#i wanted to showcase just how brutal the boys could be considering they are... you know... demons.

[anna-the-undertaker]

The Price You Pay

Mammon x MC

MC gets hurt, and Mammon is pissed.

Warnings: mentions of blood and injury, insinuated torture, death

Everyone conveniently forgets that Mammon is the second most powerful of the avatars of sin. His nonchalant attitude, rebellious nature, and notorious failures overshadow his true capabilities. For the Avatar of Greed, this reputation had its pros and cons. On one hand, they believed him to be a fool; on the other, they never saw him coming.

One of his abilities was the power to always know the true worth of an object, deed, or debt. He could immediately determine whether artifacts, jewels, or gold were genuine, or if a service or action was worth the debt owed. Anything of value, he would know.

Mammon often did work for Diavolo on behalf of Lucifer, making deals to boost the future Demon Lord's reputation or acting as a debt collector. Despite his sticky fingers, he knew better than to try anything shady during official transactions for the crown. These weren't the same as stealing Lucifer's wallet or Levi's figures. If he did, the punishment would be far worse than being strung up by the Avatar of Pride.

Years after MC arrived in the Devildom and turned his and his brothers' world upside down, long after he and MC had started a romantic relationship, Mammon was tasked with collecting an artifact gifted to the future Demon Lord. It was an act of good faith and support for Diavolo’s ascension by one of the many noble houses.

This noble house, in particular, was known to oppose Diavolo's exchange program. While many shared their views, they had never acted against the Prince, fearing Barbatos and the Sins first born.

Upon being presented with the artifact, however, Mammon knew it was fake. The replica was detailed, but nothing could escape his gaze.

"What the fuck is this, huh? Ya think ya can just hand over this fake, and I wouldn't notice? You'll be hearing from Barbatos," Mammon barked as he stormed out.

Days passed, leaving the situation to the Demon Lord and Lucifer. Handling dissenting nobles required delicate care to avoid rebellion or war.

Mammon, meanwhile, was at one of his modeling gigs. He planned to surprise MC with a road trip in the human realm, having noticed their homesickness. He'd already gotten permission from Diavolo and Lucifer as a reward for his help, and because they couldn't say no when MC was involved.

In his changing room, the familiar he'd given to MC appeared, squawking frantically.

"Hey! Hey, hey, hey! Chill out! What's wrong with ya?" Mammon yelled, confused. Then it dawned on him: this familiar wasn't supposed to leave MC's side unless it was an emergency. His heart raced.

His D.D.D rang, Lucifer’s name glowing on the screen. Mammon answered faster than ever, panic gripping him.

"What's goin' on? Did they rally the other noble houses? Did they attack? Is MC okay?"

Lucifer’s silence was heavy. "Stay calm and listen carefully. I need you to come to the hospital immediately."

Mammon's blood ran cold. Rage took root in his mind. If it were one of his brothers, he knew they could defend themselves. But this was MC.

His D.D.D shattered under his grip, the call severed. He bolted from the room, his speed amplified by his barely contained emotions. He was outside the hospital in an instant, where his brothers waited.

He tried to push past them. "Where is MC!? Take me to them now!"

"Mammon!" Lucifer's hands gripped his shoulders, holding him back. "They are being operated on. The damage is significant, but they will live. You need to calm down."

Mammon’s anger turned toward his brothers. "Why weren't any of you with them? We're supposed to protect them! Why didn't they summon one of us? Why didn't they summon me?"

Lucifer’s eyes tightened with emotion only Mammon could decipher—an expression of powerlessness.

Satan spoke up. "The attacker used a suppression spell, making MC unable to use their magic. It was premeditated. MC is important to us and the Demon Lord, making them the perfect target."

The silence that followed was heavy. Mammon felt more angry with himself than anyone else.

"Who found them?" he whispered.

"If you hadn't gifted MC a familiar, we might not have known what happened or where they were," Lucifer answered. "The familiar guided us to them before coming to you."

Hours passed, and little was said even after the angels, Solomon, Diavolo, and Barbatos arrived. It felt like an eternity before the doctors came to take them back.

Mammon was the first to enter MC's room. They were unconscious, looking worse for wear. Bruises littered their body, and bandages covered their torso, speckled with blood. He could smell it in the air. The beeping of the monitor and the sounds of the respirator created a haunting song ringing in his ears. He gently rested his hand on their cheek, his thumb moving in gentle strokes. He buried his nose in their hair, inhaling their scent, tears pricking his eyes.

"Wait for me, okay?" he whispered, unsure if they could hear him and pressed a searing kiss to their temple.

Then he stood, feeling as if his entire body was on fire. A dark aura overtook him, and no one tried to stop him as he made his way outside.

The Devildom's sky was dotted with stars, the moon casting its gaze like a massive eye, offering no comfort. An infernal incantation slipped from his mouth, summoning a murder of crows as his true form emerged.

"Find the bastard," he ordered. The crows scattered, and he took flight. It didn't take long before they found their target. Mammon crashed through the roof of their hideout, dust billowing around him.

The noble's guards lunged at Mammon, weapons drawn and faces twisted with determination. But with a snap of Mammon’s fingers, they all fell lifeless to the ground, their bodies collapsing like marionettes with severed strings. Mammon then raised his hand, and a dark, malevolent spell engulfed the room, sucking all light away and plunging it into a pitch-black void. The noble found himself trapped within this inescapable darkness, his breaths echoing in the suffocating silence.

Mammon’s voice cut through the void, dripping with disdain. "While you were trying to hide yourself and the artifact from the Demon Lord and his allies after you fucked up during our last meeting, you somehow believed you wouldn’t be found."

The noble’s voice trembled, yet he tried to maintain a facade of confidence. "I am in the business of souls. If we are on peaceful terms with the humans, my livelihood would be at stake. But if this is about the artifact, go on and take it then. There are other ways to get what I want."

Mammon’s eyes blazed with fury, his aura crackling with barely contained rage. "Oh, I'm not here for the artifact. You owe a blood debt and won't be leaving here until I have received every last drop."

The noble's bravado faltered, fear seeping into his voice. "Come now, your Highness, Prince of Greed. Surely you can just take the artifact, yes?"

"Not good enough!" Mammon’s voice boomed, growing deeper, more demonic. "Someone laid their filthy hands on MC... MY HUMAN! No amount of money or artifacts or jewels in the Devildom can pay for that transgression, my lord. No, for that... I want your flesh."

The noble’s face paled, his eyes wide with terror. "Flesh...?"

Mammon's grin was cruel and predatory. "It matters not to me where on your anatomy it is withdrawn from. If you don't have the stomach to take it for yourself, my familiars here..." He gestured, and millions of pairs of golden eyes, now stained red, appeared all around them, their hunger palpable. "...are very adept at tearing flesh from bone, and as you can see, they are quite ravenous at the moment. But! A grim short or a gram shy, and I will savor the fact that you won't leave here alive. Am I clear?"

The noble was silent, frantically searching for an escape, but there was none. The void was absolute.

"Good. I was hoping you'd resist," Mammon barked out a command to the crows in high infernal. They descended upon the noble, their claws and beaks ready to tear their organs from their body. Mammon turned and left, the noble's screams echoing behind him as he stepped into the night, his fury only partially sated by what he had wrought.

Days later, the noble's dilapidated corpse was found strewn through the trees, dangling in little pieces. The scene was macabre, the remains a grim reminder of the wrath that had been unleashed. Crows circled overhead, a harrowing warning.

The air was thick with the scent of decay, and the gruesome display left no doubt about the message: MC was not to be touched. The flapping of countless wings and the haunting cries of the crows drove the point home. This was the fate awaiting anyone who dared harm MC, so long as the Avatar of Greed breathed.

[persephoneggsy]

2, 6, 7, 15, and 17, for the DA: TV meme, please!

2. Which Dragon Age game is your favorite so far?

It’s close, but Inquisition beats out the others by a thin margin. I just really love the hopeful, epic tone the game goes for, I love the gameplay, especially for mages and archers, and I just think it’s a really pretty game! Emprise du Lion is so gorgeous, sometimes I just walk around the snow and take it all in. It’s the game I’ve replayed the most out of the trilogy. And also it has the best DLCs, Jaws of Hakkon, The Descent, and Trespasser are all S-tier for me.

And it has my favorite group of companions, in terms of how many I like overall. In Origins I really only feel strongly about Alistair and Morrigan, and I'm fond of Oghren... everyone else I’m lukewarm about. 2 has my best boy Sebastian, and I like Fenris and Merrill, but I largely dislike-to-hate everyone else. Inquisition, though, I bare minimum like all the companions… with one exception lmao.

6. Do you have your Rook(s) planned out to any degree? If so, would you share some details or ideas you have?

I always play a human woman, at least to start with, so there’s that. I have an OC from Star Wars: The Old Republic that I’ve been wanting to turn into a Pathfinder 2e character, but I can definitely rework her for The Veilguard: her name is Solesta, and she’s in her late 50s/early 60s. 

I’m leaning towards Antivan Crow or Mourn Watch for her faction. And I WANT to make a warrior since my previous protags have been Rogue - Mage - Mage, but Rogue might fit her better aesthetically.

Personality wise, she’s a very flirty old woman who can be charming and witty, but absolutely brutal and unforgiving in a fight. Also she has two adult children and two grandsons whom she dotes on.

7. Which character from the previous games or other media are you most hoping will make an appearance in DAV?

I mean… I’d love for Sebastian to get at least a mention that’s nice to him. He’s my canon romance for Hawke so it would be nice to hear that they’re happy ruling Starkhaven together. But given how much BioWare seems to actively dislike or treat Sebastian as lesser than the rest of the DA2 cast, I’d be just as happy if they left him alone and let me just headcanon that he’s happy and thriving with his wife.

Other than him… I really like Professor Kenric from the Jaws of Hakkon DLC. I think he was really adorable (and I possibly just have a thing for Starkhaven boys lol). He had a pretty obvious crush on Harding, she could reference him at least!

15. Do you have any unpopular opinions about DAV so far?

I think my unpopular opinion is just that I’m like… earnestly excited and hype for it. I get the criticisms people have for it, I’m never gonna tell anyone that things shouldn’t be criticized. But I just personally don’t have a problem with anything we’ve been shown so far. 

I think the style of the game looks beautiful, I always preferred stylized characters to realistic ones, I LOVE the colors, and I’ve never really considered the series to be “dark” in the way that other people seem to, so a brighter tone doesn’t bug me either. I’m interested in all the companions, I’m intrigued by the new combat system, and I screamed and cheered and clapped at the reveal trailer we got during the Xbox Showcase. But being earnestly excited is either met with "you're a shill for EA/BioWare", "huffing copium" or "being contrarian" lol.

Honestly, the only thing that might get me some pushback is that I don’t want Varric to be there. Not because I think he deserves rest or whatever, I’m just earnestly sick of him and would prefer if he just fucked off back to Kirkwall and make BioWare come up with a new character. Preferably a dwarf.

17. Are you interested in all the lore and speculation or do you focus more on the games and stories themselves?

I love DA lore, but I leave the analyzing to people smarter and with better retention than I. I tend to focus more on the stories actually being presented to us via the games. Idk, I’m just not like… equipped to speculate, I think. I either need concrete answers or I will make up my own headcanons regardless of supporting evidence lmao

[voidwerks]

Legiones Astartes: Rome 30,0000 - Electric Boogaloo - Part 1

It’s been several years since I did my informational posts on warp travel and threats to humanity in the 40k universe, and I was feeling particularly motivated so here’s a quick, dirty guide to where it all started. The bois that everyone in 40k loves (or loves to hate), the Astartes!

In the far off future of the 31st millennium, humanity has just recovered from nearly beating itself into extinction yet again, and the after effects of space elves blowing a permanent hole in reality after the biggest party the galaxy has ever seen. After thousands of years of plotting and planning, the Emperor of Mankind decided the time was right, sorted everyone’s shit out on Earth, and set out to make the galaxy a safer place for humanity. Whether anyone wanted it or not. To do this, he mustered tens of thousands of super soldiers, lead by men who were basically demi-gods, and sent them forth across the stars in what was known as the Great Crusade. This is the story of the sons of the sons, the Primarchs can have their own post another day.

Numero Uno, the the First Legion, the Dark Angels. Clad in black and silver armor, the Dark Angels were the first marines to be created. Between that and their assistance with retaking the Earth prior to the Great Crusade, they were allowed special permissions later Legions did not have. In particular, they had access to some of the oldest, strangest, and sometimes horrifying bits of technology that the Emperor had stashed away for a rainy day. Even 10k years later in 40k, the Angels still uphold that privilege, and if things ever get completely and truly fucked, they’ve got a few aces up their sleeves just in case. Owing to the culture of their adoptive homeworld, Caliban, the Dark Angels have a strong knightly aesthetic, as well as plenty of ranks, titles, and associated iconography so everyone can know what kind of badass you are. 

Second ISN’T the Second Legion. Something bad happened to them and no one is allowed to talk about it. It’s actually the THIRD LEGION, the Emperor’s Children! Among the Legions, the Emperor’s Children had the unique distinction of being allowed to wear his personal emblem on their armor and carry his name. This was the Emperor’s gift to them after a company of them serving as honor guards during a victory parade, where they protected the Emperor from an assassination attempt involving a black hole bomb. The Emperor’s Children were perfectionists: anything that can be done can be done better, and they could get a bit salty when their brother Legions out-did them. Beyond that, they were renowned for their artistic skills, as well as their interpersonal skills with ‘mortal’ humans. While many marines either didn’t care for regular humans, or straight up disliked them, the Third Legion got along quite well with people, to the point they were often sent as diplomats to introduce long-lost planets of humans into the Imperium peacefully.

The Fourth Legion, completely unrelated to Marvel, were the Iron Warriors. To the Fourth Legion, war is entirely a matter of numbers. While other Legions fight with spirit, ferocity, nobility, the Iron Warriors fight with a machine-like efficiency and calculated planning. Rivals of the Seventh Legion, the Iron Warriors were particularly fond of siege-tactics. They’d bombard their foes with massed artillery, push in with columns of tanks, and hit critical points with forces of marines, changing tactics along the way as the variables shifted. While they took pride in their accomplishments, cold personalities and a ruthless fighting style didn’t make them many friends. Combined with feeling like they didn’t get much recognition for their efforts, often being stuck with some of the worst fights, the Iron Warriors tended to resent most of the other Legions. But no matter how tough, no matter how ugly, they would not bend, for the Iron Warriors always completed a task given to them.

Next in line, we have the Fifth Legion, the White Scars. Possessed of free spirits and a healthy dose of superstition, the White Scars preferred style of combat was: as quickly as physically possible. Whenever possible, they would ride to battle on anti-grav jet-bikes or speeders. Lacking that, on traditional motor bikes. Reminiscent of Mongolian horse riders, the White Scars fought from their mounts as often as they could, enjoying every moment of it, even if death might come at them at a few hundred miles per hour. Considered odd by most of their brother Legions, the Scars’ aloof personalities and plans divined by seers often saw them tearing about the galaxy in smaller warbands. Never staying in one place for long, they roamed wherever the winds of fate would take them.

Continuing on, the moment you’ve all been waiting for: SKYRIM STILL EXISTS. But really, the Sixth Legion, the Space Wolves. It doesn’t take much to explain these boys, the Space Wolves were vikings in space. They could be a bit dense, were prone to showing off, loved getting into fights, and even invented a kind of alcohol that could get marines drunk. In peace, they could be a bit rough around the edges but were jovial types. Beyond that however, the Wolves had a much more notorious side. While their brothers would mock them at times for being a bit ‘simple’, they were also feared as the Emperor’s hounds. If someone fucked up somewhere in the galaxy, the Wolves were the sent to deal the punishment. Typically, this involved plenty of axes and other people’s heads. While unconfirmed even 10k years later, it is rumored that the Space Wolves were responsible for reaving both the Second and Eleventh Legions at the Emperor’s command. Whatever they did must have been horrible, for it resulted in the culling of tens of thousands of marines and two demi-god primarchs. So remember kids, tug on the wolf’s tail at your own peril.

Eternal rivals to the Fourth Legion, here comes the Seventh Legion, the Imperial Fists. While not as bitter as their brothers in the Fourth, the Fists shared a lot of similarities with them. Blunt, no-nonsense, analytical, monumentally stubborn, fond of hitting their foes as hard as possible, on the surface the two seemed quite alike. But while the Iron Warriors were frequently unconcerned with what happened after their battles, grinding entire cities into dust, the Imperial Fists would always build and fortify. Wherever they passed, they would leave their mark in the form of walls, repaired cities, and forts to ensure their hold. This earned them the distinction of being recalled late in the Crusade to oversee the fortification of the entire Solar System. The reclamation of the galaxy was nearly complete, and it was their task to ensure that Terra would be able to withstand anything the universe could throw at it from that point forward. At least, that was the idea...

What stalks the night, strikes fear into the hearts of the unjust, and has bat wings? Move over Bruce Wayne, it’s the Eighth Legion, the Night Lords. Among the Legions, the Night Lords were unique in the fact that they did not operate like a traditional army. Unlike other Legions, the Night Lords’ favorite method of fighting was to strike fear and terror into their enemies. Considered brutal and sadistic even in the early days, the Night Lords would ‘pacify’ star systems by cutting off supply lines, destroying infrastructure, terrorizing civilians, and savagely breaking their enemy’s will before finishing the job. Known for taking bone trophies, using blood as paint, painting their armor with skulls, and even fashioning people’s faces into tea cozies, there were very few in the Imperium that genuinely liked the Night Lords. In fact, late into the Crusade they were even risking censure or a visit from the Space Wolves. But as they maintained from their inception: they were a necessary evil. Not everyone in the galaxy was reasonable. Some didn’t even respect the immense might of the Astartes. There were some that would only listen to fear. And the poor buggers that wouldn’t even listen to that? They would be made into examples, slowly, painfully, and without any remorse. 

A breath of fresh air from the Night Lords, the Ninth Legion, the Blood Angels. Where the Night Lords were immensely cruel, showcasing some of the worst humanity had to offer, the Blood Angels showed some of the best. Kindness, nobility, flowing golden locks of hair with slight curls, using their strength to protect the weak, seeing the goodness in others, the Blood Angels were quite human for heavily augmented super-soldiers. Well, they did have one teensy little problem. Just a bit of casual bloodlust that could leave them going into a frenzy now and then (sometimes even drinking blood) if they didn’t keep their tempers in check. However, largely due to their own self-discipline they were able to keep this fact a secret for the most part. 

Last (for now, don’t want this to be the next Color of the Sky post), but definitely not the least, the Tenth Legion, the Iron Hands. While the Iron Warriors have a very mechanical way of thinking, and a strong affinity for tech, the Iron Hands take this to a completely new level. To them, anything could be improved by mechanizing it, up to and frequently including themselves. The Hands were notorious for heavily modifying themselves, and had more tanks than any other Legion, tied only with the Iron Warriors. Ironically for a Legion obsessed with machinery, the Iron Hands are also possessed of a volatility only shared by their brothers in the Sixth and the Twelfth Legions. In contrast to the cool, collected rationality of machines, Astartes of the Iron Hands were notoriously hot-headed and liable to making rash decisions if they lost their tempers. This alternating clash frequently manifested as contempt for their own ‘weakness’, but also as contempt for others, resulting in the Iron Hands keeping very few friends, even amongst themselves.

[tomakeitbeautifultolive]

Defending Jon Snow’s Honor

Re: "Jon Snow is Trash": Because if you accept the season eight depiction of Jon Snow as credible, then you might as well admit that Daenerys was mad all along.

Disclaimer: This is not a defense of Jon Snow's actions in season eight, but a refutation of his portrayal.

To begin, we must confront the elephant in the room: In season eight, the character of Daenerys Targaryen was butchered both literally and figuratively. It was such a brutal and heinous maiming of her character that by the end of the series, it was impossible to suspend disbelief and accept the inane and illogical choices of the writers.

But when you then turn around and insist that Jon Snow has always been "trash"—it's no different than the people who insist Daenerys has always been mad. The hit job on Jon Snow was, admittedly, a bit more subtle. But it was a hit job nonetheless. Do not let two talentless writers convince you that Jon Snow, at any point in season eight, acted within the bounds of his established character or even within in-universe show logic.

Because he didn't.

And no, I won't put any of this under a cut. Let the sheer length of this post serve as proof, itself, of just how dirty David Benioff and D.B. Weiss did Jon Snow.

The Real Jon Snow

While the writing on Game of Thrones suffered the further the story strayed from the books and from its original creator, George R.R. Martin, season seven—for all its faults and imperfections—still seemed to follow the natural progression of the story. Everyone still felt more or less in-character, particularly Jon Snow and Daenerys Targaryen.

So, that's where we'll start. To me, season seven Jon Snow is the rough culmination of exactly where I believe his story arc will lead—and it's a great season to help showcase his qualities.

Regardless of any personal preference for characters, in season seven, Jon Snow and Daenerys Targaryen are equals. She is a queen and he is a king.

When they meet, she appeals to her power and her claim by inheritance in order to convince Jon to bend the knee. Of course, it was never going to be that easy. Jon's a stubborn man and he has no reason to put his blind faith into well, anyone.

It is only upon revealing her true nature—her selflessness and willingness to use her power to help others—that Daenerys earns not only his respect, but his heart.

To say that "Jon Snow was always trash" is an insult to Daenerys and her judgment.

Dany's love for Khal Drogo was born of adaptation, to make the best of a situation she never asked for. Unlike Jorah Mormont, Jon's devotion to Daenerys had nothing to do with her looks. Unlike Daario Naharis, Jon's devotion to Daenerys had nothing to do with her power or status... and everything to do with who she is fundamentally. Jon Snow pledged to fight for Daenerys based on the content of her character rather than her beauty.

Further, Daario Naharis really stood face to face with Daenerys Targaryen, the Mhysa, and said "fuck the people". Meanwhile, it is Jon Snow's mysterious scars that prove he and Daenerys harbor similar ideologies—demonstrating that Jon is willing to stop at nothing for his people—even if it requires giving his own life.

Many have called Jon Snow "stupid" for exactly this, completely missing the point that there are qualities that deserve to be held in higher esteem than self-preservation or cleverness.

Compassion.

Self-sacrifice.

Humility.

Dignity.

Honesty.

When Jon Snow declares his loyalty to Daenerys in the Dragonpit in front of everyone—this is yet another moment people like to point to as "stupid", yet...

"I'm not going to swear an oath I can't uphold. When enough people make false promises, words stop meaning anything. Then there are no more answers, only better and better lies."

Jon Snow's integrity is more important to him than lying just to save his own hide. After all, he tried that once before, and the only thing it resulted in was heartache and regret. Jon Snow more or less asserts that a life wherein he must pretend to be something he isn't—isn't a life worth living.

This is as profound a revelation as it is bold.

Whether or not you agree with his convictions... Jon Snow's moral foundation is as unyielding as Valyrian steel. It is no wonder that this was the man who ultimately won the heart of Daenerys Targaryen. A man whose favor cannot be bought or exploited.

One fundamental change in Jon Snow's character from page to screen, however, is his ambition. This emphasis on his reluctance in ruling becomes an unfortunate cornerstone of season eight. But if Jon Snow's book counterpart—the one who dreamt of becoming Lord of Winterfell, of conquering and leading men into glory—lacks this hesitation, and instead, takes leadership so seriously that he only celebrates becoming Lord Commander with one gulp of alcohol... then what impact could his ambition have on the story?

Upon learning that Jon is Rhaegar's son, it's easy to jump to the conclusion that he'll suddenly start vying for the Iron Throne. But if Jon Snow pledges himself to Queen Daenerys in the books, then we have every reason to believe his word is as good as gold. Jon is not a man who takes his oaths lightly. Nor is he a man who is easily manipulated.

Jon Snow deciding to swear fealty to anyone is momentous.

Take, for instance, Stannis Baratheon. Jon's 'father', Ned, pretty much died in support of Stannis' claim to the throne, so he approaches the boy and appeals to Jon's deepest desire—the first thing he can remember wanting—to become a Stark.

All he had to do was say the word, and he would be Jon Stark, and nevermore a Snow. All he had to do was pledge this king his fealty, and Winterfell was his. All he had to do ... was forswear his vows again. And this time it would not be a ruse. To claim his father's castle, he must turn against his father's gods.

This is not an easy decision for Jon Snow. He spends a great deal of time considering the offer from just about every angle one can. Admittedly, it's hard to showcase deep internal reflection on a television show, so we didn't really get to see that process for Jon on screen. But it's always been apparent that two men of privilege—David Benioff and D.B. Weiss—struggle in writing from the perspective of a bastard. Fundamentally, they cannot fully inhabit Jon as a result, because they've never experienced a lifetime of unprovoked contempt, resulting in an unfortunate lack of depth in Jon's translation from page to screen.

Even so, we do get some insight into the depth of Jon's character in season seven when Theon Greyjoy says to Jon:

"You've always known what was right. Even when we were all young and stupid, you always knew. Every step you take, it's always the right step."

In turn, Jon replies:

"It's not. It may seem that way from the outside, but I promise you, it's not true. I've done plenty of things that I regret."

So, by the time that Jon must decide whether or not to accept Stannis Baratheon's offer, he does so with the consideration of future regret. It is in a reflective moment that Jon decides that his greatest desires are not worth the moral expense.

And so, Jon refuses to betray his father's gods, and remains a Snow.

The Kinslaying Problem

Speaking of gods... Way back in his wildling heyday, Ygritte recounts the tale of Bael the Bard to Jon Snow, in which she reveals a curious detail:

"The gods hate kinslayers, even when they kill unknowing."

While you could make the case that this foreshadows Jon as a kinslayer regarding Daenerys... considering it was their kinship that drove a wedge right through their relationship in show canon, it's safe to say season eight Jon knew full well he was kin to Daenerys when he killed her. So what else could this quote mean?

The "kinslayer who kills unknowing" probably won't refer to Daenerys at all—but the mysterious figure known in the books as the Night's King, of whom all records have been destroyed, his very name forbidden.

But... Old Nan insists we do know his name. At least one of them:

"He was a Stark, the brother of the man who brought him down."

Keep in mind that it's Bran she tells, not Jon. And her words even echo the kinslaying element between these mysterious and legendary figures in and around the North.

Interestingly, one of the most prominent kinslayers in the story is the one who, in season eight, ultimately convinces Jon Snow to murder his queen. And somehow, it takes virtually no effort on Tyrion's part to persuade Jon Snow to commit not only regicide, but kinslaying (whatever happened to "The man that passes the sentence should swing the sword"?)

This may mean nothing in the show, but in the books it's reiterated over and over again we're told how accursed such an act is. And we have a pretty good example that it might be true. Rickard Karstark warned Robb Stark prior to his execution by the Young Wolf's hand:

"We are kin, Stark and Karstark. Old gods or new, it makes no matter. No man is so accursed as the kinslayer."

And we all know the fate that befell Robb Stark.

The Incest Problem

Speaking of kin... let's talk incest! While there's no question that on earth, discovering you've been copulating with your aunt might be a cause for surprise... In Westeros? It's not even considered incest. No, not even in the North, where we're given two examples of uncle-to-niece pairings:

"In Westeros incest is only applied if father lays with daughter, mother lays with son, or brother to sister, and the children of such unions are considered abominations. The views regarding marriages between an uncle and a niece (or an aunt to a nephew) might differ between the Faith and the old gods. In the north, Serena Stark had been wed to her half-uncle, Edric, while her sister Sansa Stark had been wed to her half-uncle Jonnel Stark."

In the original draft of the story, Jon was supposed to have a romantic relationship with Arya Stark—his cousin by blood, but who, for all he knows, is his sister. Seeds of this are still scattered in early chapters of ASOIAF, as illustrated by the sheer tenderness of their relationship in A Game of Thrones.

For years, Arya Stark was the only woman who treated Jon with respect. It's no wonder that his feelings for her have always bordered on romantic (and let me make a clear distinction here—I said romantic, not sexual). Considering that it was George's original plan, it's pretty safe to guess that being a willing participant in an incestuous relationship is not necessarily out of character for Jon Snow, as was predetermined by the man who created him.

Jon Snow is a polarizing character for people who love Targaryens and hate Starks—and vice versa. Whether or not you like it, Jon Snow is a Targaryen. And thus, the Doctrine of Exceptionalism applies to him, which states:

"The Targaryens wed brother to sister as the Valyrians had always done, and as the gods had made them this way, it was not for men to judge." 

While the show canon did next to nothing with Jon Snow's true Targaryen lineage—never forget that the entire reason David Benioff and D.B. Weiss were given the rights to Game of Thrones was that they could correctly answer the question "Who is Jon Snow's mother?"

An incestuous scandal was the best that the lackluster show writers could come up with. And to then accept that the only reason George R.R. Martin penned this central plot twist in his medieval fantasy story exclusively to create some modern-era incest drama is, frankly, insulting.

David Benioff and D.B. Weiss are creatively barren. As barren as... um, Daenerys apparently?

To further exploit the show's lack of logical reasoning—it turns out that, yes, according to show canon, Daenerys was barren the whole time. While Jon doubted the validity of Mirri Maz Duur's claims... he was wrong. And Daenerys was straightforward with him that their union would produce no offspring. And apparently, despite all the wasted dialogue used to foreshadow, she was right.

This means that even within the boundaries of the show's broken logic, the anti-incest angle never held water.

So... if season eight Jon Snow's rejection of Daenerys is what ultimately causes her to "snap", yet it's unlikely that book Jon Snow will feel the same strong aversion about their relation... will she "snap" at all?

The Execution Problem

When it comes to the 'old way', Ned Stark has taught his sons well, Jon Snow among them:

"We hold to the belief that the man who passes the sentence should swing the sword. If you would take a man's life, you owe it to him to look into his eyes and hear his final words. And if you cannot bear to do that, then perhaps the man does not deserve to die."

When Jon encounters Ygritte, he can't bring himself to kill her despite the command to. She reminds him of his sister, Arya—the girl he loves the most in all the world. And so, he asks Ygritte to yield. Jon Snow, simply reminded of a girl he loves, cannot bring himself to kill Ygritte.

Later, we directly witness Jon applying Ned's logic to his execution of Janos Slynt. After advising Janos on how best to achieve a quick death, he says:

"If you have any last words, now is the time to speak them."

"Please, my lord. Mercy. I'll … I'll go, I will, I …"

No, thought Jon. You closed that door. Longclaw descended.

Like his father before him, Jon advised Janos to speak his last words. And upon hearing them, deemed him fit to die.

This is Jon Snow's execution style.

We see it repeated even in season six when he executes his murderers:

"If you have any last words, now is the time."

Patiently, he waits for each of his four murderers to speak before letting them hang.

This is Jon Snow's execution style.

Alternatively, we see another style of execution when it comes to Jon Snow's own murder, as carried out by Alliser Thorne. Let's just go ahead and refer to this style as dishonorable and cowardly (two qualities that we've now established that Jon Snow does not possess).

Jon Snow was led, unarmed, into a false sense of security—where he was then cornered and stabbed in the heart by his enemies, left lying in a pool of his own blood.

The change in Jon Snow's execution style to suddenly emulate the way in which he was murdered is a cold-blooded betrayal of Jon's character.

But back to Janos.

On the surface, Jon Snow made a snap decision to execute Janos Slynt for disobeying a command—though if we're being honest, it was more-so because Janos was an entitled and sniveling Lannister loyalist that couldn't be trusted, or, a clever political move to ensure Jon’s future safety as Lord Commander.

Jon then severed the man's head as he cried and begged for his life.

You expect us to believe that this man...

...would be bothered by the execution of attempted murderer and traitor, Varys? A man who openly suggested they collude and commit treason?

While the above gif looks a little more like the Jon Snow we know, it’s not. Especially considering the writers tried their hardest to make us believe Jon Snow is incapable of dishonesty and lying, even by omission, he neglects to tell Daenerys of Varys’ treasonous ways. He cannot lie to his siblings or to Daenerys about his Targaryen identity, yet he can omit a very troubling piece of information regarding one of the allies of the woman he loves and is pledged to. What?

Further, compare the execution below with the above gifs of Jon Snow's two executions. He even shows more satisfaction in the deaths of the lives he’s taken than Daenerys did. Varys surviving means Dany’s life will forever be at risk. Not only is Varys an oathbreaker, but he attempted regicide by poison. Having Jon Snow judge Daenerys for this action is a blatant double standard that makes zero logical sense.

And speaking of attempted murderers... Let's discuss Randyll Tarly.

Randyll Tarly is no stranger to Jon Snow. Sam told him all about his father way back in episode four of season one:

"You're almost a man now, but you're not worthy of my land and title. Tomorrow, you're going to take the black, forsake all claim to your inheritance and start north. If you do not, then we'll have a hunt, and somewhere in these woods your horse will stumble, and you'll be thrown from your saddle to die. Or so I'll tell your mother. Nothing would please me more."

So, you're going to tell me that Jon Snow is suddenly perturbed by the execution of a man who both threatened to murder his own son and who betrayed his liege lord?

To fight alongside the Lannisters, no less?

According to the books, this is what Jon Snow thinks of the Lannisters:

"It's death and destruction I want to bring down upon House Lannister, not scorn."

And in case you missed it, this is how Jon Snow punishes those who betray their liege lords:

Maybe you’re itching to argue that it’s Dany’s execution style that is the problem. That perhaps, 'death by fire is heinous and cruel! Beheading and hanging and punching someone to death are all "merciful" deaths!' Because, stupefyingly, that's a popular argument for those that (also stupefyingly) defend Randyll Tarly.

That argument might work if not for the fact that Jon instructed his men to launch flaming arrows at the Battle of Castle Black, thus using fire as a means to kill.

The Arya Stark Problem

We've already discussed Arya Stark a little bit in terms of her deep bond with Jon Snow... but in order to truly show how out-of-character their reunion was, we need to backtrack a little bit.

Upon gifting her Needle, Jon and Arya have this exchange in the books:

"And whatever you do..."

Arya knew what was coming next. They said it together.

"...don't ... tell ... Sansa!"

Not only do the pair have an understanding which excludes their sister or trusting her with sensitive information... when Arya is caught with Needle later on, this happens:

Arya chewed her lip and said nothing. She would not betray Jon, not even to their father.

And when Arya attempts to shed her identity at the House of Black and White, she can't bring herself to part with Needle, because:

Needle was Jon Snow's smile. The Many-Faced God can have the rest, she thought, but he can't have this.

Arya Stark refuses to part with the physical representation of Jon Snow's smile.

For the most anticipated reunion in the entire show, it fell flat. Don't get me wrong, it was exhilarating to see Jon Snow and Arya Stark embracing after being apart for a decade—and Kit Harington and Maisie Williams did their absolute best with the poor dialogue they were given.

But this was not the reunion of two characters who survived some of their toughest challenges by merely recalling the memory of the other. Jon and Arya shared a bond that nothing could tarnish—not even time. A bond that no one—not even their fellow family members—could penetrate.

The nerve of the writers making Arya Stark, one of the cleverest characters in the books despite her age, say that Sansa Stark is the smartest person she's ever met? No. For one, Arya Stark did not need to live as a bastard in order to empathize with them—which means that even as a little girl, she possessed wisdom that is years ahead of her elder sister's.

Much like Jon Snow, Arya Stark is not a character who is easily persuaded by the opinions of others. Which is why she and Jon are close at all—she never once believes the stigma attached to his bastardy, because it's so blatantly obvious to her that his character simply doesn't fit the rhetoric.

I'd be willing to bet that Jon's incredibly loyal sister would trust his judgment in pledging himself to Daenerys. And I won't for a minute believe that the girl who said to Gendry...

"I can be your family."

...would suddenly regress into intolerance, particularly not at someone else's behest.

I won't believe for a minute that the girl who said...

"The woman is important too!"

...would turn around and suggest that the woman who provided her armies, dragons, and resources to save the North should then be discarded afterward.

I won't believe for a minute that the girl who makes allies and friends everywhere she goes would turn around and argue that allies aren't important.

I won't believe for a minute that the girl who named her direwolf after the warrior queen Nymeria, the girl who said...

"He killed the slave?" That did not sound right. "He should have killed the masters!"

...wouldn't at least give the person she loves the most in all the world, Jon Snow, a few minutes to explain why he supports and believes in Daenerys.

Lastly, there is absolutely no reason to believe that Arya Stark would ever betray Jon Snow. It is an insult to one of the purest and tenderest relationships in the entire series to suggest otherwise.

The Winterfell Problem

Even on Jon Snow's AWOIAF Wiki page, he is described as "quick to sense a slight", as well as observant, "a trait he developed on account of being a bastard".

Yet, during the feast following the Night King's death... Jon Snow is suddenly portrayed as oblivious all in service to the plot to alienate Daenerys. Jon Snow's sudden disinterest in the woman he spent season seven so intently studying was both frustrating and compromising to his character traits.

After all, the most impressive leader Jon Snow has ever witnessed followed him into his homeland to save his men for nothing to gain (and in fact, to sacrifice her own men and resources), not just for the man she loves—but because it's the right thing to do.

The writers really expect us to believe that this man, who turned Janos Slynt's insubordination into an example of what happens to men who openly disrespect him and his orders...

...is going to suddenly sit idly by while his own people make a fool of him by disrespecting his chosen queen, and by extension, him.

Don't let the writers believe for an instant that he would stand for it.

Taking a step further back, what in seven hells was going on during that battle?

The betrayal to Jon Snow's character is the most glaring during episode three of season eight, in which the writers really decided to sideline the most talented and quick-thinking swordsman in their cast (next to Furdik—who, by the way, was also sidelined).

Jon Snow conveniently forgets virtually everything he learned from defending the Wall in season four and reclaiming Winterfell in season six. The King in the North who travels all the way to Dragonstone for not only dragonglass, but in hopes of gaining the help of the queen and her armies is really going to let one of those armies gallop head-first into the army of the undead with metal weapons? Jon Snow is the first character in the show to learn that regular weapons don't work against wights!

And while it may not be Jon Snow's fault that the trebuchets managed to make it to the front line of all places, he certainly would've pointed out the flaw in that decision. As well as the placement of the trenches—which physically severed the troops from the safety of the castle upon retreat. Retreat, if necessary, would be a priority for Jon Snow especially, as he, above everyone else, knows that every fallen man means one more undead soldier they must deal with.

And speaking of the trenches...

To add insult to injury, the writers really decided to add a shot of Jon Snow sitting idly next to the trenches on top of Rhaegal, a dragon that he was just using to light the dead on fire, as Melisandre struggled to light them with magic:

What? You mean this Jon Snow?

The Jon Snow that once used his quick-thinking to discover that fire kills wights... doesn't think to use dragonfire to light a trench on fire? Come on.

And since when has Jon Snow ever balked during battle? Of all the characters, he's one of the few who actually understands what the Night King is, how big his army is, what the odds are, and what it's like to be in the midst of not only battles—but ones that are going really poorly.

Yet at Winterfell—the place he fought so hard to reclaim and that he reluctantly went south to rally support for in order to protect it—he suddenly has no idea what to do? He's historically one of the most quick-witted and innovative fighters in the entire show, if not the most.

And speaking of battles...

"We find our true friends on the battlefield"

Whether or not you agree with the writers' choice to have Sam attempt to persuade Jon to commit treason against his queen... I just cannot accept that Jon Snow willingly turns away from his oldest friend in a moment like this:

Even in the most hopeless of situations, Jon Snow won't hesitate to save someone he loves. Like when he tried, against all odds, to save Rickon.

Even with complete strangers, Jon Snow has shown his gallantry.

As well as his aptitude for forgiveness.

Whether or not Samwell Tarly offended Jon, he would never leave him to die. Their principals may no longer converge the way they once did... but never forget that when, in the books, Chett suggests Thorne should kill Sam for being weak, Jon speaks up on Sam's behalf:

"Lords are gold and knights steel, but two links can't make a chain. You also need silver and iron and lead, tin and copper and bronze and all the rest, and those are farmers and smiths and merchants and the like. A chain needs all sorts of metals, and a land needs all sorts of people. You can't hammer tin into iron, no matter how hard you beat it, but that doesn't mean tin is useless."

The Night King Problem

Speaking of the battle for Winterfell... By denying Jon Snow the climax to his story arc—squaring off with the Night King—and instead, granting that honor to Arya Stark (who has no relation to anything happening north of the Wall in either book or show...) it disrupts the natural conclusions for both characters.

Jon Snow and the Night King had unfinished business—at least, that's what all those long and intense stare-downs seemed to indicate. Even in the books, the only POV chapters that mention the Night's King are Jon, Bran, and Sam.

Kit Harington was very gracious when trying to explain why he would've liked to get the killing blow:

"I was a bit pissed off, only because I wanted to kill the Night King! I think I felt like everyone else did, in that it had been set up for a long time, and then I didn't get to do it."

But even in all his graciousness, Kit points out that it's been set up for a long time. And you know what George R.R. Martin has to say about changing your plan mid-stream:

"If you planned your book that the butler did it and then you read on the internet that someone has figured out that the butler did it and then you suddenly change in mid-stream and it was the chambermaid who did it? Then you screw up the whole book because you've got this foreshadowing early on and you've got these little clues you've planted and now they're dead ends... and you have to introduce other clues and you're retconning. It's a mess."

Yet... The fact that Jon Snow vs. the Night King made sense was exactly why the writers chose not to do it!

"We hope to kind of avoid the expected and Jon Snow has always been the hero, the one who's been the savior. But it just didn't seem right to us for this moment." 

Sure, Arya Stark killing the Night King "subverted expectations" (I'm so sick of typing those two words together at this point, but it's impossible not to do when trying to discuss season eight)... but at what cost? The cost of any emotional impact.

Just like virtually everything else in the last season. 

(As an aside, if the writers really felt Arya Stark was the right person to land the killing blow, they should've had Jon lose the swordfight and before the Night King is able to finish him, his ride-or-die sister comes flying out of the darkness to save his life. The audience gets what they were promised and Arya still gets to be the hero in a way that not only makes sense, but fits her character…)

Of course, the showdown with the Night King was not the first major plot point that was teased over the course of the series to be ultimately robbed from Jon Snow.

Nor would it be the last...

The Prophecy Problem

To claim that Jon piercing Dany's heart with a quick sneak attack has any resemblance to the legend of Azor Ahai is a gross oversimplification. Let's take a look at what the legend actually says:

"He summoned his wife. 'Nissa Nissa,' he said to her, for that was her name, 'bare your breast, and know that I love you best of all that is in this world.' She did this thing, why I cannot say, and Azor Ahai thrust the smoking sword through her living heart. It is said that her cry of anguish and ecstasy left a crack across the face of the moon, but her blood and her soul and her strength and her courage all went into the steel."

Yes. Daenerys was stabbed in the heart. That is the only similarity her season eight murder bears to the above legend.

Where was the declaration of love? Where was the permission asked? Where was the consent given? There was no cry of anguish and ecstasy—there was a gasp and a gurgle. Dany's life was not given in exchange for anything, it was simply taken. There was no transference of courage or strength—just a quick and (troublingly) unimpactful "shock" death.

Of course, it's important to point out that Azor Ahai is never even mentioned in the show. And while The Prince that was Promised was mentioned (as late as season seven)... So far as show canon goes, this prophecy meant absolutely nothing in the end.

That makes two of us, Kit.

Jon Snow (and Kit Harington) Also Deserved Better

Aside from George R.R. Martin, the man who knows Jon Snow best, Kit Harington, was overcome with heartache, disbelief...

...and frustration upon reading the treacherous turn his character took in the season eight script.

David Benioff and D.B. Weiss completely neutered Jon Snow's character.

Figuratively and well, maybe literally? Year after year, they have shown themselves to be petty and spiteful with various cast and crew—from Kit Harington to Ian McElhinney to Alexander Siddig to George R.R. Martin, himself.

Remember that stupid dig at Jon Snow's penis size upon his resurrection? Just a dumb joke, right?

Or was it?

It was sure important enough for them to go on record with major publications and clarify that, no, it wasn't just a joke, but canon! Pay very close attention to how it's worded:

"He just had the look. The brooding intensity; the physical grace; the chip-on-the-shoulder quality that we always associate with extraordinarily short people.

There has to be some downside to being Kit Harington, right? It's impossible not to like him. Maddening. The one thing we can do is saddle his character with a tiny pecker."

This isn't about Jon Snow's penis. It's about taking Kit Harington down a peg. Not only did they give Jon Snow a canonically "small penis", they had to give Daenerys lines about how he's "too little for her", to poke fun at Kit's height. You know, because he's apparently "extraordinarily short".

Utterly juvenile.

Much like with Tyrion Lannister, Jon Snow's cleverness far exceeded that of the men who were in charge of writing him—and they failed to replicate it. And so, the further Jon Snow strayed from his creator, George R.R. Martin, the further his IQ dropped until, by season eight, he was reduced to a bumbling idiot shouting at dragons and saying little more than "muh queen". Why? Because if you're actually an idiot, you cannot write a clever person.

As for the books, Jon Snow's true fate remains to be seen. And for as much as I don't want to get my hopes up for a better ending, I cannot ignore that Jon Snow's foreshadowing just doesn't point to futility, and that if it does—George R.R. Martin sure put in a lot of work to convince us otherwise.

As the man, himself, recently said:

"People know an ending—but not the ending."

It is as much an insult to Jon Snow to have Daenerys descend into spontaneous madness as it was for the fans who loved her. Over the years, Jon has proven himself to be a great judge of character—and this was the man who assured Daenerys, in her most vulnerable moment, that she does deserve to be the queen of the Seven Kingdoms.

After all, there’s just no denying their similarities as characters:

"From the very beginning, Jon and Daenerys' stories have paralleled and contrasted each other, with both starting from a position of weakness and insubordination before ascending into leadership roles. Both had to maneuver their way through the difficulties of power while maintaining their sense of justice, and in doing so, had to face many hard decisions along the way. Both were mocked, attacked, and betrayed for doing the right thing. Both reached their low points and were figuratively reborn at the same time, both coming out stronger as a result." -Brandon Jacobs

If you loved Jon Snow prior to season eight, you were never wrong or misled, nor was your judgment unsound. I hope that, somewhere in this post, there was at least one example that reminded you of why Jon Snow was able to win your heart in the first place. Writers who don't understand the most fundamental qualities of a character should not be given the power to rob you of your love for them.

I am willing to bet that like me, and like all of Jon Snow's fans... you know him better than the two men who were granted the honor of writing his television canon. An honor they proved in season eight that they never deserved.

Please do not grant these two incompetent writers and poor storytellers the power to turn you against one character while praising the other, especially when both were ruined beyond repair or recognition.

Forgiving Jon Snow as a character ≠ condoning what he did in season eight, just as forgiving Daenerys Targaryen ≠ condoning mass genocide.

Like Daenerys, Jon Snow deserved better.

[yedamismymom]

Hello lovely human being. Can i request a reaction to Treasure (all 12 members) having an S/o who doesn't sing, dance or rap? Sorry if it sounds like a too hard reaction. It was all i could think of. I love your writings. It's really good.

Treasure’s Reaction to: Having a Partner Who Can’t Sing, Rap or Dance

❀ fluff

A/N: These are short, I apologise for that and they start getting more and more immature as you go down but I still hope you like it and thank you for requesting!

Choi Hyunsuk

Doesn’t really care if you can’t sing, rap or dance because he knows that there are other things that you’re good at. Assures you that you don’t have to feel insecure about it just because he’s good at it and you’re not. Encourages you to showcase your talents. Is a total hype man and tells you to be confident in what you do best because that’s what makes you, you.

Jihoon

Again, not someone who really cares about it but will definitely be cheeky about it. Teases you whenever he hears you humming or sees you grooving to a random song. But he only does it because he finds it cute and he makes sure you know that. Likes to copy your awkward moves just to add to the brutal mockery.

Yoshi

Another one who doesn’t mind at all. So what if you can’t rap, sing or dance? That doesn’t mean you’re less than anyone else, so you don’t have anything to worry about. Like Hyunsuk, he encourages you to be confident in what you’re good at because he doesn’t like when you’re discouraged. Is very supportive and never belittles you.

Junkyu

Okay so maybe he laughs at your zero sense of beat dancing and yeah he calls out your tone deaf singing, but to Junkyu, these things that others would consider ‘flaws’ are actually perks that were just included with your personality. Hence why he never has a problem with it and actually tells you to bust a move or two just to make him laugh.

Mashiho

Even though you aren’t the best at dancing or singing, there’s definitely room to learn. So if you believe that you aren’t a good dancer or singer, Mashiho will offer to teach you. He has skills and he’s got enough of them to share. Besides, teaching you how to dance and sing is just another way to spend more time with you so it’s a win win for you both.

Yoon Jaehyuk

Like Junkyu, he will make fun of your for your terrible sense of rhythm but its still cute to him nonetheless. Tells you not to mind him whenever you’re feeling a bit musical and ignore him if he snickers. Your singing definitely makes him feel better about himself but he’d never admit that to you.

Asahi

Smiles to himself whenever he hears you humming or rapping or whenever he sees you dancing. He knows you’re not the best at it but honestly, he doesn’t think its as bad as you claim it is. Doesn’t really comment much on your singing in general and doesn’t feel like it either honestly.

Bang Yedam

Let’s just say that when this boy hears you sing for the first time he actually thinks you’re just faking it but he soon realises that you’re not. Has some sort of OCD when it comes to wrong pitches and so he vouches to teach you how to sing. Forces you to sit down with him and practice vocals at least one hour a day.

Doyoung

Another one who will bestow his skillset to you. It’s not that difficult honestly and he knows that you’ll be good at it if you practice. So, like Yedam, he makes you play Just Dance with him for an hour or so until you learn how to catch beats. However one thing he won’t change about your dancing is the funny and awkward dance moves you come up with.

Haruto

It’s adorable to him. How you’re actually trying your best. He doesn’t say anything like Asahi. He’ll just quietly listen, maybe even record some of it to listen to later. Your voice isn’t the most angelic, its still music to his hears and he adores it very much. He’ll tell you to sing even though it’s not the best, just because he cherishes your voice.

Park Jeongwoo

He’s offended. Because he didn’t think someone could be that bad at singing. But evidently you are. No worries though. He’s Hitler and you’re a Nazi. Listen to him and listen to him well. Will give you a whole lecture on how you need to use your head voice on this part and your throat voice one the other.

So Junghwan

He’s so shy. No one really knows why though. He doesn’t know whether he should be honest with you or bluff. He doesn’t want to hurt your feelings, but he also doesn’t want to lie to you and end up upsetting you later on. But then he understands that it’s not that big of a deal. Still, he choses to be content with your abilities.

[96thdayofrage]

Mrs. Douglas was the music teacher. Let me be clear: she was not a music teacher, she taught music at the three predominately Black elementary schools in my hometown. She taught at a different school every day and, if you lived in Hartsville, S.C. any time between 1968 and 2006, she was the music teacher. Mrs. Douglas is the reason everyone from my childhood knows the words to “Lift Every Voice and Sing,” the Black national anthem.

Being home-schooled at a young age, my mother hadn’t shielded me from whiteness so much as she surrounded me with Blackness. But I longed to go to school. I wanted to play on a playground and carry books in a knapsack. Having to raise your hand to speak and eating square pizza seemed like so much fun, which is why I cherished Wednesdays with Mrs. Douglas. On Wednesday afternoons, Mrs. Douglas gave me private piano lessons in her home and I was her prized student. I was a child prodigy and–if I could just remember to lift my wrists and keep my posture straight–I was on the path to becoming the next Stevie Wonder or Ray Charles. I was always eager to play for Mrs. Douglas because she had one thing that inspired students to perform at the highest level:

Mrs. Douglas was beautiful.

Even as a ten-year-old, I could see it. Everyone could. Perhaps the best way to contextualize her beauty is to say she was a combination of Thelma and Willona from Good Times. She had a pre-Beyoncé level of fineness that made little boys swoon and little girls belt their hearts out in perfect tune. And, she began every gathering with the Black National Anthem–“Lift Every Voice and Sing.”

It really is a perfect song. God must have laid that on James Weldon Johnson’s heart because, in 169 words, he somehow captured the entirety of the Black experience. The lyrics are at once painful and triumphant without wallowing in our trauma. And when we hit that “Sing a song...” part, we really spill out all of our Blackness. In the annals of Black music, “sing a song” ranks right up there with Frankie Beverly’s “Before I let you goooooooo....” or Ricky Bell’s confession that “it’s driving me out of my mind.” If there’s anything Black America can do, we can sing a song.

Mrs. Douglas did not teach me the Black National Anthem. I have never been in a setting where people actually learned the words or the melody. Everywhere I went, people just seemed to know it. Looking back, this was probably the work of Mrs. Douglas, but for the first ten years of my life, I assumed everyone was born knowing how to blink their eyes, do the Electric Slide, and sing “Lift Every Voice.”

One Wednesday, at the end of our hourlong lesson, Mrs. Douglas gave me a copy of the Maya Angelou bestseller along with the sheet music to “Lift Every Voice,” as if one were necessary to understand the other. She told me that she would be teaching me how to play the anthem for the next few weeks but we could only begin after I read the pages she had bookmarked. In the chapter, Angelou describes her elementary school class singing the Negro National Anthem. I’m sure my piano teacher was trying to stress the importance of the song to our history and culture but all I could remember is Maya Angelou describing her anger after a local school board official denigrated the entire Black race during her grammar school graduation ceremony:

We were maids and farmers, handymen and washerwomen, and anything higher that we aspired to was farcical and presumptuous.

Then I wished that Gabriel Prosser and Nat Turner had killed all whitefolks in their beds and that Abraham Lincoln had been assassinated before the signing of the Emancipation Proclamation, and that Harriet Tubman had been killed by that blow on her head and Christopher Columbus had drowned in the Santa María. It was awful to be Negro and have no control over my life.

It was brutal to be young and already trained to sit quietly and listen to charges brought against my color with no chance of defense. We should all be dead. I thought I should like to see us all dead, one on top of the other. A pyramid of flesh with the whitefolks on the bottom, as the broad base, then the Indians with their silly tomahawks and teepees and wigwams and treaties, the Negroes with their mops and recipes and cotton sacks and spirituals sticking out of their mouths. The Dutch children should all stumble in their wooden shoes and break their necks. The French should choke to death on the Louisiana Purchase (1803) while silkworms ate all the Chinese with their stupid pigtails. As a species, we were an abomination. All of us.

Jesus. Was I supposed to be reading this? Were white people this bad? Was the song this good? And how would this help me play the piano? It did not help my posture at all. I know this was probably Mrs. Douglas’s attempt to ensure that I would thank her in one of the Grammy speeches that I would surely give later in life but, Ma’am...

I. Was. Ten.

Still, enthralled by her beauty and a little disturbed by her reading assignment, I committed to playing the fuck out of that song. And, by “playing the fuck out of that song,” I basically hit the keys harder and with more emphasis (Did I mention I was ten years old?). It was obvious that Mrs. Douglas was pleased. For the next few years, I played “Lift Every Voice” at all the Black functions around town, including Pastors’ anniversaries, cotillions and every Black History Month program. I didn’t even need the sheet music. I didn’t know any other songs. To this day, my entire piano repertoire consists of “Lift Every Voice and Sing.” It was the only song I could interpolate into other keys.

But my favorite time to play the anthem was when Mrs. Douglas’s Combined Glee Club performed. The Combined Glee Club was basically the best singers from the Black elementary schools combined into one choir. Led by Mrs. Douglas, the CGC was the number-one ranked glee club in all of the greater Hartsville area. Not just anyone could be in the Combined Glee Club; you had to be selected by Mrs. Douglas. It was the official verification that you had musical talent. I’m sure some people put it on their college application.

If there was something Black going on, they were invited and those motherfuckers could sing. All of my neighborhood friends were on the Combined Glee Club and my best friend played the drums for them. (Yes, they had a drummer!) The CGC usually performed the Donny Hathaway version of “I Believe in Music” (which, until a few years ago, I believed was a song Mrs. Douglas had penned herself). But their specialty was opening up with “Lift Every Voice.”

If I am being honest, I have to admit that I am a tiny bit afraid of “Lift Every Voice and Sing” in the way that I am afraid of the Holy Ghost or making potato salad for a family dinner. I know how important it is to us, so I am afraid to mess it up. Even though I hadn’t been around white people, I somehow knew it was our song. I had never seen it on television or on the radio. It was like a secret handshake or a fried chicken recipe–It belonged exclusively to us. Plus, if I messed it up, Mrs. Douglas might not consider the marriage proposal I was planning in a few years. Every time I played “Lift Every Voice,” there was a lot riding on it.

When I finally started attending public schools, my mother enrolled me at a predominately white school where I was assigned to a homeroom where I was the only black kid in the class. I’d like to explain how the white kids made racist jokes at my expense but, if they did, I didn’t even notice it. In fact, spending time around white people for the first time at ten years old, I learned more about Black people than I learned about white people.

I had not assimilated the subconscious deference to whiteness that often accompanies being Black. I became acutely aware that white people are not smarter or even more educated than any of the kids in my neighborhood. They were perfectly mediocre. They didn’t know how to double-dutch and they didn’t even have a glee club. In music class, the teacher just passed out instruments and let the kids have jam sessions. How were they supposed to acquire their daily recommended dosage of glee? I was a little ashamed of going to school there, so I led all my friends to believe that I was still being homeschooled until they discovered the truth at the annual Holiday Music Showcase.

Every year, all of the schools would get together for a Christmas program to show off their best musicians and singers. The white schools would have violinists, saxophone players and ensembles playing classical music with terrible basslines. As for my predominately glee-less institution, we learned a special super-Caucasian rendition of “Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer.” I was just thankful that we didn’t have to follow the Negro Mass Choir. They were last on the program.

My white classmates were unmoved as each individual school performed and, with each successive song, I slunk lower in my seat. During Washington Street Elementary’s performance, as they lifted up His name with a perfect a cappella version of “Children Go Where I Send Thee,” a kid sitting behind me whispered:

“Look at all those lips!”

Everyone giggled. I did not.

Our performance was predictably lackluster (probably because I refused to sing). It sounded like an episode of Little House on the Prairie. It sounded like long division. Rudolph’s nose had never been so unremarkable. Had he heard those flat notes wafting through the Center Theater, I’m sure he would have been as ashamed as I was. We trudged back to our seats as the Baddest Glee Club in the Land took the stage for the last performance. Of course, they sang “I Believe in Music.” Accompanied by Mrs. Douglas on piano and my homeboy James on drums, they blew the doors off the place. Even my classmates were impressed because, when they hit one particular a cappella refrain that every Black choir does, my classmates were clapping along. They were off-beat, but they still clapped.

After a rousing round of applause, Mrs. Douglas announced the next song from her piano: “Lift Every Voice.” Of course, all of the Black people in the audience—even the children—stood up. None of the white kids even moved. I was the only person in my entire class who stood.

Mrs. Douglas didn’t play that shit.

She stood up from the piano and glared at the audience as if to say: “You motherfuckers better stand up and show some respect.” I had never seen Mrs. Douglas express anger. And she waited. And the choir waited. She looked. And the choir looked. As she scowled at the audience, Mrs. Douglas saw me standing and smiled. She waved me to the front of the auditorium and whispered in my ear: “You wanna play?”

By the time I sat at the piano and she ascended to the stage to direct the Combined Glee Club, everyone was standing. She looked at me with her usual glance and in one microsecond, my back straightened. My wrists were raised to the perfect 45 degree angle.

And just like that, I was Black.

For the first time since I had read Maya Angelou’s angry words, I was no longer afraid of the song. I don’t know if it was the repetition of playing so many times, or the hand of some unseen thing, but I was suddenly able to play and sing the song simultaneously. And goddamn, did that Combined Glee Club lift their voices. They sang that song.

Our song.

I called Mrs. Douglas today.

I had so many questions. I wanted to ask her why she dragged me around town when I don’t have a sliver of musical talent. I really wanted to know why she made me read that book. I figured she’d tell me something about building my character, giving me a reason to socialize with people my age or how music helps the brain mature. Or maybe she’d make some perfect metaphor about birds in cages.

She did not answer.

I still have a song, though.

We are the song.

[wicked-game-black-butler]

Themes of Kuroshitsuji

So, before I start on the specifics of the analysis, here's a little *chimes sounding* story time.  I found Kuroshitsuji about six years ago on a whim because Netflix kept suggesting it and I figured “A dark, supernatural, Victorian anime?  Sounds right up my alley”.  At the time, only the first two seasons of the anime were available and, even though I’m not sure it’s a very popular opinion, I honestly don’t know why I watched it all the way through...I think it was more of a "well, I started this, so I might as well see it through" sort of thing. 

Anyway, the first two seasons contained a lot of the content that I've seen those within and without the fandom take issue with (and that I didn't feel comfortable with, either): the sexualization of minors and of traumatic abuse, the minimization of the dark content of the series (sexual, physical, emotional abuse; grief; abusive relationships, etc.) through comedy and the like, and the sexual undertones of the relationships of the main characters (both minors) and their demon butlers.  Needless to say, this put me off the series and I just wrote it off as a story that had potential, but was executed poorly.  Fast forward three years to when I was talking with a friend about mangas she would recommend.  I asked if she had heard of Black Butler because I was curious to see if the manga was anything like the anime.  Since she wasn't really familiar with the manga, I decided to give it a go.  At first I was disappointed, as I saw several of the topics I took issue with in the first two seasons of the anime appear in the manga, however, as I made it to the Book of Circus Arc, I noticed a significant tonal change in the story.  Gone was the overly comical handling of the obviously dark material of the story, and I fell in love and have followed it ever since.

Kuroshitsuji is a story that I don't automatically recommend to others, not because I don't think it's a good story, but because of nature of the themes it addresses-I definitely would not recommend this manga for children.  However, I believe that the themes and questions that are addressed are ones that, as humans, we should take the time to consider.

Trauma-There are few characters in Kuroshitsuji that have not experienced some sort of trauma in their lives, but this is acutely realized with some of the younger characters.  O!Ciel and R!Ciel were kidnapped after their family was brutally murdered, tortured, and sexually abused.  Sieglinde was brainwashed, emotionally manipulated, and used by those around her for her prodigious intelligence. Finny was a product of scientific experiments and was forced to perform horrendous acts while he was in custody.  Mey-Rin was forced to make her own way on the streets of London, witnessed the murder of her two young friends, and was coerced into serving a drug lord who only wanted her for her abilities.  The main cast of Noah's Arc circus were outcasts of society, forced to scrape by on the streets until they were taken in by Baron Kelvin and manipulated into serving his abominable desires.  Throughout this series we are shown how people are shaped by the trauma they experience in life and how that affects their behavior moving forward.

Abuse- The examples I listed above are just some of the examples of abuse (sexual, physical, and mental) that are showcased in this story.  Another one I will add is the relationship between O!Ciel and Sebastian.  Their relationship, while on the surface, has the appearance of being beneficial and is sometimes used for comic relief, however, the truth is far more sinister.  Sebastian uses O!Ciel, manipulating and cultivating his soul into the perfect meal to sate his hunger once the contract is complete.  He has no concern for O!Ciel's well being outside of what is essential to keep the young master alive, even sometimes taking pleasure in his physical pain and suffering, save it is not life threatening.  He often times blames the earl for the unfortunate things that happen to him. Their relationship is toxic, each other using the other as a means to an end.

Relative morality and the nature of evil- Throughout the series, we encounter characters and situations that makes the reader question their moral beliefs and what they believe to be truly evil.  The Noah's Arc circus troupe kidnaps children who are then used in experiments, abused, and eventually killed or left so traumatized that they could never return to a normal life-but they did so because they were trying to protect the children from the factory and their own troupe, who were the only family they ever knew. This raises the question of which is more important, the greater portion of society or the people you love?  O!Ciel commits violent acts, cold blooded murder, is consumed by his pursuit of revenge, and deceives and uses those around him.  However, he is doing so in an effort to seek justice for the atrocities committed against him, touching on the debate of how far are we willing to justify the actions of someone who has been shaped by the things that are done to them.  Sebastian is cultivating the soul of a thirteen year old boy so he can eat it when the contract is completed.  However, given that he's a demon, the question is raised if he is really evil because he is simply acting within the confines of his nature.  He has to eat to survive, so he is merely doing what he must. (Just a note, I'm not saying I agree/disagree with any of these points, I'm just mentioning them because they are questions the story poses)

 The deceptive nature of beauty- This one is fairly simple to describe, but look at how Yana draws the characters...they are all beautiful, especially those who are evil/the most morally grey.  Unlike in stories like Lord of the Rings, Yana's villains aren't twisted or ugly or have the appearance that screams "hey, I'm evil!", rather, it's quite the opposite. One of the appeals of evil is that it is beautiful, deceptive, and disarming, something I think Yana has captured well.  There are times where readers can find themselves forgetting how dangerous characters like Sebastian, Vincent, or the Undertaker are until we are given a stark reminder of their motives.

The nature of humanity- In this series, the nature of humanity is pretty bleak.  There are only two groups presented-those who are the users and those who are used.  Humans are constantly striving for pointless dreams and don't care who they trample in their efforts for success.  Even Sebastian comments how there are humans who exist who are even worse than demons...now that's something to think about.

Some of the other themes/topics I noticed in this series that I don't have enough to say for their own bullet points are: betrayal (specifically how it often comes from those who we trust the most), deception, the worth of a human soul, the nature and consequences of revenge, and what it means to be human.

Overall, Kuroshitsuji is an excellent series that brings to question the less than savory aspects of life and humanity, while still telling a compelling story.  Were there any themes that I missed?  Any that you have a different take on?  I'm interested in hearing your thoughts. 

[whereyoursoulresides]

DiC Dub. vs Sub, Episode 21/25 - “Jupiter Comes Thundering In”/”Jupiter, the Brawny Girl in Love” Pt 2

After so long, here is part two!!

Because of the massive break in between the two, I’ve had to switch gears a little with my explanations, but hopefully they’ll still appear coherent! Without further ado, the remainder of this episode of Dub vs. Sub!

Previously, I covered the manners in which the episode begins to establish the foundation for both diverging character arcs. Propped with knowledge from both Beryl and Kunzite, Zoisite takes his charge with perfect grace and professionalism. Meanwhile, DiC's Zoycite is introduced as being far keener, promisingly relentless, and a more dangerous adversary. If Zoisite was concealing his fangs, as it were...then we were introduced to Zoycite flashing hers.

If it sounds like I'm bashing a dead horse with this difference a lot,  perhaps it's also because the DiC dub seems to do so with as much vigor. Certainly, I can't assume writers' intentions when they re-wrote the character for DiC. However, DiC seemed to find as many opportunities as they can to showcase Zoycite's contrary presentation of Zoisite's original character as often as they can, even when they didn't necessarily have to...

This bit of exposition was given right at the very beginning of the DiC version when no such introduction was made in the original. Possibly, DiC made this change to ramp up the story's dramaticism. However, DiC's reputation for obvious exposition leads me to believe otherwise, especially when it starts cropping up in later episodes more frequently, and for no other reason. 

(For example, yes, I understand that the following screenshots are referring to Lita / Makoto. However, if you look at Zoycite’s arc as a whole, it is also an excellent setup to the infamous “Disguise” episode...and I feel it is also a great representation of why DiC so desperately wanted to sow these character changes into Zoycite. For if they hadn’t, and Zoycite remained exactly as Zoisite in all manners except gender... how different would “she” be, a beautiful female soldier fighting for love, than another titular character we know?)

Anyways, I digress, and will return to the above bracketed point once we reach that particular episode. In the meantime, please enjoy the following comparisons remaining from the episode below...

1. Zoycite’s keenness, and further proof that DiC can’t stand empty sound space, even if it’s to imply a character’s softly - and ominous - coming).

2. I wish there was a way I could put audio clips in these tumblr posts, because I do love how both these characters are still portrayed with a sense of play...Zoycite’s acrid, saccharine poison, and Zoisite’s breathy, cotton-candy kiss of death.

3. If I could put in audio clips, this is where we would hear Zoycite’s syrup literally curdle - her voice rips into an edge of monstrous roughness, similar to other other monster-of-the-day characters that were also portrayed by the same actress. Meanwhile, Zoisite’s actor speaks with a softness of a snake beginning to gently suffocate you..

4. Goddamnit Zoi, you are so fucking cute, I will never get over how you call out your own name like you’re a fucking pokemon <3.

(Side Note: Zoisite’s use of his own name may seem vain, but I tend to read it less as a form of vanity, and more of a form of cute-speak. It’s yet another way he downplays the perception of his potential: to evoke the sense of adorableness, of femininity, a way to startle the opponent into a sense of lowered security. Honestly, I’m sure this isn’t so much of an actual farce he puts on and is genuinely how he expresses himself, both on the job and at home, but it works! Note that in the future, whenever Zoycite uses the same tactic, she never says it in the same, diminutive cute way. Her spell-cast is always aggressive, shouted in determination and confidence).

(Extra Side-Note: Another +1 for how many times Zoycite will say she is excited to please Queen Beryl. I’m keeping count for an explicit reason. Infer that what you will, and please imagine it with the same kind of “ding” that’s heard in CinemaSins.)

5. I mean, apart from the usual (Zoycite’s kneejerk reaction is to be antagonistic, while Zoisite is actually only politely informing Makoto that she does not have to engage, etc, ...he literally does not coax, mock or challenge. We will see later that Zoisite treats physical bloodshed and confrontation as unnecessary and only as a last resort, while Zoycite is spurred by challenges) - I also love how Zoycite’s dialogue also reflects this difference. I’ve talked at length at how Zoisite is always unfailingly and elegantly polite before, and now look at Zoycite’s speaking mannerisms: uncouth, aggressive, and filled to the brim with attitude when the opportunity arises. ‘SCUSE ME, indeed!

6.Further point regarding Zoycite and Zoisite’s divergent opinions of physical or violent confrontation: one disparages it, considering it barbaric, and that he is above it (often literally). The other laughs in the face of it, and has no qualms dishing it out as a threat...or is more than ready to follow it through.

(Also: buzz off omfg)

In fact, we see their opinions play out beautifully below:

7. After being punched, compare these reactions: one promising brutal threat, and the other fucking gobsmacked it even happened. Also, their differences in priorities.

While that may sound like I’m making a dig at Zoisite, I am legitimately not. I know this scene tends to be one of the ones that famously evoke the idea of Zoisite’s vanity, but I tend to read it another way. Yes, Zoisite’s face is precious to him, and yes, it could also be read as a stereotypical portrayal of a feminine gay character. 

However, this scene is not meant to illicit laughter. Nor it is not meant for us to startle with incredulity of how silly it is that he is upset his face his hurt. In this scene, Zoisite is truly shocked - his words are less an angry tantrum and more a statement of startled fact. He hadn’t anticipated Makoto could get that close to him, could actually touch him, much could actually strike him. And, in a place that is fiercely protective of, not because of his vanity...but because it is a precious commodity in the main force that drives his arc. (Yes, it’s Kunzite.) It’s no surprise that Zoisite’s beauty and “beautiful face” gets mentioned so often at key moments in his character development. His arc starts with a punch in the face, rises with gentle caresses, and - after a similar injury - crashes.

All of these subtleties, however, are swapped entirely in Zoycite’s case. Her face is not a fragile commodity by which she holds dear...in fact, it is of little importance to her. Her immediate concern is vengeance - more so than the injury on her face, it is her ego is bruised, and damn anyone who dares to make that mark.

Anyways, before I digress further, let’s round back up to the remainder of the episode. These last few scenes only continue to consistently show the differences in Zoycite’s and Zoisite’s professional approach. There isn’t as deep to note, with one exception at the very end...

8. If you haven’t already caught on, Zoycite really wants this fucking crystal.

9. Up above, DiC makes as much of an effort to showcase how much joy Zoycite derives from her job. Being a Negaverse warrior is an excellent honour - your true self - and boy, is she enjoying exerting her power over those below her. Zoycite’s ambition is demonstrated not as an ideal professional characteristic, but the potential in her to throw a coup if she wanted to. She is power hungry, and that grows recklessly to dangerous heights as her arc progresses. Notice that Zoisite says none of these things...because it isn’t power he seeks. He approaches his subject with almost professional indifference: he seeks no more than the objective of his task. And don’t worry, “it will only take a moment”.

10. This has always been one of my favourite scenes. I just love how Zoisite politely “nopes” out, while Zoycite - and I fully believe it - has a fucking victory celebration. (Don’t think for a moment Zoycite is just jesting, she probably told Malachite to set out the champagne before she left on the mission!)

And again, note the increased victorious laughter, where there was none before...

And FINALLY, the one ODD thing that happens a LOT throughout DiC’s version of this character arc. Remember how I mentioned in a previous instalment that DiC seemed to like to inject extra dialogue and laughs that could exposit Zoycite as a fundamentally meaner character than Zoisite?

Hey look, it happened again:

Like, this may not seem like much of a deal, but think about it. We had a scene earlier where Zoisite’s words basically remained the same in conversion (the “order” scene). We’ve had many instances where the original dialogue/script did not need to be changed, and yet was tweaked in just certain places. This seems like a wholly unnecessary change, so why do it?

The answer is: in changing Zoisite’s gender, DiC encountered a whole other problem. And that problem was: a female solider character, who’s primary motivation was love, a love that could be read as more complex, established, and equally both inspirational and problematic ...could end up becoming an unintentional role model for DiC’s demographic. Figuratively speaking, the tragedy by which we all love Kunzite and Zoisite’s humanity for carried a message that DiC feared might be misconstrued as another example of a miracle romance - because at that point, superficially, the character would no longer be any different than Sailor Moon. iIf Zoycite also fought for love, then her motivations would blow a hole right in the Power of Love message that DiC’s Sailor Moon stood for. And, if she was as dedicated to Malachite as Zoisite was to Kunzite - questionably so - it would also rip a massive hole in DiC’s message of Girl Power. 

I’ll talk more about this in greater detail as those essential scenes crop up throughout the arc. For the time being, let’s simply observe that for all the animosity Zoycite gets in the DiC version (even by other characters in the same universe), that Zoisite was never perceived in the same way, even by his enemies. And there’s a reason for that.

[writings-in-ebony]

Heritage - Chapter 1 Steve Rogers/Black!reader

Summary: With only a few weeks until his departure to college, Steve must still endure the requirements put upon him by being in the Rogers family. This included attending galas that his family hosted in order to boost their ego and flaunt their successes. Steve would rather be at home doing anything but showcasing himself as the family runt, but whatever his grandfather says, goes. 

Author’s note: Welcome to the first official chapter! It took a while to write because I was trying to figure out which direction I wanted this to go in. The reader, who is not present in this chapter, will show up soon and her appearance will be explained in that chapter’s author’s note. Likes and reblogs are always well received and I love comments and asks! Thanks again, everyone!

Word Count: 2784

Warnings: If bad language counts as a warning…

Chapter 1: 1987

Steve stood in front of the large mirror positioned over his dresser, fumbling with the sliver of silk that was wrapped around his neck. He twisted the silk every which way, not understanding why it wouldn’t take shape, and it began to frustrate him. In actuality, the entire night awaiting him was going to be frustrating. It was the annual gala his family held. A night advertised as a showcasing of the achievements of the Rogers family, but it was actually a circle-jerk filled with bloated egos, secret promises, false compliments, and all the other unsavory traits that the upper percentage held. And Steve had to entertain that nonsense for an entire night. Oh, and he was livid.

He had begged, begged, his father to allow him to miss the gala, to which his father happily obliged considering he was already ashamed at the runt he had for a son anyway. But after notifying his own father, Cashel, of the news, Jeremy quickly returned and told Steve that he was required to go due to his grandfather’s orders. Jeremy didn’t seem very happy about the news either, but Steve had no choice. He’d rather face a thousand galas back-to-back than face the wrath of his grandfather, so he faced the music and was taking it like a champ.

Seven minutes later and Steve still was struggling to tie a fucking tie. As if sensing his frustrations, Bucky appeared in the doorway and smirked at him. Bucky was Steve’s own personal bodyguard, personally hired by Cashel himself. However, it was more of a friend protecting a friend since both boys grew up and were raised together. When questioned about it, Cashel merely waved a hand and stated that “He knows you better than anyone, therefore, he should be fit to protect you from any of the dumb circumstances you always get yourself into.” Bucky thought this was the funniest thing, but Steve didn’t crack a smile.

“You need help with your tie?” Bucky offered, already stepping into the room.

“I would say no, but I’ve already waisted so much goddamn time,” Steve grumbled, dropping his arms to his side as he gave up.

“You kiss your mother with that mouth?” Bucky pursed his lips as he mocked his friend. Steve didn’t even satisfy him with a reply. Instead, he pointed to his tie and raised his chin.

Bucky stood a head (and a few inches) taller than Steve, making Steve look like a child next to him. It also didn’t help that Steve had a soft, boyish face and his appearance made him look like an overly grown 12-year-old. So, one could imagine how flirting with the opposite sex went.

“There, done,” Bucky announced as he patted the sides of Steve’s suit jacket to smooth out the wrinkles. Steve nodded and muttered a thanks, turning back to look at himself in the mirror. He really was a poor sight. His skin was too pale, his cheeks and eyes were sunken in, and he looked too thin. But this was the usual. He was born a runt, which meant that he didn’t possess the quality characteristics that were passed down to every firstborn in his family. He didn’t have the strong build, chiseled jawline, piercing eyes, nor the basic ability to shift into a majestic wolf. No, Steve was just fucking regular. And that’s why he hated these galas because that is all his family saw him as. A regular born to a family of gods.

He really thought that when he hit the peak of puberty, age 16, he’d have a sudden change and become the wolf he always knew he could be. But it never came and now, just a little over a year later, Steve felt like it would never come.

“Hey, what’s on your mind,” came Bucky’s quiet voice. He sounded concerned; all sense of humor sucked out of his voice. Steve didn’t want to tell Buck, his pride flaring up at the sign of weakness, but he’d been feeling shitty this entire week leading up to the event. And knowing Bucky, who was also a wolf and had gotten the gift early on, he could smell the mixed emotions flowing through his friend.

“I…I just wonder whether I’ll ever be good enough,” he sighed, pushing away his pride. “And don’t say, ‘Hey Steve, it’s okay. You know your family cares for you,’ because you know that’s bullshit.” He sounded so bitter and pitiful.

“Listen, I get it. You’re upset you have to go to this thing tonight. You’ve never liked these kinds of things. But think about it. You’ll be getting shipped off to college in a few weeks, somewhat free of the gaze from your family, and you’ll have a chance to make a name for your own damn self. They don’t define you, Steve,” Bucky finished, clapping a hand on his friend’s shoulder.

“I know, Buck. Thanks.”

“Nah, man. You just gotta get your head in the right space and realize that you are a wolf on the inside. You might can’t shift, or do the other crazy shit, but you think like one. You’re one of the smartest men I know and to me, you act more like your grandfather than anyone.” Steve scoffed and gave Bucky an incredulous look. “What? You don’t see it?!”

Steve chuckled and pushed Bucky away, thinking this pep talk was going wayward. “Alright, Buck. I think that tie of yours is too damn tight.”

“Are you kidding? Man, don’t let me make a list of how you both compare,” Bucky started, giving Steve a look of challenge.

“Oh, so you guys are making lists now?” came a snicker from the door. They both looked up and saw it was Steve’s mother, Sara. She was giving them both a look of amusement as she walked in. Bucky, shifting into professional mode, stepped back and bowed his head at her.

“Mrs. Rogers,” he greeted. She waved a hand at him and insisted he relax. So, he did. She walked over to her son, who was still pouting, and gave him a heartwarming smile.

“Oh, you look so handsome,” she cooed. “You might just get a girl, yet!” She looked way too excited by that fact and this caused Steve to turn intensely red.

“Mam, getting a girl is the last thing on my mind right now!” he groaned, closing his eyes. “Plus, how am I going to date her when half of the women here are basically family!” He was stopped by his mother grabbing onto his arm and dragging him out of the room.

“Hush up, boy. Women have friends! Now, c’mon so we can get you set up with someone before the introduction,” Sara grinned and stared ahead determinedly. Steve whined and heard a quiet laugh behind him. He whipped his head around and glared daggers at Bucky, the asshole.

True to her word, Sara whisked Steve around the ballroom and introduced him to about ten ladies before she was called away to mingle with the wives of some other important figures. This left Steve to go finally plunder the hors d’oeuvres and sweets table at the far wall of the room. Dinner wouldn’t be served for another hour since this was the time to mingle and schmooze. So, once his tiny plate was stacked with various meats, cheeses, crackers, and tiny cookies, he placed himself at a far table and ate in solitude. Bucky, who was still on the job during this event, was briefing with the security team and keeping an eye on Steve from across the room.

About halfway through his plate, he was approached by none other than Rumlow, a neighborhood bully and Steve’s longtime enemy. He sneered as he towered over Steve’s small frame. “What’s happening, Rogers?”

“I’m happily eating my food,” Steve announced, not caring to entertain Rumlow’s shenanigans. All he wanted was to finish his cheese and crackers. Rumlow didn’t react to Steve and still had that ugly sneer plastered onto his equally ugly face.

“Well, good to know you’re eating just fine. I just wanted to let you know that I have officially been promoted to become my father’s underling. Like his assistant, with perks,” his sneer curved into a wicked smile, as if rubbing the information in Steve’s face brought him sincere joy.

Brock Rumlow and his family belonged to the Italian mafia that lived across town. His father, Vito, was a well-known caporegime and was known for his cold exterior and brutality. There were always stories and rumors surrounding the man and how he ran his section of soldiers. One such rumor, a famous one that Bucky had told Steve, was Vito beating a man to a literal pulp using only his fists and raw strength. Steve thought it was all hearsay until he had the chance to meet the man personally. He was a hulking mass of muscle, with steely eyes and a strong jaw set in a permanent grimace. Steve hated the man on the spot and made it his own personal vow to avoid him and his idiotic son whenever he could. However, Brock’s incessant need to find and torture Steve (both mentally and physically) made that vow extremely difficult to uphold.

“Congratulations, Brock,” Steve blandly complimented, hoping that playing along will speed up Brock’s departure. “I do hope you rise through the ranks and make your father proud.” He was really rubbing it in, and he raised his glass of water in a mock toast.

“Aww, Steve, no need for the fake praise. I know it’s eating you up inside to know my father actually respects me,” Brock still had a smile on his face, but it was beginning to look like his family’s signature grimace.

“Well, Brock, unlike you, I don’t need my father’s approval nor respect to have a personality. And I definitely don’t need you coming over here and acting like you won whatever imaginary competition you’ve formed in your head,” Steve waved a hand, nonchalant about the entire thing.

“Listen here, runt,” Brock growled, loud enough to attract attention from a few others. “For someone who has so much shit to say, you can’t even stand on the same level as your grandfather and father. You’re useless, pathetic, and I’m damn sure surprised you’re still here and not in the fucking garbage where you belong.” Steve felt his fist tighten its grip on his napkin. “I’ve been promoted by my father, something you’ll never have the chance of doing. Heh, I’m surprised your whorish mother is still here.”

“Enough!!,” Steve’s voice erupted, echoing off the walls of the ballroom. His voice had unnaturally deepened and he felt a boiling rage under his skin. He wanted to fight Brock, and he was seconds away from throwing a punch. However, he couldn’t act on his feelings since the entire room had gotten silent; all the attention aimed at the seething young men. “You listen here, and you listen good Brock. You can talk about me, my father, and anyone else in my fucking family. But if I ever, and I mean ever, hear you utter something other than a compliment about my mother.” Steve leaned in close to Brock, making sure only he could hear him. “I will hunt you down and kill you myself.” And with that, Steve grabbed his plate and made his way to the attached balconies. He needed some fresh air.

Conversation began once Steve reached the balcony’s doors. He was pissed. Pissed at the fact that Brock had challenged him like that, but also because he had lost his cool so quickly. He felt the rage dampen within him as he eased down onto one of the marble benches. It was cool tonight and Steve was grateful for it. It felt like a splash of cool water on his face, something he needed right now.

He placed his plate on the bench and gazed out at the gardens that surrounded the venue. There was no one out there tonight, yet, the owners had decided to cut on the lights and the fountains. All for show, he guesses.

“I saw your exchange with Brock,” came a voice from behind him. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck raise and he turned to see it was his grandfather, Cashel. Steve straightened his back and was about to stand when his grandfather raised a hand and motioned for him to keep sitting. The man was giving him an unreadable gaze, yet he could tell Cashel was reading him like a book.

“I’m sorry about that. I didn’t mean to disgrace our family,” Steve apologized. There were a lot of things he’d do but piss off Cashel was not one of them. It was a funny situation really, given that Cashel has never shown him any direct animosity. In fact, besides his mother and grandmother, Cashel is the only other family member who doesn’t look at him like he’s…waste. But he’s also never been doting. He’d just sit and stare at Steve as if he was trying to solve the most complex problem. Like Steve was hiding the biggest secret and he needed to find it out.

“Apology accepted. However, you did not disgrace our family. It’d have been more disgraceful if you’d let the boy keep hounding you like a dog,” Cashel provided, taking a seat at the other marble bench. He looked otherworldly tonight. To any normal person, they’d think that Cashel was Steve’s father, but that wasn’t the case. The man looked a little over 50, but his real age was 108. One of the perks of being a wolf was you age at a drastically slow rate, meaning Steve looked like a child and his grandfather looked like an aged model. It sucked that this was the only wolf characteristic he had, but it was better than nothing.

Steve was pulled from his thoughts when he looked up and caught Cashel giving him that stare again. All he could do was blurt out a small, “What?”

“You know Steven. You fascinate me,” the older man chuckled, rubbing his salt and pepper beard.

“How so?”

“Here I have three sons, two who are nothing like myself and one who dedicates his…basically, his livelihood to me. And out of all of them, you are the one who I can see the most of myself in.” Steve was speechless. Where was this coming from?

“And I’m not just talking about your irritating stubbornness or the way you walk, no, there are more things we have in common than just on the surface.” His grandfather’s eyes seemed to glow as they aimed straight at Steve. “How do you feel about the family business, Steven?” The question was so sudden, and Steve didn’t know whether to answer it truthfully or lie. He knew if he truthfully answered, his grandfather might not like what he has to say. However, if he lied, which was something his grandfather hated, then the consequences would be far worse. Truth it is.

“I don’t necessarily like it,” he began, gaging his grandfather’s reaction. It didn’t move. “I don’t feel the need to exploit others for monetary gain, nor do I like paying others to carry out my dirty work and leave them with the consequences. However, I know why you do it. You came to America for the sole reason of protecting your family and the nature of us, as wolves. And this is your way of accomplishing that goal. It might not sit well with me morally, but some things need to be done in order to get what you want.” He had looked down at his hands towards the end, really taking into account the sacrifices his grandfather made. When his gaze raised back up, he was greeted by his grandfather’s lips quirked into a knowing smirk. “What?” he questioned again.

“That was well-spoken, Steven.” His grandfather raised himself off the bench, straightening his jacket. “I’ll have to take what you said into consideration. Now, I must be getting back to my party. Can’t have the host gone for too long,” he chuckled and walked off the balcony. Steve was left there staring at his grandfather’s back, mouth slightly parted, wondering what the hell that was all about. He looked out towards the garden again, eyes landing on the fountain shaped like a turtle. His grandfather was strange, but the man was always ten steps ahead of everyone. He was scarily accurate about everything and he always said everyone had a place in the family. The only problem was, what place was he considering giving to Steve?

Taglist: @mygirlrenee

[southsideserpentkings]

Devotion Shared Between Souls

Relationship: Jughead Jones/Archie Andrews(Jarchie) Rating: M (?) (Blood, Death, Murder, Pedopheila Mentioned [Geraldine Grundy], PTSD, etc. [No sexual assault])

Tags: Devotion, Soul Bond, Murder, Non-Graphic Violence, Past Sexual Assault, Geraldine Grundy (hence the pedophilia and past sexual assault), PTSD, Trauma, Panic Attacks, Fluff, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Protective Jughead, Protective Archie, Reggie Mantle is a Jerk, Homophobia and Hate Speech (Reggie), Dark Jughead, DArk Archie, Showers, Healing. NON-SEXUAL, NO-SEX.

Summary:  Episode s1e2 Chapter Two: A Touch of Evil Devotion was a dangerous thing when given to a god; but when it was given with every shred of a being on their knees to the one who held their heart and soul, it became a vengeance inconsolable and unlimited in what it may do in the name of worship.                                                      ~Or~ Archie is burying the secret of his not-so-willing relationship with Geraldine Grundy from Jughead. It forces them apart for a little bit. Reggie Mantle is a jerk to Jughead, Archie's protective, they're both a bit dark and not quite sane - Violence ensues. Oh! And we actually deal with Archie's trauma and anxiety and PTSD and Jughead is a protective and caring boyfriend who takes care of him.

Note: Death and Violence is descriptive and symbolic but not gory. All sexual/pedophile related things are past-tense and only referenced. We gonna actually deal with Archie’s trauma from Grundy, what a concept!

Ao3 Link: Here

Enjoy~

It confused Archie, all the different thoughts and emotions swirling through his head as he stared down at the tiny locker memorial the students had set up in the school hallway. Interest and curiosity made their appearances, wonder at who had killed the young man, interest at how he had died, how it seemed to go against the story of a seemingly grief-stricken and inconsolable sister. Numbness to the thought of how he died. Curiosity of why, of all the ways, it had been like that. If it had been like that, had been the way it seemed. Grief in its palest shade became a form of mourning in his chest when he considered who had died, the boy who had been kind to him, to his…beloved…He hesitated even to think of the one he belonged to here in the halls, even in the silence of his mind where none should hear. He could remember though, the kindness that fell from Jason Blossom, so unlike the jagged edges of his twin sister, to reach them. From the boy with pale eyes that looked at them with silent understanding, recognition of the thing under their skins, burrowed in their shared souls, their natures entwined deadly and dangerous.

“Hi.” It was a learned game perfected over time to keep his reaction mild, to not let on to those around how his unseeing and staring gaze honed to a sharpened edge in a breath. To turn around only a bit too quickly as his gaze locked on to the one who spoke, vision narrowing until it saw nothing else in the motion around them. He didn’t trust his voice to maintain the careless tenor of teenage youth, didn’t trust his words to showcase only friendship and flippant emotion to this boy, so he stayed silent. The grin that pulled at pale lips and met with the humorous glimmer in dark eyes told him that his thoughts were known, laid bare to the one who looked at him. Those eyes slid from him to look into the hall for a moment, a heart’s beat, until they met his gaze again.

Dark humor shone clearly through those eyes, and Archie wanted to grin vicious and sharp in response, unknowing what words would fall from pale lips and curling tongue. He didn’t. Dropped his own gaze instead to compose himself, but then that voice spoke again and drew his eyes right back up to its owner. “Do you think I can use Jason Blossom’s death as an excuse to get out of PE?”

Whiskey and Amber eyes sought out Blue and Grey and Green usually so vibrant currently muted as they always were when anyone else might see, only the tiniest spark of light there, sitting in the still depths for Archie to see. His hands tried to be busy, sorting through the locker he didn’t need open for books he didn’t need and notes he already had memorized, trying to appear normal as his tongue became heavy in his mouth. As words worthy of the one in his presence fled his suddenly quiet mind. Jughead didn’t wait for him though, didn’t expect an answer other than that too open stare.

“ ‘Sorry, Coach, I’m just too depressed and freaked out to do pull-ups right now.’ ” Those eyes searched the hall without interest, dull without anything worthy under their gaze to focus upon as they tracked back to him, to the jacket heavy on his shoulders and up across the throat that felt as if a stone had lodged in it to eyes that couldn’t meet his own. Archie’s eyes flitted across the hall as his mouth opened, as his mind remembered the act he was supposed to play and the lines of improv worn into the pathways of his mind, as he played his part and his tongue formed the words dully and without true feeling. “Don’t joke about Jason Blossom.”

His eyes met those carefully dulled ones evenly, the mask he’d been floundering for firmly back in place for any who dared to look too close. Not enough to fool the one before him though. Those pale lips pulled up in amusement, one brow tilting in humor at his attempts, those eyes boring into his own and past them into his soul as if he couldn’t fool his oldest friend. Maybe he couldn’t. He wished, with the weight of his secret heavy in his throat like a pungent perfume that chased him, choked and suffocated him, that he couldn’t.

“What?” That voice reached him, too quiet, too tender for where they stood. He got the sense that his friend couldn’t bear to meet his eyes without smiling, without failing in his façade and giggling like the school children they weren’t, understood that as those lips kept moving and those eyes fell to the ground so they weren’t resting on him anymore. As that voice rang out too quiet and too light with the humor of boys hiding from their parents and telling jokes. “Sardonic humor is just my way of relating to the world.”

He composed himself again into the depressed loner outcast everyone saw whenever they deigned to glance at him and his eyes came back up, that grin still there at the corner of his mouth but fought down, composed into an actor’s indifferent frown. It was Archie’s turn to lose his composure, to look away in the next step of their well-rehearsed danced. He scanned the area without any real interest, then looked back up at the other boy, but couldn’t find anything to say. He just pressed his lips together in a not smile and a not frown. He didn’t have to say anything though as Jughead’s eyes were drawn down the hall and real disdain made itself known on his features, those eyes going dead so as not to reveal what lurked behind them as he scoffed.

“Look. It’s the rich kids from The Goonies, I’m out.” He turns to look and his eyes land apathetically on the jocks he acts like he’s friends with before that voice draws his attention back like a beacon. “All right, I’m out.”

Archie watches him go with a watchful gaze and carefully neutral expression that would look concerned if anyone cared to look closer. He watches as Reggie slammed into Jughead with an elbow to his shoulder, too close to the column of his neck. Too close to his throat. “Watch it Wednesday Adams!” The jeer rings down the hall, reaches Archie’s ears as he watches Jughead glare at Reggie as if the jock wasn’t worth his time or the air he breathed and walked away. Archie’s facial expression fell into a blank slate save the parting of his lips to exhale an angry breath. He looked away quickly, deliberately finds something else to focus his eyes and attention on so he doesn’t crack, so their carefully built façade doesn’t come crumbling down. So he doesn’t shove Reggie into a wall and tear that boastful, fragile throat from his neck. He walks away so he doesn’t hold an arrogant, dying asshole against the unyielding column that kept the walls standing and bare his teeth in satisfaction as the blood from his throat rains down on him like unholy retribution.

He doesn’t hear a word from his teacher’s lips as the clock’s hands ticked and count down the minutes of his class. His anger, brutally shoved down into a cage that sits in the pit of his soul, has frozen over, frost coating iron bars and ice meeting burning ire, the two turning to smothering vapor. He tries not to dwell on Jughead or Reggie or Jason Blossom, and he’s successful at dampening the words in his head, but not the emotions in his chest. The silence in his mind turns to an oppressive fog that isolates him from the world and he stares blankly at his notes, out the window, at eh blackboard, not seeing the words or the clouds or the diagrams. He hears the bell like a shot through silence and gathers his things and returns to his locker, some distant part of his mind voicing thanks that none of his peers try to stop him, try to speak with him. He switches notebooks he didn’t use for others he isn’t likely to see any clearer than their predecessors, he could go to class now, has no reason to stand where he is, and yet he doesn’t move. The movement around him is a blur of color where nothing stands out, the chattering of voices a cacophony he can’t begin to translate because it no longer sounds like words to his ears. Nothing comes into focus until the halls are empty and echoing footsteps draw his gaze to a familiar form.

It terrifies him in a way he never thought the sight of his oldest friend could. Strikes dread into the center of his rotten heart when Jughead finds him in the fleeting moments between their classes as the hands on the clock tick ever onward at a demanding, threatening pace, the hallway they stand in long since empty of even the slowest stragglers. “Archie.” The call of his name could be likened to a gunshot, but bullet wounds pass quickly, and this isn’t quick, hits far more like the sharp lash of a whip dragging vicious and slow across already raw skin.

He’ll be late to class if he doesn’t move but such things are of no concern, barely register in the realm of his reality as he stares into intelligent grey eyes that have always seen more than they should, that have always held knowledge no human should know locked behind ebbing blues and greens. Those eyes pin him to his place in complete surrender, nearly freeze his lungs as he is swept up, enthralled, and overwhelmed by their piercing gaze. Raven colored locks fall over pale features as the boy before him cocks his head to the side, the movement sharp and almost violent, as he tilts his head in a mockery of puppy-like innocence and curiosity.

“Weirdest thing.” He does not speak without care as to who hears, but he knows as well as Archie that these halls that now reverberate with his voice, with the voice of ancient beings striking reverence into mortal fools, are empty, that only Archie will hear these words meant for his ears. “This summer, we were supposed to take a road trip over July Fourth weekend, which you bailed on last minute.”

Every word is a finely-honed edge slicing into Archie like knives bearing his name, blades forged only with the purpose of sinking through his skin and piercing his blackened core. They fill him with fear, pin him to the ground beneath him as grey eyes flash with artic storms and ice seeps along the space between them, encompasses Archie like cloying fog, freezes through his brittle bones and curls icicle claws into the core of his being.

Jughead’s too clever eyes flash with dangerous light as they bore into his own surely gone wide in panic. The words fall from pale lips, a final judgment passed down from the throne to the executioner’s blade. Death held no fear for Archie, but this boy’s savage, precision-wrought knowing turning slowly to fury strikes a fear so terrible in Archie’s soul that the word ‘terror’ is a mere plaything.

“Is there something you wanna tell me, pal?”

The bell rings its final warning, punctuates the last word from Jughead’s lips, and Archie uses it as an excuse to flee. He hides behind an institution and the minor threat of punishment for deviating from the designated schedule, hides because he’s a coward and his heart is gripped in the frozen embrace of something worse than terror in the face of Jughead’s knowing gaze.

-

He goes through his day in numbness. Surprises himself when actual pain twists in his gut as the announcement of Jason Blossom’s death being ruled a murder rings over the ancient pa system and bounces off the cracked walls of their school. Tries to muster some form of surprise or a half convincing imitation of the shock and gasps and mournful faces of his chattering schoolmates. It’s ridiculous though, and he can’t help but scoff to himself as he observes them without real care, that he should have to mimic their fake emotions and theatrical tears and wailing gossip that rang hollow without any truth behind it. All of it so fake. But if he didn’t react in a similar manner, they would single him out, cry out in accusation with misplaced and fake dramatic anger that he ‘didn’t care’. He probably cared more than most of them, and even then, he lacked the shock that filled them.

He does cobble together some sincerity when he talks to Cheryl, when he expresses his regret that Jason’s life was cut short, when he offers a shoulder to cry on if she should need it. He feels that sincerity shrivel up in his chest as she responds in dramatics and showboating, stabbing the scalpel down without precision or care to prove a point. Can’t help but think that the bright and dark spot of Jason didn’t deserve to be saddled with only this to mourn for him.

He tolerates the buzzing of his friends at the lunch table where he’d hoped to be left alone, because they are his friends, Betty and Kevin. But Betty isn’t as she claimed. She isn’t fine, and she isn’t able to be around him, to listen to him or share his space without pain, and he doesn’t know how to help her. He doesn’t know how to tell her that he loves her, but he can never love her, because his heart is a flimsy thing but it isn’t fickle, and it can never be hers because his soul already belongs to another, bent under the weight of devotion that would pale in comparison if he tried to love her with its mockery.

He doesn’t tolerate this other one so well, patience and calm nearly breaking over the jagged edge of her. Kevin is so different from him, but his dark and kind eyes light with acceptance. He doesn’t see the darkness beneath the golden-boy skin Archie wears so well, but he knows something is there, doesn’t understand or begin to comprehend it, but accepts it. He doesn’t push when the sharp edges poke through the halo Archie hides behind. This new girl isn’t like Kevin. She shoves her way into their group without a care, flaunting expensive clothes and handing out gifts she’d had brought to her from out of state in order to buy flimsy friendship without a care. She sits there in a space that should be filled by dark hair shorter than hers and pale skin not covered by makeup but dusted in darks stars, a space that hasn’t been occupied in months because of other issues, because of the façade they bend to. She fills it now as if she owns it and commands him ‘act’ with a voice meant to be seductive, but the crown sits uneven on her head, doesn’t belong to her, and the arrogance to command anything of him makes him bristle. Makes spines unseen to them raise along his spine, urges his lips to curl and bare canines that are too short and dull to fit comfortably in his mouth. She demands a song from him. He isn’t talented in words, cannot weave them into mesmerizing tapestries that rival the galaxies like his Beloved can, but in songs they may bend to his voice at least a little bit, molding into shape to form a picture unskilled but filled with the essence his heart. These words are not for her, not for any of them, should only be heard by one pair ears, and he wants to curse her instead of give them to her, but she says ‘please’ and looks to the friends who sit uneasily with urgency in her eyes, the first real thing she’s shown. So he acquiesces. It’s a mistake. He knew it would be, and Betty’s tears aren’t what he wanted, but he cannot fix that no matter how hard, how earnestly, he tries, because his devotion belongs to another.

Weatherbee pulls him away and he’s a coward. He knows that. But he can’t say what he wants, can’t figure out how to make his words come out properly. So he says nothing, mutters some variation of ‘No Sir’ and walks away. He walks straight to her. He doesn’t waste time, walks in and says “Weatherbee just asked me if I knew anything about Jason.” He doesn’t know quite why he says it that way…That’s a lie. The Golden Boy, the part of him that commits to the role, the childlike part of him that hadn’t been able to open his mouth and say what he’d wanted to his Principle, doesn’t know. But deeper, darker parts of him know exactly why, knows he’s hoping to scare her into ending what he can’t figure out how to. It doesn’t work.

He wants to curse, wants to raise his hands against something, he wants to scream. But it’s strangled in his throat along with his courage and his anger when she says “I’m putting myself in your hands.” Reminds him so indelicately that he’s in her hands, reminds him with clever prose that he’s a fly in her web. “You’re in my hands Archie Andrews, what a precarious place to be.” She’d said it with a giggle in the middle of the night, said it like a schoolgirl flirting with her crush, but it had been a threat, and the words themselves, the hand at his throat where only one person should ever be, and the dangerous eyes that met his in a mockery of care made it clear that it was a threat. That hand at his chin now was an echo, a reminder as clear as the words spoken.

He ran, again, ever the coward, unable to stand up for himself. The darkness under his skin shriveling in the face of this malicious thing even his mind couldn’t have fathomed, taking over him like the stories only superstitious pirates of old told tales of, leaving him choking in its wake. If only it was a storm at sea…he would rather choke on the seawater that killed him than the vile sickness this thing of hers poured down his throat. He cowered under the weight of it, a child before a monster he couldn’t fight, and it brought him to his knees. He didn’t go quietly, hatred barreling up his throat to form a snarl as his knees hit the ground, he should only kneel before one thing and this woman was not it, but he could not fight her.

He wonders why the weight of this sickness bears heavier on him today than it has for the weeks past. Doesn’t realize the weight of another set of eyes from where he kneels, bent under the weight of her gaze.

-

The day passes and he doesn’t remember a thing, only a blur of colors and sounds and scents and sensations that don’t fully reach his mind as he tries not to wilt and die from the poison once again injected into his veins, into his heart, into his soul.

He doesn’t see Jughead again that day, and that isn’t unusual, but it bears a new weight today that he doesn’t understand as it spears through his core, he winces as he feels it and he doesn’t understand it. He moves on, because he cannot just shut down and stand there like a statue, no matter how much he wants to stop existing, to stop the thoughts whirling through his mind like shrapnel in a hurricane.

He hides the weight in his chest and the darkness so unlike his own that it’s foreign and creeping in his mind like an infection, hides it all from his father. From the kindest man he knows. He knows by the heavy eyes that follow him that he isn’t successful, knows by the lines growing ever deeper in his father’s expression that it isn’t hidden as well as he’d hoped. He wonders how much the man knows, how much he…recognizes. He doesn’t know about the woman, would have…what would he have done? Curious thoughts stir in Archie’s mind as he walks along towards the diner at his father’s behest, the one spot of brightness in this accursed town. Would his father have destroyed something? Destroyed…her? It seems ridiculous but sometimes…sometimes Archie thinks he sees recognition in his father’s eyes. Memories of older times, of Jughead’s father and his own together stir recognition in his own chest and he feels as if he’s seeing a reflection of himself, of Jughead, of the bond between them. No. His father doesn’t know about her, but he knows, even if he no longer acknowledges his recognition, he knows the darkness beneath his son’s skin.

He stops his musing as he collects the food his father ordered, and he wishes to no particular thing nor being that the girl from earlier wasn’t there. He wants to sneer in petulance, bare his teeth in animalistic warning so she would take a hint, but his father raised him better than that. So he plays the part of the ‘Golden Boy’, walks with her and makes conversation politely, tries to give her advice without choking on the aura of her perfume. Eventually, he gets away from her. Eventually, he gets home, but it’s not he solace he was hoping for.

Jughead’s sitting on his front step, and for a moment his rotten heart pulls free of the chains of the poison that have held it down, for a second it soars upward in hope he hadn’t felt in what felt like years but had only been hours. Then he sees it, the way his closest friend is sitting, the way he slumps forward, the expression on his face. It’s pain that makes him want to rush forward, but there’s an edge to it as those eyes look up to find him, a bottomlessness that sinks through Archie’s skin and into his gut. Disappointment. It’s not something he was used to seeing on pale features, not turned towards him, but lately it feels like it’s all he sees, worse it feels like what he deserves after how badly he’s screwed up. After what he’s done.

“Jug?” His voice is tentative, more unsure than it has been around this boy since they were young children. It feels out of place, sounds it too, but he feels like a child then, a child drowning in something he cannot name. “What’s up?” He hopes to the only thing his broken soul bows to in devotion that it’s only disappointment and not disgust marring pale features gone dark with shadows.

The raven boy stands up and walks down the steps towards him, and Jughead may be shorter than him, but Archie had never felt so small, not even when she…

“What’s up is I saw you Archie.” What heart he has is gone, now an abyss in his chest where poison gathered into sickening pain. He feels like a child and Jughead speaks as if he were one, as if he needed an explanation. “In the music room. With Ms. Grundy.” They’re face to face but they feel galaxies apart because this boy had never felt so closed off to him before. Shadows move in the window and another kind of panic gather’s him in its brutal grip, pushes him to take a step forward. “Keep your voice down, my Dad’s inside.”

It was the wrong thing to say, but it was the only thing that muddled its way through the rushing and deafening panic and pain surging up from his stomach and nonexistent heart to fill his head. He knows it was the wrong thing to say as his friend steps closer, head titled and painful sharpness in his eyes, pale throat covered by a tilted chin in a way it never was, not to him. “I’m trying to help you dude.”

It hurts, the admonishment and the impersonal nickname. Fills him with something that he can’t name. Can’t name because it chokes him and he’s drowning in it, his world narrowing down to the boy in front of him and monsters looming over him with poison claws shoved down his throat and in his chest.

“I’m trying to be your friend. Even though we’re not anymore.” That hurts worse, makes the world tilt on its axis, and he feels like he can’t breathe because those words, what they meant... ‘We’re not anymore.’ Not. Not…Nothing. Not ‘friends’. Not brothers. Not part of each other. Not… “How long? You and Grundy.” The words break through the storm in his head and he knows he has to answer, and he can’t stop the break in his voice.

“Since the Summer.” It’s practically a whisper, but the reaction it brings is sharper than a whip breaking across his cheek. Jughead looks at him and he’s never looked at him like that, with betrayal in his eyes and disbelief in his features. “So I’m guessing she’s the reason you’ve been acting weird since summer?” All the words he didn’t say: ‘Why you’ve been distant’ ‘Why you’ve been skittish’ ‘Why you can’t look me in the eye for more than a few seconds’ ‘Why you weren’t there’ – They fill Archie’s mind like the stones being added to press him until his death.

He can barely whisper the words, but he owes that much, owes the boy before him, so he forces them past his lips. “One of them…” The weight of pain unsaid won’t form into words, won’t pass the vice of his vocal cords, won’t leave his lips and fill the air. He doesn’t know how to make it. He doesn’t know what to do as Jughead lets the betrayal play clearly over his features either, voice going higher in shocked disbelief. “There’s more?”

“We…We were there on the 4th. At the river.” The words feel like sickness crawling up his throat, like bile and rotten filth forcing itself past the noose around his neck while he choked it up. “We heard the gunshot…” Fragmented sentences that sound whole enough they slip past the notice of the raven before him.

“You have to tell someone!” Too loud, too loose, too frantic. The words reach his ears and stir the embers of panic into the inferno they’d been only moments ago. “I can’t!” He wants to say more, but he can’t form the words and Jughead isn’t giving him the time to. “A kid is dead Archie! And you’re worried about some cougar you’ve fallen for!”

“It’s not like that!” He needs to tell him, needs him to understand. Needs him to know that he doesn’t care about her, that he doesn’t want this, that he never wanted any of this. The words won’t come, they won’t come fast enough. “Stab in the dark: She’s the one telling you not to say anything.” Jughead’s hands are up now, and Archie thinks for a moment that those hands that have never hurt him are going to strike at him, are going to leave bruises that pale in comparison to the weight of the other’s disappointment. He’d deserve them, but he knows he’d break beneath them. “I saw you together. She’s messing with you man!”

“You don’t know about it Jughead!” Wrong. These words were wrong. They were truthful, this boy didn’t know what was going on, he didn’t know the weight of poison that had destroyed Archie over the past weeks. But they were wrong, they didn’t translate the way he wanted, they fell the wrong way on pale ears hidden by raven hair, they made storm-colored eyes meet dying amber with a vicious light that had never been placed on him before.

“No. But I used to know this guy once. Archie Andrews. He wasn’t perfect but…” Those eyes gone grey looked away from him and it felt like a knife to his heart digging ever deeper as the tension grew, as he waited for his heart to speak. They found him again and he couldn’t even muster the wish that they would look away, could never wish that those eyes turned away from him, no matter how much they hurt. “He always tried to do the right thing at least.”

Anger. Betrayal. Disappointment. Disgust. Complete and utter nothingness. They rain down from Jughead’s voice, down until they lodge into Archie’s soul. It breaks him. He’d held together by this boy’s strength and his own desperation while her poison broke him apart, now he shattered, and the fragments dulled from starlight into dust.

He wanted to fall to his knees, wanted his brokenness to become action to be seen by the only eyes that truly mattered to him. But he was frozen as he shattered. He wanted to look up at this bright being of stardust and ethereal darkness and otherworldly light who let him exist in his presence and he wanted to tell him. He wanted to form the words to express the poison that had seeped into his heart and cut into his soul, wanted to weave words until they showed the tangled entrapment surrounding him built from a voice too soft and full of sickness. Wanted to lay his soul bare and fall apart, wanted to let the one who had held him together see where another had reached into his soul and shattered him.

He wanted to cry, to scream, to let this sickness spill out in all its wretchedness. He wanted to sing, to weave words into imperfect art that reached the stars with the weight of his love, his devotion. He wanted…he wanted to break and be seen…but poisoned, sugar-coated threats from a voice that should never have whispered in his ear and the weight of disappointment and betrayal from deadened blue-grey eyes that had never looked at him like this froze his voice and paralyzed his lungs.

Jughead went to walk away and he grasped at his arm desperately, a clumsy movement from a sluggish mind and the fractured body of a broken boy. “Jug…” He didn’t know what to say under the weight of those eyes, those eyes that now bored into his like needles in his skin, he stared back despite the pain, searching for recognition he didn’t see. “What?” Breathless and harsh, almost spat out. Archie didn’t have an answer, he had so much he wanted to say, but he didn’t have time to figure it out as his father’s form filled the doorway and graced the steps, an older set of amber eyes falling on them with a knowingness that they shouldn’t hold.

“Hey, Jug. Coming in? We got take-out from Pop’s.” His father always ordered extra, just incase Jughead stopped by, just in case his father… even Fred didn’t dwell on thoughts of that outside the cold lonely nights.

He couldn’t do this. Not here. Not in front of his father. Couldn’t risk him discovering, well, any of it. The thing lurking under his skin; the poison hooks flooding his soul; the bond he had…used to have, to this boy staring at him like he was a stranger; her. So he forced out the only words he could, praying he didn’t wilt and fade away under that storm-gone-still gaze. “He was just leaving.” The words ring hollow and empty, as if they barely existed, but they land like a blow all the same, he could see that in his best friend’s eyes as the last of the shutters slammed and storms turned to dead grey.

Jughead leaves, takes his only reason for breathing with him as he goes. His anger and disappointment stay behind, a cloak of ice wrapped around a cold and lonely boy. His father doesn’t ask, just follows his numb movements with dull amber eyes that warm when they land on him but haven’t really lit up in years, not since FP and he had fallen out. He doesn’t ask, only watches with too much knowledge, too much understanding and yet none at all in his eyes. The food tastes like nothing to his dull tongue but he goes through the motions of eating, hopes he won’t choke it all up later.

Eventually he says his goodnights and goes up to his bed, curls up under the covers that seem to strangle him and shivers in the cold and empty darkness. He doesn’t sleep, merely exists in that paralyzing place between sleep and wakefulness, it isn’t sleep but he has nightmares all the same. Grey eyes gone so dull they’re chipped from decaying stone haunt him with the weight of their lifelessness, normally endless sources of emotion and thought, windows that held stories and opened up into the never-ending abyss of the cosmos and possibility, suddenly closed to him. Empty. Even absent the pierce his soul, and they’re joined by hands that don’t belong to the same being. Cold hands too delicate and punishing, unrelenting ghost across his skin, matched by lips sharp as thorns catching on his own and pouring poison down his throat, reminding him of memories like phantoms of trying to cover his throat because it’s not for her. Not for anyone else. He drowns in the panic and the pain, in the oceans of tears he won’t cry and remorse for the heart he tore to shreds locked behind grey eyes.

-

He doesn’t see Jughead again until the next day, doesn’t really run into anyone at all who commands his attention in the passing day. Teachers barely hold his attention, for the most part they don’t at all. Betty doesn’t talk to him, still upset, he couldn’t change that though. Even in his current state, he had nothing but brokenness to give her, and he couldn’t hand her a heart that didn’t belong to him anymore, hadn’t for years. Veronica seems to have made up with her, thankfully, and Archie knows future trouble will follow that pair, but for today he’s only grateful that her predatory but inexperienced eyes aren’t set on him.

His day is numbness and apathy he can barely hide behind his Golden Boy Façade crumbling around him, and he wonders if he’ll make it through the day as he heads for the student lounge. He wants to hide on the bleachers by the unused track, but he knows he’ll fall apart and lose his mask if he goes there, so to the lounge, and the vulture students who will force him to keep his mask in place, it is.

“And Sheriff Keller’s grilling me, Mantle the Magnificent. ‘Cause I’d want Blossom dead.” He almost turns around as the voice reaches him, but it’s old routine by now. Reggie boasts from a foolish tongue to make himself feel important, and the jocks around him and the cheerleaders they hang on their arms like interchangeable ornaments nod along like bobble-headed toys, an attentive audience paying their dues to the figurehead they flock to. It makes Archie sick, and for a moment he’s surprised at the level of animosity that settles amidst the feeling of nothingness in his gut. These fools wouldn’t know devotion or worship if given directions and approach by deity incarnate, wouldn’t know how to fall to their knees and bare their souls. They could act like it, but the truth was just that: It was all an act. They bared nothing, risked nothing in their devotion, their callous worship that set their place in the tiny food chain of high school. They didn’t know devotion that left them on their knees without a thought, staring up at the thing that held their souls and baring their being to it, the worship that held the risk of the one they turned to destroying the hearts they’d bared. They were actors on a stage who’d never read their part, and it filled him with disdain.

Sickness, though, that came from Reggie, the one who sat like a supposed Olympic hero from the days of old to bask in their praises. He thought of himself like one: A champion of old, a demigod with holiness running through his veins. Thought he deserved devotion and worship. Archie knew one who deserved devotion, and it was not holiness burrowed in his soul. Reggie Mantle was an arrogant fool, boastful and never-ending in the arrogance that filled the space where his brain should be, he expected everyone to bow to him, including Archie. But Archie did not bow to the likes of him, bowed to one, sick as it was. This sickness though, could not be safely expressed, so he pushed it down with indifference, forced himself to walk through them as if he had not a care, gazing down at a blank phone screen. He feels the eyes of Chuck Clayton, of vermin, on his skin, but they slide away as he passes, land back on Reggie as he blunders on.

“When he was like the only good quarterback we had.” ‘Quarterback’, as if that was all the teen’s life had meant. Apathy lived in the cage of Archie’s ribs and flowed like numbing venom through his veins, but even he could feel a loss greater than football trophies with the boy’s death. “And speaking of offensive tight ends,” Like that made any sense, why did people listen to him? “I should’ve sent the cops to you Moose.” Numbness and ice, what was the difference? He might have said there wasn’t one, yet he felt ice chase through his veins, sharper then numbness, as the attention in the room shifted to Moose. ’Not him. Of all of you, not him.’ “What exactly where you and Kevin doing down at the river, huh?”

Moose was the only one of the jocks Archie liked, and even then it was barely more than disinterest. But he knew the boy well enough to know he was in the closet, to know how he felt for Kevin. To know that he was too innocent, naïve, to be subjected to Reggie’s hateful rhetoric. “Or does being with the Sheriff’s son give you a free pass? Keller?” Reggie never stopped talking, did he? But the attention was split now, between Moose and the far more formidable Kevin. He didn’t even hear the response, too caught up in his own voice.

Archie couldn’t pretend to care anymore, hadn’t been maintaining a façade of interest at all to watching eyes if he was honest. He stopped listening, turned inward to the empty cold inside that howled like dark wind through desert peaks: Lifeless, cold, lonely, desolate. It isn’t moping, not exactly, not self-pity either, those things require that one whine and complain and make excuses for how they felt. No. This was akin to acceptance, but not peace. This was felt like laying down in the cold sands in the darkness between the towering peaks, uncaring but not unfeeling to of the sharpness of the sands pelting his skin at the whim of the endless, whipping wind.

Distantly he hears Reggie claim that a jock wouldn’t have killed Jason, as if jealousy and testosterone-fueled idiocy wouldn’t be more than enough reason, hadn’t been in other murders they wouldn’t know the first thing about. Only focusses on trying to get a drink from the machine that never works, tries not to focus on the raven perched just at his side, close enough to touch but so frigid he wouldn’t dare try. He ignores the drivel, but he does hear it when those words begin to form insulting sounds into hateful words he’s heard a thousand times before, forced himself not to react to a thousand more: “Let’s be honest. Isn’t it always some spooky, scrawny, pathetic internet troll too busy writing his manifestos to get laid?”

Grey eyes fall across him and he pretends he isn’t breaking, pretends for the crowd that never stops gawking, pretends for them because he would have fallen to his knees by now if it was just the two of them. Those eyes that try so hard to be apathetic to him, to the one thing they had never looked on without care, land on his hands, and Archie knows. He can feel the weight of them, the wish to take the crumpled bill from his hands and smooth it out, to put it through the machine and do it for him because the raven-haired boy could, because he could do that to take care of the redhead he’d always taken care of simply because he could . He could feel the weight of forced apathy and all too real pain and the presence of a dozen people that stops him them both.

“Some smug, moody, serial killer fanboy freak,” He meets those eyes because he cannot command himself not to. They meet his gaze and he tries not to give it all away at the sight of betrayal and curiosity and infinite care now shrouded in pain in the depths of those eyes. He’d bare it all to the world if it would fix things, but that would only mess it up all the more, so he doesn’t do a thing.

“Like Jughead?”

Those damn words and that name that should never leave Reggie Mantle’s lips set a flame down Archie’s spine. Anger’s the first thing he’s felt that isn’t pain, isn’t numbness, isn’t poison in nearly a day. It feels like baptism, but he doesn’t let it consume him. He never can.

Grey eyes leave him to meet the boring depths of blackened brown in an even stare, disinterest pouring off every line of a relaxed body in a manner cats couldn’t dream of.

“What was it like Suicide Squad? When you shot Jason?” Damn him. His teeth ground together, but he didn’t let it show, didn’t turn around and bare them, didn’t invite that boy closer so he could sink them into his jugular and rip. “You didn’t do stuff to the body, did you? Like…after?” The calmness of the raven beside him didn’t belong to him, not anymore, yet it was the only thing that kept him from losing his mask, from becoming the real killer in the room.

“It’s called necrophilia, Reggie, can you spell it?” He would smile if his mask wasn’t in place, could feel it pull at his lips all the same as pride filled his hollowed chest. Words were helpless as he was in Jughead’s vice, and they bent for him, sang whatever tone he wished, lashed out and laid waste where he commanded, never, ever leaving him tongue-tied.

Reggie vaults over the couch’s side table with an angrily spat “Come here you little…” And Jughead stands straight to meet him, unafraid, but Archie cannot stop himself anymore. He can’t hold in the fire that’s been steadily growing in his core, the flames licking his veins and setting the echo of a nonexistent heartbeat thundering across his ribs. He knows Jughead’s eyes follow him in surprise, but he cannot help himself anymore, will be lucky if he doesn’t tear this boy to shreds.

Reggie’s taller than him, but that doesn’t matter as Archie steps into his path, steps between the loud-mouth reject from Olympus and the boy who holds the cosmos, as he shoves him back, away from them. “Shut the hell up Reggie.” He doesn’t have to force these words up, not like all the others he’s uttered since last night, but he has to reign them in, has to make them come out even. Has to stop fury from tangling around them like clinging vines.

Veronica tries to interrupt, as if her infamy and old status makes her the queen of anything here, give her the authority to command the jester and the scarred soldier. It’s laughable. These boys may bow to Cheryl Blossom when it suited them, but Archie had never bowed to her and he wouldn’t bow to this girl here.

“What do you care Andrews?”

The words ring through his head, like thundering wind suddenly a sandstorm in the smoldering desert. Everything. It nearly slips from his lips, the gateway to never-ending words of fealty, of devotion pure in its imprisoning embrace, of worship human words could not voice. He struggles to pull his mask up, to appear the apathetic teenager he’s supposed to be. He knows he fails at least for a moment because he cannot help but glance back at Jughead as he answers, amber meeting searching grey as the words false and hollow ring out “Nothing. Just leave him alone.”

It’s growing again, the urge, the itch under his skin to tear Reggie apart, to rend flesh and let the blood run black as it dries.

“Holy crap.” Laughter and mockery drip from Reggie’s foul tongue, and he wants, god he wants to tear it from his mouth so it can never utter another word against Jughead. Rage simmers up hot until it goes cold as careless hands point to the Raven-haired boy by his side, as jeering eyes and lips twisted in a mocking smile bore into him. As a heathen tongue curls around words about the only one Archie would bow to, would die for. “Did you and Danny Darko kill him together?”

They should be better at this, better at hiding it after all these years of sheltering their twisted souls from seeking eyes, but he knows they’re not, not today. He doesn’t have to look, doesn’t have to see more than the blur in his peripheral vision to know that Jughead is staring at Reggie in shock, shock at how stupid he could be. He doesn’t have to look, but he can’t help himself as he searches desperately for something, anything to keep himself in check.

“Was it some kind of pervy, blood brother thing?” Reggie’s in his space now, and he can’t help it, can’t stop it. ‘blood brother thing’. Like that could describe the tiniest bit of the bond they’d shared, the flayed thing laid out in shreds between them now. He doesn’t know what it is that does it, that makes him lose his tenuous control. If it’s the insulting names or the unworthy eyes and hands and voice that hold themselves above Jughead. He doesn’t know if it’s the accusation or the insults, or if it’s the mockery of their bond, but Reggie’s stumbling back and Archie’s suddenly hitting cracking glass. He hears Jughead’s voice, a shout without form, always does no matter the noise surrounding him, and it breaks him from the haze of the darkness marring his gaze from inside. But then, as if the boy had snapped his fingers, the fire is fading again and his strength goes with it. He’s on his back, ferocity forgotten in the aftermath of rage, and Reggie’s on top of him and Jughead, ‘not his fiend anymore’ Jughead is trying to pull the oversized jock off of him, but other mindless sheep are stopping him. He wants to get up, wants to remove their hands from the raven-haired boy, but he can’t, because Jughead’s cry sapped the strength from his body and he’s helpless now to the onslaught of a fool.

He doesn’t understand how they didn’t get in trouble, but somehow, they don’t. People are cheering one moment and pulling them apart the next, shoving them on their way to class. He wants to get to Jughead, but the masses have decided that they do not belong together and the darker boy is gone, shuffled away and shoved to the side while he is pushed away from Reggie and down the hall, the taller boy pushed off in the opposite direction. He doesn’t find the boy throughout the remainder of the day and he’s home before he knows what’s happened, an ice pack pressed to a swollen eye.

His father’s in front of him then, that odd look parents get when they’re concerned and caught halfway between tender care and reprimand hovering in his eyes. “Hate to ask this, but did you get in a fight with Jughead?” He asks it like he knows the answer, knows the truth no matter how Archie got his black eye. It almost makes him want to laugh at the same time it makes him want to cry because yes, he did, but then he got a black eye because his devotion couldn’t be silenced by pain and ‘used to know’ .

“No. It was with Reggie.” It’s the most honest answer he can give right now. He knows it’s not enough, so his eyes trace the wood grain of the counter he’s sat at while his tongue tries to form the words that haven’t been willing to come out for days, weeks now. “Jughead and I…were disagreeing about a girl.” Truth more misleading than a lie. “But it’s not about Jug and me,” Lie. As if his world did not revolve around his best friend hadn’t since he was a child. “It’s about me and this girl.” Truth ironclad as the chains binding him. How is he supposed to say this? Tell his father what’s wrong when he couldn’t tell Jughead? Tell him the poison in his veins without spewing it out for the world to see? Tell him the truth without honeyed threats becoming reality? “I…There’s something I think we should do, and it’s the right thing…but this girl…she says doing it will…” He wants to be sick. “Will ruin what we have.”

‘What we have.’ Like this was a normal girlfriend that most boys had at some point during high school. Like his soul wasn’t held captive by another. Like it wasn’t a nightmare of endless horror.

“This is the most honest talk we’ve had in a while,” He wishes it wasn’t. Wishes it were more honest than it was. “and I’m glad you want to do the right thing, I can see that, even under the shiner.”

The right thing? Was baring his soul in devotion to a boy hiding a strangeness not unlike his own ‘right’? Were the wishes of skin and tearing and blood in retribution for insolence and pitiful spite ‘right’? Was telling about the gunshot, heedless of the painful consequences that hung over his neck like the executioner’s blade ‘right’? Were these wants of his ‘right’? For a fleeting moment of childish youth he wishes he could ask his father these things, the way a small child could ask any curiosity without raising alarm beyond ‘where’d you hear that?’.

“Archie, if you know it’s the right thing to do, even though it’s tough, even though it might…It might cost you,” Those eyes had never worn the weight of understanding that made Archie question if his father shared his oddity more than they did now, had never been heavy with the weight of past choices and the pain they’d caused, to him and his closest companion, like they were now. “You gotta do it.”

He nodded his head, agreed with what his father was saying, but he didn’t know if he could. He didn’t know the right and the wrong of his father’s past, but he knew the cost: FP. His oldest friend, dearest friend. Archie didn’t know if he could bear the weight of such a price, but… there was one thing he could do, could twist the words enough to hide the truth and prevent the realization of poisoned words. He could tell them about the gunshot, that he was there, a risk to himself and no one else.

-

He’d never liked pep rallies, but then he wasn’t sure any student truly liked them, even the primadonnas who got to preen in the limelight. He wished there was less light here now as he approached her. He kept the length of the table between them and choked back the sickness that climbed his throat. How had he ever found this woman kind, thought her inviting or motherly? He wanted to throw up at the thought of it. It was all he could do to hide the tremors running through his body.

“I’m gonna come clean to Weatherbee and Keller.” He wishes he could give her more of a reason for the sudden panic on her features, but he knows not to push her, knows the consequences. He won’t be deterred though, in this he’s made up his mind, and her voice dripping innocence and sugar and desperation as it uttered his name in the wrong tenor wouldn’t stop him. “I’m going to do it tomorrow. If you want to be there, we’ll figure that out, if not, I’ll do the best I can to keep you out of it, but I’m telling them about me.”

She doesn’t answer and he’s grateful that that voice isn’t piercing his ears. Threats and admonishments like tender words don’t come, it’s almost acceptance, and he’s grateful for the lack of action, the lack of words. Weight settles on him and he knows it, knows the feeling of it, has for years. A grey gaze draws his eyes away, calls to him like a siren’s song beckoning to either his home or his destruction, and he would gladly, knowingly, take either one so long as the owner of those grey eyes was the one to give it to him.

He walks away and wishes that it felt better than this hollowness to have gotten the last word, to have the barest spark of power in this struggle that had long since turned into silent and pained acceptance. He walks straight towards those eyes, walks uncaring of the world around him, of any responsibility he may have or any voice that calls his name until he’s standing in front of a raven-haired boy next to the bleachers, wishing they were under them in a different time. That boy turns towards him, fairy lights rigged to the metal bleachers lighting grey eyes that have the barest hints of blue swirling in their depths.

“Girl trouble? You?” It’s said lightly, hiding the truth behind it, the truth of what they were, had been, of what Archie had destroyed in foolish vulnerability. He doesn’t know what to say, but he needs at least some of the disappointment marring his best friend’s being to fade, so he says the only thing he can think of without meeting blue-grey eyes. “I’m telling Weatherbee tomorrow. I don’t know what she’ll do, but I can tell them what I heard.”

Surprise and something, something close to approval lights pale features as Jughead looks at him, eyes searching him. He wishes they would find what they were looking for, wishes his flaws and failures didn’t cause his oldest friend pain. His throat’s in a stranglehold but he can’t keep going without saying something, but here isn’t the place with all these ears, and now isn’t the time with so little time before this accursed rally starts. “What I said, Jug, I didn’t mean it the way it sounded.” A brow raises at him, accusatory and unimpressed but curious. His voice breaks in a choked off throat. “I… There’s…so much I want to say, need to tell you… but I don’t know how and I..” He trails off as Jughead looks to the ground, looks back up to him with concern and care and a curiosity that betrays hurt. The air horn sounds and he knows he only has three minutes to be in place and that’s not long enough. “There isn’t enough time now, Jug, and I don’t know how what to say…”

Grey eyes flecked in swirls of blue peer at him from depths narrowed searchingly rather than in animosity and he hopes for things he can’t find the words to say. Jughead tosses his head to the side, towards the other football players where Archie is supposed to be right now. “Go.” His voice comes out soft, betrays the care he probably wished to carve out of his aching heart. “We’ll figure it out later.” It’s the most beautiful reassurance and it falls to Archie like stardust in an empty sky, hope granted by the boy who held the cosmos of his soul between his hands.

He leaves with the smallest smile on his lips, but it’s the first to pull at his features in the hours since his best friend had walked away from him with anger and hurt in his heart.

The pep rally is…not a complete disaster? Archie hates all of it, entirely. The music is over the top and…oddly sexual for a high school pep rally filled with minors and their parents? The cheerleaders don’t help the matter, and he knows he’s supposed to be attracted to them like a normal boy, but he can never help but wonder how exactly scantily clad minors dancing on the sidelines of sports games and in pep rallies became a normal and okay thing? Cheryl is dramatic to say the least, odd in her mourning…but then he wishes he hadn’t noticed that, because her eyes meet his and he knows she’s seeing a ghost when she runs. Betty and Veronica run after her as the players finish their pointless run around the field. It’s raining and cold and he doesn’t know why he’s there, but his mind won’t leave the raven-haired boy whose small smile had given him the first breathe of air he’d known in two days.

It ends and they file back to the locker room, some of them change quickly, others take the time to shower. He falls in with the latter group but he waits until the others are finished before he steps under the spray, not in the mood for their typical show-posturing and jeering tonight, much less some of the comments he might garner. He stands under the water solely for the sake of warming his cold skin from the rain and it results in the emptiness of the lockers, the field, the bleachers, and the school by the time he’s finished.

He’s not in a particular hurry, the rain’s let up to a drizzle and the dark green henley he’d slipped on with his dark jeans kept him warm enough in the brisk night. He had nowhere to be, no obligations to peers or social pressures, to his father or friends, nothing to bind him that night and he let himself find peace in the calm of the night. Jughead filled his mind and he huffed a laugh that filled the air with white mist, he knew nothing would come of it tonight, not so soon, but the gentle admonishment and careful reassurance of ‘We’ll figure it out later’ had eased the pain that had been clawing through his soul. It wasn’t a promise of a fix, but Jughead did not waste words, did not often say what he did not mean, it was a promise of trying, together. That alone was worth anything to Archie.

He’d been wandering the outer areas of the school, enjoying the cool air and the pockets of starry sky filtering through the clouds as he mused, unhurried and not bothered by much. Even Ms. Grundy and Jason Blossom and errant gunshots did not weigh too heavily on his mind, ever-present but out of place in the rare calm Jughead had given him. It was broken now, however, as scuffing sounds and voices reached his ears. He didn’t want to deal with it, whatever it was, but he was fairly certain he recognized Reggie’s voice and the sounds of a body hitting a wall. He didn’t want another confrontation with the hothead, but Fred Andrews had raised him by certain morals and he could not walk away with the knowledge that someone may be hurt.

Words became clear out of the rough sounds of a voice as he got closer to the corner behind which he was now sure was Reggie Mantle and some poor soul trapped between a building and brute in an open field at the edge of the school backed only by deep forest.

“Damn faggot freak. Bloody psychopath, aren’t you? Get off on hurting people. Or are you one of those freaks that doesn’t feel shit, special little snowflake called a sociopath? That it?”

Dammit. That was Reggie, pissed and worked into a nightmare. Thudding noises Archie recognizes all too well as violent blows were punctuating the words, making him pick up his pace. He wasn’t willing to run blindly into god knows what, but he wasn’t going to waste time either.

“You and Andrews ain’t that surprising, honestly, how that little shit hides it so well I’ll never figure out.” Archie’s blood ran cold as he froze, fairly sure he knew who those words were being directed at, the only person they could be directed at. Falling blows and muted grunts spurred him forward and he rounded the corner to see his fears made reality.

Reggie Mantle, giant and bully, had Jughead Jones pinned against a stone wall, held to its surface by a hand fisted in raven hair, his ever-present grey beanie having fallen to the ground forgotten. Bloodstained tanned knuckles from a busted nose, a bruise raised dark and vicious on a pale jaw, made ever worse by the repeated punch knocked into it whenever brown-black eyes would meet defiant grey as they stared into his. Most of the damage though, he knew it laid beneath that shirt, bruises and cuts marring flesh where they wouldn’t be seen. Reggie had done this too many times to be sloppy.

“Damn serial killer in the making. Probably doing the world a favor, getting rid of you, sparing them your bloody, necrophilia riddle memoirs. Who cares if you killed Jason, he’d only be your first if you did, your twisted version of a wet dream if you didn’t.”

Rage flooded out from Archie’s spine into the rest of his being, covered his vision in black, and this time he didn’t bother to bridle it into submission, to temper it into form. Words failed him as his hands fisted in Reggie Mantle’s stupidly bright jersey, as he pulled him away from his raven-haired companion and threw him to the ground. Anger blocking his senses was not enough that he forgot himself, forgot the one for whom his anger burned. He caught Jughead as he stumbled, settled him gently against the wall that had been his prison and now stood as his support. His eyes caught on bruises finger-shaped and dark on the pale column of a mole ridden throat, and rage-filled him once again but found no outlet as he focused his attention on the boy before him. He had no time to console him nor tend his wounds as Reggie came up from the ground in a blind rage, as he moved to meet him in fury.

He cared not for beatings nor bruises, did not spare the time to beat Reggie into submission. It was tempting though, to beat humility into him, the whisper in his ear to break his legs so he had no choice but to kneel before the raven-boy, the urge to teach the pretender what true devotion looked like. He didn’t heed those whispers though, did not care to spare the time as red mist covered his vision.

Reggie was caught in his grip before he was fully off the ground, thrown carelessly into the wall without a care to the damage it might cause. Brown-black eyes met honeyed eyes turned blazing amber in righteous anger and blood spat from unbruised lips in a cough turned arrogant sneer. “Andrews. Should have known, put the bitch in his place and his whore comes running.”

He could have punched him, bruised him, but he didn’t care to do so. He could have taught him a lesson, but he was beyond the point of holding back. The urge was back, the itch always in his skin now setting his body alight with yearning. This time he didn’t fight it. This time he let it fill him, allowed the otherness under his skin to come out and curl his lips back into a snarl, to bare canines that weren’t too short or too dull glint in the moonlight. Let his fingers curl into claws as he held the unmovable ‘magnificent’ player before him to the wall that he’d intended to be Jughead’s last vigil and tomb. Words didn’t come, didn’t even attempt to form in his throat nor on his tongue as a sound inhuman rang out from his throat, vibrating up from his chest to fill the air that chilled his bared teeth.

Reggie sneered in the face of his fury, scoffed in answer to the growl that filled the air between them. “The hell you gonna do Andrews? Nothing. Nah, I was wrong, you didn’t help Emo Ted Bundy kill Blossom, you just watched like a good little dog, didn’t you?”

If that voice, the one that could command him, had reached him, perhaps he would have stopped, but it was silent and the thing under his skin was tired of waiting, of allowing this thing to harm what he cherished. His weight pinned the boy to the wall, flimsy and temporary and inadequate to imprison a bull of this size, but it was only needed for a moment. The poison in his veins was silent, too slow, too sluggish to outrun the fire burning through him, the flames licking muscles into movement and shrapnel bones into a harsh grip. His hands moved before he’d thought through the action, urged by otherworldly whispers stirring in the void of his desert mind, left grasping a stupidly square jaw and pulling it up, right curling clipped nails still too long over an unmarred throat so perfect compared to the one tanned hands had marred in bruises.

People assumed their throats were well protected given how important they were, always throwing their heads about carelessly and baring the cords of their neck in laughter and boastfulness. The truth was quite the opposite. The skin of the throat, that stretched over the jugular, was fragile and flimsy, easy to tear. And human hands, they may have been built for tools, but they turned to claws and weapons easily enough. Archie knew that, so he wasn’t surprised as the clipped nails of his right hand tore through flesh and dug in to grasp a rapidly pulsing jugular, as they latched on and he pulled. As he ran those fingers turned to claws across a vulgar, fragile throat, and took away the ability of those arrogant vocal cords to utter filth to either of them ever again.

Reggie began to choke, eyes blown wide and hands pressing to a suddenly open throat. Archie’s hands, bloody but sure, pinned him to the wall without remorse as sunlit whiskey eyes looked up at the fallen Olympian with vicious, bared teeth. He stood unflinching as the blood ran thick from Reggie’s throat and coated him, lifeblood wasted on a foolish boy running red turned black in the moonlight, pouring down like rain as it coated Archie, painted him in unholy retribution. Archie’s heart sang with worship of the purest form.

Reggie Mantle wouldn’t go home that night, or any night ever again. He fell dead at Archie Andrews’ feet the night of the rained-out pep rally, the red of his life painting a monster of devotion in vengeance.

Archie stood over him without care, bare canines exposed further as twisted lips pulled further in bloody vengeance. His body felt contented, good, as if he’d served his purpose to protect, to worship in blood and protective fury. His blood sang with the feeling of violence, of retribution. He wasn’t alive, did not feel as a living creature. Under his skin existed only the emptiness, the void of space unmarred by stars where his heart and soul should have been cradled by pale hands, gone since his starlight had left. The only thing there was creeping vines of poison weaving under his skin until they smothered him, commanded to grow by honeyed words and sugared threats. He’d been dying slowly for the weeks, months since poison first slid past his lips, had been wilting where he stood on temple steps until the one who commanded him had cast him out. He’d been lifeless since then, wandering blind and choking in a lifeless wilderness, but for a moment, a flame-licked divine moment of fury for the one who held his heart, he’d felt as if he once again stood within the temple where he wrought worship as sacrilegious blood had rained down on unholy hands made deadly in devotion.

But now poison crept into his veins where flames had brought life. Now the reality of loneliness left the crushing weight of endless space without starlight. It didn’t bring guilt nor remorse, he could regret no act of worship, but apathy settled heavily like ice behind his nonexistent heart as the destruction of loneliness temporarily cast off settled again like chains over his bones, and poison, ever present poison, crept back up his veins to pool in his stomach and reach up, up, up to curl around his throat and choke off his air until his vision swam black.

“Archie.” That voice broke the barriers of his mind, uttered soft and reverent. Amber eyes found grey eyes beginning to turn blue and green in the swirls of a storm.

“Jug…” It was whispered brokenly in the night, a plea he couldn’t hope to translate to words. Yet his companion seemed to understand, gentle hands reaching for him, carding through his hair in gentle care. He stood frozen, a crumbling statue wrought from brittle stone, unable to move yet unable to stand against the winds and tides.

Yet that voice reached for him, the lightest breeze of air reaching across desert planes, through swirling storms of poisoned hate, to break softly against the shores that had known only punishing storms of pain for days that felt like an eternity. Uttered softly, “Tell me, Archie.” As if he knew the weight behind a thorn-pierced tongue and choking voice, knew all the words left unsaid. Perhaps he did, he’d always known what Archie could not say, the weight if not the meaning. But this foreign thing would have to be said, spoken into existence in the air between them, too wretched for this dark boy to know without being told.

Blue-grey-green eyes lit into movement, frozen cosmos beginning t move once again into turning, twisting light turned to land on dulled amber, nothing else left in their attention. He stepped closer and pale hands that had never been rough became gentle as they settled in flamed hair, cradled the head of a broken boy. “Tell me.”

And how could he refuse? When he’d given this boy his worship in the form of retribution and blood and death? How could he refuse this command to bare his soul?

A whine high and pained left the throat that had just a few minutes before reverberated with a growl of anger. He couldn’t do it anymore, could not maintain the façade of composure, of wholeness when he was shattering. He crumbled, fell to his knees and looked up with utter devotion to his Beloved. “Jug.”

Gentle hands carded through his hair, held him together with strength he himself did not possess as he shattered. “Tell me, Archie. All of it.”

So he does. Coaxes a heavy tongue laden with sickening shame that hasn’t been able to curl around words for days into speaking the ugly truth of his reality, breaks his teeth on the jagged edges of the poison that’s been choking him now spewing from between his lips, forces it into words and he can’t, he can’t, he can’t… but he does…because this boy commands he do so.

He tells him. Tells him about the days of labor under a punishing sun that saw too much, that reached too far for creatures of the dark. Tells him of the days long and hard and unforgiving, tells him of the exhaustion and the breaking under the weight of work that never ended. Tells him of the long walks home without companion to distract from the weary cry of his aching body. Breaks into crystals shards of broken glass as he tells him of the day he could barely walk from exhaustion and bruises, of the favorite music teacher who’d offered to take him home….home…his home….he’d thought it was his home.

Poison and revulsion at the sight of his own skin has built and built and built over the weeks and months until it fills him, presses on the sides of his stomach and strangles his desire to eat, to drink, to exist, built higher and higher with every memory of a phantom touch. It’s a sea that surges up now, pulling him down into its black depths and he’s drowning in it, voice stuttering as he chokes over the words of how she took him home,home, home that wasn’t his home, surges into the swells of a black storm as he barely regurgitates the words that say what she did to him. That black sea is surging up, pulling him into its depths, and its overflowing, tears falling down from broken amber eyes over the flesh of cheeks pulled taunt from neglect.

Pale hands are still, unmoving as they hold his head upturned, prevent him from looking away, as if he had the strength to do so. He can barely feel those hands and he can’t see those storm colored eyes with his blackened, tear-blurred gaze, but he can feel them piercing his skin, staring at his rotten soul, and they command him so he continues to choke up the poison that’s turned to agony in his throat.

The screams that want to ring from his throat, broken and piercing to usher in the darkness, to drown out the banshees’ cries cannot pass the blockade of self-loathing that sears itself into his being like a thousand brands to mark the unworthy as his voice chokes out the words that should never be strung together into this, into the truth of what delicate hands turned to iron manacles and soft lips turned to shrapnel imprinted into his body, into his soul. But this boy commands and Archie cannot deny him, so his voice forms the words so foreign no language should possess them and tells him of the touches he didn’t want, the acts he couldn’t escape, the prison of floral pillows and lace throws that clung to his skin like iron shackles heated until they melted into flesh, binding him in place.

Sobs break his words but this poison, now that it’s begun, will not stay still and it spills from his lips, falls to the ground and fills the air, coating him in its inescapable confines. He prays these words inelegant and unworthy of a writer’s ears make sense as he tells the truth of his panic, the reality of wanting to escape, of being frozen in terror because he didn’t know what was happening, because he didn’t understand, because this, this couldn’t be happening, couldn’t be real. Tells this boy the feeling of the wrong hands on his skin, of the wrong creature using a body that didn’t belong to them, that should have only belonged to one being built of stardust and darkness and storms. Tells him of the ocean’s tears that slid silently from his eyes and vile hands that had wiped them away with soft crooning turned mocking. Tells him how it felt to break under soft hands turned cruel, tells him of the desperation to escape, the feeling of breaking apart when the deed was done, when his skin was branded by fingers and kisses that shouldn’t have touched him. The poison that spews violently form his lips and sears his tongue like acid chokes off his throat, does not allow him to be sick as his stomach clenches around knives. He’d be sick if he could, but he can’t and it hurts, it hurts…But this boy commands and he has never disobeyed him, has never been able to, so poison words fall from parted lips and he tells him. Tells him of being paralyzed by inhuman eyes no longer hidden behind glasses as they pierced his soul after inhuman hands and sharp teeth had branded his body, of the honeyed voice that thrust itself into his ears and burrowed into his core with sugar-coated threats of ‘Who would believe that a sixteen-year-old boy didn’t know what he was doing? Didn’t want it?’ and ‘What would your dear father think with his poor heart? His golden boy chasing skirts.’ and ‘My you are a passionate thing, the bruises you left! I do hope no one sees it, they might…misunderstand how things went.’ Bruises….bruises left not from holding her down but from scrabbling desperately to get away. Bruises….bruises and scratches and bites marring his skin that no one would believe were placed there deliberately…would think were an act of desperation to escape a sixteen-year-old boy who knew his strength and used it against a smaller woman.

He feels those hands again for a moment, pulling at his hair, and his own hands come up in desperate panic, clinging to fabric as his voice hitches into hysterical sobs. “Archie.” A single word shocks a moment of clarity into his mind and he realizes those hands aren’t hers, they belong to the boy above him, tightened in anger not directed at him. He can’t make his hands fall and he isn’t admonished for it, but he can make his voice reign in to something that is not calm, but that can be understood. He can’t, but he will.

His lungs burn and he has no choice but to take a moment, to take a handful of minutes to gasp desperately to fill burning lungs seared in poison and shame with the vestiges of air fighting past a throat held so long in the stranglehold of delicate hands that it’s now bruised and raw. It isn’t done, the poison isn’t finished spewing from his body, but the boy before him knows this, does not push him, allows him these moments to breathe in silence.

He wants to break, wants to crumble until there’s nothing left. But his job isn’t don’t, his Beloved’s command not fulfilled. He can break when it’s finished, after this boy to whom he owes devotion passes judgement over him, decides to cast him away for the broken thing he is or gathers his shattered form in his arms, until then he’ll finish this command, finish this last act of worship turned wretched and unworthy, complete the last devotion he may be allowed. Basks in the last place of safety he may ever know.

So he opens his mouth, jaws gaping wide around broken shards of his own soul and poison he never wanted as it spills forth again, forms into words of ugly truth that should never been known by the light of day nor the dark of night. He utters the sounds that shape into words that lay bare his pain, tell of every time in the last weeks and months that delicate hands and soft voice and porcelain skin had found him in moments when he was defenseless. When they pulled him away with honey-sweet threats and sugared promises of things he didn’t want. Of every time they made him a plaything to a monster he’d never dreamed could exist. Breaks as he tells of every attempt made to never be alone, to never be vulnerable, to never be where this shadow could find him, and of every time it failed, again and again, the shadow finding him in school, in the afternoons, in work, in the night pitch black that used to hold comfort but now only brought fear. Tells of every effort to get away, of every twist and turn he’d taken to try and get out of the poison web he didn’t know how he’d stumbled into. His voice breaks with heaving breaths and tears falling like shattered glass the way his soul broke and splintered over the weeks every time he tried to find a way out, every time he failed, every time she found him, again and again. He crumbles like the shore in the face of a hurricane as he unearths every wish he’d had over the eternity since summer to lay his pain bare to his father, to fall to his knees and confess to his Beloved as he did now. Chokes now as he did then on the fear and lines of chains that held him captive and kept him silent, but now the breakwater has shattered and the ocean of suffering it has held at bay spills from his lips in poison words and his eyes in shattered tears.

There’s no more, all of it laid out for the boy above him, the one who holds his fragile soul, to see. Yet it’s done nothing, the weight of all the poison that’s left his lips a mere drop in the never-ending ocean he’s drowning in. He can feel it still, the acid burning of it pressing at the back of his throat as blackened vines choke his throat, can feel the pressure of it that wants to spill out like the sickness it is, but he can no longer find the words to express it. There’s poison in his throat, acid on his tongue, and tears continuing to fall like shattered glass, tearing bloody tracks into his skin. There’s too much, too much, and he needs to say something, needs this pain to form words, to fall from his tongue but it won’t, won’t, it won’t. The words that fall from bruised lips and a burning tongue, choked out of a poison-filled throat are broken, falling on the trails of destructive sobs.

“I’m sorry.”

It’s all he can say, and he knows it’s not enough, could never be enough for the pain he’s caused his Beloved, but there’s nothing else left. Nothing left but the decree of whatever sentence the boy holding his soul, who owns his devotion will hand down for his crime.

His words trail off, chased by panting breaths, and he doesn’t try to fill the air now polluted with anything more. He’s spoken the truth of his suffering, bared his soul and the poison that has been eating away at it, bared it all in the darkness of the night to the eyes of his Beloved. His command fulfilled. He has nothing more to do now, no more reason to continue.

He crumbles, the last supports that had been holding him together turning to dust. He doesn’t expect the arms that catch him. He doesn’t expect the hands that have never harmed him in any way he hadn’t wanted now gentle as they hold him.

Jughead Jones has fallen to his knees, uncaring for the blood seeping into his jeans and coating his hands as he gathers the shattering pieces of Archie Andrews in his arms. His Cherished One is falling and he knows that he won’t be able to stop himself, he knows that these lungs that had breathed in stardust and wrought songs for his ears alone to hear would continue to convulse until they capsized, knows that his fragile heart that had been strong for so long under the onslaught of evils that shouldn’t exist, even to beings like them, would break and stutter to a stop if he did not calm it. With careful hands he cups Archie’s tearstained face and turns him until the moonlight illuminates every beautiful edge of his features. Wipes away crystal tears with thumbs now tacky with the blood coating his Cherished. Breathes out his anger into flames of stardust about to ignite into novas that would swallow solar systems, fills his lungs with the cold air of a calm sea, breathes it out into a soft plea. “Archie.”

He doesn’t have to say more than that, knows that his soul’s cherished will respond to him. Tentative, agonizing breaths filter into shredded lungs and Amber eyes cracked into splinters open as they’re bade to look up into eyes no longer grey, no longer closed to him. Archie looks up with amber turned to dust and sees into the sea storms of legend swirling with life around black holes, they stare down into his own with life he hasn’t seen in the weeks since he’s harmed his Beloved with his mistakes, filled with the stardust of the cosmos as they light life into amber again turning to sunlight.

Archie’s breath stuttered into shallow breaths as he looked up into those eyes, as he saw the weight of Jughead’s emotions shining through, reminding him of the strength that had garnered his devotion all those years ago. Fury lit the cosmos into movement, promised retribution, but these things, though they were for him, they were not intended for him, they were held in check by force of will and when they were released they would lay waste, destruction complete and terrible, somewhere else. Tenderness and care caught him by surprise, froze his stuttering heart into a calm beat as he saw them, as he saw their intensity rivaling the stars in the heavens, directed entirely to and for him.

When Archie looked up at him with pain-filled amber eyes that should never, never have looked at him with fear as they did now, Jughead breathed a sigh of sorrow and pain from a heart that bled for the boy in his arms. In the brief moment of calm when he knew those eyes looked on him with recognition, heart and lungs calmed into stillness in the redhead’s chest, Jughead laced a hand through flaming hair turned to dull embers and breathed out the truth of his soul. “It’s alright.”

He wished he hadn’t been expecting the shock that lit amber eyes into glowing embers, wishes tears would stop falling from eyes that should only ever shine in vicious joy and devoted love, but he knows these tears are the weight of love Archie hadn’t expected to feel again, so he accepts them. He merely holds his boy together as he crumbles in his arms, shatters in the knowledge that he’s safe, that Jughead will keep him safe.

Archie looks up into eyes of galaxies and storms, sees them clearly through the blurring of his tears and he hears it clearly when that voice whispers to him “It’s gonna be okay, Baby.” He feels his soul shatter in a new way when the endearment he hadn’t dared to hope to hear again falls on his ears, feels the mottled mess of pieces that had broken and reformed a thousand times until it was unrecognizable shatter with glowing light, feels it begin to reform into what it was supposed to be once more, poisoned honey chased from where it clung by his Beloved’s love, devotion returned. Those eyes pierce into his own and Archie feels it has pale hands that have never harmed him, never left a bruise he hadn’t asked for, hadn’t cherished, reach past the cage of his ribs, past his bones to cradle his fragile blackened heart, to hold it safe, to give it reason to beat once again.

Poison clings to him, but it’s fleeing under the knowing heat of his Beloved’s piercing gaze. He’s broken but he can feel the bones knitting themselves together again, the desert flooding with rain from the ocean once again turned into a storm, a storm no longer stirred by poisoned pain but the urging of blackened love and unholy devotion that commands the stars to sing. He shatters but he’s whole for the first time in weeks that had stretched into eternity. He’s home.

He doesn’t know how much time passes but his breaths are shallow and calm when Jughead bades him move. Gentle hands cup his head long since cradled in the crook of a pale shoulder and make him look up into gentle eyes as Jughead looks down at him. “Arch…you with me?”

He can barely speak so he nods and Jughead smiles down at him. “Alright. I need you to move Archie.” He can’t help the whine, high and pitiful, that leaves his throat without his permission. Gentle lips press to his forehead with the barest hint of a grin. “I know baby, I know. But we can’t stay here.” Jughead pulls back from him and shifting eyes pin his own. “Get up Archie.” It’s gentle but the steel beneath marks it as a command, so he moves before thinking, forces weary muscles sapped of their strength to contract, to make him sit up, to stand. Jughead helps him, stands with him, steadies him and bears his weight as he stumbles, no indication that the untold minutes kneeling on the harsh ground have affected him at all.

“Alright buddy. Showers. Let’s get you cleaned up.” Jughead pushes him gently, hands never leaving him as they prompt him to walk to outer walkways. It isn’t a long walk to the outdoor lockers he’d left only earlier that night, and distantly he thinks that they’re lucky it hadn’t started raining again. Jughead is only glad the blood marring Archie’s clothing has dried to a point that it does not track across the concrete ground.

He maneuvers the taller redhead into the locker room with careful hands, pushes him to the shower and gently pushes him to the ground until he is sitting down. He kneels in front of him, hooks careful fingers under his chin and urges his head up, brushes red hair from amber eyes as they meet his own and he can’t help the fond smile that pulls at his lips. “Hey.” Archie doesn’t move, but Jughead knows the clarity in his eyes, knows he’s alert and attentive to him. “I need you to stay here while I take care of things.”

Archie doesn’t process what those words mean, only that Jughead is leaving, and those eyes widen with panic. Jughead presses him gently, firmly back into the tiles, pierces brown eyes with his own. “I’ll be back in a few minutes, but you need to stay here. Trust me Archie.”

The panic and the fight it brings flees from the boy’s body at those words and he nods his head, still unable to forms words with his weary tongue. That’s ok, Jughead doesn’t need him to speak. He ducks forward long enough to press a lingering kiss to red hair and then he’s gone, trusting the boy who looks at him like he hung the stars to stay where he placed him, to trust him.

He walks back to the hidden corner where Reggie Mantle had threatened his life, where Archie’s dark devotion had become physical anger burning in violent worship, where the body of a brute pretending to be an Olympian of old lays lifeless on the ground. He stands at the edges of that field, looks over the area with apathy, whatever he felt for Jason’s passing absent as he looks over the empty husk that had been ‘Mantle the Magnificent’. He sees what Archie left him, sees what he has at hand, sees what he needs to do.

It isn’t easy or light work, but it takes time, requires minutes that stretch into dozens, minutes taken to mind every detail, minutes he won’t dare cut short. It isn’t a long time, but it’s still longer than he had wanted to leave his red-headed wild thing. He moves Reggie’s body with care, not out of respect, but in the interest of keeping any traces of himself off the body. He takes him several paces into the woods that line this side of the school, absentmindedly thankful the fool had chosen this place to make his bigotry and ignorant hatred known. He takes care to clean his blood from the boy’s hands, takes equal care to dirty them with dust so their cleaning was not apparent. Takes tedious and meticulous care to remove any obvious sign of himself or Archie from his person. Then he stands and searches for what he needs. This is what takes him the time he hadn’t wanted to spend away from Archie, but he finds what he needs: A carcass, the one some idiot boys had boasted about bringing down, a bear shot multiple times across its ribs before it had run away, run to this spot to die. He mourns the senseless death of an innocent creature, but he idly gives thanks to nothing in particular that it is here, that it has decayed just enough that he can take the paw from its body. It’s intact enough to do what he needs. It’s whole enough, claws still sharp enough that he can kneel beside Reggie’s body and line them up with the tracks of Archie’s fingers turned claws in fury, still deadly enough even now to rend the flesh and tear the throat in a single sweep until it appears that no human hand in ethereal rage had made this wound.

He takes the paw back to the anima’s body and buries it in the ground. Returns to the body of a human boy and casts his gaze over him once more, ensures there is no flaw to the apparent scene that would not occur naturally, or at least without human hand. Above him the sky splits in light and he turns his face up to meet the rain that pours down. He smiles as he walks back towards the school, a small twist of lips, wrought from satisfaction as he sees the rain pelt down, washing away the not yet dried blood where Reggie Mantle died for harming the one thing Archie Andrews bowed to in devotion. ‘Good,’ He muses, ‘It will wash away the blood and wash the body of whatever remains.’

He thinks no more on it as he gathers his beanie and steps once again into the locker room, turns his attention fully to the boy still sitting where he’d left him in the showers. He’s picking at his nails now and the normal action of anxiety makes Jughead smile in fondness and relief. He kneels before the boy, raises his chin with gentle hands and smiles when amber eyes meet his with a tentative pull of lips that isn’t quite a smile, but is close enough.

“Hey Arch.” He grins even more as the taller boy’s head lolls to the side, presses into his palm and amber eyes peer up at him shyly from under cedar bangs. “Let’s get you washed up, yeah?”

Archie seemed to have regained some of his strength, but he still relies heavily on Jughead to move, to do much of anything. That was alright. There wasn’t a reality Jughead could fathom where he would mind taking care of Archie. Carefully he stood him up, the pair of them giggling like children when he had to catch him because Archie’s legs had gone numb and locked in place from sitting on the ground.

He turned the water on, let it warm up as he carefully stripped Archie of his bloody clothes, knowing it would be more than warm enough by the time they were finished with the distraction of hands gently soothing over clothed skin. Henley and shoes and socks came off easily enough, were piled to the side without a care, but Archie began to panic when pale hands tried to peel the t-shirt from his skin. He backed away, whining sounds ringing from his throat in distress as his arms crossed over his own body, as he curled into himself. As he hid from the gaze and touch of a boy who he had never turned from before, who had worshiped him with words and touches alike and made him feel alive.

Jughead swallowed down the anger that surged up his throat at the sight, fought the urge to scream in pain and fury at the sounds breaking like glass in his ears. He didn’t touch didn’t want to spark panic, but his hands reached out all the same, hovered in the air trying to calm the boy as his voice rang out in quiet tones. “Archie. It’s okay baby, it’s only us here, you’re safe.” Archie stilled at his voice, desperate sounds ceasing, leaving deafening silence in their wake. His hands still clutched at his own skin, eyes still staring into the ground sightless with panic. “It’s me, baby. You’re safe, I swear to you love, you’re safe.”

Amber eyes flickered up to meet his own and Jughead dared to ease closer while Archie chewed nervously on his lip. At the very least Jughead knew his friend was present in the here and now, not seeing the ghost of a monster any longer. “I…my skin…Jug…it’s broken…” The words came to him slowly, quiet and fearful, they broke his heart. He stepped closer, ducked his head so amber eyes could see his own. “Show me, baby. It’s okay.”

That reassurance seemed to be enough, not to heal, but to make it safe. His arms loosened their holds and he let Jughead touch him, let pale hands gentle the fabric from his body until he was left bare under a stormy gaze. Jughead pulled him close, pressed soft kisses to his face and soothed careful hands across his sides. He backed him into the shower with careful steps, pressing him lightly into the tiled wall at his back before he stepped away to undress. He took that moment with his back turned to his companion to let his anger burn through him, anger burning because of the marks he hadn’t looked at properly yet but could see easily in his peripheral for how dark they bruised against tan skin. Anger joining and feeding the nebulas of fury swirling violently but contained, deep within him, waiting. He lets it burn for a moment before he bridles it, it has no place here in the space where he needs to be gentle. It will find its place soon enough, will burn through the cosmos until his fury is sated, but not here.

He sheds his clothes with the absent wonder at how little blood stained the fabric and drops them in a separate shower, collecting Archie’s and placing them there as well before he turned the water on to stream down on the clothes he separated, washing the beginnings of the blood from them. He could soak them in bleach, wash them clean, and burn them but they each had so few outfits that it would be noticeable if they both suddenly lost common items from their wardrobe, so he would take the effort to clean them.

Clothing dealt with and anger bridled down into a manageable beast he turned back to his friend, paused there without shame for his bareness when he saw those eyes resting on him wearily and anxiously but without the terror that had plagued them before. He hesitated a moment, wanted to give him an out, the one he always left but Archie never took, had never need to take before…now though…

“Archie?”

The redhead didn’t raise his head, didn’t change his expression as he gazed at him. One of his hands slowly raised from where his arms were loosely looped across his stomach, raised toward him with fingers outstretched, reaching for him, asking for him. It was all the permission he needed before he stepped forward and crossed the divide between them, lacing his fingers with the ones outstretched towards him and holding on tightly. Archie didn’t shy from him and so Jughead did not give him any reason to think that he should. He surged forward with gentle care, a wave caressing and hugging the shore instead of a storm hitting the breakwaters, and pressed the line of his body against Archie’s, a reassuring pressure as opposed to the passionate one it might have been in other circumstances. But then passion was still there he supposed. Was love any less passionate when it reached out in gentle care instead of burning ecstasy?

Archie’s hand reached for him, clung to flesh the way it might’ve clothing, so Jughead let his other hand go so it may join its twin, so his little wild thing could cling to him. Threaded his own hand through fiery locks once long that would be once again, already reaching, already twining round his fingers into the beginnings of braids as they used to, heedless of the constrictions society screamed down upon them. Society could not reach them, held no power of them. So he tangled his fingers in soft hair and pressed desperate kisses to a furrowed brow, endless streams of endearments falling from his lips without thought. Let the ragged edges of Archie Andrews reach out and engulf him with desperation, welcomed them with love and safety.

Slowly the boy in his arms began to calm, and Jughead held him through the process, gentle words murmured into his temple where a kiss had long since become a lingering caress. When he was reasonably sure that Archie could stand on his own, would not misunderstand and panic if he moved away, Jughead took a step back and looked down at what his boy had been so scared to show him.

He had an intimate understanding of the anger that had moved Archie into violence that night, felt it himself now, but he had no one to direct it towards so he pushed it down, let it simmer in the depths where it could never harm the boy before him. Archie’s torso was a motley of finger-shaped bruises left from punishing grips scattered across his sides and hips, deep red blotches a mockery of ‘love-marks’ had been rained down like blows against his chest, the imprinting of teeth joining them in an honest display of savagery hidden as tenderness, they were matched by deep red welts tracked across his sides and Jughead knew they wrapped around to his back, the claw marks of a monster left in brutal heat and so-called ‘passion’ that burned only to consume and destroy.

He stared down at them, the evidence of a monster’s savagery, the reason his bright boy had been terrified to let him touch his skin for weeks. His hands soothed across them with a gentleness he knew Archie hadn’t felt since the summer, unable to remove the marks but wiping away the pain of them with tenderness. A broke whimper turned a desperate, pained whine sounded off the tiles, resonating from Archie’s brutalized vocal cords that had spilled out weeks of poison that night. Jughead’s gaze snapped up to Archie’s face at the sound, saw the unsurety, the pain and the fear reflected in amber eyes that peered up at him with anxiety, fear of what Jughead would do, fear he would push him away in disgust, the same disgust he could see burning in amber depths and turned inward.

His hands cradled a tan jaw without conscious thought as he pressed a desperate, brutally gentle kiss to Archie’s lips, swallowed the sounds of that pain and pressed against him desperately. He pulled back only far enough to speak, pressing his forehead to Archie’s as ardent promises fell from his lips while he carded pale hands through soaked red hair. “No more. There’ll be no more Archie.” His eyes snapped open, searing blue and grey and green tumbling together into a starlight storm flashing with lightning, they met Archie’s amber and the boy stilled under his gaze, only to be surrounded and held captive by his words. “She’ll never touch you again, I swear my love.”

Amber eyes went wide but the boy they belonged to didn’t break again, only gathered strength to press against Jughead and hold him with desperation turned once again to devotion. Jughead did not swear what he would not make reality, what he would not destroy reality to make truth, and Archie, dark and twisted and broken, knew that. He pressed into Jughead with strength he hadn’t felt in days, strength spilling from his raven’s lips where they pressed to his own and filling his lungs with life, twisting, burning, making him feel alive again.

They stayed there, pressed together for well over half an hour, Archie regaining strength from the presence of his Beloved once again, once again without anger or pain and overflowing with love directed entirely towards him. Jughead pulls back from him eventually and Archie is strong enough in soul and body that he doesn’t chase after him. It’s not like he goes far, only leans back from him enough to look at him properly, to smile up at him with a gentle twist of lips.

“Let’s get you cleaned up, yeah?” It’s whispered in the air between them, just audible above the running water, and Archie knows he’s right, knows they can’t stay there forever. His body is wrung out from the night’s upheaval and he doesn’t yet possess the strength to do it himself, so he only nods, trusts rather than hopes that his Beloved will take care of him. His raven only smiles at him with that knowing pull of lips, merely runs careful fingers under his eyes to rub away the blood and tears dried there, the remnants of a sacrifice in unholy vengeance and brutal devotion offered up in worship.

He washes him carefully, generic soap he wouldn’t have chosen to use on his dear one forming a latticework of suds over tan skin that would take time to heal but would never be harmed by her hands again, washes the blood that had bathed him in reckoning from his body, sees it chased across the tiles to the drain by warming water that clings to their lashes. His fingers card through red hair darkened by red blood turned black, carefully untangling the matted sections, rinsing the vestiges of a life ended in retribution and worship from the strands until only water clings to soft fire.

When Archie’s colors of gold and fire are unmarred by anything more than the water caressing his skin, Jughead kisses him softly and steps away to wash himself. He doesn’t take anywhere near the care he’d given his lover with himself, merely runs the soaps across his skin and lets the water wash it away carrying the much smaller volume of another’s blood spilled for his sake with it. He washes his hair to be safe, runs the soap through it thoroughly and feels for tangles of dried blood, feels tentative fingers join his own and making him still his callous washing. He peers up at Archie though the strands hanging in his face and can’t help the fondness in his chest or the smile on his lips at the smallest pout on Archie’s lips, at the feeling of his best friend’s hands carding through his hair and rubbing over his scalp, determined to show the level of care Jughead had given him, at least in this. He allows it, has no reason not to, drops his hands to tanned hips and lets his Cherished One wash his hair.

When the water runs clear of both soap and blood those hands settled on the sides of his neck, cradling pale, bruised skin between them. Jughead looks up at Archie and sees the frown pulling between his brows, the anger and concern melding in his eyes as they look over the marks. Archie feels his gaze and amber eyes meet his. He grins, something sharp and fierce and wild, and he does not have to look to see the wonder and reverence on Archie’s expression as he tilts his head back, as he bares his throat to the only one who was ever allowed to rest there. Tentative fingers map the marks, trace them and note the damage they’ve inflicted without causing pain. Jughead’s hand comes up, curls over Archie’s, overlays their fingers as he meets his eyes and presses reverent fingers into the marks marring pale skin. His grin hasn’t fallen, grows only sharper as tan fingers hold tender pressure without his prompting, his own hand merely resting alongside Archie’s own and no longer directing him to act.

The thumb of that hand ghosts across the column of his throat, somehow unmarred by careless violence. Tentative. Asking. Jughead smiles in earnest then, love curling around sharp teeth and pulling the edges of a vicious grin into fondness without softening them. His unused hand raises from Archie’s hips to thread into his hair, cupping the side of his head with tenderness. Archie leans into it and Jughead tugs him forward with carefully measured strength, leads him to his throat. The boy before him follows willingly and without fear, burrows his nose into the hollow of Jugheads throat, breathes deeply of the scent more familiar than his own, settles without care as the raven boy welcomes his wild thing home. Archie alone is allowed at the vulnerable expanse of Jughead’s throat, and the dark boy welcomes his winter fire home without fear.

They rest there, their souls and the bond twining dark and red between them previously torn asunder now settling once again beneath their skin. The water begins to run cold and Jughead knows they have to go, needs to see his cherished home and warm and safe from the cruelties of monsters hidden amidst pastel colors and soft smiles.

“Archie.” A groaned sound meant to be a question sounds from the vague area of his collarbone and Jughead can’t help the laugh that bubbles up his throat. He turns his head, noses at soaking wet red strands and rests his cheek there. “We need to move.” The groan is most decidedly not a question but a complaint this time and Jughead wants to snicker, maybe he did, he wasn’t sure. “Water’s going cold, and I’m sure we’d both be more comfortable in bed and, ya know, not being woken up by the football team at morning practice ‘cause we fell asleep here.” That garners a groan turned sigh as Archie stands a little straighter, looks down at him with tired eyes that want to shut tight in sleep.

Jughead grins softly and presses a kiss to his nose as he shuts the water off. “Come on.” He steps away, ready to catch the boy if he stumbles, but it wasn’t necessary, Archie swayed but did not fall. Jughead did not waste time though, gathering two of the school’s towels and wrapping one around his waist, turning the other shower off as he went back to Archie and used the second one to dry him off carefully. Tired as he was, Archie still managed to grab the towel from him after several failed attempts and informed him to take care of himself with no small amount of petulance and pouting. Jughead laughed, short and bright as it bounced off the tiles.

He dries himself quickly, returning the towel to his waist as he moves to Archie’s locker. He’s long since known the combination, had it memorized before Archie did, and he makes use of it now. It swings open without issue and he gathers the extra outfit Archie keeps on hand, an old pair of jeans and a second henley, deep blue this time. He gathers another set of clothes from the back of the top shelf, a set of dark jeans and an old red hooded shirt, his clothes that Archie had always kept for him ‘just in case’. It made Jughead smile with fondness, Archie’s eternal care and need to make sure Jughead was alright, even if it was something as simple as a pair of clothes that he’d never once asked for in two years. He needed them tonight though, and Archie would probably tease him about finally needing them after all this time when they were both rested and calm and safe again.

He dresses as quickly as he’d dried himself, runs the towel over his hair and tosses it across the locker room bench. He sets the clothes on the bench as well before he turns towards Archie. The boy has finished drying himself off and Jughead is glad that the desperate need to cover himself hadn’t returned. The towel hangs loose on his hips, arms limp at his sides while he watches Jughead, waits to be told what to do because tonight he can’t muster the strength to take care of himself. His injuries aren’t on display but they are bared for him to see, no longer a source of shame, not under the weight of Jughead’s gaze at least.

He steps up to him and takes the time to press a chaste kiss to his lips as he gathered his hands in his own, steps backward and pulls him forward gently. Archie follows willingly and lets Jughead take the towel, lets the raven-haired boy who held his heart slide faded denim up his legs and worn cotton over his chest. He lets him put the towel over his head to dry his hair too, and maybe that was a mistake because they’re both still teenage boys and Jughead decides to be a little shit and rub his hair with far more energy than is strictly necessary. He doesn’t let up until Archie’s grumble complaints turn to boyish shouts and tanned arms flail upward to knock him away and pull the towel from his head. He looks up with a scowl only to see the grin of a childhood friend who’s-never-too-old-to-screw-with-you spread proudly across Jughead’s face. The laughter’s a dead giveaway too. Archie lunges at him with a playful growl, shoves him gently and carefully but still sharply into the lockers in their roughhousing, pinning him there and framing him with his arms. He grins sharp and childish as he ducks his head into Jughead’s face and shakes it vigorously, long and growing longer strands of wet red hair hitting the raven boy in the face, spraying him with the water droplets the towel didn’t gather.

Jughead’s laughter rings off the tiles and he finally cries ‘uncle’ as his pale hands shove at Archie without any real malice or strength behind them. Archie backs off, stops shaking his wet mane like the mangy mutt Jughead will call him but that he isn’t. He doesn’t move back though, merely hangs his head in the slightly wider space between them, his brief spark of energy gone as quickly as it had come. He’s panting lightly, almost silently, but when Jughead cups his chin in his palm and raises his head there’s a small smile on his lips and mirth in his eyes. He kisses him softly, mummers ‘Come on’ against his lips and gentles him to the side so he can move.

Archie stands to the side obediently as Jughead moves towards the benches. He gathers up the shoes they’d discarded earlier and frowns down at them for a moment. He turns towards Archie and points to the bench. “Sit. I’ll be back in a minute.” He sees no sign of distress at the insinuation that he’s going somewhere, that he’s leaving, so he turns to his task as Archie does as he’s bade.

The janitor’s closet is never locked, he’s spent a few nights there before, knows that to be the case. So he’s unsurprised when it opens for him, when the single lightbulb in the ancient closet, kept stocked but never used because it was out of date and at the edges of campus, flickers to life. Under the dust he finds what he needs, and so he carries the tools and the shoes both to the little sink in the back corner and sets to work cleaning the blood from stiff fabric and rubber and leather. They’ll never be ‘good as new’, but the blood is gone from them when he’s done. He puts the chemicals back, washes the shoes off, washes the harsh compounds from his hands, and returns to Archie, the ancient bulb flickering off and the creaking door swinging shut to be forgotten once again.

He dries them off as best he can with his discarded towel when he gets back before handing the sneakers to Archie and slipping the boots on his own feet. He turns towards the soaking pile of clothes on the tiled shower floor as Archie puts his shoes on. He scrutinizes them, sees that the blood has mostly washed from the woven strands, that whatever is left will wash away in the laundry. It isn’t perfect but it will have to do because the alternative would draw too much attention.

He picks them up one by one and wrings out as much of the water as he can, tossing them into a pile as he finishes with them. He’d taken one other thing from the storage room, slipped in into his pocket for this task: A plastic trash bag. He retrieves it and shoves their soaked clothes inside of it, tying it off unceremoniously.

He tossed the school towels into the wash baskets still full from the pep rally and looked around, scanned the area critically and saw no obvious indication of what had transpired there that night. Satisfied he turned back to Archie and saw the boy sitting where he had been directed, eyes watching him with calm curiosity. He walked up to him with a gentle smile and held out his hand. “Come on Arch, let’s go home.”

Archie took his hand and stood, managed to hold his own weight despite his exhaustion. Jughead lead them out of the dim room and out into the cold night, grateful that the rain had calmed to a light pattering while they had recovered. All the same, he wanted to have them home before it began to fall again in earnest as the thunder rolling overhead promised.

They had to walk nearly half the town to reach the Andrews’ household, and Jughead made it longer still by winding them around paths where fewer watching eyes might see them. Archie noticed but did not complain despite his tiredness, barely stumbled at all along the way. Despite the dark, the distance, and the raven-haired boy’s caution, they reached the house in less than an hour, slipping inside the kitchen door almost silently.

Jughead wasted no time in ushering Archie up the stairs, dropping the bag in his hand as he went. He knew that Fred Andrews would be expecting a late return since Archie hadn’t come home right after the pep rally nor at any normal time, knew they were lucky he wasn’t waiting up for them, but he wasn’t willing to tempt fate and risk waking the man with excessive noise.

Once in Archie’s bedroom he made quick work of gathering soft sleeping clothes for the two of them, soft pants and loose shirts, caring more that they would bring comfort over warmth. They would be warm enough sharing the bed between them. Archie was already slipping out of his wet shirt when Jughead turned to him and the sight of his boy, tired and worn out and practically falling over himself brought a smile of adoration to Jughead’s lips. He stepped into the boy’s space without asking, didn’t need permission, and helped him undress. Helped him dress again for the second time that night immediately after. Had no trouble replacing soaked denim with faded flannel and drenched cotton with older, thinner, dry cotton. He hesitated only a moment to make sure the boy would not fall before he turned away.

Archie leaned heavily against the wall and watched with eyes that could barely focus as Jughead changed his own clothes, switching out his ‘emergency pair’ for faded cotton pants and a too big black t-shirt that was most certainly Archie’s and not one of the countless Jughead had left lying around and stuffed into the backs of dresser drawers. Dry and clothed again, for the second time in one night, he turned to the redhead and grinned at the sleepy sight that greeted him. He raised open arms and called to him softly, “Come ‘ere Archie.”

The taller boy folded into him easily enough and Jughead guided him towards his bed, laid him back against it and settled him on the pillows with a blanket pulled over him. He went to stand and a whimper graced his ears making him press a chaste kiss to Archie’s brow and gaze down at him with fondness. “I’ll be right back, Archie. Last time, I promise.” He wasn’t happy about it, if the pout was anything to go by, but he nodded all the same and released the hold of his hands curled into Jughead’s shirt. The darker boy rewarded him with a chaste kiss before he stood.

He had one last job to do, one last act to keep his Cherished safe, and he set himself to it without distraction. He gathered the clothes they had shed mere moments ago and slipped out the door, pausing in the hallway only long enough to hear Fred Andrews’ sleeping breaths ringing steady and deep, marking as resting him in sleep’s embrace, before he continued on, down the stairs with careful steps. He gathered up the bag he’d dropped by the kitchen door, flicking the lock as he did so with a subconscious thought of providing safety, then he carried it all to the laundry room off the kitchen. He peered into the washing machine and was relieved to see only a few articles of clothing laying at the bottom. He dropped their rain-soaked clothes in, then opened the bag and laid the clothes previously covered in blood in after them. He added more cleaner than he needed to, enough stain remover that he could practically see Alice Cooper and all her ‘perfect-suburban-wife-and-mom’ nonsense shaking her head at him. He set them to wash at the heaviest setting he could and thanked the heavens that Fred Andrews had opted for a sturdy and silent machine when he’d bought the thing years ago. He buries the used trash bag as far down as he can in the kitchen trash before scrubbing even the thought of it and the clothes it had held from his hands in the sink.

He stops then, looks around the space, sees the doors shut and locked, the kitchen kept tidy, nothing out of place, nothing suspicious. He sees their shoes through the window, the already clean pieces set out deliberately on the steps where they will seem normal, where the rain can pelt down on them and wash away whatever might remain. He sees everything and he knows there is nothing here that can hurt his Cherished One anymore. His only duty now is to give comfort to a boy broken by cruelty even their dark hearts would never have dreamt. It’s a role he’s always welcomed easily, and though he can feel the edges of dread at the difficulties to come, it is for Archie’s sake and not his own, he’s never known a reality where taking care of his best friend was not the focus of his existence, does not want to know a reality where life had no meaning, no color, no reason for existence.

He’s back in Archie’s room before he’s aware of it, and he can’t help but smile at the sight of his wild fire curled up on his side, so very tired but keeping his eyes open, keeping himself awake and watching the door for Jughead’s return. He shuts the door behind him, hears it latch quietly and pays it no further mind.

“Jug…” It’s quiet, almost a plea as it reaches his ears. He answers it with a smile as he crosses the space between them with a quiet “Hey Baby.” and slips beneath the blankets. He lays back against the pillows, pulls the blankets over his legs and reaches for Archie, tangles him in his arms and draws him close. The redhead came without protest and curled into his side with relief. He lays his head across Jughead’s shoulder and chest as he’s bade, pale fingers carding through red hair and caressing his scalp as storm colored eyes finally beginning to show the traces of tiredness gaze down at him.

Jughead felt it when Archie stiffened, would be lying if he said he hadn’t considered a panic attack or relapse or another breakdown as a possibility, would be lying if he said he hadn’t been prepared for it. He doesn’t do anything, waits to see what the other boy will do. Merely holds him and settles pale fingers in flame-colored hair with constant, even pressure.

Archie looked up at him suddenly, face pale and eyes wide, his lips already parted. Jughead doesn’t know what to expect from him, doesn’t know what he’s going to say, but he’s not surprised by the shaky, breathless exhale of “Reggie.”

He smiles gently and runs previously still fingers through drying red locks. He’s almost surprised it had taken this long for that thought, that realization to filter through Archie’s abused and hurting mind. “I took care of it. You don’t need to worry about it.”

It’s soft, whispered into the space between them with ethereal calm. Archie’s eyes soften back into tiredness almost immediately, the tension draining from his body. It’s done. He need not think nor speak of it again, and that’s a relief to him. Jughead understands. Understands the emotions that have boiled in his core every time Reggie ladled out hatred and violence against a raven-haired boy. He understands the feeling of it boiling over, of anger turning to fury, and fury turning to unholy wrath rained down in retribution turned to vengeance. Archie doesn’t have to explain that, knows that Jughead understands, sees all of it, past and present, where it sits under his skin. Knows the same sits stirring restlessly in Jughead’s heart, the tendrils of it beginning to reach out, spreading under pale, mole dotted skin, becoming an itch, becoming a compulsion, a need. He knows this as Jughead knows him, in the same manner that he knows that he need not worry nor fear the discovery of Reggie’s body. His Beloved took care of it, took care of him, just as he always did.

He settles again, everything else erased in the face of exhaustion and love turned to devotion, lays his head down on pale skin stretched over sharp bones and sighs like it’s the most comfortable place he’s ever been. To him, it is.

Archie sleeps soundly that night, the toll of everything coming to demand he pay the due for his emotions, for his worship, for his breaking, for his healing. He sleeps without care, without tossing or turning, without nightmares of phantom hands and whispered honey slick words. Sleeps in the knowledge and feeling of safety, encompassed by a raven boy’s arms, watched over by storm color eyes flecked with stardust collected from the cosmos.

Jughead watches over him for a time, waits to see if he will wake, if he will become trapped in his sleep, if nightmares and memories one and the same will plague him this night. They don’t, but Jughead knows they will. He knows the days ahead will be filled with pain, with shame that shouldn’t exist and revulsion at the touch of hands on his skin, even if they’re pale and fleck with moles rather than thin and delicate like a china doll. He knows the damage a monster calling herself a ‘woman’ and a ‘teacher’ has wrought will make itself known, knowns that the weeks and months of poison that have been force-fed to his wild thing sits idle in his gut, wrapped like a vine around his core and soul, knows it will surge up to choke the boy in his arms, to fill him and destroy him from the inside out once again. He knows these beasts called trauma, PTSD, anxiety, and so many more will rear their ugly heads, that he will have to face them, will have to help Archie face them. He knows the days and nights will come where even his touch, once and still a perfect fit against Archie’s jagged edges, will be unbearable. He knows this, knows all of it, and he’s prepared to face it, willing to stare down these demons and countless others for the sake of his Cherished One. Again and again until hopefully, eventually, he healed.

But not tonight. Tonight the demons and monsters sleep, allow Archie to rest. Eventually Jughead drifts off as well, unable to watch forever, slips away into sleep with the knowledge that Archie is safe and in his arms, that he’ll never be at the mercy of that thing again.

-

They go to school the next day as if everything were normal, and in a way it was. Fred Andrews hadn’t batted an eye at the sight of Jughead Jones in his kitchen the next morning, walking down the steps with Archie after a night of rest, doesn’t comment at the bruising on his neck. He slips away while they eat, Jughead hovering just a bit too close to Archie to be normal but unnoticeable to the observer because they had always been this way, ever since they were children. Fred comes back with a tube of concealer in hand, shrugs and hands it to him, says “I remember not wanting to answer questions about wayward bruises, and Mary left this last time she was here.”

He doesn’t say any more as Jughead slips away to apply the cream to his neck and jaw, but the way he looks at him makes Jughead wonder just what type of bruises he used to wear. The knowing in his eyes makes Jughead wonder just how much aged amber-turned-brown eyes see, the recognition of something or someone that isn’t there makes him wonder just who the ghost standing in his place is.

The concealer isn’t the right color, but it blends out easily enough, and it covers the marks pressed into his skin. Concern and relief war in Archie’s eyes when he sees that, and Jughead knows that true relief will only come when the foreign marks of an unworthy boy fade from his skin.

They walk to school, separate at the doors and attend their classes, everything as normal. Jughead makes sure Archie is never alone, never vulnerable to be whisked away by ash colored hair and papery skin stretched over rotten bones, and he sees the surprise, the discontent his presence breeds in her. It makes dark satisfaction bloom in his chest. Betty and Kevin and the new girl who didn’t fit but refused to acknowledge that fact notice his presence, comment on it, but his surely, guarded gaze and sardonic comments matched the story of Archie’s eye roll and golden boy routine of ‘don’t leave old friends alone’ and it smooths their ruffled feathers easily enough. It takes the gentle press of tan fingers into his thigh to keep his own ruffled feathers from springing forth for all to see as the dark-haired girl continues to speak, to annoy him. He settles though, his hackles falling and the snarl lowering to a silent rumble in his chest, decides she isn’t worth his time nor effort, knows someone else already holds that place. He misses the warmth of pressing fingers when Archie moves his hand away though, but he understands the appearances they have to keep.

It’s normal, uneventful, unworthy of drawing attention. Only a few jocks, lost without their leader, ask after Reggie.

-

Reggie’s body was discovered three days later. The heavy rains and animal activity made forensic analysis all but useless, much to the vocal annoyance of Sheriff Keller that obvious spread through town like wildfire because, hey, small old-fashioned towns. With nothing else, not even a missing person’s report from his father to go on, Sheriff Keller was forced to rely on only the autopsy. Dr. Curdle Jr. rather callously declared the marks to be the remnants of bear claws that had torn through thin flesh and split open the jugular, trachea, and esophagus, leading the boy to bleed out in a manner of minutes. Jughead couldn’t fault him, he wasn’t entirely wrong, even if things hadn’t happened quite in that order.

Reggie Mantle’s death was ruled an animal attack two days later and the local PD and mayor cover their asses by warning the kids to stay out of the woods and not to stray too close to the thickets.

They don’t say anything, but the searing kiss pressed to Jughead’s lips in Archie’s room with the curtains carefully drawn screams with devotion, with thanks, with worship. It tastes like the copper and iron of blood spilled out in retribution to shower Archie in unholy baptism. Everything he returns in that kiss, in hands gripping desperately at flame-colored strands but not daring to push any farther yet, in the press of his body to Archie’s is a thanks given for the devotion laid at his feet.

-

Jughead isn’t as blunt nor spontaneous as Archie, bides his time planning rather than forcing down his anger and ignoring it. He’s far more subtle in his actions, deliberate where Archie was impulsive, creative where Archie had only the raw force of hand turned to claws and emotions spiraled out of control.

Two weeks after the officially unrelated deaths of Reggie Mantle and Jason Blossom, Geraldine Grundy, real name Jennifer Gibson, is found a town over in a small furnished apartment paid for with her own money and false identification. His body is laid out without particular care on the imitation Persian rug as if she had been left where she fell. Her throat is slit, or rather pried open, by the line of cord taken from the cello resting in its stand, the length now dropped bloody at her side. Whether she bled out or choked to death as it was tightened around her throat is unclear. Dropped without fingerprints or trace evidence of any kind is her real identification as well as her false one, they lay in a puddle of her own blood, holders open with her poisonous, smiling face upturned, protected beneath plastic for whomever looked down to see. Nothing in the apartment shows signs of habitation, not even her own, it seems as if she rented the space and died before she was able to use it. Nothing personal is found besides a few sheets of music and the cello she had brought with her now stood in its stand and missing the string that had demanded blood from a sugar-coated poisonous throat like music that rivaled the heaven’s choirs.

The police find no evidence; no fingerprints, no hairs, no security camera recordings, no fibers or specks that do not belong to the apartment rented by Gibson turned Grundy. They do find the pending arrest record for the repeated sexual assault of a minor, and the alleged abuses of three other teen boys, in Jennifer Gibson’s file and the death certificate, due to natural causes and old age, of Geraldine Grundy. The police do their jobs but there is nothing to find, and very few people seem to care about the fate of a child predator outside of the drama it created.

They’re laid in bed when the news reaches them through the combination of the media and the text chatter their ‘friends’ have become caught up in as it sweeps the town. Archie turns to stare at him with wide eyes from where he’s leaned against a pale chest and Jughead looks back at him with storm colored eyes strangely calm in the wake of raging tempests that have not left their depths since the night Archie had bared the pain of his soul and put into words the poison stuck to his veins.

“Jug?” It’s soft, timid in a way Archie almost never was with him unless it was in the aftermath of their more volatile joinings. It was marred now by an uncertainty that never appeared even after their harshest meetings, after passions ran into bloodlust and love ran into the need to claim. Jughead only smiled and nodded his head, whispering “Yeah Arch.” in a soft tone as he leaned forward to press a careful kiss to red hair.

The boy who knew his soul needed no other answer, no more a reassurance, did not question for a moment the wisdom of unholy wrath reigning down unto an unworthy monster for the crimes against the one who worshiped him in devotion. He pressed up into the boy who held him, scrabbled to straddle him instead of laying by his side, hands searching desperately for perches against shirt and skin alike, fevered lips pressing to pale pink in desperation as he burned from the inside out. Kissed his raven boy with the heat of the fires burning through him with the weight of all the things he could not twist into words; gratitude, love, thanks, awe, devotion and things wild and deep that he could not name, that no word could encompass. He pressed them into pale skin, down deeper into the kindred soul of his Beloved bound to his own in threads of red.

Jughead met him easily with a laugh, welcomed him into his arms, greeted his Cherished One as his soul sang, as Archie’s cried out in that same song to answer. He held him close and welcomed his fire, returned the burning under his flame-colored love’s skin with the weight of the cosmos flecked in stardust, kissed him until they suffocated, until their lungs wilted and stirred to life again under the flames of their passion and demanded air. They broke apart and Archie’s hands were buried in dark hair, his forehead pressed to Jughead’s as they panted for breath, for the air that never filled them the way their vicious devotion did. Jughead gazes up at this broken boy made unholy and holy in tandem, sees the jagged edges and splintered pieces of him, sees the gouges where he would mend, the cracks where he would have to break apart again before he could heal, see all of his body and soul and loves him with a passion that he feels could destroy his very soul. He would welcome it if it did.

Archie looks back at him, seems the strength of him, the storms and ocean tempests crashing together in his eyes, the galaxies merging to scatter stardust across his gaze, sees those eyes shifting color only for him, knows they turn to slate and crumbling stone when they look on anyone else. Sees the icy winds stirring into whirlwinds in his chest, and fires burning deeper down shooting sparks through his being, chasing cold with flames that only reach for him, reach to caress his very being, would burn the rest of the world to ash. Would lay waste and rend reality in two. Sees the soul of him bound only by red that reaches across a space that will never be small enough to meet his own. His love gazes back at him and sees his Beloved return the devotion that would rend kingdoms to dust returned a thousand-fold, sees faith return to Archie’s eyes with the knowledge that his Beloved would scatter the cosmos and turn reality to ash and dust for him.

Archie settles in the only place he has ever felt outside his father’s arms, and Jughead reaches for him, settles his little burning wild thing on his chest, tucks teeth that will never be bared to him at his throat and welcomes him, body and soul, home. A Cherished One rests in his Beloved’s arms and knows from the burning of devotion in his soul, from the all-encompassing weight of love surrounding him that he is safe.

[monkey-network]

Good Stuff's Best of 2019

WARNING: Just wanted to say cheers to you for making it through another year. I send you best wishes for next year to be fruitful. Thank you, take care out there, and enjoy. (Best of 2017) (Best of 2018)

Dedicated to Russi Taylor, John Witherspoon, Rip Torn, Tartar Sauce, Caroll Spinney, Peter Matthews, and the many of KyoAni lost in the arson incident. You all did wonderful; rest in peace.

Welp, I figured the last year of this decade would be the most chaotic one by far, then again everything peak after 2012. As for now, I am counting down the best cartoons/animations/comics I’ve seen and loved this year in no particular order other than #1. Same rules apply: No sneak previews of future projects, no repeats, and this time anything goes.

Runner Ups: Superman Smashes the Klan, Marvel’s Aero, Infinity Train, Enter the Florpus, Amphibia, Mao Mao: Heroes of Pure Heart, Helluva Boss, Meta Runner, Lego Movie 2, Forky Asks a Question

Anyways, Badda boom bang whiz, let’s do this shizz...

10. Super Mario Bros GT

Nostalgia can be quite a mystery, especially one that can come out of nowhere. Super Mario Bros Z kicked so much ass as a kid that now, it still frustrates me to this that it got a cease & desist from Nintendo, even the reboot from the same person couldn’t last long. But the gods have offered a slight miracle in the form of this new spiritual successor that has heart and soul put into every pixelated frame. There is much to celebrate with Youtube animation, where many say it’s dying due to the algorithm and all of the site’s corporate bullshit, but it’s stuff like this which helps me understand why we should celebrate. Against all odds, channels like Smasher Block willfully put their works out their for the people and continues to because on top of getting a little dough, it’s what they want to do.

9. DC SUPER HERO GIRLS (2019)

Awwwwww yeah, this is She-Ra and the Princesses of Power done right. Diverse female squad, each given a quality screen time to truly shine (Beecher especially) on their which makes the episodes where they’re all together feel earned and joyous to watch. Certainly reminds me of Friendship is Magic, which is coincidental since they were created by the same woman. I’d like to think this and MLP G4 were the answers to Faust’s cancelled project Milky Way and the Galaxy Girls where multiple personalities collide to one extraordinary superhero team of girls capable great feats that are lifted from their insecurities or drawbacks. And on top of this being a fun series to kick back to all around, it’s a comforting, somewhat aspiring thought to consider.

8. JOKER

I am somebody that rarely goes to the theaters to watch a film; you have to hook my tight just for me to even think of buying a ticket, no less plan to. But honestly, Joker was worth the hype, the ticket, and the fact that it wasn’t the incel uprising that buttfuck normies tried to make it out as. It’s lower on the list because in thought, there definitely could’ve been some tweaks to the dialogue and a couple scenes that I felt didn’t work in the long run. But really, this movie to me worked because of the escalation that leads to a cathartic climax and ending that left me in actual tears. I don’t give a shit if it “doesn’t fit”, having Frank Sinatra sing the film's credits put me in shambles. Joaquin Phoenix was phenomenal as Arthur, and this movie felt authentic in its many details. This is definitely up there with my favorite comic book films of all time. Good thing, too, Spider-Man was taking up most of that shelf.

7. TUCA & BERTIE

This series being what I can’t help but say is a spin-off to Bojack Horseman, a show I respect, was enough to pull me into watching it. But it being like Bojack where it’s tight-roping between a bouncy comedy and a grounded drama was what kept me around for more. It is a damn shame this was cancelled after one season (while 13 Reasons Why gets FOUR seasons like what the fuck), because while this did feel enough like a complete series, I was certainly interested for more because I really enjoyed it all. I have my issue with a couple choices in the show, but I am sure this series would’ve addressed them later down the line. I can see why some women would find this personally endearing, it felt like the personal stories of actual people, and it deserved better. Either way, I enjoyed this series and I recommend it just as much as Bojack.

6. PRIMAL

Genndy Tartakovsky is that kind of cartoon creator where you feel he’ll go beyond if you give him the right amount of space. He’s not a perfectionist like John “Dirty Diddler” Kricfalusi, but with things like Hotel Transylvania and Samurai Jack, he certainly has proven to have the range in animation where you know how he plays. Primal showcasing his noted skill in dialogue-less storytelling and dynamic action scenes, able to convey everything clear with its ruthless yet careful protagonist and his dinosaur friend, all on top of the most luscious backgrounds. This is a series that definitely feels like Genndy’s taken what he’s used from his previous works and putting it together for a brutal yet passionate look at the prehistoric life. He truly brought us an adult series to enjoy and to look forward to more in the coming year.

5. SPINEL

Bet you didn’t expect a character to be on this list, eh? Spinel is the best thing to come out of Steven Universe in general; makes me wish she was in a better movie. The crew certainly did their darndest to make her not only an enjoyable and connectable character through and through, but a very versatile character that the fandom could take in any which way. Call it corny, but Spinel perfectly represents SU as a whole: a lovable goof that can certainly mean business but deep down is deserved of a hug because of what she’s gone through. Wish she had a more satisfying resolution in her respective debut, but really it’s the balance between those three elements mentioned that makes Spinel almost eternally wonderful.

4. MOB PSYCHO 100 II

As someone that doesn’t like reading, I’m a firm believer that the best animations or visual medias elevate the writing to a memorable degree; the visuals hook to the point where you want to think about what you saw and how it was conveyed. Mob Psycho 100, for two seasons now, does this in spades where Studio Bones throw them bones in animating one of the most dynamic animes of the modern era, providing the writing and characters a proper chance to flex its muscles. The characters are especially what makes this and MP100 as a whole work so well, the story being about a boy learning to be more sociable as well as emotionally stronger all while helping others understand maturity and empathy. For more on this, I recommend Hiding in Public’s video(s) on Mob. But with the animation, Bones was able to provide a sense of impact and immersion to the moments that matter, not making it an overstimulating mess, and putting some respect on ONE’s webcomic art style. 

3. KLAUS

Hands down, this is a great Christmas movie. Take away the animation and you have a charming, wanna say ground and authentic, story about the makings of Santa Claus. With memorable and likable characters, a nice escalation in terms of the plot, and moments that are/can be so satisfying, they can bring you to tears. A couple overdone tropes in the road that doesn’t make this the most perfected story, but those sincerely minor compared to everything else that makes this story the best. Now. Add in the animation, and you have a gold, nay a platinum animated story of the year where the visuals definitely enhance the story to a degree where they’re undoubtedly inseparable. The visuals alone is enough to check this movie out and it’s eye-opening when you learn of how it’s all done. Klaus is a film that did it’s job and then some, and I hope this will be well remembered as a classic holiday film for it deserves that status.

2. BEASTARS

I’ll be fair, I’m mostly referring to the manga and not the anime but since the anime premiered this fall, it counts. Because be it the anime or the series overall, Beastars has such well intricate world building all while offering a little something for everyone (violence, romance, slice of life). The story is well paced and even when we aren’t focusing on the main characters momentarily, Itagaki is surprisingly able to make every supporting/side character we come across memorable in their own way; like I said before, the city is much a character in this story. Oh yeah, and the mangaka is the daughter of Keisuke “Grappler Baki” Itagaki, that in itself is a treasuring bit of trivia for this. Everything about Beastars is enticing and Studio Orange certainly helped in giving this series more of a following.

1. GREEN EGGS & HAM

Well, well, well. Guess Netflix is three for three in terms of bringing its best foot forward among its few steps back each year. The best term to describe this series is surprising. Surprising that this is a Dr. Seuss story that got expanded a 13 episode series, that has fleshed out characters, fun hijinks, an easy story, lovely emotional, more quieter moments... on top of being 2D hand drawn animated. I mean, what else is there to say? Green Eggs and Ham is to Dr. Seuss what Seven was for Final Fantasy, what Friendship is Magic was for MLP, what watermelon was before a nice menthol cigarette. This definitely took the top spot because to me, it was able to bring many good elements from the previous entries and knot it all together into a well kept bow that I never knew I wanted until now. I’m genuinely glad this show got to exist the way it is and I am hoping, praying, that the second season keeps that momentum up.

That leads us to the actual number one which is

1. STEVEN UNIVERSE FUT-

Total Dramarama is now the two time World Heavyweight Champion, babey. Will 2020 give us a quality contender? Will the streak last another year?

Stay tuned, and always seek out the Good Stuff.

[mynameisdreartblog]

Vacation Resorts 1

Aries: Adare Manor. “Our revenge will be the laughter of our children.” I don’t know who said that, but me makes me wanna act ballistically. «And why do you suspect that phrases like these trigger a response within you?» <Réamoinn pauses for a moment, stretches their arms into the air while using this opportunity to crack their knuckles further.> I honestly don’t know. I know saying ’I don’t know’ is a copout, but… «There’s no such thing as a copout here; this is a therapy session.» Right, right, but I feel like this is highly transactive, and I’m not offering anything of value: There’s “nothin’ in me noggin” as my mum used to say. «Well, just understand that not having the right thoughts available at the pristine moment is a perfectly normal thing in sessions, so don’t beat yourself up over it… However, I will inform you that I only have so much time for a single session of an entire day, so the more time you spend, the more you should ensure that your words are, uh, ‘quality over quantity’ as we say.» [,] <Réamoinn slouches to the side of the therapeutic sofa and begins to do that weird quirk where they jitter randomly: Likely an operative test of the body’s stimulate functions.> «Are you shivering? You look like you’re shivering; are you cold?» Aye, no. A thermostat’s not gonna heal the cold of my heart, doc. «Uh-huh, and what do you mean by the “cold of my heart”?» I thought the simile was obvious, but it basically means that I feel as if my ability to change things by myself has frozen over, and now I need something external to thaw it out of its icy state. «That sounds quite dramatic, so it must be a real detriment for you, I’m guessing.» Oh, you don’t know the extent of it, doc. You feel like a human time-capsule: Absolutely divorced from any power you have in the present to do something about the pit you’re being sucked into, and you have to accept it because there’s literally nothing you can do but wait for time to change your situation. «You know, I think what you’re describing is really applicable to a lot of other people.» I don’t doubt it, aye.

Gemini: Awanjiwo. <Thinking to themselves> I spilt goat’s milk all over my transistor, but it’s not like I needed that anyways: There’s a map of this entire scheme in my head, and it’ll be relevant so long as I keep using it. <A sudden change of psyche emerges> I could’ve given this back to that poor boy I saw earlier who had nothing for entertainment other than rusty cans, dirty footballs, and his flesh and blood companions. That kid could’ve grown to appreciate the internal workings of the radio, and who knows what education he could pursue after that… That kid could’ve became a stellar engineer! He could’ve founded the cure for cancer, mild discomfort, or working in general! No, what I decided to do with my time on Earth was keep something to myself that I never really needed: How will that reflect in eons when I’m gone? I won’t be relevant after that, but it still matters in the moment, right? But why does the ’moment’ matter; what even is the moment? Does anybody else experience the ‘moment’ differently? <A bird comes by to lick up the milk, now spilling onto the cabin floor: Rambling ensues in Truce’s mind as they contemplate why they’re here and what the radio’s dysfunction means for the ripples of the future.> [,] <A distant yelling is heard across the beach, and like that, all of Truce’s tangents cease and they perk their ears towards the sound.> Oi, what the bloody hell was that? <The signals become louder and resemble static more and more, beginning to overstimulate Truce.> Aargh, cut that crap out! Who the goddamn hell is there and why are they loud! <Truce’s hand-radio starts crackling, making them pick it up and inspect it. Suddenly, a rather clear transition comes through.> «Truce! Yes, you: The Truce who just came here from the western tip of Japen Island. Come in… Respond to me! I can see you right through my binoculars.» Then what’s the purpose of using the damn radio? Just yell at me if you’re that close for Christ’s sake. Lord knows you’re not the first stalker I’ve dealt with in my life. Fuck off, will you? […] «I mean regardless, we’re at a plane-crash site not far from where you currently are, so we’re at least worth interacting with, right?.» <Truce sets up a makeshift fire.> Yeah, get back to me before the plastic I melted collapses my lungs. <Truce throws his radio two feet out from him.>

Scorpio: Hanhwa Resort Seorak Sorano. Now, I interact with a lot of weird counselors every day, but the one I remember the best was from last year, and their name was Sonnim: They were short (as far as I’d know compared to my view), they’d always show up at the weirdest times, and they were always bossy but she said she’s like that because “you need to balance prohibited and bad behavior.” She made a big deal out of the most silly things, and I always wanted to say to her that I wasn’t really hurting anyone by doing it, so it’s not really bad. It’s worse because she also punishes me when I do truly hurtful things: She’s consistent! <Juyeon kicks her legs into the air from her spot on the bench, flicking one of her shoes off and narrowly hitting another kid.> It gets worse when I try to talk to her about it: She doesn’t seem to like honesty. <A cohort of red squirrels gather around Juyeon’s position at the recess bench.> Did I mention she’s short? I know my mom told me not to mock people for their height, but boy, she is short. I mean, I’m short even compared to other girls, but I take one glance at her and she makes me feel more confident about myself. <Juyeon kicks her legs into the air a second time, this time her other shoe remains on while the contrast between that and her shoeless foot is still present.> I’m bored… I don’t know, I think I liked it better before when there was less politics in all of it: It was about the raw fun of it all. <One of the squirrels from earlier returns to Juyeon after she kicked up an acorn beneath her feet with acorn in its cheeks: It stares down her contemplative reflection for a solid amount of time before moving onto another site in the playground.> Those weren’t even the worst parts of the whole thing… <Daylight fades and a moody night envelopes the sky: Colors start to glisten intensely as the emotions become stronger.> I don’t think she was even justified despite what she always told me. She was pretty mean all things considered. I remember her saying to me once “Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?”, and I respond with “I don’t kiss my mom on the lips if that’s what you mean; that’s gross.” <Electricity surges through the landscape which now looks like a mental breakdown visually translated. That one red squirrel from earlier races against the corruption with great finesse: This scene seems to be one of trauma, but that isn’t the case. All that’s there is just profound confusion.>

Capricorn: White Point Beach Resort. I hate just hearing the word “neat” in response to something positively eventful happening in my life, like showcasing the class a odd and interesting fact: “Odd and interesting” being the phrase I ingrained into myself to make me feel better. Just saying the word “neat” provokes an emotional response so barren and dreadful that one might as well not have said anything. There’s no desire to dig deeper into the cave of knowledge presented in front of people, and it’s especially more insulting when you discover that cave for them. I present my work to other people because I want to hear their perspectives too, but not everybody’s inclined to give their own unique perspective: If only they understood how truly irreplaceable and ephemeral it is, then they’d take stronger advantage of it… Back to how much I hate the word “neat”, if I just wanted to hear a word that invokes such a boring and unemotional character, like myself, then I would just recite what I think my character is in a mirror, like myself. What’d be more imaginative is the filler of words you’d usually associate with cussing, also conveniently monosyllabic, like “shit”, “cunt”, “fuck”, or “merde” if you’re feeling poignant. These words imply an insulting quality, but that’s arguably more unique than the thousands of “neats” I hear that become unique in their own collective nature. [,] I have no other emotions besides founded frustration and unfounded frustration, and that’s one painful polarity to define your life by, right? Good thing I don’t do that: Why would I? [,] If you’re gonna ask whether or not I know I sound like an asshole, I do. I think I do, but the subjective values of what makes someone an asshole are flipping my judgment to and fro. [,] I… I’m growing exhausted by all of this: It must be because of my exhaustive personality or the fact that this music is far too energetic for the situation at hand… Perhaps it’s because I camped out in freezing weather last night? No, my body is too resistant to the cold for something like that. [,] Am I in the wrong here? Nah, my students need to understand the value of liberal education through the brutality of its strict twin.

[wonderfulworldofmichaelford]

Psycho Analysis: Yoshikage Kira

(WARNING! This analysis contains SPOILERS!)

“You can call me Yoshikage Kira. I'm currently 33 years old. Not that you'd care, but I reside in northeast Morioh's villa district. Also, I've yet to marry. In order to make a living, I work for Kame Yu department stores. After a long day's work, I return home no later than 8 PM. I don't like smoking, but do enjoy the occasional drink. I'm always in bed by 11 PM, and I make it a point to get no less than 8 hours of sleep each night. Before bed, I drink a warm glass of milk. It's always coupled with 20 minutes of stretching to decompress from the long workday. Sweet dreams are the usual result of this. I then awake as refreshed and recharged as a newborn child, ready to take on the day's challenges. And after my last checkup, I was given a clean bill of health. For as long as I could remember, I've done everything in my power to live a productive life that allows me to pursue a lasting inner peace. This may be a foreign concept, but I choose not to concern myself with winning or losing, life's troubles, or enemies who bring sleepless nights. That is how I cope with this backwards life we find ourselves living. It's what brings me happiness in a world fraught with hardship and misery. Of course, if I were ever to engage in combat, I would win the battle without question.”

JoJo’s Bizarre Adventure is an absolute wealth of fantastic villains, some of the absolute best fiction has to offer. Villains like Dio and Funny Valentine and Diavolo and Pucci have become iconic among fans for their crazy personalities, quotable lines, powerful stands, unique designs, and overall character. But one villain stands out as perhaps the greatest creation of Hirohiko Araki, the villain of what is arguably the best part of the franchise: Yoshikage Kira of Diamond is Unbreakable.

Kira is the remorseless serial Killer who has been living in plain sight in Morioh for years, killing women and taking their hands to be his “girlfriends.” He miraculously was never caught despite being active for over a decade, due to a combination of sheer luck and his incredibly dangerous Stand Killer Queen. The utterly terrifying part is that for the most part he seems like an absolutely normal, average guy who otherwise wouldn’t stand out too much in a crowd (well, by JoJo standards anyway, he does dress a bit too colorfully to fit in to a crowd in the real world). This is also what makes him so great as a JoJo villain: even among the others, he stands out. Kind of ironic, all things considered.

Actor: The dub chose to grace Kira with the voice of D.C. Douglas, who you may know as Albert Wesker or Legion. To say that his voice work is perfect would be an understatement; he truly sells Kira as a normal guy while at the same time leaving an air of uncomfortable dread around every word Kira says. And when Kira snaps… brrrrr. Douglas really outdid himself here.

Motivation/Goals: Yoshikage Kira simply wishes to live a quiet life, free from the worries that the common man has. He just wants to live and brutally obliterate women until the end of his days, never being caught or facing justice. This is the gist of his character when first introduced, but of course, things change when Josuke and the gang get on his tail; he then goes out of his way to escape them by stealing the identity and life of a man named Kosaku Kawajiri, and when even that fails due to Kawajiri’s son catching on to him he gains a new ability so he can simply obliterate them all. The long and short of it though is that Kira is very much your typical serial killer pushed too far, though with his abilities, Kira is a lot more than “typical.”

Personality: Kira’s personality when compared to other villains like DIO is actually very subdued. For the most part, he is very calm, collected, and doesn’t really ham it up to any great extent. But when he does, it’s usually extremely terrifying; just look at the scene where he invades the couple’s apartment and kills them if you need evidence of how utterly terrifying Kira can be when he raises his voice

All that being said, once Kira gets Bites the Dust all bets are off. He becomes a lot hammier, though none of it feels like a betrayal of his character; it more feels like after all his desperate attempts to escape and all the fear of being caught, he is finally winning. And then when he starts to lose… it does sort of bring back memories of DIO after drinking Joseph’s blood, with how unhinged and even maniacal he starts to become.

Final Fate: Kira has the honor of dying twice within the span of a single episode. First comes when he is pushed into the path of an oncoming ambulance, which accidentally backs up over his head, killing him. Kira’s spirit ends up on Reimi’s street, and together with Arnold she succeeds in making Kira turn around and face the hands of the wicked spirits that live there, who proceed to tear him and Killer Queen apart and drag them to oblivion.

Both deaths are fitting and have a sense of irony to them. An ambulance reverses over him and tears off his face, just as he did to Kosaku Kawajiri; there’s also the fact that his face being mangled by the wheels of the ambulance technically gives Kira the anonymity he so craved. Then of course there is the fact that Kira is dragged off by the object of his desires, torn apart and brought to a place where he will never again experience a quiet day.

Best Scene: For Kira in his original appearance, it’s almost definitely his brutal murder of Shigechi. When he’s Kosaku Kawajiri, the final activation of Bites the Dust and his final fate really take the cake.

Best Quote: You know there is only one quote that could possibly go here. The single most famous thing Kira ever said. And while the dub unfortunately had to censor the line because there are some words you just can’t say on TV, the line still managed to be as epic as promised even if it did have a bit of unintentional hilarity to it:

“When I was a young boy, I remember discovering Leonardo da Vinci's enigmatic Mona Lisa while leafing through a tome of the master's works. It was my first time laying eyes on her! The beauty before me, well, it aroused something in me... it gave me a rock hard cock!”

The “cock” was bleeped out in the broadcast. I just love how this drops all the pretense and subtlety of the manga’s translation, it’s really beautiful and really showcases just how desperate and unhinged Kira has become.

Final Thoughts & Score: As has been noted and alluded to, there is a hilarious irony to Kira. By being a JoJo villain who does his best to appear as average and mundane as possible, he stands out compared to his garish, posing, flexing, hammy peers in the series. Of course, this really does just help make him all the more intriguing and unique… which, if he were real, would just frustrate him all the more.

Frankly this is the easiest 10/10 I have ever given to a villain. I hardly even have to think about it. Kira is just my absolute favorite villain subjectively speaking, and even objectively he’s just a fantastic character who fits the story so well. The ultimate enemy of a man who can fix anything is a man who can blow up everything, it’s pure brilliance, like a shining diamond perhaps. Then there’s his design, which just oozes cool, as well as Killer Queen’s design and myriad powers, which are likewise insanely awesome. Is it any surprise that he’s my go-to inspiration for when I design serial killer OCs?

There’s also just how he contrasts with the part as a whole. Diamond is Unbreakable is very relaxed and laid-back, plot wise. Compared to the previous three stories, which were all about fabulous muscle-bound vampires trying to take over the world, this is just a simple story about a gang of teens trying to find a killer and protect their town. There’s a lot of wacky situations and side characters, and overall the tone manages to stay fun and lighthearted… until Kira steps on the scene. Kira’s every appearance brings in a lot of dark, terrifying, and truly gruesome moments, and even with some of the levity provided such as his rambling about the erection he got from the Mona Lisa he still manages to be incredibly creepy and unnerving until his dying breath.

Kira is just an utterly fantastic villain with cool powers, a great voice actor, and two really fun playable appearances in All-Star Battle (Kawajiri’s Great Heat Attack is one of my favorites, it’s so funny). And while it’s obviously sad but still expected such a fantastic villain has to die, we can all take solace in knowing that some day in the distant future we will see him again (sort of) in Part 8. Still, it’s doubtful it will fill the hole Kira has exploded in the hearts of JoJo fans everywhere. 

[whateverisbeautiful]

Reveling in Richonne

#152: The Intensity (9x14)

They said this episode would get intense and that was a very accurate statement. The last eight seasons is estimated to have covered the span of about six years, so you know within this six year time-jump these characters probably went through some crazy things considering the craziness they went through in the first six years. 

And that proved to be real true cuz this has got to be one of the most insane things a character has had to go through on this show. 

Jocelyn was clearly nuts so Michonne understandably had to let her know; if you want to get crazy...

Michonne wakes up and her and Daryl are tied up like animals as Jocelyn makes her legion of evil kids brand them both. It’s insane. 😰 And the acting from Danai and Rutina when Michonne’s branded is so well acted and super striking. The intensity is real. 💯

Michonne yelling in Jocelyn’s blank face is so raw and powerful. 🤭 I heard about how Rutina actually wasn’t supposed to be in this shot and so her reaction isn’t scripted. I’m glad they kept her in cuz I really think the scene is elevated by having her in it with this expression. 

To me, Jocelyn’s emotionless expression really emphasizes how she’s too detached to even care for Michonne’s pain as a human being. And Michonne’s expression communicates that she’s going to mess Jocelyn all the way up one way or another. 

Not even a horrid predicament like this can stop Michonne or make her give in when it comes to saving her kids. And this yell is like her telling Jocelyn, even through pain that...

Michonne and Rick have this drive to protect people that’s unmatched so, despite all the abuse, Michonne and Daryl make it out. It’s definitely a testament to the two of them as survivors.  

(Side note: If Rick and Michonne had been the duo in this episode this would have been the most graphic episode for what Rick would do to Jocelyn and anybody who hurt his family. 👀 Imagine the acting we’d get from Andy when they brand Michonne. All bets would be off from the second they even took Judith. And then after the branding of his pregnant wife. 🤭 Rick would’ve been another level of brutal once he faced these people who are trying to hurt his immediate family.)

In the present, Michonne rides her horse and takes out walkers in her search for Judith. And then back to the past, they gloss over how exactly Daryl and Michonne break free (which I thought was really odd) but they do break free and they end up deciding to split up. 

Michonne comes across Jocelyn and her kids and demands to know where Judith and the Alexandria children are. You can tell that the branding isn’t even a concern for Michonne right now, it’s all about the kids. And that’s motivation enough for her to push through this pain. That’s Mama Michonne for you. 

Note that’s “Where are my kids.” Plural. She was talking about all the taken Alexandrian kids. They were all her kids in that moment cuz she’s a real one. 👏🏽Her and Daryl were the only ones out here getting branded for these kids and then the community wants to give her attitude?? 🤔)😑 Cuz again, with those other adults at Alexandria...

Jocelyn responds with, “Why? She’s better off. You live in the past chasing a ghost while Judith’s here with me.” Tried it to capacity. 😡 Quick question, Jocelyn...

Cuz this lady clearly doesn’t realize that she’s dealing with the undeniable baddest chick in the game and Judith’s mother who prioritizes her over anything including a so-called “chase”. 

And also I was like, Jocelyn, Rick def isn’t a ghost, so...

So then the kids run out and Michonne can see Judith running with them. Judith’s all smiling cuz they have her thinking this is a game. And it’s crazy cuz she’s so little and has no clue her mother is going through literal hell just a few feet away. 

Michonne is left to fight these two kids and even as they approach her she tells them she doesn’t want to hurt them. But then that awful little boy strikes her pregnant belly, causing her to start bleeding, and that’s when you visibly see the rules change. Cuz Mama Michonne reaches her final form, once they try to come for her unborn child like that. As she should. The way she swipes at them after that is so genuinely intense.

Danai did such a great job showcasing the ferocity of maternal instincts when it comes to protecting their child. The hands become rated e for everybody when you come for a mother’s child. 💯

Michonne continues to run and yell for Judith but when she makes it outside, Jocelyn just starts brutally beating her. It’s way too much. 🙅🏽‍♀️ And Michonne uses all her energy to stab Jocelyn and kill this evil horrible woman.

Rick and Michonne have had a lot of similarities in their character and journeys. And now “having to kill your best friend because they came for your kids” is added to that list. 

This moment again also reminds me of how Rick had to tap into a dark place to take out that perverted Claimer and protect Car. And because R&M are cut from the same cloth, Michonne had to tap into that space as well for Judith.  

When Michonne gets up and looks around, the Children of the Corn are all aiming knives at her. She tries to tell them it doesn’t have to go down this way and they can all go back to Alexandria, but at this point I was like nah boo we ending this right here and now. It’s the only way. 💯

But I get how difficult and complicated this would be for Michonne. Most everyone can feel sympathy for a child but when you’re a mother I’m sure you’re even more sympathetic to children. Especially right now as a pregnant mother. So Michonne feels for them extra hard and wants to spare them as much as she can. 

These baebae kids should’ve taken her offer to come back to Alexandria, cuz under her supervision they would’ve got it all the way together had a good safe life. 

However, they refuse to listen and the blonde kid Winnie is instructed to kill Judith and the Alexandria kids which at this point in the episode I was just like...

You mean to tell me that just months after losing Rick, Michonne had to worry that she was going to lose Judith and possible her unborn child too!? This episode was piling on the trauma in extreme doses. And it was just time to shut it down. 

So then Michonne does what must be done and takes all these kids out. She tries so hard to avoid it but it becomes clear there really is no other option if she wants to save her children. It’s “look at the flowers” times like ten extra kids.

So to avoid getting too graphic, the show smartly cuts from Michonne slicing walkers in the present to dealing with these kids in the past. And after the sequence, Michonne has got rid of all the killer kids and yells for Winnie to not hurt the kids inside that RV. 

Again, Danai does a terrific job of conveying the anguish and conflict Michonne feels having to kill these kids in order to protect her own kids. She by no means wanted it to be this way. But they took Michonne’s daughter so she had to take them all out.

Daryl walks out too with bloody knives implying he took care of business as well. Winnie knows she lost so she runs off, and Michonne is generous to just let her leave.

Then, with the last bit of energy she has left, Michonne cries and her voice breaks as she calls out for Judith. 😢

Judith walks to the entrance of that RV and again looks so beyond adorable. I love that she heard her mom calling and knew to walk out. Like I’m sure the rest of those kids inside were scared and hiding after what they heard going on outside but Judith was like look y’all I gotta go cuz...

Judith stands at the entrance and stays there looking at Michonne with what could appear to be a scared and uncertain expression.

Michonne notices Judith’s hesitancy so concern etches across her face as she worries that Judith has been too traumatized to recognize her mom. 

But after a moment of silence the cutest thing ever happens, cuz Judith smiles and runs to Michonne with open arms saying, “Mommy!” 

My cup runneth over with how adorable this moment is. 😭😊🙌🏽 

And then Michonne feels utter relief (and me too) as she embraces Judith and doesn’t let go. Y’all, this mother and daughter content is just the best. 

And after holding my breath all episode it was at this precious moment that I could finally be like...

It’s cute that little Judith got to act a bit with her expressions this episode. ☺️ And I’m so beyond glad that we got to hear the little one call Michonne “mommy”. I had wanted to hear that from her for some seasons now, so to bring little Judith back and hear her say it was everything.

(Side note: I love thinking about how this Judith would totally have been calling Michonne “mommy” when Rick was around too cuz they were just such a family in every way.)  

Still embracing her daughter, Michonne turns over to Daryl and the two share a smile. And then even despite her own physical pain and trauma, Michonne puts on the sweetest calming voice to ask if Judith and the kids are okay. 

It’s moving to see how, so shortly after such a draining experience for her, Michonne’s focus is still on the kids first and foremost and wanting them to feel safe and like it’ll all be okay.  

And it’s a sweet subtle detail that as she hugs the kids, Daryl runs up to them so they don’t have to see the bloody scene.

I appreciate the unity and bond between Michonne and Daryl. They go through it together and know this is what had to happen. Of course there’s heaviness cuz no one ever wants to take a young life, but I think those two know that in this situation they aren’t monsters for doing what had to be done.👌

I love that Judith, this baby who’s been looked after by so many characters, who at this point in the flashback has just lost her father, still has the best mother in the world to raise her, love her, and fight for her no matter the circumstances. 😌

This whole event is significant for a couple reasons. And one of the biggest ones is that this moment made Judith apart of the apocalypse. 

This appears to be the first time Judith saw the darkness of the world she’s apart of, rather than being inside safe walls just playing. She’s not just that little girl in the house anymore. She’s seen things now that has made her aware. 

Y’all, this has got to be one of, if not the, darkest subject matter this show has ever done. And I really feel like Michonne is one of the few characters who could ever endure something like that and not go completely crazy. Not cuz she’s some warrior robot, but because Michonne has demonstrated an ability to put in the work required to rise above the pain time and time again.

And her desire after this to keep the communities closed makes total sense. Other characters might’ve reacted even more extreme than that had they been the ones in this situation. So Michonne def deserved more empathy from people within and outside of the show (and that empathy should’ve been long before this episode ijs). 

This also showed me that RJ is a miracle baby. Michonne is so resilient to have been branded, cut, and gone through extreme physical and emotional trauma and still give birth to her healthy baby. She’s a queen and RJ’s been persevering since before he was born. 

All that being said, imma need the show to not put Michonne though any more abuse. Like for real. 

Of all the women characters, I feel like she’s had to endure the hardest beatings and it’s time to stop. Just cuz she can take it doesn’t mean she should have to, so I really hope her final season lets her be when it comes to stuff like that. 

Back to the present, Michonne continues to slay walkers and then she finds Judith who’s also using her baby katana to take out walkers. Like mother like daughter. 😊

And when Judith’s using her baby katana you just know she wants to be like her mom. It makes sense, Michonne’s the ultimate role model. And I love that Judith is this fighter like her mother. 😊

Michonne doesn’t take anything laying down so why wouldn’t Judith. She’s fierce and caring and determined, just like her mom. (And she doesn’t stay in the house, just like her big brother lol.) 

It was deep to have Michonne in the past taking out kids and in the present taking out walkers with the same motivation; getting to Judith. It’s like she said in that 8x16 deleted scene; “Everything you do is for that child.”

She gets to Judith and they smile as Michonne sees that her daughter really does take after her in some ways. But before their moment of being happy to see each other can last, a walker grabs Judith. And I so adore the fact that Judith’s immediate instinct is to yell for her mommy and of course her mom is right there to help her. 😌

Judith has been written to be extremely mature for her age, which I don’t mind cuz it would make sense for her to not be like other kids since this is the cutthroat world she’s had to grow up in. But at the end of the day she’s still a little girl and she does need her mommy so I’m glad that older Judith had a moment of not being too grown to need her mom. 💯

Michonne runs to her and takes out the walker and then they hug and it’s precious. 🥰 I really adore the parallel of little Judith and older Judith saying “mommy” to Michonne and embracing. 🥰 Both Judith’s know their mom has got them no matter what.  

Michonne asks if she’s okay, as that’s her first concern just like when they embraced in the flashback and then she lets Judith know they need to talk.

And yeah they definitely do. And it’s one of the most heartfelt conversations.👌🏽😊😭

🏽gifs source: @michonnegrimes @winterswake

[mrevaunit42]

My turn! Who's your favorite of the BNHA crew?

haha hi! sorry it took so long. It has been busy for me. Due to spoilers you can find my answer below! 

I absolutely love BNHA. It is so rare to have an action anime have so much thought and depth and story while being so well written yet simple. No convoluted plots! well yet

and 99 percent of the characters are so great and have such intense depth (except a certain grape but we don’t talk about him. I think they toned him down he would’ve been more bearable) 

Honestly it is pretty hard for me to pick a single character given how rounded the cast is. From Iida and his straight shooter rules follower who literally gets consumed by vengeance, the last thing you’d ever expect from his character archetype, to Uraraka who goes from a simple but rather noble goal (I mean who doesn’t want to take care of their parents when they get older? Like can you imagine how useful her power would be in construction?) to I want to be a hero. I want to be a real hero and I’ll hide my feelings for my best friend until w achieve our goal.

Even the most jerk butt character Bakugo has some interesting growth in subtle ways. Like before he gets to U.A he was basically the best in the class in terms of power and skill  and he was popular despite being than a less than good person to when he finally gets to hero school and not only finds peers that rival him nearly equally, that no one gives a crap about his quirk which in turn forces him to actually grow and actually stop being an asshat. Also like how they address his mental state and the lack of care that came from his rescue. It’s rare for mental problems to be addressed in this genre of anime and manga. 

But my favorite character is the symbol of peace Deku because he has such depth most people don’t realize and he is such a subversion of the cliche battle anime troupes and how he is the driving force of the entire series much like All Might. 

It’s amazing how engaged we are with Deku’s character and growth given we know how this story ends. I mean Deku himself tells us that one day he will become the greatest hero ever. It’s not even subtle. It is spoken in the first episode. 

One of the favorite aspects of I love of Deku is how he’s not a traditional protagonist. Like when you stop and think about it, he is no Naruto or Goku. He doesn’t have some insane power source due to his heritage or because he had an all powerful being sealed inside him. He’s just a regular teenage boy but not just that, he’s a freaking genius. It’s really easy to overlook this given the fantastical setting that my hero takes place in but Deku is brilliant in terms of observation. He routinely studies quirks and not only how they work but their usefulness and weaknesses. He meets stain and within maybe 30 seconds at most, deduces what his quirk does and starts going through the possibilities of how the quirk works. He offers Uraraka a plan to beat Bakugo which I totally believe would’ve won her the match (though her tactic was brilliant too and really showcased her own power and thought process.)  He was able to utilize everyone’s power to help Bakugo and ultimately help turn the tide for the All Might vs One for All battle. He figures out how to properly use one for all while training with Gran Torino and gets the hang of it well enough to help take down the Stain the hero killer who murders pro heroes. Boy’s smart and it’s only because quirks exist does he not get to show it off. 

The next thing I like about him is his personality and how varied it is yet still makes sense. He is a nice, kind, polite teen who is a total fanboy and makes no apologizes for it. I mean he’s been bullied his whole life but it doesn’t make him bitter, it makes him study quirks in hopes that he could learn from them. He still holds on to the dream of being a hero despite how crazy it sounds. He’s kinda clueless sometimes and you can tell he’s not used to being the center of attention, probably due to his years of being ignored. But in battle, there’s such a shift in character. He becomes vicious and brutal. Angry and furious. He’ll destroy you and everything you stand for and he doesn’t care if he’s destroying himself in the process. If he’s going down, he’s taking you with him. And he refuses to yield. He refuses to give up and let you win. And this is clearly stemming from him looking up to Bakugo. To him Bakugo has always won. He’s always been the better, stronger, unbeatable symbol of victory and Deku has unknowingly emulated him. It’s nice contrast and helps show how different situations bring different aspects of characters in story. A lot of people tend to forget that people have various ways to cope in different situations and sometimes you have a sweet nice boy who will brutally destroy you if you’re committing evil. 

The last thing that I’ll talk about because this is getting long and I didn’t mean to go into a whole analysis haha is how much Deku’s belief in being a hero drives everyone else. Like I love the Deku villain aus so much but the only thing most of those get wrong is that they have him team up with Shigaraki. People don’t seem to realize that Deku’s growth as a hero directly parallels Shigaraki’s growth as the villain. Deku’s path to being greatest hero is leading him to the final battle that Shigaraki’s goal to being the ultimate villain. If you watch the arcs carefully, as Deku cements himself more and more into being a hero, Shigaraki is forming into a villain. He used to use video game terms and took as a joke. His first attack is him using a bunch of low class thugs as a distraction but then he grows. He directly confronts Deku, he loses all for one whom he considered to be the only family in his life. The next arc deals with a serious threat in the form of Overdrive who is a villain of a caliber we’ve not seen yet but Shigaraki really grows from Overdrive’s actions and takes advantage of the situation. For the villain au, Deku really shouldn’t be teamed up with Shigaraki because taking Deku away and not replacing him with someone who can fill his shoes destroys everyone and I am not kidding. Deku’s real gift is to save people who in turn save other people. If Deku never had one for all, All Might might’ve died in Shigaraki’s initial attack because it was only because Deku distracted Shigaraki for a second did the heroes get the drop on everyone. And that’s a maybe situation but let’s take a not maybe situation. If Deku didn’t convince Todoroki to use his full power during the sports festival, he would never have gone to his father’s hero agency which means he wouldn’t have been in the city and he wouldn’t have helped save Iida and even if he had showed up, he probably would’ve died too because it took both powers to help fend off Stain with Deku. Iida would’ve died in the back of an alley with Native which in turn means Stain would’ve been still out there murdering heroes. True Spitter and Dabi wouldn’t have joined Shigaraki but one ripple effect at a time. So keeping the dominoes going, Muscular would’ve killed Kota and still been out there, Tokoyami would’ve been kidnapped along with Bakugo. The raid would’ve failed horribly because it took Todoroki, Iida, Momo, Kirashima and Deku to save Bakugo which allowed All Might actually fight full force against all for one and most likely All Might probably would’ve died because All Might wins using a trick he learned from Deku. Even All For One says outloud that someone’s been influencing him because All Might isn’t one to use tricks. Deku is the driving force of the next generation of heroes and that’s why in the future he is the symbol of peace. I love my hero academia because it feels like the aftermath of another anime kinda like Naruto and Boruto (And I would pay to see a prequel series. I still need to read illegals). 

Annnnd that’s it because I can talk forever and a half because there’s so much depth in this show.

haha long story short, favorite character is Deku. 

[harusha]

I just saw your post about PJ and I'm wondering, do you have any book recs?

On mythology specifically or overall? I’m gonna do both since I’m not sure. Also sorry for the relatively late reply, I had to think about this, and I just got back from dinner.

The Count of Monte Cristo- Fantastic page turner, and a genuinely good “revenge” tale. It’s actually one of the first of that kind (or at the very least, one of the most popular ones). It’s also a book that a lot of people cite as the one that changes their mind on classics as “boring.”

The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn- Somewhat of a controversial pick (both because of its subject matter and because it’s often “required high school reading,” ie “boring” to a lot of people.)

Huck Finn is an exceedingly complex character, and his friendship with Jim is really good. Pay attention to what Huck Finn does and says; he’s an unreliable narrator due to how he was brought up, his age, and his illiteracy. There’s also a lot of symbolism and other literary devices at play in his character (ex. notice his fixation with death and how it colors how Twain writes him). It’s very much a book I recommend if you want to study the unreliable narrator as a trope, the  Naïf version of it.

As a side note, it’s very poignant because of how Huck learns to condemn his racism. One of the messages you can get from this book is “If this uneducated poor white boy can learn to overcome his prejudices, so too can someone who has been educated, has money, etc.” It is a brutal condemnation of racism (though you do have to consider the time period, the “lens” of which you have to view through.)

Lolita- Another controversial pick, and one I’ll upright say as a lot of trigger warnings attached (google the summary, and you’ll see what I mean).

Beautiful prose (some of my favorite in literature actually) and a monster of a protagonist. When you read this, remember how Humbert Humbert is framing it. He is telling his tale to a court; he is unreliable and will frame events to make himself appear sympathetic. One notable factor of the author’s skill is how often Humbert gains the readers’ sympathy despite the atrocious subject matter. I personally felt viscerally uncomfortable reading his thoughts, and this is one of the few books that has ever made me feel that way. I didn’t fall into the sympathy trap, but look at any discussion of the book, and you’ll see what I mean.

I also recommend this author’s (Vladimir Nabokov) other works.

Franz Kafka’s literary works- Kafka is one of my favorite authors because he really showcases the isolation (both due to WWI, technological advancement, and the “beginnings” of modern capitalism) of the beginning of the 1900s, and he’s one of modernism’s premier authors. His works often deal with the themes of isolation, judgement, and outcasts. 

In particular, I’m fond of “The Metamorphosis” (cliche pick I know) and “In the Penal Colony.” The former is a short story so quick read if you just wanna try his writing style + it’s very influential (See Part 1 of Tokyo Ghoul for one example).

Also know that Kafka had a very strained relationship with his father and a conflicted relationship with his religion. I recommend reading “Letter to his Father” first to get an understanding of Kafka’s psyche to truly get pass the “nonsensical” nature of his works. It, like the title says, is a letter he wrote to his father, but his mother never delivered it.

If you want even more info on Kafka to understand his works, I recommend Kafka: Judaism, Politics, and Literature which covers a lot more (and in more succinct words) than I can on his works and life. As a fun fact, Vladimir Nabokov also placed him as one of the greatest writers of the 20th century. On Kafka himself, he thought he was a failure of a human being and writer, and now look at him. He’s up there in the Western Canon with Shakespeare.

Paradise Lost + Paradise Regained- If you’re interested in Lucifer (or Samael if you subscribe to that theory), this is a must-read. Beautiful, haunting, and with a very charismatic figure in Lucifer. Alongside the obvious Divine Comedy, this work has influenced the portrayal of Lucifer and Hell quite a bit imo. Namely, the “sympathetic” portrayal you find in works such as Supernatural. It’s also an epic poem so it’s best listened to imo rather than read.

No Longer Human- Osamu Dazai’s work if you’re into that one show. An incredibly depressing book that’s often thought to be semi-autobiographical. It’s a haunting book that I don’t recommend for prose, but for the mood it evokes. I don’t recommend this unless you’re in a decent state of mind.

The Catcher in the Rye- Mildly controversial pick in that you either hate Holden or love him. It’s a book where you have to be in the “right” state of mind to appreciate Holden. For example, the period of moving away from home for college  This work deals with societal isolation and human loneliness and features an unreliable narrator.

It’s just a very particular feeling you have to be experiencing to appreciate Holden. I think anyway.

The Epic of Gilgamesh- Not super fancy or a reinterpretation of whatever. Just the oldest known written work of mankind. I like it a lot, but I like Sumerian myth so YMMV. It’s still missing a few tablets last I checked, but still a good read.

Also the related Enuma Elish, you get the creation myth.

Vampire Chronicles- I recommend the first three or four so books honestly. Afterwards, Anne Rice just goes off the rails. Prose is pretty, and Lestat is a terrible person but fascinating to read about. I am partial to Armand though tbh.

Dracula- I think this is another page-turner. I certainly enjoyed it. I don’t think it’s as scary as it would be in its’ published time period, but it is a classic Gothic horror. The unabridged version may look intimidating, but like Monte Cristo, you’ll sweep through it rather quickly.

“A Rose for Emily”- One of William Faulkner’s short stories. I think it’s a lovely piece and showcases the Southern Gothic (crumbling house, decaying and failing tradition and the southern nobility, etc.) There’s a theme of decay and time passing throughout this work.

As a side note, I actually enjoy Faulkner a lot, but he’s a difficult author imo. It’s not as apparent in this work, but more so in Intruder in the Dust (the first racial thriller) and especially The Sound and The Fury.

Cat on a Hot Tin Roof- A play that deals with repressed homosexuality (maybe, it depends on how you interpret Brick’s dialogue and actions), loss, and denial. I quite like it a lot, and Tennessee Williams actually was gay (was because he’s dead and all). I read it, but tbh I feel like it would be better watched if you can find a performance on Youtube.

The Picture of Dorian Gray- Oscar Wilde’s most well known work imo. I enjoy the prose and the themes of corruption and indulgence present throughout the novel. There’s also a lot of allusions to Faust in it if you’re interested in that.

Peter Darling-a more modern choice but it features a trans and gay protagonist. Part of what I enjoy is how it’s not browbeaten into you that the protagonist is trans. It’s interwoven into the character where it’s an important part of him, but to where it doesn’t overwhelm his entire character. However, this is a novel where I feel the beginning and ending are great, but the middle is so-so. It’s a retelling of Peter Pan.

The Tain- Focuses on Cu Cuchulain and his cycle.

Poetic Edda- A must read if you’re interested in exploring Norse myths outside of Marvel. It’s basically a collection of tales.

Arabian Nights- Scheherazade is one of my favorite female figures from literature. She’s daring, clever, and particularly resourceful. It’s a frame narrative sort of tale so you technically won’t be seeing her as much since she’s telling each story, but it’s a lovely piece and perfect for a bedtime read because of its collection of tales. A lot of them have been referenced in media and related as well.

The Book Thief- Classic YA novel rec. It’s set in WWII and one of the novels that really showcases what YA could be. Basically a classic gem in the rough pile.

John Keats- He’s a poet, but I love his poetry because of how haunting and dark it can get; he often deals with themes of mortality.. Ode to Nightingale is particularly good.

China’s Four Great Classical Novels (Journey to the West, Dreams of the Red Chamber, Water Margin, Romance of the Three Kingdoms)- I decided to clump them here since this is already super long. Each one is incredibly well-known in Asia (and obviously China), and you can find allusions everywhere to these four novels. Each novel is rather long and expensive though (I paid like 40 USD for each set). Journey to the West follows Sun Wukong, unarguably one of the most well-known figures in literature (at least in the East; he’s super influential, but somewhat less so in the West; keyword somewhat). Dreams of the Red Chamber has some very pretty poems, but it’s often thought to be the semi autobiographical work of the author (it deals with the rise and fall of his family and the dynasty).

Daiyu’s flower poem is one of the most memorable for example.

The blossoms fade, the blossoms fly,  the blossoms fill the sky. Their crimson fades, their scent dies out,  and who is there to pity?  Drifting threads gently twist together  and float past the springtime lodge;  Falling willow floss lightly sticks  and strikes the lady’s window drapes.

Water Margin is a bit “bawdier” than the other ones imo, but it’s a good tale and has many notable figures and scenes. On Three Kingdoms, it’s the one I’d recommend to start with if you’re interested in military intrigue and battles.

I also have a Goodreads where I organize everything by shelf if you prefer to look at that. I do need to update it though tbh.

https://www.goodreads.com/Mahariel