#of course it has its flaws and blind spots but i appreciate the work this show does in its plot strucure

[bandofchimeras]

no the gay pirate show is NOT the first the last or the only gay representation. it is deeply silly to believe that. HOWever it is the first show to be ENTIRELY CRAFTED FOR METANAYLYSIS OF THE CURRENT QUEER COMMUNITY'S ISSUES AND QUIBBLES AND IDENTITY as shaped by online culture. like bro you can squeeze so much thinking juice out of this show. It's healed me in ways other gay shows haven't been able to touch. the choice to use theater and piracy as thematic tools to explore the dynamics of what repression does to queer adults, and the fact the new season MINOR SPOILER ALERT is going into drug addiction, violence, codependency, betrayal territory...yeah. it's not the best written show to ever exist. It's not the pinnacle of gay rep. But EVERYONE HERE IS FUCKING GAY. everyone in it has a relationship to queerness, every character. which is how REALITY ACTUALLY IS. straightness is as constructed as queerness. There isn't a Real World Gay Movie undefined by homophobia & isolation bc you have to create a fantasy world for that to exist.

And the lightly historical fantasy ploy enables the writers to goof around but also deeply care about their characters and their audience. It's much like what the pirates do in this show, ditching the suffocating dominion of religious heteronormativity and Boring Life on land, to create their own world on the seas (with plenty more brutality, loss, idiocy and general Troubles, of course). They're working their shit out when they can stay alive to do it. And they all have a different relationship to that sea life because some of them have to privilege to choose it -others end up there bc they have no where left to go.

On that vein I cannot wait for more Lucius developments.....totally unexpected what they did with his character but it's good shit

[seyaryminamoto]

As someone, who's favourite character is Zuko, let me just say that your analysis about the Southern Raiders is spot on. Something about that episode (especially the way Zuko acted) always felt a little... off to me. And I could never figure out what it was exactly and considering the fact that discussion about this episode centered around the Kataang vs Zutara, I thought I was the only one who felt that way. So, I guess thanks for putting my thoughts into words.

Oh, I really feel ya, anon. If you actually don't look at the episode from a shipping point of view, which seems to be the focus of most the fandom, a lot of unpleasant things really start sticking out. I'm personally neutral to the Kataang vs. Zutara debate, I see good points and drawbacks to both ships, and no one's going to convince me that this episode proved the superiority of either pairing, especially when the shipping interpretations have never been important to me when analyzing this episode. People can say Aang is right in the end, they can say Zuko understands Katara's plight better (which, considering Aang has lost even more people he loved than Zuko has, he certainly should have understood Katara's suffering quite well too), but focusing on whether Zuko or Aang are the angel or the devil on Katara's shoulders practically blinds everyone to the very glaring and mindboggling flaws in this episode's writing, imo.

In general, the concept of Zuko's life-changing field trips with the three Gaang members he'd wronged the most is fine and fun for most people, but from the first time I watched the show it felt like the production team knew they were pressed for time and needed some veeeery quick and effective solution for Zuko to gain acceptance in the Gaang ASAP despite all the bad blood there. I can imagine a lot of people love these episodes, but admittedly I wouldn't rank any of them among my favorites because, as interesting as some of their concepts could be, if executed right, my immersion certainly wasn't as strong as with the rest of the show due to the nagging feeling that this was all for the sake of redeeming Zuko in the eyes of each Gaang member... and not necessarily in the eyes of the audience.

They get away with it, of course, because by this point in time, the audience is 100% conditioned to love the Gaang and Zuko, and if you see them getting along, you should be rejoicing in their team-up... but if you put some emotional distance between yourself as a viewer and the events of these episodes, their writing leaves a lot to be desired, especially in the concept of giving Zuko a quick whitewashing in the eyes of Aang, Sokka and Katara, one after the other, so they can genuinely accept him as a teammate and friend. If we'd seen similar trips frequently or occasionally in the rest of the show, with two specific members of the team taking off on an adventure by themselves, it might not be so glaringly obvious (and even... artificial? I guess?) that they're trying to quick-redeem him for each of them here, but on top of it happening thrice, it's literally happening one after the other, too. There's no episodes in-between, it's just literally a four-parter arc of "let's help Zuko become friends with these three".

The plotlines to be dealt with in these episodes are basically catered to each Gaang member, tailor-made life-changing field trips based on whatever they'll value the most, all of it conveniently possible and doable in the span of time they have between Zuko's joining of their group and the show's finale. Aang needs to learn firebending, Sokka needs to save his dad, Katara is permanently grieving for her mother's death. And so, Zuko to the rescue! If he helps them with their personal character quests, he gets 50+ approval points! :'D Honestly, I'm absolutely not against the notion of Zuko befriending them, obviously not, but the methods through which they chose to make it happen simply might not be the finest...?

Zuko loses his ability to bend because he "lost his rage", but he's still angry pretty often, the show even spoofs its own writing by showing him losing his patience at Sokka... while at the same time trying to sell that Zuko "isn't angry" anymore? Zuko helps break out random prisoners from the Boiling Rock without taking a single moment to actually learn who they are, why they were locked up, and without pondering if they deserve to be helped or if perhaps they're genuinely dangerous? Zuko gives Katara every possible tool and information she needs to take revenge on Yon Rha, because, loosely quoting his own words, he "cares what she thinks of him"...?

How about if we'd seen Zuko trying to connect with Fire Nation people, to help his fellow Fire Nation citizens, especially the ones who were living in dreadful conditions, like the ones in the Jang Hui river village? How about if we'd seen Zuko saving lives rather than threatening to take them? How about if we'd seen Zuko actually reasoning with his anger, and either working his way out of it, or repurposing it consciously, or making legitimate, personal efforts to find a new source of strength for his firebending through self-reflection, above all else?

We didn't really need sudden one-on-one field trips to teach Aang, Katara and Sokka to trust Zuko: we needed Zuko to prove himself worthy of that trust, to show how much he has changed, to literally contrast his new behavior with the old, to actually see that the guy no longer jumps into violence-mode 24/7, that he's willing to listen to other people's opinions or wisdom, that he wants to learn better when he knows he's misguided or misunderstanding something or another. Would he have become BFFs with any of them in four episodes if this had happened? Well, it definitely would have happened with Aang, the other two would have been trickier, but they definitely would have been more willing to accept him if they actually got to SEE that the changes in Zuko weren't skin-deep. Katara can be as thick-headed and stubborn as she may want to be, but I have no doubts she wouldn't have been able to hate Zuko as much as she used to if she'd seen him helping people, much like she often wants their group to do. But instead, they don't get to see the actual changes and growth... they just get their biggest goals and wishes satisfied, and that's enough to decide Zuko's trustworthy, no matter whatever sketchy behavior he displays in later episodes.

I absolutely appreciate the worldbuilding context we gain for the raids on the Water Tribe through The Southern Raiders, but I don't think this was an organic way to tell the story of how Zuko became friends with the Gaang. If pressed, I'd even say that Zuko's overt desperation to be their friend is OOC, to a degree: if this guy actually knows how dangerous his father's plans are (and he's supposed to :'D), how isn't he focusing on that side of things, when he's always been such a go-getter? It's not like he grew out of this sort of ends-justify-the-means behavior, seeing as he's absolutely obsessed with stopping his father ASAP, by any means possible, in the finale, when there was no such urgency to be found ever since he joined the Gaang. How isn't he more worried about stopping Ozai than about becoming best friends with the Gaang? Immediately sharing everything he's learned about Ozai's intentions of destroying the whole world might not make them friends instantaneously, but it would certainly get someone like Sokka to take his information seriously and immediately begin strategizing how to counter Ozai's plans. Instead, Zuko spent all those weeks, over a month, even, teaching Aang firebending, going on field trips and hanging out with his new friends in Ember Island. Once you have all the cards on deck and you actually look at all of them at once, doesn't it feel like there were so many more ways to achieve what the show was going for, far more effective ways than through the "let's be friends with Zuko" arc?

Ultimately, there's very little display of growth, in my opinion, in this small arc, on Zuko's side, despite the most obvious and reasonable way to earn the trust of the Gaang would be by outright showing them how much he's grown. I won't deny I appreciate that the writers respected his personality and didn't just warp him into the perfect good softboi the way the fandom apparently interprets him, but even if Zuko was going to be cranky and speak one-liners like "I'm never happy", it wasn't impossible to write better situations for him to connect with the Gaang's members and gain their trust. Even if the writers were set on having these episodes happen exactly as they did, they absolutely could have been written in a much better way, to create an explicit and direct contrast between Zuko's early behavior and the new Zuko's behavior when it comes to things that matter (most the parallels I've seen the fandom drawing are things like "oh look he hated tea before but now he brews it for his friends! So much growth!"... would've been nice to see the growth when it came to a lot of other things, too, if the growth really was there? Am I rite...?).

I may just be influenced by other redemption arcs that focus mainly on characters having common goals and working together to achieve them, then becoming friends in the process... but I really don't see how Zuko's character benefited from these episodes. Yes, bridges were built... but they absolutely could have been built in a more organic way that didn't make people like myself (and a few others) question if Zuko had learned or grown at all, considering the way he behaves isn't all that distant from the Zuko we've seen and known throughout the rest of the show. And the fact that he really seems to have learned nothing in The Southern Raiders once you reach the show's finale... you're basically asked to take for granted Zuko did learn a lot of lessons because he says he did, to assume he's going to put them into practice sometime in the future despite he has chances to do it during the show itself but never does, simply because they drop the ball upon every opportunity to show how much he's changed.

I really don't blame his character at all, when it comes to these shortcomings... it's seriously, genuinely, a problem with the writing department. Take a look through the fandom and you'll see thousands of people who claim Zuko's character arc is the most touching, complex and beautiful writing they ever have seen... and why? Because we're in the face of tell-don't-show :'D most people's perception of Zuko's character are based not so much on HOW Zuko displays his growth, it's strongly based on him stating he made progress, even if there's too many instances where the growth simply seems to have fallen to the wayside or gone forgotten for the sake of a plotline or another. Zuko absolutely could have been written far better than this, he could absolutely have the redemption arc his fans are sure he does have, but for me... there's way too many gaps in logic, too many missed opportunities, to truly think his growth was as extraordinary as a lot of people are hung up on saying it was.

[annethepancake]

Sherlock rant

I recently rewatched BBC Sherlock for Rupert Graves, and aside from the lack of Lestrade appreciation I have a lot of problems with this series. Here are my thoughts:

1. It was all a blur

My second first impression of the show: I don't remember anything but the characters. And some characters I just blatantly forgot, like Mary. And I loved Mary on my second watch! I really forgot that at one point John actually got married and I don't even remember when I watched the show for the first time. I can still recall most of HIMYM's events and I hated that series.

2. It’s overall not a detective/crime show

Watching Sherlock for the second time, I mostly turned off my brain and just let it play in the background because (1) there's hardly anything for me to solve with the characters, most clues are taken by Sherlock off-screen anyway (especially after season 2), (2) they focus way too much on the quirks of the characters that make it almost like a sitcom that got dragged on for way too long. A crime/detective show shouldn't allow me to turn off my brain.

3. The characters just kinda fall flat

Exploring the depth of human emotions is not a bad approach to a modernized version of anything, I’m not trying to pretend I’m better than someone who gets sentimental over fictional character (if you know my blog at all, you know I am not), but at least write good characters. Sherlock is hardly a multi-faceted person; in fact, he’s kinda like the Wattpad teen fic main character sometimes. He physically fights off some terrorists with a machete to save the damsel in distress? He gets high off his tits but still got everything right all the time? John is just kinda there for most of the cases. Jim is a poorly written antagonist. Irene is a lesbian but gets the hot for our main character, surprise surprise. The only interesting characters to me are the ones who act like normal people: Molly, Greg and Mary. They are the multi-faceted characters, ones who I can actually relate to without feeling inferior to them in any way. Write characters like them, stop trying to be smart about it and stop writing Wattpad fanfictions for Sir Conan Doyle’s original works.

I get that they try to make Sherlock more like a human with emotions, making him quirky and arrogant, then make him quirky and more likable. It’s hardly a convincing character development though. He’s given over-powered deduction skills, so edgy, so high and mighty all the time. When he is finally written as vulnerable, turns out he has plans for that too. I would love to see him get it wrong once and maybe get humbled by that mistake, but getting Mary shot and killed is hardly even his fault, he is only doing his job. And killing off Mary is overall a bad idea anyway.

4. They treated the fandom like shit

I was absolutely disgusted at the start of season 3 when the showrunners just straight up shat on their fans. I wasn't there with the fandom during the wait between season 2 and 3, but I believe it was a pretty long wait (2 years, I could barely wait 2 years for my comfort series, and they have like 10 episodes per season), and they were presented with the first actual mystery of the series: How did Sherlock survive the fall? After years of waiting and having fun theorizing, they were met with a mockumentary about them, starring the most hated character of the protagonist and the fans. Those are the people who actually cared about the show for god's sake. The fact that the showrunners treated fans like crap and there's still an active fandom for the show appalled me.

Now not only The Empty Hearse bugs me, but the entire show does as well.

Allow me to digress.

Doki Doki Literature Club is a great example of audience engagement done right (Sorry for using this example I’m not actually that invested in the other franchises). After the success of the first game, the story provoked so many fans into solving the mysteries of the characters, some of them went really, really far. And that’s because of the actual mysteries that the development team took effort to plant into the plot. There is actual pay-off for painstakingly following the clues; as far as I know, only two (2!) people in the world have come close to solving the mystery of the first game (or they actually did). The game developers value their fans and their intelligence enough to have planted those clues where they did, and it’s a genuine exchange between the fans and the creators. Now even though you haven’t actually played the game, when you hear of the name and you’re only kinda familiar with gaming (like me), you’ll probably know what it is. What started as a mere open-source game by an indie developer became a sensation which left millions of fans begging for more.

Looking back at Sherlock, there are tons of logical flaws for a self-proclaimed crime series, virtually no clues for the audience to solve crimes along with their favorite detective, and when there was actually a mystery (Sherlock jumped off the building), they plainly showed him alive and well minutes later. Do we really need to see things spelled on screen to know what’s going on? Are we supposed to accept that Sherlock Holmes is an all-knowing future-predicting genius now too? Not a great sign of respecting the audience there.

So far, the only thing left that’s interesting about this series is the characters’ dynamic. Which brings me to the next criticism I have for the show.

5. The plague that infested mainstream media

Why is there still an active fandom? Queerbaiting and targeted marketing.

Community marketing is proven to be one of the best marketing methods there is, if not the best, to lengthen the lifespan of a product or service. The way they do that for shows and films and video games is usually by planting seeds of possible lores and history inside the content. Look at Harry Potter or Lord of the Rings, they are franchises that ran for multiple years with a ton of history and world building that provokes fans’ imagination.

Sherlock - well, Sherlock has sexually ambiguous men.

Sherlock has a formula for success. It was an adaptation of the most iconic detective novel in the world, funded by one of the biggest TV networks in the UK and possibly the world (don’t quote me on this). Making this series means you can appeal to such a wide group of audience even before airing. Adding in the quirky smart men who live together, you’ve basically guaranteed a prime-time show with millions of loyal fans all over the world.

Fans are not stupid, and queer people don't just find queerness everywhere they go. They know a gay subtext when they see one. Sherlock came back from the literal death for John, pretty gay if you ask me.

This show is very much not just about some guys being dudes solving crimes, they have relationship that’s deeper than friendship, and definitely not platonic. They deliberately wrote a sexually ambiguous Sherlock Holmes from the get-go - literally from the very first episode, then capitalized off of the targeted demographic, never a pay-off for their anticipation. Martin Freeman said in interviews that he could recognize Sherlock fans, them being generally women from 16 - 25. No shit Sherlock, this show targets them and capitalizes off of them, being quirky and gay as hell, of course the fanbase is generally 16 - 25 and female.

Sherlock queerbaited the fandom for years for the sake of marketing and there’s never a pay-off, nor was there any recognition to the community, and to add to all that bigotry, queercoding pretty much all of the villains? Why was a show aired in the 2010′s allowed to do this? Why did Mark Gatiss, an openly gay man, a writer of the show, allow this to happen? Why are millions of fans all over the world allowing all this to go on?!

6. Conclusion

Now I haven’t read the books yet, so I’m not at all qualified to criticize the adaptation quality of the TV series; I’m just talking about the TV series on its own. Despite my criticism, I think the first two seasons did quite okay. There are quite a few nice cases there, I like The Blind Banker and The Hound of Baskerville. They did those well because the focus was on the cases themselves, and the connection between John and Sherlock was only in the background. I, like many other fans, like to figure things out on my own, to read between the lines, and to not have things spelled out for me. With the next seasons bombarded with Sherlock and John bonding it seriously felt like mere fan service for me and even though I wasn’t there when the show was on, I still felt like I was robbed and my interest in the show was abused.

Sherlock is undoubtedly super influential in pop culture even now. It has to have done something right to be in that spot (capitalizing off loyal fans?). I’m not writing this rant to change someone’s mind about the series, by all means, I’m still gonna love the hell out of Gavin Lestrade, and absolutely lose my mind over Mary Watson. So do take my words with a grain of salt, I’m just disappointed that one of the most influential shows there is is just short of my expectations.

[nottswhore]

Hi! I’m requesting a HBP Draco x hufflepuff! reader who is a bit more on the stereotypical side (friends with everyone, empathetic, loyal to the point it’s a fatal flaw). During the year Draco distanced himself from her to protect her from the new mark on his arm. One day she goes up to the astronomy tower and hears him talking with Dumbledore. Against her own judgment she eavesdropped and hears his speech about how he has to kill Dumbledore or Voldemort will kill him. The reader knows Draco won’t be able to do it and so instead she kills Dumbledore for him? I love your writing by the way

of course! thank you so much for the ask! I will be writing this shortly, it’s gonna be a long one so i can’t write it rn :) (when i write it, i’m gonna extend this post so watch out for that)

Deatheater

summary: that ⬆️

warnings: cursing, bad writing :( this wasn’t my best

other: y/l/n means your last name

face visual:

You walked onto the train, your 6th year at hogwarts. You spotted a group of Slytherins, so you walked over to find your boyfriend. And as you predicted, he was there.

“There’s my favorite Hufflepuff!” Draco pushed people out of the way, coming over to hug you. Some other Slytheirns smiled at you, they normally didn’t like Hufflepuffs but you made friends with everyone. Plus, Draco would beat them to a pulp if they even touched you.

You broke the hug, giving Draco a quick kiss before leading him to an empty compartment.

After you had settled down, you looked at him. “I missed you Dray. Why didn’t you reply to my letters?” His smiled slowly faded.

“I had... uhm... family issues.” You nodded, not quite believing him but you knew to never ask him about his family.

in the great hall

You both walked in to the familiar hall, grinning. This had been your home for 6 years, and you loved Hogwarts.

You looked up at your boyfriend, who smiled at you but it looked forced. You tried to shrug it off but you knew you had to get to the bottom of it, he had been acting odd ever since you asked him about the letters.

You sat down at the Hufflepuff table, while Draco kissed your forehead and went to the Slytheirn table. All during breakfast, you couldn’t stop thinking about why he looked so worried.

“What’s wrong y/n? You aren’t eating,” you snapped back to reality as your best friend looked at you with a worried look on her face.

“oh it’s uh... well Draco has been acting odd, he said he had family issues.” “You know not to interfere when he says that!” Your friend told you exactly what you had thought on the train.

“I know, i know...”

After breakfast ended, you walked up to the Slytheirn common room. Draco had his own room, since his parents were rich and all that. Anyways, you spent most of your time in his room. You had gotten your schedule already, and you had most of your classes with Draco.

As you walked hand in hand to his room, you kept sneaking glances at him, noticing how down he looked.

“Draco... i seriously think somethings wrong.” “Nothing’s wrong alright?” You knew not to pester him, but you did it anyways.

“Draco you can tell me!” “No i said it’s nothing.” “Drac-” “I SAID ITS NOTHING!”

You flinched, dropping his hand as he yelled at you. He immediately looked sorry, and his eyes started tearing up as he apologized.

“y/n... i’m sorry... i’m sorry i didn’t mean to yell, but... it’s nothing alright?” “alright.”

You guys reached his room, cuddling silently until your class started as a whole bunch of thoughts ran through both your minds.

a few months later

You cried silently in your room, Draco had yelled at you again and stormed away. He had broken up with you two months ago, yet you couldn’t place your finger why. You had been happily dating since 3rd year, then he suddenly just cut it off.

You got up, not wanting to go to class but luckily you had a free period.

You flopped on your bed, thinking. He had been acting weird since the first day on the train. He had distanced with you, then just one day yelled at you and broke up. That was too random for your boyfriend to do, and you knew that something was wrong but you didn’t know what.

After hours of thinking, you had to go to your next class. You still couldn’t figure it out, but it didn’t matter right now. You walked to class, not realizing that it started half an hour ago. You opened the doors, freezing when you saw everyone’s eyes on you.

“y/n... you’re late. Sit down and take notes.” Snape looked at you, then continued working. You would’ve normally gotten detention, but the teachers liked you. You looked over at Draco and smiled at him, but he just glared at you sadly. You pouted and continued working.

a few weeks later

You had been thinking for weeks already, and you still couldn’t place your finger on why Draco was so down.

You decided to go up to the astronomy tower to think. You sat down for half an hour, but then Dumbledore and Harry apparated. You quickly scrambled behind a wall, but thankfully you weren’t caught. You peeked behind it, getting a clear view of the space but for some reason Harry wasn’t there anymore.

Draco came up the stairs, a sad look on his face. You wanted to leave, but you thought about staying. Your head told you to leave, and Draco and Dumbledore already started talking but you ignored them for now. You had a strong feeling that you had to go, but you needed your boyfriend back so you eavesdropped, going against your gut.

“Don’t you understand? I have to do this. I have to kill you! Or he’s gonna kill me...”

You panicked, suddenly knowing a bit of what was going on. You finally realized it when Draco lifted his sleeve up, showing his mark.

Draco pointed his wand at Dumbledore, but you knew deep down he wasn’t going to do it. You walked out, and Draco looked at you, his eyes widening.

“Ah... Good evening Ms. y/l/n.” Dumbledore looked at you calmingly, as if he wasn’t about to die in a few seconds.

Draco walked over to you and pulled you in close next to him, as if it were a reflex to protect you.

You didn’t want to kill anyone. You really didn’t! But you were too blinded to see that, too loyal to Draco. You knew that if you didn’t kill Dumbledore, then Draco would be the one to die.

You tried to reassure yourself. Dumbledore was like 180 years old! He should be fine... it’s his time... right?

You looked at Dumbledore, took out your wand and decided to do it.

“I’m sorry...” you whispered, looking at Dumbledore, a tear going down your cheek.

“y/n... y/n no...” Draco whispered to you, loud enough for you to hear but not Dumbledore.

“Avada Kedavra!” You sobbed as the old man fell down the tower.

“no... NO! y/n why... why did you do that?!” Draco looked at your crying face, his hand reached out to wipe a tear from your eye.

“I wanted to protect you...” Draco pulled you in, sobbing into your shoulder while you cried into his chest. Partly because you just committed murder, and partly because you were with your Slytheirn again.

When you pulled apart, you walked over to his arm, pulling the sleeve up gently.

“Does it hurt?” Draco teared up again, nodding. “It burns... y/n it burns...”

You could see scratch marks on the tattoo, where he tried to scratch it off his arm.

You bent down and kissed it, and he looked at you appreciatively.

When you stood up, you whispered “i’m in deep shit... fucking hell i just killed Albus Dumbledore...”

Draco caressed your cheek with his hand. “No one saw darling... I was supposed to do it anyways i’ll say it was me.”

“I can’t let you do that...” “You have to... it’s good for both of us! The Dark Lord will think i did it, and you’ll be alright.” “fine... i guess so.”

You were about to sigh in relief, knowing that know one saw you, until you found two green eyes staring at you in shock.

———————————————————————

The green eyes were harry btw :) hope you liked it! Thanks for requesting darling 💞

[salem-v]

Another request idea. Maybe Plagg isn't having a very good day. And Adrien tries to cheer him up. But sadly nothing works. Until he accidentally touches Plagg in a sensitive spot and Plagg had to hold back his laughter. Because he's ticklish. And Adrien tells him buddy why are you struggling not to laugh? And Plagg would try to deny laughing. But Adrien decides to try touching him again on that sensitive spot and Plagg has to struggle not to laugh. But it's not working. And eventually Plagg starts laughing a lot. And Adrien smiles. So your ticklish buddy? Plagg would still be laughing but still try to deny he's ticklish. Adrien would pretend to give up on finding out if he's ticklish. And Plagg would be relieved thinking he got Adrien to not find out one of his weaknesses. But unfortunately Adrien didn't give up and started to tickle Plagg again. And he lost complete control starting to really laugh hard. After a while he'd be much calmer and thank Adrien for cheering him up. I'm sorry but there are no Plagg tickle fics. And in my opinion that is a crime!

Ahhhhh, I’m sorry this took so long! But, here it is! I hope you enjoy this!

~ Plagg flopped onto the bed still deep in thought, leaving Adrien to cast a worried glance over his shoulder, before shrugging with a sigh and heading into the bathroom. 

Sometimes, Tikki knew just what to say to make Plagg irritated. No doubt, Plagg would be mulling Tikki’s words over with a scowl present on his face. That kwami had no business saying what she had said. Just who exactly did she think she was? Adrien was his. Not Tikki’s. Her knowledge of Adrien is limited, and no doubt, not entirely true. Tikki could rant about how Plagg’s chosen was playing Marinette, but Plagg knew better. Tikki had a nasty habit of ignoring her chosen’s flaws. Whereas Plagg tended to do the opposite, and focus on reasons why they should not be the holder of the cat miraculous. 

With Adrien, he saw all of the kid’s flaws, he wasn’t blind and didn’t ignore them. None of the kid’s flaws or problems made Plagg ever doubt his capabilities when wielding the cat miraculous. Of course, there would be mistakes that the kid made, some bad decisions. But, Plagg knew for a fact that Tikki’s precious Ladybug had made plenty of mistakes and bad choices. 

Where previous miraculous holder’s struggled with greed, Adrien hadn’t. The kid was kind and giving, a stark contrast to his father. Although Plagg would never say that to the blonde, he didn’t want to hurt him after all. Many of Plagg’s previous holders struggled with envy. Always envious of how Ladybug would get all of the credit or had more abilities than they did. Adrien had long since silently accepted that -despite Ladybug’s claims that they were partners- he wasn’t Ladybug’s equal, but that didn’t necessarily mean he was a sidekick. 

Adrien never complained once to Plagg, when asked he smiled softly and replied, his miraculous was the best miraculous because it came with such an amazing kwami. 

Plagg had forgotten the words exactly, but he'd never forget the way Adrien had said it so honestly and sincerely. Adrien really was his favorite holder. 

Remembering that moment was almost enough to make Plagg forget about the boiling rage rushing through his veins. Almost. 

Plagg was too caught up in his own thoughts, he hadn’t heard Adrien step out of the bathroom and make his way over to the small black kwami. 

He also hadn’t noticed the way Adrien’s head tilted as the blonde pondered what could have happened to the small black kwami to make him so upset. After a moment of thinking, Adrien had an idea. Camembert!

“Plagg! Didn’t you say you were going to eat the camembert you’ve been looking forward to today?” 

Plagg’s ear twitched, meaning he heard Adrien and chose not to move from his spot. Plagg knew he wouldn’t be able to fully appreciate the camembert if he were to eat it now. 

Behind him, Adrien frowned, as he tried to think of other ways to cheer his friend up. Biting his lip, he felt his worry skyrocket. It was rare, almost unheard of, for Plagg to turn down Camembert. 

Adrien made his way even closer to Plagg, gently poking at the kwami’s side, to get his attention, “Plagg?”

Plagg bit back a laugh as his holder continued to lightly poke at his sides. He squirmed slightly and almost couldn’t hold back another laugh that was bubbling up. 

Adrien quickly took notice of his friend’s -poorly- choked back laughter, “Buddy, why are you struggling not to laugh?” He questioned his friend, a small smile on his face. At least the kwami was laughing. 

Plagg shook his head, “I don’t know what you’re talking about!” The kwami quickly denied. 

Adrien hummed and poked at the kwami’s side once more. Watching as the kwami had to stifle another laugh. Smiling, Adrien focused on that one spot. It didn’t take long for Plagg to begin laughing hysterically. Adrien felt himself join in on the laughing as he continued to tickle Plagg. Easing up, he asked, “So your ticklish buddy?” Plagg, still laughing from the ministrations, “No! I am not ticklish!” The rest of Plagg’s monologue was incoherent due to the black kwami’s never-ceasing laughs. 

Adrien mocked a sigh of defeat, slumping his shoulders, as he removed his hand from the kwami, who was now catching his breath. “Oh, well I guess there’s no point in tickling you if you’re not ticklish.” Adrien stood up from the bed, still watching Plagg. Who believed Adrien, and heaved a sigh of relief. After a moment, when Plagg was unexpecting, Adrien resumed his efforts in tickling Plagg. 

Unable to hold back, Plagg was laughing wholeheartedly, thoroughly distracted from his thoughts earlier. Adrien grinning widely at the laughing kwami. 

After roughly 5 or 10 minutes, neither of the two really keeping track of time, Adrien decided to free Plagg from his merciless tickling. Laying on the bed, next to Plagg, both catching their breath with wide smiles on their faces. 

Plagg couldn’t remember the last time he’d laughed so much. Despite recalling Tikki’s words, Plagg couldn’t find it in himself to get frustrated or angry again. Who cares what the red bug thinks, Plagg distantly thought, as another chuckle bubbled up. 

After a moment, the chuckles finally dying down, Plagg rolled over, a smile still present on both of their faces. “Thanks, Adrien.” At the blonde’s raised brow, “For cheering me up. Now I can properly enjoy my camembert!” Adrien hummed, “You never have to thank me for something like that. It’s what any good friend would have done!” Then a smirk made its way onto his face, “I hope you know that this means I will be tickling you again in the future.” Plagg rolled his eyes, still smiling fondly, “I’d like to see you try.” 

Adrien’s eyes narrowed at his friend, “Challenge accepted.” 

[revengeisalwaysanoption]

[Fic] All due respect here... (there's no respect due)

Let’s try one last time... I truly apologise if the cut doesn’t work on mobile, I am posting from my laptop.

Enough is enough, they're right. There’s only so much that can be forgiven, before one’s indulgence becomes a red flag. Loneliness is not an excuse, Martino.

“You need to put your foot down” they keep saying. “You need to draw a line and say: this is unacceptable. If you step over the line once you get a warning, but do it twice and we’re done.”

It's just that… you know… He feels so stupid, now? He has been so blind, so naïve and nearly let himself be played like a fiddle. Hurting those who really care about him, and for what? Approval?

The more he thinks about it, the worse it gets. The signals were all there, for fuck’s sake!

Lulling him into a sense of comradery, that he had been missing ever since his friends from high school had all chosen different paths… Yeah, that’s how it had all started. With him, trying so desperately to fill that void. It hadn’t been as difficult as had imagined to bond over incomprehensible lectures, disgusting coffee and eclectic lifestyles. Francesco had been the first to approach him, complimenting his Apparat-inspired T-shirt and asking where he bought it. It hadn’t seen anything quite like it on the Internet, or he would have remembered! Deciding it was best to weed out the homophobes straight away, Martino told him the truth: it was a gift from his boyfriend. Not quite his usual style, but since it made Nico happy to see him wear it…

“Oh man, you’re so whipped.” Francesco had commented, instead, laughing. “But hey, who am I to judge? I’m actually a bit jealous, you know. No one ever made me something that cool. Do you think I could commission him one?”

Marti did, but he had been wrong. Niccolò wasn’t interested in designing clothes for anyone else, and while he was flattered by Fra’s proposal he would have to turn it down. Not exactly a great start, but Martino didn’t think much of it. This wasn’t kindergarten and surely Francesco wouldn’t hold that refusal against Nico.

Marina had literally saved his life, when he crossed the street and didn’t look as he was in the middle of some lovely banter with Niccolò. In return for her heroic deed, he was bound to treat her to lunch. Or a coffee, at least. The way she delivered that ridiculous request, wiggling her head and biting her lips – like a mischievous child, amused by their own audacity – reminded him so much of a certain someone… that he found himself discussing the top 10 TV shows betrayals of the decade (no! they were never going to forgive D&D for what he had done to Daenerys!) over a cappuccino. She might have been side-eyeing him for checking his phone a little too much, but he didn’t really care.

And then came Lorenzo. Well, it was actually Martino who had reached out to him. Who found him sitting on the floor of a dingy bathroom, crying his eyes out. Years ago, he would have stepped out and let someone else comfort a stranger. But then… Then he though ‘what I was the one sitting there? what if it was Nico? I don’t want to think everyone would just walk away and pretend they didn’t see him…’ and sat down next to him. He didn’t ask if he was okay, when he clearly wasn’t. He didn’t ask why he was so distraught. It wasn’t any of his business, and the question alone would have made this guy feel worse. It was a lesson he had learnt the hard way, through his own experience and Nico’s.

“Oi, you got 2 tens or 4 fives? Some spare coins? I’ve only 20€ in my wallet, and that fucking machine never gives you the right change if you put in more than a 10€ note.”   He had asked, when Lori looked up.

“I… I…” He had said, sniffling. Frantically, he had started looking for the money and seemed truly sorry he couldn’t help Martino out.

“Hey, that’s okay. I’ll manage. So, what can I get you? You look like you could use some hot chocolate, though I’m afraid I can only find vaguely chocolatey-flavored water, around here.”

He didn’t think he would get to meet any of them ever again, and then one day he spotted them all sitting at the same table. It wasn’t like Martino had ever believed in fate, but that did seem like a coincidence straight out from a Norwegian teen drama. A French romance. Not that he had ever watched either of them, of course. An occurrence meant to show him that the universe had plans, for the four of them.

In hindsight, he should have told the universe where he could shove its plans…

For a while, however, Martino thought there could hardly be anybody on Earth who got luckier than him in when it came to friendship. They always knew where to find the next best party but didn’t mind spending a night in, binge-watching the latest trashy show that had been uploaded on Netflix. Playing FIFA. Discussing politics, and even ethics and philosophy when they were more than a little drunk.

Everything changed, however, when things started to get a bit more personal. When they started dispensing details about their crushes, their heartbreaks, and Martino foolishly felt comfortable enough to share more of his life with Nico. Painting quite an idyllic picture, as complaints and rants about his inability to tidy up a room and tendency to zone out when they were discussing financial matters would only ever be disclosed to Giovanni. Nevertheless, to say that they weren’t his biggest fans would be an understatement.

  “Let me guess, it’s Nico. Again.”

 “Okay… So, he can leave on read for hours, but starts panicking if you don’t answer straight away?”

 “He put salt in your coffee because you weren’t paying attention? Is he… like, five or something? But well, if you find that endearing… You do you, man.”

 And it only got worse after they met him, and began spinning a whole other narrative in which Martino was either a hero or a martyr, for ‘putting up’ with Nico.

 “Oh, you're such a great guy not giving up on that.”

 “You sure must love him a lot to endure all of his up and downs.”

He reassured them all, told them that he appreciated the concern but that they barely knew Niccolò so he wouldn’t stand for any further slandering of his boyfriend.

So they laid low, and stayed quiet, for a while. It hurt them to see Martino trapped in what clearly was an abusive relationship, but there was nothing more that could be said or done about it. Whenever Nico was mentioned, they changed the subject.

Until tonight. Asking them both to join them at a party, and then corner him and attempted to stage an ‘intervention’.

Couldn’t he see how possessive and controlling Niccolò was, manipulating Marti into thinking his new friends were out to get him?

 “The two of you, against the world? Doesn’t it sound disturbing to you?”

 “Marti, come on, you have to admit that he has controlling tendencies. He shouldn’t need to know where you are at all times, doing what, with whom. He shouldn’t come up and snatch you away, whenever he notices you spend time talking to the same person for more than 2 minutes.”

 “It’s like he can’t stand not being at the center of your attention 100% of the time.”

How… How dare they? Who the fuck do they think they are?

“Get out of my face, you fuckers. If I hear you badmouthing Nico ever again, you’re gonna regret it.”

Thankfully, they don’t try to stop him when he storms out the room. The last thing he wants is to end up in a fight, and having Niccolò find out it was because of him. It had already happened once, with Malik and his friends, and… No revival of that was needed, thanks.

Little do they know about their late conversations, when Martino had indeed noticed was off with Niccolò and tried to find out how he could help. Because Marti couldn’t relate to the magnitude of Niccolò feelings, sure, but he had been there the year before. When everyone in Uni had seemed far more interesting that a boy who still attended high school…

Niccolò has a jealous streak, sure. That had been clear ever since he put in his pasta. But it wasn’t the ugly side of jealousy, stemming from a warped sense of ownership over him. It was more like… Feeling like he didn’t matter, of maybe being interest enough to catch someone’s attention but lacking in keep them entertained. Which in turn made him petty, vindictive, clingy. It was only a matter of time before Martino would agree with those guys, and leave him for good.

Marti tapped Nico's skull, then, and said to his brain "Stop with this bullshit. Stop making my boyfriend suffer, you asshole. You know nothing, zero, zilch, nil, nada. You're worse than Jon Snow.” He bent down to kiss his heart, and went on with "You, on the other hand… You know Nico's the best thing that has ever happened to me and that I'd be a fool not to cherish it. So what if he’s got some flaws? Who cares? Not me. One thing matters and it’s this: no else compares. So yeah, tell him he shouldn't worry: I'm not going anywhere."

"Ever?" He mumbled, not quite ready to believe Martino.

"Kim Jong-un, Nico. Remember?"  Marti reminded him, smiling as he stroked his cheek.

"Right. How could I forget King-Kong-Là…" That made them both laugh, and they decided not to discuss the matter any further. They were far more pleasurable ways to spend their night together…

So yeah, screw them. Screw everyone who overanalyzes every little thing Niccolò does, who is always ready to point the finger at him and say that Martino deserves better.

Of course he does, duh. Better friends, for a start.

*********************** All due respect here... There's no respect due. So fuck you and you, and you and you. You're cool, but fuck you... And I'm out of here. (Swear Jar, Illy)

[thewarriorandtheking]

Stuck With You

Imagine being stuck in quarantine with Thorin...

Just a quick sketch I wrote while sitting around in airports last week 

Warning: Isolation fluff

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

Thorin Oakenshield was restringing his harp. He had quite lost track of the last time the strings had been changed, some were so stretched he could not properly tune it. As he attached each string he tightened it carefully, listening until it was true. It was one of those tasks that couldn’t be rushed, so now was a perfect time. There was some kind of sickness sweeping through the cities of Men, it was in Esgaroth and in Dale. Thorin and Kaylea had unknowingly ridden through those towns on their way to Erebor and though they were unaffected, the Dwarven healers in Erebor insisted they stay isolated. They did not want the sickness to spread to the Lonely Mountain. Thorin was rather enjoying himself; he had no objection to setting aside the responsibilities of his kingdom for a time, and he had a bench full of jewelry projects waiting for his attention.

Kaylea Wolf looked up from the knife she was sharpening. “When you get that finished, are you going to sing me a tune?”

“I might,” Thorin replied, smiling at his wife. The first few days of isolation had gone by quickly, as they worked with their ship’s computer to find a treatment for the virus. It had been Thorin’s idea to put it in the water supply. If the sickness came to Erebor they were ready. Now Thorin could sense Kaylea was getting restless, if he didn’t find a way to calm her nerves she would soon be like a tiger in a cage. He thought a little music might help.

Thorin tightened the last screw and ran his fingers over the strings. He so seldom had the time to play anymore, he always seemed to forget how much he enjoyed it. He made a few more adjustments, then let his fingers pick up a melody that had been popular in Erebor recently, followed by a few songs from Dorsai. As he played the music carried him away, when he stopped to stretch his fingers he realized he did not know how long he had been playing. It must have been quite some time, Kaylea was now stretched out on the couch, eyes closed, the silver beads in her golden hair sparkling in the lamplight.

“I could listen to you play all day,” she sighed, not opening her eyes.

“Your turn to serenade me now,” Thorin said.

Kaylea chuckled. “I have no talent for music, you know that.”

“Nonsense. I have heard you sing, you have a voice any Elf would envy.”

“The Queen does not feel like singing today. She commands you to continue.” Kaylea still hadn’t moved or opened her eyes.

Thorin picked up a cushion from the bench next to him and threw it at her. “The Queen does not command the King,” he laughed. “Don’t make me come over there.”

Kaylea blocked the cushion from hitting her in the face. “Are you threatening me?” Her eyes sparkled with amusement. She threw the pillow back at him. Thorin caught it and hit her with it again. At the same time Kaylea grabbed one off the couch and followed the first pillow with a second. Suddenly they were grinning hysterically, smacking each other with the soft cushions, as loose feathers floated in the air around them. Thorin took Kaylea down first, as she hit the floor she swept his legs out from under him. Thorin fell heavily next to her, raising a cloud of feathers. He wrapped her in his arms, laughing.

“I win,” he said, brushing her hair away from her face.  

“How do you figure that?” His wife asked, running her hand up under his shirt.

“I made you laugh,” Thorin leaned in and kissed her, pulling her tight against him. “If you are this grumpy after four days, I hate to think I will be stuck with you for a fortnight.”

Kaylea chuckled, fingering one of his braids. “I don’t suppose the King could decree himself immune from this virus and get us out of here?”

“Why would I do that? I never get you to myself for this long,” Thorin smiled at her. “Dwarves are hardy folk, we are not prone to the many illnesses of Men. I very much doubt Erebor will even be affected; the healers are just being cautious.”

Kaylea’s eyes narrowed. “So, you set this up to keep me prisoner?”

“Would I do that?” Thorin grinned slyly, his hands running up her body. “And I don’t want a prisoner.”

“So, what do you want, husband?” Kaylea slid her hands down his back and into his trousers.  

“A happy wife,” Thorin kissed her neck, then started working his way down. Kaylea writhed with pleasure at the touch of his lips on her skin. Even after so many years together Thorin’s touch still sent thrills through her body. Smiling she grabbed his wrists and rolled him onto his back, sitting on his stomach she pinned his hands down.

“What will you do to keep your wife happy, I wonder?”

 Days later Thorin walked through the apartments looking for his wife. He had been working on a necklace for her and wanted to check the length. A whole section of the royal residence had been set aside for them so they had plenty of space to move around. He came upon a trail of bloody footprints and followed them to find Kaylea at the table in the sitting room with a glass of water. She was in her close-fitting training clothes, a sheen of sweat on her chest and shoulders.

“My love, what have you been doing?” Thorin asked, pointing at the floor. Kaylea looked at the floor and then at the bottoms of her feet.

“Just some weapons kata. I guess I went a bit hard.”

Thorin shook his head at her and went to the bedroom to retrieve his medkit. Did everyone who married a Dorsai have these problems? Do you not think it might be time to stop if your feet were bleeding? He took a seat at the table and looked at Kaylea expectantly until she put her feet in his lap. He took a bit of cell-foam and spread it over the raw spots, massaging it to form a new layer of skin.

“What am I going to do with you?” Thorin sighed.

“Do you really want me to answer that?” Kaylea looked at him over the top of her glass.

“Should I tie you up? I wonder if that would keep you from hurting yourself,” Thorin worked the knots in her foot with his thumbs, his mind running down a pleasant path.  

“It could also be entertaining,” Kaylea added, rubbing her other foot against him.

“It certainly would,” Thorin grinned wickedly at her. “But we are only a few days from a fortnight, I could probably get the healers to let us out. The sickness has not come to Erebor.”

“No,” Kaylea replied, relaxing as Thorin worked on her feet. “I was just thinking we should stay another week.”

Thorin looked up at her, genuinely surprised. “I thought you hated this!”

Kaylea smiled at him. “It has become a kind of challenge, it reminds me of things I learned in my early days of training.”

Thorin scowled at her. “Why is everything about training to you? Can’t you just enjoy having time with your husband?” He dropped her feet and sat back.

“Let me finish,” Kaylea sat forward, grasping his hand. “I did hate it at first, but it forced me to slow down and examine why I am always rushing around. I have been reminded that every day is unique; this day will never come again and I must strive to appreciate every moment.” She reached over to touch the side of his face. “I love you, husband. There is nowhere I would rather be than with you, no matter what we are doing. I am just sorry it took this period of confinement for me to realize it.”

Thorin leaned forward and kissed her, sweat on her skin always made her smell like desert sand. “I love you, wife. Even though you do drive me crazy,” he leaned his forehead against hers. “Can we really stay another week?”

“Of course,” Kaylea said. She looked down the table at the necklace Thorin had brought with him. “What have you been working on?”

“Ah! I think you will like this one,” Thorin got up and moved around behind her chair. The necklace was indeed spectacular; a row of intricately-worked wolf’s heads, each with a sparkling row of stones flowing from its mouth. Thorin stood back, eyeing it critically, counting the tiny flaws that only he could see. Kaylea went over to the mirror by the mantlepiece. The stones were a bit bigger than Thorin usually used in her jewelry, although quite subdued by Dwarven standards Kaylea felt blinded looking at it. But she knew how much pride her husband took in his work and had learned to look thrilled to wear it.

“You have outdone yourself this time,” she said. “It looks perfect.”

Thorin frowned, he came up behind and put his arms around her, looking at the necklace in the mirror. “There are several things that need to be changed,” he said. “But the length is right.”  

Kaylea leaned back against him. “So, what shall we do tonight? You still owe me a rematch on the chessboard.”

The King chuckled. He knew one day he was going to regret teaching her that game, but right now she could not beat him. He ran his fingers over the necklace, then down her body and between her legs. “I have a better idea. How about we get dinner sent up and cuddle by the fire?”  

“Sounds perfect,” Kaylea said. “I will hit the shower. What shall I wear for dinner, my king?”

“Just that necklace, my love.”

Read more adventures of The Warrior and The King on AO3 & FanFiction. Also on Wattpad. 

@crazytxgradstudent​ @theelvenvalkyrie​ @emrfangirl​ @robertdowneyhiddleston​

[yobaba30]

Brace yourself, dear reader, for today’s topic is rage. Not just any garden-variety rage, but its narcissistic kind, one of the darkest and most destructive manifestations of our Shadow.

A narcissist’s rage is always there, sometimes barely under the surface, sometimes hovering above it in the form of sadistic cruelties dispensed casually without specific reason, just because (that stupid dog was in my way, you are so fat and ugly, only idiots park their cars in this spot, and no one talks to me like that — any or no reason would do). There are, however, solid enough explanations of its existence.

You may have heard of Donald Trump’s very bad day the other Tuesday — or rather what would have been a very bad day for any normal person / presidential candidate confronted with his inaccuracies and lies. For Donald, however, it was just Tuesday as usual, complete with playing the Perpetual Victim™ of the Cruel and Unforgiving Press, and humiliating people who dared to question him about these pesky things known as facts.

The sordid as usual spectacle was instructive, as is everything else coming from the man, in the dynamics of narcissistic pathology.

First, the bombast. His over-the-top pronouncements about his huuuge charitable efforts are meant to shock and awe the audience into unquestioning submission.

Second, should any audience member retain his or her bearings and still manage to persist in their questioning, next comes the unloading of the massive victimhood complex designed to cow them into silence filled, presumably, with commiseration and appreciation for the Put Upon Donny and His Unique Suffering (and, oh, how he suffers! only a narcissist can suffer so — you mere mortals / losers cannot possibly comprehend it).

Third — since, remarkably enough, the first two options did not quite work, a sign perhaps that some of the press members are growing spines — there followed a predictable, but still shocking, dose of sadism in the form of insults, direct and less so, meant to shut everyone up for good.

It is instructive to watch The Donald, who epitomizes dishonesty and sleaze, rage at the reporters for being “dishonest” and call them sleazy — for trying to extract some honesty and truth from him. He shames them — or futilely attempts to, given that his moral standing is non-existent and reality is decidedly not on his side — with the ease and force that indicates the extent of his own fear of shame.

This sequelae, seen above, in response to shame is classic for any narcissist, especially one of this extreme caliber, for very obvious reasons:

The narcissist tends to be very sensitive to shame, which he perceives as humiliation: a blow to his ego (sense of self) and/or a threat to what he sees as his important status compared to others. This sensitivity is the reason why he tends to lash out at those who shame or appear to shame him in any way. His reactions to shame are grossly disproportionate to the “offense;” he will hold grudges and seek revenge sometimes till death, his own or his “offender’s,” whichever comes first. Hell hath no fury like a narcissist scorned.

Shame is so difficult for a narcissist to tolerate because it arises from an exposure of some flaw of his to others. He has many serious shortcomings; but in his own eyes he is perfect and surpasses everyone else, as he will let you know time and again, directly and not. He must retain this grandiose delusion of superiority and perfection at all costs because this is all he has. His bigger than life persona hides an empty inner core, devoid of meaningful values and attachments. A prick of shame exposing any flaws in the narcissist’s façade has a potential of deflating it and effectively destroying him since there is nothing of substance to fall back on within his inner world.

The rage with which a narcissist reacts to shame or humiliation thus deflects attention from his inner emptiness. That rage is often a predominant emotion, particularly in a narcissist who feels chronically deprived of the admiration and perks he believes he deserves (and as his need for admiration and perks is bottomless, so then is his sense of deprivation). It does not take much to provoke it: a simple, neutral observation or a request can suddenly unleash it on an unsuspecting victim.

The vehement defense against shame is also another reason why a narcissist never takes responsibility for his behavior. Why should he anyway, when he’s perfect and does no wrong? Nothing is ever his fault, no matter how great a mess he creates. Responsibility is always projected outwards, onto others, as blame. Admitting his culpability in anything could lead to shame and cracks in the false façade that defines his character — and his ego won’t allow that. It is a matter of life and death, ‘psychically’ speaking.

The flip side of his shame intolerance is his desire to humiliate others. It comes as naturally to him as breathing. He derives pleasure from inflicting on others the kind of pain he himself wants to avoid at all costs. Humiliating other people is almost as satisfying as winning. It helps that the two often go together in the narcissist’s life. In fact, humiliating others is itself a win. And he likes to win.

What we have seen in Donald’s behavior was a relatively mild version of narcissistic aggression in response to shame, but it gives us a glimpse of what’s beneath it. We are still in the wooing phase, and Donald is, believe it or not, on his best behavior.

He is still The Charming Donald (or what passes for charming in Trumpland), trying to curry our favor and votes. If he makes it into the White House, then we will get to know his true self, unhampered by all these frivolous niceties.

We must appreciate the often sadistic and always revealing quality of insults dished out by The Donald at the people who try to confront him with reality, because, in the Freudian-slippage way, they expose his shadow — take this one, directed at ABC’s Tom Llamas on Tuesday:

You’re a sleaze because you know the facts and you know the facts well.

In this breathtaking attack, The Donald conveyed more than he wished. While his intent was to imply that he was being unfairly (but of course) criticized by the reporter who should know better, he let us know, Freudian-slippage style, what we have observed time and again: that reality as we know it with its pesky facts is optional — and threatening — for him, because he lives in his own version of it, where we all should join him (if we knew what’s good for us).

This again ties in with his pathological defense against shame. A narcissist’s facts and facts as most of us know them are distinctly incompatible, and you bring it up at your own risk.

Should the truth — those inconvenient realities of his life and his character as the rest of us see them — be revealed, he would be emotionally annihilated, so he cannot allow that. Yes, a narcissist would kill, easily, to protect his fragile ego from this unforgivable, to him, insult of the truth.

That narcissistic rage attacks can be deadly we see in, for example, the tragic and seemingly incomprehensible instances of lethal domestic violence where a narcissistically injured spouse, usually a husband, lashes out at his wife who may have offended him “for the last time” by confronting him with some imperfection of his (as in, Would you take your shoes off the table, please?). We can also see it, brazenly displayed, in the lives of genocidal tyrants. Saddam Hussein, for instance, was known to invite his advisers to give him honest feedback, and then execute those who took the honest part seriously. Ditto Stalin.

The epidemic of gun violence in the US, particularly mass shootings — a persistent clamoring of our Shadow to pay attention to its presence, something we equally persistently refuse to do — is also driven largely by narcissistic rage. During a news conference several days ago about the UCLA shooter, the chief of LAPD said the following:

Everybody tries to look for a good reason for this. There is no good reason for this. This is a mental issue, mental derangement.

He was correct that there is no good reason for this and that “mental derangement” is the cause — but we should learn to identify and name this specific mental derangement, called aggrieved entitlement, which is a form of narcissistic rage, already. Our failure to do so, repeatedly and with the kind of stubbornness that suggests willful blindness, is deadly. Whatever other difficulties the UCLA shooter may have experienced, we can assume with a fair degree of certainty that narcissistic entitlement and rage were among them, as it is nearly always the case. For it takes a grand dose of faith in one’s specialness to believe that one has a right to take another’s life — or many — in revenge for whatever slights, real or imagined, one may have experienced.

Tom Llamas’ offense, like those unlucky honest Hussein’s advisers, was, in addition to confronting Trump with cold facts about his charitable inactivities, ignoring those central facts that comprise the narcissist’s reality:

It is not, however, as though his understanding of himself and the world is entirely fact-free. There are three major facts around which his whole reality is organized:

1. I am great.

2. People unfairly malign me.

3. I will show them (they will pay).

Those are not just beliefs — they are facts etched deep in his psyche, and they evoke corresponding emotional states of 1. grandiose pride, 2. sense of victimhood and resentment, 3. desire for revenge, all of which form the core of his sense of self and motivate his actions.

“You’re a sleaze because you know the facts and you know the facts well” — the real facts, about the narcissist’s unsurpassed and unquestioned greatness — and you choose to ignore them. You will pay.

Trump’s gratuitous putdowns hint at the reservoir of narcissistic rage within. If physical violence (or a lawsuit) is not an option, sadistic insults will do. We all remember his gleeful mockery of a disabled reporter; yesterday, he gave us another example when talking about John Kerry’s accident in France last year:

He goes into a bicycle race, and he breaks his leg, and he’s incapacitated. And you know what they’re saying to each other? ‘How dumb is this guy? How dumb?’

The crowd laughed, as WaPo reports.

Narcissistic rage is easily evoked by the weakness of others, which the narcissist finds contemptible and deserving punishment, sometimes giving us hints at his own early traumas he may have experienced as a weak and helpless child at mercy of his harsh and/or cruel caretakers.

It also gives us a close look at other aspects of his shadow. Here is what Trump said about Hillary Clinton this week:

She’s a total mess, she’s unstable, and she can’t be president.

And how he responded when asked why he engaged in Twitter wars with Elizabeth Warren:

Because she is a nasty person, a terrible senator, and it drives her crazy.

These grade-school level barbs, which, like everything else that comes from the man’s mouth, are based on projection, tell us most about his shadow, facts which he does not want to — cannot, at a risk of grave injury — acknowledge of himself: that he is a nasty person, a total mess, unstable, terrible at his job (whatever it really is), and easily driven crazy by petty insults and criticisms. Oh, and that he can’t be president. If only Donald listened to his shadow…

Narcissistic rage is one of the darkest and deadliest forces known to mankind. Before it erupts, it usually simmers and percolates for a long time, fueled by resentment, envy and entitlement, the latter always aggrieved as the narcissist’s need for adulation and glory is insatiable and he can see the world populated by the undeserving, inferior people who nevertheless dare to be happier and/or more successful than he is. It thus creates enemies out of the innocent and often weak who become vessels for the narcissist’s hateful and envious projections.

These sustained projections form a basis of an attitude called the narcissism of minor differences, first described by Freud, where we exaggerate small differences in people who are our neighbors — their dress, the shape of their noses, etc. — in order to feel superior to them and exclude them from our group. This attitude, like anything else based on fear and hatred, easily infects others, already narcissistically predisposed; and the sharing makes the hateful projections grow and spread. The co-existent phenomenon of collective narcissism, which intensifies the in-group ties (and which is unsurprisingly associated with authoritarianism) at the expense of excluding and demonizing those who do not belong to our group, strengthens this pathological, but common and predictable enough process.

Once established as a more or less legitimate shared worldview, the narcissism of minor differences leads to an easy dehumanization of The Other, entrenched in racism and other forms of prejudice. It culminates in mob actions, gang violence, terrorism, and endless internal conflicts and wars, which — because of their grand scale and the magnitude of destruction — are the ultimate expressions of narcissistic rage and the deadliest manifestations of our Shadow.

And we allow this to happen.

Much cyberink has been spilled on analyzing Trump’s enduring appeal to American voters, and lauding his purported political mastery. This predictable but misguided adulation that stems from widespread narcissistic collusion and denial it creates (and the other way around) is exactly what the narcissist desires and aims at extracting from others.

It is unforgivable that our media not only legitimize this destructive individual, but imbue him with all kinds of special skills, attributing to him, with admiration and awe, political genius and media savvy.

Not coincidentally, the same happened with other leaders in human history who shared this character defect: while they were ridiculed by some, they were lauded by the press, domestic and foreign, for their “eloquence” and “brilliant political skills” as they peddled their grandiose dreams of glory alongside contempt and hatred for their “enemies,” The Others.

“This is a marvelous demagogue who can really inspire loyalty.”

“This guy is a clown. He’s like a caricature of himself.”

That’s how the media both idealized and devalued another similar character from the past who set out to show the world how great he was and how much adulation he deserved, Adolf Hitler.

This happens every time with an extreme (psychopathic) narcissistic leader / public character, because his pathology evokes just that very kind of response in people, media people included: it makes us either laugh in disbelief and contempt, or idolize his hyped-up “skills” — which are really nothing more than expressions of his pathology — often both at the same time. And while the public is both amused and mesmerized by the future tyrant’s larger-than-life persona, he ever so persistently marches toward his ultimate goal unimpeded — because the number of those who fall for his narcissistic manipulations is always too large.

The predictable and co-occurring idealization and devaluation are two emotional states that generally define a narcissist’s attitude toward himself (idealization) and others (devaluation; see the insults discussed above). He projects them, primitively — i.e., without any self-reflection or inhibitions, as there is no functioning conscience to impose such “obstacles” on his mental processes and behavior — onto the world and constructs an entire ideology from them.

When dressed up in grandiose and empty sloganeering on patriotism, faith, national purity, and other perverted “ideals,” this pathological process is mistaken for “political brilliance” and other such dangerous nonsense, as it inspires too many people to follow the leader, even if straight into an abyss. His irresistible pull lies not in any specific policies he may be promising (and being blissfully unacquainted with reality, he is always short and/or vague on those), but in the feelings his words engender in his followers, specifically a narcissistic identification with the strongman, which compensates for his followers’ inadequacies; and narcissistic rage, which the strongman embodies and already unleashes on the nation through inciting chaos and violence. The only promises that matter are those which bring in a possibility of revenge for the real and imagined hurts of his followers. That, too, is our Shadow at work.

This phenomenon, part of narcissistic collusion that develops between narcissistic leaders and their followers in any human group and organization, is as common as it is dangerous. It should be obvious that any promises and “serious” pronouncements such a leader makes are not worth the air he wastes uttering them. The only “skills” that he possesses come from his emotional primitivism combined with his grandiosity and lack of conscience, which allow him to unleash the disordered contents of his psyche on the world without any inhibition or compunction.

This appeals to and “awes” people who are psychologically similar, but frightens and repulses, correctly, the rest who are not as primitive and/or disordered and who see where this dangerous process leads. Unfortunately, too many journalists, not to mention Trump’s admirers and supporters, apparently belong in the former camp, as their shadow dangerously colludes with his.

[seekingjets]

Pre-War StarPrime(Pax) thought...

Orion Pax has run into Starscream before. More than once.

Unfortunately one time in particular was due to Ironhide and Jazz dragging Pax by the moral compass to the edges of Kaon. They want to celebrate his promotion. They want to spoil their favorite Sergeant with gritty energex in chipped canisters. They want to drown him in the sight of swaying frames drawn in organic lines (as is the fashion in Kaon) until Pax might actually slip and be normal for once.

No stuffy student, no longer a twitchy cadet. They want and hope some flirty mech, modified to vibrate under hand, can give their Orion a good time.

Orion is mortified, of course. He's citing regulations and code of conduct all the way past rusty doors. Tossed careless into the throb of overlaid beats. Flashing colors and swinging limbs as the (Bar? Club? Law suit?) carries on in full swing despite his objections. Orion only can sit back in a corner booth, wishing Ironhide could complete his paperwork as swiftly as he procures drinks. Bright, frothy vermilion in cups cold to the touch and static on the tongue.

Jazz is of no help and if he hollers to giggling patrons (with their colors rearranged to highlight obscene carved hips and decorative glyphs delving between glossed thighs) one more time to "come and get it" while motioning to Orion's pelvic area one more time...Orion is going to write up an official reprimand.

This has to qualify as kidnapping. Perhaps even attempted murder (as he will die if he's bullied into drinking one more chunky shot that slithers down his intake and sizzles the tanks.)

They won't let him leave until he's "having fun" but Jazz is quick to sneak off to the dance floor at the first opportunity. Wedged between a broad chest and someone with huffing smokestacks which leaves the cramped club hot and suffocating. Vents whining to filter the smoke and gasping exhales of folded bodies and sticky floors. Lamenting his pride now washed away in the funk and tact clinging to his frame as foreign servos find the audacity to grope what they can as they pass by.

"Ya havin’ fun?” Ironhide grins, mouth damp with drink.

“You’re under arrest.” Orion answers and doesn’t appreciate the deep guff of a laugh in return. No one should be able to make that noise, not when aiding and abetting a crime. He’ll suffer for now, but even as Orion slinks forward to dodge a friendly squeeze from a passerby, he’s preparing for the look of betrayal on Ironhide’s face come the next shift after Pax refuses to complete the administrative portion of their work for his dear friend.

Then Ironhide smacks his waist and it’s like a blunt weapon knocking into his frame, leaves him choking and reeling as his partner motions across the flashing lights and displaced bodies. Orion tensing. Expecting an obvious danger in their reach, ready to lunge at the closest threat...

Instead he spots wings.

The pale frame and violent shine of red effortlessly divides the floor with a confidence Pax is stilling trying to fake. Body paint bright and catching the colorful lights, casting a neon wildfire across strutting wings. The comfortable sway of red hips and matching optics which trail light as they gently survey the world before him.

Casting judgement and finding the offering of the universe wanting before a prideful sneer.

“Well damn, never seen a stock model look so...” ‘Hide trails off, likely because Orion’s mask has snapped shut with a startled hurry. Ironhide doesn’t have much time to question it due to the impending doom as the seeker draws near without much prompting.

“Hi.” Ironhide is a confident mech, strong and stubborn. But pretty things are blinding and he’s certainly distracted by the glossy thigh pressed against their table.

“Buy me a drink.” The seeker orders and doesn’t lift his gaze from Orion’s figure - which only gives Ironhide the wrong idea.

“I’ll take my time.” He winks and shuffles up and out before Pax can drag him back by the scruff. Awkward silence managing to fill the void between the newcomer’s cut smile and Orion Pax sitting at an angle in the booth trying to survive the scalding seeker’s stare.

“Officer Pax.”

“Starscream.” Pax shifts in his seat uncomfortable by far, looking towards the crowd for both Jazz and an exit...finding neither.

“Haven’t seen you since you tried arresting me not a few blocks away.” The seeker pressing pale blue servos on the grimy table, spreading elongated digits until the metal of the table sang with vibration and Orion withdrew further into the booth.

“Haven’t seen you since you shot me resisting arrest.” The bright quirk of Starscream’s smile shouldn’t send his spark to do a funny little pulse, wavering in response to the seeker’s amusement. Orion wasn’t seriously injured but showing up, blasted arm and no suspect in hand, had been a rough day at the station.

Starscream decides it’s perfectly acceptable to sit down, likely realizing how uncomfortable it will make Orion Pax. Body moving in a neat shuffle before falling loud and heavy into the space at Pax’s left. Posture curved towards Orion who wasn’t and never will be a small mech. The edge of his elbow joint tickles the glass of the seeker’s canopy and it feels indecent with the undulating crowds of the dance floor not a stretch away.

“Of all the stuffy cops out there, you’re the last one I would expect to be slumming it.” Starscream speaks and the surrounding space quivers. Perfectly symmetrical face, literally one of hundreds, moving to rest a neat chin against the perfect curl of his own palm. “You know what this club is famous for? I didn’t guess you were into that kind of thing.”

“Not my idea.” Pax answers quickly, then recalculates. Always a danger not to consider each and every one of the criminal’s words before giving too much. Starscream was a mid-level crook with a magician’s touch for getting out of trouble. His rap sheet practically a history lesson in “what not to do”. Yet nothing sticks and nothing ever holds the seeker down. “What kind of thing?”

“Don’t worry,” Starscream and he have history the same way a splinter embedded deep into the under dermal layer has history with its host. Not too much a pain until agitated...but never truly forgotten. “I can tell you’re not having fun.”

“Why are you here?” Stupid question and the seeker finds it funny. Shifting to swing legs up and over Orion’s lap, leaning back into the curve of the booth as he watches with delight the expressions the masked-Pax can run through before settling on slightly disturbed and unsure what to do with his hands.

“Me? Just enjoying the view.”

“Starscream…”

“Don’t tell me you’re still mad about getting shot?” Starscream’s glossa peeks from his mouth, teasing while Pax is left to catch Ironhide’s shape from the bar, giving him two thumbs up for all the wrong reasons. Starscream’s heeled turbine digs into the plating of Orion’s thigh and he wants to relocate the pedes to the floor - but shoving them away would be rude. Surely that’s his only reason for resisting the urge.

“It wasn’t getting shot that upset me.” He responds without thinking and that’s the worst thing you can do in the face of that smile. That all-knowing clever little devil disguised as something warm and pretty you can never own. Orion was distracted by that smile once, let the seeker curl in and hold tight as the loveliest snake in all Cybertron spilled a sob story that had his spark weeping and a flare of protective nature scorching his logical core.

Orion hadn’t noticed at the time of the arrest that Starscream slipped the cuffs. Hadn’t noticed because he was busy with a processor full of heroic acts and flashing white wings fluttering lovely and exotic before him. It was an interesting picture, bulky him with the curvaceous and venom tongued seeker whispering desperate and beautiful all the things a would-be savior wants to hear.

Rookie mistake.

Highlighted by the fact Starscream shot him the moment Orion shuddered with the brush of a mouth against his jaw.

“Oh? That?” Starscream seems to know Orion’s shame, pulls himself closer by the anchor of his legs across Pax’s lap. He’s clearly no more than an obstacle course for him, he’s sure. Orion still allows it somehow, still bewitched by that pretty thing in the wild night who whimpered for his help with a stunning act. “You can’t still be mad about that?”

“I’m off-duty.” Orion tries cutting him off, face guard secure across his features and hopefully that gives a sense of disinterest. Of false fortification against the seeker who is all but curled in his lap, knees brushing intimate and familiar against Orion’s side. “But were I not…”

“Oh officer!” Starscream gasps and a few lingering patrons turn their gaze in voyeuristic curiosity. “I’ve been good little jet, I promise.”

“You?” Pax chuckles despite himself, wondering if Starscream can see the grin he so desperately wishes to hide from the world. (Not the world. Just from Starscream who has a way of looking at you with the promise of wanting and enjoying anything he sees.) “Unlikely.”

“You’re handsome when you smile.” Optics flicker to the mask and dim when it remains in existence. Gathering himself up and wings stretch wide against the cramped space. Red lights of his gaze blurred and streaking across the flowing lights causing him to appear ethereal in the flashing room. “You know, it’s a shame you won’t come to play without your friends dragging you. I think we could have some fun.”

“I’m still an officer of the law.”

“We all have our flaws.” He purrs and Orion can feel it against his field which settles hungry over the seeker’s frame. Resonating and responding. Sending a gentle pulse to work its way up Orion’s back and nestle deep into his over-extended processor. “Maybe next time.”

“Likely not.” Orion finds his voice lacking as the other rises to stand, heel digging into the seat between Pax’s thighs with expectation. Forcing him to accommodate the change and out of instinct Pax reaches to cup the backs of blue detailed knees and ensure the jet’s stability.

Starscream stands tall and warm above him, a bouncer or bartender yelling in his direction to “sit the frack down” as the pede between his leg ghosts intimate plating. Devious and curled smile worn like a crown, just as dangerous as the rest of him.

“Well then, you better get me in cuffs next time.”

He almost answers eagerly, slouching grip as the seeker dips and hops down from the booth - ignoring the bartender’s scathing reprimand for walking on the furniture. Giving an impolite motion to emphasis how little he cares. The thrumming crowd and blinding lights agree with Starscream, all chaos and motion as he gives a final glance over the delicate wing before parting the crowd once more - vanishing from sight in the shifting bodies and hungry stares.

Orion exhales a sound he hadn’t known he was clutching, both proud and mournful of the brief encounter. The officer in him knowing what a danger the seeker was...the dreamer thrilled by it. He hardly acknowledges his partner’s return, Ironhide grinning from gear to gear as he plops down in the booth. Elbowing Pax with a proud laugh that is nothing compared to Jazz’s struck expression when he’s finally reeled from the dance floor to ensure Pax survived.

“It’s nothing.” Orion lies, shrugging off ‘Hide’s assumptions or Jazz’s disappointment that he didn’t follow the seeker out. “It’s not like that.” He assures, hoping the display at least would give him room to encourage their departure from the wild atmosphere.

“Hey man, I’m just glad he wasn’t causing trouble.” Jazz chuckles, chugging something bright and green from thin tubes brought to him by star-speckled fans of his dance floor performance. “Pretty thing like that? Seems evil.”

“No, he just...came to say hi?” Orion guesses. He’s not versed in what a  havoc-hungry seeker might get out of crawling into the lap of the very cop who tried to arrest him on multiple occasions. Perhaps there’s a challenge he can’t understand. Perhaps he’d like to. But just stopping in to “say hi” wasn’t a very Starscream-like behavior....

“He stole from you didn’t he?” Jazz waits until Orion checks his accounts, gagging at the multiple digits withdrawn and the lingering signs of a proximity hack subtle but still there. Like a rough edge against his coding as grating as the seeker’s voice.

“That...little…” Orion was already lunging over the table before the bartender could complain, heavy body shaking the floor as he moves broad and fast towards the direction of Starscream’s swift escape, Only hoping he can catch him before taking flight.

Handcuffs at the ready.

[thehiddenlawyer]

Some Thoughts on Some Hope

This going to be extremely spoilory for the entire series so y’know, you’ve been warned. 

Of the five novels, Some Hope is probably my favorite for a few reasons that are both technical (me read it as a writer) and extremely personal (me reading it under the circumstances under which I did). 

So when it came to thinking about Episode 3, there was a lot of apprehension on my part-- I was having flashbacks of Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban, and how my favorite Potter novel got butchered on screen. 

But Saturday, heart in my throat, grateful to Showtime for releasing the episode on the app as soon as it became available on the East Coast, I watched it and....I’ve never loved anything more in my life. 

I’ve been seeing a lot of posts, both here and on twitter, that don’t seem to get the episode, either finding it boring, hopeless, or missing the point. 

Before I proceed, I have to say that this is my extremely subjective opinion about the episode and the novel, and I’m by no means an expert on what St. Aubyn was trying to achieve with Some Hope. And the biggest thing I want to discuss is the general love and appreciation for Julia.....NO. This is a very anti Julia post and I’m not going to hold back.

From an author’s point of view, the way Some Hope is written is....breathtaking. It reads like a party scene from a movie with complex characters and plots, with stories being woven as someone wanders from the garden inside and picks up bits of conversation and story. The miracle is that the reader never gets lost in the stories that are unfolding, and you become invested in Bridget and her mother and Belinda, and you’re wondering what’s going to happen with Sonny and Cindy, what the French ambassador’s wife is going to do and say next in defense of her helpless and hapless husband, you become exasperated by Pratt and pray for George Watford because you like him as much as PM does in those few precious moments, and you follow Patrick and Johnny and with fingers crossed that they survive the party in tact, still sober, and you hold your breath with Johnny when Patrick confesses his dark past, and laugh when the poor waiter gets yelled at. 

And when Patrick finds Belinda on the stairs and offers to read to her after the little girl’s been begging any adult in sight to read to her, your heart shatters because you SEE the potential of the man, the true heart and soul of the person he yearns to become.

It’s just an exquisitely written novel from start to finish as Patrick journey’s from his parents world and begins to recognize the world he wants to be in, the world he wants to break into. 

The series, of course, changed and omitted a few things but it worked perfectly! From changing the circumstances under which he sees Belinda, to the confession, and meeting Mary at the party and the brightness in his eyes when he talks to her....

The episode was perfect. 

There’s been a lot of grumbling that it made so many people feel hopeless, and I think there’s a misconception that joy, peace, hopefulness happen over night. And the series does a wonderful job of demonstrating that it’s not true. Hope and joy and peace after trauma are permanent works in progress, you never really get there. 

You have pockets of peace and sunshine, you have your moments with the Mary in your life, where you sit next to her in a crowded room and laugh because she gets your humor without the venom and poison that is permanently showered by every one else. you have your moments with your best friend standing outside, bantering, giggling at the expense of the waiter, you have those days, sometimes weeks of just absolutely hopefulness and joy and inner peace when the sun shines brighter, the air smells of nothing but flowers and roses, where everything is going your way. 

And you have your days where nothing is going right, where the sun shines but all you see is darkness. And the thing is, you can swing-- the trauma you endure creates a pendulum attached to your moods. One moment, one heartbeat you’re talking to your best friend or love or an old friend and laughing, the next second you’re overcome with isolation, standing in a crowd and wanting to scream but feeling like no one will hear you if you do. 

And that’s what happens to Patrick in this episode. Up until this episode, hope and those pockets of joy have been impossible for him....when you’re on the verge of confessing, there’s this conviction that the person you tell is going to think you’re a freak or want to walk away from you permanently because they see what happened to you as a black mark. 

The HOPE, the bit of hope you begin to cultivate starts when your best friend, the first person you tell, looks at you calmly and gets angry on your behalf, that asks what they can do for you, that try to offer you different perspectives to help you break into the real world, as Patrick says. 

There’s no sustained promise of happiness after that initial confession but  you start to see that you’re breathing easier, that you’re not as stiff around at least one person, that you can say things and they’ll understand the true meaning behind it. 

There SOME HOPE offered, it’s not all. 

The desolation he feels after the party when he’s standing by the lake, you’re haunted by the past but suddenly you see the light at the end of the tunnel. 

Something similar happened to me these past few days and I’m starting understand the way it happened was similar to what happened to Patrick...there was that promise of love on Saturday at the pub where i went to watch the game, where i met this lovely British gent that stayed behind me the entire game and called me love and hugged me and whispered in my ear and sang Liverpool songs together....i was over the moon!!! and then I crashed, that pocket of joy disappeared and I was....hopeless, desolate that night, so desolate and lonely that i burst a blood vessel in my eye crying and hoping for....I don’t know what. 

(so @sobeautifullyobsessed i figured it out a bit....)

It’s not easy and it never will be and that’s okay, eventually I know there is a light, but getting there is going to require crawling through miles and miles and miles of shit. 

And that’s what episode 3 is about, that START of hope, that START of those pockets of joy that he does experience in the next two bits but peppered with moments where he bursts proverbial blood vessels in his eye just the way i did. 

Now for Julia--------------------------

I can’t tell you how much I hate this woman, I loath her. 

I get that the scene in Some Hope was hot and the passion between them is hypnotic, especially the sounds PM makes and the suspenders, gawwwwwwwwwwd. 

But what people keep being blinded to is that Julia is everything EVERYTHING that has led Patrick to hell. His father and mother definitely opened the portal to hell but Julia is his guide down the tunnel of darkness, of addiction. she represents everything he wants to escape but he clings to because it’s familiar, because it’s easier to punish himself with his past then let go and focus on his future. 

I’ve been seeing posts by readers condemning Mary and praising his relationship with Julia because she’s what he needed when Mary neglected him. 

If you read the novels, and if you truly understand love and what its like living with someone who’s been through trauma and addiction, you understand that Julia is poison, worse than heroin or coke or alcohol. 

And even though his relationship with Mary is flawed, there’s still something inexplicable and tender between them, an understanding that neither can voice or are willing to voice until At Last. 

I was jumping up and down and screaming MARY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! when i saw her on screen, when he glanced at her during dinner and gave her sunshine because she offered him a ray of hope, a glimmer of something. 

But I don’t want to go into Mary too much in this post....

And I’ll end this post by saying that I truly believe that a person’s true personality is reflected in the way they reacted to Julia.

I’m so beyond happy with Some Hope that like I woke up today wishing I could watch it and realize it had already premiered. 

It is just such a wonderful, subtle episode. I’ve already written about the beautiful touches between Johnny and Patrick, I want to point out the moments in the episode where Patrick truly smiles, where he drops the bored aristocratic mask and lets himself through. Those gorgeous pockets of sunshine....

And the color scheme for this episode, it was somehow very British, wasn’t it? I kept think of the color scheme in Downton Abbey or Gosford Park or even Parade’s End. 

And of course, cue to me screaming when I spotted Edward St. Aubyn himself as one of the guests!

[escarlatafox]

@mackledberries I’m making a new post to respond since the other one was getting kinda long-ish even with the cuts :P

If someone seemed alright at one point but then went on to do something terrible, it’s more than a little hard to think much of them anymore. It’s kinda like with, say, Bill Cosby. If anything it’d be more painful trying to think on the past, knowing what they will go on to do, or already did and we didn’t know it. Or that stuff with Channel Awesome, I doubt a lot of people who were outraged at the events will be tuning into any older stuff anytime soon.

I do understand the point you’re making, and I’m going to proceed to point out a few key distinctions. But your perspective may remain unchanged, or it may not, at least we’re hearing each other’s point of view.

First off of course is that your examples are real people in real life, not cartoon characters. In the case of someone like Doug Walker, the fact is that he was always the way he is, and us learning about some unseemly stuff now doesn’t suddenly make it that way - he always was that way. I think a huge part of what would sour people on going back and enjoying the previous work of real people is this kind of “behind-the-scenes” knowledge they would have gained. It doesn’t matter how hilarious or amusing or cool whatever the stuff they did was if you know that they were far from good people the moment the cameras weren’t rolling.

You could use the example of a real person who was actually a good person behind the scenes but went on to become a bad person. That would still make enjoying their stuff hard, so that would be a better analogy to what you’re talking about.

But it would still be one cohesive whole real person you’re talking about as compared to a character handled by multiple writers over decades, on a show where the consensus says that it got worse over time and the characters, too, for the most part got worse over time, including hers.

Lisa is largely produced by the script, the writers, the people who handle her character. If you can look and find that a different set of people are handling and writing for her, if so much else about the show is distinct and different from the old one, it’s not too far a leap to say that this version of the character is distinct from the old one, too. You have

1. for the most part, different people handling the character

2. Different behaviors compared to the old character

3. Everything else about the show taking on things over the years that sets it apart from the older episodes

if so many factors are distinct, why can it not be that the character too is distinct compared to its former versions?

Besides, even if I make much of a distinction it wouldn’t make much of a difference. There’s quite a bit that actually does bother me in the older seasons [...] It’s just I don’t bring those up much because they’re not the worst examples and on some occasions there is some justification [...] I guess if things stayed more like that, I’d at least settle for “not a fan”. Because even at my most positive, I still felt that way at most.

Even if it wouldn’t make “much” of a difference, I still think it would make an important difference though. Of course, in the end that’s up for you to decide. Because even if there’s stuff that bothers you in the older stuff, you yourself admit that there is justification sometimes, AND there’s the fact that there was nothing anywhere on the level of the stuff that you complain about from later on. That still accounts for different behaviours imo.

(Bart in particular. Goodness he’s a subject for an entire essay’s worth… so many conflicts there)

I really would like to talk to you about Bart sometime too, because I think there’s a lot you could teach me! I could go on about that but I may save it for another time haha. (I don’t dislike Bart, but I only started appreciating him as a character in like... my late teens. And even then I still had a ways to go, and still do. and still aim to understand his character better)

I dunno, even with authorial favoritism I don’t know how people find enjoyment in writing characters like that.

And this here is also an interesting issue to explore where we have very different perspectives. You’re annoyed at Lisa’s lack of flaws; you don’t understand why people would a) enjoy writing such a flawless character b) could like such a flawless character so much.

I can’t fully speak for the writers but I can speak for my love of Lisa Simpson (although I will address some things from a writer/writing POV).

Do you remember me saying how as a young girl she was my role model and I idolised her, deified her? She was an inspiration and I wanted to be like her! So I wanted to be able to look up to this amazing, practically perfect character as my inspiration. I wouldn’t want this character I love to be very flawed, I wanted to idolise them for a reason. In my mind, Lisa was even MORE perfect than she actually was, and she still is to me. Real people are flawed so they will inevitably crash down from a pedestal. But Lisa is fictional, so I want(ed) to be able to place her on that pedestal and just leave her up there to look up to, to appreciate.

I completely understand how it might seem boring or pointless and such because I love love love plenty of very flawed characters, flaws make characters interesting, flaws are good!! But. I get so much mileage out of just appreciating Lisa in all her Mary Sueness.

Lisa IS “flawed”. She does have oversights and blind spots. I guess you couldn’t really count them as “flaws”; for all her intelligence, there are a lot of stuff that is characteristic of an eight year old added to her character. Her love of ponies, Malibu Stacy, things like that. And then there was stuff like the Cory hotline which was also a flaw, or a “flaw”, whichever works. Another “flaw” is her over-reliance on good grades, basing much/most of her self-worth on them. How she completely dedicates herself to and embraces the education system, when a different character may see it as flawed, another character could realise that you don’t need to get so caught up in good grades, don’t need to stress so much, don’t need to let a less-than-perfect grade bother you. And here’s a big stretch -- another “””flaw””” or rather, something that positions her character as less-than-perfect is the simple fact that the show and the writers and the greater message of a given episode are not always on her side. These instances aren’t very common lol, but SOMETIMES it happens, and then - instead of being an all-powerfully-ridiculously CONSTANTLY in the right character that cannot do any wrong mouthpiece-for-the-writers, she moves down a notch to “almost always right. Technically not Completely Perfect.” In the rare times the show isn’t on her side, she’s actually positioned as being in the wrong.

Of course, whether or not she has flaws doesn’t actually affect my love for the character at all. There’s some other things I’d like to address about this too though. Outside of Lisa Simpson, pretty much EVERY character on The Simpsons is VERY, RIDICULOUSLY flawed. I would argue that the show can get away with having this one very flawless “perfect” character because everyone else is so absolutely riddled with vices. And those vices (can) make the characters entertaining, can be funny, a source of drama/conflict/etc. Lisa is positioned on the show as the voice of reason. Her role is to serve as this kind of moral objector, the rational one, what have you. You’re right, this might make her less funny, less entertaining, or even less interesting as a character! But being the funniest and most entertaining character on the show isn’t her job. Her character is serving a different purpose. Will this, does this make her a less popular character as a result? Sure. But that’s the sacrifice that her character has to make.

I don’t see the point in complaining about Lisa being not as funny/entertaining because just about every other character on the show succeeds at that. The audience is spoiled for choice here. Sure, you might have this one Mary Sue-ish girl but if you’re looking for laughter and entertainment you can look basically just about anywhere else, at ANY other character and you’ll find it, it’s very easy. She doesn’t need to work hard at that because just about everyone else already has it covered.

Lisa’s character is supposed to play off of the characters and the environment around her.

And I think for the writers, instead of having this environment where every character is wrong and flawed and no one has a clue, you at least have this one window of truth, to reason.

And another thing is that this morality or centre of reason oftentimes gets ignored! Lisa gets to be a stand-in for the centre of reason or whatever sometimes specifically to be rejected or ignored to highlight the flaws and the lack of logic of everyone around her. Because The Simpsons satirises and whatnot. Instead of being flawed her presence further serves to highlight the flaws of the people and the world around her. Whether you like her or not she serves a clear purpose in the show, and she can pull it off whether or not she is liked (at least in the older seasons).

Because the world of The Simpsons is supposed to be fundamentally flawed, etc. etc.

So, Lisa is insightful, plays off of the other characters, and the other characters would be fun to write so there isn’t so much emphasis on her being fun to write. And a lot of really emotional episodes feature Lisa so she can be interesting to write from that angle as well where you’re going for an emotional response.

I agree that hardcore Mary Sue fic could be a huge chore to write, but people have their reasons. A lot of what I wrote above specifically applies to Lisa but maybe it can apply to that too, idk. But I also think a big driving force behind people creating mary sues is just, from a here’s-a-character-I-want-to-idolise perspective. I created a massive mary sue character when I was a kid. I just, like really intelligent, driven, outspoken girl characters that lack obvious flaws because they inspired me. They were like a positive presence in my life yknow.

I could go on and there’s bound to be points I left out but I hope you at least get an inkling of my point of view.

Also there was some point I wanted to make about how, oftentimes, men get to be individuals but girls often become a stand-in for their whole gender that this kind of touches upon:

And there’s some point embedded in there about Lisa being so perfect and being a girl and why I don’t mind that compared to her being more flawed or something. BUT. I don’t know how to properly articulate that thought to you as I haven’t fully fleshed it out myself. So here’s me, throwing you the scraps forming that idea haha.

now onto ace attorney lol

I don’t know how to feel about Betty actually being a fan of Trucy haha, because I genuinely REALLY REALLY liked her whole character and then they kinda added that curveball. I mean I like all versions of Betty but of course we get different versions of her set-up in the case which don’t turn out to be the true her, and by that point I’d already gotten attached to them. I mean you have

1. Betty being the mastermind/genuinely evil and whatever (I just loved the concept so much, so I’m all torn between “I LOVE HOW THE CASE ACTUALLY TURNED OUT, SOOOO MUCH” and “I LOVE WHAT COULD HAVE BEEN/WHERE IT SEEMED TO BE HEADING, SOOO MUCH” hahaha)

2. Betty not wanting to kill anyone but wanting to take Trucy down because she does hate Trucy

3. Betty not actually hating Trucy, it’s kinda a front.

Obviously the third one is true but it kind of takes the edge off of Betty’s attitude, y’know? And I love her attitude so much. Bonny’s sweetness, A+, Betty just... yes. But then the whole Trucy thing kinda undercuts it? idk. What’s your take on it?

Also here’s a small addendum;

One of the Lisa flaws I listed above was Lisa basing her self-worth on grades which as a kid I actually saw as the opposite of a flaw because I thought it was The Right Way To Be and really took a leaf out of her book on that front. I’m not just drawn to smart female characters but smart academic female characters. I really liked Lisa and Hermione as a kid. The Mary Sue character I made up as a kid also started off as “impossibly intelligent straight-A student”. cue me getting into ace attorney when I finished highschool and I loved Ema Skye in RFTA. Of course, Ema has her clear differences from Lisa and Hermione but what I also love is her intense passion and stuff, and a kind of innocence and all too. That’s what Hermione and Lisa also have: they’re passionate, they have things they believe in that they will stand up for. Idk I’m rambling on at this point.

I like smart intellectual characters in general, I just seem to only like/enjoy the male ones being super flawed I guess ??? going into the gender stuff I mentioned earlier. But I guess it all just depends.

I knew about the transparent gifs btw; super cool!

[smoothshift]

An Unexpected week review of a 2019 Camaro SS via /r/cars

An Unexpected week review of a 2019 Camaro SS

Hey guys, I visit r/cars pretty often because I love to read about cars in general. A bit about myself, I’ve always liked Ford and I’ve never driven a Chevy product for any extended amount of time. This is a story about how a squirrelly trash can came out of nowhere and caused my MKZ to have a $4k trip to the shop and me take ownership of a SS for a week. Never done a “review” so don’t pull out the torches, I’m just your average guy that likes cars.

First off the squirrelly trash can. Wasn’t squirrelly at all, just a normal dumpster. Get called into work, hurry out the door, open my garage and make a right out into the alley. I’m dreading work wondering how long I’ll have to be out and then I hear a low screeching noise, I keep going before I realize the dumpster is whittling the side of my car! I get out in full panic, check the passenger rear and it’s worse than I expected. A dent and deep scratch goes from my back passenger door to almost the entire rear quarter panel. Crushed with a painful pit in my stomach that life has reminded me still exists, I drive to work heartbroken. I would later find out that the dumpster was left closer to my driveway/garage by the garbage men but moot point.

In comes the Camaro. I was supposed to have a “luxury” rental from a company that rhymes with Renterprise but could you believe they didn’t have any available? Given the option to chose from what they have, I go and scour the lot. I’m walking and I see some Camaro side panels that are from 2009 but wait a sec, the rear end and front end look a bit off. I walk around the front and see a lot of grill and the floating bow tie. This isn’t a 2009 camaro, it is a 2019 camaro. The butterface of the current pony car lineup.

Late for work I choose the SS. I turn it on and it has a wonderful sound, I pull out of the parking lot and feel the immediacy of power. I start my 30 minute commute with a big grin on my face, and it’s not just the power, it’s the feeling of actually driving. Of the steering wheel having a more direct connection to the road, but also the feeling of stability. I’ve road and driven Mustangs in the past (not 2019s) and they didn’t give me the same confidence the Camaro did. Maybe it was the longer wheelbase or maybe it was the staggered 275 Eagle F1s. But the car always felt fast though, I suppose that could be attributed to the healthy amount of torque. What ever it was, it made me happy. Like a kid waking up on Christmas, is how I woke up in the morning eager to drive it. To work, to the store, to anywhere. I was over the moon. Hell I loved the car so much I washed the damn thing and removed several superficial markings with some scratch doctor. My wife was bewildered but she let me enjoy cleaning the car without too much harassment.

Of course the car isn’t without its flaws. Everyone has read or experienced the piss poor visibility of a Camaro. Want to check your blind spot before switching lanes? Think again idiot, says Chevy. Want to make a quick run and fill a 5 Gallon jug of water? It’s gonna have to ride shotgun because it won’t stand upright in the trunk. Want to take your friends to lunch? As if I had any but they would have to have the thinnest lower legs this side of the Mississippi to ride in that back seat.

But as a person who has never even given a Camaro a second thought, I walk away a believer and can appreciate what Chevy has achieved. The fact that the 455HP V8 could match and often beat my MPG of my EcoBoost on Touring mode is just icing on the cake. Oh and if your wondering about the grill of the car, it actually doesn’t look bad in the metal (plastic?). I believe now that the renderings lack a lot of detail so on the internet it just looks like a gaping hole but really looks fine to me IRL. 2020s fixes the issue regardless.

Anyways guys, I’m on mobile so sorry for formatting, these were probably more of impressions than a review, and I’m sure someone is about to have a conniption because of my punctuation. So with that I’ll leave you all to return to life with maybe a little bit of optimism of what competition has to offer. Hope you guys have a great day!

[renaroo]

Twisted Legacy (21/25)

Disclaimer: Transformers and related properties belong to Hasbro Warnings: Canon-typical language and violence, Psychological torture and horror, Post-war politics, Canon divergence/Loose canon, Hospitalization and illness, Cultist indoctrination Rating: T Synopsis: [Canon Divergence from MTMTE and exRID #54] The legacy of the Primes has had a tainted past, one that weighs heavily on Optimus, his supporters, and those who seek the legacy for the future. But as they look forward for themselves and for Cybertron, a darkness looms that threatens to further corrupt the unsteady peace of their planet with its curious claim to be the Hand of Primus himself.

It’s up to Optimus, Windblade, Rodimus, and their teams to try and save all Cybertronians from this mysterious threat and, perhaps, change the future for the better if they can.

A/N: I know that this has been a very, very long wait for most of you and I deeply apologize for that, but we’re so close to the end. Only four updates away now. And Part V is incredibly intimidating for me on my end since, well, everything needs to be wrapped up and completed, and I’m hoping to deliver this story to you all in the best and most enjoyable way possible. I hope I manage that with today’s update too!

Special thanks to squireofgeekdom, Isame, and brokenEisenglas  for the feedback!

Part V: The Day the World Caught Fire Chapter 5.1: Heavy is the Head

Optimus, even as Orion Pax, had never thought of his pragmatism as a flaw, nor did he believe that his lack of interest in mysticism and the occult did his judgment a disservice. He understood technology, he understood character, and he understood power balance. And he did so almost in strictly terms of gray.

Sometimes sacrifices needed to be made to balance powers in the right direction, to work for the greater good.

And though there was a science to the fantastical tale these future Rodimus and Windblade weaved, the fact that it was still very much fantastical kept the Prime from being completely won over.

Not to mention, the very notion that Starscream was somehow capable of bringing Cybertron into a new, peaceful Golden Age did not endear Optimus to them in the least.

“And you’re certain you can’t tell me how long my reign will be?” Starscream continued, hand firmly on his chin as he looked thoughtfully at the time travelers.

“If we tell you too much we risk changing everything,” Windblade — the older, less decorated one — reminded him impatiently. “Probably for the worst, to be honest.”

“Well, we definitely wouldn’t want that,” Starscream agreed. “I need to continue my leadership just as if I had no idea that this was happening. For the good of the planet, of course.”

“Oh, please,” the current Windblade muttered, crossing her arms across her chest and rolling her optics back into her head. Fortunately, it seemed to be low enough that Starscream either felt he could ignore it or hadn’t heard it to begin with.

“What’s the matter, Prime? Turbofox have your tongue?” Starscream asked Optimus instead, looking incredibly smug at the moment. Which, in effect, Optimus tried desperately to remind himself that it was just the set of Starscream’s face in a way. “Time travelers came from the future to let us know I usher in an entirely new Golden Age for Cybertron. You must be thrilled at the prospects for our future.”

“We didn’t really travel millions of years into the past to fluff egos,” Rodimus argued.

“I am pleased to know that long sought after peace is nearly within Cybertron’s grasps, Starscream,” Optimus answered steadily, keeping his voice low and reserved. “How it is ushered in and under what power becomes increasingly of less importance. I am simply thrilled at the prospect of ending this strife and destruction.”

Looking at Optimus in some amusingly exaggerated awe, Rodimus laughed. “By Primus, I have missed just how amazing your speeches were.”

“A defining trait according to the archives,” older Windblade teased  before the doors of the laboratory burst open.

“What’s the meaning of this intrusion!?” Starscream shouted at the guards who filed in. “I’m listening to nostalgia for my reigning superiority over the people of Cybertron and all of its blessed

“Sir, we apologize, but there has been a breach in the blockade,” the soldier reported to Starscream directly.

“What!?” Starscream screeched. “What is the entire point of a blockade then?”

“That’s the problem, Lord Starscream, our blockade is mostly concerned with the ship fields and Iacon… this was a breach on an entirely different side of the planet. It was in the abandoned districts.”

“Was it Kaon?” Optimus asked immediately, stepping toward the guard.

Starscream glowered toward him. “Of course your first instincts blame Deceptions. Once an Autobot, they say.”

“Actually, Sir, it wasn’t Kaon,” the soldier said, turning to ward Optimus. “It was the remains of Nyon. And we have a trace on the ship. It belongs to the Lost Light. I don’t know if that means anything—“

"It mean everything,” Optimus answered, immediately heading toward the door toward himself.

“Where do you think you’re going, Prime! You don’t have my permission to leave!” Starscream snarled.

“I doubt I will need further confirmation on my actions, Optimus said clearly.

He had every intention of walking straight out of the laboratory with that final line, but to his surprise and annoyance, the time traveling Rodimus got in the way,

“We need to talk about this before we do anything brash and… timeline-changey,” Rodimus said clearly.

“No more than you and Windblade have already decided for us,” Optimus shot back.

“Well, to begin with, that’s a little unfair, don’t you think?” Rodimus said with feigned hurt. “Secondly, maybe while working on those memories, you can actually think about the consequences here since an entire timeline is something I’ve set in some future historical texts already.”

“Do you know who would be at Nyon?” Optimus demanded.

“I think you don’t need confirmation,” Rodimus explained with nodding support coming form Windblade behind him. “But yes, I know — or, rather, I remember what’s going to happen next. For the most part. It’s going to get… really confusing very quickly.”

“We are already at confusing,” Optimus assured him, continuing to make his way to the door.

“Yes, but we’re talking not only about the logistics of time traveling and interference, Optimus Prime, but the actual possibility of forever changing the good that may come from all of this,” Windblade assured him.

“Good?” Optimus asked, turning to face the travelers as well as the rest of the group gathered in the laboratory. “Nothing good can come from extremism, from blind worship, from this… line of Primes which have continued to reign unjustly until Cybertron was all but dead.” He paused and looked intently at the future Rodimus’ face, so heavily scarred with the print of a hand that Optimus had seen on their own time’s Rodimus days before. “From allowing self mutilation to appear to others as some sort of stigmata in a future further perverting of what is just handed down stories of creation and destruction.”

“That’s not what this is,” Rodimus said, pointing toward his faceplate. “It’s a reminder, every day, to myself and to every bot I meet, that a price comes with everything we do and everything we achieve. And that we have to wear our mistakes if we survive them.”

The others in the room looked at Rodimus with widened optics.

He noticed and immediately offered a sly smile, shrugging. “It takes a few million years but I got good at pep talks eventually.”

Optimus was far from convinced, however. “What you wear as a scar, I saw Error and a dozen acolytes wear as a symbol of disorder and hatred,” he said plainly. “That is not a symbol on today’s Cybertron, and I find it hard to believe it could come about in a supposed new Golden Age.”

“That’s because you don’t actually know Error or why he’s been toying with everyone until today,” Rodimus answered.

“Yes, supposed future Prime,” Starscream said, crossing his arms and leaning back against the nearest wall. “I would like an explanation as to why this grave threat couldn’t be revealed to us before it happened or if it is capable of destroying my glorious legacy — the new Golden Age, brought in by me, once again — why it wasn’t done sooner.” His nose curled in disgust. “Or what ever anyone could want in a dump like Nyon currently.”

“Because,” Rodimus said, hands on his hips. “Today, at Nyon, is the day that Error and the First New Generation of Cybertron first ignited their sparks. And any changes he wished to make could only really take affect once he was sure he wouldn’t be insuring his own destruction.”

For a moment, there was only silence, then Optimus stepped forward himself, breaking it. “There is a Hot Spot in Nyon today?��� he asked critically.

Rodimus’ smile grew somewhat brittle and he looked right into Optimus’ optics. “The most important Hot Spot in Cybertrons post-War history. The Hot Spot that will unite the Council and breathe a new sense of alliances between all Cybertronians once and for all.”

“And it is imperative that it be saved before Error can ensure that only his own spark is allowed to thrive,” old Windblade announced.

“Then there is no time to waste,” Optiimus agreed. “Let’s roll out!”

The oath of Do No Harm was difficult to maintain in the middle of a war zone, and if anything was to make Velocity appreciate First Aid and Ratchet’s unorthodox perspective in the medical world, it was most definitely going to be the combination of their last stand on the Necroworld and the horrors of the fight before them in the middle of a sea of newly emerged sparks.

The lumbering giant of a mech lunged at them, fists alight with flames. And while the others were quick to move out of the way, Velocity all but grabbed her hardheaded captain to dive out of the way with him since he was standing his ground.

Immediately, Rodimus began pulling and fighting against Velocity’s hold, even as it saved his life. “Let go of me!” he growled. “Velocity! I’m ordering you—“

“You might still be my captain at spark, Rodimus, but I’m your doctor and keeping what’s available of your kibble alive is going to be worth putting up with your complaining!” Velocity fought back angrily.

“Don’t call me Rodimus!” he snapped at her. “And don’t you see? He’s the guy! The one that… He messed me up! He confused me and… He made me by— Velocity, fragsake let go of me!”

“Everything that’s come out of your voice box has just made me more sure than ever before that I am not letting go of you,” Velocity replied sternly. “So just go ahead and drop that idea from your mind, Hot Rod. You’re damaged, and as long as you’re damaged, I outrank you!”

Rodimus stared at her with a mixture of surprise and anger that left him uncharacteristically speechless.

If she had had the time, Velocity would have basked in her assertiveness but there was a vicious roar from their attacker that drew her attention instead. And most horrifying of all, she finally could see not only the damage she had rescued Rodimus from, but what effect it had on the area surrounding his point of attack.

“No! The Sparklings!” Velocity gasped in horror. She let go of Rodimus and covered her mouth in shock. Her insides felt twisted and coiled in revolt against the senseless loss. “He snuffed out an entire patch of young sparks! An entire grouping of young life and it’s all gone. What horrible kind of creature is this thing—“

Before she could continue rambling in terror, Rodimus took off from beside her at a speed and with a dexterity he had not shown since waking from stasis.

Velocity whipped back into doctor mode and got to her feet. “Rodimus! Stop right there!” she yelled.

Wasting no time, Velocity transformed mid leap into her alt-mode, hitting the ground at full speed and living up to her name in order to keep up with the damaged captain. Her damaged captain that was determined to put himself right in the midst of the stand off between Nightbeat, Brainstorm, Nautica, Drift and the horrific Error.

“Error!” Rodimus growled out, his hands suddenly enveloping in a white hot flame themselves.

The bulky monstrosity slowly turned, just enough to see Rodimus and grow an unnerving grin. “Ah. At last, my Prime. At last we meet, and at last I shall handedly give you a defeat.”

“Rodimus! Get out of here!” Drift yelled as he lunged for Error with his swords drawn. There was a clang of swords against armor, but Error had managed to hold off any damage by keeping his heavily armored forearm up.

Drift was bearing as much weight down with his swords as he could, determined to break through the armor Error was hiding behind, but when the metal was broken enough, it ht a thick rubber tread, which caused Drift’s optics to widen in surprise.

“Ah, there we are,” Error said almost gleefully before beginning to start up the treads on his arms, the fast rotation sounding like a saw that led to Drift’s swords shattering at the friction.

Taking advantage of the swordsmech’s shock, Error then landed a powerful kick to Drift’s chest, sending him flying backward into the rest of the Rod Squad.

“Pathetic,” Error chuckled, aiming his hand at the group as a flame grew.

Seeing there were only a few feet between Rodimus and Error at that point, Velocity slung herself around, skidding to a halt between them as if to create a border with her own body between Rodimus and Error. “Rodimus!” she yelled at him angrily.

It did nothing to stop the determined Rodimus, however, as he just leaped, kicking off of Velocity’s alt-mode to propel himself at Error.

“What the hell did you do to me?” Rodimus roared, landing a flaming punch against Error’s cheek.

Even Velocity felt slightly in awe of the moment as it played out, as that was not exactly a small feat by any means. The others seemed to join her in their amazement, though — that was their Rodimus back. Impulsive, feisty, full of fire.

But that awe was quick to disappear the moment he landed and his less armored, still healing frame crumpled under the momentum of his jump and sent him falling over himself, his damaged side hitting the ground and inspiring an anguished yelp.

“Rodimus!” Drift called out, immediately getting to the captain’s side. “Are you alright?”

“I’ll be better when someone takes that fragger down,” Rodimus gritted out, looking pale. “Also… maybe some fuel could help out.”

Brainstorm, surprisingly enough, stepped forward, looking more curious than anything else, head tilted. “The technology you’re using to come to our time? To disguise yourself and your followers? If you’re really a time traveller, tell me how many times my worst-best ideas are used to come back and bite all of us in the aft in the future. I think as their creator I deserve to at least know this much.”

“Brainstorm!” Nautica snapped. “That’s not helpful!”

“It could be if I know which ones are bad, I’ll keep a tighter lid on them and make sure they’re not mass produced,” Brainstorm offered.

“You’re still going to make them?” Nautica demanded.

“Obviously. They work,” Brainstorm replied candidly.

“Don’t you see? It doesn’t matter if he chooses to make them or not, because they’ve already been made in this future!” Nightbeat corrected them all. “He has to create them for this paradox to happen to begin with. He can’t choose to change that. Which is also probably why Brainstorm was the only one left undamaged on the Eukaris attack — his future inventions and the survival of those inventions are things that were necessary to get us to this point. And, more importantly, to get Error and his followers here.”

“None of that is answering my question!” Rodimus snarled viciously as Drift helped him stand up. “What did you do to me? Why? Why did you let me survive instead of making… making—“

Velocity transformed back into her natural mode, looking at the scene from the other side of Error. Her spark was pulsing strong, so much anxiety at once.

She had an instinctive, intuitive need to get to Rodimus — to her patient — and keep him from stupidly stumbling into further physical or psychological damage. But she also needed to see what Rodimus knew and had refused so far to share with all the doctors and friends and crew around him just what he remembered or what had happened.

And she needed to save the young lives surrounding them as well. Her duty as a doctor called for it.

“The answer is the same for everything,” Error answered. “I played you, my former Prime. I played you like the instrument of my own design just as is asked of me by Primus himself. He guided my hand, and likewise I used my gifts to guide yours.”

“Shadowplay," Velocity all but whispered to herself, realizing how the pieces were beginning to fit.

“But why?” Nightbeat pressed Error.

“So that we could meet like this on this day,” Error said confidently, raising his hands to reveal that during the excitement, his acolytes had spread out into the field of the Hot Spot. “And you could watch as we used Primus’ Guiding Light to take away from you the very future you all have worked to build — that you all sought while being so undeserving, one and all.”

Sparing no time, Velocity shouted to her friends, “Spread out! Save the Sparklings!” she ordered, turning to race back to the ship.

“Velocity! What about you?” Nautica cried out in fear.

“I’m calling Ratchet and First Aid!” Velocity answered. “We’re going to need all the help we can get.”

“Don’t you dare defy my planning!” Error roared.

In the corner of her vision, Velocity could see the giant mech turning to stomp in her direction. She aptly shifted back to her alt-mode to speed off from him. Surely, given the difference of frames, he would have no chance to keep up with her.

But what she hadn’t taken into account was that he didn’t need to reach her.

Instead, the lumbering giant pressed his wrists together, aimed in Velocity’s direction, and shot a hurdling ball of fire in her direction.

Swerving to avoid it, Velocity couldn’t zigzag enough to avoid being singed by the fireball, leading to her letting out a scream of pain.

She nearly flipped in her alt-mode, but a quick transformation held her skid, somewhat painfully, on her knees for a distance.

While Velocity pushed to her feet, she fully expected for Error to take advantage and finish her, but when he didn’t she looked back to see why. To her surprise, rather than spreading out and protecting the Hot Spot, her friends had all tackled onto Error’s arm, keeping him from aiming it.

“Velocity!” Rodimus growled out as he helped the others. “Get to the ship and call for help! That’s an order! You’re not allowed to die today! I’m saying that as your captain! So do it!”

Velocity felt her chest raise and she nodded. “Yessir!” she yelled back before turning and racing to the ship to do just that.

Starscream almost did a double take when he walked down the halls and found none other than Windblade standing in wait for him just outside the Council’s chamber.

She had a muted expression, thoughtful but purposefully reserved. Her eyes, as usual, were her real give, though. They shone with intrigue, concern, and anxiousness. If she was ever to live in the world of politics, someone was going to need to teach her how to keep such blanketed emotions under wraps.

He sure as the Pits wasn’t going to waste time doing it, that was all Starscream knew for sure.

“Windblade, you’re here,” he said, letting the snideness come through. “Rather than placing yourself in the thick of what’s sure to be almost clear destruction. I find it hard to believe that you grew a sense of self-preservation since your last excursion into snooping, so why are you here instead of following Optimus Prime and all the other fake future Primes out into the middle of nowhere for what’s certain to be a complete and total trap?”

For a moment, just a moment, Windblade let her optics harshen their glow and she put her hands on her hips. “Do you really care why I’m still here, Starscream?” she asked.

“No, not in the slightest,” he assured her. “I only care so far as how it’s going to effect what I’m having to do now to make sure that regardless of what happens in the junk heaps of a forgotten slum, this planet continues to spin on its axis and all its citizens — here and abroad — maintain some sense of order and security.”

“Then we’re here for the same thing,” Windblade assured him, glancing off.

Dissatisfied, Starscream moved in closer to her. “But, to sate some of my curiosity on the matter…” he began.

Windblade turned completely toward Starscream and looked him straight in the optics. “If some future version of yourself came into the past to try to stop someone from the future from using your religion as an excuse for destroying literal Sparklings, how would you feel about it? Would you want to follow this anomaly into battle? Possibly learn more about what kind of bot you will be shaped into over time?”

“Hm,” Starscream hummed in response. “I suppose I would never know since I carry no faith, seriously doubt the credibility of those who claim to be traversing through time, and most of all, the very idea that there would ever be a Rodimus Prime.” He scoffed and shook his head. “And you Camiens question why most Cybertronians have ignored the sanctimonious faith part of all this Primacy superstition.” He could see the way she was grimacing beside him so he threw her a false smile of sympathy. “Oh, my pardon, I didn’t mean offense.”

“You did,” Windblade said flatly.

Starscream waited for a moment, looking at Windblade’s face before growing impatient with her lack of reaction. “I must say, Windblade, as little as I care for your regular disposition, I am not a fan of you in a completely foul mood.”

“I’m just not in the mood to be played with today, Starscream,” she snapped back. “Or for being your excuse for putting this off.”

He balked and stood straight again. “Me? I have no fear of this conference,” he defended. “I just don’t want the people to become too alarmed over what’s probably nothing. And what’s probably definitely not the first Hot Spot on Cybertron since the end of the War. That’s just asking for mechs everywhere to get their hopes up.”

Curious, Windblade looked back at him, head slightly tilted. “You don’t believe anything the time travelers said? Even after they proved who they were with their spark signatures?” she asked.

“Of course not,” Starscream said with a flippant twist of his wrist. “Didn’t you hear what they said? I am supposed to be such a good leader I bring us into a new Golden Age. Are you telling me you believe that?”

She stared at him for a moment before crossing her arms. “I believe that I’ve learned not to underestimate you, Starscream,” she said instead. “And I think you want to believe at least that much is true because it’ll make up for the part of all of this chaos and turmoil we’ve been through thanks to Error at least a little bit possibly redeemable.”

“Other than leading our united people through this unspeakable hardship, I have no idea what you’re referring to, Windblade. I’ve been completely uninvolved,” he said smoothly as he finally opened the doors to the Council of Worlds’ chamber where their fellow representatives and the media were ready and waiting.

Leaving Windblade behind, Starscream climbed up to his usual seat at the head of the table, clearing his voice box, and then looked out to the gathered crowd. They stared back at him attentively and with heavy suspicions.

“Cybertronians, one and all, we are looking to the end of our darkest hour as a unified world and preparing to move forward to a new age,” Starscream began, a cocky smile growing as he continued. “A new Golden Age, you might say. One with us unified as the final hour approaches those terrorists which sought to destroy our faith and unity with one another. But in order for us to all achieve those lofty goals of unification and sanctity, we must first learn from the horrors that came before and see to it that we change our futures.”

As he paused dramatically, Starscream smirked and looked down to Windblade in particular. She had quietly crossed the room, standing by Chromia again, those all-telling optics surprised and curious about the speech.

Suddenly, Starscream knew she really hadn’t known what to expect from him. A realization which made everything only that much more wonderful.

“What I’m proposing is new legislation to be brought before the Council of Worlds, worked out between us all to more agreeable terms,” Starscream continued. “About the regulation and state sponsored study of mnemosurgery.”

There was a collective gasp across the room, and Starscream crossed his hands on the podium before him. “It is a dark and devious form of invasion of the most personal kind. And it has been used by many sides of many conflicts to disastrous effect. I propose regulation at the highest level, and sponsored study in its reversal and long term effects.”

The tension did not break, if anything it grew thicker. But Starscream had succeeded.

He was the one who publicly and diplomatically framed the discussions to come.