#is so compelling like what the fuck

[ezramire]

I think some often-overlooked context for gideon's sacrifice at the end of GTN is that, if gideon survives, harrow asked her to return to drearburh.

of course, harrow's plan of I'll-hold-the-lyctor-off-you-and-cam-jump-into-the-sea is dogshit, not going to work etc. of course gideon is a perpetual Good Girl, a butch in shining armor--she's a saint. she's jesus christ. I don’t mean at all to undermine her selflessness, but in her panic i can't help but think the threat of the ninth house made the choice much simpler.

let's go back to the beginning of GTN to the amalgam of everybody's worst hometown:

gideon the ninth, chapter 1

gideon's entire life has been a series of escape attempts. in canaan house her relationship to harrow undergoes a metamorphosis, but behind her is eighteen years of trying--relentlessly--to run from a cold dark place that she is beholden to. (whenever beholden comes up in this series at least 8 alarms go off in my head and i drop whatever i'm holding).

gideon the ninth, chapter 4

I think aiglamene understands drearburh is inherently soul-killing in a way that harrow does not. harrow genuinely loves her house (which, to her, is the Tomb). gideon was never allowed to love the ninth house--it rejected her at every opportunity. harrow, however, threw herself into it wholesale. she had nothing else.

skip to the pool scene. harrow receives absolution and a emotionally charged tender forehead kiss (top 10 lesbian baptisms of all time). they are finally on the same side, out from under drearburh's shadow. they can trust each other. then harrow, with her seventeen years of pining, obsession, and isolation, asks gideon something truly fucking awful:

gideon the ninth, chapter 35

in harrow's mind, the locked tomb (specifically) has served as her reprieve. it is The Thing For Which She Suffers It All, and so it must be good. harrow sees herself as the thing that poisoned gideon, because she IS the ninth house, and she hates herself. I genuinely don't think harrow understands the depth of cruelty in this ask at all. in harrow's mind she is saving gideon and protecting The Body.

and as cytherea bears down on them, harrow reminds her:

gideon the ninth, chapter 37

if harrow sacrifices herself, gideon owes her AND gets abandoned. gideon has to go back and protect the tomb, back to a life she could not bear long before she had ever seen the sea and the sky, before kind-hearted house scions and princesses with swords. the chains would be slapped on. gideon would not get out twice. not even in a box.

gideon can die neatly and heroically, like a protagonist in a comic book—she can save harrow, save camilla, get vengeance for lost friends, carry out the last wish of jeanmarry and isaac, who she so badly let down—or she can live and return to drearburh.

gideon the ninth, chapter 37

gideon the ninth, chapter 37 (final line before the epilogue in harrow's POV).

of course she chooses the fence.

[notemaker]

The ringmaster and the amphitheater. The chessboard and the player. Round and round they go.

[invinciblerodent]

do you have any idea how obsessed I am with this fucking line right now

like I can't be the only one who thinks this sounds like it could be a callback, right? Like the words "cuddly Astarion" were said at least once before???????

[maegalkarven]

Also there're so many reasons why durge might want to deny Bhaal, aside from general "killing is bad, the god of murder is bad."

Orin betrayed them and it was somewhat from silent approval of Bhaal, so "god betrayed me first" kind of narrative. A desire to get revenge, on Orin AND on Bhaal.

A desire to live. Durge's fate, Durge's Destiny is to literally kill everyone and then themselves. What if they want to live? What if desire to live is stronger than desire to kill?

Alternatively, what if there's someone they don't want to kill? A single person for Durge to care about, a single person they would want to save instead of bloodying father's altar with their blood. A single connection like that is all what it would take.

A desire to break free. Durge can be completely okay with murders, loving murdering people even, reveling in violence. But they're their father's puppet and they could want to break free of it, to have their own will, to have only their voice in their head. To be a master of themselves with no one to kneel to.

The "I'm better than my father" kind of mindset. Durge is made of a flesh of a god, in a sense they ARE god. Bhaal was mortal once. Why would Durge listen to him when they can attempt to overthrow him, to become a new god?

Being compelled to other side. It's not unknown for gods to steal each other's followers/chosen ones. Look at Ketheric, look at Shadowheart. Myrkul is recently chosen-less after the Moonrise Towers. Bane would love to fuck with Bhaal like that. Shar is there. Good gods who would try to redeem Durge or use them against their own father are there. It would be a delightful power move from Selune to offer Durge assistance/ an alliance against Bhaal.

Idk, I just love how multidimensional the defiance of Bhaal can be. I have a lil army of Durges exactly because I can mold them into such different people

[katabay]

original thief series basso & garrett :)

ngl, it's about quality over quantity for me. an npc can have a total of three minutes of screen time, but if they have a cool name, they can live rent free in my head and I'll spend several hours trying to decipher drawable features from a blurry screenshot of pixels

there is a vague hint of a story here, and that's because every time I try to play thi4f, I get incredibly frustrated with how Not Fun the game play is. like, is the story good? well. but it has a PLAGUE. that should've given it instant 'I'll replay this once a year' status in my heart, but the game play sucks so bad that I've never finished it. I can't believe Not Fun gameplay beat out my obsession with narrative plagues.

anyway, the idea is basically if the original era had a game with a plague centric narrative and some other stuff I liked out of thi4f thrown into a narrative blender, with a heavy dash of horror thrown in because some parts of the thief games were scarier to me than entire dedicated horror genre games.

⭐ places I’m at! bsky / pixiv / pillowfort /cohost / cara.app

[brother-emperors]

spartacus and crassus :)

this is actually a rejected panel from a much longer comic I’ve been fucking around with on and off for awhile- I had plans to do a long form spartacus comic for a long time, I just keep missing the last book on my research list in second hand stores 😔 I always have money when the last copy sells out aughhh

anyway! I might call crassus my girl in the group chat, but I’ve actually spent more years wishing that spartacus got to run crassus through on his sword and then read the fate of rome out of his entrails. ALAS. on that note, isn’t it kind of interesting how spartacus’ funeral games for crixus turn roman order upside down and feel like both a foundational sacrifice and a curse? isn’t it kind of fun how crassus will not die in rome, and neither will pompey, who came in like a vulture to take credit for crassus’ work? (it’s VERY fun)

Plutarch, Crassus

[sydmarch]

sad wet beast painting practice masterpost

[ghouljams]

I was just stalking your fae au and was reading the moose-creature-mimic posts, and I saw you mention that witch can feel when the mimic is trying to break her wards.

Whenever I hear about Fae, my mind immediately goes to the magic system from one of my favourite book series in which people who make wards have to develop wards for specific creatures, and if a creature that they haven’t warded against tries to enter, they can break through, if not break the rest of the wards.

Let’s say for a moment that something like that happens in the Fae AU, where some kind of unfamiliar creature from a foreign civilization comes a knocking on witches doorstep, and is able to break through her wards.

What do you think would happen? If Witch is connected to them, would Witch ‘break’ too? How would Price react to the pure panic and pain shooting through the tethers as an unfamiliar creature breaks through his darling’s wards?

I feel like she would be absolutely broken afterwards (if she survives that is-) Her wards are her safe space, she had never had that happen, she didn’t know what happened.

Would price still trust her to be safe in her own home?

Would SHE still trust her to be safe in her own home??

Just some thoughts 🫣

Oooooooooh. Ok yeah I can do some horror with this. Love the concept. So the Canon answer is that warding in this magic system can be as broad or as narrow as the caster wants. Wards can be weak and they can be broken, but it isn't going to harm the caster, maybe it'll give then a bad feeling but not any actual harm. Not a very good ward if it harms the wrong target IMHO.

For the Witch's home these are wards that are basically generations of people enforcing and reinforcing an all purpose boundary. It's an iron wall that nothing(save humans) is getting through without a permit, and it's tied to Witch both through her magic and her blood. She can feel when things mess with it, but it's like getting asmr, it isn't actually affecting her. She's mentioned before that her wards are threats, so anything that isn't stopped by a simple denial of entry is going to have those threats enacted upon it.

But let's say something broke her wards, let's throw some rocks through the windows and bust shit up. I am going on record to say, this isnt canon:

You feel something crack in the air before you feel it break. The splintering spiderweb of intangible bonds being pushed too far hits you between the ribs and you have to clutch the kitchen counter to stay standing. Something is deeply, desperately, wrong. You don't know how or why(or what) but something is working very hard to get in to your space.

It shouldn't be possible in the first place, you have known this house, these wards, your whole life and you've never felt it give way. You've felt it change, felt it ripple, felt it pop and fizz when it doesn't like what you've let in, but never this. Never the creaking pressure of it bowing inwards and splitting under its own tension. Your fingers wrap tight around your athame as you go to check your back garden, peaking through the curtains. There's nothing.

But you can feel it, you can feel it splintering like a pain in your chest. Tight and radiating out from your sternum. It tingles down your arm, makes your grip feel looser than you know it is. You grab your back door's handle, take a few breathes to give yourself strength, and open it to shoo away whatever is pressing your wards. And very suddenly the splinters give way, like a hole punched through a window.

It feels like all the air has been forced out of your lungs. A cool breeze blows through your door, wrong so very, very, wrong. The smell of moss invades your nose, burdened with the scent of decay. Slime mold oozing against your desperate breaths. You tug your shirt to cover your nose and mouth as the battering ram that had been beating your barrier steps through.

The horns of it scrape your ceiling, actually that bothers you more than it should, you're the one that has to fix it later. Velvet hangs from its antlers, freshly scraped and red, gory and divine. It stands on two clover hooves, and looks at you with malice. If you can even discern an expression from the thing. It's face is completely smooth save for its eyes, or it was smooth. A crack forms along the bottom of its smooth surface, splintering and chipping as it rips its mouth open and screams at you.

The sound is overpowering, dizzying, you feel your ears pop and then the noise is gone, replaced by a persistent dull ringing. You truly wonder when your life got so interesting. You hate interesting. You blame Price.

You cough, gag. You have to drop your makeshift mask to retch against the stench of rotten decay on this thing. It smells like death, weeks old bodies left to fester where no one will find them. You gag again, fingers curling around your throat as you try to keep you athame raised.

Your wards are silent, you home is silent, and you realize that you've never actually experienced true silence. Something is always buzzing or humming with magic, you always have music playing or bottles clinking, you're always surrounded by sound. Now it's all stopped. Even the ringing in your ears has settled into a cottony muffle. You can't feel any of your magic. Your numbed to it.

You drop your hand from your throat to your chest. You can't even feel the tethers there. Your fingers move over the fabric of your shirt without catching, there's not tightness to pull, not warmth to catch. You feel cavernous, empty past empty. What the fuck is that thing.

Whatever it is it seems to have finished its evaluation of you. Finished working whatever spell it was weaving. It takes a step towards you. You don't wait for it to take another before running. Scrambling away from the broken seal of the door towards whatever is heavy and throw-able.

You do your best not to let blind panic take over, to not just run wherever feels safe. You've always thought it was silly when people in horror movies don't do the smart thing, but you've never been in a horror movie before. You bolt towards your bedroom. It's the best guarded room in the house. Even if you can't feel your magic it should still be there. Right?

You feel the swip of the things claws through the air as it tries to grab you. You run straight past your front door without a second thought, sure you don't want whatever that is to be unleashed on the general public. It's claws dig deep gouges into the plaster of your wall, and you pray it doesn't do the same to your bedroom door. You know it will, but it can't hurt to pray. You're not in the mood to be picky with magic right now.

You get your bedroom door closed just in time to hear it splinter as the creature throws itself against it. You don't bother with chalk, digging your athame into the door and scratching sigils and circles as quickly as you can. When you tap them they sit absolutely dead. You smack your hand against your messy circle, willing the magic to respond. You smack it again as the creature throws itself against your door. The circle stays as it was, motionless, silent, still as a drawing.

You are suddenly much more comfortable allowing panic to overtake you. If you're powerless there's really no reason to keep your emotions in check. Your breath heaves, short and quick as you back away from your door and look towards your window. No magic swirls, no books rip themselves from your shelves, your panic heightens and nothing happens. How mundane.

One of the creatures claws punches a hole through the center of your circle, then another, and another. You back towards your window as it grips the wood of the door and attempts to pull it from its hinges. Your fingers push at your window, try to find the seams of it, try to get it open. It doesn't budge, it feels like it's been painted on. You bang your fist against the glass without so much as a crack. The wood behind you splinters. The crunch of it deafening over the silence.

"Price, Price, fuck I am not fucking around Price please," You beg pressing yourself back against the window as the creature drops pieces of the door onto your floor. Even if your magic doesn't work his still must. You've never hear of a fae not responding to their name. Granted you don't know the full thing, you don't know if that's really his name and not just a nickname. It might hold no power without the tethers between you. That doesn't stop you from saying it like a prayer, hoping if you speak him into existence enough times he might come and save you.

Your shoulders are grabbed by an invisible force as you are physically shaken. Your ribs shake, muscles tensed too tight to even take a breath.

There is a wet ache spreading over your stomach, you begin to tilt your head down to see what's wrong and Price catches you. His hand holds the back of your head, pulls it back up and shoves it against his shoulder. "Don't look," he tells you just as quickly as he'd stopped you. You nod against his shoulder.

He pulls something from you, rips the proverbial bandaid off, and you bite him at the pain. It feels like your heart has been knocked out of place, like your ribs have been played as a xylophone. Your stomach twists on itself. Suddenly you are back in your kitchen staring at the cabinets, the space where the creatures antlers had scraped the ceiling. The scratches are still there.

Then the shaking starts. Every muscle in your body starting to unspool in a violent shudder that must quake the very earth you stand on. It's loud. The house is so loud. The wards are practically screaming at you, you threshold wails and sobs where it has been brutalized. Your back door is still swung open to red and orange leaves, a lovely autumn day that leaks the smell of wet earth into your home. Price turns to follow your shaking gaze and kicks the door shut behind him.

"What-" You can't get anything more out around the aftershocks of panic. You're sure your house must look like a war zone.

"Probably some American invention," Price mumbles, "You weren't under long, deep breaths."

You suck in a breath, press your know into his shirt to smell the cool tobacco. It helps. Price keeps a firm grip on the back of your head, keeps you looking where he wants you to while his other hand does something. He touches you in a way you can't explain. It's almost metaphysical the way he zips you up, just on the right side of freezing. You can almost feel his fingers moving muscle and viscera out of the way as he does whatever he's doing. Fixing whatever just happened.

"Fucking hell your wards shredded that thing, surprised it even had the strength to touch you," There's something at the edge of Price's voice, fear your think. You're not sure what he's scared of, it isn't a comforting sound.

"How're you-" You try to focus on the important questions, like why Price hasn't been shredded.

"You lit up like a damn Christmas tree, thought I was gonna have my own attack with the panic you shot my way," He draws his hand away from your stomach, apparently finished with his fussing, "wards were too busy to notice me slip in."

Makes sense, even now they're too busy with repairs to pay attention to your regular.

"It broke my door," It's funny what you latch onto once shock starts to set in. "What did it want?"

"Same thing we all want," Price tells you, and you hate hearing him say it(we), because he doesn't mean it kindly, "you."

[lgbtlunaverse]

I think one aspect of Nie Mingjue that is critically overlooked in fandom is that he failed.

What I mean is that I think it's strongly implied that a significant part of Nie Mingjue's moral rigidity and his tendency to universally fall back on his principles instead of trying to see the unique context of a new situation is that he is strongly aware that at some point his sense of judgement will be greatly impaired due to the saber curse, and he hopes that a strong rule-based morality system that he sticks to at all times-- ignoring any specfic feelings or doubts that may arise-- will help mitigate the damage when that happens. If he's trained himself to ignore his instincts and stick to the rules, he can continue doing the right thing even after he emotionally can no longer tell what the right thing is!

And it fails! Miserably! He essentially tried to destroy his ancestral curse with Facts and Logic and it didn't work! And he doesn't even realize that it's no longer working because surprise surprise: the curse that severely affects your sense of judgement also ruins your ability to gauge whether you're still standing by those rules you made up for yourself.

And the system was flawed from the get-go, because there is no such thing as a set of moral rules that are so universally applicable you'll never have to make unclear decision in edge-cases or re-evalutate the rules themselves based on new information-- a thing this system won't let him do because What If That's The Curse Talking? (nmj is basically a walking version of the slippery slope fallacy. Any small change is bad because it will lead to eventual catastrophy)-- and also because facts unfortunately do in fact care about your feelings and your attempt to be objective and unclouded by your emotions is still going to be subjective and informed by your own views, which is why Nie Mingjue's moral code has a core tentant that says self-sacrifice is not only Good but Mandatory and wanting to live is Bad, actually.

But even if the rules had somehow been perfect it would still, in the end, have failed. Right as the moment Nie Mingjue made that whole fucking system for arrives, it becomes useless. It's honestly really dark and tragic and deeply fascinating because of that.

Any fix-it that includes Nie Mingjue recovering from late stage saber poisoning should include him being absolutely horrified. Not just in the generic "oh my god I'm so sorry I hurt you" way, but in the sense that the thing he has committed to to the utmost degree since he was a child failed completely and instantly without him even noticing. Dedicated most of his life to it and it didn't matter at all. That's gonna fuck with a guy's head.

[lloydfrontera]

male authors, writing m/m friendships: their bond will develop through hundreds of chapters, we will get to see each stage of their budding relationship, they'll constantly be in each other thoughts, their first instinct will always be to reach for the other, their first worry will always be the other's safety, they'll spend every minute of the day together, they'll be complete opposites and yet perfectly compliment each other, they will put everything they ever loved in risk just to keep the other safe, they will give their life without hesitation to save the other's, they will fight and argue and tease and joke around but they will always be at each other's side at the end of the day, they will plan to spend the rest of their lives together, sharing the happy moments and the hard times, the idea of being without the other being unthinkable, the thought of being always together coming naturally, as easy as breathing.

the same male authors, writing m/f romance: she'll like,, smile once at him and he'll start thinking of marrying her and having children with her idk

[bottombaron]

there is no way that Guillermo’s pussy wouldn’t drive Nandor absolutely mad with power

[rttenboy]

im baffled about how so many people are suddenly shitting on transmascs for having the audacity to label our discrimination and making fun of terms like transandophobia and mocking us for talking about transmasc-specific issues and discrimination (which is a documented thing! and we have different factors intersect with our oppression than tma folks have intersecting with transmisogyny! and NOONE is saying that transandrophobia existing makes it worse than transmisogyny either!)

like what do you want us to do? are we just supposed to shut up and take it because us being afab means our problems are "lesser"? are we supposed to say that every other trans person has it worse so we can't talk about it anymore? what is the proposed solution here? mocking transmascs and harassing them and sending horrific anons to them isn't exactly a solid answer.

i genuinely truly don't understand why people are so upset about this and why it's such a big deal for us to label our experiences and talk about it when everyone was falling all over themselves to adopt new phrases when the terms transmisogyny and tma/tme started gaining traction. it's gross and weird. we're all siblings in the same fight here, infighting is pointless and a waste of energy. why are we trying to to beat each other down when this energy would be, y'know, actually progressive punching up and fighting the oppressive structures CAUSING these issues instead?

[nerozane]

Something you can definitely tell with a lot of talk with the Devs development with Astarion's story, to Wyll's story. Wyll's rewrite was crunched to the point a new actor had to come in for him (the EA actor for Wyll is a theatre actor and judging timelines on the rewrite, if he's in a production he's Def locked in for months at a time plus preparation and rehearsals). Compare to Astarions story arc, where the writer was allowed to mull and write the best stuff in parts where he was stuck writing for astarions arc. And have some long term input from Neil.

And I can't help but feel sad. Because both EA Wyll and release Wyll both deserved to have time to stew and mull and have input from both actors to how his character arc goes. And it just makes me sad that both players and larian had absolutely no faith in receiving/writing a black character. Or even the desire to take risks that the writer for astarion's arc took.

[madohomurat]

portal 2 really gave us a tragic fucked up backstory for GLaDOS revealing shes a real human person who's personality was uploaded into an AI against her will- thus filling her with a hatred so strong for the scientists who did this to her that she turned into a killing machine with no value for human life, only to finally feel something for one human, chell, who she deliberately /saves/ at the end of portal 2, when she could have let her be sucked into the emptiness of space-

and then the fandom decided to go insane for wheatley- whos entire character is literally just the fact that hes an idiot. thats his programmed purpose, to be an idiot. thats all there is to him- and they turned him into a white skinny man with blond hair and glasses and sexified him up to hell and back and if that doesnt tell you everything you need to know about fandom then i dont know what else would

not to mention the fact that GLaDOS is widely regarded as heartless and irredeemable because she tried to kill chell, but wheatley gets a pass even though he, too, tried to kill chell. in much the same way. oh but wait, wheatley was helping chell escape so hes good right?! yeah GLaDOS never helped- oh wait, yes she did. GLaDOS is the one who saved chell and set her free. and wheatley didnt. hm. well at least wheatley never put chell through fucked up experiments and- oh wait thats a thing he did too isnt it. huh. but anyways GLaDOS is the more evil fucked up one of the two and wheatley is a sweet cinnamon roll too good for this earth or whatever

[ectonurites]

SUPER DARK TIMES [THE FROST — MITSKI]

this movie's had my brain in a vice grip all week

[possumsquat]

a redraw of the fanart i made for @writevale's fic Strings between the stars