#like. this about recognition of exceptional holiness and closeness to God

[nanomooselet]

Wolfwood and Martyrdom

There's something everyone tends to misunderstand, about martyrdom.

You don't become a martyr against your will. It has to be a conscious choice between renouncing your faith and keeping your life, or remaining faithful and being put to death. It's not just dying, even if it’s in service of faith. It has to be a decision.

It has to be a willing sacrifice. You have to, consciously, purposefully, choose surrendering your life over renouncing your faith.

I do not think people are realising just how profound Wolfwood's devotion to Vash had become. How truly he believed in Vash. How deeply they loved and were devoted to each other.

Because Wolfwood truly did not want to die. And yet he chose to in Vash's name.

Wolfwood loved Vash and his ideals so much that they became his reason to live, and then he accepted death to uphold them. Vash would never have asked that of him. Vash apologised for judging Wolfwood for killing when his willingness to do so saved innocent lives, told Wolfwood his ideals were a burden Wolfwood wasn't required to bear.

Instead, his death was something Wolfwood had to request.

Do you accept this offering?

And Vash had to give him permission.

I do.

His proposal accepted, Wolfwood took up everything he had left, his body and spirit, the life he could have had, the welcome home he always yearned for - and he purposefully set them aside in the name of Vash's ideals. He was obedient unto death.

It's so painful. Vash is devastated, openly howling and weeping in anguish. But he had to let it to happen because it was Wolfwood's choice. That's why when he prays it's not answered. And it's why Wolfwood tells him, with his final words, to smile - because he has no regrets. He chose this. He chose Vash. Don't blame yourself, tongari. You look better when you smile.

It is absolutely a wedding. There's literally no other way for the whole series of events to be properly understood otherwise. The passion and devotion of Wolfwood's sacrifice leaves me standing back in genuine awe.

Because to live outside of Christ is to die, and to die in Christ is to live.

Wolfwood entered the story as a dead man, and then realised he wanted to live. Vash wanted to share all his tomorrows with Wolfwood - and he will. Because martyrdom?

Can be how you become a saint.

And this is why Vash burned through his power to protect Wolfwood's body. Because Knives may consume everything else in his madness and fear and vengeance, but he doesn't get to even come close to touching this. This is sacred. This is a holy relic. This is something that belongs only to Vash.

A sinner like Knives is unworthy.

[yutaholic]

on the topic of nct kissing ass to k-fans, i'm not sure if you or the other anons were into 127 when superhuman dropped but i was, it was my first come back and i don't know if you guys know that k-fans got so pissed off by the guys promoting it here in the west first that they boycotted the come back. it still did fairly decent, especially in streaming but the sales weren't too extraordinary, the mv views on youtube... well they were there, barely. i don't think they were struggling or anything but the reception was a bit underwhelming at first. when they went back to korea they were greeted with a lot of hostility from fans and even said they weren't hoping for too much success and were actually really surprised to have gotten two music show wins because they were starting to feel like the fans weren't enjoying the come back at all. they said in one of the lives that mark even cried when they got that second win because he felt so relieved. i was also a little upset at them kissing ass to k-fans but when i remembered that something just clicked. they're making sure to keep the wife back home happy, like your friend said, to avoid another superhuman. sm has always made sure to put k-fans first, even for the sake of i-fans. i don't doubt that's why a lot of their other groups barely venture out of korea, except for aespa now and super junior who run their own schedules under their own subsidiary company and from what i'm told by my sister who was friends with an elf, just fucking hate their k-fans because of all the shit they did to them earlier in their careers. in theory there should be a balance because like you said, i-fans are one of their biggest supporters and content creators online and if you give them no recognition, no schedules and no interactions, they will move onto under group, but if you also keep a loyal fanbase back home you're always going to have someone to fall back on to. there's also the factor that k-fans are so comfortable invading their privacies because they already have them so close but i-fans aren't all the better either. during their last tour a group of american fans broke into their tour bus and took photos even laying on their beds and touching personal belongings. crazed fanatics are everywhere, truly, but i think the k-fans always feel so extra embolden because of the general proximity and the fact that sm rarely does anything against them to keep a steady income.

Holy shit I had no idea the kfans went that far what is wrong with them? I always thought Superhuman 'flopping' was thanks to it being a god awful song I literally can’t listen to it like I always got secondhand embarrassment when they performed it anywhere lol I had no idea the kfans boycotted the whole comeback because it was promoted in the west that’s bullshit!

It makes sense knowing that. I can definitely see how that influenced them going forward. Deadass just went “ah” as I read your ask lol I still think they’re going about it the wrong way because a lot of intl fans will move on from them if they’re going to get slapped in the face like this but also yep gotta keep the wife happy fuck the side chick (literally) mentality makes more sense now

Oh I never said intl fans aren’t crazies haha there are delulu fans everywhere you always gotta be careful. My point was that NCT can obviously kiss the ass of kfans (to preserve their home base and safety net) BUT they don’t have to do it at the expense of intl fans. My friend says this feels very intentional and that’s what is pissing her off the most.

It’s like when I was a nanny for this family’s kids. One of the babies (she was 4) needed a lot of extra attention for reasons I won’t get into so I had to be extra sweet and coddling to her, but her parents made a point to tell me they do not neglect their older child (he was 7) because of her. The boy never resented his sister getting extra attention because he also got a big share of love and they grew up to be super close as a result.

[microsuedemouse]

I know I said I was done for tonight, but sorry, I’m still thinking about the conversation where Nicky and Joe tell Nile how old they are–

“Nicky and I met in the Crusades.”

“The Crusades?”

“The love of my life was one of the people I’d been taught to hate.”

“We… we killed each other.”

“Many times.”

(Transcription approximate.)

God. I can’t stop thinking about this.

At first I was imagining something honestly kind of comical – like, these two guys on the frontlines of a battle, running each other through in an act of what they both assume to be mutually-assured destruction… and then, ten minutes later, they both suddenly just. wake up. And they stare at each other for a second, like, “holy shit, he survived that – holy shit, I survived that” and then they go for the kill again. And this goes on repeatedly for way too long, and the sun is going down, and eventually they stop and stare at each other like… okay, obviously this isn’t working. Maybe it’s time to take a break. And they might not even speak the same language but they manage to agree to a truce somehow and they sit down away from the fighting and things go from there.

But then I was thinking about it some more, and I realised… if they were both fighting in the Crusades, there’s a very high chance that they were not one another’s first brush with death. They had quite possibly already survived a lot by the time they faced one another. Maybe they choose not to think about how dead they should be by now simply because it’s terrifying, or maybe they think of themselves as God’s own soldiers, or maybe they simply don’t understand but decide to continue fighting anyway because what else is there to do – and then, eventually, they come up against one another.

And in that moment, they don’t see anything different in the man they’re facing from every other fighter they’ve already gone up against. They just continue to plough forward, reckless in battle because they know they can’t truly be defeated. And maybe the battle around them is chaotic enough that they don’t even notice, immediately, that the other man gets back up when he shouldn’t. But one way or another they come face-to-face again and they each have a moment of fuck, I thought I dealt with him, and one or the other deals another killing blow.

But before long, they both realise: he’s not just tough, or lucky, or stubborn. He’s like me. He doesn’t stay down. And they each thought they were alone in this, thought they were the only one, but they’re not, and it rocks their foundations. And somehow in the midst of this battle, this fight that puts them at one another’s throats, they get close enough to see one another in detail – Joe sees the colour of Nicky’s eyes, Nicky sees the curl of Joe’s hair against his neck, Joe sees the insignia on Nicky’s armour, Nicky sees the colour of Joe’s shirt beneath his chestplate – and then they realise.

In a strange and terrifying moment, each of them recognises the man he’s fighting as the same man he’s been seeing in his dreams. He thought they were nightmares, these flashing visions of an indistinct soldier cut through by half-second images of two women slicing down their opponents like so much grain to be harvested. He thought they were just horrors brought on by too many nights spent trying to sleep mere paces away from where only hours ago he lived and killed and died over and over in battle. And maybe he sees this recognition in his opponent’s eyes, as well, and realises that whatever’s happening it’s even bigger than he’d already believed.

And this probably doesn’t stop anything. Confused and afraid and still full to the brim with the adrenaline of battle, they probably don’t stop fighting in that moment. They continue to kill each other as the war rages on around them. Any allies coming to either man’s aid are dealt with quickly, and they stay dead. So eventually it’s just the two of them left here, surrounded by bodies, no one left nearby to see them or intervene or distract them, and they fight until the exhaustion is simply too great to carry on. Coated in sweat and dirt and one another’s blood, they collapse to the ground, with no idea what’s going on or why or how to respond to it.

Neither man knows what this means. If I’m God’s soldier, he thinks, what does that make him? If their power comes from on high, why do they both have it? And what does this mean for the war they’re fighting? And… can I walk away from the only man I’ve ever met who’s like me?

Somehow, they manage to call a truce. Somehow, they see in one another’s eyes all the doubts and fears and questions, and somehow, they agree to walk away. There’s too much they need to know, too much they don’t understand, and the war loses so much meaning with their faith shaken. So they hide, take shelter, allow themselves to be counted among the fallen. And they run. They lose themselves amongst the refugees, never returning to battle.

They don’t trust each other. Not yet. They can’t even speak to each other. But they’ve got all the time in the world and nothing to do except keep the Crusades behind them and one eye on this strange man who doesn’t appear in their dreams any more.

So eventually, they learn to communicate. And as they do, they learn one another’s stories. They tell each other about the first time that death didn’t stick, about the nightmares, about the visions of strangers they’d taken to be figments of their own imaginations until they met. They learn that they share the dreams of a distant pair of women so savage that no warrior can oppose them.

And over time, they develop a theory. They stopped dreaming about each other when they met – so perhaps these others they dream of are like them, too. Perhaps they aren’t alone in all the world. There aren’t many of them, but that’s not the same as being completely alone.

It takes a long time for them to learn to trust one another, because they’ve been taught since birth to hate each other, to believe the other something less than human. But they also understand each other to be allies now, as decided by some power far greater than themselves. And they begin to see each other as men, as equals. Perhaps they both leap to the defense of a group of refugees when the soldiers come; perhaps they protect one another when faced with a different kind of danger altogether. No matter how it happens, time goes on and they learn to see each other as partners. Companions. They’re in this together. Because the alternative is to once again be alone.

And a day comes when they realise they’ve gone from allies to friends, and another comes when they find they’re something more than that, as well. And eternity looks so much more bearable than it ever has before.

[evandearest]

The Garden of Eden | Part IV: Betrayal

Pairing: James March x reader (you) | ~Part: (4/4)~

Summary (Part Four): Warnings are to be remembered, although most stored away for future use only to be forgotten. Cycles repeat to teach lessons; to warn of future events. Threats may remain even if not for the blind eye to see. However, ignorance might be the biggest threat of all.

Warnings (in this part): murder, blood, death, poison, religious twists, dark themes

Word Count: 5,018 (haha this part ended up with the most words... to end it off I suppose!)

Notes: This is the last part of the Garden of Eden! I just want to say thank you to all who read - especially @etoile-writings , for supporting me. Please go check out her series Adam and Eve, as it is a literary masterpiece and she deserves so much recognition.

I have seriously had so much fun writing this - it really has been my pleasure. I also want to apologize to all those who may have been waiting for awhile for the final part! Disclaimer: I tried my best to edit the grammar and everything in this but this is the best I could do! I hope there’s not many mistakes I may have missed. Please ask any questions and give me all your comments about this finale - I’d love to hear any and all thoughts! I also hope everyone is safe, healthy, and happy :) Feel free to send in other requests, whether it be AHS or Supernatural.

Also a heads up - keep a look out for the final review and analysis if you are interested. It is still in progress but it should be out within a couple of days at best.

A few side notes - the Countess and James are still legally married here, as they are in the show, but in this situation it is only because they haven’t gotten the chance to divorce. This part may seem to have very long sentences, but I just wanted to let you guys know that it is a writing technique that I used to create mood, tone, and theme. That’s all, thanks!

Tag List: @etoile-writings @haileyybird @ietss

Something about the young couple in the bar had your mind reeling. Their hands remained interlocked on the table, both of them staring at one another with all the joy and adoration that only true love can bring. Their relationship was new and exciting. The honeymoon phase was always so perfect. You remembered how that had felt with James; so invigoratingly energizing. It was enough to make you feel as if you ruled the world; love blinding a vision of truth. It was, for many years, what you had considered paradise to be.

Paradise.

You realized now that it never had been perfect with you and James. There were so many things standing in the way, so many hidden threats. When you were younger, it had been your parents and their obsessive need to marry you off like an object to a rich man. Even as he had began his journey to success, James’ social status as new money hadn’t seemed good enough to them. When you had first gotten back with James only just around a month ago, you had thought that you’d conquered everything. You had been blind to the truth which was right in front of you once again. You should have expected some kind of change in James. It was inevitable, after all that time spent apart.

But now, however, right at this present moment... well, now, everything was out in the open. Now, you and James truly understood one another. Now there really was nothing in your way. You could see no obstacles ahead, no threat, so long as James was by your side. All you saw was James, and all that clouded your mind was your admiration and devotion to him. He was your everything; your soulmate, your leader, your God. He had dragged you from the fire and brought your paradise back to you; good, true, and everlasting this time around. Your precious Garden of Eden, controlled by none other but you and your God.

Your God; who had been the utmost of clever in his recent schemes. He’d been outraged when he did it, but it wasn’t to say that he wasn’t brilliant. He was of excellent prosecution; his statement out in the open and clear. A Sunday morning: police finding piles of dead bodies compiled with numerous copies of nothing other than the book of God himself. It was sadistic and morbid, but it was perfect. It was everything that James needed to say. He was on the verge of something momentously renowned.

Once James was finished, no one would ever forget his message: religion was the worst thing to happen to society. It controlled the will of man, when truly nothing in creation could stop anything. Everyone was put equal on the Earth to sin, to live in the most pleasurable way.

It was the entire reason Adam and Eve had been cast down. They were sinners, except the garden was a place controlled by God’s rules. They had wanted to control their own lives, so God banished them to Earth. James, however, had created his own paradise; his own Garden of Eden. He had climbed so far above all other men that he now controlled the garden. He had to prove to others the ridiculousness of holiness--for all were meant to sin. Religion was, essentially, suppression. To some, it may seem horrible, but to you, it was art. A simple expression of belief that most didn’t understand.

Voices floated into your ears, startling you out of your thoughts. Soft echoes through the lobby of your beloved’s name piqued your interest, your feet immediately carrying you to the railing without much thought. You left your drink on the bar’s counter--still full, but long forgotten. Your eyes landed on four men clad in black suits, shiny gold badges on their shoulders reflecting light from the chandeliers above. You scanned the area, noticing a certain maid standing close by, listening in, much like you were.

“We have suspicion based upon evidence that Mr. March was involved in the murder this past Sunday. We have already taken the time to get a warrant for his arrest,” one of the officers explained to the receptionist at the front desk. Time seemed to take a standstill, your heart seeming to stop completely as your brain registered the man’s words. No, this couldn’t be happening.

The cycle was repeating again. They were trying to tear you apart again.

You didn’t understand how this could’ve happened. He said he was careful, and you could never see James making a mistake with something this important. He was detail-oriented, his brain practically ran off of the certainty of perfectionism. He would never let a small mistake ruin everything for him.

The entire empire he’d built, and everything you’d rebuilt, was about to be destroyed all over again.

Your body seemed to catch up with your mind as you sprung into action. You twisted around, your feet pushing you forward only to come to a halt at the close proximity of the once unknown presence behind you. Your eyes widened, a sharp breath escaping your lips at the stop you made compared to your sudden momentum. You stared into the eyes of none other than The Countess, clad in only the most extravagant clothing and makeup.

“That’ll be a hard one to get out of,” she said, although her face was seemingly expressionless. You stared at her, your frenzied brain jumping to the first conclusion you could make.

“Did you...” you trailed off, your breathing suddenly heavy. James couldn’t have made the mistake, so that means that somebody else had to of given the police some kind of tip in order for them to seek James out. The woman standing before you was quite possibly the number one suspect. “Did you do this?” Your voice held tones of disbelief and anger.

Would Elizabeth really go to such extent when she hadn’t even expressed a major disliking? She hadn’t talked to you at all since that first time, in fact the only interactions you’d had with one another were passing glances. She’d seemed to have just steered clear of anything to do with you or James. You had no idea what she had thought, but you had supposed that she didn’t care about you and James, otherwise she would have spoke her concerns. Had you been wrong about her? Could a simple mistake end it all over again? Elizabeth scoffed, her face hardening.

“Oh God no...” she said wryly, a small sarcastic grin forming on her lips as she looked at you quizzically, “what would I get out of it now? As I am still his present wife, I don’t need James dead to use his money. And besides, now that he has you he no longer bothers me.” She was smug as she spoke to you. She grinned, all teeth and mischief, her eyes sparkling. “It’s a winning situation for the both of us if you ask me.” She paused, her grin falling slightly as her gaze wondered off to peer down into the lobby.

“I could bet I know who the rat is, though,” She said, turning back to you. “I’m wagering it’s his loyal minion. That poor woman has been in love with James since the beginning of time.” She paused, her eyes intense as they rested on your face. “And based on your expression you think so too.” She smiled at you and then turned, walking slowly away from you. “Good luck,” she called back to you without turning around, your eyes watching her back as she went.

You stood contemplating her words for a moment. Elizabeth was smart and straightforward, and from what you could tell if she had a problem she would speak her mind. And what she had said made sense. Miss Evers was in love with James, but her love was unrequited, and that’s why she constantly seemed at odds with you. She could never even have a chance to be with him, so long as you were around.

Your feet carried you quickly as you raced to the elevator. The police were still conversing with the receptionist, but you knew it was only a matter of time before they found out where James was. You recalled a conversation you’d had with him in the morning, concluding that he had to be caught up attending to his hobby.

The police would find him in his office, in the middle of his business, and it would all be over. He would be taken from you once again.

You didn’t even knock upon arriving; you opened the door and closed it quickly behind you. You turned to face James, in all his blood-covered, god-like glory. You took in the scene of James’ office quickly, your eyes tracing over every detail. A large bin sat in the center of the room, a rugged corpse contained within it. James had been busying himself with pouring a substance over the body, of which could only be acid, as it had sizzled upon impact with the dead man’s skin. At your arrival, James halted his methods in confusion.

Several items were scattered across the floor, one of which catching your interest. The glass of the vase; a damp spot surrounding the area where the unaltered mess remained. The roses remained too, the petals wilting from lack of nourishment. You paused, your mind trying to puzzle out their unmoved position. Miss Evers had to have been in here since last night, so why wouldn’t she move them? She might have been scheming, but she was extremely adamant on being neat when it came to James’ specific rooms. You couldn’t see her ignoring it, and yet here it was sitting puzzlingly. You were caught off guard for a reason not entirely known to you. Something about their appearance had you alarmed, a string of words suddenly ringing out in your head; perhaps a memory brought to the surface.

“If you betray the rose, the rose no longer profits you.”

The old woman was suddenly prevalent in your mind, her warning dawning upon you, your heartbeat stuttering at the looming echo of her words. James was waiting for you to explain yourself--the police were coming--Miss Evers had betrayed you--everything you and James had worked so hard for was crumbling down around you. Your heartbeat was fast, the pulse beating quickly, perhaps the reason for the pounding in your head.

You looked James in the eyes, studying his features. He was so handsome--even before you knew him, that day in the garden when you had first seen him--you had marveled at his beauty. And that was before he’d become such a man; his features sharp and masculine, beautifully sculpted by the gods. His dark brown eyes and hair, so dull yet so prominent--a symbol of his darkness. You could stare at him for eternity and never bore, your love for him everlasting.

And yet, here you were at the end with no escape, hell a threat once again hanging above your heads, looming just around the corner. Just a few more minutes and everything would be over. Just a few more minutes and you’d be lost again, stranded without your guide; your purpose--your God.

“James,” you gasped, stumbling slightly as you made your way to him. You’d just managed to get to him before you fell over slightly, your arms reaching out to grasp onto his tightly. He caught you, keeping you level as his face filled with concern. The pounding in your head was intense, beginning to drown out your thoughts and quicken your breath.

“Darling, tell me--what is it?” James demanded, his voice panic-stricken. He lifted your chin to look you in the eyes, his widened orbs meeting yours with intensity.

“I-it’s--the- the police,” you barely managed to get the words out, clinging onto James like he was your lifeline. Nothing seemed right; your thoughts suddenly taking too long to form into words, your breathing heavy, vision blurry, and it was becoming much harder to stand. What was happening? You stared into James eyes, shifting all your focus into him. “They’re here to arrest you.” One hand gripped his arm firmly as you brought the other to rest upon his cheekbone, leaning chest to chest as your body began to collapse into him. He held you steady, forever the one and only thing to truly support you. “They’re going to take you from me,” you sobbed, an onslaught of tears overcoming you. “Again,” you cried quietly, gasping for air.

The door opened, your heart skipping a beat at the intrusion, your mind going straight to the thought of the police. Your eyes landed on Miss Evers instead, confusion settling on you once again. She’d gotten what she wanted, hadn’t she? Why was she here now, to prove something? You wished you had the strength to question her, to say anything, but everything felt heavier and heavier as more time passed.

“Tell me,” James barked at her just as she’d closed and locked the door, “what in all creation is happening? Speak right this instant, and quickly.”

“The police are here,” Miss Evers explained, James grip on you tightening as you leaned onto him for support. He glanced down at you, worry glinting in his eyes as you just barely managed to look up at him.

“Darling,” he whispered, “what is happening? Are you ill?” A moment of silence passed as you tried to respond, your mouth opening but no words becoming audible. A moment of silence passed, the only action being James assessing you. Your words couldn’t seem to form, a burning spreading through your entire body. It was unlike anything you’d ever felt. You began to wonder yourself if you were somehow ill.

“It was supposed to be me!”

The maid across the room suddenly shrieked, desperation clouding her judgement as she flung her arms up in the air. “I was the one for you!” She sobbed, stumbling slightly as an expression of hurt formed upon her face. “I always loved you, and these women--they never did! They used you, and I always cared!” James eyes widened, shock coming across his features. He stared at the woman, contemplating her words.

“But you never saw,” the woman said sadly, her head hanging in shame before her face went emotionless. “And so I did the only thing I could.” She looked at him, dead in the eye, a type of malice suddenly overcoming her. “You’d be surprised how easy it was.” Her eyes settled upon your frame, your head moving slowly to get a glance at her. You stared, blinking rapidly as your vision faded in and out. You could barely comprehend what she was saying, but you felt as James’ breath quickened. It was taking all of your willpower to stay awake--you needed to, for James.

“What?” he stated, his voice deeper than you’d ever heard it, a rage within his eyes even you had never seen before as he stared at her. He was tense, as hard as a rock, glaring daggers at the woman who had seemingly betrayed him.

“I--,” Miss Evers hesitated, obviously intimidated by his fury, but decided to continue. “I’ve found that you have a secret stash of cyanide in the bar.” She faltered once again, her eyes shifting away from James and to the floor. “I wanted us to be together, and she-” she pointed at you, “-she was always in it for the money! They all are, all but me!” She burst into tears, falling onto her knees in hysterics. Your eyebrows furrowed as you racked your brain to gather all of the information. She poisoned you at the bar. You remembered brief flashbacks of the one tiny sip you’d taken of your previously forgotten drink.

James seemed to be shaking as he gently moved you to sit in a chair by the wall, turning away from you for only a moment. Your eyelids began to flutter as sleep beckoned you, visions of James’ movement around the room the only thing to hold your focus. A loud pop suddenly reverberated off of the walls as it rang out, causing you to sit up slightly from your slouched posture, your eyelids flying open to search for the source. James stood over the body of his betrayer, smoking gun resting within his palm.

You felt so weak, your thoughts jumbled, unable to focus on only one. Only now you knew it wasn’t just an overreaction. You’d only taken a mere sip of the drink from the bar, but you supposed now that it had been enough for the poison to go into effect. You wondered briefly how she’d gotten the cyanide into the drink in the first place, and exactly how much she had put in for it to have such a potent effect on your body.

Your eyes traveled to her corpse, and to the fresh blood splattered across the wall from the headshot. You blinked, barely registering what had just occurred before you. You were too dazed to process the incident, even if you understood what had occurred subconsciously. Relief was the only thing you felt; relief for one less thing to worry about standing between you and James.

Eyes shifting slightly to the left, you stared at the browning roses, the sweet old lady’s warning once again echoing, a distant memory brought to the surface of your mind. James crouched in front of you, suddenly the only thing in line of sight, his lips moving but you couldn’t hear his voice over your own in your head. The roses were dead. You left them on the floor. You betrayed them for--

You sprung up once again as a loud banging at the door shocked you back into your senses. James glanced briefly at the door before turning back to you quickly. He pulled you out of the chair, holding you up and close to his chest as he stroked your hair tenderly.

“James,” you just barely whispered as he shushed you.

“I know, darling,” He said reassuringly, pulling back to look into your eyes. “It’s all going to be okay, dear. It’ll all be over before you know it.” He smiled charmingly as you nodded weakly, holding tightly onto the cloth of his shirt to maintain stability. And you believed him in that moment, as he always seemed to find a way.

One way, or another.

You rested your head on his chest, closing your eyes as the pounding on the door increased. Or maybe it was the pounding in your head; at this point you couldn’t decipher what was real and what was just a figment of your imagination. Cold metal pressed against the skin of your temple, your brain too bleary to question it. Mere seconds passed as you contemplated moving, but suddenly it was as if everything had settled away. James’ warm body faded from your grasp.

-🤍-

Your eyelids fluttered open, eyeballs moving back and forth as you tried to become familiar with your surroundings. You recognized the familiar room immediately, for it was your bedroom when you had first moved into the Cortez. You felt strange. Zen, almost, but maybe that was just because the pounding was gone. You felt... disconnected. It was the most out of touch with yourself you’d ever felt.

You climbed to your feet from the floor, thoughts running rampant at what was unknown to you. Where was James, how did you get here, how long had you been here, and why did you feel so cold? Flashes of what seemed to be both years ago and only moments ago clouded your mind, filling you with dread. Scenarios of what could be frightened you and sent you into a state of panic, pushing you forward.

Out of the room you went, through the quiet and empty halls, searching, searching, searching--no fixed destination ahead except something, anything, that could lead you to your James.

It seemed that days had passed before you finally found the lobby of the hotel. Navigation through the building was proving to be much more difficult than you remembered. Why was it taking so long?

The lobby was sparsely populated, unlike the usually crowded area that you were used to. You glanced around, noticing only a few people in the bar, the receptionist, and someone asleep on the sofas. Your feet carried you to the hotel entrance, pushing the first door open, the sunlight peeking through the opaque glass surprising you. If it was the daytime, then why was the hotel so empty? On ordinary occasions people came and went like flies; the Cortez was a hotspot in the city of Los Angeles, after all. Your hands reached out to push open the door to the outside, the metal handle of the door cool against your skin, and then suddenly nothing. In front of you was the door no longer; profound confusion coursing through you as you stared at the walls of your bedroom once again. You had been there one second, and in the next it was as if you had been teleported back in time.

And so the cycle repeated for what seemed like years; many times set adrift through the halls, eventually to the lobby where the sunlight no longer shone through the windows and unusually few people inhabited. You were reaching forward for the handle of the first door for what seemed to be the hundredth time, only to freeze at the call of your name from a familiar voice.

“Y/N.”

Your name sounded of honey dripping off his tongue. It was like hearing that voice for the first time again. All your worries deflated and anxieties subsided--for you had found your God once again. You turned to face him, to see his face--the face you had longed to see for what felt like years but may have been minutes. You still didn’t entirely understand the detachment from your body you felt; it was as if you no longer had a life source, no blood running course or lungs cycling air. You felt out of place and trapped at the same time.

Just as your hopes had soared, they plummeted at the sight of the bare lobby. Emptiness sat instead where you had expected James to be, crushing all sense of direction. You wanted to cry, to scream, to tear the hotel to shreds with your bare hands. But just before you gave up all hope completely, your eyes caught on the tiniest of details.

Barely noticeable, unless payed close attention to; unless already a prominent object in one’s mind. Small, dainty, white petals lay scattered in high correlation, leading on to an unknown but obviously specific destination. You treaded lightly as you followed the path closely, afraid any disturbance would somehow make them disappear.

Unease settled through you, possibly just a usual feeling as of late, but considerably appropriate when meeting the isolate hallways once again. You began questioning your sanity; was this just yet another repeat in the cycle? You’d been lost for so long, was this just another loop? What was the energy here, and why did it not feel like you and James’ beloved Cortez, the place you called home? You felt like you were stuck in a punishment of some kind; a purgatory; a hell.

And at last, you arrived; the room in which this cycle had began, or ended. The office of James Patrick March: Room sixty-four. You paused, contemplating, before making a bold decision and gripping the handle, opening the door and entering the room. There you stood in what was once James’ office, now empty of most furniture, only few items remaining. And there it remained: the vase on the table in the center of the room, petals leading straight to their source.

Inside sat the very white roses themselves, southern California glory and all. They looked just like the ones in that very first garden: huge, bright and beaming, petals spread with all the beauty and radiance of nature and purity. And just behind them stood their God; the master of the garden who held the utmost control in his realm. Your God, who’d saved you from hell; who’d broke all cycles.

The feeling you felt at sight of James did not fail to excite you just the same as it had on that first day years ago. Something about his presence next to yours soothed you, for you knew that he was still there, that he hadn’t been taken from you, that no matter what had happened you were still okay so long as he stood next to you.

You rushed forward and into him, basking in his embrace. His arms wrapped around you, but the challenge once again presented itself: an unignorably apparent absence of warmth. It’d been just before you’d first woken up what seemed like years, or maybe just hours ago, that you’d been in his embrace just the same, his warmth seeping into you and igniting your soul as you had faded in and out of consciousness. But now, you couldn’t feel it. You felt his body wrapped around yours, but nothing inflaming, the detachment from your own warmth just the same. It was missing, a shell of a comfort that used to always be present; something you had gotten entirely used to, for to be absent of warmth was to be dead...

You gasped, pulling away from James to look him in the eyes, the reality setting in and the drunkenness fading away. Your mind was becoming clear, all clarity suddenly bestowed upon you.

“James, are we...” you froze in panic, for it felt as if you didn’t have lungs, the normal rise and fall of the simplicity of breathing gone... the feelings of life were all gone...

And it clicked.

“James,” you whispered, your eyes tracing over the details of the room. The blood stains on the floor and walls were the only evidence of foul play left. You felt strange, for people didn’t normally expect to see the place of their death after the fact. Realizations settled over you as you stared at the room, just as you had initially when entering to warn James of the police, the truth of the events that had happened finally dawning upon you. In your poison-induced state of mind, it’d been hard to realize. You had been dying, the poison slowly but surely shutting your body down. You’d barely processed it when James had held the gun to your head and pulled the trigger, ending your pain.

“Yes, darling?” James replied to you, bringing you back to your conversation. You stared at him longingly. Although you didn’t entirely understand why you were still here, or the concept of the afterlife, you were glad to have James next to you. A moment of silence passed as you tried to pinpoint what you wanted to ask him exactly.

“I have so many questions,” you said, deciding to just speak your mind. You furrowed your eyebrows, blinking rapidly as you tried to sort out your thoughts. “I-I’m so lost, James.”

“Of course you are, dearest,” James said reassuringly, his hand brushing the stray hairs away from your face. He stared at you sadly. “I’m terribly sorry for all that happened, you must feel perplexed beyond understanding my dear.” He paused, his eyes traveling over your features as you stared up at him, listening intently. “This was simply my only choice, darling. You were succumbing to the poison’s grip long before I finished your pain. Miss Evers...” He trailed off, his jaw clenching tightly. “Nevermind that. I came to a conclusion upon the authorities’ arrival, and that was that if I was damned to be put away I might as well flee with you, my queen... it was the only right option.” He smiled down at you softly.

You smiled right back at him, your love for him the only warmth left inside of you now that you no longer had your body to call home. You basked in the feeling of being close to him as he pulled you to his chest, his lips leaving a soft kiss against your scalp. Even if you didn’t feel warmth, simply the love you had for him was enough. He tenderly stroked your back, calming your nerves. It amazed you how he could ease your mind so easily, if only just a little. However, you couldn’t shake your thoughts away. Sure, you could just let it all go, but the truth of the matter was simple.

Your entire life had been a cycle. A cycle of undeniable foolishness; you’d been ignorant of the truth for all of your living years. Oh, how it angered you. You hated something truly for what seemed like the first time in your life. You hated yourself; you’d let yourself believe false truths just to live in an illusion that you thought was happiness. You were naïve. And ultimately, that was what had ended you.

You’d ignored all warnings and left the roses to wilt, betraying the one thing that had always been on your side. You’d ignored all threats and committed yourself to making paradise in the land of the evil; it was simply impossible. The Garden of Eden wasn’t a place for the living. It was a place of freedom, and so long as you’re living, you can never truly be free. For in life, one threat always remains: death. You could never truly be protected. You could never truly have paradise.

But with James, in the Cortez, in the paradise he’d created for you... even death didn’t stand a chance. It was a gateway to greatness; a place where nothing truly stood in your way, where no threats were great enough. You couldn’t be harmed, or imprisoned, or separated here; you were finally utterly invincible; real Gods. Hell and Earth were no longer a threat. It was your true paradise that James had promised you.

Your Garden of Eden.

---------

Series Masterlist: The Garden of Eden Series

Main Masterlist

[queensofthekastle]

For the dialogue prompt -- how's about 42?? :]

HOLY SHIT OK IT TOOK ME A MONTH BUT I'VE DONE IT. FINALLY. Life was just happening everywhere, thanks for waiting me out. 🙏

TW: descriptions and references to racist police violence.

The prompt was "I'm only here to establish an alibi." I was totally stuck--what could be blamed on Frank that he wouldn't have actually done? Canonically to the comics (though I commend the show for not giving a flying fuck about whether Frank went after glorified DHS cops who were dirty) the only things Frank won't touch are bystanders, cops, and active duty military.

And then I had it. Because 2020 has been A Year and I'm still processing some shit. So, here we go.

-Stellar

************************************

The door rattles under a succinct knock at 2:45 am—just when Karen had been so close to falling asleep, caught in that limbo of vague consciousness and wandering thoughts just on the cusp of falling into dreams. So, it’s with more irritation than concern that she drags herself out of bed after the second round of door-bludgeoning. It being post-closing time on a Friday—well, Saturday now—she's fairly confident what she’ll find through the peephole will be a drunk neighbor with the wrong apartment. It wouldn’t be the first time, nor, probably, the last.

A cautious look through the peephole does not reveal one of her gregarious bar-hopping neighbors though, but a still figure; hood pulled close around his face to shadow shifting eyes that look black as ink in the low, shit light of the apartment hallway. Frank has a lovely mouth, but it’s set now in a tense line. Karen’s heart picks up speed, a fullness in her chest and a pressure in her veins—middle of the night, tense Frank is never a good sign. Though he doesn’t seem to be bleeding from anywhere, which is more than can be said for some of his other visits.

She undoes the door chain, and she’s quietly but earnestly asking “what’s going on?” before she even has the door open wide enough for him to see her face.

“Nothing.” He says, voice rough and low, but calm. “I just need someone to know it’s nothing.”

He looks askance, looks at her. She allows herself a sigh.

“What does that even mean, Frank?”

He shifts his weight and looks at her from under the shadow of his hood. 

“I’m only here to establish an alibi.”

“Because you didn’t do something, or because you did?”

“Didn’t,” he says, and she believes him. She always does. It’s one piece of why he’s so dear to her: Frank never lies to her, and she never lies to him.

“This should be interesting,” she says, and opens the door far enough for him to step through. When she’s closed it behind him she asks if he’d like a drink. He answers without looking her in the eye, mind working on something else far away from her little apartment—he asks for his usual, of course. Only Frank would suggest coffee this near to 3:00 am.

“Not sleeping tonight?” she asks. He shrugs one shoulder.

“Guess not.”

“Uh-huh. So you didn’t do anything, but you’re pulling an all-nighter in my apartment? I’m going to need an explanation here soon, Frank.”

He hovers beside the hutch that acts as her kitchen island without looking any more settled than he had out in the hall. His jaw works for a moment before he answers.

“I don’t know how much you want to know. Let's just say I ran into someone with a mission about like mine and I’m giving her space to work.”

“Oh. God. A Punisher copycat? Jesus, Frank. The law turns a blind eye to one of you, I doubt you’ll get away with two.”

“Nah,” he says, “nothing like that. I’m it. This is a one-time thing—lady's got some things to get out of her system. I only found out because she was after the same supply chain I was.”

“Supply chain?”

“Ammo,” he says flatly. Karen holds her next blink a little too hard and a little too long. But he is what he is—she accepts that again every time she opens her door to him—and she doesn’t comment except to ask:

“Who is this person after that you aren’t?”

“It’s probably better you don't ask. If someone comes sniffing after me about it you should be able to say you didn’t know anything.”

“So if one of your Homeland ‘friends' shows up to see if you’re testing their good graces what do I tell them, then? That you just showed up at three in the morning for a chat? No one is going to buy that.”

He shifts, not quite shrugging, looking off into space with the raised eyebrows of feigned innocence.

“Just say I saw your light on, came to say hi.”

“Right. And you were walking around Hell’s Kitchen to see my light on in the first place because . . .?”

“Couldn’t sleep. Hoping maybe if I tried my luck with a walk I’d find you up.”

Karen sighs, turning away to pour his coffee. She’s made it thick as hot asphalt for him, in part because she knows he likes that, in part because she’s so damn tired she’d lost track of how many grounds she was piling into the coffeemaker. Frank takes the mug she offers him with a low “thank you.” And sure enough, after a sip, he smiles.

“You always make my kind of coffee,” he says.

“It’s an easy recipe,” she says, leaning over the counter opposite him, “just make it so no sane person would drink it.”

He laughs, a very short, low sound that rumbles in his chest and rasps in his throat. 

“Dare I ask what you were actually in the neighborhood for?” She asks. “If insomnia is your alibi?”

“Probably shouldn't. Let’s just say I had a meeting.”

Karen quirks an eyebrow, conveying as much skepticism with the look as she can.

“Meeting as in you’re probably accessory to whatever it is this friend of yours is doing?”

“Something like that, yeah.”

Karen fixes him with her best piercing journalist stare. He drinks his coffee. They stalemate that way in silence for a minute or so before he meets her eyes and speaks.

“There are some things I don’t touch,” he says. “People doing their jobs, following shit orders and shit training and fucking up in the process—shit I’ve done, Afghanistan . . . I wouldn’t have a leg to stand on. Would be a hypocrite. It’s not my place. And I guess you could call it self-preservation, too. Doesn’t mean I don’t think about it, though.”

“Think about…?”

He takes a long drink, eyeing her over the top of the mug, making some calculation she can’t guess at.

“You know any Latin?” he says finally. “Quis custodiet ipsos custodes mean anything to you?”

It does, and for a moment, she’s sure her heart has stopped.

“Oh, no,” she says. “Who watches the watchmen. Tell me this is what I think it is.”

“I’m not telling you anything, don’t worry.”

“Frank,” she hisses. She doesn’t need his sarcasm right now. She thinks she knows what it could be that he won’t touch and still endorse: with Frank it’s always either war or justice, and every headline for the last month has been about the absence of justice on a battlefield where he could never hope to win. Cops in the city conveniently overlook Frank. He gets the ones they can’t, they have no vested interest in handing him over so long as he doesn’t mess with them. It’s an unspoken arrangement that lets Frank do what he does—and what he does lets him stand to live. Karen knows that. They’ve been over it enough. The police let Frank slip through their fingers and he doesn’t pick a fight in exchange.

But it’s been a long summer, and every day of it has been a fight with police for the thousands of protesters gathering over and over throughout the city. In early June a beat cop—White, of course—used a kind of handheld Taser repeatedly on an unarmed Black man “resisting arrest" for a crime he didn’t commit. Cell phone footage from witnesses made it online despite the NYPD's best efforts, and all anyone saw when watching it wasn’t a criminal resisting, but a victim on his knees, clutching his chest, begging please, please, I have a heart condition, I have a pacemaker, before the cop shocked him again. And again. Until he wasn’t on his knees but prone on the ground, gone still and silent.

The officer was reinstated after a paid leave six days ago. The DA declined to prosecute. 

And yesterday, the innocent man, having spent weeks in a coma induced by heart failure, was declared dead.

Frank looks Karen hard in the eye, an unflinching stare that says he knows she understands. She puts her face in her hands.

“There’s shitstorm coming, isn’t there?” she says.

“Probably.”

She shakes her head, drops it into her hands again. She can feel him watching her. A minute ticks by. Maybe two.

“Karen.”

She lifts her eyes just enough to meet his.

“You feel you gotta do something with this?” he asks. It neither a judgement nor a threat. She worries her lip for a moment before answering.

“This person you know of,” she says slowly, “they won’t implicate you?”

“No.”

“And do you know enough of their plan that you could stop them? Tip someone off?”

He takes a long drink, holding her with those deep inkdark eyes, and for the first time, he lies to her.

“No. Nothing.”

She knows it’s a lie. She knows he wants her to know. She could call him on it and he wouldn’t deny it. But she doesn’t. 

All she says is “then I guess there’s nothing we could do,” holding his eyes while she speaks, making sure he understands what’s happening here.

Frank nods. It’s enough.

Karen looks away, stares at her hands folded in front of her, tracing the patterns of veins under pale skin.

After a moment she asks, “would you like anything stronger?”

Frank looks at her with cool appraisal that says what he won’t out loud—that somehow, on some level, he helped with what’s to come. And he knows she’s letting him get away with it.

“No thanks,” he says. “But you go ahead.”

And she does. She falls asleep beside him on the couch, drunk with her head resting on his shoulder, sometime after 4:30, an economy bottle of wine that started full and is now half gone still out on the coffee table.

On Monday, Ellison will ask her to look into the story of a body found charred beyond recognition in an NYPD patrol car.

She’ll tell him there was nothing she could dig up, and never mention it again. 

[brasskier]

Inspired by a prompt from @gods-no-longer-tread-here​, wherein Jaskier is tripping balls, Geralt is a recovering addict, and they’re both idiots. 

Read it on my ao3 or below the cut:

Jaskier was tripping fucking balls. That was the point, he realized ironically somewhere in the murky crevices of his mind. The walls shuddered in careful tempo with his every stuttering breath, one of his friends mumbled about something languidly to his side, and if he stared long enough he was confident he might be able to count enough pixels to gauge the exact resolution with which he viewed the world. Colors melted into each other, into the music - Drake, maybe? He hadn't picked it - that floated somewhere in his periphery, into Jaskier himself. He was incredibly thirsty, so, so thirsty, and all he could remember were some cans of PBR and La Croix stocked haphazardly in the fridge that he wasn't sure he'd be able to tell apart anymore. He stumbled gracelessly, feet shuffling and knocking into each other.

"Jask?" His friend called to him - which one, he wasn't sure - and he froze, or at least tried to, pitching forward and catching on the doorframe. His friend faced him, and it was Essi. Or, it should've been Essi. Half of her face was gone, replaced by a black void accentuated only by an intangible flash of yellow where her eye should've been; the other half was skinned and charred, all blackened tendons and oozing blood. Jaskier stumbled back, tripped over the doorframe, sprawled his arms out in a clumsy, futile attempt to catch himself. 

"What the fuck," he panted, watching in horror as the black hole devoured the rest of her face until she was gone altogether. His breath heaved and caught in his throat while the walls continued to rattle with him. Time, already limping along sluggishly, seemed to screech to a halt completely. He ran a hand through his hair - it felt thick and wet like the black trash bags of spaghetti "intestines" they used to prepare in boyscouts for their annual haunted house. His heart bucked uncooperatively in his chest, and for a moment he thought he might just faint. Jaskier was tripping fucking balls. And this was not a good trip.

No matter, no matter. Just get something to drink. If it's the seltzer it'll hydrate you; if it's the beer maybe it'll ease the comedown. He dragged his legs until they're beneath him and, brain buzzing about airily in his skull, gave up on walking and resolved to crawl his way to the fridge. Except, he just couldn't fucking reach. He jutted a hand out, fingers outstretched and grasping, but it's just past his fingertips. And every time he thought he'd drawn closer it was still just shy of his reach. He wanted to cry, but while the tears burned away at the corners of his eyes they refused to escape.

He needed to get out of that dingy campus apartment - fuck, was it his? Essi's? Was Valdo with them? - or at least have someone talk some damn sense into him. He staggered back to the living room, called out the names of friends that might be with him blindly, too afraid of what he might see if he dared look. He could see in 1080p, the pixels, he'd counted them, though he thought he'd read otherwise, but who was he to argue with his own math. 

"Look at it," a voice commanded somewhere, and he could just scarcely determine it was real and tangible and not a hallucination. "Don't you see it?" He tried to mouth the word no, but no sound came out. What was he even supposed to be looking at?

"Wanna watch something?" Another voice sneered. 

"Mmm, that Netflix show? That fantasy one, witches or something?" Jaskier didn't want to watch TV, he wanted to breathe again. He slid back, head resting on what he aimlessly realized was the couch. He could call an ambulance, but his fingers felt too rubbery and boneless to pull his phone out of his pocket, let alone actually command it. Besides, he couldn't remember the number. It's fine. He just needs to close his eyes and focus on his breath and he'll be just fine.

Jaskier was not just fine. Jaskier was tripping fucking balls. He needed to get the fuck out of that apartment, out of his skin, out of his head. He's suffocating, drowning - wait, no. Shit. He's burning. His skin is bubbling and his lungs choke on thick black smoke and he's going to fucking die. He tears off his thrifted plaid flannel, claws at his sweaty gray tee but can't manage to get it over his head. Stripping wouldn't help him. He's on fire. He needed to leave. He needed to go to the hospital.

The hospital. It's a fucking college town. Oxenfurt's sprawling university hospital is looming and unmistakable. He'd been there before - the bike accident where he broke his arm, the bout of pneumonia where the doctor successfully convinced him to quit smoking (only lasted a few months, alas), the alcohol poisoning he dared not speak of. He could find it. Just had to escape. Left foot, right foot, that's it. He fumbles with the door handle, stumbles through and onto the sidewalk. It was dark out, but the street lamps were the sun, sulfurous yellow glimmering against fresh snow. The apartment behind him was ablaze, melting even; he could still feel it, and this renewed urgency propelled him forward. 

He ran, or at least his calves felt like he was running, but time marched so slowly he couldn't discern one pace or another. The sky was so dark, black even, gaping and never-ending, but the lights of apartments and buildings and street lamps were blinding. There was a 7-Eleven, and then he needed to make a left. Or maybe a right? He needed to turn, and then keep pushing, and then he'd be at the hospital and he'd be okay. He could get his burns treated and hope the scars didn't render his hands stiff and immobile - he was a jazz trombone major, after all, and he needed those hands.

The 7-Eleven was in view. It had been in view for hours. He wasn't sure if he was close or far or on another plane of existence from it altogether. But it was there. Which meant he had to turn. Right was a dead-end. It had to be left. He just had to cross the street. He looked left, and then right, and vomited into the snow from the dizziness of it all for a moment before trying again. Right. Coast is clear. Just move.

There's a flash of light and a squeal of rubber on pavement, and Jaskier watched his pitiful life flash before his eyes. When he opened them, he wasn't in the street but on his side in the snow, and it felt beautiful and cold and practically holy against his skin. Had he been hit? Had he never even stepped off the curb? How long had he been there?

"Hey!" A voice cried, and he fought against his twitching muscles to roll over and face it. "You alright?" It was a man, tall and broad and built like a mountain, with silver hair pulled into a messy bun and amber eyes and a worried scowl.

"Fire," Jaskier managed to mumble, curling tighter into himself. "Am I dead?" Recognition seemed to shine in the stranger's eyes.

"What did you take?" He drew closer, crouched next to him, and Jaskier recoiled frantically. He held his hands out, fingers tightly curled and nails digging into his palm, batted at the man blindly.

"Mmm, no!" He gasped, shoulders heaving with the effort. "Fuck off."

"Look, man," the stranger dropped his voice, low and hushed and gravely. "I know you're tweaking. I've been there. Just tell me what you took so I can fucking help you." He reached a hand out, calloused and worn and firm, and rested it on Jaskier's shoulder. Jaskier jerked - the burns, he couldn't touch them, they'd get infected, it would hurt, he can't - fuck, wait. There are no burns. The stranger kept his grip on his shoulder, and he could just faintly make out the slightest hint of track marks peeking out from the cuff of the man's sleeve.

"Acid," he muttered finally, following it with a long, shaky exhale. There are no burns. His mind reeled over the memory of the tab, bright green and printed with the smiling face of Bernie Sanders before melting away on his tongue.

"What are you doing out here?" The gruff voice commandeered his attention. 

"Hospital. Apartment was on fire." The snow ebbed and flowed beneath him, altogether more like a boat on the ocean than a snowbank in the middle of Oxenfurt University.

"Right. I'll take you there." The man wasted no time waiting for a response from Jaskier, simply snaked his arms around him and yanked him up. Jaskier struggled against his grip as he carried him to his awaiting car, overcome by the scent of cedarwood from the man's deodorant. "Chill out." The movement stopped finally, and Jaskier felt altogether too hot and freezing cold all at once.

"Feel sick," he managed to grit out past a clenched jaw. The man managed to ease him back to the ground in time for him to heave unproductively for a few more moments. 

"Name's Geralt, by the way," the voice rumbled, vibrating in Jaskier's chest as he was once again hoisted up and then deposited into the back seat of an unfamiliar car.

"Jaskier." Focusing on what the man - Geralt - was saying was too much effort. He let his head loll to the side, idly watching the lights streak past his window in a burst of fluorescent color before disappearing into the dark.

Geralt knew a tweaker when he saw one. While he'd never touched the shit in his nearly two years of addiction, he knew plenty of meth-heads adjacently. So when he spotted a young man trembling on the side of the road, brown hair and Oxenfurt t-shirt clinging to his skin with sweat even in the cold late-November night, he could guess what was going on. He didn't want to stop, he really didn't. He was four months clean, just coming off a late night security gig, and those people were bad news. He knows; he was one of them. But the kid - and he really did look like just a kid, probably not even 21 yet - didn't look ravenous and mad. He looked scared and sick and alone. So Geralt stopped.

The kid's pupils were blown to hell and back, confirming his suspicions when he got close enough to really get a good look. His cheeks were flushed a stark pink against pale skin and red-rimmed and dark-circled eyes. The kid was combative, but not as much as he would've expected, and he could feel him relax when his eyes ghosted over the track marks on his forearm. If the kid wanted to view them as kindred spirits, as cut from the same cloth, so be it if it calmed him down.

Acid. Huh. So he was a little off base. Leave it to the ex-junkie to leap to conclusions. But acid, meth, molly, it didn't matter. Either way, the kid was shaking like a leaf and strung out of his mind and Geralt reverted back autopilot from years of crashing on bathroom floors and dirty backyards. 

Jaskier hadn't realized he'd fallen asleep until he woke to find himself being jostled, carried, and blinded by bright, buzzing fluorescent lights. He struggled for a moment until the arms carrying him tightened their grip and a disembodied voice hummed his name, and memory came flooding back. The acid, the trip, the fire, the stranger. Geralt.

"Geralt?" He mumbled sleepily into the man's chest. "Where?" He gave up trying to manage the full sentence, chose instead to hope he was understood nonetheless.

"ER. You're safe." Jaskier did not feel particularly safe, but he was too exhausted to do much about that, so he just let himself remain limp and pliant in Geralt's arms. Geralt and other out-of-sight strangers talked around him, but he couldn't follow the conversation, couldn't track them as he was moved about. Before long he was deposited into a bed, heard the scrape of metal and rustle of fabric as the curtain was tugged closed, and finally blinked his eyes open at the introduction of a doctor hovering over him.

"I'm Dr Chireadan." A mouthful of a name Jaskier realized he was far too tongue-tied to pronounce. "Can you tell me your name?"

"Jaskier." He scrubbed a hand across his eyes, choosing to ignore the mottled bruises and scrapes where his fingernails had dug into his palms. "Jaskier Pankratz." 

"Alright, and can you tell me what's going on?" Could he? Just the thought of recounting the events that led him to that moment sent panic drumming in his chest.

"Did some acid with friends," he explained shakily. "Thought the… thought the apartment was on fire, thought I was burning." The doctor nodded and hummed in acknowledgement. Geralt longued in a chair pushed against the wall, phone in his hand but not looking at it.

"How are you feeling now?"

"Now? Like I got hit by a campus bus," he quipped, enjoying the raised eyebrow it elicited from his new companion. 

"Well, that's not terribly surprising. Your temperature is a little elevated, but your heart rate is coming down nicely, so we're just fighting dehydration at this point." Jaskier bobbed his head as if he was really particularly processing his statement. "A nurse is going to swing by, take some blood so we can make sure nothing else was mixed in there, and then get you on some IV saline. That'll have you feeling much better." 

"Sounds good." Jaskier was sleepy, unsure of what time it was at this point, and still distinctly disoriented. The doctor moved back towards the curtain, swung it open but stopped with one foot still in the room.

"One of our social workers will be down to talk to you," he added. "Psych evaluation. It's mandatory." Then he turned his gaze to Geralt, gave him a nod of acknowledgement, and with that he was gone. Jaskier wasted no time before flopping to his side, curling up, and falling asleep.

He was roused again by a nurse gently tugging his arm free from where he had it wrapped tight around his middle. She was chatting idly with Geralt, and there seemed to be some level of familiarity between the two.

"There you are, honey," the nurse remarked, fiddling with syringes and vials and whatever else was laid out on the little steel tray. "Deep breath for me?" He obliged. "Alright, and a quick pinch." The needle disappeared into the soft skin on the inside of the crook of his arm, and he watched the blood flow out of his body in a trance. "How are you feeling? Stomach bothering you?" She nodded at the hand still clutching at his abdomen.

"A little," he admitted, diverting his gaze, counting ceiling tiles. "Just tired." 

"All done," she announced as she withdrew the last vial, hooking up the tubes that dangled from the floppy bag of clear liquid he could reasonably reckon was the saline. He returned to the fetal position, tucked his chin to his sternum. "Here. In case you need to be sick." He cracked an eye open, took note of cardboard basin now resting on the bed beside him, and offered little by way of acknowledgement.

"Thanks." Someone tugged the blanket up to cover him, and he didn't terribly care whether it was Geralt or the nurse. The pair, seemingly under the impression that Jaskier was asleep, resumed their conversation. 

"What are you doing, Geralt? You're supposed to be staying out of trouble."

"Trouble found me." Jaskier suddenly felt impressively guilty. What a fuck-up he was, dragging a total stranger into his stupid mistakes. "I couldn't just leave him there. You understand."

"You have to be careful," the nurse scolded him. Jaskier felt like a lame dog, the kind that most drive past, until eventually someone bothered to sweep him up, drop him at the vet's, and then go on with their life. Should've just put me down, the darker recess of his mind supplied, and he pushed away the thought as quickly as it had cropped up. "You can't jeopardize your recovery."

"I'm not," Geralt argued back. She tutted, and Jaskier could hear the sweep of the curtain again. He drifted back to sleep.

The hospital was on fire. He could taste the smoke and tears and copper tang of fear. He bolted upright in his bed, but - for fuck's sake - he was restrained. They thought he was crazy, bound his wrists and ankles in leather shackles. He jerked and pulled, thrashed about in the bed, kicked and screamed. Anything. He had to escape. He couldn't do this again. He had to get free. He had to--

"Jaskier!" That voice. He fought to find it, locked eyes with Geralt, and clawed his way back into reality. The hospital was not on fire. He was not restrained. Angry red scratch marks streaked up his wrists. "Breathe with me." Jaskier exhaled in a rush of stale air, a breath he hadn't even realized he'd been holding, and rooted around blindly until he found Geralt's hands and clasped on. "Good. In four, out four." In four, out four. He could do that, it was no more than the breathing exercises he used to practice every day back when he marched drum corps. 

"Sorry," he choked once his breath had finally settled. He did not let go of Geralt's hands. "Nightmare."

"I know. Just take it easy." Finally, Geralt managed to worm his hands free of Jaskier's white-knuckle grasp, settled back into his dutiful bedside vigil while Jaskier dropped back to sleep.

The hours (were they hours? Time was still weird) passed in a dizzying barrage of dreams and nightmares punctuated by occasional bursts of lucidity. He overheard the nurses, the doctors - it sounded like Geralt was popular amongst the hospital staff. There was a phone call, an even deeper voice presumably belonging to Geralt's father on the other line, reminding him that he was supposed to stop messing with Jaskier's "kind".

The psychiatric evaluation was the worst of it, however brief if might've been. For whatever godforsaken reason he demanded Geralt stay, then limped through an explanation of his exhausted psyche in front of the virtual stranger. The very nice, very attractive stranger. (Shut the fuck up, Jask. Keep it together.) Yes, he had borderline. Yes, here's the self-inflicted cigarette burns welted into the flesh of his upper arm. Yes, he drank, but he was 22 (Geralt made a surprised noise at this revelation) and well within his right to. Yes, he dabbled with drugs, but why not when you're too numb most of the time to fret about the consequences? 

Eventually, finally, he was discharged. He still felt foggy and altogether not great, and he'd have to remember to email his professors and let them know he was taking a sick day before he went back to bed. It was morning light when Geralt helped him back to his car, a beat-up old Corolla probably as old as Jaskier himself. When they finally made it to Jaskier's apartment, Geralt fished around for a pen and scribbled his number onto the little Narcotics Anonymous meeting card the social worker had slipped him. Jaskier uttered his thanks, smiled fondly, and disappeared.

It was two weeks later when he found himself in a meeting, awkward and lingering in the back of the room, clad in his Conservatory of Music hoodie and black skinnies, cast in orange by the low light. Eventually someone managed to talk him into speaking, and though he young and naive and stupid he agreed. His mom always said he had a way with words, after all.

"I'm not addicted to acid," he began tentatively. "Or any other one drug, for that matter. I'm addicted to escaping. Even a bad trip is better than facing reality." He raked an unsteady hand back through his hair. "It doesn't matter the drug, I'll take it. Since I started smoking at fourteen, self-medicating a disorder I wouldn't even be diagnosed with until eighteen." He scanned the crowd of attendees, understood wordlessly he was in the company of addicts who probably had it far worse than he could ever know, who probably found his struggles trivial and petty. And yet, there was nothing but quiet understanding and empathy on their faces. "But now I can't get through a weekend sober. Can't write for my composition classes without getting high first." His gaze settled on Geralt, tucked in the corner, eyebrows knitted in sympathy. "So I'm not really too sure how I'm supposed to get clean when the problem isn't some drug, but my personality, who I am." He sucked in a deep breath, flashed the slightest smile at Geralt. "But I have to do something." 

He left as soon as he'd finished speaking, still reeling from the vulnerability of it, denim trucker tugged tight against the winter chill. A hand caught his wrist, and god, could he recognize those rough fingers anywhere.

"Jaskier." It was Geralt, just a step or two behind him. "Do you want to get coffee?" Jaskier's shoulders relaxed; at least he hadn't offered to get drinks.

"Yeah. I'd like that." He busied himself with fixing his jacket and hair, falling into step beside Geralt. He couldn't help but smile. So much for staying out of trouble.

[silver-wield]

If you don't yet have an analysis of when Cloud saves Tifa from the collapsing staircase, I'd like to hear it!

Sorry this one took awhile, Nonny, I was gonna do it yesterday, but I got super tired and then I was gonna do it earlier but I got pissed off and had to walk away from the internet before I threw my computer through a window.

So, the collapsing staircase aka the cloti hand grab. Bring it!

Ok, spoiler warning for ppl who haven’t played – do I still need to do this? Eh ok, (I tag FF7R spoilers as final fantasy 7 remake spoilers) and it’s gonna be long and awesome! Because I saw things and I have suspicions!

Also, this is one person’s interpretation of the scene, so if you disagree that’s cool and we’ll agree to disagree.

You’re also gonna have to excuse the janky quality on some of the screens, I’m grabbing them from Youtube and it’s frustrating af trying to get the exact moment I want.

Please check my master post to see if I've already covered your question, thanx

Let's mosey!

Recap time!

Let's backtrack a tiny bit first. Cloud's making his way up the pillar, had his bro moment with Biggs – damn you Square – and he's heading up to where Barret is on the top level.

Reno and Rude are in their chopper, throwing shade at Shinra while doing their jobs. I love how idgaf Reno is during this bit. Like, honey, you not even trying.

As Cloud comes into view on the staircase, Reno spots him and it's time for revenge! Nothing personal, bitch!

Ok, nothing very special here. SOLDIER!Cloud taking a look about for whatever resources he has to hand – none – and we've got Reno in the background waiting for him to get in range. (Yall also almost ended up with my gif of Nyx Ulric loool he pretty but Cloud’s prettier)

Reno's impatient. He fusses with the joy stick, drums his fingers, then puts his arms behind his head. The fact he's done this last move suggests he has no doubt he'll be gunning Cloud down sooner or later. We can see Rude keeping his eyes front – you can just catch the direction of his gaze behind the left lens of his sunglasses.

HOLY SHIT! Rude blinked! Like several times in quick succession! (gotta slow the frames down to 0.25 to catch it btw) Now, this could be nothing since Rude is very hard to read and has even smaller micro-expressions than Cloud does, but when someone blinks like that it usually means they recognise the person they're looking at. He's seen Tifa running up the stairs. I don't know why he might recognise her, aside from having a headcanon about it, but I'm telling you, I saw him do several rapid blinks when he caught sight of her, then draw Reno's attention to her. His eyes behind those sunglasses are ever so slightly wider than usual btw. It's really hard to see, but there seems to be a definite look of “I know you” about him.

Reno shooting at her might have been a mistake on Rude’s part. He could have forgotten himself in that moment of recognition and didn't mean to direct Reno to a new target. That would explain why he pulled away from the attack and made up an excuse about his hand slipping.

This makes me excited to find out if Rude knows her and what the deal is with that OG crush. My headcanon? He's a former student of Zangan too and helped get Tifa to Midgar when she was injured. She doesn't remember it since she was at death's door for most of the trip. I saw a bit saying Zangan had to use a lot of healing materia on her and she stayed in the hospital too, so it's reasonable she wouldn't recall Rude. But, we don't know for sure yet, which is why headcanon.

Still exciting though!

Cloud's heard footsteps on the stairwell, so turns to see who it is and you can just catch a glimpse of Tifa appearing through the metal slats. This is the first time Cloud spots her. The camera then pans up to the helicopter again where Reno prepares to shoot Tifa.

I don't wanna say for sure that Rude's jaw clenched here. The lighting is suspect because of the angle it strikes his face. He did something. I noticed something, but it's so utterly subtle I can't tell what. He either clenched his jaw for a brief second or his lips firmed, again for a brief second. It's probably easier to catch if you slow the frames down then don't look at Rude and rely on your peripheral vision to see it. That's how I end up replaying things a million times because I saw something and then have to spend half an hour trying to find it again lol

Reno definitely smirked, I caught that no problem.

So yeah, moving on from Rude's super micro-expressions, before Reno's even finished speaking he's pulling the helicopter away from Tifa. Like, Reno's still saying “bullets” when it happens. That's a very snap decision, especially with how fast Reno talks usually. And the entire time Reno's speaking Rude is looking at Tifa. I mean, he's expressionless – he could give Cloud lessons – but there's also emotion coming from him. I kinda feel a bit sad looking at him in this screen.  

Guess we'll get more Rude backstory in part 2!

Reno bangs his head and I always laugh at that part. Get rekt!

Cloud's all da fuq? since it's so very obvious Reno was lined up to shoot and then suddenly not. But there's no time to think about why because Tifa's still running up the stairs.

Omg I'm so good I even impress myself sometimes! Check either side of the screen. Tifa at one edge and Cloud at the other, already in motion to save her as the first bullets from Reno's miss start destroying the staircase. You could not get closer to the start of this catch!

Tifa's foot is on the second step here. That's not even a second after the last screen. Her sub isn't even fully solid that's how soon she yelled for Cloud. Going by common sense, the staircase is collapsing to her right and she needs to get up another 12 steps? In a couple of seconds? Yeah, she knew that wasn't happening. She needed him. I question how she knew he was there. She couldn't see him from where she was. Maybe she guessed the chopper was shooting at him, but it could've been anyone from Avalanche. She's not looking up the stairs, her eyes are at her feet.

I think she yelled for Cloud because that's who she wanted. Like Aerith said to follow her heart, Tifa's heart cried out for Cloud when she was in danger.

Well, if that isn't a look of surprise right there. She really didn't expect him to be right there at that moment. She was screaming for him, hoping he'd save her and there he was. Her face goes from this tense “I'm about to die” look, to this wide eyed shock that there he is, right in front of her, reaching for her. Right when she needed him most. If he wasn't there she'd have been shot and the last thing she said would've been his name. That's how important it is that she screamed for him there. It wasn't that she knew he was waiting for her. She didn't know he was there at all. She just wanted him to be the one to save her so desperately and he came through.

So I bet a lot of people have looked at this so romantically that he's reaching for her. Hell yeah in a way, but what makes it even better is when you remember you're looking at Cloud through Tifa's eyes. This is how she sees Cloud looking at her in this moment, all heroic and brave and just right there for her. That confident stance, totally out from behind any kind of cover, just waiting and reaching for her. It's funny she never calls him a hero in the game, except as a motivator at the end when he's dangling off a building, because he absolutely is pulling off the hero moment here. She called his name and he appeared to save her. It's exactly how she said during their promise.

He is taking her hand. That's his fingers wrapping around hers, while hers lay open against his palm. She is the passive party in this hold, while Cloud is the active one. She could've mutually grabbed him, but she didn't. This is him saving her. This is not an equal grab. This is Cloud grabbing Tifa. Only after his fingers close over her hand do hers do the same back.

Cloud backs up, dragging Tifa up the last of the stairs to safety, while keeping himself safe as well. There, he spins her around and puts his free hand on her back, while keeping hold of her other hand in his. He doesn't let her go at all during that move. In fact, you can also see that Tifa now has both hands on Cloud. The one he took is still holding his and she's put her other hand on his arm. She was likely very scared during that moment he saved her and she's holding onto him as an anchor to feel safe. Cloud saved her and she feels safe with him.

Cloud's expression is wary and alert, since he's focused on the danger, while Tifa's is scared. Just because she can fight, doesn't make her a fighter.

Cloud lets got of Tifa's hand so he can lean out from behind their safe spot and check on the danger, but he's left his other hand on her back. During this moment, Tifa actually leans back which would increase that contact.

Her face is quite blurred since we're focusing on Cloud in the foreground, but her expression seems to hint at a “thank god I have you” look.

Oh look, the camera refocused. Definitely a “thank god I have you” look, not to mention the tears in her eyes. She was terrified.

Also, that hand is still on her back.

But, she can't be weak in front of Cloud. She wants to prove she's his equal, that she doesn't need a hero. She just wants him. I mean, before he turns to look at her, she's staring at him like he set the stars in the sky for her.

As he takes his hand off her back and pulls out his “what the hell?” line, which is clearly him mad at her for being so reckless and almost dying on him, she gives him a brave smile and puts on her own persona as someone who can totally handle all this chaos. Scared? Tifa? Noooo.

She says “nice catch” all casual like she wasn't petrified and screaming his name less than thirty seconds ago and he is not impressed by this one bit. He's unconvinced Tifa's as blasé about this as she's acting, which is why he continues to challenge her. Which isn’t the first time he’s done it. He doesn’t let her bullshit him.

Basically, she's trying to be brave and support him, but he doesn't want her to put herself in danger because he wants to protect her. They're both trying to prove they're worthy of each other and doing stupid shit in the process.

This is actually a very good moment for them because we know Cloud pretty much does whatever Tifa wants because he wants to make her happy, but this shows he's not above arguing with her or challenging her when she's being reckless and endangering herself. He's not got her on a pedestal. She's not some unobtainable dream woman. She's real to him and he feels comfortable getting mad and showing negative emotions to her. That's why he can call her crazy without worrying it'll sour her opinion of him.

Remember, Tifa is non-confrontational by nature. She doesn't like fighting and will usually agree or let things go for the sake of an easy life. But, she disagrees with Cloud or tells him off several times throughout the game. This shows she's comfortable having confrontations with him. She's not worried about upsetting him and being rejected during a typical interaction. She worries about scaring him away when she’s unsure he’ll stay, but once he’s said he’ll stick around she relaxes and doesn’t seem as worried about him leaving her. It was only when she tried to move their relationship from friendship to more during alone at last that she worried about rejection. 

Tifa accepts Cloud's feelings, even the negative ones and deals with them in a mature way. She doesn't dismiss him or ignore how he feels. She just relates her feelings to his and points out that he's still going up the pillar, so she will too. She wants to stay by his side. Her heart led her to him. If he's going, then so is she. Her expression is earnest here. There's nothing more than what she says. She's not leaving. Nothing can change her mind.

OK WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK, RUDE?! DO YOU KNOW TIFA?!

He swallowed! His mouth tensed and he swallowed! Lips pulled down. Behind those sunglasses I caught movement. There's definitely something going on with Rude here and it's something that Reno doesn't know about since he doesn't recognise Tifa and he has no idea why Rude did that.

Ok, one last quick shot of yet more unnecessary touching between Cloud and Tifa. Why is he doing that? Literally to keep her within arm's reach. She said she's not leaving, so he's gonna keep her safe no matter what. To do that, he needs to know exactly how far away from him she is. Also, he wants to touch her lol

Conclusion

Well, there was lots of good stuff hidden in there and I'm even more convinced that Rude knows Tifa after I caught some of his micro-expressions. I'm excited to see if it's true in part 2, but more so the fact that we're gonna get the Turks characters' fleshed out compared to OG. We've already learned that Reno while not giving a fuck, also actually really gives a fuck. I love him. He's such a snarky butt.

But, this was about Cloud and Tifa, not Rude.

Yeah, she literally couldn't see him at any point when she was running up that staircase. She screamed his name because that's who she wanted in that moment to appear and save her. The surprise on her face is genuine. She didn't know he was there. Cloud's in full “I must save Tifa” mode, so it's real!Cloud motivating SOLDIER!Cloud to do what he doesn't think he's capable of. They then have a lover's spat about Tifa being reckless and show the healthy disagreement side to their relationship by not screaming and shouting at each other or being sarcastic – like Cloud is with someone else. While Cloud might not like Tifa going with, he understands her need to. She's also put it in terms that he can understand, but part of him is very unhappy about it, which is why in that last shot we see him with his hand on her arm ready to protect her at a moment's notice. He's not letting her out of sight or arm's reach.

It's some damn good solid relationship building from them during a tense moment.

[hookedonapirate]

Happy Birthday @nikkiemms​!!!

I saw it was your birthday today and wanted to write a little something for you. You are always one of the first people to comment/like/reblog my stories and I wanted to thank you and let you know how much I appreciate you! I hope you are having a wonderful birthday and are able to do something fun today. Lots of love! 🎉🧁❤

This one-shot was inspired by a children's birthday party I went to a few weeks ago when a man dressed in uniform caused a freak-out among all the adults. Thank you @onceuponaprincessworld​ for encouraging me to write it when I wasn't sure what to write, and for looking it over!

Hope you enjoy @nikkiemms​!

You Can Put Out My Fire Anytime

Rated: Teens and up

Also available on: AO3 I FF.N

Emma wanted her son’s seventh birthday party to be perfect. Which is exactly why she’d asked her sister-in-law to help her out. Mary Margaret is great with kids; she’s an elementary school teacher, so she has to be great with kids for the sake of her sanity. And If the peals of laughter from the kids are any indication, they'd pulled it off. 

  Now they can sit back in their lawn chairs on the back porch, sipping punch, chatting with the other moms and relaxing for a minute as the little ones make use of the jungle gym, and David and Robin grill up some hot dogs and hamburgers. The other food has already been prepared and set on the table, protected in food storage containers with lids, except for Henry’s birthday cake, which is in the house for later.

  “I’m surprised Lily and Liam aren’t here. Didn’t you invite them?” Mary Margaret asks Emma.

  Emma scans the children playing on the jungle gym, squinting her eyes. “You’re right. They’re not here. I’m pretty sure they were on the list.”

  Mary Margaret laughs. “If Henry had anything to do with the invitations, Lily was definitely on the list.”

  Emma arches a brow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Mary Margaret shakes her head, waving off Emma’s question. “Oh nothing, forget I said anything.”

  Emma crosses her arms over her chest, eyes shooting daggers at her sister-in-law. “What aren’t you telling me?”

  Mary Margaret sighs in defeat and puts up her hands. “Okay, I could be wrong, but I think Henry has a little crush on Lily. You did not hear that from me. I made a pinky swear not to tell anyone.”

  Emma furrows her brows. “If you made a pinky swear then he must have told you.”

  Mary Margaret makes a motion with her fingers to zip her lips. “Sorry, I can’t say anymore.”

  “So Henry likes a girl? But he’s only seven.”

  “Oh please, you’re never too young to have a crush. How old were you when you started chasing boys?”

  “I never chased boys,” Emma says defensively. 

  Mary Margaret eyes her skittishly. “Sure, Emma, sure,” she smiles knowingly. 

  “Okay maybe one or two,” Emma admits with a coy smile and a sigh. 

  Thankfully, her sister-in-law drops the subject and heads inside the house to use the bathroom.

  “Liam! Lily!” Henry shouts and races across the yard as two other kids, a boy and a girl, run to meet him. The boy is carrying a gift bag that’s almost as big as he is and Henry takes it, dropping it off at the gift table before the three of them run off toward the jungle gym.

  “I guess their parents were too busy to join us?” Emma remarks to no one in particular.

  “Parent,” Regina corrects. “Their mother left when they were young. So now it’s just them and their father.”

  “Really?” Emma asks, her heart cracking for the two kids as she watches them play with Henry and the others. 

  Lily is a beautiful young girl with long, shimmering black hair and blue eyes, and Liam shares similar physical traits. In fact, they even look similar in age. “They look the same age. Are they twins?”

  “Yes, they are.”

  “Um… are we missing anyone?” Ashley asks, her voice edged with panic as she points at each child, counting them under her breath.

  Fear rises in Emma’s chest as she shoots up from her chair and scans the children, making sure everyone is there who’s supposed to be there. But no one appears to be missing. “Why do you say that?”

  “Oh, perhaps because of the policeman who just entered the backyard, carrying a children’s baseball cap,” Regina answers.

  Her statement sends the mothers into a fit of panic, all of them darting their eyes in search of the aforementioned cop.

  Emma takes one look at him as David and Robin head over to chat with him. Even the fathers are freaked out about having a cop in the backyard.

  Emma's heart stutters when she sees him.

  He’s wearing a badge and a uniform, but this is no ordinary cop. This man is freaking gorgeous. He’s tall and muscular with dark hair, his skin is moistened with sweat and bronzed from the sun. He’s so perfect he looks straight from a magazine. Do they have porn featuring men in uniforms because if not they really should. This man looks way too good to be real. 

  Emma’s been to jail before, taking the fall for her ex's crime, and she's never wished to go back, but right now she's wishing this man would take her away in handcuffs.

  When the policeman is laughing with the fathers and Emma realizes there is no present danger or missing kid, she is curious why he is here and wonders what her sister-in-law is up to. As soon as Mary Margaret returns to the porch, Emma narrows her eyes suspiciously. “Did you hire a stripper for a children’s party?”

  Mary Margaret wrinkles her brows in confusion. “Of course not. Why would you think that?”

  Emma nods her head toward the gorgeous policeman. “What does he look like to you?”

  “Who?” Mary Margaret looks over Emma’s shoulder, her eyes lighting up with recognition. “Oh, you mean the firefighter? That’s Liam and Lily’s father.” She shoots up her hand and waves as she heads down the porch steps. “Hello, Killian!”

  “That’s Lily and Liam’s father?” Emma repeats to herself, staring at him with her mouth agape. 

  "You forgot your lucky hat," Killian calls to his son, holding up the baseball cap. 

  Holy Hell. He has an accent too? 

  Liam rushes over for the hat and a hug from his father, and Killian ruffles Liam’s hair before the small boy rushes away, putting the hat on his head. Lily runs over to say goodbye to her father, and after he scoops her up in his arms and plants a kiss on the crown of her head, she gives him a kiss on the cheek. Emma’s heart melts as she watches him interact with his daughter. “Have fun, princess,” he says sweetly and watches her run off to play with her friends. 

  “He can put out my fire with his big hose anytime,” one lady snickers, apparently reading Emma’s thoughts. 

  When Killian turns around, his eyes find Emma’s from across the lawn. And she can't breathe or even move her head to look away. Nor does she want to. 

  “Emma, come here,” Mary Margaret waves her over, and Emma reluctantly complies.

  She thought he looked good from afar, but boy, he looks so much better up close. His smoldering blue eyes and heartwarming smile as he regards her with intrigue take her breath away. 

  Now that she's much closer, she can see that the badge he wears is of a fireman emblem. 

  “Killian, this is Henry’s mother, Emma,” Mary Margaret introduces them.

  Just as he slips his hand in hers, she starts to shake it before realizing he has another idea in mind. 

  “Hello, love, it’s a pleasure to finally meet you,” he says in a deep, husky voice as he lifts her hand to his luscious looking lips and kisses the back of her hand, his eyes still locked with her bewildered ones. 

  Oh, the pleasure is all mine, Emma is tempted to say, but bites her tongue to stop herself. Besides, she doesn’t know if she could speak, even if she had something appropriate to say, because her mouth goes completely dry. She tries to say something, anything, but nothing comes out. Apparently she forgot how to speak.

  This gorgeous firefighter is kissing her. Okay, he’s only kissing her hand but, holy hell Emma’s never been so turned on in her entire life, let alone from an innocent hand kiss. Then again, an innocent hand kiss has never seared her skin.

  “It’s nice to meet you too,” Emma rasps, somehow finding the words on her tongue.

  “Emma thought I hired you as a stripper,” Mary Margaret chortles, breaking their trance.

  Oh, God.  

  Emma peels her eyes away from the ridiculously handsome fireman to glare at her sister-in-law. Really, Mary Margaret?!

  Killian’s eyes are glinting with amusement as he finally removes his damn, surprisingly soft lips from her skin, a big grin spreading across his face. “Is that so?” 

  She hasn’t failed to notice he’s still holding her hand. Not that she’s complaining. His hand is so warm and strong and she’s dreaming up all the things he could do to her with that hand. With both hands.

  “Yes. Can you believe she thought I would hire a stripper at a children’s party?” she asks her husband.

  David shrugs. “You are best friends with Ruby.”

  That earns him a playful swat on the arm.

  “It was a joke,” Emma states defensively and offers Killian an apologetic smile, bashfully moving her eyes away. “Sorry.”

  He finally releases her hand to wave off her words, and she shivers from the loss, even under the blazing heat of the sun. “Please, don’t be. I’ve been called worse.” He leans in until he’s so close she can feel his breath on her skin as he murmurs in her ear. “Though if you wanted a lap dance, all you had to do was ask.”

  Emma’s breath hitches, her cheeks flushed with red. She doesn’t even know how to respond to that. “I’ll um... I’ll keep that in mind.”

  She looks over at Henry, trying to ignore how fast her heart is beating. When she sees Lily chasing him around the yard, both of them giggling cheerfully, she laughs. 

  Killian turns around to see what Emma’s laughing at. “Looks like my daughter has a crush,” he chuckles.

  “I think it’s mutual… well according to Mary Margaret.” Lily’s not the only person in this backyard with a crush. Definitely not. She turns to face Killian again. “I’m sorry again for the stripper joke.”

  He scratches behind his ear, his cheeks tinged with blush. “Like I said. I’ve been called worse. But if you feel the need to make it up to me, I wouldn’t argue,” he says, a slight smile tugging at his lips. 

  Emma crosses her arms over her chest and arches a brow, “And what would you suggest?”

  “You could go out to dinner with me?”

  Emma studies him for a moment, considering his proposition. It’s not like she’s opposed to having dinner with him, but she has other ideas in mind as to how she could make it up to him. Ones that involve a bedroom and maybe that lap dance he spoke of. She quickly shakes her thoughts away. “I suppose asking you to stay and offering you a hamburger and hotdog doesn’t count as dinner, does it?”

  He smiles. “It’s a start.”

  She sighs dramatically and shrugs. “And here I was hoping you’d say no. Oh, well.” She walks away from him and goes to the grill where David and Robin are plating the meat. 

  After helping her son get a plate of food, she gets a hamburger for herself and goes to the food table for a bun and condiments. She scoops some pasta salad and chips on her plate before joining the adults at the picnic table while Henry sits with the other children at the kiddy table. When Killian sits next to her, she's surprised he hasn’t brought a plate of food with him. He’d only helped his daughter fill her plate.

  “Not hungry?” Emma asks suspiciously.

  He leans in and murmurs, “I changed my mind. I’d rather take you out to dinner.”

  Damn her cheeks for warming with blush again as she gives into a slight smile. She scoots her plate in Killian’s direction. “Here, take this.” She gets up from her seat to make another plate so he can have hers. 

  “So does this mean I can’t take you out?” he asks, his eyes clouded with disappointment as he looks up at her. 

  “Oh, you can still take me out to dinner.” She leans in and whispers in his ear so no one else can hear, “But this way, you owe me a lap dance.” She walks away with a smirk on her face, knowing she left him just as flustered as she is right now.

[soulairee]

Fallen

SasuSaku. Priest AU. Rated T+. 

Sakura taps a foot against the floor of the church, more out of habit than anything. Her mom always found the habit annoying. Yet another reason why Sakura sat away from her during Mass. If her mother was going to force her to come to church every godforsaken Sunday she felt she at least had the right to sit wherever she pleased.

Sakura takes a moment to stare up at the stained-glass window above her. The early-morning sun pierces through it, causing fractals of light to dance along the floor, vibrant and colorful. 

With a sigh she turns her attention to her missal and flips to today’s readings. From her backpack she pulls out a copy of Milton’s Paradise Lost. A quick glance around the sanctuary confirms that she’s the only one on this pew with no one directly behind or ahead of her, and so she slides the book between the missal’s pages to begin reading. 

She’s only able to get through a few pages before the church bells ring. She closes the book and rises to her feet just as a hymn begins. 

Sakura remembers her mother telling her that today is the new priest’s first day. Her mother mentioned it before they left the apartment this morning. Poor Father Orochimaru—an old snake of a man and someone Sakura tried to stay away from as much as possible—suffered from a heart attack a few days ago and is to be hospitalized for the foreseeable future. Sakura hopes it’s forever. 

“I heard the new priest is handsome,” her mother said as a way to bribe Sakura into going to Mass after Sakura vehemently reminded her that she wasn’t sure she even believed in God anymore. 

“That’s disgusting, mom. He’s a priest,” Sakura replied, offended that her mom would think a mere handsome face would work on her.

Eventually her mom’s nagging wore her down as it always did. It was easier to give in than deal with the silent treatment for the next week. She’s only seventeen, after all, and still has another four months before she’s free to live and do as she wants. 

Sakura yawns once, wishing she were at home studying for her exams instead. She just hopes this priest is actually good-looking enough to warrant her wasting her time here. 

The hymn continues. She looks back to the door of the sanctuary. 

And there, standing at the door, is their new priest. 

The book between the pages of her missal drops from her hands and falls to the ground with a thud. She barely notices it. It remains there, forgotten, disappearing from her view like the people and the world around her. 

There’s only him. 

The priest strides down the aisle with sure steps, graceful and authoritative. She takes him in with starving eyes, as if he is the last thing she’ll ever see, as if God is only giving her these short, excruciating seconds before He steals him away from her forever. She’s never felt anything like this. Never felt the need to laugh and cry at the same time so much it hurt. Never felt such agonizing, marvelous awe, like she’s just witnessed an angel fall from the heavens above and the lingering light surrounding him is as blinding as it is beautiful. She can’t look away. Couldn’t even if she tried. 

Sakura told her mother this very morning that she wasn’t sure she believed in God. Now she laughs at the thought. How stupid of her, she thinks. How foolish. 

Because surely God must exist to create a being so terrifyingly perfect. 

The priest passes by her aisle and meets her eyes for the briefest of moments. Mere seconds have passed since she first laid eyes on him yet it feels like she’s known him for an eternity. How is it possible, she wonders, to see someone for the first time yet feel like her very soul recognizes him? As if some deep, hidden part of her awakened and said, “Finally. There you are.”

Yet Sakura knows—she knows she’s never seen this man in her life. She never would’ve forgotten him if she had. 

And for that brief second that their gazes lock, she sees the same in him. Sees the slightest widening of his eyes that are the color of the darkest pits of Hell, the color of her most obscure and wildest fantasies. She sees the flash of recognition in them and she knows he feels the same. 

Her priest mounts the steps to the altar and stands before the church, breathtaking in his vestments and with the face of a god.

As if in a fever dream Sakura crosses herself when the church crosses themselves. She remains standing as they do, and when her priest says, “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit,” she answers with the rest of the congregation, “Amen.”

His voice is rich and commanding, unlike anything she’s ever heard. It resonates to every corner of the church, and with each word he speaks she swears she hears the voices of God and Satan alike, warring with each other for dominance. It’s intoxicating, riveting.

She sits as the congregation sits. Listens to a man read from the Old Testament, a woman from the New Testament. Her priest reads from the Gospels. She kneels when the church kneels and prays when they pray. 

And when the time comes for the Eucharist, she rises on light feet and nearly floats to the altar. She sees only him, hears only the remnants of his voice, feels nothing but her heart pounding in her chest and knows nothing except for the fact that this day, this moment will change her life forever. Perhaps it already has.

Visions flash through her mind with hypnotizing speed and quality. Visions of black wings caught on fire, of an angel’s halo burning with the force of the sun. Of his mouth on her mouth, his hands gripping her hips to the point of delicious pain. A vision of his body inside her body as they make love beneath a starless sky and she swears the feel of his black hair between her fingers and the sight of him above her is a religious experience in itself. 

Sakura takes the wafer from the deacon and swallows it whole, all too eager for what comes next. 

From her priest she takes the cup of wine. 

As she raises the cup to her lips their eyes meet again. She swallows the wine and he’s looking at her like she’s the source of his greatest desires and greatest fears combined—a siren, deadly and exquisite.

In that moment Sakura feels something so utterly concrete, so full of truth it scares her: without a doubt she will do anything for this man. She feels the certainty of it in her soul. 

“The blood of Christ,” he says so softly she nearly has to lean forward to hear him.

“Amen,” she whispers.

The trip back to her seat is a blur. Each step away from him aches, and she feels tears stinging in her eyes. Joy to this extent is painful indeed and she’s nearly brought to her knees from the force of it. 

The Mass ends and all are exhorted to leave in peace. Yet Sakura feels no inkling of peace and knows she won’t until she speaks to him. She doesn’t even know his name. 

She tells her mother she’ll walk home by herself before making her way to where the congregation surrounds their new priest. He’s extremely tall, however—at least six feet—and as such she’s still able to see him. He meets her eyes over the heads of the congregation immediately, almost as if he were searching for her in the crowd. To him she mouths, “I’ll wait for you.”

She hurries through a side door and from the shadows of the church, completely hidden, watches the cars filing into the street. Her heart races and blood pounds through her veins. Soon all the cars have left and she knows it’s only the two of them here. 

“I was wondering where you went,” a smooth, steady voice says from behind her. “You said you would wait for me.”

She whirls around to face him. Gone are the vestments and in their place he wears black clerics. Her priest looks elegant beyond words, a gift from God Himself. Or perhaps from the Devil. 

“And I did, didn’t I?” Sakura’s surprised at the strength behind her words. She feels about ready to faint from the experience of meeting him alone.

He raises a brow at her defiant tone. A small smile curves his lips as he looks down at her. “Aa. That you did.”

Sakura fidgets beneath his gaze, unsure of what to say next. She figures “I love you” or “Will you marry me?” are a little too forward. 

“Tell me your name.” 

She shivers at the enticing heat his simple command stokes within her. If she didn’t think she was entirely his before, she’s certain of it now. She would do anything to obey that voice, anything to make him happy.

“Sakura. Haruno Sakura.”

He’s silent for a moment. She watches him take in the color of her hair, her eyes. She wills herself to maintain eye contact with him although it’s becoming increasingly difficult. His black eyes seem to peer into her very soul, laying her naked before him. She feels she’ll never be able to hide anything from him even if she wants to.

“Sakura.” Her name on his lips is a symphony. The way he rolls the “r” smoothly off his tongue is the most erotic thing she’s ever heard—he says her name like he’s tasting his favorite, most precious wine, like he’s drunk off of it. 

She flushes at the sound, pleased beyond words. 

“Haruno Sakura.” He reaches out and takes a lock of her hair between his fingertips, the most gentle of touches. He drops his hand all too soon. “Such a fitting name. It’s perfect for you.”

“And who the hell are you?” she questions, trying to cover up her all-too obvious delight with some bravado. 

“Try that again.” Another small, barely-there smile. “More politely, please.”

She glares up at him. 

“Well?”

“Fine. What is your name, Father?”

He looks at her. And looks and looks and looks. Almost as if he too is afraid she’ll disappear from in front of him, never to be seen again. Like he can’t get enough of her. Like she was destined by God to meet him, and he knows she knows it. 

Then her priest says, voice captivating and dangerous as sin, “You may call me Sasuke. It’s nice to finally meet you, Sakura.”

Sakura smiles. 

And she swears she hears the Devil laughing at her from the depths of Hell below. 

A/N: This little piece is heavily, heavily inspired by the "Original Sinners" series by Tiffany Reisz. I began the first book in the series this little piece is based on, The Siren, with zero expectations and here I am eight books later completely and utterly addicted and slightly terrified. If you’re willing to explore some problematic themes and very explicit sex scenes (and hear some very valid critiques of the Catholic Church), I suggest you give it a shot. It’s not for the faint-hearted, trust me. But it is one of the most captivating series I’ve ever read. 

The priest in Reisz’s series is of Danish decent. He’s blond and described as almost God-like. With Sasuke it was fun to write him as almost the opposite, falling moreso into a fallen angel’s role: with black wings instead of white. 

If you’re curious, I picture Sasuke to be around 26 years old in the fic. And just like in Reisz’s books, he would’ve waited until Sakura was 20 to sleep with her (just so you can breathe a little easier).

And thank you to @uchiharvno for giving me the idea to merge these two worlds with her fic “Angel of Small Death,” which you can read here (with a small donation to her ko-fi). <3 

I hope you enjoyed! :)

[progressivestupidity]

IZ week 2020

so i wasn’t gonna do this because I didn’t think the prompts were very good for writing to, but I remembered the last day’s prompt was “role swap” so I decided to do something small and quick for it. this is all 7 days in one post. the first and last ones are drabbles and one of them is an au idea

@invader-zim-week​ here u go!!!

Day 1. Angst or Fluff 

Zim’s denial skills are god tier, but even they have their limits.

Drabble. I think this is the turning point for my eventual found family au

“When are you going to get it through your thick head that the Tallests aren’t coming?” Dib flings his arms out wide in his exasperation

“They’re just…!” Zim fumbles a bit, clenching and unclenching his fists. “The Armada is a million light years away! It takes time to travel that far, obviously. It took me six of your months to get here from Conventia and the Massive is further away from here now than that. They’ll come! You’ll see! And then you’ll be sorry!” Zim’s face is drawn tight. He’s tense all over, shoulders drawn up to his jaw, antennae pressed flat to his head, and normally Dib prides himself on reading Zim like an open book, but he’s too far gone in his own annoyance to see the warning signs.

It’s because he doesn’t see these red flags that Dib proceeds to stick his own foot in his mouth with his next words. “Maybe if you weren’t such an idiot and opened your eyes, you’d see the truth—that they dumped you here to get rid of you.”

“YOU THINK I DON’T KNOW THAT?” Zim explodes, planting his tiny hands in Dib’s chest and shoving. The boy lands painfully on his ass. “I’m not stupid, Dib.” His name is spat like an insult. “I know they don’t care about me! Why do you think I try so hard?”

Dib gapes at Zim, looking up at him for once, stunned into silence. “I.” He swallows. “You know?”

“Of course, I know.” Zim’s voice is a low hiss and his eyes are narrowed to slits. “You don’t get banished and then just get over it. You don’t get put on trial to defend your life, forced to relive your worse mistakes, and get sentenced to death, only to be saved by freak miracle, and never acknowledge it happened.” Zim takes a deep breath and crosses his arms over his chest. Dib supposes he means for it to look intimidating, but it looks more like he’s holding himself together. “I’ve always known.”

“Why do you try so hard then? If you’ve always known there was no point?” Dib has to ask, has to know, has to hear the words from Zim’s own mouth.

Zim purses his lips and turns away. “There was always a point.” He falls silent for a moment, one antenna twitching up a bit in thought. “I just… I thought if I was just a little better, if I accomplished something important for once, that… I don’t know, that maybe I’d.” He pauses and grits his teeth. “Maybe if I actually managed to take over this filthy planet I’d be worth something for once.”

Day 2. Be Gay Do Crime (LGBTQA+ headcannons)

Dib is bi/pan/demi-ro, Gaz is lesbian, Zim is ace/demi-ro

Headcanons.

Dib seems like the kind of guy that would both take whatever kind of relationship he could get, but also appreciate it. Dib isn’t afraid to work for what he wants and isn’t afraid of things that are “not normal” so I see him being the type to not care about the gender of whoever he eventually decides to date. However, because Dib’s been burned in the past, he would need a deep and sincere emotional relationship to see someone as a potential romantic partner.

Gaz is just a big lesbian. Girls, man.

Zim is ace all the way baby!!! He’s just not interested, and sure, part of that is me projecting, but it just feels right for Zim to just… not care. He has no interest and doesn’t care for sexual attraction regardless of whether or not Irkens do/can/will have sex or not. On the other hand, Zim has expressed a softer side before and I can see him being able to maybe eventually develop romantic feelings for someone if he actually manages to get close enough to them for those kinds of feelings to even emerge. It would take a lot of time and a deep, meaningful friendship, but Zim has shown he’s capable of love. He just has to let himself feel it.

  Day 3. Fandom Appreciation

Found family fuck yeah

Headcanons.

I’m still in the process of thinking about how I wanna go about my found family au so here’s just some initial ideas

After ETF, Zim self isolates for a bit. The florpus hole was his Last Ditch Effort plan and had it succeeded, he knew he would have been destroyed too. He was okay with it. He had made peace with it. However, it failed, and now he’s forced to reflect on said failure

The Massive doesn’t escape the florpus. They’re gone, completely. If they the ship does manage to get out, it’s not in one piece

I initially couldn’t decide if The Trial should come Before ETF or After but I think im gonna say before so the Massive doesn’t have to come back lmao

Before too long, Zim jumps back into the planning/scheming swing of things, but his ideas are never more than petty crimes and being a huge annoyance

Dib gets really annoyed with him and they have a big argument

Zim finally admits to knowing of his own Defectiveness

Dib reluctantly feels bad for him and backs off a bit to let Zim have his space

Zim, however, sees this as a betrayal and redoubles his efforts to get his attention

Somewhere along the way, Skoodge comes back and Zim backs off of Dib a bit, having someone else to focus attention on

Dib eventually begins to offer Zim his hand in friendship (phrased as a truce at first) and they finally make steps towards getting along

They realize they actually really like being friends

Zim eventually realizes that he’s made a life for himself, outside of the Empire

Eventually Zim, Skoodge, GIR, Minimoose, Dib, and Gaz form their own little family and explore space and hunt cryptids

(I love cryptid hunter and space exploration aus holy shit)

Day 4. If IZ had a different setting/time period

Cyberpunk??? Sure

Potential idea maybe.

Cyberpunk dystopian future

Aliens and humans intermingle, both on and off Earth

The Irken Empire has gotten bigger

Technology is advanced and cybernetics are widely known/produced

Idk man I don’t know a lot about cyberpunk, maybe this should be more for the aesthetic

Day 5. Aesthetic

Big shrug man idk

Headcanons, thoughts.

I’m a big fan of fashion Zim, and whenever I get the chance I give him clothes that are both cute and comfortable

Galaxy print leggings are a personal favorite of mine to give him

One time I wrote a little ficlet/oneshot where he wore a skirt. I should publish that some day

Uhhhhhh okay so. Dib has veeeeeery big early 2000s emo/punk vibes tbh

Scene kid GIR always makes me laugh

Gaz could pull off pastel goth like no one’s business

I’ve been here long enough to witness emo/scene hair wig Zim and his eventual fall lmfao

Pretty much everyone that redesigned them back in the day gave Zim emo kid hair that fall perfectly over one eye it was WILD

 Day 6. What if IZ was a different Genre?

Uhhhh does “fantasy instead of scifi” count?

Potential idea maybe. (oops it ended up being a fantasy/modern magic au haha ooooops)

Instead of being an alien, I had the idea of, maybeeeeee Irkens are like. Elves maybe, or perhaps some kind of fae. (I don’t know much about fae, oops)

Okay bear with me here, this is all coming together in real time.

The Irkens (which is what I’m gonna call their clan or faction or subrace or whatever) still want to be the rulers or something over the humans/other mystical beings. This world of magic is hidden from humans and they live blissfully unaware. There are invaders all over the place, using magic and glamors to trick humans into thinking they’re also humans. Zim is one such invader and just to happens to end up in Dib’s town, whereupon he enrolls in Dib’s school, pretending to be a transfer student.

I have no idea why or how the Irkens invade or what methods they use, but since my biggest experience with elves is through DND, I’m going to say they’re functionally similar to certain DND elf races.

So anyway, Zim ends up in Dib’s class and Zim’s glamor just Doesn’t Work on Dib for whatever reason (maybe Dib passed his Wisdom saving throw while literally everyone else failed, idk) and so Dib can immediately see Zim for what he is.

Dib is still into paranormal type stuff, though in his world, he’s less about cryptids and aliens and more about the magical species/world(s) that he KNOWS exists. His big goal in his au is similar to canon in that he wants to expose it all for recognition and love from his father.

Zim, meanwhile, he just wants to prove himself, just like canon. I can’t decide how I want the Irken hierarchy to go in this au—that’s something to think about later, when I have more time—but whatever it is, Zim is either a) not very good at it, b) not suited for it, c) ridiculed for not fitting in to it, or d) a combination of any or all of these things. (or secret option e) he rejects it but has no where else to go. On the other hand, it maybe be none of these things.)

GIR is here too though he’s probably not a robot. Maybe he’s another kind of magical being, or, hell, maybe he’s just Zim’s little brother. I’d be okay with that.

Gaz can also see through glamors but she just doesn’t care. Tak shows up at some point to get revenge, and Skoodge also shows up at some point to stay with Zim and be his friend.

Zim is bad at blending in at first, but he eventually Does get better, since he’s not totally isolated from other Irkens here and he also doesn’t Look like an alien.

(I’m thinkin’ elves in this au look Mostly human but with a few differences. Since I’m biased and this is MY fantasy world, damnit, elves are just. Really Pretty. Ethereal and elegant and graceful (for the most part—there are always exceptions) and they’re also great at magic. Maybe Zim isn’t all that great at magic, I dunno. I’ll figure something out.)

This ended up being less of a genre change and more of a whole ass au, lol oops

Day 7. Role swap

Chanting: human zim au human zim au human zim au human zi

Drabble. This is for an ongoing species swap au that i’ve had in development for the last few years. i haven’t posted anything for it yet, but I’ve thought about it a lot

Dib freezes as Zim points the plastic water gun at his head. Zim’s eyes are narrowed, lips pursed, and he adjusts his grip almost nervously. Behind him, Gir is holding a bucket full of water balloons and a pair of neon green star shaped sunglasses. It’d be cute if Dib wasn’t aware of how painful Earth water is to his Irken skin.

Zim finally lowers his gun slightly. “I want some answers, alien.” He looks Dib over with critical eyes. “Who are you really, and why are you here?” He reaches back and Gir hands him a water balloon with a big smile. “And you better tell the truth or I’ll bust this over your big head.”

Dib grimaces and watches the balloon. “My name Dib, and I’m a scientist. I’m an Irken, from Irk, and I’m here to learn more about life on this planet.” He holds his hands up, hoping to placate the human gesture for surrender. “I’m not here to harm you or anyone else, promise.”

Zim huffs. “Yeah right. I bet you just came here to laugh at the locals.” He puts on a mocking voice and waves the gun and balloon as he speaks. “‘Stupid, stinking humans. They can’t even travel beyond their own moon, yet. What morons. I bet they descended from pigs with how horrible and stupid they are.’” He jams the gun against Dib’s chest. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

Dib bites his lower lip and looks away. He can’t deny he hasn’t thought something similar since arriving on Earth, but Zim didn’t have to be so crude and blunt about it.

The two are at a standoff for almost a minute before Zim blows out a long sigh and steps back. He turns to put the balloon back in the bucket, gives Gir a pat on the head, and shoots Dib one last glare. “Stay away from me, Dib. I have enough problems to deal with without having to worry about whether or not it’s safe for my brother to go to school or if I need to watch my back while walking my dog.”

“I wouldn’t hurt you,” Dib says, a little put out.

Zim scoffs and rolls his eyes. “Yeah, I’ve heard that one before. I know better than to believe it.” He turns and tries to smile at Gir but it comes out a little twisted and sad. “C’mon Gir. Let’s go home and get Minimoose and take him to that dog park you like so much.”

Gir gasps and lets out a cheer. “Can we go get ice cream afterwards?”

Zim gives a little laugh, smile turning a bit more genuine. “Yeah, sounds good.”

As they walk away Dib can’t help but wonder why he ever thought Zim was an Irken himself.

[fugandhi]

Why We Rise (A Meditation on Humanity)

by Adam Kenichi Wekarski

The time has come for me to write about Christopher Nolan’s Batman Trilogy (and why it is the most important cinematic franchise of our time). *Please purchase & view the franchise in it’s entirety prior to reading this independent essay. Spoilers are No Fun for Anyone. SUPPORT The STORYTELLERS*

Although it’s a story derived from a comic book, this is not a movie franchise to be taken lightly (or for granted for that matter). Christopher Nolan’s film, “Memento” was the first work he had accomplished that I had ever seen (back in the Blockbuster days - ahem, VHS RULES!) and it is still spinnin’ my mind after all this time. Christopher Nolan ALWAYS delivers some form of ground-breaking excellence in his work - his ‘Dark Knight’ Franchise is no exception.

When one thinks of Batman, it’s very easy to consider the various forms (literature, animation, cinema, video games, etc) of said character (God Bless You, Adam West! R.I.P., Good Sir!). SO many INCREDIBLE & [BEYOND] TALENTED folks have, not only performed as the character, but have helped in shaping this character’s Monumental & Positive Imprint on contemporary society (worldwide).

I still believe Christian Bale is one of the most under-appreciated performers of our time. I first saw him in the Dark Comedy, “American Psycho” (DUDE! Holy Smack-a-RONi! Totally Bonkers & Viciously frightening). I still can’t believe he did not receive an Academy Award nomination for that performance (for shame, HollyWould). As much as I love Tim Robbins (SHAWSHANK, BaBY!), Christian Bale is one of the greatest actors of all time (100% WITHOUT A DOUBT). He plays Bruce Wayne PERFECTLY (TOTALLY the BEST Bruce Wayne OF ALL TIME! DONE! NO ARGUMENT! END-ALL-BE-ALL..”..Been there, Done that - got the album, Bought the Tee-shirt..NEXT” (Ricky Gervais, The Office [UK]). CHRISTIAN BALE DESERVED AN ACADEMY AWARD FOR “The Dark Knight Rises” - I’M SAYING IT - HE DID SUCH A PERFECT PERFORMANCE in (Yeah ALL Caps) this entire franchise. I need to address that because so many folks seemed to be swept-up in their own distractions as viewers (Yeah we get it, he disguised his voice with a growl - get over it, ya’ll). He seems to be a good person (‘seems’ being the operative word) & I’ve read about his efforts in his life off-screen (You are a Good Man, Sir) when the cameras are not around. I have a belief that it’s good for people to appreciate those ‘moments-of-truth’ more often (just one person’s opinion, take it or leave it).

Speaking of ‘moments-of-truth’ - This story (spanning across three EPIC films) is the ultimate moment-of-truth for Sir Christopher Nolan (Why Not?; He actually is CBE apparently; Respect) and his AMAZING Production TEAM’s collective efforts. So many people put their well-being on the line to make these stories happen (some even, their lives, Rest in Peace) and I believe this franchise deserves ALL of the Success & Recognition & Praise (and honestly, Time) for the awe-inspiring efforts put forth (in regards to cinematic storytelling). This is a franchise for the fans (due to how well it honors the source material & simultaneously manages to elevate the art-form).

Bruce Wayne is one of the most important modern characters of our time. Not since the days of Jesus Christ, himself, has there even been someone who sparked a universal impact (sorry ‘Supes’ - You & Ol’ ‘Batsy’ are Tied in my book) upon average people worldwide. Granted - Bruce Wayne is NO Jesus (there can only be one), however, his life’s journey is a true Test of Faith, which is a universal lesson that I firmly believe Jesus Christ was attempting to spread in his message of good faith towards one another.

Bruce Wayne (played by Christian Bale & Gus Lewis, respectively), as it is now [mostly known], was born an heir to The Wayne Family, an age-old empire in modern society (Gotham City, U.S.A.). In Christopher Nolan’s particular take on this (now-classic) SuperHero story - Reality is the cinematic setting.

“Batman Begins” is Nolan’s homage to Richard Donner’s “Superman”, having been THE standard for comic book movies (since the late 1970’s if I’m not mistaken). Having obviously been a fan of Donner’s work (Gee, who isn’t?) - it’s an obvious source-of-influence for the first installment in Christopher Nolan’s Perfect Epic.

When I had first discovered the news that Christopher Nolan was Warner Bros. Studios’ choice for a brand new Batman reboot - I have to admit I was VERY optimistic. After having seen “Memento”, and his work with that incredible team - I was very, very optimistic that for ONCE the Batman universe was going to be actually depicted like it is in the comic books (at least the ‘80s Batman Comics - Hello Dark & Gritty Vibes). Considering the mental intensity of “Memento” (and how linear-storytelling-need-not-apply) - I was absolutely curious to see how well the story would finally be done on-screen (with all due respect to Tim Burton & Joel Schumacher & All previous efforts achieved in the known story-telling community). After all is said and done, this franchise is a ‘Grand Slam’.

Christopher Nolan’s version of Milton “Bill” Finger’s (Bob Kane took all of the credit for Bill’s work; for shame) story of Bruce Wayne/Batman is the most inspiring work I’ve seen achieved on the concept (and characters) to this day. With the initial tone set in the first film - we find a young Bruce Wayne as a child - simply playing in the Wayne family’s garden with his best (& childhood) friend (and one of the most important characters in the franchise): Rachel Dawes (played by Katie Holmes, Emma Lockhart, and Maggie Gyllenhaal, respectively). Bruce & Rachel establish the innocence of childhood (and of our main protagonist) with the playful phrase, “Finders Keepers” which is followed by young Bruce falling into an old dried-out well (which then traps him into a slight crevice, filled with Bats).

As we discover in this story, the symbol of Batman has a rather deeper meaning to Bruce Wayne than what had been initially expected (unless if you’re a fan of the comics). When the first film starts to take form, we find Bruce Wayne lost in the depths of ‘hell’ as an adult man. Having been an heir to a Family’s Kingdom (so-to-speak), Bruce Wayne had lost his Mother & Father; Martha & Thomas Wayne (SUCH Good People) at a tragically-early age, having their lives taken by a lost soul in the dark of night (a reality known, all-too-well, by our own collective experiences as a contemporary society).

Martha & Thomas Wayne establish the core values that help shape Bruce Wayne as an Individual. Their Leadership, their knowledge, their wisdom, their love (their faith). All of their finest attributes shine a light on how the community - the city of Gotham (and their actions as people) help shape said community. Without their Faith, Bruce Wayne’s immediate world probably wouldn’t have even been established for him (perhaps). It is that faith that is the driving force of this franchise, and the greatest tragedy of this film is, indeed, the blatant & cold-blooded murder of Martha & Thomas Wayne. Ya know, they were really good people in terms of their contributions to their household & community & their lives, and they truly cared about their impact on the world (in a greater sense).

With such care, they made important choices (that had an effect on everyone in Gotham, regardless of outlook). Choices that made a necessary difference in, not only their home, but in their overall world. Gotham may be fictional, but I will let the fantasy play and I will acknowledge the tremendous amount of detail put into these stories that went unnoticed in the initial ‘life’ of this franchise’s release. Having said that - Unless if memory serves inaccurate, this film received a lot of unwarranted criticism for the realistic depiction of modern violence (due to the UNGodly public shooting(s) that have been taking place in our country; I acknowledge the real-life tragedies, but also acknowledge the importance of artistic vision). I say unwarranted due to the fact that Christopher Nolan managed to hold up a mirror and we need to pay close attention (and look beyond the glamour & simulated violence), and this was accomplished well-before Todd Phillips’ incredible film “Joker” had been produced (which drew plenty of inspiration from Nolan’s signature style and Heath Ledger’s actual development of said character; Joker’s Journal).

At the core of this story is Faith.

Faith is what was instilled in Martha & Thomas Wayne (and their lessons with Bruce as a boy). Alfred Pennyworth (played Beautifully by Sir Michael Caine in a Nomination-worthy performance for Best Supporting Actor in my humble opinion) is the reinforcement to protect the Wayne Family’s Honor & Good Name. On the surface, Mr. Pennyworth is Bruce Wayne’s Butler, however, when he’s not maintaining the Wayne fortune, he is ‘the guiding light’ (no pun intended) in Bruce Wayne’s Journey (despite the efforts of various opposition). While Rutger Hauer (rest his soul; “BLIND FURY”!!! YES!) had set the tone for what was to come later in young Bruce Wayne’s life (at the funeral for Martha & Thomas Wayne) - it becomes abundantly clear that Bruce Wayne has quite the journey ahead of him in his life (with plenty of whom have pre-developed plans & agendas to seize Wayne Enterprises for their own gain).

Bruce Wayne, born of a Mother & Father, heir to “the throne” (as it were), and thriving billionaire, one day decides to leave it all behind. It’s a moment of internal crisis for our protagonist due to the severely traumatic act of witnessing the death of his own parents (while almost being murdered himself). I know a lot of people think Kal-El (aka ‘Superman’, aka ‘Clark Kent’) is the end-all be-all of Superheroes (myself included), however, after a retrospective look back at Christopher Nolan’s Dark Knight Trilogy it becomes abundantly clear just how much credit this franchise did NOT receive from the critics & the artistic community (Hi, Academy. I’m lookin’ at ya’ll). Despite the worldwide acclaim, I believe this franchise was well ahead of it’s time in terms of the most important aspect of the entire achievement - The Story.

This is a franchise fully-devoted to the story and that is a significant contributor to the success of this version of Batman. I grew up watching old reruns on TV of Adam West & Burt Ward going around and ‘CLEANING-SOME-CLOCKS’ as it were (POW! ZAM! KLAM! CHOWDAH!), and I always hold that version near-and-dear to my heart because I still think the early 1960’s version of Batman was really fun & really awesome & an absolute delight. Plain & simple. ..Granted - as time continued and the characterization of Bruce Wayne (and his alter-ego “Batman”; His Armor; His Protective Shield) had advanced & developed into a new ground (conceptually-speaking). The core values of who Bruce Wayne is, where he comes from, and Why he does [what he does] did not truly become profoundly-realized for me until I’d say when the Animated series (1990’s! DUDE still one of the best Animated Series I’ve ever seen; like ‘a fine wine of cartoons’). “The Mask of The Phantasm” is still one of the best Batman stories I’ve ever seen - Such an incredible origin story for Bruce Wayne - and definitely one of the best animated, full-length features I had ever seen as a kid (Not to discount Tim Burton’s gothic-induced-dream-like version of the knight’s tale).

With Christopher Nolan’s contribution to the overall storyline of Batman - we truly have a Masterpiece Trilogy before us (as audience members). Nolan’s take on Batman is truly like no other (even surpassing efforts that preceded the franchise) in that he actually provides a glimpse into what it would look like if the fantasy actually became a reality. Christopher Nolan achieves that goal (Ten-fold) with this trilogy.

In the first film - what we know about Batman becomes hyper-realized with the emphasis on Bruce Wayne’s life in modern-day America (Gotham City being the quintessential metropolitan All-American city). An America that has succumbed to an overall tone of darkness & hopelessness (with the reality of tangible corruption & streets of truly deadly conditions) which has reached a pinnacle-of-suffering for the good people of Gotham (and perhaps, rippled outward into the rest of the world).

Jim Gordon (played PERFECTLY by Gary Oldman, one of the finest performing actors ever to be on screen), a symbol of Gotham’s defeated Law Enforcement, patrols the streets of Gotham City each night. Jim Gordon is one of the key individuals that Bruce Wayne reaches out towards (in his pre-Knight regalia) in the first stages of ‘Batman Begins’. Jim Gordon was the person who wrapped the coat around (a young) Bruce Wayne’s shoulders after his parents had been needlessly-murdered right before his very eyes. Jim Gordon was the one who kneeled to Bruce’s level, acknowledged his loss, and gave him that moment of kindness & warmth & honest-to-God decency. He acknowledged Bruce’s sorrow & loss with grace. He gave him a moment of simple human decency & kindness for the sake of kindness itself.

Jim Gordon’s kind gesture is merely a moment in time, which made all the difference for a young kid who just needed someone to simply be there for him. A moment that showed Bruce Wayne that Goodness & Human Decency can & does still exist in the world despite a traumatically-life-changing tragedy. Jim Gordon’s simple, nearly effortless act, is a sign that people Do honor good faith (and people who truly deserve it) and the good Do get rewarded.

I really like the character Bruce Wayne. I think he’s a better character than most that I’ve ever seen, especially since he actually has character. It’s a shame that people can not see beyond the surface to find the deeper meaning of this story. Bruce Wayne’s [incredible] journey takes place all over the world. When we find him in ‘..Begins’, he is locked up in the ominous mountains of Bhutan. His home now a desolate wasteland of an existence due to his loss. His tragedy (despite Jim Gordon’s act of kindness) had lead him astray and brought him across the other part of the world (only to discover what it truly means to suffer in poverty & hunger & pain & strife & darkness without any means of comfort). As the story unfolds, it becomes clear that Bruce’s path is the ‘path-of-most-resistance.’ Rather than succumb to a frivolous, meaningless, and hollow existence - Bruce Wayne took the path rarely taken. He chose his own path, to earn his own personal truth, his own story to be lived & known (and eventually discovered by Gotham City).

When Bruce meets an unusual individual by the name of ‘Ducard’ (aka Ra’s al Ghul; aka Liam Neeson; Also played simultaneously by the honorable Ken Watanabe, respectively) in his own ‘personal hell’, Ducard feeds into Bruce’s fall from the path of grace (and his spiritual confusion). Ra’s al Ghul/Ducard is only interested in one thing: controlling Bruce Wayne. As Ra’s al Ghul is the quintessential ‘Handler’, or ‘Hypnotist’ of Bruce Wayne in the training period for Bruce Wayne’s spiritual journey - it becomes evident with each effort from Wayne that Ra’s al Ghul represents The Devil (aka ‘The Prince of Darkness’, ‘Satan’, ‘Lucifer’; The ‘Shadow Side’ of Saturn; See “Yikes!”; See “YOWZA”; See “Hide Yo Kids, Hide Yo Wife”; No Disrespect To The Coven; See Not My Lord; See God Protect Me).

From the moment we first-see Ra’s al Ghul - he is shrouded in darkness - lurking in the shadows within each unseen corner of the world - the proverbial serpent of the shadows (so-to-say). In a manner of speaking, Ra’s al Ghul is merely one of many faces throughout the story that showcase the forces of darkness in this particular cinematic legacy (from the depths of darkness, here to possess the living). Ra’s al Ghul attempts to indoctrinate Bruce Wayne (in Bad Faith) in the Bhutanese abyss; a wasteland for the damned (and where the death of hope thrives amidst the stone-prison-walls). Despite Ra’s al Ghul’s efforts - Bruce Wayne not only proves to be the most-prominent under-study of the cult (while being initiated into a secret society; a clandestine fraternity; a subversive order of assassins following an ancient practice (unknown & unseen by the blissful light of day).

Bruce Wayne’s prominence during his training cycle with ‘The League of Shadows’ (an appropriate title) shows us that he surpasses even Ra’s al Ghul’s expectations: showing how the student becomes the teacher (by upholding an authentic approach to having a Personal Moral Code & Justice & Ethical Values). Bruce Wayne is not only faster, stronger, and smarter than Ra’s al Ghul - Bruce Wayne is also wiser. Due to Wayne’s parents (and his friendships) he truly is ‘the shining example’ of true justice that Ra’s al Ghul has yet to achieve in life (due to his obsessive wrath).

Having destroyed the League of Shadows’ initiation grounds & temple of darkness - Bruce Wayne LITERALLY SAVES RA’S AL GHUL’S LIFE. ‘True Colors’ does not even begin to define such a moment for our protagonist (that’s a true sign of Mercy).

Despite Bruce Wayne saving Ra’s al Ghul’s life, afterwards the dude STILL tries to come back and kill Bruce AND Gotham City (Showing how The Devil has No Mercy for Anything, Anyone, or Anywhere and is just flat-out unwilling to acknowledge when something good actually does happen). Granted, at the end of “Batman Begins” we discover how Martha and Thomas Wayne were murdered as a direct result of Ra’s al Ghul & The League of Shadows (and their hatred for all things Gotham City & Western Civilization). It’s a diabolical reveal that the devil holds nothing sacred in the sanctity of human life. The devil will literally kill an angel after having been saved by said angel. In fact, Bruce Wayne’s own personal brush with death is (tragically) a common concern of not only Alfred, but Lucius Fox (played exquisitely by one Morgan Freeman), a former Board-Member & former colleague of Thomas Wayne (prior to his passing).

Bruce shows us that good people typically make a lot of good friends and have good people looking out for one’s best interest (no matter their walk of life). The most awe-inspiring truth of Bruce Wayne/Batman is that his ‘best interest’ is preserving & honoring the good faith of his community and the people in his life (including his ancestors, mind-you, as well as the herculean guidance of one Alfred Pennyworth). Without friends - life goes nowhere - that’s a universal truth. Bruce Wayne nearly died so many times in this trilogy and I don’t think people appreciate that aspect of these movies. This is an individual who literally put his life on the line to save the soul of the city he loves (wanting nothing other than a good, normal, & happy life). I know people only fixate on ‘the How’, but I think ‘the Why’ is the most important element of Bruce Wayne’s fictional example.

Bruce Wayne (as all of us) exists for a reason. His life (albeit fictional) does have an important purpose in the grand scheme of things (as one puts it).

Of course, this reason is emphasized (more & more) by his best friend, Rachel Dawes (among others). It’s a shame that Katie Holmes did not portray Rachel Dawes in both of the first two films, however, I found it to be very impressive [just] how smoothly Maggie Gyllenhaal performed as the character. It’s one of the rare instances in which a character is portrayed by two different performers who both managed to bring an equal amount of dignity & respect to said character. Katie Holmes & Maggie Gyllenhaal should both be applauded for their contributions & performance(s) as the grown-up portrayal of Rachel Dawes.

Rachel Dawes is the positive-female-influence in Bruce Wayne’s life (complimentary to that of Alfred Pennyworth’s positive-male-influence; or non-gender-specific-neutral-influence? Sure, why not) that is necessary to develop his respect & honor towards women (which is a necessary element of chivalry). Chivalry is not dead in America: The examples set before us can be found within our own real-life society (I shall go into that more later..).

More important than Rachel Dawes’ positive influence on Bruce Wayne is her genuine friendship (since their childhood). Rachel is not interested in taking advantage of Bruce or using him for her own personal gain. Rachel Dawes genuinely cares about Bruce Wayne and how well the quality of his life (as well as the life of the community) have grown. Rachel Dawes shows Bruce what is occurring in the streets of Gotham on a daily basis. Rachel is living, breathing, working, and seeing what has become of Gotham City - a limping giant of a once-prominent-city (Modern-Day America in a nutshell). Rachel Dawes reminds Bruce Wayne of the importance of Good People Taking Ownership of One’s Community. She reminds him that life is not only about one’s own personal pain, but alas, the collective pain of which a community must endure & resolve (as a said community) with good faith; “It’s not about who you are underneath, it’s what you do that defines you.”

In the second act of Nolan’s Cinematic Epic, “The Dark Knight” - Bruce Wayne encounters the tangible result of Newton’s Third Law: for every action there is an equal (or greater) reaction; hence ‘The Joker’ (played enormously by the late Heath Ledger; Rest in Peace).

The Joker is the response to Bruce Wayne’s actions in the first act, and in every way, he is Bruce Wayne’s exact opposite (albeit opposites, their life paths are balancing on the same proverbial axis of existence). Bruce Wayne is a reflection of light while The Joker is a product of darkness (Negative Energy, Pessimism, Hate, Evil, Unhappiness, Pain, Suffering, Misery, Torment, Violence, & Trauma). While Batman is the answer to corrupt forces in Gotham City - The Joker is the reaction to The Bat-Man.

The Joker is the continuation of opposing forces attempting to infiltrate Bruce Wayne’s life & community (as would a specter in the shadows, a spider in the darkest reaches of lunacy; a.k.a. the absence of faith, the inversion of angels; i.e. Demons, Demonic Entities, Dark Deities, etc). The Joker represents everything evil in society - everything sick, everything sad, everything hurt. To The Joker (and the fools before him) - society is an infestation, a plague, a result of toxicity & corruption (especially the light of which darkness cannot fathom). Batman is the antithesis to Joker’s Chaos. Batman is the collective honor & balance of civility & justice & good faith quantified into one symbolic rogue.

Heath Ledger’s performance of Joker was nothing short of awe-inspiring artistry & workmanship (WorkPERSONship?). His passing was a needless tragedy and although his performance garnered him numerous accolades - I wish he did not have to die in order to attain it (It should have been him accepting the award - it should have been him). Without a doubt, an equal to Joaquin Phoenix’s performance (if not Superior) - I still acknowledge Heath Ledger’s ground-breaking performance as a perfect triumph of Acting (although I think the character is absolutely distorted on all accounts; despite Joker’s persuasive wit).

Many people like to compare Joaquin Phoenix & Heath Ledger’s performance(s) as The Joker (folks compare everything in life), and I think both performances stand strongly on equal ground. Total Perfection. No doubt about it - and one kinda goes with the other if you were to align the vision side-by-side. Of course I love me some Jack Nicholson in Tim Burton’s “Batman” - I think he gave an undeniably frightening & charismatic performance just as Ledger & Phoenix (proof of the character’s universal & artistic appeal). Although Heath Ledger’s performance shall always be praised as a definitive milestone in Acting on Film - I still think the character is a twisted f**k (pardon my American).

Not only does Joker attempt to destroy Bruce Wayne’s personal Faith, but also everyone he cares about in his life, and everyone in the entire city of Gotham, USA. The pitiful tragedy of Joker’s existence is the sad truth that he lacks good faith in not only himself, but the people of Gotham, and the one individual who is genuinely trying to make a good difference in the world: Bruce Wayne.

It is a tragedy & a disgrace to humankind that Rachel Dawes & Harvey Dent (played by the Always-Excellent Aaron Eckhart) died in vain (as Thomas & Martha before them). It’s a sin that the Joker did what he did to everyone in Gotham City. It’s unGodly that so many human beings had to lose their lives, needlessly, just because of one individual’s own loss of innocence, and more specific, his loss of personal faith in his life (and in the world, of which, we live). The reason why Joker is dangerous is because he is the quintessential ‘mass shooter.’ He is the terrorist. He is the result of a society that has forgotten him. He is the reason why so many people struggle & suffer in contemporary society - not because he caused it, but because he fed into it - preying on the life force of humanity & destroying the efforts of truly good people who kept striving to save the soul of humanity (within the framework of a struggling eco-system).

If Bruce Wayne did not have friends he would have been dead in the first act of the story - that is a fact. When Dr. Jonathan (Not ‘Frasier’) Crane (aka ‘The Scarecrow’) had attacked Batman (in ‘Begins’) with the weaponized hallucinogens, Bruce Wayne was almost killed. If it was not for Alfred Pennyworth & Lucius Fox, Bruce would have been dead in the streets of Gotham. The consistent importance of Friendship is quite evident when thinking of Bruce Wayne’s network of acquaintances (both in ‘high’ & ‘low’ places) in the city of Gotham. This also applies in the opposite, with Bruce becoming an important (and powerful) friend to certain individuals of Gotham City (in return).

Friendship is a universal quality of humanity that should be cherished & honored. Friendship, like everything, requires effort. Bruce Wayne’s life requires effort even though he is a “billionaire playboy” - he still has struggles just like anyone else, and he shares the struggle with his friends (since they became a sort of surrogate family; more like extended-family; legal & spiritual guardians). Bruce Wayne is a fictional example that no one is free from life’s struggle and life’s personal challenges & lessons (no matter the ‘advantages’ or ‘upbringing’). It’s a sign of brilliance on behalf of the conceptual team behind the vision of The Dark Knight Trilogy. I know a lot of people focus on the action sequences and the drama of the theatrical dance of Light & Dark play out on screen in the form of the Batman & the Joker, but beneath the surface is a sincere sociological & political commentary (and spiritual message).

The Light & The Dark (i.e. Positive & Negative, God & Lucifer, Heaven & Hell, Angels & Demons, the Good & the Bad vibes, The Upward Infinity & The Downward Spiral, etc, etc, etc): it is at the fundamental core of our collective balance of existence; Life as we know it to be. It is my humble understanding that the eternal balance is a necessary process, it requires effort on both sides. Both Light & Dark must cooperate to preserve the equinox-of-existence (just one person’s opinion based off of observation & objective analysis, take it or leave it).

The death of Bruce Wayne’s best friend, Rachel Dawes, was not only a tragedy in Bruce’s life, it was a tragedy for innocence. She was so angelic & kind & giving & honorable & brave - her Faith is what helped Bruce remember his childhood innocence (before he was robbed of said innocence), and her last words (which were concealed from Bruce due to desperate-times-call-for-desperate-measures; see Alfred Pennyworth), she continued to spread the message of Good Faith in Humanity despite the fact that she was needlessly murdered. A defining attribute of Rachel Dawes’ character is one-in-the-same as Martha and Thomas Wayne - the Belief & Faith in Humanity despite the monumental heartache & loss (and yes, trauma & death).

If one recalls the time in the first act when Alfred was bringing Bruce Wayne back from the mountains of Bhutan - Alfred briefly mentions how Bruce Wayne’s ancestors’ tireless efforts to keep their community alive (even at the worst of times) nearly made them bankrupt. It was their tireless dedication (their faith) that paved the way to set a foundation for future generations to prosper (while honoring the efforts of said ancestors). Although their example did not improve Gotham’s economic prosperity overnight, the murder of Martha & Thomas Wayne set the wealthy of Gotham into action (as the story goes).

Bruce Wayne comes from a long lineage of helpers. Helpful People who are Good. People who want to see the best results out of humanity’s efforts (as a whole). People who believe in the power of the individual, and the social end-result of one individual’s tireless faith (and life choices).

Although Bruce Wayne’s ancestors are not the focal point of Batman, they are his bloodline & family’s history which in it’s own right deserves to be honored & respected (I know this is a fictional character, but roll with me here, people HahaHA).

Yes, “The Dark Knight” consists of nothing short of complete Mayhem, and YES, The Joker may make ya pee a little bit (just a little), and maybe even laugh (the writing is pretty damn genius in my humble opinion). I acknowledge that “The Dark Knight” should have been nominated for Best Picture (Double that for “The Dark Knight Rises”), and I acknowledge that Christian Bale should have been nominated for Best Actor his final performance as Bruce Wayne/Batman (I think he was snubbed, but hey I’m not in the Academy, so what do I know, right? HahaHA).

Speaking of “The Dark Knight Rises”, I still believe it’s the best Batman movie of all time. I understand (and have heard) many folks say “The Dark Knight” was a better movie, however, I believe (on the contrary) that not only is the third act of Christopher Nolan’s masterpiece a testament of cinematic storytelling - it is a testament to just how AWESOME we are when we perform at our best. When we work together, we are at our best (as a country, and as a people).

“The Dark Knight Rises”, at it’s core, is a cyclical nod to everything that was established in the first act of the trilogy (a perfect Full Circle), and of course, is the conclusion of Batman. Every lesson in Bruce Wayne’s life, every struggle, every enemy, every friend - every aspect of Bruce Wayne’s life is interwoven with Gotham City (and the people of Gotham) as he & his friends defend Gotham City (and everyone in it). In “The Dark Knight Rises”, Bruce Wayne has become a Hermit; locked away, half man, half mythos, in an air of mystery & fascination (among the ones who still speak of the elusive figure; a fading memory of a silent guardian). And as a hermit, Bruce has become deeply reclusive due to the Joker’s killing spree in Gotham City nearly a decade prior (while exploiting the sick minds & lost souls who stand for nothing [and truly fall for anything]).

While an average person would possibly accept Bruce Wayne’s physically-defeated, emotionally-scarred,  and spiritually-damaged condition - Alfred Pennyworth (God Bless ‘em) does what any individual of Good Faith would do - he encourages Bruce. He sees Bruce as a human being, not as a symbol. He cares about Bruce Wayne’s life, his well-being, his overall fulfillment, and Bruce’s personal happiness. He chose to honor the pact he made with Thomas Wayne to protect the family fortune (most importantly, Bruce). Alfred Pennyworth has his own fascinating & rich history from his own backstory (having been a soldier in his younger years). Fact of the matter is, Alfred never stopped being a soldier at heart. He is True Blue; a true man of the cause; a true Englishman, a true American, and overall a true HUMAN BEING. He is a True Believer of preserving all that is sacred & righteous in our world. He is a Saint and he is a blessing (in contrast to Ra’s al Ghul’s curse-like presence; working in Bad Faith; a destructive force; almost the polar opposite of Alfred).

One thing I love about the final film in Nolan’s titanic, artistic, commercial, & cinematic effort is just how well the Production had managed to pull off the third act (having so many characters and SO much exposition) especially considering the factors that most wouldn’t even consider (i.e. Budget, Lights, Sound, Wardrobe, Set Design, making sure everyone’s hitting their marks, making sure all the stunt-work is safe, making sure it’s all coordinated to the “T” - the amount of brain-storming, conceptualization, the marketing, the pre-production, the principal photography, the post-production, etc etc etc). Movies that require so much of the cast & crew do not always work well, but Warner Bros. & Nolan’s Team somehow managed to actually pull it off. They did what no one else could do - they made Batman real. Christian Bale made Bruce Wayne real. He made Bruce Wayne truly Human (even if just for a moment).

In this day & age (with everything that just happened very recently in our very own United States of America) - one could find a jaw-dropping parallel to what happened when ‘Bane’ came to Gotham City (played ferociously by the envelope-pushing Tom Hardy; see “Bronson”, so gnarly) to what had happened to our own U.S. Capitol.

Bane is the darkness (cloaked with brute force) that feeds off of the fear of humanity. Bane is a product of The League of Shadows (with Hardy’s vocal performance being a nod to UK & Ireland Bare-Knuckle-Boxing Champion, Bartley “King of The Gypsies” Gorman), and was actually ex-communicated from the league (so the story goes) by Ra’s al Ghul (himself). Word around the campfire is that Bane is a force of nature (more destructive than known before) and will stop at nothing to ‘fulfill the destiny of Ra’s al Ghul.’ Bane is a result of fringe-Cult-Mind-Control-Indoctrination (a life devoid of pure faith & free-will entirely; typically due to some possible form of sincere trauma and/or loss and governing authority; aka The Darkness).

The legend of Bane is more rumor than fact. He is just as elusive as Batman, and just as evil as Joker (if not more). Bane’s physicality brings Bruce Wayne to his knees in the third act of Nolan’s 3-piece work-of-art, while also providing all of the intellectually-driven rationale (totally psychotic) behind his Madness & Apocalyptic ambitions. Bane is a real-life-threat to Bruce Wayne & Gotham City (and The American Way). Bane represents the overall threat to our way of life (as a humanity). Bane is everything wrong with world leaders & corrupt forces (cultivated into the most toxic physical form); like a deranged & disfigured Churchill who lumbers about (as a lion in a den) in the underground infrastructure of Gotham City’s sewage system (almost as a warped, drug-induced, Shakespearean Emperor). Bane is a deadly force of nature, fueled entirely by the sickness of bad faith; coerced into his own psychosis by probably the most complex & frightening character of the entire series - Talia al Ghul (a.k.a. ‘Miranda Tate’, played unnervingly-well by one Marion Cotillard [the child played by Joey King, respectively]; her performance sends chills up the spine upon numerous viewings).

While introducing Batman & Gotham’s new enemies, some of Bruce’s new friends in the final (and most epic) installment of Christopher Nolan’s Batman storyline are Officer [Robin] John Blake (played exceptionally by Joseph Gordon-Levitt) and a Wild-Card-Femme-Fatale character by the name of Selina Kyle (a.k.a. ‘Catwoman’, performed very well by Anne Hathaway). Joseph Gordon-Levitt shines as young Patrol Officer Blake - also having been an orphan, like Bruce Wayne, and a true believer in the purpose of Bruce Wayne (Batman) in Gotham City. Unlike Bruce, however, Robin is not a billionaire & Robin was not born into a life of privilege. Despite his brief backstory, Robin Blake, like Bruce Wayne, has Faith in Humanity. It’s why he puts on the uniform (speculative subtext). He does not have the luxury to become Batman, so just as Jim Gordon does - He works with what is given to him. He applies himself within the structure already established within Gotham (despite the restrictions & limitations of said structures of society). He, like ‘Serpico’ before him (see Al Pacino) is a regular Cop who just wants to do what the Law is supposed to do: To Protect & To Serve the good people of Gotham City.

Selina Kyle, on the other hand, is on a path between The Light & The Dark (on a sort of ‘spiritual tight-rope’ between the two paths). Selina’s life path is one of constant survival and constant running. As a ‘Cat Burglar’, Selina Kyle is a flat-out Crook. Her tough exterior conceals what truly is underneath her mask - a person who, too, has faith in humanity (proof that the ones who wander are not lost). Unfortunately for Bruce Wayne, as previously-mentioned, ‘Desperate Times Call For Desperate Measures’ - and Selina Kyle’s desperation put Bruce directly into the hands of Bane & The League of Shadows (at a truly disturbing moment in the film). While forces of The League of Shadows’ (combined with a few of Wayne Enterprises’ own ‘bad seeds’, i.e. Daggett, Stryver, etc) disseminate chaos throughout the plot of “The Dark Knight Rises” (by destroying the city of Gotham and exiling Bruce Wayne across the world into a pit of hell) - all of the friends Bruce Wayne has made start to band together to organize a resistance with the surviving members of local (and once-established) authorities. The honor, the people, the community of Gotham City, and the overall driving spirit - the collective faith of the city (as a whole) had been damn-near destroyed entirely in this film. The resistance was born from those of whom are still faithful to their city and the rights of every individual who resides within.

Between the clandestine operations of Robin & his fellow law enforcement officers (all trapped underneath Gotham due to The League’s devastating terrorist attack), the United States Federal Government (and necessary agencies) & Wayne Enterprises (with ‘Miranda Tate’, Lucius Fox, etc), and the awe-inspiring action-sequences in this grand finale - there is no denial that the final installment of The Dark Knight Trilogy is the most realistic & visceral revolutionary epic set in modern-day America. It’s funny when one stops to think that this was all originally based off of a comic book character published by Detective Comics in the late 1930’s. It’s astonishing to think of just how far this fantasy story has evolved throughout the years.

Bruce Wayne is more than a comic book character. Bruce Wayne is a symbol of humanity. That is his ‘superpower’ - his Humanity. He is more than just a person fighting crime to honor his family’s faith & heritage - he is honoring the faith of humanity as it stands today. After all of the corruption & loss & trauma - Bruce Wayne never lost faith in what we have in life (even after losing so many loved ones and frequently having his own life in harm’s way). As he strives to defeat the darkness of Gotham (by striking fear into the hearts of those who prey upon the fearful), the force of darkness continues to rise to attempt to destroy & defeat The Light (Futility at it’s finest).

The greatest villain of all, Batman’s most incredible threat throughout the entire trilogy is actually Talia Al Ghul (Ra’s al Ghul’s daughter & heir to The League of Shadows; the true leader of the cult). She is the one who almost destroys Gotham City (if it wasn’t for Bruce Wayne and everyone who stepped up to do what was right to defend the city).

Although Talia does not fight Batman physically - she is the only villain who ever slept with Batman & exploited him with complete intimacy (seducing Bruce Wayne in a seemingly romantic moment in the film). Talia (still known as “Miranda” by this point in the story), appears innocent & sweet upon first glance, however with multiple viewings of the film, one begins to understand the disturbing nature of what Miranda/Talia is and is Not saying in Bruce Wayne’s presence (a brief glimmer of her spiritual void). Talia al Ghul truly is Ra’s al Ghul’s daughter and her light has been completely stamped out by the fact that she, not Bane, was the one who came out from the pit of hell (as it is revealed in the climax of this epic conclusion). The Devil lurks in many forms - in this particular case, Talia al Ghul displays the darkness as it exists in feminine form. Marion Cotillard was the most over-looked performance of the series (in my personal opinion) and I think as much as Tom Hardy does not get enough credit for his, at times, somewhat Macbethian performance (albeit not as flamboyant as Joker, but even more deadly) - I believe Talia al Ghul is the greatest threat to Gotham City in this trilogy (sorry, fellas).

While magnifying the character of Talia al Ghul, one must acknowledge her natural ability to be a ‘Wolf-in-Sheep’s-Clothing.’ She is the deadliest threat to Humanity due to her belief in a necessary demise of Gotham (seeing Gotham City as a hotbed of hypocrisy & imperialism). Talia al Ghul has no problem burning the barrel over a few bad apples (if that makes sense). While Talia is the CEO of Wayne Enterprises, she was also simultaneously dictating every strategy for The League of Shadows behind closed doors. She is the ‘Queen’, ‘The Head of The Serpent’, The Leader of ‘The Hive.’ She is the quintessential ‘Wicked Witch’, The ‘Bad Girl’, the ‘Goddess’, Kali, Baphomet, etc etc etc). She is an individual, born into a pit of darkness, and exposed to a potentially-life-shattering amount of trauma (based off of the staggering display of complete psychosis; albeit tremendously stealthy & downplayed under her facade of congeniality).

Talia al Ghul is the mastermind who inherited the crown from Ra’s al Ghul’s ‘throne’ (if that makes sense). She is a product of trauma, suffering, & loneliness, but more importantly, a severely sick individual who needs some serious mental & emotional help (more than Joker & Harley Quinn combined) and is the deadliest foe of all (due to her intellect & internalized rage & female fury & her knowledge of all things Gotham & Bruce Wayne/Batman). Talia al Ghul, like Batman, is a force of nature; especially due to her complete cutthroat tactics and inversion of personal Faith in Humanity. Talia al Ghul initially comes across as a meek & angelic person, responsible for the credibility & success of Wayne Enterprises. Her entire life, however, has been dedicated towards the infiltration of Gotham City, USA, and she is the only character in the film who is truly superior to Bruce Wayne in terms of sheer will-power (He caught up to her in the end though). What saves Bruce Wayne is his network of friends (Alfred, Jim Gordon, Lucius, Robin, Selina, etc), in addition to his mind, body, & spirit (once they attain alignment).

I don’t know what others have said, but I think Robin & Catwoman were actually done brilliantly in “The Dark Knight Rises.” Robin was a pleasant surprise for me as a viewer (truth be told; although I thought Ryan Gosling (GOS!) would have made an amazing Robin in ‘The Dark Knight Rises’; much respect for Joseph Gordon-Levitt), and Selina Kyle/Catwoman is fascinating due to her being the wild card of the last film (that truly helped level the playing-field; Girl-Power).

Catwoman, unlike Batman & Robin, is a big question mark throughout the majority of the last film. Her presence is just as elusive & threatening as Talia’s, however, Catwoman (unlike Talia al Ghul), underneath it all, is a Good Person trapped in a bad situation. That is a common thread in this storyline - Good people being in bad places (i.e. Jim Gordon, Lucius Fox, Rachel Dawes, Harvey Dent, etc). On the flip side of the coin - there are plenty of bad folks in good places amidst Gotham’s corrupt forces (i.e. Dr. Crane/Scarecrow, Carmine Falcone, Judge Faden, Detective Ramirez, Detective Wuertz, etc). It’s a reality known all too well in our modern society.

When one observes the overall arc of Bruce Wayne’s transformational life experiences in Nolan’s Comic Book Epic - I have to reiterate the notion of duality consistently interwoven within each one of these films. Light & Dark - Good & Evil - Positive & Negative - the eternal dance - it is the driving force of this franchise (as Bruce is the quintessential “Light Worker” - not that I’m soliciting ‘New Age’ [or ‘Old Age’ for that matter] ideologies, just a matter-of-saying). Bruce Wayne symbolizes The Light of God found in human form (at the very core and most-primary form of what Natives call, “The Great Spirit”, respectively), of which must seize the day to tame the night. Bruce is the epitome of a Capricorn/Aquarius cusp (Western Astrology/Zodiac) - in full force - bringing the water to those who are thirsty, bringing food to those who are starving, and healing the suffering of a people by means of very serious mental, physical, and Yes, Spiritual Work & Seriously Visionary Goals. Bruce Wayne is the Light while Bane is the Darkness of Humanity (the brute force, the inversion of light); the absence of faith. Although he does indeed have an inherent belief within his bones (and muscles reminiscent of mountains), Bane is still dependent on man-made ideologies & approaches (entirely based in the material world). The League of Shadows are attempting to summon the fires from hell in order to bring the dark prince into Heaven to seize the light (again, futility) to fulfill the devil’s ultimate lie (talk about a God-Complex..Oh me, Oh my) of Superiority (‘Can’t we all just get along?’).

When examining Talia al Ghul’s presence as a double-agent mastermind - her reveal is one of the most important plot twists of the series. Talia being a hidden “mole” within the resistance of Gotham City during The League of Shadows’ Hostile Takeover sets off Martial Law in Gotham - which sparks an uprising in the city that eventually saves Gotham (due to the efforts of a network of people who utilized adaptability & effective methods of coordination & action). Bane is to Batman as Talia is to Catwoman (just as Harvey is to Rachel; Duality; Gemini, Twins). What’s so incredible about Selina Kyle is her purpose in the story as a symbol that people CAN & DO redeem themselves despite having a checkered past (something a good amount of folks have in this day-and-age, myself included). Although the clandestine efforts of Gotham’s resistance had been futile due to the fact that Talia al Ghul was hiding in plain sight (a stroke of genius on the writing), Selina Kyle was the defining individual that tipped the scale in favor for Gotham City (and more importantly, Humanity as a Whole). She had an opportunity to leave Gotham and have a clean slate, but she had a personal moment-of-crisis... That’s because she has a soul, and in her soul, she knows, by faith & intuition, that humanity needed her help (one could speculate). She went back & risked her life (God bless her), which was a full circle nod, of which, echoed the sentiment originally planted within the first film: The moment when Rachel Dawes asked a younger Bruce Wayne, “..What chance does Gotham have if the good people do nothing?”  (Edmund Burke; ‘Thoughts on the Cause of the Present Discontents’ [1770], regarding the nepotism of a monarchy).

Talia al Ghul is a highly-complex character (next to Bruce Wayne) in the series due to the potential life she may have lead as an orphan born in the pit of hell (shot in the jaw-dropping landscape of Jodhpur, Rajasthan, India). She is also the most tragic due to the fact that she literally has an opportunity to leave her life of pain & suffering behind to be with Bruce Wayne, but succumbs to the ‘Shadow Side.’ ...You know something is ‘rotten in the state of Denmark’ when she would rather destroy the world than have a ‘happily ever after’ with Bruce Wayne. Her spirit fell back into the proverbial pit of despair & darkness (without ‘The Light’) that she had escaped from (in a metaphoric sense). Bane, like Scarecrow before him, is merely a pawn in the worldwide game of Chess (‘all the world is a stage...’). The tragedy of Talia is that she is someone who was born into darkness and literally had to pay for the sins of her father (as her mother did, tragically).

Talia al Ghul is the most heart-breaking villain of the trilogy simply due to her life being a complete tragedy. One begins to ponder if she had a romantic evening with Bruce Wayne simply because she had felt the cold winter of loneliness for too long, or if she desperately (just for a moment) wanted to be one with God’s Light & a person’s gentle embrace (although I don’t know I might be wrong - she was probably like “Hey, it’s either Scary-Ass Bane or six-pack abs Bruce Wayne. HMMM. Let’s tip the scale on that one - HAhaHa, I digress). Regardless of reasoning - Talia al Ghul’s complexity is probably no match for the intense unhappiness she carries with her. It’s no surprise due to the fact that her mother’s absolutely unGodly demise (so sad) was the catalyst that sparked her mission from Hell (with her hound-of-hell on a leash, aka Bane). As much as I may condemn Talia al Ghul & Bane - I want to reason with them. I want to listen to them and I want to let them know that America is not a bad place, and we are not a bad people. I want to find a common ground, and extend the olive branch (as the saying goes) in order to help heal their pain & misconceptions of Americans and Humanity (as a whole), without having to give my (or anyone else’s) life in the process.

I have a belief that if Talia al Ghul was given a fair & ample opportunity to have a better life in America - she would have taken it (if she had not been so deeply-programmed with hate). I have the understanding & more concrete belief that it is due to her life-long journey of trauma-based-indoctrination as the main culprit as to why she simply won’t cease & desist from committing further acts of wrath upon Humanity. Talia al Ghul could have put just as much effort into the healing as the killing (but she fell back into that spiritual pit). I know why she hates. She hates because she weeps, deep down inside in her soul at night (when no one is around), for her trauma & her unbearable internal pain. She hates because she is repeating the pattern of trauma that may or may not have been applied to her mind, body, and worst of all - her soul. She hates because she had hatred put into her (since being a small, innocent child) and she put that hatred out into the world (a severe lack of comfort, love, care, family, and yes - Faith). Although symbols of lightness, darkness, duality, and representations of sins & faith are all spread across this monumental achievement in film (without having to shove a Cross in someone’s face) - at the very core of this film is, again, the importance of faith in humanity despite our individual & collective tragedies (and shared injustice). The importance of striving, no matter the odds, no matter the pain, no matter how dark the night.

I believe the BEST moment in the entire story was the moment Bruce Wayne climbed out of the pit to save his people. He could have easily died a painful & shameful death in that ancient prison (while watching his city & country being destroyed by an insane fringe cult; a militia of madness; a false liberation). A lot of people seem to overlook just how incredible & truly powerful that moment is in “The Dark Knight Rises.” Tom Conti (a perfect performance of an apathetic mentor-like figure; complimented brilliantly by one Uri Gavriel as the exiled Medical Doctor of a Monarch) & Christian Bale’s overall dynamic in the entire pit sequence was a masterful stroke of storytelling (tying back to the first film, putting Bruce Wayne back where he first began). It’s fascinating to find Bruce Wayne, with a severely-injured body, having to rebuild himself and strengthening his spirit to rise out of the pit of despair - the pit of personal hell, the unforgiving pit of Time (Capricorn; Saturn; Kronos; “The Task-Master”, “The Reaper”; Reward or Punishment; Karma; The Lord of The Rings). The moment of truth comes when Bruce Wayne discovers (through numerous attempts) that it is his spirit that must rise to seize the light - without vanity, without any fancy gadgets, technology, tricks up his sleeve, or any clever contraption (or vehicle) to assist him in the process. This was a moment for Bruce Wayne and Bruce Wayne alone. This is what we call our moment to “Shine” as an individual being...  our independent spirit. Bruce Wayne had to learn what it meant to climb out of the pit of hell and abandon his fear (as the child in the legend had done; Talia al Ghul).

The pit can represent many things to many different people. The eye of the beholder truly does apply to this (as well as any) story. For the individual to think & feel for one’s self - and to also believe in one’s self. The pit can be a literal prison - or it could be a wealthy kingdom. I know (from personal experience) the feeling of being at the pit of one’s own existence. I know what it means to be a prisoner trapped in one’s own body (due to unwanted pain & suffering & hidden trauma). I’ve learned the plight of humanity and the experience of suffering in the night (I’m just like everybody else). I have been there. I have known the darkness. I have known what it means to “dance with the devil under the pale moonlight” (as the expression goes). I’ve known what it means to defend the innocent from evil, thrusting myself into danger to save family members from toxic masculinity & extreme violence (since being a little boy). I have known the darkness, which is why I kept searching for my own personal truths & answers (which ended the day I had a near-death experience & literally saw The Light of God; 100% Serious). I have known all of these things, but I also know that the people who put that hurt into me had that same hurt (if not worse) put into them...  That’s the paradox of trauma. The original source goes so far back it’s pointless to trace - which is why I look FORWARD in Life. I no longer dwell in the weight of one’s misery & spiritual darkness - I seize the light by choosing a good life (to fulfill my own purpose).

At the risk of my own humiliation & embarrassment (and at the delight of those of whom feel actual glee out of my personal struggles & suffering; God knows who you are), I can acknowledge that I am someone who has lived “in the darkness” before. I have known what it means to suffer and toil without the light of God in my life. I have abandoned my own belief in God before, and my own personal Faith before... it’s not something I am particularly proud of, and although I have survived various life experiences that made me plunge into the pessimistic side of life (having been mentally, physically, and yes - Sexually-Abused in my early childhood) - I reach out (in spirit) to anyone who may be reading my words, who has possibly fallen from the good grace of God (especially due to what has happened in our country). I, too, know what it is to lose faith in God & The True Light (as opposed to the Man-Made light). I know what it’s like to suffer & hate “The Believers” (my trauma came from a so-called “believer”).

You know, stories are more powerful than one may ever think (as well as Family, Friendship, Fun, and Faith). I have lived in my own personal hell before - I have ‘had it all’ and then lost EVERYTHING the following year. I have rebuilt my life SO many times (too many damn times), and I’ve learned one ultimate truth that I MUST share with everyone who is (and will be) alive to read these words...

..There IS A GOD. THERE IS A LIGHT. It may not be visible because we cannot see what lies beyond the veil of existence, but I assure you - Everyone is Alive for a REASON (and Individual Purpose). Women may have the divine gift of giving Life (RESPECT!), but we ALL have the gift of giving LIGHT (each in our own unique way). We all have a way to help heal and put something good into the world, despite our shared pain & trauma, as a people. We all deserve to be happy and have a decent opportunity for a healthy & happy existence (ESPECIALLY with our modern-day world; unless if folks start committing crimes and harming others and whatnot). I believe we are all at our best when we cooperate & coexist with one another (despite our individual differences). The Light does not need to shine out The Darkness just as The Darkness shall never overthrow The Light. We can live in a spiritual Harmony. We do not have to walk the same path. We do not have to share the same spiritual beliefs. I just think we CAN share this world (as I believe we are truly alive in what is known as the Garden of Eden).

We do not have to destroy ourselves to prosper. We can live among one another (with dignity & respect & honor). I’m not always happy to see that people willingly practice certain principles & “values”, but who am I to judge? That’s why God is here... It’s a tough lesson to accept, but it’s true. I should not judge someone just because they worship darkness - because at the end of the day that’s between them and their purpose in life - not mine. I have walked the line, but I never learned from others shouting in my face - I learned from listening & civility & patience & yes - Faith. That’s the purpose of the light - not to drown out the dark, but to work together (as Santa Clause & Krampus do), as a balance of necessary elements that will always be present in our own reality. We, as a contemporary society, have lost touch with the natural way of the world (well, a good amount of folks anyhow). We, as a humanity, have become so vain that we do not even know which way is Up & Down anymore - which way is truly Left & Right. We, as the soul of humanity, have suffered in the darkness for far too long (due to those who wish to control our individual light). We, as a country, MUST help one another climb out of our collective pit of despair - our sociological prison (cultivated through the last aeon), our ‘darkness.’ It has happened before and it can happen again - and to all of my fellow beings of whom shall always carry within us, The Light of Goodness, the love of God, and the wisdom of The Light - I say to thee: RISE.

I give Christopher Nolan’s Dark Knight Trilogy a PERFECT 10 out of 10! The most inspiring superhero franchise of all time (in my opinion). Bruce Wayne & Gotham City show us that Chivalry is NOT dead in The United States of America (despite our challenges). Christopher Nolan’s Cinematic Achievement is victorious in it’s final conclusion: Gotham City IS worth Saving, as our very own Humanity - and Yes - We can all have a better way of life without having to sacrifice our own lives in the process. We can rise to fulfill our individual & collective destiny (as decent human beings) and have, not the life we need, but the one we DESERVE.

*This is dedicated in loving memory to everyone who has lived & died in service of The Light..✝️

“I see a beautiful city... and a brilliant people, rising from this abyss... I see the lives, for which I lay down my life: peaceful, useful, prosperous, and happy... I see that I hold a sanctuary in their hearts, and in the hearts of their descendents (generations hence)... It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done; it is a far, far better rest that I go to, than I have ever known...”

[izaswritings]

all that’s left in the world | chapter four

Title: all that’s left in the world—

Synopsis: —is me.

Neku’s been shot and Shibuya is threatening to go the same way as Shinjuku, but just because the first Game is over doesn’t mean they’ve forgotten how to play.

Or: Neku deals with a nightmare city and his most annoying (and mathematical) partner yet; Shiki and Joshua commit an escalating number of illegal moves, Beat and Eri hunt down a stray Reaper, and Rhyme watches and waits for the counter-attack. Shibuya refuses to go down easy.

Fandom: The World Ends With You | TWEWY

Warnings: cursing, references to past murder a la Reaper’s Game, mild body horror (in a Noise-human fusion case), and implied erasure. Nothing super graphic, but be warned! Please let me know if there’s anything I missed.

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AO3 Link is here!

Previous chapters are here!

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part four: neku

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I can’t hear a thing.

I hate it. I hate it. Where did everyone go? Where did everything…

It’s so quiet. Help me. Please, help me.

…

It’s too quiet.

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Neku stares at the message for a long time.

He doesn’t move, but his fingers tighten, stiff around the phone. Kill the Composer of Shibuya. No mistaking that one. No mistaking the signature, either, or the time limit counting down on his hands. Yeah, okay. Okay.

There’s so much about the situation that infuriates him, but somehow, it’s this that makes Neku want to break something. Kill the Composer—be more original, he thinks, and grits his teeth. Always, always, kill the Composer. Well, poor fucking luck for her, then. Even if Neku wasn’t inclined to disregard every word Coco says by virtue of the whole being-murdered-again thing, this would cinch it. Why do people always pick Neku for this? Does he just have “potential assassin” written on his face or something?

Neku isn’t going to kill Joshua. He got his chance, months ago, and it was a way better set up then this farce: his friends taken, Shibuya on the line, Joshua a liar and a killer and still smiling, mild, like Neku’s anger was something vaguely amusing. A gun in his hands and a countdown to boot.

Neku hadn’t taken the shot, even then. He’s made his choice; he’s sticking with it. Joshua is an asshole—a liar—someone Neku is probably never going to be able to fully forgive. But he was Neku’s partner, too. And even this Neku can’t deny: the Game was horrible, but it changed him. He has friends now. He can see the world now. Sometimes, when he lifts his hands and closes his eyes, he can hear Shibuya’s music.

And yeah—it matters, too, that Neku’s still here. Because he lost, he’s pretty sure. He lost the Game. But Neku is alive and breathing and so are his friends, and they all have their memories, and even Rhyme...! And Shibuya is the same, except not somehow, Shibuya is brighter than ever and its almost blinding.

It’s not enough for Neku to forgive Joshua. It doesn’t take away what was done. But... it says something. About everything. That maybe Neku isn’t the only one who was changed by those three weeks.

Kill the Composer. Punch the Composer in the face, sure, but Neku clicks off the phone with a scowl. Sucks for Coco. Neku’s not playing this Game, thanks.

...Which is easier said than done. Sho Minamimoto, for example. And, you know, the time limit. Neku already knows what he’s not going to do, but that does leave the question of how the hell am I going to get out of this one.

Pi-Face must have been looking at the mission mail too, because now he’s laughing, a manic sort of snickering that makes Neku go still on pure instinct. Minamimoto, he’s found, only laughs like that when he’s about to, say, murder people, sick Taboo noise on them, or recite ten lines of pi and summon imaginary number explosions or some shit. Bad news either way.

“TANGENT,” Minamimoto shouts, and Neku blinks. “Fucking finally! This Game’s already getting zetta old, but this isn’t a bad solution at all.” His smile is full of teeth. “This is an equation I can get behind.”

Because facing Joshua worked out so well for you last time, Neku thinks, but keeps his mouth shut. He’d definitely noticed, with the ease of hindsight, how Joshua had killed Minamimoto—not with those burning beams of light that left scorch marks in the streets, but with the cars, the vending machines. And the casual way Joshua had dismissed him, that day in the throne room—I liked keeping him around—well.

Neku knows he couldn’t beat Joshua, even if he wanted to, which, no. And Neku beat Minamimoto once before. It... well, yeah, it doesn’t speak well of this guy’s chances, probably.

But again. Never, ever saying that aloud, holy shit.

“Whatever,” Neku decides, because as annoying as Pi-Face is, they’re partners whether Neku likes it or not, and he knows how these things work. Minamimoto, still grinning, closes the phone, shoves it in his pocket, and starts walking away. Neku stares after him. “What?”

And... no, yeah, he’s actually leaving. Oh, god.

“Hey,” Neku snaps, and races after him. “Where are you going? We have to stick together.”

Minamimoto squints at him and then turns away. “What, you’re still here?”

“Yes, I’m still—” Neku bites off the rest of it. Must get along with partner. Must get along... nah, screw it. “We’re in a pact. We can’t fight the Noise alone. We have to stick together—”

“Nah,” Minamimoto decides, and keeps on walking.

Neku stares after him, struck with a sudden and dizzying appreciation for Shiki. Had Neku ever been this bad? Had Neku been worse? How the hell had she not strangled him two minutes in?

He takes a deep breath. “Look,” he snaps. “I don’t like this much either, but if something happens to one of us, the other is screwed. I don’t like this any more than you do, but if we’re going to survive and figure a way out of this we have to work together.”

Still nothing. Neku narrows his eyes. Shit, okay. Math analogies, math analogies... “Unless you think you can make a working equation with just you.” Does that make sense? Well, whatever.

It works, at any rate—Minamimoto pauses, and after a moment he looks back, considering. Neku crosses his arms and scowls, trying to ignore the sinking sense in his gut. This might even be worse than his week with Joshua. For all of Joshua’s many, many irritating moments, he’d at least recognized and understood the basic principle of stick together. Death by no-one completing the mission had been a problem on day two, but Neku at least never had to worry about death by negligent partner who won’t recognize we’re in a pact.

After a moment, though, Minamimoto snorts and turns back around. “Zetta annoying,” he decides. “You better not slow me down, you useless radian. I don’t have time to proof. Though I guess you’ll be some help when I get around to crunching the Composer.” He grins, at that, cracking his knuckles.

Neku’s not really surprised by that response, but still. “What, you’re actually going to do it?” Try to do it. Same thing.

“What,” Minamimoto mimics, “you aren’t?” The smile returns, all teeth. “Either we crunch the numbers, or the numbers are going to crunch us. Constants don’t get a say in how they’re used.”

Math-speak for you’ll help me kill the Composer or I’ll make you, probably. Neku crosses his arms, unimpressed. “Sure,” he says, doubtful. “Either way, we have a problem.” He gestures around them the destroyed buildings and ruined streets. “I know Shibuya. This isn’t Shibuya. How the hell are you going to find the Composer? We’re not even in the right city!”

Minamimoto shrugs. “A possible miscalculation,” he allows. “I’ll figure a solution.”

You inspire so much confidence, Neku thinks, irritated. “Like what, exactly?”

Minamimoto snorts. “None of your concern,” he says dismissively, and starts walking away again.

Oh, yeah. Just as bad as Joshua. Maybe worse, because at least Joshua didn’t make Neku do math. Ugh.

Neku scowls at Minamimoto’s back and follows, resisting the urge to drag his feet. For all of Pi-Face’s easy dismissal of the worry, Neku’s still stuck on it. This place... it’s familiar, sure, but not in a good way. It’s ruined, ash and dust and smog choking the air, Noise filtering about the edges... but he can still recognize it, if only sideways. Those strange visions that had been blacking out his sight all day... yeah, Neku knows this place. This was the city that got destroyed in the dreams.

Why am I here?

He’s almost certain, now, that this is where Coco was trying to lead him and Beat; she’s succeeded in dragging Neku here, at least, but he still doesn’t know why. Why kill Joshua? No, wait, wrong question. Why try and kill Joshua like this? A Reaper’s Game twisted beyond recognition, and a mission to kill Shibuya’s Composer in a place that clearly isn’t Shibuya. Can they even leave this place? Is this just a trap to get them erased by an impossible mission with a definite time limit? But then—why seven days to complete it? She could have set it to five minutes and dusted them that way.

It doesn’t make any sense, Neku thinks, and tugs once at his hair in frustration before letting go. He’s sick of this. Plots and plans and Neku stuck in the strings, and damn, he did not fucking miss this.

For a moment his hands shake. He squeezes his eyes shut, and exhales very slowly. His eyes are burning. And that’s—that’s fine. This is fair, isn’t it? He’d thought he was done with Games, but now he’s back here again, so it makes sense, it’s fine, he just needs…

He just needs a moment.

The air is so stiff here. Silent and empty. Every inhale is tinged with dust, and the city itself is a dead place—no wind, dead air, stale and settling and starting to rot. It’s hollow in a way that echoes. It aches. He misses Shibuya so suddenly it dizzies him. The crowds—the music—the world.

I didn’t ask for this.

But it doesn’t matter. Not really. Neku’s made his decision, and he’s going to stick to it—his only concern is getting out of this. And hey, track record, right? He’s done the impossible before. He can… he can figure this out.

He opens his eyes, and exhales again. He grits his teeth and pulls himself together. Okay. He can do this. He will do this. He’s going to figure out this new Game and he’s going to come back to Shiki and Beat alive and well. If Coco thinks she’s got him beaten, then she’s got another thing coming.

But still. As he picks his way across the ruined landscape, Neku can’t help but feel, with a sinking sense of dread, that there’s still so much worse to come.

.

They explore the city for a while, in silence—Minamimoto leading, like he’s forgotten Neku is there, and Neku trailing behind, keeping one eye on his irritating partner and one eye on their surroundings, wary of an ambush.

The city is... awful, Neku thinks, and the longer he stays here the more it makes his skin crawl. The streets are totally empty; the Noise are either everywhere or nowhere at all. No more strange, distorted symbols in the air; no more chance of avoiding them. They always watch them pass with blank, gleaming eyes—and that’s another thing, too. The Noise aren’t right. The Noise are dead silent.

Everything, Neku is finding, is dead silent.

The Noise don’t make—well, noise. There’s no wind—no birds—nothing. Even their footsteps feel muffled and dim, as if Neku’s walking on cotton, unable to make any noise louder than a whisper. When he speaks, it feels like he has to shout to be heard—like the total silence of the city is swallowing his voice whole, taking it all in, giving nothing back.

The worst part, though, is that there’s no Music.

When Neku left the Reaper’s Game for good, and first awoke alive and well on the Scramble Crossing... memories, and friends, and nightmares hadn’t been the only things he’d taken away from the Game. Sometimes, when Neku closed his eyes and put his hands over his ears and just let the murmur of the city wash over him, he could hear it—a song, or the Song, Shibuya in entirety, a music he could never really describe and could hardly imagine living without. It was chaotic and chiming and... Shibuya. Just Shibuya.

It was a comfort. And now it’s gone.

And he knows—Neku knows, logically, that even if there was Music here it wouldn’t be the same—this isn’t Shibuya, isn’t home. But even so, he’d rather hear an unfamiliar song than this... nothingness. This absence. This void in the air where music used to sing and people used to laugh, and just—there’s nothing, now. There’s a lack. There’s a hole.

I can’t hear a thing, he thinks, and it feels like his thought and yet it feels nothing like him at all, and for a moment the silence presses down on him. Panic coats his tongue. Despair squeezes at his chest. It’s less pain and more an echo if it; someone else’s words, ringing through him. For a moment his vision washes out into white.

I hate it. Where did it go? It’s too quiet. Come back. Come back!

Neku stumbles forward. Again. It’s happening again. He can hardly breathe. He presses a hand to his temple. “Who are you?” he whispers. He’s almost certain, now. This isn’t him. This is someone else. But who? “You keep—calling to me, who—”

Please help me. Static fuzzes in his ears. His eyes burn. Help me. Oh, god. Oh, god, please, someone help me—!

“Useless radian,” a new voice snaps, and the echoing words cut off with a snap, so quick it leaves Neku almost breathless. “Get up.”

He’s on his knees, Neku realizes. When had he fallen? He presses his hand against the concrete, gray and ashy beneath his palm, and lifts his head to glare.

Minamimoto looks unimpressed. “I don’t bother with inherently flawed calculations,” he warns, and then grins. “Match the parameters or get deleted, yoctogram.”

How nice, Neku thinks, dryly. Now he’s not sure if the headache pounding behind his eyes is from the echo, or just from listening to Minamimoto talk. Or both. Asshole.

“I’m fine,” Neku says, finally. His hands are shaking. He curls them against the concrete, and tries to remember how to breathe. “I… I’m fine.”

Minamimoto snorts. “Who gives a digit? Just get up. There’s a problem.”

“Huh?” Neku pushes to his feet, wavering a little. His legs feel shaky. He’s not in pain anymore, but the memory of that hollow ache is enough to make him shiver. That voice. That fear. Those visions, again. Just what is going on?

Minamimoto runs a hand back through his hair and grins, unsettling. “We have a new addition.”

“What?”

Minamimoto lifts his chin towards the far end of the street, seemingly unconcerned. Neku follows his gaze. They’ve stuck to the main roads, thus far; this one is three lanes wide and shadowed by empty skyscrapers turned hollow and half-eaten, like they’ve been decayed from the top-down. The fog of white dust makes it hard to see, but if Neku squints…

A blurry shadow of a figure lingers at the end of the road.

Neku blinks. Not just a figure. A humanoid figure. Moving. Holy shit. Is that… is there really someone else here?

His blood runs cold. Coco? Or… could it be—the girl from his visions?

But there’s something off about the figure, and Neku finds himself reaching for his pins before he can think better of it. He doesn’t trust this. Too much about this Game isn’t right—not just the missions, but even the rules of the world turned on its head. All of his pins work even when he’s not fighting the Noise. He doesn’t have a Player Pin, but he’s definitely in the UG. The Noise no longer pull them into an alternate dimension; they’re fully formed and waiting and watching, with eyes blank and white like a dead pin. And the silence, too...

No. This isn’t right. And as the figure shuffles towards them, Neku steps back and pulls a Lightning Rook to his hand, because he’s not so sure that’s a person, either.

Minamimoto is grinning, though something has turned sharp at the edges of his smile. “Ugh.”

“What is it?”

“I miscalculated.” He studies the figure and slides back into a stance. For a moment, he seems to blur at the edges. “Should have carried the evidence to its conclusion. Tch, embarrassing. This was simple math.”

Neku squints at the figure. They’re shuffling forward, coming into view, and when he sees them in full, he blanches. “Is that—”

“Yep.” Minamimoto makes a harsh noise in his throat, looking disgusted. “Inversion. The system’s all screwed up. Noise in the RG, UG in fractions... and sometimes you get equations that just don’t work out.”

Inversion? The hell? But there’s no time to ask. The figure is close enough now to see in entirety and— oh.

Neku can’t breathe.

They look—they must be—that’s a person, isn’t it? A businessman, he thinks, with slicked back black hair and a pale gray suit, jolting faintly with every step. They must be a person. Except they have a Noise’s colorful scrawls winding all the way down their arms and face and there’s wings peeling out bloody and painful from their back and sharp teeth jutting from their gums and oh, fuck, Neku never wanted to know what a human-Noise combo would look like and he’s really not happy to have found out now.

The Noise humanoid opens up their mouth and screams. There is no sound, but the air grates. Neku slams his hands over his ears, and in the distance, Sho Minamimoto is laughing.

“Caught between the frequencies, are you?” he says, looking delighted. “So zetta cool. Zetta sucks, too. Don’t worry. You’re about to get deleted.” He draws back his hand. To Neku: “You better not slow me down!”

Neku falters. “Wait,” he says. “Wait wait wait, that’s a person, what happens to them if we—”

“Ugh, do the math!” Zetta shut up, Neku thinks back. “What do you think happens to Noise-possessed people when it all gets Inversed?”

Neku stills. Noise-possessed people. Which means...

He draws back his hand. Okay. Okay. He doesn’t understand most of that, but... if they defeat this person, will that help? Will the Noise leave them? Will they go back to normal?

He doesn’t know. What he does know is that looks painful. Either way, Neku isn’t going to be able to back away from this.

Minamimoto laughs and throws himself into the fight with a sharp, vicious war cry of “Infinity!” It is familiar in a way that makes something in Neku ache; he stills, and refuses to look beside him. Joshua isn’t there. Joshua isn’t with him. In fact, he hasn’t really seen Joshua in almost a month, not since the Game ended.

And yet. For a moment, he can almost hear the laughter.

Neku shakes his head. He’s not fighting Minamimoto, he’s fighting with him, and he needs to start acting like it. Neku reaches for his pins.

“You better be right about this,” Neku snaps, and attacks.

Lightning Rook in one hand, Electric Warning, Velocity Attack, Raven, and two healing pins. Neku flips them through his fingers, watching Minamimoto dart across the area, and sets his feet. He still has the Fusion pin—he’d made sure to check, and thank goodness for that—which means so long as he times this right, they should sync up and hopefully be able to…

He preps the lightning in his hand, and then Minamimoto appears right in front of him.

“Shit!” Neku jerks his hand away—the lightning flashes and bangs, gone wild, darting up and out of range, crackling harmless in the air. What? What!? “Watch where you’re going, asshole!”

Minamimoto just cackles. “Useless components should just stay put!”

“Hey, wait!” In the distance, the Noise opens its mouth in a silent scream, and the world warps like putty. Pi-Face grins like a shark and vanishes from view. Neku curses at him, and throws himself down.

The air explodes above his head; Neku ducks out of range and then rolls back on his feet, angry now. “Are you kidding me?” he demands, to no-one, and reaches for his pins again.

The lightning jumps for his fingers eagerly. The power is a head rush. Neku grits his teeth and blasts at the Noise again. Despite all of his annoyance, the weight of the pins in his hands is a comfort. It’s almost soothing. He hates this, he hates fighting, but—

But Neku has missed this, too. That breath of power, that static on his tongue… he’d missed it. Why? He doesn’t want to. But he finally feels settled, feet flat on the ground. Minamimoto is an annoyance, this new Game a mystery, Coco a threat—but here in this fight, Neku is steady. I can do this.

Minamimoto cuts him off again; Neku switches pins with a mutter and throws himself out of range of the Noise’s shockwave. The silent screaming thing is seriously starting to vex him. He takes up the pin again, aiming—

Pi-Face, sneering, flickers into view and kicks the Noise back. “So zetta slow!”

Neku grits his teeth. “Would you just—hey! We need to sync up! Stop getting in the way!”

Minamimoto scoffs. Neku clenches his fists. “You—”

And then Minamimoto is gone again—and then he is right in front of him—and then he is kicking Neku right in the side, hard enough to send him flying back. Neku just barely gets his arm up in time to block most of the blow; his whole forearm sears with pain. Minamimoto is grinning again, sharp and wild.

Neku stumbles, catches his feet, and stills, his pins burning in his palm. Attack your partner is never the mission. It’s never the mission. It’s never—

“What the hell are you doing?” Neku says, quietly. “Do you have any idea—”

“Cooperation is trash,” Minamimoto says, far too gleefully. “We’re looped in the same equation, sure, but I crunch the numbers. Get in my way, you get factored out.” He steps away, turning his back, piece said. Neku sees red.

Raven has always been a favored pin. Neku tosses a streetlamp at him.

Minamimoto dodges, of course—and when he turns back around, his expression is frightening. “You are so—”

“Partners!” Neku snarls, talking over him. “We’re in a pact, you… we have to work together!”

“Crunch! That opinion was garbage. I’ll throw it on the pile.”

Must. Not. Murder. Partner. “You’re not a Reaper anymore. You don’t have the wings, we’re in a pact, you have the same fucking timer I do—either we fight together, or we’re going to lose.” He takes a quick, tight breath. Sota. Nao. All those Players, even the Reapers… but Neku can’t afford to die here. “Work with me here. You don’t want to die again, right? Well neither do I! So help me! And let me help you.”

Asshole, he adds, internally.

Minamimoto looks like he’s considering it, which of course— of course! —is when the humanoid Noise attacks again. Go figure. Fucking fantastic. Neku wants to bang his head against a wall.

But when he rises from his dodge, Minamimoto flickers into view beside him again. He looks annoyed. Grudging. And his face twists up, but he says: “Fine. Whatever,” and it is not the glowing confirmation Neku was hoping for but god, damn, he’ll take it.

“Finally,” Neku mutters, and flips a pin. “Then let’s do this. If you take it from behind, I’ll blast it from the front.”

Minamimoto scoffs again. He vanishes without a word.  Neku rolls his eyes, and sets his feet.

Lightning in the air, Minamimoto’s taunting insults, the Noise’s silent screaming and the warping air—but while they are not entirely in sync, this time it’s enough. The Noise is slowing, wing tattered and limp, face fuzzing from view—and the Fusion pin warms against Neku’s wrist.

He activates it. “Get ready!”

“Fucking finally! So zetta slow!”

“Argh, you—!”

It’s like stepping into a web. Lines and angles and numbers and—and Neku grits his teeth against the overload, the power slipping through his fingers, and reaches back. Equalities, balances, equals to. He clicks the numbers into place, and feels power burning through his hands.

(And for a moment: something is off. Something is wrong. A power that is neither his nor Minamimoto’s. Something else. Someone else? Not quite a pact, but… like moving in sync. A mirroring.

A connection.)

Something shatters.

It’s like white noise in his ears—the empty static—the imaginary plane. For a moment there is a hole in the world, in the sound, in the noise—there is music, sharp and rhythmic and singing through the air—and then they are back, and his ears are ringing, and there is a person, Noise-less, lying slumped on the street.

Neku blinks fast. The bitter taste of ozone lingers on his tongue. He breathes past it, and rushes for the body. “Hey! Are you okay?”

No answer. Oh, shit. Neku kneels by the man, reaching out, and freezes when his hand passes right through. “Wait—wait, no—”

The man fades away, as fragile as a dream. Neku doesn’t move.

Behind him, Minamimoto makes an interested sound. “So, the Inversion takes it all. Noise or nothing. A full circle.”

Neku curls his fingers. He still doesn’t know what the hell this Inversion thing is, but he’s starting to get the gist. “You mean…” So there was no saving the guy? Either existing as a fusion with Noise, or not existing at all? Is this what’s become of all the people in this place?

Neku grits his teeth. He bows his head.

Minamimoto makes a scornful noise and turns away. “Let’s go,” he says, dismissively. “We’re subtracting time.”

Neku clenches his jaw and rises to his feet. Right, he thinks. Right. It’s not over yet. Whatever happened here, whatever this is… he still has time to figure this out. Maybe… maybe he can find out what happened to this place, too. To these people.

He’s not playing to win, after all. He’s playing to finish this. He can add one more mystery to the list.

But for all his determination, his mood has soured. Minamimoto is walking down the street, casual as he pleases, but Neku lingers on the road, subdued, bitter despite himself. He looks up at the sky, and thinks of the mission mail, of that almost-presence during the fusion, the almost-whisper in his ears.

High above him, the sky flickers cold and red. The clouds churn like boiling water. When he blinks, he can see the afterimage of it on his eyes, like an imprint of the Reaper’s skull, glaring down at him. Burning.

“Hey,” he says. “Are you there?”

He waits. But no one answers.

Neku blinks the red from his eyes until the sky is gray and cold once more, then turns and walks away.

[alleiradayne]

LONG JACKET A DESTIEL-ISH SERIES

Over the last few years, I’ve seen some of the craziest shit hunting with the Winchesters and their angel, Castiel. But this story right here? This isn’t about monsters. This isn’t about the battle between good and evil, heaven and hell. I understand all that.

It’s people I don’t get. People are crazy. And we do crazy things when we’re in love.

PART V - JEANS

Summary: The fruits of their labor (well, some of their labor) pay off and the group lands a lead on the case. But once they learn what they’re up against, their odds of surviving wane. Warnings/Tags: Again, awkward flirting, mentions of rape Characters/Pairings: Castiel, Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Female!Reader Word Count: 1,741

“What is this?”

Sam stared at the list Dean had handed to him. “Businesses around the grocery store.”

“A barber, a record store,” Sam read aloud. “Nothing out of the ordinary. I’ll start looking into these places, see if anything jumps out.” He took the list to his laptop and dove right in.

I sat on the edge of the bed across the motel room as I flipped through local television stations. A breakfast burrito threatened to spill out of its wrapping as I bit into it, and I barely saved the renegade chunk of beef with a nearby napkin. “See anything strange last night?”

“Not a peep,” Dean stated. He was about to speak again as Castiel exited the bathroom in a fresh pair of jeans and a plain black t-shirt. Dean’s eyes widened but a fraction, so tiny a change that, before last night, I would have missed it.

But since then, every little quirk before and after confirmed my suspicions. A quick, knowing look passed between Sam and I. Though his focus remained on his computer, he muttered through his smirk, “Must have been boring.”

“Really boring,” I added as I hunched behind my burrito.

Palpable irritation bristled from Dean, and he struggled a moment before retorting. “Nowhere near as boring as I bet this motel room was last night.”

“Oh?” I mused. “So, you met up with Detective Williams then?”

He folded his arms across his chest and grumbled a petulant, “No.”

While fully aware that I prodded a sensitive nerve, I couldn’t help myself. “Why not?”

“Because!” he shouted. “Because I didn’t want to! Happy?!”

Nerve finally struck, I dropped the subject. “Alright, I get it. What did you find at the store?”

“It was closed,” Castiel stated as he stepped between Dean and I. “As was everything else.”

“Except the fortune-teller.”

Three heads, mine included, turned to Sam with a collective, “What?”

“The business right next door to the grocer,” he continued as he pointed to the list. “I looked up Madam Drina’s Visions. She’s some sort of fortune-teller or psychic.” Silence from our rapt attention spurred Sam onward. “The hours on her website list her open from noon to 2 am. Every day,” he explained. “That’s… unless she’s got two or more people working for her, that’s impossible.”

Dean dragged the container of breakfast potatoes across the table and popped three into his mouth. “Place looked mighty dark last night. How long she been there?”

“Gimme a second,” Sam replied as he clacked away on the keyboard of his laptop. Not a minute later, he said, “This doesn’t make any sense.”

“That’s not a good sign for the fortune teller,” Dean grumbled.

Confusion clouded Sam’s furrowed brow. “Unless this is a Dread Pirate Roberts situation,” he stated, “There’s no way any of this is possible. Madam Drina’s Visions has been in business for two and a half centuries across various locations. She’s only been here a few months. But, look at this.”

Sam spun the laptop to face us and slowly scrolled through a series of images. Like a portal into another time, the oldest photos passed first, dated and worn. Sam continued to work his way through the pictures, each decade well represented in fashion, décor, and medium. But then, out of the corner of my eye, a photo caught my attention as it crawled up the screen. It might as well have slapped my face, for I launched off the end of the bed and pointed as I spoke.

“Stop.”

Sam snatched his hand back from the laptop, and the screen stilled. I reached the table in two quick steps and scrolled back through the images until I found what had struck me. Recognition flashed in Dean’s narrowed stare, and he stood, ever so slowly, to back away from the table. Sam followed, rising as if the laptop itself might attack him were he to move too quickly.

Castiel, on the other hand, leaned in and squinted at the screen. “Is that what I think it is?”

A thick swallow bobbed Dean’s throat. He continued to back away from the computer as he said, “That right there is a very rare image of a partially revealed succubus. How in the hell does this picture even exist?”

“I have no fucking clue,” Sam replied as he, too, continued to inch away. “The photographer absolutely died right after taking that photo.”

“If the son of a bitch was lucky, he died right away…” Dean stated.

Despite my having spotted the picture, I had next to no clue what they were talking about. I raised my hand and said, “Hi, junior hunter here. Care to explain what a succubus is?”

“Sometimes, Y/N, I envy your innocence,” Dean began. “And I’m not poking fun when I say that. Succubi are…”

He paused then, hesitation hitching his breath in his throat. When he glanced at Castiel, his jaw clenched and his teeth ground. I followed that look and found Castiel still staring at the picture on the computer, squinting with his head cocked to the side as if to see it better.

Indeed, the picture was quite the puzzle. Candid. Mid-conversation. Unaware. Relaxed, even. The photographer must have called out to the group hanging out in what looked like a green room. And the medium itself looked like a Polaroid right out of the 80s, well preserved and taken with an expert hand. So innocuous, I couldn’t blame Sam or Dean for missing it at first.

In many fewer words, the image was dull.

Except for the faintest outline of a curling pair of horns protruding from Madam Drina’s head. And in her eyes shimmered the faintest purple glow, easily mistaken for red-eye or other retinal reflection. Further discoloration of her skin might be the Polaroid medium, but the subtle purple hue only showed on her. And the others? Four men, all staring at her, their gazes soft and smiles so big and bright.

“She killed all of them.”

Sam’s muttered thought interrupted my own, and I found him backed nearly to the bathroom. “What? How do you know that?”

“Look at them,” Dean said as he pointed. “She’s got them, hook, line, and sinker. They’re completely in her thrall.”

When I considered them again, understanding sank to the bottom of my stomach. “I’m getting a really gross vibe. What does a succubus do to its… prey?”

A full flush consumed Dean’s face, pursed lips releasing a deep breath. “They eat souls. Suck you dry until you’re nothing but a husk. And if you’re lucky, that’s the first thing they do to you.”

My mouth dried, and I stumbled over my words. “And… what if you’re not lucky?”

Sam spoke when Dean remained silent for too long. “They take every pleasure of the flesh imaginable from you. Over. And over. And over again. They break your mind, your body, your spirit—all of it. The worst of it is, their ultimate power convinces you that you want it. That you cannot live without their touch, their attention, or their... satisfaction.”

Goosebumps raced along my arms as a violent wave of nausea threatened to undo my breakfast. Holy hell. A real, live, literal rape-demon. Never in my life had I felt such righteous anger at another living creature. “We have to kill it.”

“Y/N, I’d love nothing more than to waste a succubus,” Dean growled. “Were it an incubus, there wouldn’t be an issue. I’d go over there right now and put a stake through its heart, and we’d be back on the road before dinner.”

Castiel spoke when Dean finished. “But succubi only target men.”

“Considering that they’re a particular kind of demon that needs to eat souls to survive, they’re damn picky,” Dean spat. “Bigoted bastards. I fucking hate ‘em. I hate ‘em all.”

Though wildly uncomfortable with the entire situation, I knew what I had to do. I had rarely felt such contempt for someone. Something. God, my skin crawled just thinking about it. Resolved, I spoke.

“I’ll kill it.”

Dean regarded me as if I’d sprouted a second head. “No,” he declared. “No way, we’re not sending you in there alone.”

“Back me up,” I interrupted. “I can distract her, and you take her out.”

“One of us should be bait,” Castiel determined. “I could. I am most likely immune to her powers.”

“Most likely?!” Dean bellowed. “You’re not even sure?! No way. If anyone’s going in there to be bait, it’s me.”

Castiel jumped up from the bed and shouted, a rare sight. “Do you have a death-wish?! Why are you always so willing to sacrifice yourself?!”

“Because it’s the right damn thing to do!” Dean barked.

“Hey!” I shouted, “Calm down! Both of you!” Neither Dean nor Castiel would budge an inch until I demanded, “Now!” Dean turned back first, and while Castiel remained where he stood, his stare dropped to his feet. “Christ, you two need couple’s counseling or something, this is getting ridiculous.”

“What?! We’re not—”

“Dean, it was a joke,” I interrupted. “Look, since none of you are guaranteed to survive as bait for a succubus, I am going in. End of—”

Nothing could have prepared me for the look I found on Sam’s face at that moment. Conflict raged beneath the surface, contorting his too pretty face. All my confidence fled in that instant, abandoning me to freeze in its chilling wake. And in its place, guilt and shame and distrust swelled for a cocktail so potent, the room spun.

“Are you sure, Y/N?” Sam asked.

No. Not anymore. But I heard myself say, “Yes.”

His conflict twisted into pain in his reddening eyes. But he acquiesced, nodding silently and heading for the motel room door. Over his shoulder, he said, “We should get this over with tonight. I’ll start prepping.” With that, he strode through the door, presumably for the Impala.

Dean followed him without a word. Though I knew Castiel yet lingered by my side, I startled when he spoke.

“I trust you, Y/N.” He placed a confident hand on my shoulder. “Whatever happens, we’ll be there to help, should the need arise.”

“Thanks, Cas,” I replied.

“Any time,” he said as he led me to the door. “Let’s give the guys a hand.”

Anything to take my mind off my impending doom. I strode through the door into the mid-morning sun and wondered if the weekend could get any more fucked up.

Reblogs and feedback are awesome. If you want in on the tags, send me an ask or a DM!

LONG JACKET MASTER LIST

ALLEIRADAYNE’S SPN MASTER LIST

[namjoonchronicles]

million dollar houses | nj, yg

↳ pairing namjoon, you, yoongi

↳ genre drama, fluff, angst, romance, crime

↳ words 6.5k

↳ warnings strong language, description of murder, mentions of prostitution, findom, eloping

↳ notes this was in the wips for about two years before i muster up all courage to have it finished. to me it was the sexiest story i’ve written of namjoon because he has tattoos and whatnot, but the reason why it took as long as it did, was i lacked faith in my writings. when i find a wimp of confidence, i went on and finished it, so here it is, pls enjoy them

↳ summary weeks before the wedding, lawyer min yoongi, your fiance had met up with a client who was charged with a homicide case. seems bleak and unimportant, until you saw this handsome client whom you recognize as your ex-boyfriend with a non-violent history, namjoon. armed with a messy break-up and lingering feelings, will you choose your past with namjoon or will you go forward with yoongi?

One look in my eyes and you should know the truth.

Fumbling with his keys, Yoongi was holding the car keys in between his lips, struggling to shove the key into the keyhole of your apartment. It was not even 7AM and he is already suffering. He had at least three paper bags in one arm and coffee in another and it forced out of him a small strange groan as he managed to twist the keys to open.

"Done," he exasperated. As if it were quite the hassle.

Upon the sounds of the door opening, you winced in bed, but not quite wanting to open your eyes though you hear him affectionately call you, "...babe, I'm home!"

A few things dropped while he walked in and the door slammed shut behind him.

"Fuck, crap," he cursed and set the things on the table except one paper bag that he brought to you in your bedroom.

He simply pushed the door and placed the bag on the empty space of your bed and crawled on all fours with a cheeky over-energized grin plastered on his baby face. The bed dips as his weight begins to settle on it, his body heat radiates to you and it makes you frown.

"You didn't sleep well after I told you the confirmation date, did you?"

He lowers himself to kiss your shoulder and trail them along your neck and jawline until finally your lips, where he lingered longer than the others. He giggles low and brush his lips to the helix of your ear, whispering hotly, "Brought you coffee."

Sliding your hand up his shoulder with your eyes closed still, you circled your arm around his neck and pulled him for a peck with a small suggestive moan, "Tell me all the things I want to hear...you know the way to my heart, mister..." you scrunch your face, and let out a question in a feigned manner, "...who are you again?"

Yoongi bit his lips, and hummed, "Oh dearie, you shouldn't be in my bed if you don't remember my name. And I'm pretty sure it was the only name you chanted a few days ago. This is unfair," he pouted.

"What's unfair?" You peeked at him through one eye. "...I know what your name is, but you don't remember mine..." he murmured, "I'm disappointed, Mrs. Min."

You pinched his chin and shaked it lightly, "Soon. Eager are we."

Yoongi handed you your coffee while you're still seated in bed. He took the paper bag earlier and folded one leg underneath him, "Look what I got from Innisfree."

You took a mouthful gulp of coffee and shook your head out to feigned disapproval.

"...a 100 more days set for a bride-to-be!" Yoongi rejoiced.

"I know, I'm the best fiance there is," Yoongi boasted and had to gulp down the drink in a hurry.

"I didn't know they have these..." You gasped, eyes crinkling at the corners in graceful excitement and collected the box in your hand, gingerly, carefully and so appreciatively. Someone would get you something as expensive and as thoughtful as these. Coming from a male perspective, Yoongi is highly unusual. Be it his love towards Holly, the house dog, and children.

"And, the invitation cards are ready. So we are going to the print shop to fetch it. And then we have food tasting next week," Yoongi listed, "I've emptied my schedule for the whole week. So you don't have to worry about that."

You leaned your head on his shoulder, sitting face to face, "Oh thank goodness for your existence. I have Hoseok's birthday to worry about and I'm about to go insane, and then there's yours too...holy fuck."

Piling yourself with a humanly impossible task is never the plan. The wedding had to be around May this year, and you have been planning it for at least a year. The invitation cards are ready and it feels so real now that Yoongi brought you the things you needed to organize the wedding.

Sometimes things get too difficult too handle that you almost give up. Thankfully, Yoongi understood the pressure of a wedding and so he catches everything that falls out of your hand, metaphorically speaking. Yoongi too is as busy as you are, he had just started his own firm and under the guidance of your father, he was able to organize a few things on his own. 

Sometimes, you worry that you're taking up his time by being an emotional wreck especially at the eve of wedding planning, but Yoongi proved to you that it was nothing more than just a mood swing--something he had been effortlessly finding his way about. He was needless to say, impressive in his way of dealing with ordeals that you find meticulous. A God-sent lovable creature who fills your hole in the most enchanting way he could. Although sometimes he struggles with fitting his own time. Like right now, when you sit next to him in the car and he is fumbling on his phone with an unsettling frown on his face. You knew instantly that he was trapped in between something.

"What's wrong honey?" You asked. He hisses before answering, "I forgot that I promised a client to meet today."

"Can't it be postponed until tomorrow?" "The client specifically said today so I don't think he's going to be here tomorrow, what do we do? This case is big, and if I win it, I can give the firm a new recognition and it will be a good start for the firm."

Yoongi chewed his lips. You fished out your phone to call the printing company and tell them that you can't take the printed invitation cards today. The smile on Yoongi's face was indescribable. Although it was brief, you could feel the sincerity.

"What's the case about?" You watched him as he drives. His cream coloured turtle neck covers up until underneath his jaw and his black long coat made his eyes look striking brown. He's breathtakingly beautiful, this lawyer who stole your heart.

"...It's a homicide." He flipped the cars' blinkers to the right and turned the wheel with the heels of his palm, while grumbling low, trying to remember the details of the case.

"My client pleads not guilty to a murder of a man in cement tank...remember that body that came in the news? When you stayed over at my place?"

You blinked a few times, trying to remember.

That night? You had spicy rice cakes and Yoongi's kimchi fried rice. It was extra delicious and he allowed you to stay overnight when he was preparing an argument draft in his legal pad, watching Law & Order Season 8. When he took a phone call and walked to his study room, he left a file open on the dining table. Your fingers were curious about it and so you took time to read what's written on the reports. There were several pictures of gang tattoos and one very disturbing picture of a dead body, found in a hardened cement. And just then, the midnight news covered the story. Your eyes darted to the large screen and you stepped away from the table to watch. Yoongi joined you after a bit.

"A body of a man found in the hardened cement tank a few days ago had been confirmed to be a twenty-two year old young men name, Park Jihoon, who was a Seoul University's dropout. Park was an Advanced Chemistry student who obtained a scholarship from the nation's education bank due to his impressive scores in the last exam held by the International Chemistry Olympiad, it brought pride to the nation."

Your hand dropped to Yoongi's knees as he sat next to you on the couch. "Park's death had been ruled as homicide and investigations are still ongoing. In other news..."

The value of a human is ridiculed nowadays. The strong feeds on the poor down to their dying days. You remembered, feeling repulsive on the thought. Who would want to kill such an aspiring child? He was going to be someone important.

"Yes I remembered that." Yoongi tutted his tongue at your response.

"My client is the one who was accused of killing the boy. He's a gangster." Your eyes bored into Yoongi's unaffected side profile.

Although there was a tinge of guilt in the way his eyes flickered, you knew he wasn't telling you a hundred percent. Yoongi isn't the kind to hide things from you.

"So you're defending this client." Your voice died.

Yoongi puckered his lower lips over the top one and stuck his eyes on the view ahead, "Innocent until proven guilty, remember? If I win this case, my firm will soar."

Blinking away, you stared at the trees on the side of the streets. Things always look different from a moving car. Perceptions. What people choose to see and what is the real truth, Yoongi's job often put him in between good and evil. They say, lawyers have one feet in hell, the other in heaven. And it seemed that he understood your silence.

"I know what you're thinking. But beggars can't be choosers. My clients pay me. And it isn't always about the money, I know. There's always two sides of the story. This case is important to me as how important it is to my firm..." Yoongi persuaded you with his soft tone.

"Ilsan Brotherhood," you shot and Yoongi intercepted, "How did you know?"

You stared at the pavements where people were walking on.

"I read about it, in one of my father's files. They are not to be toyed around with, Yoongi. They are out for blood and most of the time, they will come home with one."

You warned him. "Whatever you have against them, it will not change my mind about taking this case, I'm sure my client is innocent. You haven't heard his side of the story." Yoongi is stubborn. He lets the idea of how winning this case will bring him pride and joy when you feared for his life.

Ilsan Brotherhood was not a stranger to you. They are the most active syndicate since the 2000s up until now. Even your little brother have heard of it.

"Can I come with you?" You unfastened your seatbelt. "Stay in the car." Yoongi shot.

He shut the car door that is parked by the large road, opposed to a bathhouse. You know this bathhouse, it has a Japanese restaurant link to it. Maybe you can't go in the bathhouse, but you can see that the restaurant’s bathroom is connected.. You exited the car and followed after Yoongi's footsteps but instead of entering the bathhouse where he is, you walked into the Japanese restaurant.

"A table for one, in a private room please?" You smiled. And she directed you to the room. They only have a wall made out of bamboo sticks and after the waitress left, you sneaked out of that room and sneak your way through the bathhouse. Until you heard Yoongi's voice coming from the end of the hallway.

"Fuck, he's in the restaurant..." You cursed in your head and scrambled to enter another private room that was thankfully empty but strangely had the lights on.

"...Meticulous, but we can find another loophole in the matter if we look close enough to the witness account," Yoongi commented and is walking in the room where you were.

"So this is the private room of the restaurant that conveniently is connected to the bathhouse?" Yoongi asked and you panic because you hear his footsteps coming nearer and nearer to the sliding door. That's when you crawled into an empty cupboard that was there, fit yourself in the lowest compartment and folded your legs in as small as you can be, leaving a tiny gap open, just large enough for your eyes to see and listen.

"Yoongi is going to kill me..." you thought to yourself but you were honestly not scared. 

You only feared getting caught. 

Yoongi folded his legs underneath and that's when the Japanese sliding door opened to reveal a tattooed young man with the clear words in big blocks of Old English font: Sinner; on his back. You held your breath and widened your eyes. This man, gangster, who was putting on his Japanese robe, had striking blonde hair and undercut on the sides. His brows strong and purposeful in one glimpse, charismatic in another. You knew that this man was a leader with many loyal followers.

Yoongi was incredibly relaxed and you could tell that it was not his first time meeting this man. He was also cautious enough not to let you know.

"I'm sorry I almost forgot about today," Yoongi started to explain himself and next to Yoongi was another men with long earrings, chirpy and far too smiley to be in a gang, but he oozes an aura of loyalty. It's really difficult to see who else was there but you held on to listen more.

"The boss had been enduring several sleepless nights because he had been getting some unwanted calls from the authorities and wondering if there's anyway you could, pardon the harshness of my words, shut them up..." The young man had a high-pitched voice.

"I know, I've been pulling some strings as well, but it will take time. I want to talk to Namjoon...Jimin, alone." Yoongi dropped his gaze on the table and Namjoon eyed Jimin to leave. 

"...I will have to know what happened that night Namjoon," Yoongi explained, "I can't help you if you don't tell me a hundred percent."

Namjoon was visibly obedient by the request. He nodded twice and inhale then exhale, "I will give you all the information needed. I'm not exactly a clean slate to begin with," His voice was an octave lower than Yoongi's. More stories about to be unfold, once Namjoon fixed an appointment to meet Yoongi again, at a later and a more convenient time.

Yoongi excused himself and left Namjoon alone. You watched him sat there, hanging his head low before straightening up in his seat to nip another roll of sushi in his mouth. You were absolutely unafraid.

Yoongi returns to an empty car. He spun around to search for you. "Where the hell did she go?"

Pushing the sliding door open slowly, Namjoon froze in his seat, reaching for a blade underneath his cushion. He softens when he saw a drape of long hair falling on each side of your shoulder. Crawling on all four, you grunted out of your hiding place. And Namjoon began to chew slowly as if it didn't bother him.

"Didn't think I'd meet you this way," he grumbled.

"How much do I need to pay you to not bother Yoongi?" You spat.

And Namjoon answered that with a low chuckle. "...you think you can afford me?" He smiled to his food.

"I'm not playing Namjoon. He's not one of you." You warned, standing up.

"Because he graduates from law school and is from a good family? Congratulations," he was bemused by it.

You rolled your eyes to the side. Namjoon shoved another sheet of dried laver into his mouth. Unaffected by your childish play, he stares back at you like an audience to a performer. He was rather enjoying this.

"You didn't see me here today," you warned him, feet halfway out of the room when you heard Namjoon say, "No reunion kiss?"

Growling inwardly, you left the room undetected at came out of the Japanese Restaurant.

"Where were you?" Yoongi asked from a distance.

"I went to the bathroom, I was about to pee in my pants!" You jogged to him, crossing the empty street. "Hurry, we can still catch up if we go right now. The printing shop is still open."

You sat in the car while Yoongi settled the bills in the printing shop. Your phone dings a message from an unknown number. It said only one thing,

"Pandora, @ 1am."

Of course he'll have your number. Namjoon is capable of anything, including murder. 

The faceless and nameless man is Kim Namjoon. Watching Yoongi walked back into the car with two bags full of printed invitations card, you felt your heart tug. 

You were certain that this meeting needed to be done so he knows where you stand. You have a life now, and you're determined to keep it. That's why you're here in Pandora at 1 AM as instructed.

Namjoon stood by the handrails, overlooking the night sky, in a grey tuxedo and black dress shirt that compliments his blonde hairdo. His long arm stretch along one side while the other is holding a glass. Musky scent filled the open air on the verandah, in contrast of the hyped clubbing floor just underneath. The smell of cigarettes was still lingering around your nose making you appreciate Namjoon's cologne. Hearing the sound of your sneakers on the wooden surface of the veranda, Namjoon tipped his head up to the night sky, downing a glass of bourbon in his hand.

"Cancer sky's out here tonight to mock me, despicable stars," he rolled his head around, still giving you his back, "Funny how I almost thought you wouldn't come," he added a dry chuckle.

"I came to tell you that it's finally over," you sounded determined. Namjoon hung his head low then throw his head back, in a manner that a broken man should behave.

"He's treating you well?" he paused, smiling at the sky and biting his lips, "...With his expensive Rolex and Gucci ties, his Rolls Royce and wit? You like how he treats you?" He tries to edge you, he turns around to face you, leaning his back to the rails and watch the drink in his swirl with a tut of his tongue, his lips parted a little.

His elbow is on the handrail, as he took another sip, "You've always liked men in high places. Always falling for a fool with great brains," he said in a mocking tone. You marched straight at him and gritting your teeth while he fixes his stance, you growled, "...At least I was not starving."

His personal space was invaded and it was nothing foreign to him, "...I'll give him credit for that." He cocked his eyebrow, gliding his eyes away from you, challenging.

"It's always been about the money isn't it?" You heard him say, pulling his gaze back to you and you stepped back when he took a step forward, downing another painful gulp of strong alcohol into his throat. But the burns he felt in his systems is not as horrific as the wounds you left on him.

You spun around, throwing your hands in your hair before you turn to him and shove him back once, twice.

"I fucking loved you Namjoon. Very much," you growled in his face and stepped away, facing away from him.

"Yeah, but not enough to stay..." Namjoon taunted you while he tailed you.

You faced him one more time. Tears brimming, glassy eyes and pained.

"I would have died for you..." you choked, and, "...I would have fucking died for you."

You pushed banged his chest with your fist and gradually, you weakened as the tears spills.

"You know what we had, it was real..." your lips quivered, your eyes pleading at him to understand.

But his gaze remains hard and unaffected. Those eyes used to be so soft on you. Those hands only held yours and those arms were your home. Those lips belong to you and they say all the things you want to hear. Those intense gaze was yours to take.

Namjoon was yours, all yours.

In a small apartment in the outskirts of town, not more than five years ago, with broken windows and one bedroom, you were so in love. It was your little paradise where Namjoon is a troubled boy everyone stayed away from. Who gave you a peek of his sentimental side and made you fall for his dimpled smile, Namjoon was stained soul with untainted heart. But his appearance made people stay away from him. He couldn't find a job because people don't want to employ a young adult with a mistake he made in his teens. You were his only support system. With no job that pays enough, you were the one sacrificing your time to work in two places. You tutored in the day and worked in a convenience store at night. He walked you to work and back. And even when he smiles, you know he was upset.

"What's wrong baby?" You asked, curling your arm around his waist as you walked. Some people passes you by.

He dropped his gaze to the floor, "...I know what impressions I gave out. I see them giving me 'the eye'. I know I'm a piece of trash, they don't need to be loud about it. The car wash center fired me today, and no pay..." He chuckled dryly and you stopped in your tracks.

Namjoon continued walking but halted after a bit, turning his side at you.

"Come on, I want to be home," he waved his hand, coaxing you to come to him, "The rent is due this week and I have no idea how to pay that," he mumbled.

You put money into an envelope and slid them in the drawer when Namjoon showered. You were prepared. You always put money aside in case shit happened. He slid into the single bed with you, smelling like soap. The bed is so small, your legs overlapped his just to give him more space. Laying on top of him will provide both of you enough space to wriggle about, so it has been a common practice. You lay your head next to his chest where you could hear his heartbeat while his hand will find their way on the small of your back, rubbing them in meaningless circle, thumbing your flesh to soothe you. His touches are always entrancing, gentle and tender. Unlike anything his tattoos represent. He called your name when you're half awake, in whispers, and,

"Do you ever feel like leaving me?" He asked in a small gritty voice, "...you can have a better life without me, you know..." He blinked at the ceiling and inhaled.

That's when you gaze up to him in a newfound consciousness and gave him a peck on the lips, "...Don't say things like that, you know I would never survive a day without you."

He switches on his side and make you lay on your side as well. You lay face to face, while his arm draped lazily over your thin waist. Nose clashing with each other as he sighed,

"I only want what's best for you. I cannot promise you things I want to give you. I want to give you so much...I don't deserve you," his eyes were frightened so they glided away from you.

You look at him with certainty and affections, "...Hey, look at me."

They trail up to you, slowly, almost hesitantly, "...You will find another job. And they'll pay better. And don't worry about the rent, I got you," You patted his chest gently, twice, and an assured smile. He thumbed your chin and then let his thumb ran along the length of your lower lip. His eyes were fixated on it and slowly, he placed them in between his very own, and began to suckle them softly.

"What are we doing baby?" You sighed when he dove his face in your neck, and you feel his lips on that small patch of skin that's known to drive you over the edge without him doing much.

"...The only way I know now that will make you instantly happy," he grazed his teeth on that same spot, pulling you closer than you already are, his voice already throwing your conscience out the window. You don't have to tell him where to caress. Namjoon knows every little spot that would make you weak, like it was in the back of his hand. Guaranteed to make you a writhing mess underneath him.

Making love in small tight places. The fact that you can't make noises makes it even better and rewarding.

When it's good, it’s going great.

But desperation could drive any sane man to become what he's not. Namjoon was going to make money, and he didn't care how.

He didn't like to see you working two jobs and the household is doing things the other way around. You were earning money and raising him. It scarred his pride. So he resorted to the one place you told him not to go, the club. He was quickly and most frequently booked by many wealthy females.

Most of them were lonely widows and secret mistresses of powerful men, who paid Namjoon a remarkable amount of money for his time and a little fun. All the while he was beginning to create his rapport, he had money stacked in one bank account. No longer were you starving to pay the rent and even though he sometimes disappeared into thin air when you search for him, being able to afford things was becoming more important than the reason behind his frequent absence. He was extremely generous in bed and he got better with his words and brought himself with more confidence than before, it was a very good change.

He brought you out of that shitty apartment to a better one.

You have more space but you felt him drifting away. And you don’t know why. 

Walking home from work, alone is your everyday now. Namjoon traded his casuals to tuxedos and sandals to leather shoes. He began to bring home many colognes and tell you that it was a gift from the marketing team. One night you found a pink vibrant G-string in his black pants, while doing the laundry. Unable to wait for him to leave the tub, you stormed into the bathroom and threw them in his face. Disappointment. Betrayal.

Namjoon grabbed his robe and went after you, chanting, "Baby, I can explain! Its yours. I got it for you..." A stinging slap went across his face.

"You think I didn't know..." you tipped your head to one side, quizzically, grumbling back at him with glassy eyes, "I know you're fucking around with the widows in this city Namjoon. And wealthy women, you like money that much that you sold your dignity?" You cocked your head to one side, your voice clipped. You grabbed his wallet and took out all the cards he had.

"Thank you for tonight. I had a lot of fun after a long time." "Namjoon, I look forward to our next meeting." "I'm all yours Mr. Kim."

You scoffed. "You create quite a stir now ha... tattooed good-looking man with incredible proportions, you loved the attention? How dare you come home and kiss me with those filthy lips of yours."

"You wanted money. We wanted money." "Gained the right way!" You raised your voice at him. "Well the right way is taking too long!" And he roared just as loud.

You turned away from him, "...Unbelievable."

Namjoon shook his head, pinching his temples between two hands, "...Let's talk about it in the morning," he reaches for your arm and you yanked them away at once.

"Get your hands off of me," You grumbled. He clenched his jaws.

You grabbed your jacket and put on your jeans while he sat on the edge of the bed, covering his face and exhaling.

"Where are you going...it's 3AM," He sighed, "You're giving me a hard time right now. I did what I needed to do," he watched you shove some clothes in a backpack.

You added a chuckle, "My ass. If I was selling myself, we would make more than you ever did."

Zipping them up angrily, "Have fun fucking girls while I'm gone. I'm never coming back. You can give them my clothes," You yanked the door open and stormed out.

“I gave you everything you wanted… a better house, pretty clothes, good food, how dare you do this to me…” he growled, holding the door shut as you struggle to leave.

“That was what you wanted!” you roared in his face, and he visibly froze. You softened,

“I only wanted you,” your voice cracked, brittle and hushed.

It was obvious that he didn’t want the same thing. He was blinded by wealth. And he got comfortable standing on the middle ground at the cost of his soul.

Namjoon's performance dwindled down. He began losing clients, one by one. And although he had more than enough to maintain his lifestyle, he can never fill the hole you left. You cut too deep and he didn't intend to have your replacement anytime soon. His heart was a fool for you and only you.

You were gone for weeks. Jumping to one bathhouse to another with some money you saved from having two jobs. Namjoon knew where you worked so you decided to leave that job and find another. You took wages in doing small sewing jobs just to keep up with yourself. And one night, your free-lance job brought you back to Namjoon's place. You wondered from outside his windows why it's still on. Sitting at the curb to watch some more, you had clothes barely enough to keep you warm, gazing up at the level of his apartment. His extravagant penthouse.

"...Are you sleeping well without me?" You whispered to him as if he was there next to you. You fold your arms and rested them on your knees before laying your head on top of it. I’m not sleeping at all, you whispered in your heart.

Namjoon on your side of the bed. His eyes were unforgiving and he didn't allow himself to sleep since you left. He was going insane on his own that he began to speak to you as if you're in the same room.

"I left the door unlocked, and there's keys under the mat," he said. He sets two plates on the table when he eats while even without you. Bought your favourite chocolate bars that you two used to share. He sat in the walk-in wardrobe and took one of your clothes before sniffing them, inhaling your scent because he misses you so much he could barely think.

"Please come back... please." He prayed. It's just not the same without you.

You remember it all. How he stood by the lamp post with his flyers promoting jobs in his worn out shoes and foolish smile to every stranger that passes him by. Those flyers get stepped on, thrown away and torn. You remember how you gave up half of your instant noodles, so he could have more. Money pinching life, but the happiest you had ever been in your entire existence. It didn’t matter if it was raining and he’s drenched, giving out flyers, it didn’t matter if your back is sore from washing dishes in a nearby diner and finger calloused from days on end using detergents, it didn’t matter that it was a hard life to live because Namjoon was there to help you go on. You had Namjoon, 

and that was enough.

Just weeks to spare until the wedding. Invitation cards stack on the corner of your shared room. You shouldn’t be thinking about another man in the bed you shared with your fiance. You shouldn’t be thinking about his smile, or his laugh, or the way he looked at you. You shouldn’t be able to word every touch and every moment you spent with him. You shouldn’t be able to make of the shape of his face, the sound of his voice when he is angry, when he is happy or when he is sad, or remember with utmost precision where all his birthmarks are and you shouldn’t have remembered where your favorite one is, the one that’s on his upper right thigh. You shouldn’t be able to point the scars on his right knee and how long it was. You remembered him details. You remembered Namjoon in details. And it’s a wretched thing to do for a bride-to-be.

Tears streamed across your nose bridge, as you lay on the side, boring into the view of an opaque translucent curtain, moving softly. You wipe the tears harshly, with the back of your hand, along with the thoughts of Namjoon and that’s when you hear Yoongi coming in.

“Why are you’re up so late?” he crawled into bed, holding the blankets up, simultaneously, pressing his lips on your shoulder, draping his arm around your waist, inhaling your scent. Thunder crackling in the black sky, flickering lightning behind thick puffs of clouds, and then,

The rain pours. Just like that night.

Dusk until dawn, you promised me. 

Not even the rain could stop you two from wanting to dance in the streets. Your skin is wet from sweat and it washed down from the heavy rain. Big smiles on both of your faces, he twirls you around and you go on your tippy toes feeling absolutely safe even when the lightning strikes. Sharing one cup of noodles in the convenient store because that was all you could afford to not go starving for the night. You sewing up his only dress shirt’s button on while he stares down fondly at you, holding up the flashing lights because the room you both rented had the electricity cut off from outstanding bills. You both had nothing, and yet, everything.

You promised that I won’t be alone, and when things go wrong, you’d still be here. You promised. You lied.

You were a fool in love. You gave up your family for that boy. And where else could you have gone, if not back to your family? They built you up from scrap, had you meet the man you’re with today. The wind strikes your face the same way it did with Namjoon, but with feigned calamity. A false security and deceitful smile. Are you convincing yourself that you’re okay with the man you’ve promised to marry? Or are you deceiving yourself into believing that he was right to marry? Especially when you saw his greed to defend someone in the wrong? Just for the sake of his firm?

An unfinished business. A lingering string of thoughts. It buzzes through Namjoon’s mind as he sat in his leather chair, swirling his glass of wine. Scents of Mahogany strikes up his nostril, drilling through his thoughts at the possibility of jail time should he be proven guilty. The boy. Right, the college Chemistry boy.

He threatens the market. It was the only market that feeds Namjoon of his lavish expenses,his uncontrollable urge to possess everything he only dreamt of.

“It was the words that came out of that boy that made me feel he shouldn’t be alive,” Namjoon arched an eyebrow and Yoongi visibly stiffened. Tactless, and merciless--was the way he said it. Namjoon really did sell his soul to the devil. And he proceed to gorily describe how he killed the boy.

“He regurgitates, sputtering blood all over the cord I wrapped around his Adam’s apple, and I dragged his pulsating body through the dirt and put his face into the liquid cement that hasn’t dried. Then I put his entire body inside…” Namjoon’s dark gaze lifts up to meet Yoongi’s and he did the unthinkable,

He smiled.

Without remorse.

“D’you know what he said?” Namjoon rests his elbows on the edge of the table, “Called me a beggar. The nerve of that boy.” He chuckled. But Yoongi didn’t join.

Namjoon downed a mouthful of wine and left his chair. Army of loyal followers waiting for him outside. The police are at the door, with handcuffs. They have him remanded until trials began. Will he remains his stance as not guilty? It is hardly so, now that Yoongi had known the truth. The prosecution's will soon find out what other crimes he did. And he will be in jail for good. While he got remanded, he received a visitor.

“Does your fiance know, you’re here?” he asked, with that boyish grin you were familiar with.

“He won’t, if you don’t tell,” you snapped.

You took one long look to his figure, his face, the features that stood out, the tattoos that boldly peek through his neck hole and syncopate on his skin, his forearms and knuckles.

“Do they make you stronger? Those drawings on your skin?” you asked, through your lashes and your eyes tips up to meet his.

“The pain that comes while I’m getting them, does. It made me feel something after you were gone,” he shrugs his shoulders, sitting slouched in his chair.

“I’m getting married, Namjoon,” not wishing to beat around the bush anymore, you shot, “I’m really getting married…”

Namjoon jutted his chin out, hollowed his cheeks and somberly nodded. His gaze cast down to his lap, “I know…I’ll be in jail.”

You don’t love him, you pitied him. At least, that’s what you told yourself, forcing your eyes stay open and it stings, till tears fall to your cheek.

“Don’t cry,” he whispered, even though he wasn’t even looking at you, he knew, and, “You should be happy, Yoongi’s a great person. You’ll be very happy. Even within this thick walls, I still make you cry…”

“Don’t tell me what to do…” you grumbled. Wiping your tears with the back of your hand, you grab your purse and took out a bank account book he had shipped to your home address, “I can’t accept this.”

Along with the handwritten letters that came with it.

The chair scratched against the concrete floor, and Namjoon stared at the bank account book while you exited the room. His lips hung open and he blew hot air to his forehead as the door slammed shut behind you.

The crowds begin to cheer as you walk into the aisle, hand-in-hand with your father. He had a vibrant smile on, to match your subtle ones. And at the end of the aisle was Min Yoongi, your soon-to-be husband. And with every step approaching him, you leave Namjoon and his words behind.

This bank account I started when we rented a room in that run-down apartment.

Veils covered your face. Forward.

I made a vow that I’ll give them to you once the money inside is enough for a decent wedding.

Heart thumps. You tighten your grip around your father’s arm. Forward.

Of many promises that went unfulfilled,

Your knees feel loose but you held on. Forward. Forward.

At least I could fulfill these.

One last row and Yoongi is within reach. Forward.

I wish you happiness, even without me.

Namjoon basks in the sun in his prison attire, by the monkey bars, pondering about the love he had once received, and now lost. 

The cost of a million dollar house is his soul, his future and his past.

.

.

.

.

End.

[beyond-the-mirror]

Drunk uncle Dante explains: Christmas

So recently I watched a very funny video called Drunk uncle explains Christmas and I couldn’t help but think of uncle Dante trying (and failing miserably) to explain Christmas to a very curious little Nero. 

In this context, Dante is visiting his parents’ house for the holidays (Eva and Sparda are still alive in this AU) as well as Vergil and his son Nero.

This was written purely for laughs and giggles, so don’t take it too seriously. By the way, this is the video I'm parodying with this short fic if you want to check it out, although I changed a few things to adapt it better for the purpose of this story. It’s in spanish though, but you can turn the subtitles on. Anyway, hope you enjoy!

..........

It was the night before Christmas. A chilly air ran through the ever so active city of Red Grave, which currently had its streets covered in a soft and pristine layer of snow reflecting all the colorful lights that decorated every corner of the city.

People gathered together in their homes to share a most anticipated reunion with their beloved families, mouth-watering food served on their dinning tables to celebrate the holidays, as well as the numerous wrapped presents hidden underneath the Christmas trees ready to be opened.

And of course, the Sparda household was no exception to these festivities.

Tiny hands wandered around a beautifully decorated tree, its fingers feeling around the decorations that sparked curiosity and wonder in the eyes of little Nero. Tucked between the trees branches, a porcelain star caught Nero’s attention, his little fingers reaching out at the trinket. His attempt was interrupted however, when a very loud snore broke the silence that had covered the living room.

Nero turned around searching for the origin of the sound, finding out that it was his uncle Dante who had fallen asleep on the couch nearby.

“Uncle Dante? Uncle Dante, don’t fall asleep yet!”

As small hands nudged the man’s shoulder, Dante slowly woke from his drunken slumber, having already downed a couple of wine bottles (and probably a whiskey one too), though due to his demonic heritage, he only felt a bit tipsy.

“Ummm, c’mon kid... let your uncle sleep for a little longeeer.”

“But uncle Dante, it’s only seven o’ clock. Dinner will be ready any minute now, and we haven’t even opened the presents!”

“Ughh... fine, you’re lucky you’re adorable as hell.”

Dante stretched and yawned while little Nero sat on the carpet, next to the toy train set his grandpa Sparda had set for him early.

“By the way uncle Dante, can you tell me the story of Christmas? Pleeeaaase? You always have the best stories!”

Dante sat silently until he finally relented thanks to the huge puppy eyes his nephew was giving him. “Alright then. But only because I’m the coolest uncle ever right?”

“Yes! The best one too!” Nero giggled enthusiastically, which always warmed his heart to no extent.

“Ok, fetch me that book over there.”

Nero handed the requested book to his uncle, which he proceeded to open and read out loud, starting with the story.

“Alright. Long, long time ago... in the ancient Egypt-”

Nero giggled once again “Silly uncle Dante! Papa says the story took place in Jerusalem.”

“Ok, ok then. So, Mary was doing housework, ironing some clothes because their housekeeper was fired-”

“Like they did to you uncle?”

Dante sighed “No- I wanted to stay at your grandparent’s house for a few days longer, that’s it!”

“You were kicked out of your office because you owed five months worth of rent, you irresponsible imbecile!” Vergil shouted from the studio where he was currently reading.

“Oh shut up Vergil! At least I know what a condom is!” Dante rudely shouted back at his twin before proceeding with the story. “Then, an angel arrived and his name was Gabe. Gabe told Mary not to be afraid because she will have a baby, who will be named Jesus and who will be the son of God. And Mary was cool with that.”

“Wait uncle Dante, how are children born?”

“Well that’s another fun story for another time, but in Mary’s case it was thanks to the Holy Spirit. Not so ‘holy’ tho, considering he messed with Joseph’s wife.” He snorted while a confused Nero tilted his head to the side. “Okay then, Joseph doubted Mary’s virginity, so he demanded a divorce.”

“What does virginity mean?”

“It’s like a hundred dollars bill. If you keep it, it serves no purpose, but if you use it, it’s gone forever. So make sure to spend it well and at the right time!”

“Ohhh I see.” Poor naive Nero, completely oblivious to what his uncle was talking really talking about. “Also, there were divorces at that time?”

“Yep, they were called ‘stonings’“

Little Nero nodded in complete awe at what he perceived, was his uncle’s great knowledge.

“But of course Mary demanded a divorce first, and exclaimed that she was keeping all the money, the car, as well as-”

“Stop mixing stories you buffoon! That happened to you with Lady!” Vergil’s angry voice once again interrupted the story.

“Stop bringing up my personal matters in front of the kid Verge!”

“Scum!”

“You son of a-!”

“Uncle Dante!” Nero’s innocent voice calmed Dante’s nerves, allowing him to take a deep breath and relax.

“Sorry ‘bout that, now where were we? Oh! Well it was the Holy Spirit, and Joseph wanted to take Mary to Las Vegas for their honeymoon... buuut they didn’t have any money, so they settled for Bethlehem instead.”

“There were honeymoons at the time?”

“Of course! You needed lots of money tho... but one day youuu Lady, wait ‘till I hit the jackpot and then you will see!”

“Get over your problems already!” Another exasperated interruption from his twin, Dante surely wasn’t getting any rest.

“Well then. The couple arrived at a cheap hotel room when suddenly, Mary went into labor. And that’s how sweet baby Jesus was born, our Lord and Savior I suppose.”

“Whoaaa...” Dante couldn’t help but feel proud that he managed to keep his nephew entertained with his fun, albeit inaccurate, stories. “Uncle Dante, was Jesus a good person?”

“Good? He was great actually! He could turn water into wine and stuff!”

“Can I drink wine too?”

“Of course! The bible says so after all.” Dante was about to hand his nephew the unfinished bottle of wine he had kept next to the couch when suddenly-

“IF YOU GIVE WINE TO MY SON I SWEAR ON OUR DEMONIC LINEAGE THAT I WILL MUTILATE YOU BEYOND RECOGNITION!”

“Damn it!” As soon as Vergil’s voice entered his ears, he quickly retracted his hand, taking the bottle of wine and putting it as far away as possible from innocent little Nero who jumped at the immense power and fury in his father’s tone.

“Let’s continue with our story. Thus Mary uploaded Jesus’ baby pics to Twitter and the Fairly OddParents star-faved the pics-”

“Nooo uncle Dante! That’s not how the story goes!” Nero laughed wholeheartedly “Papa told me once. The star was up in the sky and they weren’t the Fairly OddParents, they were the Three Wise Men.”

“Okay okay, three men, got it.”

“Three WISE men. And they were kings!”

“Whatever you say kid.”

“And one was black!”

“A bit racist if you ask me.” Dante rolled his eyes and bit back a laugh before continuing. “So, the star told the three wise kings to follow them for God’s sake, literally, and they arrived at the stable where Jesus had been born with gifts for him. One gifted him gold, the other gifted him myrrh-”

“Wait uncle Dante, what is myrrh?”

“Let’s say... it’s a kind of herb.”

“Like the one papa once found under your bed and stabbed you with his blue floating swords for?”

“It was for medicinal purposes I swear!” Dante nervously responded, flustered by his nephew’s sudden question. “Ahem... and the other dude gifted him incense.”

“Why incense, uncle Dante?”

“They were in a stable! You ever been to one? They smell like crap!”

“What about the massacre of children in Bethlehem? Papa also mentione that.”

“Of course! Hitler was a monster, worse than any demon I ever encountered!”

“Noooo silly uncle Dante! It was King Herod! Hitler was austrian and from a different era.”

“Whoa whoa whoa kid, who’s holding the damn book again?”

“The book is upside down uncle Dante. And that’s not even the Bible, that’s papa’s favorite book.”

Once he gave a closer inspection, Dante realized he had been holding the book upside down indeed. Moreover, once he closed it to look at the cover, he noticed that it had been Vergil’s beloved anthology of William Blake all this time. 

Sighing and setting the book aside, Dante turned to his lovely nephew “Look little Nero. The important thing about Christmas is that we are all here gathered as a family. It’s not about the gifts or the turkey, it’s about love, like the one of the family of Jesus, Mary and Joseph. It doesn’t matter where we come from. Joseph raised Jesus with lots of love, and that’s why he became such a good dude and sooo famous.”

Nero smiled warmly at the words, and Dante couldn’t help but ruffle his cute nephew’s soft white locks of hair, making him giggle.

“That means...” Dante continued “that even if you are not a planned child, like you Nero, we still love you all the same.”

“Huh? Not planned?” Nero tilted his head in confusion. “Does that mean... I’m adopted?” Tears were beginning to form at the corner of his baby blue eyes. However, Dante couldn’t even explain the misunderstanding when a loud bang resonated through the entire house.

“DAAANTEEEEE!!!” Vergil had barged out of the studio and into the living room, furious to the point that he had Devil Triggered and with a halo of summoned swords around him.

Needless to say, poor Dante had to run for his life from his rampaging brother, a chase that was soon put to an end after Grandma Eva stepped out and reprimanded both siblings with a rolling pin and a look so stern and powerful that made them both cower in fear and respect. Meanwhile, Grandpa Sparda decided to stay and calm down little Nero, showing him his new train set until the boy was giggling blissfully once again.

Just another normal day at the Sparda household after all.