Jodeci / Capricorn / she and her pronouns / Multi-Fandom / John Seed enthusiast / Peaky Blinder / creator of Deputy Wren Blake, Dahlia Strong, and Sergeant Emma Miller (and my other awesome OC babies) / icon created by Oliviawildesjawline / header created by SavBakk / Kofi / AO3
I had the amazing opportunity to commission the wonderful and talented @oliviawildesjawline to do Wren Blake as Nemesis personified in the role of Judge. And OMG!!!! IT’S AMAZING!!! You’ve completely blown me away with this piece! This is just...this is way better than I imagined it, and the colors?! You never fail to amaze me. Thank you so much for making this a reality!!! It’s absolutely perfect and I CAN’T STOP STARING AT IT!!!
Joseph always told John that his sin would come around in another form. But the cycle never broke, and Wren’s sin comes around in the form of one she thought as a friend. Wren faces her first Judgement as Herald of Eden’s Gate, and the scales aren’t tipping in Jess Black’s favor. .
It’s hard to breathe sometimes, I found. Wasn’t anyone’s fault in particular, but I could feel the weight of something in my chest. And whether it's my own sin curling its hand around my lungs or the guilty that refuse to answer for what they had done, one couldn’t say. It was just so heavy.
Facing your demons was something people preached about, insisted on, despite how utterly terrifying it could be. Confront those feelings, the dark and long-legged spiders that formed cobwebs in the back of your mind to whisper the poisonous thoughts you believed to be your subconscious. They’re traitorous things, always sticky and malicious, knocking the angel off your shoulder with utter disdain. Crooked smiles taunting as you fall down and down until you can’t even tell that you’ve fallen into the pit of Tartarus itself. But yes, face your demons, darling.
And I’m face to face with her now.
Die a hero or live long enough to see yourself become the villain. Forgive and love or watch as your sin comes around in a new form. The words were meant for both me and the man I spend my nights with, both of us on the different sides of the same coin. It makes me contemplate, hearing a clock tick, but there is no clock here. No, not down here.
I tilt my head, careful not to allow my own wrath to consume my very being, igniting something that would burn out of control. My own test. And I realize the ticking is coming from my jaw, the words finding refuge there to avoid the sharp tip of my silver tongue. My words are like bullets, and I always preferred the personal touch of a blade over the gracelessness of a gun. Guns didn’t teach lessons.
I guess you could say they never got the point across.
My burgundy lips are twisting, a dark sneer that I had learned from the best of the best. And I feel as if it is his hand that’s guiding my actions, his tattooed digits tracing the coolness of my skin as if I was a marionette, but I am so much more. I am my own being, my own actions, my own existence.
I am my own Herald.
I wonder if that makes her heart beat faster, knowing that no other will interfere, she’s in my domain. Joseph wouldn’t even dare to put his hand upon the scales, refusing to taint the will of God because Judgement is sacred. A ritual that must be done right or else we pay the price. A soft hand or the steel of my knife, each calculation is accurate and precise, one wrong call and it unravels the bonds we weave for ourselves.
Rolling my neck, I can feel the tightening of an imaginary snake around my neck, it's comforting hissing and flicking tongue in my ear, and I swear I can feel just the slightest scratch of his beard. He’s not here, but I feel him.
You must always face your demons.
There’s hesitation within me when I swore that there would be none, a slight sliver of doubt piercing the insides of me, because I’m not sure if I can do this clearly. Fairly. A delicate line between revenge and vengeance and it has woven itself around my fingers, arms, entangling all the way down my spine. There should be metal there, but I fear that it’s only the thread keeping me standing straight.
I am alone.
Doing this on my own is an important feat. A necessary one that I take seriously. Perhaps a rite of passage, but I feel like I’m on the precipice of falling, or diving, and it steels my resolve. My dark heels click against the concrete floor, echoing against the harsh walls that match the harsh glow of light. I remembered my first time in this room, my shirt ripping apart as if it were nothing, fear pumping into my veins with just enough adrenaline. A toxic cocktail of endorphins, but I can practically taste the bitterness of her anger as she glares from her chair.
It’s exciting, almost. Oh god, the absolute thrill and I return her glare, because I am alone. Nobody is coming to save her, and I am the only way out for her. It doesn’t sway her actions, her feelings, for she is still so encompassed with loathing. She can’t see what is in front of her. What her pride has done to those around her, and I’m suddenly ready to pass my Judgement by just the slight reminder of her horrid actions. I still feel the warm blood on my hands and the tears that flowed that night. I want her blood in return, eye for an eye.
I swallow and shove what I can to the side, keeping what remanence of the control I had left. I rub my hands against the tight black pants, a wishful thought of them helping to hold me in place as I take another step forward. Her eyes follow, and I’m sure she means to be threatening with the look in her eyes, but I feel like laughing at her. The poor thing is tied and gagged, what threat was she? I fight the urge to rip the tape from her mouth just for the satisfaction of causing some sort of pain.
Reaching her, I rest my knee on her chair next to her leg and she jerks away. I have to fight the laugh because she’s ridiculous. Always acting like a child, always so damn selfish. I click my tongue, the organ finally rising to the occasion because I am done being silent. The words are screaming, clawing at the insides and I’m shocked that I have yet to spit blood upon her face out of spite.
I grab her face instead, and god, the relief I feel for it. The black nails pressing against her flesh, indents around my fingers. I feel the sweat, and I’m not shocked. This room was always a bit hot, and I was ready to remove the black button up to cool the hot skin underneath, but I thought better of it. It was almost a relief to feel the sponge against my chest so long ago, John showing me he was willing to give, but I won’t give her the blessing of reprieve. I am not merciful; I am not here to love her.
“I heard you refuse to Confess.”
My words, finally freed, are low and oh so soft. Had it been anyone else, my voice would have been a caress, comforting enough for them to come closer. But she knows better, and I can tell that from the way she’s looking at me, that I am nothing but a demon to her. A traitor who hid her horns so well that it was her sins that had to reveal them. And that’s fine. I’ll be whatever she wanted me to be.
I’ll be what I had to be.
A demon for her, a righteous Judge for them.
A whore of Babylon or The Baptist’s wife.
Nemesis.
So many crowns, thrones even, and no matter how heavy, I stood tall with my head held high as they all fell to my feet with praise or with blood in their mouths. I would protect my flock from the poison of those who slither in the shadows, spouting lies upon lies and destroying whatever was in their path. I almost pitied them.
Almost.
“You know that my Judgement comes after the Confession, don’t you dear?”
I’m taunting her and her eyes burn brighter. It’s answered with my nails piercing through her skin, blood pooling just a bit, and I hear her grunt of pain. She’s underestimating my rage, her betrayal. Her actions have spoken more than her lips ever could, so it’s fine. But the urge to make her feel something, to show just how scared she should be, is getting the better of me. Perhaps my wrath wasn’t contained, and I find it hard to feel regret for it. But I just smile, baring my teeth.
The scales have tipped, even if they were just a bit crooked to begin with.
Lowering myself, my lips find her ear. If I listen closely, perhaps I could hear the ghost of her beating heart pumping in her empty void of a chest. A falsity to make her seem more human than puppet, but we both know that it's wood underneath this skin. She was nothing but a mere tool at his disposal, and I had every intention of breaking it.
“That’s alright. Your silence is enough for me to pass Judgement, and oh dear, the sins you’ve committed…you should start praying to your God for forgiveness, honey. You won’t find any here.”
HBO Harry Potter is going to set records on an astronomical level, and I imagine more than half the people reblogging you are performative cowards and will watch it anyway directly on HBO. (I say that as anti HP and JKR). Pretending like it’s not going to be the most successful show in HBO’s history is insane and really underestimating it. Boycotts are not going to work because it is a tiny blip of people willing to do so. What do we when it is mega popular and people continue to love and enjoy her work?
So I wouldn't even answer this ask EXCEPT it's a fantastic example of someone who hates you and wants you to undermine your cause pretending to be on your side, so let's go through the points.
1.) Makes the assertion that you've already failed eight months in advance. Wants you to give up and give in because you think the cause is already lost.
2.) Implies that everyone else is secretly gonna do it, so you may as well too. Wants to chip away at your resolve.
3.) Claims to be on your side and therefore a trustworthy source.
4.) "Boycotts don't work." Demonstrably they do, as long as people are organized and persistent. Look at how Target and Starbucks are sweating and begging people to come back. Boycotts work.
If someone comes to you doing this shit, they are not your ally, they're trying to mess with you. They want you to fail. On the bright side, they're also often an indicator that your cause has gotten big enough that they're worried enough to go about it all underhandedly, so yay?
I have seen so many people saying "ohhhh but HP is SO popular, it will always be that way, we'll can't fight that." Buddy, I am nearly 50 years old. The number of things that I have been told that about, truly worldwide phenomena which were everywhere for what felt like an eternity, which, if I bring them up to anybody under 30, they've never fucking heard of them, and if they've heard of them, they definitely haven't seen or read them? And then the stuff from my parents' generation that I only know about bc my dad told me about them?
Nothing is immortal. Nothing lasts forever. Y'all will quote the Ursula K. LeGuin thing about capitalism and the divine right of kings and then unironically say that the shitty racist wizard books by the terrible TERF just can't be fought against. It's so fucking weird.
I've been struggling with getting back to writing for awhile, but I've been able to spit out some stuff for one of my DND girlies, Taryn. I don't have much, but I did like something I was working on a bit ago. Under the cut, as per my usual. ♡
Mud squished between her toes, cold and biting with her strides full of purpose and the fabric of her worn, simple dress whispering against the pale skin of her legs. The scent of decay and soft earth hung heavily in the air, leaves and limbs swaying with the chilled breeze carrying the promise of winter’s impending arrival. Goosebumps rose upon her painted skin, the ancient black markings on her skin from a language much older than the tongue she used to curse beneath her breath. The woman paused, violet eyes churning blue and purple swept across the old trees and moss.
It was something one would find in old legends told to keep the young close and safe, a darkened land most travelers overpaid to avoid or risked cargo for a swift passage—for those fortunate enough to not be claimed by the centuries-old paths leading nowhere. A swamp marshland that succumbed to the sea miles to the west, an ancient thick wood adorned with hanging moss slowly transitioning to murky saltwater and patches of greenery that gave the impression of stable earth and the makeshift shore of a cove built from sediment over time—a slip of land passing as an island where a willow stood guard, its branches caressing the dark water’s surface. There was a certain beauty to the rot and decay after a life cycle that had thrived, that still thrived long after it’s natural end. Whether it was the beasts that lurked in its depths or the bones that were mysteriously strung up throughout the wood, the foreboding aura and cursed history was enough to discourage trespassers from the territory.
But there were the few, the bold and arrogant, that were set to cleanse the land of the darkness there, to be rid of the evil that lived in the heart of it. Men that would venture forth in the name of pride and glory, gluttons for destruction that would step into the wood…to never be seen again.
Often followed by the discovery of a new bone creation hanging in the trees.
Taryn could find no disturbances as she watched carefully, searching and sensing, but there was nothing. Not a hint of something amiss. She remained still, soft lips forming a frown as the uneasy feeling lingered. It wasn’t until she felt the soft tickling across the back of her hand that her attention broke from the trees, and her shrewd gaze down to find long legs slowly prodding curiously, the hairs brushing against her skin and beady black eyes as dark as any abyss she had ever seen in her lifetime.
Whatever had caught her attention was quickly forgotten as she focused on the spider crawling along her hand, Taryn turning it over to offer more room as she observed the large female. There was a sense of satisfaction the druid felt as it kept its leisurely pace, pausing in her palm for just a moment, enough to make the corners of her mouth quirk up just slightly as she watched—content.
Sharp pain ripped through her, chasing the air from her very lungs as she choked. Violet eyes—wide and strained—swirled with purples and blues. Her fists clenched tightly as she stumbled, the pain worsening and spreading through her entire body as she went rigid. A scream died in her throat, forced down by her sheer will, or whatever she had left as she gritted her teeth and slammed her hands down on the makeshift desk, uneven and awkward pieces of wood digging into her skin harshly as she stared, seeing nothing as it began to consume her. The glass bottles rattled, mortars and candles jostled, knocking over from the force of her. Low mutterings from the same ancient language as before spilled from her lips—chanting, over and over, line after line in quick succession.
Finally, with a heavy exhale, the pain subsided and left her muscles almost numb. Taryn panted as she leaned on her worktable for support, her arms trembling. It was getting worse. A realization that hit her with a hiss, her face twisting in distaste. She took a steady breath and reigned her frantic thoughts in.
Once her panic had settled just enough to hear the crickets again.
