#wtf is this obscure image...

[bending-sickle]

The Wounded Angel (1903) by Hugo Simberg

Finnish: Haavoittunut enkeli; Swedish: Sårad ängel

It is one of the most recognizable of [Finnish symbolist painter Hugo] Simberg's works, and was voted Finland's "national painting" in a vote held by the Ateneum art museum in 2006. In a similar 2013 vote held by Nordic Moneta, it was voted second most important. [wiki]

[esotericbluntbaby]

hear me out. . . high sex with hamzah😍.

he’s so hot.

sneak

hamzahthefantastic x reader

description: a rough date causes bad decisions to be made. upset, you decided to call your ex, who also so happens to be one of your closest friends, to smoke with you.

mentions: smoking, drug use, angst, smut, happy ending, nsfw!

woahhh first smut fic.. don't worry for those who are getting tired of smut fics! i will continue to balance out of fics with a mixture of sfw and nsfw, with the sfw most likely being angst!

--

the dating scene simply wasn't for you.

sure, you've dated people in the past, though, you knew always that they were supposed to be temporary in your life. you had the mindset of acceptance when it came to temporary and permanent; the concept of allowing things to happen and allowing everything to fall into place as if a higher being would spin a wheel for each and every outcome of your life was common for you to think about.

however, the date you went on made you wonder about how thin the line is between permanence and temporariness is.

you thought the date went well. you both arrived at the purring lady on time; the bar's ambient lighting amplified the romantic tension between you and him. in fact, the night flew past without much awkward silence. you thought you knew him quite well by the end of the date, wishing him a safe ride home and kissing his cheek.

about to text him about a second date, which you urgently hoped for, you realized the texts were green; he had blocked you without a single explanation.

so, you were currently sat in your apartment windowsill eating ice cream and gazing out the window at the city's skyline. the sense of comfort from both your home and the area around you allowed you to heal from the night a bit faster; almost as if the sole action was the tylenol to your dating scene headache.

being honest with yourself, you were hoping to bring him home. you found him attractive, almost as if he was on the cover of some obscure magazine. your date was the kind of person that you'd see once and the sheer image and thought of them would wrap around your head like the bandaid to the loneliness that overtakes you. you wouldn't mind being touched by him. however, he's gone now, so the bandaid was ripped off.

scrolling through your text messages, you realize hamzah texted you. the relationship that you and hamzah had used to be romantic. in fact, he was one of the people who taught you that some people are permanent; though you aren't together anymore, you still remained close. you would be lying if you said you didn't really feel anything for him anymore. no matter what, you think you'd always be a simple text or phone call away from him. no matter what, you think you'll always have some level of feeling towards him. though, some resentment will always be there; he was still the reason you tried to find love in dating apps instead of that whole friends-to-lovers deal.

hamzah

10:43 pm | yo

10:43 pm | how'd it go?

you

11:24 pm | ehhh

11:25 pm | i thought it went well

11:24 pm | i guess he didn't bc im blocked now lol

11:24 pm | fuck me for trying to get back into dating again

hamzah

11:26 pm | r u okay?

11:26pm | im like here if u need to talk abt it

11:26 pm | or i can js come over

11:28 pm | we can smoke it out

11:29 pm | i got the mango wraps that u like

you

11:29 pm | i thought u didn't like the mango ones

hamzah

11:30 pm | i dont

11:30 pm | but u do

you

11:30 pm | doors open for whenever

hamzah

11:31 pm | dont leave ur door open wtf lock it n js unlock it when im there

11:32 pm | what if theres a murderer on the loose

you

11:33 pm | holy shit hamzah

hamzah

11:34 pm | sorry coming

--

thankfully, you didn't get murdered by a man in a mask wielding an axe.

hamzah and you were currently on your couch, eyes ruby and lidded with the weed in front of you guys glistening in your lines of sight. hamzah began to roll you a blunt using the mango wraps you enjoyed; he never, ever allowed you to roll on your own. he always preferred doing it for you ever since you both found out that each of you use weed as a pastime for boredom. however, for you, it started to morph into a way to stop hurting. the date from tonight wasn't the first date to have gone "horribly," in fact, it was a sequence of many. you started to feel better now that you aren't using on your own; hamzah was there now. maybe the pain from your heart justifies the pain you're risking towards your body. more importantly, hamzah gives an extra buzz; it was both the blunt in between his fingertips and himself that was helping you feel less lonely.

you reached for the blunt in his hand, itching to take a hit. however, he moved it slightly away from you. confused, you looked up at him, gazing at him. the black beanie, hiding most of his curls besides the ones at the nape of his neck, surprisingly complimented the redness of his scelera. gazing at him, your eyes twinkled as if the fire from the lighter appeared in them. this was the feeling you felt like you'd always achieve from the mere sight of him; a feeling of companionship.

"what's up?" he asked, not allowing you to take the blunt from his hand.

you snapped out of the gaze he intertwined you with, "huh?"

"you seem more out of it than usual," he took a puff from the blunt between his fingers, "i swear you never smoked this much."

"i don't- i haven't smoked a lot."

"you just took like 15 drags from it."

"i did?"

"yeah, you did. so, what's up?"

you slowly blinked, "i don't know."

"you do. tell me, talk about it- maybe it'll help."

you steal the blunt from his hand, taking a long hit as he stares are you with an unfamiliar emotion in his eyes. possibly it was worry, or pity, or a cross mix between the two. maybe, he realized how much you changed since the two of you ended things.

"i guess i just feel lonely."

"how so?"

"i've been on 5 dates in the past 5 months, once every 4 weeks- and i guess like, i dunno, the more i go on these dates the more i realize how, like, shitty everyone is. this last guy i went on a date with, noah, i thought it went well. kissed his cheek and everything- the full 9 yards for a first date. then i realized he blocked me as soon as he left. it's like somethings driving people away."

"i'm sorry."

"for what?"

he takes a long drag out of cylinder, "that people don't see you the way that i do."

"what do you mean?"

"you know what i mean, like-" he hesitated.

"don't think about it too much. just say it as it is."

he started, "when we were dating, i saw you as human."

"i mean- obviously."

"no, you don't get it," he softly assured, " i think before you, or like, dating you, i worshipped all the people i was with like they were some god. i got on my knees and saw them as this higher being to praise, to the point where my relationships constantly belittled me. i was just some guy and they had the fate of everything in their hands. why would someone with all that power love someone like me?"

"sorry, i'm lost-"

"then, i got to the point of my life where i dated you and, for the first time, i was with someone who was equal. i didn't have to work my ass off to keep you in my life; in fact, the time where i was so upset that i wasn't working my ass off, you took, like, 80% of that relationship for a full week and carried it on your back. i thought you'd just leave. when i was struggling, i thought you wouldn't want some burden for you to carry on your shoulders, weighing you down like you were walking up hills with rocks taped to 'em. no, instead you picked me up. i was crashing and breaking, constantly, and somehow, you taped all the cracks together and now i'm alright again. yeah, a higher being plays with fate and lives and chance and all of that, but there's so much in the world that they leave broken and unattached. only a human would take the time and effort to mend me back together."

you looked at him with furrowed brows and a pit in your heart, "hamzah, i don't get it. if you felt this way towards me, why'd you leave?"

"feel."

"what?"

"i still feel this way about you. i never stopped."

your eyes began to water and you couldn't tell if it was from the weed or from the secrets being let out of the closet, "you're fucking with me. what the fuck?"

he watched as your eyes glistened and began to rub your thigh comfortingly. you two sat on the couch in silence as thoughts ran through both of your heads; it was now up to the both of you if voicing the voices in your head was a good idea or not. simultaneously, you both decided to take the leap, with hamzah breaking the quietude of the room.

"i was scared."

"of?"

"if things didn't work out- if we kept going in the relationship and somehow we started arguing more or ignoring- i don't think i would've been able to handle it."

"i wanted to handle it."

"well-"

your voice cracked in the middle of your sentences, "no, hamzah, i could've handled it because i was with you. you left me! you left me when i needed you. i keep on trying to fill the space you just left in my heart and my apartment with random guys off of any dating app available and it just doesn't fucking work. why would you leave me like that? i mended your cracks and then you suddenly decided to give them back to me, and now i'm trying to fix it but i just can't. why would you do that, you fucking ass? and why would you tell me about it right now?"

"i'm sorry-"

"no, this should've never happened, i should've never invited you over. what the fuck?"

"kick me out, then."

"what?"

he stood up, with you standing up right after, "you regret this. it's fine. kick me out. tell me to leave."

"fuck you, hamzah, you know that i can't just do that."

"i'm telling you, kick me out."

you pushed him, "what the fuck is wrong with you?"

"keep doing that. push me as much as you want, i deserve it."

your hands found its way to his chest, pushing as if you didn't beg for him to pull. he stared at you with a certain glint in his eyes; a certain neediness you haven't seen in him in a while. to say this was only a reaction of frustration towards him and his actions towards you would be a lie. it was everything all at once; the frustration from all the dates, the frustration from all hamzah put you through, and the frustration of not being touched ever since being with him. you were sexually pent up. you pushing him was actually the only form of physical touch you've had in ages. he took it. he simply took all the pushes you threw at him.

over time, the pushes got less and less aggressive, resulting in him being able to wrap his arms around you as you softly cried. you weren't fully sobbing, but it was still enough tears to the point where his shirt was slightly soaked. he didn't care; he never cared that his shirt was wet from you crying. he continued to hold you as he sat both of you down, back onto your couch.

"why would you do that to me?"

he kissed your forehead, "baby, i'm sorry. i'm so sorry."

he held you for what seemed like ages, stroking your hair and wiping your tears with his thumbs. you were confused; what do you want out of this? what does he want out of this? you wreathed out of his arms and sat beside him, both of your red tinted eyes remaining on each other's.

"i can leave now, if you want. it's two in the morning. i'm sorry."

"no."

"i'm not good for you. i leave when things get hard, baby, and i don't want you to go through that aga-"

you reached for his cheeks, thumbs in the fronts of them, and leaned towards him. your heads tilted to opposite sides, your lips connecting with bridges, mountains, and oceans of emotion between them. his hands made its way to your hips with his fingertips denting the stretchmarks, slightly tracing them as if his eyes were still opened. his tongue reached the inside of your mouth with hunger and desperation laced in his saliva. three minutes of sole kissing went by, before you pulled away.

"stay. please."

"what do you want from me, baby?"

"you know what i want from you. what do you want from me?"

"take a guess."

his hands made their ways to your thighs, pulling you over onto his lap, before connecting your lips again. he stood up, holding you with his muscular forearms, and navigated his way through the living room with his eyes still closed. the layout of your living room hasn't changed since he was last changed; hamzah was observant. he knew what he was doing.

reaching your room, he laid you onto bed with aspects of both foiling gentleness and roughness. getting on top of you, his lips made its way down your neck, making dark, blood-restricted marks down your body. it hurt; yet, you craved the pain it gave you. as he reached down to kissing your hips, you took off your shirt, leaving you in a bra. he stopped kissing you to hover over you, instead taking his beanie and hoodie off of himself in swift motions.

"do this often?" you teased.

he kissed you on the lips, "only with you."

he took off your shorts, revealing a black, lace thong underneath.

"you really just wear this shit around your house?"

"you were coming over," you started to take off his sweatpants, "i needed to prepare for the unexpected."

"god, you're so fucking hot."

the two of you laid in bed, him hovering over you and placing kisses and marks all over your body. he had always been a tease; you knew that hamzah liked to take his time with it. he said it feels better for the both of you if he does. however, currently, you weren't having it.

"hamzah, please."

"hm? what's the matter baby?"

"i need more, baby, please."

"are you still on birth control?"

"yeah, i am."

he took off his boxers, revealing the same 6 inches that you craved at night; actually, touched yourself to the thought of at night. his hand made its way to his dick, stroking it before moving your underwear to the side. as it slid inside of you for the first time, a burning sensation overtook the pleasure the entrance made you feel. your eyes teared up once more, followed by hamzah using his hand to wipe it off.

"hurts- fuck- it hurts-"

he kissed you lovingly, "it's okay; there's no rush. i'll start when you're ready."

you adjusted to his size as you made out with him, pulling away to tell him that he could move now. the pleasure he gave you couldn't even be measured; his movements made you forget all about the emotional pain that consumed you. there was comfortable eye contact, both of you looking at each other with the same eyes that started off high about 2 hours ago. your mouths remained slack jawed and wide open, occasionally kissing each other on the lips or mouth. suddenly, it felt as if a rope was about to snap inside of you.

"i'm close. fuck- i'm close."

he moved your leg up, resting it on his shoulder as his pace sped up. your eyes rolled back as ripples of pleasure echoed throughout your whole body. hamzah was good at this; he knew what he was doing and how to make you feel as good as you possibly can. with a few more strokes, you felt him release inside of you. he soon collapsed beside you, as you both caught your breaths.

hamzah turned to you and kissed you on the forehead, "i missed you."

"i missed you, too."

"what does this mean for us, now?" he hesitated, "i mean, am i gonna leave tomorrow and suddenly it's just like none of this happened, or-

"do you regret it?" you asked him, slightly scared of the answer.

"hey," he put his hand on your cheek, "i just spent the damn near the entire night telling you about how i could never regret you. fuck, i literally bought the wraps you like just for you. not to mention, i fucking hate the way they taste and they're a pain in the ass to roll and yet i did both smoke and roll them this entire night. i don't do that shit for just anyone. you tell me, do you think you regret it?"

"no. i don't. i can't regret you either, even if i tried."

"we'll start over. i'll do things right, this time, i promise."

you realized the line between temporariness and permanence wasn't as thin as you thought it would be, as now a temporary lover finally realized his permanence in your life.

--

authors note!

i am honestly not that experienced with smut, so i hope u guys still mess with it >_<

[m1ckeyb3rry]

Synopsis: Sunday is your mirror, as you are his — or, how meeting him spells your doom, just like losing you spells his.

HSR Masterlist

Pairing: Sunday x Reader

Word Count: 7.2k

Content Warnings: female reader, second person in some parts and third person sunday pov in others, religious themes because…it’s sunday…, not canon compliant because idk wtf happened in penacony and i don’t feel like figuring it out, not lore compliant either because i’m #toocool for that, ooc because i wanted to make sunday a freak, major character death but not really on screen just mentioned/implied, unreliable narrators, halovians are Very Different (both from their canon depictions and from humans in general), robin mentioned but she’s also probs ooc idfk i’ve never written for honkai star rail and i’ve played for like a month tops, sunday is a d1 piner, sunday loses it, sunday crashes out, weird narrative structure, very nonsensical, in terms of endings we have no endings (it’s like open to interpretation ig), m1ckeyb3rry’s monthly drop of MID

A/N: i wrote this really quickly for my beloved illu’s birthday!! unfortunately i didn’t get the idea until like two days after the date itself so it’s a bit late LMAOO also it sucks but. it has SUNDAY !! my first foray into the hsr verse…hehe…anyways illu i could go on about how much i appreciate you and how glad i am that we’re friends but for the sake of conciseness i shall leave it at HAPPY BIRTHDAY MY GOAT @milksnake-tea I LOOK FORWARD TO ANOTHER YEAR OF CRASHING OUT TOGETHER 🙂‍↕️💖 LOVE AND KISSES I HOPE YOU LIKE THIS A BIT!!!

There is a ghost waiting for him in the confessional booth. Velvet curtains cover the latticed wood, obscuring its contents from his view, but the effect comes to nothing. He knows she’s there, he always does, he can feel her presence. It’s a chill seeping into his bones as he kneels — he doesn’t need to kneel, of course he doesn’t need to, but it’s a habit he’s yet unwilling to break — and clasps his hands together. It’s a supplication for something, but it isn’t until his mouth is opening of its own volition, his wings fluttering in alarm and his eyes widening as the words are wrenched from his lips, that he realizes what he’s begging for.

“Please,” he whispers. His voice echoes in the empty room, mocking him, teasing him. Please. Please. What right does he have to ask her anything? He’s sure that’s what she’s thinking. He’s sure she’s laughing in that odd way of hers, and his throat constricts at the image. “Please—”

Forgive me? It reverberates in his mind, that fragment of a thought, jagged at the edges, sharp like a blade and twice as cruel. Isn’t that it? Forgive me. Forgive me. Please, forgive me. 

“Condemn me,” he says instead, and then he’s struck by a burst of anger, hot and unyielding and entirely at odds with the weight of his tongue in his mouth, which is all leaden and unwieldy and clumsy and despicable. “Condemn me or forgive me or what have you!”

He waits, as he always does. One, two, three. He counts on his fingers, an invisible metronome ticking in his mind, mechanical and perfect in rhythm, keeping time for his vigil. Four, five, six. The curtain flutters in a phantom breeze, and for a second he can pretend that he sees a flash of bright in the darkness of the booth, a dancing shade like a glittering iris peering back at him. Seven, eight, nine. He doesn’t care what she says. He doesn’t care about any of it. As long as she says something, it’s fine. Condemn me. Forgive me. He’s not sure which he would prefer at this point.

Ten.

The ghost is silent.

The first time you met Sunday, it was raining. Everything about him was limp in the storm — his clothes, the fabric clinging to his slender frame; his hair, spilling onto his pale brow and trailing down his mannequin-straight back; even his wings, which drooped miserably towards his shoulders, the preened feathers translucent at the edges from dampness. 

When he turned to glance at you, you expected his demeanor to shimmer with the famous benevolence of his family. Sunday Oak, the heir, the young lord; certainly there would be a kindness to him, a gentleness permeating throughout the very essence of his being. Certainly he had been born a saint, anointed in the waters of his mother’s womb before he could even draw breath, incapable of humanity’s many shortcomings and fallacies. Certainly these things were true, and that was why it frightened you all the more when, for one singular moment, his impassive mien crumpled into a glare, as baleful as it was captivating.

His eyes were a sharp, canny gold, feline in both shape and shrewdness, framed by lashes clumped together with wet. They were terrible in the way of a dying star, that peculiar brand of horror so beautiful that it was impossible to look away, and indeed you stood transfixed until he cleared his throat and arranged his face into a polite smile. 

“I wasn’t aware we had visitors today,” he said. He spoke carefully, perfunctorily, reading from a script he must’ve memorized long ago. You stiffened, for although he had not given you any reason to think it, you were suddenly very certain that you were not supposed to see him like this, his fingers curling over the slick rail of his balcony, his dark abdominal wings folded tightly over his stomach and his halo dull in whatever light struggled through the clouded sky.

“I was just leaving,” you said. “I must have made a wrong turn. I apologize for disturbing you, sir.”

“You needn’t apologize,” he said, and there he was, the man who you had expected: Sunday, the scion of the Oak Family. Gracious Sunday; magnanimous Sunday; Sunday the prince and Sunday the saint. He was so finely constructed it made you wince, his blinding delicacy and keen refinement eerie, preternatural. A baser instinct of yours told you to run, reminding you of a time when those of his kind ruled over humanity with impunity, pleading with you to save yourself before it was too late.

You bit back your fear so hard that blood exploded over your palate, salty and sweet in turn, viscous as you swallowed it back and offered him a smile. He did not return it in full, but the corners of his mouth curled up slightly. That should’ve been soothing, but it only served to worsen the electric anxiety running through your veins.

“I shall call my sister and tell her to fetch you,” he said. “I would hate for you to find the Oaks remiss in our hospitality. I am sincerely sorry that you were not given an escort earlier.”

There were so many things you could say to him. I ran. Does that make me remiss? I’m the one who ran from them. You could reassure him, promise him that you would be alright on your own and there was no need for Robin to come. You could do any of these things, yet you were frozen like an insect in the amber of his stare, and so you did not.

“Thank you,” you said, bowing slightly, lowering your eyes to his leather shoes in a valiant attempt to free yourself, “for your generosity.”

“Do you think it’s possible for people to forgive themselves?” he asks his sister. They’re sitting in the parlor, porcelain teacups in their hands, pinkie fingers raised primly in the air. His sister’s cup is chipped at the base, but every time he tries to throw it away, she pitches a fit, which is so uncharacteristic of her that it renders him speechless. This one is special, she insists. There’s doves painted on it. See?

It isn’t special, there’s countless others exactly like it, but he caves to her whims far too easily, as he always does. He’s prone to it, after all; she wants for things so rarely as it is, which means denying her few requests when she makes them is nigh-impossible. So he allows her to keep the ruined cup, on the condition that in his presence, she holds it in her left hand, for he never wants to see the blemish again.

“I’m not sure,” she says. Her voice is always dreamy, but as of late there’s been a tangible sadness to it. He’s asked her what’s troubling her countless times, but his every attempt is met with a shake of her head and a solemn oath that it’s nothing. “Maybe.”

“I don’t think that it is,” he says. “At least not at first. You can’t forgive yourself before you’re forgiven by anyone else.”

“If you were already so sure of the answer, brother,” she says, cocking her head at him, “then why did you ask?”

“Hm?” he says, furrowing his brow. She takes a sip of her tea, and maybe it’s the angle or maybe it’s a trick of the light, but he swears that that dammed chip is taunting him, smarting like a peeled-off scab.

“It’s a strange practice of yours,” his sister says, batting her eyes at him in a way that makes him feel shrunken and tiny, as if she knows everything and he knows nothing, although by all rights it’s the other way around.

“What do you mean by that?” he presses, voice coming out harsher than he’d like. Cringing, he sets his teacup down and folds his hands in his lap. “My apologies, sister. I — I did not mean to speak to you in that way.”

She raises her drink to her lips, smiling at him over the dove-painted rim, and says nothing more.

Robin Oak was like nightshade, the most beautiful flower you had ever seen and, incidentally, the most poisonous. She was lilac where Sunday was silver and sapphire where he was gold, but although the edges of her halo and her face were rounder than her brother’s, as malleable as he was rigid, she was no softer than he. Perhaps she was even colder for it, all the more deadly, unassuming and quiet, poised to strike with a warbling song and a tittering giggle.

“Hello,” she said, and although the two of you were ostensibly having a normal conversation, she still talked like there was a song in her voice, her cadence lyrical and amused. “We’ve been looking for you for a while.”

“I didn’t go very far,” you said, following after her as she navigated the hallways without hesitation.

“Of course not,” she agreed. “But who would’ve thought you’d end up in Sunday’s room?”

“It wasn’t on purpose,” you said, cheeks heating up at the sly implication. “I sincerely thought I had happened upon some study or restroom where I might recuperate.”

“He does keep his surroundings austere,” she said. “I’ve tried to convince him to hang up paintings or photographs, but he refuses. He’s like that.”

“I see,” you said, as neutrally as possible. Robin must’ve sensed your disinterest, for with a soft, breathy, chuckle, she steered the conversation away from her brother and to another subject entirely.

“Ah, you mentioned recuperation? Do parties tire you, too?” she said, and maybe it was manipulation or maybe it was genuine kindness, but it disarmed you all the same. Bashfully, you nodded, your shoulders hunching in on themselves involuntarily as you continued down the corridor.

“They are exhausting. I can never handle them for more than a few minutes at a time,” you confessed. She wrapped an arm around your torso, a companionable vice of a grip, and although you shouldn’t have been, you were surprised to feel that her skin was blazing to the touch.

“Nor can I,” she said. “There’s a commonality. Let’s be friends.”

It was a command, not a request. You knew better than to believe that Robin Oak would request anything; the world was at her feet, the universe shifting so that her words became truth, so why would she bother with questions and hesitance the way the rest of you did? She was no more human than Sunday. She was even less, only just as good at pretending, at painting on a doll-like mask to disguise her lies.

“Well, then it is a pleasure to be your friend,” you said.

“Don’t talk like that,” she protested.

“Like what?” you said.

“Like I’m somebody important, or like I have a status worthy of only the highest respect,” she said.

“But you do,” you said. She nudged you in the side with some measure of eagerness.

“No, no, forget about that,” she said. “I’m just like you, okay?”

“Okay,” you said, even though that could not be further from the truth, even though she could not be further from you.

“I swear on truth,” he says to the congregation, the beige churchgoers in their beige robes with adoration sparkling in their devoted eyes. “I swear on the calendar. I swear on words. I swear on values. I swear on rules. I swear on meaning. I swear on—”

A chill rushes down his spine, icy fingers grabbing onto the roots of his wings and yanking. He hisses under his breath, prayers of rebuke and protection, nails digging into his palms as he chants furiously, lips moving too fast for the gatherers to understand what he is doing.

Anxious murmurs arise like the songs of a choir the longer and longer he is frozen. Somebody coughs. A child whines audibly. He continues his chanting. 

Ena, the Order; Xipe, the Harmony; defend me in this tribulation. Curse this evil, bind its spirit and banish it to whence it came. I swear on truth, I swear on the calendar, I swear on words, I swear on values, I swear on rules, I swear on meaning, I swear on—

The hair by the nape of his neck is ruffled, and then the sensation vanishes and he is left alone once more. He is grateful for only a moment before he mourns her absence with a sudden savagery that takes even himself by surprise. It’s a contradiction, but she is a contradiction, so it’s fitting. He could never understand her before, so why should it be different now?

Clearing his throat and subtly adjusting his lapels, he raises his hands to silence the throngs of worshippers. They do his bidding at once, and he closes his eyes so that he does not have to see their naïveté at this final part, so that he is speaking to himself and the ghost alone — because nobody else matters in the end.

“I swear,” he says, his heart beating faster and faster until it is almost bursting from his chest and pounding in his skull, “on human dignity.”

What do Halovians know of human dignity?

“Nothing,” he says, responding to the unasked question as he turns away from the others, away from their applause and their grins. His wings cover his eyes and his hands cover his ears as he leaves the cavernous hall, the thunder of laudation fading and fading, replaced with nothing but a whistling, lonely emptiness. “They know nothing.”

He pauses, his eyes darting around surreptitiously. Then, when he is sure he is alone, he continues, under his breath so that no one can hear even if they try very hard to.

“I know nothing.”

He is sure of this much, at least.

On Halovians:

They abide by a so-called “divine creed” which they refuse to divulge to outsiders. However, they maintain that if they break these secretive laws, they are punished severely in what amounts to a foreshortened process of decay. Their holiness and altruism is, thus, not a choice but a compulsion; the one sin they are permitted is lying, and many will spin tall tales as a form of indulgence.

They are comparable in ability to the sirens from Lucyke — indeed, many researchers believe the species share a common ancestor and are one of many examples of divergent evolution found throughout the cosmos. They are nonthreatening when approached, capable of rational thought and intelligent speech, and have advanced societies with defined familial structures; hence, they are classified as a Level 0 Intelligent Species.

His halo is cracking. He doesn’t know when it began, or perhaps it’s more accurate to say he doesn’t want to know, but regardless it’s happening. The burnished gold, once a plain, gleaming expanse, is now marred by thin, unmistakeable fissures in the shape of spiderwebs. At first, he can only stare at his reflection in abject horror, but then he’s stuffing his fist in his mouth and screaming. 

What will people think? When they see it, they will know what he has done. It’s tainting him. It’s above him and behind him and all around and he can’t escape, he can’t do anything, his halo is cracking and he’s screaming and she’s there again.

“Stop it,” he snaps. “Stop coming back. If you’re only here to torment me, then — then stop it!”

Is she laughing? She must be. She always laughs at him, always finds him so curious. An oddity. A Halovian. He’s not like her, she’s fond of reminding him, he’s different. He’s born for the Harmony and the sky. He’s born for a purpose greater than hers, with black wings and a bright halo and a tongue made to lie.

“Don’t leave,” he says when she begins to withdraw. “Hey. Hey. Don’t leave — don’t leave me — I can’t — don’t!”

Her absence is like a hole carved into his stomach daily anew, and if his wings weren’t losing their feathers so rapidly, he’d fold them over the gaping wound in an attempt to disguise it, to transform it, to hold himself together until he can once again become whole in earnest.

It’s pitiful. He’s pitiful. He longs for a ghost who he despises, a ghost of his own making, a ghost who is pulling apart his halo and his wings and his sanity alike. She is ruining him and he is powerless to stop her; somewhere deep inside of him, he’s not sure if he even wants to. This is what he’s owed. This is what he deserves. No matter how much he begs, she will not forgive him; no matter how much he prays, he will not forgive himself.

This time when he screams, he does not bother with muffling it.

You were certain that, in the pools of her mind, in places unknowable and unreachable, Robin believed that she loved you. She repeated that lie so often that she fooled everyone, even herself — everyone, of course, but you. You knew the truth. You knew that she never had, that she never would, that she never could.

“This is my very best friend in the entire universe,” she’d say, holding your palm against her heart. “I love her.”

She carried it like a trophy or a weapon, that meaningless phrase. I love her. Lilac instead of silver. Sapphire instead of gold. I am not a Halovian. That was what she really wanted to say. That was what you really meant to her. I am human, too. Treat me like I am human. Talk to me like I am human. Love me like I am human.

I am human.

I am human.

His sister is worrying about him. He wishes he could allay her concerns like he always does, wishes he could promise that it’s nothing, that he’s fine, but whenever he tries, he can’t. It sticks in his throat, and he’s left to stare at her miserably, helplessly.

“If you need anything…” she murmurs, voice trailing off into nothingness as she pretends like she’s not looking at his halo, which is on the verge of collapse, or at his wings, which are approaching a skeletal state. “Maybe you should stay home today. Someone else can pray.”

“No,” he says. He has to do it. If he doesn’t, then he has nothing left — which is the truth, really, but he can’t accept it. Not yet. “No, I—”

He wants to say I can do it, but the words won’t come. She waits, but when he does not finish his sentence, she only sighs and nods.

“If you think that’s what’s best,” she says. If she’s expecting a response, she won’t get one, or at least not one that’ll satisfy them both. He can’t maintain his facade anymore. Those carefully constructed falsehoods which were once his birthright have abandoned him; now, he is left with nothing but the truth in its harshest form, his eyes sewn open to it and his wings tied back so he can no longer cower behind their trembling defense.

Unlike his sister, Sunday never pretended to love you. Indeed, he treated you no differently than he treated everyone else, keeping a polite, reserved distance between the two of you at all times. He was kind when you spoke, though he tended to avoid such occasions, and he took great pains to ensure that he appeared as harmless as possible, pulling his wings close to his body, averting his eyes from yours and shifting so that his halo was always partially obscured.

Robin told you that he was a proud man, so the fact that he shied away before you meant something. I’ve never seen him like this, she would ponder when he would sidle past, his feathers blending in with his pale hair, a coat thrown over his shoulders and his gaze trained directly ahead even when he greeted you. It’s unlike him.

It’s kind. That was all you ever said when she prodded at you for answers. He’s being kind to me.

Unlike her brother, Robin didn’t understand what that meant, so she would only embrace you, deceptively strong despite her frail figure, wings extending to skim along your skin in what she must’ve considered a sign of affection.

I’m glad you’re getting along, she’d say, and then you’d wonder, invariably, what it’d take to break the chords of her speech. Was she capable of producing dissonance? Or was it one of her many blessings, that avoidance of discord, of cacophony? I’m really glad. I hope one day he loves you, too.

She never asked you to love him back. She never dared to even hope for it.

“I can’t recall you ever laughing at me this much when you were alive,” he says, lying on his bed with his limbs splayed out. He’s looking up at the ceiling, which is bare, as are the walls, and the furniture — entirely by design, of course. Periodically, his wings will flap weakly, wracked with nervous tremors as he waits for her to quiet.

He doesn’t reprimand her anymore. The prospect of chasing her away is unbearable, even more unbearable than the sound of her mirth, which is as wrong to his ears as music from an untuned piano. So he ignores it, and when it is particularly agonizing, he speaks to the empty air, saying everything and nothing all at once in an attempt to silence her.

“You would ask me questions,” he remembers, drumming his fingers against the mattress. “But you wouldn’t laugh. I don’t think you found me amusing, unless I tried very hard to appear that way. I was better at it back then. At becoming what people expected of me.”

She’s not laughing anymore, but he knows she hasn’t vanished yet. She’s there in his periphery, poised to disappear as soon as he turns his head but there nonetheless. Taking advantage of the rare silence, he sits up, hugging his knees to his chest and closing his eyes.

“I didn’t pretend quite as much when it was you,” he says. “You know that, right? By the end, I couldn’t bring myself to at all.”

Does she believe him? He can’t tell. If he were her, he wouldn’t believe himself, so likely not. Exhaling heavily, he collapses backwards, tangling himself into a pile of blankets that he pulls over his shoulders.

“I should have lied to you more often,” he says, eyes drifting shut. “Maybe things would be different if I had.”

 On Halovians:

Halovians are the only Level 0 Intelligent Species that do not choose long-term mates, although there is evidence to suggest that in the distant past, they remained with the same partner for life. According to legend, this is because they gave up fidelity for falsehood, trading their ability to love eternally for their freedom to lie at will.

Research disagrees with this old story, and many alternate theories have been proposed. The most common and widely-accepted is the claim that the Halovians once faced extinction and thus had to procreate at speed, leading to a permanent shift in their mating habits. The most substantial proof for this, of course, is the otherwise-inexplicable population boom…

You couldn’t say for certain when you began visiting Sunday in his room. It had happened so suddenly and yet so gradually that by the time you realized what you were doing, it was too late for you to stop. He never did anything untoward — you doubted he was capable of it — staying at his desk and scowling at his work while you wandered about, familiarizing yourself with the confines of the space.

“Why don’t you decorate?” you asked him one day.

“Decorations are only needless distractions,” he responded promptly, signing a paper with a flourish that, somehow, represented his name. Sunday Oak. You didn’t know how something so enormous and grand could be summed into two squiggles and a cross, but he seemed confident of it, so who were you to question the method? “I cannot fathom sleeping with such clutter surrounding me.”

“I see,” you said, and that was the end of it.

Your conversations with him typically went as such, endless games of question-and-answer, where you would ask whatever was on your mind and he would respond as truthfully as he was able. You often wondered when he would grow tired of it, of you, but he never did. You asked Robin why it was so, and she only shrugged enigmatically.

“Maybe he’s glad to be the one speaking for once,” she said.

“What do you mean?” you said.

“You ought to ask him,” she said. “He might not tell anyone else, but if it’s you…if it’s you, then he’ll definitely answer.”

His sister’s hands are frigid on his shoulders. She’s warm by anyone else’s standards, but for a Halovian, she’s always been cold. Even when she was born, half the size she should’ve been and with eyes as boundless as the sky, she was freezing, a shivering slip of a baby shoved into his arms by his bleeding mother.

“Your halo is breaking,” she says to him, but she’s angry, her melodic voice wavering as her fingers dig into his muscle, shaking him back and forth. “It’s breaking. Why is it breaking?”

She’s glaring at him, tears welling at her lash-line. He wants to reach out his hand and wipe them away, but more will replace them in an instant, so what is the point? She shakes him again, harder and harder, and he allows her, because he’ll always allow her impulses, and because he’s never seen her like this before.

“Why?” she says. “Why is it breaking? Tell me what you did, brother, tell me what you did!”

She isn’t asking because she wants him to give her the answer. She’s asking because she wants him to deny it, to tell her that she’s wrong, that the conclusion she’s arrived at is incorrect somehow. Once, he could’ve. He could’ve made up some story about tragedy and misfortune, and she would’ve believed him, as she always did.

That was their relationship. He lied and she believed him. She asked and he obliged her. But now that he can not lie and she has nothing to ask for, what is left?  

“You know already,” he says. She gasps in the manner of an injured animal, berry-stained lips parting, indubitably to hurl accusations at him.

He doesn’t think he can handle hearing them, not from his sister of all people, so he leaves before he gets the chance.

“Does it feel strange when people touch your wings?” you said. Sunday was in his bed today, afflicted by some illness of the lungs, and you were rummaging through his bookshelf, pulling out volumes at random before putting them back where you had found them. 

“Huh? Why do you ask?” he said, raising a porcelain cup to his lips. It was prescription, a medicine reeking of menthol but wearing the guise of peppermint tea — the only way, according to Robin, that he would drink it. A servant had brought it and presented it to him with a bow, walking out of the room with a look thrown at you over their shoulder, concern and envy blending into something razor-thin and cutting.

“I don’t have any,” you explained, taking out a book and tracing your fingers along the gold lettering of the title. “I can’t fathom what it’d be like.”

“Come here,” he said, and although it was mildly done, you obeyed immediately. You could never forget what he was, not completely, no matter how hard he tried to make it so that you did. You would always be human and he would always be Halovian; this fundamental disconnect was insurmountable, and anyways, you had no interest in surmounting it. It’d serve you well to remember these many little differences between yourself and the Oak siblings, between yourself and Sunday in particular. 

He extended his hand, the palm facing up, and dipped his chin towards it. You tilted your head in confusion, for the act was all but inexplicable, and at this he smiled. He did not smile very frequently, and it transformed his face when he did, lighting it up, turning it into something close to human — not quite, but close. Closer than he ever was otherwise.

“Here,” he said, setting aside his teacup and using his other hand to place yours against his, wrapping his fingers around your wrist and then waiting. “Does that feel strange?”

“No,” you said. 

“It’s the same for me,” he said. “To you, my wings are bizarre and outlandish, but to me and those of my kind, they are simply another body part. No more or less fantastical than an arm or an ankle.”

“Ah,” you said. He settled back against the cushions of his bed, allowing the wings by his ears to stretch out comfortably, closing his eyes and letting out an exhale that shook with the remnants of a cough.

“You want to touch them,” he said. He phrased it as a statement, not a question, and when you paused before answering, his smile grew imperceptibly larger. “I don’t mind it.”

“You don’t?” you said. He shrugged.

“It’s only fair,” he said, pressing down on the point where your veins nearly surfaced, tapping in time with your pulse before drawing his hands back and clasping them together in the cavity below his ribcage. “I wouldn’t have told you you could if I’d hold any resentment for it.”

“Aren’t Halovians known for lying?” you said. He snorted.

“Have you been doing your research?” he said.

“It’s common knowledge,” you said.

“We are,” he said. “But I swear I will always tell you the truth.”

“How can I believe that? What if that’s just another one of your lies?” you said. He cracked one eye open so that he could peek at you, and whatever he saw must’ve proven your seriousness, for he hummed in thought, carefully considering your words.

“I suppose you can’t,” he said. “It’s your prerogative. Do as you’d like, then.”

He closed his eyes again, which you supposed was his version of an invitation. Waiting until his breathing stilled and he was caught in some form of repose — whether he was truly unconscious or not escaped you, but either way he was certainly in some altered state of mind — you extended your arm and brushed your index finger against his feathers.

They were as soft as you had anticipated, cottony and shapeless compared to the firm flight-feathers of the pitch-dark wings jutting out at his sides. The bones were hollow and slight, as if you could break them only by taking them into your fist and squeezing. This was such a contradiction to the appearance he so carefully maintained that your heart softened to him despite your greatest efforts to guard it.

“Those ones are mostly down,” he said, startling you out of your daze. You had assumed he was asleep and had allowed your movements to become casual and complacent. Jerking your hand back as if he had burnt it — which he just as well might have, given the temperature of his body — you held it to your chest and took an involuntary step back while he adjusted himself in his nest of bedding. “In antiquity, back when we still ruled the skies and rarely touched the ground, it was considered a sign of friendship for Halovians to groom one another’s upper-wing feathers.”

“And now?” you said.

“And now it means nothing,” he said. “Fetch me a new cup of tea if you have the time. This one has grown cold, and I am yet unwell.”

The feathers he used to be so proud of are fraying at the edges. He hasn’t cared for them in so long, hasn’t carefully misted them or doused them in diluted soap in ages, and now they have come to this. Scraggly and broken and bent and wrong.

Sticking a finger in his mouth, he rubs it along his teeth and the bitten flesh of his inner cheeks. Decay. This is decay. He’s seen it so many other times, in so many other forms, but never did he think he’d experience it himself. And least of all so quickly! Yet it has come for him, as it comes for everyone in the end.

He finds it’s different this time. It’s different when he’s the one who’s dying.

“They say it haunts us,” Sunday said. His arm was heavy over your waist, his blankets pulled up over your chin and tucked tightly around your shoulders. Your forehead was flush with his collarbones, your eyes fluttering shut as he played with the hem of your shirt while he spoke. “The first time we kill something. It haunts us to death.”

“Is that why you’re vegetarian?” you joked.

“Yes,” he said, and although he sounded grave, you could tell he was joking, too. “Can you imagine being followed around by the ghost of a chicken and then dying while it watches?”

“A horrible way to go,” you said, laughing at the image of Sunday plugging his ears and running from the shadow of a bird as it chased him, his own wings flapping furiously as it squawked at him with no small amount of indignation. 

“Indeed,” he said with a laugh of his own. Then, after a pause, he hummed thoughtfully. “You should laugh more often.”

“I’ve been told my laugh is grating,” you said.

“It’s not,” he said. “Not at all.”

“Then I shall endeavor to do as you ask,” you said. “I will laugh until you tell me to stop.”

“I’ll never tell you to stop,” he promised, and you should’ve known better than to trust him, because he was a Halovian and donning that impenetrable mask of his was a part of his nature, yet you couldn’t help yourself. You did, you trusted him more than anything or anyone, and didn’t that make you a fool? A happy, laughing one, maybe — but a fool nonetheless. 

He is close to collapse when he drags himself to his bathroom. Leaning over the counter of his sink, he grips the marble edge, noticing in fascination that his knuckles are almost as white as the stone. He almost can’t endure the thought of looking in the mirror, but in a last burst of inspiration, he drags his gaze up to his haggard reflection.

His heart skips a beat when he realizes he’s not alone. Standing there, beside and behind him, is her. The ghost. His ghost.

Her face is placid — she’s not laughing, and neither is she frowning. He doesn’t know if this is a good thing or a bad thing, but he can’t change it, so who is he to complain? He waits for her to speak, but she is silent, and he considers calling out for his sister before deciding that this time, this once and never again, he will be selfish.

“It’s you,” he says, reaching out and placing his fingers against the mirror, where the image of her cheek is distorted by imperfections in the silver.

The metal is cold under the involuntary curve of his palm, which tries to follow the contours of her face but finds it to be impossible in the second dimension. Then again, to him, she was always cold, so there’s no difference, except that she is flat where once she was whole, empty where once she was everything.

“I killed you,” he says. It’s the first time he’s spoken it aloud, the first time he’s spit out the words that he’s been dancing around ever since she appeared to him, almost a year ago exactly. Somehow, it feels like a dagger driven into his heart and a weight lifted off of his shoulders simultaneously. If he had the strength, he’d run down the hallways of the mansion and scream it at everyone.

I killed her. I killed her and now I am dying for it. You bowed your heads in reverence to me, and all along I have had this blood on my hands. I killed her! How does it feel to have followed a sinner for so long? How does it feel to know that I am forsaken, and that one day, if you are so lucky, you will be, too?

Sunday’s mouth on yours was hot like a furnace, clumsy and demanding, with a lingering aftertaste like menthol. At first, it alarmed you, the overwhelming sensation, the much of it all, but before you could even pull away, something in the back of your mind twisted, and then you were grasping for anything you could. His hair, his wings, his shirt, it didn’t matter, nothing mattered, you only needed to hold onto him in some way. You could not breathe without him. You could not live without him.

That was your first indication that something was very, very wrong.

On Halovians:

Much like their presumed cousins, the sirens of Lucyke, Halovians are irresistible to their prey. Unlike the sirens, the Halovians no longer hunt; some assume that this must be one of the religious laws they abide by, while others argue that it is mere ecological responsibility.

Simply put, the Halovians were too efficient as hunters. Several lesser species have been driven to extinction by their efforts, and it is only due to the reduction in Halovian numbers, their vows of vegetarianism, and concentrated conservation efforts that the food webs on the Halovians’ native planets have stabilized in recent years.

“Sunday,” you said to him one day, when the sun had not yet risen in the sky. “I think that I will die soon.”

His mouth moved, but no sound came out. No, it seemed he was trying to say. You won’t. His lips formed the words, but they wouldn’t take shape in his throat, wouldn’t bloom into existence, and you watched as he struggled for a while before pressing the heels of his hands to his forehead.

“Yes,” he said.

“It will be your fault when I do,” you said. You weren’t accusing him; you said it simply and plainly. You were dying. It was his fault. He was the curse and the cure, if a mere prolonging of the inevitable could be considered as curing it.

He was quiet for so long that you assumed he had forgotten about the question entirely. You did not begrudge him for it — how would he answer, anyways? There was nothing that he could say which would change it. There was nothing that he could say which would reverse what he had, knowingly or unknowingly, done.

“Yes,” he said when you were halfway to dozing off.

“What?” you mumbled, the contents of the conversation already escaping you.

“Yes,” he said. “It will be my fault.”

The ghost doesn’t say anything, watching him as he turns on the sink and splashes the water onto his face in a futile effort to cool himself off. He’s feverish as he pushes himself back into a semblance of good posture, pacing back and forth along the length of the bathroom. He can only see her in the mirror, and he wonders if he somehow trapped her there or if that’s her way of teasing him; she must find him so absurd, storming away from her visage before crawling back to it like he is starved.

“I didn’t know,” he says. “You must understand that. I didn’t know! Not at first, anyways. I would’ve sent you away. If I had known, I would’ve sent you away…”

He can hear her feet against the tile, copying his own path, but he dares not turn around. What will he see if he does? What emotions will reflect in her eyes? The first time he saw her, it was fear, unadulterated and pure and choking him with its overwhelming intensity. Then, over time, it warmed into something resembling indifference, which in turn became fondness and then, finally, a sick sort of dependence, the former liveliness and curiosity glazed over with vacancy and fixation.

“I did this to you,” he admits. He’s read that accursed book on Halovians and their accursed vestigial organs and accursed archaic hunting methods so many times that he knows this for a fact. He killed her. “But I didn’t — it wasn’t my intention, please, it wasn’t, you must know that. Did you die knowing that?”

When he halts, she halts. When he takes a step forward, she does the same. It’s maddening. He doesn’t want her to echo him. Her steps sound like a prophecy, the drumbeat to a seer’s chant, and they clang in his head, the antithesis to everything he holds precious. Order. Harmony. And then there she is, discord, cacophony, waiting for him at every turn, inescapable and unavoidable.

“It’s the truth!” he snaps. The argument is entirely one-sided; the ghost never speaks to him, after all. She only laughs and sighs in turn, but no matter how hard he tries, he cannot convince her to say anything. “I can’t lie anymore. Although, that’s irrelevant; when it comes to you, I haven’t been able to lie in a long time.”

Ena, the Order; Xipe, the Harmony; defend me in this tribulation. Curse this evil, bind its spirit and banish it to whence it came.

I swear on truth. I swear on the calendar. I swear on words. I swear on values. I swear on rules. I swear on meaning. I swear on human dignity.

He’s murmuring every prayer he can think of. They play in an endless loop, springing to his lips at random, more like nonsensical jumbles of words than anything coherent. A prayer for salvation. A prayer for forgiveness. A prayer for protection. A prayer for order. A prayer for harmony. A prayer to banish her. A prayer to bring her back. 

A prayer to bring her back. A prayer to bring her back. Bring her back. Bring her back. Bring her back.

“I won’t come back, you know,” she says. That’s the first time he’s heard her voice in so long, and he’s startled to find that it’s almost foreign, like he’s already begun to forget her, like she’s turned into something entirely beyond his understanding.

“Why not?” he says, his voice cracking as he scrambles for purchase against the wall. “I’ll do anything they ask. Anything you ask.”

“It doesn’t matter what you do or who you beg,” she says with a snicker. “You can’t bring someone back once you’ve killed them. You should’ve regretted it earlier; it’s meaningless now. Well, anyways, I have a question for you.”

He swallows but nods, his back to her, vision blurring out of focus as he squints at the plain wall in front of him.

“If you could meet me again, would you?” she says.

“Yes,” he says without thinking, because of course he would. How could he not?

“Knowing that it would kill me?” she adds, giggling. 

Is this what it’s like for those who he interrogates? Now he is the one who cannot hide behind the comfort of fabrication, who must strip himself bare to an unsympathetic audience. He hates it, in truth. He hates it more than anything, but — but he doesn’t hate her, so clenching his jaw, he nods once more.

“Yes,” he says.

“Oh, my,” she says. “How romantic. Careful, or I’ll think you really do love me.”

He whirls around. “I do—!”

There’s nobody there. He wonders if there ever was.

[sunnydalelibrarian]

Buffy Rewatch: Season 2, Episodes 20-22

2x20: "Go Fish"

Buffy all melancholy staring at the ocean, my poor baby

Insecure boy would rather suffer than accept help from girl. Shocking.

Is that fucking Leonard Snart?? It is, holy shit, I forget how many actors I recognise had background roles in this

The bloody shedded skin lying on the beach?? Horror movie much?

Not Snyder pressuring Willow to falsely pass a kid who's failing on account of putting in zero effort just because he's on the swim team?? You know damn well he's doing it because he thinks he can get away with intimidating the people-pleaser seventeen-year-old. Frankly, I would've liked to see him try that shit on Jenny.

Buffy, this boy ain't shit, you know that

"Oh, it's not me I'm worried about" - that's my fucking girl, y'all!!

He actually used the "look what she's wearing" justification, this whole episode makes me so fucking angry, he deserved what he got!!

"Try to dress more appropriately" - I'm going to fucking scream!

One of these days I'm going to write an essay on rape culture in Buffy

Again, one of the only times I agree with Xander

And it's the Creature from the Black Lagoon!

"From whence it came? I'm spending way too much time around you."

Ah, yes, perfect father-daughter bonding activity: fishing!

Something about the toxic sports culture

Priorities, Cordy, fucking hell

This is fucking horrific, even understanding it as a metaphor for how the patriarchy perpetuates rape culture.

So often I think of Giles' line from "I, Robot, You, Jane" - "Still, if you'd been anyone but the Slayer..." - like, I shudder to think what would have happened to Buffy in most of these situations if she'd been just a normal girl

I love Cordelia so much

2x21: "Becoming, Part 1"

Oh Liam was such an unappealing douchebag, wasn't he?

Darla was hot as fuck though, I'd let her bite me

Something about how turning a vampire is so often portrayed as a sexual act

Xander just lying there 😂

I want Angelus dead. Like, immediately. Smug motherfucker.

Giles being "the best authority on obscure relics" in the entire museum and heritage sector, that's my man

I love him so much, finally someone who doesn't just say "sure, let's open the ancient artefact we know jack shit about!"

Oh Snyder's such a killjoy

Drusilla was so sweet and scared. She deserved to kill Angel for what he did to her. My poor Cassandra-coded baby

"I don't want to be an evil thing" - he couldn't just kill her, he had to make her into the one thing she never wanted to be

"A devil child like you" "God is watching you" - he puts himself in the role of God and Drusilla in the role of the devil, even though its the opposite, but is it really? She becomes what he makes her, in his image.

The way she knows how to play him for a fool with her visions and Spike never falls for it

Buffy's little "Wah!" and tossing her pencil. It's childish, because she is a fucking child and we cannot forget that.

Willow should've become a teacher tbh

Jenny Calendar is sooooo Can't Catch Me Now coded

Xander pisses me off here. He only cared about what Angel's done when he can use it as an I told you so

Oh, I loved Kendra so much, my poor girl

"It's a big rock. I can't wait to tell my friends. They don't have a rock this big!" Spike ilysm ❤️

"We're about to make history... end" is a baller line though

I don't care for the Angel flashbacks. I don't care enough about Angel to be interested in them. I'll accept it when it involves Darla or Dru or the Kalderash but not just him

Wtf do you mean you fell in love with this girl when she was 15?? That'd be like Spike getting with Dawn

Oh Buffy was just a little girl, who the hell decided to give her the fate of the world?? Even Whistler acknowledges she's just a kid.

"Look at you. She must be prettier than the last Slayer." SHE IS FIFTEEN YOU FUCKING CREEPS

"Someone wasn't worthy!" in a sing song voice I love this little shit

Mr Pointy! I love Kendra, she's also just a little girl. Oh, she should've lived long enough for Buffy to get her that stuffed animal.

The way Kendra dies for a role that was never truly hers

The way Buffy takes Kendra's hand 🥺

2x22: "Becoming, Part 2"

Ah, finally, accurate cops!

Oh fuck you Snyder

"You stupid little troll" - atta girl!! That's my baby

The way she hugs Xander though 🥺

The fact Willow does all this shit in the rest of the episode while badly concussed?? Again, that's my baby

The horror on Buffy's face when she realises Giles is unaccounted for

Angel was always a fucking creep, Whistler, let's be real

Oh, Spike coming in like the world's worst hero!

"I'm talking about your ex, pet. I'm talking about putting him in the bloody ground" - and that's why I love him

I love that Spike wears nail polish

The way he just wants his girl back 🥺

"I hate you." "And I'm all you've got." Another baller line

How it's Xander saying "You're my best friend, I love you" that brings Willow back from her coma, and it's the same thing that will eventually bring her back to herself after she goes dark

Oz and Willow are so cute

Something about how Angel always called him Giles but Angelus calls him Rupert, and the only other person who ever did that was Jenny

Spike and Joyce sitting there awkwardly 😂 "You hit me with an axe one time"

"You'll never hear from us again. I bloody well hope."

To be entirely fair to Joyce, she obvious regrets what she says to Buffy the second the words leave her mouth

"You must perform the ritual in a tutu. Pillock" - That's my fucking man.

Do we think Spike figures out what would break Giles because he knows what would break him?

Oh, seriously fuck Snyder. And fuck the Mayor too.

The fucking sad music here?? "I thought I'd lost you"?? Excuse me, I'm crying!

This is very "Suffering" from Epic the Musical coded

And Buffy right now is very "Nothing Left to Lose" by The Pretty Reckless coded

When she fucking catches the sword!!! That's my fucking girl!

Spike getting the hell outta dodge with his girl. Quite bloody right.

As much as I aggressively do not give a shit about Angel at times, this ending always makes me upset. Just the way Buffy's face goes from horror to realisation to resignation as she understands what she has to do, and she holds it together until it's over and then she breaks

The way they all just get dressed and go to school because what else are they supposed to do?

[itslouisan]

Special for mootie: my headcannons on @imaginary-grandpa Prime!!

(btw mootie take my opinion as a grain of sand in a dessert cause it's just silly things I thought when rereading the blog jvj- btw like this is one of my fav asks in Tumblr and just wanted to y'know..talk about it and give my mootie support cause they create amazing stuff)

-based on this ask I hc that Prime curious to what Morty enjoyed started watching Morty's cartoons and even present Morty some that he watched as a kid, maybe gifted comics too (clearly he was talking aboUT Ben 10 so I imagine the Ben 10 comics as some gifts) I also imagine the 2 watching some 2000's CN shows like courage the coward dog (Morty would be TERRIFIED and cling to Prime's arm while he is just vibing eating popcorn) or Codename: Kids Next Door and just make stuff together based on the shows, it became a habit for Prime to gift these to Morty (sometimes even summer IF he feels in the mood)

based on this one I think Summer and Prime have this complicated dynamic, clearly Summer cares for Morty and is protecting her lil brother WHO CLEARLY IS NAIVE (which hey as a easily kidnapable kid, relatable) I imagine in the first weeks or months Summer would be SO ON GUARD and just silently judge Prime and give him looks that she'll jump on him and bite him.

OK this will sound stupid but THIS made me think, hey based on "Tales from the citadel" (rewatched this weekend with my dad and it's A FAV of mine) we know there's variants to universes so there could be a Prime dimension A, B, C etc; what if, Prime just killed the other Primes to a level or just let them fuck off cause y'know, whatever he doesn't care, and in exchange, he goes to this reality that C-137 didn't found due to being an obscure timeline and WAY in the past, this way he'll have a safe reality just like his original in every sense but without wife guy knowing and thinking there's only one Prime dimension, now abandoned. OR I'm just overthinking and the whole ask is BEFORE canon Rick and Morty, literally years before C-137 reached Prime dimension and what we are seeing is an alternate reality he CHOSE to come early to get his leftover shit-- well i'm probably just overthinking but eh, it's fun to imagine shit

I'm focusing more on the image here but my note is: I like to imagine Prime comes over either in the morning when Beth is out and Jerry is well, being jerry, and since morty is really young prob he doesn't go to school yet and wouldn't need to go to a daycare due to jerry being there + Summer, but I think he could come late into the night when Jerry and Beth are asleep and just sound proof the garage, the kids stay up all night with Prime and sleep in the morning/noon. As for the image, I already commented this on a reblog but, Prime actually looks happy in those pictures, which makes me wonder if something happenned between him and diane in the first place on the past, BUT idk if i'm JUST overthinking (look i'm autistic with a hyperfocus, I look for detail onto the tiniest shit ever) but in the one with only him and diane his smile looks a bit unnerving, maybe forced? Anyway clearly Prime got angry when talking of being replaced, or when we bring up Diane, so I'm just guessing he didn't kill her JUST to kill her, something else had to happen.

*cough* I need to actually see this happening in the blog *cough* but it kinda makes me think if Prime even thinks he is toxic in any way cause well, clearly he feels something for these kids and family, remembers stuff with Diane and Beth and doesn't just fuck off, perhaps, just like C-137 he would consider this "irrational"? idk I just like to think Prime every single night after coming back to his place alone runs a hand in his hair and thinks wtf is wrong with him to want to come over again

idk, silly but he made the costumes, Summer helped, he is into crafts but would never admit

just to finish this, SUMMER BULLIES HIM AND JOKES HE IS LIKE A CAT JUST TO GET HIM MAD. IDC, SHE MADE IT ON PURPOSE AND GETS WHAT I'M SAYING.

[selfship-confession-box]

Sometimes I feel like I dont belong in the f/o community not just because I date obscure characters or because all my f/o's are women or non binary but because well I'm not an artist. I feel I have nothing to give to the community ya know. The "imagine your f/o doing xyz" while super cute (please keep doing these) just make me wish I could draw or even imagine it myself with my aphsantasia (basically I can't see images in my head). So I feel like sense I'm not an artist I feel like there's no point to me posting what I do and I think is it main reason I'm so off and on about self shipping not just because c.ai has gone WAY down hill but because it's like "I have these beautiful women and I have me and this story line but wtf do I do with it?!?!" anyways sorry for rambling in your ask stranger :3

.

[peronasbeloved]

sum of my fave p.erona images aka just an excuse to gush

TOP FIVE PERONAS she is sooooooo sillycute here wtf. wtf

fun fact i usually DISLIKE post ts op designs, i always tend to prefer how they looked pre ts, BUUUUT she is actually an exception! i love her post ts in EQUAL amount to her pre ts, which is honestly not just rare but there’s no other character where this is the case for me what can i say miss p.erona is cute no matter what she does. i love the hat and the roses on the hat and the dress just UGHH💕💕

“O-O!”

HNNGNgng fuckingng. scrunkly…

i love love love when her bangs are slightly obscuring her eyes like this it’s one of my fave little things

baby…

ever since i saw her make this face i ceased being normal and never went BACK

ok i was gonna add more cuz i have more BUT i ran out of space on the post but but here is the last one but not least one because this is also top five images for me idk what it is it just is one of my favorites ever in the whole world . forever in my brain imbedded in there

[langevandreren]

Not to be that milspec queer, but...

The image of Vance looks very AI generated to me. I would need to see a higher res version to be sure, but based on the other versions I am seeing online:

there is a very suspicious amount of blur. I know it is supposed to look like a depth of field effect, but the rifle is blurred oddly relative to the shooter in a way that just looks photoshopped to obscure badly faked details.

The rifle itself looks like an AI gen'd tacticool mess. And why is he using a suppressor? And WTF is that on the front/top of the rail? Is he using a rangefinder or some shit to shoot at a target 20 yards away?

I strongly suspect that JD Vance cannot find his dick with both hands, let alone use a firearm.

And most importantly, they are only freedom seeds when you plant them in fascists.

"Freedom seeds"?

These weirdos have the mental and emotional age of 12. These are little boys playing war and pretending to be cool, powerful men - with zero idea what it actually means to be that.

[reallyunluckyrunaway]

(Unlucky's) Bïzærrø Bookclub:

(As a general disclaimer: a lot of these books are categorized as more (extreme) lit. This means that they may contain themes and/or subject matter that may be triggering and upsetting for some. Violent, dark as hell, and gruesome. Adult topics and scenes reside within these graphic novels (and novels) contents. Let this serve as an official warning, and feel free to skip this post if that is not your jam. Moving forward, however, I've taken it upon myself to add my (personal) ratings, as well as, (my personal) "Extremeness Meter" to help gauge the more tame ones from the more disturbing ones on this list.

Now, with that out of the way, here's some of the most bizarre books I've read this year (and last):

Cat Soup (Nekojiru Udon) - ★★½ (This piece of manga infamy is cynical, nihilistic, and weirdly psychosexual sometimes? I respect the authors contribution to the manga world... I too, subscribe to fatalism. But this was just not for me. It was mean spirited, and I much preferred the short film that was adapted and based around the series instead). Extremeness Meter: 9/10 (violence, gore, some nudity, and potentially distressing deaths throughout.)

Spider Bunny - ★★★½ (I was a little... let down with the third part, not gonna lie. This book sounded so fun and twisted, like something right up my alley... Much like the main character, I was traumatized by odd obscure media growing up too, I feel like there's a story like that for everyone... There's relatability to that. Everyone had that movie, book, or commercial, from childhood— that scared us so bad it stuck under our skin in a way that even as adults, it's been deeply repressed into the backrooms of our minds, and sends chills up our spines thinking about it... The ending is a bit rough, and I was hoping They would somehow clinch a victory at the end... Overall, it was still a solid novella.) Extremeness meter: 8/10 (violence, body horror, major character deaths, potentially upsetting deaths.)

The Morbidly Obese Ninja -★★★ (and one gallon of holy water for being the only book to make me audibly gag.†). Extremeness meter: 7/10 (Nasty descriptions, violence, suggestive content.)

The Menstruating Mall - ★★★ (five holy waters/and a WTF did I just read?!) Extremeness meter: 9/10 (Violence, female on male assault, murder, disturbing themes, traumatic scenes and bodily horror.)

The Last Days Of Being A Immortal - ★★★★ (Philosophical and fascinating. This is one I'm more and more fond of the more I ruminate over it.) Extremeness meter: 5/10 (some sexual scenes, images, suggestive content and dialogue, nudity).

Beautiful Darkness - ★★★★½ (It's creepy, sad, twisted and dark. The summary hidden there in the title: it's a beautiful yet sinister, haunting, yet melancholy story. Gothic and sweet, the way a poison apple might be...) Extremeness meter: 8/10 (Potentially upsetting deaths and gore throughout. Death of a child. Death of an animal.)

Satania - ★★★ (I can't decide if I liked or disliked this one. But it certainly stuck with me. The watercolors are so vibrant and the environments are creative and hellish...... 3 stars? Yeah, that sounds fair.) Extremeness meter: 8/10 (🎶Creature loving, and monster fucking,🎶 attempted assault. As well as a recount of a past assault.)

Everytime We Meet At The Dairy Queen, Your Whole Fucking Face Explodes – ★★★ (...aaannd three holy waters because what in the actual f•ck just happened here?!) Extremeness meter: 9/10 (Body horror, murder, really gross descriptions, and sexual content.)

The Tick People - ★★ (ARRRGH!!! 😫😫😫😫🤮!!) Extremeness meter: 10/10 (sexual content, NASTY sex stuff, GROSS descriptions, and 🎶monster fucking, and creature loving🎶, and potentially upsetting imagery and scenes throughout.)

Faithless – ★★ (†talk about a bad romance...†) Extremeness meter: 9/10 (sexual content, traumatic family stuff, fucked up love triangles, some demonic possession and psychosexual content).

Isle of 100,000 Graves – ★★★½ (I like it the more I think back on it, but I wasn't too impressed the first time reading it.) Extremeness meter: 4/10 (violence, death, dark humor.)

[butteryunlikelylady]

feeling so out of control with my actual lifeeee omg okay rant incoming.

The past two weeks my thoughts have been so jumbled obviously bc I’ve been going through two surgeries to hopefully correct a vascular malformation that has been growing in my cheek for basically half my life. And this surgery is the result of five years of effort and me medically pursuing this issue. Which is a lot of time, money, anticipation, disappointment, discomfort, poking, prodding, testing, imaging, explaining and advocating for myself in front of countless doctors and providers, paying countless medical bills (I’m expecting thousands of dollars of more medical debt from this surgery) and all of that has been such a mindfuck. So much coordination and planning has gone into this on my part and mentally I’m exhausted. I haven’t had time to process. Not to mention that my doctors can’t ascertain that the mass won’t grow back, so I can’t even coax myself into feeling relieved about this whole ordeal bc it could regrow and I’d find myself back at square one this time next year. I don’t feel relieved or even optimistic… I want to recover thinking “okay I can move on from this and never look back” but I’m paranoid!!

There’s so much I would rather be doing than worrying about this health issue, obsessing over the disfigurement, hating my facial asymmetry, chasing after doctors and appointments, recovering from this surgery. If I didn’t have this issue, I wouldn’t have spent thousands of dollars over the last few years pursuing it. Money back in my pocket. This weekend, I’d probably be out with Mark bc I might not have broken up with him. Or maybe I would have. Maybe I’d be going on meet and greets with new potential SDs so I could make some extra money and have some more sugar baby fun this year. That’s what I want to be doing. I want to be living and shopping and going to my gym classes and making love and being pretty and beautiful and saving my money and spending an adoring man’s money and traveling and looking for a place to live and setting up a balcony garden. I don’t want to be laying up in the bed thinking about all the wonderful things I’d rather be doing but can’t. I’m swollen and in pain and I’ve lost function in my lip/chin/cheek and I can’t even laugh or chew normally. I feel like a freak. I want to be out to drinks with my friends. I want to look and feel ravishing and confident but instead I feel out of control, out of reach, and to think the next couple of weeks/months will go by like this…., it’s depressing. I WANT TO LIVE.

I want to submit headshots to a modeling agency and see if I can be a print model for some random obscure label. I want to do fun silly things with my life and my time (especially while I’m still young bc unfortunately a lot of the things I want to do rely on youth and beauty, idk wtf I’m gonna do when I’m no longer young), not rot in bed and constantly be recovering from procedures and hiding away. Or be waiting until I’m “ready” for this thing or “pretty enough” for that thing. I want to do it all now. I feel a crazy sense of urgency when I really just want to quiet my mind down and allow myself the time I need to rest and recover but my brain won’t let me. My brain keeps firing off the “NOW! NOW! NOW!” buttons.

You have to apply for higher paying jobs now!!

You have to submit model headshots now! You’re 27 and not getting any younger, nobody will even want you.

You have to secure a new SD now!! This is when they are looking, if not you probably won’t find another one for months/until next year and then you’ll be another year older.

You have to find a new place to live NOW! Living at your uncle’s is lame and you want your own place in the city so bad but OOPS you can’t really afford it. That’s why you need to apply for jobs NOW!!

And especially with the actual batshit way the country is being run right now, it feels even more important to not let life pass by. I want to secure myself housing-wise and financially as soon as possible, try to have fun as much as possible, apply for jobs, travel, seize every opportunity as much as possible because nothing is promised and all your joy can be taken away in an instant. Scrolling through the news definitely sent me spiraling. Everything is bad and we all just so happened to be born in this lifetime, where our lives get fucked by a few people in charge. Why couldn’t I have been born at a really good or at least chill moment in time when my prospects of being happy and fulfilled were a lot higher? We are all in a horrible timeline and it feels like I can’t even do anything to help myself very much. Much less my struggling family. I want to help my mum but I can barely help myself.

[theblindmachine]

"**Title: Unmasking Imperialism: Insights from Katie Halper's Powerful Speech at "WTF Happened To Europe?"** On March 7, during the impactful event "WTF Happened To Europe?" held in Brussels, comedian and journalist Katie Halper delivered a compelling speech that laid bare the harsh realities of U.S. imperialism. In a world often cloaked in illusions, Halper's analysis cut through the noise, revealing uncomfortable truths about the dangers of far-right politics, media complicity, and the perpetual cycles of war. Halper provocatively highlighted how former President Donald Trump, despite his divisive and often controversial rhetoric, inadvertently forced a reckoning with the darker aspects of U.S. foreign policy. In observing his administration's actions and the subsequent response from both the Democratic Party and mainstream media, it becomes clear that the persistence of imperialist ideologies largely goes unchallenged. From Gaza to Ukraine, Halper addressed the blatant hypocrisy inherent in the Western powers' responses to global crises. Her insights illuminated how the narratives crafted by political leaders and media outlets often disguise the realities on the ground—realities marked by overwhelming suffering and injustice. While the Biden administration and its allies promote an image of progressivism, they remain deeply complicit in actions that perpetuate war, propagate apartheid, and stifle dissenting voices. This dynamic was starkly evident in Halper’s critique of the media’s role in reinforcing the status quo. Rather than acting as a watchdog, many media entities have become purveyors of propaganda, painting a picture of geopolitical conflicts that conveniently aligns with the interests of powerful elites. Through her incisive dissection of these issues, Halper calls upon audiences to pierce the veil of misinformation and engage with the uncomfortable truths that underpin contemporary politics. Halper’s impassioned address serves as a clarion call for a collective awakening. The time for illusions surrounding Western interventions and imperial ambitions is long past. As citizens and consumers of media, we must confront the narratives that obscure the brutal realities inflicted upon marginalized populations worldwide. For those interested in delving deeper into Halper’s thought-provoking commentary, both parts of her speech are available for viewing: - [Part I](https://youtube.com/live/bG4iMEKv81Q) - [Part II](https://youtube.com/live/p2Oma0D6JcM) As we navigate this complex political landscape, it becomes increasingly vital to support movements that advocate for justice and transparency. Consider joining DiEM25 or contributing to their mission for a fairer future. - [Join DiEM25](https://diem25.org/join) - [Donate to DiEM25](https://ift.tt/XAPzqjn) - [Subscribe for more insights](https://www.youtube.com/c/DiEM25official) In a time rife with challenges, Halper’s message underscores the importance of vigilance, awareness, and activism in rejecting the narratives that perpetuate cycles of violence and oppression. It prompts us to reflect on our responsibility, both as individuals and as a society, to confront the truths that shape our world."

[expfcultragreen]

😮‍💨 right, because bondi is gonna review terabytes of cp for this? Theyre not giving it to her and theyre not giving it to the public, its also, like, to demand to see these vids isnt very sensitive to the victims in them, no? Why would the actual cp get declassified. However, summaries/lists of the epstein associates documented in them? Couldnt be difficult, like someone had to watch this shit, im assuming by now theres transcripts etc of a lot of it

Nice that some magasphere people are open about how bs it is to re-release a tiny amount of previously published info and act like "ooo so transparent, nothing to see here"

Really classic trump move to aid and abett human traffickers, everyone must be so happy to have the tates back....(except for that maga lady who somehow thought trump was the anti-rape candidate just because he called immigrants rapists a bunch of times 🙄 classic fashy reversi move, "don't worry about usguys you KNOW are bad, worry about themguys youre less familiar with")

These coverup people 🙄 the absolute consciencelessness

Do the people who call tom hanks a pedo for being on a fake epstein list ever call trump the same thing for undeniably being wrapped up in all the actual shit, or are they being exhausting hypocrites on purpose so people get sicker of people who accuse people of pedophilia than they are of actual pedos (im betting the latter)...its like the anti-meryl streep poster campaign after the weinstein news broke, "she knew" 🤦 you wrote a 2 word fanfic that mattered more to you than anything that went to court? Wtf, just misdirection (seems like qanon sphere stuff since everything that comes out of 8kun seems like some pay-no-attention-to-that-cp-behind-the-curtain brigading operation), just looking around for people to bring in as props so its like "sure maybe he's guilty but everyone's guilty, meryl streep is guilty!" Like either it dilutes the blame on weinstein (standing in for sexual predators in general) thru association with a smear on streep, or, it drags down the image of streep (a respected public figure who is a lady and, i assume also a dem, all of which is annoying to some lifestyle creeps). Like, the attacks on tom hanks are maybe specifically engineered to be ellided with the same claims about trump, thereby obscuring trump's actual involvement

Let's see what snopes says

No word on the epstein list version but anyway

This one is kinda all over, "yes trump was mentioned in connection with" but "no these hearings/transcripts don't prove deeper involvement" (sure but all the other stuff like flight logs pretty seriously casts doubt on the whole hands-off/innocent-until approach which is easier to take or seem reasonable in taking, if you know--and are presented with--nothing else about it all).......randomly says in the conclusion that epstein actually suicided, which, none of the missing footage/garrote bruise details came up but the hyoid break IS brought up, as inconsequential 🤷

Snopes is so weird

[open-hearth-rpg]

#RPGCovers Week Nine Cultos Innombrables (2014) Javier Charro

This is one of those wtf choices for me. It’s a super creepy image taken as a whole, with a basket full of striking elements. Let’s leave aside the naked woman with blood sigils carved into her skin (and the carefully placed shadows and glowing tentacles to obscure her naughty bits). 

There’s the evocative font speaking of corroded metal. The skyline in the background. The tentacles framing the scene, the dead body of a Deep One, the ritual implements scattered about, and the cell phone with screen illuminated as if our caster has to look something up. 

There’s great color balance here– with the dominating blue black making the pink and red of her skin pop and be even more disconcerting. And the whole presented in a dutch angle, giving us even more sense of a world sliding into chaos.   

[curetapwater]

AAAAAAAAAAAAA FUCK FUCK FUCK I SAW MY PHOBIA ON MY SMDASH FUCK FUCK FUCK NOOOOOOOOO

I'm gonna get off of tumblr for a bit, I hope that doesn't crop up again

[whitesdni-archived]

do any of you guys have irls added on here like. is that a thing people do

[dinomintz]

grrrr... I have to make the content I want to see for it to exist