#the small deluded part of my brain has been killed now that i know he doesnt feel that way

[imakle]

hello. hi. how do you get over a crush on a friend that you know doesn't see you the same way you do

[thesevro]

So I read desert rose and loved it. It gave me an idea for an imagine where Sukuna and the reader kinda have a relationship like Hades and Persephone. They meet at first, not fond of each other, but they start to understand each other and slowly they fall in love. Not just any love but one that's so deep that it envelops them, a love so deep its embedded into their soul. You can add smut if you want, I don't mind. I just thought that this would be amazing!

thank you for the first request i’ve received here on tumblr!! 

this shit actually turned out longer than i thought it would. i got a little carried away. ahuhuhu~~ hope you enjoy this anon bby!! 

WARNINGS: mentions of rape, sukuna calls you a whore and a slut AWOOGA, explicit smut

---

“No man has ever survived that curse.”

Her laugh cuts the air. It is dangerous. Snorting and derisive. The absolute opposite of the slack-jawed shock on his tattooed countenance.

“Well, then it’s a good thing I’m not a man.”

Her hands spin in a small, tight circle, focusing the cursed energy in the tiny space of power she traces with her hands. She stares at the man with unblinking eyes. Bears insults down on him with the laughter in her eyes.

“You fucking bitch,” he seethes, hissing at the scorn curling her mouth. He does not need his hands to form his own curse. It only takes another vilifying look at her for one more curse to fly in her direction. He breathes an aggravated breath through his nose as one of her servants takes the shot instead, performing the same technique with their own hands.

“Ooh, that one was a little weaker, don’t you think?” she mocks, then turns to her servant with a pleased smile on her lips. “Good boy.”

The boy simpers at the praise, leaning into the touch the woman pets onto his head. Sukuna loses control at the casualness, the apathy. To have such inferior, lowly beings smile in his presence…  for them to have the fucking nerve to even meet his eyes…

He is the King of Curses. Whoever the fuck it is this woman may be, he knows he has to put her and her proletarian flunkeys in their damn places.

His four hands tremble as a wild rush of cursed energy pulses through his veins. A manic grin cuts his frown into a smile.

I’m going to fucking kill you.

But in the next moment, his hands begin to tremble for a wholly different reason. His blood goes cold.

“You know, you aren’t that bad-looking for someone with two faces and a mouth on their stomach.” The woman traces the frowning tincture of a smile on his stomach, arm raised into the air in order to reach it. She almost stands on her tip-toes. Even with her diminutive stature she seems to be the most powerful in the obliterated room. 

When did she—?

“If you accept defeat, your highness…” A sharp, sardonic quip comes to make him fraught with wrath, “Then I might just let you live and have you become one of my menials instead. You could do plenty with those four arms of yours.”

Her fingers have opened the mouth on his stomach. Now she only tries to prick the pads of her strong fingers on the razor-edged ridges of teeth there, awaiting his answer with easy patience. Her hand grows sticky with his slobber.

“She could kill you in seconds, King,” the boy from earlier speaks up. “Could just grab that tongue in your stomach and wrench it upward ‘till the tip of it comes out one o’ your eye sockets.”

“Oh, don’t spoil my fun Jackie,” she says, still playing with the mouth on his abdomen. “I was planning to keep it a surprise for our man here.”

“I’ll be part of your fucking band of delinquents,” he interrupts, locking eyes with the woman, head lowered. “But you will make me the superior of the rest of your blue-collared pack of idiots.”

“You’re going to have to work for that, Ryomen-chan.” She flashes a smile at him. Her hand slips further into the mouth on his abdomen. He knows what she’s doing. Tempting him into trying to bite her hand off, if only so she could acquire an excuse to kill him.

And no one. No one fucking gave her the authority to call him Ryomen-chan.

“I don’t fucking care,” he snaps back at her, grabbing her hand before quickly relaxing his grip. He falters ever so slightly as something in her eyes goes dark, then with a begrudging gentleness slips her hand out of the mouth. “I’m already part of your ragged band of lackeys, bitch. So fucking tell me what it is you me to do.”

---

He hates her with his entire being. With each day that passes he thinks of slitting her throat open and raping her as she dies. It is a train of thought that has been of much prominence since he was forced to join her group of brainless monkeys.

And he hates this, too, but he can’t say it’s all that bad. It’s much better than letting the bitch climb onto his shoulders and stand on his head to gain the elevated vantage she constantly insists is necessary to scout the area. When she has the ability to fucking fly. Fucking dumbass. 

So, yes. This isn’t… as demeaning as the rest of the orders she gives him.

“No, Ryomen-chan, you’re supposed to twist that strand over the middle one—oh, you’re hopeless.” 

Scratch that.

“That is the middle strand, bi—Ms. (Y/N),” he disguises the anger shaking in his voice with a call of her title, then shoves the strands of hair between his fingers to the front of her face. “Are you fucking blind?”

“As opposed to your deluded delusion, Ryomen-chan, this is the middle strand.” She holds a lock of her hair, plucking it from between his fingers. Something thumps in his chest as her fingers brush his palm. “Are you blind? Now that would be a horrible addition to your already damaged brain.”

“Let me fucking try again then. Give it here.”

Jeez. No one said styling a woman’s hair would be this… toilsome. 

“No, let me show you how to do it, Ryomen-chan. Sit down.” 

His knees bend as she shoves him down onto the plush pillow she uses when presenting herself as the Queen of Curses (a title he finds himself unable to contradict, fuck). His brows furrow and he turns back to protest but she only grips his chin in her fingers, her eyes meeting his, and snaps his head forward. 

“I said let me show you.” 

Something thuds in his chest again. He wills for it to shut the fuck up.

Her hand falls from his face, though her fingers stroke the bottom of his chin with the fleeting touch of danger before her hand moves to twine into his hair. He sits still, the breathless tightness in his chest soon giving way to ennui as he watches her braid his hair from the mirror. He finds himself observing the way her eyes glaze over with focus as she styles his hair. For the quickest second he wonders how hazy her eyes would go with him inside her.

“Alright, done. Did you take notes, Ryomen-chan? That was an important… lesson…” 

Her voice falters. He looks back at her and finds her eyes on his legs. Particularly on something protruding from between his thighs.

“Sukuna... I just braided your hair—”

“Not. Another. Word.” 

---

The first time he slides inside her, it’s like fucking himself into heaven.

He makes no sound as he fucks her, as she lets him fuck her, but everything in his head has blurred together to narrow his vision to only the sight of her beneath him.

He’s missed fucking women. Missed being inside them. He hates the fact that she is better than any bitch he has ever shoved his cock into.

He tries to keep his head in the crook of her neck. But then her legs hook together from around his waist, fingers curling into the hands he’s pinned to her wrists, and she’s moaning like the bitch in heat she really is. The curiosity to watch her face as he fucks her overwhelms him completely.

The touch she shares with his hands is more intimate than it should be. It’s as if his hands keep her grounded, keep her here with him as he makes her cum. 

Her back arches, and a third hand of his grips the small of her back to keep it arched, so that her stomach touches the mouth on his own abdomen.

For some fucking reason he wants to give her all the pleasure he can. Make her go cross-eyed. Fuck her 'till she goes stupid with sex.

He lets the mouth on his stomach fall open. The tongue there is long enough to slide between their bodies, wet enough to slither between them with ease. He smirks with the smile of a devil as the Queen of Curses, his only superior, cries out in pleasure as the tip of his tongue curls around the free space between their joined bodies. His tongue flicks her clit. Dips inside her to join the fullness of his cock. His eyes shut in lazy pleasure as she squeezes him tighter.

She has the body of a virgin. He can tell she’s only been touched once or twice in the past, judging from the way her dominance had fluctuated the moment she finished undressing him. Her touches were hesitant. Apprehensive. But for some reason she had also sought his pleasure, had taken his cock in her mouth and sucked not like an inexperienced little village girl but a masterful whore. 

He says it now, “The Queen of Curses, Ms. (Y/N), now the desperate bitch of her King.” A chuckle rumbles in his chest as she trembles in the wash of her fourth orgasm. He knows how many she’s had. He’s been counting; plans to give her ten. “A slut in the sheets, a queen in the streets. How delightful.”

And this, this makes the slut cum. 

And when she does, her authority returns. With a look of glaze-eyed intoxication in her eyes, she pushes his behemothic body off her, and rides him until he finally says her name. 

And at that point, he knows not whether he is her whore, or she is his. All he knows is that it’s fucking good to be inside her, and that she sounds and feels better than any other hole he's fucked.

The next time he fucks her, there are braids in her hair. 

[ephemerlskies]

constant craving | jjk

⇢ pairing: jungkook x reader

⇢ genre: drabble series, angst, unrequited love, idiot!jungkook, idiot!oc, basically everyone's an idiot

⇢ word count: 1.7k

⇢ warnings: unreciprocated pining, explicit language, themes of hopeless romanticism (!!), (slightly) unedited

⇢ summary: your best friend decided to confide in his best friend on how to win his girlfriend back after a fight. you tell him exactly what to say to her, however he is unaware that what you were saying was a sincere delivery of your once undeclared love.

♪ playlist: constant craving - k.d. lang, bad religion - frank ocean, misunderstood - lucky daye, neu roses - daniel caesar ♪

╰ series index: 01 | 02 | 03 | 04 (final)

a/n: hello my little loves!! this was definitely ;) not ;) an impulse write and release ;) ;) sorry for being so inactive lately. i've been focusing on myself (i know how cliche that sounds but it's true). anyway, enjoy this incredibly angsts fic i wrote at 2 am for absolutely no reason at all other than i'm an emotional sadist and a masochist. love u!!!! <3

part one: control

He was coming over for the third time this week. Third time. Three times is two more times than he'd gone over his girlfriend's house, but you did everything in your power to convince your inconvincible heart that it meant nothing. Friends see each other more than their girlfriends, right?

It was making a racket in your chest, that muscle that strained much harder for a man who had his pumping for the girl of his dreams.

But, he was coming over for the third time this week.

The first time he said this visit ranked, in his words, 'out of the question' on the degree of necessary that he come over and show you Star Wars. You played a good game of reluctance when asking if it was the entire series or just one movie, and in your head, you hoped to God it was the entire series. For him, you'd watch the series four times over if it meant you sat through this outrageously nerdy movie next to the even more outrageously nerdy love of your life.

The second time was particularly funny to you. He called while you were cooking dinner, almost as if he was in stride with you in a way that was an ounce too synchronized to be platonic, and asked if you were whipping up a delicious meal that he could mooch off of. Knowing he was a terrible cook, plus the fact that when he begged so politely you felt your posture unbind into to a puddle, you more than happily obliged.

This time, the circumstances made it harder to say yes, but not yet impossible. And it was a second or two before you heard that knock on the front door that had your once pounding heart come to a complete halt. It was still, waiting for you to make a decision.

Since it was Jungkook, of course, you'd say yes. And your heart would continue beating. Beating, as in sending sharp jabs that stained the inside of your chest with bruises. Beating, as in when the time came, the final blow of your constantly craving heart would devastate your entire being.

"Thank you so much, ___. God, I'm such an idiot." He walked in with all the confidence of someone who was a bit too familiar with your company. Jungkook's feet reintroducing themselves to your floors in the same manner as he would the night before, and the night before that, and the countless nights you kept secured in your collection of memories. As if he belonged there; as if he was coming home.

"An idiot with a great friend." That last word nearly withdrew the bile you had been ever so gracefully holding in.

"Yeah yeah." And he was comfortable with that same word, 'friend', that deepened your bruises into scars. He had absolutely no clue. Idiot. "I can't believe I broke up with her. I was so angry and acted on that instead of logic. Fuck, why would I do that to myself? I love her."

"Well, you never know. Maybe..." You hated yourself for not resisting the selfish temptation that was about to fall from your lips. The words you've been internally screaming to him to leave her and fall in love with you instead were diluted to something much more tame when your tongue formed them into sound.

"Maybe it was for the best. Maybe you guys are better off apart? To, um, grow or whatever."

"No." He said that with too much certainty and too little hesitance and just enough conviction to sink another wound in the organ exhausting itself in your chest. "She's the one. I know it"

"Jungkook."

He looked at you with all the earnestness of a man who carved his utmost and unchanging dedication to her. A look that any love-induced sap would kill for. A look he would never direct towards you.

Your eyes weren't under your control as of now. The glue that held them to his eyes, his lips, his hair, and every other part of him you dreamed of was more than a marathoned yearning. It was an adhesive twelve years in the making, not showing the slightest sign of wearing away.

"The way you love is something to die for..." And then he smiled at you, but still not for you.

You were utterly crushed.

"She'll take you back in a heartbeat. I mean, she has a brain, so of course, she will. Anyone would."

I would.

"I hope you're right." The couch was four feet wide at most, but there was an impressively vast space between you and the man who was sitting next to you. "Can you tell me what to say? You know I suck with words."

"Uh... Yeah. Of course. Anything."

If breaking hearts were a crime, then Jungkook would have much to atone for. You'd be convicted as a willing accomplice for holding on this long. Up until this point, you've let every small glance, every shy smile he sent your way, every eyebrow twitch conveying a meaning only you knew well enough to retrieve him from whatever awkward situation he needed rescuing from, every accidentally brush of his hand against yours, every purposeful embrace that lasted so long your tears stained his right shoulder string you into a knot of miserable, unrequited love.

And up until this point, you had hope he would choose you.

Each ring of his phone worked in tandem to reduce your undying devotion to Jungkook into a compressed seed of denial.

I don't love him. He's just my best friend.

Your pulse pronounced itself loudly in your ears, as a not-so-gentle reminder of how much you hated him for loving him. Somehow, your heart beat faster. Then again, anything was possible when it came to him. Anything except the miraculous event of him hanging up, declaring his love for you, and living in the land of happily ever after that only existed in your deluded imagination.

"Hey Irene! I'm so fucking glad you picked up."

He gave you that look. With the arched eyebrow, his widened doe eyes, and the slightly hung jaw, you read each feature better than words and nodded to signal you knew exactly what he needed.

"I'm sorry about what happened." You said, in a whisper, though the deflated volume of your words carried no implication of the unbridled sincerity sealed in them.

"I'm sorry about what happened." He repeated, laying down that same Irene-contrived smile on you that fostered a smile of your own, knowing fully it surfaced as a reflex from hearing her voice.

"It might be crazy to try this, because I don't know how you feel."

If the thing people say about your life flashing before your eyes during encounters with death, then you were sure your heart was about to consume its last pulse of blood. The scenes of you and Jungkook spending your Friday nights when you were a ripe city dweller in your shoebox apartment doing everything and nothing at all had convinced you that you were certainly about to go into cardiac arrest.

"It might be crazy to say this, because I don't know how you feel." Jungkook was so many things, however emotionally perceptive was not one of them.

"But I love you. I have loved you since the moment I met you." Those words tasted sweet despite fermenting in a chamber of your heart you kept preserved since, as you said, the very moment you met him.

"But I love you. I have loved you since the moment I met you."

"No matter what, I'd choose you. It doesn't matter how mad I am or how annoyed I am, I will choose you because if I know anything in this damn, cruel, punishing world, then I know that I'd rather be angry, annoyed, or anything else with you than without you."

He repeated your words, but dehydrated all of your sentiment from them. You were left with the remnants of the feelings, and none of the words from him you were so desperately starved of. He took them right from your throat, along with the very breath that seemed to keep returning because of Jungkook, molded them into his own, into a sequence of sounds that were meant for Irene. You were left hungry, breathless, and forever wanting.

"No matter what, I'd choose you. It doesn't matter how mad I am or how annoyed I am, I will choose you because if I know anything in this damn, cruel, punishing world, then I know that I'd rather be angry, annoyed, or anything else with you than without you."

Irene must have been smiling right about now. Who wouldn't smile hearing those things from someone like Jungkook?

"Because with you, I'm complete. My story can't end if I'm incomplete. Please, choose me back. Complete me. That's all I ask."

Then, you began to ask yourself another question.

If you make me complete, Jungkook, will my story ever end?

You knew the answer to that. You swore your heart beat in a morse code that told you everything you needed to know.

"Because with you, I'm complete. My story can't end if I'm incomplete. Please, choose me back. Complete me. That's all I ask."

Jungkook looked to you, before Irene could form the proper response, and smiled. It was the third time he smiled at you today because of course, you were keeping track. You knew it was his own physically linguistic version of a 'thank you' or a 'you're a life saver' but somehow, to you, it translated to something similar to a 'goodbye'.

Your legs miraculously rose and carried you to the back porch. The sun was just beginning to dip in the horizon, proliferating a warm orange that was about to subside to an indistinguishable and unpredictable dusk. Whatever color came after the sunset, you were ready to accept it, to memorize how it reflected against a world without the possibility of him. And even though the night will always embody undertones of orange, it was time to focus on the colors around it.

It was time to let go.

a/n: i might make this into a drabble series!!! if anyone would be interested in that please let me know :)) thank you for readinggggg <3

[lilallama]

(Sorry if I spell something wrongly lol) Idk, This is my opinion? Gryffindor, Jungkook. Hufflepuff, Taehyung & Yoongi. Ravenclaw, Namjoon & Jin. Slytherin, Jimin & Hobi??? I literally just searched the meaning of each house and just picked one based on the personality shown. Also, If you don't think this matches them, Sorry ;-;

[Don't worry, sweetie ^^. You don't have to apologise! 💕🍑]

Hoseok is a lot more two faced than I actually tend to show. The way he presents himself is mostly a mask. While he seems mostly calm on the outside, he's actually quite the opposite on the inside. Out of all the boys it'd be easiest for him to manipulate/influence Y/n (@bangtans-apollo Tae is quacking-) and he's aware of that. That's one of the reasons why they started the club 1. To protect Y/n, 2. The club concept came because it'd be easier to meet up and they would automatically get a clubroom and 3. Hoseok threatened to tell on them if they don't join, he'd make Y/n despise each one of them.

He is a strong leader (one of the Slytherin traits), I try to make him resourceful (but I am not myself so that might not shine through too much), he is definitely cunning. The whole ordeal with wanting to be with Y/n no matter what is pretty ambitious, I'd say. And lastly the traditionalism trait, he is very into tradition and has to keep his domestic fantasies with Y/n a secret. His parents raised him very traditional, he would hate it if (female) Y/n would ask him out first or would propose first and would at first frown upon his attention to (male or non binary) Y/n.

All in all Slytherin seems very accurate.

Now concerning Jimin; similar to Hoseok he too can be a two faced snake. He doesn't hide his true thoughts from Y/n or the boys, if anything he overshares sometimes (one time he started talking to Taehyung about some... rather inappropriate things concerning Y/n. That got his Y/n privilege taken away for a whole month). And despite practically pleading to be the "dumb bimbo" stereotype, he is surprisingly clever and intelligent. Before Highschool, before he made his first experiences with popular boys, he was a straight A's and B's student. Yet once he had his first boyfriend, he discovered that the people surrounding him typically preferred the dumb blondes. (He actually broke up with the captain of the football team for Y/n.)

He also sometimes displays ambitious, just in a whiney sort of way. Self preservation is definitely something. Unlike Taehyung, Yoongi, Namjoon or Jeongguk, he wouldn't let himself be killed for Y/n's sake. If Y/n were to be killed he would end up deluding himself into thinking a person who looks similar to them is them and would force Y/n's personality and style on them. Cunningness is 100% accurate. He's fake. He pretends to be a silly sweetheart who loves everyone but will spread rumours about you, blame things on you etc. and everyone believes him. His cunningness concerning Y/n is more whiney than anything.

So I do think Jimin fits Slytherin.

Namjoon was raised by strict parents who forbade him a tremendous amount of things and painted his world for him. It was engraved in his head, he was going to be the CEO of their company one day. Yet despite everything he still had a head of his own. Maye it was because if his high IQ that he understood that his parents weren't the only opinion in his life. Don't get me wrong, they still left him scarred (sadly literally, as his father once hit him bloody) and traumatised but not without a mind of his own. Ever since he was small creativity and originality was something he admired and loved. It was partly reason of why he fell for Y/n, their individuality, their mind, their heart, their soul.

We will not need to discuss intelligence, it's a trait he undoubtedly has. He is always willing to learn and showed interest in many different things before Y/n captured his focus. He is most likely one of the wisest members as he is aware of how twisted his love for them truly is (once again something I tend to fail at portraying) and tried to stop it when it started. But somehow that only made everything worse and by now he doesn't care anymore at all. When he was a child he used to be more openly curious than nowadays (as it caused him many punishments from his parents).

I feel that Namjoon would fit Ravenclaw.

Seokjin was spoiled all his life. His parents adored him, other kids adored him, everyone adored him. While he might've acted oblivious he knew that it's because of his money. Similar to Jimin, Seokjin changed when he entered high school. While he always was a pretty intelligent and well behaved student (still very arrogant though) he then became less concerned with studies and once made a teacher cry (that was before he met Y/n). He loves standing out as an individual, that includes making anyone change who crosses his path with the same outfit (not in school as they wear a school uniform. But outside, yes, he has that much power. Everyone knows Kim Seokjin).

As said before, Seokjin is far from stupid. He is a very intelligent individual but doesn't show the extent of his nolage. Instead aiming for a cool "Queen B" persona. He is witty with his comebacks (something I cannot write because I do not possess that superpower), he's quick with his words. He holds respect for people who are 60+ years old as he believes they've been through a lot in life already. These people have wisdom he could only gain by experience and that he respects (there is one very sweet lady that lives alone in a very big mansion a few streets away from his penthouse. He always visits her because he loves her genuine kindness. When he met Y/n she recently passed away and he saw a part of her in them).

Seokjin could qualify for a Ravenclaw.

Taehyung was raised by a very Christian family that he still cherishes very much. Because of their intense belief he was raised to worship. He never fell in love, so when Y/n crossed paths with his, he started showing love how he's used to it (Out of all the boys Taehyung is straight up insane. Something in his brain might be wired wrong, there is no explanation on why he likes them, on why he believed that's what love is because his parents treated him with normal, familiar love. So he is simply sick, there is no "saving" him. He's better of in a mental hospital). But he was always a very kind boy. Giving instead of taking, never wanting anything in return. Out of everyone, Taehyung was the one who welcomed new students and made tons of friends. But he grew out of it as his focus turned to art. He aimed to make his parents proud so he didn't have time for friends.

His loyalty is unlike any other. You could torture him half dead and he'd still forgive you, stay loyal to you, serve you. He is Y/n's servant. He works hard on improving his artistic abilities and also to maintain fairly good grades. For Y/n any labour he'd have to be put through would seem like a blessing. Another trait for Hufflepuff would be fairness and he surely is fair. As one of the least jealous members of the club he really only cares if Y/n's okay with what's happening or could get hurt (he always kets the other members have more privileges than he has because he believes it'd be not only greedy but prideful to want Y/n to hinself. He avoids any sin when it comes to Y/n, envy, wrath, pride, sloth, nothing will ever come near his modern day Jesus).

Taehyung definitely is a Hufflepuff.

If the boy who works two parttime jobs, to pay for rent, bills and food, cleans the shabby apartment by himself because his alcoholic mother is busy messing it up again, yet still treats his mother with kindness, only to be treated like trash by seven more powerful and successful guys in his school who all like the same person he does and still manages to maintain the position as intern and honour roll student at a prestigious school for roch people, isn't in Hufflepuff then I don't know what. This poor soul is incredibly sensitive and kind. He isn't judgemental (as he himself is used to people judging him). All round very sweet.

I think it's very clear that he's very diligent and hard working. He holds great passion for music and enjoys writing poetry, a very sensitive soul. Yoongi isn't someone to complain about something being unfair (cough cough Jimin cough cough) or try and steal Y/n away from them. His day dreams consist of imagining Y/n liking him back, but he is certain that would never happen (according to you guys, it seems a lot of you would pick Yoongi if you'd get to decide). Not only is Yoongi kind but loyal as well, he'd never imagine leaving anyone behind even his useless mother.

Yoongi is 1000% a Hufflepuff.

Jeongguk tends to be hot tempered, he goes from zero to a hundred in a matter of seconds. Everything in life seems like a challenge to prove he's better than others think (his father was a notorious serial killer who killed twenty one people yet got away with a ten year prison sentence and got released after six, ten months later Jeongguk was born). In truth he did not care for anyone else, only Y/n. So all tge chivalry he could muster was directed at them.

He is one brave guy who doesn't get easily scared (I guess living with as well as being a serial killer at sixteen years old desensitised him). Jeongguk is courageous just not in/for a positive way/purpose. He deluted himself into thinking that Y/n needs protection, HIS protection. He once attacked a teacher because they were helping Y/n with a question, that's very daring (more like stupid) just not in a good way. A (still not) more positive example of his daringness is when he wants to impress Y/n. He hung from a skyscraper for five minutes doing pullups, just to inpress them. One time he also jumped across his luxurious pool at home (and almost slipped, almost bashing his head in) just to prove that he can jump further than someone they talked about.

I could very much picture him as a Griffendor.

If you enjoyed reading my work, please consider reblogging it. Thank you for reading

[popculturebuffet]

House of Mouse: Mickey and the Culture Clash (Commission by WeirdKev27) or “What the Hell, Clarabelle?”

Hello, hello, hello... I wish I could say I was in good spirits but i’m tired, have covid induced chills running down my spine.. and oh yeah there was an armed insurrection i the captial last night that showed just how broken this country was. And while Monster Bash would still be relevant... I couldn’t do it. I admit to being unable to do an episode where the millitant racist nutjob who harms people runs off into the night, and does much worse in later episodes, while the people she harassed are arrested the night after a bunch of millitant, racist, sociopathic, selfish nightmares sieged the captial, killed a woman, raised the fucking maga flag over the buildling and took pictures like they were goddamn heroes.  We got a stark reminder, not a wake up call, not an opening a REMINDER of just how badly broken our country is last night, and it wasn’t till this morning I found out just how BAD it was. The deaths, the flag, the fact josh fucking hawley, MY STAT’ES SENATOR and registered piece of shit, raised  A FUCKING FIST IN SOLIDARITY, which gives me the crippling fear his stupidity and unabashed racisim and support of a cou could mean riots at best and attempted uprisings at worst and who knows what kind of hate crimes against those of color and those in my own queer community. I am afraid, tired, and I am pissed and I feel we could ALL use something wholesome, warm and far removed from the shit going on. And in my hour of need to figure out something like that to put on the schedule.. Kev brought up a wonderfufl idea.  Every month this month till the end of it Kev is going to comission one episode of a show near and dear to both our hearts that has it’s 20th birthday this month. House of Mouse. He was intitally going to request Pete’s One Man Show, which is one of my faviorites, but was ironcially one I already planned to cover next month to celebrate both the show’s anniversary and Pete’s Birthday. But since he was happy to wait till then to comission it, he instead asked for another classic and one with easily my faviorite character on the show: Moritmer Mouse. 

One of the best things House of Mouse did was bring back Mortimer Mouse. Introduced in Mickey’s Rival, Mortimer was an ex of minnies who showed up for one short to be a dick to mickey before running off and leaving Minnie at the mercy of a bull he pissed off. He also weirdly kept electrodes and a car battery in his pants. The short itself is.. not great mostly because Minnie dimissies Mickey rightfully being pissed someone is hitting on his girlfriend in front of him, making jokes at his expense, and generally being a pillock as being jealous... which yeah, yeah he is. Most of the time jealousy and supscison of your partner is ugly, gross and damaging to a relationship.  You should trust them unless you’ve been given good reason not to, and if your paranoidly jealous about every friend she has she could be attracted to.. get some fucking help. Seriously, I need to, not for this for various other problems, but get some therapy to help with your trust issues or if your just being the kind of dick who naturally assumes men and women or men and men or women and women or men and nonibinary persons, or women and nonbinary peeps and so on and so on cannot be friends if they could possibly be togehter romantically... grow up.  I say all of that because those are serious underlying issues and I didn’t want it to seem like for a moment I was supporting them... and because sometimes i’ts OKAY to be jealous, to either just feel a little jealous of someone, or to you know be irate because your girlfriend’s ex is hitting on her in front of you and she’s being entirely receptive to it. 

So yeah i’ts really hard to feel bad for minnie’s bull attack or find the ending sweet after Minnie was you know, what ramona said for an entire short. However my point for this rant, besides giving out about the short again because I clearly didn’t enough in my Mickey Birthday Special, is that Mortimer is still pretty great. He’s a frat bro in the 40′s sense sure, but the idea of a local douche hoping to swoop in and woo minnie away, who has an oddly specific sense of humor and a bizzare, memorable and wonderful walk, seriously the short is worth watching for mortimier’s “I got two car batteris in my pants’ walk, is a good one. While he’d naturally show up in comics and what have you Mortimer just sort of vanished. But clearly someone on the House of Mouse staff, and Mousewerks before it, agreed because Morty was made easily one of the best and most recurring characters in the HOM, and often more prominent than Horace or Gus. While he still tried his old “I’m gonna do your common law wife act” a few times he was mostly there to be an annoying douche when the ep needed one and to be taken down a peg by everyone in the house. And that VERY MUCH includes Mickey. That’s also part of why I love this show bringing him back: It gives Mickey someone besides pete to give out too on a regular basis. He’s still his charming self about it but it’s lovelyt os ee Mickey sarcastically roast someone. And I honestly attribute the main factor of his sucess on the show to VA Maurice LaMarche. While his original VA, Sonny Dawson, was fantastic.. it’s Maurice who very clearly made the character his. While others like Jeff Bennet have taken over since i’ts Maurice who gave him his signature “ha-cha-cha” catchphrase, swagger and signiture voice. And no i’ts not lost on me that one of Maurice’s OTHER best roles is another cartoon mouse.. and I now very badly want him to meet Pinky and the Brain. But yeah, Maurice just oozes the smarm that defines mortimer for me, oozes condescinon and assholery and he, is., glorious. He was a faviorite as a kid, he’s a faviorite now, and Disney needs to use him more.. and also have Maurice voice him for wonderufl world of mickey mouse, though Jeff Bennett is not bad at all I just prefer the master at the role. 

So obviously, after the nightmare of an evening america had yesterday, an episode not only about how wholesome mickey and minnie are but about Mickey teaming up with Mortimer was EXACTLY what i needed. So pitter patter, this is Mickey and the Culture clash. As always for house of mouse i’ll be chonking it up and since this one starts right with the wraparound, and sicnce you know I spent a godo few pagraphs going over mortimer and he’s only IN the wraparound this episode... let’s start there

Mickey and the Culture Clash: Don’t Go Changin, To Try and Please Me So we open the episode and the review proper with Mickey performing a banjo sernade for Minnie, their song in fact. It’s a really sweet scene.. that’s quickly ruined by Clarabelle being an asshole, who says i’ts a bit crude. Minnie counters that while “It’s not mozart”, it’s nice and she clearly likes it and the gesture. Instead of you know leaving it there like a good friend, like she’s SUPPOSED to be to Minnie in most continuities, Clarabelle.. takes the things she said and her having to run out to wrangle pluto out of context, painting it as her thinking he’s not sophisticated and then running out because of it. Oh and she tops it by pointing to a classified add from a MM looking for sophisticated companionship. 

It just paints Clarabelle not as Minnie’s friend or a chatty gossip, but as a heartless bitch who has no trouble implying one of her best friends would cheat on her boyfriend TO HIS FACE, and is fine wrecking a perfectly lovely relationship just to have more to talk about. Seriously she starts gossiping to everybody on top of it just in case you thought Clarabelle was a decent person in any shape this episode. She’s the one thing about this episode that dosen’t work despite being integral to it.. well two but hte other thing is a small, end of episode gag we’ll get to. This.. this is an integral part of the plot. It also relies on Daisy and Donald being absent for the episode for what I can only assume is their annual sex decathalon because otherwise the second she heard about her friend doing this, before reassuring Minnie, Donald would be holdiing her while Daisy beat the absolute shit out of her for hurting thier closest friend and not bothering to take a look into anything when leveling such a rough accusation at Minnie. In a really stellar, really well paced episode, Clarabelle being so heartless stands out. It’s also, might as well get this out of the way, teh final episode not inlcuding the two holiday specials.. and it’s a good note to go out on otherwise, I just can’t ignore the obnoxious cow in the room.. in both senses of the word. 

So yeah Mickey’s trying to be fancy, and Mortimer gets a good dig in about him reading “You having trouble sounding out the words”, but once he hears what’s going on, or rather once he realizes mickey things Mortimer’s personal add is in fact his girlfriend cheating on him, he decides to help Mickey. And to his credit for this con.. Mortimer actually thought things out on how to trick his rival, and his plan here is douchey as hell but incredibly genius: he offers to help mickey and while that’d normally be suspcious he offers a genuine, and very mortimer explination for helping him become a bit more sophisticated to win minnie back: if Minnie finds a handsome, sophisticated guy to date, what chance does MORTIMER have against that? At least with Mickey, in his deluded egocentric view of things anyway, he has a shot at beating him. 

So Mickey classes it up a bit, taking some sopshitcated stances when announcing and trying to woo minnie by talking in ye olde english. When that fails, she just finds it silly but charming, Mickey finds Jose.. hitting on her.

Just.. I expect better from you man. Woo ladies all you like as long as your respectful but I expect better than to hit on someone else’s girlfriend.. which granted he has but given the last time we saw him do that, he nearly got stabbed a bunch and the last time he agressively hit on a woman he got punched in the beak as he should, you’d THINK he’d of learned something. Seriously once again Donald is only missing because this time Daisy would be holding Jose down while Donald hit him. Or possibly they’d take turns. Point is Jose REALLY shoudln’t be doing this and knows better.. marginally. But.. it is in character enough so ti’s not as bad as Clarabelle the homewrecker. 

So Mickey tries being fancy and goes on to do poetry instead of letting O’Malley and the Alley Cats play.. which is a nice running gag the series does as they NEVER get to play.. which while funny is a shame since I love the Aristocats. So then we finally get what Mortimer’s been playing at, he swoops in, claims MICKEY dosen’t need HER, and uses the same personal add to trick her. See, while what Mortimer’s doing is vile.. unlike clarabelle I can repsect it at least. I don’t condone it and i’m glad he gets foiled.. but as a bad guy plan it’s pretty clever and for someone like Mortimer whose usually pretty incompitent.. it’s pretty suprising he could pull this off. It’s still pretty damn low and scummy, no question, but props to being able to outwit and nearly outplay two people who deal with your crap on a regular basis and still convincingly conning both.  Thankfully while he tries to take Minnie out Mickey, in a great visual gag, puts two and two together, and busts out their song, with Mickey and Minnie heartwearmingly reuniting on stage as seen above. Then we get that gag I mentioned not liking: Mickey gets Morty back by planting a false marriage proposal from Moritmer to Clarabelle, again under MM and he gets carried off.. HAHA HE’S BEING FORCED INTO A MARRIAGE HE DOSEN’T. LAUGH. LAUGH AT IT. The gag just really hasn’t aged well, as otherwise it’s clever Mickey used Mortimer’s own trick against both him and the person who caused all of this but really.. Clarabelle gets no real compuance. At worse sshe finds out she was tricked.. but she again you know tried to break up her close friends relationship for shits and giggles. But .. it’s at the very end of the episode and very easy to ignore, so it dosen’t really bother me too bad, and compared to some gags of the type i’ve seen, it could be MUCH worse.  Overall this wraparound is one of the series best and a good one to go out on. it has a simple premise, a brilliant antagonist plot, some great bits from all involved, and even a great Belle and Beast cameo. All in all a really good wraparound only hampered by a sexist and dated ending and Clarabelle being portrayed as ...

She’s the worst, in the world. Okay onto the shorts.

Mickey’s Piano Lesson: That was a Fun One

It really was. It’s a simple premise: Minnie wants MIckey to do a piano recital and he decides “I don’t need practice i’m mickey mouse. “ And it’s REALLY nice to have a short that has, rather than aw shucks mickey, shenanigans mickey. While thanks to the new shorts we’ve had tons, it’s still nice to get one in the House of Mouse era, and it’s just fun to see Mickey take the usual donald roll of letting his overconfidence punch him in the face> It fits both though: Both are everyman and while I lean towards the duck, to no one’s shock, Mickey is just as capable, and his lack of practice comes off less like the angry and hostile way donald would dismiss it and mroe just loveable procastination. And as someone who REALLY struggles with procastination I related to this short, as Mickey does everything else he’d rather do from bathing the dog to skydiving till Minnie, in a great bit informs him everyone from the president, to several dignitaries from other countries, to a televised audience will see. We then get two really great and really beatuifully animated bits as MIckey wrestles with the notes on thep age then fights with his piano as he performs, still pulling it off but destroying the thing and rightfully earning a glare form his girlfriend. Just a fun, slapstick short with a great premise. 

Dance of the Goofys: Scary Children Set to classical music, this one has a bunch of goofys as Fairy’s, who are making the flowers go and the one who sleeps in ends up saving the king from a horrifing looking little brat. He reminds me of Montanna Max a bit.. speaking of which Creer Summer recnetly announced Elmyra won’t be in the reboot. And while this does make me fear actually good characters like Fifi, Montana Max, and more will be cut like the animanics reboot and I do feel for Cree not getting to be involved and hope they find another roll for her as, given her status in the industry she deserves better.. THANK FUCKING GOD. I’ll go into this in another review I have planned for the future but unlike the cuts made to animaniacs this was a REALLY good decision i’m really greatful for. Thank you crew thank you. 

Back on topic, it’s just a fun, really beautifully animated short about the goofies and hteir shenanigans with a really great high concept. 

Maestro Minnie: Brahm’s Lullabye: Simply Irresitable Another simple but clever and lovely to watch one, and one I like quite a bit more. Minnie is conducting some living violins to Brahm’s Lullabye to get a baby Violin to sleep, and we get some really beautiful shots of her as she does so.. only to get comically interuppted by other insteruments turning up the noise. Not much to say on this one as it’s short and simple.. but sometimes short and simple is just what you need and the fun premise nad really beautiful especially for tv animation at the time visuals really sell this one.  ONce again, good stuff. 

Overall: This was a REALLY good note to go out on. While as I said the Clarabelle stuff can eat my entire ass, everything else is really damn good and I highly recommend checking this one out. Next time, in about a month, we’ll be looking at Pete’s spotlight episode for his birfday. While you wait tommorow we have my first look at legend of the three cabs. But for now, goodbye, goodbye, goodbye. 

[project-ohagi]

Kokushibou x Reader {Kimetsu No Yaiba}

Each smile was harrowing, and harboured a great many secrets. That was what your fellows always assumed, at least. In reality, there was only one clandestine thought perpetually festering away in your mind: why had your transformation into a demon been partial, rather than whole? With the exception of yourself, all the members of your squadron had been massacred. Yet...by some miracle, you had survived.

Just barely.

Although, your current appearance often invited gazes of fright, and even sympathy, from those upholding the position of Demon Hunter. In his infinite mercy, Oyakata-sama had allowed you to maintain your status, but missions were becoming few and far between. You didn't feel like a demon, nor did you wish to be one, but you no longer grappled a sense of humanity. After all, when your body was split down the middle (one half retaining its former, blinding beauty, and the other resembling a decaying corpse), could you truly still claim to be human?

"No." The calmness of this voice chilled your very core. Was this man - this demon - a telepath?

"You don't have any other choice than to become a full-fledged demon. I don't know why your transformation was incomplete, but you can never regain your humanity."

Clenching your teeth and gripping the hilt of your sword, colour draining from your knuckles, you shouted, "Still your tongue and fight me, tyrant!"

Disappointment seemed to fizzle in the air, at your rejection. However, much to your delight and subsequent shock, he abided by your command for a while, swinging his blade without a significant intent to kill. Was he actually trying to spare you? Well, if he would be devoted to fighting defensively, the injuries you sustained should be minimal, for the most part. Still, it was troubling. A murderous aura surrounded you, as your two eyes, wide with fury, locked on to his six, disturbingly-soft ones. They appeared to glint with genuine concern, and if your vision wasn't deceived...a slight affection? You started to hesitate, but to falter now, would almost certainly result in death. A small laceration formed below your shoulder, and despite its lack of depth, the blood flowed forth, pooling on the ground.

"That scent..." The demon directed his nose upwards. "It's heavenly."

A growl ruptured your throat. "I told you not to speak! You'll pay for everything you've done to me! I'll stop you right here!"

"Your poor soul has been deluded by those unsightly Demon Hunters."

With narrowed eyes and furrowed brows, he just shook his head.

"'Those unsightly Demon Hunters' are my family! My only family, thanks to you!" As the tears slowly started to cascade, obscuring your vision, the demon's footsteps echoed in your ears.

Why couldn't you sense any malicious intent? What was causing such frightful tremors to cycle around your body? And...why were your limbs frozen? The demon's hand was reaching for the sword, sheathed by his side, but you couldn't move. Blinking was all that you could manage, but it was dreadful. Every time your eyelids fluttered closed, those ebony locks would bound ever-closer. It was strange...his demeanour gave the impression that serenity was his sole emotion. He wasn't trembling as he approached, unlike yourself. He wasn't allowing pent-up frustrations to hinder this fight. Or...whatever the fight had become, for you were clearly incapacitated, and yet, something deep within your half-heart told of his unwillingness to slay you.

The cold shivers couldn't easily be quelled, not especially as his calloused hand graced your chin, and he drifted further into a state of bliss, caressing both skin and bone.

"Your beauty truly is unparalleled." The passing comment torched the human-half of your face.

This thing...this former-man...why did his sweet, tender ministrations coax the thundering of your half-heart? How were such forbidden sentiments even possible? Was he trying to bestow sovereignty upon your demonic affliction? You couldn't let him! You needed to remain, to avenge your family...your friends! But...it seemed he was whispering softly to your half-heart, tugging it out of your chest, and into his dark embrace.

No - you didn't want this!...Did you?

In a quivering tone, you breathed, "W-What have you d-done...?"

Instead of utilising words, which would fail to encapsulate the extent of his judgements, he removed his sword from its sheath. You gasped, but a finger was soon placed atop your lips. After sliding the blade across his own arm, he offered up the blood to you. The hand by your mouth moved, as the demon laced his rough digits in your hair, tugging your face down, to meet his arm.

"Drink."

Half of you wished to vomit, as the disgust welled up, but the other half...well, it wanted to feed. You battled it, but the fragrant, crimson liquid simply looked, and smelled, so very appetising! The half-dormant demon was rising from within, but when this realisation dawned, his blood was already dripping down your chin; you were lapping it up with fervour, like you had never protested surrendering to your inner monster. Kokushibou's fingers drew circles on your scalp. He felt completely at ease, and now, he could dedicate himself to ensuring that of you, as well.

Tarnishing the innocence of such a kind, young woman had brought his heart and his brain into conflict, but this...the end result...it was worth all the bloodshed, and so, so much more.  

[ugly-crying-over-bucky-barnes]

Roguish Women Part 28

Summary: Kate is an American who fled to Paris to escape her past life. Now she's dancing and playing the part of a courtesan at the Moulin Rouge. There she meets Tommy Shelby who thinks she can be useful in expanding his empire. But has he been blinded?

Part 28: Kate and Tommy make the journey back home. They are thrilled to be together, but Kate realizes that there are certain things she can’t leave behind.

                    They didn’t say anything as they made their way to their room on the ship. They parted ways with Patrick and the others along the way. Tommy didn’t let go of Kate’s hand until he needed to locate the key to the room and open the door.

           He allowed her in first, touching her back gently as she entered the suite. It was a set of three rooms including the bathroom, a sitting room, and the bedroom. The rooms weren’t particularly large but they were ornate and comfortable for crossing the ocean. It was very similar to the suite she had traveled in with Santo to Boston. It felt like years ago when she felt so hopeless. Destined to never have love in her life.

           But now, there she was with Tommy. It felt like a dream.

           Kate turned to him, so filled with joy that she wasn’t quite sure what to do.

           Tommy shut the door and set their bags on the floor. He brushed his hands together and looked at her with a bit of apprehension. Though their reunion on the docks was one he’d been hoping for, he was worried. Worried that she would be upset with him for still stepping in. For doing everything she told him not to do. In the end, it worked out. But that didn’t erase the fact that he hadn’t listened to anything she said. It could be argued that he was only doing it for her safety, but of course, there was a hint of selfishness behind his motive. He needed her back for his own sanity.

           But Kate didn’t seem to hold any grievances. She was feeling too euphoric from being freed from such a long-standing burden. “Can I kiss you?” She asked softly.

           “When have you ever asked for something so politely?” Tommy asked coyly.

           She smiled. Oh, it felt so good to smile again. “I could insist on it.”

           He started to move towards her. “You could.”

           The closer he got, the faster her heart raced. It was as if it had been kickstarted back to life. All that time she’d been so numb, and now every nerve-ending was vibrating with excitement. “I could demand it.”

           “And you wouldn’t hear any complaints from me.” Tommy stopped inches away from her. He gently combed his fingers through her hair.

           “Then kiss me.”

           He smiled. “There’s the Kate I know.” He murmured before pressing his lips to hers. Though they had never kissed before, it felt strangely familiar. Perhaps they’d known each other so well that there were no surprises. But it wasn’t meaningless. In fact, it felt like the most thrilling thing Kate had ever done. The lights of the Moulin Rouge, the weightless feeling of a grand jeté in front of an audience, nothing compared.

           Tommy placed a hand on the small of her back, bringing her flush against him. Kate’s lips parted with a soft sigh of yearning. Her hands went to tangle in his hair, pressing him onward, praying he wouldn’t stop.

           Luckily, he wasn’t keen on letting go of her. It wasn’t until they were both completely out of breath, did they part. Even then, neither of them moved away. Kate loosened her hold on his hair, instead, gently carding her fingers through his dark locks. She paused when her fingers grazed over the scars on his scalp.

           “Are you still in pain?” She asked quietly.

           Tommy pressed his forehead to hers. “I need glasses. Other than that, it’s only headaches here and there.”

           She sighed. “I should’ve been there for you.”

           “You were there.” He assured her. “The drugs they put me on, they made me see you.”

           Her thumb smoothed over the damaged skin. “You visited my dreams nearly every night.” Her hand moved from his hair to touch his cheek. “I tried so hard to forget about you but I couldn’t.”

           “You don’t have to try anymore.” He promised. “I’ll be right here.”

           It was comforting to accept his love. It had been agonizing trying to push him away, trying to delude herself into thinking she could forget him. She smiled and pecked his lips before stepping away so she could remove her coat. “I trust you were still busy while I was gone.”

           Tommy chuckled darkly. “There was a lot going on.” He admitted. “It’s a complicated story.”

           “Well, we have time.” She reminded him. “It’s a long journey home.”

           Tommy stood back, watching her hang up her coat and fix her blonde curls in the mirror. The short-sleeved blouse she was wearing gave him a view of some of the scars and bruises that still lingered after her stint in Boston. It made his blood boil knowing Santo had full rein to abuse her while Tommy was utterly helpless. It was satisfying knowing the son of a bitch was dead, although Tommy would’ve enjoyed being the one who killed him.

           He had to take a deep breath. It wouldn’t be easy to let that anger go, but there was no point holding onto it. Santo was dead and Kate would be back home. “I’d rather just relax, not worry about what happened.”

           Kate turned around with a look of shock. “Do my ears deceive me?” She asked with a faux look of horror on her face. “Tommy Shelby relaxing? That’s absurd.”

           He smiled and rolled his eyes. “I was in a hospital for weeks; I think I’ve learned how to take it easy.”

           She smiled. “I think that’s different, but I would like to relax a bit. I know neither of us has had it particularly easy in these last few months. We have plenty of time to catch up on things.”

           It was relieving. Tommy didn’t want to talk about Father Hughes, Tatiana, or how Karl was kidnapped. Those issues had been on his mind nonstop for weeks on end and finally, he was being given an opportunity to put those worries aside. After all, there was nothing else to be done. Father Hughes was dead, Karl was back with Ada, and Tatiana was in Vienna. Worries in the past. There were things looming on the horizon, things Tommy had planned, but those things could wait. At least for a week while they were at sea.

~~~~~~~~~~~

           That night, Tommy was laying on the bed, reading the newspaper while Kate was in the bathroom preparing for bed.

           When she came out, a small smile formed on her face. “Y’know, when you said you had to wear glasses, I thought you’d look a little funny. I think it’s unfair that you look just as handsome in them.”

           Tommy lowered the paper and looked up over his wire-frame glasses. “You’re the only one who thinks that. Everyone else gave me a hard time about them.”

           Kate furrowed her brow. “Nonsense.” She put a hand on her hip, drawing Tommy’s attention to the white nightgown she was wearing with a navy-blue dressing gown over it.

           He folded up the newspaper, fully aware that he wouldn’t be wasting any more time on reading. “Nonsense?”

           She walked over to the bed and went to lay next to him. “You look even smarter than before and more…stately.” She curled up by his side, looking up at him with adoration.

           He chuckled and shook his head. “Well, that’s one way of looking at it.”

           “Does any other way matter? I would think you think highly of my opinion.” She gave him an innocent smile.

           “Oh, I missed you.” He growled playfully. He shifted over so he could hook a leg over and hover over her, resting his weigh on his elbows.

           Every little move he made took Kate’s breath away. It didn’t seem fair that he had such a hold over her, but she wasn’t going to deny it either. She closed her eyes as he kissed her softly. It felt like being enveloped in a warm, familiar blanket. A secure feeling of being held and cherished. It seemed nothing could go wrong until Tommy’s hand went to rest on her hip.

           He pushed up the thin fabric of her nightgown and inexplicably caused a knee-jerk reaction from Kate.

           Panic descended on her in mere seconds. She shoved Tommy off of her and reflexively reached for her thigh. The same spot where she had worn her knife all day and all night when she was in Boston.

           But the holster wasn’t there, the leather was digging into her skin as it had been before. That split second, Kate thought she was back in Boston. She feared that she was only having a dream and Tommy wasn’t really there. She feared that Santo was trying to touch her again. Horrid memories of those grueling months flashed through her brain like deadly strikes of lightning.

           “Kate?”

           Tommy’s voice lured her back to reality, soothing her frayed nerves, and reassuring her that it wasn’t a dream.

           Her vision cleared up a bit, she hadn’t noticed it was blurred until she could see the cabin suite clearly again. “Tom?”

           He was sitting up on the bed, a concerned look on his face. But he didn’t move to touch her, afraid it would trigger her again. It wasn’t an unfamiliar phenomenon to him. Although, he had only seen it in soldiers before. The way Danny Owens ducked and covered his head every time he heard a loud bang. The ingrained reaction that was meant to protect him. His brain seized control even when there was no imminent threat. He saw that same detached, fearful look in Kate’s eyes as she relived something horrific. And Tommy had a hunch what it was.

           “He took advantage of you.” He surmised in a quiet voice.

           Kate was dumbfounded by her own response to Tommy touching her. She knew she was safe but still, she couldn’t seem to control the reaction. It was so frightening, yet she didn’t know why. Why couldn’t she see that Tommy wasn’t a threat to her? He wasn’t Santo, he would never harm her. She started to tremble in confusion and anxiety. “It was just…easier to give in. If he got what he wanted, I wouldn’t get hurt.”

           It was just another reminder that it would be difficult to get over the anger Tommy had toward the dead man. And the anger for himself. That he had let Kate suffer for so long. That he wasn’t there to protect her.

           “I just didn’t think it would…” She drew her knees to her chest and fought back tears. She had thought that once she’d finished Santo off, all the memories would be dead and buried. That was a part of her life she could toss aside. But how could she completely forget? She was abused, demeaned, threatened, raped. Those weren’t things that a woman just walked away from. They were scars she would carry for the rest of her life. She could put out a tough façade to the world, but she was so damaged inside. And even she couldn’t escape her memories.

           “Kate, s’alright.” Tommy cautiously touched her hand. “None of it was your fault, that fucking bastard had no right to treat you like that. I should’ve come for you sooner I-”

           A tear slipped down Kate’s cheek as she went to bury herself in Tommy’s arms. “I just want to forget it. He can’t have power over me anymore. It’s n-not fair.”

           “He doesn’t.” Tommy wrapped his arms around her. “You’re safe, love. I promise you’re safe.”

           She didn’t answer. She just held onto him tightly until she was so tired, she began to doze off. Deep down, Kate knew that safety was fleeting and it was never a guarantee.  

~~~~~~~~~~

           The next morning, Kate took a walk along the promenade to get some fresh air. The night before had been a huge shock to her. But in hindsight, she realized how foolish it was to assume everything would just be perfect after all she’d endured. Her entire life, Kate was taught to be tougher than the world or she’d be eaten alive. If she put on a tough face and told everyone she was strong, in the end, she would be. She learned early on that the world was unforgiving and those who wore their hearts on their sleeves didn’t survive. Becoming a ballerina in an esteemed company was an uphill battle. There was no time for tears and she had to dance through any injuries. Becoming the head of a bootlegging empire was a daily battle. She needed to be cutthroat or her throat would be cut, simple as that. She didn’t even let people see her cry at her own mother’s funeral.

           And even as trauma continued to build up in her life, Kate continued on. Her fragile self was kept behind hundreds of layers of steel. Since she had been on her own for so many years, it was easy to keep those emotions to herself.

           Now that she had created bonds with Tommy, she could see the consequences of being so guarded. Cracks in her armor were starting to show and it terrified her. She trusted Tommy but was afraid that he would look down on her for being so delicate. She was afraid it would compromise her entire being. But perhaps, she had let everything build up for too long. Usually, she assumed that she could walk away from anything and be okay. But in reality, she was simply tucking those emotions away, letting them build up until the pressure became too much and she cracked. Her time in Boston had become the final straw. Maybe it was the thing she wouldn’t be able to walk away from.  

           As she walked down the open deck of the ship, she felt like everyone was staring at her. Her chest was tight as she assumed, they all knew. They all knew what had happened. That she was nothing more than just a broken, used, poor excuse for a woman. All the things Santo said she was. After all, what did she have left? Her self-esteem had been shattered, her dignity had been stripped, her entire life had been torn to shreds. The woman who was returning to England was not the same person who had left months ago. She felt all of her flaws were finally out in the open for everyone to see and to mock. She was nothing more than a liar, a whore, a fraud.

           Her stomach in knots, Kate knew she couldn’t be out around people for much longer, so she returned to the suite.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

           Tommy was doing a bit of work when she returned. He turned around in his seat and smiled at her. “How was your walk?” The smile didn’t last long when he saw the panicked look on her face. “Kate?”

           “There are things I need to tell you.” Her hands wrung together as she walked into the sitting area of the suite.

           “Things about what?” Tommy asked, setting his paperwork aside so she knew she had his full attention.

           “I lied to you about a lot of things. A lot of things from my past when I was in Boston and Chicago. An-And I can’t lie to you anymore, I need to tell you the truth.” She was shaking slightly as she sat down on the sofa beside him.

           “Kate, you don’t need to explain anything to me. Your past doesn’t affect us right now.” He assured her, turning towards her so he could cup her cheek.

           “It has affected us!” She pointed out. “It already has and I don’t want it to happen again.”  

           “It’s over, it’s in the past. We need to focus on what we have right now and what’s in store for us in the future.” Tommy was worried that something else would resurface and cause them problems. But he was also afraid to hear what she might have kept from him. Sometimes, it was better to just forget the past than to dig things back up again.

           “Tommy…”

           “All I ask is you’re honest with me moving forward.” He soothed. “We’ll both be honest, and there’ll be no reason to worry about what might’ve happened in the past. It was before we even met, Kate, so it doesn’t bother me.”

           Kate realized it was the same thing he’d done with Grace. He buried his head in the sand because he was in love. Secrets and lies would disrupt their relationship and that’s the last thing he wanted. He just wanted things to be alright again. Kate did too. She wanted everything to work out and to make sense between them. She had lied, she lied about her father and her involvement in crimes. And those lies were eating up at her from the inside. “Please, I can’t live with this anymore.”

           Tommy met her eyes, worried, but he finally nodded. “Alright, tell me the truth then.”

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[rorykillmore]

posting up a birthday gift fic for @alula !!! aka i decided to ambush them by not telling them i usually do this for my friends’ birthdays until like yesterday, but it’s the same idea! this is basically just like 1000+ words of gay introspection for our one villaneve rp verse, but one time they attacked me w something they wrote re: eve trying to tell villanelle she loves her while the latter was sleeping and i guess i just filed that away in the back of my brain until i could find a way to get revenge.

anyway a few nice words: i hope you have a great birthday scully!!! and. this might sound like a very low bar bc 2020 has been awful for all of us i’m sure, but meeting you and becoming friends has genuinely ended up one of the brightest highlights of my year and i’m so glad we stumbled across each other bc we both wanted someone to yell about ke with.  HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!! 

‘Feelings that can’t be put into words’ has never sounded like anything but a challenge to Villanelle. There are 6,500 different languages in the world. It stands to reason that if you can’t find the words you’re want in one of them, you just have to look somewhere else. 

The problem is -- she knows the words she wants to say to Eve. She has them. They exist in all 6,500 of those languages.

She’s already said them once.

She wonders to herself, over and over:  if she said them again, would they ruin everything a second time?

The textbook definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results. So Villanelle tries - in every way she knows how - not to be the same person she was before. Not to make the same mistakes.

“I want to tell you something,” Villanelle murmurs, catching Eve by the hand. It’s late, and they’ve just dropped Jin Ling off at his new apartment and packed it full of food and clothes (Villanelle had wanted to make sure he had clothes) and dog toys in preparation to move him in. Eve looks as tired as Villanelle feels when she turns back towards her, but the look in her eyes is as alert and questioning as it always is when she’s giving Villanelle her attention.

I’m listening. I’m usually listening when it comes to you,  Eve had told her once, and, I spent a ton of time listening to you before you even talked to me, and Villanelle had tucked all of those words away somewhere close to her heart.

They make Villanelle hesitate now, on the verge of something not for the first time.

(The first time had been the first night they’d spent together, in between the heated kisses Villanelle had trailed across her skin and in the contented quiet afterwards. Or after that, the night Eve had spent curled up in her lap after Villanelle had wiped away the tears she hadn’t quite understood in the moment.)

She deludes herself, in those few seconds in which Eve’s eyes meet her’s, that she’ll say it this time. But her throat starts to feel dry, and instead --

“I think I am starting to enjoy it.” Villanelle swallows and offers a crooked smile. “This... helping people?”

It isn’t a lie. So that’s something. It’s not the rush or the elation she remembers she used to get when she was hurting people -- it’s more like a quiet, contemplative sort of ache in her chest. She doesn’t know why she likes it. Maybe it’s the novelty of it all. 

Maybe it’s the way Eve looks at her now, the way she almost seems to soften at the edges. It wasn’t what Villanelle wanted to say, but the unguarded way Eve smiles back at her and doesn’t let go of her hand, it makes Villanelle decide that maybe it was worth it anyway.

It’s not as though she doesn’t have plenty of other chances.

She and Eve see each other nearly every day now. Most mornings start with them waking up together, and most evenings end with one of them outside the other’s door (or window, when it comes to Villanelle’s preferred method of entry). Villanelle starts to wonder how well she’d sleep in an empty bed, she’s gotten so used to tucking herself against Eve’s back, slinging an arm around her waist. She wouldn’t dare call it domestic, or normal, or any of the things Villanelle knows she can’t have and would never try to force Eve into.

But it’s... them. All the heat and passion and intensity Villanelle already knows so well, but also all of the smaller things that she is still learning that somehow feel equally a part of whatever they are. 

So it’s not as though the opportunities aren’t there. It’s just that it never feels like the right time.

She doesn’t want to scare Eve off or bring all their memories of Rome back into the forefront, and above all else, she doesn’t want to lie to her. Or to herself. And no matter how certain Villanelle is that she’s never felt this way about anyone else in her life, or that she wouldn’t have thrown her life as an assassin away and risked the terrifying reality of not knowing who she is for anyone but Eve, or that she might actually choose to die before ever hurting Eve again, she... can’t be sure that any of that counts as love. Because she doesn’t know what love looks like, or what it feels like, she doesn’t know if she really was wrong the last time she said it and she doesn’t know who to ask.

You don’t understand what that is. 

I want to, Villanelle thinks she should have said. I’m trying. I’m sorry. I’ll find a way to make it better, just know that I’m trying.

But that hadn’t been how Rome had ended. And since then, so much has happened, and Villanelle has had to ask herself so many unpleasant questions that she once would have preferred not to ever think about at all, but... 

Maybe that’s a part of it. Of trying. Because after she’d gone home to her family, to her mother, she’d almost forgotten that it was worth trying at all, and Eve had reminded her so effortlessly just by showing up here, in this strange, dreamlike alternate reality. And that has to mean something, doesn’t it? That Eve always makes her want to try?

That Eve takes her coffee black (sometimes), that she raised venus fly traps as a kid and loved a girl in college, that she had a chicken for a pet and loves cute newborn kittens and scrawny stray cats, and that she thrives on the arguments she pretends to hate, that she cares about people even when they’ve done very bad things, that she’s fighting all the time to figure herself out, to know herself, that it scares her all the time but that she does it anyway. All of that means something to Villanelle. She wants to find the words for how much she cares about every part of Eve that Eve ever lets her see, and they’re right there, Villanelle knows that, just --

She never knew that ‘knowing’ and ‘saying’ could be such complicated different things.

So what’s there to do, Villanelle decides, shying away from paralyzing nerves that don’t at all become her, except keep trying? 

“I want to tell you something,” she murmurs again a few days later, this time into the place where the slope of Eve’s neck meets her shoulder, where Villanelle can hide her face.  She knows that’s cheating, though, and eventually stretches out and lifts her head and props herself up on one elbow, smiling languidly down at Eve in an effort to pretend that her heart isn’t nearly beating out of her chest.

This time, it’s the morning after they’ve officially defined their... relationship. Villanelle has tried to play it cool, really - she had laughed and was appropriately incredulous when Eve had confessed she’d been texting Hanzo about them, of all people - but she’s also spent the last twelve hours (or what she’s spent of them awake and coherent and not preoccupied by Eve herself, anyway) tossing around the word girlfriend in her head like some giddy teenager.  

Eve, perhaps hoping Villanelle is about to reveal a similarly embarrassing story about someone she has consulted for advice about their relationship, raises her eyebrows expectantly. “Don’t hold me in suspense.”

“I...” Villanelle falters again. Swallows. Tries to fight off an inward surge of frustration at herself, because that will definitely ruin the moment. And maybe some of it shows on her face, in her eyes, some vulnerability or fear or just how much she feels for Eve, because Eve’s bemusement softens into something more like concern.

“Villanelle --” Eve reaches up, and Villanelle feels the warmth of her hand against her cheek. She remembers the first time, what feels like so long ago back in Eve’s kitchen when this very same gesture was used to disarm. Now it feels... different, and Villanelle leans into her touch without even really thinking  about it. “ -- It’s okay. You can tell me.”

Villanelle knows Eve too well not to sense her nerves. Maybe she’s already guessed what Villanelle wants to say, or maybe she hasn’t and it’s the uncertainty that’s killing her, but she waits for Villanelle anyway, tells her that it’s okay anyway, doesn’t prompt or push her or try to deflect. 

And inexplicably it’s not a big fireworks moment, but this small, singular instance of selfless, uncharacteristic patience that makes Villanelle certain. Or maybe she always has been, and it’s just that she needs Eve there in front of her, both their guards dropped, for it to feel tangible. 

Villanelle doesn’t know what she is or isn’t, whether her mother and the Twelve and everyone who’s ever told her what she’s supposed to be were right or wrong, but she knows that she loves Eve. If there was ever a person she was capable of shattering every expectation and defying all the odds to love, it’d be Eve. And if she can’t quite bring herself to say it yet... that doesn’t make it any less true.

She covers the hand resting against her cheek with her own and turns her head just enough to press a feather-light kiss to the inside of Eve’s palm, barely able to hide a smile when some of Eve’s quiet apprehension seems to melt. Then for good measure - and because she can’t stop herself - she leans down and kisses Eve properly, slow and somehow unhurried despite every feeling she is determined to pour into it.

And she hadn’t meant to linger, but Eve kisses her back without hesitating, and Villanelle’s always found it difficult to resist getting lost in her. So she gives in, doesn’t resist, and like always with Eve, finds there is something strangely grounding in letting herself get lost. She hopes Eve feels it too. She hopes that - for right now - it’s enough.

“I’ll tell you later,” Villanelle murmurs against her lips once she’s just barely pulled away, and tries to make it sound like a promise.

[lupienne]

Monday Calling

I got inspired by #193 and the brief glimpse of Negan we were granted. I want to think there’s more to his life than pining over a grave - even if pining over a grave might still be part of his life. This popped into my head and I went with it. It’s not award-winning prose by any means but I still like it.

--

He could feel the presence of Monday like a weight on his chest. Despite them not having a calendar proper, he knew when it fell, when it was coming. They carved notches into a stick and when it reached thirty-one, it became kindling. All months had thirty-one days now and those days weren't named – but still -

He knew when Monday was.

It felt like her hands had, rubbing his back, nudging his ribs in the Before, urging: “Negan, wake up. It's Monday, you're going to be late for work.”

He always forgot to set that fucking alarm on Sunday night.

He no longer lived in that world and he didn’t require alarms. But still, Lucille’s phantom hands turned the gears of his internal clock and let him know – It was Monday, and it was time to go.

He shrugged on his jacket and stepped outside to gather the wilted bouquet from the stoop. He tried to be quiet, but she heard him. He knew she didn't like him going, after all these years.

May swung open the door, her worn bathrobe sprouting more loose threads at the hem. “You're going?”

“Yeah.”

“How long are you going to do this?”

“It's... it's the day. You know. I have to.”

“Do you want me to come with you...?” She already knew his answer, because he'd never taken her along. It was his penance to do this in solitude. And maybe some part of him was afraid Lucille would be angry. He'd had the wives before, sure, but the wives were just warm bodies and distraction, and maybe a laugh or two...but they weren't May.

Of course, Lucille knew about May. She was happy for Negan, but sometimes he wondered. And that is why he went to her alone.

May nodded and went back in without a word. He saw it all in her eyes, like he did every Monday. I wish you could let this go. I wish I could lift this burden off your shoulders.

Despite his extensive vocabulary, he could never find the words to tell her – that she didn't need to lift his burden...that she was the reason this burden hadn't crushed him to the ground.

“You're the reason I can breathe,” he'd told her once, and she hadn't quite understood – thought he was talking of some time or another when she'd saved his hide from an errant walker.

Negan slipped down familiar paths. His former residence was miles away, but he always traveled on foot. He was too heavy for their little pony, Madge. And it felt better this way, anyway. Walking the miles for her. His knees always ached after the long trek. He'd rub them with a smirk. It was funny, considering what he'd done to old Grimes, that he now would suffer from knee pain himself. But of course, he was getting older, one silver hair at a time.

He stopped now and then, listening. For the dead and the living. He saw Carl in the area sometimes and though he ached to speak to the boy – no... the man - he kept hidden. Chickenshit, Negan. Yeah, he was. He knew Old Prick was dead, but somehow, hearing it would make it real. Maybe if he never heard it, he could go on pretending the old Sour Puss was still lording his prickly self all over Alexandria – and beyond.

He'd put Rick in the past. Alexandria, the Saviors, the jail – everything. Everything but her.

He swallowed the lump in his throat as he started down the hill towards his former home.

Five years ago, he'd met May. A spring deluge had soaked him as he wandered the surrounding copses, checking his traps, fishing in the wide streams. He'd started to plant, hunt, trap. He'd started to thrive... survival-wise. Inside, he was a cage of bone, stripped of all life. Maybe he'd become an Undead and didn't even know it.

Then she'd appeared in the gaps between the birches. Soaked through, her teeth chattering. Her hand shaking as she aimed a pistol at him, but her eyes said she didn't want to fire. He'd told her he didn't mind if she did – but she'd be better off following him to four dry walls and a warm meal. So she had.

“There's towns around,” he told her after she'd stayed the night. “There's a city. Commonwealth. Nobody has to travel alone anymore...”

He'd thought of moving there. He'd be as non-existent as he was here. Just a body, moving from job to home, rinse and repeat. Out here the birds and mammals reminded him that he was just another animal, surviving as they did. There – the humans would remind him that he was not like them – that he had failed to be.

“I'm not a city and town type person,” she'd said, staring down at the eggs he'd made. “I've...done bad things.”

Haven't we all?

“I won't judge,” he said. “I've got no fucking right to. And neither do they.”

When she finally trusted her eyes to lock with his – he could feel that she was one like Lucille. No – she was not Lucille returning, like he'd deluded himself that the bat had been... she wasn't a spirit - she was herself. But she had that same glow, buried like ember under ash. He trembled inside when she stayed and allowed him, slowly, to coax the ember into a flame.

The first time he'd lay with a woman again after so many years... it was fumbling, like this aging man had become a teenager again. It was desperate almost, too touch-starved and he'd been too awkward, he'd come too quickly.

But she didn't judge. She stayed.

But he could not give himself fully to May with the grave of Lucille looming so near. It didn't feel fair to any of them.

So, five years ago, he'd taken May and they'd moved. They had traveled ten miles west, even deeper into farmland, bordered by wild forest. They found an abandoned house and made it a home.

He knew life again. The blood began to thaw, pulsing warm through his veins. The radiant heat from his heart drew walkers far and wide, but he and May had killed them all. They had found each other and their home – and nothing but Death would break them apart.

Until the Mondays came calling.

Negan's boots scuffed across the path to his old house. He maintained the property weekly. He pulled weeds. Made sure all the entrances were secured. He kept up the appearance that he still lived here. Why, he didn't know. Perhaps it was for Lucille. She deserved a home as lovely as the one he shared with May.

And so, he swept the stoop and wiped the windows clean. On the porch, he smiled to see Carl's latest offering. The fresh bread had a small spot of mold blooming, but he'd tear that out and it would be perfectly fine. He really should talk to the kid – the man – one of these days. For now, he filled his backpack, knowing his shoulders would ache along with his knee when he got back home.

Finally, he turned to the grave. His chest tightened. Warm blood went cold, shivers of grief plummeting from brain stem to his toes. Decades later – centuries even – the tears would still fall down his face. His penance, he supposed. May wished she could take this away from him, but he could not let her. He had to feel this – he had to keep it. His weeping heart was the only pulse Lucille had anymore – he was the life support of her memory.

Carefully, he kneeled, grunting at the discomfort. Old man Negan. Didn't they say gray made a man distinguished? He snorted a laugh through his tears. If you could see me now, babe. Even my pubes are going gray. Guess you'd say I had a real distinguished dick, huh?

He could hear her laugh at that. The tree above rustled softly as a warm breeze played over his hair. He removed the old flowers and brushed stray leaves from her grave. His fingers trailed the weathered stone.

He drew in a breath and placed the new bouquet before her. “Well, let's see. Your Monday update, Lucy. May and I are thinking of getting a dog. Crazy, huh? There's a farmer about five miles from us. Nice guy. His retriever's having a litter of fucking mutt puppies – some lucky stray got her knocked up. Scandalous shit, I know.”

Lucille gave her blessing. She'd never thought he could handle a dog before. He was too irresponsible. But now, she trusted him. Maybe one day, he could even have pups of his own? Negan shuddered at that possibility – but it brought a warm flush of pleasure all the same. He wiped his eyes, telling her of the week past, the cold melting away with each word.

When the breeze faded, he knew she had left him again, floating back to places he could never follow – maybe even after he died. Perhaps he was destined for elsewhere. He stood with another groan, brushing his knees. But it was fine. He had her memory, he had May, and he had life – for however long.

People said not to hold onto the past. He didn't.

He knew when he aimed his boots west, they aimed towards home. The now. The future. May waiting, with a smile and a warm kiss, her forgiveness a balm to all wounds.

He couldn't hold the past. But when he walked, he looked over his shoulder. The past was there – behind him – and that was where he opened his hands and left it.

He went home and he lived in the now.

Until the next Monday called.  

[evartandadam]

I want to write a thing about Sasuke’s development throughout Naruto- and where Kishimoto failed his character. (I have been asked about my opinions on Sasusaku, but before I can remotely get to that, I need to establish what I think of Sasuke as a character by himself. He is a very interesting character, and he deserves his own rant.) 

There are two important points in Sasuke’s life, and both of these points establish the main theme Kishi wanted Sasuke’s character to feature.

The first point is when Sasuke leaves to train under Orochimaru, and the second is when he is approached, and changed by Madara/Obito. 

Point 1: Taking the Path of an Avenger. (Main Theme)

In Naruto:

Sasuke’s main theme throughout the series is slowly succumbing to the darkness for power. 

He leaves his village and friends behind. Does this mean he doesn’t care about them? Of course not. He cares. But the point is that he chooses his revenge over his potentially fulfilling life with his friends. He would have been much happier if he could have just let his revenge go (and he knows this), but he didn’t. This is the point Kishimoto wants to drive home about Sasuke throughout Shippuden. Sasuke chose revenge over love (and forgiveness).

And who can blame Sasuke? His brother, after murdering their entire clan, DARED Sasuke to kill him. Sasuke, as a 7 year old, was faced with a responsibility to take care of family business, something no child should have to wrestle with. But it happened. And growing up, he feels it is his job to kill his brother. He listened to Itachi, was molded by Itachi. A traumatic external force in his life effected him greatly. Killing Itachi is now his DUTY.

The problem is that Sasuke is now only 13, and still developing mentally and emotionally, so he isn’t necessarily going to make the best decision about fulfilling this duty. 

He knowingly goes to a terrorist S-rank criminal who wants to use him as a vessel, instead of staying at the village with Kakashi, whose power almost rivals said criminal. 

Sasuke doesn’t know really anything about his own village, obviously.

He doesn’t know anything about Kakashi or his abilities. How strong and famous this man really is for being a ruthless killing machine by the age of 13, like Itachi!

Kakashi would have been a great person to learn from. That’s why Kakashi wanted to teach him.

But Sasuke assumes that because Kakashi is a “good guy”, he is weaker than Orochimaru. And this is his mistake. 

Because his brother is “evil,” and very powerful, that must mean that evil people are better ninja, right?

Sasuke acts on what he does not know. And he does this all the time!

Ok so he’s 13 and kind of lacks basic foresight and judgement. So he goes to Orochimaru. And we skip forward 2 and 1/2 years. 

In Naruto Shippuden:

Sasuke is much stronger.

He has held onto his core beliefs. (he refuses to kill innocent people for personal gain.)

Sasuke at this point is super cool, cause he’s edgy, but not a terrible person. Everyone loves Sasuke at this point. He’s got a cool top that shows off those pecs he’s been working so hard on. And he gives less of a crap than ever before.

He is mysterious, because the author purposefully doesn’t let the audience see his thought process or emotions. But we know enough.

But then what happens? He kills Itachi, as he planned all along. What he doesn’t count on is that Itachi isn’t the evil entity he had pictured in his little kid brain. And someone brings this to his attention. Makes sure he knows.

And this brings us to the second point.

Point 2: Manipulation from External Forces (Extension of Main Theme)

Before we get back to the Naruto timeline, let’s go over what makes Sasuke fall for this external manipulation:

"Sasuke is basically a very pure person who doesn't think about whether what he does is good or bad. He just does what he wants to do, which causes trouble for others" - Masashi Kishimoto

Itachi describes Sasuke this way:

And I love this, because it does describe him perfectly. I think this statement stuck out to many readers. 

What Itachi means is that Sasuke: 

lacks the ability to look ahead and judge things clearly. 

He is easily influenced- gullible, even. 

And even though he managed to cling to some moral standard up until Itachi’s death- not killing innocent people- everything else is easily replaced on a whim.

By focusing solely on killing Itachi, Sasuke left himself wide open to attack. Not physical attack. Something even more dangerous: emotional manipulation. He neglected every aspect of himself other than the physical- and the desire for revenge. What I’m saying is that Sasuke is extremely emotionally stunted. And people recognize this, and use this to their advantage. Anyone can come up to him and plead to his cause, and he will fall for it, against any better judgement he may have. If he were a character in a video game, he essentially maxed out his stats in one area, and left every other area under-developed and weak.

His ideals always outweigh his reality.

So, how does this aspect of his character get him in trouble? Well, let’s discuss a very big shift in Sasuke’s character.

Madara’s influence:

Back to the Naruto timeline:

The truth about Itachi totally shakes Sasuke’s world. And “Madara” is totally loving this. He’s going to use this to his advantage.

So. Sasuke feels that he has a new duty. He must now somehow avenge his brother. And this means he should kill the Kage- wait, what?

Oh right. Madara is talking into his ear.

“Itachi literally lived and died for this, so obviously he wouldn’t want what I’m suggesting, but you should totally do the dirty work for me and destroy everything Itachi believed in. That way, you can avenge him. I’m totally like, empathizing with you right now. I’m definitely not just saying this to get you to do what benefits me.”

Ok, so of course, Sasuke blindly listens. 

And this is the second part to the main theme that Kishimoto explores with Sasuke’s character. What happens when a person, devoid of anything in the world besides revenge, falls into a false sense of justice? What happens after that quest for vengeance is fulfilled?

And at this point in the show, we see a new Sasuke. This Sasuke is very different from before. Why? 

Sasuke is throwing his past moral compass out the window. 

He’s going to kill people he doesn’t even know are guilty of anything. (Danzo definitely saw it coming, but Tsunade? What has she done to Sasuke? She is a great Hokage! She has nothing to do with Itachi. Neither does Gaara, or the rest of the current Kage.)

But Sasuke doesn’t care about this! Madara convinced him that they are evil, because of their position. 

The Kage are automatically evil, because they represent authority. And it’s important to recognize that Sasuke doesn’t care about past authority or current authority- it is not his authority, so therefore, it is bad. It needs to be purged.

Sasuke is putting his problems on unrelated people. 

And this is when Sasuke really falls into some dark stuff. He is actually becoming more of a villain.

The Final War:

By the time we see him in the war, he is ranting about “revolution.” 

Sasuke is very deluded. And it’s due to outside influence. He is young and brash, and his world is very small. So so very small. All he knew up until this point was revenge and his brother. He doesn’t know how to live a normal life, or how to let things go. It’s like he was asleep until this point, and he finally realized that there’s a bigger world out there, and he needs to do something about it!

Sasuke is rather pitiful. But very zealous and dangerous. And I think people in the fandom downplay this too much. People want to like Sasuke- resonate with him. Up until recently, everyone is nodding their heads like “we feel you Sasuke, this sucks.” But people need to recognize when pity needs to stop.

Sasuke’s best trait is hyper-focusing on his goal. And this is also the most dangerous thing about him. He is easy to manipulate, as I have established earlier. And he is on the far end of fanaticism. He isn’t thinking about individuals anymore. He is only thinking about the collective... kind of like... the Akatsuki?

After all, didn’t the Akatsuki want to create world peace by killing a bunch of innocent people and enforcing lack of conflict through silence?

And we all agree that the Akatsuki are totally missing the mark, correct? 

After all, is it really for the greater good? Sacrificing innocent people for one’s own idea of peace? Kind of narcissistic to assume one knows best.

Sasuke is talking about doing WHATEVER IT TAKES to “change the world” to make it “better”. Whatever his version of “better” is. And this is totally wrong! How is becoming what you hate most supposed to prove that your version of peace is correct?

Sasuke is getting high on “justice.” And by justice, I mean elevating himself into the god plane. He thinks he is better than everyone else- his opinion is the only one that matters. After all, these pathetic people can’t possibly think for themselves. He must force them to see the truth!

And he thinks this because his world is so small, and “Madara”, implanted an idea onto his “blank canvas.”

This is literally what’s going through Sasuke’s mind during the final arc of the show. It is extreme, and exactly the opposite of what Naruto, our protagonist, believes. So obviously there is going to be a clash.

This is where I think the author screwed Sasuke over.

Ditching the Main Theme of Sasuke’s Character:

Sasuke up until this point only knows a few things: His first reason for existing was based on a lie, and he now thinks he is fighting for the truth- that Itachi died for nothing good, and it is up to him to change the world.

Naruto fights Sasuke, and when Sasuke realizes he can’t beat Naruto in a PHYSICAL FIGHT, he suddenly changes his drastic opinions on everything he believes in. He says “Sorry, I was crazy, let’s start over.” And that’s it. End credits start to roll.

Kishimoto took Sasuke’s character on a very long journey. And it was all leading up to this peak- the point where Sasuke literally bursts. Sasuke resembles a very specific type of person- a particular path one can take in life. It is about a boy who chose the life of vengeance over happiness and positive personal growth. And the consequences of that decision.

During the entire show, I am expecting something drastic to happen to Sasuke. He is a drastic character. He is a flawed character- a beautiful example of what revenge can do to a good person. As an author, it is important to make this character’s fate what it is being set up for- tragedy.

So there were two (good) writing options here:

Sasuke either needed to die, because his mind could not be changed and he was a danger to innocent people, or, he needed to be redeemed over a decent period of time.

By the time Sasuke enters the war, he is far gone. Is it possible to change his mind again? Sure. He is still young and bendable. But it wouldn’t take two seconds.

Madara didn’t change Sasuke’s mind- he filled blank space. Implanted an idea. He put something on a blank canvas.

Naruto, however, has to undo all of this brain washing. He has to change his mind.

There is a difference here.

Covering a blank canvas with color is easy. But covering those old colors with new ones is hard, and takes time.

As in, Kishi really needed to rethink his timeline for his manga.

The best thing he could have done, since he obviously wanted Sasuke to be redeemed, was to make Naruto fight Sasuke BEFORE the war.

Here’s an alternate timeline:

Naruto finally catches up with Sasuke before the war, and they fight it out. Sasuke loses, but only by a bit. And Naruto actually talks to him. Not the usual “this is my Dream”, but listening to Sasuke and discussing his experiences, and countering his opinion in a personal manner.

Naruto thinks he can’t change Sasuke’s mind, and he worries that if he doesn’t kill Sasuke, something bad will happen to those he cares about in the future. And Kishi puts a lot of time and emphasis on this encounter. This exchange of opinions. This is the cornerstone of their relationship up until this point.

But Naruto decides not to kill Sasuke, explaining the concept of unconditional love to him. And he leaves him.

And Sasuke spends time thinking on this.

And then the final battle begins, and Sasuke drops in, deciding on helping Naruto after all. Thus concluding the Naruto/Sasuke conflict.

This order of events would have been much better. Naruto and Sasuke fighting after the war seemed unnecessary, and it just didn’t flow. It made Sasuke look extremely fickle, when he is actually very stubborn.

Based on this sequence of events, why would Sasuke help Naruto defeat Obito? When Obito was literally trying to change the world “for the better,” just like Sasuke was. Maybe Sasuke didn’t agree on the method. Sasuke would rather kill everyone and start over with him as supreme leader. (Which is... worse than what Obito had in mind? Obito wanted everyone to live in a peaceful dreamworld, where everything was good.)

So, I guess my point is that Kishimoto had a path for Sasuke, and a few points to make about his choices. But he then ditched the consequences of those choices. Ignored the theme he created from the very beginning. In the canon timeline, we as an audience didn’t really learn any lessons from Sasuke’s journey. Sasuke’s part in the story kind of fizzled out. It didn’t have the zing I was hoping for. 

Sasuke deserved more attention. More focus on the climax of his personal journey. And more time for the falling action after this climax. 

For me to want to see him back at Kohona, I wanted more of his thought-process and journey. It would take time for a person as damaged as Sasuke to fit back into the social confines of his old village.

I would love additional thoughts on this! :)

[imhereforbvcky]

Three Little Breaths - Chapter 1

Masterlist  -  Part 1  Part 2  -  Part 3  -  Part 4

Summary: I’m not gonna sugar coat this… Bucky tries to move forward after losing you. Will all of your memories together haunt him or help him? Prompt: “Breathe... Just keep breathing.”

Warnings: angst (reference to character death), probably swearing, coffee theft

Word Count: 2252

Author’s Note: Italics are flashback/memories. Long version - oh you guys. I’m sorry. I… this is a mess of hurt. I’m sorry. IW clobbered me and I had a lot of feelings and nowhere to put them. So I shoved them all into @marvelatmytrash’s 3k follower writing celebration! Yay? Congrats anyway my friend!

word for word there’s probably more fluff than angst, but... if you get invested you’ll have to endure the ouch.

It is an inevitable fact of living that one will occasionally find oneself truly breathless. Sometimes for shock, other times for bewildering joy. At times the air is knocked from your lungs in undignified horror or insurmountable grief.

Then there are times when everything clicks into place; when it's so clear that every second of your life propelled you to one exact moment and you know exactly what you are meant to do in it. Those are the moments when everything falls away and the only thing you hear is the steady rhythm of your own breath.

In his unnaturally long life, Bucky Barnes has had three such moments and they all lead him to you. Three little breaths.

---

Sitting in the dim light of the morning, Bucky Barnes is finding it harder and harder to breathe. The higher the sun climbs in the sky, the closer he is to having to face the day, and the harder the memories burst across his brain. The grief crashes against his chest with ever growing heaviness; like a vice squeezing until his bones crack and his lungs cave.

Every searching, piercing ray of light that breaks through his half open blinds shatters the last foolish hope that he’s still dreaming. He knows it’s foolish; that he’s deluding himself. But even a distorted reality seems better than the truth.

His fingers dig into the edge of the mattress, feet firmly planted on the ground as he raises tired eyes to meet the day. Another day without you.

The bitter fact is; it doesn’t look like a day without you. All your belongings are still exactly where you left them, looking so ordinary, so well-used, and so painfully ready for you. The phone charger waits on the nightstand beside your weathered copy of Madame Bovary. Its creased spine shows its use and the smooth red ribbon still holds your place, waiting for you to pick it up again.

His fingers run over the soft plush of the extra throw blanket strewn across your side of the bed. The dark fabric still lay curved and wrinkled in a soft ‘s’ shape, as if you’d just slipped from beneath it.

Bucky likes it cold when he sleeps. It’s been his preference since the war. Cryofreeze was the only safety he ever had from the monsters within and without; and even now, the cool night air is a silent comfort against his heated skin. But it meant you always slithered beneath extra blankets beside him.

The soft knock on the door can only be one person, now. Bucky considers ignoring it but knows better. He walks downstairs past the table still littered with your paperwork, an empty wine glass still stained with the shape of your lips.

“Stopped at Santiago’s. Ya hungry?” Steve bargains with one foot through the door. The sharp smell of green chili and breakfast sausage seeps from the bag he’s holding aloft.

Bucky doesn’t answer, but turns back inside, leaving Steve to close the door behind him. Progress.

They stand around the counter eating in silence. Bucky because he still hasn’t found anything to say to anyone; Steve because he knows Bucky won’t like what he’s come to say.

“Buck, I think you should move back to the compound.”

Sharp grey eyes dart up to meet Steve’s soft pleading stare.

“I’m worried about you. I know you’re grieving, but hiding away here with all this stuff… her stuff…”

“Our stuff!” Bucky gasps. His voice feels worse than it sounds. The angry scratch of it against his throat rips past his lips as an indignant sob. “It’s all that’s left of our life. What if I forget her?” He picks up one of the coffee mugs you’d once squabbled over at a gift shop. His thumb sweeps over the vibrant decal. You had insisted it was tacky and he just liked to see the vigor in your eyes so he’d argued that it was quaint.

“You won’t, Bucky.” Steve places a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “This stuff will never be her. Nothing and no one can take the time you had.” He takes a quick breath, knowing the next words will hit like a sledgehammer. “But you have to move forward with your life. We want to be there for you, but we can’t if you’re hiding in here. I know it’s hard but…”

“You have no idea what this is like!” Bucky grumbles, swinging his arm to shrug out of Steve’s grasp. The coffee mug crashes to the floor and shatters on the cool stone tiles. Bucky hadn’t truly meant the harsh words or his clumsy angry movements, but it’s so easy to let the worst of you bubble to the surface when you’re in pain. Steve understands this because he knows loss. Deeply and intimately.

Bucky drops to his knees, scooping up the pieces with wide watery eyes and he mutters, “No, no, no,” again and again. He slumps down with his back against the cupboards, holding the shards of a shattered memory.

“Bucky... I am so sorry.” Steve carefully kneels down in front of his friend.

Bucky closes his eyes tight against the sting of the hot tears rising from some well in him that never seems to dry. The tighter he pinches them closed, the more he can block out the light of this day without you; this world that now has one less piece of you in it.

He knows that every day is supposed to get easier, but right now he’s afraid that will just mean forgetting. So he closes his eyes and his fist, imprinting the edges of the broken mug into the skin of his palm.

He tries to remember the warm bright smell of your skin when he kissed your shoulder while you made coffee in the morning. He wants to hold onto the soft give of your waist beneath his hands as they wrapped around you to hug your back tight to his chest. The hum of your contentment is almost there again vibrating against his skin and thrumming in his ears as he sits here in the same kitchen, with the same coffee pot, and the same mug.

There were so many mornings like this, he knows. But he just can’t remember them all. They’ve begun to blur together or disappear. He’d taken advantage of time and now lived only to regret it. But he remembers the first and now he seeks to seal it in his memory with the smell of coffee and the tickle of your hair on his cheek and the sound of your laugh. He loses himself to the memory.

“She’s cute,” Sam elbowed Bucky’s ribs as he glanced over his shoulder at the girl behind them in line. “Why don’t you ask her out?”

Bucky snorted and rolled his eyes as he took his change from the barista. “Because the guy who knew how to talk to women disappeared down a ravine seventy years ago.”

Bucky knew you were cute. It was a fact that plagued him every time he made the team’s coffee run. He’d seen you here at the same time a couple of days a week. But on the weekends sometimes you would be here for hours. After procuring coffee and a pastry you’d usurp two tables and sprawl out. Papers would lay scattered across every surface, a laptop perched on a precarious edge, red pen flitting across the seemingly endless sea of pages.

How many times had he shifted on the balls of his feet, searching for anything to say to you every time you smiled at him while you waited for your order? Or picked up discarded newspapers and spent hours longer than planned sitting at the table next to you at the little coffee shop, hoping an opportunity would fall in his lap?

But that’s the thing about opportunities; they take more effort than anyone is willing to admit.

“Well I don’t know that guy,” Sam encouraged. “And I wasn’t too keen on whatever version of you tried to kill me on a freeway. And then again on a helicarrier. And at the Joint Terrorism Center…”

“Is this supposed to make me feel better?”

“But this guy who buys his friends coffee 's not so bad.”

Bucky sighed sharply; a short huff of air from his nose.

“If you’d get this hair cut you could probably really pull some numbers, man. I mean look at this.” Sam yanked on a strand and Bucky instantly bristled.

“Get off me,” he grumbled, rolling his eyes and stepping away. He moved to pick up the coffee waiting at the end of the bar.

“Oo I take it back,” Sam whooped as they both turned to leave. “That is soft as hell. You use conditioner in there--?”

“Excuse me.” Your small polite plea went unheard.

Bucky slapped Sam’s hand away “Would you knock it off.”

“Um, excuse me?” you tried again, gently tapping the leather elbow of Bucky’s jacket.

“I just wanna know!” Sam laughed. “If any of that product is combustible, we gotta--”

“Hey!” you shouted just as Bucky raised the cup of coffee to his lips. “That’s mine!”

“What?”

“You took my drink.”

He stared down at you for a long moment, blinking through his confusion. Somewhere, he knew, the right words for this situation had to be in his brain, but he couldn’t find them. You were talking to him. Opportunity had fallen right into his lap, but all he could do was glare at you.

“Dude, say something,” Sam mumbled quietly in his ear as he turned discretely back toward the door.

“No, this is mine,” Bucky finally deadpanned. “Extra hot Americano, black.”

“No.” You snorted and the smirk curling your lip just slightly, drew all of Bucky’s focus. He couldn’t care less about his coffee. “They called my name, that’s mine.”

A smile danced across his features as she shook his head. “I noticed you in line behind me; mine came out first.”

He took a sip as you leaned back crossing your arms, your head tilted to the side in smug satisfaction. He sputtered at the sweet creamy taste of your flavored latte.

“Shit. I’m so sorry.”

“Extra hot Americano for Bucky?” the barista called as he set a new cup on the end of the bar.

A short burst of laughter overtook you as mortification seeped into every line of Bucky’s face.

“I think that’s for you,” you nodded toward the bar and reached for the drink in his hand. “And I’ll take that.”

“I’m an idiot. Please, let me buy you another one.”

You glanced at the line and shook your head. “No time, Bucky was it? I’ve got to get to work.” Instead you reached for the plastic lids and swapped in a fresh one, praying this cute stranger was as clean as he looked. “But I see you here a lot; how ‘bout next time?”

He stared at you for a moment, stunned, and again wishing his damn mouth had something better to say than, “Yeah. Of course. That would be… Yes.”

In a moment he was tumbling, falling for you in a thousand ways as he watched the excited smile overtake your face before you nodded and looked at your feet. A nervous energy crept up from your stomach as you tried to contain that grin. Bucky bit the inside of his cheek as he considered lifting your chin and testing just how soft your lips were.

“Okay, well…” you stammered with a smile under the weight of his stare. “See you next time, then.”

He nodded and watched as you moved for the door.

Three little breaths. He took one to steady himself as the thought entered his mind and he determined to do it. Another full of fear and doubt as you took another two quick steps away; his chance disappearing with you. The third quick and sharp before he could lose his nerve.

“Or we could make it ice cream?” he called after you.

You turned back, one hand on the door.

“Your drink is more sugar than coffee. I thought you might like to get ice cream instead. With me. This weekend.”

“It won’t take me all weekend to eat an ice cream cone,” you smirked as you walked back to where you’d left him by the condiment station.

“No, I didn’t mean…” he laughed scrubbing a hand over the back of his neck.

You chuckled and reached behind him for a cardboard sleeve. The warm saccharine scent of your shampoo hit Bucky like a soft wave. Everything about you seemed to invite him closer.

“I don’t know if you love ice cream as much as I do, but if you don’t have a spot in mind yet, I know a great place in Brooklyn.”

He couldn’t help but grin as you handed him the sleeve with your name and number scrawled in black ink. “Brooklyn’s great.”

The pieces of the mug clatter to the floor and Bucky stares at them for a moment as he takes a slow deep breath. It’s just one more broken piece, one more bruise. It will fade but he’ll hold onto the memory. He’ll hold onto you.

“Okay,” he mumbles, tipping his hands and letting the rest of the pieces fall to the ground. Steve looks up at his friend, deep blue eyes a sea of concern and tempered hope. “You’re right. I can’t stay here anymore.”

I’ll reblog with tags shortly because it takes foreverrrrrrrrrrr

[angstymarshmallow]

“The Battle for Willesden” (Part 11 Of Fantasy AU, a TRR fanfic)

[A little note: I told myself I wouldn’t go to bed this time without finishing chapter eleven after agonizing over it for a week. It’s still rough, but I am honestly just excited...and tired at 3:00 am to edit over pls forgive me.  I would love to know your thoughts and without further ado, here it is! Thanks for reading :D]

[Summary: Sparrow’s betrayal has left the commnfolk of Willesden terrified. With enemies now within their walls, can Robyn (MC), Drake, Maxwell and the villagers find a way to protect this town from Neville’s cruelty?]

[Word Count: 6062]

Part 1: “The Beginning” Part 2: “The Adventurer” Part 3: “The Knight” Part 4: “The Jester” Part 5: “The Untimely Meeting” Part 6: “The Unlikely Alliance” Part 7: “The Mismatched Trio” Part 8: “The Ambush” Part 9: “The Plan B” Part 10: “The Rebels of Willesden”

The tendrils of flames licked and burned mahogany wood away; brighter than any star in the midnight sky and far brighter than any fire Robyn had ever seen. It spread quickly until there was hardly anything left, except for mountains of ash and the resonating sound of stunned silence from the onlookers that had intended to storm the mayor’s home.

Owen had led the charge, his jaw set tight with determination and his will hell-bent on forcing the man to see reason. However, at the sight of Sparrow and the mercenaries trailing behind the spy, he had ordered everyone into a heart-stopping halt. And like the rest of the villagers – he found himself unable to look away; transfixed and horrified by the fearsome image they made – the of them with Sparrow’s small and lithe figure standing in the middle. Fear kept him rooted.  Anger compelled him to stay.

From where they stood, Robyn’s own lips gaped at the intimidating display they created, but her shock was just as quickly replaced by anger. Anger and resentment for allowing herself to be deluded into thinking Sparrow cared.

The air around Robyn seemed to sizzle with the flare of her temper – a burning, nearly all-too consuming resentment that built the longer she stared. She could feel her hackles rise, could feel magic coursing and pumping through her veins – its familiar lull enticing her to speak. Forcibly, she bit into her lower lip hard enough to draw blood as her fear of spiraling out of control replaced her bitter temper at Sparrow’s betrayal.

She couldn’t allow herself to lose control. Not here. Not now.

Although, she knew Sparrow’s past was complicated and checkered, she thought their…comradery would have been enough to quell the small warnings that had rang inside her head when they first reunited at the tavern. Even worse, the gold pieces to ensure their silence did nothing to deter them.

Staring pensively ahead, Robyn realized trusting them had been a mistake. Since the very beginning, she imagined they were playing with a full deck and Robyn was simply dealt a bad hand.

She fought her way to the front of the crowd, not bothering to mutter excuses to the shoulders she bumped along the way. She was far too agitated and anxious to pay mind to anyone apart from who she was looking for. “Drake, Maxwell.” She hissed every now and then, until she had finally managed to find Owen – who looked tenser than she thought possible.

“Owen.” She called his name hesitantly and watched those eyes snapped to attention before flickering over at her in horror.

Her stomach dropped.

Shit.

He didn’t have a plan.

“Owen,” She tried again, fighting the abrupt panic she felt rising to her throat. “Owen, you need to stay calm.” She took a deep breath; trying to keep calm herself although her brain had already begun scurrying for an alternative way out of this mess.

She did not want to die today. “Are you with me?” She did not want to die at all.

The fear in his eyes held. Her fingers dug into his arm. “Are you with me?” She repeated, emphasizing every word. Slowly, she watched as his eyes changed into resolute steel.

“Aye.” He nodded.

She released a sigh, dropping her hands to her side. “Okay, good.” She couldn’t hide her relief.

She was afraid for a brief second that there had been no way to reach him. She had seen that look before, and fear as strong as that could destroy anyone. But he couldn’t stay there, there would end up with everyone dead and too many people relying on him to end up dead. “Have you seen –?”

“We’re here.” A voice interrupted.

Robyn broke eye contact with Owen to glimpse back at their familiar faces.

Drake and Maxwell met her relieved stare with one of their own. The knight’s eyes lingered a few seconds longer before his lips turned into a withering sneer and every ooze of worry had gone dry. “You told us to trust them.” His voice was accusatory and Robyn flinched.

“I know,” she mumbled weakly. There was nothing she could say in her defense, no admission of how terribly wrong she had been to trust Sparrow. Still, her lips fumbled with finding an apology adequate enough to make the creases in his brow disappear.

Drake ignored her. He had no time for such things. He shifted his gaze to Owen. “We need to get out of here.”  He stated flatly.

Owen blinked at him, as though in a daze before shaking his head vehemently. “No.”

What?

Drake stared at him in disbelief. He had to fight every nerve that was suddenly yelling at him to shove beefier man and twist his arm. Heavens, was he insane?

Drake’s jaw clenched.

“You can’t be serious,” Maxwell’s mouth flew open. He gestured behind them. “Everyone here will die.”

His voice had been loud enough to cause the crowd to stir. A single few of them stepped back while others murmured among themselves. Strangled gasps came from the rest, until Owen’s second in command – the woman with the scars had shushed them into begrudging silence. She waited patiently even with the shroud of doubt hanging in her eyes for Owen to speak on their behalf.

“There are more of us.” Owen said insistently.

“Numbers are not everything.” Drake pointed out. “Nor do they always work as an advantage.”

On that, Robyn could agree. Even with half of them gripping their makeshift weapons; she could tell by the way their hands shook that they were not well-equipped to deal with the mercenaries – people that have already killed and would kill again in cold blood without hesitating. 

“Has any of them ever fought before?” Drake responded hotly, his own temper rising with every word. He couldn’t believe their leader would so easily dismiss the two dozen mercenaries that halted to watch them from the top of the hill. “Has anyone of them even held a sword –” he jerked his chin to one villager in particular; who had been trembling violently as they spoke. “  - or struck at another man with the intent to kill?!”

“Drake –” Out of the corner of her eyes, Robyn realized most of the crowd was staring at them. All conversations of unease had fallen into a standstill to listen and she could feel the change in the air; growing tenser by the second – tense enough to cut even the thickest glass.

Drake ignored the quiet warning inside her voice. He would not dally in that likelihood, he did not want to mince his words. He had to force them to grasp what was on the line – how much danger they were in if they weren’t prepared. They had to fight to kill. They had to accept and live with those consequences, especially if the consequences meant they would not all survive. And it definitely did.

Stepping closer, Drake’s hands started trembling until he tightened them into fists and brought them to point at the larger man’s chest. “Has anyone of them watched someone else die? Someone they loved? Have you?”

“My mother died in Pinevale, the town over.” Owen’s eyes were unreadable. “She was travelling on business – for me. I was low on supplies and I needed someone to quickly slip out of town to procure some for me.” He shook his head as if struck by grief. “She left and never came back. A week passed before I heard the news….the mercenaries they…they paraded her carcass.” He lifted his chin higher. There was no longer a hint of fear inside his eyes - only fierce determination.  “I don’t want what happened to my mother to happen to my son, or my wife. Or anyone else in Willesden because the mayor doesn’t have the galls to do what needs to be done.”

From behind him, the crowd begun whispering amongst themselves; murmurs of agreement with every word their leader spoke. And Robyn felt something strange happen in that moment. In that moment, they were not a simple crowd of disgruntled villagers – they were a single entity, guided by the divine purpose of setting things right again.

And she wanted to help them.

“We may not all have experience like you sir.” Owen continued, unmasking his brunt greatsword. “But we are all prepared to risk our lives– because that is how much this means to us, how much freedom means to us and we won’t allow anyone to take away our freedom.”

The murmurs increased into cheers rose as people begun clapping each other on their backs.

Drake nodded, amazed and shocked by the sheer amount of people that willingly followed Owen. Even he was beginning to feel something inside himself stir at his words, as though this was indeed salvageable – that they could somehow come out of this alive. Truthfully, he admired him – admired every one of these villagers for not turning tail to run.

“So, what is the plan, Sir Drake?” Robyn asked, interrupting his thoughts. “You’re the one with the most experience.”

Drake surveyed the distance between them and the mercenaries – neither of which were moving. He couldn’t see Sparrow’s expression from there; but they appeared to be waiting for them to make the first move – which gave them time. “We do have the numbers,” he muttered with a sigh, “but unfortunately that’s all we have.” He turned back to scrutinize the crowd, “we should divide into two. Hit them on two fronts – with the most experienced people watching flanks.” He pointed to Owen, “you lead the first group, and I’ll lead the second. A smaller group to give yours a better chance.” He unsheathed his sword.

“I’ll come with you.” Robyn said without thinking. She hadn’t realized she had spoken aloud until both Maxwell and Drake stared at her in surprise. She folded her arms, “someone has to make sure you get out of this in one piece.”

Maxwell laughed, “have I ever mentioned how much I like you Lady Robyn?”

Drake ignored the strange flutter from her words and frowned at Maxwell’s teasing. These were things he could dwell upon later, however now was not the time to examine his feelings. He returned his attention to Owen and begun planning.

They split them into two; with Drake’s group acting as the decoy while the bulk of them lobbied behind their leaders.

None of the villagers questioned their new orders, instead they were huddled behind Owen, raising their pitched forks, brunt knives and other weapons that they grabbed in their hurry towards the mayor’s house. Maxwell had strongly implored to join Drake’s smaller and unmatched team, however the knight reassured him he would be fine. Ignoring the nobleman’s pout, he ordered him to remain with Owen in order to keep an eye on him.

Drake didn’t want to admit it but Maxwell was an excellent swordsman. He remembered brief moments of admiring his form and technique when they were younger and told the man with a gruff pat on the back to come back alive.

At least, he thought his don’t get killed transitioned well into that. He also ordered the nobleman to keep an eye on Owen. Then he joined the rest of his companions to watch in silence as Owen delivered to the crowd a final parting speech.

“I am grateful for all your help,” Owen begun with an amiable smile.  “To stand by me when you could have easily abandoned me – to stand for our cause against people that would take everything from us…no words can express how much this means, how thick and deep my gratitude runs. I do not know where the mayor is, but I know that in his place – I will always make it my vow to protect you.” His smile widened as people cheered his name, adding Mayor Owen to their chant before he moved to clap Drake’s back and then Maxwell’s. “Thank you for staying to fight with us.”

Drake unaccustomed to having people thank him, turned a slight shade of pink as he gave him a curt nod. “It’s an honour.”

Maxwell had hugged the larger man on a whim, and when Owen turned his gaze to Robyn; she gave him her own parting smile of goodbye. She hadn’t exactly shared his sentiments, or their success for surviving.

Marching to their group, Drake pretended not to notice Robyn’s uneasy stare. After a few seconds, he sighed and whirled around to face her. Her glance was fleeting as he arched an eyebrow. “Are you alright?”

She shrugged.

Realizing how soft his voice sounded, he forced a hard edge into is voice. “I hope you are planning on staying this time.” He said brusquely, “considering we were damned into this the moment you agreed with Maxwell to help that trading post.”

“I don’t think I should feel angry about having the chance to save people,” she threw over her shoulder; her eyes nearly flashing gold as she glared at him. “Knowing that we could make a difference.”

He clenched his jaw, remaining quiet.

She broke the stare first, shifting on one foot and averting her eyes towards the hill. It was nearly covered in smoke. “But I didn’t think this would happen, I don’t think anyone of us could – not even Maxwell.” Her shoulders dropped a fraction, “I certainly didn’t think I would be convincing myself to stay and fight….against a bunch of killers.” She wanted to laugh. “But I suppose I am still learning things about myself.”

“We will make it.”

He could hear the sudden despair in her voice, hear her resignation as though she didn’t share his faith. While his was wavering, he knew he couldn’t fight a way through this without placing more weight into their future. When she turned to him, her eyes were wide with fear that made his stomach clench. She – the bold adventurer, the woman with magic at her fingertips was terrified at the mere thought of their future. He would have laughed at the irony, if he hadn’t felt any sympathy.

Robyn paused, listening to his voice.

He sounded so damned sure – so damned certain that they could make it– when nearly everything inside of her was screaming otherwise. Her brain was telling her to run and her legs were telling the rest of her to flee and escape before things grew ugly.

And yet, meeting his eyes and seeing the uncanny intensity to his gaze – she knew she had all the reasons to stay. There were people counting on them, counting on her too – and she had never known what that was like.

The fear, the stress – the trepidation of ruining everything. It was overwhelming.

She felt the ghost of his fingers drift towards her hand. It happened quickly, so quickly she thought she had imagined it. But staring at him, hearing the quiet strength in his voice, made her want to believe in them too. “I’m a fool,” she said suddenly, “I’m a fool and yet I want to be anyway.”

His eyes never wavered from hers. “We’re all fools right now Robyn.” He said wryly.

The way he said her name made her warm for an entirely different reason. “I guess we’ll have to be fools together then.” Her hands were shaking, I’m too young to die – she thought to herself. I’m too young to see so much death. She felt alone – trapped in her own thoughts that begun spiralling out of control.

And suddenly, she wasn’t alone. She could feel his hand – finding her shoulder, burning through the fine texture of her blouse as the only barrier separating their skin. As she stared back at up him again, he squeezed her shoulder.

“You’re not alone.” He said quietly, “I’m here. We’re all here and we will make it.”

Drake had never been a man of many words but seeing her panic – something inside of him wanted to comfort her, to placate the fear he knew all too well. Fear that had kept him shackled when he was young, fear that even now – threatened to overwhelm him. Touching her had been a reflex – something he shouldn’t have done, but knew it was the right call once she nodded back at him. “We’ll make it.”

Robyn released a breath she hadn’t comprehended she was holding. She nodded mutely, still gathering her bearings as he stepped away and created distance between them. She slipped her silver dagger out of her pocket and ran her fingers across it, testing its sharpness. “We’ll make it.” She said finally.

He nodded back and they looked ahead.

The decision had been made.

-

Drake took his smaller team first into the fray. He raised his sword high above his head, armed with his battle cry as he led the charge towards the hill. Fifteen men and women followed behind him, screaming along with him as their feet scampered across the ash-covered grass.

They did not have to wait long.

The mercenaries begun moving as soon as Sparrow gave the order, raising their own arm in retaliation before the bandits flocked with them. They moved fluidly, as though they were one unit – and quite faster than the disorganized group still trailing behind Drake.

And yet, Drake did not allow that to deter him.

He was fighting for something again, something he believed in – and it felt good. It felt damned good for him to fight for something worth fighting for. And every swipe of his sword seemed to echo how much this would mean to people that needed it.

His battle cry had taken a few mercenaries off guard and he didn’t hesitate to rush into the first one. He slammed into him, nearly knocking the man off his feet. He wasn’t wearing armor and had to be careful, yet the way he was taught to hold his sword required a more closer and hand’s on approach.

The mercenary’s arms flayed to try and stop himself from falling and Drake took it as an opportunity to shove the shorter man back, spotting and quickly stabbing right through the weakness in his armor – a small plating that was half-broken by his leg. The man cried out as blood funneled in spurts and yet, Drake did not stop his relentless pursuit until he could sever the leg and swept through the air for his neck.

Near-by, Robyn nimbly dodged the tip of a bandit’s sword. She grinned cheekily at him and he scowled at her. He launched himself towards her petite figure, however she was prepared. Sidestepping, her silver dagger caught a flicker of light from the moon – blinding them long enough for her to stab them into their eyes.

The man grunted, falling to his knees before she kneed him hard.

The dagger in her hand shook slightly as she plunged it into his neck. She mentally prepped herself as another mercenary ran towards her.

Robyn knew she had to keep her emotions in check and yet sensing then seeing Sparrow only a few feet away; slicing clean through a villager nearly made that impossible. She was still furious at them for selling them out – especially after their payment agendas had been arranged.

Accustomed to being quick on her feet, Robyn deftly ducked a sword’s oncoming blow seconds before it could find her head. She feinted right and dug her dagger into the side of the mercenary’s face the moment an opportunity had made itself.

He cried out and she yanked her dagger noisily back before placing the weight on her front leg to shove him back. He fell without much resistance and she tore through his flesh, watching as his body fell lifelessly on top another.

Magic sizzled in her skin – seeking, aching for release as she buried her dagger through their skulls. She concentrated on ignoring its lull. It was difficult – focusing on that and on the present. But she gritted her teeth through it, and before long her mind was no longer trying to remember the familiar lingering spells she often used.

Maxwell’s rapier sailed through the air, like an instrument of death it played its deadly song before driving itself through the hearts and appendages of its enemies. It was almost like a dance in itself, a dance that needed no partner apart from the person wielding its sword, effortlessly hacking through a crowd of enemies.

The rapier fell back from the sky into Maxwell’s waiting hand as he slid and caught it between two heavily wounded mercenaries. He ended their lives quickly, jerking his wrist upright enough for the sword to break through their skin.

He a felt brief sense of guilt when he heard their cries of anguish but this was not the first, nor would it be the last of their troubles. And he had to remind himself that every flicker of guilt as he met their horrified expressions – was nothing compared to the people they killed for someone else. They had a lot of deaths on their hands, and it was time for them to answer for their crimes.

Maxwell kept one hand behind his back as another man launched himself at him and sorely missed. “HA!” He cried out in triumph.

He could not celebrate for long as he ducked in the nick of time, Owen’s sword as the larger man lumbered in his surrounding area; knocking down several mercenaries from reaching the villagers. “Yaaaaaargggg!” The larger man yelled; blood sailing through the air from the sides of his weapon.

Heavens. Maxwell thought, shaking his head before returning his attention at felling another mercenary. It was out of his knowledge why Drake had been so concerned with the blacksmith, from where he was standing – he needed to worry about keeping himself safe. With that blasted man swinging his sword around, he wasn’t sure anyone should be worried for him.

Sparrow weaved through people effortlessly and Robyn watched in quiet horror as the numbers on their side dwindled significantly. There were only five of them left – no – four as she watched another figure sag to their knees once Sparrow was done with them.

A pair of desperate screams made Robyn freeze in recognition. Maxwell and Owen were having difficulty too. Although she could not see them directly from the huddled bodies and splatter of blood and limbs; the number of villagers still holding onto their weapons and jerking them at the invaders kept dwindling by the second.

Heavens, Robyn swore.

If they were going to have any chances of winning – Sparrow had to be dealt with. There was no way around getting her removed from their list. Knowing they were the better fighter, though Robyn sidestepped at the mercenary to launch herself at Sparrow’s back.

At the last second, Sparrow’s body froze and they turned to meet Robyn’s attack head on. They lifted their arms and sidestepped her oncoming assailment and Robyn couldn’t stop herself in time. Her feet tittered and her arms flayed out in front of her as she felt a sharp pain in her side.

She dug her heels into the ground in order to stop herself from falling completely on her face, and instead whirled around fast enough to meet Sparrow’s blade with her own.

“Not fast enough little robin.” Sparrow cooed. Their eyes were wide, and their smirk almost a sneer.

“How could you?” Her own voice was lost all its calm, almost on the brink of frigidness. “How could you be apart of this?”

They ignored her.

“I know you are not above backstabbing – but this. Helping Neville to destroy all of this – I did not think you were be capable of such things.”

Sparrow snorted, switching her stance and deftly passing through Robyn’s guard. Their dagger sliced into her forearm and Robyn winced but bit her lip hard to prevent the scream that burned her throat. “Every one looks out for themselves, that is human nature.”  

“What about helping people?” Robyn winced again. She could feel something wet to her side but she didn’t care. Shoving her back, she glared. “That is human nature too.”

Sparrow scoffed. “Oh, the lies you tell yourself little robin.” They tasked. “You’re nothing like that. You’re like me.”

“I am nothing like you!”

“Always vanishing without a trace?” They prompted, edging closer. “Never letting anyone in long enough? Face it, we’re on the same side of any coin. You just won’t admit it to yourself.”

“I –” Robyn fumbled to answer. “That isn’t –”

“You may have these people fooled, but I know the real Robyn – hidden under it all. You’re just as selfish and terrible as I am.”

Maybe Sparrow was right. Maybe she was hanging too long around people that didn’t understand her. Maybe she was deluding herself into thinking this was her – someone who cared for other people. Maybe she –

No.

Suddenly standing in the middle of this field, clutching the dagger close to her chest, Robyn could remember Cynthia’s word striking true to her heart. She wouldn’t be that type of person anymore, she wouldn’t become Sparrow.

Robyn’s expression softened while Sparrow’s had grown harder. “It isn’t too late.”

Sparrow’s face fell and for a few split seconds she could see the person before they became Sparrow. A vulnerability that used to be them before the world taught them there was no black and white – only grey. And then it was gone. The mask was back in place as Sparrow took another threatening step forward. “Then die with the rest of them.”

They moved very quickly, as though they were soaring through the air instead of jumping towards her. They had almost become a blur, and Robyn managed to barely spot them in time for their dagger to sail through the air.

She met their blade with her own again until Sparrow swiped her feet from under her. “Ugh,” she cried out in pain once her back hit the harsh ground. Sparks of pain had traveled to her spine and she almost had lost her head rolling in the opposite direction of them.

“I am almost going to miss you.” Sparrow cocked their head to the side. Ignoring the chaos around them, they stalked towards her. “Almost.”

“You don’t have to do this Sparrow, you could cut ties from Neville.” Robyn implored her, scrambling to get to her feet. “You could start over.”

Their cruel smile grew. “An assassin is only as good as their word.”

Robyn’s stomach dropped. Fear gnawed at her stomach; made it hard for her to breathe past the pain stinging from her ribcage. She clutched her side for a moment as her fear rose with every breath until it had finally overwhelmed her.

She could hear it. Bells inside her ears, buzzing loudly and with such intent to replace her fear. She didn’t think – she simply listened to the whispers, she reacted. Her arms braced themselves in front of her and she tasted magic in the air.

Her fingers sparked to life.

Her knees threatened to buckle as magic coursed through her veins, flooding and pumping through her very being with the resolute power to stop Sparrow. Words that weren’t English had been clear as day inside her mind and she spoke them without hesitance – but they weren’t her. The words that had strung itself together were something otherworldly powerful. It was almost too much to hold onto, and the urge to consume it all had been well within her reach.

Before Sparrow could reach her, they fell to their feet screaming. Their hood was whipped back as though a gust of wind had struck them. But it was Robyn’s magic pouring through that staggered the assassin, and their eyes casted upwards while they collapsed to the ground. Their pale skin appeared feverish, and veins that were usually green had grown into a dark colour – pulsating with every passing second as a horrifying sickening noise escaped their throat.

But Robyn did not care.

Magic kept coming, kept pouring. It was fueled by her desire to make Sparrow pay – and she tapped into her reserves to until she had sunk to her knees. She kept feeding the spell with energy and watched as blood begun trailing out of Sparrow’s nose. She watched as their cries became horrifying screams and their ankles bent out of shape when they tried to stand.

“You do not deserve to live.”

The words came from her – but were they her?

The power she felt was electrifying – better than anything she had done before – better than anything she had felt before. Her own knees finally gave out, and she sunk inside the grass when her vision finally blurred and dimmed. She tasted her own blood, pouring towards her lip before she finally ended he spell; sinking heavily into the grass as Sparrow fell unconscious.

Robyn couldn’t tell if they were still alive, but she had done her part. Sparrow was out of the fight and by the looks of it – they were finally turning the tide in their favor.

-

As Drake cut the last mercenary that came at him by his feet, his eyes had automatically sought her. It was not something he had been aware of at first, and yet over the course of fighting; his mind had not been entirely able to focus. The stubborn mage had been plaguing his mind with worry.

He hated that he was worried. He hated that he hated it. It was confusing for him, but it was not the first time he looked for her – only to shake his head free of such thoughts. It was annoying him more than anything. It was distracting him, had caused two men to slice his shirt at the sides and now there were holes in them.

However, this was the first time he had completely lost sight of her.

And for a moment, panic had flared through his chest. Panic he couldn’t understand for someone he barely knew – but he couldn’t deny its existence. He needed to find her.

The sudden urge had nearly become a need in order to ensure her safety.

He gripped the hilt of his sword tighter as he shoved through the bodies of fallen men and women – hoping that she would not be among them.

Drake knew the smarter decision was to find Maxwell and Owen – they would need his assistance to cut off the rest of the mercenaries from taking Willesden, yet his mind kept foolishly searching for her – for any sign of her dark unruly hair beneath her red cloak.

His feet halted. He spotted her– center field with Sparrow fighting. He hadn’t known a fear like the one he currently had was capable of freezing him at this spot.

Yet it did and he wondered as they danced circles around each other if he should interfere. He had convinced himself to within seconds until apprehension at the sudden expression in Robyn’s eyes made his stomach shudder. She was going to use magic.

He saw the flare of magic – saw how much raw power Robyn possessed and it was nearly too bright to watch. Her hair had picked up, and Sparrow begun screaming – pain and fear mingling altogether. It was a true taste of fear that had almost staggered him to the ground.

He had never seen such raw power before – even the mages that had attacked Cordonia had taken sometime to affect him before kidnapping the Prince. But this…this was unprecedented. This was terrifying.

Her eyes had shone in that blazing amber gold so fiercely, that he swore they were almost too painful to look at. And Sparrow had almost withered away into nothing until Robyn had suddenly collapsed, falling immediately to her knees.

For a moment all Drake could do was stare, stare in shock, in fear – in awe. It was like watching a blazing star reaching supernova – and now that it was all over, he did not know how to feel. He did not know how to react either.

He was going to turn away, when he realized she wasn’t moving from her spot. Trying to compel himself to move, he ensured the area around her was safe enough for him to cross.

-

Robyn hadn’t heard him. Her ears were still ringing dully until she felt a hand helping her to her feet. Her first instinct was to shove the stranger away, but she had felt too weak to even manage that. Instead, she stared helplessly up at familiar face. “..Drake?” She called out weakly.

She had anticipated the flash of fear in his eyes – of hate even, if he had witnessed what she had done she expected him to run his sword right through her. She was – on all accounts, a dangerous mage.

And yet, he did not. Much to her surprise, he kept his good arm around her in order to keep her upright. “I’ve got you,” he mumbled quietly, not quite meeting her gaze. But she had already seen it – the unfamiliar look of softness before he hardened his expression. Was he concerned for me?

She couldn’t wrap her head around that. She was much too exhausted to even examine anything any further. “The fighting….” She mumbled.

“Most of it is done,” Drake’s jaw was tense. “I caught sight of Maxwell and Owen snuffing out the few that were left.”

“I guess our number advantage really worked in our favour, huh?” She had meant that as a joke but the knight hadn’t as much as cracked a smile.

He frowned. “We still lost a good amount of people,” he drifted his eyes towards Sparrow. “Are they –”

“Unconscious.” Robyn murmured, feeling his shoulders grow stiff as soon as he asked. “I think we should probably tie them up though – just in case.”

“Ah.”

She didn’t know if she should be insulted by the sound of relief inside his voice. “I’m not a killer Drake, I never have been.” She snapped defensively.

Something passed through his eyes, something she couldn’t describe before he clenched his jaw again. She winced when she felt his warm hand by her side.

A crease formed at his brow. “You’re bleeding.”

“I’ve seen…worse.” She could barely manage a semblance of a sentence. Why was it suddenly so difficult for her to speak? Her words were turning into mush, her knees growing weak again until she was having trouble standing altogether. “What-what’s…”

“You’re all out of adrenaline.” Drake said the words softly, as he scooped her into his arms. He had done so without thinking, but he scarcely convinced himself it would be easier than dragging her back.  “Just fumes now.”

“I-I’m fine, I just need –” But she couldn’t finish her thought; her world was already closing – drowning towards the edge of the abyss. She blinked rapidly. “I just need a good nap.”

“I think you’ve lost too much blood.” And yet, there was a hint of a smile in his voice that had her glancing sleepily to meet his expression.

His eyes were soft again and this time she was able to place what she saw. Tenderness. Concern. With a jolt, she understood that he cared about her – or at least, he cared enough to find her.

Drake’s throat had gone dry. A sudden lump had been where it had not been before. Look away, Walker. Look away. Yet, he could not.

He knew better than to linger too long on Robyn’s face, because despite the cuts and bruises, the dried blood – she was….she was a welcoming sight. And the longer he stared, the less sense his world made. She was shifting it. And he was terrified what would happen when he could no longer recognize it.

Yet he did not look away, did not stop himself from cupping her cheek to prove to himself she was truly here – and not under the bodies of the dead. And when she turned her face automatically to nuzzle into his hand, his throat ached.

The abrupt cheers ringing through out the hilltop had caused him to nearly drop her entirely.

Robyn placed a steady hand on his arm, and together they turned to stare at the remainder of villagers still alive a little down below; clutching one another for support – crying in triumph and laughter despite the loss of their fallen comrades.

“We won.” Drake couldn’t believe the words as he said them himself. “We won.” He repeated, grinning in disbelief. He glanced down excitedly– only to find the woman inside his arms to be fast asleep. Hugging her a little closer to his body, he slowly made his way down the hill.

While battle for Willesden was over, the knight knew this was just the beginning. Their true battle would never be over so long as Neville was alive and his hands of cruelty kept overshadowing them.

-

[pamphletstoinspire]

A LANDSCAPE WITH DRAGONS - The Battle for Your Child’s Mind - Part 7

A story written by: Michael D. O’Brien

________

Conclusion

Are Christians Intolerant?

Christmas is approaching as I write the final passages of this book. The stores are full of the very merchandise that these lines have examined. The malls are packed with shoppers. They are, like me, trying to heat the Christmas rush or tap into the pre-Christmas sales, or maybe just get into the spirit of things early. You may have noticed that life in the twentieth century is somewhat tense, and who can be blamed for rushing the season of peace just a little. There’s a holiday feeling in the air: the potted pines and the shop windows are all decked out; the robot Santas and the synthetic jingle on the loudspeakers are jolly in about equal portions. As is usual at this time of year, people are more patient with one another, will allow complete strangers to enter elevators before them, will overlook the irritating behavior of the occasional aggressive bargain hunter, and will smile more easily at mothers with small, noisy children. It is the season of tolerance.

Perhaps, then, it would not hurt to be reminded that the Incarnation was, in fact, an act of colossal intolerance on the part of God, by which I mean to say that it was an act of immeasurable love. He loved us so much that he would not let us die in our sins. He was intolerant of our slavery and was born among us for the express purpose of doing something rather drastic’ about it.

I realize that to use the word intolerance is a risky business, for it cannot help but conjure up visions of religious and racial hatreds or the specter of grim moralizers judging their neighbors (and who has not felt the sting of those tongues?). Moreover, it may well be asked if such a tainted word can be properly used to describe a characteristic of God. He is, after all, rich in mercy and slow to anger. But it must be remembered that both the Old and New Testaments speak of times when the justice of God must act—for he will not permit evil to devour everything.

The early Christians were not squeamish about political incorrectness. They knew firsthand that sin meant death to the inner and the exterior life of man. Most of them were converts from paganism, for their world was almost entirely pagan. They had known the effects of falsehood at work in their own minds, hearts, and flesh. They knew that they had been rescued by Gods intolerance of their bondage. They exulted in the glorious, shattering good news that Christ was real. He was not a mere theological abstraction or just another deity in an idol-crowded world. He was the one true God, and he was life! That awareness has waned in our era, partly because most people no longer feel endangered by the world of evil, by the possibility of personal slavery to invisible forces or servility to their own fallen natures. Nor do they consider for a moment that a totally paganized society might one day reinstitute an external form of slavery (though, no doubt, it would call it by a more attractive name). But we must understand the lateness of the hour and the urgency of the crisis. My parents’ generation struggled with a culture that was losing its spiritual sense; my generation had to struggle with a despiritualized world, and our children must now struggle with a radically dehumanized one. A society that systematically destroys millions of its children through abortion, and in which so many young people take their own lives and take each other’s lives is already far gone. Modern man is struggling under a cloud of despair that “spreads and spreads”. He has lost the mystery and wonder of being that the eye of childhood knows so well. He has been cheated of the real adventure. He has not known joy. He is now cut loose to stagger about his landscape, his apparently “real” world, in search of his own lost face. Because it is impossible to sustain this unbearable world view for long, he must flee from it into the distractions of sexual immorality, distorted fantasy, the macabre, violence—and, in the worse cases, into cultic religion.

A society sliding back into paganism may try to reassure itself that it is in no worse condition than a society crawling out of paganism. Like two travellers going in opposite directions on a road, for a brief moment they share in passing a common point. But the end of the road for each is very different. The convert from paganism has known darkness and has turned toward the light. Our society has known the light and is turning back toward darkness. This is the crucial difference. It is into the core of this difference that we must speak if we wish to re-evangelize the world.

Travellers from the realm of darkness state loudly and clearly that the land which the lapsed or lapsing Christian is travelling toward is in fact a land of death and degradation. They have been there. They know. When they tell us that few leave that land, that none finds happiness there, and that it is a world of shifting illusory images, they can sound, yes, intolerant. But this intolerance is the intolerance of the physician who has seen an epidemic ravage a people. He is prejudiced against deadly viruses. This is the intolerance of a mother who fiercely protects her little ones from predators. She suffers from a bias against rattlesnakes and wolves. This apparent narrowness is the wisdom of those who have known many roads and have found only one sure route out of the regions of desolation. What such pilgrims have to tell us can sound hard. But their word is true. The Christian’s task is now to rediscover a firm commitment to this truth and to show how it can be combined with an effective love of our neighbor.

It goes without saying (although in these confused times it may need repeating) that the urgent need for truth does not mandate us to go rushing about, tearing into our neighbor or our enemy, delivering harsh lectures to this or that erring soul. In the true Christian meaning of the word charity, we are to love the personhood of each and every individual human being. This does not mean, however, that we should remain paralyzed and silent regarding acts and ideas that are killing us (and are killing the perpetrators as well). That is not Christian charity. We have a right and a duty to speak the truth with simplicity and calmness, clearly and fearlessly, without rancor or personal condemnation, wherever untruth invades the life of our family.

If modern man is starved for love, he is equally starved for truth. Would it be too much of an exaggeration to say that almost everyone is infected to a degree by the atmospheric he? The remedy, of course, is exactly what it has always been: Open the doors of our hearts to Jesus Christ, live the Gospels without compromise, love the Church, which is the Mystical Body of Christ, and pray for the flowering of love and the renewal of truth within our communities, churches, families, and oneself—yes, especially oneself.

If I had to choose an image to sum up our times, I would not choose from among the usual ones, such as the Nuclear Age, the Technological Society, the Age of Anxiety, the Computer Generation, the Affluent Society, or the Space Era. I would call it the Age of Noise. In the entire history of mankind, there has never been such a continuous battering of the human brain. The ever-present background throb of machinery, the roar of traffic, the high-pitched buzz of fluorescent lights and computers, Musak in elevators and supermarkets, herds of joggers wearing Walkmans, a gaggle of talk shows. A world drowning in chatter! Words, words, words! A thousand voices competing for our attention every day: the communications media, junk mail, candidates for political office, telephone solicitations, and so on and so on . . . the long, sustained roar (and sometimes screech) of our century. Exterior noise and interior noise. The clamor of our anxieties and our skirmishes with the seven deadly sins and a host of lesser evils. The endless inner debates we conduct against real or imagined enemies; and the sweet, rotten allure of the soap operas of the fallen imagination. And of course there is the voice of the accuser, whispering in our ears about our sins and faults. We turn quickly away from that voice, unable to endure more feelings of guilt in an already guilt-ridden society—a society that tells us (again through the media) that Christians are abusers, backward, judgmental, patriarchal, overpopulating, and a menace to the ecology.

Burdened with such an array of exterior and interior pressures, we can find it extremely difficult to face the objective guilt of our fallen natures and open ourselves to the saving power of Jesus Christ. Yet the mere thought of resisting the power of an entire culture with our own strength is utterly exhausting. Overwhelmed, we can be deluded into choosing a less demanding form of faith, a seemingly more “compassionate” kind of religion. We can become the creatures of a powerful conditioning mechanism and, like well-fed slaves, accept a sort of comfortable bondage as our lot in life. We can gradually come to think that the torrent of noise is normal. And when the pressures become intolerable, we might even begin to agree with what the noise is saying.

Saint Paul writes in Romans 12:2: “Do not be conformed to this world but be transformed by the renewal of your mind, that you may prove what is the will of God, what is good and acceptable and perfect.” But how can the mind be renewed if it is continually reeling under a bombardment of false words and images? The mind is not renewed simply by packing more and more into it; rather it is renewed by grace and by habits of discernment and by a sincere search for what is good and beautiful and true. Silence is the natural habitat of truth. Prayer is the dwelling place of right seeing. That is why we must reduce the noise in our lives and open the ears of the heart to real listening. We parents especially need moments of complete stillness. We must take great care to make these moments for ourselves and for each other and for our children. We cannot assume that we will be immune to the massive apostasy that is taking place in the Western world. Never in human history has there been such a wholesale loss of faith, nor one that has come about with such startling speed. Much of its momentum is due to the unprecedented power of television, film, and video—of the image—to recreate our understanding of the very shape of reality. Thus, large numbers of Christians simply do not realize that they are apostacizing, and still larger numbers do not understand that they are being prepared mentally to follow. This is the power of impressionism; it is also “peer pressure” on a colossal scale. How very difficult it is to resist an entire culture, and especially for children to do so, because it is a right and good thing for children to grow into awareness of being members of a broader community. They need culture in order to grow properly. It is one of their primary means of learning what it is to be a fully human person in a community of fellow human beings. That is why the solution will never be simply a matter of criticizing the false culture surrounding us. The absolutely essential task of parents is to give their children a true culture, a sure foundation on which to stand.

[aamjp]

“I was a writer,” said the old man.

“But I gave it up. This typewriter was a gift from my father. An affectionate and cultured man who lived to the age of ninety-three. An essentially good man. A man who believed in progress, it goes without saying. My poor father. He believed in progress and of course he believed in the intrinsic goodness of human beings. I too believe in the intrinsic goodness of human beings, but it means nothing. In their hearts, killers are good, as we Germans have reason to know. So what? I might spend a night drinking with a killer, and as the two of us watch the sun come up, perhaps we’ll burst into song or hum some Beethoven. So what? The killer might weep on my shoulder. Naturally. Being a killer isn’t easy, as you and I well know. It isn’t easy at all. It requires purity and will, will and purity. Crystalline purity and steel-hard will. And I myself might even weep on the killer’s shoulder and whisper sweet words to him, words like ‘brother,’ ‘friend,’ ‘comrade in misfortune.’ At this moment the killer is good, because he’s intrinsically good, and I’m an idiot, because I’m intrinsically an idiot, and we’re both sentimental, because our culture tends inexorably toward sentimentality. But when the performance is over and I’m alone, the killer will open the window of my room and come tiptoeing in like a nurse and slit my throat, bleed me dry.

“My poor father. I was a writer, I was a writer, but my indolent, voracious brain gnawed at my own entrails. Vulture of my Prometheus self or Prometheus of my vulture self, one day I understood that I might go so far as to publish excellent articles in magazines and newspapers, and even books that weren’t unworthy of the paper on which they were printed. But I also understood that I would never manage to create anything like a masterpiece. You may say that literature doesn’t consist solely of masterpieces, but rather is populated by so-called minor works. I believed that, too. Literature is a vast forest and the masterpieces are the lakes, the towering trees or strange trees, the lovely, eloquent flowers, the hidden caves, but a forest is also made up of ordinary trees, patches of grass, puddles, clinging vines, mushrooms, and little wild-flowers. I was wrong. There’s actually no such thing as a minor work. I mean: the author of the minor work isn’t Mr. X or Mr. Y. Mr. X and Mr. Y do exist, there’s no question about that, and they struggle and toil and publish in newspapers and magazines and sometimes they even come out with a book that isn’t unworthy of the paper it’s printed on, but those books or articles, if you pay close attention, are not written by them.

“Every minor work has a secret author and every secret author is, by definition, a writer of masterpieces. Who writes the minor work? A minor writer, or so it appears. The poor man’s wife can testify to that, she’s seen him sitting at the table, bent over the blank pages, restless in his chair, his pen racing over the paper. The evidence would seem to be incontrovertible. But what she’s seen is only the outside. The shell of literature. A semblance,” said the old man to Archimboldi and Archimboldi thought of Ansky. “The person who really writes the minor work is a secret writer who accepts only the dictates of a masterpiece.

“Our good craftsman writes. He’s absorbed in what takes shape well or badly on the page. His wife, though he doesn’t know it, is watching him. It really is he who’s writing. But if his wife had X-ray vision she would see that instead of being present at an exercise of literary creation, she’s witnessing a session of hypnosis. There’s nothing inside the man who sits there writing. Nothing of himself, I mean. How much better off the poor man would be if he devoted himself to reading. Reading is pleasure and happiness to be alive or sadness to be alive and above all it’s knowledge and questions. Writing, meanwhile, is almost always empty. There’s nothing in the guts of the man who sits there writing. Nothing, I mean to say, that his wife, at a given moment, might recognize. He writes like someone taking dictation. His novel or book of poems, decent, adequate, arises not from an exercise of style or will, as the poor unfortunate believes, but as the result of an exercise of concealment. There must be many books, many lovely pines, to shield from hungry eyes the book that really matters, the wretched cave of our misfortune, the magic flower of winter!

“Excuse the metaphors. Sometimes, in my excitement, I wax romantic. But listen. Every work that isn’t a masterpiece is, in a sense, a part of a vast camouflage. You’ve been a soldier, I imagine, and you know what I mean. Every book that isn’t a masterpiece is cannon fodder, a slogging foot soldier, a piece to be sacrificed, since in multiple ways it mimics the design of the masterpiece. When I came to this realization, I gave up writing. Still, my mind didn’t stop working. In fact, it worked better when I wasn’t writing. I asked myself: why does a masterpiece need to be hidden? what strange forces wreath it in secrecy and mystery?

“By now I knew it was pointless to write. Or that it was worth it only if one was prepared to write a masterpiece. Most writers are deluded or playing. Perhaps delusion and play are the same thing, two sides of the same coin. The truth is we never stop being children, terrible children covered in sores and knotty veins and tumors and age spots, but ultimately children, in other words we never stop clinging to life because we are life. One might also say: we’re theater, we’re music. By the same token, few are the writers who give up. We play at believing ourselves immortal. We delude ourselves in the appraisal of our own works and in our perpetual misappraisal of the works of others. See you at the Nobel, writers say, as one might say: see you in hell.

“Once I saw an American gangster movie. In one scene a detective kills a crook and before he fires the fatal shot he says: see you in hell. He’s playing. The detective is playing and he’s deluded. The crook, who meets his gaze and curses him just before he dies, is also playing and deluded, although his fields of play and delusion have been reduced to almost zero, since in the next shot he’s going to die. The director of the film is also playing. So is the scriptwriter. See you at the Nobel. We’ll go down in history. We have the gratitude of the German people. A heroic battle remembered for generations to come. An immortal love. A name inscribed in marble. The time of the Muses. Even a phrase as seemingly innocent as echoes of Greek prose is all play and delusion.

“Play and delusion are the blindfold and spur of minor writers. Also: the promise of their future happiness. A forest that grows at a vertiginous rate, a forest no one can fence in, not even the academies, in fact, the academies make sure it flourishes unhindered, as do boosters and universities (breeding grounds for the shameless) and government institutions and patrons and cultural associations and declaimers of poetry— all aid the forest to grow and hide what must be hidden, all aid the forest to reproduce what must be reproduced, since the process is inevitable, though no one ever sees what exactly is being reproduced, what is being tamely mirrored back.

“Plagiarism, you say? Yes, plagiarism, in the sense that all minor works, all works from the pen of a minor writer, can be nothing but plagiarism of some masterpiece. The small difference is that here we’re talking about sanctioned plagiarism. Plagiarism as camouflage as some wood and canvas scenery as a charade that leads us, likely as not, into the void.

“In a word: experience is best. I won’t say you can’t get experience by hanging around libraries, but libraries are second to experience. Experience is the mother of science, it is often said. When I was young and I still thought I would make a career in the world of letters, I met a great writer. A great writer who had probably written a single masterpiece, although in my judgment everything he had written was a masterpiece.

“I won’t tell you his name. It’ll do you no good to learn it, nor do you need to know it for the purposes of this story. Suffice it to say that he was German and one day he came to Cologne to give a few lectures. Of course, I didn’t miss a single one of the three he gave at the university. At the last lecture I got a seat in the front row, and rather than listen (the truth is he repeated things he’d already said in the first and second lectures), I spent the time observing him in detail, his hands, for example, bony and energetic, his old man’s neck, like the neck of a turkey or a plucked rooster, his faintly Slavic cheekbones, his lifeless lips, lips that one could slash with a knife and from which one could be sure not a single drop of blood would fall, his gray temples like a stormy sea, and especially his eyes, deep eyes that at the slightest tilt of his head seemed at times like two endless tunnels, two abandoned tunnels on the verge of collapse.

“Of course, once the lecture was over he was mobbed by local worthies and I wasn’t even able to shake his hand and tell him how much I admired him. Time went by. The writer died, and, as one might expect, I continued to read and reread him. The day came when I decided to give up literature. I gave it up. This was in no way traumatic but rather liberating. Between you and me, I’ll confess that it was like losing my virginity. What a relief to give up literature, to give up writing and simply read!

“But that’s another story. We can discuss it when you return my typewriter. And yet I couldn’t forget the great writer and his visit. Meanwhile, I began to work at a factory that made optical instruments. I did well for myself. I was a bachelor, I had money, every week I went to the movies, the theater, exhibitions, and I also studied English and French and visited bookshops where I bought whatever books struck my fancy.

“A comfortable life. But I couldn’t shake the memory of the great writer’s visit, and what’s more, I realized abruptly that I remembered only the third lecture, and my memories were limited to the writer’s face, as if it was supposed to tell me something that in the end it didn’t. But what? One day, for reasons that are beside the point, I went with a doctor friend of mine to the university morgue. I doubt you’ve ever been there. The morgue is underground and it’s a long room with white-tiled walls and a wooden ceiling. In the middle there’s a stage where autopsies, dissections, and other scientific atrocities are performed. Then there are two small offices, one for the dean of forensic studies and the other for another professor. At each end are the refrigerated rooms where the corpses are stored, the bodies of the destitute or people without papers visited by death in cheap hotel rooms.

“In those days I showed a doubtless morbid interest in these facilities and my doctor friend kindly took it upon himself to give me a detailed tour. We even attended the last autopsy of the day. Then my friend went into the dean’s office and I was left alone outside in the corridor, waiting for him, as the students left and a kind of crepuscular lethargy crept from under the doors like poison gas. After ten minutes of waiting I was startled by a noise from one of the refrigerated rooms. In those days, I promise you, that was enough to frighten anyone, but I’ve never been particularly cowardly and I went to see what it was.

“When I opened the door a gust of cold air hit me in the face. At the back of the room, by a stretcher, a man was trying to open one of the lockers to stow away a corpse, but no matter how hard he struggled, the door to the locker or cell wouldn’t budge. Without moving from the threshold, I asked whether he needed help. The man straightened up, he was very tall, and gave me what seemed to me a despairing look. Perhaps it was because I sensed despair in his gaze that I was emboldened to approach him. As I did, flanked by corpses, I lit a cigarette to calm my nerves and when I reached him the first thing I did was offer him another cigarette, perhaps forcing a false camaraderie.

“Only then did the morgue worker look at me and it was as if I had gone back in time. His eyes were exactly like the eyes of the great writer whose Cologne lectures I had devoutly attended. I confess that just then, for a few seconds, I even thought I was going mad. It was the morgue worker’s voice, nothing like the warm voice of the great writer, that rescued me from my panic. He said: smoking isn’t allowed here.

“I didn’t know what to answer. He added: smoke is harmful to the dead. I laughed. He supplied an explanatory note: smoke interferes with the process of preservation. I made a noncommittal gesture. He tried a last time: he spoke about filters, he spoke about moisture levels, he uttered the word purity. I offered him a cigarette again and he announced with resignation that he didn’t smoke. I asked whether he had worked there for a long time. In an impersonal and somewhat shrill voice, he said he had worked at the university since long before the 1914 war.

‘”Always at the morgue?’ I asked.

“‘Here and nowhere else,’ he answered.

“‘It’s funny,’ I said, ‘but your face, and especially your eyes, remind me of a great German writer.’ At this point I mentioned the writer’s name.

‘”I’ve never heard of him,’ was his response.

“In earlier days this reply would have outraged me, but thanks God I was living a new life. I remarked that working at the morgue must surely prompt wise or at least original reflections on human fate. He looked at me as if I were mocking him or speaking French. I insisted. These surroundings, I said, with a gesture that encompassed the whole morgue, are in a certain way the ideal place to contemplate the brevity of life, the unfathomable fate of mankind, the futility of earthly strife.

“With a shudder of horror, I was suddenly aware that I was talking to him as if he were the great German writer and this was the conversation we’d never had. I don’t have much time, he said. I looked him in the eye again. There could be no doubt about it: he had the eyes of my idol. And his reply: I don’t have much time. How many doors it opened! How many paths were suddenly cleared, revealed to me!

“I don’t have much time, I have to haul corpses. I don’t have much time, I have to breathe, eat, drink, sleep. I don’t have much time, I have to keep the gears meshing. I don’t have much time, I’m busy living. I don’t have much time, I’m busy dying. As you can imagine, there were no more questions. I helped him open the locker. I wanted to help him slide the corpse in, but my clumsiness was such that the sheet slipped and then I saw the face of the corpse and I closed my eyes and bowed my head and let him work in peace.

“When my friend came out he watched me from the door in silence. Everything all right? he asked. I couldn’t answer, or didn’t know how to answer. Maybe I said: everything’s wrong. But that wasn’t what I meant to say.”

Before Archimboldi left, after they’d had a cup of tea, the man who rented him the typewriter said:

“Jesus is the masterpiece. The thieves are minor works. Why are they there? Not to frame the crucifixion, as some innocent souls believe, but to hide it.”

[monsters-and-villains]

ALPHA GODDESS by Amalie Howard

In Serjana Caelum’s world, gods exist. So do goddesses. Sera knows this because she is one of them. A secret long concealed by her parents, Sera is Lakshmi reborn, the human avatar of an immortal Indian goddess rumored to control all the planes of existence. Marked by the sigils of both heaven and hell, Sera’s avatar is meant to bring balance to the mortal world, but all she creates is chaos. A chaos that Azrath, the Asura Lord of Death, hopes to use to unleash hell on earth.

Torn between reconciling her past and present, Sera must figure out how to stop Azrath before the Mortal Realm is destroyed. But trust doesn’t come easy in a world fissured by lies and betrayal. Her best friend Kyle is hiding his own dark secrets, and her mysterious new neighbor, Devendra, seems to know a lot more than he’s telling. Struggling between her opposing halves and her attraction to the boys tied to each of them, Sera must become the goddess she was meant to be, or risk failing, which means sacrificing the world she was born to protect.

Check out this book on Goodreads: Alpha Goddess (Alpha Goddess #1) https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/18211066-alpha-goddess

Reylo vibe recommendation by @agir1ukn0w who also submitted these quotes from the book:

1. “She was nothing but flame in the deep of hell’s embrace. ‘Welcome Serjana,’ whispered a throaty voice. ‘I have been waiting for you.’ Sera lurched upright in bed, gasping, images from her nightmare still flashing like lightbulbs in her brain…a boy swathed in shadows beckoning, calling to her. A flicker of a kiss that tasted like blood.”

pg. 1

2. “On cue, a fleeting memory of the kiss in her dream winked into her brain. A shudder rolled through her. It’d been some kind of faceless monster, half-boy, half-something else. Had the blood been hers? His?…the monster’s faceless shape still loomed on the edge of her thoughts like a dark stain; mocking her, taunting her with the fact that she’d like it, that she’d enjoyed its kiss, that she’d begged for more.”

- pg. 2-3

3. “Gifted with an unusual birthright, Kyle could read the auras of all manner of beings — mortal, immortal, celestial, bestial. Even if the beings were shaded or

hidden, he knew what they were. He could see right through them. As a kid, the innate ability to sense hundreds of energies had been overwhelming, like too many screaming voices in his head at once. After his parents died, Kyle suppressed his gift and kept mostly to himself…Sera had been the only person who’d ever made him feel anything. She made him want to be…better. It didn’t take long for Kyle to develop feelings for Sera, which he hid fiercely. He knew she didn’t feel the same way about him, and he didn’t want to lose her friendship. Worse, if she knew the truth about what he was, she’d think he was insane. So Kyle had convinced himself that she knew the little that was good about him, and that was all that mattered.”

pg. 28

4. “And she was strong, stronger than any he’d ever felt. Her shade was nearly faultless. Most deities existing on the mortal plane had shades specifically to cloak their energy. Usually Kyle could see right through them, but he’d never met another with one quite like hers.”

pg. 41

5. “Something foul and vengeful unfurled in his belly, and he clawed at where her fingers had touched him. You should have shattered the bones in her hand, a terrible voice whispered in his head. Kyle swallowed past the sudden hoarseness in his throat as self-loathing consumed him…inside, the thing within writhed, delighted at the gruesome turn of his thoughts…It was in his blood. He was every bit as evil as Jude…maybe worse because he hid his true nature, pretending to be someone else for Sera’s sake. Fury and self-disgust flowed throughout him as his fingers curled into fists. Deep down, he knew he could not be trusted.”

pg. 42-43

6. “[Kyle’s] body ached. He felt dirty, inside and out. The darkness within him was like a malignant, spreading stain—one that was growing harder to suppress…as if something vile was clawing its way to freedom. One thing Kyle was certain of was that Jude must never ever know how strong Sera’s mother was—it would only put Sera in danger.”

pg. 70

7. “Kyle steeled himself, reaching into his darkest depths for the monster within, and released his ironclad control of it. This was what he wanted and if he needed to prove his loyalty, then he’d do what he had to do. He felt an odd sensation of bliss as if the beast were reveling in its freedom, and although a part of him cringed away from it, another part embraced it.”

pg. 74

8. “Before he could take two steps, a woman and a young boy of about fourteen stepped out from a pile of crates. They looked normal, clad in jeans and long-sleeved shirts. Kyle frowned. Knowing what they were, they seemed so young and so human. But it was just a shade, he knew. The woman spoke in a soft voice. ‘He’s not Preta.’ ‘He’s the one who brought them here,’ the boy told her, ‘the ones waiting outside…But you’re right, he’s not like them.’ ‘What is your name, child?’ the woman asked. Child? ‘Kyle,’ he responded without thinking. ‘Why are you with them?’ the boy said. ‘You’re not like them. You are not what they are. Surely you must know that your humanity gives you a choice.’ Someone outside the barn howled. Jude was getting impatient. Kyle felt the beast inside him flexing obediently in response, shoving against him, and for a moment, he wanted to scream with the force of it. Kyle shook his head, forcing the monster back as sour bile rose into his mouth. ‘You’re wrong, I don’t have a choice. You don’t know what they’re capable of, what I’m capable of.’ ‘There’s always a choice.’ Kyle’s heart and conscience twisted into knots as the woman spoke, her voice soft, musical.”

pg. 75

9. “‘Will you let one of us go then?’ Her companion turned to her, his expression concerned. ‘No,’ the boy said forcefully. ‘Yes,’ she argued…They shared a brief wordless exchange, but her gaze fluttered back to Kyle. It was heavy, compassionate, and sad, and he felt it to his bones. His eyes watered, and he brushed at them blindly, furious at this unexpected display of emotion. ‘It’s not weakness, you know,’ the woman said, gently reading his thoughts. ‘It’s empathy. Man has always held such a great capacity for it.’ Kyle felt her words wash over him, for a moment clearing away the demon that hounded him. ‘Trust yourself, Kyle. All is never lost, not when there’s love in your heart.’ ‘I’m not human. You’re wrong about me. I don’t know how to love.’…Sera’s face clouded his vision…His gaze dropped from [the woman’s] eyes to the floor. ‘Go then,’ he said to the boy urgently… ‘Go now, before I change my mind.’ ‘Thank you.’ The boy bowed. ‘Your kindness will not be forgotten.’ Then he was gone, slipping into the shadows of the side of the building.”

pg. 75-76

10. ”‘You’re not afraid?’ Kyle asked the woman, his skull aching from the pressure of Jude’s impatience and the insistent tug of the beast within him. A part of him was angry that he’d let the boy go, turning his voice into little more than a growl. ‘They’ll show you no mercy.’ ‘No.’ Her smile was radiant. ‘You’re not like them, Kyle. Hold on to that when the light is at its dimmest…’”

pg. 76-77

11. “Kyle kept his face carefully composed, knowing Jude would find any excuse to belittle him…Kyle paused and eyed Jude. ‘So do I?’ ‘Do you what?’ Jude growled. ‘Belong.’ Jude shot him another assessing look, but Kyle kept his face blank. ‘…I’ll need to clear it with Lord Azrath.’ Jude smiled. ‘And then there’s the first order of business…Prove yourself. Kill her…’ Kyle knelt next to the woman…He barely sensed any light in her at all. He took the sword…and held it across his lap…He hated the way the hilt rested in his hand, as if it belonged there, and the odd sense of power it gave him. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he whispered aloud. Checking around, he brushed the hair out of [her] face and felt the same connection when his skin touched hers. There was no voice this time, just emptiness. He held the weapon against the side of her chest with shaking hands and closed his eyes. You have to do this, he told himself roughly. She’s as good as dead anyway. But the blood will be on your hands, an inner voice argued. It’s already on my hands. Kyle… He opened his eyes and stared into a pair of eyes like clear silver pools. He almost jerked back, but a hand held his, and the sword, in place against her ribs… ‘I can’t do it,’ he whispered. You…must. I can’t, he thought. His tears were reluctant and hot. Kyle felt her fingers slide against his, squeezing gently. Before he could guess her intent, she gave a last, labored breath, and pushed against the heel of the blade. It’s razor sharp edge slid home…and her eyes glazed over. Kyle grasped her face between his palms…And then she was gone, those clear eyes fading and darkening in death, nothing but a lifeless shell left behind. For an instant, the darkness arched inside him—revoltingly joyful—until Kyle dug his nails into his palms, burying its demonic bliss with his own pain.”

pg. 82-85

12. “By nature of what he was, he was already damned…And dying after all he’d done meant that there was only one place for him. Xibalba. Hell…The torment of Xibalba was unimaginable. So why did he now feel so conflicted? Was it because of [the woman’s] words? She’d made it sound like he had some kind of a choice in his future. Deep down, Kyle knew that he was only deluding himself. She hadn’t known who he was—the real truth of what he was. In a world ruled by gods and demons, his fate was tied to the side of the dark. There was no chance of redemption for him. He deserved Xibalba, and more.”

pg. 86

13. “Kyle was torn. What he’d wanted for so long was now about to become a reality: immortality on Earth just for the tiny fee of his soul. Before, doing whatever Jude and Azrath wanted seemed like a small price to pay given the alternative—eternity in the Dark Realms—but now, everything he’d believed was upended.”

pg. 112

14. “Kyle held his palm up, and it shook uncontrollably. ‘That’s because you’re human,’ Marcus said with a laugh, watching him out of the corner of his eye. ‘What?’ ‘The shaking. It’s natural for humans. Preta don’t suffer from emotion.’ Marcus grinned. ‘Just pleasure.’ ‘Will it go away?’ Marcus’ smile widened into a rictus grin. ‘After you’ve killed enough of them, sure.’ Kyle felt the bile rise into his throat again and fought the wave of sickness down. There was no way he could ever do this again. Nothing made sense to him anymore. His plan had always been to pledge himself to Azrath and to escape Xibalba. And with Jude boasting about Azrath’s coming apocalypse, Kyle still wanted to make sure that he was aligned with the right side, if only to protect Sera. The warrior goddess had been wrong about him. He was worse than the Azura. His real father had made sure of that.”

pg. 113

15. “Kyle’s mind jerked back to the last time he’d seen his mother, lying in a pool of blood on the kitchen floor, a long wooden-handled blade slipping from her hand. She had tried to kill him and slipped, impaling herself instead. ‘You are cursed,’ she’d gurgled. Kyle had stood petrified as she writhed, watching her transform before his eyes into something monstrous…The police had found him there in the kitchen, screaming, sitting beside his dead mother. It had taken four grown men to hold him down in order to sedate him. Kyle was placed in state foster care soon after that. From that moment on, the young Kyle lived with a reckless abandon and such careless disrespect for his own life that he’d been sentenced to a Juvenile Youth Hall four times before his twelfth birthday. The memory of what had happened that night had faded into something dull and colorless. He’d rationalized that if he was cursed and going to hell anyway, he’d do it in grand style. Until he’d met Sera, Kyle had had no reason to change. He’d never had a friend, never felt real love. But the minute he’d met her, all Kyle wanted was Sera. He needed her. He’d do anything to avoid going to Xibalba, even if it meant sacrificing others just to remain near her.”

pg. 113-114

16. “Kyle shook his head to clear the murkiness…Shadows filled his bleary vision as a person dressed in a red dress stopped in front of him. ‘Welcome, Kyle,’ a lilting voice said. ‘I am, as you may have guessed, Lord Azrath.’ ‘But…you’re a woman!’ Kyle stuttered… ‘I am many things,’ Azrath said…Suddenly, she shifted into a tall slender man with platinum white hair and a clean-shaven face. He wore a tailored suit and an arrogant expression…Azrath shifted again, but this time his figure rose to more than eight feet tall. Blood-red dragon-like wings arced above and behind his arms. The creature was terrible and beautiful at the same time. It’s face was perfect in its symmetry, artistic lines of smooth fire and ebony, with eyes like burning coals—eyes that boasted of hidden terrors and unseen agonies. The Azura Lord of Death…The monster’s voice was mellifluous, at odds with its horrific exterior yet strangely familiar, as it began yet another effortless transformation. This time, Kyle backed away on his hands…as the figure of his mother strode toward him. ‘No. You’re dead!’ Kyle whispered. ‘Am I?’ his mother said mockingly. ‘Perhaps I should finish the job I failed to do?’ she said, walking toward Kyle, hand outstretched. Kyle cringed and closed his eyes. The barest, gentlest touch made his eyes snap open. His ‘mother’ had shifted forms to the woman he’d first seen. She knelt beside him and drew his shaking body into a soft embrace. ‘It’s all right,’ she soothingly cooed against his ear. A scent of rose curled around him, but beneath it lay something cloying and sour with a touch of death—more like dying roses on a grave. Kyle shivered involuntarily and the woman pulled him closer. ‘Don’t be afraid,’ she said to him. ‘Most of it isn’t real…Sometimes the ones destined for Xibalba face the ones they’ve wronged the most. Other times, it’s loved ones or feared ones. For you, that could be your mother.’ ‘How do you…She said I was…cursed.’… ‘And so you are. But to me your curse has been a windfall, and you shall be rewarded for your loyalty, my darling boy.’…She smiled into his eyes and Kyle felt blissful. He shook it off roughly, steeling himself. He knew exactly what Azrath was and that this form was just an illusion. ‘Jude has told me so much about you…Now that you’ve proved yourself worthy, I’d like you to join me…You must swear loyalty to me and renounce any other,’ Azrath told him. ‘After the ritual, in death, you will be bonded to me in service forever…You have to die to serve me, Kyle. You will become Azura, immortal as I am, and more powerful than you ever imagined.’ ‘In this realm?’ ‘Yes, and in Xibalba when I choose to have you accompany me after we have opened the portals between the realms.’ She studied him like a cat toying with a mouse. The foul stench under the roses grew stronger, and Kyle almost gagged. ‘Before the ritual, I want to see for myself what you see—this ability of yours intrigues me. And so, you must let me into you and we will become as one…I will know your every thought, and whether you are as loyal to me as you claim.’ Kyle felt the air leave his body. She would see everything inside of him. He thought about what he knew about Sera’s mother and suddenly his plan seemed full of so many holes that he couldn’t breathe. The Preta would find and kill her immediately—he knew it. Then they’d kill him, if Azrath didn’t do it first. He felt Azrath’s soft caress against his head and steeled himself from flinching. Her touch, so soft before, suddenly felt menacing. He knew Azrath would discover that he lied to Jude and, in effect, betrayed her. He was worse than dead, as far as he could tell, and there was nothing he could do about it.”

- pg. 116-120

17. “‘Micah,’ Kyle began, ‘there’s something I need to tell you. I’m not entirely human. I don’t know what I am.’ He stared at the floor. ‘Something else, something worse.’ The boy’s eyes were gentle. ‘As long as you have a drop of human blood in you, there is always hope.’”

pg. 121-122

18. ”‘Looks like we both have secrets,’ Kyle said… ‘I don’t want to keep anything from you anymore, Sera. I have something to tell you, something about me. It’s why I can heal so easily, why I didn’t die.’ He coughed again… ‘I’m not exactly…human, as you may have already guessed.’ Sera’s smile was unexpected. Kyle could have sworn her whole face glowed from some light burning inside of her. ‘Me too,’ she said with a shaky smile. ‘I guess I’m not either.’”

pg. 149-150

19. “Kyle clamped his lips together, realizing what he’d confessed. But it was too late…‘It’s not what you think,’ he said. ‘I only met [Azrath] today, after Micah tracked the Preta and showed up at the shack. But he retreated back into a portal…’ Sam pulled himself up to his feet and stumbled toward Kyle…‘What does he want with you, Kyle?’ Kyle stared at the floor, his fingers crossing over one another. Looking up at Sam’s worried face, though, Kyle realized he he had to trust someone, and if he couldn’t trust Sera, he’d trust her father if only because he loved her as much as Kyle did. ‘He wants my ability,’ he began after a deep breath, spitting the bitter words out of his mouth. ‘I can feel energies, even shaded ones. I helped them find Daeva. For Fyre. I’m not proud of what I’ve done, and I’ve done some terrible things. After I met Sera I knew even more that I didn’t want to end up in Xibalba. Azrath is, was, the only way out for me to stay here, with her…I find the Daeva and the Preta kill them. That’s how I met Micah. I led them right to him and Aria. It’s my fault she died.’ Kyle stared ahead, unseeing. ‘And it’s my fault Sera’s in danger. My mother was right,’ he whispered. ‘I am a curse to everyone around me. I should have let her kill me when she had the chance.’ ‘It’s not your fault,’ Sam said gently, but Kyle shied away from his kindness. ‘You’re wrong. You don’t know what I am. My mother, she knew, and she tried to kill me. She was trying to save me. But she failed. And so I did everything possible to finish the job she’d started. Until I met Sera, nothing mattered to me—not death, not living, not Xibalba, nothing. I don’t even know who I am.’ Kyle crouched down to the floor, his head in his hands. ‘When my mother died, she…told me that I would be in Xibalba after my seventeenth birthday. When I met the Preta, I knew who they were, what they did. And I saw Azrath as a way out. So I took it. No matter the cost. I turn seventeen soon, so I don’t have a lot of time. I was desperate.’ ‘Kyle, does Azrath know anything about Sera?’ Micah asked. ‘No,’ Kyle said. ‘But I can’t be sure.’ Sam shot Micah a worried look…Sam walked past where Kyle knelt and put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Don’t let someone else decide who you are. You decide. You are free to make that choice no matter where you’ve come from. Blood does not define you.’ Sam squeezed Kyle’s shoulder reassuringly and tapped his own heart. ‘This does, what’s in here. It’ll be OK. We’ll get Sera back.’ Kyle felt his throat tighten at Sam’s compassion. It wouldn’t have been easy for anyone to hear and accept what he’d just revealed; yet Sam had not shown any anger or hatred toward him.”

pg. 156-158

20. “Sera washed her face, pressing a paper towel gently against the cuts, and finger-combed her hair so that most of it fell into her face. Her stare slid to the fleshy pads of her palms. She eyed the markings. Dev had called them sigils. Now they looked like actual shapes as opposed to random scars. The raised white one on her left hand was like a crescent with two swirling lines beyond it. The one on her right was neon red against her skin, the reverse to its partner, with three pronged lines going across an inverted crescent. It’d been odd that her right hand had been the one to flare up while she’d been in Xibalba. The recollection made her shiver…The minute she saw Kyle, Sera completely lost it, launching herself at him. Her eyes met his, and then her lips found his. The kiss was hot and desperate. Sera crushed herself to Kyle, wanting—needing—to pull every cell of his body into every cell of hers, as if he were some kind of absolution from what she’d endured. She ground her fingers into his shoulders and her lips into his mouth, taking what he offered until she sagged against him. His strength was real. Regardless of his secrets, that would never change.”

pg. 175-176

21. “Sera stared at her parents in stony silence. She felt as if they all—even Kyle—were against her. She looked over to Kyle, who was avoiding her gaze, and it bothered her more than ever. He’d lied to her about his strange sensing ability. He’d lied about Jude. And he certainly was lying now. Her anger soared. She started pacing, hot sweat running down her back and arms. It felt like fire—hot fiery lava under her skin scalding her veins, hotter than anything she’d ever felt. Every second made the burn—and her anger—worse. White spots danced before her eyes. She heard her father’s voice as if from within dense fog. ‘Sera, you have to control it!’ ‘Control what?’ Sera gasped. The living room felt as if it were spinning into blinding white circles, the floor beneath her feet felt slippery. She felt suffocated by the heat. ‘The part of you that is Azura,’ her father said gently. ‘That’s what you are feeling right now, that fury taking over everything that’s inside of you.’ He put a hand on her shoulder and Sera flinched away from his touch. He stayed with her. ‘Breathe, sweetheart. Don’t give in to it, that’s what it wants.’ ‘You make it sound like it’s alive.’ ‘It is.’ ‘What’s wrong with her?’ she heard Kyle whisper to Micah. ‘The Dark Realms, I would expect,’ Micah said. ‘Going there always leaves its mark, even on the innocent. She breathed its air, saw its monstrosities. I can’t imagine how she wouldn’t be [affected].’ ‘But she’s Sanrak.’ ‘She’s the daughter of an Azura Lord, too,’ Micah reminded him. ‘The Dark Realms always lay claim to their own.’… ‘Why are my hands stinging so much?’ Sera stared at her right palm where the mark flamed red. ‘First, it was that one, now this one, and now they’re both burning like crazy. What’s happening to me?’ Her veins shone in stark contrast against the pale skin of her arms, darkening as blood pounded through them. ‘It’s the seals,’ her father said, examining the scars on each of her hands. He was careful not to touch either of them. ‘You were born with two, marked by both Illysia and the Dark Realms. My guess is that one would have remained dormant but, when you went through the portal, the very fabric of the Dark Realms made it awaken.’ ‘Xibalba claims its own,’ Kyle murmured, repeating Micah’s words. ‘Awaken? W…what does that mean?’ ‘It means that you belong to both now,’ Micah said slowly”

pg. 182-183

22. 

“After a while there was a soft knock on the door, and Kyle walked in wearing a pair of her father’s sweatpants and a T-shirt. His springy dark curls fell around his face. ‘Lose the mohawk?’ Sera said, grateful for the company and the familiarity of him, especially in a world where everything felt like it was tilting beneath her. Kyle sat on the floor and leaned back against the side of the bed. He tucked some wet ringlets behind his ears. They covered most of his tattoo. ‘I figured it might make your mom a little more comfortable.’ ‘Looks nice,’ Sera said, and went back to studying the lines in the ceiling. ‘You OK?’ he said after a while. ‘Not really. How much of this stuff did you already know?’ ‘I tried to tell you, but I didn’t know how to.’ Kyle turned to look at her. ‘Would you have believed me? You thought I was nuts when I told you about the Fyre stuff, remember?’ ‘You’re right,’ she agreed. ‘I wouldn’t have. I still feel sometimes like I’m in the middle of some unending dream, and that I’ll eventually wake up, but I never do. And it just gets worse and worse.’ She twisted her body across the top of the bed so that her head was next to his shoulder. ‘Thanks for coming to get me,’ she whispered. He smiled, and the sweetness of it melted her. ‘Any time.’ Her eyes dropped to his lips and she flushed. She couldn’t avoid it forever. ‘So about that kiss…’ ‘I was going to ask you about that,’ Kyle said, turning so that his face was inches from hers. ‘What was that about?’ Sera flushed, embarrassed by the memory. ‘I don’t know. I was just so happy to see you, and it just happened. Are you mad?’ He laughed and stared at her as if she were crazy. ‘Are you kidding? I’ve waited to kiss you for years. Are you mad?’ ‘No, it wasn’t what I expected. I mean it felt nice.’ She blushed and turned her face into her arm…Suddenly a flash of Dev’s kiss filled her head and Sera banished the thought furiously. She didn’t mean to compare them but once the thought got stuck in her head, she couldn’t avoid it…Dev’s kiss had been effortless…Everything about it had felt right. Perfect—like a Cinderella kiss. But when she’d kissed Kyle, it, too, had felt right, just in a different way. Their kiss had been desperate and filled with friendship and longing and something else she couldn’t identify. There’d been something dark in it, something fierce and primal. It had scared her, but it had thrilled her, too.”

pg. 184-186

23. “‘It’s OK, Ser, I’m here. I’ll stay here with you as long as it takes.’ They sat in silence for a while, each lost in their own thoughts, with only the bedside lamp’s muted glow lighting the room…[Sera] reached over and moved the hair off Kyle’s head, outlining the edge of the tattoo with her fingertip. ‘Did you get these because of Jude?’ she asked. ‘Yes.’ ‘Did you know what Jude was?’ Kyle looked into her eyes. He didn’t want to lie anymore. ‘Yes.’ ‘Why, Kyle?’ she whispered. ‘I mean, you knew what they did, what they do. I don’t understand what you thought they or Azrath could give you. What was so important that you’d risk your life for them?’ ‘I…you…’ Kyle held her face between his hands. His lips moved but no words came from them. Sera remained still as his thumbs stroked her cheeks. His eyes were pained and she could see that he was struggling to voice what was inside of him. She leaned forward and pressed a quiet kiss to his lips. ‘What was that for?’ he whispered, taken aback. ‘Just because.’ Kyle smiled and leaned his forehead against hers. They stayed like that for what seemed like forever”

pg. 188-189

[your-lady-star]

Proving Idiotic Haters Wrong: Fire Emblem Fates Revelation- Anthony's Betrayal

You know, it’s been awhile since I took a scene from Fates that people relentlessly nitpicked and proved that they were complete morons who were apparently asleep when they got to that scene and proceeded to talk about the dream version of that scene rather than the actual one. How about I do another one?

I’ve honestly been wanting to do this for some time now, but I’ve never been able to get around to it. It was only because I was playing Revelation the other day and got past chapter 21 that I decided I may as well burn this bridge as soon as possible.

Just from the mention of chapter 21 and, well, the header of this post, you all likely already know what I’m talking about. The scene at the start of chapter 21 where Anthony betrays Corrin and tries to get him killed.

A lot of people crown this as Corrin’s biggest idiot moment because he put complete faith in someone who obviously had malicious intentions. But like I’ve explained both in the past and more recently, a lot of people in the Fire Emblem fandom that try to spread hate have about as much brain cells as a desk chair and all their complaints can be shut down with very little effort.

And nowhere else does that notion apply than right here, where the thing that completely destroys any form of criticism launched at this scene was flying right over their heads, was the size of a blue whale and was screaming like a mad banshee the entire time.

Under normal circumstances, a scene like this would be scene as a foolish move on Corrin’s part and it’s a relatively reasonable assumption.

One problem though.

A lot of people seem to have completely forgotten this. If Corrin really did have complete trust in Anthony despite the obvious warning signs, why would he specifically make sure to let his siblings know where he and Anthony were going? Especially when Anthony himself wanted them to come alone? And then there’s that one line from Corrin.

“I wanted to, Anthony. I really did.”

It’s not “I did”, it’s “I wanted to”.

This line pretty much proves that as much as Corrin wanted to believe that Anthony was legitimately trying to help them and that the whole scene at the bridge was just a freak accident, he knew there was as much of a possibility that his siblings could be right about him. And when going with Anthony somewhere alone, he knew he couldn’t take the risk of them being right and planned for it in advance. He is the only person capable of taking down Anankos and he couldn’t just throw his life away on a 50/50 chance. So he did what any reasonable person would do: he created a backup plan in the very probable likelihood that he was wrong. It’s the main reason why he wasn’t surprised when the siblings showed up to help him because he knew they would.

I know it's very easy to forget this, given the amount of bullsh*t hate he gets, but Corrin is a lot more smarter than most give him credit for. Yes, he does have a lot to learn, but it’s obvious as to why that is. Being locked away in a castle for 90% of your life, never being allowed to go outside, only having a small handful of people to interact with and the closest to getting to experience the outside world being from the castle's rooftop doesn’t really help in that manner. But like I said in my Revealing the Star on him, Corrin is a type of character who learns and grows from every experience. He absorbs every action, visual and word around him and uses them to better himself. And I know some of you have likely forgotten this, so allow me to remind you of something important.

Everyone, at some point in their life, is going to make a mistake. It’s completely natural and it’s something we can’t avoid. The only thing we can do is use these mistakes as a means to learn from them so we don’t make the same mistake again. And the more comfortable we can become with this fact of life, the more self assured we can become when it comes to others making mistakes. And yet that’s something that the Fire Emblem doesn’t think should apply to the protagonist.

We’re gonna talk more about this another time, but the biggest issue with Corrin doesn’t have anything to do with his actual character, it has to do with the fandom's perception of his character, and it all boils down to the fact that everyone basically demands that he handles every single task given at him 100% perfect, and that’s just not possible! Unless you are a child prodigy blessed by every known God in the universe, you cannot avoid making a single mishap throughout your entire life. It just can’t be done. If you went your entire life never making a mistake, you would never grow and change as a person. You’d be completely stagnant and live the most boring life ever. We create our own perception on what we think is perfection because real perfection is not only impossible, it’s boring. Much like the Nostalgia Critic said in his Old vs New on the Cinderella movies, what makes a strong character is not how many feats they accomplish or just how powerful they are compared to everything, it’s how they deal with their flaws. Their fears, their struggles, the hardships that get in their way; it’s what makes us root for them. But when your main character doesn’t have any flaws, it’s impossible to become invested in them and you’re just left to deal with this bland perfectionist that you’re supposed to care about, but you really couldn’t care less.

Yet, apparently, this is what the fandom wants Corrin to be; a boring as hell main protagonist that never fumbles, handles every situation with absolute perfection and never grow as a person. They want him to be what the internet has dubbed the definition of a Mary-Sue, despite them already calling him a Mary-Sue… even though his most common complaint is that he can’t do anything right.

Yeah, if it hasn’t been made clear by this point, the Fire Emblem fandom is really f*cking stupid.

Now I’m not saying that games, TV shows or movies that have a seemingly perfect protagonist can’t work. If there’s anything that “One Punch Man” or “Haven’t You Heard? I’m Sakamoto” have proven, it’s that seemingly perfect protagonist can work in a series, but it takes a tremendous amount of effort and writing ability for it to be executed well enough.

But this is an amount of effort that the Fire Emblem fandom can’t muster, since they themselves can’t decide if they want Corrin to be another Roy or another Micaiah, and that’s mainly because they themselves don’t fully understand his character. It’s what makes hearing people rant about him so mentally draining. Yet it’s also what makes dragging them through the coals for giggles so enjoyable.

And I have one last string to pull.

Because what most of the fandom has dubbed “Corrin’s Worst Moment”, I, someone who actually bothered to analyze the scene and realized what it was saying, can dub it as “Corrin’s Best Moment”. Not only because of Corrin being surprisingly proactive and taking the words of his family to heart, but because he does the one thing that most of the fandom often complains he never does.

He visibly shows growth in his thinking and actions.

This alone was enough to convince me that most of the fandom has been wearing blinkers for the past year and a half, because if they were actually paying attention, they would have realized just how much of an affect this scene had on Corrin. Once again referring back to my Revealing the Star, while Corrin’s siblings never rail on him for his actions, it’s clear that he is taking what he’s done to heart, because after the whole incident with Anthony, Corrin becomes much less careless with whom he places his trust in and much more observant of what’s going on.

He knew not to place complete trust in Makoto when she suddenly reappeared and tried to come off as benevolent. He was the one to decipher when she was lying to them and trying to lead them into a trap that would have gotten them killed. And he was the one to figure out that Gunter was the secret traitor who killed Scarlet when all the other siblings were very quick to shift their suspicions onto him and Azura.

Yeah, remember that scene? The scene where all the siblings were very easily swayed into thinking that the ones that had been trying to reunite them had actually tried to kill them? The scene where Corrin could have very easily buckled under the pressure and submit to defeat, but instead stands strong against the odds and uses deductive reasoning to pull himself out of the brink and bring the true traitor into the light? The scene that showcases his fortitude and strength under intense pressure? Or did that scene also pass over your heads because you weren’t paying attention, just like you weren’t paying attention during chapter 21?

You see where I’m getting at?

This is what happens when dimwits who are too lazy or uninterested to pay attention are allowed to express their self deluded ramblings on the internet; they poison the views of others who have yet to experience the scene and makes them start to see things that aren’t actually there.

It’s a really bad sign when the thing that shuts down your entire argument is standing right in front of you slapping it’s a** in front of your face, yet you’re too involved in your own interpretations to notice. Because when that happens, you may as well be wearing a giant dunce hat.