#make them face the consequences of their actions

[andromeda-starship]

AHH! Yes! I love all the little details and nuances you put into this! I think you so accurately characterized both Matt and Frank in this, including how their unique traumas (and violent coping mechanisms to appease their guilt, giving them a sense of control) affect those around them.

Matt is such a complicated character, and it’s true that without all the explanations and complex that come from the viewer’s omniscience- he’s a difficult book to read. He hid his powers from his best friend for a decade, he lies to everyone, and even though WE know that there are some compelling reasons for those actions- those who are living their lives alongside his own only see the results of his choices, of his traumas, his coping mechanisms, and how he hurts those around him by leaving so much of his past hurt unresolved. Festering within him, poisoning his relationships by limiting his perception to something that is ultimately selfish and self-serving.

Don’t get me wrong- taking in Matt’s experiences in life, it’s somewhat understandable. He lost his father because Jack thought he’d be worth more to Matt dead, leaving him alone and vulnerable, his world on fire. Stick trained him, cruel, cold, and ruthless- then abandoned him when he couldn’t be who he wanted him to be. Elektra, the first person Matt could be himself around 100%, had loved him- but not enough to stay. To not try and force him into being someone he’s not. That he’s worked so hard NOT to become.

I can’t imagine what it was like all those years, lying in bed, hearing every terrible thing hiding in the darkness. That one story of the day he first let the devil in him win, when he beat the father who was touching his daughter at night, after all his other attempts to help failed… How could we fault him? How could we fault him for caring? For doing something when he saw how the system failed the vulnerable? How could we not love the man who had restrained his inner beast for so long, only to snap- now balancing on the unraveling moral tight rope of a line every single night because he couldn’t lie there and do nothing.

The thing is, Matt is a hero to us because he can’t hide it like he does in his own reality. Like he does in all his relationships. So who can blame the reader for her perception of reality when it’s all she knows?

I think with Frank, he is so forthright with his motivations. With his reasoning. He doesn’t hide, he doesn’t lie, he knows who he is. Why he does what he does. And so does everyone else, especially those close enough to see the reality of his broken heart- the one of a loving father and husband. One who lost everything which anchored him. One who decided he had nothing to lose, and took on all the consequences without any hesitation. One who would take on the blame for the reader, because in the end he’s the one who is oh so willing to make the sacrifice.

I think it’s funny how Matt has so many religious themes, but Frank really is a martyr. Matt is reluctant, he can’t take the consequences of his actions, he hides his shame and his confliction behind blistering anger and stubborn pride into everything falls apart. I think it also has to do with their relationships with faith, their ideas of god.

Matt believes.

Frank does not.

Frank sees a chaotic world in an unfeeling universe, sees how the good are hurt by the powerful, and decides to bath in the blood of the unrighteous, wades steadily through as an unwavering force, an angel who smites the wicked- all with his face bare.

Because he is unafraid. He knows what he’s doing has consequences, but that won’t stop him from doing what he feels needs to be done to ease the unbalanced scales of the world we live in. One which Frank sees clearly and accepts as it is- no romanticization. Just the truth.

I think this characterization is really represented so well in how the reader perceived these two men.

Matt is a force of guilt.

Frank is a force of acceptance.

And at some point, you have to let the burden of guilt go, and fall into the loving, unwavering strength found in the open arms of acceptance.

And get a dog with him.

SAME SIN

pairing - frank castle x reader

summary - in your darkest hour, matt doesn't answer the phone. but frank does.

warnings - blood, death, violence, attempted robbery, religious trauma, possible infidelity, matt's lowkey kind of a bitch in this but that's ok, probably deviates from canon at times but fuck it we ball, MDNI 18+

word count - 3.5k

// masterlist // send me your thoughts // comments & reblogs appreciated! //

Blood wept from your fingertips, dripping onto the asphalt.

It had soaked through the man’s shirt. Oozed from the scattered holes in his chest, pooling around his torso. His lungs breathed no air. His eyes didn’t blink, gazing sightless up towards the Heavens. 

Sickness hit in a crushing wave. 

You doubled over, clutching your stomach as bile surged up your throat, burning over your tongue. The gagging continued long after there was nothing left, saliva dribbling from your bottom lip. 

Then there was stillness. 

Not the stillness of calm, or peace. But punishment. Sentencing. The solemn gaze of an all-forgiving Father as he stands before you, stone in-hand.

[To kill is a violation of Faith—] 

{—You or them?} 

The gun had still been smoking when it’d clattered at your feet. 

Regret felt like a wet blanket on your shoulders, suffocating in its weight. You couldn’t stand it.

Couldn’t stand.

Asphalt dug into your knees, crumpling at the man's side. Your hands had been shaking as you grabbed his wrist, searching for a pulse, praying for it in the way a sinner prays for absolution.

You found none. 

No pulse. No absolution. 

Still, you tried. Locked your fingers over his chest—pressing and pressing, trying and trying. Until thick ribs cracked and caved, until your palms were drenched in warmth and death and–

Rain. 

It was raining. 

Little drops, softly pattering all throughout the alleyway. You watched, dazed, as they slid down the lit-up screen in your hands. 

You didn’t remember pulling out your phone, but you remembered making the call. 

Calls. 

In the Bible, the number seven is considered sacred. Symbolic of divine oaths and promises, of perfection in the purest, most angelic sense. 

Seven times you called the Devil. 

Seven times he didn’t answer. 

You tilted your head back. The rain fell faster, cool drops steady rolling down your cheeks. The sky was a yawning, starless expanse. In the past, you’d always said that’s why you hated the city. The lack of stars—veiled by pollution and human selfishness, replaced by a twinkling skyline made of artificial hope. 

But tonight was different. Tonight, you were glad for their absence. 

At least the stars hadn’t seen what you’d done. 

Blood smeared across the phone screen as you dialed your eighth call. A different tone than before; a number not saved but remembered. 

A number you’d promised Matt you’d never call again. 

{In case you ever need it—} 

[—I don’t trust him.] 

What is trust? 

Once, it felt like the comfort of sunlight pouring through stained glass windows. Sitting amidst the oaken pews with a man at your side—a soft man dressed in a sharp suit, his glasses tinted red and his heart pure gold. 

Now, trust felt like the relief of a call that rang only once. Of cold fear melting into the gruff warmth of another’s voice, heavy with concern as they answered: “You alright?” 

You almost laughed. 

No. Of course not—because why would you call Frank Castle if you were anything other than desperate? 

“Are you busy?” you asked, awkward and hesitant. 

In hindsight, the question felt stupid. There was a body lying in front of you, and certainly no amount of busyness took precedence over that. But then, Matt must’ve been busy. Playing dutiful layer or God’s lone soldier. That’s why he hadn’t answered. 

Unless… 

[Elektra’s just a friend—] 

{—That what we are?} 

On the other end of the line, Frank urged, “C’mon now, doll, you gotta answer me, alright?” Had he asked something? You hadn’t noticed. “Where’re you at?” 

“An alley.” 

A rough, humorless chuckle. “Little more specific, sweetheart.” 

Five blocks from Matt’s apartment, you thought. 

“Off West 51st,” you said. 

“Don’t move.” There was the sound of a door slamming, of boots pounding down a flight of stairs. “I’m on my way.” 

Panic thrashed in your veins, anticipating the sharp click of a call gone dead. “Wait!” A cry, a plea—but for what? You had no clue what to say next. 

You hadn’t told him about the man, or the gun, or the sin. 

And Frank hadn’t asked. You knew this was because the Why? for your call hadn’t mattered to him. 

Only that you had. 

{You call, I come—} 

[—Frank Castle is a murderer.] 

Your eyes squeezed shut. You went to rub them, then remembered the blood dripping from your hands. 

So am I, you thought. So am I. 

Frank said your name. Once, twice. 

Quietly, you asked, “Will you stay on the phone?” 

The sound of another door pushing open, a great whoosh! of air as the city unfolded around him: sirens screaming, traffic blaring. With your eyes closed, you could almost see—shoving from his apartment building, marching down darkened sidewalks with a determined clench in his jaw. 

It wasn’t a man coming to save you, nor a vigilante. 

It was a soldier. 

After drawing in a breath, Frank uttered, “‘Course.” 

Time dragged. 

Hell’s Kitchen droned around you. Occasionally, Frank would ask: You good? to which you replied: How far are you? At some point, you drifted further from the man’s body. Ended up sitting on the ground, your back pressed to a brick wall. 

Your emotions were still fuzzy, as dull as the blunt edge of a knife. But your nerves… those were razor sharp. 

You watched both ends of the alleyway. Vigilant, afraid. Your muscles tensed whenever a car door shut too loud, whenever a stranger passed beneath the distant, buzzing streetlights. 

What if someone noticed? 

Gunshots weren’t such a strange thing in the Kitchen. The Devil couldn’t be everywhere at once, and the cops were either too busy or too lazy to investigate every bang! in the night. 

But if someone noticed you like this—curled on the ground, a dead man at your feet and violent red on your skin… 

He started it, you reminded yourself. Self-defense is absolvable. 

[To a judge? Or to God?—] 

God doesn’t matter. 

[—Why didn’t you call 9-1-1?] 

Why didn’t you answer? 

Your grip tightened around the phone. “How far now?” 

“Check your nine.” In the second it took for you to envision a clock, Frank had already amended, “Left, sweetheart.” There was the barest hint of a smile in his voice. “Look left.” 

You did. 

Frank was little more than a formless figure approaching. He was dressed in all black, his hood up against the rain. You couldn’t see his face, but you didn’t need to. His presence was enough to ease the frantic beat of your pulse. 

When he was close enough to hear, you hung up the phone. Wiped your nose on your sleeve and sniffed, “Took you long enough.” 

Cool and calculating—two descriptors that fit Frank best as he scanned the scene. He took note of the discarded gun, the puddle of watered down blood, the man with three bullets in his chest. 

You were the last thing he noted, and the only one to put a crack in his stern exterior. 

“Smart enough to practice law,” Frank lightly joked, “but not to read a goddamn clock, huh?” 

A laugh sputtered past your lips, melding into a broken sob. 

“Paralegals don’t practice,” you argued, ignoring the tears wetting your cheeks. “And I can read a clock just fine, asshole.” 

There was a softness to his face, one brow raising. “Yeah?” 

“Yeah.” So long as it’s in front of you, and you’re telling time and not direction. 

Frank hummed, his knees popping as he crouched down beside you. “Well I ain’t got a watch,” he said, “so I guess I’ll have to take your word for it.” 

Another weak laugh faded into quiet. 

Then, more hesitant than you’d ever heard him before, Frank asked, “You wanna tell me what happened?” 

Something about the way he said it struck you as odd. Like it was a choice—that you didn’t have to explain. If you wanted, the secrets of tonight could remain just that: Secrets, known only by you and a man who had no voice to share them. 

[Do you remember Psalm 80:9?—] 

Even secret sins are exposed in His light. 

{—How do you deal with it? All Red’s Catholic bullshit?} 

By believing in it. 

Frank took your silence for an answer. Shifted as if he might reach out, offer comfort. Instead, his fingers curled into loose fists. 

“How ‘bout you go wait around the corner,” he offered, “and let me take care of all this?” 

You weren’t sure what Frank’s version of ‘taking care of this’ entailed, but you knew you were comfortable with never finding out. 

Frank followed suit as you pushed off the ground. His movements were precise and easy, while yours were graceless and weighted. Standing, the world seemed to shift beneath your feet. Your mind was still hazy, your bones tired. 

Existence had become an arduous task. 

“When you’re… done,” you managed, your arms curled tight around your waist, “what then?” 

You didn’t want to go home—or to Matt’s. 

You didn’t want to feel alone. 

As if he understood this, Frank simply answered, “I’ll take you back to my place. Get you cleaned up, let you rest awhile.” His head tilted slightly. “You like pizza?” 

The world was ending. 

And yet here stood Frank—no Bible quotes or Hail Mary’s, no judgement for the sin you’d committed or the mess he had to clean. He offered only calm, only patience—and pizza of all things. 

[What do you see in him?—] 

{—Let me take care of all this.} 

You nodded. 

Frank’s apartment was bleak. 

One room total—unless you counted the cramped shoebox of a bathroom, which you did not. The front door opened into a shoddy kitchenette, connected to a living room that clearly doubled as his bedroom. 

He owned minimal furnishings. There was a lumpy couch, a small table with one chair, an old doormat that read Stay Awhile! except the Awhile had been all but completely rubbed off. You assumed that’s why it was inside instead of out—because even indirectly, Frank Castle wasn’t the type to ask anyone to Stay. 

Behind you, Frank grunted as he kicked his boots off onto the mat. You wondered if you should do the same, but didn’t. 

It felt strange to be in Frank’s apartment. Not because it made you uncomfortable, but because it didn’t. You felt fine. Still shaken, still a little sick—but safe. 

Would Matt be able to tell? Would he smell the gunpowder and Old Spice clinging to your skin and know that you’d been with Frank? 

That’s how you knew when he’d been with Elektra. You didn’t need super senses to smell her perfume—a heady mix of cloves and something citrus, lingering on his shirts as plain as if it were lipstick on the collar. 

Unthinking, you said, “You should get a bird.” 

Frank chuckled. “Yeah? And why’s that?” 

You weren’t sure. It was just the first thing that had come to mind, a means of evicting Elektra from your thoughts. 

“It could liven the place up,” you suggested. Though, after taking another glance around, you realized that might be asking too much of one little bird. 

He’d need a flock. 

Frank slipped past you, warmth crawling up your spine at the slight brush of his hand against your back. You told yourself it was unintentional—no more intimate than someone scooting past you in a crowded bar or a grocery store aisle. 

Still, the warmth lingered. 

“Don’t think I’m much of a bird guy,” Frank admitted from the kitchenette. Then, nodding towards the couch, he added, “Sit.” 

You drifted that way and sank into the cushions. The springs were practically nonexistent, and the brown leather peeled like a bad sunburn—impossible not to pick at. 

“What kind of guy are you, then?” you asked, more interested in a distraction than his answer. 

Frank dug around in the cabinets, grabbed a plastic mixing bowl, and went to the sink. “I like dogs,” he told you, loud enough to be heard over the running water filling the bowl. 

You pretended not to hear him anyway. 

After starting at Nelson & Murdock, you’d planned to get a dog. It seemed like the right time. You had your own place, your own income—and you knew Foggy would love having something cute and furry around the office. But then you got closer to Matt, and the dream died before it ever began. 

Dogs were too much for Matt. Too many smells, too many sounds, too many textures. Back then, you’d thought it was a reasonable sacrifice. No dog in exchange for an incredible boyfriend. 

You knew better now. 

You should’ve picked the dog. 

Dragging the lone chair from the table, Frank settled in front of you with the bowl of steaming water and a thin cloth. His eyes went straight to your hand. You assumed it was because of the dried blood until he said, “You’re fucking up my couch.” 

You stopped picking, dusting the flakes of leather onto the floor. “It was already fucked,” you defended. 

“So you gotta make it worse?” 

You fixed him with a blank stare. “Nothing could make this couch worse.” Short of setting it on fire, that is. 

“That how we’re gonna play this?” Frank looked like he was holding in a laugh. “I let you in, offer you food—and you pay me back by talkin’ shit about my couch?” 

“It’s not just the couch,” you stated plainly. “It’s the whole apartment.” 

It reminded you of prison—a place that you, Foggy, and Matt had worked hard to keep Frank out of. Even if the trial hadn’t gone as expected, you hated the idea that all that fight had been for this: A peeling couch, a faded doormat, a lonely little chair. 

Frank deserved better than that. 

[Have you forgotten?—] 

[Castle was charged with 37 counts of murder] 

[—Why are you so attached to this case?] 

With the bowl balanced on top of his legs, Frank dipped the cloth in and wrung it out as he joked, “Guess I need that bird.” 

Your lips twitched. Not quite a smile, but close. 

“Guess so.” 

Frank held out an open palm. Without thinking, you laid your hand against his. 

The water was too hot. Not quite burning, but still uncomfortable as he pressed the cloth to your wrist. But you didn’t flinch, utterly motionless as he wiped in slow, circular motions. 

His touch was far lighter than you’d imagined. 

Not that you ever had imagined it. 

As the cloth moved down to your fingers, Frank’s focus grew more intent. He was meticulous in cleaning every line of your knuckles, the dried blood caked under your nails. 

Only when the water in the bowl had turned the color of rust, the cloth stained and your skin spotless, did Frank trade one of your hands for the other. 

Only then did you confess. 

“He had a knife.” 

Half a second—that’s how long Frank’s movements faltered before he kept on cleaning. You were thankful he didn’t try to look you in the eye. That he didn’t have to for you to know he was listening. 

“Foggy has a deposition in the morning,” you continued shakily. “He always forgets to print his motion, so I stopped by the office to do it for him and… I don’t know. On the way back home, I could just feel it, you know? That someone was there. That they were following me.” 

An understanding nod as Frank moved the cloth to your index finger. 

“I know it’s stupid,” you told him. “But I thought if I cut through the alley, got closer to Matt’s, then–” 

He’d hear it, if the worst happened. The Devil would come. Your boyfriend—if you could even still call him that—would save you. 

But that had been a stupid, childish thought. 

“I figured I could lose,” you said instead. “That I could turn the corner and just run in circles until he gave up. But he was fast. I wasn’t even halfway down the alley when he ran up behind me, when grabbed my shoulder and–” 

Your breath caught. Frank’s touch moved slower, gentler—a feat you wouldn’t have thought possible. His eyes caught yours in a concerned glance. Only then did you remember how to breathe. 

“It was just a knife, Frank. A knife—and I pulled out a gun!” A short, hollow laugh. “I should have let him rob me,” you rationalized. “At least a wallet can be replaced. But him, his life–” 

Frank cut you off. “How do you know?” 

Your brows furrowed in answer. 

His hand went still against yours, holding the cloth wrapped around your ring finger. “That that’s all he wanted,” Frank gruffly clarified. “To rob you.” 

“I don’t, but–” 

“You remember what I told you? When I taught you how to shoot?” 

{You or them?—}

Frustrated, you insisted, “It’s not that easy, Frank. It’s not my choice!” 

[—It’s up to God, who lives and who dies.] 

Frank shook his head. “That’s the Catholic in you,” he argued. 

“I’m not Catholic,” you snapped, low but harsh. Frank looked confused, and you fought to keep the shame from your voice as you muttered, “Not anymore.” 

Religion, you’ve learned, is a funny sort of thing. Even when you stop believing, it never truly goes away. God becomes a ghost under your skin, a divine haunting that borders on insanity. You will always think in terms of Sinners and Saints. You will always know that no amount of repentance will ever mold your soul into something more like the latter. 

Frank wasn’t the type to pry any further. 

Instead, he adjusted your hand. Carefully dragged the cloth along the curve of your fingernail. The water had cooled, now too cold where it was once too hot. 

“It doesn’t matter what he was going to do,” you decided. “It only matters that I killed him.” 

This time, it was Frank’s breath that hitched. 

“No you didn’t,” he said, and you had never heard someone tell a lie so matter-of-fact. 

“I did–” 

He looked up. A muscle feathered in his jaw, and when he spoke, it was with the steely resolve of a no nonsense Marine.  

“No. I did.” 

You blinked at him. 

“I gave you that gun,” he continued. “Gave you that goddamn advice, too. That no matter what, you always gotta pick you. And see, I don’t regret that shit either because all that? It kept you alive. Kept you breathing. And if some no-good prick’s gotta so you get to live? Fine. Good.” 

You couldn’t speak. Couldn’t do anything but stare at him. 

“But if someone’s gotta bear the weight of that guy’s miserable life,” Frank told you, “then let it be me, alright?” His gaze fell, lingering on your lips a moment too long before he uttered, “‘Cause I ain’t gonna let it be you.” 

[You care about him—]

[—Don’t you?] 

Do you care about her? 

[Elektra’s just a friend—] 

… 

[—Can you say the same about Frank?] 

You studied the man before you. 

Frank Castle. The Punisher. 

The one you shouldn’t call, shouldn’t trust. A murderer and a felon, a crack in your already crumbling relationship. Someone you tried to stay away from, tried to forget. 

A number not saved, but remembered. 

No, you thought, and wondered if Matt already knew. I can’t. 

Swallowing, you looked down at your joined hands. The blood was almost all gone now, washed away by someone far more damned than you. 

“Okay,” you said. There was no need to say anything else, no need to keep bearing the crushing weight of your newly acquired sin—not when God was a ghost and the Devil had abandoned you, not when a Soldier was so willing to bear it for you. 

“You know,” you said, deftly changing the subject, “my brain’s a little hazy, but I’m pretty sure you promised me pizza.” 

Frank fought the subtle curve of his lips. “Did I?” 

You nodded, and he chuckled. 

“Fine–” he refocused, back to cleaning off the last of the blood–“but you’re placin’ the order.” 

You mocked him, Fine!, while sliding your phone from your pocket. The screen lit up with two missed calls and one text. 

Matthew: Sorry, got caught up with something. Everything OK? 

Your thumb hovered over the message. 

In the Bible, the number eight is symbolic of many things. Resurrection is one of them; something dead brought back into eternal life. Once, you would’ve seen Matt’s text—a string of eight words—and wondered if that meant something. If maybe there was something left of your love to be resurrected. 

Now, you stole a glance at Frank—your eighth call—and thought of new beginnings. Of choosing your own path. 

You cleared Matt’s message. 

Tapped on the Safari icon and asked, “Do you want somewhere specific?” 

“Ever been to Lombardi’s?” suggested Frank. 

You shook your head. “Is it good?” 

Frank cut you a look. “‘Course it’s good. But knowin’ you, you’ll probably shit talk it the same way you did my couch.” 

A smile tugged at your lips. “Keep it up,” you teased, already typing the restaurant into the search, “and your only company’s gonna be the couch and the bird.” 

He chuckled. “I ain’t gettin’ a bird.” 

You'd just pressed the phone to your ear, already listening to it ring when you built up the nerve to ask, "What about a dog?"

Frank set the cloth in the bowl. Gave your hand a gentle squeeze. 

“Maybe a dog.”

a/n - this has been sitting in my drafts literally since january. i can't decide if i like it or hate it, but i've gotten into too much of a habit of writing, overthinking, and then never posting---so, here it is! thank you to anyone who takes the time to read it <3

[softsunnyy]

i'm thinking about Quinn, who tries to be sweet, patient. He doesn't want you to feel forced. He sees you as too adorable, too delicate. He can even feel the softness on your skin when he touches you. He can see how fragile you look next to him. He could break you so easily. Destroy you.

that's why it was such a surprise the first time he saw you wearing a tank top, without your bra underneath, giving him a better view not only of your tits, but of one special detail as well.

your fucking nipples. They're pierced.

his mouth goes dry, and he's grateful to be in your house, because it allows him to act quickly. Quinn doesn't ask, his hands grip your waist, and from that moment on, almost every rational element leaves his mind.

he goes wild, primal. He needs to have you right now.

he kisses you, showing everything he's feeling, listening to you moan against his lips, clearly surprised.

oh, why did he wait so long? now he wants to destroy you, he wants to use you, play with your tits until he's bored, until you ache, until your nipples are so hard and sensitive that you beg him to stop and tend to your soaking pussy.

he wanted to be gentle, to give you your time, to let it be special and unforgettable. All that's gone. His hands roam your body as if you were his personal whore. In his mind, right now you are, you are everything.

he lays your body down on the couch and rips off your clothes without giving you much time to breathe. He wants to see you, needs to see all of you now that he knows.

when your breasts are exposed, a growl leaves his mouth. His cock throbs, desperate to get out of his pants, to bury itself inside you and merge with your gummy walls.

he licks, sucks, plays with your tits, playing with your nipples while your moans fill your living room. One of your hands tangled in his hair, and he can feel himself getting closer and closer to the edge of abandoning any kind of care.

he leaves his marks everywhere.

you whimpered his name, desperate, trying to close your legs as you feel yourself getting wetter and wetter. His body prevents you from closing them, but he unconsciously tries to help you, thrusting against your pussy, making you feel his hardness beneath his clothes.

your nipples are hard, too hard, and Quinn handles them without delicacy, enjoying the cold metal on his tongue, enjoying torturing you, driving you crazy.

why did you hide this from him? now you'll have to face the consequences of your actions. There will be time to ask questions later, now you'll have to endure it.

you pull at his hair, trying to move him away from your breasts, but nothing seems to work. Quinn pulls away only when he feels it's enough, feeling his pants soaked. When he looks at them, he realizes it's your fault. You tried to rub, to get some more pleasure, and now his pants were stained. Fucking wet.

he's fast, agile, he doesn't need to get up right now and throw his pants down, he just needs to get his cock out.

when he starts fucking you, it's not gentle, it's not sweet, it's nothing like he was planning. It's rough, wild, inconsiderate. He's using you, because your own pleasure was left behind the moment you decided to keep this from him. Now he's going to cum, he's going to fill you up. You'll have to leave his cum inside you, and don't even dare let it drip too much.

and your tits—oh, i hope you didn't think he was finished, because Quinn wants to bathe them, soak them with his cum. He wants to leave his mark, he wants his cum to dry there.

this is your fault, he wanted to be sweet and patient, why did you hide this from him?

[aangarchy]

Opinions. I have them and I want to share them. On the Netflix live action specifically.

It's a little over a year since the release of Netflix ATLA and since then I've kind of just been stewing on it angrily as if it's insulted my mother or something, and there's more things that I've been meaning to say that I never mentioned in my original reviews, specifically on why I think this live action is doomed to fail. It all has to do with media literacy, because these writers don't seem to fucking have any.

An example I want to talk about is the waterbending scroll. I want to bring this up specifically because this is a mistake m night shyamalan's movie also made. I will be referring to them as Natla (netflix atla) and tla (the last airbender movie).

Both natla and tla have the waterbending scroll in their story. I'm sure the writers gave themselves a pat on the back for including this important story element. But what is very apparent is that they do not understand why this scroll is in the story, because in both live actions Katara gets handed the scroll by someone. In tla she gets it handed by strangers who tell her it was stolen from her people by the fire nation and that she should be given it back. In natla, she gets handed the scroll from gran gran. In both of these instances this scroll can be replaced with literally any other object. It could be a rock that strengthens a bender, it could be a letter written by someone, it could be a stick. In both versions, the narrative reason for the scroll being there in the first place is missing completely.

In the original show, the scroll is specifically part of the story to develop Katara's character, because she doesn't just get it handed to her, she steals it. And it's a decision she makes herself without discussing it with anyone else. Katara going out of her way to steal the scroll from pirates, and not really seeing an issue with it because the pirates stole it from someone else first, tells us a lot about Katara's moral compass and how she sometimes likes to twist her ethics to fit her own narrative. In any other instance Katara would tell people stealing is wrong. Literally later on in book 3 she tells Toph something similar, that she can't just scam people just because they were scamming her. But because this scroll is something she desperately wants so she can improve her own waterbending, she tells herself it's fine to steal this because it didn't belong to those pirates in the first place. She believes as a waterbender she has more right to own this scroll than those pirates do. It shows us how committed she is to learning waterbending and connecting to that part of her culture, because she's willing to go quite far in order to achieve this. Later though she gets faced with the consequences of her own actions, because stealing the scroll lead to the pirates teaming up with Zuko and chasing her and her friends, which ends up endangering Aang.

In this episode she also obsesses over the scroll to a toxic degree. One of the excuses she uses to justify her stealing it is because she wants Aang to learn too. But it becomes obvious that this is just an excuse, because she tries to claim the scroll for herself by saying Aang can have his turn after she learns, even though it's kind of more prudent for Aang to learn first as the Avatar (because the episode before this we literally just learned about the comet and our end of summer deadline to learn all four elements). It shows that Katara isn't some goodie two shoes, and that she has some ugly sides to her. She can be sneaky, selfish, stubborn, immature, and has difficulties letting go when she has her mind set on something. Then when Aang gets caught by Zuko she realizes that she caused all of this, and she apologizes to Aang who then tries to be a good boy and tell her it isn't her fault, but then Iroh kind of throws it back in her face that yeah, this is in fact her fault.

This episode also shows us development between Aang and Katara's relationship. We learn that Aang being naturally better at something is a difficult thing for Katara to swallow, and while Aang tries to make her feel better by encouraging her and telling her she's a great teacher, he doesn't manage to solve the problem which is that she feels inferior to him here. Later on, he acknowledges that just like him, Katara is a waterbender. She doesn't just know some waterbending moves, she IS a waterbender. Then they work together to escape, this makes Katara feel better, and it strengthens their bond.

This entire plotline is the reason for the waterbending scroll existing in the original storyline, but all of that is missing from both live actions even though they also have the waterbending scroll in their story. I'm sure these live action writers don't see the problem, they probably think the pirate episode is just filler they can cut without consequences, because the scroll is the only thing that's retained in the rest of the story after this episode. But that's simply not the case. This episode is much more consequential, even though it's not immediately obvious or visible, and that's what these live action writers do not seem to grasp, which is what I mean when I say they lack media literacy. They think the only thing that makes that episode worthwhile is the object that is obtained, and because they don't want to go through the hassle of adapting the whole pirate episode the only element they keep is the scroll. But everything about this scroll and why it's narratively necessary is removed.

This lack of understanding of character development and how to write a good story is why Katara's character is so bland in both live actions. All her agency gets removed. She doesn't decide to steal the scroll, she doesn't decide to help Aang save the world, she doesn't decide to ignore Sokka's instincts on Jet, she doesn't decide to deliberately ignore the northern watertribe's customs on bending.

The worst part for natla specifically is that the writers seem to understand that certain moments in the show need to happen, but they don't understand why. Katara needs to fight Pakku because she's so angry about the northern watertribe's sexism, this ties in to Sokka's sexism earlier in the season. She went through the trouble of traveling all the way to the north, stealing a waterbending scroll, getting burned by Aang on accident to discover her healing abilities, and now she's being told she can't train to fight simply because she's a girl? She's been confronted with sexism her whole life and she knows she's capable of more, so she's done succumbing to it, she fights the patriarchy by fighting Pakku. In natla she fights him too, but her anger lies solely with Pakku not willing to teach her, and not with sexism as a whole. She didn't fight that whole season in natla in order to learn waterbending, she just simply trained a bit and got better because boys told her she was strong, so there's no anger for her to feel towards Pakku because there's no buildup. The writers know the Pakku fight needs to happen but they removed everything in the story that leads to Katara fighting Pakku.

A similar thing happens with certain side characters. The writers understand that Teo and The Mechanist are important characters, and we need to add them so we can have them show up for the invasion too. But they don't understand what their purpose was in the original show in the first place, which was character development for Aang. Similar with Jet, he was there for Sokka's character, this episode showed us Sokka is intuitive and intelligent, but doesn't get taken seriously because he's the goofy nonbender older brother. That also gets removed in natla, because Sokka doesn't even interact with Jet more than once. He doesn't even get told Jet's name at all!

This is the biggest writing flaw that is recurring throughout the whole first season of natla, and probably won't be solved in the next seasons. I've seen a lot of people say natla is good because they got more things right than tla, but imo natla is just as bad as tla with similar reasons. Just because the costumes looked more like the original, or because they added more things that happened in the original than the movie did, does not mean natla is good whatsoever. I'd argue it kind of even makes it worse, because natla shows the trouble these people went through to have more accuracy than the shyamalan movie, and yet they still missed the mark this badly. I'm honestly angrier at this live action than the movie, and I might not be the only one.

[no1onepiecefan]

zoro & luffy and the historical doctrine of the divine right of kings.

the divine right of kings, the idea that a monarch's 'right to rule is derived from divine authority.' the idea that kings are chosen by god. while not to the letter because i don't know the concept well enough, the idea of luffy, a god, picking zoro, a king, is something i find impossibly fitting.

initially, to frame the analysis, the only strawhat that luffy ever sought after and wittingly picked with foresight is zoro. luffy chose zoro with only the knowledge of his name, like something unconscious within him needed to. furthermore follows zoro's uncharacteristic acceptance to join luffy, like something innate clicked within him too.

then, fundamentally, zoro only unlocked supreme king haki at the approximate time luffy became sun god nika, on the same night. to zoro nothing is more simple than the knowledge luffy is his king, yet suddenly, the subject of his worship became something more. zoro became a supreme king happily, because there is something a king can still follow. he can still be unquestionably loyal, harmoniously devoted to his captain, because his captain newly transformed into something even more than a monarch; a god.

the idea of the divine right of kings often goes hand in hand with the concept that a monarch's actions are the will of god, that they are acting out the intentions of a higher being, and their actions are justified this way, "by the grace of god." and while i definitely won't speak for real life applications of this notion, the idea that zoro acts out the will of his god is shockingly accurate. zoro is the strawhat's swordsman, he is their blade. zoro is the execution of the strawhat's intentions, he is the consequence that follows luffy's actions. zoro does act out the intentions of a higher being; each battle he faces is as a result of luffy, for the betterment of them, and to reach closer to their dreams.

then, even more, the divine right of kings says that a king will not answer to any human, assembly, etc. the only body in which said monarch would listen to would be their god, otherwise they are unanswered, untameable. and gosh, that's one of the fundamentals to zoro's character; that he only answers to luffy. near every other character pre-timeskip questions zoro's devotion, why and how, every fan marvels at how only luffy could make zoro into a worshipper. zoro only answers to luffy, he is only content following his direction.

lastly is their inhuman connection. hypothetically, a god picking a king would give the two respective entities an unparalleled understanding. that divine authority must have certain faith in the figure they enacted, their goals must align so uncannily, and their trust must be unwavering. zoro and luffy's bond is unearthly, it was instant. the day they met one another, zoro stopped an axe from meeting luffy's head while luffy stood unflinching. the depth of zoro and luffy's relationship is unfathomable, intrinsic and terrifying. they are soulmates, completely aligned, and that is a requirement of the historical doctrine. for a king to be chosen by a god, they must be aligned just the same, and zoro & luffy are.

[mariacallous]

During his rambling and interminably long speech to Congress last week, Trump bragged that he had “stopped all government censorship and brought back free speech in America.”

Unfortunately, the arrest of Mahmoud Khalil, the Columbia University graduate student and pro-Palestinian activist, makes clear that devotion to free speech doesn’t include the right to protest if Trump doesn’t like it. Khalil’s green card has been revoked, and he’s currently in ICE custody.

The administration has tried to dress up Khalil’s arrest as motivated by national security concerns, but their statements about his alleged transgressions show it’s far more about suppressing speech.

Trump Press Secretary Karoline Leavitt defended the arrest by saying that Khalil had organized “group protests that not only disrupted college campus classes and harassed Jewish-American students and made them feel unsafe on their own college campus, but also distributed pro-Hamas propaganda, flyers with the logo of Hamas.” White House Counselor Alina Habba’s rationale was even more transparently bogus. She claimed on Fox that foreign students are not allowed to "hand out pamphlets in our country and try to infiltrate those terroristic thoughts ... and if you bring that into our country, you can get the hell out."

But far from being a threat to national security, Khalil’s actions are the exact sort of free speech that’s supposed to be protected.

The Supreme Court has repeatedly ruled that the right to assemble and protest is a cornerstone of the First Amendment. The Court has protected the hateful speech of the Westboro Baptist Church, holding they had a right to picket funerals of soldiers and display inflammatory signs like “Thank God for IEDs” and “Thank God for Dead Soldiers.” It struck down a Minnesota ordinance that prohibited speech that “arouses anger, alarm, or resentment in others on the basis of race, color, creed, religion, or gender.” It ruled that burning the American flag is protected speech.

Khalil’s arrest is bad on its face, but it’s also wrapped up with the administration’s fake commitment to combatting antisemitism. Indeed, Trump has trafficked in antisemitic tropes for years. The motivation behind Khalil’s arrest isn’t genuine concern for Jewish students. It’s opposition to lawful protests on campuses and elsewhere — protests Trump fears could present a challenge to his authoritarian aspirations.

Protesting is not a crime

The administration isn’t even alleging that Khalil broke any laws. In fact, an unnamed White House official told The Free Press that “the allegation here is not that he was breaking the law” but instead that he was a “threat to the foreign policy and national security interests of the United States.”

It’s not surprising that the administration is talking to The Free Press, Bari Weiss’s website that is ostensibly dedicated to free speech but applauds police cracking down on protesters. And of course Weiss has made a career out of attacking Palestinians, starting with her time in college where she agitated to get professors fired for pro-Palestinian views.

Since there’s no way to make any criminal charges stick to Khalil, the administration has resorted to citing a law that allows deportation of “an alien whose presence or activities in the United States the Secretary of State has reasonable ground to believe would have potentially serious adverse foreign policy consequences for the United States.” This allowed Marco Rubio to revoke Khalil’s green card so he could be deported.

The use of this provision is exceedingly rare. According to the New York Times, it’s been invoked exactly once, by former President Bill Clinton in 1995, when he tried to deport a former Mexican government official, Mario Ruiz Massieu. Massieu sued, leading to a lower court decision declaring the provision unconstitutional because it was impossible for someone to know if their “mere presence here would or could cause adverse foreign policy consequences when our foreign policy is unpublished, ever-changing, and often highly confidential.” The judge who penned those words is none other than Maryanne Trump Barry, Donald Trump’s sister. The case was later overturned on unrelated grounds.

Earlier this week, Rubio said that people like Khalil “don’t have a right to be in the United States to begin with” and that they would never have been let in if they had explained they supported Hamas or intended to protest. Rubio is also playing tough guy over at Elon Musk’s Nazi bar, posting that the administration “will be revoking the visas and/or green cards of Hamas supporters in America so they can be deported.”

The problem here is that no one has explained what ��potentially serious adverse foreign policy consequences” are at stake here. Yes, the United States supports Israel’s war against Hamas, but alleging that protests in the United States opposing the war somehow damage national security interests is absurd. Yet the administration is framing any opposition to Israel as synonymous with active support for Hamas.

In Khalil’s case, there’s no evidence that he has even been in contact with Hamas, much less provided material support to the organization. One of his lawyers, Amy Greer, explained that communicating with Hamas would be “completely opposite” to Khalil’s values.

Khalil’s arrest has highlighted the arbitrary and cruel nature of immigration detention. He was arrested in New York, then whisked away to New Jersey, then sent to an immigration facility in Louisiana, where he remains. The government sends people from all over the country to Louisiana, which houses over 6,000 immigrants in facilities where abuse of detainees is rampant. Flinging detainees all around the county is a common tactic by ICE, and it allows the government to charge detainees in jurisdictions far away from where they live.

Khalil sued the government in the Southern District of New York, saying his arrest violated the First Amendment and his right to due process under the Fifth Amendment. He asked to be released while the case was pending and that any proceedings be heard in New York. Despite the lawsuit, Khalil was not allowed to have private conversations with his lawyers for several days. It took a court ruling to get him two private calls with his attorneys. Judge Jesse M. Furman blocked Khalil’s deportation earlier this week, but declined to release him from the Louisiana facility where he’s being held.

Khalil’s attorneys have asked that he be returned to New York for immigration proceedings. Those proceedings are separate from his lawsuit and will be heard by an immigration judge. The notice requiring Khalil to appear for an initial immigration hearing in Louisiana on March 27 contains no details whatsoever and just repeats that Khalil’s presence in the country “would have potentially serious adverse foreign policy consequences.”

As Khalil holds a green card, making him a lawful permanent resident of the United States, he’s entitled to due process before he is deported. An immigration judge, not Marco Rubio or Donald Trump or anyone else, is the only one that can take Khalil’s green card away. Typically, green card holders are deported over criminal convictions or engaging in, or threatening to engage in, violent terrorist activities like kidnapping. The government still bears the burden of showing Khalil should be deported.

They’ve got nothing

Thus far the administration has provided nothing save for vague, unsupported assertions that Khalil distributed “pro-Hamas propaganda” fliers. Leavitt told reporters she had these terrifying fliers but couldn’t possibly show them to reporters because it would harm the “dignity” of the briefing room. After throwing out that fact-free assertion, Leavitt suddenly decided she couldn’t answer any additional questions because it’s an intelligence matter.

The administration refuses to provide Khalil with any information about which of his actions threatens US foreign policy interests. The White House is also trying to undermine Khalil’s ability to defend himself. Although Khalil is a New York resident and was arrested there, the administration says his case should be heard in New Jersey, where he was for just a few brief hours, or Louisiana, where he’s currently held. Trump’s personal antipathy to the Southern District of New York court is well-known and unsurprising, given that prosecutors pursued multiple criminal cases against him there.

The administration has other reasons for trying to get the case out of New York. As Lawfare explained, the Second Circuit Court of Appeals, which covers New York, is likely a more favorable venue for Khalil than the Fifth Circuit Court of Appeals, which covers Louisiana. The Fifth Circuit is the most conservative appellate court in the country, with 75 percent of its judges being appointed by Republican presidents, including six appointed by Trump. Conducting proceedings in Louisiana also, as Khalil’s lawyers noted, isolates him from his home and community of support.

Khalil is the first person the administration is trying to deport over pro-Palestinian protests, but he won’t be the last.

The Department of Homeland Security has demanded that Columbia University help it identify other “pro-Hamas” students. Add to this that Rubio is already saber-rattling about going after Hamas supporters and it’s clear that this administration, far from being a bastion of free speech, is actually waging a full-fledged war on political speech it doesn’t like. It flies in the face of the protections of the First Amendment, and is intended to terrify activists into remaining quiet. There’s honestly nothing more un-American than this.

[heartepub]

有緣無分

genre/warnings/wc. angst. indie film director!minghao x interpreter!gn!reader. weird books and copious insect mating descriptions (do those count as warnings?). unbeta'd, not proofread. 0.9k. note. for @studioeisa, in response to minghao + the last love letter from an entomologist, by jared singer. part of my 100 followers event !

As with any retreat house worth its salt, there are shelves filled with the most eclectic titles one could ask for. You’re reading them aloud, eyes bright with both curiosity and tipsy wonder. There’s a bottle of wine held loosely in your hand, which Minghao eyes as you run your fingers lightly over the books.

“‘Long Walk to Freedom’—Mandela, hm…‘I Could Pee on This’… ‘Almanac 2011’—Oh, NatGeo! …‘How to Live with a Huge Penis’…” you begin to giggle, finger still running along the spines as he makes a face behind you. “‘How to Good-bye Depression: If You Constrict Anus 100 Times Everyday. Malarkey? or Effective Way?’” Your giggles grow louder as he snorts.

Minghao doesn’t need to know what malarkey means to grasp the utter absurdity of that combination of words.

You pull something from the shelf, handing it to him. “It’s the only book written in Chinese.” Obliging, he accepts it from you, patting the space beside him on the couch as he opens the book to a random page.

You flop down, the wine in the half-empty bottle sloshing with your motion. He gently extricates it from your hand as he reads the first sentence his eyes land on. “Sexual cannibalism is common amongst praying mantises. Typically, the female is the aggressor, which encourages males to approach the female carefully and cautiously when mating.” 

Minghao raises an eyebrow, intrigued even as his brain doesn’t quite parse the words. 

You continue from where he left off. His mother tongue fills the air, your accent endearing as it always is. But it’s all fluff in his head, nothing quite as important as the weight of your head on his shoulder. 

It is well into the night; neither of you have bothered with watches, and the clocks here are wildly unsynced. It’s an hour for dreams; the amber warmth of the indoor lamps meet the remnants of the lights from the pool outside. The result is a hazy mix of blue and orange casting mesmerizing shadows across your face.

“Oh, this is interesting,” he hums, pulling himself out of his daze to listen, “Some flies have been found to be monogamous, challenging prior assumptions of polygy- polygynous relations. Though postmating responses in female flies has been diplomatic, emerging research indicates that copulation, including the exposure to mating-specific pheromones, reduces receptors in certain neurons among males. This results in a severely reduced motivation to re-engage in mating behavior. Neither male nor female would mate with another, leading to loss in genetic material should copulation be unsuccessful.”

Minghao skims the passage. “Not diplomatic,” he corrects, “documented.”

“Mm. ’Kay.” The alcohol has already clearly gotten to you. Your words slur, ever so slightly. “I’d like to be a praying mantis in my next life. A true man-eater. Maybe a fly for the devotion.”

Minghao snorts again, the sound more unrestrained than usual. Perhaps a consequence of the second bottle. 

“Must be easy to love if you’re an insect,” you continue to muse, “Just pheromones, sex, then you give birth, then you die. No such thing as ‘cheating’. No room for emotions or family drama.”

“Seems like guys get the short end of the stick,” he replies after a beat. “Maybe not for me.”

You just giggle again, digging your head into his shoulder, only letting up when he yelps in pain. “Good. It’s men’s turn.” He just grunts, pushing you off while nursing the soreness. The moment his hand stops massaging, your head has reclaimed its position. You’re saying something, but it doesn’t quite register—his mind has been weighing his next actions even as you talk glibly beside him. 

After a beat, he leans his head against yours. Your chatter dies quickly. For a while, you don’t move, until you shift slightly, allowing the top of head to rest right under his jaw. He doesn’t usually drink; tonight was an exception, but he’s not too concerned. Not when it’s you and your warmth pressing against his side.

Nearly everything has been said and done; his flight is a red-eye, the early morning right after your impromptu midnight screening (A special edition, you had pitched to the head organizer, after your mutual bid of creative madness, where we add subtitles to the silent portions of the film, giving voice to what had been previously left unsaid). He and you had promptly been sent here, amid nature, wine, and strange books, in the name of unleashing the creative spirit.

Tomorrow, you’ll both have left the retreat house, ready with your hard drive of the edited film. A handful of hours after that, he’ll be back in China, to his life of writing and directing, or perhaps preparing for the next screening in some other country, in another film festival. 

Perhaps he’ll meet another interpreter, though he’s sure no one would ever quite be the same. No one else could linger between the cracks of himself, as careful as he was to choose what brokenness remains seen in the final iterations of his art.

Silence rests between you, not a burden, but a weight nonetheless. Even a whisper would feel like a scream. There is a precipice, but neither of you will jump. Only yearning can fill this space.

(In the early morning after you part, he boards the plane, How to Good-bye Depression: If You Constrict Anus 100 Times Everyday. Malarkey? or Effective Way? tucked into his carry-on. His first petty crime. A purely selfish way to remember how you laughed every when you read the title.

Minghao hopes that the Buddhists were right about samsara. If they were, he could learn to love with the vicious devotion only lesser creatures have. If it’s you, he wouldn’t mind his turn.)

有緣無分 . yǒu yuán wú fèn, destined to meet but not fated to be together (idiom)

note. praying mantis mating description from here ; flies one is straight out of my 2am brain. yet another outtake from a wip yet to be written—this will not be the last you see of this couple (kae hates to see me coming)

[deceit-and-knowledge]

Ooc: AS REQUESTED SMILK DIARY 😏

smilk writes about pv (you WILL NOT let him live it down)

Yes it's long he's a yapper

Dear secret diary

Hey it's me again. I need to get these stupid feelings off my chest. I can't let anyone know what's going on inside my head, I hate that.

We all know I decided to well. Lie to pure vanilla cookie about why I showed up on his doorstep like some sap. I told him I wanted revenge but then he when on some speech about friendship and for me to be his friend. Again.. I made him think he actually got to me and I accepted it, little does he know that was already my intention! I came there because I accepted that stupid request.

I felt so hurt and betrayed intially, then guilty because he offered me friendship despite every thing I did to him and his friends and he still wanted to be my friend. He understands me more than any cookie would ever understand. He's experienced the same pains and struggles I've been through.

While I'll never tell him to his face that I accept it and I'm glad he understands me, I'm sure deep down he knows. He's apparently pretty well at reading me. Did us briefly sharing a souljam make him able to know my exact thoughts?

That thought scares me, I hide many secrets that if any cookie found them out I would want to crawl into a hole and die. If that's even possible of me.

One secret in particular, how I feel about him. Would stroke that pathetic thief's ego so stupidly. He stole something of importance and that isn't my souljam but my heart. I hate the fluttery feeling and my damn heart being a nuisance. I feel weak in the knees and it's not because I struggle to stand. I despise this disgusting feeling I don't even know why I experience it. Those stupid urges I get around his hands or his face. I can't even look at him sometimes, I feel so pathetic.

I hate him so much, his stupid hair, his pathetic eyes. He's grotesque. A cretin. But I can't help but stare, he's always so happy. He's my complete opposite and yet we're so alike. He has this dumb kind attitude towards me calling me "his dear friend" like I'm dark cacao cookie or hollyberry cookie like I mean something to him.

He doesn't even care that I seemingly came here for vengeance as if he saw right through my plan. How much does he know. Does he know how I feel about him. This stupid stupid cookie with blonde hair and an attitude on this world and it's cookies that sickens me to my core.

Why did it have to be him to receive my souljam, someone so damn happy all the time, treating me like I'm a friend not foe, despite everything I've done. After everything. He still cares? He still shows compassion to me of all cookies like I deserve it? I don't. I know I don't. I'm a monster not an idiot. I hate to admit it but I'm very aware my actions are wrong and I am misguided I just don't care. Anything beats the feeling of wallowing and regret. I hate myself but he makes me feel the opposite and I don't get it.

And I hate how warm I've been lately. It's only early spring it's not even hot yet. Truthless recluse was walking around in a hoodie and jeans, he's clearly cold. Pure vanilla cookie had a brown sweater on too. It's not warm here so why do I feel so? Is this some curse he inflicted upon me as revenge?

I hate it. I hate it, so much why he is such a horrible cookie. Stupid pathetic pure vanilla cookie. I hope he dies. I'm sick of telling him I'll tear his head off.

I wish he'd shut up with his stupid kind words. I hate that I broke down crying in front of him or laid on his lap. I hate that time I felt this stupid urge to offer him daises and did. Is this a spell? Or a potion he snuck into my food? I knew trusting him to feed me when he hardly feeds himself was a terrible idea but these consequences suck.

Why do you care so much? I hurt you, I tried to kill you and your friends, I tried pushing you to your limits the very edge of your sanity, I tried to break you, break your souljam and your trick hurt, your offer hurt me but I did worse. You're an idiot. A pathetic whiny whelp but I can't help but feel like a fool around you.

I'll never tell him this but it's better to get this off my chest before someone or he makes me slip up. I already did with that truth serum but I didn't specify the kind I meant even if he tried, it's like he knew or is under the same curse? Is he waiting for me to mess up? Is this a long con? Get me vulnerable, make me scared and mock me for expressing my feelings? I already hate it. I already hate him. Does he actually care.

As I write this I am now questioning why I feel sad. What's wrong me, I'm the great shadow milk cookie, master of deceit not some lowly sap? Who am I. I'm disgusting. He's disgusting too. Especially if this is a long con plan of vengeance. I can't even bring myself to harm him because I actually like his stupid friendship. I'm no longer alone and it feels good. I wish black sapphire cookie and candy apple cookie were here and we could be one big happy found family as they say. I do want a family again. But sage is a loser and truthless recluse despises my mere existence. So it'll have to be smaller than dreamed.

Oh. And I suppose you'll want to know a bad dream I had. I was dreaming about dying or something. I don't know something I'm insecure about but you'll never know that.

Well! It's been nice diary, but I have to go. It's dinner time now and pure vanilla cookie made me meat jellies. He's been making those alot for me, I know my teeth are sharp but I like variety. Not that I'll tell him that. I'm picky. Some jellies just suck to eat and make me feel sick if I try. So I wouldn't chance it and then have to act like some bratty child because he made me food I physically can't eat. That's embarassing. It's been good but ta-ta diary.

[spaceandbones]

Okay heres something fucked up: gojo trying to do necrophilia to geto's body because he's so messed up that geto is dead and he killed him and shoko has to try to pull the sixeyes infinity nuke of a gojo-heir off without getting accidentally murdered

Wow there's something deeply wrong with you want to be friends w me

"To think, you'd be the one here at my end."

My end.

That can't be right, can it?

Satoru doesn't see the end. What he sees is a body on a sterile silver table, partially covered by a crisp white cloth so the gore is neatly hidden away. But he can't grasp seeing the end.

As long as Suguru existed, Satoru could say things to himself like- maybe someday. Eventually. Anything could happen. I could make anything happen. The strongest- both of us, the strongest. I could make anything happen.

He made things happen, alright.

There is a consequence to this action that, deep down, he knows won't hit him until later, because right now he keeps rolling the concept of the end around the flat of his tongue, hoping to come up with some different interpretation of it.

There are a thousand ways to avoid death in this world. But this is bad.

This isn't avoidance. This needs fixing. And he's not- he doesn't know-

"Gojo."

Shoko's voice cuts through the fog in his head, clean as a scalpel-slice. He wants to put her hands to his head and have her push away all the rot. Can you heal this?

He turns to look at her. The end? It can't be.

"Do you need a moment?"

He must say yes, because she turns to leave and he watches her go, but before she can get out she turns at the doorway, one pale, skinny hand gripping the frame of it, and gives Suguru's body a look that conveys everything Satoru can't let himself feel.

Then she's gone, and he's alone with the end.

When she comes back he's going to ask her. They'll find something, even if nobody cares, even if it isn't possible. He's the strongest. He can make anything happen if he wants it bad enough, and he- he wants this- he wants this so-

It doesn't even fucking matter that Suguru was... what Suguru was.

Obviously that matters. It matters. Satoru did what he had to do, there was no getting around it. He didn't even do it, did he? It was- it was already happening. Suguru was-

Satoru, within arm's reach, extends a hand that's shaking so bad it vibrates up his entire arm, and as easy as the reflex to breathe, when he nears Suguru he feels infinity drop. It sluices away like a drop of rainwater, and then he's bare, but it doesn't matter.

He brushes a piece of inkspill-dark hair from Suguru's cheek. He's cold all over. Both of them are.

"I can't say sorry," he whispers, in a voice that sounds like someone else entirely. He doesn't feel any older than seventeen years old. He feels like he's been alive for a thousand years.

And he tries again.

"I can't say I'm sorry. We didn't-"

There is so much that we couldn't understand about each other, and now there is so much we won't ever get the chance to. I'm sorry, and I'm not sorry at all, because neither were you.

All that comes out is a choked sound that isn't a sob. It can't be. Crying is for grief, grief is for death, and death is only real if it's permanent, and he can fix this. He can fix anything.

He's on the table before fully realizing he's doing it. His knees on the edge, and then it's a little more, one over Suguru's covered thigh, his hand braced on Suguru's chest, where he should feel a heart beating but instead he feels nothing at all. His left hand slips over blood that hasn't dried yet. There was so much of it, hours in the infirmary haven't dried it, yet.

A sudden surge of anger rises up inside of him and drowns out the ceaseless ringing in his ears with something more violent. Face wrapped up in a snarl, like it even matters, like they can fight anymore, he grits out- "What the fuck am I supposed to do now?" but it doesn't come out angry, it comes out in a twisted-up, hysterically strained whisper, "You fucking idiot. You Idiot."

The end. It feels pitifully quiet for the end, so maybe that really happened earlier. Not in that alleyway, but earlier than that. When Satoru was so busy letting Suguru pull one over on him that the entire student body almost died. That would have been his fault as much as this is. Everything Suguru ever did from the moment Riko Amanai died was Satoru's fault.

The strongest, and he hasn't been able to protect a single soul, just his own. Suguru did many, many things that Satoru couldn't ever agree with. The ultimate goal of protecting something he cared about was never one of them, though. That, he understood. Understands. He's just not good at it.

He leans closer. Even if there was a way, would it matter? Has it mattered? Has anything in the last decade mattered as much as what happened before it? He isn't sure if there was ever a path forward that didn't look like this, because despite the echoing sentiments shared between their high-school selves in the middle of the night, Suguru was not the strongest in the same way that Satoru is and always will be.

There isn't a reverse scenario where Suguru is the one breathing on this table.

Satoru expects that thought to make this a little easier. It doesn't.

Suguru's mouth is cold in a way the skin of his face wasn't. That felt like porcelain, and this...this is cold like outer space, and the lingering taste of death is all over him. It's not so far off from how he tasted when he was alive.

Satoru stops kissing a dead man long enough to tell him- "I hate you."

There isn't anything gratifying about it. He doesn't care about that. He just won't ever get to do it again. He knows that, even if he's going to spend the rest of his life possessed by the what if? He's seen people come back from what should be death. He came back from what should have been death. But he can't remember being cold like this.

When Shoko comes back, he's kissing Suguru everywhere he can think to kiss him, in case this is actually the end, in case he never gets to do any of it ever again. In case he has to go to sleep every night praying for dreams that feel like they're real. Dreams from somewhere far off, somewhere warmer. The beach, maybe. When everyone was still alive. When Satoru could still trick himself into thinking he could keep everyone alive.

"Gojo," her voice shakes, and her hands on him is such a strange feeling. She's cold, too, but he can feel her pulse thrumming like a little bird beneath the places her fingertips touch down against his arm.

"Gojo- Satoru- please."

She's tugging him off the table, and he has to keep infinity down because Suguru is right here and he's never kept infinity up around Suguru when they're this close, has he? Not since the first few months of knowing each other.

His leg slips off the shine of the steel table, and his foot hits the ground hard. He fists a hand into the sheet over Suguru, because all of his clothes are gone, and he doesn't want to grab at his body too hard. He knows what death does to flesh, and it's- it gets- it gets delicate-

"Satoru, honey- you can't-"

"Just a minute Shoko," he mumbles, fixing the sheet and trying to push himself back up, just so he can be close again, just for a second, just a second, he might not have many more-

"No, Satoru you need to get down now."

He's never heard Shoko so afraid. What does she have to be afraid of?The end is already here.

Her hand tightens around his arm so hard it momentarily stuns him enough that he turns to face her.

Shoko- always stoic, always brave, has tears in her eyes, and she's fighting them back, but she looks- he's never seen her so horrified. He's known her for over a decade, and he's never seen her like this. Is that how he looks, too? Maybe they'll all look this way forever.

"You're scaring me," Shoko admits, in a feathery whisper. She doesn't really sound scared of him. She sounds sad. He's sad, too. He thinks he'll be sad for a very long time.

His hands float up to her face, one of either side, and her eyes flicker dangerously, but she doesn't move away from him.

"You're so warm," he breathes. She is. Her hands were cold, like him and Suguru, but her cheeks are warm, and alive- and God, she's alive, isn't she? She's here. They're both here. All together, again.

How many hours did the three of them spend in rooms together? Slacking off and pretending to study, Suguru and Shoko sharing cigarettes back and forth while Satoru wrinkled his nose and waved away the curl of smoke. Why did he always think they might add to those hours, even after Suguru left?

It was enough. Having him alive was enough. Even horrible, even standing against everything Satoru had ever claimed to be for, it was enough.

He's afraid that nothing will ever be enough again.

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

Hey Raven! 👋 I don't get all the vitriol about the lack of consequences of Malleus's OB. Twst has never given any serious consequences to any villain so far. Riddle, Leona, Vil and Idia have also tried to kill Ace, Ruggie, Niege and the whole world respectively. Rollo tried to wipe out all magic from the world which would kill entirety of Fae or potentially other magical species. Fellow was involved in human trafficking. None of these people faced any serious repercussions for what they did. If it was done before but not now I would understand the frustration. Among all OB boys Vil & Malleus are the only ones who apologised. Also you mentioned in your book 7 finale post that you were surprised about the lack of death and destruction because of Malleus's UM. But I'm more confused as to why you were even expecting that. Malleus's UM was never meant to cause death or destruction in fact it was precisely to avoid those sad occurrences he decided to use his UM. So it's no wonder there were no deaths or serious property damage out side of NRC. We have already seen Silver as baby sleeping for 400 years by fairy magic and being completely fine. Only danger was the loss of autonomy which thankfully was stopped. Malleus literally had a part of his body mutilated which is the most on the nose consequence we have seen. Yes it was necessary to stop him still doesn't change the fact it is mutilation. Plus I don't think post OB flashbacks were meant to shift the blame to the bv senators. Even though I don’t like them their actions in universe make sense. I think all flashbacks merely explain the OB boy's past experiences and circumstances. It doesn't justify there actions in present only provides an understanding of their motivations and character. Life doesn't exist in a vacuum. Malleus's flashbacks merely explains why he is the way he is now. It doesn't rights his wrongs. People are shaped by their experiences and circumstances. Since not many people can relate to most OB boy's circumstances it becomes hard to empathise with them. I am NOT saying people should not criticise or dislike a character. Just saying that lack of accountability & consequences isn't something unique to Malleus. Lack of control over our my life and circumstances is something I have been dealing with since i was born so I know from experience how suffocating and hopeless it feels. Even if someone understands it doesn't change of help my situation whatsoever. I relate to Malleus feelings about his own situation. It doesn't makes his decision right but I understand his thought process. People can understand other but still dislike them. Understanding does not equals to justifying. I hope I didn't offend any one. My sincere apologies if it came across as such.

Have a good day or night Raven!

Before I get to sharing my commentary, I'd like to make a quick clarification. "Vitriol" (cruel and bitter criticism or outright insulting) is a very strong word to use here. I don't doubt that some people are vitriolic about the ending. However, to label most or all critique as "vitriol" detracts from the discussion, as it paints those not happy with it as blindly hating on Malleus and ignores any plausible points they may have. Let's acknowledge the entire spectrum of reactions, including just... plain disappointment and everything in-between that disappointment and vitriol. It's not all coming from a place of blind hatred or refusing to understand him, some of that critique is very much coming from a place of understanding but still disliking the outcome.

I can't speak for everyone, but I personally haven't seen many people claiming "Malleus and ONLY Malleus should be given severe consequences." Twst has frequently been criticized for the lack of serious consequences for ALL of its OB characters (and its Halloween event characters). I particularly find Playful Land distasteful because they casually never address what happened to the non-NRC victims of the operation. And notably, Idia came close to *checks notes* oh yeah, letting monsters out of hell and causing an apocalypse. Just because Malleus is currently being discussed--as he is the most relevant--doesn't negate the fact that past OBs + Halloween characters were critiqued in a similar way. Few people are denying that the other OBs also did terrible things and only got off with a slap on the wrist. We're not conveniently ignoring past sins, it's just that we're talking about the most recent one now. (Few corrections to some points brought up on this topic though: I believe Riddle apologized as well; it's also NOT canon that wiping out magic would kill fae or other magical creatures, simply because fae are more inclined to magic doesn't mean losing that magic kills them.)

I'm aware that Malleus's intent was not to harm anyone with his UM, and that his UM only put them to sleep. However, I just cannot suspend my disbelief. Even if he didn't mean to hurt people or to cause damage, there surely were potential issues with 20,000 individuals falling asleep mid-whatever activity they were doing. The scale is large enough for there to be a non-zero chance that someone wasn't accidentally injured or even killed. Swimmers? Drivers? People cooking? What about those with preexisting health conditions like sleep apnea and diabetes? And even if we accept that Malleus magically suspended their bodies in stasis, isn't magic limited by one's imagination?? Malleus doesn't strike me as someone who understands a lot about health conditions, technology, etc. How would his magic know to stop cars (something he admits to never having ridden before in A Firelit Sky), to cease bodily demands for care, etc.? The latter (ie bodies atrophying from lack of sustenance) is even mentioned at least twice by the Shrouds as potential threats to their wellbeings. Why would they bring it up multiple times if not to insinuate a fear of consequences??? Yes, Silver was able to sleep unageing for 400 years, but we cannot be certain that magic is the exact same as whatever Malleus was using, or that their imaginations worked the same way. I would find this less surprising if they actually explained how it is that everyone was without injury, like having the Shrouds confirm that the lack of sustenance was not a real issue. Them not addressing the theory at the end only makes me suspicious. If it wasn't a problem to begin with, why even have them mention it more than once? At that point, just don't include the dialogue implying this at all.

I think to just chalk it up to "the only danger was the loss of autonomy which thankfully has stopped" is minimizing potential issues that could result from this. Realistically, it would be a huge problem that the (future) sovereign of a country took such a drastic move; this would surely affect relationships with other nations so I find it strange that this isn't really touched upon. (A similar issue was mentioned by fans with Leona's attempt on Malleus's life in book 2, but again, we're discussing Malleus here because he's most relevant; the lack of realistic consequences for the other characters is an entirely separate problem.) They did bring up Malleus's grandma apologizing and condemning her grandson's actions, but that doesn't go in enough detail--how are the other nations reacting to this??? And again, bringing back the 20,000 statistic--I also find it strange that the writing only mentioned a group of people who loved Malleus's dream magic and make zero mention of any people who were traumatized by it?? Like, you'd think at least a few people would have felt upset, violated, or even confused about the matter??? That's not even counting all the NRC students we had to shock awake, some of which cried or had emotional breakdowns over it. It's strange how the narrative ONLY focuses on reassuring us that Malleus's actions didn't actually affect anything when, given the numbers, it would have, at least emotionally/mentally/psychologically. I'm not saying I want him to have harmed anyone or to be made a public enemy; I want a more balanced understanding of the consequences of his magic. Like, why isn't there also... I don't know, mention of therapy or social support being provided for those experiencing shock after waking up from the dreams? To help them get back on their feet? I would have accepted even the off-handed mention of something like that.

Again, I'm not speaking for everyone here (I know that some people find damaging a horn to be a "good" way of regulating his unchecked magic), but personally I was pretty squicked by that. I agree that Malleus should have limits placed on his power, but I think it should have been done through some other method like... I don't know, Maleficia magically "grounding" him or something. (Like maybe we struck the horns but it didn't actually chop anything off; his grandma places a spell that limits what he can do afterwards?? Or maybe Malleus himself permanently sacrifices a ton of his magic to Lilia in order to revive him.) I wince a little whenever I see Malleus with that broken horn because I can't help but think of a real-life animal with an equivalent injury. A cat that's been declawed, a ram with a broken horn, a bird with its wings clipped or its beak blown off, etc. It makes me feel really bad for him 💦

I think a lot of people see the broken horn as being the most "severe" of consequences because a part of Malleus was essentially broken. It's visible, unlike mental or emotional scars, and the sad truth is that people are quick to condemn something that's easy to see rather than something that's not (ie potential psychological fallout or trauma). None of the other OB boys have to walk around with a physical reminder of what they did, so Malleus is perceived as being the "most hurt" in the eyes of the fandom. I'm still not entirely sure what the effects are in-universe though??? Like how does this impact his everyday life, what spells is he still able to use, does the area hurt, does it affect his balance or other aspects of his life?? He doesn't seem particularly bothered by it, but that's probably due to the time skip + for plot convenience; it would really help us better understand the fallout if the next main story update elaborated. Malleus is unique in that he was also never previously held accountable for his actions (outside of book 7). Endless Halloween Night, his general lack of genuine effort to listen to his peers when they tell him off or try to explain why he messed up, actual attempts to harm civilians or mages he knows are less powerful than him... None of it results in real consequences. At most, he gets scolded a little but doesn't truly learn from that scolding, so he's doomed to repeat the same mistakes. It feels like part of the reason why people want Malleus to "face the music" is because he never had his privilege previously challenged. People are too scared to due to his magical might and social status--and now, when he's set before the world's stage, is the most likely time when he'd actually have to look in the mirror and reflect on his past mistakes. Not only the OB, but also his hubris in general. Some people also just feel that Malleus will not grow as a character (as he has demonstrated issues with this outside of book 7) without facing the other repercussions of actions he directly took. No one's calling for Lilia to permanently die because they want to see Malleus suffer. They're saying that if Malleus ended up doing no harm to anyone or anything, if Malleus doesn't have to face Lilia's mortality (the thing he OB'd over), will he really have learned anything in the end? Is there anything pushing his current beliefs or challenging him to change? There's a difference between calling for "more punishment" (which I think is what's being conflated here) and "more accountability". I think most want the latter, NOT the former. Most of us don't want Malleus to be harmed or ostracized further--what we do want is for him to realize that he messed up and to think long and hard about what he can do to make amends. The scale of what he did was grand, so doesn't that also warrant he make up in a similar way? One party and apologizing to a fraction of the people he affected is only accounting for some of it. (For example, I would have personally wanted him to formally address everyone he impacted, not just NRC.)

Mmm... The OB flashbacks are definitely meant to explain, not excuse, the related boy's actions. If it were only Malleus's flashback in isolation, I would have perceived it as such. However, it wasn't just that flashback. It was everything else in the narrative explaining away any potential issues resulting from his magic. It wasn't a few details either, it was several. When you add them all up, it creates... this feeling that the narrative is pushing HARD for you to feel a certain way about Malleus specifically. No other past OB has had so many details thrown our way to reassure us that the OB boy actually did as little damage as possible. We weren't explicitly told the destroyed rose maze was fixed in a jiffy with magic, or that no students were injured when Riddle OB'd. We weren't explicitly told that Ruggie made a full recovery and bears no grudge against Leona, or that his victims healed very quickly. We weren't explicitly told that Azul shoving tentacles down people's throats didn't traumatize any mobs. Etc. (And to be clear, I've shared my own complaints about how easily the other OBs were forgiven too, particularly Azul with customers flocking back to his restaurant.) The opposite is true for Malleus, so that it feels a bit,.. much. We are explicitly told many things and then nudged to not worry about them.

My own issues with the flashback in part stems from worries with the fandom reaction to it. Malleus has historically been a character that the fandom is EXTREMELY protective of, so much so that people are willing to push the onus onto anyone but him. I've literally seen fans blaming Lilia for Malleus not having social skills rather than accept that Malleus being awkward is a combination of factors (factors which include Lilia's enablement but also include Malleus's own learned complacency + not understanding humans). When the flashback opens with the senators blessing Malleus, it (unintentionally) presents fans with an easy target to redirect their anger and pin the blame on. Even if the Twst universe doesn't push all the characters to hate the senators and blame them for Malleus being the way he is, the fans certainly will.

To summarize: very few people are saying "Malleus and Malleus ALONE is experiencing a lack of accountability and consequences." A lot of the current focus on Malleus is because he is the most recent OB, operates on a much larger scale than the other OBs, and has a history of not receiving consequences in other incidents. None of this negates previous critique lobbed at other characters who got off with little or no consequences.

I hope that helps you understand why some Twst fans have such different opinions regarding book 7's conclusion! I also hope that this doesn't diminish your own enjoyment of book 7 or of Malleus's character in any way, just shows you an alternative perspective. I can tell from your passionate words that his story really resonates with you (and there are many others that feel the same!), so that makes me really happy. I wish you guys nothing but the best; please give your lizard boy all the adoration!

[aromacaque]

I have a question for you: Do you think the narrative treats wukong and macaque unfairly when it comes to Consequence or their actions ?,like mistakes they make in the series story,how characters treat them,like how wukong got called for the samdhi fire and not macaque that hurt Mei and tang,when he forced tang to Release it.

TLDR: No.

Macaque does get called wrong for what he does?? I've seen a lot of takes and stuff that get annoyed at him for having a redemption without him apologizing first and stuff floating around, but I honestly can't even understand those because he hasn't fully redeemed himself yet. His character arc isn't over. He hasn't even gotten enough time to develop that direction yet. He's very much an anti-hero narratively, always has been, and he's only just now starting to stray from that but I'm not sure by how much.

If he apologized at all in season 4 that would've been awful, out of character, and so forced. In season 5 not only would it still have been out of character and forced, but there was no time for that with everything else happening. I do not want to see him do that unless he works his way to it properly, which he hasn't.

He's a really morally grey character and the show isn't even trying to hide that narratively because he's always treated as his own unit separate to the others. That is only POSSIBLY starting to change after season 5 since he's getting more involved with the whole group, but we'll find that out in season 6.

But also I wouldn't be surprised if he never apologizes. I think the entire main cast has started to see him as "the weird emotionally repressed monkey who doesn't know how to talk to people normally and is a little bit of a freak about it" which like, y'know. Not a conventional forgiveness by any means. It's acceptance of him being there at best. I also think his actions are meaningful too. Red Son has also never apologized, and yet his actions have pretty much done it for him. Red Son feels easier to forgive because his antagonism was always on the more comical side, but I think that point still has standing.

I think there's an unbalance in how much of Wukong's side we see, but I don't think that's a narrative issue either. For one, I think they've been building up to it. These two aren't the main focus of the story (which only has 10 episode seasons with 4 episode specials) so it's gonna take a while. They're a B-plot at best, realistically probably more of a C-plot. Macaque is more willing than Wukong is to talk about what happened between them, too. Wukong tends to shut down when he's faced with things about his past that genuinely upset him. He doesn't talk about the pilgrims because he still grieves them. He isolated himself on his mountain for 600 years after imprisoning his last "friend" (DBK) that was still alive and came out of that isolation in hopes to "retire."

There are a lot of visuals and hints/clues to Wukong's sides of things and his feelings. With the rock of their painting still being there after all these centuries, knowing that Macaque is implied to be a large part of what he was getting stronger for (and what he sees as his worst mistake), the way he treats Macaque in general which is an exception to how he treats everybody else, etc.

I think, if anything, how closed off he is regarding information about Macaque reveals a lot about Wukong as a character because he's really avoidant. Which speaking of...

The main issue the others have with Wukong has always been his lack of communication with everyone, generally. Which is only made a big deal in seasons 2-3. He had a tendency to handle things on his own if he felt like nobody else could, but he does that without telling anyone what exactly his plans are. He shoulders way too much responsibility in season 2 and 3, which ironically makes him irresponsible.

Mei's issue with him in season 3 is that he was leading them into a very dangerous plan without telling them exactly what was going on, and also while withholding information from them. On top of his negligence in season 2 causing MK a lot of issues. Both are understandable things for Mei to get upset at him for. He makes up for it by apologizing to MK and being more communicative. Their relationship seems fine after season 3.

Pigsy is the only other one who had genuine issue with Wukong, which makes sense. He's MK's dad. He also feels like Wukong let MK down in season 2. He's the first to find out Wukong is withholding information in season 3. He still treats Wukong with respect, Pigsy is just like that and is protective of MK. He also doesn't like Macaque so it's not a Wukong specific thing.

Same with everybody else, his relationship to Wukong seems fine after season 3. They all help him with his house after it gets destroyed because he's their friend and they care about him. They wouldn't do that if they had a big issue with him still. Well, Sandy would, but more importantly Pigsy and Mei help with it. Tang gives .. moral support? But he's also there.

Wukong gets mad at Macaque for what he does during the samadhi fire, but Tang stops him because there was a part of him that felt compelled to do it, which is really important because it's part of establishing Tang's powers and connection to the golden cicada (reincarnation, descendant, whatever all of them are) but also Wukong attacking Macaque there wasn't gonna help anyone in that situation. On top of being in character for Tang to stop him, he doesn't like conflict much. He also learns a bit about Macaque in Benched and I think Tang is smart enough to know Macaque is a little more complicated than just being a villain because he attempts to talk Macaque out of hunting them down because he realizes that he'd have a better shot at defeating LBD with everyone. Which Macaque literally can't agree to because he CAN'T switch sides without getting killed, but I digress.

Not to mention, I think all of the characters are aware Macaque is on his own side. MK is immediately because he knows Macaque. Tang figures it out. There's always room to work with him if the right cards align, unless he's being forced on a specific side against his will.

I personally think it's made obvious enough that Wukong has good intentions with his mistakes. The fandom villainizes him a lot for some reason. Genuinely don't know how because the show certainly isn't doing that. It's also pretty well established, in my opinion, that Macaque is an unreliable narrator and what happened between him and Wukong is more nuanced than he makes it out to seem. That's PROVEN in season 4!!

Also not sure how Macaque is always characterized as the more mature one in the fandom. In the past? Macaque was more mature. Seasons 1-3? It was Wukong. Season 5? They're kinda starting to get on equal footing more... sorta.

In season 4, the brotherhood brings up a lot of Wukong's past mistakes, because that is what gets him imprisoned by heaven, but it also makes it really obvious how much he has changed over the years. To me, the way it comes across, is that the writers are putting emphasis on how guilty Wukong feels for his past behavior. They are not telling us that he's a bad person. Wukong constantly feels like he's making up for the person he used to be before he met Tripitaka and he spends the entire series trying to mitigate any possible hurt he can cause. That's why he keeps pushing them away at first and why he doesn't want MK responsible for LBD whatsoever.

And, to be honest, A Lifetime of Past Mistakes was largely about his and Macaque's relationship more-so than it was about the other things. It just reaffirms and pushes into the viewers face that the brotherhood is in the wrong with only a little grey area.

Azure shows up claiming to help, then pulls the rug out from Mei and MK's feet because he was manipulating them the entire time, and the only reason they didn't know is because Wukong literally was not able to tell them. A Lifetime of Past Mistakes basically just shows that Wukong became too power obsessed (anybody who has read jttw already knew that) and it reinforces that the brotherhood's intentions had been misguided from the start and Azure was the main contributor to that. Wukong played a roll, but it's not like Wukong lead the brotherhood astray. They were already doing that to themselves. Wukong was the only one to break out of that and change for the better.

Azure's issue with Wukong is unfair to him too! He blames Wukong for everything wrong that has happened, but MK is the one that points out how unfair that is by verbally telling them to his face, "None of this was Monkey King's fault." Because it literally isn't. Wukong isn't responsible for his past enemies mistakes. Any of them.

Even Macaque himself acknowledges that he believed (past tense) Wukong was a bad guy because Azure wanted them all to believe that, but when Wukong "betrayed" the brotherhood he was imprisoning them most likely for what they were doing to the land. Like they literally killed the entire land around them. They're not good people they were killing the land. Macaque doesn't even like these people even remotely. The brotherhood wasn't good at all, even though Azure had good intentions.

I SEE SO MUCH MISCHARACTERIZATION ABOUT THIS IN THE FANDOM IT DRIVES ME INSANE BECAUSE THIS ISN'T EVEN SUBTEXT THEY VERBALLY TELL US ALL OF THIS INFORMATION. I usually don't bring that up in more analysis-type posts but I have never been in a fandom where I'm constantly wondering if I'm watching the same show as everybody else. I remember there was a joke a couple years ago about like "lmk fans have never watched the show" but sometimes I don't know if it's a joke ..... How are people villainizing Wukong and not Azure. I don't think either of them should be fully villainized, but if either of them are going to be how would it ever be Wukong I feel like I'm going insane over here tbh.

Also even in season 4 they are all (bar MK and Wukong, who have a dif relationship with him) still scared of (or unsettled by) Macaque, and in season 5 nobody interacts with him enough for us to really know how they feel about him. None of them really interact with him though, besides MK and Wukong. MK still has his own hold ups about Macaque, but MK is also the same guy who saw good in Macaque, because he's always been an anti-hero narratively, and convinced him to help them fight LBD.

Nobody even announces concern for Macaque after he sacrifices himself except MK and Wukong. Nobody announces concern over him when he uses too much of his power except Wukong. Nobody thinks to look back for him or include him at the end of the world except Wukong.

Macaque also shows a considerable amount of concern for Wukong in season 5 as well. It's very balanced, they just have a very complicated relationship.

Sandy includes Macaque in the group hug, but this is Sandy we are talking about. He sees the good in everybody.

Macaque did help them save MK though, it's obvious that he's trying to be better (even if he hasn't verbally apologized to anybody yet), they all are at the very least vaguely aware he was working with LBD against his will, I'm not sure if they even fully know what happened during Shadow Play, and MK has been the center of most of what Macaque does. Wukong is on better terms with him so of course they'd let him celebrate with them.

There's a lot of different relationships and it's a lot to balance in the short runtime this series has. I don't think the writing is perfect and I wish some character dynamics got more time to have focus put on them, but overall the narrative is doing it's thing and I don't think it's doing it poorly.

Macaque is an anti-hero who is slowly starting to better himself and establish himself more into alignment with the protagonists. None of them have fully forgiven him, necessarily, but they are able to understand him well enough as a person and have relationships with him that are in depth enough to know he's not irredeemable or inherently awful. Narratively he is established as his own party, clearly not a great person, but we can also see that potential in him and see it grow as the series progresses. We can also sympathize with him, he's had a rough life and it's what leads him to making some poor decisions.

Wukong is a protagonist who is well-intentioned despite mistakes he may make along the way, is doing his best to be what MK needs, is able to realize when he needs to apologize and change his behavior if he's done something wrong, and is trying his best to do justice. We can see that he cares a lot about MK and his friends and would do anything to keep them safe while being non-violent and fairly level-headed, rational, and non-confrontational unless the situation seriously calls for it.

[lisalamona]

𝐀𝐌𝐁𝐈𝐕𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄 - XVI

Chapter XVI: Done For

. Summary: Despite your brother's insistence, you stubbornly decided to join him and his men in the war. Now, are you prepared to face the consequences of your actions? . Pairing: Various x fem! Reader . Warnings: None . Notes: I honestly wanted to make this chapter longer, but then I decided I would just do Done For from Ody's perspective and There Are Other Ways directly in the next chapter. I hope you guys aren't mad about it 👉👈. Take this as more of a setup for what's about to go down next chapter. I also feel like it was overall pretty rushed, but if I'm completely honest, I love writing, but I'm sick of looking at words—they don't make sense anymore.

Previous chapter │ Next chapter

Masterlist

Night had begun to settle on the beachside.

The sky bled from deep blue to black, the first stars flickering into existence. The waves whispered against the shore, gentle yet restless, a rhythm that should have been calming. But to the men, it wasn't. The sound of rustling leaves, the occasional snap of a twig in the underbrush—it all felt eerie, unnatural. Like the island itself was watching them. Waiting.

Despite this, exhaustion had won over fear.

Most of the men left behind had already settled into uneasy sleep, stretched out on the sand or slumped against fallen logs. They were still on edge, still terrified of what had happened—of what was still happening. Would their captain return? Would their comrades? Or would they be next to vanish into that cursed forest? There were no answers, only waiting.

Eurylochus sat perched on the stump of a fallen tree, his back to the men. His gaze was fixed on the path Odysseus had disappeared down hours ago.

One elbow rested on his knee, holding his head up, his mind was elsewhere. His right leg bounced rapidly, an unconscious movement, but one that betrayed him. Every so often, his eyes flickered away—searching, expecting, hoping—only to be met with empty shadows.

Polites watched him from a distance, arms crossed over his chest. He had known Eurylochus for years, long enough to recognize when he was lost in thought.

Any other time, he might've teased him—maybe snuck up on him just for the fun of watching him startle. But tonight, there was no room for laughter.

Because while the others had tried to rest, Polites had been thinking.

Thinking about their comrades. About how many they had already lost. About how many more they might lose. And then, finally, about Odysseus and you.

What if something had happened to you both?

What if Odysseus hadn't been able to face Circe alone? What if she had been stronger, smarter? What if you had fallen into the same fate as the rest?

And then—a memory surfaced.

He remembered being younger, following after Odysseus into the woods with you and Eurylochus, just to catch glimpses of him training with Athena.

And suddenly, the answer hit him like a flash of lightning.

They couldn't just wait.

Before he had fully processed the idea, his legs were already moving.

He sprinted toward Eurylochus.

The sheer sound of his footsteps snapped the other man out of his thoughts.

Eurylochus' head whipped toward him, alarm flashing in his eyes. "What happened?" His voice was sharp, already scanning the other men for signs of danger or something going wrong.

Polites skidded to a stop, breathless.

"We have to go."

Eurylochus blinked, his expression shifting from concern to confusion. "I'm sorry?" He turned fully to face him, brows furrowing.

"We have to go." Polites repeated, shoving his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. "They have been gone for too long. We should follow them—see if they need help."

Eurylochus' face hardened. "No."

"But—"

"No, Polites." His voice was firm, leaving no room for argument. "We can't just march in there. We don't know what we're walking into. And if I disobey Odysseus' orders and everything goes wrong again, he'll have my head. I am not willing to risk several years of friendship over this."

Polites crossed his arms. "What if they're in danger?"

Eurylochus clenched his jaw. "That's exactly why we shouldn't go."

"That's exactly why we should."

Eurylochus pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling sharply. "And what if we get turned into pigs?"

"What if we don't?"

Eurylochus glared at him. "Who will watch over the men if we leave?"

"They're too exhausted to do anything." Polites countered. "And our ship is still in ruins. Where would they even go?"

Silence.

Eurylochus hated that he had a point.

Still, he wasn't convinced. He shook his head, voice tight with frustration. "Let's say, somehow, we manage to sneak into the palace and then out again with everyone else. What then?" He gestured vaguely. "They're still pigs. And in case it has escaped your attention, none of us are magical."

Polites hesitated, chewing on the inside of his cheek.

"She'll find us in less than a day." Eurylochus continued, voice low. "And then? We're all dead."

Polites paused. He hadn't exactly thought that far ahead.

After a moment, he straightened, clearing his throat. "We'll talk to her."

Eurylochus stared in disbelief. "Talk to her." He repeated.

"Yes." Polites nodded confidently. "We'll tell her this was all a misunderstanding—"

"A misunderstanding?!"

"—and that we mean no harm!"

Eurylochus let out a sharp, humorless laugh. He wished it were that simple.

"She turned men into pigs, Polites." He deadpanned. "Do you honestly think she's interested in having a heart to heart with us?"

"Well, we won't know unless we try!"

Eurylochus opened his mouth, ready to shut him down once and for all.

But then—

"Alright, then." Polites said, tone suspiciously nonchalant. "I'll just go myself."

He grinned, the type of grin that meant he already knew Eurylochus would follow.

Then he turned and started walking toward the tree line.

And for the first few steps, his confidence remained unshaken.

Then, gradually, it wavered.

As he got farther away, his own words began to sink in.

He was really going to walk into a witch's lair alone.

Eurylochus sat there, watching him disappear into the dark, battling with himself.

Stay. Go. Stay. Go. Stay. Go. Stay. Go. Stay.

Damn it all.

"Wait!"

Polites stopped, turning back.

Eurylochus let out a long, suffering sigh, dragging a hand down his face before pushing himself up.

He strode over to the pile of weapons that had formed after the men discarded them and plucked a sword from it, his fingers curling around the hilt as if it might give him strength.

Then he grabbed a second one.

Polites' grin widened.

Eurylochus shoved the spare sword at him. "You don't even know where the palace is."

Polites took it happily. "Guess it's a good thing you're coming with me."

Eurylochus grumbled something under his breath, but at this point, there was no turning back.

As they started toward the palace, he gave himself a thousand reasons why this was the worst decision of his life.

And yet, he kept walking.

──────🐷──────

You could feel the heat of the pottage spreading through your body.

Maybe it was the carelessness of not blowing on it before shoveling it into your mouth, too desperate to care. Maybe it was the fact that you hadn't had a proper warm meal in so long that your body almost rejected it, unfamiliar with the sensation.

One would think that, at the rate you were eating, you wouldn't have time to savor the taste.

But in truth, it was so flavorful that you were confident you could pick out every ingredient—the richness of cheese, a hint of honey for sweetness, and the faintest trace of wine, buried beneath the rest.

Across from you, Circe watched.

Her own bowl sat mostly untouched compared to yours—not that she wasn't eating at all, just taking slow, measured bites.

She was too focused on you.

There was amusement in her gaze, a flicker of something almost impressed.

"I take it you like it, dear?"

Still with a mouthful, you only gave her a muffled "Mhm" with your mouth closed, nodding slightly.

She giggled, her eyes scrunching in delight. "I'm glad."

You were finally relaxed enough to take in your surroundings.

The room was quiet.

No one else but you, Circe, and a few nymphs sitting off to the side, engaged in soft conversation as they ate their own meals.

Your stomach twisted.

Your mind drifted back to the men you had arrived with—the ones who had vanished into the palace.

A small part of you, stubborn and hopeful, still clung to the idea that they were okay. That Circe had helped them, the same way she had helped you.

But her earlier words made that hard to believe.

You swallowed, pushing past the unease, and forced yourself to speak. Dancing around the subject wouldn't get you anywhere.

"Can I ask you a question?"

Circe tilted her head, giving you a mocking sort of smile. "Of course."

You took a breath.

"The men that came in earlier," You began carefully. "where are they?"

The reaction was instant.

Circe let out a sharp, delighted laugh—loud enough to startle the nymphs nearby. They turned to look at her, but she paid them no mind.

You didn't react, only staring back at her, your expression making it clear you were waiting for an actual answer.

"Oh, you're serious." Her laughter faded into something almost pitying, though not for long—her smile returned. "I thought it was obvious, dear."

"That doesn't really answer my question."

She hummed, resting her head against her palm. "Right... You and your questions."

With a slow, almost lazy motion, she traced the rim of her bowl with her index finger, as if toying with it.

"You see..." She mused. "Sometimes, men are just... how to put it...?"

She pretended to search for the right word, but you both knew she had already chosen it.

"Pigs."

Your breath caught.

She gave a light, casual shrug. "And sometimes, they need a little help from people like me to show them their true forms."

The words sank in like a stone.

The pigs. The ones you had seen before—the one that had run to you, panicked, desperate. He had been trying to ask for help. Circe had drugged them. She had turned them into pigs.

Your stomach churned.

"Oh."

It was all you managed.

Circe grinned.

"Oh." She mimicked, giddy—as if she might burst into laughter at any moment.

Your eyes darted to your own bowl, and suddenly, the taste in your mouth wasn't comforting anymore.

Your heart hammered. "Was there..."

You pointed to your food, dreading the answer.

Circe snorted. "Oh, in Olympus' name, no." She giggled at your paranoia, clearly enjoying herself.

You exhaled, barely registering the relief before forcing out your next words.

"...Is there a way to—?" She didn't even let you finish.

"None that is of your interest, no."

Silence.

A slow, creeping realization settled into your bones. You had to get out of here. Find a way to fix this. Find Odysseus. Tell him everything. Let Eurylochus say I told you so right to your face and just take it.

Your thoughts raced.

You started to think you should have listened to him.

But at the same time...

This wasn't impossible, right?

It wasn't like you were dealing with some terrifying, unstoppable monster.

In the grand scheme of things, this wasn't that bad.

Right?

...Right.

You could handle this.

You just needed to think.

How would you approach the situation? And you hated to even think about it but how would your brother approach it?

Running was out of the question. The palace was crawling with nymphs and lions—you wouldn't make it five feet.

Brute force? Also out. Even if you did try, Circe's magic was stronger.

Which left you one option.

Play along. Wait for an opening. If you were lucky, you'd get a chance to slip away at night.

You sat up straighter.

Your expression softened.

You forced your voice into something gentler, more sincere.

"About what you proposed to me earlier..."

Circe's gaze sharpened.

"My patience is starting to wear thin, dear." She warned, clearly expecting you to ask to leave again.

You shook your head quickly. "I apologize. I've... thought about it."

And then, you lied through your teeth.

"You were right."

Circe's eyebrows lifted, intrigued.

"I will stay." You continued smoothly, preparing to put on the performance of a lifetime—just like you used to do back home, whenever you needed to worm your way out of trouble.

"I must thank you," You added, placing a hand over your heart. "for opening my eyes."

Circe's lips curled.

She lifted her goblet.

"A toast to that."

──────🐷──────

You had been escorted to a room to spend the night—or, according to them, several nights, possibly even the rest of your life.

The room was spacious and undeniably beautiful. From the looks of it, you would be sharing it with another person. You soon learned that your roommate would be Aora—the very same one who had helped you get there in the first place.

Two beds stood on opposite sides of the room, their footboards facing each other. They weren't just beds; they were works of art. Intricate designs had been carefully carved into the wooden frames by hand, depicting twisting vines and delicate blossoms. Real plants wove through the carvings, their leaves curling over the edges and flowers blooming in soft, luminous colors. Between the beds was a large window, its glass unshuttered, allowing the moonlight to pour in without restraint. The pale silver glow illuminated the room just right, making everything look almost ethereal, as if you had stepped into a dream rather than a prison.

Aora showed you which bed was yours, bid you goodnight, and slipped under the covers, quickly surrendering to sleep.

You reached up, carefully plucking the flower Circe had placed behind your ear earlier. As you rolled it between your fingers, its petals felt impossibly soft, like silk, with a faint warmth lingering from where it had been tucked against your skin. The scent was subtle yet intoxicating, something between honey and the earth after rain. You set it beside your bed, exhaling slowly.

For the most part, your time in the room was spent tossing and turning, unable to settle. Frustrated, you gave up and started scanning your surroundings, waiting for a moment when the hallways might be less occupied. As your eyes adjusted, you took note of a few small belongings scattered around Aora's side of the room—personal trinkets that hinted at who she was beyond being one of Circe's followers. A small wooden comb lay near her pillow, its teeth worn from use. A bundle of dried herbs was carefully tied with a thin ribbon, placed near a simple but elegant dagger, its hilt wrapped in deep green leather. There was also a collection of tiny, smooth stones stacked in an almost meditative formation on the windowsill, each one a different shade, polished by the sea.

Your gaze drifted to the window. Aora was fast asleep, so it wasn't difficult to shift quietly, propping yourself up to get a better view outside. The stars were partially hidden behind the dense canopy of leaves, their light flickering through the gaps like whispers of something just out of reach. Still, you could map them in your mind with ease. You had spent so many nights memorizing the constellations that even without a clear view, you knew exactly where each one should be.

Minutes passed. Maybe more.

Finally, you gathered enough confidence to move. Your heart pounded as you slid out of bed, carefully placing your feet on the cool stone floor. You tried to calm every nerve, inhaling slowly as you moved toward the door. Each step was measured, each breath deliberate. You pressed against the wood, barely nudging it open before slipping through, letting it close behind you without a sound.

The corridors were quiet. You moved as swiftly and silently as possible, rounding a corner—only to freeze at the sound of hurried footsteps. You ducked behind a pillar just as a nymph rushed past, breathless, making a beeline for who you assumed was Circe.

"There's someone nearing the walls." She said, voice hushed but urgent. "I saw them through one of the windows."

Your pulse quickened. Someone outside? Could it be one of the men left behind? Eurylochus, maybe? Had he grown tired of waiting? Oh, gods—you had forgotten about him. Was he still okay?

Or... what if it was your brother?

That thought sent a shiver through you. If it was Odysseus, this could either be the most helpful thing that could happen—or an absolute disaster.

Before you could decide what to do, a voice whispered directly into your ear.

"Oh, what are we sneaking around for?"

You nearly died on the spot.

The voice was not discreet in the slightest—it might as well have been a battle cry for how much it startled you. You stumbled backward, letting out an embarrassingly undignified yelp, and nearly toppled over. But before you could hit the ground, a hand caught yours and—rather than simply steadying you—spun you back onto your feet with a dancer's effortless grace.

"Am I that ugly?" The figure before you asked, grinning ear to ear despite the self deprecating words.

Your vision spun for a moment before you pieced together what you were looking at—the traveler's cloak, the winged sandals, the hat.

Hermes.

Your stomach dropped. Why was Hermes here? What could he possibly want?

"Hermes?" you asked, completely and genuinely confused.

"Ding ding ding!" He tapped your forehead three times, punctuating each touch with a smug little sound.

"Why are you here?"

He sighed dramatically. "It's always, 'Oh, Hermes, why are you here?' 'Hermes, what is that?' 'Stop that, Hermes.' But no one ever says, 'Hello, Hermes, nice to meet you, how are you?'"

You hesitated. "...How are yo—"

"No, no. It's too late now. Doesn't count." He folded his arms, feigning offense, though it was painfully obvious he wasn't actually mad. Not that you had any intention of testing a god's patience right now.

An awkward silence followed. Well... awkward for you. Hermes, on the other hand, seemed to be enjoying it immensely.

Finally, he got bored of waiting for you to ask again and decided to answer the original question. "But, if you must know—" He uncrossed his arms and casually placed his hands on your shoulders, steering you forward. Or—wait. Was he even walking? No, he wasn't touching the ground. His winged sandals kept him hovering a few inches above the stone, moving with effortless ease.

That's when you realized something else. In the chaos of running into him, you had completely lost track of Circe. The palace was a maze, and your chances of finding her now? Essentially impossible.

"I came for some good old fashioned entertainment," Hermes continued. "But then I saw a little rascal sneaking around and got curious." What little you could see of his eyes glinted mischievously. "Tell me, darling, why are you here?"

You hesitated but ultimately explained your situation. The moment you mentioned your brother, Hermes smacked his forehead. "Oh, duh! How could I miss that?"

You were about to ask what he meant by that, but before you could, the two of you rounded a corner—

And came face to face with a lion.

The massive creature was locked in place, its tail flicking wildly, muscles tensed. Its amber eyes burned into yours, unblinking. You didn't dare move.

Hermes, however, looked unimpressed. With a sigh, he reached into his satchel and rummaged through it, muttering, "Hold on... I know I have it somewhere..."

"Are you seriously—?!" You hissed, barely holding back panic.

"Ah-ha!" He pulled out a small bundle of something—herbs? Dried leaves? Whatever it was, the lion's ears twitched, its nostrils flaring. Then, miraculously, it relaxed, lowering its body onto its haunches.

Hermes lowered himself and sprinkled the herbs onto the ground. As soon as he did, the lion leaned in, purring softly, as if trying to sink into the scent.

"See? Lots of tricks up my sleeves," Hermes said smugly, dusting off his hands.

"You don't have sleeves." He just waved a dismissive hand at you.

Before you could argue, a deep, guttural growl echoed through the halls. Hermes' head snapped toward the source, then he let out an exaggerated groan.

"Oh! We're late!"

And without another word, he grabbed you under the arms and—like it was the most natural thing in the world—lifted you off the ground and shot forward at an absolutely terrifying speed.

. Taglist: @permanently-nothere @lemonberryberry @supernatural-bangtanboys @doodle-with-rhy @yonkersworld @pookiezme @keikeiluvyou @hornehlittleweeblet2

[jasontoddsno1simp]

Stop trying to make Jason feel bad for Titans Tower!! That man got other shit to deal with!!

Namely, the fact that his so called father figure wants him dead!!

[morphean42]

I tell and laugh at 9/11 jokes because the actions of the US Government after the disaster were horrific and we shouldn’t act like the only victims were those who died in the towers. You tell and laugh at 9/11 jokes because you have been brainwashed into thinking it’s just a big meme and doesn’t actually matter. We are not the same.

[wortsandall]

i have so many thoughts on mtme #27 and chromedome and prowl and i fear i am severely late to the party

[fruitsyrups]

i think your hat post is really cool and interesting but susan’s hat is a cat and i will die on this hill

this is true!!! when i was talking about the modern human hats not resembling animals i meant all of these ones

(excluding the minerva-bots and finn of course)

[theheadlessgroom]

@beatingheart-bride

Susannah was grinning from ear to ear and giggling like a madwoman, which she was quick to smother with one of her ill-gotten pastries: Though she had been initially confused, then surprised, by Philippe's response to this account of her and Doreen's girlhood mischief, she was quick to get in the swing of his plan, excitedly absconding with the platter before disappearing back into the passage together.

What a wonderfully nostalgic throwback this was to her youth, to those halcyon days of smuggling sweets through the passageway to the other side of the house, where she and Doreen would enjoy the fruit of their labors amidst light conversation and playful jokes...sitting in a dark passage, lit by a sole candle, leaning up against her beloved, it was a wonderful reprieve from the stress of earlier-especially as she recounted some of her favorite misadventures.

"...my favorite was the homemade strawberry ice cream we stole," she confessed with a shy smile, as she finished her pastry and reached for another. "Doreen and I made ourselves the biggest bowls: We had chocolate sauce, whipped cream, candy, sprinkles, maraschino cherries, chocolate chips...it was, uh, very, uh...v-very decadent, I-I think that's the word Belle would use...we got very, very sick, of course, on so much sugar, Pa and Belle found us lying on the floor in the lounge, very full and very sick...but there were no regrets between us!"