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knife’s edge // gojo satoru

tw ⇢ teacher-student relationship, implied age gap, dub-con, punishment and reward system, power play, dom/sub relationship, blowjob, fingering, begging, hair pulling, degradation, mentions of violence and injuries, spanking, facial, belt whipping, praise kink, face fucking

wc ⇢ 6.7k

a/n: i am not happy with this one at all

The inky blackness of night cloaked the abandoned factory district in deep shadow, the dim glow of the waxing moon filtering through shattered panes of grimy glass offering little illumination. Your ragged breaths echoed sharply in the cavernous silence, each rapid footfall sending plumes of dust and grit swirling into the still air in your wake.

You risked a frantic glance over your shoulder, heart hammering a staccato rhythm against your ribcage. The curse's formless shape undulated through the gloom behind you with horrific, boneless grace—an amorphous mass of writhing miasma capped with wicked curved appendages that scraped in screeching arcs against the cracked concrete hallway with each slithering surge forward. Jagged claws of solidified cursed energy aimed to ensnare, tear, and rend any flesh within reach.

A fleeting memory sliced through your mind's frenzied whirl — Gojo's voice carrying that unmistakable lilt of teasing amusement as he'd drawled something about being on your "best behavior" during this training exercise. His smug confidence had rankled you at the time, fueling your burning desire to prove yourself more than a bumbling student constantly needing rescue from their mentor.

But now, harsh reality crashed through those foolish delusions in waves of cold, jagged terror. You were hopelessly outmatched and ill-prepared for confronting this particular curse born of manifested nightmares. Its presence alone incited paralytic dread laced with a phantom ache of crushing loneliness echoing from some primal depth. Heedless of the stunted whimpers tumbling from your trembling lips, it closed in with relentless, inexorable hunger.

You redoubled your pace, lower legs shrieking with the exertion of maintaining your panicked sprint. Up ahead, the hallway fractured off into a labyrinth of shadowed corridors and forsaken antechambers. Fighting the icy lances of panic penetrating your frantic thoughts, you arbitrarily flung yourself down the second passageway on the left, restraining a scream as the curse's barbed tendrils whipped around the corner in pursuit.

How had you allowed yourself to be lured so far from the staging area where Gojo awaited your safe return? Stupid, stupid overconfidence. Surely he would berate your rashness before grudgingly coming to your aid...if you survived this ordeal long enough to earn his scorn. You swallowed back a hiccuping sob at that grim prospect, legs pumping harder in sheer desperation.

When the next turn presented itself, you instinctively banked hard to the right, hurtling through the decrepit doorway of what appeared to be some kind of dilapidated manager's office. Dim moonlight filtered through the filth-streaked windows, casting the skeletal shapes of rusted desks and chairs in stark silhouette across the debris-littered floor.

You twisted in mid-sprint, fruitlessly hurling the few feeble cursed tools you'd had on your person towards the curse as it rapidly filled the doorway. Their meager defenses ricocheted off a shimmering barrier the curse erected with mocking ease. Your breath sawed from your lungs in panicked bursts as those razor-tipped appendages sliced through the space you'd just occupied, sending shreds of plaster and splintered wood exploding in all directions.

There was nowhere left to run. In blind panic, you scrambled backwards on your hands and feet as the curse's oozing grotesquerie filled the open doorframe, blocking any hope of escape.

Suddenly, something sharp and unyielding sliced into the meat of your palm, causing you to cry out in pained surprise. You looked down to see the jagged remains of some kind of metal pole or rebar protruding from the crumbling floorboards—the very shrapnel strewn across the office that your desperate retreat had led you straight into.

The unforgiving shard of rebar punched clean through the soft center of your hand in a blossoming spiral of agony and blood. Your scream hitched in your constricted throat as scorching lances of whitehot pain lanced up your arm. Tears blurred your vision, leaving the curse's steadily encroaching form obscured and wavering in your sight.

The twisted groaning of stressed metal snapped your gaze downward just as the compromised floor buckled beneath your weight, splitting like a crumpled Jenga tower along the lines of its pre-existing fractures. The gore-slicked rebar came suddenly free from its entrapment with a meaty slurping sound, pitching you backwards as your already precarious perch vanished from beneath you.

You plummeted in a dizzying freefall, the decrepit office warping and careening away above you in smears of grey and brown and black. Instinctively you flung out your arms, mouth gaping in a soundless scream as you plunged downwards into the bottomless unknown of the abandoned factory's shadowed depths.

Time itself seemed to unravel into surreal slow-motion as your trajectory carried you into the diffuse path of moonlight slanting through a shattered window high above. Silver-edged debris tumbled alongside you—jagged splinters of wood and twisted scraps of metal glinting like macabre confetti amid the freeze-framed droplets of your blood blossoming in faint crimson blurs.

Then, with a violent percussion of displaced air, something rocketed into you from the side—a solid, immense force that knocked what little breath remained from your lungs in a strangled wheeze. Powerful arms like bands of steel locked around your torso, violently arresting your plummet as your failed to process what was happening.

Head spinning, vertigo graying the edges of your vision, you dimly became aware of the world blurring past in streaks of shadow and dim light as you swung in an upward arc, abruptly changing trajectories with dizzying velocity. The whiplash intense enough to make you cry out hoarsely as cold panic lanced through you anew.

Just as abruptly, the disorienting rush of movement slammed to a boneshaking halt, your body folding in on itself with the force of the deceleration. You found yourself crushed against a solid plane of warmth and wiry muscle, every nerve ending screaming in protest as your savior's bruising embrace constricted tighter around your ribcage. The guttural growl rumbling through the steel-banded arms holding you immobile reverberated straight into your rattled bones.

"Dammit, girl—you make trouble follow you around like a hellhound on a scent trail, don't you?"

The familiar, sardonic drawl finally pierced the roaring in your ears. Gojo's distinctive smokey timbre ignited a fresh surge of tremors— though born of relief rather than mortal terror this time. You sagged bonelessly against his chest, quaking with reaction as the abyss you'd narrowly avoided plunging into slowly reasserted itself in your reeling awareness.

Gojo simply held you pinned flush against him, stance braced with preternatural solidity despite the physical feat of force he'd just exerted. With your face pressed into the juncture of his shoulder and neck, his unique scent of sandalwood and citrus enveloped you in a cloak of reassurance. You clung to that steadying anchor desperately as you struggled to rein in your haywire senses.

He seemed content to allow you that reprieve, not bothering to immediately extricate himself as the pounding of both your thunderous heartbeats gradually subsided to a more measured cadence. At last, when you'd stopped trembling quite so violently, Gojo shifted infinitesimally—just enough to catch your chin between his thumb and forefinger, tilting your face up towards his.

"Y'know, when I said to be on your best behavior, I didn't mean to go seeking out new and perilous ways to get yourself killed on my watch, bad girl."

Gojo's voice still maintained that undercurrent of sardonic cool, but you detected the faintest hints of...something else bleeding through. An edge of anxious relief perhaps, buried beneath the outward mask of nonchalant irreverence he always wore. His thumb traced the curve of your jaw with maddening tenderness at odds with his tart rebuke, sending your pulse into a frenzied gallop once more.

"Gojo-sensei, I-I'm so sorry," you stammered, scarcely daring to draw breath too deeply in his embrace for fear of surrendering to the urge to bury your face against his neck and simply exist in that space for a thousand reassuring moments. "I got overconfident and careless and put myself in danger by wandering off. You were right, as usual, and I—"

He cut off your self-flagellating apology with a gruff tsk, index finger pressing firmly against your parted lips. "Hush now. I can already see those pretty eyes filling with crocodile tears that will make me go all soft and stupid again."

The sardonic smirk he flashed you ignited a spark of bristling indignance in your chest—but it was a welcome reprieve from the icy terror currently waning through your system. Gojo's gaze roved downwards, searing gaze flickering over you in a blatant sweep from head to toe. Whatever he saw in his obscenely casual inspection made his jawline tense perceptibly.

"Looks like our little curse didn't take too kindly to you wandering off the beaten path either," he remarked, deceptively mild drawl betrayed by the subtle edge of strain hardening the words.

You followed the weighted path of his hawkish regard to where the tattered remnants of your uniform clung in bloodied tatters, entire swaths torn away to reveal expanses of gashed and rapidly-purpling flesh glistening with crimson. A vivid flush bloomed across your cheeks as you hastily sought to cover yourself, hissing as the incidental movement tugged at your lacerated skin.

Gojo clucked his tongue again, more chidingly this time. "Easy there, slugger. Let's not go scrambling around until we get those battle scars properly dressed."

Before you could protest, Gojo was moving again - shifting his grip to cradle you securely against his chest with one arm while his free hand extended outward, palm glowing with an ethereal purple luminescence.

One disorienting transition of vertigo later and the ruined factory surroundings had been replaced by a cozily appointed interior.

The incongruously homey space you now found yourself in appeared to be some kind of living quarters - though imbued with distinctly more luxury and refined appointments than the standard student dormitories would allow.

Rich hardwood floors were covered in plush area rugs of deep crimson. The walls were adorned with elegant-yet-minimal furnishings and intricately patterned tapestries in jewel tones suggesting an Eastern influence. Various artifacts - porcelain vases, statuettes, and inscribed metal wall-hangings - were interspersed with a few strategic pops of color and indirect lighting to cultivate an ambiance of cultivated tranquility.

"Comfortable?" The rumbling baritone against your ear made you start slightly as Gojo carried you towards what appeared to be a bedroom sectioned off by opaque partitioning screens.

You opened your mouth to reply, but any words withered on your tongue when he shifted his hold to deposit you with infinite care atop the bed - as though you were the most precious of fragile burdens. The sheets were a sleek dusky charcoal hue offset by the warm burnished glow of brass lamps casting flattering illumination across the space.

Gojo crouched in one fluid, boneless motion beside where you lay, all lazy power and effortless masculine grace barely restrained beneath that veneer of irreverent cool. His gaze was immediately drawn to the sluggishly bleeding gashes marring your exposed skin, sharp azure irises hooded beneath lowered lashes.

"Let's get you decent first, hmm?" He lilted in that sinfully smooth timbre, already working to divest you of the tattered remnants of clothing still clinging to your mangled form.

You flushed hotly, opening your mouth to offer token protest, but his pointed look swiftly quelled any objections before they could sound.

"Don't get shy on me now, pretty girl. I've already copped an eyeful of everything you've got thanks to that curse taking talons to your outfit." One corner of his lush mouth quirked upwards in that irresistible smirk that never failed to spark a flicker of defiance in your core. "Might as well make the most of the situation, neh?"

With deft efficiency and hands belying an almost reverent delicacy, Gojo stripped you down to your bared skin, blatantly allowing his piercing gaze to map every purpling contusion and seeping laceration in the process. You remained motionless, scarcely daring to breathe for fear of shattering this suspended reality into shards of mortified embarrassment and pining desire.

Gojo clicked his tongue in a noise of disapproval as his inspection catalogued the extent of your injuries. His thumb traced the lurid weal of a deep gash carving across your ribcage, featherlight and ghosting over the sensitive abraded skin but eliciting a shuddering exhalation from your parted lips all the same.

"Such a mess you've made of yourself, babygirl," he chided in a low, dark purr that seemed to resonate straight through the shallow surface of your flesh and delve molten paths into the viscera below. "Clumsy, clumsy girl wandering off and courting disaster like it's a favored lover. Maybe you need reminding why it's safer to stay close...and who exactly you belong to."

Gojo stood and moved across the room, giving you a momentary reprieve from the heated intensity of his presence. You watched him retrieve a wooden basin and an array of glass jars and cloth wrappings, absently tracing your fingers over the stark patterns of blooming bruises and lacerations. Though the sting of your injuries still pulsed in time with your elevated heartbeat, it felt muted somehow - a distant discomfort overshadowed by the lingering warmth of Gojo's touch and his dark, heated words still reverberating through your mind.

When he returned to your side and crouched on the plush rug once more, you couldn't help but tense slightly at his proximity. Gojo's lips curved in an inscrutable half-smile, as if privy to the chaotic whirl of your thoughts. Dipping a clean cloth into the basin of herbal-scented water he had prepared, he began gently sponging away the streaks of blood and grime from your abused skin with meditative focus.

"You know," he began conversationally, breaking the weighted quiet between you. "I had a feeling assigning you to run solo for this particular exercise was inviting disaster." His gaze remained fixed on his ministrations, calloused fingertips brushing featherlight over the shredded gashes scoring your abdomen as he cleaned each one with almost ritualistic care.

"You've always had a penchant for acting first and regretting the consequences later." Gojo's tone was a strange blend of wry affection and pointed reproof. "That wild spirit and impulsive bravery are what make you such a marvel to train...but they're also what consistently lands you in hot water requiring my intervention."

You wanted to protest, to insist that this time you had been cautious and level-headed right up until the curse overwhelmed you so unexpectedly. But the words shriveled up unspoken on your tongue as memories of your rash overconfidence resurfaced with a flush of shame. Gojo was right, as infuriatingly often seemed to be the case when he turned that penetrating stare and spark of dark wisdom upon you.

"I cannot even begin to fathom what could possess an otherwise reasonably bright girl to forsake all her training at the first sign of danger," he continued, words hardening into a disapproving rasp. You flinched inwardly, knowing the scolding was deserved but still bristling at being spoken down to like a petulant child.

Gojo's touch stilled abruptly, his thumb and forefinger capturing your chin in an uncompromisingly firm grasp that forced your gazes to lock. The vivid azure of his eyes bored into you with searing intensity from beneath his silvery lashes, commanding your rapt focus.

"Do you have any idea how close I came to losing you tonight?" His words emerged in a gravelly undertone that seemed to reverberate somewhere deeper than mere sound.

You opened your mouth to respond, but he spoke over your stillborn attempt with quiet yet immutable authority. "Too close. Far too close for comfort, little one."

Gojo's thumb traced the plush arc of your lower lip with deliberate reverence, the blistering heat of his touch raising delicious sparks of sensation despite its apparent innocuity. "I don't take kindly to situations where I am mere inches from watching light fade from those gorgeous eyes of yours. Do you understand me?"

Any residual defiance flickered and died beneath the scorching promise of intent blazing behind the shrouded azure regard holding you hostage. All you could manage was a tremulous inhale and the barest fraction of a nod in acknowledgment.

Something indecipherable flashed across Gojo's expression - both a subtle easing of the taut line of his jaw and a perceptible deepening of the shadows clouding his eyes. His hand slid from your chin to cup the back of your neck, fingertips lightly caressing the sensitive skin as he pulled you forward until the briefest whisper of distance remained between your brow and his.

"Let this be a lesson to you then," he murmured in a voice rendered incalculably darker by its lowered register. "Stay close to me from now on where you belong, understood? No more foolish detours or reckless stunts serving only to test my stamina in constantly retrieving you from harm."

You found yourself mesmerized, lashes fluttering in a hapless series of blinks as his breath fanned warmly over your parted lips. There was simply no other response than a breathily murmured, "Yes, Gojo-sensei. I understand."

The barest ghost of a smile - one of grim satisfaction rather than mirth - curved the edges of his sinful mouth. "Good girl."

The heavy-lidded intensity of Gojo's gaze seemed to scorch straight through to your very core as the silence stretched taut between you. His thumb traced idle patterns along the racing flutter of your pulse just beneath your jawline, touch tantalizingly light yet possessive all the same. You shivered at the implication behind such a disarmingly tender caress coming from your mentor.

"You test me at every turn, don't you, my pretty thing?" The words emerged in a low, molten rumble tinged with thinly veiled exasperation and something infinitely darker—a banked smolder of bone-deep desire he made little effort to conceal. "Never quite able to simply mind your place and stay obediently out of harm's way, constantly seeking new ways to throw yourself into the line of danger until I'm forced to intervene..."

His fingers trailed lazily down the sloped column of your throat, following the racing thrum of your pulse until his palm settled in a burned brand over the thundering cadence of your heart. You couldn't help the tremulous hitch of your breath as his calloused thumb grazed the swell of your breast, the barest suggestion of weight behind the touch.

Gojo's eyes glittered mercurial beneath the fan of his silvery lashes as he watched your response with rapt attentiveness, gauging your reaction to his calculated escalation. You were pinned motionless beneath the heated intensity of his undivided focus - the blazing epicenter of a storm waiting to break.

When he spoke again, his graveled baritone had lowered a ruinous register, each dark rumble seeming to sear across your feverish skin like a scorching caress unto itself.

"I'm sorely tempted to finally take you firmly in hand once and for all, babygirl. To show you exactly what lies in store each time you defy me so recklessly and necessitate my...intervention." He curled his fingers ever so slightly, delicious suggestion laced through the subtle rasp of hardened fingertips grazing the taut bud beneath the thin fabric covering you.

Your spine arched in an involuntary bow of pleasure-edged shockwaves, a broken whimper falling from your lips before you could bite it back. Gojo watched the display of responsiveness with naked hunger flickering across his austere features.

"Yes...that's what you crave, isn't it?" He mused in that same sinful, smoke-ruined tone that seemed to curl molten tendrils of liquid heat low in your belly. "My undivided attention and reprimand for each infraction, each reckless display where you've failed to heed my instruction..."

Gradually, with agonizing deliberation, Gojo shifted to loom over you with coiled dominance thrumming through every steel-banded muscle. His free hand traced a scorching path down your torso, insistent fingertips hooking beneath the thin fabric at your hip and exerting gentle but implacable pressure.

"But such willful disobedience cannot go entirely unpunished, can it?" He purred, pupils dilating as his gaze raked over your form with incandescent hunger. "Not if you're to finally learn some modicum of discipline and self-control..."

With deft surety, Gojo relieved you of the final scant covering as his sinful lips curved in a lush, dangerous smile. A fraught moment of charged suspension stretched between you as his reverent gaze roamed freely over the newly bared flesh. Then, with infinite tenderness at odds with his thunderous promise, he cradled you against the scorching plane of his chest and lowered you back to the plush bedding in one fluid motion.

"Perhaps a few lashes from my belt are in order for the way you've acted out, my willful little girl," Gojo rumbled as he braced himself above you, gaze devouring the way your thighs reflexively parted for his settling weight. "And you will count each one aloud and thank me for it, won't you?"

Your lips parted in a soft gasp at the sheer filthiness of his implication. Your pulse thundered so loudly you were certain he could hear the erratic drumming. Yet, with a heady thrill of realization, you discovered that you didn't want to resist - didn't have the strength of will left to resist him in this.

Gojo's hand slipped beneath the sleek fall of your hair, fingers curling around the back of your neck in a deceptively light but immovable grasp. The gesture was an unspoken command, an assertion of control that demanded your total surrender.

"Say it, kitten." The words emerged with the softness of a blade honed razor-sharp. "Tell me how badly you need to be taught some much-needed obedience...or else we'll simply have to continue these exercises until the lesson sticks."

Your breath shuddered from your lungs, eyes fluttering closed as a delicious shudder rippled through your entire body. It took all your remaining shreds of willpower not to arch into the heated cradle of his hips already settling against the apex of your thighs.

"Please, Gojo-sensei," you finally managed, voice quavering with need. "Teach me a lesson. Punish me until I've learned my place..."

A soft exhalation escaped Gojo, half-swallowed by the faint rustle of the bedsheets. His grip on your nape tightened fractionally as his other hand slid down the slope of your ribcage and across the dip of your waist.

You were powerless to resist the slow roll of his hips - the delicious pressure grinding against your exposed core in a way that made your lashes flutter with dizzying pleasure.

"My good girl," Gojo praised with a wicked glint in his azure gaze. "Now let's see how long you can keep up the obedient act before you're begging me to stop, hmm?"

With a sly, predatory grin, Gojo rolled off of you to stand, leaving your body buzzing with anticipation and the phantom heat of his weight pinning you. You lay there, breathless and quivering, as his fingers flicked open the clasp of his belt with a metallic snap.

"You remember the rules, don't you, kitten?" Gojo rumbled, leisurely tugging the belt from its loops with a sinuous slide of leather and metal. "No counting or pleading until the very end, or else I'll start over."

He stepped towards the edge of the bed, looming over you in a manner both protective and menacing. Your pulse spiked into a rapid tattoo as the coiled length of leather whispered through his palm in an anticipatory slide.

"Spread your legs and arch that ass up for me like a good girl," he instructed. "You've earned a good punishment for nearly getting yourself killed, haven't you?"

The words sparked a jolt of hot shame deep within you, but that only fanned the flames of your desire. Your body reacted before you could think to deny his command, thighs parting and hips canting upward until the vulnerable curve of your rear was bared and presented to him.

"That's it, my perfect little toy," Gojo crooned, the soft sibilance of his words underscored by the telltale shift of leather and metal in his grip. "You've always been such a good listener, haven't you?"

A tremor rippled through your muscles, the instinctive flinch of anticipation, and a ragged whimper tore from your throat when the first blow landed with a deafening crack. You bit down on the knuckle of your thumb to silence the cry, a futile bid to restrain the sound.

"No no no, pretty girl," Gojo chided, his low baritone rife with dark amusement. "Those sounds belong to me. Let them out."

You shook your head, eyes squeezed shut in a futile attempt to deny him, even though you knew it was impossible. His free hand settled in a proprietary weight between your shoulder blades, pressing your upper torso flush against the mattress.

"Don't be stubborn now, kitten," Gojo chastised, voice a husky purr as the leather of his belt slid across the abused skin of your ass. "You know the rules...and I'm going to make you scream those numbers for me."

The leather snapped again, a blistering stripe of searing agony lancing across your exposed flesh. The cry ripped from your throat sounded foreign and primal, and you were suddenly grateful for the muffling effect of the thick bedding.

"Count." Gojo's tone brooked no argument.

"Two." You managed the word past gritted teeth, hands fisting the sheets with white-knuckled force.

"Good girl," Gojo purred, the sound rich and honeyed as the cool leather whispered over your abused skin. "Let's try for three, hmm?"

A third searing swat landed, and then a fourth. Each one wrung another pained cry from your lips and brought your hips straining against the restraining hold of his palm.

"Five," you gasped, barely registering the tear that slipped down your cheek. "Thank you, Gojo-sensei."

The next lash was gentler than the ones before it, but no less effective in eliciting a breathless gasp and a shudder of pure, unadulterated pleasure.

"S-six," you stammered, barely able to string the syllables together.

"You're doing so well, baby," Gojo murmured, his words a soothing rumble that belied the merciless sting of leather as he brought the belt down across your flesh once more.

You lost count of the swats, each one a searing brand and yet an exquisite pleasure in its own right. With every number that fell from your lips in a broken sob, your thighs slickened further with a shameful gush of wetness. You didn't even realize you were crying until you felt the press of his palm between your shoulder blades, grounding and comforting and unbearably hot.

"Shh, sweet girl, it's almost over," he murmured, his voice a velvet purr that seemed to seep beneath your skin and burrow into the core of you. "Just a few more. Can you do that for me?"

"Yes," you whimpered, tears slipping free despite your efforts to stop them. "I can do it, Gojo-sensei."

His chuckle was a dark rumble. "My good, obedient little girl. Always eager to please, aren't you?"

His hand moved from between your shoulder blades to stroke gently along your flank, fingers tracing idle patterns across the bruises marring your flesh. A sharp contrast to the stinging burn still radiating through your abused flesh.

"Are you ready for the last one?" He asked, the question almost playful.

"Yes." You breathed the word, the single syllable a soft exhale.

"That's my girl," Gojo murmured, his approval warming the pit of your stomach. "Let's see if we can make this one really count, shall we?"

The leather snapped against your ass in a devastating strike, eliciting a cry that was half pleasure, half pain. Your thighs trembled as your back arched, body instinctively seeking more contact with the unyielding surface of his palm.

"Seven." The word came out sounding more like a moan.

Gojo's hand smoothed over the abused flesh of your ass, his touch maddeningly gentle and yet still stoking the flames of desire within you. You couldn't stop the whimper that escaped your lips as his fingers teased the sensitive flesh of your inner thighs, the feather-light touch eliciting sparks of heat along your spine.

"There, there," he murmured, the words a dark rasp that sent shivers through you. "I think that's enough punishment for now, don't you agree?"

"Yes, Gojo-sensei," you breathed, your voice sounding foreign to your ears.

"Good girl." His fingers ghosted over your slickened folds, teasingly light and yet eliciting a gasp of pleasure.

"But if you want to earn the privilege of a reward, you're going to have to earn it first," he continued, his words a low growl that reverberated straight through you.

Your eyes fluttered shut as his thumb traced slow circles around your clit, the sensation sending tendrils of molten heat coiling through you. You couldn't help the whimper that escaped you, or the way your hips bucked against his touch, seeking more friction.

"I'm not hearing a yes, kitten," he chided, the words a dark purr.

"Yes, Gojo-sensei," you managed, the words coming out in a breathy whisper.

His fingers teased your entrance, dipping just barely into the slickness gathering there. A low groan escaped him, the sound reverberating through your body.

"Fuck, you're so wet for me, aren't you?" He growled, his voice a low rasp. "All spread out and aching for me to fill you up, aren't you, babygirl?"

"Yes, Gojo-sensei." You repeated the phrase like a mantra, unable to form any other coherent thoughts as his fingers curled inside you.

"Look at you, taking my fingers like such a good little slut," he murmured, the words punctuated by the wet sounds of him pumping his digits in and out of you.

You couldn't help the way your hips rocked against his touch, the sensation eliciting sparks of pleasure along your spine. Your back arched, thighs trembling as you sought more friction.

"That's it, take it all," he urged, his voice a low rumble. "Feel how tight you're gripping me, baby. So wet and desperate for me, aren't you?"

"Please," you whined, the word emerging as a broken plea. "I need more, Gojo-sensei. Please."

"Such a needy little slut," he chuckled, the sound sending shivers through you.

He removed his fingers, eliciting a whimper of protest from you, before his palm came down hard on the already abused flesh of your ass, the resounding slap echoing through the room.

"Up," he commanded, the word a rough bark.

You scrambled to obey, limbs shaky as you pushed yourself upright. Your thighs were slick with your own arousal, a sight that only intensified the burn of humiliation. You couldn't help the whimper that escaped your throat, a combination of humiliation and desire.

Gojo stood in front of you, his pants unbuttoned and his cock fully erect. The sight was enough to make your mouth water, but he seemed determined to draw this out, his expression an inscrutable mask as he appraised you.

"On your knees," he commanded, the words a low growl.

You sank to your knees before him, the movement sending a jolt of pain through your ass as it came into contact with the plush rug. His cock was mere inches from your face, the tip glistening with precum. Your breath caught in your throat, your mouth watering as you took in the sight.

"Suck it," he commanded, the words a low rumble.

Your hands trembled as you reached for him, fingers curling around the base of his cock. He let out a low groan as you stroked him, the sound sending shivers through you. He was rock hard, and you couldn't help the moan that escaped your lips as you felt the weight of him in your palm.

"Good girl," he murmured, the words a low rumble.

You opened your mouth, tongue darting out to lick the tip of his cock. He tasted musky and salty, and you couldn't help the way your body responded, a rush of heat pooling between your thighs. You took him into your mouth, swirling your tongue around the head of his cock. His hips bucked forward, and you nearly choked, but managed to steady yourself.

"Fuck," he groaned, his voice a low rasp. "That's it, baby. Just like that."

Your tongue traced the underside of his shaft, reveling in the feel of him filling your mouth. Your jaw ached, but you didn't care, lost in the sensation of him. His fingers tangled in your hair, gripping tightly as he fucked your mouth, his cock hitting the back of your throat with each thrust. You swallowed him down, moaning around his length.

"Shit," he cursed, his voice a guttural growl. "You're so fucking good at this, aren't you, slut?"

The words sent a thrill of pleasure through you, and you couldn't help but whimper in agreement. You wanted him to keep talking, wanted to hear him praise you, wanted to hear him degrade you. His cock pulsed in your mouth, and you knew he was close.

"Gonna come," he growled, the words a harsh rasp.

He pulled out, his cock springing free from your mouth with a wet pop. Your eyes widened as he pumped himself in his fist, the sight of his swollen, leaking cock almost enough to make you come undone.

"Beg for it," he commanded with a low snarl.

"Please," you pleaded, your voice a desperate whimper. "Please, Gojo-sensei. Please come on my face."

"Fuck," he swore, the word a guttural growl.

You closed your eyes as he came, warm spurts of cum landing on your cheeks and lips. You licked your lips, the taste of him bitter and salty. You couldn't help but whimper as his seed trickled down your face, his musky scent invading your nostrils.

"Clean it up," he ordered, the words a low growl.

You complied, using your fingers to scoop the mess from your cheeks and licking it from your fingertips. The action only seemed to arouse him further, and his cock twitched in response. You couldn't help the moan that escaped you, the sight of his renewed erection sending a rush of heat through you.

"On the bed," he commanded, his voice a rough rasp.

You scrambled to comply, the ache of your bruised and battered body momentarily forgotten in the anticipation of what was to come. Your legs trembled as you climbed onto the bed, spreading them wide for him. Your pussy throbbed, the feeling only intensifying as you watched him step out of his pants and stalk towards you with a predatory gleam in his eyes.

"So needy," he purred, the words a low rumble.

The mattress dipped beneath his weight as he knelt between your legs, his gaze raking over your exposed body. You felt like an offering, a sacrifice laid out for him to devour. His cock was hard and swollen, and you couldn't help but writhe beneath him, desperate for him to fill you.

"Patience, kitten," he murmured, the words a dark chuckle.

His hands gripped your hips, fingers digging into the tender flesh as he dragged you closer. Your skin tingled at the sensation, the anticipation nearly overwhelming. He lined his cock up with your entrance, the tip pressing against your slickened folds.

"Please," you begged, the word a breathless whisper.

He leaned over you, his lips a hairsbreadth from yours. You could feel his breath against your skin, the heat of him making your pulse race. You ached for him, the empty void within you seeming to expand until it threatened to swallow you whole.

"What do you want, kitten?" He murmured, his voice a low rumble.

"Fuck me, Gojo-sensei," you whimpered, the words emerging as a strangled moan.

He pushed into you, his cock filling you up in one swift thrust. You gasped, the sensation nearly enough to send you over the edge. His cock stretched you open, the fullness sending sparks of pleasure through you. You arched into him, your hips grinding against his as he began to move inside you.

"So fucking tight," he growled, the words a low rumble.

You writhed beneath him, lost in the feeling of his cock pounding into you. His hips rolled against yours, the friction sending bolts of electricity through you. He leaned down, capturing your lips in a searing kiss. You moaned against his mouth, his tongue exploring yours.

"Come for me," he commanded, the words a ragged order.

You cried out, the pleasure ripping through you as you came undone beneath him. Your pussy clenched around his cock, milking him for all he was worth. He groaned, his grip on your hips tightening as he slammed into you. The sound of skin against skin was a symphony, the feel of him moving within you almost too much to bear.

"Fuck, kitten," he growled, his voice a husky rasp.

His hips jerked as he spilled inside you, his release sending you spiraling into another wave of pleasure. You clung to him, the orgasm ripping through you with an intensity you'd never experienced before. Your entire body shuddered, your muscles clenching around his cock as you milked every last drop of his cum.

"Fuck," he groaned, his cock slipping out of you with a wet squelch.

You whimpered at the loss, the feeling of him leaving you making you want more. You could feel his seed leaking out of you, trickling down the insides of your thighs before you felt the telltale trickle of wetness. The realization that he'd made you squirt was nearly enough to send you spiraling into another orgasm.

"You're a mess, kitten," he purred, the words a dark chuckle.

His fingers traced the rivulets of wetness on the insides of your thighs, the sensation sending shivers through you. The bedsheets were soaked beneath you, your juices and his cum mingling in a puddle of filth. The sight only served to arouse him further, and his cock twitched, already half-hard again.

"So messy," he murmured, the words a husky rasp.

He reached up, tracing a finger through the mess of his cum and your juices on your cheeks. You whimpered as he brought the digit to your lips, the taste of him making you crave more. He pressed his thumb into your mouth, the weight of it a welcome sensation. You sucked on it, savoring the flavor of him.

"Fuck, that's hot," he growled, his cock already fully erect again. But he knew your body couldn't take it, not after everything he'd put you through.

He rolled off of you, and you immediately missed the heat of his weight on top of you. His arm wrapped around you, pulling you into his chest. You sighed, the feel of his skin against yours sending shivers through you. His cock pressed against your ass, and you couldn't help but grind back against him, eager for more.

"Greedy little slut," he murmured, the words a rough chuckle. "Stay still. I’m trying to take care of you."

He pulled the blankets over the two of you, cocooning you in the warmth of his body. Your muscles ached, and the bruises and welts on your skin throbbed, but you didn't care. The exhaustion and pain were a distant afterthought, overshadowed by the euphoric bliss that came from being sated by the man who had trained and taught and tormented you.

"You did so well, my sweet, filthy girl," he purred, the words a soft murmur against your hair. "So obedient, even when I had to punish you for nearly getting yourself killed."

Gojo cupped your face in his hands, eyes twinkling with both relief and mischief. "You really had me worried there, yknow," he chided gently.

Before you could respond, his lips were on yours, kissing you with a jovial intensity. His kisses trailed along your jaw, up to your ear where he murmured, "Don't think you can get away with stunts like that." His teeth grazed your earlobe playfully.

Laughing, you tried to squirm away, but he captured you in his arms. "No escaping your punishment," Gojo teased, raining kisses along your neck and collarbone. His fingers danced along your sides, finding all the spots that made you squirm with giggles.

Finally, he relented, pinning you beneath him with a roguish grin. "There, I'd say that covers it for scaring me half to death." His expression softened as he brushed a few stray hairs from your flushed face. "Just don't go risking that beautiful smile again, okay?"

#jjk smut #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader smut #jjk x reader smut #jujutsu kaisen smut #gojo satoru x reader smut #gojo x reader smut #gojo satoru smut #gojo satoru x reader #gojo smut #gojo x reader #gojou satoru x reader #gojo satoru

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justanotherhh · 2 months

Text

THE STRIKER AND ALASTOR ASPEC4ASPEC RELATIONSHIP SAGA

off the back of this post

@justletmeon12 this ought to exist outside of notes honestly:

justletmeon12 said: Now I suddenly want them to meet in S2. They hate each other because everyone in Hell hates everyone else when they meet, and whatever convoluted plot has caused the crossover has them briefly on the same side. Striker starts griping about everyone making it seem like a sex thing, because most of life ISN’T SEX, and Alastor looks at him like he’s the only rational person in Hell and offers to buy him a drink later. justanotherhh said: @justletmeon12 striker and alastor go out for drinks and it’s absolutely chill and there’s no tension whatsoever and they both sigh in relief (and then they go on their villainous ways, content that they can try to kill each other next time without anyone making it weird!) justletmeon12 said: @justanotherhh The next time someone (definitely not Vox, no sirree) wants to put a hit out on the Radio Demon, Striker volunteers to do it cheap, because succeed or fail, at least it won’t be awkward. justanotherhh said: @justletmeon12 sdfghjgfdsdfhj alastor and striker having a sort of chill “we can be enemies who try to kill each other” situation that makes everyone around them ??????????? because their framing for relationships is so alloromantic and they don’t understand this 5d galaxy brained dynamic at all justletmeon12 said: @justanotherhh “Sooo, are you two…” [awkward, vaguely obscene gesture] “Et tu, Angel Dust?” “That tears it. Free booze isn’t worth it. Next time, we’re getting drinks somewhere nobody knows either of us.” “Ha! Good luck with that, Strikering. There isn’t a bar in the city where I’m not a regular or banned!” justanotherhh said: @justletmeon12 ET TU ANGEL DUST!!!!!!!!!! cannot tell if it’s harder being aspec irl or in hell 😂😂😭😭 justletmeon12 said: @justanotherhh Well, murder isn’t an option in real life… justanotherhh said: @justletmeon12 *alastor grinning shiftily* … noooo…. sure…. isn’t……………. justletmeon12 said: @justanotherhh (I was hoping you’d do that)

@creepysora and I were also talking about how in all likelihood Striker wouldn't really be able to kill Alastor, because of the sheer power-difference (but, you never know... Niffty killed Adam after all), but it just becomes their way of hanging out. "FINALLY violence that's understood on both parties sides to be completely un-erotic and non-romantic!"

creepysora: I keep thinking that veeeeery slowly, Striker taking jobs to "assassinate" (unsuccessfully) the Radio Demon just start to morph into excuses to hang out with someone who Gets It. Neither knows how this happened. They start getting breakfast before trying to kill each other. Maybe this overlord can survive the class war actually. Mutually "hes useful so I cant kill him yet" delusion. Do they become better people through this? No. They encourage each other to kill people hitting on them. But everyone else surely is unhappy about this weird and unexpected development. not friends not enemies not lovers not rivals not a qpr but a secret fifth thing (aspecs desperate to connect with someone like them)

it's a good thing they both enjoy murder and violence so much, really gives them something to talk about

#hazbin hotel #helluva boss #alastor #aroace alastor #helluva striker #ace striker #last point too reaaal #also thinking about alastor as not-so-well-off mixed race kid in the early 1900s #and striker being potentially half one kind of demon/half another #and what that does to ideas of status #alastor may be an overlord but he's NOT a blue blood #my meta

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crysdrawsthings · 2 years

Note

OK, im tottally curious about Measse. Tell you tell me more about her????

(´･ω･`)?

With great pleasure! So, I am not sure how exactly much you know about Silmarillion and related stuff, so i will try to be non-specific in this post and then expand on exact things later, if you would like it!

In any case, be welcome under the cut for more deets and a short bio! Short disclaimer, is that it is a very heavily AU outlook on Middle-Earth that is set in the Crys Semi-Original Daydreaming Universe.

Also a tag for @lukans to learn about my first Cringe Child.

So, Measse... Is not a Tolkien character of the same name, to clear up this possible confusion, but she does adopts to fill in for this lady, kind of and takes up the name as a sort of job designation. And because every second person was mixing up her actual human name.

Art is an oldie, but a goodie.

So, in the simplest and shortest possible way Measse is a questionably lucky human, who, by jumping through a series of hoops ascends to be a quasi-deity in an attempt to save her family from an upcoming catastrophe. Also hoops were on fire.

Going into more details: not-yet-Measse was having a very normal day with her friends on a roughly modern Earth.

Following a series of odd accidents they find themselves in a different slice of reality, specifically on the shore of Aman, land of gods (well, not really gods, but like, close enough) in Middle-Earth.

Whoops.

This obviously causes a fair share of confusion from all parties involved. But in the end they are offered lodging and wait for a good moment for locals to yeet them back where they came.

Because locals have the literal End Days to be dealing with, which is not something that happens every other Thursday.

In the end, she is a given an offer. That, as mentioned, involved jumping through far more hoops that anyone would deem reasonable, but not-yet-Measse was a woman of focus, commitment and sheer fucking will (c). She shrugged and accepted to do or die trying.

During their stay in Aman not-yet-Measse and her friends find out that there is a catastrophe that would happen in their world, on Earth and have different reactions to it.

Not-yet-Measse decided to go to the local gods, Valar, and see what it would take for them to take her family to Aman to be forever immortal and happy.

This is objectively such a wild request from a person who ended up in your backyard after accidentally sneaking in after one of your colleagues went to grab a beer, yes.

The gist of an offer was to, pretty much, make it her permanent job to help fix all the stuff that got wrong with Middle-Earth because OG Dark Lord - Melkor (he is also the guy who went to grab the beer from a few paragraphs above) had a temper tantrum and decided to be evil.

Basically, Middle-Earth is going to be reborn alongside the End Days, but someone still needs to clean the stuff up and Valar could have used a hand with both this and keeping Melkor in check.

You may be wondering, how it would be expected from a human whose only distinctive features are having the resting bitch face of the century and loving her family very much.

Well, of course by getting essentially cursed, but as a sole positive thing about it being able to (maybe) utilize a fraction of the power Melkor got in the divine lottery.

List of possible and expected side-effects? Enormous. Includes transforming into eldritch horrors, losing yourself and becoming a mindless puppet, delusions, etc.

And so while her friends were having a relaxing beach filler arc, more or less, not-yet-Measse was trying to discreetly from them figure out how this whole thing works and having her "objective: survive" filler arc, because Melkor was very genuinely trying to off her.

Why would he need a leech sapping on his power AND being there to kick his butt later, after all?

Her main hobby, outside of her "job" is to take care of dragons, obviously. Who doesn't like dragons, after all. Also being a doting older sister for Lily, a second child in the family.

The end result is that not-yet-Measse survives for long enough to get comfortable in utilizing these loaned powers and is reborn into a quasi-deity in a bath of very actual fire.

She takes the name Measse as the world falls apart in the End Days and following it's rebirth is reunited with her family and goes on to have her new life.

#silmarillion #tolkien #tolkien oc #book of lost tales #middle earth #lily and friends #the whole story is definitely more complicated that this #but it is a good starting point #I hope?#crysandthings

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animanightmate · 3 years

Text

I wrote an essay about the importance of rage, kindess (as opposed to niceness), and justice as highlighted in Pratchett's work, and posted it in a group of Pratchett fans on Facebook. It went like this:

This one [is directly relevant to Pratchett and his work] and covers: Anger and Kindness, among other things.

It's taken me a while to work it out, but one of the reasons why I still engage so strongly with Pratchett's work is because of these two themes running through the thoughts and actions of pretty much every main character to whose point of view we get to bear direct witness. That, and the notion of Justice as opposed to Mercy.

Pratchett's main characters are almost all angry, often as a ground state of being - Granny Weatherwax and Commander Vimes springing immediately to mind. Polly Perks (and, to be fair, pretty much everyone except perhaps Lieutenant Blouse in Monstrous Regiment), Archchancellor Ridcully, The Patrician, Susan Sto Helit, Esk, Glenda Sugarbean, Agnes/ Perdita Nitt, Angua von Uberwald, and Tiffany Aching, to name a few more, are people to whom rage comes easily, and is a motivating force. Even those who are seen as generally more easygoing or placid of temperament have illuminating moments of anger which tip them over the edge to somewhere inspired, and that click of fully engaged rage is often a pivotal moment (for a near perfect example: Magrat's core is revealed to be sheer, molten ire when her personality is ablated by the Faerie Queen).

That's not to say that inchoate choler is venerated - the malicious, bubbling spite of Corporal Strappi is vilified as destructive, and the ever-seething, undirected bile of Mister Tulip is likewise outlined as useless because he is unable to focus it himself (hence depending on Mr. Pin's guidance).

Which brings us to kindness. Pratchett's heroes have all realised, at some level or other, that anger is a force that can - and should - be used for good. Weatherwax and Vimes, in particular, are constantly vigilant against the darkness inherent inside themselves which could snap at any moment under the weight of a wicked world and set it alight for a better one to be rebuilt from the ashes. They know that they shouldn't (it's pretty much treating people as things, after all), but that's ever constant. That's not to say, however, that the anger is never shown, utilised openly, or acknowledged by those around them. Vimes and Granny have both owed their survival against powerful, wicked creatures to rage's primal surge, but also to the enormous, almost terrifying love they bear the world.

Granny tells us that kind is not the same as nice. Nice is pretty, petty, and a lie. Nice is slapping an attractive plaster over a wound without cleaning it properly first, or dealing with the thing that caused the injury in the first place. Nice paints a gloss over injustice and asks us all to be quiet for the sake of those for whom the world works just as it should. Nice is self-delusion, and a wilful one at that. Which isn't to say that we should never indulge in a little of that - peel every cover off the world and it's too much, too raw, all at once, and we all need our masks in this world of fake it til you make it - but the Turtle cannot move if it never acknowledges the epic tides against which it must strive, and the Turtle Moves. It must.

Because justice moved Pratchett and, through him, all his finest creations. His villains were remarkable for their ability to subvert justice, to delude - themselves and/ or others - and to take and take for the sake of sometimes strange, but, all too often, all-too relatable motives. Money, power, comfort and, above all: control. And his heroes were glorious for their ability to see past the smoke and mirrors, the age-old inequities held up as a normalcy that must be protected at all costs, and tear through unjust conventions to make the necessary changes for everyone to step that bit closer to being truly free, with all its inherent terrors and responsibilities.

Pratchett wasn't nice, or whimsical - he was angry and (increasingly explicitly) vocal about justice in his works. And none of his heroes - our heroes - are either. They are kind, they serve justice, and they kick arse on behalf of those with less power, but they are neither nice, nor insipid, nor silent. And neither should we be.

Change is uncomfortable. Change feels like a death, which is why, no matter how positive the shift, we all move through the grief cycle of denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and finally acceptance and exploration. True bravery is being afraid of the pain of righteous change, of letting go of who we were, of bidding farewell… and doing it anyway.

Be brave, [Pratchett Fans]. Be bold and angry and loud about justice, and strive for true equity.

The Turtle Moves. And so should you.

#terry pratchett #discworld #Anger #Justice #mercy #Kindness #granny weatherwax #sam vimes #Essay #Social inequity #Pratchett quotes #Anima rages #The Turtle Moves #oc #essau

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maddiewritesstucky · 3 years

Text

Snare Me His Shadow

Pairing: Steve/Bucky

Rating: Explicit 18+

Words: 4.5k

Tags: Primal Play, Prey/Predator Kink, Fighting As Foreplay, Rough Sex, Biting, Choking, Dom/Sub Undertones, Come Swapping, Anal Sex, Overstimulation, Fucking Outdoors, Storm Sex, Poetry As An Aphrodisiac, R18 Hide And Seek

So a million years ago, @howdoyousleep3 passed on an ask from her inbox that read:

[I dont know if you’re familiar with primal play, but it’s so fucking hot. Yeah, I know, Steve is all muscle and ability, he’s strong he’s fast, he’s smart, he is not prey. Usually. But Bucky - the winter soldier - is a hunter. The best, in fact. He loves a good hunt]

...This one possessed me. Please heed the tags, this is an entirely consensual and agreed-upon game between Steve and Bucky, but it is very much a hunter/prey type situation 😈

It’s electric, like this.

Barefoot on the damp earth, navigating by muscle memory more than sight, because darkness settles that much denser beneath the tree canopy.

Steve could move faster, could take this barely-worn path through the woods behind the compound at a sprint. But fast is loud.

Fast is leaves cracking and branches splintering, and the muted thud of footfalls on the forest floor. It’s eyes fixed only ahead so you don’t stumble, and nothing but the sound of your own exhales in your ears.

‘Fast’ gets you caught.

The in-rolling storm crackles humid in the air, sparking against Steve’s skin as he weaves through the underbrush. He throws his every sense outwards, searching and sifting through those faint currents of movement around him, those quiet signs of life. But it’s all life out here; birds and insects and creatures who can’t bear the light, all just playing the same game he is, and every last one of them pricks at his awareness.

Every last one of them kicks at his pulse and drip-feeds new adrenaline into his bloodstream, because experience echoes a warning way down in his cells - the apex predator comes silent as a spider.

There’s so many eyes on him, the weight of being watched pressing down on him from all sides. He digs the heel of his hand into his arousal and pulls in a lungful of air on the cusp of rain; feels himself splintering between his warring desires to put up a worthy chase, and to drop down belly-up in the dirt.

It’s a choice that will be made for him, eventually.

He might be strength, and speed, and strategy. But out here, he is prey.

Out here, in these weeping woods that stretch endless into the night, Steve is achingly, exquisitely outmatched by the hunter who lies in wait; biding his time, unseen, and slipping ever closer.

Dressed in black from head to toe, or skin bared to the shivering pulses of the forest; empty handed, or palms laden with the urge to grab and pin and possess…

The Winter Soldier is out there, and Steve’s blood runs so much hotter for the knowledge that he won’t see or hear or feel him coming until it’s too late.

He winds his way amongst the weathered trunks, hugging the shadows and pawing at the lines of his own body; stroking his thighs and pulling at his nipples, raking fingernails over the bare skin of his stomach. It’s rough and absent and frantic all at once, a weak precursor to what he’s evading.

The dissonance of it is dizzying, hiding from the thing he wants most. He wants to cry out, to make for the clearing in the middle of the woods and sprawl shameless in the open until he’s found, but he knows the rules - run, hide, don’t make it easy.

Pursuit is the purpose, and capture is a pleasure that must be earned, no matter how raw his skin is screaming for touch. And it is screaming - he’s a copper wire stripped bare, and he shivers for every stinging snap of branch and damp drag of leaf against his body as he picks his way through the darkness.

Hard limits apply, he’d told Bucky, the rest is up to you.

He shudders for it now, those words and the way Bucky’s eyes had darkened for them; the way he’d leaned in to kiss his sugar-laced threat right onto Steve’s waiting lips - I will find you.

It’s only a matter of time. The forest is vast, and countless months have passed since they last played this game, but Bucky is a blade that never dulls.

Bucky is razor-sharp, in wit, beauty, and battle; made up of midnight and silent strides when he so chooses, and he will find Steve.

He might have had eyes on Steve this entire time; ten soundless steps behind, watching Steve’s slow descent into desperation with a smile on his face, and the mere possibility has Steve’s cock weeping through the thin fabric of his shorts.

His fingertips dip beneath his waistband and sweep through the wetness beading at his tip; stroke that sensitive spot just beneath the head. His palm slips to press at the heavy throb in his balls and it makes his breath catch too loud in the confines of his chest, has a moan slipping out past his gritted teeth.

He knows it’s foolish, knows he’s only making himself easier to track. But every step he takes is winding the hunt toward its inevitable climax, and intellect is giving way to instinct.

His consciousness is beginning that steady downward drip, sinking from logic and reason to settle and swim with the dense heat pooling at the base of his spine. Soon, he’ll be nothing more than the urge rippling under his skin, the tight-squeezed air in his lungs and the thrum of blood between his thighs, and every brush of his own hands is permission to slip a little further to it.

So he doesn’t stop.

His feet and his fingers keep moving; his body acting now on his mind’s behalf to draw towards the river's edge, where his desperate sounds will be swept away by the unending rush of water over rock, because this is about preservation now.

It’s about surviving the voracity of his own need until he is found, until Bucky catches him, and then…god, then...

The rest is up to you.

The beginning of rainfall winds its way down through the tree canopy, and it does nothing to quell the heat radiating off Steve. He’s burning so hot for this, so hungry for it; his need only growing sharper as the atmosphere curls in thick and charged with the promise of thunder.

It’s rumbling in the distance already, too faint for non-enhanced ears but creeping closer; a rolling bass beneath the surge of the fast flowing river up ahead. He can see the diluted black of open space through the trees now, can hear the clack of wet-tumbling stones, and it’s nothing short of delusion, the way it feels like he’s headed for sanctuary.

Logic knows it’s a weak veil of auditory cover at best, and an outright plea for ambush at worst.

Steve knows, down in his gut, exactly which one he’s hoping for, and he sprints for it with the last of his tactical thought seeping out through the soles of his feet.

He breaks through the tree line, hitching a gasp as he stumbles out into the full force of the downpour. It’s coming down heavy, sluicing at the fever-sweat clinging to his skin, and he tilts his face up towards it; lets his eyes drift shut and his shoulders drop as he bares his throat to the purple-black sky.

His pulse riots for the sheer abandon of the gesture, of shifting his posture to one of invitation in the midst of evasion. It only spurs him on, makes him want to find out just how shrill that siren in his cells will wail when he refuses to curl in on himself.

He forces his hands open at his sides, turns his palms outwards and walks further out onto the exposed riverbank. He stands ankle deep in the river with his heart in his throat, soaked to the bone and all but shaking with the desire to drop to his knees in submission.

And that’s when he hears it.

The slow-whistled high note, followed by a low; the signal that shivers from the top of Steve’s spine to the cradle of his hips.

Found you.

It’s a question as much as a warning, that signal; a chance for Steve to respond in their shared language of gesture whether he wants the chase, or the fight.

As if he hadn’t made up his mind the moment they agreed to play tonight.

As if he’s not done for either way.

He pulls in a shuddering breath, his skin prickling with the presence he can sense now off to his left. Survival instinct begs him to open his eyes, to scour his surroundings and prepare for what’s coming, but he only shuts them tighter.

He grins up at the pelting rain, curls his quivering right hand into a fist, and beats it against his drenched, heaving chest.

Take me down where I stand.

Thunder rumbles overhead and shakes the stones underfoot. Steve’s blood beats frantic in his ears, one heartbeat stumbling over the next, and he waits, waits for the blow he doesn’t want to see coming.

A foot to the back of his knees, an arm wrapped around his throat, a strike of unyielding metal between his shoulder blades...it’s never the same twice, and it’s always better than the time before, and he can’t stop the desperate whimper that falls from his parted, rain-slick lips.

“Bucky!” he pleads, hurling it into the current of the storm raging around him.

“Steve,” comes the answer from directly behind him; the word falling across his skin in the split second before teeth sink deep into the meat of his shoulder.

It’s nothing short of wanton, the way Steve cries out with it.

Five fingers curl a punishing grip around the column of his throat and a soaking wet body plasters against his back, and Steve doesn’t even try to hold his centre of gravity as he’s wrestled down to the riverbank.

It’s a messy takedown, raw force over skill; dripping all the same desperation that’s been twisting hot in Steve’s gut all night. Bucky pins him belly-down against the stones at the river’s edge, the full weight of his body draped over him, and Steve knows the tremor he can feel humming through Bucky’s muscles has nothing to do with the cold.

“The river,” Bucky growls; metal forearm jammed against the back of Steve's neck, “of course you came to the river.”

Steve squirms giddy beneath Bucky’s mass, beneath that deep-thrumming power crushing down on him.

The storm-swollen current reaches up the bank to wash shallow and frigid beneath Steve’s cheek, his chest; against his nipples and his thighs and his cock inside his drenched shorts. It’s cold enough to draw gooseflesh across the bared expanse of his skin, but fuck if that persistent rush doesn’t feel like getting tongued; like every single time Bucky’s ever slipped an ice cube in his mouth and sucked him off just to see him hit the ceiling.

“Buck...”

It’s the only word that makes sense anymore. Steve gets his elbows under himself and pushes his body up, but only so much as to feel the stifling weight of Bucky on top of him.

Bucky’s hand slips to the front of his throat and grips him tight up under the line of his jaw; tips his head back to get his lips and teeth pressed hard against Steve’s ear.

“Steven...did you even try?”

The rain and the river aren’t enough to sweep away the mockery in his tone. He’s shifting himself on top of Steve, putting scant inches of space between their bodies, and Steve knows this cue; grins bright and breathless for it.

He digs his hands in against the riverbed, plants his knees and shoves upwards. He heaves his weight forward and Bucky’s grip loosens just enough to let it happen, to let Steve crawl and clamber a few meager feet forwards.

Steve knows it’s a false freedom but he laughs half-hysterical for it anyway, and even more so when Bucky’s hands are catching him again, clamping bruising tight at his hips and grappling him onto the flat of his back.

He winces at the battering strike of rain against his face, but it’s just as soon blocked by the cover of Bucky caging him in; replaced by the tepid drips rolling off Bucky’s perpetually warm skin.

Steve’s body reacts the way it thinks it’s supposed to, going through the motions of trying to throw Bucky off - strength funneled into a forearm arm pressing here, a knee striking there. But it’s pointless; sabotaged by the underlying truth that the only place Steve really wants to be is stuck exactly where he finds himself - pinned pliant beneath his predator.

He lets himself look, then; lets his gaze slip down between them to drag over the length of Bucky’s body. He’s bared to the elements just the same as Steve - not a stitch on him save for running shorts that barely hit at mid-thigh. His hair is pulled back, and he’s soaked to the bone, and when lightning splits the darkness in two and catches on the angles of his face, that raw perilous beauty strikes a blow all of its own to the center of Steve’s chest.

“You win,” Steve rasps, dragging his voice up from the pit of his billowing lungs.

Bucky’s answering laugh is darker than the wet-ink midnight pressing in on them, and it shudders all the way to Steve’s bones when Bucky sinks down to purr ominous against the vulnerable stretch of his neck.

“Not yet, I haven’t.”

The ravenous clamp of teeth on his throat sends Steve’s body bowing, writhing for that merciless bite that doesn’t break the skin, but makes purpled ruin of what lies beneath. Fascia and blood vessels and Steve’s sanity, all broken down in the transcendent grind of Bucky’s jaw, the heat of his mouth; all over Steve’s neck and his chest and his belly, and it’s so feral, the way Steve wants it.

He wants the shred of busted stitching and the shock of rain against newly bared skin as his shorts are torn from his body.

He wants the red welts raked down his rib cage, the kiss-split lip and the deep set imprints of Bucky’s teeth all up the insides of his thighs.

Bucky’s touch is heavy and he means it to be; his shifting, squeezing grip claiming handfuls of Steve’s willing flesh wherever he can get it. And he can get it everywhere - every last inch of Steve’s body splayed out for him in tribute to his prowess, and Steve wants him to take it.

He wants Bucky to make sacrilege of it out here under the split-open skies, until it feels like heaven itself is sobbing for it.

“Fuck me,” ruin me, desecrate me, arch-backed and bleeding-lipped in the dirt, “Bucky, fuck me…”

Steve begs with all of himself, legs split and arms thrown above his head; dripping sweat and storm and half-crazed surrender. Like he actually has to plead for this, like Bucky’s not already stuffing searching fingers up between his cheeks to grope for the base-end of silicone that says Steve’s body is primed for the taking.

Bucky bites taunting denial into his skin, over and over. ‘No,’ even as he pulls the plug from Steve’s body and replaces it with his fingers. ‘No’ growled against Steve’s body every time he begs now, and please, and I’m ready, just to fray that tenuous thread of Steve’s resolve.

Steve’s delirious with it, crying out high and sharp for the stretch of cold metal inside him and the drip of remnant lube. He chants Bucky’s name and reaches out with clinging, clawing hands that only get batted away; that get caught at the wrists and pinned down, and Bucky’s laughing at him.

Bucky is toying with him, leaving him empty and climbing back up over his body to graze teeth over Steve’s cheekbones, to whisper sweet mockery against Steve’s lips before he kisses them bruising-hard.

“Tell me you want it,” Bucky coos, clamping his hand over Steve’s mouth and pushing the clothed head of his cock up against Steve’s hole.

Steve sobs against his palm. He forces the words out wet and incomprehensible onto Bucky’s skin; again and again as Bucky tuts and tells him to speak the fuck up.

Tears are streaming free from the corners of his eyes and his legs are hooking desperately around Bucky’s waist, and he knows that Bucky wants this just as bad. He can feel Bucky shaking and shuddering under the strain of holding back and holding out, trying to push Steve closer to his breaking point just because that’s what Steve wants; devotion at its most deranged.

“Don’t cry, baby,” Bucky laps at the tears tracking down Steve’s face, letting up his hand from Steve’s mouth only to settle it heavy on his throat.

He slips his other hand down between them to shove at his shorts, fighting the clinging fabric down far enough to get his cock free, and then they’re both groaning for the rub of naked skin on skin.

“Buck,” Steve chokes out a half-strangled cry as Bucky sinks his whole weight onto him, dragging his stomach over Steve’s weeping cock and rocking his own into the crease of Steve’s hip.

“Tell me you want it?” Bucky says again, a question this time instead of a taunt.

Steve’s rasp of yes, fuck, do it barely makes it past his lips before Bucky’s cock is pushing into him.

There’s no hesitance, no pretense of patience to it. Bucky doesn’t finesse it and Steve doesn’t want him to - he didn’t spend half the night skulking through the woods in the middle of a fucking thunderstorm just to get taken the way he would be in the sanctity of their bed.

Steve came out here to get fucked vicious, and Bucky knows better than to pull his punches.

He shoves brutal and punishing into the tight heat of Steve’s body, knocking the air from Steve’s lungs and the sense from his psyche.

He’s tucking words up against Steve’s ear, something lilting and familiar, and the roar of Steve’s own blood and the groaning sky above don’t drown out Bucky’s voice so much as darken it’s edges; slip a rumbling bass beneath it’s baritone. Steve loses himself in the well-worn rhythm long before the words catch up to sink hooks into his ribcage.

“O Hunter, snare me his shadow,” Bucky hums, “O Nightingale, catch me his strain…else moonstruck with music and madness...I track him in vain.”

Steve would weep, if he had it in him to do anything other than lay there flat on his back and take it.

Bucky grinds in blinding-deep and stays there, rocks there; drips poetry all over the side of Steve’s neck like he’s not fucking him fit to kill.

He squeezes Steve’s throat until his eyes roll back, swats at Steve’s cheek and pulls merciless on his hair. He stuffs fingers into Steve’s gaping mouth deep enough to gag on, and hinges Steve’s jaw open so he has no choice but to set loose every raw, wrecked sound Bucky knocks out of him.

It’s fucking flawless.

“Give me one,” Bucky growls.

Steve needs no clarification beyond the spearing of Bucky’s cock into his prostate, and he reaches down between their bodies to jerk himself frantic and heavy-handed.

It should be pitiful, how little it takes. But it’s been mounting for what feels like hours, and when Bucky wrenches himself abruptly from Steve’s body to slap a hand down square over Steve’s balls and his slick, aching asshole, that orgasm crests with near-painful force.

“Fuck!” Steve’s wracked with it, shuddering and flinching from it like it’s not the makings of his very own flesh and blood.

Bucky doesn’t even wait for it to be over before he’s dipping down to lap at it; rubbing his cheek and his chest and his belly through Steve’s release on his slow crawl back up to spit it into Steve’s mouth.

“Don’t you fuckin’ swallow it,” he warns, pressing his thumb to the seam of Steve’s lips, “I want it back.”

Steve’s body is sparking chaotic, crying too soon and too much just as loud as it’s screaming too good as Bucky grips him by his sodden hair and buries his cock back inside him; falling into rhythm like he never stopped thrusting in the first place.

He wants to moan, wants to cry out for that welcome knifepoint of forced pleasure building within him, but the desperate sounds creeping onto his tongue are every bit as caged as the come he can’t swallow.

Which is the whole point, Steve flushes submissive to realize - Bucky’s got him gagged without even touching him.

He twines his limbs up around Bucky’s body, groping and pulling at him like there’s still an insufferable distance left to close. The guttural moans Bucky’s spilling into the crook of his neck only render Steve’s own noises even more pathetic; huffing high and reedy the longer they remain trapped in his throat.

“Christ, listen to you...”

Bucky pushes up onto his elbows to stare down at Steve, to watch the play of desperation on his face.

He’s no less transparent himself in how affected he is, a lifetime of ceaseless want spelled out in his gaze; hunger and rapture and the kind of adoration Steve doesn’t think he’ll ever fully earn, not really.

But it’s all right there, in the way Bucky’s looking at him; the way he’s bearing the howling force of the storm against his back just to give Steve this, and Steve is sunk.

Steve is nothing more than the sweet ruin of his body and the near painful swell of his heart for the multitudes that Bucky contains. A death sentence if you ask the history books and still the better half of Steve’s soul, Bucky is the boundless shadow and blinding light of Steve’s entire existence; his every reason for being and doing and fucking trying, after all these years.

It would be terrifying, if Steve weren’t bone-deep certain that he’s the axis Bucky’s world spins on, too.

“You found me...”

The words are almost a sob hitching off Steve’s tongue, pitched fuck-drunk and slurred around his mouthful of himself.

He’s breaking the rules and he knows it; half hopes for the crack of an open palm against his cheek for it. But the look Bucky hits him with lands harder than any physical strike could hope to; taking Steve’s face firm between his hands and staring down at him like there’s never been a truth so vital, so dire.

“I will always find you, Steve.”

And that’s just it, isn’t it? The one thing their shared existence will always narrow down to. There’s nowhere either of them could go that the other wouldn’t tear the world apart to get to, and the scant inches of distance between them right now might as well be oceans for all Steve’s burning inside to cross them.

He cups his hands around Bucky’s neck and arches up, pulls him down; pleading with everything but words for Bucky’s mouth on his, and Bucky doesn’t make him wait. He meets Steve right there in the delirium with lips and tongue and moans that rival the swelling thunder; sucking the taste of Steve off his tongue and dripping a starved groan into his mouth in its place.

“I wanna make you come,” he says, like he hasn’t already dragged one out of him, “tell me you’re gonna come.”

“Fuck, I am, I’m gonna come...”

“Say it’s for me, Steve, tell me it’s mine.”

Steve nods so hard, he can feel a bruise bloom at the base of his skull where it grates against the riverstone. Of course it’s for Bucky, everything’s for Bucky; every breath in his lungs and every beat of his stricken, obsessed heart. The sensations within him are mounting too immense, too desperate to be named pleasure, but they’re careening all the same towards the one thing Bucky wants from him, and it will only ever be Bucky’s, this perfect agony of coming undone.

“It’s yours,” he sobs, voice weak and body shaking. "Just—fuckin’ take it from me, Buck.”

He gives up all conscious hold on himself; submits entirely to the relentless drag of Bucky’s dick against his insides and the wet rasp of rock against his back as Bucky drives deep into his surrendered body, chasing that climax for the both of them.

It burns so bright, when it hits Steve; wrenched from his core and rolling sharp through the splay of his trembling frame. He cries out with it, but the storm cries louder, Bucky cries louder; moving ceaselessly through the spasms of Steve’s orgasm and drowning in the give of Steve’s body beneath him.

“Fuck, Steve, I—”

“Do it,” Steve slurs, needing nothing more than the tell-tale shudder of Bucky’s body and the way he gasps Steve’s name like a warning. “In me, Buck. Do it.”

Bucky cusses sharp, pulsing his hips as he lets go inside Steve like he can bury that seed deep enough to stick. And fuck, Steve wants it to. It’s all raw nerve on the inside but Steve never wants this to end; possessed by the slick grind of Bucky’s twitching cock and the heaving half-moans of Bucky’s breath.

“Don’t stop,” he pleads, reaching fingertips down to where their bodies are joined, where Bucky’s stuffed into him and leaking out of him. “Keep fucking me, just—just keep—”

Keep coming.

Be that monstrous entity in the woods who fucks me like it’s a haunting, ’til not even an exorcism would rid me of you.

He prods at the stretch of his swollen rim, drags his fingers through the warmth seeping out around Bucky’s cock. He wants it everywhere; brings those slick fingers up to smear over the pulse point on his neck, down the line of his throat, and Bucky heaves a moan dragged right from the marrow of his bones.

“I won’t stop,” he grits out through clattering teeth, rocking into Steve graceless and starving. “Not gonna stop, Steve.”

It sounds as much like threat as it does promise.

They’re both quaking with it, overstimulated and frigid cold and too achingly, crushingly lost in each other. For all the serum may have made them both to defy science and probability, to withstand war and stall the ravages of aging, it still couldn’t create a vessel vast enough to contain this - this raw, insatiable need for one another.

“Bucky…”

Steve looks up from the flat of his back; tips his head to offer up the stretch of his throat as he offers up a tremulous verse — a challenge — into the space between them.

“The woods are lovely, dark and deep...”

Recognition sparks dark and joyous in Bucky’s gaze. He catches Steve’s hands in his and threads their fingers together, palm against palm in a too-tight grip.

“But I have promises to keep,” he grins, “and miles to go before I sleep…”

His lips are turning up wolfish; the roll of his hips turning to something liquid and long-haul, and the rain beats down just as violent as it ever did.

Steve lets his eyes slip closed, lets the final refrain slip from his tongue before he surrenders, smiling, to the slow closing of Bucky’s teeth around his windpipe.

“...And miles to go before I sleep.”

If you’re at all curious, the poems they quote are ‘In The Forest’ by Oscar Wilde, and ‘Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening’ by Robert Frost 😘

#steve/bucky #stucky #stucky fanfic #Steve Rogers #Bucky Barnes

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noctis-noctua · 3 years

Text

His Aching Heart

Relationship: Diluc/Reader

Genre: Angst

Warnings/Tags: Mild gore, spoilers for Diluc’s backstory, character death, bad writing T-T.

761 words.

𝕳𝖊𝖑𝖑𝖊𝖇𝖔𝖗𝖊

𝕮𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖗𝖎𝖝

𝔗𝔥𝔢 𝔑𝔦𝔫𝔱𝔥 𝔬𝔣 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔈𝔩𝔢𝔳𝔢𝔫 𝔉𝔞𝔱𝔲𝔦 ℌ𝔞𝔯𝔟𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔢𝔯𝔰

He doesn’t know how to feel. Is he truly so blind as to court and accompany a Fatui Harbinger with not an ounce of suspicion? The answer is so obviously yes, as you stand in front of him bearing a malicious grin and an impressive polearm. Part of him is amazed at the sheer power you emanate, at how you managed to appear so fragile in his arms days earlier. The figure in front of him takes all of his previous ideas of you and crushes them to the soaked ground. Dust speckles into his crimson irises as the butt of your spear slams into the ground, eroding it and sending rocks flying. Titanium horns sprout from the top of the Fatui mask, a simple accessory compared to the tendrils of ink hardening across your entire bodice. The cryo vision Diluc deemed to be untrained and near useless now beams in the center of your chest as a sign of pride. For a brief moment, a thought enters Diluc’s mind: yet another cryo’s frost betrays me. He erases the thought because he knows that Kaeya is a manipulative bastard, a scoundrel that drew him in, but he doesn’t deserve to be compared to this.

“Do you know why they call me the Caprix, Diluc? It’s because I can catch anyone I want, be it a prideful archon, an angry tyrant… or a prudent, uncrowned prince.” Diluc jolts forward and grasps for the blunt hit of a claymore only for his fingers to clamp around nothing. Hellebore, Y/N, releases a piteous snort. In a split second, shock bleeds into his system. Diluc sees it now, the electro Delusion on your right wrist. The same wrist he held in passion into the dull hours of the night. The same wrist he held along the streets of Mondstadt. It shackles the power of his vision, now reduced to a single spark as Diluc struggles. Frost climbs up his limbs, trapping him. It dawns on him that he has stumbled straight into the huntress’ trap. A lamb to be slaughtered. He is nothing but prey.

“You- You… are wicked.” Diluc spits, grimacing at his unrelenting bondages. Now, he is angry. Infuriated for being such an idiot, for being captured by the Fatui, and most disheartening of all, falling in love with a harbinger. If it weren’t for the incapability of the Knights, he’d wish death upon himself for making such a fatal mistake.

“Please be quiet, my dearest Diluc. Don’t make this harder than it needs to be.” The glint in your eyes is unmistakable; that of a bloodthirsty hound, bottomless, and holding an eternal need to be sated. The polearm sheds off bursts of electricity and frost. One hit could kill a man if it had enough muscle behind it. So that’s how it is.

Diluc has feared death too many times to count. Once as a child, stumbling down the cliffsides of Mondstadt. He survived. Once again as a new Knight, beaten to a pulp by a band of abyss mages. He survived. Another time on an expedition as he witnessed his father’s brutal death, leaving him the sole survivor. He survived. Barely, but he did it. Today, Diluc looks into the eyes of a merciless woman he came to love. Her right arm bears a sharpened polearm, and her left glows a concerning violet. He has feared death many times, but this is different. Diluc knows that his life ends today.

“Be still.” The sound of energy buzzes in the air at a deafening frequency. He feels it before he registers the sight - your beautiful hand, charged with the voltage of a Delusion, shredding into his chest. His throat yells out pleads of pain, his consciousness on the edge of vanquish. The squelching of blood and the twisting of fingers in his skin make him scream yet again. As the final blow of your charged polearm thrust through his torso to his back, Diluc’s voice stops. Silence.

One hand strokes his blazing hair and another his face. Perhaps you did love him, but such feelings must be quenched in favor of the Tsarista. Her Majesty may be scolding you from her quarters as you press a chaste kiss to Diluc’s lips, soaking in his touch for one last time, but so be it. It takes a single glance at his limp body encased in ice for you to soften your words.

“In another life, my love. I hope you will forgive me.”

#diluc #diluc x reader #angst #first work #genshin impact #diluc genshin #noctis-noctua

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gondorosi · 4 years

Text

The gradual separation of show!Jon from book!Jon - Part II

Magic

The showrunners deciding that magic is an unimportant part of the saga and to be relegated to the background is utter horseshit. There’s a bloody REASON direwolves and dragons reappeared in the world when they did, more or less at the same time. There’s a fucking reason why in Martin’s version Dany’s fireproof nature was a one-time thing, the dormant magic in her reawakening as needed BECAUSE dragons needed to be brought back into the world. Dany, Jon and Bran are the three most magic-sensitive characters in the whole story - and only one of them have anything to do with it in a significant manner (though significant might be stretching it). With Dany, her magical nature is only sporadically referred to (the dragons are the be all and end all) and Jon has nothing.

Show!Jon is a mortal man on every level, without a drop of magic in him. Book!Jon is no Bran, but there are three fundamental factors which show how deeply he is connected to the land.

Ghost: Removing Ghost's importance to Jon is akin to removing part of his soul. He isn't just 'big, white fluffy doggo'. Ghost is part of him, his familiar. Ghost is the physical personification of the magic running in Jon's blood, the proof of the Old Gods awareness running through Stark children's veins. Direwolves have a deeper, subtler and less apparent magic than dragons, but no less potent, and no less essential to Jon than her dragons are to Dany. Out of all the Stark siblings, Jon’s connection with Ghost and Bran’s connection with Summer seem to be the most symbiotic. All the siblings have strong bonds with their direwolves, molded to their own personality - Arya’s connection with Nymeria persists even across the sea in Essos, all legends of Robb in battle are accompanied by legends of Grey Wind and poor Rickon becomes so enmeshed in Shaggydog’s mind that there’s little to distinguish between boy and beast. However, perhaps due to the nature of their POVs and story arcs, none of the Starks save Bran and Jon have their journeys so closely aligned to their wolves. Which is why it’s nigh impossible to even consider Jon’s story moving forward without Ghost, especially post resurrection. The show omitted the obvious implication that Jon warged into Ghost before he died, had no role for him in the BoB, completely erased him in S7 and relegated him to a damn stray in S8. On the other hand, the show AMPED up the Dragon Queen part of Dany to the detriment of all other aspects of her character.

Warging: In a universe where Martin has tried his best to weave in strong magic with actual medieval politics, concentrating all Northern magic into one single character (whose surface they barely scratched) is utterly lazy storytelling. Jon's warging abilities are mighty and second perhaps only to Bran, though I hold the belief Arya is as powerful a warg. But unlike both of them, Jon seems to actively resist exploring his warging possibilities. Some of the resistance may be explained by his environment - with both the NW and the Freefolk considering warging to be something of a ‘black’ art or dark magic. Sure, the Free Folk are more open about it, with Varamyr envying Jon’s gift with Ghost in his thoughts:

“He had known what Snow was the moment he saw that great white direwolf stalking silent at his side. One skinchanger can always sense another. Mance should have let me take the direwolf. There would be a second life worthy of a king. He could have done it, he did not doubt. The gift was strong in Snow, but the youth was untaught, still fighting his nature when he should have gloried in it.”

The show makes NO mention of it. Jon being considered a warg is a major reason behind half the NW hating and fearing him. I don’t remember the show ever bringing up the fact that Jon was feared - they seemed to make Thorne and Slynt’s animosity out of sheer spite and disgust at his bastardy.

The Lord Commander's Raven: This is a favourite obsession of mine. Old Mormont’s raven pops out at Jon at seemingly random moments, but for the reader bursting with conspiracy theories, the raven is just another nod to the fact that Jon has a far greater role to play in the story than is visible to the eye. There's a popular theory that Bloodraven wargs him from time to time, since Jon is the secondary piece on his chessboard. The raven has come to Jon’s aid atleast twice that I can remember:

When Mormont is attacked by the wight:

Jon tried to shout, but his voice was gone. Staggering to his feet, he kicked the arm away and snatched the lamp from the Old Bear's fingers. The flame flickered and almost died. "Burn!" the raven cawed. "Burn, burn, burn!"

Spinning, Jon saw the drapes he'd ripped from the window. He flung the lamp into the puddled cloth with both hands.

During the election for Lord Commander when Mormont’s raven flying to his shoulder is used as a sign by Sam to argue for Mormont’s approval of Jon as the choice.

Bastardy

Jon's entire sense of self is centered around two things:

Ned Stark is his father

He's a bastard

His entire character arc is trying live up to one of those and distance himself from the connotations of the other. His bastardy is the formative lodestone of his character and moral compass but in the EXACT opposite of how Catelyn and Westerosi society as a whole expect it to be.

However, there's a twist to that. Jon's inner desire is EXACTLY what Catelyn feared. He DOES want to be Lord of Winterfell. He DOES harbour resentment that Robb (seemingly) has everything handed to him while the best Jon can hope for is to die at his post, unknown and unsung. He DOES want glory and power and to exact some kind of revenge on a society which deemed him vile and detestable for no fault of his. All the elements for him to become the Starks' own Daemon Blackfyre is already present.

But there's one difference - Ned Stark is no Aegon the Unworthy. Even more than all of the above heart's desires, Jon wants to be like his father. He wants to do what is right. He wants his father to be proud of him. He wants to be nothing like the greedy, vengeful and lusty creature he's always been told he is. He wants to help people and stand up for the weak because that's who he is. At the very heart of it, he just wants to be loved by Ned as much as his trueborn sons. And thus he takes Tyrion's words to heart and wears his bastardy like impenetrable armour.

In show!Jon, ALL of this inner struggle is lost. Jon's bastardy is rarely affixed other than as a side. Show!Jon is a 'good' man. Yes, undoubtedly. But what makes book!Jon a great man is that he masters his baser desires to focus on what's more important. THAT'S what Jeor, Mance and Stannis all saw in him. That's why the Free Folk follow him. That's why half the NW will die for him (yes I know the other half will kill him).

When you have spent most of the show without anywhere referencing how vital the armour of bastardy, and being Ned Stark’s son is to Jon's psyche and sense of self, even the best directors will not be able to depict WHY the news of his parentage will have ripped out the ground from under him. Dany's quest for the throne is out there glaring at us thus atleast on paper making sense that having her undeniable right threatened will rattle her (I personally hate hate HATE the creative decision that Dany's immediate reaction to find out Jon's a Targaryen will be paranoia and concern for HER throne but I digress).

Intelligence, ability and cunning

Up until S4 and most of S5, show!Jon and book!Jon exhibited similar levels of intelligence and cunning. One of my favourite scenes is Sam trying to stop Jon from marching into Mance's camp to try and assassinate him. Jon gets in his face with his frustration and despair boiling and asks if he has any better ideas. At this point he's done a superb job commanding the defence of Castle Black but has also just lost Ygritte, Pyp and Grenn all in one night, a significant portion of the meagre Castle Black forces and is fully aware that they cannot survive another charge. He's beyond desperate and aware that his efforts are likely suicidal but he can't just retreat, lick his wounds and do nothing.

The show labours under the popular delusion that truly good guys can't be really smart, as being smart means preserving yourself and truly good guys will always jump into danger first to protect other people. Politics is bad so if you're a good strategist then you can't be a good person.

Both book and show characterizations of Jon have been criticized for being examples of the ‘Chosen One’ the ‘reluctant hero’ who turns out to be the right man for the job, and for painting ambition and the quest for power as negative pursuits. In the book however, Jon’s ambitions never really had a chance to form. He’s prideful enough in his abilities to believe he would be an immediate select into the elite Ranger ranks and is devastated when that doesn’t work out. By the time he’s come to terms with the fact that being Mormont’s steward means being groomed for command, the truth of the White Walkers is in front of him and that becomes his sole consideration.

To many readers, Jon’s election to Lord Commander was ‘contrived’ though I do believe Sam played the long political game as he believed his friend being in a position of power would lead to an easier path for him. However, Jon doesn’t crumple under the weight of the responsibility - his actions as Lord Commander are revolutionary enough to completely destabilize his support. The show entirely omits all the strategic parts of his negotiations with both Stannis and the Freefolk. Unlike show!Jon, book!Jon does not allow the Freefolk through the Wall only on the account of goodwill and the fear of a common enemy. He takes their children hostage to ensure compliance. He negotiates with the Iron Bank for a loan to stave off starvation come winter. He repopulates the Gift with Free Folk. He shelters, counsels and aids Stannis. He addresses almost every logistical and material issue he can think except for the most fundamental - his people.

On the other hand, there’s no strategic and political angle to Show!Jon in S6 and S7, instead being posited only as warrior extraordinaire.

'The greatest swordsman in the North' - but too naive to not keep the sister who tricked him almost to his death at arm's length. Brave, loyal and courageous beyond belief - but completely befuddled by politicking. Immediately trusting a sister he’s never been close to and who has been Littlefinger’s pupil for a considerable time.

Book!Jon's abilities as a leader are sorely underappreciated, especially considering that his tenure as Lord Commander saw the status quo of almost every aspect of NW life upended. The previous LC is killed in a mutiny. The Wildling army launch an attack. The Others finally rise. A King/King Claimant FINALLY takes the NW's warnings seriously. The Wildlings are brought south of the Wall.

Despite being a new beginning for all recruits, the Night's Watch is the one order in Westeros whose traditions and rules have not changed in millennia. Understaffed, under-resourced and facing a threat the likes of which people would struggle to comprehend, Jon does the best he can. His major mistake is one most young leaders make, and that is assume all of those under automatically understand his reasons for doing what he does.

Relationships

Brother:

If there's one role Jon takes more seriously than 'Ned Stark's son, it's that of brother. Book!Jon is pretty much the pinnacle of brotherly love - Robb's right hand, Arya's champion and dutiful protector to both Bran and Rickon. There's a subtle tragedy in this too - despite how much his siblings love him, all of them, including Arya, have othered him. He's brother, but only half. Snow, not a Stark. The last in the list. 'The last brother left to me' - as felt by both Robb and Sansa.

Book!Jon and Show!Jon are both shown to be loving, dutiful brothers but once again the show is incapable of portraying more than one character at a time in a certain way. Thus all of Jon's brotherly love is concentrated on Sansa, the sibling he was least close to. Show!Jon never mentions Robb after his death mentions Arya not at all when book!Jon never stops thinking about the two of them.

Maybe, maybe if the show had bothered to flesh out Jon Snow's emotional attachment to his home and siblings, his dilemma between his family and Dany wouldn't have been so shoddy.

Friend:

Book!Jon, despite his aloof demeanour attracts fast friends. His staunchest supporters in the NW are those who he befriended when he first stepped within the gates. He's the only one to ever have stood up for many of them. And it's his NW friends who do become truly brothers, as they see and stand beside him during his rise to leadership.

Show!Jon is no different - he's got his loyal friends but there was no apparent discord after him being elected LC. Which is surprising considering that this is the moment that Jon effectively decides to ‘Kill the boy.’ The Gilly baby switch storyline is completely done away with, probably because it is the one decision that very clearly paints Jon as grey. The book Sam struggles to understand this decision - in his mind his best friend would never have done that. Maester Aemon is the one who sets him straight - Jon is no longer just a brother of the Watch, he’s the Lord Commander now. He can no longer be taking decisions just as Sam’s friend.

The show never really dwelt on the chasm Jon’s position as a leader would have created with his brothers who till them were his equals. Book!Jon knowingly starts distancing himself and this is a flaw that comes back to stab him in the chest - again a misstep in one raised to leadership at a young age.

Lover:

This part will be a bit of a cop-out since at this point the only common love interest between the books and the show is Ygritte. The show axed Val, who’s one of my favourite secondary characters and my main preference for a Jon pairing pre-Dany. And of course, there’s far too much plot to cover before Jon and Dany even meet in the book (if they’re ever finished).

There are factions of the fandom who don’t think the Jon and Dany romance in S7 was set up convincingly. Admittedly that’s going to be hard for me to judge fairly as I’ve been in the Jonerys camp ever since ADWD made it clear how Jon was growing as a leader and as a magical touchstone in direct parallels to Dany. It definitely helped that Kit’s portrayal of Jon had FINALLY started to appeal to me once The Watchers of the Wall aired. I’d been one of the many fans who had been waiting for these two to meet on the show - and though I personally found the Jon-Dany relationship progression to be one of the few good things about S7, I can perhaps get why many neutral fans (i.e not commited to any rival ships for either Jon or Dany) think its out of character for them to be so involved so soon.

There are plenty of popular assumptions perpetuated by the show which have no backup in the original material - one of them is ‘dumb, lovable idiot’ Jon paired with the ‘awkward and oblivious as fuck with women’ Jon. Now, I’ll not deny that the latter portrayal works QUITE well with show!Jon (Kit’s face is the perfect cast for this characterization) but I just don’t see it working with book!Jon. The boy isn’t seeking out women but its not like he’s not around them. Alys Karstark was quite obviously taken with him, and I doubt Jon missed it, but there were far greater things of import to consider for both of them - I saw no awkwardness in the text. Jon dislikes Selyse and manages to be both cordial and deferential as required. Melisandre makes no secret of her fascination with him - there’s no bumbling awkwardness there either. And Val - he’s quite smitten and there’s some awkwardness there, sure but its hardly the bumbling variety.

As for Dany - considering that at this point the 7 seasons of the show is all we will ever have, I somehow think the softer show!Jon makes a much better pairing with the more hardened show!Dany. Its as if certain aspects of their personalities were flipped in the show - book!Dany is definitely much softer and gentle without her power and strength being diminished, whereas book!Jon is far more calculated and ruthless without compromising on his honour and integrity.

#jon snow #book!jon #show!jon #ASoIaF #game of thrones #nights watch #asoiaf val #jonerys

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magebcrn · 3 years

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"What?" The query sticks to the back of Micah's throat, coated with the taste of acid. The god's words reverberate in his mind. Over and over and over. Each echo pierces his resolve anew. The fire blazing in his icy eyes sputters, though the sheer intensity of his glare hasn't been lost just yet. Gloved fingers curl tighter around the hilt of his sword. He shouldn't be hesitating. Not now. It's taken far too long to reach the corrupted god. A god who has caused so much pain and suffering; a god he's been reared to fight ever since this new land welcomed him in. He's been warned about possible manipulation and trickery: if the god speaks as if he knows you, steel your heart and mind. And yet... he hesitates.

"What do you mean our-" his voice breaks off, cracking as a wave of grief washes through him seemingly out of nowhere. Did the god somehow know of his troubles? Of how he felt one step removed from this life- as if he were searching for something he didn't even realize he'd lost? His vision blurs. It takes him a few moments to realize it's not due to a trick or magic, but due to unshed tears. Micah grits his teeth and blinks them away. His voice rises in a growl tinged with desperation. "What do you mean our history?"

Izumi couldn’t help the soft laugh that left his lips, really, this was all he could do to keep from crying his eyes out. Here Micah was, standing in front of him, bought back from the dead...And in the service of the very same gods who got him killed in the first place. How ironic, that the man he welcomed into his lands, who came to live among his people and be loved by them, and who he tried leading to safety only to die was here again. To kill him, no less. Had it been anyone else, Izumi would’ve already killed them when they gave their little speeches. How tired he grew of those damn speeches about how the gods were with them. Those gods who gave nothing, only filling their ears with honey and their heads with delusions of grandeur.

“They never told you, or they gave you a very whitewashed version of the truth, didn’t they? Did they tell you why I became corrupted? Why I decided to wage war on them?”

Of course they wouldn’t. After all, they needed Micah to trust them, to believe them. Sure, he didn’t need worship like other gods, and his power came from pure hard work...But that meant that unlike most, he was more vulnerable to alternate methods of being dealt with. He could die, be sealed away, or even have his powers suppressed, or at least his divinity. Micah was likely told that Izumi went mad with grief, not that the gods using him had a hand in his downfall because he wouldn’t participate in their war.

“You and I were lovers. I took you in when you came to my lands. If I remember correctly, you told me of how people told tales of me being a wrathful god. It was fairly amusing, if I can be honest. You took well to living with us, I helped you figure things out with yourself, where you wanted to be. We grew close, and I was happy to have you with me, to have someone who I could just be ‘Izumi’ around.”

Then the gods engineered a plot to suppress his powers while they waged war, and his lands just so “happened” to be the sites of battles. He remembers waking up in rubble, looking to find if anyone survived, only see that he was the last one alive.

“You died for them once, already. Would you do so again? Or do you want to take the chance to free yourself from the servitude of gods who will only take?”

Izumi walked closer to Micah, uncaring of the blade that was pointed at him. He placed a hand on the other’s cheek, a look of melancholy on his face.

“Will you join me and help me rip them from their thrones? If you won’t, I won’t harm you, but I won’t let you kill me either. I’ve already lost you once...I don’t wish to lose you again.”

@carnivorarium

#Class is in Session (In Character)#carnivorarium

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beneaththetangles · 4 years

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A Ryvius Advent

Advent, the time of year in which Christians commemorate Christmas by looking forward to it in anticipation, as well as to Christ’s return, is upon us. We hope that we can help you participate and get into the “Christmas spirit” through our blog as we do our traditional Christmas posts. Consider signing up for our newsletter as we gear up for the season, and following along here on the blog as well with posts like today’s, which kicks off the season is a most appropriate way.

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Infinite Ryvius (Mugen no Ryvius), Goro Taniguchi´s Lord of the Flies meets Lost in Space, is without doubt one of my favorite shows. Yet, I must warn you: It is not an easy one to watch. Its slow burn starts with the focus on the people-pleaser protagonist, Kouji Aiba—a guy who finds it uncool to hang out with anyone who has known him for a long time, his estranged brother Yuki, and their bossy childhood friend Aoi. But soon it expands its scope to perhaps twenty or so very interesting youngsters aboard the Liebe Delta, a starship academy for future space cadets, left without adults after a strange accident (or is it?), and through them, encompasses an entire teen society which grows, fights, suffers, and evolves with every episode, always waiting for rescue.

That is the starting point of a journey that will take its protagonists through hard decisions about survival and violence, war, lies, fears and betrayal, the collapse of social norms, emotional and mental breakdown, and repeated moral failure in what I found to be a very atypical, honest story full of quasi Eva-like angst and misfortune.

What’s worse is that you do not even have a Gendo to blame here, either for how frustratingly Kouji acts nor for anything else. There are adults and dangers outside, but they are not the focus. Instead, it’s on the kids. From the kindhearted teen hero to the bright model student, from the Vulcanian-like brainy to the loud representative, from the weak-willed fat boy to the “bad girl,” from the silent gang leader to the space princess (sort of), they are as flawed as they are relatable, and truly dangerous to each other in their own ways. And the consequences of their sins and errors are not small, not here. What follows has been aptly described as an ascent/descent into hell.

Why watch it, then? Why suffer? For one, its characters are (in my view) fascinating, and their occasional ugliness, and that of the situation, is how we gradually come to see something genuine and hopeful about them. They may start as archetypes, but they suffer, evolve, interact, struggle, and surprise me, for better and for worse. No matter how minor their roles, they all have something to say, and quite frequently they are things I hadn’t heard before from characters like these. The story does not whitewash their flaws, but neither does it give up on them when they fail (and boy, do they fail). The comparison with The Lord of the Flies may be the first thing that comes to mind, but if you go along, you will receive, one after another, signs that things may go differently here. It is not only the primal they confront, but also the supernatural; not only the evil in them, but the good. And I have come to understand enough about myself to know that I´m pretty much like Hikki Hachiman: I thirst to know the human heart, of others and mine, and I often find hope in it.

More than that, Mugen no Ryvius is a show firmly interested in what is good and evil, right and wrong, just and unjust, much like Bokurano or Serial Experiments Lain. It takes its premise seriously, and it makes every effort to show us that everyone is connected. This principle is personified in the character of the Girl in Pink, the soul of the starship, an observer who wanders around learning about its inhabitants, sometimes talking with them, sometimes helping them, sometimes unveiling what is beneath the surface, she herself connected to the deeper mysteries of the ship. And, as I have loved reading about the evolution of fictional societies and regimes since I first read Plato´s terrific (in both senses of the word) Republic in Philosophy class, the self-contained nature of the community which is described, the elegant way in which everything is presented and the 26 episodes that give us plenty of time to know everything about everyone make this a very enjoyable story, even if sometimes you have to just endure it.

There is even more. Ryvius is not only a psychological thriller or a social experiment. It is a tale of discernment and heroism, but not only that either. Much as in Taniguchi´s Planetes, its themes and symbology go all the way to the philosophical and the spiritual, in this case with the salvation of all humanity literally at stake. The characters are largely unaware of this larger plot—they are busy enough as it is—except for some weird encounters they experience here and there, but we get to see it through the Girl in Pink. The story has something to say about who we are to each other, and about sacrifice, sin and delusion, and also about the meaning of hope and love in this fallen world. Thus, it connects with the themes of Advent, the time when we remember the long wait for Christ during the long ages of Israel, the longing of the human heart for Him in the reign of sin, the promises of the prophets and the difficult and specific, strange, miraculous yet discreet circumstances in which the fulfillment of that hope was prepared when the time came.

But, God being the Lord of the Living, this period is not only one of remembrance. It is also the time when we try to better dispose our hearts so that His coming here and now can touch us more deeply. It’s becoming a challenging, tiring Advent for me, both professionally and personally, so these days I am fasting a bit, trying to bring to mind the hope of Christmas and of the future and meditating on the readings of Isaiah and John the Baptist, Joseph, and Mary. Because Advent is also the time when we look to the future from the hardships of this world and renew our hope that He will come back, that rescue is coming. That there is a second, hidden story in my life too, and it encompasses and explains the one I see. It is something of a funny coincidence that the hardest part of the Ryvius story comes also at December, a December in space.

I think that is as far as I can go speaking only in general, so spoilers ahead. Ryvius is full of twists and turns, so you have been warned.

Episode 23 is probably the show at is bleakest. Just an episode or two before, the violence, the egoism, the anarchy, the malevolence, the ill will, the disorder and the laziness have reached its peak, and a friend has been scarred. The sins of the little society—unbeknownst to them, a literally chosen people, because the Ryvius is the only hope for humanity to escape the Second Solar Flare, and no crew has ever been able to make it react—are just too many, and they are punished. It is the logical consequence, and even I was hoping for it. Our heroes experience a mutual emotional breakdown, unable to comfort each other. And hurt and bitter, the courageous and kind Ikumi turns into a tyrant by threats and sheer force, threatening to destroy entire sections of the starship if he is not immediately given unconditional obedience. Like the Leviathan of Hobbes, he demands absolute power to prevent the kids to becoming wolves for each other. With Yuki and the rest of the mecha aces on his side, those aboard are forced to comply.

His first decision is to reinstate the gang of Airs Blue, that other interesting tyrant, back from prison as the police force, a role than they clearly enjoy. Shortly after, order is restored, but in such a way the ship starts to feel like an occupied country. Violence is not as overt as it was, but it is there. And maybe all that would be at least an improvement on the previous anarchy, were not that his main advisor is the ultimate schemer of the Zwei group, Heiger, who has been given free hands to engage in his social engineering projects and protect this Pax Romana until the number of violent incidents is zero.

Shortly after, people are sorted by ability and separated (well, either that, or if Heiger thinks you a subversive element, sent straight to Class F, which includes pretty much every important character who is not part of the regime). Juli Bahana, the voice of empathy and reason, is expelled from the bridge for objecting (more specifically, for objecting without providing a feasible alternative), and sent to Class F. So is her ever-jealous friend Ran, who has undermined her in every way she could. His crime is violently protesting that the little kid aboard, Pat, has been sent to Class F too (well, says Heiger, naturally, he is not useful by any objective standard). Fina S. Shinozaki, the beautiful pagan priestess/cult leader who preaches the false Gospel of making yourself a new you of your own design, is leading the course of the ship, which now points toward her planet.

When all the new residents of Class F are in their area, a new surprise comes. Unbeknownst to Ikumi, Heiger, who is losing it a bit, blocks the area and switches the lights off. They are left without food or a way out. In his reasoning, these people are not useful, the lowest of the low, and everything that is given to them is a waste. Many of them, conscious of their crimes or their lack of ability, even recognize it is only natural that they would end up at Class F. So there they are, our most pathetic characters, in the darkness. Jealous Ran, indecisive Juli, feeble and treacherous Charlie (sorry, I mean Good Turtleland the Third), femme fatale Criff, bratty Nicks, people-pleaser Kouji, messy and bossy Aoi, loud Lucson, spoiled Pat, the lazy couple who stole points, even the creepy psycho who “protects” Charlotte—all there.

When someone lights a lantern, and it turns out that Lucson was stealing food, so he decides to share it, not without boasting about his “keen foresight.” The last, the not useful, the dispossessed, the guilty thus share the little they have, and sit around the light. Somehow, a curious joy starts to permeate them, and someone asks out of the blue, “It is almost Christmas, isn’t it?”

What it is is December 13rd, the birthday of the youngest member of the crew, Pat Campbell. His father and mother figure are beside him. Lucson may be an incompetent, a liar, and a vain leader, but he has taken good care of Pat, to the point of showing that he is willing to take a beating in his place, and has tried to set example for him in his own clumsy way. Juli may be indecisive and her renouncing as captain of the ship may have played a part in the present state of things, but she has cared for the kid from the first moment. The Girl of Pink is attracted towards that light they share, not towards the bridge, and it´s no wonder. The bleakness of Ryvius disappears for a couple of minutes, and there is a warm light instead. This is the moment in which she speaks to Kouji and stops being an observer, providing hope, a way out. Literally, there is a path.

The darkness will strike twice again in this very episode and the hardest part of this journey of purification is still ahead, but we have seen a glimpse of where it leads. As viewers, we can have hope. Kouji still has to carry his own Cross, his own Gethsemane, and beyond. Aoi will share it all with him. We will still suffer before we reach the end. But for now, there is light. There is a sign of something beyond the madness the Ryvius has fallen into, something that reaches these broken sinners suffering the consequences of their own errors and makes them one, even so.

While darkness and poverty have united Class F, the powerful, the strong and the wise in the terms of the ship are not so lucky. Ikumi cannot participate in the feast. After all, he is locked in his palace—the officials bedroom—with his own thoughts, increasing his own power, worried, navigating his inner traumas, working to stop even the littlest of crimes aboard while the tyrannical system he has created causes others he does not detect. He wants his Pax Romana no matter the means, and even if he is not mistaken about what is right, he is wrong about placing all hope in his own hands, and about the darkness of his own heart. Like Herod (though younger, more desperate and driven by fear and trauma), he may resort even to murder. Neither can Kozue, who has made the conscious decision to play into Ikumi´s trauma to have someone who will provide her affection, and literally shut the door to everything and everyone else.

Neither can Yuki, our punk Pharisee, who never loses an opportunity to point how weak-willed, despicable, low and inauthentic his elder brother is, usually with a punch or two to show him. Even if he is Kouji´s younger brother, he is no doubt like the older brother of the parable, only substituting obedience to the father to doing what he pleases without external influence. He also wants acknowledgement for his achievements. Nor Heiger, who is busy with the census of his new empire, sending every member of the Ryvius community to the place where he belongs to, in his opinion, and worshiping efficiency like he always wanted to. Heiger´s terrified reaction to the unknown, in the form of the Lovecraftian/Ghiblian space beasts, shows us how self-enclosed in the works of his own hands he is at this point of the story: His own cleverness has blinded him to this hope.

But if Ikumi is traumatized, Heiger is a materialist, and Yuki is just doing what he feels vaguely good about, someone is searching for a spiritual meaning in the circumstances. And the meaning she finds is evil. That is Fina S, Shinozaki, the young cult leader/priestess of Mother Arne, a pagan deity who considers letting your past behind and rebuilding yourself from zero as the first moral imperative, adapts to every situation quickly and cleverly, considers Ikumi to be a war god, and believes the Universe will help you if you desire things strongly enough. Behind the bizarre elements of this space cult (you know, those pesky Uranians), there is a very familiar philosophy: Be the center of everything, project a perfect illusion, become powerful no matter the situation, delete from your life those people and parts of yourself you don´t like, always be determined, and get what you want.

Villainous as Fina is, I cannot but feel compassion for her, as she is farther away from hope than the rest, and suffers without it. When hurt, she tries to kill the same person whose love she longs for: she wants to prevent him from applying her own philosophy to her and letting her in his past. When heartbroken, she tries to force her smile like a mask. When her acts get her scarred, she wonders if she is not as virtuous as she should be. The philosophy of becoming your own creator not only destroy you, but also tells you that it´s your fault, for not wanting to be free and happy strongly enough. So I truly pity her, and this broken age of ours, too. In a silent alliance with the Girl in Pink, Kouji will risk everything to confront all four, like John the Baptist, and call them to repent.

So at this time of the year, we should also prepare for what is to come—the fights as well as the rescue, the present as well as the future. The joy of the feast and the time of waiting. In the midst of our daily struggles and sufferings, of the problems of the world, we may take a step back to reflect and pray, try to hear the call, think about the meaning of what is happening, share the little we have, remove the obstacles, acknowledge who we are, repent. Take perspective on the things of the world. Give others the comfort and hope they need. Be brave. And help those who are not useful for us, even those who have hurt us, for we are connected, aboard the same ship. And those far from Class F, locked anywhere, need Christmas too, and dearly: Their hearts thirst just like ours.

And miraculously, there is a path.

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Mugen no Ryvius can be acquired at Amazon.

#Anime #Christianity #Mugen no Ryvius #Infinite Ryvius #Christmas #Advent #Sin #Hope #Articles #Author: Gaheret

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ditheringluminary · 4 years

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The Alternian caste system and how it raises its trolls

Hey all! Taking a bit of a break from doing session analyses for a sec (thank you all so much btw i love doing them) to talk about something I didn’t think would come up since so few people use the full signs of their classpects, most likely because they’re talking about themselves or a friend and not a fantroll.

But it’s still important to recognize how Alternia structures its society in such a way that each troll would HAVE to take some part of their True Sign. Ever wonder WHY they call it a True Libra or True Cancer and the like on the aspect quiz? This is why. An important part of Doc Scratch’s and Lord English’s manipulation is that they changed the core values of troll society. Unlike Beforus Alternia is all about keeping groups sad and oppressed by their role on the caste, highblood or lowblood. This is all done in service to breed the True Signs, which would be people like Karkat or Gamzee or Feferi. Of course, THIS is all done so that the events of Homestuck can even take place, with each and every character in it (no matter how small their part is) being a cog in the machine to creating Lord English and perpetuate other dumb time loops. As such if your fanventure or the like doesn’t take place on Alternia or a troll planet under a similar caste system, you can PROBABLY disregard all this, though I would still look into how that planet’s society treats and raises its trolls.

Let’s start from the bottom: Rustbloods (burgundy-bloods...?). Rustbloods are overshadowed by the Time aspect. Time is the aspect of destruction and decay, but is also the aspect of work and labor. Oftentimes the Time player in a session is the resident busybody. Hence why Rustbloods are Alternia’s manual labor caste, and likely why they are the lowest on the spectrum.

Next is Bronzebloods. They mostly shadow the Breath aspect, which might not be readily apparent to most (it certainly wasnt to me). I think that this means that... Bronzebloods are raised to be expendable. Detached from their loved ones and treasured objects to be the main cavalry and footsoldiers in the war. This gives them the “freedom” of Breath, though it’s a sad and lonely freedom when you know that your life can be thrown away at any moment. Anyone would be resigned and detached at that point. <:B

Now Goldbloods seems to be the MOST obvious of the caste, or at least the secondmost. They are shadowed by Doom, and this is portrayed in them being used as living batteries for ships. Doom isn’t just about destruction. It’s about suffering, sacrifice, and unstable consumption. All of these fit the description of a person turned into a living battery. This also explains why most Doom-bound trolls are nihilists, or are severely pessimistic. You would be too if you knew you’d be a battery.

Limebloods seems to be the gray (hehe) area, as their true sign’s aspect shows as Blood. It’s possible that this represents 1. That there are meant to be no intense, caring bonds on Alternian society (hence why Karkat was a Knight of blood: even his planet lacked bonds and care) or 2. That a limeblood can ONLY survive through strong bonds and friendships (again, Karkat). Either way, we haven’t seen any official limebloods (that out themselves as limebloods) and so we don’t know how they would be “raised”.

Olive Bloods are shadowed under the Heart aspect. While Olive bloods don’t really have a set or concrete role in Alternia’s society, this actually fits Heart perfectly. Heart is all about individuality and uniqueness! Of course the caste that fits Heart wouldn’t really be able to be pegged down as a single role.

Jadebloods: Ghost Space. This is seen pretty clearly when they are in charge of the creation and perpetuation of lil troll babies. They’re even banished to an entirely separate part of Alternia, which fits Space’s intense loneliness. You might be thinking that Life would be a better fit for them, as they ARE creating Life. However, Life is more of an aspect of improving and bettering what is already there. SPACE is the aspect of creation, and as such why they are set to create life.

The most obvious one by far is the Tealbloods. They ghost Mind, as they stand in for Alternia’s entire legal division. They judge, prosecute, and defend the CHOICES of others and alter the CHOICE their jury makes. Mind is also just flat out about strategy and intelligence, which a lot of Tealbloods are known to have.

Cerulean/Bluebloods are shadowed under the Light aspect. I kind of see this as them being technically highbloods, and thus have access to enormous wealth and fame. This would of course breed Light’s sometimes outwardly pompous attitude.

Indigobloods fit into the Void aspect as their True Aspect. This kind of makes sense, as the Indigobloods main job is to perpetuate Alternia’s caste system, and fit well into whatever role they ARE given. They are “nothing” until they are given a role and a purpose, which Alternia forces on them. Them “being” nothing/void is what would eventually lead to Equius, an Heir of Void.

Purplebloods naturally are surrounded by Rage, being negative emotions and confusion. What illicits more negative emotions and pure confusion than clowns? Not only that, but their sheer strength and focus on violence also fits into Rage, which is often linked to physical harm. They also perpetuate these negative emotions by being so oppressive on those who disobey Alternia’s law.

Violetbloods are... tricky. Their true sign says Hope, but... there isn’t even much to go on about them. We only have Cronus and Eridan, and their roles in alternian society aren’t explained besides being royalty. It’s entirely possible that this is the point: they’re just wealthy buttholes. Delusion and immense power are what encompass Hope, and oftentimes royalty are delusional fools with immense power. Of course, not as much power as...

Fuschiabloods. Fuschia’s true sign spells Life, and this is mostly seen in Feferi’s ideals. As said above, Life is all about betterment for what’s ALREADY there. Fuschiabloods are the ruling class, and NORMALLY would be expected to improve/continue ruling Alternia. One could even take it a step further and say that the Condesce killing off any possible opposing Fuschiabloods represents killing Life, too. Making sure that Alternia never gets better through a different ruler.

And that’s all the classes! I want to reiterate that you don’t HAVE to take these into consideration, even if you DO have your fantroll on Alternia. However, it’s always nice to think how its differing society has an effect on its people, and how the society basically acts as a shadow that each and every troll lives under and is expected to live up to.

#homestuck #homestuck aspect #aspect analysis #alternia #alternian society #caste system #rustbloods #bronzebloods #goldbloods #limebloods #olivebloods #jadebloods #tealbloods #bluebloods #indigobloods #purplebloods #violetbloods #fuschiabloods

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alexsmitposts · 3 years

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The Nasty Truth About America’s Love Affair with Narcissism and Self Pity

Column: Society Region: USA in the World

📷There is a saying, “the crazy people have taken over the asylum.” They did that in the United States in 2016, a nation ruled by grifters, petty criminals and the delusional.The sane and decent became the “silent majority” as the not just America but the world learned that the darkness of the American soul depicted so often by Hollywood is not fiction at all and that a reality TV actor had tapped into a cesspit of sewage that has seeped into every American community.Then came 2020.By sheer luck along and, yes, the votes of 81 million Americans lucky enough to survive voter suppression and intimidation financed by a worldwide organized crime cartel, the insane are now out of power.The new “captain’’ of America’s “ship of state” may well, however, have something on his hands worse than the Titanic. The Titanic had the courtesy to actually sink while America, under this analogy, drifts lifelessly along.Extremism is big money in America, climate denialism, race hatred, social discord and civil war, hate is both a product and an addiction.It is also one of America’s biggest businesses. There would be no social media, no Google, no news organizations, no underbelly of device driven ecstasy, without fear and hate being marketed like cigarettes and CBD gummies.Roots of America’s Politics of Fear and Hate 2.0American extremism is not the result of poverty or oppression. It originates among the privileged, the “haves” who adhere to insane beliefs driven by boredom and generalized dissatisfaction at lives the rest of the word would envy, overpaid jobs, gas guzzling cars and trucks and fast food laden with fats and poisonous additives.If you asked many millions of Americans to define “reality,” their brains would grind to a halt. Reality is based, not on experience or observation but on “beliefs” and strongly held “opinions” which are invariably those scripted for them.Beliefs and opinions untested by the feedback loop of life has created a generation of Americans who are, essentially, living in a video game. This makes Qanon a AI program.Collective delusion has become the norm for many, and by “many” we mean up to 150 million lost souls, caught in an RPG game or, for some, a “first person shooter.”What does it make those who play? But then we have seen all this before, just without a population softened up to this degree by chaos theory conditioning. Some background:The Roots of Fascist AmericaIn 1940, Adolf Hitler was Time Magazine’s man of the year. The parents and grandparents of Trump’s supporters, following Huey Long, Gerald L.K. Smith, Father Coughlin and Charles Lindbergh sought to establish a “whites only” America based on the German model with carefully selected military leaders run by Wall Street pulling the strings.There is something magical, even today, about being “white folks.” That magic originated in the 18th and 19th centuries with the “Sturm and Drang” movement. Extremes of emotion and subjectivity were exalted above rationalism.Childish temper tantrums became a philosophy and eventually a political movement.The movement, which failed in Europe, found fertile ground in the United States in a society that increasingly defined itself though ritualized slavery and degradation and oppression of “coloured races.”This was a society built on the genocide that wiped out millions of indigenous peoples with the survivors now living on “reservations.”Imagine land where nothing grows, and no one could live. This is an “Indian reservation.” From time-to-time oil is found or minerals or there is a need to build a pipeline. Then even the worst land on earth is taken away.This was done in South Africa. It was done in Rhodesia. It used to be called “colonialism.”By the 20th century there were no indigenous people left to imprison. America then turned to warring against the freed slaves and millions of “undesirable” European immigrants, Catholics and Jews in particular.Curiously, this war was centered on banking issues, blocking trade unions, sustaining child labor and controlling farm prices. This created the alignments that

exist today, the strong tie between Wall Street and homegrown extremism built of bigotry and race hatred.You see, too many of the undesirables that fled autocratic Europe found that the long hand of international banking that maintained serfdom for millions, even in supposedly advanced Western Europe, had institutionalized the same in the United States under the guise of representative democracy.Leading the way was the resurgent Ku Klux Klan.By the 1920s national membership was estimated at over 8 million. Michigan, Ohio, Pennsylvania and a dozen other northern and western states were governed by Klan controlled politicians who used the state militias and National Guard as a private army and local police as armed enforcers.Behind it all, the banks that brought Hitler to power and the American corporations that made millions financing Nazi Germany’s war machine, General Motors, Dupont-Remington, Lockheed, Alcoa and General Motors.Even Hitler Would Cringe…The new American revolution, driven by Donald Trump and his televangelist backers, is the result of as social anthropologists note, generations being allowed to live the life of spoiled children, steeped in narcissism and self-pity.The events of January 6, 2020 and how it tied to many American religious leaders has emptied churches across the US, with millions finding themselves humiliated with having followed “false prophets” in support of hatred and tyranny. From Salon:“…these religious figures (Trump’s powerful televangelist backers) and the institutions they led (have become) hyper-political, the outward mission (has)seemed to be almost exclusively in service of oppressing others. The religious right is not nearly as interested in feeding the hungry and sheltering the homeless as much as using religion as an all-purpose excuse to abuse women and LGBTQ people. In an age of growing wealth inequalities, with more and more Americans living hand-to-mouth, many visible religious authorities were using their power to support politicians and laws to take health care access from women and fight against marriage between same-sex couples. And then Donald Trump happened.Trump was a thrice-married chronic adulterer who routinely exposed how ignorant he was of religion, and who reportedly — and let’s face it, obviously — made fun of religious leaders behind their backs. But religious right leaders did not care. They continually pumped Trump up like he was the second coming, showily praying over him and extorting their followers to have faith in a man who literally could not have better conformed to the prophecies of the Antichrist. It was comically over the top, how extensively Christian right leaders exposed themselves as motivated by power, not faith.”Jerry Falwell Jr., who introduced Donald Trump to America’s evangelical Christians, is himself an enigmatic figure.Falwell is typical of America’s religious leaders and stories such as this, from Fox News, are daily fodder for Americans:“Jerry Falwell Jr. allegedly played games with his wife Becki where they’d rank Liberty University students, they most wanted to have sex with, according to one pupil who claimed to have been intimate with Becki.The ex-student — who claims Becki initiated oral sex with him 10 years ago — told Politico that she bragged about playing the sex-ranking game while walking around the Virginia campus with her evangelical-leader husband.‘Her and Jerry would eye people down on campus,’ the former student of the conservative school told the outlet.Social Engineering Through PandemicAnyone who really lives in America will make this perfectly clear, this country has turned into a lunatic asylum. Our previous president told us COVID was a hoax, allowed over 40,000 from China enter the US while the threat of COVID was well known and turned his back while, today’s figure, 570,264 Americans died. Experts now cite that Trump was personally responsible for over 400,000 of those deaths. He is quite simply a mass murderer.Do remember that only 900 died in Australia. Canada lost 23,000. 35 died in Vietnam. 440 died in

Cuba.One might wonder how a Hitleresque figure such as Donald Trump could have millions of followers while the legal mechanisms in the US are amassing evidence for both criminal and civil prosecutions which quite probably will never come to bear.Groundhog Day, an Unending NightmareLet me tell you how I began my morning. As a journalist and intelligence briefer, I review incoming material, both open source and private intel. The big story overnight involves a revelation on a religious talk show involving theories on COVID 19 and vaccines.The show is by Jim Bakker, an important religious leader and political advisor. In 1989, Bakker was sentenced to 45 years in prison for mail and wire fraud but served on 5 of those years. He has stolen tens of million of dollars from his congregation to support a wild and lavish lifestyle of utter debauchery.In this area, he is typical of America’s evangelical Christian leaders.The guest on Bakker’s show was Steve Quayle. I know Quayle as an advisor to President George ‘W’ Bush on Middle East affairs. I know of no qualifications for this post.I do know of Quayle. After 9/11 he approached my staff in Amman, Jordan offering them generous payments to “launder” otherwise sourceless intelligence on Iraq into the Bush White House to justify an American invasion of that nation.Two million people died, maybe many more, due to fake US intelligence on Iraq. No weapons of mass destruction were ever found.Groundhog Day TwoLet us take the clock back a few years. I remember traveling to Kentucky, then and still a very backward area of the country, in 1956 to visit relatives. This was a presidential election year, and my father was working for Adlai Stevenson, the Democratic candidate that was opposing Dwight Eisenhower.Even I, at a fairly young age, was flabbergasted at the dinner table discussion that day as my “hillbilly” relatives expounded on their political opinions and version of historical fact. This is how they laid it out:We should support “Ike” because he killed Hitler personally after storming Berlin. They described a sword fight. What they described reminded me of the death of the Sheriff of Nottingham played by Basil Rathbone in the 1938 film Robin Hood starring Errol Flynn. They then went out to describe how the US beat both Russia and Germany who were at war with the US. It seems Russia did not fight Hitler at all but was actually Germany’s ally. My father, a reasonably educated person and longtime friend of Russia, found this somewhat disturbing. Next, we heard about how “godless communists” were going to take away our freedoms and destroy our standard of living. I might remind you that my relatives in Hazard, Kentucky had no electricity or plumbing. One of my cousins lived in an abandoned car parked in a slag field.During that trip, we visited my grandfather, a retired coal miner. He lived in a shack covered with tar paper along a railroad track. I loved my grandfather.Life Lessons Do not Come Over the InternetOver the next 60 plus years, I had shared tea with farmers in Vietnam, military veterans living in a small shack in the Khyber Pass and everything from heads of state to struggling farmers all over Africa and the Middle East. None would have guessed that there are Americans that live in not just utter poverty but steeped not only in delusional ignorance but far worse than that.A current obsession with American “conservatives” is the fear of being overrun with transexuals, who, according to many, represent a threat to our freedoms. I have never met a transsexual. From what I understand, up to 10,000 currently serve in America’s armed forces.Back during the 1960s when I served with a Marine combat unit in Vietnam, we probably had no transexuals, only gay or “homosexual” Marines and Navy. Absolutely nothing was thought of it as these individuals invariably served with honor and courage.They existed in significant numbers.Today aging “conservatives” who avoided military service in Vietnam continually harp about saving the rest of us from “homosexuals in the military.”Voting and

“Jim Crow”Let us take another look at efforts by the Hitleresque racists and bigots to save the rest of us from ourselves, against our will of course. In Georgia, the legislature recently passed a law that makes it a felony to offer water to someone waiting in line to vote.Water is an issue because, in Georgia and many GOP (Trump’s party) run states, polling places in areas where people of color vote have been closed causing day long lines. In 2020, volunteers offered food and water to those who would otherwise have either collapsed or left without voting. Now offering food and water can lead to being executed by racist police, quite literally, or spending 5 years in prison.In 2020, voters in many key urban areas were threatened by armed neo-Nazi militias or openly threated in emails from Proud Boys and Oath Keepers, organizations deemed terrorist in Canada and now citied by the US Department of Justice as trying to overthrow the US government.In January, during a US Senate runoff election in Georgia, 364,000 voters were challenged by the GOP in Georgia as “illegal.” All of them were African American. All 364,000 were qualified to vote and their votes were eventually counted, giving Georgia two Democratic US Senators.The Federal Elections Commission is now investigating that this effort to rig the Georgia senate elections was secretly financed by illegal contributions from members of organized crime.Groundhog Day ThreeI live in a rural and primarily Republican area. I parked my car less than 30 feet from the door of a polling place, a local church, and voted in less than 3 minutes with no lines or ID check.In order to limit mail voting, Trump ordered mail sorting machines destroyed with sledgehammers and over 40,000 mailboxes picked up and junked as scrap metal. Mail service in many cities simply ended. One letter I sent to Washington DC from Michigan took 45 days to arrive.Hundreds of millions of pieces of mail, starting in late September 2020 simply disappeared, not just votes but government checks, Christmas presents and medications from pharmacies sent to Veterans.All of this was not just publicly known, things are far worse than that. Those who so many decades ago believed the United States fought Russia in World War Two, would raise children and grandchildren with no respect for human rights, no understanding of democracy, no ethical norms nor any remote understanding of right or wrong.This is the reality for those living in America, a reality that those who watch America from afar through the distorted lens of Google Corporation and the press, can never fathom.Ah, but things are so much worse than that. It is not just having spent 4 years with a president who told us you could cure covid by drinking bleach or eating flashlights. It gets worse.Groundhog Day FourA few days ago, former Trump advisor Cirsten Welcon claimed that President Biden had been paid billions of dollars by China to let them test their newest “weather weapons” on Texas. Power outages there, now attributed to corrupt backroom deals by Republican politicians, led to many deaths and considerable suffering.Little did any of us know of the role of the magic Chinese weather machines.In another vignette, it has been a years since Trump advisor and televangelist Kenneth Copeland stood before a television audience raving like a lunatic. He then pursed his lips and blew at the television camera, the “wind of god” which he claimed destroyed COVID forever.This effort by Reverend Copeland, who has millions of followers and a vast financial empire, led President Trump to announce that COVID 19 was going to disappear.ConclusionSome would like to believe that the institutionalized insanity of America’s right is restricted to the “Untermensch” substrata of rural poor whites. However, for decades now, the most radicalized and extremist elements of America’s society, the most ignorant, the most warlike yet cowardly, have gained control of the US military through service academies which espouse their conspiracy theories.With the onset of Trump, they gained much

more than a foothold in American politics, they now control many states “lock, stock and barrel,” and are involved in not just voter suppression but a general quashing of human rights and free speech.The door to this turn of events began well into the 19th century. Laws, still on the books, are now being employed against Donald Trump, from CNN:The Democratic chairman of the House Homeland Security Committee has filed a lawsuit against former President Donald Trump that cites a little-known federal statute that was first passed after the Civil War.The complaint, filed Tuesday by Democratic Rep. Bennie Thompson of Mississippi, accuses Trump, his attorney Rudy Giuliani, the Proud Boys and the Oath Keepers of violating the 1871 Ku Klux Klan Act. The lawsuit accuses them of inciting the Jan. 6 Capitol riot to prevent the certification of the 2020 presidential election.These same extremist elements and calling them “extremist” insults al Qaeda and ISIS (banned in Russia) who are moderate in their beliefs and practices in comparison. These statements might sound extreme in themselves were it not for so many Americans, religious and military leaders, members of government and business leaders calling for wholesale murder of their political opponents citing their personal communication with a non-corporeal authority they said is “god.”Americans hear this all day every day, the emails are unending, TV networks like Fox, OAN or Newsmax say little else, and that message is carried not just through media but lawn signs dotting the countryside.Hundreds of thousands of American homes are festooned with paraphernalia espousing murder of public officials and their families. Americans see it every day driving to work. What they ask themselves when they see things like this is how many others hold these beliefs but keep it to themselves?What if academics wrote papers on the issues, we discuss here? What if the BBC produced a documentary? Would things get better? The problem dates back not just generations but centuries.It is not a moral problem; it is not a political problem. It is one of degeneracy. At some point we may be required to reassess our definition of sentience.

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regeek · 4 years

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Thoughts about the Deltora Gem Guardians

I’ve fallen back into the fandom of a book series I read as a kid thanks to great art, memes, and analysis by tumblr users like @doomofthehills, @sisterofthesouth, @rat-king-reeah, @dragoninmypocket, and @dragonloverdoran. I’ve been rereading the books and ahve a lot of thoughts about them. Theres a really good post by @mask131 about how each book reflects the stone in it that got me thinking about the gem guardians.

Deltora is interesting for it’s themes of anxiety and despair. Sure, each book has a big scary monster, but often the stakes are as emotional as they are physical. Lief clearly struggles with anxiety, and has two attacks (in Shifting Sands and Shadowgate) that almost read like dissociative episodes. A lot of people have said they interpret the struggle against the Shadow Lord as a metaphor for living with depression or anxiety. Rereading the third series this is quite obvious, but I think there’s a bit more woven into the monsters of the original series. All of the Deltora books have a unique, memorable monster in its climax, some of the most diverse in fantasy fiction. But I think each of these monsters has a deeper meaning. In addition to being twisted versions of the ideal each Gem represents, I think they are each intended to represent a negative thought pattern, one that led them to their monstrous life and one the protagonists must keep themselves from falling into.

First up is Gorl, who I think represents Delusion. I’m not saying he’s meant to be a metaphor for actual psychosis symptoms (though he is one of the more unhinged characters in the series) but rather self delusion. Gorl lives in his own little world, unaware of even the most basic developments of Deltora’s history. He’s also one of the least interested in the stone he guards, obsessing over a different treasure our protagonists don’t even want. Gorl has been consumed by both his own greed and guilt, incapable of accepting the reality he has created for himself. He is a mass of paranoia and ignorance, trapped in a prison of his own making. (A theme later touched on in Isle of Illusion.)

Soldeen is one of the easiest to peg: Depression. Happiness and despair are examined from multiple angles in the Lake of Tears, and in Soldeen’s case he represents the tendency for people to drag others into their own misery. This is most clear when he attempts to force Manus to live with him, but is generally why the Lake of Tears is such a depressing place: it’s ruler would rather force others to join in his misery than find happiness for himself.

Reeah is also pretty obvious: Narcissism. It is curious how vain Reeah is, given that pride isn’t one of the main themes of City of the Rats. It is an interesting bit of foreshadowing that Reeah considers itself the most valuable of the Shadow Lord’s servants, the “Chosen One.” We see a lot of the Shadow Lord’s minions feel the same way, though in Reeah’s case it might be true. Reeah was tasked with not only guarding the Opal, but the source of the Grey Tide. Reeah is also the guardian most responsible for corrupting its section of Deltora. The City of Rats exists solely to feed Reeah, giving it a kingdom where every other creature is tiny and insignificant compared to it. But the rats small size is made up for by their numbers, and ultimately they end up feeding on Reeah as it fed on them.

The Hive can be seen as representing Conformity or Compulsion. This sort of thing is par for the course for hive minds in fantasy and sci-fi, but it’s interesting how the Hive affects the minds of those around it. Rigane the Mad and Lief struggled to keep their inviduality when exposed to the will of the Hive. It nearly pushed them into a life of mindless obedience through sheer force of will. The Shadow Lord and his followers always tried to manipulate and control others through trickery and deception, the Hive used brute force. One of the most chilling lines in the series is when Lief realized the warning didn’t say “mindless will to survive” but “mindless will to serve the Hive.” It’s interesting that we never saw the Hive’s queen, though we know it had one. I would assume she was a creature of compulsive service too. The Hive wasn’t about serving an individual, but service for its own sake.

Gellick represents Spite. While Reeah focused on how high it was above others, Gellick relished in punishing those below it. Gellick was petty and demanding, doling out harsh punishments for the smallest slight. It demanded nothing less than complete subjugation and was barely satisfied with that. Gellick was like a petulant child, reminding me of Dudley Dursley. Gellick was able to get away with this abhorrent attitude because it was so certain nobody would rebel against him, as they needed his poison. Gellick took full advantage of this to be as bossy and horrible as possible for he never believed anyone would resist.

The Glus is a little hard to pin down, but I would argue it represents Instinct. Instincts aren’t necessarily bad, but in order to make it in life you have to resist your base urges every now and then. The Glus’ origin story adds an interesting layer, depending how you interpret it. Either it preserved the girl who cared for it in its web forever, or it ate her despite her kindness, ruled only by its own hunger. Either way I think the Maze of the Beast is not the ideal environment for the Glus, and it can be thought of as an invasive species. I imagine the Glus is meant to crawl in the ocean floor, its massive size free to explore the open sea. It is as trapped in the Maze as its victims, refusing to leave a habitat it was not meant for. I find it notable that the way the trio escaped the Glus is by damaging its home, and it ignored prey in favor of its obsessive need to repair its environment. I also find it interesting how the only two Guardians that are not destroyed are the Glus and the Hive, who are also the only two that are natural parts of Deltora’s ecosystem.

The Guardian of the Diamond is kind of tricky. He’s the most intelligent, and most human of the guardians, so his personality is the most complex. He’s also explicitly associated with greed, pride, hate, and envy, making it hard to associate him with a single theme. However I think that overall he is a creature of Sadism. He is obsessed with games and puzzles, forcing his victims to play them. But he delights in the knowledge that no matter what they do, they are doomed to failure. He is excessively polite and glib, even though he plans to kill everyone he meets. And why wouldn’t he be? He knows they can’t steal the Diamond, and even if they figure out his puzzle, the revelation of his “true name” will make them abandon hope. So he sits on the side, taunting his victims with false kindness and reveling in their inevitable suffering.

It should be noted that in each book, Lief, Barda and Jasmine succeed by rejecting the lifestyle of each guardian. They destroy Gorl with the prison of vines he built around himself. They convince Soldeen to pull himself out of his own despair. They feed Reeah to the masses he lorded over. They retrieve the Lapis Lazuli from the Hive by replacing it with something of equal size but no value, and Lief keeps his sanity with the help of his friends. They destroy Gellick by uniting the Kin and Dread Gnomes in rebellion against him, and his own awful personality is what ultimately kills him. They distract the Glus with a more powerful instinct than its hunger. And they play the Guardian’s game but keep up their resolve the whole time, even at its emotionally devastating conclusion.

Anyway, hope any DQ fans reading this liked it. I’d love to hear your thoughts, And I’m thinking about doing a similar thing for the guardians of the Four Sisters.

#deltora #deltora quest

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miracul0us-multishipper · 5 years

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Nullification

Or: Now that I know how to write angst it’s over for you bitches!

Chat Blanc except darker, because I’m full of malice and have no fear of god.

Warning: While I’m not one to write a lot of gore for shocker value, it gets, uh, bloody in this one. Not overly detailed, but still.

Also, there’s a major and a minor character death in this one. Have fun!

- - -

There was light.

Harsh, cold light so bright it left dark splotches in her vision when it faded.

No.

She stumbled forward and fell to the floor. Her red suit was intact, her skin unblemished.

Ladybug had survived.

The realization filled her with dread.

Please, no.

“C-chat...”, she breathed, her voice barely audible. She had forgotten to breath, and she didn’t feel like she was able to start again. The white cataclysm might have as well hit her, she felt like it had punched a hole into her chest.

She looked up.

Not because she wanted to – no, no, no! – but because just couldn’t stop herself.

The space in front of her was empty. There were black stains on the ground, and a small crater. No body. No blood.

Ironically, that made it worse.

Blood meant life, blood meant she could do something. Anything.

Instead, there was nothing indicating Chat Noir - Chat Blanc, Chat! - had ever been there.

Suddenly her body remembered how to breath and seemed intent on making up for the seconds - minutes? - she had lost. The world begann to spin around her as she hyperventilated, small, helpless sounds escaping her constricting throat.

A sob rose up in her chest and turned into a retch halfway through, before coming out as a dry, frantic cough.

She doubled over, her hand hitting something hot and metallic. A ring.

NO!

No, no she couldn’t- this couldn’t- why had he-

A guttural scream tore trough her, twisting her insides by the sheer force of it. Once she had started, she couldn’t stop anymore; every new breath only served to make more room for screaming.

He hadn’t killed her - why hadn’t he killed her?! - and now she was the one left behind again, but there was no Akuma to purify and no evil for Miraculous Ladybug to cleanse. And the look in his eyes had told her that he knew, he knew and did it anyway, why did he do it why did you do it why did you-

Through the tears in her eyes, she saw a shadow and recognized it instantly. She couldn’t make out his form, but the pain in her core was mirrored in his and she knew he was still trying to process what had happened.

Plagg was quiet in his anguish.

He wasn’t weeping like her, wasn’t shaking and screaming like her. His was a wordless grief, too great for such a small body. Motionless, frozen he floated on the spot, green eyes wide with fear and knowledge and pain pain pain.

His head turned, slowly, towards her until they were locking eyes. And for a moment they were one, one gaping wound left by a claw that had never touched them. Not them, never them. Only himself.

“I can bring him back.”, said a voice behind them. He was stepping into her view, warily, circling her at a safe distance. (There is no safe anymore.)

“It doesn’t matter. I can bring him back.”

Hawkmoth’s breathing was a little faster, she noticed. His pupils were blown wide, she noticed. He’d been surprised, startled even. But not shocked. No, nothing affected him enough to shock him. (Yet.) His voice was as even as always. (I’ll make it scream.)

“I just need your earrings, and his ring. And then he’ll live.”

She wondered if he had considered this beforehand. He had known Adrien so long, had groomed and molded him to his every whim. He must have taken this into account.

Yet he had akumatized him regardless. He knew his sons life - death, death, Adrien’s death - could be used to force her into compliance.

Her fingers tightened around the ring, her thumb brushing over it. There was a slight crack in its surface, and its black color seemed to fizzle and glitch beneath her touch. It was hot in her palm, burning.

Hawkmoth’s eyes were fixed on it as well, but he didn’t dare to come closer.

Clever man, she thought.

Cautious.

Self-preservation had always been his forte. Not so much his sons.

Another sob shook her and she choked, heaving and coughing as if she could vomit the pain out of her. The endeavor remained fruitless.

Plagg’s eyes didn’t narrow when he looked at his chosens father murderer. His face was made of stone, but when he looked back to her, his eyes were full of emotion. And... acceptance.

And she knew what she had to do.

“T-Tikki...”, she sobbed. She doubted her friend could hear her, but there was an awareness between them when they were transformed. As if in response to her thoughts, a feeling of dread and pleading rose from the other side of their bond. She knew Tikki would never approve. So she looked to her other half.

“Plagg.”, she whispered. The Kwami closed his eyes, his fangs visible in something between a smile and a snarl.

She looked up at Hawkmoth.

Suddenly the last word was very, very easy.

“Unify.”, she said. Softly. Almost peacefully.

She rose to her feet as Plagg blurred and fused with his Miraculous, a static crackle marking the start of their transformation. Electrical currents shot through her veins and her muscles seized and trembled under their force. She kept going anyway, biting her teeth together and walking on. Step after step.

Warmth filled her and turned into seething heat as her costume changed, Black spreading, red receding, inky hair framing her face freely. White filled her vision and painted her costume, but her focus was unwavering and she kept on walking. Her muscles burned and every breath seemed to rasp her throat bloody, but his pain had been greater, greater, he had screamed so loud and she could do this do this for him-

Then the anger hit her, and oh, wasn’t anger just so much better than grief. Yes, after this horrible loss and sorrow, Plagg’s fury uniting with her own was ecstatic, exuberant. It hit her almost as hard as the rush of power did when the transformation completed, leaving her a mess of black and white, green and green, hot and cold. Red-tipped claws - how poetic - extended from her black gloves, sharp and desperate to dig into skin, stone, reality itself.

Plagg’s ring was of an unblemished, flawless white; like a fresh page of an unused book. Her earrings were pitch black, so dark they seemed to devour the light around them.

She sighed, closing her eyes.

Oh yes, this was so much better.

Where fusing with any other Miraculous had felt draining, this absolute union felt potent, and almighty, and right.

This wasn’t Ladybug, or Lady Noir, or all her Multimouse Fusions. This was regnant, and absolute, and final. This was the darkest chasm and the brightest sun and the entire empty void in between.

She stopped her advance. Right in front of Hawkmoth.

Deeply, she sighed and opened her eyes - three of them, now. Purple and pulsing in an otherworldly light as they regarded the man in front of her. He seemed so small now. So frail. Had it truly been him that had caused her all this anguish? This little amount of pitiful atoms, unfortunate enough to come together in this constellation?

“You are alive.”, Hawkmoth remarked. He sounded surprised. Impressed even. She wondered if he’d ever granted these emotions to Adrien.

“I am.”, she replied. Her body was screaming as every force of nature wanted to tear her apart at once, but she felt more alive than ever. Full of potential, she was the page waiting to be filled and the pen ready to comply.

“How?”

She smiled, genuinely. His honest disbelief and awe amused her. If Adrien were here, he might have made a little joke. She loved his jokes.

“I am very motivated.”

Hawkmoth hums. His curiosity and envy could not mask the fear he hid behind his questions. Her smile widened.

“You are scared.”

“I have no reason to be.”, he was quick to deny. He laughed, looking up to her in false confidence. “No, I have you all figured out. All of you. You are of remarkable intelligence, but your devotion to my son is greater. I have seen how you reject personal gain in favor of his delusions, time after time.”

He leaned closer to her, eyes firm as he felt more and more in control again.

“You want him to be happy, don’t you?”, he implored her. “Think. What does he want? You know it. He wants his family, whole and happy again. Me, his mother and him, happily ever after.”

His face grew softer, as did his voice. He was so sure he could mold her into the role he had planned for her.

“He deserves it, don’t you think so?”, he hummed full of nostalgia. “He sacrificed so much for you already. Surely, his love would sacrifice her selfish want for revenge for him?”

He smiled.

“Make the wish.”, he whispered almost conspiratorially. As if he were telling her an funny story only the two of them were allowed to know. It was so heartwarmingly ignorant. “Make the wish, and make him happy.”

“Happy”, she repeated, her smile widening once again. She sighed pensively, then she looked back at him.

“His name.”

Hawkmoth blinked, his smile frozen on his face.

“...what?”

“You’re not saying his name.”, she explained patiently, nodding encouragingly. “Say it.”

He stayed quiet, confusion growing in his eyes. With it came insecurity. With it came fear.

“Say”, she demanded, “his name.”

Her voice sounded the same to his ears, just the slightest bit off to emphasize her point. The glow in her eyes brightened just a tad and only the slightest whisper of a breeze tugged at their clothes. He gulped and she knew he had gotten the message.

“Adrien”, he said. “Adrien Agreste.”

He didn’t stammer. It rolled over his tongue easily. There was no guilt in his voice, no tears in his eyes. Not even a hitch.

And suddenly she was full of hate and wrath and vengeance and she wanted his blood staining the concrete. She raised a clawed hand and tore it downwards without feeling any resistance.

There was a scream; a sweet, panicked scream and Hawkmoth tumbled backwards, holding his face, covering his bloody eye socket. His intact eye stared at the redness pooling in his palm, staining his suit, dripping onto the ground. His breathing grew ragged as he looked up at her, trembling in pain.

Ah. So this was what shock looked like on him.

“What are you doing?!”, he spat at her. “He’ll never forgive you if you hurt me! He’ll... he’ll hate you! Loathe you!”

She had to suppress a disgusted shiver as she flicked off the eye that was stuck on her index claw. It hit the ground with a squelching sound that made her feel sick, followed by the scraps of his mask she had torn off. The magical fabric may be indestructible to most forces - but she was no longer one of them.

“You’re probably right.”, she admitted and remembered Adrien’s fierce devotion to those he loved. Even if they didn’t deserve it. “He’d rather kill himself than hurt anybody.”

And he had.

“But I guess we won’t out.”

Now Gabriel froze. He swallowed, shaking his head as he tried to comprehend her words.

“...what... what do you mean?”

She raised her hand and observed how the sunlight played on the rings surface. It’s a sunny day, she realized belatedly. How odd.

“Adrien is so full of love.”, she smiled softly, before repeating: “He’d rather kill himself than hurt anybody.”

She lowered the hand and stretched her claws.

“I can feel... so much.”, she murmured, more to herself than to him. “Even if the ring wasn’t cracked, this... balance is delicate. I can’t risk to tip it too far, or everything will come crashing down.”

Adrien didn’t want that, she knew it. And she’d honor it.

“I won’t make the wish.”, she informed Hawkmoth matter-of-fact. He gasped as if she had punched him in the chest. She found it to be quite satisfying.

“B-But you have to! You... You must!”

He jumped up, grabbing her collar and shaking her.

“He’ll be dead otherwise!”, he yelled at her, his blood flying everywhere because of his frantic orders. “Don’t you get it?! You’ll never see him again, you hear me? There’s not even a body you could bury, there’s no goddamn cure!”

He was seething and terrified and she could feel Plagg begging to claw his other eye out. She decided to save it for later. Now, she had to savor this.

“Is that what you want, you sick little psychopath?”, the old man hissed at her. “You want him to have died for nothing? No, for you?! Because that’s what he did!”

He laughed, his single eye racing around erratically.

“He died because of you, Ladybug!”, he shouted gleefully. “Because this poor little son of mine was so convinced you were perfect! How do you think would that stupid boy feel if he knew you just let him perish? His entire useless life wasted for-“

He didn’t get to finish. Her fist collided with his jaw before he could, hurling him through the air and slamming him against a wall. He bounced a little when he fell onto the ground.

She straightened herself and went to walk up to him. He was disoriented, trying to pull himself up the wall, but the hit had been hard.

He fell back on the ground.

“What... What are you?”, the broken, beaten husk of her nemesis whispered. She kneeled down next to him and pulled him into a sitting position by the throat.

“A valid question.”

The darkest chasm and the brightest sun and the entire empty void in between, she had thought earlier. But Adrien had been her light, and Chat Noir her dark knight, so now there was only emptiness. A void.

“Call me Null.”, she answered and her hand around his throat raised him into the air. Her grip tightened, claws digging into the skin above his jugular. She smiled and raised a talon. Plagg purred.

“Now, let me see that other eye of yours.”

- - -

This was loosely inspired by @familyagrestefanblog ‘s post on pv lore

Might do another part of this, but if you want to, feel free to continue this yourselves

#miramu writes #nullification au #miraculous ladybug #mlb #marinette dupain cheng #adrien agreste #gabriel agreste #hawkmoth #ladybug #chat noir #chat blanc #tw gore #tw violence #tw character death

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someoneoffthestreet · 4 years

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Fruits Basket 2x02

HI I JUST SPENT MY TIME GLEEFULLY TWIRLING THROUGH THIS EPISODE SO LET’S GET TO IT.

Arisa and Kyo’s frienemy status is a beautiful thing. And Kyo seems to have accepted the nickname given by his classmates.

Saki “if anyone’s marrying Tohru it’s gonna be me” Hanajima everyone.

Poor Kyo and Yuki had no idea what they were in for when they were assigned to be Tohru’s primary love interests. Saki and Arisa are the fiercest of mom friends and they will be giving a test at the end of this, study up.

Yuki’s life has been so rigid and stifling that the future leaves him nervous and uncertain. Meanwhile, as is revealed in this very episode, Kyo has no guarantee that even has a future at all.

The sheer joy and adorableness of these scenes at Kazuma’s home are going to make me explode. Kazuma doing his fatherly duty by sharing embarrassing facts about Kyo, while Kyo is totally at home around Kazuma and Tohru. It does a heart good to see him be so open and himself in this episode, especially when paired with Kazuma’s flashback to how Kyo was just last year. It puts Tohru’s influence and just how far Kyo’s come in that time into stark, blessed relief.

Kazuma learns that Kyo cooked for Tohru and is delighted, leaving no choice but for his son to kick him out before the poor boy can lose anymore face.

“You’ve got a phone call... It’s from Kyo’s father.” That’s weird, how is Kazuma calling himself? ((((((:

I’m just kidding (I’m really not) HEY GUYS LOOK THE GARBAGE STAIN ON THIS WORLD HAS ARRIVED.

Like, look at this introductory scene. How Kyo’s bio-father spends the whole time looking almost unhinged. How he consistently, stubbornly refers to Kyo as “it”. THE SELF-RIGHTEOUSNESS AND DELUSION IN EVERY WORD THAT COMES OUT OF HIS MOUTH HOLY CRAP SIR YOU ARE THE ACTUAL WORST.

And then Kazuma- Kazuma does the worst thing he possibly can to this dude: he compares him to Kyo and is absolutely right. Kyo’s bio-father is in the same headspace that Kyo spent season 1 (and arguably most of his childhood) in, focusing all of his anger and hate onto a single source, and perceived wellspring of all his misfortune in a desperate attempt to keep going. But the difference is: Kyo was, and is, a child, focusing on his peer. It makes the extremity of his emotions more excusable, and he’s more malleable to change, just as he’s already started to. Kyo’s bio-dad is a grown adult, and he’s taking this all out on, again, a child, which is bad enough, but also his own son.

“It’s not my fault!” he shouts, and the record player becomes stuck, begins playing the same refrain over and over. It’s not my fault! It’s not my fault!

KAZUMA PROCEEDS TO MURDER THE MAN IN HIS OWN HOME AND LEAVE WITHOUT ONCE LOSING HIS COMPOSURE OR DIGNITY WHAT A BADASS.

Meanwhile, getting back to ~future talk. Tohru, too, is feeling anxiety about the future, but it’s different from Yuki and Kyo. Tohru’s life has been a tumultuous one, presented here with the different homes she’s lived in at different points in her life. In the first episode, Tohru says to Shigure, “I lost my home again.” Now, she’s being forced to consider leaving her home once again, once again being uprooted, once again having to adapt in order to survive. Where will she go next? What will she do when she gets there?

Kyo, perceptive kitty that he is when it comes to Tohru, picks up on this, and instead of letting Tohru sit and stew decides to address it plainly. On the one hand, I relate hard to Tohru not wanting to talk and being embarrassed by crying in front of Kyo like this; on the other, Kyo reinforces that it’s ok if she needs to cry, it’s not a big deal, she can be like this around him and she doesn’t have to be embarrassed.

In the heat of her panic, Tohru reaches out for Kyo’s beads like a lifeline, this confirmation that Kyo has his own burden to bear, that he’s just as in over his head as she is, she’s not alone. And Kyo doesn’t freak out. We know perfectly well what happens when those beads come off, and Kyo, while naturally startled, doesn’t panic when she grabs them. And instead takes her hand. I am GOING-

Finally, Shigure swoops in (how long was he listening) to grant Tohru some sage advice. It’s not often that he does this (the last I can remember is with Kyo back in episode 2) but somewhere in that miasma of clownery, deviousness, and shady meddling is a genuinely perceptive person who, on occasion, uses his powers for good.

Poor Kyo, he just wanted to share a quiet dinner with Tohru and she goes and invites the whole household, which just happens to be the two people Kyo cannot stand, because she’s Tohru.

Spoilers under the cut (YES I HAVE EVEN MORE TO SAY!)

Arisa’s met someone at work. I AM LITERALLY CLAPPING IN GLEE.

That cutaway before Kyo’s mom gets hit by the train is so unsettling, 10/10 storyboarders.

“Are you saying it’s my fault?” YES. YES IT IS YOUR FAULT. DEAL WITH IT.

I know exactly what Momiji wants. I know exactly what he’s wishing for and I love him and he actually gets his wish in the end I’m-

MINE AND AYAME ARRIVE IN ALL THEIR GLORY NEXT EPISODE HECK YEAH.

#in which I ramble #Fruits Basket #fruits basket spoilers #fb manga spoilers #sorry I may have gone insane for a hot second there

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lamortexiii · 3 years

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Cryptic Mystic: Karma, Keepers, or Something Else...

Karma, Keepers, or Something Else…: I am sure that you have heard the phrase “reap what you sow” at some point in your life, otherwise known as karma. Maybe you’ve experienced karma in your life. After all, we receive what we put out into the universe… or do we? Some believe there is a “keeper” or someone watching over us that protects us and provides us good or bad experiences based on how we interact with others (some may say “angels). If this is so, is this individual or universal? Maybe “keepers” are loved ones who have left their physical form, or maybe they are something that our human minds are currently incapable of understanding. For some this may even simply be a grandeur delusion brought on by narcissistic personality traits or possibly a mental disorder. A little unknown mixed in with a little psychology, served on a platter as per usual. Let’s dive right in to 2021 with this debatable topic, shall we?

I’ll start by informing you that karma actually possesses many meanings depending on what culture and country you are in. The most familiar American definition of karma - meaning that bad things happen to those who do bad things and good things happen to those who do good things - is but one definition of many. Now, this definition that we understand here in America is of course defined by what one perceives as good and bad - this can look different for many people. Having said this, there is no “one way” to believe in karma or to define what “good and bad” mean. For our purposes, I am going to define the terms karma, good, and bad in the most generalized sense that a majority of American society would view as the typical definition. Just know, this may or may not apply to your personal beliefs of what defines “good and bad” or your personal beliefs of what the definition of “karma” is. I completely agree that there are many viewpoints and perceptions and do not discount differences in opinions/beliefs by any means.

Karma originated from the Sanskrit term meaning “action, work, or deed.” It was a plain and simple definition, as if I were having a conversation with you and said, “The karma that he is completing on that house looks marvelous!” I realize how utterly ridiculous that sounds in today’s way of speaking - given the word was just used completely out of cultural context, but you get the point. The word “karma” at that time was just another word and carried little significance. That is, until 1000-700BCE when within the Vedic religion the definition of karma actually meant something that you likely would not guess. The definition took an abrupt and dramatic turn and was used to define not only the word “act,” but additionally it was defined as actions that took place regarding ritualistic and sacrificial occurrences.

Karma in itself has ancient roots in religion such as Hinduism, Buddhism, and Sikhism to name a few. Karma is seen as a sort of rebirth process in which the way that an individual is in the present day affects their future - all within the same life cycle. Within this realm, karma also affects one’s samsara, or quality of life. In Asia karma is portrayed through symbols such as the endless knot, which symbolizes the never ending process of cause and effect. In knowing this, you can see why karma closely relates to the philosophical theory of causality, defined as when one event contributes to another event where the cause is partly responsible for the effect, and the effect is partly dependent on the cause. The idea of karma in this sense is seen as a never ending cycle - one that highly influences the circle of life. This is what we know and recognize in modern American society, as well as in many other first-world countries/cultures.

In current society we then view karma as defining the relationship of cause and effect. Some view this as a very spiritual term, believing that there is a higher power who controls the occurrences of karma. Others simply use the term with reckless abandon - not actually understanding what it means, as society has culturally appropriated the term to fit the American narrative. Yet others (myself included) question the occurrence of karma and the several possibilities that may be at play here. Whether you believe karma occurs due to a higher power, some other religious aspect, sheer luck, extraterrestrials, a delusional belief, something else, or maybe you don’t believe in it at all - and that’s okay! Regardless of what you believe, we’re going to dive into some of those possibilities today. As I always say, once you have read this blog it is up to you to ultimately decide what you believe.

From a personal standpoint, I have been in many situations where either I don’t know how I survived, or at the bare minimum how I managed to come out of certain situations unscathed. I have been in several car accidents that were so much more than just fender benders - coming out of all of those without a single scratch. I have never caused an accident, however for whatever reason I seem to be a target for idiots who don’t know how to drive. I guess I just have that attraction factor. All jokes aside, I consider myself lucky to have not been injured in any of the accidents that I have been in. I have to wonder how this is possible, but then another person can be in ONE accident and it’s all over.

I will share a more intimate incident with you that is much darker than a happenstance car accident. When I was much younger I tried to take my own life. I didn’t want to be in this body on this planet any longer. I remember thinking to myself - there has to be something better than this. I swallowed a bunch of unknown pills doused with alcohol. I attempted this on two different occasions. Both times made me extremely ill. The first time I vomited and then felt very tired. The second time I fell to the floor and almost became unconscious. I was very dizzy and couldn’t stand/walk. I went to sleep for several hours with a low heart rate and shallow breathing. However, after both of these occurrences many years later, I realize that I was put here for a bigger purpose. I have many reasons I am here - sharing this blog with you being one of them. I wasn’t meant to leave my physical form here on Earth either one of those times. I like to think that something is protecting me, however I cannot say with certainty what that is or why exactly…

My biological mother was in a bad car accident when she fell asleep at the wheel. It threw her from the car and knocked off both of her sneakers. She woke up laying in the grass without shoes. She told me that she doesn’t remember much, but that she saw white hands on her shoulders and felt like whatever that was had pushed her through the accident. She came out without any serious injuries - only suffering minor bruising. It is important to note that she has had similar experiences as I have with feeling things and experiencing premonitions.

To touch on karma a bit from a personal experience, I have a short but interesting story to tell. Growing up I didn’t have many true friends and found myself surrounded by individuals who acted in a manner that I did not understand. There was a lot of negative energy on behalf of those around me; jealousy, lies, deceit, bad intentions, and misery. I wasn’t treated very well by my peers or in relationships. In fact, I was bullied, mentally abused, and physically abused by several people as I grew from a child to an adolescent. Interestingly enough, I found that those who did absolutely wrong to me that had the worst of intentions always had something bad happen to them. One person that comes to mind was blown up in an explosion overseas while serving in the military. Another person was in a bad car accident. From what I know currently, all of these people who were utterly nasty to me continue to lead miserable lives - because they are in fact miserable people. Whether this is just their nature or that they just didn’t have the strength and willpower to seek better things for themselves is debatable. Nonetheless, none of them as far as I know are happy in the present day and have likely never experienced true real happiness. As described before, some of these people have had very bad things happen to them. Is this karma or maybe a keeper’s doing? I have no idea, but it is something I have turned over in my mind for many years, and continue to ponder on from time to time.

One theory some hold is that angels are protecting people. This could turn into a really big conversation, so I will try my best to stay objective here and stick to the main topic of karma and keepers. I challenge the theory of angels for the following reasons: The Bible was written by several people with several different versions available, as have all books that we know today. Christianity in itself, as well as several other religions point to the sky (or heavens) as being the source of an almighty power. What if angels are actually extraterrestrials and those who have experienced said “angels” rationalize their experience by putting a name on the experience, therefore believing it was a religious experience rather than something that they didn’t understand - as a form of coping with the unknown. That is my personal theory in relation to “keepers” and the “karma” experienced therein as being related to any type of angelic form. This also covers how extraterrestrials could very well be the forces pulling the strings. As humans we base our logical thinking on what it is we know to be true - or what we have been taught is the truth, but how do we really know? The short answer is - we don’t. It is much easier to put a label on something to be able to process what that thing is than to be left to wonder and be afraid of what we do not know and understand. It is much easier to read what others have written and blindly accept it as being “the truth” or “the way” without seeking further proof. Just a few things to think about - and this goes for any religion. Group-think is a good descriptive term that comes to mind.

The religious standpoint on karma and “keepers” has everything to do with psychology and the human brain and its functions. Think about it as I said before - the human brain naturally tries to rationalize and process new information in a way that is understandable and logical. This varies depending on who you are talking to of course, but is the ultimate foundation for religion. Beginning in ancient times before electricity, technology, and all of the wonderful (and not so wonderful) things we have now, the less intelligent brains of those before us attempted to rationalize what they were experiencing. Let me give you a universal example that is actually more recent - did you know at one point women were seen as being psychotic and even evil for having hormonal symptoms related to their menstrual cycle and even for having a menstrual cycle period? (no pun intended) Women were put through horrible treatment to try to treat PMS, and it was even seen as being a mental illness/disorder for a very long time! At one point in time menstruating women were seen as being involved in magic and sorcery (whoops, you got me!). To quote some religious scripture, “go apart from women during the monthly course, do not approach them until they are clean” Quran 2:222, “…in her menstrual impurity; she is unclean… whoever touches…shall be unclean and shall wash his clothes and bathe in water and be unclean until evening” Leviticus 15, and lastly from the first Latin encyclopedia, “Contact with menstrual blood turns new wine sour, crops touched by it become barren, grafts die, seed in gardens are dried up, the fruit of trees fall off, the edge of steel and the gleam of ivory are dulled, hives of bees die, even bronze and iron are at once seized by rust, and a horrible smell fills the air; to taste it drives dogs mad and infects their bites with an incurable poison.” Okay… so… you realize how ridiculous all of this sounds, right? However, it was not ridiculous at the time - the people who lived in those times found a way to explain, rationalize, and describe what they felt was logical for explaining a woman’s menstrual cycle. Freud attempted to explain why people felt this way about menstrual cycles by stating that humans are naturally scared and uncomfortable around blood - again the human brain giving a logical explanation for why these thoughts and beliefs occurred. We know now through research and scientific data (actual tangible proof) that PMS is related to the shift in hormones women experience during that special time of month, which can cause a plethora of symptoms. This is easily treatable today with modern medicine or more holistic approaches - both of which have also been scientifically proven to work.

I know that last paragraph seems a little off course for this particular blog topic, but it carries a strong point that I feel necessary to make. Point being: religion is just another way the human brain tries to rationalize an event that is happening that is unexplained, new, different, abnormal, or scary; the same way that human brains of ancient times tried to rationalize with women bleeding from their vaginas. Having answers and an explanation gives people peace of mind. Once an idea becomes universal, again, it makes it easy to follow and just shrug the phenomena off as being caused by whatever is said by whoever is explaining it as their belief. The same is said for keepers, karma, and everything in between.

From a disorder perspective, it is very possible that some people believe in having a “keeper” because they are divine or special to a point of being above others. This behavior would likely fall under a more Narcissistic Personality Disorder or potentially some form of psychosis or schizophrenia. Reason being, these disorders involve hallucinations, delusions, and irrational beliefs that are of a bizarre nature. All three have key factors that make them different of course. For example, Narcissistic Personality Disorder revolves more around the person having selfish traits and not possessing the ability to connect with others all while believing they are of a certain prestige pedigree or above others. Psychosis and schizophrenia look similarly to one another in that both include symptomology involving hallucinations, delusions, and breaks from reality, however schizophrenia can actually cause psychosis. Additionally, patients diagnosed with schizophrenia may have symptoms of psychosis but not everyone with psychosis will be diagnosed with schizophrenia. Keeping it short here, but those are the basics of those three conditions. Knowing this, it is easy to see how someone could hold a belief that they have someone watching over them because they are special, or that some force is causing them to receive good karma or inflict bad karma on those who do them wrong.

Regardless of which way you choose to look at keepers and karma, both are definitely interesting phenomena that could use more research and productive discussions. Keeping an open-mind is always the path I personally choose to take because there are so many factors and options to consider before making a solid judgement on what the actual root cause of either one of these is. I wanted to kick 2021 off with an interesting yet somewhat debatable topic to really get you thinking. There are plenty more blogs in store where this one came from. This year will be much better than what we knew as 2020 (good riddance!) Here’s to another year full of education, knowledge, mystery, good conversation, and intriguing topics that really get those gears turning in your brain. Stay safe, be you, and never stop seeking the truth - whatever that truth is for you.

Cryptic Mystic Blog by PsychVVitch

www.LaMorteXiii.com

#crypticmystic #lhp #occultblog #witchcraft #wicca #pagan #highermagick #blackflame #coven #livedeliciously #thecraftyvvitch #psychvvitch #lamortexiii #luciferian #satanism #asabovesobelow #knowledge #freedom

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