#(<they are physically incapable of making rational decisions)

[doubleslashkarma]

Look I know Baghera's really upset about her not being able to execute her plan anymore, but as a Lifesteal fan, hearing her plan was to remove one of her lives herself in front of everyone as a showcase of solidarity sets off my fight or flight. NO GIRL DONT KILL YOURSELF TO IRREVOCABLY CHANGE THE COURSE OF THEIR LIVES IT DOESNT WORK I PROMISE!! THAT HAPPENS A LOT OVER HERE AND OH BOY HOWDY IT DOES NOT END WELL!!! YOU HAVE NO FUCKING CLUE!!!

[runawaymarbles]

...what is the "sex is just rock climbing" category

It was kind of a joke between me and a friend ("you wouldn't judge someone for having gone rock climbing with a bunch of different people") but honestly the more I thought about it the more I bought into it unironically because:

It is a physical activity done with one or more partners

You should only go rock climbing with people you trust to not let you fall

You should not go rock climbing with someone who is drunk or currently incapable of rational decision-making

Some people get super super super into rock climbing and do not shut up about all the places they have climbed and how many are left on their bucket list and these people are usually men between the ages of 20 and 35 and like it's fine dude I'm glad you're happy but I don't know what most of those mountains even are

While many consider it a fun activity, pressuring someone into climbing when they don't want to (or ignoring their feelings and just dangling them off a cliff,) could cause both psychological and physical trauma

There is no moral value to it whatsoever. Who you have gone rock climbing with (or whether you have rock climbed at all) has no bearing on who you are as a person. Imagine telling someone "it's not that heights make you nauseous, it's just that you haven't found the right person to belay you!" or "you need to save your first time rock climbing for someone special." That would be absurd.

For some people it is a deep and moving personal experience.

historically I have not asked myself "will this aggravate my hip flexor injury" before participating when perhaps I should have 😔

[toastsnaffler]

i feel like every decision i have to make atm is rock and a hard place devil and the deep blue sea and i cant fucking deal with it i can feel the wires fusing + cogs screeching to a halt. total mental shutdown

[paperstorm]

“My mom sent me to rehab. There’s plenty of good places in New York but she sent me to the other side of the country because she decided that one was better. My dad dragged me to Austin. Picked my therapist for me, made me live in his guest room like a teenager. And both of those things were the right choice in the end so I guess it’s not fair to be mad at them either, but neither of them asked me what I wanted, first. Or what I needed. They both just put me where they wanted me to be, and then expected me to be thankful for it.”

Love your new Missing Moments but this made me want to strangle TK. The spoiled brat should be thankful! If Gwyn had asked him what he wanted at that time he would have gone back to his little drug den and probably be dead. If Owen had asked him what he wanted before moving to Texas he very likely would have ended up back on drugs again and would probably be dead. I love TK to pieces, but you can't ask a drug addict what they want because a lot of times they're not strong enough to say that they want or need help.

Well first, in a way that is fantastic, because something I love playing with in these stories is an unreliable narrator who is giving voice to his own perspective and perception of events even if the reader isn't going to agree with what he's saying.

But second, as a recovering addict (who does not speak for everyone who suffers from this disability but can give at least some form of a voice to it) every case is different because every person is different. There are cases for sure where without forced medical intervention, a person will probably die. There are schools of thought that forced medical intervention is unethical even in these cases – the idea that forcibly removing someone's bodily autonomy in any situation where they are not an immediate physical danger to other people is not an ethical move even if it results in that person killing themselves. There are other schools of thought that believe things along the lines of what you said. I think I personally fall somewhere in the middle.

But choice and autonomy and agency are important, regardless of where someone falls on that debate. It's important to addicts because they are, first and foremost, human beings. And no human being likes to feel as if their loved ones are not respecting their autonomy or are forcibly removing their agency, even or perhaps especially if it's done under the banner of this is for your own good. TK, as I had him state in the dialogue, is very aware that his parents’ interventions likely saved his life. He is, as he says in a later paragraph after the one you quoted, grateful for that. But that doesn't mean he isn't also resentful of the fact that they never bothered to ask what he thought he needed.

Often addicts are very crystal clear about what they need. Often what's standing in their way is the fact that they can't get what they need, not that they don't know what it is. An addiction like TK's, in which he was still able to manage a full-time and incredibly difficult and demanding job, means he was not so far gone that he was incapable of rational thought 24/7. He wasn’t legally incapacitated, he would have been capable of participating in the conversation had his parents wanted to include him in that.

Even giving an addict a small amount of agency over their own decisions can be instrumental in their recovery, because it allows them to retain some semblance of control and to feel good about the fact that they are making the decision to get better. As an example, Owen could have let him pick his own therapist. Gwyn could have said "going to rehab is non-negotiable. Here are three I have done some research on, you can pick which one you go to." (As a side note, this is exactly why I think it's so important that in 3x08 she walked away at the airport and let TK go on his own. Because if TK had gotten into that car and said “Take me to a bar”, the driver legally would have had to do so or else it would be kidnapping. TK could also have just stood there for 10 minutes and then booked a flight back to New York. It’s so important that at the very end, Gwyn let it be TK’s decision to go to the clinic. For the rest of his life he can look back and hang his hat on that. That his mom gave him a push, but in the end he chose recovery. That he did it for himself.)

Sometimes, you’re right, there are situations where people’s loved ones are right to step in and take over. I don’t blame Owen or Gwyn for doing it in either of these moments, that’s their son and he was killing himself and what loving parent wouldn’t do what they did? But two things can be true. The fact that they made the right choice (and again, my TK knows that they made the right choice) doesn’t erase the fact that part of him is resentful that he feels like they didn’t value his opinion or his needs – or even know what his needs were, since they didn’t ask. And that lingering resentment flared up again when it felt to him like Carlos was now another person not caring about his opinion or needs. Those feelings I think are valid, even if they aren’t perfectly fair.

[rwby-encrusted-blog]

Ruby: Hey, Penny? How old are you?

Penny: Well, My current body has only been in service for Nine Months, six days, four hours and twenty three minutes, I have been aware and sapient for two to Three years depending on if you consider my reconstruction a part of my 'life' as I was in a Coma-like state.

Penny: If we go off the metric of my soul's age, it would either be approximately four years, according to my Neural Replicant - the programming that give me my mannerisms and personality developement - Function's were being trained to act somewhat like a person. Or we could go off of my Father's soul's age, which would make me 63 years of age.

Penny: Any reason in particular why you asked.

Ruby: I just wanted to know if you were ... y'know ... legal?

Penny: Legal?

Ruby: Do you pass the Harkness Test?

Penny: I am Inorganic, and therefore incapable of reaching a point of Physical Maturity that would allow me procreation, so therefore I am exempt to the test.

Penny: Seeing as I am capable of proper rationalization despite my naivete, gullibility, and inexperience, I understand the importance and potential lack of importance of sexual intimacy depending upon who desires said intimacy, and therefore I believe myself capable of making a responsible, informed decision to have Sex.

Ruby: ... Cool. Definitely understood all of that.

[shuttershocky]

I love your posts on how Shiki sees Aoko vs. how everyone else sees Aoko (including readers who also read Mahoyo).

Shiki might genuinely be the only being on Earth who isn't even a little bit afraid of Aoko, and the funniest thing is he completely lacks the background to understand any explanation of who Sensei actually is. It would be like

"Shiki, your Sensei isn't a teacher."

"Oh yeah, she said she was a mage."

"No no no, as in she's one of the only five capable of True Magic. A Magician."

"That makes sense. Sensei is a special person."

"She's one of the most potentially dangerous and naturally destructive human beings we have ever seen. She could cause the heat death of the universe with how she abuses her powers."

"I don't know what any of that means, but you're being rude. Bye."

Notice how Shiki doesn't bat a single eyelash when Arcueid of all people is relieved that Aoko isn't in town, it doesn't even register in his mind how weird it is for someone claiming to be a nearly all-powerful vampire to speak of his Sensei with reluctance, maybe even fear. The narration in the Remake doesn't even have Shiki even realize Arcueid reacts negatively when she discovers who gave Shiki his glasses. He is physically incapable of hearing anything wrong about his sensei.

Meanwhile, Aoko has taken on a completely idealized form in Shiki's head. He hears her voice as a manifestation of his rational self when he loses control of his body, he ponders critical decisions on what the Aoko in his memories would think, he even straight up misconstrues her advice about how to live and her wish for him to live a normal life with "Yeah. Sensei would have wanted me to end this vampire."

If you Shiki went back in time and met the temperamental menace highschooler Aoko, his brain would probably short circuit.

[punkpandapatrixkdailyread]

世代を開放するのはだ～れ sedai o kaihou suru no wa da~re／Generation Liberation

Moon Day 10 in Sagittarius／Waxing Gibbous

day’s V I B E – 8 of Cups

The 10th moon day is a lucky day. With this industrious Sagittarius energy relating to the 10th House, today is a massively good day to get on with our more pragmatic tasks. The things under the influence of the 10th House of career and legacy that you must do from now.

Although many of us hold dreams that are quite beyond the conventional, tradition, or custom, we still have practical duties that need catering now. Get on with that responsibly—when it feels right, too—so the path towards your unconventional desires is littered with less annoyance.

In another news,

Irrespective of your age (but especially if you’re below the age of 30, I guess) do realise that the future of jobs is looking very different from what we’ve been familiar with up until… the last 5 years, I guess?

The world is changing big time and in spite of the criticisms launched at Gen Ms and Zs about their incapability to deal with the common stresses of the conventional workplace—that’s really on the older generations, innit?

They’re the ones who’ve created stupidly massively toxic systems and we’re fed up. We’re SO fed up and worse about us is that we’re SO self-respecting that we refuse to be part of their comically disrespectful systems. There’s got to be another way of living, right?

The way I see it, a lot of older Gen Ms are currently breaking through with breaking many conventions. Yeah sure, a small portion of the Gen Xs and Boomers are on this as well, but older Gen Ms are definitely changing the world in their own sneaky Scorpionic ways to create that Solarpunk (the optimistic version of Cyberpunk LMAO) reality we all wish could come sooner. And so, that’s basically good news for the Gen Zs.

If you’re a Gen Z, or a younger Gen M, or whoever and whatever you are if you’re a weirdo, I think you could claim this possible timeline and decide to join in on the circus towards Liberation from the constrictive chains of this slavery matrix.

Lotsa good things are in store for us all when thinking about jobs and careers of the future. It’s gonna be superbly exciting! In the future, most people are gonna be able to earn a comfortable income doing what they like and care about. Are you in? So don’t be anxious.

Just that, before that happens, make sure you prioritise and take care of your mental health for rational decision making; spiritual health for healthy optimistic daydreaming; physical health to ensure you live long enough to be part of this exciting future; and most of all, don’t be afraid to believe in TechnoMagick😉

Priestess of Magick

m o o n a v i g a t i o n ♥︎

‘Technomancers of the New World are working hard behind the scenes of this deceitful Matrix. If you wanna be part of this movement, just close your eyes and affirm that you wanna see the manifestations of this Dream Work. We’re all connected and ruled by the Law of One. By confirming your daily decisions you’re becoming either part of those who serve the Light or those that serve the Dark. The magick of co-creation is in you. What kind of Reality do you wanna be part of? You must affirm to yourself for all the world to see.’

☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・.

[Main Blog] [Patreon] [Paid Readings]

☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・.

[funsizearsonist]

no editing no thinking no hesitation 

Fab Four headcanons les go

Poison finds all his hair dye like discarded from other joys half used tubes and somehow it never looks like a total and complete trainwreck. They pretend it’s just luck or magic or something but the dark circles under their eyes and weird stains from scrounging around for more color in weird abandoned places say otherwise. It pains Jet.

Jet is the only one who knows how to roller skate or skateboard and he’s really sad that its hard to do in the zones because he wants to teach the girl. 

He’s also so incredibly glad the other guys don’t know though bc he knows for a fact they’d try to jury-rig some janky fuckin desert skateboard and have him teach them and it’s a Bad idea. Not to mention his blood pressure is high enough without fresh new ways for his boys to get fucked up. (yes they are His boys. no i dont take criticism)

Kobra is very sarcastic and fuckin proud of it he thinks he’s hilarious and he’s physically incapable of holding back sassy comments but he’s also neurodivergent as hell and often doubts if it was the right time for sarcasm or if he used the tone right so it came off as sarcastic and joking not just mean

He never asks though because that would ruin his Cool Guy Aesthetic so he’s just like an anxious motherfucker

Ghoul is, as we all know, the most chaotic fucking unhinged man in the zones. He doesn’t wear anything too bold and he’s not like, on drugs but somehow he manages to be more out of whack than like,, every other weirdo out there. He has been seen doing a handstand in only underwear on top of the Oasis. He has had an abandoned shopping cart race that also happened to lead to the cactus patch incident. Everyone thinks all the weird shit he does is just like rumor and fake lore until they meet him for more than five minutes. Then they Know. 

He’s not like fucked up or anything. He’s capable of making rational decisions. He acts mostly normal until he catches a glimpse of a stray chair and an old clothesline pole and gets that mad glint in his eye and before you know it he’s broken two fingers and he’s got that stupid smile on his face. No one knows how he does it. There are theories that he was drac’d for a minute and it sorta moved everything in his brain a little to the left.

[ruthlesslistener]

you're so right baby pit does make sense!!!! he had extensive evidence showing that void touched beings didn't function outside of some measure of survival, and ngl if I had to sacrifice a bunch of nematodes (for lack of an equivalent functioning animal) to save a city i would have too. how was he supposed to know they were people? as far as he knew, his offspring never made it past conception and everything after that was just as empty as shadow creepers and his void constructs

Oops I think I forgot to put anon on

...

Hksjhdfgb you're good fam, I won't judge you for that. I also think that most people don't realize that PK and WL GENUINELY DID NOT REALIZE that their offspring was capable of pain, and that part of the horror of the Abyss was not just the sheer number of children who were killed, but the ignorance and goodwill of those who damned them. It's not negating the fucked-up aspect of what happened to them- if anything, it adds to it, and is further magnified by the fact that the vessels themselves were incapable of expressing themselves in a way that would reveal they were alive. Hell, the way that the White Lady speaks of the Hollow Knight tells us enough; she treats them like an object that was tainted rather than a person, because that's what she thinks they are. She clearly hates that she made them in that way, for her binding herself and hiding away is a form of self-punishment for what she's done (and she does warm up to Ghost the longer you talk to them, so she clearly doesn't want to treat them like nothingness). And its much more horrifying to realize that fact- that the White Lady and the Pale King hated what they've done, that they could have had a family if they wanted to, if things had been just a little bit kinder- than it is to imagine them as cruel, heartless rulers, who willingly slaughtered children because they didn't care about them at all. Wasting resources of two people on attempting to create a Pure Vessel to save millions of actual lives would be a MIRACULOUS way of solving the very real threat the Radiance posed to the kingdom of Hallownest, and it was a risk that, by all of their calculations, should have worked. How were they to know that the creatures of the dark they spawned had thoughts, had feelings? The Path of Pain itself shows PK's agony at the realization in physical form. The tragedy of it + the fact that it was a perfectly rational decision doesn't excuse PK or WL, it makes their circumstances worse.

Plus, they're not humans. They're insects. Do you know how many insects mass-produce offspring to account for the fact that 90% of them would die? Many. Hell, it ain't even insects, that's the reproductive strategy for a significant chunk of the lifeforms on this earth. Just because these bugs have intelligence and society similar to those of human beings doesn't mean that they're human, or stick to human moral concerns. And judging them by those standards instead of their own is just fucking stupid.

(And to make it not seem like I'm favoring PK/WL unnecessarily here, I also think that Radi's forceful takeover of Hallownest and her killing off everyone who refused her made sense on the 'I need to be remembered to not die and I am on the brink of death and desperate' point of view, she's just the same as PK and WL in that she really, REALLY did not have to go to such a major extreme)

[miseriathome]

re: last reblog

CW suicide and mental health and mental breakdown and all of that

idk about all the nature stuff but that it, that's exactly it, that's the precise sentiment I've been grappling with for months now, trying to figure out how to explain to my therapist. That my ability to cope with adversity has become so mechanized and so automated that I've lost a core rudiment of my humanity. I feel it in the way I say "I am physically incapable of killing myself" in the sense of being incapacitated, in the sense of being viscerally unable to perform a critical action, and I get told "good! :)" as if being stuck in an endless internal scream with no outlet is somehow better than being a person with agency and free will and rational decision-making functions. Not even because I want to be dead or because I believe I should kill myself, because there are things I love and enjoy about the experience of being alive, but the fact that I don't have the choice, I don't have the option to exercise my suicidality anymore because that extension of my autonomy has been tortured out of me. The suicidality exists internally, screaming for a release that I can't give it. My shift lead marveled about how cool and calm my poker face is, and how she never would have known how deeply upset I was unless I had said something. It was like she was praising my control and discipline when really I'm trapped in a goddamn cage and there are no options, there is literally nothing I can do to let off the pressure that builds and builds and builds. It hurts, it physically hurts and conceptually I know there are remedies for that but I can and I do persevere and I shouldn't have to. I should be debilitated, I should be screaming in agony, but it's been beaten out of me. Those aren't skills I have anymore. My body is a cage, my body is a fucking mech suit that continues to move no matter how fucking much I want it to stop. I can put names to my emotions and my experiences, I can say I'm irritated or overwhelmed, I can say I am experiencing physical pain, but naming it doesn't do anything except make other people clap for how "well" I'm doing. It's like other people's understanding of suffering stops and ends with feel-good pop psych that's used by the worried well but I'm not worried and I am unwell, those are the problems. I can name that I am experiencing distress but I can't feel it, I'm not allowed to feel it, the entire structure of the world around me discourages me from feeling it and praises its repression, but the scream needs release. It's un-fucking-sustainable to be an unperson. It's fucked up that this is rewarded, it's fucked up that people are happy that I am missing such a vital part of the human experience. "I am incapable of killing myself" isn't fucking praise-worthy, it's a horror story. It's a goddamn cry for help, I am trying to articulate that I have been so deeply violated by psychiatric institutionalization that I am no longer a person, I no longer have the choice to live, I am required to. It's not even that I intend to act on suicidality, it's that there is no other option that my body can perform. I was robbed of the option to get to choose to live. I need someone to understand Everything around me and inside of me is screaming and that's supposed to be a good thing. I'm supposed to be thankful. It's supposed to be a mark of my value that I "did this to myself." I went through something so deeply traumatic and dehumanizing that a core piece of my humanity has been severed from my Self and no one gives a crap. And it's supposed to be a good thing. No matter what I do, I keep moving forward and maybe I don't want to. Conceptually I know I'm having a fucking "panic attack" but it won't fucking escape my goddamn flesh cage. I can't make my pain leak into places where it can be seen. I can't relieve the pressure of all the things that are festering inside my bones because there's no hole, there's no outlet. I'm rotting and my physical body is eating itself and there is no emotional space that I'm allowed (capable) of having where that can be expressed in a way that's meaningful, that acknowledges my agency.

[levihantrash]

despite having a major Se function, I more often see him as a Judging type or he seemed prefer to do Judge processing. He often say smtg like 'what's your plan?', 'what will you do?'.

What do you think?

Hello!! I have finally got round to replying this 😊 Thank you for waiting!! To everyone who is not an MBTI nerd... excuse me while I use it to analyse Levi XD

In my opinion, I think Levi is an ISTP, which means Se (extraverted sensing) is his auxillary function and Ti (introverted thinking) is his dominant function. So it means that Se is still one of his top functions. Here is a clearer version of the ISTP stack of functions, which are Ti, Se, Ni, and Fe respectively: https://mbti-notes.tumblr.com/post/117102482852/istp#:~:text=ISTPs%20are%20defined%20by%20the,Tertiary%3A%20Introverted%20Intuition%20(Ni)

As a dominant Ti user, he displays some of the main traits in the series of:

questioning authority (although paradoxically, being content with following authority that he trusts! As opposed to the Te dominant function, which I believe is Erwin's as an ENTJ, the desire to lead and strategise isn't Levi's cup of tea, because he doesn't feel a need to convince people of his own thinking.)

planning / thinking logically (since you mentioned that he often asks “what’s your plan”, this lines up with how he quite rationally considers different people’s plans-->but because he is an introverted Thinker rather than an extraverted one, he isn’t inclined to share his own plans/thoughts)

everything having to make sense logically (when any of his comrades start to show irrational/impulsive behaviour, he quite immediately steps in.)  

As an auxiliary Se user, which I think is much more externally obvious because AOT is an action and fighting series.

hands-on/practical vs theoretical (it’s not that Levi is incapable of strategizing, it is just not something he is particularly keen on, in the way that Erwin and Hange do research and strategy.

scanning environment and taking in sensory information externally (sports / outdoor activities / cooking-the DOING) --> which is also why I would imagine that even if he wasn’t a soldier, he would enjoy something like cooking or sports. A tea shop, while less active, still requires a lot of manual work to keep it going, which ties in with the hands-on inclination he might have)

speaking through actions (Levi, a master of words? Never! Most of his compassion is seen clearly through actions, which is actually also him exercising his inferior function, extraverted Feeling (Fe)). Fe users tend to make decisions based the outward environment and how their feelings will affect their physical world (a source here to differentiate between Fi and Fe: https://www.truity.com/blog/how-do-feelers-feel-their-feelings-fe-versus-fi-explained) As a developed character and adult in the beginning of the series, Levi has signs of having tried developing his Fe in building a positive environment for his comrades and subordinates, and in his own awkward way, using his actions to care for those around him.

This thread shows how his Ti and Se work together to make him such an exceptionally good fighter in the series too: https://twitter.com/whofavoredfire/status/1522468368258797569

To add on to the original author of the tweet, this panel here shows Levi’s Se & Ti at work, where he is able to spontaneously and rationally make decisions, which is of course, important in a battlefield.

While Ni is his tertiary function, i.e. his third function, it means he uses it less than Se and Ti. Ni is characterised as the hunch/gut instinct, not simply focusing on here and now, and the desire to foresee the future and not act immediately on external, present situation.

I would say that Levi does not use his Ni that much merely because in a military situation, heavy Ni users will not benefit from having overanalysed every aspect and detail due to a lack of time, and the volatility of most of the situations he is thrown in as a soldier.

However, negative or weak Ni will cause ISTPs to either ignore the future in favor of the present, or be overly concerned and afraid of the future, afraid that they’ll never achieve their dreams or that some event won’t end well (https://practicaltyping.com/istp/). Levi has never quite shown that kind of fatalism, with a very pragmatic, yet hopeful view of the future when it comes to believing in the Survey Corps’ mission and the steps needed to move in that direction.

One instance he indicates that fatalism is in questioning how they have been helping Eren all this while, concerned about how a future with Eren will play out, or whether it was the right choice to believe in his abilities. Still, Levi never quite dwells on it, or at least the manga never shows Levi outwardly showing an obsessive kind of regret at how Eren’s current actions might affect everyone. In fact, it is almost wistful, in the way Levi wished that he could talk to Eren more.

As for Fe as the inferior function:

Levi is unable to follow social code or norms, or simply doesn’t want to. I don’t think he intentionally makes the atmosphere cold with his demeanour, he’s really just fixated on the task at hand, and sometimes that task is a very important one—cleaning.

delayed emotional processing (albeit “useful” for wartimes if every other day is a crisis. Levi has never had an emotional breakdown in the way many characters do, and it’s not because Levi is unemotional or unempathetic, but to tamp down or underuse his Fe may simply be a coping strategy in the face of great, tragic loss.

[automatismoateo]

My mom gave me CS Lewis' "Mere Christianity" and it changed the way I think... via /r/atheism

My mom gave me CS Lewis' "Mere Christianity" and it changed the way I think... I found the book uninteresting and an uninspiring attempt at being manipulative. The book is not what changed the way I think. As I was reading it, I repeatedly asked myself, why did my mom give this to me? The answer I came up with gives me many new ideas on the motivations of all religious people. My mom, poisoned by the internet, has recently identified with hard right conservative Christianity. Her life before makes this change in ideology very hard to understand as she was a clear and lucid person who stuck to rational decision making. What seems obvious to me now is that my mom gave me this book because she thought it might be the thing that would make me tell her she is right to become a Christian. But why does she need this? She needs me to reassure her that her adoption of Christianity is sensical. She herself, has doubt! Yet she is devoting time, energy, money, etc. to being a devote member. She needs me to tell her she's making the right decision, because her internal psyche is saying "wait, I'm not sure this makes sense though". How could she not have doubt? But really, how could any human believe 100% in this when there are so many times in one's life where doubt creeps up? The conclusion from this, all religious people spend their entire lives trying to erase this doubt from their consciousness. The motivation to work so tirelessly to convert other people is that, to them, a conversion is a reaffirmation that their belief is valid. "if he beilves it now, it must be right!," For example, the existence of an atheist reminds a religious person of this doubt. A Christian is bothered far more by an atheist than a muslim. A Muslim is bothered far more by an atheist than a Christian, etc. An atheist is hated the most by all religions as their existence reminds them of their internal doubt. If a religious person said to me, it's not just that I don't understand the attraction to the scientific method, I am physically incapable of accepting it as a path to knowledge, I would have no interest in trying to "convince" them. "good luck with that!" I would say, and change the subject. On the other hand, admitting to a Christian that I am incapable of believing that my existence and experience is governed by some vaguely and ambiguously defined notion of deity, the Christian is triggered emotionally. Their response is very infrequently one of indifference. So take this thought with you. The next time a person of deep faith questions you, remind yourself that this person is deeply struggling with a fundamental internal contradictions and you live right in the middle of that. Submitted November 29, 2023 at 04:42PM by graumet (From Reddit https://ift.tt/rV98Msq)

[phlve]

ES(T) — Extraverted Sensation supported by Thinking

Excitability and pedantism to some extent. contradicts himself. Great self-possession and control. often either one trait dominates or another. Neatness, in childhood - provokes. becomes enraged. Shaking or tremors in body. At times obsessive ideas. As the personality matures, his psyche becomes more balanced. Impulsiveness in reactions, self-control at work and at home likes to control and have things. In society may seem a little slow: atraid to say something out of place. Leaves the house, loses self-control, acts recklessly; he does not fight with rationalization, rather, mythomania and insults. He doubts the intelligence of someone, he judges people and makes it clear: "You are stupid!". He treats everything as some kind of game, "haha checkmate I win!". He is aware of the logical structures of efficiency and decisions. They avoid complexity and dislike big discussions about topics they find too imaginative, "idealistic". He likes investments and money, he worries about his shape, his texture, his physicality. Always active. always doing something. They don't dwell in the clouds and don't dream lying on a sofa about things that could have been if ... These are people of realistic, concrete actions. They can be characterized as ambitious and purposeful people. These are born leaders and administrators capable of taking responsibility for making decisions on important matters. They appreciate logic and supporting argumentation. His activity levels often depend on his own state or mood. Despite this, if you turn to a representative of this type for help in a critical situation, he won't idly sit about and talk, or give you free advice, but instead he will try help you through concrete deeds. Inability to see future consequences of their harsh words and actions. Problems fall on him out of nowhere and all of a sudden, and grow like an avalanche. Not always capable of understanding the nuances of people's relations and is incapable of perceiving their inner core. He often does not know how people relate to him, what people think of him. He is actually blind to people's attitudes towards himself. He pushes through against other people's opinions and weaknesses, dislikes sadness and frustration, intolerant of inexistence. They are constantly accompanied by a restless activity, workaholism. Barbarous sadist, lacks complete empathy. He constantly categorizes people: "Weak", "Strong", "Dumb", "Idiot", "Smart, "Efficient" etc. He may live with a philosophy, a sense of justice and order. He protects his friends, tries to be likeable. Treats subordinates well and puts enemies into great pain, he likes humiliation and devotion. Able to inspire people. but not very conscious of this

"I learned a lot in my life, but I want to understand more, including what I understand is not right." Only when they are burnt out they might agree to take some time off at a resort or a hospital. People of this type should remember this, because people are not indestructible; they are not sources of endless energy. He is able to consider an oblect, a situation, an event from several points of view, he can explain any phenomenon in several different ways. This type picks out the laws that they follow automatically, without a hint of creativity. Dislikes long decision-making, more curious and "feeling-tone" than thinking. He quickly grasps the current situation and distribution of power, makes a fast decision and acts. He is capable of political maneuvering but never forgets his line. He possesses powerful understanding, but this kind of logic is determined and thus biased, its purpose isn't philosophical speculations but the creative search for the shortcut to finding a solution. It is easier for him to concede his logic than his goal. He seldom gives in to fear, hatred, and other negative emotions, rarely gets surprised and rarely envies. The more dangerous the situation, the more self-disciplined and resolute he becomes. He does not like to speak about feelings: if he gets sad, he distracts himself, he changes his mood. If he sees sad people, he instantaneously runs from them, he is afraid of sentiments and feeling-values. He may understand very well the struggles of someone, but he wouldn't like to focus on the emotional problems of someone. he answers like "Let's eat something! Plan big revolution!". No attention to sentimentality, but he can easily fall in love with someone, get obsessed, he likes to admire human relations and emotionality. He "collects" sentiments, feelings. He prefers music that has emotion, meaning. He can be very religious, "schizophrenic", oriented to spirituality and political ambients. For him, integrity of circumstances is subconsciously rejected. He detests situations when everything is known from beginning to end. Dislikes "fate", he wants to change the future, he likes something meaningful yet dynamic. "What do you mean I have to follow a schedule? What if I feel like working around the clock? Why are you putting me in the rigid frames of a schedule? I do not care about your office hours. If I feel like working, I will keep work". It is important to have clarity and definiteness on his romantic life; he states his love clearly, and wants to invade, corrupt someone, with his own love. Ideological, he expresses a certain ideology concerning politics and beliefs in the divine. Values profit over usefulness, spending, investments. risks. combinations. running in a new one. profit maximization.

Pattern of narcissistic behavior exemplified by boastfulness, excessive self-assurance, vanity, compulsive sexual behavior, exhibitionistic fetishes, admiration and desire to have subordinates, a divine or royalty "sensorial fantasy". Compulsive, addictive need to acquire and hoard money, resources and food. Orientation to efficiency for itself and investment, analysis and deconstruction of laws. Survival and conservation of the body and the social 'me'. Glory, honour, self-righteousness and protective-friendship nature. Some manifestations can behave calm, relaxed, comfortable and demonstrate intellectual superiority. He likes to make trades and exchanges of energy with the world; interested and inspired by games, music, art, aesthetics, power. Greedy yet kind. Sometimes worry or gets immersed in an alternative, finds double sense and weird meaning in phrases or events. Does not understand relationships well. He follows and sticks to explicit concepts that enable conducts not so social or normal. Always perceives the value and potential symbolical essence of something, such as life. Attention towards abilities and probable, possible routes for the future. May hold grudges and resentment against someone; if he fights and argues with his partner, he suddenly breaks everything apart. Then, months and maybe years would pass, the time of the relationship, the emotionality disperses. But if he find again the person he did fought with, he'll remember all the history and experience associated with the person - the sentiments return. Some manifestations are hypocritical, they point in others the problems and mistakes they have. Some versions make good argumentations, but they are negative and a little pessimistic, concerned with the argument's faults. Recognizes the strength of someone quickly. He exercises daily, likes to build energy. Weirdly limbic and full of libido. Able to devise plans and tactics, strategical. Counts things and orders them in some logical pattern. Sometimes he is alone, feels solitary, needs something to take and eat. Makes money using his skills, confidente, some manifestations are "cute" - they give money and gifts, they like to do acts of service. HnIovs insighttu conversation. calculated and tree in exnression. Spends time gambling or gaming. Some manifestations are cold and do not talk much. Likes to teach and educate people, he shares his opinion or conclusions and persuades people with them. flexible. Some manifestations have clear sense of justice, morals and ethics - they may not accept to do certain things, even if they are paid for it. Likes nudism. Erodere or Hiyakasudere, Yottadere. Some versions, Hajidere. Dorodere. Mayadere. "Kichidere" - may be dangerous and crazy but sweet and comforting

[existentialcrisisgirlie]

What the fuck was that

Spending a lot of time today thinking about the man that wrote poetry about me in my early twenties.

More specifically I spent this morning reading the poetry a man wrote about me in my early twenties. I didn't mean to. I was cleaning out my notes folder and well, there they were. I saved them long ago, wanting a piece of that...whatever it was...to bring with me when I left him behind. Or let's be honest, he left me behind even though I'm the one who actually physically left.

I feel a distinct lack of closure for that situation, because he was a man, and he was incapable of honesty, and I was young and incapable of rationality. I want the poetry around to remind me that I made someone feel. I like knowing that someone used me for his own gain. I don't know why. I wish I knew why.

I think it was the fucked up nature of it all. Sneaking around. Feeling like I was so desirable that we were willing to make horrible decisions just to fuck each other finally.

The time I kissed him when I shouldnt have outside of a crowded party, and he looked like he'd won the lottery and screamed to the stars in gratitude when I ran away.

Proceeding without caution, knowing I was running on bumpy roads, but also knowing I had the invincibility of youth wrapped around me. Knowing nothing about this would break me more than I already was.

I find myself yearning for a bit of recklessness now. And I think that's why I'm hung up on this chapter of my life this morning. I want to make someone feel again. I want someone to write me shitty poetry that I can make fun of with my friends. I want someone to yell his gratitude to the stars just for a chance to fucking kiss me.

I want to fucking live again.

[captainsimagines]

dreaming in june || eleven

Summary: At the request of an old friend who now happens to be the new Captain America, you move to a place that only vaguely feels peaceful, to secretly protect his best friend. There you meet Bucky Barnes, your next door neighbor, who has also lived countless lives, seen a lot of things, and lost the one he loved. You have more in common than you thought.

Pairing(s): Bucky Barnes x (F) POC Enhanced Reader

Based on the Song(s): Heat Waves by Glass Animals ; Coney Island by Taylor Swift and The National

Series / AO3 Link / Playlist

(11/15)

Warnings: blood and gore; blood offerings; demons; cults/religious cults; scary vibes; alcoholism and alcohol abuse; emotional angst; canon-typical violence; enchanted creatures; mention of infertility (if you blink); character ‘death’; descriptions of physical deformities; strong language; blood play (slight); mentions of suicide; fantasy vibes

Word Count: 7,600+

Author’s Note: Lots of shit goes down. Tread lightly lmao. xxMoni

~

“You don’t get to leave me. Not you. This time I’m begging.”

~

     Bucky’s pacing.

He’s giving himself a headache with how much he’s moving, but he is physically incapable of sitting down.  Nothing has calmed him long enough to think rationally. 

Sam, bless him, seems to be the only level-headed one.

Until Druig barged through the front door and demanded to know how the fuck three supers allowed for the kidnapping of his Princess.

“How fucking convenient of you!” Sam growls, pushing at Druig’s hard chest. The Eternal simply looks down at where Sam’s palms had connected. He doesn’t say anything. “The second time she needs you, relied on your intel, you weren’t fucking here!”

A muscle tics in Druig’s jaw. 

“We tried to stop that demon,” Sam explains, his face a permanent scowl. “But she cut the webs and basically sacrificed herself.”

“A demon.” The way Druig repeats the word doesn’t reveal anything. He says it casually, as if testing the taste. “Explain the encounter. All of it. In vivid detail.”

“It wasn’t an encounter. It was an attack,” Peter spits. 

But Bucky ignores the beef simmering, and spills it all. Every detail. Until his mouth has gone dry and his hands shake.

“And you say the demon referenced Greek mythology?”

“I am this close—” Sam says, pinching his fingers together for emphasis. “This close to fucking decking you.”

Druig casually intertwines his hands behind his back. “Why would you want to do that?”

Sam steps dangerously close. “You heard Buck correctly. From the beginning, you have been ominous and brief. So I’m asking you politely—one more time—to tell us everything you know about this cult, about the blood, and about demons.”

Druig scans Sam from his eyes to his feet. Chin held high, Druig makes a decision. 

“Just recently, Makkari informed me about this cult. A cult that began in the 1500s by none other than Rodrigo Graciano, Spanish conquistador who murdered hundreds either with his weapons, disease, or his bare hands. The blood my Princess infused into him made him Immortal—true Immortal. A true Immortal cannot die unless their mind and body are separated entirely or reduced to ash. There is no way to survive decapitation, nor burning into miniscule particles. In popular Salem, he was accused of witchcraft by a fellow follower who did not want to be Made. He burned at the stake. His followers, obviously, did not let the traitor live.”

A history lesson, Bucky thinks. Great. 

Druig continues. “There is a flaw. A glitch, if you would like to call it that. The Princess is a true Immortal. Anyone bred from her blood is true. Immortals created by second generation sources, third generation, fourth…” Druig grimaces, looking to the wall instead of their faces. “They do not possess the same healing abilities, the same aging, or the same mutation.”

Simple genetics then. The more a trait, a gene, a specific mutation is passed through a bloodline, the less and less potent it is if it is no longer dominant. You must carry the dominant, and since you have not created literal offspring of your own, you have not passed down the dominant gene through your blood. A natural birth, however—the dominant gene would pass.

Graciano had gotten the recessive. 

“The Princess is an Immortal who was born. The cult fanatics are Immortals who were Made. The Princess naturally stopped aging. Her body chose a point, and stuck with it. The followers change whenever they want, whoever they want, like vampires.”

“So with her blood, they can create true Immortals? Without it, they’re…what? Low grade?”

Druig smirks. “Yes, Samuel.”

“Don’t patronize me,” Sam snaps.

Bucky pushes in between the two males who are sizing each other up. He pushes Druig slightly harder, however. “How are we getting her back? How are we stopping these fanatics from hurting her? How do we deal with a fucking demon?”

Druig rubs at his jaw. “You mentioned it called her Persephone? It must be a demon of the Greeks, then. Christian mythology doesn’t have such dramatic demons. Egyptians do, but not like this.”

Peter snorts, “Lucifer literally went against God because he thought he was too pretty.”

“Lucifer was kicked out of Heaven because he grew an individual consciousness.”

Bucky ignores the quips, shaking his head. He continues, “So, if we’re dealing with a demon from Greek mythology, are we dealing with Hades? Does he want her for himself?”

“Hades isn’t evil like that.”

Sam holds up a hand. “Back up. Explain.” 

Druig rolls his eyes. “Hades is the ruler of the Underworld. He oversees, like a CEO. He doesn’t do the killing, or the raping, or the torture. Trust me, I’ve been there multiple times when he asked for a change in scenery.”

“Is this what we’re doing? Defending demons?”

“Hades isn’t a demon. He’s a God.”

Sam gives him a blank look, hand on his hip and foot slightly tapping. 

Peter interjects, his voice timid but still marked with a playful undertone. “Should we call Thor?”

“He’s Norse.”

Sam whirls on Druig once again. “What fucking difference—”

“I do not know if his skills will function well with a demon from another realm.”

Bucky blankly stares, completely unimpressed. “I hit things. This one shoots webs. This one is a human. I have no idea what you do. We need a literal God.”

It’s true. What the actual fuck were they going to do when faced with that demon again? You, with the most powerful powers of the three of them, seemed helpless. Or maybe you were in shock. 

If they are able to come up with a game plan, learn a little bit more about how to take down a demon, then maybe they stand a fighting chance. 

If Bucky has to take a fucking ring up a mountain, then so fucking be it.

“Perhaps this is what the cult is expecting,” Druig says. “The demon itself might have studied Norse mythology before preparing to attack. It could be expecting this."

“That motherfucker didn’t look like it reads,” Sam drily says. He shivers from the memory of bloodless lips and void eyes.

Peter cringes. “We’re going in blind, then?”

“You all must be prepared for bloodshed.”

“Great, my favorite.” 

Bucky’s got to give it to Peter. The kid is handling this better than he expected. 

“I’m serious. The Princess opposed violence many times until it was absolutely necessary. I deem this necessary.”

“These are fanatics,” Sam says, waving a hand as if the fight would be no big deal.

“These are made Immortals who summoned a demon. A dangerous and illegal offense.”

“Illegal?” Bucky asks.

“It’s certainly not a practice that anyone should partake in.”

“Okay, wait. Hold up, hold up!” Peter blows out a breath. “I need a minute.”

“I understand this is a lot to take in—”

“You’ve literally just told us that demons exist. That Gods exist, not just Thor. That our friend is a true Immortal who might very well be what we humans like to call Mother Nature! And I’m starting to piece together that the reason she didn’t forget me is because she is not fully human and her consciousness extends to deeper levels. Does Thor remember me? Did we even ask?”

No. They didn’t.

Sam grumbles, “We’re summoning the God.”

“Better than a demon, I guess.” Druig shrugs.

“Anyone got his number? I—” Peter asks, shrugging like fuck-all.

“I can get in touch with him,” Bucky quietly mumbles. There’s shame etched into that statement—the only times he’s ever gotten in touch with the God was for liquid relief. A meager volume of that hungover desire swims in his stomach, in his mind, on his tongue. He’s breaking—the elastic at its final tug—and if he doesn’t find you by the end of the day, he’s going to drown himself. 

“Great! While you do that—” Druig pushes the two folders he’s been holding this whole time into Sam’s chest. “File these for me. Call that lovely assistant of yours.”

Sam glowers at him. He opens the folders and scans. “What are these?”

“You think I haven’t been doing anything?” Druig insists, his face neutral. His words, however, come out wry. “The Princess wasn’t the only one who lost someone that day. We all lost our Prince.”

It’s all signed. Stamped. Official.

“You did all the groundwork. Thanks for flinging the Captain America title around. Really.”

Ari’s remains are to be returned to his only surviving descendants. 

His wife.

~

      You wake with a lump in your throat and clouds swimming behind your closed eyelids. You groan in discomfort, scrunching your face and wiggling your fingers. The air is cold and the surface you’re on pricks your thighs.

Oh, Hell. You’re in a t-shirt and panties. 

Bucky’s t-shirt. 

You go to snap your body upward, but the weight of your head is exhausting. Instead, you roll to your side. 

One of your legs goes over, dangling from the cliffside. Your stomach swoops—your body goes into fight or flight mode. 

You're at the literal cliffside. That fucking demon left you to tip over and take a massive plunge, all for his enjoyment. 

You roll the opposite way, now more alert. The sun is out, but just barely. The clouds cover most of it. You can’t tell if it’s morning, afternoon, or mid-day. 

Perhaps the several distorted faces staring back at you will have that answer. 

You struggle to stand but push through the pain to do so. Lying down is too vulnerable—you can swing your magic better standing. 

“Where am I?”

It takes a moment for you to realize that their faces aren’t their own at all. Their masks—masks of all colors and all expressions, extending from the top of the person’s forehead to their chin. You’d compare them to those drama mask expressions—the joyful and the anguished—but that would just ruin theatre as a whole for you. 

“Mother Earth.”

You shake your head. “Not my name.”

“No,” the one up front confirms. A male. “Your name is not yours at all anymore, is it?”

He’s the tallest of the group, and with the creepiest mask. Gold, metal horns stick out from the forehead of the mask, completely contradicting the sickly green color of the rest of it. You can’t see his eyes or if his mouth is moving—you simply see the frozen anguished expression. 

The trees rumble. Do not try to run! the small voice shouts. They have arrows pointed at you. 

You roll your eyes. An arrow wouldn’t kill you. Still, you listen. 

“So, this is it? You’re here to drain my blood or what?”

Several of them cock their heads to the left at the same time. A shudder travels up your spine. 

There looks to be about thirty people staring back at you. Not one sign of the original demon. 

“We must first prove you are the Mother.”

You frown. “Ew. Can’t I just say yes or no and get this over with?”

They don’t laugh. They don’t move. They don’t even seem to acknowledge your voice. Except for the one leering at you. Frozen and calm.

“The universe chose you to be one with the earth. And since me, humans, and all other living beings come from the earth, we come from you.”

You slowly nod. He continues, “For years, we have been trying to find you.”

“I’ve been busy.”

“Your blood will heal us. You will lead us.”

“Honestly, it looks like you’re doing fine without me.” Your lip curls as you assess the robes they wear—heavy, thick black robes (or rather, cloaks) that sink to the floor in an extravagant puddle. 

This shit is too movie-like. Yet, it’s not the craziest thing you’ve ever seen. It’s just the first time you’re seeing something like this. 

Right? You shuffle through your memories at lightning speed. 

Yeah, no cult encounters.

What time is it? The sky is a sickly, gray-blue and the sounds of the nearest village are faint. The trees don’t answer you.

Aggravated, the front man stalks toward you. Out of instinct, you step back.

He doesn’t like that.

He grabs your arms and holds you still, the mask boring its hollow eyes into your frightened ones. “We are your disciples. You will heal us.”

“Heal what?”

He hesitates, then abruptly pulls the long sleeves up his forearms.

Spikes grow from his skin. Nasty, dangerously sharp spikes. The flesh around them is bruised and bloody. His veins are a heinous red. It’s like he’s a living rose thorn. 

You cup your parted mouth. “Oh my Gods.”

Others step forward and showcase their deformities. 

Some have real horns. Others cannot speak. Bones are easily breakable. Claws, or feathers, or bothersome shadows. There’s even one member who is intangible. Your hand goes right through them. 

The fact they're all undeniably human is what they share in common. The ones who lack deformities in the face look like any person you’d pass on the street. 

And there are literal children. Children. Immortal children. Their age, bizarrely, in nothing but a number. They speak like the grown adults around them.

“Now you see.”

You look up at their leader, brows furrowing. “I wouldn’t know what to do.”

He shakes his head rapidly, his mask still unnerving. “We know what to do. You simply need to offer up your blood.”

A startled laugh rattles your chest. “You literally sent a demon to retrieve me and you want me to help you?” You step away, trying your hardest to not look at the members with more severe disabilities. “Where is it anyway? You cannot let that thing wander through the mortal world without a leash.”

“I have been alive for two hundred years. I am the oldest. If you are worried that we follow Graciano’s ideology, you are mistaken,” the leader explains, ignoring your initial question. 

Another laugh. “That would settle me if you people weren’t dressed like this or if you hadn’t sent a fucking demon to terrorize me.”

“Sending the demon was a precaution. We did not know how powerful you would be.”

Your mouth opens for another retort, but someone else from back of the group chimes in with, “I suggested we unleash a pixie messenger instead of the demon.”

“And this whole ordeal has demonstrated that you would not have willingly left with a pixie tour guide.”

“Damn right,” you mumble. 

What the actual fuck is going on? 

“Mother Earth,” the leader says. “Please help us.”

You piece it together bit by bit.

The cult is a literal cult with freaky attire, unsettling line delivery, and horrible manners. They unleashed a demon because they’re fucking idiots who couldn’t just ask you for help. Are they a cult like those that make the news? Violent, out for blood, and look up to a leader that will ultimately sacrifice them in the end? Or are they merely a group of people who found each other, donned creepy fucking masks for the hell of it, because of their shared life experience?

They are not original, Made Immortals. They are third generation, maybe fourth. You have no idea if they wanted to be Made or if they regret their decision. All you know is that they are horribly deformed and begging you to help them heal. 

Which means they must be in awful pain and discomfort. 

You’ve lived for hundreds of years. Your bones ache, your skin occasionally dries, and your heart slows from time to time. Yet, your physical appearance is that of someone who finds no need to hide. 

Should you trust that they do not follow Graciano’s ideologies? Druig seems to think they still do. 

You can’t help the overwhelming feeling that plagues your chest, though. Graciano’s blood runs through their veins. Their maker’s blood runs through their veins.

Your blood runs through their veins. 

Children of Mother Earth. The title has you cringing. 

“What would helping you entail?”

~

     “Okay—” Thor runs a large hand down his face. “I think I’m all caught up now.”

Thor has his hair strung up in a bun. He wears a Guns N Roses t-shirt and regular jeans pants. The God is even wearing leather boots and a belt. Peter stares at him in pure wonder. 

Sam rubs his temples, his face drooping from tiredness. 

“Do you think you can help us?” Bucky asks. 

“I can help you slaughter the cult. I do not know if my lightning will harm the demon.” 

“Slaughter makes it sound so…”

“Evil," Sam stresses.

“Put down? Slay? Destroy?"

Peter clears his throat. “Wouldn’t the cult be hard to kill? You know…Considering they’re Immortals?”

Everyone takes a few moments to digest the words. 

Bucky grunts, “Are we going to have to decapitate those fuckers?”

Druig snorts. “We don’t actually have to do much. I can control their minds and make them slice into their own throats. They’ll decapitate themselves.”

Sam shudders. “This is…Too fucking vivid. Too heinous. I don’t know if I can do that.”

“What do you expect to do then, Samuel?” Druig demands. 

Sam glares at the Eternal. “I’m not letting Peter see that shit. It’s too fucking graphic for an eighteen year old kid.”

“I’ve literally seen the guts of aliens spilled on the floor, so,” Peter says, shrugging. 

“Bear with me, kid.”

“Okay,” Bucky sighs. “We locate the group through Druig’s mind reading slash listening thing. Once we have their location, we search for Ace in the—”

Sam tilts his head. “Ace?”

“Yeah.”

It only takes a few seconds for Sam to piece it together. “Like, Acer?”

“Like Acer.”

“What does it symbolize?”

“Peace, because that’s what she’ll fucking need after being kidnapped by a fucking demon.”

“For sure.”

“Can we get back to the main situation?” Druig groans. He hovers near Thor mostly, probably because he’s the only other Immortal-like being in the room. Yet, Thor aims his facial expressions at Peter, who returns them excitedly.

“Right,” Bucky replies. “Thor—if the demon is present, you take care of that motherfucker. Peter, Sam, and I will be responsible for getting Ace out of there safely. Druig, you handle the cult.”

“With pleasure.”

If anyone would have asked Bucky what the hell he thought he would be doing today, this week, this month—it most certainly would have had nothing to do with demons and cults. He thought Hydra was bad with its government corruption, Nazis, and presidential assassinations. At least with Hydra, Bucky was dealing with real-life, flesh and bone human beings. Although, he would argue that Nazis aren’t people. They don’t deserve to be categorized in the human species at all. 

Demons and cults, however…That makes his stomach churn and his blood run cold. He doesn’t know how to deal with those things. He’s the goddamn Winter Soldier—a ghost, a spy, a lethal weapon. No amount of bullets, spying, or grenades is going to stop a demon. Or maybe the demon is tangible…

No. Bucky would rather sit that shit out. 

God, you must be so scared.

“Where do we put the bodies after we…” Peter inquires. 

Thor raises his hand. “I can obliterate them.”

Sam gasps, “Hard no.”

“We have to put them somewhere.”

Bucky cringes as he says, “Ace mentioned that she could…lift roots. So the bodies could be hidden underneath—”

“This is such a fucked up conversation.”

“As if we hadn’t had worse shit happen to us,” Peter argues, rolling his eyes at Sam.

Sam sighs, bowing his head as he rests his hands on hips. Bucky watches him, and sees a little bit of Steve’s mannerisms. 

It’s got him grinning, even if all his nerve endings are on edge.

They’ve wasted too much time just calling Thor to Earth. Precious time. You could be hurt, tortured, taken to the fucking Underworld. 

Bucky hasn’t felt this way since T’Challa had told him Steve and Sam were coming to Wakanda back in 2018. That impromptu visit resulted in half the world dying. 

Bucky reminds himself that you’re strong, stronger than him and damn well stronger than a lot of people he has met. If anyone could survive a demon, it would be you. He doesn’t know how much longer he can stand not knowing. 

Not knowing will be the death of him. 

He does not know why his luck was shit and he disappeared in 2018.

He does not know why Steve left him so suddenly. It’s not like Bruce destroyed that stupid time machine. 

He does not know why you were cursed to live forever, having to watch everyone else around you grow old and wither away. 

He does not know why people are evil. From his experience, people are simply born that way. Evil people tend to be evil to the core. A person's environment and experiences are factors, but if they’re willing to change—Are they truly evil? 

“When do we suit up?” Thor asks. 

“Right now,” Sam answers. He looks at Druig, who nods. “Miles and miles until you find their minds, man. Go for it.”

Druig breathes in slowly, and searches. His eyes glow a bright yellow. 

~

     “You each get a drop.”

You’re crazy. Absolutely fucking idiotic, to be honest. 

But here’s the thing:

They’re already immortal. You found the proof in their heartbeats. They weren’t lying when they said they were only a few centuries old. That would mean that none of them were around when Graciano ruled or when he was executed. 

Besides, healing them wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world. If they turn out to be evil once they’re healed, then you’ll kill them then. Plain and simple. But you cannot walk away from them when they’re suffering because of some fucker who utilized the “gift” you didn’t know you gave. 

They’re already Immortal, you tell yourself. You’re not making them Immortal again. 

“As you wish.”

It’s late in the evening and the sun is starting to set. Beautiful hues of blue and orange paint the cliffside and compliment the massive fire they have built and contained. They all stand in a circle, like the fucking cult they are, no matter how often you asked them to get into a single file line.

Like you’re giving out party favors. 

Oh, Gods. 

One of the nine women of the group gave you their robe so you’re not just parading around in your underwear. You tried not to stare at her moving flesh, almost like fish scales, when she handed it to you. 

You glance at the fire, at the knife in your hand, at the human circle. Not even the Cold War felt so eerie. 

“If I give you the drop, and nothing changes or something bad starts happening, I will not continue with the others,” you tell their leader. You’re grateful they all removed their masks for this. The man in front of you is in his mid-thirties, or mid-two hundreds really, and frozen in time. His black curls shine in the fire's light, as do his green eyes. He reminds you of every fictional character you've imagined when reading. Young, devastatingly attractive, but his eyes are old. Pained. 

He nods. “We trust you.”

Quickly, because you’ll lose your nerve if not, you slice the palm of your left hand. Balking slightly, you look at him with the question you refused to ask earlier. 

He nods again, understanding. He takes your mangled hand, looking directly into your eyes, and raises it to his mouth. His tongue peeks out, then lies flat as he swipes from the end of the cut to the top. Shivering, you watch as he laps at your blood like it’s the most desirable dessert. 

It’s erotic, and quite unsettling. Drums pound in your ears, possibly the unsteady beat of your heart, as you watch his tongue poke out again. He laps it all up, even if it’s never-ending. Completely greedy. 

“Had enough?” The stable delivery of your words elates you.  

His eyes rise to meet yours. He wipes the side of his mouth, breathing heavily. “Yes. I apologize.”

“That was more than a drop.”

The confidence he had when he was licking you vanishes a little bit, a shy smile forming instead. “Don’t hold my fault against the others.”

You clear your throat, awkwardly. “Is it really that delicious?”

As quickly as it vanished, his confidence resurfaces. Cocky. “The richest flavor. It makes me want to get on my knees.”

You feel your face grow warm. Turning from him, you walk to the second recipient. Your palm is beginning to heal. 

With your face flushed, you force yourself to look back at the leading cultist. “Is it working?”

He’s quiet for a moment, as if he’s trying to dig deep inside himself for the answer. He’s still breathing heavily. 

“Take off your cloak,” you instruct. His brow lowers. “Take it off.”

He smirks, strips, and that’s when you see it. His thorns are shrinking, curling then snapping, his veins turning green, red, blue, purple. You watch his face and his arms. The pain flushing his features is unmistakable, but he’s enduring it. Every bit, every thorn submersion, every instance of blood poisoning. 

He falls to the ground, a heaving mess. Someone unlinks their hands from the circle to crouch beside him. He clutches at their arms, their face, the ground. 

When he falls silent, his body unnaturally still, you worry. All your original worries crowd in the forefront of your brain, screaming, scolding you. You move to fall beside him, but he revives. Breathing in deeply, everything falls into place. 

The thorns are gone, replaced by beautiful golden skin and natural freckles. His veins run down their corresponding arms, alongside perfectly placed arteries and tendons and ligaments, shining green and purple. 

It worked. It worked, it worked, it worked. 

“You’re—”

“I’m me again.” His voice wobbles. “I’m me.”

“I do not know if it’ll last—”

“Mother Earth,” he says urgently. “You made me me again. If I die now, I will die myself. And I am grateful.”

Breathing in, you slice your palm again and hold it out for the next person. They too take more than a drop.

~

     The last person, the Intangible, hesitates. 

“I cannot do it. I cannot drink or eat. I am Midas without the touch.”

Fuck. You’ve healed each person besides him. 

“How do the clothes on your back stay in place?”

He turns away, ashamed. “Maxwell believes it’s because I was gifted them. Something of my own, declared mine.”

You assume Maxwell is their leader. 

“So I gift you my blood.”

“As easy as that?”

“We will see.” You slice your hand for the tenth time tonight, barely even wincing. “Tilt your head back.”

You raise your hand in the air, squeezing a fist, as the blood almost slips—

A scream erupts from the circle. You turn around and see a man with a knife in hand, slicing through his own throat. Whipping your arm out, tattooed vines stem from the tips of your fingers to your shoulder and neck. Nearby roots reach up and wrap around the man’s wrist, tugging him down and throwing the knife away. The man gurgles and tries to stop the bleeding himself before two women come to his aid. 

Another scream, this one more brutal, and you witness the same thing. Except the woman is about to fling herself into the fire. 

You bring the roots up, rumbling the ground and chipping rocks off from the cliffside. They wrap around her waist and hold her down. 

“What’s going on?” you yell. You’re preventing two people from hurting themselves, and if others begin doing the same, you don’t know if you’ll stop them all soon enough. 

“What—” You cut yourself off when you see a yellow glow emerge from the nearby woods. Dread and relief assault your senses simultaneously. Behind Druig, your friends appear. And they brought along Thor. 

Fuck.

“Druig,” you call, resisting his pull. “Stop controlling them!”

The people you’re holding down begin snapping the branches keeping them safe, their own eyes bright yellow. 

“Druig! Enough!”

Everyone behind him pauses. Like they’re the only ones who heard you.

“Druig! There are children here! Stop it! Stop!”

His head tilts, confused, but his rampage doesn’t stop. Another person begins screaming. You curl both hands, all your fingers, using all your might to call upon the Earth. The ground explodes the moment your eyes shine bright green, a roar sounds, and all heads snap to the woods your friends just emerged from. 

Sam and Bucky tackle Peter to the ground when something leaps over them and sprints toward Druig. The ground shakes with its every step. 

Bucky risks looking up. What he finds stuns him stupid. 

A monstrous, twenty-foot thick tree roars, practically shattering the sound barrier. Its mouth—its fucking mouth—opens wide, spiked wooden teeth rattling as it roars again. It barrels across the short distance, picking Druig up with its arms, and slams him to the ground. 

Half of your attention remains on Druig while the other half focuses on the task at hand. You bring your hand up, motioning to the speechless cultist in front of you. “Bend, and open wide.”

He obliges and you squeeze your fist hard. Drops of blood fall into his open mouth, remaining there, flowing through him. His wide eyes let you know he’s surprised too. 

Once that’s done, you slowly turn back toward your magical creation pummeling Druig. Gritting your teeth, your eyes still glowing emerald, you curse. “Now, what the fuck did I say?”

Druig’s eyes are no longer yellow. In fact, he’s not controlling anyone’s mind anymore. He’s simply guarding his chest and head from the punches, eyes frightened. 

You stalk toward him, hands still extended and tattoos still visible because of the crumbled sleeves. “When I say stop, you stop.”

Druig nods quickly, groaning. 

“Tell me, Druig! Tell me you understand what I’m telling you!”

“Yes! Yes! I understand!”

You swipe your hand through the air, and the tree goes flying. Bucky hears it crash land somewhere back in the woods, but he’s too stunned to focus on that right now. 

…What the fuck just happened?

“Am I not your Princess?” you ask Druig while he crawls from the hole. Your tone is death. “Should you not obey me?”

Druig stutters over a crumpled sound. 

Before you can speak again, you’re knocked off your feet and thrown several feet away from him, back to the fire. Shocked, you look up to meet the hideous eyes of that same demon, blacker and more deadly. You quickly stand, powers ready. 

“Oh,” you sigh. “It’s you.”

“My instructions were to capture you,” the demon explains, words somehow slick and sticky. “I was never given a time stamp.”

Maxwell, the lead cultist, curses loudly from behind. “It's lying! Its instructions were to bring you to us!”

“And yet, you did not instruct me to return to Hell after I succeeded.”

Maxwell meets your gaze, sorrow swimming in his irises. 

“If you want me—”

Your words fizzle when a blast of lightning smashes against the demon’s skeletal body, throwing it away from you and to the ground. Its shadows dim, but it quickly recovers. 

“A Norse God,” the demon licks. “What a treat.”

Thor has the good sense to look scared. Yet he challenges with, "War, demon! That is what you are starting!"

“I’ll leave you with this.” The demon vanishes, only to appear at your side. Bucky, Sam, and Peter are almost to your side when its shadows swallow you up. The demon floats over the cliffside, holding you by the back of the neck. 

“When her heart beats again, I will come to collect my prize.”

When gravity pulls a body down, the stomach leaps up. You didn't think it would feel so traumatic.

You scream and claw at the air as you fall to the rocks below. Roots and branches swing over the ledge, but they’re not fast enough to catch you. Still, they persist. 

Someone threw themselves over. This, you can see. Fog and mist blind you, but this you can see. 

Webs stretch from his wrists, quicker than the trees, and snap against your abdomen like a sucker-punch. 

But your head hits the rock, and you see nothing. 

Peter falls on a nearby rock, but not with the same momentum as you. He scrambles on his hands and knees, hyperventilating. 

“Oh my god,” he mutters. “Fuck, oh my fucking god.”

Peter doesn’t want to move you. He doesn’t want to make it worse. 

“Oh my god,” he sputters, lips wet and eyes watering. “Oh my god!”

Bucky lands beside Peter with Sam’s hand in his. Sam’s wings re-enter their pack. Thor falls on the other side of you. 

“Peter—” Sam tries, but is interrupted. 

“I thought I—” Peter chokes. His hands hover over your chest. “I thought I caught her.”

Bucky’s not breathing at all. He tries to ignore the puddle of blood pooling beneath your head, tries to ignore the dead look in your eyes. Grief, upon grief, upon grief. Not even Hydra’s hands inflicted this much pain. 

He drops to his knees just as Thor declares, “She’s Immortal. She’ll recover, she’s—”

Thor stops himself when Bucky tries to lift you up, and finds that the back of your head is practically caved in. Thor is right. You’ll survive this. You’ve inflicted worse on yourself—but does that make it any less gruesome, any less painful?

A million times no.

Bucky hiccups, holding you steady. His forehead rests on your sternum as he pleads, brokenly,  “You don’t get to leave me. Not you. This time I’m begging.” 

He begs the entire flight up the cliffside. The entire walk back to the house, avoiding the eyes of the cultists and Druig. Even when he and Sam place you in the bathtub and wash away all the blood they can. 

You’re dead. 

You’re actually dead, and Bucky can’t do anything but wait for you to come back to him. 

~

      It begins similarly as the last time. The same beautiful, blue cliffside and the same deafening silence. Yet, if you listen closely, you can hear the break of waves and whistle of the wind. But you don’t bother trying to define the elements—no—not when Ari is running to wear you’re standing.

You crash into each other in the same level of dramatics as before. There is no negative connotation to that word, however. You’ll be as dramatic as you want. You have five hundred years of dramatics to make up for. 

“My love.”

God, his voice is like liquid caramel. So delightfully delicious. Memories bombard you: Ari, drunk and happy and dancing around the campfire on his birthday; Ari, brilliantly naked and stretching his morning muscles from deep sleep. The stories he would tell the children, how he would hold their hands when they learned how to swim—how you two tried to have children of your own. 

“I’m dead,” you say, a gurgled laugh accidentally breaking through. 

Ari stares at your face, scanning, then bursts into laughter. Your laugh mixes with his like chocolate and sugar. 

“You will be back soon enough.”

Last time you “died”, resurrection occurred a few hours later. Of all the ways to die, this wasn’t the most pleasant.

“Did I do something bad?” you ask. 

Ari shakes his head. “No, my love. They were telling the truth.”

Air tumbles from your shaking mouth. At least that’s one good thing that’s come from this. You just hope your friends heeded your instructions and didn’t leave a massacre behind.

“I love you,” you respond, seizing his cheeks in your hands. 

Ari smiles, teeth and all. “That has always been one of your first declarations whenever you see me.”

“I feel a lot of things, Ari. But my love for you exceeds all else.”

He grabs each of your wrists, but doesn’t pull you away. “And yet, the love I declare for you exceeds even that.”

You chuckle, allowing him to take your wrists to kiss the insides. His lips like a movie soundtrack, his touch mimicking dialogue. 

“When will I wake?”

Ari takes the opportunity to come in closer, his chest against yours. “Soon.”

“And when we defeat this demon, will I see you again?”

Ari’s breath hitches. “I do not fault you or anyone for keeping the living safe. I understand your fight. But, my love…” Ari’s eyes close, and he rests his forehead against yours. “I am so tired of wandering alone.”

Five hundred years worth of cracks in your heart. What’s one more?

“There are no other lost souls with you?”

His expression is answer enough. 

“You have been alone all this time? For over a century?”

“Have you not been alone, too?” It doesn’t sound like a question. 

You pat his broad chest, too shaken to do anything else. “I am going to put you to rest, Ari. I promise you. I promise with everything in me.”

He nods, your connected heads moving at the same time. “I will stay with you now, after, and beyond.”

“If you want to rest forever, I will not prevent you from doing so.”

An afterlife can mean two things: Either he chooses to wander for however long he wants, at peace, until he decides to lay his soul to rest or resurrect. Or, he chooses to wander forever, his soul never resting but still at peace. A ghost in the afterlife, essentially. 

As much as it pains you to let him go, you have to.

Ari places a soft but fierce kiss to your lips. This is your peace. 

“I do not know if this is the last time we will see each other,” Ari mumbles. Even his breath tastes like caramel. “But if it is…My peace will always be found with you. Three or five hundred years, my love—It was not enough. No amount of time would have been enough for me to wholly sink into your soul.”

“Nor me, yours.”

You pull away from him to memorize his face. But it’s a face you’ll never forget, no matter how hard you try. 

“I love you,” Ari whispers. 

“For five hundred years more. And however long after that.”

~

      Bucky leaves your room when he can no longer stand the dryness of his throat. All his screaming has left him sore, as if the demon’s claws dragged ugly indents along the walls of his throat. He looks at you, anger and grief a dangerous combination, and exits. 

You’re dead. 

You died. He saw you die. Peter tried to catch you, and you fucking hit your head so hard, you died. He had to watch you die because throwing himself off the cliff wasn’t a decision on the table. But he was ready—ready to spring himself just far enough to grab you, turn, and break your fall. 

Is this how Steve felt when he watched Bucky fall?

Bucky cringes. Why would he think about Steve at this time? Why would his brain conjure up the image of him, when it knows it’s starting to make him angry? It almost feels like he’s cheating on you. He didn’t think about Steve once when he was sleeping with you, but now that you fucking die? It makes his stomach turn upside down.

How did this love become tainted? How did loving Steve become such a burden? Steve makes him love New York, then he hates the city. His memory soothes Bucky’s soul, but his actions make him miserable. 

Is it possible to love and hate someone at the same time?

Bucky throws the glass across the room. It shatters in a triumphant display of glistening water and the shards of his heart. 

“Leave me alone,” Bucky whispers, haunted by the very fact he’s asking that of Steve. 

Isn’t that what he did? the voice in the back of his head cruelly whispers. 

“It wasn’t the Steve I knew.”

Steve during the war, during Bucky’s rescue from Hydra, before Thanos—that was Bucky’s Steve. What the hell happened in those five years? Steve only had Natasha. Sam and Bucky were both snatched from his soul, coincidence and shit luck. Did it break him? Did it make Steve yearn for a world where everything was familiar? Did it make him forget?

Maybe in a few days, weeks, months, Bucky will forgive Steve entirely. Grief is a strange thing, a long haul of paralytic agony, that has no cure. 

Bucky thinks of you, and how you’re still grieving after five hundred years, and is scared. He doesn’t want to grieve for that long. He wants it to end now. 

Now. 

He thought he never would, but he has begun cursing Steve’s name. His whole existence. What was the point of sending something so angelic, so heroic, so gloriously noble and marvelous, into Bucky’s life? What was the point of having Bucky Barnes fall so hopelessly in love only to end up with a disastrous story? Shakespeare would laugh, or capitalize from his heartbreak. Bucky’s life is a Shakespearean tragedy—Steve is the tragic hero, Bucky the tragic villain. 

What else? Those two characters always have the most dire, erotic, agonizing tension that straddles the romantic dynamic of a tragedy. Steve was the play’s hero. Bucky, the villain. They were each other’s heart-wrenching antonyms, yet so terribly similar in the way their souls spoke. Characters so unfortunate in their endings, and an exhausting constant in each other’s dreams. 

Last time Bucky had a good dream about Steve Rogers was when the Wakandan summer faded into autumn in the tragic year of 2018. 

He misses that summer. He misses dreaming in June. 

Shakespeare’s characters always meet a dreadful end. One that is unsatisfying. Bucky can’t think of a description more fitting when he opens that fucking bottle in the haunted, Icelandic house. He tips his head back and hates himself for it.   

“You don’t get to do that.”

Bucky shuts his eyes tightly. 

“Go back to bed, Sam.”

“I know we all deal with shit our own ways. You drink, Shortcake wallows, Peter works until he can’t feel his bones. But I’m begging you right now…Do not drink that.”

Bucky can feel it eating away at his insides. He needs another taste, the sip of the liquor that’s been soothing his stomach for the past year and half, making his heart beat just a little quicker, making him forget for just a few hours. He wanted to drown in it when Steve left, when Sam started putting his life in danger, when you didn’t open your eyes as he tried shaking you awake. It’s itching like crazy, picking and pulling at the open slip of skin near his lips. 

And yet, the thought of Sam begging has his hands shaking. “Okay,” Bucky says quietly, putting the bottle down on the table. “I won’t do it.”

“I lost him, too,” Sam mutters quickly.

“Sam—”

“I lost him, too! He was my friend, too!”

Bucky chokes on a choppy inhale. Of course Steve was Sam’s friend, too. Of course he was, Bucky knows this. But it’s the exclamation that rocks Bucky to his core and causes his chest to heave once, then twice, as he tries to respond. There are angry tears forming in Sam’s eyes, incessant.

“You’re not the only one he fucked over! He left me, too!”

Bucky raises his flesh hand in a sort of surrender, unable to keep it from trembling. He turns a little to the side so he doesn’t have to look directly at Sam. If anyone walked in right now, Peter probably, it would look like Bucky is shielding himself from an incoming blow. But Bucky seriously, honestly, is curling in on himself. 

“I know you loved him,” Sam continues, breath hitching. “And I know I’ll never know exactly what you’re feeling. But he left me, too.” Sam smiles sadly, then shrugs, as if it’s all his body can do. “He left me, too.”

The moment is frozen. For seconds, maybe minutes. Bucky doesn’t walk down the path of the bottle and Sam doesn’t leave the room. He feels like a small child being scolded, but Bucky knows that’s not a fair comparison. He doesn’t even want to call this a guilt trip. He’s had an intervention coming any day now. He just didn’t expect it to be so startling and blue. 

“I’m not gonna let you drink yourself to death. I don’t know how your body works, or how the serum works, but I’m not gonna let it happen. I’m not your counselor, fuck, I’m nobody’s fuckin’ counselor. I’m your friend.” 

Bucky looks at the bottle, his fingers fidgeting at his sides. His ribs are incredibly sore, and each intake of air resembles a stab of fire. 

He lifts his head, meeting Sam’s brown eyes. “I need help.”

Sam’s lips part and a small crack in his throat loosens. His entire face flushes with grief. “Yeah, Buck.”

Bucky shudders, his eyes watering. “I need help.” 

“I’m gonna get you help, okay? We all will. I promise.” Sam closes the massive gap between them, holding Bucky’s shoulders in place. “I’m going to be there along the way, okay? I’m not leaving you.”

Bucky grips the fabric of Sam’s sweatshirt. “Don’t leave me.”

Sam shakes his head fast. “I’m not going to leave you. But you gotta promise you’re not going to leave me too, yeah? You’re not going to leave me, or Ace, or Peter. We need you just as much as you need us, Buck.”

“Why did he leave us?” Bucky breaks, sobbing into Sam’s chest. He feels as if the fog in his brain has just lifted, but it’s fighting to stay clear. 

Sam holds him, staring over Bucky’s shoulder. “Million dollar question, Buck.”

Maybe Bucky isn’t the tragic villain of this play.

Maybe it was Steve all along.

~

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[zuko-always-lies]

“Craziness,” Insanity, Mental Health, and Neutering Azula

Post-Canon, Azula poses a potent physical, political, ideological, and moral challenge and threat to heroes as the embodiment of the good and evil of the Fire Nation, as a firm believer in Fire imperialism, as a popular, successful, and capable public figure with a firm claim to the throne.  This makes for good stuff for drama and fiction(and if the heroes can’t reclaim one 14 year old girl, how can they reclaim and redeem an entire nation of imperialists?).

But the majority of the fandom and many writers are incapable or uninterested in dealing with the multivectored threat that Azula poses to the postwar order, so they have to neuter her so she cannot do so.  Here is where “mental health” and ableism comes in, with three separate ways of narratively neutering her being popular:

1. “Psychopath Azula”: Azula is evil because she’s inherently evil, and she never can be otherwise. There is nothing to save. She doesn’t represent anything, and she has no popular support, since she’s evil and everyone in the Fire Nation hates her for being evil.  All she represents is a physical threat for Zuko and Co. to deal with.

2. “Delusional Azula”: Canon Azula has a brief breakdown, where she becomes paranoid and has one hallucination. Fanon “Delusional Azula” not only has frequent hallucinations, but completely loses touch with reality for the rest of her life.   She is often depicted as completely incapable of rational thought and essentially reduced to an animal, with uncontrolled movements and lashing out randomly at things around her. Of course, in this state she can pose no threat to anyone, and hence writers often choose to leave this way forever.

3. “Mentally Ill Azula”: Under this paradigm, all of Azula’s harmful actions are blamed on some sort of nebulous mental illness and/or trauma, completely ignoring the massive role that imperialist structures and imperialist ideology played in decision making. Therapy magically makes her OK with Zuko’s ideals for the Fire Nation and with the ways that Zuko, Iroh, and Ursa mistreated her. This completely removes the  physical, political, ideological, and moral challenge that Azula poses to the heroes’ ideal world.