#and who are you willing to sacrifice to get it?

[phantomrose96]

okay so i know that you probably get a lot of asks about sham sacrifice but like, how does vlad age? he's clearly not a 19 year old any more, and he's not rotting, otherwise it wouldn't result in facial hair and the muscle growth in his chest. the reason i ask is that his explanation of "the ghost stacks cells where they should be and keeps the heart beating despite not needing to in order to imitate it" doesn't quite mesh because by the logic employed his body should kinda just be rebuilding 19-yo vladdie.

plus, ya know, he changes color. seems to imply a physiological change

(Sham Sacrifice: Chapter 1 | Chapter 2)

So I talk about it here!!

It's not stated (yet) (in fic) (oops part 3), but Sham Sacrifice employs one of my long-time beloved headcanons which is that a ghost's appearance is psychosomatic. It's an ectoplasmic projection built on their sense-of-self. It's my headcanon that Vlad's original ghost form looked much like his human form (similar to Phantom/Fenton) but as Vlad keyed in on this aspect of ghost physicality, he used it to design his Plasmius self (boy you do NOT have vampire fangs naturally).

But also it's not a free-for-all character designer screen. It takes a genuine belief in your sense of self. It takes strong confidence and conviction to coax it to change from its steady state. Most ghosts can't employ this on a whim. It's buried in a sense of self they can't easily or readily change. Vlad is uniquely strong-willed.

Sham Sacrifice takes this headcanon a step further because, if halfas are full ghosts that never split from their physical dead bodies which the ghost is in control of building, shaping, and maintaining, then it is both ghost form AND human form which are sculpted out of this sense of self.

This has been fine for Danny "I'm not actually dead I'm just half ghost" Fenton, whose human form has passively maintained its form from when he was alive. It's his belief and sense of self. It reconstructs itself accordingly.

Vlad, on the other hand, in the same effort he put into sculpting his ghost form, ALSO put that effort into sculpting his human form. NOT a sickly, ailing 19-year-old at death's front door. He recreated and maintains himself as alive, healthy, strong.

And actively, intentionally aging.

Which is not something Danny has been doing.

And maybe Danny's passively done some aging of his human form, because his sense of self is still "I'm an alive 14-year-old and I'm getting older." But is this as much as he should have actively been changing and aging? Maybe. But probably not. (And now, that he knows he's dead...?)

Vlad was intentional every step of the way with what he did, and what's happened to him. His physical aging and maturing has been a self-driven process.

...And it leaves open some challenging questions. Is Vlad a dead 19-year-old who's been just manually changing his physical appearance for the last 2 decades? Is that dismissive of the life he's lived to act like he's just 19 because that happens to be the age he died? What does it mean to grow up if you're a ghost who's been ripped away from your natural biological processes?

And "at least" Vlad was an adult. Young. 19 is still young. But an adult. How much harder is this all when you're only 14...?

#dp #sham sacrifice #danny phantom

[kii-nami]

GILDED DREAMS | SUNDAY

You do not protest the clear display of authority over the most minuscule of details. Maybe you don’t even care for things like that, maybe you even take pity on him for that fact. Whatever it is in the end, Sunday doesn’t know. Neither does he ask. Birds are born to foolishly oppose the safety of captivity, but some will walk into the cage willingly. For they believe it to be temporary. Sunday’s gloves are stained with your divine blood. Your name will be written in the holy scriptures by his own hand soon enough.

cw: 6.5k words; part one of two; fem!mc; nameless!mc; i'm not a hsr lore scholar; sunday get behind me i have a glock and nothing to lose except you;

To survive is to suffer. And crippled birds neither fly nor sing. All they are truly good for is to live a life of captivity. The only way to keep them safe is to build them a cage strong enough to protect them from all known predators. A prison of comfort, peaceful enough for them to forget their broken wings and settle down, with only sickeningly sweet scent of heaven in the air. Idyllic enough for it to become a dream.

Thus, Sunday dreams of eternal paradise in which no bird will ever get its wings clipped. In his gilded dreams, humanity’s life is free of misery. There is no survival of the fittest, for there is no weakness. There is no uncertainty, for there is no future. There is no suffering, for there is only Order. Or so the Dreammaster says.

And Ena the Order dreams of a paradise for everyone but Sunday, as he is a necessary sacrifice for the greater good of peace. One must be crucified for the sake of humanity, and Sunday is more than willing to become a martyr if it means he will finally obtain a cage big enough to contain anything and everything that could threaten his family. Or so the Dreammaster says.

To live is to dream. And you, Sunday decides, dream of nothing. For if you were, you would not have been roaming the halls of this maze. Yet Ena the Order sees none of your trespassing, and Sundays dares not to disturb Them with the news of someone so easily escaping their handmade heaven. Yet the ravens won’t stop screeching, the voices continue chanting. You do not belong here, so Sunday has no other choice but to take you out himself. That is the right thing to do. Or so the Dreammaster says. That is what he wants.

“Be not afraid.”

Your hand stops midair. The ribbons of your intricate sleeves keep swaying gently as your fingers tremble a mere inch away from the marble surface of the statue you were admiring. Then you shudder, dropping your arm limply at your side and finally look at him.

“Fear is the soul killer.” You agree easily, the light tremor of your voice betraying you by giving that very fear away. “I’ve been wandering these halls for hours, however. It is natural for me to expect the worst, Mister Sunday.”

You know him yet he remembers you not. So it must be your first time in Penacony, otherwise Sunday would have surely remembered someone like you. Someone who is capable of evading Order’s omniscience. It matters not, however. For he will guide you back to paradise with his own hand.

“I shall show you the way, then.” Sunday offers you his hand in an exercise of faithless chivalry. The white fabric of his gloves is yet to be stained with blood or soiled with the touch of the passing visitors he is forced to exchange pleasantries with. But soon it will be. He doesn't want it to. “If I may.”

“I would be eternally grateful.” You smile. “My family must be worried sick about me.”

There is nothing but kindness behind your voice and the light reflecting of your eyes can blind a sinner if they look at you. Sunday knows better than to trust the emptiness of words and fool’s gold of flattery for he is throwing those around on the daily. So when your palm presses gently against his own, he leads you to your untimely demise with no hesitation and all the remorse one could have, leaving you none the wiser to his true intentions.

Sunday half-expects to be stabbed in the back with some sort of a mythical dagger bestowed upon you by an Aeon who opposes the harmonious Order he is conducting under Ena’s blessing. He's waiting for you to try and snap his other wing right off his back to make sure he isn't even capable of dreaming of the skies. Yet nothing of the sort ever happens. It's a little unnerving, unsettling in a way that makes Sunday feel the phantom pains of things long lost. He wants to accuse you of treachery yet cannot. He wishes to call you a master of deception yet cannot.

Like a saint, you seem to trust him to help you find your way back. Akin to a sinner, it is him who rules over the silver of his tongue and the steel of his word.

Sunday knows he should dispose of you in the waters of the dream pool like he intended to do. That is what the Dreammaster would have wanted. Anything that is a threat to Ena the Order is a threat to his gilded dreams. And those who threaten the cage will inevitably draw a weapon against Robin. Yet he sees no ill intent in your eyes. Just concern for your family who you supposedly burdened with worry of your disappearance. And as it gradually dissolves with each step he takes to the exit of reality, a conflict in him grows stronger.

Standing at the crossroads, Sunday knows nothing. So when the time comes for you to fall back into heaven, he is there to catch you with a promise of never meeting again.

Too bad he never asked for your name. How miserable it is you never thought yourself important enough to give it to him unprompted.

Even in dreams people like Sunday are not exempt from suffering. To suffer is to survive. That is just the price you must pay for being tied to reality like a Charmony dove that has been chained to a metal ball and released into the wilderness. And Sunday may be the head of the Oak Family on paper signed with a bloodstained feather plucked from his own wing, yet he despises dealing with people from the IPC. All precious stone in only name and nothing else, Aventurine is positively infuriating.

In more ways than one.

“One of Astral Express girls disappeared from her room last night.” His smirk is full of poorly hidden mischief and something else that Sunday simply doesn’t care about. He may crave control over all that is his, yet he wishes not to claim someone like Aventurine as one of his own. “How perfectly aligned with your sister’s unfortunate death…”

The muscles of his back are strained. To dominate over his own desires is just as important as it is to rule over every single aspect of the dream that is this life. The gilded dream of Ena the Order must continue, and Sunday will not be the one to sabotage it. To dream is to live.

Sunday taps the railing, “Are you accusing me of kidnapping now?”

Soothing tone and relaxed posture, Sunday will continue his reign over the dominion of Control no matter what he feels or wants. There is no other way. Crippled birds neither fly nor sing, nor do they grow their missing wings back. And even if some foolish being deems them fit enough to recover, takes pity on them and nurses them back to health, domesticated birds will only use those hollow, mended bones of theirs to plummet right back to the ground.

“Just stating my observations.” Aventurine laughs, a noisy little snicker that pierces Sunday’s ears like a nail on the chalkboard. Then he waves dismissively, the lackluster wiggle of his fingers as he turns around to leave. Good riddance, if only eternal. “Good luck. Her Foxian friend is very fond of fried chicken. Me too, now that I think about it…”

Sunday remains standing on the balcony for another hour. There is no rush. He knows who it was that vanished without a trace, and he knows where to find you. But he cannot control someone like Aventurine so Sunday dares not making any irrational decisions. Unlike Aventurine himself, Sunday isn’t fond of gambling. Uncertainty is at the roots of all evil.

He leaves and goes about his business. A sinner to confess their wrongdoings to him; a passerby to shake hands with, a Masked Fool to dampen already soiled mood; a Nameless to throw him a passing glance of suspicion; Robin’s shadow that should not be there for now. If the vermin – a truly formidable man all things considered, yet simply infuriating – is watching, he will see nothing but a busy head of the Oak Family. If Aventurine has better things to do than to follow Sunday’s footsteps in a feat of uncharacteristic obsession, at least Sunday finished all his work for the day and could finally take a shallow breath of momentary relief.

The halls of the maze are empty as they should be, yet Sunday didn’t expect to find anyone there in the first place. You remain in the dining room, rooted next to a marble statue, fingertips barely grazing the cool stone. The ribbons are swaying side to side and the white of your clothes is stained with pinks, blues and purples right in the middle of your back. The colors bleed out from there and drip down the dress onto your skin.

“Be not afraid.”

“Fear is the soul killer.” Your trembling fingers falter and when you turn to face him, there is way more of those pinks and blues all over your heaving chest all the way from your neck. Sunday knows not of what happened and he dares not to ask; his harmonic tuning failed once, and he will not be deceived anymore. “Are you here to escort me back to the dreamscape again, Mister Sunday?”

Sunday swears that if Ena could see you, They too would be just as terrified as he is at that moment. “I’m afraid I do not follow, Miss.”

“Then I shall pretend I said nothing.” You shrug, Sunday’s outstretched hand is hovering in the air for you to take. You do. With no hesitation and all the faith of a religious fanatic, you once more let him guide you out of the painful reality and into a dream as if you didn’t just admit to fully comprehending this fact. “Please be mindful that I will wake up no matter what. Your gilded dream rejects me.”

Sunday stops in his tracks. His crippled wing is pressing uncomfortably to his side, smoothed over bone digging into his skin as a reminder that he cannot ever fly even if he was delusional enough to try to. Every breath is a labor of well-practiced habit and an effort of greatest heights. You’re patiently waiting for him to gather his control back into his tightly clenched fist, the one that is always pulled behind his back to the broken wing he could never repair.

The colors are still bleeding all over your dress as your chest rises and falls in odd intervals. You may have the patience of a saint, yet your fears all eat you alive. Fear is the soul killer. Or so you say. To suffer is to survive. To dream is to live. How can you live if you can never dream?

You furrow your eyebrows. The harmonic tuning has failed yet again. This time without even clouding your mind enough to put you to sleep. Yet your jittering palm keeps trembling in his hold as you exhale lightly, trying to shake off the vibrations of his halo. A delicate cross dangling from your neckless is staring back at Sunday with resentment that he only saves for the person who shot Robin and the Cancer of All Worlds which took away their mother and the scissors which clipped his wings so Sunday would never dare to escape. Or maybe it’s just his reflection looking back at him from the golden glow of the cross.

In retrospect, you did nothing wrong. You don’t even try to hide anything from him, laying your knowledge bare for Sunday to interpret however he wishes to. A sinner that has confessed to their wrongdoings is ought to be forgiven in the eyes of any deity. Yet has this so-called sin been committed in the first place? If you allowed him to baptize you not once but twice, fully comprehending it meant abandoning any uncertain future you humans seem to crave so much.

What is right and what is wrong? What is a virtue and what is a sin? What is an Order and what is a Doubt? Sunday knows not. But he needs to collect all his control and pour it into a cup for you to savor one way or another. If not a sinner, you are a saint. Ena the Order sees you not, so you must have been imprisoned by someone else already. And it is Sunday’s duty to free all of mankind of the shackles of turmoil and lead them to paradise.

For he cannot let you leave yet he cannot bring himself to kill you. Sunday can talk in riddles and try to manipulate your emotions all he wishes, yet you seem to reject the vibrations of Order without even trying. So how does one contain something they cannot control? How does a devout believer tempt a messenger of a foreign god?

“I cannot let you go.” Sunday’s voice is a little hoarse, he is not used to telling the truth. It most often than not leads to suffering, yet something tells him you will see right through him if he does lie. Maybe he has much less control than he initially thought. “You know too much.”

“All is fair, Mister Sunday.” It is not a response a sane woman should give. “However, may I be so bold to ask for a clean dress?”

But saints are all-forgiving, and ordinary people are not meant to understand their reasoning. For there is none. At least not with you. No reason and a heart pinned to your sleeve, bleeding color all over your skin. Sunday needs to know your name so he can search high and low for the Aeon who crucified you for Their own selfish whims.

“I shall pick the best one there is.” Sunday nods.

You do not protest the clear display of authority over the most minuscule of details. Maybe you don’t even care for things like that, maybe you even take pity on him for that fact. Whatever it is in the end, Sunday doesn’t know. Neither does he ask. Birds are born to foolishly oppose the safety of captivity, but some will walk into the cage willingly. For they believe it to be temporary.

Sunday’s gloves are stained with your divine blood.

Your name will be written in the holy scriptures by his own hand soon enough.

The dress is beautiful. And so is the next. And the one after that. And all the others that follow.

Ribbons and feathers. Intricate lace and weightless silks. Gold and diamonds. All never worn even once and kept neatly in the wardrobe of your bedroom. If your disapproving sigh is anything to go by, you don’t appreciate the excessive luxury, yet accept them just to hide them in your closet and put on the simplest of garments that he brought to you the day you entered the mansion.

Sunday cannot understand you, but differences are included in the natural Order of things. Reality is a lonely prison of misery, and Sunday returns there for he has no other place to belong to. Yet you seem to enjoy it as a long-awaited vacation. Way more than your family does it back in Penacony’s gilded dream.

Sunday doesn’t think your behavior is reasonable, yet he questions you not. You won’t give him the answer he is seeking, anyway. Your heart may be out there in the open, yet the pages of your thoughts are written with invisible ink and no amount of heat can paint them with life.

You have a habit of refusing things you deem unnecessary or excessive, your friendly exposition never wavering even under pressure of almost constant loneliness. Some days Sunday wonders what would happen if he doesn’t return here after all his tasks for the day are done, when Aventurine with his Nameless Foxian companion and her other nosy friends don’t breathe down his neck with accusatory air. He does not entertain such foolish thoughts; they would break his carefully crafted routine and Sunday is a being of habit. For habit is Order.

And so, against his better judgment of clipped feathers, Sunday returns. To your palace of a bedroom, with three light knocks and a little apology for intrusion. You are rarely there, so he is forced to look for you just as he is searching for the Aeon responsible for your fate. And when he does find you, all Order crumbles.

To live is to suffer. Your suffering is intricately woven into your every breath.

On Mondays you prepare a special dinner. It’s just you and him and a lonely candle on a little table on your balcony. The stars are dripping the color of your blood, the wine in your glass is untouched and you never eat more than could fit in a teacup. A life of such modesty is far too unfamiliar for the bird who was brought up in a cage of golden bars and silver spoons, yet Sunday doesn’t mind. He’s got other, more important things to worry about. For if the Dreammaster finds out about you, he will wish to dispose of you. And Sunday may have already sinned for the betterment of humanity, yet he isn’t sure if he is capable of turning saints into martyrs just yet.

“Won’t it be easier to just kill me?” You constantly disarm him with your questions. Some days Sunday isn’t quick enough to even imagine drawing a weapon to protect his mingled self.

“No.” Sunday answers a bit too quickly for his liking. “I mean you no harm, Miss [Name].”

On Tuesdays you clean. The mansion is spotless for it is empty, and there is nothing, but a thin coat of dust gathered around on the bookshelves of his study. You busy yourself with it even if you are told not to bother with such things. Sunday wishes to treat you as a guest despite the circumstances. All people were born equal and pretending that you are anything less than he is would going against what he stands for. His gilded dreams are not built on bigotry or injustice, only harmonious Order of happiness.

Your presence in the room is that of a dove on a branch behind a glass dome. All hollow bones and disarray of feathers, Sunday cannot ignore you even if it is what the Order would have wanted. Yet what the Order cannot see, that is all for Sunday to keep for himself; to hide under his pillow so it won’t ever be taken away from him by any collapsing dreams.

“Do you think me a madman?” He asks.

You laugh and shake your head in amused disagreement. Sunday wishes he could steal your laughter straight from your vocal cords to fill in the holes in his wings with it. He cannot. Yet would you let him if he asked with the utmost honesty? Only time will tell.

You are a willing participant of all and any conversations, despite allowing him to talk most of the time. You listen and ask questions, give your own opinion in bite size pieces that never overshadow his voice. His dreams are grand, and his plans are fragile, yet for all that is worth you take him seriously. A noble man with a heart which bleeds for everyone but himself, you call him. A kind person with good intentions which will pave his downfall for him, you say easily. A caring brother, who will always put his family first even if it is bound to strain the thin red thread that connects them to each other, you smile wistfully.

“A flightless bird which longs for the sky. That is what you are to me, Mister Sunday.”

His soul aches. All bruised and mattered. Sunday would rather you simply called him mad.

On Wednesdays you tend to the garden. Flowers are blooming here no matter the season. Even in reality Penacony is still a dream, albeit not dusted with a thin layer of gold and illusions. You move around the sea of color like a ghost, the white of your dress stained with soil and a twinge of misery.

You don’t think Sunday is mad and you understand his dream of peace, yet you never condone his drastic approach to things. The dreams in which you hold happiness in the palms of your hands simply do not exist. That is what you say to him, picking two stray peonies from the bush and handing one of them to him with the tenderness of a torn-up heart. The other gets its petals plucked one by one with a gentle touch of your fingers, and the pain of the missing parts of him grows with each one getting lost in the green of the grass underneath your feet.

No wishes ever come true in a gilded cage so people will always seek reality, no matter how painful it may be. Sunday thinks his wishes can only ever be fulfilled by a dream in which nobody will suffer anymore. There is simply no such a thing that cannot be obtained by a paradise he wishes to create for everyone with Ena’s holy rule. And you – the misguided messenger of a foreign god, a martyr for a cause which you don’t stand for – you also deserve your wishes granted to you. For everyone is born equal.

“What do you dream of, Miss [Name]?” Sunday wonders, watching you longingly collect every single petal from the grass, mend them together with the hues of pinks and purples and then tear the peony back into pieces.

“I dream of living.”

You look up at him with misty eyes, clouded with yearning and unshed tears. The colors float around your head like a halo. Maybe one of these days Sunday will finally find an answer in those scattered petals.

Thursdays you watch the stars. Time flies as the stars keep shooting from the sky like fallen angels, and you simply observe as they crash and burn. Your fingers twitch as if you wish to catch all of them, yet you ask for nothing.

Sunday comes, his back hunched by the growing weight of endless responsibilities and troubles. Yet when he leaves with his shoulders less tense and buzzing static in his chest, to return to his life of sacrifice that is necessary for the good of all mankind, he never forgets to ask what you wish for. Silence is the only answer Sunday receives, and the gentle sway of the ribbons in a summer breeze tells him he will regret ever asking this question when you finally deem it appropriate to indulge him.

The stars glow bright when you’re out here in the garden. Caged birds keep singing their woeful tunes. Thread and needle in your hands, you’re mending the hem of your dress, still refusing to wear any of those more extravagant ones. Your nightgown is not made for the outside and you shiver. The night isn’t getting any warmer, yet you ask for nothing. To live is to suffer, yet what is life if you only ever knew of torment.

A jacket he places on your shoulders does little, and whatever selfish wishes Sunday has must be drowned in the sea of shooting stars. For they will not be accepted. There is no place for them in this reality in which he lays his mortal body on a stone and holds the nails which he will get crucified with in his own two hands. Yet if the Dreammaster were here, he would have shared Sunday’s vision of the gilded dream that he is bending and breaking to his will just to make enough space in it for you as well. A paradise in which you stay here by his side forever as the messenger for him and no one else.

“I wish for nothing, Mister Sunday.”

Sunday knows it to be a lie. You whisper your true wish with the last breath you take before falling into restless, golden slumber. He will break this world in half to grant it to you, even if it calls for eternity of loneliness. A twitch of a broken wing, you’re almost weightless in his arms. Sunday does not understand why just yet. But he will.

On Fridays you play the violin. For once it’s his fingers that are stained with color. Sunday is staring at the canvas, hues and tones blending together with shadows and highlights to create a heavenly image of absolute divinity. He thinks it belongs to a chapel right where he gets down on his knees to confess his wrongdoings and pray for forgiveness, yet Sunday knows even existence of such a thought in and of itself is a mortal sin.

The melody is full of sorrow and the birds which you released from the cages are all perched on the pews of the chapel where you put them. They cannot fly, so they cannot escape and meet their end in horrifying loneliness. For now, you are here to catch them if they were to fall, so they can only sing along to the miserable tune of a violin in your hands.

“To live is to suffer. We must make peace with this suffering.” You put the instrument back in its case and lock all the birds back in their respective cages.

They do not resist, so Sunday is convinced you are implying that they’ve made peace with their suffering just like the two of you accepted yours. Yet when Sunday washes the pinks and purples of his fingers, he cannot help but think you are wrong. To live is to dream. And to dream is to slumber in eternal paradise, where no suffering can ever touch you.

The portrait he’s made of you will never do your beauty justice, but no icon could ever depict the true holiness of a saint. He will succeed eventually. You will have all the time in the world in his eternal paradise.

On Saturdays you dance. In a world less cruel, the one Sunday will create in the name of Ena, Robin is there to support your performance with the soothing voice of a Charmony dove. She is not, for you and him are stuck in miserable world where no wishes ever come true.

You would have been one of Penacony’s brightest stars, if only you weren’t chained to reality by those who do not deserve you. A twirl, the wind picks up your ribbons as you move gracefully to the melody of a tearful piano. And in a moment of fleeting weakness, Sunday asks about your shackles. And with a sway of your swan song, you share the tale of Istanai the Repudiation.

The Aeon who claimed you at birth and refused to let go even after They forsook your people, and you abandoned Their rusted prison. They are still following you around even after all those years even if They don’t want you. They make no sense for They reject all of it, along with anything else that They have ever touched. Even Their own children, the natural Order of things, any wishes or dreams; They abdicate everything and nothing, for that is the Path that They oversee. It is the Path you were born into and that is also the Path that you abandoned to pursue eternal Trailblaze.

“To live is to suffer. For you can keep nothing. Cannot wish to hold anything.” And then you admit, heat radiating off you in waves, “And I am only useful to this world for as long as I keep Their gaze on me.”

Sunday thinks you are wrong. Yet then the clock strikes midnight, and it marks the Seventh day. And on Sundays, you weep.

With your knees on the cold floor and hands pressed close to your heart, you keep praying in a tongue he cannot comprehend. The words fall from your lips hastily and desperately, as you beg for forgiveness in a language he does not know. Yet the things that Sunday does understand, all relate to the Aeon who stole your will and clipped your wings, chaining you to reality where the weak only get weaker and the strong keep getting stronger.

That is not the Path one should walk on, the loneliness of martyrdom for someone else’s sake is not a burden that should be bestowed upon someone but instead a choice one makes willingly. And you chose not your fate, yet suffer the consequences, nonetheless.

Maybe, Sunday muses kneeling next to you for a prayer. Maybe something simple like a dream is not enough. If They refuse to let you go yet condemn you for keeping them, Sunday can create something bigger than a gilded dream of illusion. Maybe a real paradise will be just enough to steal you away to a life that is worth living.

Your hand gently wipes a tear away from his cheek before it can fall and stain the floor of the chapel. It lingers on your fingers with deep red. One glove, then another. You are as warm as he imagined in the dreams he cannot keep, for he is the lamb of Ena and he is ready to be slaughtered if it means people like you – or Robin, or their dear mother – won’t ever cry anymore. The skin of your palm is smooth against his lips. It’s all Sunday can ever allow himself to have, and that is all that he will ever keep.

“You must leave tomorrow, Miss [Name].” He says, hands grasping your own.

A tear falls. This time it feels like you are weeping for him and him alone.

Maybe being a messenger of the Order is not the end for harmony of happiness, and somewhere in the realm of gods there is a spot for his own ideals as well. The Dreammaker may not understand or approve, yet when Sunday ascends to greatness of true holiness, on his first day he will free you from suffering. And on the seventh, there will be nothing but peace. For his gaze will never abandon you.

Sunday can promise on his blood on your hands.

And as it always is, crippled birds neither fly nor sing. They fall. Shooting stars and collapsing dreams, all Order has been forsaken as gravity pulls Sunday closer to his inevitable demise. His flesh and blood clings to him like the ideals he cannot ever atone for, yet in his noble pursuit of eternal happiness a sliver of selfish desire for comfort remains. So he lets Robin linger yet dares not to soil the purity of her embrace with the dullness of his touch.

A cage will always rust and corrode with time, falling apart at the seams. Gilded dreams are not meant to last forever. Nothing is truly eternal except for humanity’s striving to move forward into that useless future full of self-inflicted misery.

Robin’s breathless voice mutters something that is instantly lost in the wind and she pulls him closer. If Sunday were a better brother, a better man, a better person, he would have stopped all galaxies and frozen this moment just to let his sister descend this condensed and polluted air of his crumbling paradise like a stairway to heaven. He isn’t any of those things. So, he doesn’t even try. No miracle will happen if he does. A bird missing its wing will never catch flight right before hitting the ground.

And Sunday is nothing more than a crippled Charmony dove – a dying raven, truly – destined to roam the cage of his gilded dreams forever, for stepping outside signifies the end of Order and the beginning of Suffering. And he isn’t ready to die yet. He wasn’t ready.

To live is to suffer. To dream is to survive. With no cages and no birds in sight, Sunday accepts the inevitable.

“It is in human nature to reject usurpers, Mister Sunday.” Weightlessness of your voice envelopes all in bright light of heavenly warmth.

A feather. A ribbon. A silken touch of divinity confined in a painfully human vessel. If Sunday didn’t know any better, he would have thought he met face to face with some foreign man’s Goddess. Sunday knows better, however. So he closes his eyes and lets Istanai the Repudiation touch him. There are no rules he wouldn’t break to ensure Robin’s survival. And yet…

“I told you to leave.” Sunday is not used to repeating himself twice. His fingers tremble as he watches Robin take your hand and walk down the ladder he thought to be impossible.

“And as a human that I am, I rejected your order.” You smile. The light in your eyes is made of purest of diamonds and it keeps burning with holy fire. Sunday was foolish to think you would listen to reason and not your bleeding heart. “It seems we don’t have much time, so let me heal your wounds as I celebrate that my naïve soul has won for once.”

Robin, as all free-spirited birds are, is a creature of curiosity. She tilts her head and finds comfort on one of the floating ribbons, swaying on it like a swing. There’s a little ruffle to the feathers of her wings, yet she minds it not, opting to watch the two of you instead. Your eyes may be glowing, yet the sturdiness of your will is starting to wear off. Sunday isn’t sure whether it’s his silence that is making you doubt your decisions, Robin’s dedicated stare or your own thinning convictions. His guess is as good as any, but the most logical answer will always be him.

Your forced companionship has come to its inevitable end. Yet just like the day you two met, Sunday is at the crossroads yet again.

“Robin first.”

There are no protests, just gentle swaying of ribbons, a warm glow of pale pinks and purples, and Robin’s hushed voice humming a tune. She looks livelier, well rested, the shadows under her eyes dissolve under the shimmer of divine rejection. Your hands are hovering over hers, almost grazing the skin yet never daring touching it. As if you too, thought yourself undeserving. It made no sense, yet Sunday had no right to question the natural Order of things. Istanai the Repudiation refused to give Their children up, even if They abandoned them first in pursuit of eternal rejection.

A song stops. A couple of grateful words fall from Robin’s rosy lips. You nod politely, a smile returning to your face with a bit more brightness. You offer him a place to sit, a fleeting glance cast over your shoulder. Sunday has half a mind to follow in your footsteps and refuse, yet he does not. He is tired, wasted efforts and unyielding dreams quivering under the weight of reality, all he truly wishes for is to collapse for good. With his missing wing and shuttered principles. How long has it been since he took a proper breath?

Sunday takes a seat. Like a holy dove that you are, you hover near him from your own heavenly branch. Never touching and always lingering, yet the heat of your skin burns him just like divine flame would scorch a sinner. The light under your fingertips rejects his wounds and exiles his exhaustion, it bends his will and breaks his bones. And if letting go or Order meant keeping you by his side for the rest of his life – however long it may be – then Sunday wouldn’t mind a life of sin of a different kind. And if you were to cross this distance and touch him, he would ask you to stay. Yet you don’t.

To live is to survive. To dream is to suffer. Your mind is somewhere far away, and the ache of his bones makes Sunday feel like he is being reborn. From a dying raven to a Charmony dove with all his wings intact, capable of flying on his own.

“So it is true that your kind cannot be manipulated.”

You shiver. Sunday’s back is throbbing. There’s not a person here but a cat. Cursing you with a heavy gaze of his eyes.

“It’s not nice to sneak up on people like that, Mister Elio.” You chastise him gently, pulling away from Sunday and taking all your holiness away. It is only the sheer power of self-control that allows him to not reach out to tug you back into him so your sunlight can burn him alive. Such earthly desires matter not if you two are soon to separate and never meet again.

The cat – Elio – huffs, unamused by your demeanor. You pay it no mind, your ribbons dissolve into thin air until only two remain. Neither do you answer Elio’s question. Simply gather your holy blood with your own two hands and let it all spill yet again through the stigmata on your palms.

“May heavens be kind enough to let our paths to cross again, Mister Sunday.”

His bones keep aching. The restless feathers of his wings flutter even if he wills them to stop. He can surrender his halo to you and despite it being all that is truly his to own in this life, it would never be enough. Deities require giving up all mortal possessions before devoted worship could be possible and what else can he offer to you if not himself?

Sunday has no time to ponder that question. He doesn’t even have the time to say goodbye to you properly. As gilded dreams are not meant to last forever, and this one too is taken away from him by something he cannot control.

“[Name]!” Himeko seems inhumanly comforted to see you safe, pulling you in a tight hug. And considering she wholeheartedly supported the young Foxian woman threatening to pluck his wings naked for taking you hostage, it is only logical for her to do so.

A brooding man – Dan Heng, if Sunday’s memory doesn’t fail him – stands awkwardly a little behind the two of you, while the aforementioned Foxian lady and her eccentric pink haired friend share a collective sigh of relief. You hesitantly pull away and take a hurried step forward, ushering them away before they can notice anything – anyone – else. You are far too kind for your own good and someone ought to exploit it eventually. At least it won’t be someone like him. It is far out of reach of Sunday’s capabilities to shackle a bird born of paradise.

The cat laughs. Sunday hates cats. You cannot cage them, yet they can snap your wings even if you are perfectly fit to fly on your own.

And so, the cat does.

Sunday’s bones are still aching even when he shakes hands with Kafka. Such is the nature of growing pains. A lot of misery is in Order.

#sunday x reader #hsr x reader #hsr imagines #honkai star rail x reader #sunday imagines #honkai star rail imagines

[quinnyundertow]

Your writing has made me absolutely fall head over heels in love with Yuta! You write him so well that I look at him in a completely different light now in the manga/anime. Also, I'm very excited for the Toji sequences upcoming in WICYG! xoxo

This made me so damn happy you have no idea! I adore him to know it made you love him more just- BE STILL MY HEART!

I’ve always wanted to write out my Yuta!head-canons and this made me go all in hahaha (Sorry bestie but I hope you enjoy them)

If you forced me to pick a fav from JJK it would 100000% be Yuta. He’s so complex and yet simple as a character. He experienced so much abuse/neglect (from parents, classmates, teachers, even Rika) as a young child due to seeing/having Rika in a non sorcerer environment. Gege said Yuta doesn’t have a close relationship with his parents but is close with a little sister. That’s so easy for me to imagine.

Yuta! Head-canon: His parents are both working full time when the tragedy with Rika happens. They feel so guilty but relieved that their son survived. As time goes on however Yuta won’t stop crying at night about this monster version of his dead best friend haunting him. At first they would pour everything into trying to get him medical help but as the years go by and psychiatrists say he’s seeking attention the care turns to frustration. Probably culminating in a, “Get over it! I don’t want to hear about her ever again!” Type of argument.

Yuta!Head-canon: His little sister would have been a safe person to him. Maybe five years younger than him so they really never talked about that girl Rika who “moved away” when they were little. Rika wouldn’t feel as threatened as she’s his sister and a younger child so I could see her allowing him to form a relationship with him. At least at first. Deep down Rika is kind but she’s still a curse jealousy would crop up or a normal sibling fight could have ended with Rika hurting his little sister only for Yuta to further isolate.

Yuta!head-canon: He is hyper aware of others emotions and if there are changes to someone’s regular personality. He remembers tiny details of everything because that’s how he had to survive growing up. He had to monitor Rika constantly for little changes that could indicate she may explode or cause issues. This aspect also causes him to empathize deeply even with those who may not deserve it. He doesn’t want Rika to kill his bullies because he’s seen the kid menacing him is getting bullied by upperclassmen and understands what that means. That said if they fuck with someone he cares about all that empathy goes out the window and he’s going to make sure it doesn’t happen again.

Yuta!Head-canon: Yuta has a circle of people very close to him and once you’re in that circle he is a true ride or die. Ask him for anything and trust that shit is getting done no matter how sketchy it sounds. He is the true definition of unconditional love (We all saw how Rika got and he still deeply loved her. ) and would support and trust you totally once you have proved worthy of it by actions.

Yuta!Headcanon: He is quick to fall in love and quick to let them go. If you give him even the littlest bit of praise or extra attention he’s going to get a crush on you. He can’t help it. He’s always held everyone so far away from him so any sort of domestic or doting affection would make him melt. That said he has always had to create firm boundaries around himself and others to protect people so if you told him you’re not interested or not to text you he would abide by that completely.

Yuta!headcanon his personality is that of self sacrifice. He could never be a yandere. He understands and thinks that your life would be better without him in it. How could he try and force someone to be with him? He accidentally did that to Rika and it plagued his mind constantly and was willing to die to let her rest in peace.

I had so much fun writing these out and sorry I hijacked your post!!! I’m so happy you enjoy the story and Toji’s entry should be fun!!!! Thank you for the ask love!!!

#Yuta!headcanon #okkotsu yuta #yuta okkotsu #jujutsu kaisen #jujustsu kaisen x reader #yuta okkotsu x reader #yuta headcanons #Yuta in a relationship #Quinny speaks #quinnyspeaks

[ygodmyy20]

Opps I've been thinking about Teru during confession arc again. Opps opps opps here i go down the hill come join me~

This meta has no strong throughline I'm just. Thoughts. Right now. I wrote this weeks ago and never posted it.

Note this may not be super on point or a perfect analysis, I’m just rambling

Been thinking about how during confession arc, everyone who stood up for Mob, stood up for him because they cared deeply about him in their own way. Touchirou wanted to pay him back for his kindness. Reigen needed to be open with his student. Ritsu had to accept his brother for who he is.

Teru is Mobs friend. But he doesn't, at this point in the story, have the same long-term friendship/relationship like Ritsu or Reigen have with Mob. He has the same need to repay Mob as Touichirou does but it's...hm, it's different.

Teru nearly gets himself killed for another person whom he cares so deeply about.

Is it because Teru has a crush on him?

...Perhaps. At this point I’d argue it’s not a crush but still an infatuation with Mob. Which can be a crush, but I don’t think he forms a crush until the pedestal is broke. At this point he still sees Mob as better than him.

Mob is also the only true friend Teru (from what we know) has had.

….

If Teru loses Mob, who else does he have? Ritsu maybe, and Shou, and maybe Reigen, but those friendships are still so new.

No, Mob is different. Mob is perfect, amazing, powerful--Mob is his only friend that knows the most "true" parts of Teru.

Teru is willing to die for Mob.

And I both love and hate that. I have a lot of mixed feelings about characters being willing to die for another and that is my own personal situation

Teru cares so much that he is willing to put his life on the line for Mob and that is something I think they will have to unpack. Just as friends or if they get together romantically.

(Honestly everyone is willing to die for Mob...... Reigen, Ritsu, Touichirou---they all see themselves as not worth it. That the best thing they can do in this situation (initially) is give up their life for this person. But they all realize through that they can't do that. They can't.)

This is my personal two cents: Loving someone does not mean throwing your life away for them. Because then you lose yourself. And what are you left with? Loving someone does mean stepping up for them, being there for them, making sacrifices for them. But not losing yourself for them.

But I’m gonna get super real for a hot minute. As someone who has been there. It destroys your sense of self. Who are you when all you are, is the other person? I see Teru doing this. He doesn't have much to stand on who "Teru" is. So he throws himself in to protect Mob in the only way he knows he can.

Teru doesn’t think he is special at this point compared to Mob. Mob is the most important thing. Mob is his only friend. Mob is everything. Teru has everything to lose. He has found this one friend, this one connection in his life, and he will do anything to protect them. He is still trying to find himself. Right now all that he is, is Mob.

He loves Mob so so much in his own way, and through their fight he realizes the best thing he can do is not die for Mob or beat him, but to save the people around him. Teru takes a huge step towards who he as a person is.

Confession arc is Teru realizing he can’t give Mob what he wants. He can’t protect and he can't defeat him. Teru has to figure out who he is, not who he thinks he should be.

#mp100 meta #mp100 #teruki hanazawa #terumob #like i said the throughline here is vague and i don't have a strong message #I just #can't stop thinking about teru and how he sees himself as so much less than Mob #and how he was willing to die for Mob #god you could apply this to any of them #Reigen too #Reigen cares so much about this kid he is willing to die for him #Reigen knows himself though #Reigen just hates himself so much he is not willing to let it show #Teru doesn't even know himself #anyway um #caveat that this is just my thoughts #everyone can interpret things in the way they want to

[morganafata]

Haters gonna hate, but I know in my heart Lovely Runner is a great show because in one ep I am giggling with joy and by the end, it feels as though I have been shivved in the guts. And that wouldn't happen if I just straight up did not give a shit about these characters.

And look that reset had to happen. That boy...was not gonna stop dying for Im Sol lmfao. If he was that unstable in the og timeline for a girl who wasn't even giving him the time of day, how much more insane is he going to be over the girl who crossed time and defied fate to save him? How feral is he going to be now that he kissed her and dated her and probably punched her v-card in ep 12 tbh? Of course, he chased down the guy he knows is gonna kidnap her. No, it wasnt a smart move but he sure as hell wasn't gonna walk away if there's even a chance Sol is gonna get hurt. The guy was ready to die for her the moment they kissed, like that kiss sealed his fate.

Like, what do you with a guy who is that fatally in love that it destroys all sense of self preservation. You strangle that love in the crib and salt the earth so it can't ever grow again. Sol's mission statement was always to keep Sun Jae alive, whether he likes it or not because his life is worth more to her than their love. If he can't get it through his lovesick brain to choose life over her, then she's going to take that choice away. And I sort of love that sense of ruthlessness to her.

And the whole, 'well it just made the previous eps pointless' thing...well to me, the previous eps emphasized how far Im Sol is willing to go to save Sun Jae. How bad do you wanna keep him alive? Are you willing to sacrifice his one of a kind love for you and the beautiful moments you shared, that we as the audience shared with you two, so that we will be just as devastated when you make your final, gut wrenching inevitable choice? Can you live with that decision for the next 15 years?

Im Sol is tested again and again in her love for Sun Jae, only for the universe to tell her over and over "its not enough, your love and your sacrifice, its still not enough what more can you give what more can we take?"

#lovely runner #kim hye yoon #byeon woo seok #all this to say #ep 13 was great because it left me emotionally annihilated #and it will probably be awhile before i can watch it again #i didnt think a romcom could hurt me this bad

[fairytales-and-arts]

HOW MANY SACRIFICES IS A HAPPY ENDING WORTH?

Daniel and Célia have dreamed of each other since she saved him from death and fall in love with each shared dream encounter.

When they finally meet in real life, Daniel thought he could finally have her both day and night... But destiny never makes things easier for hearts willing to truly love and he soon witnesses the girl of his dreams rise into Brazilian royalty as promised to Henry, the Prince of the Northeast.

While outside the palace the people applaud what seems to be a fairy tale, inside its walls Célia is corrupted by a painful and cruelly manipulated reality which only seems to get worse as the boy of her dreams and his friends try to help her save herself.

Trapped between promises, lies, beautiful dreams and harsh truths, Daniel and Célia realize that the only way to escape this nightmare is to discover how many sacrifices they can endure for an ending that consider them happy.

This is the premise of my first story, aka animation.

My goal is to make something that takes place in modern times, but with an air of magic and fairy tales like the Disney classic and with history and overflowing feelings like those of Studio Ghibli.

For this story, I will be using the animation style of my favorite artist: @junchiu, creator of the story of "Medusa - the Stone Kingdom" animation (yes, it is an animation, comics can be considered animations if you can place them and play them); a video with background music, to create a series of episodes that will tell the story of Célia and Daniel.

I'm an independent artist and this is my first big project. I decided to share it here because I want to document its construction and, who knows, find people willing to watch it grow and watch it when it's ready.

I'm finishing the script for the first episode and I'll be posting them here, as if it were a "fanfic-movie" like "The Kingdom of Wishes" by @annymation

I hope that whoever finds this random post among thousands likes what's to come.

Kisses full of light and stars!

~Emy

#oc #oc art #comics #art #artists on tumblr #traditional art #traditional drawing #traditional illustration #art wip #wip #work in progress #writing #writers on tumblr #writeblr #original character #original art #original writing #original work #disney #studio ghibli

[theshifterbear]

A walk through

So in the show I'm shifting to another girl gets pregnant instead of me because obviously I wasn't there. Which is a L in the biggest way possible. But it's good cause I know what to expect. This is just a precaution.

In the show he was like "kill her and the baby" because witches tried to use them as leverage to make him do what they wanted and cause he can't really have children. You see for people who haven't watched the show he's a hybrid (vampire and werewolf). He was a vampire for 1000 years before unlocking his werewolf side. Vampires can't have children cause they're.....dead butttttttt werewolves can. But he's the first and I think the only person who can do this.

Obviously he's going to think it's all fake and that baby ain't his. I don't know if I should script it out or not. On one hand I trust that he won't think I'm lying and he'll love me enough to believe it's his but on the other he's paranoid as fuck. I'm willing to see which way it goes honestly.

Another thing is enemies. My s/o has enemies on top of enemies that would love to get their lick back by killing me and our children. There was one period of the show where they swarmed in from all corners of the world to get his ass and by association my ass. I had to script a couple things to prevent that from happening.

The hollow. The hollow is a dark spirit/witch that wants to take either one or both of the twins bodies to not die or something. I honestly don't remember why but all I need to remember is she's a no no. I didn't entirely script her out. I scripted I got rid of her without everyone having to run away for years. She never gets near the kids. And she ain't killing my baby daddy.

The aunt. The aunt of my s/o wants to take both of the twins away so she can "train" them. Which is code for taking their magic for herself. As much as I hate her she got a sense of style and game recognize game but she ain't getting my kids. She can go fuck herself. I didn't script her out either. I just scripted that she gets defeated.

The birthing process. Originally in the show the mother (who isn't me 😒) gets dragged into a church while in labor by witch's. They kill her then take the baby away to kill it for a sacrifice to the ancestors. She then turns into a werewolf/vampire hybrid like my s/o. My s/o did try to save them but end up being stuck to a wall and watch everything 😗. Everybody lived in the end. Well not the end of the show cause my s/o and her died. I thought about keeping it as a way I can turn into a vampire/witch.

And that concludes that.

#tvd shifting #shifting to tvd #tvd dr #shifting realities #shifting #reality shifting #reality shift #desired reality #shifter #black shifters #shifting community #shiftblr

[acourtofthought]

Is High Lady a legitimate position? or was that just made up to make Feyre legitimately the most powerful fae (like her mate)? Does being a high lady require a different set of socio-political functions than any lady in Prythian? Or are they just ladies in positions of power who are really really powerful?

Also, should Elucien be the main couple in the next book, how do you want SJM to explore other courts since Lucien is connected to a lot of them?

Lastly, idk if you answered this but what attributes from Feysand and Nessian made you shy away from them becoming high king and queen? After seeing your posts about characteristics of Elucien that make them suitable to rule, I'd like to hear more from you!

This is not a hater question if you ship the canon couples. Hope you have a great day.

High Lady was a legitimate position at one point though it seems to have fallen out of favor as of late, probably because certain "dictator-like" High Lords who wed had / have the mentality that their wives are not their equals (i.e. Beron, Rhys's father).

I imagine the way Sarah has written it is that High Lady is different than other Lady's in society in that they are the rulers of a court. They share in the same decision making process / voice of authority for a court that a High Lord would. I actually think it has less to do with power and more to do with being the ones to set the laws, where those who work for them are expected to follow their orders when they do issue commands (a sometimes necessary thing).

Where their purpose is to ensure the safety and well being of their people.

As for as Elucien exploring other courts, I feel like Spring is where they'd spend a good bit of time because Spring is the court that needs the most work. The people have been ignored, the land is beginning to die and it's army is something the NC needs as an ally (not to mention a strong force against Beron).

Day I think they'll travel to in order to learn more about Elain's powers.

I think Autumn will be where they visit after Beron is defeated so Lucien can reconnect with his mother.

The human lands to meet with Jurian after Vassa is forced to return, I think we'll also see Elain finally put Graysen in his place.

Feysand are decent enough leaders.... To the Night Court. Everything they do is to protect the people of Velaris (not even so much other territories there) and while it can't be denied that they do love their citizens, they have proven they are willing to use the people of other courts as collateral to prioritize their goals.

Yes, they fought for all fae and humans during the war but Rhys's first priority during Amarantha’s reign was Velaris. Feyre was willing to displace innocent people in Spring in order to get revenge on Tamlin.

So while they do often care for many, they are still willing to sacrifice them at other times. A High King and High Lady will not make good rulers if they're already showing favoritism.

Nessian, I think it's a bit of the same not to mention Cassian is clearly uncomfortable with the political game which is territory being in charge comes with, like it or not. Nesta does fight for others but that character trait typically comes out only when she sees someone truly in need of a fighter and only when she deems it to be something truly unjust. I.e., she did speak up in the High Lords meeting but only after Beron declared the meeting was over. And Feyre initially asked her to tell her story during the meeting and Nesta refused. Nesta is a lot nicer to those she considers weak than those who are equal to her or more powerful. And she chose to ignore the people of Velaris after the war, choosing instead to drink and gamble for a year. I'm not faulting her for that, I understand she was depressed. But I think someone who is a leader tries to move forward and focuses on the needs of the people rather than letting themselves get sucked into themselves. It's kind of why Tamlin isn't the best leader, he let his depression overtake the needs of his court.

But Elain, after losing her father and Graysen and her humanity helped the fae in Velaris rebuild their gardens after the war even though we know she was still struggling. She made an effort to learn what fae traditions meant to them though she grew up fearing their kind. She became invested in the people rather than focusing on her losses. Her personality makes it possible for have decent a relationship with all personality types versus her her sisters who at times come off as combative towards others.

And Lucien? Though he's loyal, we've also been shown that he cares about the needs of the many. People get so caught up on how he didn't do more for Feyre but that's because to him there were many who also needed something. The people of spring, it's High Lord being able to help the court get back on its feet. Not to mention his choosing to help the humans rebuild after the war and sort out their politics. His willingness to help the NC.

Lucien doesn't have blind loyalty to just one place, he cares about many and to me, that is the kind of personality that would make for a fair and just High King.

#elucien #pro elucien #elain archeron #lucien vanserra

[melinoegoddessofghosts]

Is GOOD TV sustainable?

I hate the culture of TV now. The way writers are being treated sucks, and it shows in the culture.

I hate how short the seasons are. I hate that there aren't any super weird filler episodes that make you wonder if the writer's room was smoking something when they wrote them.

I hate how fan interaction isn't always enough to save a show.

On the other hand, I hate how entitled fans feel to good TV. The absolute vitriol hurled at the Game of Thrones writers for Season 8. Yes, it was bad. So what? Doesn't mean you get to bully people.

Honestly, I was just thinking about how some of my favorite shows from the 90s, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Star Trek: The Next Generation, The X-Files, etc. have episodes that are just objectively bad. But we watch them anyway, and we giggle at our little shows and how they sometimes get weird and that's okay.

I mean, for real, like really bad episodes. The BTVS episode where Buffy and Riley have so much sex they create a demon? The TNG episode where Tasha Yar is sexually harassed and later abducted by a more "primitive" species, and everyone just laughs it off? The TXF episode where Mulder and Scully both almost get killed by a few housecats? Like seriously awful episodes.

All this from some of the best sci-fi/fantasy shows ever created.

The Writer's Strike is pointing out a lot of what's bad about TV culture, and I think the inundation of new content, the speed with which content is churned out, and the entitlement we as viewers can sometimes exhibit toward our favorite shows is a culture that needs to change.

Honestly, part of me wants a couple dumb filler episodes where the characters make stupid decisions, and the stakes are unbelievably low. It's nice to have a breather in the middle of a season.

Writers get paid per episode. The new norm of the 8-episode season and a year or more between seasons means writers aren't even getting a chance to make more money, even if the payrate per episode weren't abysmal (which it is). And you can bet the fact that everyone who works on an episode has to get paid is the sole reason services are switching to shorter seasons and slashing the size of writer's rooms.

Yes, TV has gotten better in the last two decades. But at what cost? If you get a couple really stupid episodes in exchange for better working conditions for writers, I personally feel like that's a trade I'd be more than willing to make. Honestly, it's kind of a perk. Day-in-the-life content with my favorite characters? Episodes where background characters get to shine? World-building episodes that don't affect the overarching plot? Yes, please.

#wga #wga strike 2023 #wga strike #support wga #support writers #tv culture has to change #this is not sustainable #the x files #txf #buffy the vampire slayer #buffy #btvs #star trek: the next generation #tng #star trek tng #how badly do you want good tv? #and who are you willing to sacrifice to get it?

[fabuloustrash05]

Reblog if you’re a 2012 Raphael stan and are sick and tired of toxic fans lying/badmouthing him, saying he’s “abusive”, a “bully”, and “doesn’t care about his brothers”.

#we love and Stan 2012 Raph on this blog #yeah let’s just ignore the fact that Raph spent three months by Leo side when he was in a coma #refusing to eat or sleep just taking care of Leo until he wakes up #having literal panic attacks when seeing Mikey hurt #and ready to kill someone if anyone harms Mikey #and helping Donnie with his feelings for April #whether that was supporting him or helping him get over her #Raph has literally stated in season 1 that he is willing to sacrifice his life to keep his brothers safe #and he admitted in season two that no matter what his brothers always come first #how can you say that he doesn’t care about his brothers or is abusive when he’s done/said stuff like this #2012 Raphael is a saint #you guys are just trying to make rise look better #and this is coming from someone who absolutely loves the Rise series #tmnt 2012 #tmnt #teenage mutant ninja turtles #tmnt raphael #tmnt raph #raphael hamato

[queseraone]

5x05 | 5x12

#chenford #chenfordedit #the rookie #therookieedit #parallels #5x05 #5x12 #tim bradford #lucy chen #get you a partner who is willing to make sacrifices for you #and who includes you in decisions about your future oooof #talk about an upgrade #i love how breaking is an option but not REALLY an option #they are IT #mine #usersuz #usertimlucy

[blinkpen]

home again now. depending on which version of me is fronting, how regularly i engage with my online activity will be a touch more sporadic and avoidant until further notice because i have shit to do, what little i can that is within my power to do at least. do not stop talking or let yourselves get distracted too long too often, alright. make it a balance. dedicate time, talk, look for updates, don't just wait for them to come to you on your dash, and boost what does but always still fact check sources first so you don't harm your own cause spreading misinformation, and put the effort to do some reading and listening and then making phone calls and sending letters n all that

#i know you Need fun to be healthy #but you need to be willing to self-sacrifice a bit for the people who don't have a choice and never will until you suffer with them #there is no valor or honor in suffering. but sometimes you must be willing to accept a QoL hit bc that QoL hit is the bargaining chip #being too tired and burnt out to do what's right is a Feature not a Bug of this awful exploitative system we live under #look at me rambling in the tags again but you get it #just do more than Just get it. do something about it. whatever you can.

[mightaswelljxmp]

i love having both etho and kakashi as My Guys because then whenever i see either of them it’s two for the price of one

#this post was brought to you by bingeing etho season 7 immediately followed by like 50 episodes of shippuden over the course of four days #i am screaming into the void. they are just So Alike you guys you arent getting it #it goes deeper than appearance you have to trust me guys please #a master of his field who is also just Such a guy who loves to troll his friends and has a green guy he goes way back with #who am i describing? either. both. the PARALLELS YOU GUYS IT ACTUALLY DRIVES ME CRAZY #the only difference is one of them was put in a situation where he had to kill others to survive and decide where he drew the line in terms #of what he was willing to sacrifice to survive and for his friends to survive #and as a result suffered when he ultimately was unable to save what mattered most #hahahahaha oopsies kakashi did that too lol #ethoslab

[last-flight-of-fancy]

“Kingdom Hearts being an epic slow burn gay romance would be incredibly impactful to people both personally and as a landmark in queer representation by extremely popular and established characters. It has decades of legitimate buildup and has the potential to be both incredibly validating to queer fans everywhere and even possibly sway the minds of those who love the characters but may not have much contact or knowledge of queerness.”

and

“The Kingdom Hearts series is honestly kind of unique in its unabashed emotional sincerity. How it treats friendships and non-romantic bonds as being both extremely important and powerful, never giving the impression that friendship is lesser to romance, is depressingly still somewhat of a rarity in media. This is very important and validating to many, particularly aromantics but also most everyone who is just Tired of how friendships and romance are often presented in tiers of importance.”

are concepts that can and should co-exist.

#like i get it. there really is nothing quite like kh when it comes to how it treats the bonds between characters #and the latter is just as legitimate! #but i do think that the people who argue (in good faith) that kh shouldnt make anyone canon- #-are kind of missing the forest for the trees #(i specify in good faith bc we all know the bad faith ones are just co-opting the argument to hide their homophobia) #(and oh boy are *most* of them in bad faith. but i wanna take a sec to talk about this bc there are good faith ones out there) #and what i mean by that is that... well first of all making one ship canon doesn't invalidate all the other examples of stunning displays of #-the power of friendship #second of all i would like you to consider the framing of this #if no ship becomes canon and it's purely platonic for all the OC's... how is it different from any other kids show with no couples? #in terms of representing friendship as not being less than romance? #it's still not bad don't get me wrong. what i'm saying is that media DOES exist #there are shows and books and games out there where there are no couples to speak of #maybe not terribly common but they're out there #but a slow burn epic gay romance where platonic connections are legitimately just as important and powerful? i sure af havent seen it #sora being in love with riku and still willing to sacrifice himself (TWICE) to save kairi... is that not exactly what you want? #to show that the platonic connection is not lesser? that its just as important? #i dunno i've been turning this over in my brain all afternoon thinking about it #stop talking to yourself flight

[dramarants]

Wanting more homoeroticism in the tension between the show’s leads as the narrative introduces greater intimacy and higher stakes between them, especially in a landscape that lacks queer representation who isn’t a villain or dies within one or two episodes, but also recognizing that core values/motivation for these characters lie in their relationships with one of two major female characters in an on screen sausage fest where the only other woman is a morally reprehensible femme fatale and erasing and/or vilifying female leads in favor of conventionally attractive males is a common practice observed in fandoms that’s rooted in misogyny and justified under the guise of rejecting heteronormativity, thinly veiled double standards, or claiming the woman is simply not interesting enough and not wanting to bolster that mindset

#the worst of evil #you know who’s not interesting enough? haeryeon!! bibi’s acting the hell out of her and slaying while doing it #but idk anything besides she’s willing to subvert her dad for dick and values money over everything else #and also she’s hot which is great for me!! but also the male gaze #and I also get it - we don’t know much about euijeong in her limited screen time besides her relationships to junmo/kicheol #but she is given so many traits that are silently conveyed like compassion and bravery and sacrifice #she brought a fucking gun to her date with kicheol like the conflicts and motivations here are SO JUICY #her exasperation guilt and despair with the investigation; esp after listening to the voicemails #what’s the self respecting thing to do; do I still love my husband if he loses himself; can I continue a game I never wanted to play #at the cost of my life or my family’s life? #even though a lot of her choices are for her marriage she’s using whatever agency she has in her own terms #kicheol works to be an honest man and make a difference partly bc of her #not trying to place the burden of fixing men on her but ignoring her impact in the boys’ lives is wild #ship whoever you want hate whoever you want but don’t deride a woman just cuz ‘she’s in the way’ ya know #all this being said; kicheol bringing junmo home after he RAMPAGED seemingly on his behalf - literally who else is doing it like them #the yearning all around - I get it now; we need gangster mob!throuple to get any shit done around here (and for all 3 to stay alive 🫣🙏) #but the reality next week is gonna be so so bitter

[im-tempted]

God yugi who will die for everyone he's ever loved and even people he hasn't

But he will tie himself in knots to never have a fleck of blood touch his hands he will throw himself on rooftops to save kaiba even if it costs him his own family

He is only capable of sacrifice never action

#anyway yugi as willing lamb #you get me #a perfect sacrifice is one who couldn't fathom fighting back #adam fucking around #yugioh