Morally Grey - Tumblr Posts

Fuck being morally gray I wanna be morally goofy. I only do things for the bit

Love & Power; Oil & Water

"morals have aesthetic criteria" (Nietzsche).

I worry that love is violence.

Words by José Olivarez from Citizen Illegal

patricide is like falling in love (tom riddle, probably)

~inspired by a moodboard thing I saw on here where TMR says murder is like falling in love~

Read from the beginning at FFN | AO3!

“You are my son,” Tom Riddle chokes out, his gaze roving helplessly over his dead parents’ bodies as he clutches a crucifix, dangling from a small silver chain. 

His voice is wrecked from the pain.

Weak. 

“I made you. You’re a monster.”

Tom laughs. “No one made me, father. I made me.” He feels his head tilt, his eyes focus. “You’re sixteen years too late to claim me, now. You left me. I came for you. You see?”

“Your mother bewitched me!”

“That may be so,” says Tom, twirling Morfin’s wand and laughing as his father shrinks back. “She’s dead. Died giving birth to me. In Wool’s Orphanage, London. My poor, dead mother stumbled into the orphanage, weak and starving on the coldest night of the year. They couldn’t stop the bleeding or the fever, and she only lived long enough to name me.”

“I’m sorry,” says his father, though Tom doesn’t want his pity. He hates pity. He hates his pathetic, neglectful, sobbing father.

How could two weak people produce him?

“This is wrong, Tom!”

“There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so. Shakespeare.” Tom points his wand at the battered copy of Hamlet on the bookshelf, laughing. It catches on fire.

“What do you want?” He sounds tired.

“Nothing much, father,” says Tom sweetly. His father, who left him, like everyone else. His father will never read him a bedtime story or wipe the sweat away from his face when he is sick or hold him when he is sad. (Not that he needs any of those things — he doesn’t.)

His father is the reason he is broken. Broken from birth.

It doesn’t matter, because Tom is something better than human now. (There is only power.)

“Daddy,” he says, like a small child. He has never said the word before, and it rolls off of his tongue with surprising difficulty — the agile tongue that pronounces Parseltongue, Latin and Arabic spells, and Ogham runic chants with ease. “Why did you leave me?”

“She bewitched me — she lied to me, you don’t understand how violated—“

“I want to see the light leave your eyes,” whispers Tom, in a tone that befits a love confession more than a death threat. “I hate you.”

“I grieve for your soul,” says his father, trembling with fear. “Repent, demon. Show some remorse, for your own sake!”

But Tom doesn’t intend to meet judgment. Tom intends to live forever.

He is burning, burning, he has never burned like this, he is so full of exquisite hatred that aches so good, and all Tom has to do is to let it all go.

“Avada Kedavra.”

Now, Tom is sitting on the floor in the Riddles’ dining room. He is running his fingers through his dead father’s hair, handsome, just like him, admiring his frozen, horrified expression. 

Tom sits in his grandfather’s chair and cradles his dead father, like the Pietà, with two more dead bodies strewn at his feet. His head tilts gracefully down, mimicking the Virgin Mary’s silent compassion and suffering, but feeling none of it. Tom Riddle is gone. He is dead. Tom lays his head on his father’s chest, but there is no more heartbeat, no more breath.

His brown eyes, just like his son’s, blown wide with fear. Lips parted in surrender. 

He leans forward and kisses his father’s forehead sweetly, presses two chaste, cold lips to still-warm skin, like a priest’s blessing. 

The twilight sky is darkening, turning dark violet like ink has spilled on it.

It is beautiful. It is perfect, yet the despair is not gone. His heart still beats with anguish, and Tom Riddle is left more broken than ever and aching for more.

It is like falling in love.

"In any story, the villain is the catalyst. The hero's not a person who will bend the rules or shw the cracks in his armor.He's one-dimensional intentionally, but the villain is the person who owns up to what he is and stands by it."

-Marilyn Manson

The night was spent getting a proper hold of their bearings. They knew where in Japan they were, but no idea how to get back. They also had no idea on how they got there, but that was a problem for later. For now, shelter and food were to two most pressing issues.

Chuuya and Atsushi had never worked together before, so they were stumbling around each other the entire night. Atsushi had been hell bent on them finding shelter before anything else, and Chuuya was insistent on getting money first. Atsushi was willing to break a few laws to keep them safe, but he was very vocal about not hurting anyone. Chuuya was willing to break every law he could think of in order to get his way. They could both agree that they'd rather avoid working together ever again after they've gotten back Yokohama.

It's terrible, working with someone so different from yourself. Stumbling over each other and getting in one another's way. It could cost a life. It could cost many lives.

"That'd be terrible for being undercover." Atsushi said. He was still holding himself under a mask around Chuuya.

Chuuya scoffed. "Since when are we undercover?"

"Since neither of us know where we are or what's going on."

"Oh? Is that snark I hear?" Underlings who sassed him never got out of it unscathed.

He was suddenly confidant in his answer, "Yeah. What about it? You can't attack me."

Atsushi isn't Chuuya's underling. "Who says I can't?"

"The truce between our two groups." Damn it. "Besides, I could go to local law enforcement and report you for assault and battery."

"But you won't." Good point. "If you did, then you'd be alone in unfamiliar territory. When you get back, the truce would be called off and you'd have the entire Port Mafia after your head."

Atsushi didn't respond, falling back into the mask of self preservation.

Chuuya sighed. "Fine. In order to keep a low profile, we'll do things your way."

Still not saying anything, Atsushi took a step ahead of Chuuya and went in search of an abandoned building to set up a temporary base in. It was late, probably near midnight, so not many were out. Those who were out were sniffed out and avoided. Despite everything, Atsushi made himself ignore the calls for help. Getting involved would mean being seen. Being seen would do no good at the moment.

Chuuya was reluctant to follow Atsushi, but he had to admit that the kid wasn't acting at all like he expected him to. He'd expected a coward or someone who would go running to help at the first scream, but he did no such thing. The kid kept sniffing at the air as they walked, leading through back allies and staying out of light.

"I can say for certain that nothing has happened to the ADA." Atsushi spoke softly.

"What makes ya say that?" Chuuya asked. He was genuinely curious. How did this kid know anything like that? Could he determine anything about the Port Mafia?

Atsushi's eyes seemed to be glowing when he looked back at Chuuya, the gold and purple covered in an almost not-there film. Eyeshine, Chuuya noted, is a thing all cats have. Helps them see in the dark. "I haven't lost control of my Ability." Was that supposed to be a reassurance? "The President's Ability is still working, so I can confidently say that he - at the very least - is okay."

"Based off of that," Chuuya added on, "Everything should be okay with the Port Mafia, too."

These were only assumptions and they both new that.

It was quiet as they kept walking, still out of light and still away from humans. It took another thirty minutes of wandering until they found a place to hole up. It was a very rundown building, but it was still standing. It didn't seem to have any other occupants, so that was a point in their book.

The interior was as rundown as the exterior. The floors had no holes, but every other board squeaked when stepped on. The lights didn't work, so it was safe to assume nothing else did either. While there was no holes in the walls or broken windows, the place was starting to show signs of life in the graffiti and plants creeping in. The stairs leading to the second floor weren't rotted through, but enough weight would cause them to collapse. Much like the first floor, the second floor squeaked on every other step. The paint and wallpaper was peeling at the corners, and the doors were falling of their hinges.

Chuuya didn't like getting dirty. He'd spent so long living on the streets that the thought of staying in this building was barely digestible. Regardless, he picked a room on the second floor and went in. "I'll be in here for the night. Don't bother me." He doubted he'd get any sleep, but it would be a good place to think.

Atsushi nodded and left the man on his own. Part of him said it was a bad idea, but the rest of him knew that they were forced to trust and rely on each other. He choose the room next to Chuuya's and curled up in the far corner. He was used to sleeping in places like this. The cellar in the orphanage was much worse than here. Colder, too. Less bright.

~~~

The new first order of business, Chuuya decided, was to sort out his thoughts. Based on the maps of Japan he'd studied when he first joined the Port Mafia told him that Yokohama was near the Chubu Prefecture. It had once been a part of it, but had declared itself independent a long time ago. When exactly, he wasn't sure, but that wasn't a pressing thing to know at the moment.

He'd gone to bed on Friday night had woken up Friday afternoon. He had a whole week missing from his memory and that was never a good sign. At least, the best case suggested a week. Without knowing the exact date, he had no idea how big of a blank was now taking up his memory.

The next thing Chuuya did was search his person. He was fully dressed in his uniform, so that meant he had woken up and gotten dressed somewhere during the missing blank. He was still fully armed with a gun under his vest and the hidden knives on his person. His phone was in his back pocket, but was dead. His wallet was inside his coat, but he had no cash. At least he still had his gloves.

The next thing to do would be to set out a plan of action, but that would have to wait until Jinko woke up. Getting their story straight was the next pressing matter, but he was gonna let the kid get some rest. God knows they both need it.

Part 1 Storyboard

Was in the mood to do some shipping bingo

This one is for the clashidr girlies

They give me brain rot. So much brain rot. I need more of them but people don't make much content of them anymore since ashildr hasn't been mentioned for ages. Truly a crime against the people.

Winged

Work #3 | copyright to saturnfairycat

Author's Note: this is one of my biggest works. I really hope you enjoy this one. This is inspired by the Obsession poem series. Debrief: Word count: 1694 Warnings: gore, horror, death, sensitive topics.

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Winged

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'Do you see her flying?'

Is all of a brusque rhetoric opine. Even the blind could descry such a figure. 

Biblically meticulous angels are a frightening, foreign perception for the faint of heart. But a feminine adolescent human with ivory, coriaceous wings? A sight for sore eyes, a sight to behold. Uncorrupted and innocent, dove-like as a symbol of societal freedom and peace. A pleaser designed by birth to conjure movement and enthrallment for the ravenous. A perishable's dream bride, adorned with white like untouched snow on the first night of winter.

Kings have egos. Compelled to order and empower by any means necessary. Vestal subjects have pride. Their crest adorned with white is comparable to celestial tears. Combatants have glory, taking— saving— risking lives by ineludible ordinance. And evil? All they have is revenge. 

Scarlet wounds, blood vessels ripped apart unseemly by brute force. A perfect canvas, stained and poisoned by acid rain. Tainted with colour, her dress subsumes the surrounding ichor from the broken statue. If it wasn't for the gore giving away the depiction of clay and adroitness, she would've been a Renaissance angel built to be worshipped like the holiness structure itself. The venerable church has been home to the slain of sin, the keeper of the sorrow and celebration of nuptials. Its outer walls creak and moan at the sounds of howling winds, angered at the sight inside the chambers of salvation. High ceilings may have constructed envy to those whose house is neither grand nor tall enough to withhold such metaphorical heights of a ceiling— likewise a telling of the staircase to the heavens above.

The beams are indestructible by delineation, holding the shouldering weight of the god's misfortune of reckless decision-making. Howbeit, ladders like vines on great oak trees enable worshippers to maintain the tidiness of the “humble” estate; the beams are wide enough to dance to the opera choir singing, whose dedication to the ones living in the unbothered clouds. For someone to climb up the vines to reach the tallest branches on the great oak is a possibility within a thousand coin flips, though ought to question the means behind such a purpose is certain. Revenge is a rather peculiar sin, anyone could imagine it as such. The drive behind it is sorrowful to the do-er, but judgement day does not care for the iniquitous.

Revenge creates motivation, determination is effectual. To train like a knight, one can easily carry a dead weight on their cracked shoulders up the staircase to heaven. To study with pride, one would know what people see as their true saviours— their delusional hallucinatory of an angel. How to dress, how to please. White and lacy as a wedding dress, pure and lush as a celibate. 

The victim? 

How curious, the devil pondered. Perhaps a pleaser at heart? As such:

A devoted woman to her word, a persona whose love for the weak and vulnerable is overpowering. Like spiked wine, a goblet filled with luxurious liquid gold— misleading from its appearance— a perfect femme fatale. Its insides tell its truth, how we're all the same within— an inescapable peracute. But who said to drink it? Use it for self delectation? What a poor magnificent object, she doesn't want to be mere treasure. She is the perfect vestal subject, what more could you want? Perhaps she is more fitting as a villain, always seeking more. Greedy, much?

Yes, a perfect sacrifice indeed. An impeccable example of the ambition of a “devil”'s revenge. A church can have followers, so a mere cult can be concordant. While the title of being a cult is a fragment of exaggeration, the apostles will work well in such a plan. They, the misfortunate, seek the pained for comfort… paltry sympathy can only do so much, however. But it's only just sufficient enough. Manipulation? How insulting. Ultimately, it is up to those who seek change to take heed. Hide fleetingly, pretend to associate with everyone just like in the old days. The crowd knows when to act.

Evil can kill, there is nothing else to it. Have you ever wondered how it feels to bathe in virgin blood? It's disappointing, such fuss for it is foolish. The only real kick was the twisted face of telling. That face alone is a blank, pitiful canvas turned into the definition of art itself. Oh, you could paint a thousand frescoes with such an expression. It doesn't disturn her prepossessing features, but it does make her look older. Such complicated, big emotions shouldn't even be within reach for such a young fawn. In another life, surely her underlying intelligence would serve others more than just being a lap to cry on, but in this taken existence— her sheltered mind breaks from the sudden intensity of trahison des clercs. This isn't what her story was supposed to be in her eyes. Ah, regrettable unfortunate. ‘Not favoured by fortune, was she?’, the fallen angel cruelly smirked at the thought. 

The evisceration was excessively long. The risk of blood ruining the white was too prodigious, though such fastidious concerns were needless in the end— her neck provided enough liquid genealogy, painting the front of her dress crimson. The colour of hell, of sin. The tainted heaven, the poisoned goblet. Her wings were made from dove feathers, plucked with attention to detail— a maiden in a meadow, choosing and picking the best of flowers could not compare. The bone structure of the wings was genius, specific bones were chosen from certain organisms to create a grand juxtaposition from angel to bird. Sticking each chosen feather to the structure was tedious, but a hyper-fixed maniac does not sway from such work. Inspired by the Winged Victory of Samothrace, the wings belong on her back. But her impressive bone anatomy is in the way... 

...with the scapulae removed, the wings fitted with such grace and ease. Death has blessed her with paleness, such colour is the reminiscence of a statue. But her wasted life must be highlighted, must be remembered. Just like all those Renaissance angel paintings, after all— that is the only perception of angels that people will embrace. 

It is always about beauty and selflessness, never should one ought to become a fallen one.

Tough to touch, the rope that scratched up skin with small amounts of friction has proven to be practical. A satirical necklace for her elegant neck— tied down to halt the escape of her soul to the sky above. Wings may have been granted, but freedom of flying is not an option. But one as kind and saving as her needs a taster of such, the vines are no competition of strength with her figure in the devil's grasp. The perception of the stairway to heaven is certainly a sight of lush imagination, except the beams are thrilling as a ballroom for the bride-to-be and the avenger. Humming, content with glee; evil looks down to the church below, to where the mighty cross stands at the front of the sect.

Their creation is more impressive, without the use of a single nail. Prideful, the striking idea of overshadowing the lord himself is great. Tying the knot where evil saw fit, the weeping angel longed for the higher stakes before being pushed down, down to her fate. For a second, the wings may have tried to lift the dead and fly up— but the crushing weight of sorrow brought both down with a crack of bone. Her neck crooked, leaning to the left with no resting place for her head, she floats in front of her lord. Her feet swayed slightly, still savouring the dance from before as blood dripped from her blue-hue toes. Such pale eyes never saw the light of the sun again without the stained church glass praying through. 

***

The morning prayers, on time as usual for another hour of adored hope from the public. The doors opened, creaking and moaning its warning. The crowd is loud, chatting and laughing with optimistic cravings for their future. A future that she will never see. The crowd silences, and the cessation of movement brings shock and dread to the hearts of his lord's worshippers. She hangs in front of their eyes from afar, suppressed into death. It was when her guts came with a sickening "splat" onto the ground beneath her feet from her tedious exoneration that broke the silence. It was heaven's gift to them, the insides that paint the truth of the world… which they did not accept. There was then shrieking– some are praying, some have become sick– while the followers, the actors— they chanted at the sacrifice, sang with glee. 

All was in chaos until he, the evil, the devil himself— slid down from the oak ladder. One of his sinful hands still grasped at the ladder as his heels clicked onto the cool, stone-tiled floor. Some of his leeching zealots pointed at him, eager to know his final motive. 

Why such a plan? Why such a sacrifice? 

Sick revenge for mortals that need to be taught a lesson. 

Would they finally get it? Would they finally understand the suffering? 

No. 

They never do. They never pay attention until it’s too late. 

Gritting his teeth while his jaw clenches at the strike of realisation, he turns away from the selfish sinners. Has all his cruelty to her been all for nothing? His free, bloody hand carries a singular candle— which he tosses at the corpse. She lights up in flames, her laced dress burning into black ash as it climbs up her strained body. He looks in awe at his doing, the followers are shaken to their core. The thrown candle had crashed onto a parallel wall from directly hitting the “effigy”, miraculously causing arson, thus setting fire to the church itself. All his cruelty to her will not be all for nothing. The church doors slam shut behind the crowd, beckoning them in. As the house of holiness burns up to hell’s temperatures— he, who has been staring at her the whole time, finally questions the followers and himself:

'Do you see her flying?'

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