Neyso - Ney

One must never underestimate an opponent who does not fear death. An enemy who values your death more than their own life is unpredictable - you cannot assume that there is anything they wouldn't dare to do. Risk a blow to distract you, run right into your sword in order to get their own into you, tackle you off a cliff to throw you both into your deaths. An enemy that does not seek to survive is ruthless, they will think in ways so alien to you, that you cannot anticipate what they might do. The best defense you can have is to never make enemies like this.

The same fear and respect should also apply to clowns. They do not fear shame or mockery, they have no honour to lose by becoming laughingstock. A clown will not hesitate to look ridiculous, if tackling you makes you both look stupid. A clown does not fear losing their dignity for as long as they can take yours down with them.

Do not make enemies with clowns.

Fanfiction writers be like:

"here's the immensely time consuming 100K word novel-length passion project I'm working on between my real life job and family! It eats up hundreds of hours of my one and only life, causes me emotional harm, and I gain basically nothing from it! Also I put it on the internet for free so anyone can read if they want. Hope you love it!" :)

Репостните этот пост, чтобы найти новых классных людей, которые тоже готовы взаимно проявлять активность!

В последнее время всё чаще читаю посты о том, что тумбочка будто бы затихает. Многие уходят, новые блоги все сложнее находить, а лента кажется пустой. Почитать нечего, активность снижается, и, самое обидное, — комментарии редеют. Раньше заглядываешь под пост, а там — целые дискуссии, хоть «Войну и мир» пиши! А теперь всё чаще тишина.

Я и сама это замечаю, и от этого становится немного грустно. Но, может, мы можем это исправить? Давайте попробуем вернуть ту самую ламповую атмосферу — поддержим друг друга, найдем интересные блоги, будем комментировать и общаться!

My face when I misread book/question again

Currently I’m reading the secret history but I’m so excited to start reading no longer human I began to speed ran tsh and I still have upcoming assessments HELP

do you guys ever wonder how devastated Professor Granville must’ve been after Obake’s accident at SFIT? She obviously blames herself for a decent chunk of it, if not the entire accident. Like, it fucked her up so badly she felt her only choice was to take the fall for it and straight-up resign, even though she obviously loved teaching and loved her other students besides Obake. Do you think she saw herself as more of a parent/really involved mentor role to him rather than a professor? Because I think so.

And then Hiro made the exact same thing that Obake made, it must’ve torn her apart all over again to see her new prodigy, her new protégé who she had been trying to teach limits to because she now knows how important they are, go down the same exact path that Obake did 20 years ago. Like, I am imagining her pain right now, her fear, the sense of failure that she hadn’t been able to save Obake and now she couldn’t save Hiro either (and I have low empathy so it’s SAYING something that I can imagine her pain). And then Hiro lies to her and says he won’t make the amplifier, and she’s relieved, like, maybe she’s actually saved him. Maybe he won’t make Obake’s mistakes

But then of course Hiro actually makes the amplifier and breaks her heart all over again. Also adult Obake showing up and messing with her, pushing the exact button to just destroy this poor woman (“you made me the man I am today”). Like damn, Professor Granville NEVER gets a break in this show.. someone needs to write a fic where she’s happy for once.

Francis visits Henry’s grave every year. Alone.

No one else does — no one else wants to. Charles avoids the topic entirely. Camilla sends Francis clipped replies when he brings it up. Richard pretends he never gets the messages. But Francis marks the day like a liturgy. Like a holy feast. Like penance.

He books the same suite in a faceless hotel. Wears the same black coat. Packs the same silver lighter — an old one Henry once admired in passing. It’s all performative, of course. But what is Catholicism if not grief wrapped in ritual? He fasts before the visit. Doesn't drink the night before. He makes the trip feel like confession.

The grave is unmarked, just a patch of earth in a neglected corner of a rural cemetery, the kind no one visits on purpose. Francis had to dig to find out where Henry was buried. Had to call someone’s widow and lie. But now he knows, and he treats it like a secret shrine.

He kneels every year. Gets the dirt on his trousers, on his coat, lets the damp seep into his bones because suffering feels closer to prayer when it’s physical. And he talks.

Not to Henry. Not really. To God. To himself. To something between the two.

"You ruined everything, you know," he says once. "And so did I."

He breaks off. Lights a cigarette. Doesn’t smoke it. Leaves it burning at the grave like incense. The first year he did this, he left a bottle of scotch. Last year, he left a page torn out of a Latin prayer book. This year, he doesn’t bring anything. He just sits.

And he waits. For something. A sign. An answer. Forgiveness.

But Henry is silent. Always was. Even now, dead and buried, he’s still the one with the upper hand.

And Francis — Francis goes back to the hotel, vomits in the sink, lights another cigarette with shaking hands. He doesn’t cry. Not anymore. It’s been years. But his hands won’t stop trembling.

That night, he goes to mass. Sits in the very back. Doesn't take communion.

He knows better.