), it turned to Vengeance, while something like Hunger might have once been Joy or Curiosity.

Or something.

Idk.

This sort of helps me personally visualize things, like the demon that I have tormenting my Inquisitor at one point in my headcanon, Burden, is a pure despair demon who was attracted by the Nightmare (a pure Fear demon) and my Inquisitor's vulnerability to that due to his own anxieties (between Fear and Despair), but Purpose (the spirit I'm associating with my Rook Tristan) is a Spirit who would fall very close to the intersection between Pride and Desire. If it were to become corrupted (which it might!!), I think it would drift towards Rage, and become Obsession, as Purpose can be single-minded, all-consuming, and corruption for it would partly consist of shedding its aspect of Pride.

...... Also I don't much like how this thought could potentially imply space for the existence of a kind of super-demon embodying all aspects of all demons (shame the name Nightmare is already taken, I'm calling it YIKES for now), but I'll save that thought for another day.

[tavyliasin]

The Tyranny of Memory - Gortash x Durge Short

Durge meets Gortash at night in secret, and the finds the Tyrant has other ways to coax out old memories... D/s Switch for both, Gortash is AFAB and Durge is AFAB nonbinary in this 996 word request piece from some deliciously devious sinners~

A warmup short run a little long~ Click Here for AO3 Version Pairing: Gortash x Durge SPICE Rating: 4/5  Content Warnings and Tags: Power play, mild blood/wound, mild neck grab (no choking), rough sex,

Spoilers Mild act 3 Dark Urge reference (1-2 dialogue lines taken out of the original context), mild Dark Urge spoilers. Canon Compliance Barely any really other than the vague mention in the spoilers. This is just smut for smut's sake~ Other Notes As mentioned at the top, Gortash is an AFAB trans man and the Durge is nonbinary with they/them pronouns and AFAB anatomy.

Song Pairing Warfare by Katie Garfield (Youtube Link Click Here) "We won't stop 'Til you fall Cut you down Take it all One by one Say goodbye You can run but you can't hide

This is warfare"

SMUT BELOW THE CUT! --- ---

“A divine oath, sworn upon spirit and flesh. I do no harm to you, nor you to me.” Simple words that had been spoken with hope, Enver Gortash smiled as he had said them.

“First you will rule, then you will ruin.”  The words of the urge echoed in their head too, there was a pact, but every agreement had its weakness. Durge knew that the moment they agreed to meet him again, alone, under cover of darkness. The way to rule over a tyrant was first to make him believe he had control, soothe his over-inflated ego, to make the ruin all the more satisfying. 

That was how they were on his desk, golden claws raking down their spine staining white scales red, and lifting their tail to claim them. They allowed it, first his fingers - too greedy to tease, too impatient to give them what they wanted - and then one of several straps he kept in his drawer. 

They remembered those, or rather some part of them did. Durge wasn’t sure how, why, which ones had perhaps been used in the past, but their body soon did. They bit down into the leatherbound cover of a book that had been carelessly pushed to one side to make way for their reunion. Gortash’s voice was deep, dark, a growl that sent a shiver through their mind as he spoke. “There, my dear assassin, back where you belong.” 

Their body was responding, feeling Gortash…Enver… Their mind rebelled, even as their muscles tightened in the bliss of being so thoroughly filled, even the heat of his breath on the back of their neck drawing forth a low moan from their throat. “Fool, FOOL! Wait for his weakness, then take it all back.”

“Stay still, my dear, we do not wish to break anything. Least of all your delightful body.” He dug his claws into the base of their tail with a savage grip, the pain awakening a bloodlust they had struggled to suppress in every waking hour. 

“You’re playing a dangerous game, Gortash.” Durge muttered through gritted teeth, even as his cold metal gauntlet dug deeper. Even with their pact, *’harm’* did not account for pain that they enjoyed and welcomed

“So you want me to stop?” He slowed, but did not cease. His thrusts instead became languid yet purposeful, ensuring they felt every moment, encouraging them to seek their own pleasure by pressing towards him. But the heat of blood seeping onto their scales was tipping the balance, and winning the wager Bane’s chosen had set the moment he took control. 

“I warned you, Enver. Reap the rewards of your tyranny, and remember exactly the pride that brought your fall.” Durge’s tail wrapped around his waist, pulling him from their body as they grabbed a spare strap and turned, shoving him backwards, grinning wickedly as he stumbled towards the wall.

“There you are, my dear.” The light of fear in his eyes was coloured by arousal, as infuriating as it was deeply erotic to the dragonborn already leaping towards him.

Durge slammed Enver’s back against the wall, as they breathed in the scent of the breath that left his lungs, savouring it, drinking in the view of him half naked and quivering. “You thought it wise to take from me...to push me…to *awaken*-” 

“I did. That look in your eye, you’ve missed this just as much as I have. Perhaps a part of you still dreamed while your memories slept.” His golden claws traced a path over old scars, scratching over healed scales as if to reopen the wounds and drag their former self back out by visceral force.

“Little Tyrant…you speak of dreams when you’re awakening a nightmare.” Enver’s sturdy arms felt weak in their grasp as they turned him around, shifting their grip up to his hair, forcing his cheek against the cold stone of the wall. “I’d forgotten what your voice sounded like when you whimper and beg, Enver. You’ll be kind enough to remind me now, won’t you?” 

He nodded, as much as one can with their face held so close, his arms wretched easily behind him as their tail wrapped around his wrists to bind them still.

“Good boy.” They purred into his ear. “Do not move.” The command allowed them to hold him only with their tail as they swiftly secured the strap. Grabbed from the drawer in haste, it was longer and thicker than the one that the tyrant still wore, dripping with the remnants of their own arousal. It might be pleasing to take their pleasure from him more directly, to throw him to the floor and command his wicked tongue to spill his secrets directly to their core, but power… Real power held far more allure. 

They hadn’t been concerned about preparing him, and they quickly remembered why. The oil glistened in a thin trickle down the back of his thigh betraying how he was always ready, waiting, hoping. 

The tyrant groaned as they entered, teasing just the tip at first. Durge took hold of the back of his neck, keeping him flush against the wall, but their other hand snaked down to his waist and around, gripping the strap he still wore and working it slowly as if the false appendage had feeling. “Should I thank you, Tyrant, for being so well prepared for me? Should I thank your hungry little hole for swallowing all of this with ease?” Enver whined. Perhaps he might’ve preferred the more direct pleasure that penetration of another kind could offer, but this… They knew it was the degradation he wanted most. To know they could take his body and own it. 

Durge increased their pace slowly, savouring how he shuddered, moaned, and grew weak as their hips slammed against him. They grew drunk on the power, intoxicated by how they brought him to his knees in a pool of his own arousal, and they did not relent until dawn. --- --- ENDING NOTES --- ---

So maybe I'll do more with Gortash. I still haven't played a Dark Urge run, but I have very much enjoyed indulging in all manner of Durgetash content~

[humanpurposes]

Karma is a God

Chapter 12: Harrenhal

The Dance of the Dragons begins on a lie, and Aemond owes a debt, one Lucerra will see repaid in Fire and Blood // Series Masterlist // Main Masterlist

Aemond x Lucerra Velaryon (fem!Lucerys)

Warnings for this chapter: spoilers for F&B and future seasons of HotD, canon divergence, descriptions of violence, death

Words: 4400

A/n: The truth comes out. Also available to read on AO3.

It is said Harrenhal is cursed. 

Harren the Black’s rule over the Riverlands was marked by tyranny and brutality, ruling from a seat built to fuel his own pride. Generations of Rivermen were taken as slaves and forced to construct the very symbol of their subjugation, a castle the size of a city, five towers of black stone looming over the God’s Eye. 

It is said blood was mixed into the mortar; Death lives within the castle’s very walls. Aemond feels its presence as he felt it back in the Red Keep, the Stranger breathing down his neck as his father decayed, as his grandfather ordered the executions of those who were loyal to the false Queen, as he spent restless night in his chambers staring at the red cloak hanging over a chair by the fireplace.

He feels it now. It has been over a century since the flames of Balerion roasted Harren Hoare and his men alive and melted the castle into the ruins it lies in today, but everywhere he goes air is thick and tastes faintly of smoke. The silence is heavy here, especially in the tower. There are no sounds of people like there are in the city, no birds or rustling trees, just the soldiers and nervous servants. No one ever raises their voice here, and if there is a short burst of laughter it is snatched back, out of fear of disturbing the ghostly quiet. 

Harwin Strong died here, less than a decade ago. He understood the loss as a boy, the sadness in Jace and Luke’s faces on the day of Laena Velaryon’s funeral, mourning an aunt they never knew and a father they could not speak of.

He has never thought to find the room. In a place scorched by fire, every room looks the same. 

It is said that every family and castellan who has held Harrenhal will meet a gruesome end. Aemond dismisses this as superstition. A gruesome end comes to most, regardless of the castles they do or don’t hold.

But then again…

“Retribution will come with fire and fury,” Alys still whispers in his ear.

Since he has had news of King’s Landing he cannot bring himself to lie with the witch. She sleeps in his bed, and he does not sleep at all. Granting himself rest would be an insult to his mother, to Helaena, to Aegon and Maelor. The only solace he has is that Daeron will be with the Hightower host. He has written to his youngest brother, instructing him to wait at Tumbleton until they can formulate a plan to retake the capital.

For now he waits. 

The wind howls against the walls of the tower. His mind tells him it is the Stranger, taunting him, or the castle’s ghosts impatient to see what his gruesome demise will be.

He watches the flames in the hearth dwindle and die. By dawn it is cold, not so much as an ember left glowing, just charred firewood.

Alys groans from the bed, telling him it is time to begin dressing. She wraps herself in a black robe and moves to the window, while he removes his shirt from the previous day and reaches for clean clothes. 

A sliver of early morning light pierces the room as Alys draws the curtain back. Aemond has his back to her as he fastens the final buckle on his jerkin.

“A dragon, my Prince.”

He feels his eye widen.

“Which dragon?” he says, though the possibilities are small. If it were one of Rhaenyra’s, they would be dead by now.

Alys says nothing.

He huffs and walks towards the window, ushering her out of his way as he drags the curtain back fully. The cobalt blue scales and bronze belly of Tessarion gleam in pale sunlight, gliding over the God’s Eye, towards the courtyard. 

He hurries down the endless spiral of steps to meet them. Alys’ footsteps echo a few paces behind him. He reaches the courtyard as Tessarion’s rider dismounts, a young man with silver curls, dressed in black and gold armour. 

He hasn’t seen Daeron since he was a thin and clumsy child, before their grandsire sent him to Oldtown. That was before Aemond himself had claimed Vhagar, while he still thrived on stubbornness rather than pride, while he still had both of his eyes. 

But any sense of hope his brother has brought with him fades when he spots the gashes in Tessarion’s hide, the marks left behind by the teeth and claws of another dragon. Daeron fares a little better. His mouth is bloodied, his skin and hair dusted with ash, his eyes red and heavy with exhaustion. He clutches his chest as he takes staggered steps towards Aemond, wincing at the effort.

Aemond finds himself rushing forwards, holding Daeron at his elbows and brings him to stand straight. “You’re hurt,” he says.

Daeron shakes his head. “I’ll be alright. We made the flight at least.”

Until now Daeron has only been a memory to Aemond, an infant he can barely recollect, a name always spoken like a question, half a lifetime of neatly written letters. And yet he is so familiar. His eyes are shaped like their mother’s, his face lean like their grandfather’s and his mouth quirks like Aegon’s does when he’s nervous. 

“What happened to you?” Aemond asks.

Daeron’s eyes trace over the scar and his sapphire eye. “Mother tried to describe what happened to you that night, in her letters,” he says, “but I could never quite picture it.”

The courtyard is starting to fill now, but the men linger as close to the walls as they can, away from the injured dragon and the Princes. Criston Cole is the only man who dares to take a few steps closer. Daeron looks around them, his gaze lingering on the woman in a black robe, beyond Aemond’s shoulder.

“Daeron,” Aemond says, tightening his grip a little more. 

His brother looks up. The colour violet shines brightly through the redness in his eyes and the spots of black and grey on his face. “We were ambushed,” he breathes, “near Cider Hall. Four dragons.”

Cole is beside them now. “What of the Hightower army–”

“Which dragons?” Aemond asks sharply.

Daeron looks to Cole, then back to his brother. He swallows thickly. “Moondancer, Seasmoke and two of the wild dragons. Sheepstealer. Grey Ghost.”

Aemond sneers in anger and disgust. “Rhaenyra sent her heathen dragonseeds to slaughter you and the Hightower host?”

Something about Daeron’s expression is unsettling. He won’t stop looking at Aemond’s scar, gazing at it in terror like a child, as though he hasn’t fought off four dragons and watched them burn an army of thousands. 

“Aemond…”

He is just tired and frightened, he must be. He is more of a child than a man. Their mother had warned against involving Daeron in this war. 

“Did you kill any of the dragonriders?” Aemond asks.

Daeron stares at him in bewilderment, like there’s something Aemond is missing and it irritates him.

“She let me go,” Daeron says.

Aemond’s fingers feel numb. “Who did?”

“She… there was a strange moment, Tessarion resisted me, I felt it. She threw me from her back and caught me as I fell. I thought I was going to die. But she let me go.”

In the corner of his eye he sees Cole turn his head to him, a look of confusion or curiosity, Aemond doesn’t spare him a glance.

“It’s been so long,” Daeron says, “but I know it was her.”

Not Baela. If it were, Daeron would say her name. Instead his eyes are darting around, between Aemond’s violet and sapphire eyes, trying to summon the courage to speak.

The numb feeling begins to spread, through his arms, coursing through his blood and creeping towards his chest like venom. “Who?”

Daeron’s mouth hangs open slightly but no sound releases.

Aemond’s throat rasps at the strain of his sudden shout. “WHO?” 

Daeron winces, hunching his shoulders and attempting to retreat into himself, but Aemond will not relent.

“TELL ME!”

The wind stings his skin and creeps under his leathers at the neck, but he does not hear it. All he hears is his own heartbeat, drumming in his head, pulsing in his chest and veins. 

Daeron’s answer plunges him into coldness, like his body has been thrown into the sea before he has a chance to take a breath. 

“Lucerra.”

His scar burns as it had done when the wound was fresh, while Luke still held the knife in her hand, her face covered in blood— her blood, his blood— the two were indistinguishable. 

His throat closes. His heart feels as though it might burst under the strain.

“Aemond,” Daeron says, trying to shuffle away from him, “let go of me.”

Then he looks at Cole. He has never seen his old swordmaster to seem afraid. What would Criston Cole have to fear while he lived within the Red Keep? Instructed to guard the Queen and her children, to guide them and recount stories of the days when he was a true soldier, the horrors he saw, the men cut down in the name of glory. His response to danger is anger, always. Now he looks up at Aemond like a child.

Some feeling finally starts to come back in his fingertips as they squeeze around Daeron’s arms, hard enough to bruise. “How…”

He searched Shipbreaker Bay for hours, and flew her further out, his vision blurred by the rain pelting down against him. He had seen a torn wing tossing about on the waves and followed it as it washed up on a beach below Storm’s End. Vhagar had grumbled at the other pieces of Arrax’s flesh, but there was nothing of Luke.

And then he saw it, a flash of red riffling in the water where the waves met the shore. The cloak was the only trace of her that remained. 

She couldn’t have survived the fall. She couldn’t have.

“How…”

“I don’t know,” Daeron says. He struggles against Aemond’s grip but not to escape it, to place his hands on his brother’s arms in return. “But it was her. I know it was.”

He cannot think past the noise in his head, but he clutches at words, memories, two little headless bodies and his sister’s screams.

“Jaehaerys and Jaehaera…”

Fire and the dying cries of a dragon, the armour melting into Aegon’s skin, the stench of burning flesh and a body charred beyond recognition.

“Rook’s Rest…”

The Gullet. Jacaerys and young Viserys. King’s Landing. His grandfather. His family left scattered. A throne fought for, paid for with so many lives. 

“We should have known,” Aemond utters into the deathly silence of the courtyard. “We had spies at Dragonstone. Larys has spies in every corner of the Kingdom…”

The icy feeling under his skin starts to burn.

Larys.

With a thrust of his arms he sends Daeron stumbling backwards. His sword sings as he draws it and marches to the ruins of the Wailing Tower, down the steps to the crypt, where two guards stand by an iron gate.

The crypt lies deep underground to accommodate the needless height of its ceiling. It was built to match the rest of the castle, a vast hall held up by pillars and arches. Like the rest of Harrenhal it is impractical, impossible to light or keep warm. 

The entirety of House Strong is huddled together on the floor.

“Open the cell,” Aemond says quietly.

The guards do not hesitate to obey. Aemond snatches a torch from its place by the stairs. Behind him he hears footsteps and murmurs of confusion. The gate clatters in its frame when he slams it shut.

Slowly, he turns to the Strongs, the flame of the torch scolding the scarred side of his face and catching in the polished edge of his blade.

The men rush forwards and the women push the children behind them, quietly begging for them to stop whimpering, stop crying. Do not fuel the simmerring rage or prompt a reaction from a Targaryen Prince.

Simon Strong fronts their group, and another man, tall with broad shoulders stands beside him. “My Prince,” he says in a defiant voice, but he falters. In all the weeks they have been prisoners, Aemond has not stepped a foot in the crypt that serves as their cell. “To what do we owe the… privilege?”

The tall man clenches his fists and widens his stance. In any other moment, Aemond might have smirked at their presumption, but he has no room for pride now, no anticipation for joy or satisfaction as he stalks towards them. 

Some of the others follow his lead, and some glance down at the ground, but there are only waterskins, slabs of stone sealed into the floor and dust— nothing that might be used as a weapon.

He can feel his right hand shaking and grips his sword tighter. Fear is a feeling Aemond is unaccustomed to and it fills him with a searing rage. The more he withholds it the more it burns. “You said you were loyal to our King,” he says.

Ser Simon cowers at the sound of his voice. “Yes, we are–”

“You said Lord Larys was loyal to our cause.”

He looks to the men standing by his sides, his sons, nephews, cousins, then back to the Prince. “I believe him to be so, yes.”

Aemond tuts. Cole used to tell him to be selective with his mercy. Some men deserve death, while others deserve a chance to redeem themselves. “We pass judgement by the guidance of the Gods,” he had told Aemond on a quiet morning in the yard in the Red Keep, “but mercy is a gamble. Leave the root of a threat and it will come back.”

He had given House Strong his mercy, and how had his kindness been repaid? With lies and deceptions…

He can hardly bear to think. A pain pulses in his head and there is so much noise.

The girl he murdered is not dead. 

She has another dragon.

She has decimated armies.

She spared Daeron.

Daemon and Rhaenyra had no mercy for Jaehaerys and Jaehaera. They had no mercy for Otto Hightower. If Aegon and Maelor are still alive, they will have no mercy for them.

But if she is alive then the bloodshed has all been for nothing. If Lucerra Velaryon is alive then this war began on a lie.

He breathes deeply through his nose, focusing on the hum of the torch in his hand and the pain searing through his head and the scar.

And suddenly his mind seems clear.

He lifts his gaze to the Strongs, his blood boiling with anger, fear and disgust. “Your family are traitors to the crown,” he says, coldly.

The tall man clenches his jaw and lunges forwards, only to be yanked back by Ser Simon. 

“No,” the old man hisses before he turns back to Aemond.

Perhaps the tall one is Ser Simon’s son. They have the same glare, evident even in the low light.

“We have done as you have asked. We did not resist you when you came to our home. We have sat in silence and in darkness, with no way to count the days but the delivery of food and water. Our house has committed no offence to you, to argue otherwise is to argue against reason.”

Aemond feels his mouth break into a sneer. “No offence?” he utters.

His scar stings at the heat of the torch and that same pain throbs deep inside his head. The pain that has haunted him for eight years, pain that came at the hands of a Strong bastard and was dismissed by his own father for her sake. A girl of their blood.

“NO OFFENCE?” he roars. “Lord Larys has lied to me! Who knows what other secrets he has been hiding? What part could he have played in the downfall of King’s Landing? In the disappearance of the King and my nephew?”

“So punish Lord Larys!” the tall man shouts, brushing off Ser Simon’s protests as he takes a step forward. “We have done nothing!”

“Ah,” Aemond breathes, “but if only it were that simple.”

He tests the weight of his sword one final time.

“No… I see now the scourge of House Strong must be rooted out in its entirety.”

He hears the collective intake of breath. They seem to understand now.

The tall man moves first and in one swing of Aemond’s sword, his head slices from his neck and thuds against the floor.

It doesn’t satiate his anger, it only feeds it.

The rest is a blur. He hears screaming and spurts of blood through the darkness. He feels the impact of his blade through flesh and one by one, he purges himself of House Strong.

None are spared. The ones who try to fight him die first. The others run to the iron gate but they have nowhere to go. Finally he picks off the children, attempting to hide in the shadows and far corners of the crypt.

And when it is done, as the cloud of anger begins to fade and he catches his breath, there is no relief. His hand releases his sword and his knees fall against the damp stone beneath him.

Blood floods the floor and the air is thick with the stench of death and dust. He chokes on it, gasping for air that seeks to poison him. He cradles his head in his hands and even still he cannot escape it. He hates himself for the hot tears that spill into his palms and recoils at their bitter taste.

He returns to his rooms. He can feel the bursts of blood lingering on his face and in his hair, it feels thick and heavy. Through the gusts of wind howling against the tower’s walls, he hears their screams ringing in the back of his mind.

Alys is standing by the foot of the bed, waiting for him, her hands clasped before her. Those once hauntingly bright eyes seem duller than they did before, the lines around her mouth and forehead set deeper.

He stalks towards her, each step he takes a challenge, a test to see what she will do.

She is unphased, stepping into him to undo the buckles on his jerkin. “Allow me to help you bathe,” she says.

He snatches her wrists in his hands, staining her pale skin and the cuffs of her sleeve red. “And wash me of the blood of your own kin?” he hisses.

She drags her hands away from him but he grabs her again, by her neck, firm enough that he can feel her heartbeat under his hold.

“Perhaps I should have you join them,” he says, numb to the feeling of her fingernails clawing at his hands. “She is alive. Lucerra is alive.”

“Not by my doing,” Alys seethes through the constriction on her throat.

Aemond leans into her with a snarl. “You knew.”

The harder she struggles and digs in her nails, the tighter his grip becomes, his thumb ghosting over the spot they both know could end her life in minutes.

“You lied to me.”

“I have told you no lies,” she says.

“But she is to be my retribution, yes? Luke will come to me, with fire and fury.”

A cruel, knowing smile spreads across her lips. 

The ghost of a dragon. It was damaged, and is rebuilding its strength through anguish.

“Answer me!” he cries.

Alys shakes her head as much as she can underneath his hold. “I believe you already know what awaits you.”

He releases her with a grunt and shouts for a guard. “Get her out of my sight,” he orders, “throw her in the crypt with the rest of her house. Leave the witch to rot.”

A servant draws him a bath and he dismisses him soon after. He scrubs the darkening blood from his skin, and keeps scrubbing until his flesh is red again. 

By some mockery of the Gods, it is the first night in days he has been able to find sleep.

He dreams of a gloomy chamber, a stone floor below him, fingers gently threading through his hair.

He tips his head back to look at her, the soft and unassuming face of his sister in her youth. Her pale blue eyes beam at him– blue, not the grey they were when he left her. She was gentle and solitary back then, and she had less to mourn.

She drags her fingers through his hair, twisting strands into braids, just as she did to him when they were children, and as she used to do with the twins.

There is so much he would say to her, regrets, apologies and the sheer noise that clouds his mind. But he says none of it.

Her hands drop from his hair but he doesn’t want her to go.

Instead her hand cups the left side of his face, her thumb brushing over the edges of his scar while her eyes are fixed on his sapphire.

She whispers to him, words he’s heard before. “Bonds of blood are so easily forgotten...”

He remembers the way she held Maelor when he returned from Storm’s End, how she turned her son away from him.

Because he was dangerous. Because she thought him a monster.

He told her he would protect them, but everything he touches turns to blood or ash. 

What would Helaena make of the bloody mass of bodies in the crypt below Harrenhal?

He whispers back to her “...never forgiven.”

He stands by the lakeshore, looking up at the castle as their army marches through the gates, each man dressed for battle. Cole leads atop a white horse at the front of the company. 

A growl rumbles through the air like thunder and every man turns his head to the sky. 

The rising sun goes black when Vhagar flies before it, circling the ruined towers of Harrenhal before she lands by the lake, the ground trembling under her.

Tessarion rises from the courtyard and lands further along the shore. She rears her head when Vhagar growls curiously, and Daeron tries to calm her, keeping a tight grip on her reins and smoothing his hand over her snout. The sheer size of Vhagar would not allow for such delicate gestures. 

Daeron dismounts and walks slowly to Aemond, his spine straight and his hands behind his back. He has recovered quickly from his injuries, as has his dragon; keen, young fighters, the pair of them. He cannot look Aemond in the eye for more than a few moments before his gaze falls to the ground.

“Will she be safe to ride?” Aemond asks. His voice has felt different these last few days, rough and visceral. 

“I am sure we will be,” Daeron mutters back. “She held firm when we were attacked.”

“You are not to engage should you encounter another dragon,” Aemond warns him. 

“I know. We will be swift and stay hidden, you have my word, brother.”

Daeron’s route south has been planned meticulously by Cole’s order. He is to avoid flying over castles and towns, especially as he flies over the Riverlands. The ageing Lord Tully has kept his banners at Riverrun, but once word of the Strongs starts to spread, he doubts they will find much support in the Riverlands. 

He is to fly to the Reach and find whatever remains of the Hightowers, and Cole and his men will follow. Ravens have been sent to Borros Baratheon and Jason Lannister. The Baratheon banners are amassing in the Stormlands, while the Lannisters will march north to the Twins, to hold off the Starks, should Lord Cregan ever make the journey south. The rest of the war will be a waiting game. 

He watches his brother mount his dragon. Tessarion leaps into the air with a flourish of her blue and bronze wings, disappearing into the clouds.

When the sound of the marching fades too, all he is left with are the waves in the water, the pulsing in his head and the hum of Vhagar behind him.

Even so far removed from the castle his stomach churns at the lingering stench of blood in his nose. He can still feel its weight on his skin and in his hair.

What place would he have with his brother, who cannot even bear to look at him. What place will he have with the Hightower host, restlessly waiting?

He has spent half of his life training for the inevitable war, he rides the largest dragon in the world, as Regent he wore the Conqueror’s ruby crown, and it means nothing. Cole was right, they should never have left King’s Landing. The stubborn and irritable blood of the dragon will not allow him to follow Daeron and Cole as they move south.

No, fate has another path for him.

The noise in his head keeps rising. The screams of his sister, his brother, the men he kills at Rook’s Rest, the Strongs as he cut them down one by one. The cries of dragons in pain and anguish. Flashes of thunder and lightning, the rain pelting down against his leathers, the sound of the sea as he stood on the shore below Storm’s End. 

It rises and rises until it splits his skull.

He unleashes it, bathing fields, forests and towns of the Riverlands in dragon fire. 

He finds no solace in the lands he leaves charred, in the lives he takes, but what difference does it make? His mother never looked at him the same after Storm’s End, nor did Helaena. If they could not forgive him, what should it matter what the rest of the world will make of him?

He is Aemond Targaryen, the Kinslayer, the one-eyed Prince; death, destruction and cruelty are written into his blood, burning through his veins like fire. 

If the Tullys will not make their loyalties known, then their people will die the deaths of traitors. Rhaenyra will either watch the Riverlands burn or send her dragonriders. Perhaps she will send her bastard dragonseeds, or perhaps he’ll hear the piercing whistle of Caraxes when Daemon comes for him.

But he thinks one dragonrider will leap at the chance to kill him.

Not a day goes by when he does not feel her or see the marks she has left on him. Perhaps they have always been fated, born to differing sides of family doomed to tear itself apart, bound by childish affections, but finally welded together with their blood on each other’s hands and faces.

Everything he is comes back to Luke, perhaps it is only right they should be each other’s demise.

Tags (comment to be added to either)

General taglist: @randomdragonfires @jamespotterismydaddy @theoneeyedprince @tsujifreya

Series taglist: @boundlessfantasy @toodlesxcuddles @starwarsslut @skikikikiikhhjuuh @arcielee

[crystal-overdrive]

Gortash Week Day 1: Inventor/Criminal

For Gortash Week I'm posting a series of diary entries that show the events of Towards Tyranny (my evil TavTash fic) from Gortash's perspective. Crossposting to AO3, but under the cut if you'd rather read here.

Eleasis 12 1492DR

I must thank Wyllyam Ravengard. His utter destruction of his own political career and foolhardy attempt at rescue has pushed Rina straight into my arms. Quite literally. She’s asleep next to me right now. She looks so vulnerable. I’d kill Ravengard a thousand times over to keep her with me. 

I wish I’d killed him tonight, I wish I’d battered his face until his airways collapsed. How dare he assert claim over her? Her place is here. My Rina does not belong in a ragtag Harper camp. I’d put her in a palace.   A palace guarded by better soldiers. My creation failed today. I will not suffer such defeat again. Work resumes immediately.

The nightmares have returned. Auspice or omen? From Him it is never clear. 

[chirxlity]

SATSUKI KIRYUIN

CW: KLK spoilers, mention of: compulsory heterosexuality, physical & emotional violence, s-xual trauma, CSA, SA, r-pe (for the sake of better background and context about this anime & about Satsuki story)

About her character and why she is stone femme headcanon for me.

SATSUKI

This character does not have this cold, strong but sharp and fierce appearance as a random addition of traits just for the sake of fanservice. Her physical appearance and her personality traits are polished and calculated, yet she is pretty vulnerable on the inside and has a huge and rich inner world. She is acutely smart, a powerful strategist, a good and strong leader with the kindest heart I've ever seen in a character apparently so cold, stubborn or even despotic. But we have to keep in mind her upbringing and that she did what she had to do in order to survive because her main goal was to save the world and protect her closest friends. She wanted to free them as well as she wanted to free herself. But... from what?

SATSUKI'S PLOT

about her plans, goals and what Ryuko meant to her

Satsuki had such important goals: she wanted to free humanity (and herself) from the biofibers and the tyranny of her own mother, who was working with them to subjugate all the people on Earth, but she also craved to avenge her father and sister for what Ragyo did to them, so she fought for revenge but also for love. In the end, all that she wanted was to protect the ones she loved the most. 

Satsuki believed she could lead a revolution against Ragyo and the biofibers by using the power she had as her daughter against her. She took advantage of that power and the fear it inflicted on everyone to build a hierarchical system based on The Law of the Strongest and blind obedience (basically she militarised the school), and then she started to ‘colonise’ other schools to gather an army. She did this to trick her mother into thinking that she was working for her because her empire was much larger and stronger, so she had to be very cautious or else the chances to defeat Ragyo and the biofibers would be even lesser. All of these factors led her to repress her thoughts, feelings and emotions.

But when she met Ryuko, her plans started to change a bit: she saw a lot of potential in Ryuko and wanted her to get stronger and surpass her from the very beginning. She felt that Ryuko was something more, not just another soldier that could help her defeat Ragyo once and for all, and she wasn't wrong about it: later on they found out that Ryuko was that little sister Satsuki and Ragyo thought dead and that Isshin Matoi was actually Soichiro. He raised Ryuko and hid her from Ragyo with the hope that, one day, she would defeat her and the biofibers.

When these facts were revealed, Satsuki knew everything changed: she could trust someone of her own blood, she could finally have her dream family: one that she'd have built, one that she'd have chosen, one that would have truly and deeply loved her for who she is.

NONON

Now we have to talk about Nonon, Satuski’s best friend and (implicitly) lover, the only person who knew her best and could fully trust: this character can come across as an irritating or pedantic girl, but that’s just the surface; she acts tough the only way she knows just because she wants to show that she’s strong and the most important person in Satsuki’s life. I find it so heartwarming that even though the rest of the Elite Four are respectful and loyal towards Satsuki, it is Nonon that better understands her boundaries, and they treat each other as equals. Nonon is not just another subordinate to Satsuki (and never was). I think that because of this and her appearance (small, cute, etc) she wants her value as a fearsome opponent to be acknowledged, and that's why she acts so sassily and arrogantly (a thing which I personally love about her).

Nonon always finds the courage to fight and never gives up whenever Satsuki is near her; she feels the need to protect her, and she is always willing to carry all the weight if that means Satsuki will be safe and sound. 

She is the one who always took care of Satsuki’s deepest wounds but also her dreams, and is the only one who knows best the pain Satsuki had to endure in order to save everyone. Both of them shared their dreams and hopes with each other when they were kids, and since then Nonon took care of hers as well as Satsuki took care of Nonon’s. 

JUNKETSU

It is hard to talk about Junketsu and what it felt like his relationship with Satsuki and Ryuko to me right after talking about Nonon, but it has to be done if I want to illustrate why I headcanon Satsuki as a stone femme. 

Junketsu is, first and foremost, an allegory for compulsory heterosexuality. He was the symbol of the chastity/virginity forced upon the future bride and spouse, Satsuki (we have to remember it was Soichiro the one who told this to her, that Junketsu was going to be her wedding dress). So it was the underlying expectative of defeating Ragyo by sacrificing her will to Junketsu that her father put on her shoulders, one of the reasons that kept her from loving Nonon freely, openly and wholeheartedly, maybe the main one because Ragyo simply wanted the whole subjugation of her daughter, her complete devotion to the biofibers cause, while Junketsu was just a tool for both her father and mother that would force Satsuki to do the will of one or the other.

But even though Junketsu was just a tool, Satsuki had to wear it on all the time, which means that Satsuki was living constant situations of rape; after all, whenever Satsuki dressed Junketsu and tried to activate him, she endured a lot of pain and ended up very weakened from resisting Junketsu taking full control. And the thing here is, although Satsuki willingly wore Junketsu, that doesn’t mean she had another option. As I said, this suit was made to control her and Ragyo used it later to control Ryuko too. He, as the symbolic husband, tried to tie them up to heterosexuality at some point in their lives. 

So as we can see, Satsuki didn’t want to wear any biofiber cloth, she had to use them and let herself be used by them in order to save the whole world and set everyone free.

CONCLUSIONS

I think it is well pictured that Satsuki truly cares about people but felt she couldn’t trust them because of how the world was built by her mother and the biofibers, and also how Ragyo treated her with so much despite at the same time she emotionally and sexually abused her (it’s so obvious that Ragyo is a child abuser and a paedophile). But Ryuko was key to help her understand that things could be different, that she didn’t have to make everyone afraid of her in order to get what she wanted, that she actually could trust people. 

So for all that has been explained in this post is why I think Satsuki embodies so perfectly what it’s like to be a stone femme for me and not just for her appearance, but for her choices too. She had to carry so much weight on her shoulders but Nonon and the rest of her friends supported her without putting more pressure on her; they just took care of what Satsuki ordered them to do. 

I also find so relatable the way she copes with all the trauma she’s got from facing lots of sexual violence, and physical and emotional abuse, or the fact that a close relative (her own mother) made her believe she was a failure and a good for nothing, that she didn’t belong and would never be enough for her. She didn’t lose her kindness and her hopes and dreams even though she had to turn herself more tough, it just happened that she showed her soft side differently. She actually cares, she is the one who provides and she sacrifices lots of things to protect humanity’s freedom. And she finally learns to trust in the good potential of all humans, and to let the women she loves take care of her too. 

To conclude, Satsuki was key to make me come to terms with me being a stone femme because I can see lots of subtle details in how she moves, behaves, thinks and approaches things that -somehow-remind me of myself, although I know we are not on the same league. But I really think she might be a stone femme too because she is a woman with strong and rigid boundaries around every aspect of her life, and she defends and makes everyone respect them. In the whole anime I’ve never seen anybody try to question her and her boundaries, and I truly admire her a lot for this.

[final-fantasy-as-literature]

Final Fantasy VII, hbomberguy, and The Anxiety of Influence

Some spoilers for Final Fantasy VII (1997), Remake, and Rebirth well below the split.

Bloomian criticism through the anxiety of influence requires at least some degree of familiarity with a canon and works, both narrative and nonfiction, adjacent to the work you are returning to. While it wasn't his intent in writing the preface for the second edition of The Anxiety of Influence that was published in 1997, Harold Bloom evidences this need. The preface itself almost relies on having a familiarity with his own work and criticism of it to understand the depth of the preface's title, The Anguish of Contamination. How are you to know that "Influence is influenza - an astral disease" if you haven't read nearly 100 pages into the work you are reading the preface of?

Without that base, you'll get easily lost in all of the references to Hazlitt, Chaucer, Emmerson, and Marlowe - and dear lord the Marlowe never ends. But that is the point Bloom is illuminating when he says, "Shakespeare would take from anyone and everywhere, with both fists, but his daemon or genius drove him, after he had triumphed over Marlowe." That Bloomian daemon itself is one of the places poets like Shakespeare draw their sublime. In repressing the daemon an author creates, they express the sublime of the precursor created through this misreading.

On the surface of it, it seems a strange comparison, but hbomberguy's RWBY is Disappointing, and Here's Why shows why RWBY stood in 2020 on the opposite end of this repression from Final Fantasy VII, Remake, and Rebirth. Hbomberguy displays an understanding of the 'canon' RWBY wished to situate itself in, and even outlines one of the late creator's innate understanding of kenosis and apophrades and how that could have served the work. I won't explore the second part, but it is worth nodding to the spirit of that.

While he doesn't use these words or a Bloomian lens, hbomberguy excellently demonstrates how RWBY failed to repress its daemons by 2020 in Cowboy Bebop and Avatar. RWBY did not, at least at the time, swerve from its precursors but presented them as is without drawing its own counter-sublime. As he points out, the introduction of the main character of the series exemplified this - the work didn't begin to craft its own sublime counter to the sublime of Spike believing he is already taken by death's tyranny and how he interacts with it. Instead, the work pointed towards that original sublime in the precursor without any swerve, emptying, or confrontation. There was no agon to birth something new, just a restructuring of the imitated elements without cohesion.

Bloom could be overly critical of his own precursor, T. S. Eliot, but this use of Cowboy Bebop recalls Eliot's words in The Sacred Wood (1920):

Immature poets imitate; mature poets steal; bad poets deface what they take, and good poets make it into something better, or at least something different. The good poet welds his theft into a whole of feeling which is unique, utterly different from that from which it was torn; the bad poet throws it into something which has no cohesion.

I regret that Eliot gave up his first and second order phrasing in order to make this point line up with his own precursor-critic, as he doesn't think "bad poets" are unimportant or unworthy of interacting with. He actually laments that second-order minds as poets are hard to find where they are most needed. He does, however, better clarify materially the distinction between 'strong' poets and 'weak' poets in a Bloomian sense.

RWBY acted at the time of hbomberguy's review as 'second-order' or 'weak' poetry, not so much expressing an agon that results in strongly misreading its precursors to say something new, but throwing the precursors it imitates into incohesion in order to tell the reader what has already been said. From a more directly Bloomian lens, it fails to clear its own imaginative space - to repress its daemons. Its daemons are clear for all to see, and it serves more as a reflection of what makes its precursors develop a sublime than of any sublime it can find in itself.

This is not to say that works like RWBY shouldn't exist or that they can't be enjoyed. While Bloom might step around it, sometimes feeling like he wishes he could lift Shakespeare to true divinity, Eliot puts it clearly,

It is a perpetual heresy of English culture to believe that only the first-order mind, the Genius, the Great Man, matters; that he is solitary, and produced best in the least favourable environment...

The 'first-order' poets, the 'strong' poets, though, are the ones that make something better, even simply different, or that clear their own imaginative space in strongly misreading their precursors. Where RWBY imitates for all to see, Final Fantasy VII (1997), Remake, and Rebirth steal - and they've barely been caught in their theft.

I want to clarify that 'theft' here is a metaphor, not a legal claim. This phrase got changed and misattributed to Picaso by Steve Jobs in order to defend unethical business practices, so a lot of people do associate it with what they see as actionable theft. I prefer Bloom's "take" and "clearing of imaginative space," despite them having less power because his other metaphors are bad enough that he recognizes their failure. The preface of the 1997 edition of The Anxiety of Influence tries to explain he didn't literally mean that poetry is Freudian or incestuous, just that poets exist in relation to other poets. He never claimed to be a strong poet.

To look at these three versions of Final Fantasy VII specifically, I want to compare a character from each - Sun Wukong from RWBY and Cloud from the Final Fantasy series.

Sun Wukong in RWBY (as of hbomberguy's video four years ago) is an easily apparent imitation. The creators are fans of anime, and they easily associate Sun Wukong as Son Goku with an indecisive, wandering, attractive blonde hero of immense strength. They do go a step further and associate his weapons with Sun Wukong's Ruyi Jingu Bang, which Anthony C Yu translates as "Compliant Gold-Hooped Rod," but even this begins to evidence incohesion. Monkey's Compliant Gold-Hooped Rod is an object often seen as representative of breaking limits, as does Hongmei Sun in her Transforming Monkey: Adaptation and Representation of a Chinese Epic. It stands as a piece of his characterization that exists in opposition to and synthesis with the Golden Tightening Fillet he wears on his head. Monkey can wreak havoc with his rod that obeys his very commands, famously so, but the tightening fillet on his head acts as a limit constraining him with violently painful headaches to the journey he is brought into by the Monk.

This is part of a 'multivalence' Sun demonstrates of Monkey which exists in most of his notable adaptations. Here, however, the symbols of Monkey are broken, quite literally. I'm not familiar with RWBY after hbomberguy's video, but by that point, these elements exist as largely imitation. The fan wikis inevitably call this allusion because RWBY is, inarguably, not the story of Monkey as a whole. RWBY does not generate its own sublime in the agon it finds through Xiyouji, but points to the sublime already there.

Final Fantasy VII, Remake, and Rebirth, however, I contend, are strong 'thefts' of Monkey's story for these same reasons. As I noted in a previous post, that archetype of a spikey-haired protagonist exists as an extension of Xiyouji's popularity in Japan. Where Sun Wukong imitates Monkey, Cloud is the repression of the daemon that drives it to point towards its own collective (as one person didn't make it) misreading.

The story of Final Fantasy VII in any form is the story of Cloud Strife, an indecisive, wandering, blonde hero of immense strength. His compliant weapon, which snaps to his back at will and seems to fly to his hand when he needs it across the Compilation, is still the means by which he breaks limits, both mechanically and narratively. He can exceed the bounds of normal combat to deliver powerful attacks that defy what the game normally allows, and he uses it in key moments of crossing thresholds within the narrative.

He also, unlike the Sun Wukong of RWBY, has an accompanying limit to his limit-breaking in his headaches that Final Fantasy VII (1997), despite many weak misreadings that associate it with Sephiroth's influence, associates with Tifa through the recollection of the Nibelheim Incident. Remake, however, associates the headaches with Tifa in a much more interesting and direct way by framing the first as part of a question ("Stamp scared to bite the hand that fed him? Or is he a loyal little doggy," to which Cloud decides to 'bite' imediately after) just before Cloud recollects the well where Tifa will 'curse' him to heroism ("That's what heroes do. They save people."). These headaches, then, are his limit, pushing him into heroism from the beginning of the story as presented to the reader. This aligns with modern readings of Xiyouji and its adaptations, but it stands independently of them to most readers.

Something that is also noticeable in contrast to RWBY is that Final Fantasy VII's developers are notorious for refusing to reveal their deeper influences. Where RWBY's creators and writers happily gave out lists of inspirations, with one going so far as to recommend Avatar as representative of the feeling they wanted for RWBY, Final Fantasy VII's revealed 'inspirations' are all surface-level references, just imitations that don't impact the sublime of the work. Anything deeper is unspoken, which one might expect from the anxiety of influence realized. Shakespeare did not note when he stole from Marlowe, not even making clear a moment when he was all-but eulogizing him, as the strong poet wants individuality - to not be belated by their precursors, but to be new and independent of them.

I think Final Fantasy VII achieves that, and I think they even tried to capture that again in later Final Fantasy entries without as much success, literary or commercial. Final Fantasy IX is the example I will give without any more elaboration than pointing out the little monkey-tailed protagonist who confronts an evil almost-double in the heart of a twisted-but-divine place after a long journey. It is my favorite Final Fantasy, but it slides closer in strength to RWBY by pointing to the sublime of its precursors in Final Fantasy and Xiyouji more than struggling for its own.

As a note, I'm trying to script a comprehensive video essay reading Final Fantasy VII through a Bloomian lens of agon and anxiety, so sometimes these posts will not be as thorough as they could be. Diving into the first bit of RWBY again just to avoid lying about Sun Wukong was exhausting enough when I'm focusing my free time on another thing. Harold Bloom is constantly in my mind, reminding me that only blockheads write for anything but money as he loved to do later in life.

[ontoilogical]

arcane end of s2

My impressions. Spoilers of course.

For all the good storylines and setup, Arcane didn't land them well. This was my worry from the start, because a good setup is not enough and not a guarantee that the payoff for the narrative and emotional build up will be good. I would not have expected a Riot Games IP to make layered political commentary along with badass, genre-pushing narrative music sequences, allow their characters to be flawed in a way where, yes, you may not like the whole of the protagonist, even if you're emotionally following and cheering for their journey. And yet they did... until the last three episodes that brought the series back into its gaming origins.

A lot of what happened in those three episodes simply wasn't narratively earned. The Piltover-Zaun collab against the Borg. Mel's sudden sHe'S a mAge shift, when she was extremely and, pointedly, the one without any combat skills, instead an accomplished diplomat. I would have accepted defensive qualities, but her dependence on skilled fighters in a violent world is an interesting premise, for she is strong, but that strength also hinges on other people's abilities and assistance. Ambessa's death. I don't even know what to say about that, other than making a League of Legends game mechanic reference how she's shouldn't have gone 1v2. Hells, how they frame Vi and Caitlyn's reunion and sex scene felt strange to me.

I did not see Caitlyn coming back to her moral base entirely, which is fine and may be a good decision for the concept of the character, but I feel it was left muddied, without addressing her journey towards temporary tyranny beyond the line Vi says, in a scene that felt stronger in a Tumblr gif than the series.

Vi's characterisation, meanwhile, ends up as a season-long journey of being lost and not being able to have the lesson of "you can't save Powder... or Jinx, or anyone" stick. She's not politically relevant to either Piltover or Zaun and thus doesn't really participate with any significance beyond following Caitlyn's suggestion. Her convictions are tied within a family she has lost and ends the series with an, again, strange line about how she's there to be with Caitlyn. It almost reads as a co-dependent personality manifesting in life circumstances where she literally has nowhere else to be, which doesn't feel very rewarding to viewers who like the pairing. Again, could be interesting storyline material, but it wasn't done well. The storyline leaves us with an impression of her having no agency and not being afforded a celebration of her character within the storyline.

The way Maddie fucks off takes away from the setup of Caitlyn dating her, rendering it completely irrelevant. The implication is basically "she was actually evil, thus whatever her and Caitlyn had was not relevant or a source of conflict or complexity. For that evil she (conveniently) dies, although she wasn't an obstacle to begin with".

And don't get me started on Jayce and Viktor, who have somehow managed to, within the fandom, or more broadly I don't know, eclipse Caitlyn and Vi as Arcane's Important Couple. Their entwined souls locked in a lifelong loop explode together and save Piltover and Zaun from destruction, while Vi is the dirt under Caitlyn's nails lmfao. I never noticed fandom's preference for The Gays over The Lesbians, because I am so deeply uninterested in couples with men that I do not offer any attention to them, but this time it feels a bit... bad.

The series was still excellent, relevant, an animation marvel, with some really good content and some scenes that will live rent free in my head. And some old part of me that cared about Vi and Caitlyn's pairing is finally mostly sated and calmed, but Arcane's end is not raptuous – it's a Marvel-flavour of epic fight scenes against an other-wordly foe, where characters die or maybe-die at a breakneck pace that would make GoT blush and a storyline's end that that has more to do with the sequel than the two seasons it consisted of. Whatever difficult commentary on society or politics relevant for the world WE live in was trivialised into formulaic boom boom solve the bad problem, the end. That is what I meant when I said going back to its capital g gaming origins.

Gentle disclaimer... I watched this while I was sick, tired and sleepy, so it's not the most layered or seasoned option I've given so far, but I don't get the impression some detail would change my impression by much.

Edit: Just a final thought. I think ALL the narrative decisions they've made could stay and be considered Good Storytelling, if there was a sufficient amount of padding and contextualising added between the scenes (the scenes simply needed proper introduction to make them impact the way they were intended to). Maybe they counted on that - animation is a slow and arduous format and a story doesn't need to spoon feed explanations for every aspect of a storyline, but there is simply too much here to fill.

[maddiethefashionista]

Arcane Spoilers Season 2 ep 1

Episode 1 thoughts

-Trauma everyone has it!

-Jace going towards Mel to check on her 5 minutes after the explosion! 🥰🥰

-jace seeing most of the council dead from Jinx’s missle 😳 instant trauma

-love the new intro! It’s giving Greek tradegy

-love Mrs Kirkmanns coffin. Very padme esque coffin! Ngl that coffin got me questioning how expensive coffins are.

-Vi just lingering in the background, wanting to reach out and talk to Cait but she can’t reach her atm due to her own guilt and shame.

-Mel’s mama finding a new bottom cough boytoy salo.

-it’s reigning tyranny!!! Side eyeing the council talking takeover Zaun with dangerous weapons

-symbolism of the rain finally falling on the council member as they declare war on zaun.

-ambassa unhappy that hextech won’t be used rn. She is so sus! What a warmonger!

-poor cait and her dad!! God grief is such a fucking bitch.

-unrelated note but Mr. Kirramin is really hot! Such a dilf!

-has vi been staying at the house? Poor girl is just lingering like a ghost.

-cait beating herself up considering that she could of end this all if only she was quicker in disarming Jinx.

-cait breaking in vis arms is heartbreaking!

-enter vis internal conflict about being an enforcer, a buggy man for every kid of the lanes.

I’m not really a fan of Vi. Like my fav character is jinx. But I can appreciate her complexity.

Also hello hot bearded tall man who looks like DILF Vander

Hello Victor, he’s basically a hextech jello right now.

Mel looking gorgeous as always!

Evolving hextech sounds fucking terrifying.

Did Mel’s armor protect Jace as well? Or does he magic durability from when he was a kid?

Mel and Jace really are super cute! Like I love their development

The wind chime garden is so gorgeous! Like arcane always slaps with their animation.

Jinx and Cait are my favorite parallels! Love them so much! God my girls are going to go through it this season!

God Cait is about to go on her toxic hot train right now! And good for her but she is going to go through it with this newfound hatred for jinx. And that is so relatable.

Callback to jinx “you created jinx” - VI

Maddie deserves to be protected! Also fish enforcer is really hot! I think I have a type.

Vi getting flustered at Caits tantrum and pride in her is so adorable!

“There still good ones left” fuck that line! Like damn the council neglected zaun to the point of poverty and now they have to face the consequences of that neglect. It was always a breeding ground for resentment and violence. This was always going to happen one way or another.

Memorial

The guys in the veils handed the main guard an invitation! And I’m like that weird, that supish!

Cait and Vi clocking something going down is my fav!

Hey it’s that chem baron! Channeling her inner leatherface

I for real thought Mel was going to do die!

Enter epic battle scene!

Cait looking hot with her gun!

Jace vs chem baron lady

Maddie and fish guy vs the other dudes

Vi vs the other dude

Vi and Cait saving each other

I do appreciate that arcane isn’t super bloody like some other anime’s I’ve seen

Jace going need some aloe Vera for that cut!

Arcane battle scenes are always so fun!

Leather face going after jace is so scary! But vi is saving her BIL!

Then they both save Cait and her squad!

But actually ambassa does it! And I’m like Where the Fuck have you been ma’am?! That convinnent muscle mommy!

This attack is just adding more fuel to the fire! Poor little boy/girl who lost their momma!

God Cait is loosing her mind! It’s almost like someone wants to further the divide between the two cities

Also I’m a sucker for the jaw cradle that vi gave her girl!

I need more lore breakdown on the kiramann family! They seem to be marticharl family

Oh boo hoo you gotta being an underground bunker for the first time in your life! Cry me a river.

Also is house kirammain get a seat on the council? Or do that have to be voted in?

Cait squad is loaded and ready to go!!!

Poor Jace is building weapons again!

Victor is in his jello prison yay!

Evil scientist guy is hunting wolves!?