#knowing i might be threatened if i show my morals and speak for what i believe in

[bandzboy]

kehlani is a great example - she was openly pro-palestine (even though they've stopped posting as much) but she's signed to a zionist label. and i'm boycotting the music officially but to a certain extent it's like these artists livelihood IS threatened if they leave their label (if they're not dropped first). do these artists' pro-palestine views get erased because zionism is so insidious and has grown roots in literally every aspect of the western music industry and they happen to be signed to these labels (which at this point all have a zionist connection)?? the creative community for peace (responsible for justin bieber becoming a zionist all of a sudden) has probably invested so much money and time to make sure it's established and unavoidable. knowing this about the western industry, it's hard to be so hard on kpop idols because they are also largely being taken advantage of by these companies. it's like, we see western artists being openly pro-israel but aside from like a few idols no idol has been openly pro-israel. idk my brain is working in overdrive lately it's such a shitty situation we're forced to be in when we just want to enjoy music and our favorite artists

yeah that's why when i know all of these things i respect the artists that show their support knowing they could get dropped by these labels SO MUCH because they are putting their career on the line and they know that, especially small artists, need labels to support them and it's essentially a deal breaker. i know for a fact that there are probably a lot of artists who get threatened behind the scenes to not say anything and they probably start saying "if you say this we will drop you and make your life a living hell" i mean... a lot of these people in the industry are so powerful that they can blacklist someone just like that and it's terrifying! what is annoying to me is how there are big artists that have a lot of money atp and are so well loved that it's hard for them to lose anything not so say anything! some of these people could start their own label and everything and choose not to say a thing and to me it's disappointing in that sense! but it's always the smaller-ish (saying this because some of them aren't that small and i don't offend anyone lmao) that speak out and put everything on the line. that's why i hate this aspect of the industry, how much these artists are exploited and obligated to do things they don't exactly want to but because they have these big music executives waving their contracts in front of them are probably threatening to just throw it in the trash if they don't comply! a lot of them use that to their own advantage and it's something that is unfortunately very common! that's why if an artist is dropped from a label for speaking out they should be supported and i respect those people so much because even tho they lost opportunities they stood up for what they believed in and what i am hoping that these boycotts do over time is for us to make a better space for artists and even incentivize unions in the industry etc because having no freedom of speech because of a contract or wtv is it's absurd and personally, i could not stand living like that!

[billcyphersballsack]

Actually no joke I need to see more slay the monster (or whatever the reverse au is called) content.

I need to see the princesses perspectives translated into voices I need to hear how they think how they process. So much of (some of) the perspectives power comes from their control over their situations and I wanna know what they’d do with that partially taken away

I need to see the voices translated into perspectives I need to see how their forms are twisted and shaped by the princesses interactions with them.

I NEED to see how the narrator would respond to the shift. The entire reason the voice of the hero initially puts doubt in the player and hints that the narrators word might not be law is by pointing out the obvious tonal dissonance of a hero SLAYING a princess rather than SAVING her. But that doesn’t exist with slay the monster. The narrator wouldn’t need to work as hard to convince the player that they’re doing “the right thing” cuz it’s a monster! It’s chained up and dangerous and going to hurt a lot of people if you don’t kill it! The voice of the princess (my decided title for the VOT Hero in this au cuz obviously the actual Princess would be called the shifting mound the same way we’re the long quiet) would then have to take an angle of “we’re supposed to protect our subjects and our people. Monster or not, isn’t that what this creature is?” Which is still an appeal to the common trope as well as your morality. The narrator would play into your role as a princess like crazy going on about your duty to protect the world you rule over and to save innocent people who’s lives are in your hands, basically what he does to the long quiet but more

Mostly though I just think an inverse of their situations in the cabin would be fun. The chapter one princess is such an interesting character because she’s not the perfect victim. Her honey sweet voice and her doe eyes and her innocent scared demeanour aren’t necessarily fabricated just overplayed. She is genuinely scared, that’s the part that’s true, everything else is a desperate appeal to your humanity that you’ll let her go. It becomes somewhat real in the damsel rout when you free her and warn her and fight tooth and nail to save her, but for the most part it’s for show. If you come down there with a knife or decide mid convo you’re actually gonna kill her for real she drops it. She’s harsh and cold and keeps you at arms length, she acts bored and above it all when she speaks to you picking at her nails and glaring at you. GRANTED THAT COULD ALL BE WRONG! Maybe the harsh and cold personality is the fictitious one, a front built up to protect herself from danger, and really the frightened and desperate personality is the real one. MAYBE THEY’RE BOTH REAL! OR MAYBE THEY’RE BOTH MADE UP. It’s probably that last one but for the sake of my bit we’re going with the first one.

The point is the princess tries to appear put together and composed in both these versions of her personality, but deep down she’s like a caged wild animal and isn’t afraid to act like a caged wild animal if she has to

Now imagine the inverse of that, for The Monster

Outwardly a beast who smarls and claws at every surface trying to break free from its prison. If you bring the blade it slinks into the far corner of the room and hisses and spits while you trying and communicate with it but if you go unarmed it will lunge at you held back by its chains just barely. It’s frightening it’s threatening there is no attempt to appeal to any morality or present a domineering front to strong arm you into doing what it wants, it’s just pure violence and fear, a creature who wears its emotions on its sleeve. Depending on what you do it’s iterations become more or less beastly (I’d imagine guys like Stubborn or Broken or Hunted or Cold would get even more violent or reactive but guys like Paranoid or Opportunist or Cheated or Contrarian would have a more pensive and thoughtful approach, you can decide for the rest) but as you play and as you try and speak with it you discover actually there’s a lot more complex thought behind its eyes, and once the fear subsides there’s a person with throught and feelings hiding under all those feathers and teeth. Also not the perfect victim, they also bite the hand that feeds, but like a little to the left you know

Can you tell? Can you tell it’s like a worm digging into my frontal lobe and eating away at my brain? Huh? Can you tell???

[athanasius-symposium-of-writings]

Hello! I absolutely love your vampire spawn!Tav fics! That’s such a unique idea and I’m in love with them. If I may, I’d like to request one where Astarion is starting to grow more fond of them, and Tav, being the clumsy vampire spawn they are, gets found out and threatened by someone, leading to protective Astarion 💞💞 Thank you!

<3 im super happy ppl like this so much!

did my best with this

taglist @ghostinvenus

Mother once told you "Lovers do not prove their love through words, they prove them through actions." Those words stuck with you, a sort of mental checklist to reflect on when you have a lover. As a child, you saw how your father didn't speak much, very stoic, but he showed his love through his deeds.

When you stare up at Astarion, his arm around your body as he keeps you close to him, that dark gleam in his eyes as his lip forms a condescending smirk. He will kill the four Gur who dared to claim your life.

You want him to spill blood, to kiss those soon-painted crimson lips, to feast on each other after feasting on these mortals.

"Let's go." You whisper trying to fight the beast's hunger within, "They are just doing their duty." It hurts to say that but you do not want a confrontation.

"No, I don't think we can go, can we, Gur." Not a question for he already knows the answer. He can smell their hatred, the sweet racing of their hearts echoing, "Hide." Astarion has seen you fight, both feral and with your mind intact. This is not to take away anything from you but… Of course, this is just for fun and he is making sure no hunters will be on his trail for right now.

But, he finds himself worried about you. This vampirism is still new to you and your morals often get in the way of you fully embracing your power.

"Astarion–"

"Either hide or watch." He will not be persuaded on this.

The campsite is slaughtered. From what the farmers around the area say: they will not be missed.

"We cannot hunt alone anymore." His fingers tracing the rope burns on your arms, "Bastards." They laced radiant magic into their ropes to keep you bound in their camps. "What were you thinking going over there!?" Very clearly upset by your decision. "Playing hero nearly got you killed!" You nod in shame as that is actually why they caught you.

See, you went there to help them. Something about hunting a creature that has been eluding them and terrorizing the travelers on the road. And when Astarion warned you about helping them, you ignored him in favor of doing the right thing.

"I'm sorry." He stops applying the aloe oil to be kissed by you, "I should've listened." Another kiss. The hum is all you get as he still fronts being very cross with you. "I love you." Another kiss.

Those words from you would stir his heart if it wasn't un-beating.

"Hm," He tilts his head up as if stopping you from kissing him yet nearly cracks when you kiss his throat, "I might forgive you." You kiss the exposed portion of his chest by his blouse, fingers dancing up his thigh.

This isn't seduction, no, you are playing with him and suddenly pouncing on him with a hug.

"I'm sorry!" Laughing as he has to endure your kisses with no escape.

Sometimes he can't believe you.

[neetily]

↳ EVENT 19. M!Whitney (Breeding & Incest)

— ✧ warnings: stepcest, Creampie, Breeding, Baby Trapping, pregnancy ment — ✧ word count: 3,432

— ✧ A/N: reposting from my old account since i was asked to! formatting might be off, but it's still readable.

The number one worst thing about having a hot step sister glued to his side at all times is that every day he has to fend off all the disgusting creeps that show up to his door, because you're too fucking dumb to see their true intentions and rely solely on him to be your moral compass. You've got a tight fucking body, don't y'know that? No, they don't wanna date you, idiot. They don't wanna court you, or take you on some romantic trip like they so often claim. They just wanna use your holes and milk you for all your sorry ass is worth because you're too pretty for your own good. How does he know that? Well, because he isn't any fucking better himself, truthfully. Throw him in with the rest of the town and you'd not be able to tell the difference between him and the guy next door— but you trust him too much, don't you? More than that, you need him to protect you. It's what big brothers do, despite how he may feel internally, and despite how often he speaks against that ideal; he wants to keep you safe, too. Even if only for more self serving reasons, driven mostly by how his cock thinks, rather than his brain.

Because of that, the second worst thing about having a hot step sister within his immediate vicinity is the fact that he's always hard when you're around. And he can't easily escape you, given that you're literally right through the fucking wall from him. Pining, yearning to bury himself balls deep in your little sister cunt to seek solace for the feelings resting sickly thick in his tummy every time he sees your stupid face. A burning bile, rising to the tip of his tongue when he sees you smile, threatening to spit venom at you when you act all aloof and cute like that. Like you've got no idea what sort of things you do to him, or the general public. Ignorant to how pretty you are, so fucking annoying, especially when you unknowingly leave him with blue balls every night, causing him to fuck his fist to only the memory of you like some sort of seedy stalker.

But isn't he kind of just that? Watching your every move, making sure you don't step too out of line or too out of his eyesight in fear of you straying too far. Late at night, when his fist is wrapped too tight around his fat cock and even fatter beads of precum drool from his red hot tip, he convinces himself that he's just looking out for you. Just being a good big brother at the end of the day. Pleasuring himself to the thought of you in private because that's what good big brothers do. Stealing secret glances of you in the kitchen while petting his fat bulge because that's what good big brothers do. Stealing your panties to sniff at them while his fist fucks his needy cock before placing them right back where he found them; only now a little stained sticky with seed, because that's what good big brothers do. In that, he's tried so hard and for so long to treat you as he's supposed to. Protective, perhaps a little too much so, but nonetheless genuine in his attempts to shield you from the harsh realities of this world. Even at the cost of his own sanity, and his poor cock.

But as he lingers around your open door, shoulder resting against the frame, one foot tucked behind the other, he gets an idea. An insidious one at that, borne out of sheer desperation to reconcile with himself in such a selfish manner it's almost shameful, but an idea nonetheless. Encouraged by the tiny little sleeping shorts you've decided to wear tonight, ass facing him like an invitation, face pressed close to your phone as a display of submission. He briefly wonders if you've even picked up on his presence yet, caught on to the fact that your big brother has been busy for the past few minutes simply staring at your ass, nursing a growing erection with an open palm circling his tip. Because if you have, you certainly haven't let on. But the thought of you being so fucking dull, enough not to feel his ever watching presence at your back side, has his cock twitching for your attention, drives him insane with sexual frustration. Horny at how well you ignore him, God, you're so pretty but so dumb. Fucking slut, you better not be doing this on purpose— riling him up without even fucking trying, it's so beyond frustrating that he has half a mind to treat you as unfairly as you do him, just like how all those abusers outside would like to ruin you. Though, on a more positive note, your complete and utter lack of self preservation only strengthens his secret resolve. You need to be taught a harsh lesson, at the very least, to be more aware of your surroundings.

There's really only one way to keep you by his side forever, to be the best big brother you could ever ask for; eager to provide you with whatever you may need so long as you can satiate the ever growing hunger he feels for you. And besides, it's not like he's technically going to be doing anything wrong... Right, step sis?

Carefully, he creeps towards you. Stalking prey, straying from the creaky floorboards he intimately knows about, reaching the foot of your bed before you know it and pounces. Calculating his fall so that he's got your wrists pinned above your head and your legs locked under his own. A breathy laugh follows, he can't quite believe just how easy you are to catch, but isn't that further proof that you need big brother to be by your side forever? See, he's doing you a fucking favour by keeping you under him.

"Got you." He mumbles absentmindedly, smiling down at your squished into the pillow face as you writhe and wriggle around for freedom under him. You're not helping his hard on, y'know that?

"Whitney! What's your fucking deal— Ouch, that hurts, asshole—"

"Quit yer fuckin' whining." He sighs, dismissing your petulant cries by tightening his grip on your wrists anyway to show how serious he is, and tilting his head to the side, lowering his upper body to get closer to your face. And for a few moments he merely stares at you. Takes in the sight of your confused expression, the furrow of your brows. Cute, he thinks to himself, cautious not to let his hips drop down too low in fear of rubbing himself against you. Usually others appear more scared when he's on top, but like a good little sister you intrinsically know the trust him, right?

In that case, fuck it, he thinks. A split second decision, coaxed into giving in to his more baser instincts by the pretty pout you send his way, a low mutter of you're heavy, can you please get off? as if it were even a fucking question. It's your own fault, really. Should have known that displaying your innocence in such an honest fashion would only lead to others wanting to corrupt. To dirty you, stain you as vile as they are.

Which doesn't exclude your own brother, especially as he yields to his perverted fantasies and drops his hips in one fell swoop, heavy hard cock resting between your ass cheeks that he knows you can feel the outline of. Shoulda worn something less provoking, then. The pretty gasp you let out at the contact causing his own brows to knit together in focus, biting down on his tongue to withhold expletives when you question his ethics.

"Are you— Are you hard, Whitney? Really?"

"Yeah, what about it?"

There's no use denying it, not when his hips are pressed flush against your backside. His heart racing, thumping hard against his chest at the prospect of finally getting a taste of you, his precious, highly sought after, baby sister. He's in your room for only one reason tonight, a selfish seeking to protect you. Whether you agree to it or not is of no consequence, he's only doing what's best for you, okay? And besides, he's so much stronger than you, isn't he? Bigger too... There's nowhere you can run that he won't find you, if you ever get the opportunity to escape.

Given his nonchalant answer, he hears you sigh in response, a deep sound that has his cock dripping more pre just for you. And he can't stop thinking about how lucky he is to hear your resignation. To be resting his weighty cock on top of your pretty ass just to have you simply accept it as par for the course.

And though he'd love to take his time with you, to really enjoy everything you have to offer, to make you cry on his cock— he's been wanting this for a long time. Seething in secrecy, longing for a taste of your sweet sister cunt; he can't wait any longer. Not now that he has your unvoiced blessing, watching as you bury your face back into your pillow and wiggle your ass against his cock— fuck, you already feel so good against him.

"C'mon then," Your voice is muffled, but nonetheless encouraging. A pang of pain in his heart at the way you seem to be wanting him too, a comfortable hurt borne out of disgusting adoration for the one person he isn't supposed to have. And here you are, supporting his lewd love for you. Releasing one of your wrists with the intent to get a move on like you're asking, but instead his hand stops mid air when he witnesses you tugging down your shorts for him. "Before mom and dad get back, okay? Just want you out my room so don't... I don't wanna do it when they're here."

"Fuck me—"

He hears your stipulation, of course. It makes total fucking sense. Fucking his little sister? Perfectly fine. Fucking his little sister when other people are in the house? Fucking weird, don't fucking do that. But he curses loud and proud at the sight of your no panties, like you knew he was coming in to steal you away for the night. Had he stolen your pair tonight? He can't quite remember, mind empty beyond the thought of finally attaining what he's worked so tirelessly for. Helping you pull down your shorts the rest of the way; or at least until they rest by your ankles because he's too eager to get his cock wet already.

Immediately, impulsively, he spreads your legs wide enough to accommodate him. Letting go of your other wrist to allow you breathing room, but also so he can selfishly explore your body. Running his hands up and down your ass, spanking you a few times for good measure. Cock pulsing at the yelps his hands smack out of you, biting down on his bottom lip when he drops his pants low enough only to let his cock spring free. The cool air that hits his sopping tip is almost sobering, if not for the way you pout his name so prettily. An effortless attempt to turn him on, no doubt.

"Yeah yeah, I got it. Want me to hurry up and fuck my slut, right?" He sneers, not even gracing you with eye contact as he spreads your cheeks apart to get a greedy look at your holes. His hips fucking forward on their own at the small glimpse he gets, prompting him to hang his head in shame so that you don't catch the way his cheeks heat up. How the idea of keeping you all to himself, truly turning his baby sister into his little slut fills him with so much joy that he can't help himself from rubbing his cock against your ass, humping his hips against you in barely there snap thrusts just to provide himself some sort of stimulation. Just something to take the edge off as he gathers the courage to put it in already.

Because once he does, he knows he won't be able to stop. And that's a little worrying, considering he's so used to having control over you.

He hadn't intended to wait for you to respond to his rhetorical question, but the way you practically beg "Please." is music to his ears. God, he can't even compare it to the countless faceless sluts he's fucked in the past, completely focused on how his baby sister drips slick for his tip to collect, angling his cock down to catch on your pretty little hole for the first time ever.

And it feels so fucking good to finally have contact with you like this, holy shit. Even just letting precum bead out against your hole would be enough, he thinks. Enough to have him feeling better than he has before, dirty slut, you've only went and ruined his hand for the rest of his life. You better fucking own up to that, yeah? Let him cream your cunt with the intent of knocking you up so that he can be your big brother for life, that'd be a good start, don't you think?

With the way you wiggle against him, leaking all over his cock as if he wasn't providing you enough lubrication with the abundance of precum your simple existence coaxes out of him, he automatically rolls his hips into you. Into your cunt. Gasping for air the second he pushes past your entrance, choking at the way your insides wrap around his tip, and soon enough his whole length when he can't stop himself from ruining his pretty little sister now that you've given him permission.

And after the first few little humps he has you endure, he's settling an unfairly fast pace. Pent up frustration, almost resentment expressed in every relentless thrust over how fucking perfect you are, so much so that your cunt practically shuts him up for once in his lifetime spare some crass comments about your pretty body, or about how fuckin' tight are you? fuck, can barely fit inside, God, look at how pretty my little slut is bouncing on my cock. Mean words as an attempt to hide how downright in love he is with you, how he wants to fuck only baby sister cunt for the rest of his life, moaning openly at the sound of wet skin on skin slapping with how hard and fast he thrusts into you. Like a dog in heat, drool collects in his mouth as his eyes roll to the back of his skull, hands innately finding home on your hips for stability, like they were always meant to be there.

You feel so fucking good it's cruel, cock aching with every pulse your cunt offers around him, every suck of your insides begging to keep his cock inside as he repeatedly fucks you up the bed. You were right, it's best to do this was no one else at home, else you get exposed for being the dirty little sister slut that you are— taking big brothers cock so well, aren't you? Fucking made for him, babbling cute strings of nothing from how frantic his humps are, accidentally cutting you off mid mumble with every greedy fuck; he just can't stop himself. Hasn't a hope in Hell of showing a mere modicum of control while inside of you, head empty and cock hard for you.

And as he's fully sheathed inside, groaning out at the feeling of his balls slapping against your backside, intimate with the way his thighs are tacky like your own from every gush of your wet little cunt around his too big cock, he remembers exactly what he came here to do. The sole reason why you're a moaning mess on your bed right now, tangling the sheets in your cute little fists as if that was gonna help the stretch of his fat cock bullying your insides. His voice comes out hoarse, having to choke on a cough to clear the lust coating his tongue as he continues pumping away inside of you.

"Gonna fuck ya pregnant, kay?

Almost immediately, lagging a little from that good dick, aren't you slut? You start to whine. That same petulant tone you used earlier, and just like earlier, it goes straight to his throbbing cock, makes his balls all taut and his muscles all tense as he keeps you pinned in place with large hands. Greedy hands, bruising in their grip of your body so that you know who's in charge. So that you can't escape him, this is all for your own good, remember?

"Whit— don't, stop I— Ah—!" It's no use though, is it? His cock feels too good in your tight little cunt, big brother just wants to make you feel good, okay? He just wants to feel your cunt suck him off so well, your body is begging for his seed, right? And because he's such a good big brother, he's more than happy to give you a taste. Over and over again, until his seed takes to your womb and you're stuck with him for life, tension building in his tummy at the thought of walking around with you hand in hand, big pregnant belly scaring off anyone who even dares to look at his sister. His slut, whining like a pretty bitch as he drags your ass back down to meet his every thrust, can you feel how desperate he is for release? So eager to stain your insides white in an effort to prevent others from touching you, to keep you safe forever; it's just big brother duties, it's okay if dumb little sister minds can't understand his reasoning. All you have to do is lay there and fucking take it. Take his pounding, take the pinches and slaps on your ass, take his sticky precum coating your thighs, just as well as he honours the ring of your cream at the base of his cock. You're so pretty, his eyes trained on the spot where he disappears over and over again into your tight little hole, greedy little cunt. But he's fucking it too fast for it to truly capture his attention, instead his head is thrown back with a dopey grin tugging on his lips, sheer pleasure rolling down his spine with a gasped: "Shut up, doin'— 'M doin' ya favour. Fuuuck, jus' like that—" before shooting a load deep into your sister cunt. Still fucking himself through the orgasm that washes over him, that has him drooling from how fucking good it feels to finally claim you as his own, hopeful that his stink will scare off anyone else from even attempting to get close to you in order to abuse you the same way he has tonight.

And, if he's lucky, the continued thrusts he provides your tender, swollen hole, milking himself for all he's worth against your cervix, he'll have successfully filled you up enough to impregnate you. Doesn't that feel good? Poor baby was probably just a little worried like he was, right? His breathing is laboured, heaving for air by the time he's done emptying his balls inside of you, but still the first thing he does is collapses on top of you. Smiles to himself at the soft little oof you let out with his added weight, but he's not here just to laze around.

From now on, you're officially his. And he likes to take good care of his sluts, especially if they're as precious as his little sister. Step or not, he cares about you enough to wrap his big arms around you with a chaste kiss to the back of your head, hiding his face against your neck to nose at your scent as he calms down.

"Gross." You whine at his affections, and he agrees. Rolling you over onto his side with him so that he can sneak a hand between your legs, warming his spent cock in your hole still as he brings attention to your puffy, touch starved clit. The resulting moan you let out is thanks enough for securing your future with him.

Though, what's worse is that he's thinking about doing the exact same thing tomorrow, planning to leave the house only once.

You'll need some pregnancy tests, won't you?

[soft-persephone]

I read ur tags on the video abt drake and Kendrick “not caring about women” in the middle of the rap beef and I totally agree about Kendrick btw. It reminded me of someone i saw on Tik tok who made a video defending Kendrick from the “but he didn’t want r Kelly’s music removed from streaming platforms!” thing and what it turns out it ACTUALLY was about was that Spotify was going to put up a “moral and behavior” policy where they would remove the complete discography of any artist who they found out had a criminal record, which is incredibly discriminatory against all convicted people, no matter what they’re convicted for, and infringes on their 1st amendment rights and just the very human right to make art and have that art be preserved. So it was less about “I love r kelly so much im gonna threaten to take all my music off Spotify if they remove his” and more “this policy is actually infringing on artists’ rights and discriminatory against people with a criminal record.” I’m not saying Kendrick is our feminist messiah but like cmon yall he does not hate women and he’s not just calling out drake for clout

A lot of what Kendrick gets reduced to certain narratives because their are a lot of negative things that come with hip hop, and it does do more harm than good especially in the case with “fake woke” rappers.

I don’t believe in putting celebrities on a pedestal and no person is perfect. Him putting Kodak Black on Mr. Morale did rub me the wrong way. Him dead naming some of his family members rightfully upset some people.

I can’t speak for that, so I won’t because it’s not my place, so I just listen and support those that can.

But all I can really say is, the process of growing and wanting to be better person isn’t pretty. Watching someone unlearn racism fatphobia, transphobia, and etc is never without mistakes.

If we are really advocating for people to be better on all fronts, the response is always anger when we they don’t get it right the first time or show they don’t have a full understanding of it.

What do we really want fork people? We tell them to grow and do better? But if you’ve actually walked someone through that or seen it, why are we getting so mad when they make a mistake along the way.

No it’s not our place to teach them. But if they are making a genuine effort, why not make a quick comment and move on. How does him doing these two things and “fumbling” the narrative for black growth as a man in America by including Kodak black and trying to show him stepping away from transphobia in a more problematic than not way, absolve everything he’s ever done or thinks and do thereafter?

I am not saying these thingsto be derivative. I am asking from a genuine place.

That said, it doesn’t make those things right.

I think he said some quiet parts out loud that he shouldn’t have, but at the end of the day he has to be held accountable. 🤷🏾‍♀️

I don’t think Kendrick has ever said anything in song he doesn’t fully believe. He’s very intentional, that might be the place where people are angry with him because it’s clear these things were done on purpose.

I can’t speak for him as I am just a fan. I may be biased as well, so that may be effecting how I think about this, so I try to be mindful and address that as well.

I try to be responsible and try not to deflect other peoples thoughts, feelings, and opinions on some of these things because they hurt some people and affect more people more than they ever would me and it wouldn’t be right.

But, we don’t know him and we never do, so all we can do is speculate, and some more than others like to choose the worst over any benefit of the doubt because in a man driven world when have they never not have that.

I don’t want to be an enabler to that system.

[woodsfae]

Babylon 5 S03E20 And the Rock Cried Out, No Hiding Place previous episode - table of contents

It's kinda wild how much b5 is exactly to my tastes. Take this (and many other!) episode titles for example. Pretentious? Maybe. Poetic? Certainly. Full of allusion? Definitely. Makes me get shivers? Absolutely.  They even give me things to complain about. I'm well settled into complaining loudly about Londo bullshit.

Last episode's beverage (for data point purposes) was straight tequila with pepsi chaser. The hangover was vile and I woke up in the middle of the night and couldn't sleep for three hours. Today's beverage - Bitterroot Brewing Co "Dirt Church" ipa. It's alright for an IPA.

"Z MINUS 14 DAYS"

I see we've moved several letters on from "t."

Yeah!! It's another Susan Ivanova personal log episode. The telepaths they've recruited are being dispersed. Sheridan is tired, and Franklin is still pacing the halls. 

All the telepaths are being accompanied by a single Narn bodyguard. Fingers crossed for some of those bodyguards to start developing some telepathy of their own after spending a long time in close quarters with a telepath!!

Londo thinks it's time to "take care of" G'Kar?? FUCK OFF.  He wants G'Kar tricked back to Narn and executed. Thanks to the previous flashbacks, I am well aware that this plot won't play out with G'Kar's actual death. But I still want to strangle Londo. Can I isekai into B5 just long enough to goddamn murder that man?? 

Religious Theo of the religious group whatevever is being highlighted this episode. In theory I appreciate how diverse B5 is, religiously speaking. In practice....ehhh. At least when it comes to people quoting the KJV and referring to "the lord" every other sentence. 

Sheridan does look rough. And there's Delenn!!! Pretty in pink. 

"[Ivanova] said you were carrying on cranky. I looked up cranky, it said grouchy. I looked up grouchy, it said crochetly. No wonder you have such an eccentric culture. None of your words have their own meaning!" 

LOL!! Delenn is so cute. Also, very seriously, I apologize to every person who needs to learn English as an adult. It's a mess. 

Once I saw a gif of Delenn propping herself up on a elbow in bed with Sheridan and I have been FERAL to see that scene ever since. Maybe today will be the episode? Delenn climbs in bed with Sheridan to make him sleep??

Na'Toth might be alive. Or her name might simply be a trap for G'Kar. I don't think Londo's plan is going to work out. If he didn't go back to Narn for literally every other Narnuan, I'm not sure he'd go back for his aide who is probably dead. Also I 100% have more faith in Vir than this. Idk where he got them, but he has a surprisingly well-developed set of morals and empathy. 

Vir: "I won't. I won't go. I won't do it."

VIR BABY. Just say you'll do it, then go and collude and G'Kar. Londo is unhinged, threatening to have Vir's family stripped naked and whipped through the streets of Centaur's capital. What a fuck. He ought to be directing his energies towards getting back Lord Whatshisface who killed Adira on behalf of the Shadows. Refa. The show reminds me in a timely manner. 

Speaking of Refa, he's giving very desperate vibes. Trying too hard to suck up, and that puts blood in the water for the sharks to scent!!

Well. Hopefully even if Vir gives into Londo's threat and tries to trick G'Kar, his obvious nerves give away that something's wrong. 

Back to Londo and the Centauri court shenanigans. Londo is, undeniably, good at putting on the type of political front that works well on Centaur. 

Susan's blowout is so good every day I have to assume it's part of the high-tech auto-dryer when you step out of the shower...or something. Because there's no way that SUSAN IVANOVA is spending twenty minutes every day achieving the most ideal blowout that has ever been hair-dried into existence. 

OK I like the religious cabal a bit better now that I know they're smuggling up-to-date information about Earth politics into Bably 5. 

GODDANG IT. G'Kar is trying to sneak back onto Narn. Well. At least I know he lives to die another day. 

Vir, I am disappointed in. 

Centaur attack on Vir!! He lives to become Emperor another day as well. Stakes drop considerably when you know certain characters' ultimate fates. 

You know who I'd love to see again? AUNT PROPHETESS! Majel!! 

Lord Refa's eyebrows deserve their own acting credit. 

oooh, Centauri telepathy attack!! 

Poor Vir. If only he had been able to keep his position on Minbar. He looked less stressed-out when he was spending most of his time surrounded by a tranquil environment. 

The Baptist pastor is hanging out with Sheridan, who is struggling to relax enough to fall asleep while also doing paperwork. Maybe. don't do paperwork while getting ready for bed. Which the pastor is also bringing up, more delicately than I would. 

the Pastor: DELEGATE IDIOT.

OK he can stay. He is speaking common sense. 

"When youre worry tank gets full people stop coming to you, because they don't want to add to it." 

Smart. "figure out how to relax or your people will stop reading you in in an attempt to protect you." 

"Z MINUS 13 DAYS"

Zha'ha'dum minus 13 days?? 

G'Kar made it to Narn. There's climate change from the orbital bombardment. Constant wind, particulate coming down from the upper atmosphere, poor air quality. And I doubt they had recovered from the previous Centauri occupation, and possibly not even the Shadows' occupation before that! 

Emperor Cartagia is going to be traveling to B5: that seems like a significant security risk! Maybe he'll get nerfed and we'll see the glorious ascension on Emperor Londo. 

Refa's plot is to capture G'Kar instead of letting Londo do it. Fingers crossed for neither of them getting that glory. 

Delenn says there's no pattern to the Shadows' attacks. The lack of pattern is probably the point - all over the place and unpredictable so the united forces are spread as thin and widely as possible. And the tactical data sorta supports that! They haven't attacked anything in the center of the sector, so refugees are going there. And Sheridan is picking this up now, too. They could nail all the refugees at once. 

"I think this is as much about terror as it is about territory." 

Yeah. 

Hm, Delenn is horrified by Sheridan saying he needs to think like them to beat them. Unless she has a really compelling argument against it, I'm going to have to disagree. How can you counter a tactic unless you understand it? 

Londo just knocked out a Centauri guard with a punch to rescue Vir. He gets no points from me, because he put Vir in that position. 

Unfortunately G'Kar won't get to kill Londo for quite a few years, but maybe he and the resistance will get to kill Refa and his goon squad instead. 

Damn it, Londo was two steps ahead of Refa this whole time. f.ucking annoying. Well. all Centauri warmongering genocidal politics are annoying. Refa being personally in charge of the bombardment of Narn is backfiring on his right now. 

Oh so this means that Vir was an unwitting stooge in the plot all along, and that's extra scummy, considering it resulted in Vir being mindraped and made to believe he'd just given up his mentor and employer. Very very cutthroat politics. No wonder Londo didn't name the embarassment he was planning to remove on behalf of the emperor to prove House Mollari's value. 

Baptist Pastor brought a gospel singer along with him, lol. That's very on brand. And super fucking amusing juxtaposition between her music and Refa being pursued and killed. "There's no hiding place down here." Refa being beaten to death. 

Buuuut as much as I dislike Londo, I am a fan of the person responsible for untold suffering and death getting a tiny fraction of that delivered back to them. So...annoyingly... *sigh* go Londo...

It's so fucking funny that Londo had the ability to slip refa the other half of the two-part poison all along but instead he had him beaten to death for political purposes. 

Vir is angry, but probably not enough to make him break from Londo entirely. 

Delenn has a surprise for Sheridan - "the White Star was never intended to be one of a kind, only the first..." and now there's a whole fleet. 

Hm. As far as first kisses on screen go, that one was pretty dated. I'm happy for them, but the "smear your face against the other person's face" is a style I'm glad has mostly gone away. It doesn't look very pleasant, hahah. 

Mrs Sheridan, I presume?

[half-dead-writer]

I figured my problem with not appreciating the gooseboy enough was that I envisioned him dominating me. The solution was me domming him. The moral is I love weak men. Also thru my research I found that Gideon is 5'6 - I'm 5'9 - which made me think of this scenario. I guess that means I'm writing for Gordon too now, huh.

Short King

Gideon does not like you describing him as "small".

character: Gideon Graves / Gordon Goose (Scott Pilgrim Takes Off)

words: 727

reader: gender-neutral

warnings: suggestive

𝔯𝔲𝔩𝔢𝔰 + 𝔪𝔞𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔱 / 𝔖𝔠𝔬𝔱𝔱 𝔓𝔦𝔩𝔤𝔯𝔦𝔪 𝔗𝔞𝔨𝔢𝔰 𝔒𝔣𝔣 𝔪𝔞𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔱

"You're so small," you murmured, looking at your boyfriend, who's currently wrapped in your arms. His head that's been previously resting on your chest whips your way.

"What did you say?" He heard you well, he just didn't believe you had the audacity to point that out.

"I said you're tiny," you continued to tease, clearly in a playful mood. You knew it'd annoy him.

Normally, he would be pissed at someone calling him tiny. However, something about your tone, and the fact that it was you made that thought seem less... annoying. "I'm average height- you're the one who's freakishly tall." He barked back, furrowing his brows. He would threaten to leave, but you knew full well that he wouldn't - he's too comfortable using you as a pillow.

"Keep telling yourself that," a smug smile occupied your face. You dared to carelessly run your hand through his black locks, making it turn random, unflattering direction. If it was any other person, he'd swat your hand away, annoyed at you messing up his perfectly styled hairstyle. But again, he made no move to stop you. He let out a small scoff, trying to look annoyed, but the hint of a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth gave away his thoughts. You weren't that heartless, though, and you regained a bit of his trust by affectionately playing with his hair. He melted under your touch. His eyes closed as a small, nearly inaudible, content hum slipped from his mouth. You were one of the few people who ever got to see him so vulnerable and relaxed.

"You're so annoying..." He replied, but his voice lacked any real bite. The sound of your light chuckle hit his ears, he tried to act displeased, but ended up looking more like an angry cat. Eyes narrowed, with a pout on his face. "Stop laughing."

"Make me." You deadpanned, showing him a competitive smirk and letting go off the strand you were twirling in your finger. His halfly insincere frown got washed away by a cocky grin as he raised himself to sit up. He got ahold of the collar of your shirt, pulling you closer.

"Are you sure about that?" The light reflected in his glasses along with mischief.

"I dunno, are you?" You knew you acted like a brat, fully aware of what reaction it might pull out of him. He supported himself with one hand near your side, towering above you. Your noses were practically touching. "You really wanna play this game, love?"

"You know I do," you admitted bluntly, making the man exhale in amusement. Properly straddling your lap, he pressed his lips against yours in an eager kiss. His hands reached out to pin yours, but you were quick to avoid them, instead holding his sides with your knees and pulling you both onto a different position. He laid under you, obviously disconnected from your lips now, mildly surprised at the situation.

"Brat." He muttered, judging the way you held his wrists above his head. You knew he liked it regardless, seeing the lack of resistance. He wasn't used to people getting the upper hand on him, but he was more impressed than irritated. His eyes travelled over your body, making you speak up.

"Does this mean I won?" You asked, faking the innocent tone. He tested your grip on his wrists ever so slightly. He could free himself in one move, but for now, he wanted to see what you would do. He cocked his brow, tilting his head in a taunting manner. "Maybe. Who's to say I don't like being pinned to the bed?"

His response forced a light chuckle out of you. You were merciful enough to grant him a bit of affection, but the soft feeling of your lips on his didn't last long. You pulled away after the quick peck, leaving him a bit dumbfounded. He stared at you like a lost puppy, seeing you get off the bed, satisfied from successfully messing with him.

"I'm starving. If you make us some sandwiches, we could continue talking about pinning you to bed," you showed him a light 'come hither' gesture, looking over your back with a smile before heading into the kitchen. He adjusted his glasses, narrowing his eyes in a smirk and mumbling under his breath.

"Difficult as always."

[your-divine-ribs]

Ice Cold Part 24

Words: 3.6k

I’ve been looking forward to sharing this part!Warnings: threat of sexual violence, murder

Ice Cold Masterlist Main Masterlist

The urge to slump to the floor and break down was overpowering, but I couldn't show my devastation. I bit back a sob, turning to face Jason who was ashen-faced and obviously suffering, but still managing to maintain that disdainful sneer that was always evident whenever he looked at me. It made me feel small and worthless and I hated it. I never used to feel that way, but recently my inner strength seemed to be dissipating.

"You actually let him go?" Jason said hoarsely. "How could you, you stupid bitch!"

His voice was coming back but I could tell it pained him to speak. He lurched towards me on unsteady feet.

"I just saved your life!" I spat back at him. "Don't make me regret it!"

It was my instinct to back away but I stood my ground, trying to project a strength that I didn't feel. I felt wrung out, bone-weary, like every last bit of fight had been sucked out of me. An empty husk that might be borne away on the slightest breeze.

Jason came to a stop just a few inches from me, close enough so that when he leant over the sour warmth of his breath washed over me as he spat out his words.

"You expect me to be grateful huh? None of this would have happened if you'd just done your fucking job..."

He tailed off, gripping his throat, huge wracking coughs bursting from him. Droplets of saliva hit my face but I stood, unflinching, not wanting to give him the satisfaction that he was unnerving me by invading my personal space the way that he was.

He carried on with his rant, his face twisted in contempt. "But no... you'd rather sneak around and get fucked... just like the... dirty... little... whore... that you are."

He punctuated his insults with sharp jabs into my chest with an accusing finger.

And what could I say? I knew that pretty soon everyone in my orbit would be thinking the exact same thing. They'd talk and they'd gossip, they'd drag my name through the mud, dissecting my history, rummaging through my broken parts to find out what went wrong. How could a girl with such a bright future throw it all away?

I turned away from Jason, not wanting him to see the tears that had sprung into my eyes.

"Let's just get this over with," I sighed. "You can call Paul, I'm not going to deny anything. I know it's all over."

A repulsive rasping laugh burst from Jason which made my blood run cold. "Oh, it's not over, not yet. See there's something that you can do for me first."

Dread sank in my gut at his words, the sickening awareness that Jason wasn't the moral, law-abiding citizen that he liked to portray to others. There was a vicious, dark side to him, sadistic, one which relished seeing me broken like this. One who would certainly take advantage of his new found power over me. One who I may have easily forgiven Van for if he'd squeezed the life right out of him in front of my eyes.

I stiffened myself, ready for a fight before I turned, slowly. Jason might have been physically stronger than me but I was confident that I could take him down if I needed to. I knew all the weak parts of a man, the bits that I could break and gouge and shatter to bring an assailant to his knees.

But Jason didn't play fair. He never did. As I looked into his eyes that swirled with a dark feverish fury I knew then that this wasn't going to be a clean fight.

"Just supposing I didn't call Paul?" He began, advancing on me. This time I did back up. "Maybe you could do something for me, and then this whole fucked up little secret of yours could stay buried? What about that, huh?"

As he spoke his hand had already strayed to his belt, leaving me in no doubt of his nauseating intentions. Bile threatened to rise in my throat as I stepped back until I felt resistance on the backs of my legs and I realised that I’d backed myself up to a desk.

"Get fucked Jason!" I cried. "I don't care what you're black-mailing me with. I would rather..."

"Rather what?" He snapped. "You know how bad it gets for one of our lot in prison. It’d be a living hell. Especially for a pretty little thing like you.”

My head flooded with images as I fast forwarded to my own personal dystopian future. Living out my time behind bars, subjected to violence and brutality every waking moment of my miserable existence. I’d rather be dead...

No Lyla! Don't do it. Don't you dare give in to that sick bastard. Be strong. Put up a fight. You're better than this!

My mind blared a stark command but I felt my body weakening, slumping pathetically against the desk as Jason leered over me, pressing his body against my legs which he forced apart.

"I should have let him kill you," I sobbed, my head bowed, not wanting to look into his eyes and see the depraved hunger there.

"Oh Lyla baby... don't be like that..." he cooed, a loathsome mock-sweetness in his voice that churned my stomach. "This is what you like after all isn't it? To be treated like the worthless little slut that you are?"

One of his hands connected with my upper arm, fingers gripping tightly, digging into the wound that I’d endured, sending a white hot pain searing through me so sharp that I screamed out, a blood-curdling sound. Jason didn't let up and I saw the cruel delight flash through his eyes as he applied even more pressure, the pain making my vision blur, white spots in front of my eyes as the room swam before me. My body automatically crumpled, weak and limp, my resistance ebbing away, my mind spinning away to find some dark corner of my psyche where it could hide, protected.

The first thing I heard was the heavy thundering sound of boots pounding on the hard dusty flooring, snapping me instantly out of my delirium. A strength bubbled up from somewhere deep inside, overpowering the agonising pain that I felt, enough that I was able to push Jason back with my good arm and give that small amount of distance between our bodies. Just the right amount to get the momentum behind my knee which shot upwards to connect with his groin, forcing a gratifying roar from his lips. He folded in half immediately.

"Get away from her you sick fuck!"

The cry was deafening and raw, resonating deep in my ears as my head whipped up in time to see Van, barrelling across the room with enough force that he might have been propelled from a gun.

It all happened so fast. Jason's look of terrified disbelief as he straightened up to see his fate hurtling towards him. Van's features twisted into a fury so savage that I could barely recognise him, his teeth bared like a wild animal, his eyes burning with murderous fire.

And this time I didn't stop him.

The first blow Van delivered with a devastating left hook to Jason's jaw, and I fancied I could actually hear the crunch of bones as his head flew back on his shoulders. Without pausing for breath, Van pistoned his right fist into Jason's guts, and he collapsed like a broken puppet on to the floor, emitting a sound which was pure suffering. Van didn't stop, growling curses as he lent back to strike Jason with the full force of a brutal kick, not just once but again and again, merciless to the pleas that I could just make out bubbling from Jason's lips.

This wasn't the cold, calculated killing machine that I’d studied for months. Van had been transformed into a red-hot mass of rage, tipped over the edge by emotions that couldn't be controlled.

"Lyla look away… NOW!” He ordered, as he grunted with exertion, hauling Jason on to his feet and pressing him back against the wall.

But I couldn't. I looked on, appalled but compelled to watch as Van took out his frustrations on Jason's battered form. I was loathe to admit it to myself but a dark part of me relished being an audience to his violent demise and with that awareness I knew that a line had been crossed from which there was no return.

Jason's groans turned to whimpers and then petered out, and he slumped down the wall to lie on the floor like discarded rubbish. But Van wasn't finished with him. He bent to heave him on to his feet once again, but he no longer had the strength to stand so Van held him there, suspended by his shoulders, and thrust him towards where I was standing.

"Look at her!" He commanded.

Jason's head lolled forwards and I wondered for a second if he might already be dead or at least unconscious, but then he spat out some words through his ruined lips, defiant. "Fuck you and fuck her!"

"I said LOOK AT HER!" Van repeated, and this time Jason didn't have a choice.

Van grabbed a fistful of his hair, forcing his head upwards so he was forced to do so. Even in his sorry state he managed to retain his scornful sneer. I just looked on, horrified but strangely satisfied at the same time.

Van carried on speaking, his voice tight, cuttingly sharp. "I want you to take a good, long, hard look at her. Because her face is gonna be one of the last things you'll ever see."

And then he let Jason go, shunting him forwards as he did so, and he fell in an awkward tangle of limbs at my feet. I quickly stepped back.

The tightness in my chest intensified as I looked across at Van and saw the rage still lingering in him, the embers in his eyes and the tension in his limbs. So many feelings washed over me at once, a tidal wave of emotions.

"I... I thought... I thought you'd gone," I stuttered.

"You really thought I'd leave you? I told you didn't I? I wasn't going to leave you alone with him.”

Him...

We both looked down at Jason who'd pulled himself into a slumped sitting position, bent over, head down. I knew exactly what Van was thinking. Jason was nothing more than a problem that needed solving now. I glanced back at Van, saw the unflinching callousness in his eyes that told me all that I needed to know. But still I had to ask.

"What are we going to do?"

"We aren't going to do anything. I don't want you having any part in this."

"But I'm already a part of this. This... all of this... it's all my fault."

Van stepped forwards, an earnest expression on his face. He held me locked in his gaze as he spoke.

"No... don't you say that. Don’t you even think that for a second." He shook his head. "That vile piece of shit doesn't deserve to live. D’ya think he'd have stopped if you gave him what he wanted? No... it would just be the start of it. Believe me, I know. I've dealt with enough sick bastards like that in my time. No one gets to treat you like that. No one. Not anymore."

He made it sound so simple, but it wasn't. People weren't just good or evil, it wasn't all black or white. There were so many shades and hues of grey in between.

I could justify gunning down a dangerous assailant in self-defence but this was a different matter entirely. This was playing god, the ultimate judge and jury to decide whether to end a life.

Jason mumbled something incoherent, still managing to spew vitriol, and I knew that he'd continue until his last breath if he could.

Van turned away, delving into his coat pocket and bringing out a packet of cigarettes. I watched him slip one between his lips and light up, taking a deep exhale and tipping his head back to blow out a plume of smoke. Now he'd calmed he looked relaxed and composed amidst the chaos of the situation.

"I went down to check if he'd brought back up with him but there's no one there. We can't stay too long though. We need to get your story straight, then I'll need to clean up here, then I have... some other business to take care of."

He spoke matter-of-factly like he was talking about carrying out a mundane task, a dreary daily duty that didn't involve assassination.

What the fuck are you doing with this man Lyla?

"Maybe there's another way..." I started, but my words were cut short and when Van turned away from me and I saw his shoulders slump. He was being patient with me for now, but I knew it wouldn't last.

This was the way he operated. If someone hurt him then he hurt them back, but he hurt them back so badly there would never be any comeback. It was more than an eye for an eye, it was a final solution to a messy complication.

The weight of the situation pressed down on me, suffocating me. How could I be a part of this today and then pick up my gun and my badge tomorrow like I was some kind of honourable fucking hero?

I couldn't. I just couldn't do it.

I crossed to the desk that Jason had pinned me up against only ten minutes before, slumping down on it with my head in my hands. I just needed to take a step back, separate myself from the situation and the troubling thoughts that raged incessantly through my brain, view the problem objectively. This was what I was good at. Solving problems.

There must be another way...

For a man so broken and damaged, Jason moved surprisingly fast and stealthily, spurred on by a last ditch attempt at triumphing in this deadly conflict. Within moments he had managed to rise to his feet, and I watched in horror as he charged full-pelt at Van. His arm was raised and he held the knife that he'd taken from me in front of him, a glaze of insanity about him, a sound emitting from him that brought to mind a bloodthirsty war-cry.

Of course Van would have likely countered the attack, but there was no time for speculation. I acted on instinct, a protective urge coming over me that was so strong it pumped adrenaline directly into my veins. I lunged into Jason's path, barely flinching at the blow that he landed across my cheek as his arm flailed out to block me. My fingers closed around the knife, catching the blade which sliced deeply through the skin of my palm but I barely felt it.

I was a warrior, hell-bent on taking down the threat, any recent thoughts of a peaceful resolution falling away in an instant. Van called my name as he span around but I was too fast. I’d already shot my fist into Jason's solar plexus, stopping him dead in his tracks, my other hand wrenching the knife free from his grasp.

Jason was incapacitated by the blow that I served, but it wasn't enough. It was like all the pent up rage and fury that I felt for his disgusting treatment of me just exploded in that moment. It flowed through my body, taking control of it, clearing my mind and replacing it with one notion. Revenge.

The blade slipped into the base of Jason's throat with no resistance, and I buried it up to the hilt, screaming out a cry of pure release. Jason's hands shot up to his neck, his eyes wide with shock and the dreaded realisation that it was all over for him. His mouth opened but nothing came out apart from a wet gurgling sound, then his hand outstretched towards me like some kind of hopeless plea.

I watched in a trance, a strange kind of detached fascination as he stumbled backwards, his back crashing heavily against one of the huge windows. It should have held, but it was the same pane that had been shattered by the stray bullet earlier and it caved under the pressure of his body weight. The whole window cracked and fragmented in a hail of shards, bursting out into the night, taking Jason's body with it.

There was a moment where he seemed to be suspended there amid a shower of glass fragments, like time had stood still. The look in his eyes was pure terror and condemnation.

You did this to me...

And then I watched as he fell, arms thrashing, his hands trying to grip on to something but there was nothing there, and then he dropped out of sight on to the pavement below.

There was a brief silence before I heard all hell break loose on the street outside. With the window completely blown out I was framed there, fully on show for anyone to see, but that thought didn't register. I was frozen, paralysed by shock and an unwillingness to accept what I’d just done.

"Lyla... Lyla... LYLA!"

Van called my name repeatedly with increasing urgency, and when he got no response he came to me, forceful hands gripping my shoulders, turning me away and pulling me into the dark depths of the far corner of the room.

"Lyla... look at me... look at me... we don't have much time..."

I was looking at him. Right at him. But I couldn't see him. All I could see were the images in my mind's eye. Jason falling, his accusing eyes penetrating me, the blood spurting from his wounded neck.

"I... I killed him..."

"No... no you didn't... it was me.... it wasn't you. We need to get your story straight."

"But I killed him..."

"No... you're not listening," Van's voice was firm without his usual edge, meant to soothe, but it didn't.

"I... I..." Feelings were started to trickle back through the numbness, threatening to send me spinning into madness.

Van sighed then, a sound tinged with frustration. His hands left my shoulders and travelled up, cupping my face and tipping it upwards, holding me there until my vision gradually cleared and his face swam into view.

He spoke slowly, enunciating his words, like he was explaining something to a small child.

"You've got to listen to me. This is what happened. You both came here to find me tonight. Jason tipped you off. There was a fight. I killed him. You escaped."

"But...”

"No buts. Don't you see it? He would have fucking raped you. He deserved everything that he got. If you hadn't done it I would have ended him. He was as good as dead already. No one... and I mean no one gets to hurt you. Okay?"

I was quiet, trembling where I stood. Tears brimmed in my eyes and I felt them overflow, slowly tracking down my cheeks.

"I don't know if I can do this Van. I'm not strong enough."

He moved the pads of his thumbs gently over my cheeks, wiping my tears away. Despite the shadowy darkness I saw depths in his eyes that I’d never seen before. It was another brief glimpse into that mysterious part of him that he kept so well hidden.

"You are strong... more than you know. You have been your whole life. I just need you to be strong for me now. Can you do that? Can you do that for me?”

His words stirred something in me. There was a tenderness that surprised and strangely settled me that I would never have expected. A feeling that this connection between the two of us existed now on some realm above the physical. I couldn't explain it and I didn't know why.

But this was no time for questions. Even now I could hear the sound of raised voices drifting up from the street below. A loud shout echoed out. "Someone call an ambulance!"

I knew it was too late for any paramedic to save Jason, but surely enough, the emergency services would soon be on the scene. They were probably already on their way now, and then it wouldn't take long for the agency to be informed.

Van was right. I had to get my story straight. I didn't have time to fall apart. Not now. I could do that later when I was on my own. Privately.

I blinked back more tears, swallowing deeply, looking back at Van as he scanned my face, searching for this supposed strength that I possessed.

"I... I can do it..."

I was taken aback by the tender smile that painted itself on Van's lips. It transformed him for a fleeting moment, but it faded quickly, his steeliness soon returning.

"I'll come for you... when the time's right."

I nodded, and his hands fell away as he stepped back, stooping down to grab the bag that he'd dropped on storming into the room. He shouldered it then stood still, eyes fixed on mine. When he spoke his voice was faint, more like a whispered thought than an utterance.

"You’re all I need Lyla... you’re all I’ve ever needed.”

He shook his head, screwing his eyes shut for a second like the sentiment pained him, then he made for the doorway, long purposeful strides which I heard pounding down the stairwell until the sound got fainter and fainter and faded out.

And that was it. Van had killed for me. I had killed for Van. We were bound by a deep bond forged by our need for each other and sealed by blood. There was no going back.

[gwenllian-in-the-abbey]

You and @aifsaath hold a certain aversion to the Starks during the Dance from what I could understand in a previous post of yours, ( i’m so happy to find likeminded people!) and I’d really like to know your opinion! Cregan’s of no interest to me and the Starks as a whole annoy and bore me 😅

@aifsaath and I are certainly are not subtle about our thoughts on Cregan! I don't actually mind the Starks as a whole in the main series. They're not my favorites, but generally they're fine. I think the fanbase is too reductive about that house though, and people treat Cregan as another Ned when in fact they're very different characters. This might get long!

Ned is extremely reluctant to get involved with anything in the capital. It's one of his most redeeming qualities, to me, the lengths he goes to keep his family out of royal politics. Bobby B. has to show up on his doorstep and practically drag him out of the North, and he's doomed the moment he becomes Hand. His honor is also sometimes too rigid, and GRRM invites us to really think about how inflexible moral codes sometimes stand in the way of the greater good. There is also a whole through line in ASOIAF about oaths and the impossibility of upholding all oaths and simultaneously acting according to one's conscience. This all gets tossed out the window when it comes to how large swaths of this fandom view Cregan, however! Cregan sits out nearly the entire war, but gets willingly and gleefully involved at the end when the dragons are gone and the armies on both sides are pretty spent. Okay, he's harvesting or whatever, fair enough, but because he and Jeyne Arryn have sat out the entire war while the two sides were obliterating each other, doing sweet fuck all while their queen and her whole family died, they have fresh armies while everyone else is pretty much spent. Then they decide to roll up when the fighting is already done, bully and threaten all of these people who have lost their entire families in this war, all for the sake of putting a highly traumatized ten year old on the throne. Cregan made an oath by golly, and he's going to stick to it. And speaking of traumatized kids, "the Lads" are often read as being cool and badass but Benjicot Blackwood had been fighting in this war since he was eleven, and we know GRRM is not generally trying to glorify child soldiers in his work, so what's up? The Lads lost their fathers in this war, they're ready to make peace, then Cregan shows up and tells them they're pussies if they don't want to keep fighting (even after Aegon II is dead and Aegon III is king) because now he's got to invade the Reach for some fucking reason. Apparently the only person in the entire realm who hasn't had enough of war is Cregan and so everyone else should just go along with that (and I've seen the suggestion that he needed to cull his population but that's sounds like a Cregan problem not a realm problem). It's only Black Aly's promise to marry him if he stops that gets him to back off. This is not Nedlike behavior and it irritates me to no end that Cregan is considered another Ned, and that being a Stark means his actions automatically get painted with a patina of honor. That's not even getting into how he handles the poisoning of Aegon II (often held up as a sign of his honor), how Aegon III has to beg for the life of his sister's grandfather, how Cregan's interference creates a power vacuum that allows Aegon III to be isolated under a regency that should have, by rights, included at least one of his sisters, but instead, beyond Corlys (who is 80 at this point), is full of strangers who don't give a toss about him (one of whom is responsible for the murder of his wife), and completely ignore his wishes until he comes of age. So yeah, not a Cregan fan!

[hypnos333]

Lil Fantasy

1610 MilesxOc black girl

Pink roses was one thing she couldn’t help but love, Miles knew this so every time she would be mad at him Miles knew to bring pink Roses.

One day while Miles was out being Spiderman,she was exploring his room where she found a hidden art book, Miles only showed her another Art book Miles had drew on to draw her. She looked in the book and saw random drawings until she came across a direct page.

“Gwen fucking Stacey”

She forced out her words as she saw her the pages of her. Tears run down her face as All she saw was Rage and heartbreak, she hated Gwen with all her might. So seeing this made her feel betrayed. It might be a drawing but to her she saw more to it, it’s like how Miles draw her and she couldn’t stay watch it all rewind back.

She knew Miles feelings for the white girl but she thought he got over her. The pages looked recent and he never got over it.

Wiping her tears away she dropped the book before shoving all her stuff she left in his room into her bag. She took everything of hers back. She took off his sweater before throwing it on his bed leaving her in her Light blue T-Shirt.

She made her way out the door back home.

“Mama can come pick me up” She cried out tears streaming out her eyes trying to control her breathing.

“Of course my love” her mother said gently not pushing her on why she’s crying

“Thank you Ma” She mumbles

Her mom picked her up 5 minutes later driving off from the Morales household

That’s was hours ago……

It soon turned Night as Miles climb up into his room looking confused on an empty room he quietly walked around before stepping on his secret art book. He picked it up before realizing what Art book it is he rushed to his closet seeing nothing but his Clothes.

He quickly rushed to her house, he spammed her with calls but was immediately directed to voicemails.

He gave Voicemail, to Voicemail, to Voicemail

“Mi Corazone let me explain everything to you please I don’t want to loose you, Gwen means absolutely nothing to me” Unanswered

“Sunflower I begging you,give me the time of day to let me explain it may look back up I promise she’s old news”. Unanswered

“Mi Amor I will show up to your house and stay until you let me Explain the situation” Unanswered

He was always left on delivered so he didn’t care anymore he was going to see his girl either she answered or didn’t.

He showed up with Pink Roses

She would always melt when she sees the roses but this time she stared blankly at the flowers before pushing him out her window but he sticked on the floor.

“Miles I swear to god I will scream” She threatened drained from the day she had.

“Not until you let me explain why I have that book, it might look recent but I only have it now because- “I’m going back to the Los Angeles” That alone made him to shock to speak. Never in a Million years did he thought his girl was going back to her childhood home.

“W-What?” He asked over these past hours how is she going back to her true home

“You heard me, I’m going back to California that’s where I belong this isn’t for me so imma go live with my dad” She said simply as she folded her clothes in her suitcase to make this easy.

But Miles was not excepting this non of this he dumped her clothes out making her irritated.

“Miles!” She yelled out but he didn’t care anything to make her stay.

“You can’t leave me! You can never leave me here….”Miles said sadly grabbing her hands not giving up

“Pink Roses right? pink roses represent sweetness, femininity, appreciation, and admiration but mostly Gratitude and Grace. That’s how you make me feel Mi Corazone is only for you” he said hoping to win her over.

Tears flowed through her cheeks as she looked down Miles hurriedly hugged her as she cried. She continued to cry as Miles sang sunflower to her to calm her and to know he’s only hers.

She was envelop with Jealousy that she didn’t see the book was really old. And she knew it.

In that room is their lil fantasy away from the world and the evil and jealousy that comes from it.

[archiveikemen]

Ikemen Villains Prologue: Chapter 9

I do not own any of the Ikemen Series content being uploaded on this blog, everything belongs to CYBIRD. Please support them by downloading and playing their games.

read this before interacting with my posts

Victor: Come with me, Miss Robin. Be sure not to wander off.

Victor: If you get lost in the darkness of the castle, you might never be able to come back.

After parting ways from the other members of Crown, I followed Victor out into the hallway.

Kate: Yes, Sir Victor.

Victor: Victor. I feel lonely seeing you call William by just his name, but adding a “Sir” in front of mine.

(... He and William are people of high authority that I shouldn’t be speaking to so casually.)

Kate: … Victor. Please, do show me around.

(I feel like I’m being rude.)

…

Victor: This is the common room. It is where everyone drinks, plays, parties, and holds war strategy meetings.

Victor: Oh, don’t touch the third glass from the left on the top shelf. Something dangerous will fly out.

(I wonder what will fly out… edged tools? Pistols?)

…

Victor: This is Roger’s research laboratory and infirmary. If you ever get hurt, this is where you’ll receive treatment.

Victor: Crown’s missions are often extremely dangerous. Fortunately, all of us are still alive and kicking. It's a miracle.

(Does this mean that going on life threatening missions is a norm for them…?)

…

Victor: This is the grand hall. Balls and evening parties are held here. But this castle is very special, so we rarely have guests over.

Victor: Even when it comes to servants, only a small number of trusted people are employed.

(If they go to such lengths to keep themselves a secret, why was the gate to that mansion left unlocked…?)

…

Victor: And this is your bedroom.

Kate: Huh…?

I was guided to a clean and classy bedroom with a white base tone, and it looked like it belonged to an upper class person.

Kate: Did another person live here before?

Victor: Nope. While everyone was introducing themselves, I had the servants prepare a room just for you.

(He did that in such a short while!? I didn't notice the presence of servants at all…)

Kate: … Oh.

I noticed a typewriter on my desk.

Kate: How did you know that I can use a typewriter?

No one knew that I had been learning and practising how to use one, so that I could help others write letters on their behalf.

Victor: Hm? Really? I didn't know. It's a pure coincidence. I only thought that a typewriter would make it more convenient for you to write your reports.

Victor blinked curiously at me, but it seemed like he was hinting at something.

Victor: A miraculous coincidence… that's the second one today.

(Second…?)

Victor: I have a feeling that it was fate that brought you here.

Victor: Well then, I shouldn't remain in a lady’s room for too long. Just ring the bell if you need anything.

Victor: Your personal maid will assist you. Ah, instructions are given through pen and paper.

Kate: … I understand. Thank you.

Victor: Also, many members of Crown lack morals.

Victor: Letting any one of them into your room might as well be considered equivalent to surrendering your body to him. Be careful with that.

(Does he mean they’ll attack me the very moment I let them into my room…?)

(They didn't seem like the type of men to be thirsty for a woman…)

Kate: I’ll bear that in mind.

Victor: Finally, I’d like to thank you.

Kate: Thank me?

Victor: Yeah. … Thank you for trying to communicate with us.

Kate: … I had an ulterior motive for doing that and it was to make you let me off.

Victor: You saw that scene with your own eyes, and yet you still wanted to communicate with us.

Victor: You thought we would be understanding, didn't you?

Victor: … Since that's your nature, allow me to give you a piece of advice.

Victor: If you want to return to your normal life after a month… don't let any of them steal your heart.

Kate: … Steal my heart?

Victor: That’s right. Those who've been cursed are destined to meet a tragic end.

Victor: If you’re looking for the kind of love most young ladies dream of, then don't fall in love with anyone here.

(Love…)

I was baffled by the sudden bringing up of that topic.

Kate: I’ve never thought of that…

Kate: I’m only here to prove myself to be trustworthy and go home after I’ve done exactly that.

Victor: … That's what you deserve to have with your wings of freedom.

Victor nodded and narrowed his eyes.

Victor: However, if you decide that you want to share their fate, you are more than welcome to enter the dark side.

That alluring smile made me shudder.

Victor: … Good night, Kate.

Kate: Good night, Victor.

And thus, the sound of my room door closing marked the start of my life full of sin.

…

If life were a fairytale, it’d be easy to be happy, as long as you don't do the wrong thing.

Such as entering a forest that's off limits, opening a door you shouldn't, knowing a forbidden secret, and—

Falling in love when you shouldn't.

However, a world of darkness opened its doors to me one night, inviting me to peek into its depths.

If I touched the fingertips of the hand beckoning me

to go closer — what would happen to my heart and body?

I was certain that there would be a major change in my life.

The consequences of breaking the unspoken rule to not do anything wrong.

— It was still unknown to me.

[alaffy]

Riverdale, ep. 7x13 - The Crucible (spoilers)

Well, we're finally moving the story along in episode thirteen...of twenty. Sigh. I will say that I didn't dislike this episode as much as I have the past few but still....

It all starts with an accusation of Communism against the English teacher. She's fired and Penelope is put in her place (temporarily). She actually doesn't do much. Archie is bummed because she was the only teacher who understood him (seriously, this should have been a warning).

Betty, meanwhile, finds out the Blue and Gold is being shut down because, well, teenagers don't have anything to say. This is also reinforced by the fact that Alice takes Betty's typewriter and telephone. Betty decides to start an underground newsletter instead and it becomes popular. God, let this mean our Betty is coming back.

Cheryl is told by Clifford that she's been named as someone who has an unnatural relationship. Clifford is able to squash that rumor, so long as Cheryl confirms the names of others on the list. Cheryl refuses, but then Clifford threatens to take the Vixens away. Cheryl warns Toni, Clay, and Kevin about the list. She realizes that it must be Evelyn who ratted them out. Cheryl then spends most of the episode trying to figure out a way to refuse to sign the confession without loosing the Vixens. Strangely, Toni, Clay, and Kevin treat this as some sort of true moral dilemma and not point out how these accusations could, in fact, completely destroy their lives. They even decide that the best option is that Cheryl and Kevin pretend to date and Clay and Toni pretend to date so that they can say the accusations aren't true. Still, in the end, Cheryl hears a Archie speak a monologue (more on that in a minute) and decides to tell her father she won't sign the papers, even though it means loosing the Vixens. The two couples still do the pretend dating thing because they ain't stupid and their names are still on a list.

Veronica, meanwhile, is surprised to discover that Hiram has come to see her. He has, in fact, not come to see her. He's in trouble, again. He's being accused of being a Communist because of a trip he made to Cuba. And because he happened to be photographed with Castro (give him whatever fake name you want. It's Castro). He wants Veronica to lie and say it was a family trip. It was not, in fact, a family trip. He was there with his mistress. Veronica, after seeing Archie's monologue (more of that in a minute), decides to say that it was a family trip...provided that Hiram is honest to Hermione and gives Veronica the deed to the apartment. Later, Hermione comes to the apartment and lets Veronica know that she and Hiram will divorce. By the by, so much of this story is lifted from Lucille Ball's actual life that it's...just pathetic on the writers part.

Archie is bummed about his teacher, because she was the only one who supported his poetry writing (clearly she has no taste). The adults in his life are concerned that she may have tried to influence him (God, the clues were...right there about what would happen next). Well, not Frank. Frank's worried that people may feel that, if Archie writes poetry, he might be *gay.* Archie decides to visit his teacher, who gives him a copy of The Crucible (which really doesn't help her case any). Archie decides to preform a monologue from that play (and KJ is clearly trying to audition for future acting rolls). Veronica meets up with Archie and tells him how much she appreciates what he said. She gives him a kiss on the cheek. And then they kiss. Well, we figured they would bring back the old triangle. It could be worse.

And then Grundy appears.

Fuck. My. Life.

But, wait, she's married; which is hopefully the shows way of saying nothing will happen. But it's Riverdale...and they took hope out to the back and shot it a long time ago.

Finally, we have Jughead and Ethel. It turns out that no one will sell comic books anymore. So, Jughead and Ethel...steal some of the comics from Pep to run an underground side hustle? Seriously, they couldn't have stolen every single one they sold....so was Pep involved somehow? But Dilton turns Narc and they're shut down. And so, they adults decide it's time for full measures. The principal tells the students that he'll buy their old comics and then he burns them in the Riverdale High parking lot (ok, as a Library Associate who lives in a state that is very much trying to censor what people read...yeah, that was terrifying).

Anyway, next week is our final musical episode. And, as it's all about Archie, the rumors must be true and it's all original music written by Roberto. We're truly in the deepest pits of hell now!

[izzythehutt]

Forgive me if you’ve spoken about this before, or if my assumption is incorrect, but I think it would be interesting to hear your opinion on the interpretation of Jesse as a Christ-like figure considering from what I’ve gathered you’re a Christian? A lot of people who I see draw comparison between Jesse and Christ (including myself) are either not religious or have had a negative experience with religion so I think it would be interesting to hear from someone who has a different experience.

I think the main problem with that interpretation is that none of Jesse’s suffering is particularly redemptive or self-sacrificial, which would be the baseline requirement for him to be a Christ-figure.

Don’t get me wrong, a lot of bad things happen to him: but it’s never because he’s consciously choosing that suffering for the sake of another person. The one exception to this might be continuing to cook for Jack's gang to keep them from killing Brock, and even that is a coerced choice between two evils—and Brock’s mother would never have died, Brock would never be in the position of being threatened in the first place, if he was not a pawn in Jesse and Walt’s codependent self-perpetuating psycho-drama.

That’s what it all goes back to. Listening to Walt, being Walt’s partner in crime—gets Jesse beat up by criminals or used as emotional leverage against him. The overwhelming guilt Jesse feels all stems from things he did to help Walt, save him, in service of their mutual criminal partnership or out of wrath/hurt at what Walt has put him through.

It’s because of his cooperation with evil that Jesse (and his loved ones) suffer, and that makes him far more of an Adamic figure than a Christ figure.

For my money, the closest we ever get to a truly Christ-like act in the show would be Flynn throwing himself between his mother and father to protect her, knowing full well that Walt could easily overpower him and acting under the assumption that his father has just murdered another member of their family. Junior is as close to an innocent as Breaking Bad has—the only character more innocent than him is the baby—and if he had somehow ended up injured or dead by Walt’s hand because he was shielding Skyler, that would be truly laying down his life for another person. Respect for Flynn, you were more than breakfast memes.

I don’t necessarily know how useful it even is to think about this particular narrative in this way, tbh. Breaking Bad is not an allegorical or didactic show, nor is it particularly moralistic (though it is keenly interested in morality.) It can be read on a realist, psychological level, and through the lens of noir, crime and western genres. It’s definitely not consciously symbolic.

But, if you were going to make the case for a Biblical symbolic interpretation, the glaringly obvious one is Walter White as the Luciferian figure par excellence. Is there a fictional character who more perfectly exemplifies the sin of pride than Walt? A brilliant scientist (Lucifer was, after all, the Angel of Light—the greatest of all the angels) who makes a spectacular fall from grace and proceeds to drag many others down to his level.

So, if Mr. White is “the devil”, then that would make Jesse his Adam. Exiled from the garden of (comparative) innocence in the pilot because he agrees to the partnership between them (his ‘deal with the Devil’, so to speak) Jesse then spends the next sixty-some episodes making a lot of terrible choices, directly and indirectly leading to a lot of pain and suffering, because of that partnership. That’s the entirety of salvation history (as Christians understand it) in a nutshell. This is Jesse Pinkman’s equivalent of taking the apple of the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil—his original sin.

Man is made in God’s image, and like Adam and all his sons, Jesse still has a conscience—the spark of divinity lives in him. He still wants to do the right thing, but his relationship with Walt constantly pulls him back into the world of crime and evil. By the end of the show he’s become a literal slave to sin—his ability to make the blue meth, the gift his devilish mentor gave him that helped Jesse attain honor, power and money in the drug trade, now keeps him literally shackled in a hole in the ground. It’s not exactly subtle, is it?

But he does break free in the end. Not from his literal slavery—Walt has to be the one to free him from that—but from evil.

Jesse’s refusal to end Walt’s life at his command is him simultaneously breaking free of Mr. White’s control over his actions and refusing to continue the cycle of violence his old teacher fostered and Jesse enabled at every turn.

He does it all on his own. He makes the choice. After a lot of suffering, so even if there’s not a salvific figure in this universe persay, there is purgation.

(Ironically, Walt shielding Jesse with his body and taking a literal bullet for him would be an almost textbook Christ-like sacrificial death....except Walt was the person who set off the gun in the first place. Also the idea of putting Walter White and Jesus in the same thought, let alone comparing them....repels me for what I hope are obvious reasons, lol.)

What I liked about El Camino was Jesse finally having serious moral growth and maturity (not shocking that Walt had to die for it to happen.) The scene where he calls his parents, absolves them of blame and takes responsibility for his own actions was such exponential growth for him—the boy becoming a man. And his ultimate fate is to spend the rest of his life in a kind of exile. All of this comes at such a high cost, but there is atonement. It does all mean something.

[delusionaid]

Headcanon: Kaeya edition - Hagen von Tronje

This meta is mostly based on the that one line in the lore trivia on Kaeya's page that I find interesting, referring to his last name "Alberich" and a possible source for it:

Although the connection to Hagen, as far as I found only functions within Richard Wagner's (;3) Ring des Nibelungen, in which Hagen is the name of King Alberich's son. I don't know if the character of Hagen has any relations to "Alberich" in other versions. (In the Nibelungenlied Hagen is a human, while Alberich is a mystical creature.)

I don't have any fully-developed opinions on the implications of that for Kaeya (yet?) but I wanted to collect and piece together a few things regardless before I forget about them :D

I find the note of Hagen interesting because as much as I like the cute and smiling Kaeya, I find his darker side incredibly intriguing and would love to see more of it. Hagen's character throughout the various versions of the Nibelungen is varying degrees of questionable. In the Nibelungenlied Siegfried, the main character, and the hero of the story is killed by Hagen, although arguably that blame can (also) be placed on Brünhild, who encourages him to commit the murder (iirc). Whatever the reason or whoever to consider "good" in this scenario, the way Hagen does it is certainly sneaky and cruel.. but also smart.

Personally I never found Siegfried to be a likeable character, which makes it equally difficult to consider Hagen automatically unlikeable in comparison. (Lbr, they all suck a little bit in that story.) He's of questionable moral alignment, I guess (?), and willing to do "bad" deeds with possibly good intentions (QUESTION MARK? His motivation is very loyalty-driven, in any case). I guess it comes down to how one views Siegfried (who has betrayed Brünhild twice, showing pretty shitty attitude :D).

With that in mind, let's look at some lines in Kaeya's bio:

He is a self-proclaimed "anti-hero with an attitude problem;" as long as everything ends the way he wants, Kaeya does not care about the methods used. Still, according to his informant Vile, he draws the line at working with those who threaten other people's families, believing they deserve to be "hunted down and destroyed."

Clearly the result doesn't justify all means, but it has a bit of a Bat/man vibe. Kaeya might draw the line at hurting innocent people, but what about hurting the not so innocent? Doing bad things to bad people is okay, because they're bad people?

What about hurting someone who hurt a loved one - particularly if said loved one asks him to do so? We do know he was (is?) conflicted about his loyalty to his father, who sent him to Mondstadt with a mission, and his loyalty to Crepus, who cared for him like a father. Hagen's loyalty is a main aspect of his character and Kaeya's loyalty is a main aspect of his struggle. In the same vein, "if Khaenri'ah and Mondstadt were at war" and he'd have to "support one side", it would be a question of point of view if standing against Mondstadt would make him evil or not. Even with the knowledge that he was friends with everyone in Mond - Hagen, too, was friends with Siegfried prior to killing him, and yet you could find arguments for how his murder was "justice". [This all entails one of my biggest questions about the whole bit about "what if Khaenri'ah and Mondstadt went to war" - WHY would they go to war? Over what? Even if Khaenri'ah was to be revived..]

Another personal favorite that speaks to Kaeya's questionable sides:

Kaeya also enjoys putting people into high-stress situations and challenging their values, which he does to both his enemies and his allies alike. He takes pleasure in seeing the hesitation in his comrades' eyes at the moment just before they dive into battle with him, just as he takes pleasure in the look of fear in his enemies' eyes as they face off against him.

Not much else to say other than: A lovely man and captain :3

The fact that he enjoys seeing the fear in his enemies eyes speaks against Hagen't characterization in the Nibelungenlied, as he literally stabs Siegfried in the back (the only spot in which he can be injured) after sneakily acquiring that knowledge. However, iirc Hagen in some of the other interpretations is always a soldier or man of war, who would arguably enjoy seeing his enemies in fear.

Some other chunks I find very interesting when looking at Hagen and Kaeya are the version of Hagen in Wagner's Ring des Nibelungen (the one in which Hagen is the son of King Alberich).

The first thing I find thrilling is what wiki states about Hagen:

[...]Hagen der Sohn von Alberich, nachdem es diesem trotz seines Liebesfluchs gelungen war, ein Kind zu zeugen. Der Fluch wirkt in Hagen jedoch weiter („frühalt, fahl und bleich, hass’ ich die Frohen, freue mich nie!“), dem so bei aller Düsternis der Charakterzeichnung ein tragischer Zug nicht abgesprochen werden kann. (Lazy translation: He is the son of Alberich, who managed to have a child despite being cursed [by swearing off love to gain the Rhinegold]. The curse, however, keeps affecting Hagen (this bit is a poem that more or less says: "aging early and pale, I hate all those who are joyful (and) don't feel joy myself"), which makes Hagen, as dark a characters as he is, also somewhat tragic.

No thoughts beyond there is a curse that was placed on the father that continues to live on in the son. Also the notion of "having been able to have a child despite a curse (of whatever nature)" and the fact that Kaeya's father referred to him as their last hope. Probably means nothing but it tickles my brain.

And finally, something Kaeya unrelated (somewhat) but related to Alberich, is the Rheingold, or Rhinegold. You might recognize this from Rhinedottir/Gold:

Beyond it being a treasure, a literal gold that Alberich turns into a ring (calm down, Sauron), I don't know more about it at present (too lazy to dig deeper rn). It gives him the power to enslave others (sometimes stated as "the entire world"), though, so it is a powerful item. Curious to see how much of that lore runs into Khaenri'ah, the art of Khemia and Gold.

Tl;dr Hoyo likes the Nibelungen and Kaeya is an anti-hero.

[breadvidence]

DAMMIT I.III

On AO3.

SUMMARY: Two suicidal old men with moral scrupulosity in a three-legged potato sack race towards domesticity. Dallas 2014/Brick crossover, all adaptation decisions arbitrary.

Note: Every time I post one of these I struggle against the conventions of my youth. Where's the song lyrics. Where's the tildes. Does anyone need a stern talking-to about homophobia. In any case, this is structurally a type 1 on the Bristol Stool Chart, which I am as a kindness to myself calling a montage. Warning for suicidal ideation, medical setting, homophobia.

⁂

Javert’s therapist praises him for setting boundaries. This distresses him. It is undeserved praise. The necessity that he reveal no details of his history with Valjean makes him sound like a deranged idiot, but for honesty’s sake he mounts an attempt: no, it is not himself that he protects, but Fauchelevent (and how he stutters over the name—! what does she think of that?). The man can bring him lunch and be free of him when it becomes too much, as it becomes too much each time he visits; where could Fauchelevent go to be free if Javert nested in his home? Fauchelevent’s freedom, he stresses, is important. Not, Javert explains, that he means so much to the man; he’s not conceited; no, he is not important, he is unpleasant. He puts a great deal of stress on this word, trying to communicate by tone where facts cannot speak: I served as guard to his prisoner, surveilled him for four years, denounced him, subjected him to a profoundly awkward social situation, threatened to shoot him, surveilled him again for several days before conducting a foot chase, demanded he stab me, threatened to shoot him a second time, and detained him briefly.

The therapist types a note on her laptop. She says, “OK, Mr. Javert, to clarify: do you think this man is literally an angel?”

Valjean’s prohibition of being rude to nurses doubtless extends higher in the medical hierarchy to therapists. Javert breathes out through his teeth and clarifies.

⁂

Marius’ course had been complicated by a hospital infection—ironic, that it’s not from the sewer—and neurological deficits from the head wound, but he went to his grandfather’s with home health rather than languishing in an institution. The house is in one of the more modest streets of Highland Park, which does not mean it’s less than ostentatious. Jean Valjean would have never gone there except that Cosette asked, so he acquiesced. The interior reminds him disorientingly of his mother’s shows from the fifties, her fascination with American wealth, stilled in time.

Cosette has warned him about the grandfather. He has strange manners, Papa. Teasing him, Do not fight the nonagenarian over my honor, please. He does not.

The boy is limpid-eyed and solemn, as at the riot, with a new searching manner to his speech and a tremble in his hands, which Cosette will later tell him is much improved. Jean Valjean anticipates, with immense weariness, exclamations, exposition, explanations sought, Cosette upset, Cosette in tears, Cosette hanging on his neck in unwanted thanks, her young man in his debt when he wants no more tie between them than what his daughter’s love demands of him. 

What he receives is a blessing, to his mind: a stiff greeting, “Pleased to finally meet you face-to-face, sir.” A hesitation, a question in his eyes that does not reach his lips. Marius cannot remember him well enough to accuse him.

Yes, a blessing.

Marius blurts, “About the gardens.” Loses his words, and tries, “About the house. About stalking, or—not stalking, I mean.” It is all spoken in a very cold tone, which saps it of the charm silliness might have given it.

Cosette looks very pretty, blushing, with her face in her hands.

Jean Valjean prays to God, though for what he does not know.

⁂

The television in the dayroom has been set to a program about the riots; it is on one of the channels that he would consider more aligned with his politics than not. Javert wants to claw his eyes and ears until there is blood and blood and no more sense. They call that young man a murderer and he thinks it is the same impulse as ever that makes him respond, No, not yet, he has not been deemed guilty by a jury of his peers. It is this imprecision of language to which he has always objected, conservative news or no. They have found a photo of Claquesous, blurry, in which he is young and smiling, face half turned from the camera as if in a presaging of his elder self’s leeriness of being seen full-on. Javert dwells on what he has always taken care to be unaware of: police contractors with felon’s histories, political agitators with state money in their pocket, men who do not get charged with their crimes. 

He thinks: Valjean’s example recommends felons to whatever jobs they excel at—is there a different, mayor or police agent? The implication is that it is not the felony but the policework at fault. He shudders. How lucky he has been, or how careful his superiors, that he has never been assigned to participate in—that—all of it. What he would call dishonesty. Like worms, there chew at him questions, questions, questions, missing evidence in narcotics cases, bruises on the faces of detainees who came in unblemished, reports written by partners with events he couldn’t recall. He considers reaching out to Gisquet, but he has read the response his first email earned him, and he—cannot; the rebuke hurts, sharp-edged even through a mind flocked by benzos.

Unless he takes himself off the edge of another bridge, or overcomes his squeamishness about exposed nasal cavities and risks a gunshot, or suppresses his resistance to taking medication in doses other than prescribed—really, there are so many ways to die, he could number more—unless he resigns, he will be a witness on the stand for that trial. He did not see Claquesous die, but it is rather compelling for the prosecution, those several hours he spent a guest of Enjolras and his friends. He thinks his past self would have seen them as rebellious, and disgusting; he does not know, now. He does not trust himself with this.

It would be easier to pretend that Jean Valjean is the sun which has risen, but all that good man has done is turned Javert’s face towards the horizon. What climbs above and burns him, what shows that he has deemed emptiness where there has in fact been darkness—that is something a great deal more awful than any single man could be, whatever awe he commands.

On previous occasions when Valjean has offered to drive him someplace off-site, given there’s room for the wheelchair in his trunk, Javert has been an utter bitch in response. Today he says, Please.

They get lunch. It is too much not for Javert’s spine or pelvis but for his left leg, which is swollen now, and the persistent numbness in his feet is like a saw’s whine under his skin, but he makes Valjean laugh, once. It is good.

⁂

Señor, Javert texts him in the middle of the night, and a rambling apology in Spanish. Maldito santo, he calls him. The vocabulary is robust and the grammar poorly. The word puta features regularly. In a particularly confused message, he repeats he aquí el hombre twice, then that Jean Valjean is solamente un hombre. The sentiment is difficult to perceive, much less absorb.

In the morning he replies, You know that I’m not Hispanic, don’t you?

I noticed you’re not Juan Valjuan yes

Please stop before, he types, and doesn’t know how to finish the sentence. Thinks the children with their strange ways of wording things might just add racismand call it a day.

Not worht putting through Google translate so you know

Jean Valjean erases his previous text and begins, No, I do understand Spanish, but

I wouldn’t have sent it w/o the klonopin trazodone combo.

Jean Valjean erases, again, and before he can consider that he exerts undue influence, writes, Do you think they have prescribed too many

BTW back at Baylor for cts today so will be too busy waiting for them to get their shit together to entertain you.

medications. Jean Valjean does not hit send. He deletes the message and instead texts, Ok. He thinks of prison doctors, the haze of compliance. 

⁂

“I have not been to a Catholic service for many years,” Valjean says, “but I wouldn’t mind it, if you want to go. Ah, the Saturday before, too, if you like.”

“You’ve lost the faith?” Javert surprises himself with a nameless jerk of emotion in his chest.

“In God? Never.” He smiles, a soft thing. “But the details of a man’s religion are interesting only to him and his minister. I won’t bore you.” 

Javert recalls how, when handed his effects in the hospital, he had taken the rosary from the plastic bag and clasped it in his hand. After some time he realized that he was flushed, unable to look directly at Christ on the crucifix. He has lived his adult life in mortal sin, his righteousness as a man unshaken by his awareness that he stood among the Good Shepherd’s flock a ram with flystrike, biting at the wool between his legs. His expectations for his place in the social order has always been dour, and his faith was not excepted, with his religion further suppressed by a frank lack of neighborliness. He went to Mass on Sunday, he selected Catholic when asked for his denomination, and he carried that damned rosary, which was with its origin and associations equally a reminder of his dedication to the police. Never has he suffered to blush in the face of God. Bitterly, bitterly does he blush now. His recent attempt to break the fifth commandment has little to do with this, he admits to himself—though perhaps the God from whom he sought to resign would be exasperated by the fact? In any case, he had not, on the bridge, been running to anywhere he did not expect to end regardless. Only, the sins which condemned him changed.

“Javert?”

What he wants to say is, Please, talk with me about God. Hearing in his own ear the effortful quality of his speech, he says, “I can’t kneel for all that fucking penance I’m due.” He has not done penance in decades, but he knows perfectly well one’s knees are the least of it. “Let’s not.” 

Valjean touches his elbow and changes the topic.

It occurs to him that after four years in the same congregation, Valjean never took note that Javert didn’t come to confession or receive holy Communion. The lack of counter-surveillance is frankly galling. Or—he’s forgotten? Either way, it is difficult not to sulk.

⁂

It is a moral good and existential threat when several of Marius’ friends are released from detention. They managed to escape the police confrontation without major head wounds and cannot be relied upon to let Jean Valjean be. He, who has allowed Cosette her way in the matter of engineering situations in which himself and her young man must interact, now withdraws again. 

He recognizes her brightness in Marius’ presence as the open expression of what he has seen from the corner of his eye, in moments she did not know he watched, such that even if he hadn’t remembered those awkward days in the Arboretum he would have been able to place when their relationship first began. More than it troubles him to hate this person who his daughter so loves, it disturbs him that she predicted it—it is not for her to bear up that she is everything to him. Even as it broke him, he has always been proud that she chose an out-of-state medical school, that she did not take him into consideration for that. That she has felt the need for such caution around her romantic life is—

In all his turmoils of the soul Jean Valjean has had moments when he did not comprehend the whole of himself, and moments of denial; there is only clarity here: that she is everything to him that a lonely soul cries out for, but never that. What jealousy he has of her intimacy with Marius is not—that. He prays to God that she has never thought of such things, that her reticence indicates instead a caution born of a deeply religious upbringing, the shadow of the convent, his own silence giving no guide. 

She texts him frequently, and calls twice a week, and if it troubles her that he declines her invitations to spend time together, she does not tell.

He has found himself, of late, distracted by the question of how to make his various charitable projects move along without him. The money is his, and the impetus, but never the name or the hands, and it is not so difficult. It troubles him to think that they might deviate from their purpose without his eyes upon them; he prays on this, and concludes it is the sin of pride, as haunted his work in Montreuil. He thinks to himself that Javert is another charitable work that needs to gain independence, and feels badly over the knowledge that this would hurt the man’s pride. There is melancholy, too, but he cannot place why. He thinks of when Cosette was a little girl and they had found a bluebird chick pushed from the nest, half-dead, which they kept ’til it fledged and could be let free, and how she wept over its flight; has his heart been moved as hers was?

Javert, like the bluebird chick, has his moments of utterly lacking charms. He is up on crutches at last, and Jean Valjean has convinced him to come out for a celebratory meal. Evidently the resident in the neighboring room listens to Johnny Cash regularly, which has occasioned—Jean Valjean glances at his phone—a fifteen minute rant about the artist’s poor morals. He has not previously put much thought into Cash, but he has the sense from the facts stated between Javert’s opinions that their perspectives do not align.

In the pause following the arrival of their meal, he says, “He recorded those prison albums, didn’t he? I seem to recall he did some advocacy work.” He takes a bite of his gnocchi. 

Javert looks struck, which is unfair. Jean Valjean barely said a thing. There is a silence. Javert takes what is more than a sip of his wine. 

He adds, “‘Ring of Fire’ was catchy. I remember when it was on the radio. Ah, you probably weren’t even born.” 

“You’re not that much older,” Javert mutters, in an odd tone; then, altogether too neutral, “That was one of my mother’s favorites.” 

A man this fucked up, Jean Valjean thinks, has nothing good to say about his childhood. While he shouldn’t throw stones, his answer to the subject remains no, thank you. “You always change the radio to classic rock. That’s your preference?” 

“Not really, but it’s more palatable than the pop shit you always have it tuned to.” His smile is unexpected and softens his tone as he continues, “Ridiculous, a man your age listening to Taylor Swift and—I don’t know what else. The goddamn song about being happy that they won’t stop playing.” 

“The Pharrell Williams single? He’s quite an influential producer, too.” The station he prefers plays songs from the turn of the millennium to the present, and he’s really more invested in the older—relatively speaking—music, but explaining would require he talk about Cosette, nostalgia for her childhood, and he has thus far avoided mentioning her.  Besides, this mockery from Javert, it’s—well, Jean Valjean does not mind it. He might even mistake it for friendliness.

⁂

Good fucking Christ, thinks Javert, who can still feel his own smile in the corner of his lip, m I friends with that old man? He chose the glass of wine over the evening meds contraindicated for use with alcohol, and is therefore trapped awake with all the inescapable little sounds of a facility at night around him. The neighbor who listens to Johnny Cash also snores. He reviews the six weeks that have passed since he turned his head and found Valjean at his bedside. He tallies their behavior against his abstract knowledge of friendship. The results are not amenable to him. Surely they are symbols of failure and suffering to each other before they are men, much less more?

—Surely?

Valjean wore slacks and a button-up to their little celebration dinner—did symbols of failure and suffering go to dinner together?—and had something of Madeleine’s charm about him. Could be decade-old sexual frustration reviving, Javert tells himself, whose hatred of the man in Montreuil was matched step for step with a willingness to get on his knees for him. Javert is much more accustomed to thinking of himself as a cocksucker than as someone’s friend.  He is too alert and too honest to accept this substitution; far be it from him to pretend he wouldn’t bend over for Valjean, but that hardly signifies where the question of emotion is concerned. 

Should he ask?

⁂

A dozen times Jean Valjean almost demands, What is it, Javert, and a dozen times he falls back from the question. The man is a creature of habit, he knows; doubtless the transfer from the SNF to home, while seeming to him like a blessed escape, is in actuality a struggle. God alone in his wisdom knows what might be passing through that blockish skull. He has an elbow leaned against the door, chin propped in cupped palm. There’s quiet in the car, volume low on the censored verses of Nicki Minaj; Javert has not switched the station.

“I didn’t realize there was a woman in your life,” he says, abrupt but neutral.

It locks the muscles of his back. “I don’t see what makes you say that.”

“Her mail is in your car,” Javert says. “Saw it when I put my bag in the back seat. Or am I not the only invalid you’ve played postal service to?”

Yes, letters from the finance office of the college; he recalls, but would not have expected the man to notice, tucked as they are into the pocket on the back of the driver’s seat. His instinct is to lie—what does it matter, when they will not see more of each other? He could say: someone from church. A neighbor on a trip. A girlfriend? He is dubious he could sell the last, particularly given Javert must have been aware he abstained from romance in Montreuil. “You do know of her,” he says. “My daughter, Cosette.”

“You kept that child?” From the corner of his eye, it is impossible to make out quite what Javert’s expression has gone to, but his voice is harsh. “You can’t have adopted her.” 

I paid for her, Jean Valjean decidedly does not say, and knows he ought to have lied. “Ah, well.” He glances over. “Do you have a grocery store preference?”

In a distant tone, he replies, “Tom Thumb is fine. Take a right off the Field Street exit. We’ll have to go past the Jack Evans Headquarters on the way to my apartment—that fine?” When he receives a brisk gesture of assent, he restarts, with a dogged air, “The parole violation and fraud charges alone are enough for a prison sentence, but the statute of limitations won’t have expired for a fucking kidnapping, and—”

“Javert,” he says, his voice soft, “if you ar reconsidering seeing to my arrest, I would ask you to not involve Cosette.”

“I’m not—” His hands come up as if to seize, to fling something away from him. “Never mind. I won’t think about it.” 

Given the depth of his agitation, this seems an unlikely way to resolve the situation.  “I shouldn’t have put you in this position.” 

“I’m not thinking it through, Valjean.” He presses close to the door, as if he would escape were they not on a highway.

“Cosette’s mother—” He has not been able to bring her name to his lips for years. “—gave her into my care.”

“Yes, that woman had a habit of child abandonment, didn’t she?” he snarls, his vitriol towards Fantine shockingly crisp-edged, as if he has kept it under glass all these years. “You were a rich man, a prominent one. Of course the bitch would want to cuckoo her child into your house. I, of all fucking people, am aware she didn’t have time to change her mind once she knew what you are.” 

“No, she didn’t have time.” He will not look on those memories, knowing how he will find them: all of it gone strange with time and too much contemplation, here blurred, here more vivid than reality. He will hear the sound her skull make as it struck the headboard, feel her hand still warm under his lips, weep for how in her final repose she seemed to smile. He takes the exit. “Regardless, I made a promise.”

“A fugitive’s promise to a whore,” he snarls, “is not a legal transfer of child custody.” 

“No.” He takes the opportunity of a red light to turn and face the other man in full. “She wasn’t that.” 

“Well, she was never convicted,” Javert mutters. He holds eye contact, but too much of his sclera show. “No, she was never even charged.” The car behind them honks and he flinches hard enough to hit the door.

Jean Valjean does not startle; he checks the intersection before he drives forward. The controlled breathing of the man next to him is over-loud, and he wonders if he ought to pull off into an empty lot for this conversation. He would not engage with it at all, except he must be certain that Javert will not interfere in Cosette’s life. “I didn’t realize you held on to this anger. I haven’t seen it in you these past weeks.” 

“Why should my feelings have changed?” he returns. “You humiliated me—and then I humiliated myself. Twice, if you count that shitshow of an arrest attempt. Yes. Twice. And you—you don’t feel anything? I distinctly recall you accused me of murder, at the time.” 

He pulls into the Tom Thumb lot, parks. When he turns off the car, the radio keeps playing; Pharrell invites them to clap along. He presses the dial to silence it. His memories of Javert’s part in his downfall as Madeleine are faded, and not from being too gone-over; this man had the misfortune of being the lesser concern in each of the encounters that have remained so important to him, nothing beside Champmathieu, less than nothing beside Fantine. What does he recall? The surprise in Javert’s eyes when he took the gun from his hands and struck him with it, as if they had jumped from one script to another. Yes, most of all he remembers those eyes, watching through the years. Scattered incidences, from less emotional times. Sudden, clear: trying to calm Javert down, saying, I esteem you. A lie. He wonders now what impact it had. He is glad to have remembered; he will not try to de-escalate this situation in the same way, knowing it will not work.

Javert watches him, making no move to leave the vehicle. Fuck. He’s asked a question, and his patience has never been lacking. 

“I have never wanted you to come to harm,” he tries. 

Javert looks unimpressed by this.

What does he feel? At the moment, exasperation, and that first stutter of the heart that precedes the chase when one is the prey. “Please—”

“Don’t say please to me,” Javert rasps. 

It is one of those moments of vulnerability which has nearly driven him from the man’s side, entanglement be damned. He goes still. “We should get those groceries.”

Javert holds out a hand to him, gaze gone sharp, and while the curbing of his emotion is welcome, the shift of attention is not. “Are you afraid? What of?”

“Habit, only. I am used to running.” The honesty costs him nothing, but still, it stings his throat. “You don’t want me to say please—but I don’t know how else to ask, Javert. Please. I don’t care about the past. Cosette has not known what it means to run. Not like I have. She doesn’t know.”

“Anything?” Javert asks, bewildered, and sees the answer in his expression. “That’s fucked up, Valjean. Why must you lie?” 

Jean Valjean undoes his seatbelt. “Well?” 

“You said please and never specified what you wanted,” Javert replies, pettish, and mimics him. “But—fine. You’re a kidnapper; very good! Add it to the list. You’re a good man. I know that. What do you expect, anyway, that I’ll tip off the police? With what evidence? As if I didn’t learn my lesson the first time.”

“You were right then, too,” Jean Valjean says.

“No. I’d be equally wrong now.” Javert pops the car door with more force than is necessary. “I’ll have an answer some day, but sitting this long has been hell. —Don’t rush, I can lean on the car and get the crutches out of the back. Christ in heaven.”

It is an awkward shopping trip, a quiet drive the rest of the way to the apartment, both of them flinching under the shadow of police headquarters as they pass it by. Javert seems too tired for further conversation, for which Jean Valjean feels guilt, gratitude. They bicker over who ought to go up the stairs behind the other, Jean Valjean to catch Javert should he fall, or Jean Valjean so that should Javert fall he not be knocked down. Jean Valjean prevails. It feels normal, as if they had not fought. He does not know what to make of the fact that there is a sense of normal from which to deviate. When it seems like Javert might offer him some kind of hospitality, a glass of water, he leaves. 

There, he thinks as he drives back to the Southlake apartment. We are quit of each other. 

⁂

In the first moment that he is alone, Javert goes to his gun safe and removes the P250. It is not illegal for him to own; no part of his hospitalization related to his mental illness, and he has not been adjudicated as mentally defective. Whether the spirit of the law would see his right to carry revoked is another matter, and none of his concern. Or—perhaps it should be? Such questions are what makes him look speculatively at the firearm. But he does not own any tarps to put down and catch the mess, he thinks, and he has been on good terms with his landlord all these years.

He sits on his bed, the crutches fallen to the ground at his feet, and rests his forehead along the barrel of the unloaded handgun. It is painful to think. He would rather be cleaning up the disgusting amount of dust that has accumulated in his absence. In his ears is the sound of the river, in his eyes the mist. He blinks away the latter, an unmarked time later, and struggles with his rigid back to retrieve the crutches, and return the P250 to the safe. Not today, he tells himself. 

He wants his goddamn answers from Jean Valjean, for one.

After a week, Javert determines that Valjean does not intend to contact him. Well, is the man such a pussy that he can’t handle one argument over their shared past? Has Javert not reassured him that he will take no action against him? He composes several texts. He experiences self-loathing over those that are too harsh, and a different, less comfortable emotion when they are overly needy. Attempting to directly confront the reason for this silence does not prove fruitful. He settles on, Making stuffed chicken tomorrow night. Come over if you want. Six o’ clock. He adds, after a very stressful ten minutes, Can be earlier or later if you need it to be. 

⁂

Jean Valjean realizes, quite startled, that what Javert has extended to him is the open palm of friendship. This is far from the first time he has been presented with such a thing, but it is the only one he has been uncertain how to avoid. Old Fauchelevent had been tricky, but he had only to think of his deceptions to place distance between them. He has no such excuse here. He received Javert’s text five hours ago and has yet to reply. 

6 is fine, he plucks out. Sends.

[comet-ribbon]

My Fix-it for Ts4

I've collected my thoughts and ideas that could have made Toy Story 4 a decent (yet then again an unnecessary sequel) in my take since sometimes this movie gives me headaches and wishful thinking that my true characters were there.

If some of you liked how this movie went, I respect your opinion. I, in my case, didn’t so this is for those who didn’t like it or just indifferent by it.

First of all, the starting point is Bonnie. If they followed up her love about Woody, then it would have easily respected everyone’s characters as they should be and the plot would have been better.

At this point everyone has commented how it went off character with her too so I won’t elaborate it here.

So, if Bonnie cared so much about Woody in ts4, it might have been a parallel to Andy missing him and Buzz when he was like 7(?)

Bonnie would be stressed and sad that she doesn’t know where Woody or Forky is. As shown in the montage she seemed happy playing Woody with Forky, being this new duo sort of pals.

And probably TS first all over again. But the thing is! That Woody's learned SO MUCH from the first movie and all that jazz.

He would have totally taught Forky About how being a toy is. Not in the funsies way in which the first TS did, they were obviously fun humor when it needed to. But with the falling point of Buzz' arc, it was a big deal and Woody helped him about his purpose.

Including Buzz and Jessie being now more experienced in this thing. Probably they could have become a stronger couple in assessing the toys and would have been cute af.

Forky wouldn’t be throwing himself away every damn time, in my take he would be confused in everything. He doesn't know why he's here. He doesn't even know why he has the form of a spork.

In my rewriting, he's literally a first-born, like Pinocchio.

Now ppl might be wondering, what would actually happen if Forky would have thrown himself away from the window? And the sidewalk thing happens?

Well. I have an idea. Instead of Bonnie cuddling Forky in her sleep. It’s Woody. Her parents would have told her that sleeping with her fork would be dangerous as it can hurt her when she doesn't know it.

Or it can be Jessie! since Bonnie is showing her sweet love to the cowgirl as well without making Woody being “neglected” She gets more appreciated in a good way, without shadowing Woody.

But I believe Woody has to be the focal point of this otherwise we wouldn’t get the talk on the sidewalk lmao.

If it’s the former, Woody has to make a quick decision whether stay in place with Bonnie or just going to bring Forky back.

Since we know our favorite doll and his great loyalty, he just tells Buzz they’ll be back soon, not knowing that he might see Bo again, delaying his mission and all that.

Probably Forky would still don't know about the dangers and he gets curious of going to the window. Again, his conscience is not developing yet. Bc he genuinely doesn't know anything yet.

Maybe and probably, once he gets sucked in, for the first time he's got a sense of fear and danger. Probably adding more personality than before.

For the first time ever, he developed the feeling of fear.

So, probably Woody would have told him in his experience, how when he was with Buzz, he saw the mutilated toys from Sid. And how they weren't able to speak or talk. Bc the actual body proportions were out of place, must have caused abnormalities in them.

That could make Forky more aware of his physical proportions. He also listens to his adventures of how Woody got his arm accidentally pulled off and how it even harmed him by the prospector when he threatened him.

Forky gets very fascinated by his storytellings and learn that strangers having to take things from you by force is morally wrong because of what Woody told him.

Heck, he even would have told him about Lotso! And how they were in the trash. Making Forky very scared, and just terrified of being there being useless.

So that situation happens when he sees that Gabby wants his voice box but remembers Woody's saying.

Might have changed the plot for the better.

So yeah, here are my thoughts so far! Would have loved to see my favorite trio work together in saving the spork and more suspense in facing the villain. Woody and Bo would have better off stayed being friends instead of a couple in the end because sometimes things don’t work anymore and could have been a good message for the audiences about relationships.

What do you guys think?