#i did all of this without referencing ONCE. the demons won

[koukaaa-descent]

this is the result of about 6 hours spent thinking about indigo wearing fancy clothes. only one of those hours was spent painting this. I feel pretty normal about my rotting corpse of a man if you can't tell

[prince-rowan-of-the-forest]

To Make a Heaven of Hell (1/?)

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Virgil knew he was dead, somehow.

And somehow death was loud and bright and overwhelming, the people within it were beautiful and diverse and strange and the places big and magical and wonderous.

But it was hard to accept that you are good, after a short life of being told that you are bad.

Sometimes, all it takes is a little help, some hot demons and a whole universe full of new friends and family to get you to accept your paradise.

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| Ao3 | Next Chapter -> |

Fic Warnings: Implied/referenced character death, trauma, homophobia/transphobia mentions, abuse mentions, other canon-typical (to Hell's Belles) heavy topics, canon-typical (to Hell's Belles) violence.

Pairings: Prinxiety, Intrulogical, all canon Hell's Belles relationships.

Notes: Why hello there, I see you've clicked on my silly little crossover hm? I do hope you enjoy!

To any SaSI readers who have no clue what Hell's Belles is, you're welcome to read, I've tried to provide enough exposition that this can be read without prior knowledge but also not too much that the people who DO know the series get frustrated, haha.

Also yeah I know this wasn't what won the polls, but it's my poll I can do whatever I want shush.

This fic may go into heavy topics typical to Hell's Belles, which is the main reason for all the tags, but it shouldn't go too dark for the vast majority of the fic!

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Chapter 1 : What Comes After

----

Everything was black, for a long while. Too long, in his opinion. And… empty.

They remembered everything, the pain, the hurt, the struggling and the heartache that had come with their… too-short, lifetime. He remembered the yelling - they had been arguing about something that felt meaningless now - he remembered the screeching of brakes, the smell of burning rubber on the tarmac, the crunching of metal as their car had crashed into another. Oh, he hoped whoever had been in the other car was okay.

And he was… dead. Somehow, in Virgil’s mind, he knew that he was dead,. Even as he hung in this dark void of nothingness, everything and nothing at once, where his feelings felt like they were locked behind a wall of glass, he knew. Eventually - after floating for a time that felt far too long and far too short at the same time - he noticed a door in the dark void. After a moment’s hesitation, they opened it and stepped through.

The sudden presence of bright lights and loud sounds and a massive open space filled with people and… different people was immediately overwhelming. Virgil whirled around and there was no door behind him, nothing showing that he’d come from… somewhere else… at all. The cathedral-like space - though nothing like any cathedral he had ever seen - was amazingly huge, bigger than any building he’d ever been in by far. There were people everywhere, appearing out of nowhere just like they did, sitting, standing, talking with other people and walking around. 

“Hey, sweetie, you new?” Someone asked, Virgil turned to see a taller woman whose features they definitely weren’t going to remember, he gestured to himself and she nodded, confirming that she was talking to him.

“Oh, um, yeah? I… think so?” Virgil said after too long of trying to force the words up through his throat, luckily she seemed to be patient enough.

“I can tell, the first time can be really overwhelming,” She said, nodding along, “Whenever you’re ready you can head to that desk over there - they’ll tell you where you need to go.”

“Right,” Virgil nodded, “Um, thank you.”

“You’re welcome, kid,” She smiled, waving as she walked off in the opposite direction, towards a strange-looking hallway. 

Looking back around, Virgil faced the desk she had pointed to and found he could see a whole range of people sitting behind it - age, ethnicity, time period, even people who he wasn’t sure were even human. Most of the desks had lines of people waiting and others seemed quieter. He began to walk over before pausing and looking back. They’d just… died. Because their boyfriend had crashed his car. Virgil wondered if he would be following.

When no one they recognised appeared out of thin air after what felt like a few minutes, Virgil let himself breathe a sigh of… what might be relief. He wasn’t here, and that quick realisation… really took a weight off of Virgil’s shoulders. 

Taking a deep breath and squaring his shoulders, Virgil walked over to the desk, trying to seem as confident as he possibly could as he approached one of the desks without a line. Granted, he was still completely terrified, but maybe if he pretended to be confident, he would feel it eventually.

A file appeared on the person’s desk as he gestured for Virgil to take a seat in the comfortable chair that stood before the desk. They did so as the other silently flicked through the file with a blank expression on his face, dark green eyes behind thick glasses barely telling a single emotion. His hair was pulled back into a neat bun - though the textured hair seemed to be trying quite hard to escape its confinement. Virgil started to feel a little awkward as he hummed, placing down the file again and looking back up at him. He could see his name glittering on the front page. 

“Hello,” He said, “I’m Logan, you’re Virgil Byrne, correct?”

“I- yeah- wait-” Virgil said, raising a hand, out of everything that was happening, there was one thing that really stuck out to him, “That - That file is about me, right?”

“Indeed,” Logan nodded.

“It… it shows my chosen name?”

“The files show the name connected to your soul,” Logan explained, “For most people, that is the name they are given at birth - and usually this remains consistent through lifetimes - however, sometimes souls are placed in the wrong bodies, and therefore end up with the wrong names - along with other things. Virgil is the name your soul identifies with, therefore, that is the name on your file. You should also - as a soul - have a body that more accurately aligns with your gender identity.”

“That’s - wow,” Virgil mumbled, looking down at his hands, he immediately filed that information away to have a crisis about later, “That’s-”

“Overwhelming? It can be,” Logan nodded, “You will have time to process everything later. Are you aware of how you died?”

“I- yeah, yes,” Virgil nodded, “Is this… the afterlife?”

“Part of it, yes, this is the Front Death-k,” Logan grimaced as he spoke the pun and Virgil couldn’t help but smile, “Where new souls come to find out where they are supposed to go next, now, did you follow a religion in life that you were prefer to be judged by?”

“Can’t you see that in the file?” Virgil asked, raising an eyebrow.

“I can, but I prefer to hear the answers from the soul directly,” Logan explained, “Sometimes the religion a person followed in life isn’t the one they want to be judged by.”

“Right, I uh- my family were catholic,” Virgil started, taking a deep breath, “But um, I never really… clicked with it, and I never got the chance to learn enough about other religions to… know.”

“That’s alright,” Logan nodded, “With that, your options would either be to be judged by the Christian belief system, since it’s the one you’re most familiar with, or you can go through universal judgement, or I suppose you could also take a lottery-style pick of any belief system, but the vast majority would rather not.”

“What’s uh- what was the second one?” Virgil tilted their head.

“Universal Judgement: the process most people not connected to a religion go with,” Logan said, “By which you will be judged by the universe itself, hence the name, after which you will either be allocated a paradise or you will have to choose a punishment realm, depending on the outcome.”

“Well that’s not terrifying at all,” Virgil said, trying to offer a joke to hide the fact that the ideas of such a harsh judgement set his hands shaking and his teeth on edge. Well, at least he knew he hadn’t lost his terrible anxiety, even in death. 

“No, it’s not,” Logan said, seemingly taking his sarcasm entirely seriously, “The universe is very fair in its judgement and takes many things into account, you do not need to worry, if you choose to take that option, that is.”

“...Okay,” Virgil nodded, “I um- I think I’d rather do that than the Christian judgement system…”

“Wonderful,” Logan nodded, “I’ll walk you to the universal judgement gate when you’re ready, meanwhile, do you have any more questions you’d like to ask?”

“You mentioned… punishment realms?” Virgil said tentatively, “If I end up there…?”

“If you were to come out of the bad side of Universal Judgement, you will be offered a choice of punishment realm for you to spend your sentence. Some people stay forever, others are able to reincarnate after a time. But remember that the punishment realms are more a system of justice, but unlike the mortal justice system you’re used to, it's not obscenely biased and cannot be incorrect.”

“...right,” Virgil nodded slowly, “And the paradise?”

“If you achieve it, your own space that fits your soul’s true desires, usually a house or community that represents your perfect ‘heaven’ of a sort. Of course, different belief systems will have different versions of this - for example, the Norse may have paradises in Valhalla, while Christians may have theirs in Heaven, though people not attached to religion will still get a paradise in a more general ‘paradise’ realm.”

“Right, that’s…” Virgil took another deep breath. The idea of paradise sounded… nice, but… well he didn’t know if he’d even get there, of course, a large part of him doubted it - after all, no one in his life had had faith in him, his parents so convinced he’d go to hell that they kicked him out of their house, but… if he did achieve it… how would that feel?

“I’ll give you a moment to think,” Logan told him, “Let me know when you’re ready to go.”

“Won’t I hold up the line?” Virgil asked.

“No,” Logan shook his head, “Most people gravitate to some of the other workers here.”

“...Okay.”

—-

Virgil wasn’t sure how much time passed - their concept of time had been screwed over when they were alive, and there didn’t seem to be any kind of clock or other time-telling devices around this space, but he thought maybe it had been about five minutes before he finally told Logan that he was ready and let him lead them off to that same hallway the woman had gone down before. 

Eventually - after some time Virgil spent trying to block all of the confusing sensory input from all around him, trying not to spiral into a panic as they approached what could only be the universal judgement gateway, a stone archway that seemed to glitter with a strange rainbow iridescence. 

“You step in there,” Logan informed, “And the universe will take you where you need to go, good luck, I’m sure you’ll end up exactly where you need to be.”

“Thank you, um, for your help,” Virgil said, trying to offer Logan a smile through his bubbling panic. 

“I’m simply doing my job,” Logan nodded, “But you are welcome.”

Virgil nodded, before turning to look into the grey mist that formed the inside of the archway, taking a deep breath, and with a final glance back at Logan who offered an encouraging nod, he stepped through the archway.

----

General tags: @full-of-roman-angst-trash @reptilianrapscallion420 @your-local-random-dino @cutebisexualmess @glacierruler @roseianxiety @bella-bugatti-frogetti-baguetti (if anyone wants to be added, let me know!)

Hell's Belles AU tags: @awitchbravestheverge @twoalpacas @goldnskyart @anxious-mess19 @doteddestroyer

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| Next Chapter -> |

[thechekhov]

Alright, alright, I caved.

After a slot opened up in me to be able to take on another show emotionally, I decided to invest in OwlHouse. I thought I would probably like it, but it won me over faster than I thought it would.

I’ve already watched a few episodes, but I realized that it might be more fun to do liveblogs, so here I am - with a liveblog...

I will be doing this episode by episode, and probably releasing them every once in a while. Everything will be under a cut, however, to save you all dash space.

If you’d like to follow, please track the #chekhov watches owlhouse tag!

(I’d also like to dedicate this post to the Tumblr Staff Rob, who did his best to restore this post for me when tumblr queue ate it.)

Without further ado...

Episode 1!!

Fair warning - this is technically not a ‘live’ blog, because I have already watched some of the show before deciding to do this, but I’ll still react to them to round things out.

Immediately, this reminds me of Little Witch Academia... Anyone? No? Only me? I feel like maybe I’m getting my wires crossed, but there HAD to have been some inspiration taken from there?

“No-- my only weakness! Dying!!“

Same, big snake monster. Same.

Oh, backup snakes? This girl is READY.

Please don’t mistreat the snakes.

Spider breath... This kid is on my wavelength. That griffin seems to be waiting to be put out of its misery though, and I don’t blame it.

My child... where did you get that pigeon head though.....

Nurse mother, do you REALLY think signing up your spider-summoning daughter for summer camp will actively make her antics slow down instead of ramp up to 60?

Awww, baby makes AMVs... But also, NO ONE TOLD YOU TO THROW AWAY THE BOOK??? I know it’s symbolic, but goodness, isn’t that a bit much???

wait a sec, is that Eda????

Love the realistic bilingual kid experience of replying in English when your mom talks to you in your native language. Universal.

Love this introduction of Eda’s character. She’s got that little green scarf on and everything. Like a tiny trash grandma.

Oooh, okay, let’s extrapolate...

Lots of bones everywhere. I kinda love the aesthetic here - it’s gross and visceral, kind of like what Luz was making with her school projects. Yet in the middle of it all we have a rather clear gothic looking structure. Is this a power imbalance in the supposed kingdom?

The five circles of stained glass seem to perhaps indicate something like Hogwarts houses? Several different types of magic?

But Luz has no reason to freak out as much as she is - she LOVES weird stuff! Haha... No, I kid, I kid. I get it.

“Am I in the bad place?“

Eyyyyy, gotta love shows referencing other shows. :)

“Oh dear child... I’m not like you.”

Wow, what a DRAMATIC reveal for some pointy ears. :) I love her.

We should all aspire to have such cool and stylistically well put together wanted posters. You can tell the commissioned artist really respects her craft.

Steven Universe fans watching this:

I’m looking too.

Okay, okay, enough shenanigans, let’s have some LORE.

I love this landscape. Teeth or bones, or whatever they are, this is one of the more unique settings we’ve gotten, though maybe I’m prejudiced because I love body horror and bones. The darker orange and red themes fit really well here.

Things I’m desperate for: Giraffe Lore 

Things I’m more desperate for: Eda lore. Why do her limbs fall off? Is she a zombie?

Things I’m not quite as desperate for: Hooty lore. He can keep that to himself.

well hello there mysterious chekhov’s glyph which will DEFINITELY not be relevant in the second chapter (or end of season? Maybe? Idk it just seems important).

Ah, yes. That would have been my reaction as well, to be fair. Somehow I didn’t expect to see this guy so early on. I figured he would be a low stress early villain that got assimilated into the Found Family. Kinda psyched that he’s just there from the start.

....I’m just gonna presume this is all true and accept it at face value.

Old Escape The Cops Lady and Tiny Little Demon King, I need your backstory. How did you meet.

I love looking at background details, because like... you can tell the BG artists had fun. I particularly love how the 3 eyed toad doesn’t actually have any reward attached to her. Though the Knife Baby does intrigue me!

“I write fanfics of food falling in love.”

Why am I being called out...

“Noo! My weak nerd arms!”

Finally, a realistic portrayal of a protagonist thrust into a fantasy setting!

.....................

Okay but. If only humans could pass through the barrier... wouldn’t that mean a human had to have deposited those things in there? Do they have a human on staff in this weird pseudo-prison??? Suspicious....

Confession - when I initially saw ads for this show, I expected Eda to be a villain, not a loveable middle aged witch aunt figure. I am shockingly even MORE drawn to her this way. I expected betrayal. I expected her to be a lowkey threat?? But no. She’s just wholesome in the way a solid raccoon is.

“Eda, are you okay?!”

“Yeah, this just happens when you get older...”

“........does it..?”

If I had to pinpoint the exact moment this show won me over...... it would probably be this one.

I know it’s probably the wrong thing to focus on, but what is that insignia? Wings??? Like.... the kind OWLS HAVE?????

COINCIDENCE??? I THINK NOT!!!

I’m really loving the landscape here. And those fireworks are... hmm... intricate?

Gotta love the old tried and true Witch Apprentice Actually A Live In Intern trope. :)

Hold up...

Is that

Is that Hooty? I thought he was just a door....

Eda: This is my room for human stuff. I will also put my human in there.

. . .

Overall rating: I think this is a cute overall beginning. The prison break went hard! I enjoyed the characters and it kind of surprised me in a lot of ways. It definitely does a great job setting up a world with a lot more to explore while giving us a small taste of cool magic stuff and witchy battles. :)

Now on to Episode 2!!

Read the liveblogs in order by clicking here!

[lildevyl]

DSMP FanFic Recommendations I

So, a few days @nastiiuu did a nice Recommendation of a DSMP FanFic called Evermore. So, per request, here's a list of different DSMP Recommendations that I have from my History, Mark For Later, and from my Bookmarks! Sorry, @nastiiuu that it took me a while to get this up! But I hope you all enjoy!

Stay safe and I will put the Summaries and Tigger Warnings in as well!

So, I will start off with the one the @nastiiuu recommended a few days ago!

Evermore

Summary: Prince Theseus, a child of blonde and blue, a child of isolation and a crave for touch. He's the youngest in the Royal Family, and somehow the most forgotten. The most neglected. The most alone.

Tucked away in his tower, the young prince watches the world move on without him, watches his family welcome two new princes into their arms, and yet reject him when he cries desperately from nightmares or shivers from a painful wound.

"Wilby?" The child had murmured, all curious and hesitant at once. He was tucked in his older brother's lap, watching as his other sibling sparred with their father. "We'll always be together, right? Forever and ever?"

Wilbur smiled. "Of course, Tommy. Forever and ever."

The Hanahaki rising in young Theseus' throat says otherwise.

TW: Isolation, Hanahki Disease, Angst no happy ending, Character Death, Villain!Dream, Manuplation.

The Exchange: My Life for Yours: I'm still reading this one, I'm on chapter 17 and it's ssssssssooooooooo good right now!

Summary: Tommy was a liability. Too annoying and too loud.

Techno didn't care about this child.

"Unless of course, you want call on that favor"

"Ok"

Then why he suddenly did?

TW: Villain!Dream, Canon Diverse, Kidnapping, Demons/Dreamons, Demon!Dream, Dreamon!Dream, Isolation, Manipulation, "A Deal with the Devil."

The Inevitability of Change: I just got caught up with this one and oh my Ghoul! This is intense and so good! I can't wait for the update!

Summary: Fuck it, he was allowed to do this, it would be better for everyone else anyway. They could do whatever they wanted and he wouldn’t be in their way. He wouldn’t cause problems anymore and he could have the perfect life that he had always wanted.

The egg extended a blood vine out to him. "Do we have a deal?" There was a level of smugness that Tommy recognized all too well from all his wars with Dream, it was the sound of an opponent knowing they’d won.

“We do, you dumb ugly bitch.”

or

Tommyinnit hated change. He'd witnessed so many people he cared about in his life change and hardly ever for the better. He just wished things could go back to the way they were when he had everything he ever wanted, a loving family who cared about him, a best friend who was always by his side. He craves this so badly that he makes a deal with the egg to get everything he's ever wanted.

or or

Tommy becomes a coraline kinnie

TW: Derealization, Unreality, Manipulation, Child Abandonment, Violence (later chapters), Explosions (later chapters).

Ties of the Puppet

Summary: Tommy hates how his mind feels trapped at that moment with Tubbo. The look in his eyes one Tommy had been forced to see far too many times. Wilbur’s eyes.

or

Tommy struggles with the trauma of his life and unhealthy relationships, Wilbur tries his hand at redemption, Phil and Techno learn to heal what's been lost.

TW: Mental Health Issues, Violence, Abuse, Redemption Arc for Tubbo, Healing for Tommy/Phil/Techno, some of the characters will seem a little OOC, Canon Diverse.

Forged By Truth (Or the Lack there of)

Summary: After his escape from exile failed spectacularly, Tommy only needed to be reminded that Dream saved his life a few times before it starts to sink in. Once his exile can continue again far away from any more distractions, Dream proceeds with his plan to craft the perfect weapon.

TW: Manipulation, Mention of Character Death (Character doesn't really die but the other characters don't know that), Suicidal Thoughts, Violence, Protégé AU, Tommy becomes Dream's Protégé, Angst, Whump.

Mask: I'm still working on this one but it's really, really, really good! A lot of Angst and Manipulation. So, please be careful when reading!

Summary: Dream knew Tommy was a naturally clingy child. That's why he found such satisfaction in having him exiled.

Dream didn't plan on Tommy clinging to him.

Dream was going to take advantage of the situation.

All Tommy needed was a bit of a push and then he would be completely broken.

Ready to be remodeled into the perfect weapon.

TW: Suicidal Thoughts, Attempted Suicide, Manipulation, Emotional and Mental Manipulation, Protégé AU, Broken!Tommy, Angst, Angst (possibly no happy ending but I'm not sure), Whump.

Lion's Cup, Tiger Stripes: I just finished this one and it's so good! Exile Arc but with a twist! Guest Appearances by Sad-ist, Late-August, Derivakat.

Summary: Tommy Innit knew what Dream was doing and was sure as hell not going through with it. So, by the third week of exile, as Dream starts to escalate his punishments, he leaves. One month later he runs into Purpled and hires him as a bodyguard while he travels.

Or Tommy runs away, stays in one village for a month to clear his head and decides to go travelling while dragging Purpled with him.

Or road trip pog.

TW: Angst, Angst with a happy, Found Family, Violence, Testing, Scares, Explosions (later chapters), I think that's all.

Valley of Serenity: This is a very long fic! It's about 60+ chapters so feel free to read in increments but this is a really good fic! Redemption Arc and Healing for the SBI Family!

Summary: After blowing up a nation, Wilbur throws a sword down at his father's feet and begs to be killed.

Phil, however, takes one look at the state of his children and decides he has other plans.

(post november 16th au where wilbur doesn't die. instead a family leaves the smp entirely, and learn how to live with each other again.)

"Fuck, I - I can't forgive either of you right now," Tommy says quietly. Despite the words, he hugs Wilbur tighter. "One day, though. I think one day I will."

"And we're still brothers, right?" Wilbur dares ask. Techno inhales sharply beside him.

They get a choked laugh in reply.

"Yeah. Brothers."

TW: Angst, Mention of wanting to die, Healing, a long road of healing, Mental Health Issues, Family Bonds, Angst but I think there is a happy ending, Violence, Mention of the L'Manburg exploding. Redemption Arc, Healing.

Breathing's Just A Rhythm: I finished this fic a few weeks ago and my ghoul! This is so good! Time Travel Fic with Dream, Schlatt, Tubbo, Tommy, and of course CHAT!

Summary: POGTOPIA??? WHAT ARE WE DOING HERE?? TIMETRAVELBLADE. technotravel

“Chat, I did not time travel,” Techno said exhaustedly, “I don’t know what gave you that idea, but please calm yourselves.”

The voices started obnoxiously whispering at the top of their lungs. HE DOESN’T KNOW. PANIC

Or: Tommy, Tubbo, Jschlatt, and Dream all end up in the past. (Oh, and the Chat comes too) (mcd is a villain, this fic has a happy ending)

Or OR! Dream attempts to Time Travel in the past but winds only go back a few months ago during Pogtopia Area and he winds up bring a few unexpected victors with him! MEANWHILE: Karl is trying his damnest to fix everything with Time Travel Fiasco that Dream caused! B/C the Future selves and the past selves switched!

TW: Graphic Violence, Bodily harm (later chapters), Kidnapping (later chapters), Explosions (later chapters), Betrayal (later chapters I won't say who!), Isolation, Manipulations, Mental and Emotional Abuse, Trauma, Therapy (Finally these boys gets some), Good!Schlatt, Villain!Dream, Redemption Arc Wilbur and Schlatt.

I think I got them all?

Wrong Place for Redemption: This one of the stories that helped inspired Breathing is Just a Rhythm! Time Travel Fic!

Summary: -Previously titled Time Will Decide. Name taken from lyrics in 'A Sadness Runs Through Him' by The Hosiers

“Okay, why don’t you go see him.” Tommy didn’t know what he thought the afterlife was going to be like, hell he didn’t even know if it was a real thing. Maybe he’d see Wilbur, possibly Schlatt, but he didn’t expect to see a white castle and Karl.

Or where Tommy looses his final life to Dream in the prison only to be teleported back in time.

OR where Tommy is given a second chance and isn't going to blow it, not even if things start to get revealed (things that change everything) and discoveries are made.

This whole book has TW's: Child abuse, violence/murder, gore/blood, implied/referenced suicide, suicide, drinking, etc.

Parental Rights: Another good on going fic for me! Can you tell that I love some SBI/Found Family Fics here?

Summary: Sam wants to be there for Tommy. Wants to be his dad. Wants to be the one Tommy comes to when he's in trouble or excited over something. He'd happily legally adopt Tommy, but well... Tommy's actual father is in the way of that. Sam thought with how distanced Phil was with his son it would be easy to persuade him to give his parental rights over to Sam. But well... Tommy's stubbornness had to come from somewhere, right?

TW: Sleep Walking, Mentions of Exile, Healing Arc for Tommy, Healing Arc for Sam, Healing Arc for Tubbo, SBI, Healing Arc for Techno.

Allium: This is still on going, but oh man! This is getting really good!

Summary: What if Dreams plan for the Disc War finale had worked?

Tubbo dead, Tommy in the prison, SMP under his control. Allium Ashes.

TW: Major Character Death, Ghostbo (Ghost Tubbo), Manipulation, Isolation, Imprisonment, Prisoner Innit, Making someone believe they are responsible for something they didn't do, Kidnapping, Rescue Mission.

And How Can I Compete (With The World At Your Feet): God AU and this is really Fangtastic! Rated M for Graphic Violence and Attempted Sacrifice.

Summary: Tommy has been kept away from the world and held captive for four years, and now he’s about to be used as a sacrifice to a god. A blood god, to be specific. The Blood God. But, instead of accepting his captor’s sacrifice, the Blood God is in debt to Tommy. And he’s going to save him.

A universe where Technoblade, Wilbur, and Phil are all gods who have become quite protective of a mortal fifteen year old without a home.

This concept was based on a text post I saw, I think! I can’t find it anymore, but if you see it let me know!

TW: Blood, Violence, Attempted Sacrifice, Villain!Dream, Villain!BadBoyHalo, Occult Setting, God AU, Blood God!Techno, Angel of Death!Philza, God!Wilbur, Angel!Tubbo, Angel!Ranboo.

Death's Forest: This is a nice little One-Shot for the SBI, and Dadza fans! Set during Tommy's Exile. Don't worry! Dadza to the rescue!

Summary: “Can I see him?” Phil asks, blinking owlishly, as if he’s simply just asking. As if he’s not holding a threat behind those light words.

“Don’t push your limits.” Dream responds, and Phil only smiles with a slow nod.

The next day, Dream wishes he had answered differently.

Or

Phil isn’t quite human. He wants to visit Tommy during exile.

TW: I don't think there's any TW here, but if there is, please let me know!

Prince Theseus: Royal AU! Hybrid Tommy. Prince Tommy (Theseus).

Summary: Prince Theseus Craft of the Anartitic Empire, A child who could bring joy to anyone's day left to be forgotten by his family left to spend his days in his tower with nothing but his Maid and dear friend as company

Left to watch his older brothers laugh and smile as his father looks at them with love and the eyes of a proud parent he never saw directed to him, watch them both receive the love he craved so desperately from his father. Left him to envy his brothers yet grow jealous as that jealousy turns to a small flame of hatred growing steadily as time passes leaving him to make his final decision.

No longer will he be known as Theseus but as the Amazing Tommyinnit who could do anything who will prove his former family wrong and show he is better than what they think.

Which leads him to where he is now, a runaway prince who finds a new family brought together by hardship and their love of traveling the endless seas.

AKA :

16 yr old Prince Theseus changes his name to Tommyinnit and runs away from his royal family who neglected him and finds a real family on a ship who just so happened to be pirates as well.

TW: Isolation, Mention of a Minor Character Death, Running Away, Royal AU, Hybrid Tommy, SBI, Neglect, Pirates, Found Family, Angst, Hurt and Comfort, Magic.

Therapy Marriage: Okay, I'm adding this one for some Wholesomeness, and Fluff with some Angst but there should be a Happy Ending!

Summary: but for some reason, tubbo (and possibly ranboo, although he doubted this was his idea) had got it into his head that tommy needed therapy or some shit.

which, fine, maybe he had a little bit of an issue. he did freak out at damage, and weapons, and he had reached out to puffy, but he was okay! he didn’t need tubbo to pity him.

but- here was where the weird part came in- tubbo wanted tommy in his marriage.

TL:DR Tubbo wants to help Tommy and decides that the best method is by marrying him as well. Ranboo just goes along with it.

*****

Okay, this post has gotten very long! I do apologize for that! So, I'll add others to another Post!

[thewhumperinwhite]

ATTD: The Wolf Pup, Without His Pack (2)

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@whump-cravings @favwhumpstuff @whumpitywhumpwhump

TW for: minor whumpee (nonhuman); nonhuman whumpee; use of it pronouns; implied parental neglect/Bad Parenting In General; referenced parental death.

----

Old Cruci hated humans.

Usually it was hard to see what Old Cruci was feeling. Old Cruci said things like “I have sworn on my life to protect you” and “Your coat is dirty; clean it” in the same tone of voice. Saren had never seen Old Cruci smile, and even his frown was often hard to see—just a twitch down at the corner of his mouth, and up in the middle of one of his eyebrows. The only time, really, that Saren could tell what Cruci was thinking was when he spoke of humans.

“They are like flies,” Cruci said once, when Saren had asked him too many times. His lip curled up, to show his pointed teeth, and his nose wrinkled, like he was smelling something bad. “They breed like flies, and die like flies. One is easily swatted, but more are always coming. They eat dead flesh and carry disease.” Then he met Saren’s eyes—Saren froze, right down to his marrow, for Cruci had never looked at him like that before—and narrowed his violet eyes. “You have seen flies, pup. Then you need never see a human. One is as good as the other. Do not ask of this again.”

That had made Saren relax, a little. Old Cruci said “do not ask of this again” often enough that it was no longer frightening. In fact, it might be that Cruci said “do not ask of this again” more often than he said anything else, at least to Saren.

Saren had reasons to hate humans, too. He was small when the Betrayer slew the Great Wolf, and burned the old Den to the ground. He never met the man himself. But Saren remembered the Great Wolf—remembered the Great Wolf’s dimpled smile and bright easy laugh; remembered clinging to the Great Wolf’s back as they ran through the trees, faster than lightning; remembered riding on the Great Wolf’s shoulders and the smell of the Great Wolf’s pelt when he carried Saren, half asleep, to bed. Saren knew what humans had taken from the Wolves, and what the Betrayer had taken from him, as well.

But Saren remembered the Great Wolf, and he knew that his father would not wish him to hate a people he had never seen.

So he didn’t ask Old Cruci where the humans lived, or whether he could go, and see them for himself. Cruci was not his father; Cruci could not decide who Saren would hate. And, anyway, Cruci had said himself that Saren was not to ask him of humans again.

Saren didn’t realize until after the iron-tipped arrow had torn into his shoulder that since he had not told Cruci where he was going, all the promises in the world would not let Old Cruci come and save him, now.

The human den was like nothing Saren had ever seen before—huge and labyrinthine, a thousand times more than the caves around the Wolf Den, which he had thought himself so clever for mastering. And Old Cruci was right about at least one thing: there were too many humans. He must have seen a hundred of them, by now, and more every time he turned a corner, and at least a dozen carrying weapons, and running after him now, and shouting in a language he did not understand.

Saren was a Wolf, on of Those That Chase, he should have been able to leave all these men in their clanging armor behind in an instant. But the arrow was tipped in iron, and his shoulder still burned, even though he had pulled it out, and now his feet were clumsy and slow, and he could not stop even long enough to pull his pelt back around him and be a proper Wolf again. And he was entirely lost, now, with no idea which way was back to the gate, or even where the wall was; and he couldn’t scale it now, not before they could all reload their bows, and—

There was a human in the middle of the road. Saren barreled into it at full speed, landing on the dirt in a heap, then scrambled to gather up his pelt and turned, ran through the first open door he saw.

The building was empty, thank all Fathers. There were boxes, made of wood, scattered around, mainly empty, though a few had straw or bits of canvas or ceramic in them. Saren found one, tipped over on its side, that was just bigger than himself—in this shape, anyway, which was a little smaller—and folded himself into it. He pulled his pelt around his shoulders, wanting to be in his own shape again—to have his proper teeth and claws at least—but the box was too small; there was no room to sink into his pelt and change back.

Outside, a harsh voice barked an order Saren didn’t understand. A softer voice followed it. Saren curled tightly in on himself and covered his head with both hands, tucked his face into his pelt.

As though that would help. He was the son of the Great Wolf, and ought to rise to meet them. Even this many humans would not have overwhelmed his father—the Betrayer had done it only through lies and trickery. Old Cruci would see this many humans and roll his eyes and burn them all to ash.

The humans clattered in their armor, yelling again.

At least Old Cruci wasn’t here to see him cry, he thought.

It was strangely quiet, then, for a little two long. The box was very small; Saren had the mad thought that humans must have been cruel after all, to leave him here to get cramp before they took his head and put it on their coat of arms.

Then the building’s door creaked quietly open, and Saren heard the faint noise of bare feet on the packed-earth floor.

He still didn’t understand the voice that called out. But it was quiet, soft with dry-rusted edges; not very like the soldiers’ terrifying barks at all.

Then, after a moment, the same voice cleared its throat, and called softly, “Little Demon? Are you here?”

Saren had understood not one word since he had come to the humans’ den, but this was clear as day. He jumped, a little, and tapped his head lightly against the box, and then its lid slid free and slapped loudly against the floor, kicking up a cloud of dust, which made Saren cough.

Saren froze.

There was a pause, and then the bare foot steps approached, light and slow. Saren tried to fold himself even further into the box, but there was nowhere left to go. He wrapped his pelt around his shoulders, and bared his teeth, ready to bite.

The human knelt in front of Saren’s box. It did not step as close as he had feared. There was room to run past it, even, if he dared.

Saren stared at it.

It wasn’t the littlest human he had seen—right at the beginning, when he was clinging to the top of the wall around the human den, he had seen two humans littler than him, colored like Cruci with black hair and brown skin, heads bent together, laughing. This human was taller, and older—though not much, Saren reminded himself, since humans aged so much like flies—and colored different, with messy yellow hair cropped short, and pale pinkish skin, torn and red in places. It was taller, but a thousand times thinner, swimming in spun-cloth clothes far to big for its narrow sharp-boned frame.

Its pale skeleton’s face went soft the moment it could see Saren in the darkness. A sword hung at its hip, but the hand it held out toward Saren was empty.

“Hello, little one,” the human said softly, and smiled.

----

The demon, visible mainly as a pair of shiny cat-eyes, stared out of the crate at the boy called Will.

“…you speak human,” it said after a moment. Will almost laughed.

It was a child’s voice, clear enough. And it had looked like a child, out on the street. And it had left a little trail of blood inside this empty storefront. Will could just see the shape of it, now, curled with its knees to its chest, like a child hiding in a closet.

The thought of it made his chest ache.

“Here, little one,” he said, his voice as gentle as he could make it. “Isn’t that box a little small for you?”

The demon narrowed its cat-pupiled eyes very slightly, and said nothing.

“The guards are off away, for now,” Will told it. “I’d like to help you, if you’ll let me.”

The demon stared at him, and leaned forward a little out of its tightly-curled position. Light from the empty windows landed on a lock of storm-gray hair; it seemed to be wearing a cloak of matching gray fur around its shoulders.

“Why?” it said, half accusing and half curious.

“You’re a child,” Will said, before he could think better of it. “And they hurt you, didn’t they?”

The demon crept further out of the crate, in order to give Will a deeply skeptical look.

“I am not a child,” it said, sounding less insulted and more—like it thought Will might be deeply stupid. “I am a Wolf. And only barely littler than you, any—oh!”

When it tried to put weight on its left arm, it winced badly, clutching at its shoulder. Will moved forward immediately, without thinking; the wolf moved quickly back, baring its teeth—but so clearly frightened, rather than angry, that Will did not even move back, only raised his hands, to show that they were empty.

“I won’t hurt you, little wolf,” he said softly. “I—"

(Another, smaller voice, saying: “You Promise?”

And himself, on his knees again, smiling with bruised lips: “I Promise.”)

The demon was staring at him, tilting its head slightly. Will had no idea what his face had been doing. He swallowed hard, and remembered how to smile with a little effort.

“I—” His voice was hoarse; he cleared his throat, flushing. “You have my word.”

The demon studied him with open curiosity. It opened its mouth, its small fangs just visible.

“Captain!—Look, there’s a whole trail of blood here, it must be—”

The first guard’s voice was high and excited; the best-armored guard, who must have been the captain, did not sound angry either, though Will had no doubt that part would come.

“What on earth’s the meaning of this, boy?” the guard captain said.

He was standing in the storefront’s doorway, his hand resting idly on his sword, gaping at Will. He hadn’t even really seen the demon yet; it was already disappearing into the crate.

There were a dozen guards on the street, now, wondering why their captain had stopped in the doorway, when there were children to kill inside.

Will felt his hand drop to the hilt of his sword, without entirely deciding it should do so.

“There must be a back door,” he said softly, his eyes still on the guard captain. “Find it, and stick to the back alleys. There’s an inn two streets down; stay out of sight, until you see a man come out, wearing a green shirt, like this one.”

“What the hell are you doing?” the guard captain said, just now beginning to raise his voice.

Will got carefully to his feet. He heard the wolf-child gasp, behind him, but put his back to it.

“I might ask you the same thing,” Will said, coldly, and drew his sword.

[junie-bugg]

The Heartrender - Chapter One: Ashes

Hey everyone! Here’s my latest Enemies to Lovers Everlark fic. It’s a fantasy AU inspired by Leigh Bardugo’s Six of Crows duology, more specifically Nina Zenik and Matthias Helvar. You don’t need to have read Six of Crows to understand this story since I took ideas from Bardugo’s world and then made it my own. It doesn’t take place in the Grishaverse but is heavily influenced by it. I came up with countries, parts of a new language, and backstories for my witch!Katniss and witch-hunter!Peeta. 

All four chapters have been written and I plan on uploading every Friday:)

You can read here on Tumblr or here on AO3.

Rating: Explicit

Warning: Graphic Depictions of Violence, Sexual Content

Relationship: Katniss Everdeen/Peeta Mellark

Tags: Enemies to Lovers, witch!Katniss, witch-hunter!Peeta, AU - Shipwrecked, AU - Fantasy, Sexual Tension, Explicit Sexual Content, Furs and Fires, Angst and Fluff and Smut, sexually experienced Katniss, virgin Peeta, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Implied/Referenced Underage Prostitution, Loss of Virginity, Laughter During Sex, Blood and Injury, Imprisonment, Peeta has some prejudices to work out, Peeta also has an accent, Inspired by Six of Crows

Summary: 

He hated her. He hated her for what she was: an abomination, a demon sent to tear at the fabric of the natural world. He hated her for making him want to laugh. He hated her for being so brazen and sensuous and everything the women of his country were never allowed to be. But mostly he hated her because he realized he didn’t hate her. Not even a little bit.

After a shipwreck has left an abducted witch and a member of the ominous Order bent on wiping out her kind stranded on the icy shores of an uninhabited land, the two must work together to survive or face tearing each other apart in the process.

Chapters: 01 | 02 | 03 | 04

Chapter One: Ashes

Peeta had imagined his death many times. A slit throat or an ax in the chest. Perhaps run through with a sword and thrown from a cliff. A warrior’s death, a man’s death, as was expected of him in his service to Sjorkden. Never did he think he’d pass bloodlessly and without a foe to fight. Yet here he was.

Drowning.

The frigid water wrapped around his body like a salt casing, water-logging his shoes and pulling at the cloth of his uniform. He imagined clammy hands latching onto his limbs, dragging him down, down, down. In the harrowing moments before he ran out of air, he watched dreamy streams of moonlight filter towards the black bottoming out of oblivion that was the ocean floor. Below him gaped miles and miles of seawater, and he would be lost to it.

He prepared himself for what was to come, slowly counting down the seconds to when he would snort salt water into his lungs and end it. No use in prolonging the inevitable, though his dreams lay like air pockets in his stomach, lifting him to hope there was still time for him to change things. To achieve something with the life he would have had if not for this stroke of bad luck.

Water pressed at his lips like an unwelcome guest. He was truly out of air now and the suffocating vacuum in his chest was enough to burst him apart from the inside out. The tips of his fingers began to tingle painfully, oxygen deprivation or the effects of cold, he couldn’t tell.

His last thoughts before he lost consciousness were of the countdown to drowning himself.

Three… two…

And then nothing.

X

Peeta awoke to an embrace. Thin arms twined about his ribcage, hoisting him above the frothy crests of waves.

His people believed in Gratka, the valley of heaven, the holy place of worshippers, warriors, and the most pious of women. A divine world spun from light and cloud, flowing with rivers of honey wine and heavy with the scent of eternal orchards. Peeta was not sure if he had been worthy of Gratka, but surely the chasms of hell would have been hotter than this.

He jerked his head about, trying to get his bearings back. His lips dripped with saltwater and his lungs burned with every ragged inhale.

He and his companion were bobbing on the frigid waves. The sky wheeling above was full of black, ominous storm clouds and the ship, The Bloody Rose, was on fire.

He hadn’t meant to, but he must have let out a cry because suddenly the arms tightened around him and a pair of lips pressed against his ear.

“You can’t save them. Just help me swim.” Then a strangled grunt and a: “Gods, you’re heavy. What do they feed you? Horses?” The words were choked, spoken in the voice of someone who had swallowed too much seawater and was struggling against the current. She spoke in Krellian, a sharp language of hissing consonants and hard breaks, only punctuated by the occasional swooping vowel. He twisted to face her, his lip curling in disgust when he saw those flashing silver eyes.

The witch.

How had she gotten out of her cell?

Her eyes bulged in panic as he kicked away, ripping himself from the circle of her arms.

“No!” she screamed as she grabbed at him, but without her there to buoy him, his head quickly slipped beneath the waves once more. His arms felt sluggish and he realized with a paralyzing rush of cold that she had been keeping his blood warm with her magic.

He struggled to break the surface, coughing up a mouthful of seawater and thrashing about as he tried to find her once more in the dark. “Witch?” he sputtered, ashamed of the sharp edge of fear in his voice. They reached out for one another, barely holding on by their fingertips as a wave crashed overhead, but then it passed and they were righted once more. He didn’t try to get away this time, afraid of his dipping heart rate and the hazy rush of dizziness that quickly abated with her touch. He didn’t feel warm, but the numb ache in his limbs lessened. He pulled her to his chest, locking her body within his arms like a vice.

“We can make it to shore, but I need you to kick. I can’t swim and keep both our hearts beating.”

He blinked the water from his stinging eyes, already exhausted.

She pressed the back of her head into his shoulder in frustration. “Jųlaik, ” she begged.

Please.

He grunted in reply and then started swimming. In return, she kept their hearts beating despite the cold. They weren’t sure which way the shore was. For all they knew, Peeta could be bringing them further out to sea, but with every passing minute the blazing ship they’d escaped from grew smaller and smaller until it collapsed in on itself, a charred heap dipping below the waves.

Not only had Peeta’s brothers in arms been on that ship, but Peeta’s future had been on that ship. Seventeen witches, four of which he had captured and that he could claim, all dead, except for one.

In his service as a witcher, he had brought forty-six witches to court and he had witnessed them all, his bounties, burn at the stake. The sweet stink of smoke and the way that charred flesh falls away from bone were all too familiar. This was his country’s way. This was justice. Four more would have won him his freedom, his manhood, his honor. Four more witches and he would have held the world in his palm like a flowering bud ready for plucking. All the blood and sweat and sleepless nights spent scouring the wastelands of countries far from home would have been worth it.

Hours passed. The storm clouds released their last torrents of icy rain and then cleared to reveal a bright purple smattering of stars above, carving their ancient celestial paths across the sky. The only sounds were his labored breathing and the sloshing of waves. Peeta’s legs felt as if they were going to fall off, both burning from the physical exertion and freezing in the arctic water. His nerves didn’t know what sensation to succumb to, retreating into numbness. He felt as if he were kicking around two logs.

The witch hadn’t spoken since the ship disappeared, but Peeta could tell by the way she was gritting her teeth that it was taking everything in her to keep them from freezing to death. He almost laughed at the irony of the situation. The witch and the witch hunter. Not a pair destined for groundbreaking teamwork.

So why had she saved him?

Dawn peeked over the horizon, pulling it’s smoldering pinks and oranges upwards until the stars faded and the moon was just a paling ghost of its nighttime brilliance.

“There,” the witch whispered through chattering teeth, her voice weak with exhaustion. Peeta turned his head to see what she had gestured to.

A coastline with tall cliffs crusted in ice and snow, and there at the shore, a black stretch of beach. Peeta swam on against the surf, the waves pushing them back out as if the ocean wasn’t quite ready to let them go. Finally, Peeta touched bottom and they crawled to land, collapsing on the sand with water lapping at their ankles. The two were heaving and freezing and giddy with the fact that they were alive, against all odds they had survived, though the silent celebration didn’t last long. The air was bitter and their wet skin puckered beneath its needle-sharp caress. They needed to find shelter, and fast, or the witch’s magic wouldn’t be enough to keep them alive.

Movement was hard. Peeta’s body felt as stiff as a piece of plywood and each attempt to stand left him trembling under his own weight. He looked back at the witch lying prone in the sand. Her hair was a tangled mess and clung to her face in dark, wet clumps. He almost thought she wouldn’t make it, that she’d just stay collapsed and never get up again. But she managed to rise onto her hands and knees, and then slowly to her feet.

They didn’t talk as they climbed a narrow pass up the cliffside. The rock was black and smooth, flowing magma that had cooled, dotted here and there with the greenish-brown blooms of lichen. Perhaps the land had once been volcanic, but that must have been a very long time ago.

As they reached the top of the cliffside, they found themselves marooned in a land of winter. Sharp white mountains jutted up in the misty distance and the foothills that spread out before them were dotted with boulders and stretches of snow and the shrubby, paling vegetation that hinted at a short growing season. It was a harsh land where only the most adaptable species could survive, and Peeta knew if they didn’t find a cave or some sort of outcropping to huddle in soon, they’d be done for.

Luckily, they stumbled across a cluster of circular lodges at the top of the cliff. The witch, shuddering so violently Peeta almost thought she could be seizing, disappeared past the thick curtain that acted as a door, shuddered one final time, and then collapsed onto a pile of discarded furs.

Peeta limped inside and scanned the den. It had been constructed and then abandoned by a whaling expedition, which were common this far north, though whaling was only done in the spring. The walls were layers of tanned animal skin and were held up by thin ashwood beams running from floor to curved ceiling. They looked like the bones of a rib cage bleached chalk-white in the sun. A thick column stood sentinel at the structure’s center so the roof wouldn’t sag and beneath it lay a small fire pit with a few half charred logs. The lodge was designed to house upwards of fifteen people, whalers with thick cloaks and packs full of food and supplies, but now just sheltered two shivering, salt-crusted water rats with nothing. The whole place smelled of wet fur and welcomed Peeta with open, shadowy arms.

“We should start a fire,” Peeta croaked, his throat ravaged by salt and exertion. He nudged the witch with the toe of his boot when she didn’t respond. “Are you dead?” A part of him wanted her to be. He hated owing her for his life, a debt he knew he would have to repay before this horrible nightmare was over. But if the swim had killed her, he wouldn’t have felt a shred of guilt.

As he circled around he saw that she was in fact very alive. Her eyes were propped open, wide and glassy, as if she didn’t have eyelids, shot through with red where there should have been white. She was chanting he realized. Praying perhaps.

It scared him.

“Hey!” He kicked her shoulder and the witch’s eyes cleared as if they were rising above a cloud line. “Stop that, it’s freaking me out.”

She glared up at him. “Never disrupt me again.”

“Why?" he sneered. "So you can curse me? Blind me or make me impotent? Cast a horrible death upon me and all my descendants?” Witches were known for curses. Pregnant women whose unborn babes had offered strong kicks days before, born bright blue and as limp as dead worms. Men cursed to wander the forests until they clawed out their own eyes and died of blood loss. Children swallowed up by thick mountain mists, never to be seen again. Death. Woe. Suffering. All at the hands of a wretched few.

“I have not cursed you. Your allegiance to a false god has done that.”

“And yet, we’re in the same predicament. Seems your gods have doomed you as well.”

This struck a nerve. Perhaps the same thought had been pressing on her mind. She narrowed her eyes, bunching her fists in the fur she lay atop of. “If I had the strength I would burn that blackened heart of yours right out of your chest.”

“Should I be worried about tomorrow then?”

“Very.” She rose to face him, hatred pouring forth from her eyes and twining about her head like a poisonous snake baring its fangs. He met it with a hardened look of his own.

“I’m still waiting on a ‘thank you’ for dragging you out of the ocean,” he said.

“And I’m waiting on a ‘thank you’ for keeping your tiny heart from shriveling up. Trust me, it was no easy task.”

He smiled coldly. “My, you have a big mouth for someone so small.”

“And you have a big head for someone with such little brains.”

He almost laughed, but they had been through a lot and Peeta was tired of arguing. He crossed to the fire pit and ignored the eyes boring into the back of his head.

“What? No response?” she goaded bitterly, but Peeta didn’t rise to her bait, focusing instead on starting a fire. After scraping two jagged rocks together, there was a spark. Thankfully the kindling was dry and after a few harsh blows and a prayer, Peeta was successful. The fire was delicious, like a tiny heart slowly beating life back into his frozen fingers.

He realized that this was the first time in weeks that he and the witch hadn’t been separated by iron bars.

As if in response to the shameful flush of heat that had radiated through his body at the thought, he heard a muffled sound, like a bird’s wings rubbing together, and turned his head.

The witch’s dress was off, her body bared to him. Her small, rounded breasts and jutting hips shone like caramel in the soft light.

Peeta’s cheeks flamed, afraid that he had been caught staring. “What are you doing?” he sputtered as he moved to shield his eyes.

She turned to pick her dress up off the floor and shot a look over her shoulder. Her very bare shoulder. “You don’t seriously think I’m going to spend the night in a wet dress, do you?”

“But you’re naked!” He winced at how petulant he sounded, how very much like a child he still was in some ways.  

She rolled her eyes at him, but he was too focused on avoiding the very sight of her that he didn’t notice. “You’ll get naked too if you have any sense. No use in wearing wet clothes when you can let them dry.”

“You’re perverted.”

“I’m being practical.” She twisted the seawater out of her dress and then snapped the damp fabric at his back. “Now strip.”

X

He had to admit, shucking off his wet uniform and wrapping his body in a pelt had made him feel much better, though he was careful to cover the flesh between his legs when he did.

“Aw, you’re blushing,” she laughed. The sound set Peeta’s nerves on edge. The witch lounged near the fire pit on a nest of pelts she had constructed, wrapped in a glossy black fur that reflected threads of reddish-gold in the firelight. As she sat, the weak glow of the flames cast her features into warm relief, deepening the shadows under her cheekbones and darkening her lashes. Her salt tangled hair was as ebony black as a night sky with no stars and her skin was flawless, the color of water beaten clay beds.

“Come here,” she beckoned.

Instead, Peeta took a step back. “I do not take orders from witches. Even naked ones.”

“It’s like you don’t want to survive the night,” she scoffed. “See this?” Her furs shifted as she reached out a hand, allowing a dark sliver of her inner thigh to catch the light.

Peeta tried not to stare.

She pointed a finger towards the dwindling fire. “We barely have any wood left, and when the fire dies while we’re sleeping, the only thing keeping us warm will be each other. Now get over here. I don’t plan on freezing to death when I have a big lump of muscle to keep me toasty.”

She made a good point, but still, Peeta hesitated. What if this was just a trick? A lure to get him close enough so she could pounce and gouge his eyes out. Or maybe she’d wait to finish him off when he fell asleep, his beating heart ripped from his chest while he cradled her against him.

In the end, he decided there was little chance of them surviving out here with no food and only three measly logs to keep a fire going. If he was going to die, he’d rather die warm. Besides, having his heart ripped from his chest would be over faster than starvation.

He moved towards the nest, and only after he had discarded his pelt and shimmied under hers did she speak.

“Closer, lieutenant,” she urged in a singsong voice.

He growled in response.

“Seriously, you’re acting like a blushing schoolboy.”

“I do not wish to lay with a witch.”

“This is not laying. This is surviving. If you had any experience pleasuring a woman you’d know the difference.”

Peeta’s body stiffened behind her.

“Oh, don’t tell me you’re embarrassed by it,” she chuckled meanly. “I thought the whole point of your pious Order was that you prided yourselves on being virgins. That and murderers.”

He ignored the word murderers. Only a witch would consider what the Order did murder. Everyone else considered it justice. Shearing the rot riddled branches off the tree that was the human race. Magic was a disease, nobody should have that kind of power over another. It was unnatural and the world was better off absent of her kind, but he didn’t expect her to understand.

Monsters were always blind to their own evils.

So instead he addressed her derisive use of virgin. “We marry only when we’ve proven ourselves worthy to the Order.”

“Shouldn’t you only have to prove yourself to your wife?”

What a silly notion, Peeta thought. “A man does not have to prove himself to a woman. He has responsibility over her. Nothing more.”

“How romantic.”

“Do not mock me, slum scum.”

“I think I like ‘witch’ better,” she quipped. She was infuriatingly quick-witted and Peeta seethed in silence, unsure that he could contend with such a sharp tongue.

“Whatever,” she said after the silence grew too long. “Just know that there’s nothing to worry about. Even if I wanted to, I would never defile my body with the likes of you.”

“That’s reassuring,” he muttered.

Despite her declaration, the witch drew nearer. The goose flesh of her back felt clammy against his chest, but soon their body heat melded and all he felt was radiating warmth prickling against the chill that had settled into his bones.

“Why did you save me?” he asked lowly, unable to quiet his racing thoughts. A part of him wanted to keep her talking so he wouldn’t have to close his eyes and picture Yasser’s bloated body lost at sea.

“Because you’re a human being,” she murmured, her voice saturated with drowsiness. “And because I knew if you survived I’d have someone to cuddle with at night.” Suddenly, and with a rustle of fur, she turned to face him. He scooted back. “Relax, lieutenant. This isn’t where I have my way with you. I just prefer to sleep with my back to the fire.”

“Are you always so lewd?” he asked, the disapproval in his voice as clear as a church bell ringing across a courtyard.

“If you knew me you’d know the answer to that is yes.”

“I do not wish to know you, witch.”

“Good. You don’t deserve to.”

With these terse versions of “good night” exchanged, they settled against one another, though Peeta was careful to avoid the brush of her breasts. She smelled of sea and sweat and the musk of fur, but something sweet lay underneath all that. Lavender milk. A chamomile bath. Medicinal salves. Jasmine blossoms suspended in freshwater. Long tumbles downhill.

The smells soothed him, until he remembered she’d been locked in the brig for a month and shouldn’t smell anything but horrible. A spell then. He was surprised. He thought all Krellian magic was blood rituals and sacrifices, not a spell in place of perfume.

Despite himself, his eyelids grew heavy. The last thing he remembered before falling asleep was of slinging an arm around her waist.

[lesdemonium]

I’d Be the Choiceless Hope Chapter 8

Ship: Geraskier Word count: 23172 (total) Chapter: 8/16 Summary:  

“Such a nice, beautiful sound,” the fae crooned. “If only he were this way always.”

Julian’s mother stood up. She claimed she was prepared to stop the fae, to protect her baby, but in Julian’s darkest moments he doubted this part of the story. His mother loved him, of that he had no doubt, but she had been young and weary, and even years later, she couldn’t quite get the twinge of exhaustion out of her eyes when she recalled Julian’s infancy. Even if she had been keen on protecting him, the fae was too close, too fast, too set on his plan.

“A gift, for the new mother,” the fae continued. He leaned a hand in to stroke Julian’s cheek. “I give you the gift of obedience.”

As a baby, Jaskier was visited by a fae, who gifted Jaskier’s mother with Jaskier’s obedience. As Jaskier grew older, the “gift” became more of a curse.

Additional tags: AngstAngst with a Happy EndingHeavy AngstUnrequited LoveNot Actually Unrequited LoveAlternate Universe - Canon DivergenceCanon EraNot Canon CompliantCursed Jaskier | DandelionAlternate Universe - Ella Enchanted FusionCurse of ObedienceRape/Non-con ElementsImplied/Referenced Rape/Non-conJaskier | Dandelion Whump

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“Geralt?” Jaskier asked.

The sun was still just barely beyond the horizon, still casting a light glow about the world as if it did not want to leave. It was late, and the days were long and warm, even the nights held their heat just a little, enough that Jaskier didn’t find himself shivering and pressing against Geralt’s body. Sometimes, he couldn’t even bear to cuddle up against Geralt. He could only sling an arm around Geralt’s waist, as they otherwise kept their distance, avoiding capturing too much heat when they were already uncomfortable.

Now, though, Jaskier was comfortable, with his doublet open and his shirt thin. Even Geralt seemed to have relaxed a bit, with his buttons largely undone and his shirt hanging open. Jaskier could look his fill, he knew now, and so he took in the sight greedily.

“Geralt,” he repeated, when the witcher didn’t respond.

“What, Jaskier?” Geralt answered, his eyes trained on the rabbit he was skinning.

“I need to go west.”

Geralt glanced up at Jaskier briefly, exasperation in his eyes, then he looked back down. “We are going west.”

It had been helpful, Geralt trying to make amends. He let Jaskier lead their travels, for once, though Jaskier could tell Geralt was growing tired of being so close to major cities. He grew nervous at how near they drew to Cintra. They had quarreled the other day about the direction they would go after finishing a contract. Geralt wanted to follow the river to the southeast; Jaskier wanted to go west. For once, Jaskier had won, though it was hardly a worthy victory. Geralt had been moody about it all day. Jaskier figured it was time for some honesty.

“More west. I need to--” He paused, swallowing in vain around the lump in his throat. “I need to go to Lettenhove.”

Geralt hummed and, satisfied with his rabbit, placed it on the spit over the fire. He was quiet for so long, Jaskier didn’t really know if he should be saying something. Was Geralt thinking it over? Should Jaskier explain more? He wasn’t sure, and this weird limbo was putting him even more on edge.

“Will you leave in the morning, then?” Geralt finally asked, and Jaskier let out the breath he wasn’t completely aware he had been holding.

“I was hoping, actually, that you would come with me.” Geralt raised an eyebrow at him, and opened his mouth, primed to argue, but Jaskier barreled on. “I know, cities aren’t much your thing unless there’s coin to be made. And Lettenhove isn’t exactly… large. So I imagine there isn’t much to be found in the way of… monsters to fight, and the like. But there is some business there that I really must take care of, and it would be exceedingly helpful if you were there with me.”

Jaskier sucked in a shuddering breath. It was embarrassing, really, his lung capacity was much better than that. He had absolutely gone on longer rambles before without being so breathless, but his anxiety built so much that he found himself almost gasping for breath once he finished. Geralt looked confused, watching Jaskier and his eyes dipping to Jaskier’s chest every so often. Could he hear the way Jaskier’s heart was hammering? Probably. Bollocks.

“You need a bodyguard again? That didn’t go so well for me the last time.” Geralt smirked as if it was a joke, but his eyes were guarded, as if he was truly concerned.

“Not… exactly. Well. Sort of. There are plenty of people I don’t want to run into, but my business isn't exactly… in the city. Around it, more. Please, Geralt. It won’t be like Cintra.” It could be far, far worse, but he would have to hope that wasn’t the case. Jaskier had nothing to lose, but Geralt had plenty. Jaskier wouldn't let that happen.

“What is your business?”

“It’s, ah. Well. It’s complicated, largely. It might take some time to explain, you know how it is, life, being complicated, you expect things to go one way and instead they go another--”

“Jaskier,” Geralt interrupted, holding up his hand. “Tell me the truth.”

“Lettenhove was my home,” Jaskier answered, then took another shuddering breath. “I grew up there. I’m not excited to go back but I have to try to take care of something. It’s not political or familial, and you are, for once, dressed exactly as I will need you. But, you.” He chewed on his lip for a moment, considering. “You make me feel brave. And I’m very, very scared about what I need to do.”

Geralt considered him for a moment. “You don’t want to tell me what it is?”

Jaskier shook his head. “Not yet. I--Really, you don’t have to do anything. Just go with me, and I’ll handle the rest.” Jaskier stood, crossing the campsite until Geralt had a lapful of him. There was something poetic about the way Geralt easily accepted him, and wrapped his arms around Jaskier’s body without hesitation. Their eyes kept contact the whole time, and Jaskier took Geralt’s face in his hands. “Can you trust me? That it’s important? That I wouldn’t ask this of you if it wasn’t?”

Geralt blinked, slowly. “I don’t like this. I don’t like agreeing to something when I don’t know what it is I’m agreeing to.”

“I know.”

Geralt frowned and watched Jaskier. Jaskier lost himself in the warmth of Geralt’s amber eyes, while Geralt searched for some sort of hint in Jaskier’s face. There was none, Jaskier was sure, but Geralt sighed and touched their foreheads together all the same.

“I’ll go. For you.” Jaskier beamed at him, and Geralt looked warily back. “I feel as if I just signed a contract with a demon.”

“Not a demon, just me,” Jaskier answered, pressing a kiss to Geralt’s brow.

“Somehow, I feel as if that’s worse.”

Despite Geralt’s apprehension, they continued west. They took their time, and Geralt allowed Jaskier to pretend it was because they needed coin, not because he was stalling. It worked to their benefit, really, because after only a few cities, their pockets were full. Geralt could finally buff up his armor and replace Roach’s bridle. Jaskier bought a new doublet, after one of his had been so thoroughly doused with selkiemore guts that Jaskier knew it was beyond saving.

Eventually, they had to make it to Lettenhove. Jaskier felt their impending arrival creep in on him like a noose around his neck. Still, the anticipation was nothing compared to actually looking at the gates.

When he and Geralt came to the wall, Jaskier stopped short. He stopped so suddenly, it took Geralt a moment to realize Jaskier wasn’t following him and turn Roach around to face the bard. Jaskier just stared, and couldn’t will his feet to move forward.

Everything looked exactly as he remembered it, or what little he could see did. He had grown up here, knew the small city and its buildings so well he was sure he could navigate to his childhood home with his eyes closed. The taste of bile in his throat was familiar, too. He could see the bench where his father had made him sit all day, unaware that Jaskier couldn’t move, and he burned so badly he was sick for three days. There was the stable where comfortable, easy kissing with a stable hand turned into far too much, far before Jaskier was ready, but he couldn’t find the words to make it stop. If he went further in, he’d find the market, where once a girl had told Jaskier to take a necklace for her, had been delighted when he did, but the merchant caught him and threatened to cut off Jaskier’s hand. He got away with a welt instead.

He hadn’t known, then, how to get himself out of those situations. How to avoid them entirely. Coming to Lettenhove should have felt welcoming, a walk down memory lane, a reminder of his power as a viscount and the fearlessness of childhood. Instead, he felt just as small and powerless and weak as he had when he stole away in the middle of the night.

Geralt must have seen something on Jaskier’s face, because he dismounted Roach. Jaskier watched him wearily as Geralt approached him.

“Okay?” Geralt asked, and held out his hand.

Jaskier took it, automatically, and huffed out a breath before nodding. “Okay,” he repeated. Together, they walked into Lettenhove.

Stepping into the city proper felt as if Jaskier was stepping into his own memory. Very little had changed, though Jaskier recognized few of the people he passed. It made sense; Jaskier hadn’t spent too much time outside of his family’s estate, and those he had known would be much older now. They had changed, much like Jaskier had changed.

Jaskier tried to convince Geralt they could camp rather than finding an inn, but Geralt would not agree to it. It was an interesting change of circumstances--Jaskier had been convinced that his suggestion would be accepted with open arms. Geralt seemed to be particularly cautious about this endeavor, though. Jaskier still hadn’t told him what his business was, and the lack of information was grating on Geralt. Tonight, though. Tonight he would tell Geralt everything. And tomorrow, they would find Lazuli.

Very few of Jaskier’s plans seemed to work out the way he expected them to. He was purchasing a room at the inn--one as far away from his family’s estate as Jaskier could find--when it all went to hell.

“Julian! Julian, is that you?”

Jaskier immediately tensed, and he tried not to turn, not to react, but the voice came with a hand that landed between his shoulder blades. The woman leaned against the counter, and when she saw Jaskier’s face her own lit up.

“I knew it had to be you! Julian, what are you doing here? It’s been so long!”

Jaskier managed a smile, though he imagined it looked more like a grimace, and turned to face the woman. She was average height, with blonde hair, and gorgeous blue eyes that Jaskier was big enough to admit rivalled even his own.

“Essi?” he asked, and allowed himself to take in his sister.

She had been a child when Jaskier left, no more than ten. And, truly, he was delighted to see her, as he had always gotten along with Essi, but he didn’t like what she represented. He had hoped to make it through this particular quest without leaning heavily on the ugly nostalgia present in this town. Destiny seemed to have other ideas for him.

Still, he embraced his sister, because what else was he to do? He hadn’t seen Essi in decades.

“You aren’t planning on getting a room here, are you? Oh, Julian, don’t be ridiculous. Stay the night at the estate. You and your…” her eyes flickered over Jaskier’s shoulder to land on Geralt, “friend.”

Jaskier grit his teeth and nodded. He didn’t have much of a choice now. He had forgotten the easy way commands slipped from the tongues of his family. If Jaskier wasn’t careful, he’d find himself a prisoner again.

“Geralt, this is my sister, Essi,” he said, turning and gesturing broadly for them to make their introductions. “Essi, this is Geralt of Rivia--”

“The witcher, I know. We’ve heard your songs.” Something was tight in her expression, but Jaskier couldn't begin to know what it was. There had been a time when Jaskier could practically read the minds of all his family. He was sure that skill was long gone. “Come, let’s go.”

Jaskier glanced helplessly back at Geralt as his legs put him in step beside Essi. Geralt hesitated a moment, but ultimately ended up following them. At least until they passed the stables.

“Jaskier,” Geralt started, gesturing at them while Jaskier tried to slow his steps. “Roach.”

“Yes! Yes. Essi. Essi, dear,” Jaskier said, tapping her on the shoulder. His concern over Roach was the reason for his somewhat frantic voice. Definitely. “You see, Geralt has a horse, we must stable her.”

Essi waved a dismissive hand. “Yes, yes. Go. Get the horse. I’ll wait here.”

Jaskier nodded, turning on his heel immediately in a way that he wasn’t sure if the curse had prompted it, or his own desire to have a moment alone with Geralt. Geralt seemed to have the same idea, because as soon as he and Jaskier were in the stable, he tugged Jaskier behind a post, out of Essi’s view.

“Jaskier, what the fuck is going on? We’re staying with your family now? In your estate ? I didn’t even know you had family here, still.” Geralt looked lost and confused, and about ready to burst. Jaskier could relate.

“It… seems we are. I’m so sorry, Geralt. We’ll leave tomorrow morning. I wouldn’t have--it wasn’t my intention--I mean. I told you we should have just camped. I had hoped no one would recognize me and we’d be able to just… pop in and out, but. Rules. And. Some such.”

Geralt pinched the bridge of his nose. “What have you gotten us into?” he asked.

Jaskier smoothed his hands down Geralt’s arms, trying to soothe him. It wasn’t effective in soothing either one of them. “I’m sorry. And… I’m sorry for how much you are probably going to hate tonight. We have to… toe some lines. I am a noble, after all; my father is a Count. I am not, however, completely sold on the idea of being perfectly respectable, just respectable enough to not get us killed. You have my permission to be as terse as you’d like. You shouldn’t argue with anyone, however. Especially not my father.” He took Geralt’s face in his hands, and pressed a chaste kiss to his lips. “I’m sorry. I tried to avoid this.”

“Jaskier!” Essi called. She had always been rather impatient, and apparently the years had not squashed this. “Do you have the horse, yet? It’s time to leave!”

Jaskier shot Geralt one more apologetic look, then motioned toward Roach. Geralt sighed and nodded, taking Roach by the reigns and leading her back out to Essi. As they returned to Jaskier’s sister, the pit in Jaskier’s stomach grew, his dread powerful enough now to make him feel ill.

They made idle conversation as they walked. Largely, it was Essi speaking, telling them all about the changes they had made to the estate, how Jaskier would “hardly recognize it, now!” Jaskier highly doubted that, but he smiled charmingly at her all the same. Geralt stayed behind them, and Jaskier longed to be able to touch him; maybe that would calm his pounding heart. As it was, though, Essi insisted on looping her hands through Jaskier’s arm, almost as if she expected him to bolt away at any moment. If she hadn’t already commanded him to stay the night, he probably would have.

A quick getaway was foiled when Roach was led away to the stable by a stablehand, anyway.

The estate was just as grandiose as Jaskier remembered it. Though Jaskier maintained his taste for the finer things in life, something about the grandeur in front of him was obscene. It didn't matter how beautiful, how towering, how grand this house was; it was a prison just the same. Jaskier did not care for the ghosts that passed through him as he entered the doorway.

“Here, I’ll announce to father that you’ve returned. You will join us for dinner! Until then, you remember where your room is? I’ll call a--Martyn, show the witcher to his room?” Essi said, turning to a servant in the entryway.

“No, no. Martyn, don’t trouble yourself. Geralt will stay with me. We’ll only be here a night, no need to prepare a whole other room,” Jaskier added, speaking quickly to try to get some control back.

Essi’s frown was deep. “Jaskier, really, it’s no trouble. It wouldn’t be--”

“I really must insist,” Jaskier interrupted, his smile tight. “Thank you for your hospitality. We will see you for dinner. Now, we’ve been traveling, and really must clean ourselves up if we’re to be polite, presentable company.”

Essi scrunched her nose up, grinning mischievously as she patted Jaskier’s shoulder. “Yes, I see you have a layer of grime about you. My, how you’ve changed! Mother never would have let you get yourself this dirty. She must be rolling over in her grave.”

Jaskier’s smile turned pained and his heart seized at the mention of his mother. “Hopefully only a gentle turn,” he agreed, then pulled away with a quick, if overdone, bow. “Martyn, a bath would be delightful, if you would?”

Jaskier could not get Geralt to their room fast enough. Once he had tugged Geralt inside, he closed the door behind him, pressing his back against the solid wood and just breathing for a few moments. When his eyes opened again, Geralt was staring at him. Jaskier tried to shrug off his gaze.

“We ought to--”

“Jaskier.”

Jaskier let his shoulders slump and he crossed the room and sat heavily on the mattress. Just as soft as he remembered. There was nothing quite like the feeling of returning to your own bed. Geralt did not follow him, only turned to continue staring at Jaskier and, really, he was quite finished with the scrutiny.

“What, Geralt? Just say whatever it is you need to say,” Jaskier snapped, throwing himself back on the bed and staring up at the ceiling.

“ What is going on?” Geralt asked after a moment’s hesitation. He sounded just a tad more gentle, more concerned. Jaskier could hear him moving, coming to the bed and taking a seat beside Jaskier, though his movements were slow. Ah, so Jaskier was a spooked animal, now.

“We’re staying in my family’s home. We’re having dinner with them tonight. That was my younger sister. I would have thought you had kept up with all that.” Jaskier flung his arm over his face, covering his eyes.

“You don’t want to be here. Why? Why didn’t you say no?”

“Oh, if only I could,” Jaskier answered, letting out a humorless laugh.

They sat there for a moment, in silence, before the bed shifted. Jaskier assumed Geralt was getting up, but instead he moved closer. Jaskier’s arm was pulled away and he blinked up to find Geralt hovering over him. Now that his face was uncovered, Geralt cupped Jaskier’s jaw with feather-light fingers. It was so soft, so tender, that Jaskier wanted to weep.

“Jaskier. Talk to me,” Geralt pleaded, and he looked so, so lost.

“I want to. I really do. I don’t know how to begin to tell you about me and my family and all that’s… here. I don’t… like being here. I suppose that’s obvious.” He huffed out another humorless laugh. “I ran away when I was young, to Oxenfurt. They knew I was there and let me go, forgot about me, which is probably the kindest thing they ever did for me. I didn’t want to ever come back.”

“So why did we?”

Jaskier tried not to let his heart flutter at Geralt’s casual use of we . It didn’t mean anything, he reminded himself. Geralt was only referring to the present, the fact that Jaskier had dragged him along on this endeavor, and nothing more. If he kept reminding himself, maybe he could steel his heart against the inevitability of Geralt leaving once this whole task was over. Because Jaskier knew he would leave. Probably to lick his wounds of betrayal, because Jaskier couldn’t be honest with him.

“I told you. I have business here,” Jaskier answered, turning his head away and brushing Geralt’s fingers off his jaw in the process.

There was a knock at the door and a moment later, Martyn entered with the water. Jaskier sat up, wrapping his arms around his legs, and perched his chin atop his knees to watch as the tub was filled. Once Martyn left, Jaskier stood, discarding his clothes on his way to the tub without much fanfare, though before he stepped into the water he turned to look at Geralt expectantly.

Geralt hesitated, only a moment, then rose and followed Jaskier to the tub. His clothes and armor littered the floor much like Jaskier’s did, and when he climbed in beside Jaskier, his arms wound around Jaskier’s body and pulled him close. They kissed until they were both breathless and only then did they pull away to find a comfortable place to rest. Jaskier let himself be backed up against Geralt’s chest, melted into the security that was his witcher’s arms, allowing the comfort Geralt provided as he teased his fingers through Jaskier’s hair.

“Someday, you will need to be honest with me,” Geralt mumbled into Jaskier’s ear. “You’re the only one I’ve ever been honest with,” Jaskier answered, and the half-truth--the lie-- felt bitter on his tongue.

read chapter 9

[gaileon]

long ass fucking meta under the cut on alm’s growth, primarily focused on his shift in values (and also going into what they were to begin with) as his character arc in fire emblem gaiden. all quotes used in this are subsequently from that game.

alm’s main flaws are his naivete and his impulsiveness. when going on gut instinct while you, frankly, have less information on what’s happening around you, that’s just dangerous. alm’s victories are won by the knowledge mycen has drilled into him since he’s been a child ( after all, mycen knew that one day alm would have to set out in a war against rigel should things go to plan ) and his own unique strength. alm is mentioned to be a cut above the rest, reflected in how he is not only a unique class but also his stats being higher than even lukas, someone with actual military training, from the beginning. kliff has good reason to feel insecure and implore alm to be the one to save him in a pinch, and this strength plus alm’s good heart is likely what landed him a leadership position within his childhood friend group.

is alm’s strength something deriving from his genes? a blessing from his cross-shaped birthmark? something to truly set himself as a rigelian and not a zofian? i could speculate all day if i wanted to, but that matters not for the main argument i have to bring here: alm’s strength is what allows him to get his goals, and his goals are ones most agree with because he has a good heart, thus with power and kindness, what he needs most now is to mature mentally and see the world differently from how he did when he started his adventure.

alm grows up incredibly sheltered. being raised in ram village, he has lived most of his life in a far corner of valentia, unable to come into contact with much of anything. his education is implied to be solely through what mycen teaches him, and considering the low profile mycen was trying to keep, it is unlikely alm traveled much or had any reason to gain information or mature his world view. the fighter lacks experience, and he merely thinks like how his neighbors do as commoners.

he believes in the idea that mila will save them. the earth mother is all what zofians have relied upon for many years, leading consequently to their sloth. mila has blessed them with bounty and the people celebrate her. as someone growing up in a farming and ranching village with a large focus on winery, it makes entire sense that he was raised in a community that praised mila more than anything, for it was her blessings that has made their primary source of income able to work. they don’t have a plan b without her. alm defaults to faith in her, unable to come to terms on his own that they would ever be without her even in the face of a very certain famine. this is why his conversation with forsyth is so important.

Forsyth: It seems that Desaix’s requested aid from the northern power Rigel. Zofia’s forces can’t compare to the might of the knights of Rigel. If the Kingdom of Rigel makes a move, we won’t stand a chance.

Alm: But the “Pact of the Gods” upheld by Zofia and Rigel means we shouldn’t come to blows, right? Our guardian, the Lady Mila, would never permit such a thing.

Forsyth: Yeah, but see… There’s a rumor, it seems, that Lady Mila’s disappeared. Hey, hey. Don’t be so surprised. After all, it’s been kind of weird lately, hasn’t it? Around here, the crops have been failing, and all that’s showing up are a bunch of strange demonic creatures. You can’t help but wonder if the powers of Lady Mila, Protector of the Earth, are waning. Well, if you go to the Temple of Mila, you should be able to find out if this rumor’s true.

forsyth is the one to bring up bad news politically, only for alm to reply back that there’s no way rigel could send troops to zofia. mila wouldn’t allow that. but mila can’t do a thing about it, forsyth essentially tells him. mila’s gone. she hasn’t been helping them for a while. forsyth is the one to open alm’s eyes.

alm’s beginning to think for himself and truly evaluate what’s before him. when celica reunites with him on the rooftop, we start to see this shift. 

Celica: [...] Alm, I have a request for you. Is there no way war against the Kingdom of Rigel can be avoided?

Alm: That’s impossible. Emperor Rudolf of Rigel has seized the opportunity to attack while Zofia’s still weakened by civil war. He’s already started an invasion. At this rate, the Kingdom of Zofia is going to be destroyed.

Celica: But when it comes down to it, both Rigelians and Zofians are the same, aren’t they? We are all people of Valentia. Even if these divisions of country no longer existed, we should all still be able to live together in happiness.

Alm: That’s no good. You can’t just tell the people of Zofia to go live under the barbarous rule of Rigel. Seeing as how Rigel aided Desaix in ravaging the lands of Zofia, we’ve got no choice but to fight.

celica does something eerily similar to what alm did before: she suggests that war between zofia and rigel can be avoided (albeit for different reasons than alm did). however, when presented with this statement, alm is now the one to shoot it down and stubbornly so. we see alm now taking forsyth’s counter, thinking it through, and accepting it. alm’s previous argument, zofia and rigel cannot go to war because mila wouldn’t let it happen, hinges upon his faith in mila. him no longer believing that peace is possible between the two nations displays then a loss of faith in mila. alm has turned to be a figure who does not blindly devote himself to the gods, shedding some of that initial mindset, and this also puts him one step closer to what gaiden purports to be the ideal person: someone who does not rely too much on deities but instead themself. we must remember that this whole game’s conflict starts with emperor rudolf of rigel’s dissatisfaction with the state of affairs in all of valentia and wishing to reset it entirely, using his son — alm — as the figure that would pave the way.

in order for rudolf’s ambition to be realized, alm had to lose his fath. being less religious, for him, is linked with independence, one of the values that gaiden puts on a pedestal.

but that is not the only large shift in ideology that alm goes through. in the same conversation with celica as was referenced above, the following discussion happens:

Celica: Unless, Alm, now that everyone’s holding you up as a hero, you want to become the king of the country as well?

Alm: What! That’s mean, Celica. I don’t have those kinds of ambitions. I just want to protect the people of Zofia, that’s all. Besides, it seems that the royal family of Zofia’s only remaining princess is still alive, so I’m planning to search for her. As soon as I find that princess, I’m returning to the village.

keep in mind that zofia’s sole remaining princess being alive is nothing more than a rumor at this point as far as alm is concerned. but he is quick to believe it. in all honestly, alm is quick to believe just about anything in gaiden, which is another point to his naivete. 

regardless, his desire to find her to restore her to the throne highlights this mindset that he believes certain people are born to rule. he goes along with the class system, likely something zofia perpetuates, while rigel is more likely to reward people based on merit since that empire values strength so much. alm believes there are bad rulers, but he nonetheless thinks a princess he knows nothing about and doesn’t even know if she’s alive deserves to be on the throne more than any of the people who are working actively towards zofia’s liberation. 

however, by the end of the game, alm becomes the holy king (or, rather, as sov puts it, the saint king) of valentia. he, who was raised as a commoner, takes on this role. he may have the blood of an emperor, but he was not raised to fulfill the throne. he takes to it though, believing it to be his responsibility instead of giving sole control to celica which would’ve aligned perfectly well with his plan from before: to find the lost princess of zofia and then return home.

he learns returning home is not his end goal anymore, and when i take sov’s writing into account ( his a-rank support with faye to be specific when he answers why he can’t return faye’s feelings or why his dream is not to return home to ram ) for once, this is something he decides even before he finds out his true bloodline. he makes this decision without the basis that it’s his birthright to rule over rigel, but because of a difference in ideology. he no longer believes that he should have no hand in the matters of state with valentia and that he should just hand it off to a royal that he may hope will be benevolent. 

in doing this, he is also proving he is not falling to the same fate of all the zofians who relied on others, namely mila, to give them prosperity. he’s decided he shall do it with his own hands, and he will do it the whole way.

[crystalsexarch]

All the World at Once - E

Nights spent alone after many nights spent together brought a kind of uncalm that grated against G'raha's palate. By the time the appointed hour drew near, he was trembling in his robes.

_

Inspired by @badthingshappenbingo prompt sensory overload but...turned out to be at least a little wholesome in the end. Post-ShB. Established relationship. Trauma referenced and loved through. Femdom.

More writing available here. Help me find my next prompt here.

I am...a wreck, he thought. And he didn’t quite know why.

He paced and wrung his hands together until the cool of his crystal fingers churned his stomach. He should have been elated. He should have been sick with glee - not sick.

The portal to the Source glowed before him. The trickling aether of its light drew his mind from madness for more than an instant. That power - had it grown, surged? Was she here? He stopped pacing and stared until he realized he’d also stopped breathing. In and out, he remembered. It wasn’t so hard. In and out...

When she stepped through, his head was half in his hand. He managed a smile from behind his palm and let her wrap her arms around him, dark armor pressed into his skin. Cool, hard...spotted with red.

He bit his lip.

“Raha...I’ve missed you…”

“And I you.”

Next, her lips were on his and he stumbled back, weight shifted to one leg. With her tongue dancing at him, he wished in those moments to be the kind of man who could have held her by her cheeks and pressed himself inside. Made decisions for their mutual bliss. The discrepancy made his face hot. All he could do was palm at her waist until she pulled away, smiling.

“Are you well?” she asked.

“Very,” he lied.

A hand trailed from his cheek to his chest and lower. Her hungry eyes made him gulp. The reactions came too fast and without his permission. Before he knew it, his tail was lashing about in his robes. His eyes fluttered shut at the touch of his lover’s hand on the blue slivers at his neck. It rang throughout the rest of his body, the ring of living crystal sounding against organic parts. Only he could hear it. Enough to make him shudder. Enough to stop his breath again.

“My love,” she said, tucking a kiss beneath his chin. “Are we alone in the Tower?”

“Y-yes…”

“Would you have me here, then?”

A smile won, but his eyebrows furled. “The Ocular?”

She tugged at his robes, walking backwards towards the portal. “I’ve no patience. Come, then.”

He skittered along with her. “Ah - allow me to undress - or help you - “

“I’ve no plans of undressing.” She turned him around so his back faced the glowing mirror.

He flushed and looked away, hands too empty, awkward. “Then shall I…?”

“Nay, you are fine as you are. Sit.”

“...here, my love?”

She pressed down on his shoulders until he gave and sat atop the highest step of the platform, just to the side of the portal. The aether coursed near enough to float tiny strands of hair from his head in and out of his vision. Straining away from the surface proper, he thought of the nigh electric sensation contact would have produced.

The Warrior pulled her gauntlets off and tossed them down the platform. With a wry smile, she lifted the hem of his robe and palmed over his shorts, face hidden by the fabric.

G’raha brought his hands to his eyes and resisted the impulse to tense his legs and hit his knees together. Fine as each test of her fingers felt, this was too fast. If he had opened his mouth, he felt his heartbeat would’ve echoed through the Ocular.

“Relax,” she said, freeing his sex. “I want to please you. I've missed this so...miss you...”

Warm breath at his hips made him exhale out of tempo. Could he? Should he? He had thoughts in his head and pressure in his body. Pressure she tasted with lip and tongue and -

“Ah!”

His mouth froze open and he dropped his chin to his chest. She had taken him in completely. Thumbs rubbed his inner thighs hard and harder. Gods he wanted to let himself build, let himself come, but for that nagging wrongness in the back of his mind. The one that had roiled more and more since her departure.

Drawing back and holding her lips at his tip, she flipped the robe’s skirt over her head. The sight of his bare legs embarrassed him, but even with an anxious heart her face gave him pleasure. She eyed him before returning to her work.

I am a wreck, he thought again, little-lust working at his face. But I am certain I love this woman.

He was certain. But why were his eyes hot and watering? Why did it feel like he’d edged closer to the portal, to its arcane energy? The crystal preserved his body but sometimes - in times like these - it made him more fear than man, more blood than body. The human parts of him could not quite fit into the space the Tower allotted.

Clammy fingers tapped at her head. She tightened her lips around him, darted her eyes up with heavy lids, but upon seeing his face...released him.

“Raha,” she said.

He opened his mouth to speak, but she set her hand on his chest, just at his sternum. It was gentle but the instant finger met robe met chest-

He went somewhere else.

In a flash - the fading taste of power on his lips, replaced by blood-stained air atop Mt. Gulg - the weight of eyes upon him, the lightning between his shoulder blades. The burn in his euphoric body growing cold and brittle with the rush of light having rushed from his death-bound grasp.

In reality, the Warrior called his name, but so too did she in his memory. And that’s where he heard it.

Aethersick. He felt aethersick. Or rather - on some level he knew he was aethersick, but most of his body reeled at the false bullet pulsing in his chest. He bit his tongue so hard he bled. In the Tower? Or at Mt. Gulg?

Both, he realized.

As they had before, his limbs gave out and rocked him to the side. Instead of finding the floor, his head jerked into the Portal hard. It hurt. It felt like he’d fallen from the Amaro Launch into a bed of levin. But it was enough to clear his vision of demonic light and fill it with the Warrior’s careful visage, leaning down to inspect the man she’d thought to seduce immediately upon her return. _________________

The Warrior felt like a damn fool.

For all the reading she’d done to engage with Raha, she’d failed to read what mattered most.

“I’m sorry,” she said, straight-voiced and shame-burdened.

“N-nay...I should have...stopped you…” His voice was like a petal in the breeze.

“I’m a fool,” she said, reaching for his cheek. “What can I - “

“Ah!” He trembled at her touch like he’d met pleasure early, chest heaving, cheeks flushed and hot. Crystal fingertips clicked on the ground, and the Tower itself seemed to groan with his tension. “Please!”

“Is - is aught amiss?”

“I feel - “

“Are you all right?”

“I feel everything.” Like honey dripping from a sweet.

Then he opened his eyes, and she saw how lusty he’d become. She cocked her head and blinked back. “I need a proper answer, Raha.”

He exhaled like he was blowing out a candle. The tower hummed the first and fifth of a chord.

“Because as soon as you tell me you’re ready, Raha...you had better be.”

Eyelids low, he balanced himself on one arm and tilted his chin down to his collarbone. The Warrior clenched her fists, praying he could work up the nerve to ask for what he really wanted. What they both wanted.

A strand of hair slipped from his forehead and caught on his nose. From behind his bangs, two begging eyes dared open, along with his mouth which spoke a few words:

“I trust you...make me…”

Whatever he’d come up with on his own, he couldn’t quite get out - not with her palm against his forehead, bangs pulled by her fingers, eyes forced to the crystalline ceiling. As much as he thought he was feeling, she knew she could make him feel much more. _________________

His red garment - a heap in the middle of the Ocular.

His black robe - parted in the middle, caught just above the curve of his shoulders.

And his white - keeping his hands locked together behind his back.

What time was it, anyway? Was he expecting anyone other than the Warrior?

His hips had slumped forward a bit so only his right shoulder neared the light-heat of the mirror. It both burned and called his fevered brain. He had no idea how long the sensitivity would last, nor whether it was healthy to indulge in such debaucherous behavior, but -

But gods was she stroking him slowly. She’d leaned forward on one knee like she was inspecting something she’d seen off the beaten path, her whole body armored spare her hands and forearms.

This was something he had thought about before. Something he’d been afraid to ask for. Something impossible to ask for without numbing the experience. But in those moments of fruition he wasn’t numb at all. At any moment he could lean towards her - warm and dangerous - or towards the Portal - cool, electric, and ever forbidden.

“What are you thinking about?” she asked. She let her thumb linger at his tip, pressed until he twitched.

“H...how much I love you…”

A dark laugh. “How could anyone believe you with such a look on your face?” She pulled her hand away and set her fingers at his open mouth, willed herself inside. “Tell the truth.”

She tasted like sweat, but he rolled his tongue obediently all the same. How bare, how untouched his cock suddenly felt. He would have reached for it himself, had he not been bound. A tiny groan sounded around her fingers.

She ringed his lips and set her hand, now wet with spit, back at his member. “Answer.”

He huffed at her quickened ministrations and avoided her eyes. “Want to...touch you…”

“Touch me?”

“Y...yes.”

“Nay...tis not your place.” She set her free hand at his right shoulder and pressured him towards the Portal until their closeness evoked a high-pitched hum.

Raha gasped and strained forward, feeling himself twitch in her hand.

She slowed her pace. “Does it excite you?”

Of course it did. Not for the burn, nor the pleasure, but for her grip on his shoulder and her watchful eyes. Trust produced the bliss. Trust made the bullet disappear and filled the hole it left with garden greens, pinks, yellows - and all of this he thought while precum leaked from his tip and lust pulled his eyes up and together.

The Warrior was breathing hard, despite her cool expression. “Does it?”

“Yes.” More breath than voice.

“You want to finish?”

“Yes!” He hunched away from the Portal and willed his gaze straight to his lover’s, despite the rawness on his shoulder. Parting with the surface made it hard to ignore, made his serious expression harder to maintain.

“To your knees.”

He wanted to obey. Obedience was empowering in her presence. But when he tried to raise himself, he wobbled and leaned to the side. Deprived of his own dexterity, he was thankful for her quick embrace. It brought him new feelings entirely - the metal of mail not only at his nipples but cool against the crystal, so crisp he nigh believed he had skin enough to cut. His neck tensed as he strained his jaw open and shut, letting the sickness float through him.

“Here,” she said, keeping one arm around his waist. The black robe slid down his shoulders at her other arm’s insistence. The garment caught at the sash that bound his wrists together. Even her breath felt like colors on his bare skin. He was ready.

Little knightly kisses tapped beneath his chin, up the trail of crystal to his right cheek - then she squeezed him closer with her right arm, willing his head down to her shoulder with her left.

He ached into her pauldron. One regret echoed in his mind - armored as she was, where was he supposed to bite?

A thought for another time, moment. He didn’t have many to consider before she wrenched her fingers around the base of his tail and rubbed his fur backwards.

“Oh! P-please!” He drooped into her.

She laughed and leaned her head onto his. For a while, she pressured his tail, but soon she needed it out of his robe. It curled around her like it could fit no other place, and then all she had to do was reach for the Portal.

Still ilms away from the surface proper, he tightened around her and shook in odd anticipation - or fear - he couldn’t help but voice a tiny “no.”

“No?” she repeated. Breath woke goosebumps on his neck.

How the aether pulled him then. Called him as he’d called her from another star. If it hurt, she would stop. If he gnashed his teeth together, she would know the difference between him begging for release and begging for release.

“N...nevermind,” he said.

She pecked his cheek and lingered until a smile pressed into the same spot. “Where would you have me touch you?”

“Everywhere,” he huffed. “All at once. Just for a while.”

“Hmm.” She shifted and placed a palm flat against his navel and trailed down, the other still gripped around his tensing tail. “I’m not sure you’ve a while left, Raha.”

He nodded and clasped his shaking hands together behind his back. The bind would hold no matter how he reeled. That he knew. He could not but hold his lips between his teeth and pray when he felt what he was about to feel, he saw visions of starry skies and burgeoning blossoms - not the pulsing doom of Amaurot.

In the end, he saw blue.

When she first set his tail against the mirror, he’d mistaken the spreading stimulation for a hot hand at his cock. The ghostly transfer of touch choked him and he nipped at nothing in particular. Of course, his hips bucked forward at the same time, thrusting his cock fruitlessly at the empty space beneath her teasing hand. Once he’d done it, he couldn’t stop. He needed something. He’d cry for it, beg if he had to.

But then, the levin was pushing him closer to release without even touching him. Each time he twitched, he breathed a bit louder until he sounded like a wounded animal, and then a wounded man. No mind guided him. His lust had taught his heathen body words:

Bystanders be damned. Guards be damned. He needed to come and, by the gods, the one he loved would have him do it.

“Please,” he said.

She inched her hand down until her index and middle finger framed his hilt. It was something. “More?”

“Yes!” Strength surged in and out of his arms, testing the bind. It held true.

She adjusted her grip so all her fingers circled him. “More?”

“Yes! Gods yes!”

Her hot breath spread across his neck and she stroked him. “More…”

“Yes...please…”

She squeezed his tail once before she started pumping him in earnest, full long strokes, rhythmic and right. Between the blue and her boldness, the fire built fast. Storms roiled in his head and forced white into his vision, an ocean into his ears. He was close. He was closer. Before his orgasm, her name escaped his lips…

...and that’s when she pulled her hand away from his cock and pushed her thumb into his mouth.

He bit like he needed something to hang onto - bit hard - and moaned as come spurted uselessly from his member. He railed into nothing. Hands at grasped nothing but hand. And she let him buck until he thought he had nothing more to offer.

“Raha,” she said, letting go of his tail. It jerked around his waist and whipped to and fro before it wilted around her, along with the rest of his body.

“You…” The only word he could say, and perhaps the only one that mattered. “You.”

She weaved her fingers into the hair at the back of his head and undid his braid, now wet with sweat. “I love you, Raha.”

“And I love - “

The hand he’d forgotten about folded around his yet-throbbing cock and worked.

All of his muscles tensed at once; his ears, his back, his tail all straight and heightened at the gross sensitivity she wrought upon him. It felt like all the elements of his body were collecting at the base of his spine and riding up, up, up -

“Ah-ah-ah-ah-p-p-p-please!”

“Please?”

He couldn’t come again, could he? Could he? Was it pleasure or pain? Blood or lust or aether or lust or love, blinding white love must have been fucking him, fucking him halfway back to the Source. If he’d leaned back far enough - and he did lean back - he thought he might have slipped through as easily as the Warrior managed. Either way, he would see stars.

Finally, she stopped and wrung his head up to plant her lips on his. As drained as he was, his Warrior was hungry, wanting.

He put the rest of his heart into that kiss and rode it until his pulse ebbed back to adagio, and the sash at his wrists grew slack from relaxation.

When she pulled away, she sighed and drooped herself over the platform. The metal of her mail clacked against the surface. “I’m burning,” she said. “I should have...taken more armor off.”

The corners of his lips perked up, though his eyelids yet hung heavy. “Rest assured,” he said-sang. “I would be...more than pleased to help you remove it.”

She panted out a laugh. “I’d not like to put you through anything else.”

“Well, how am I to put you through anything if you won’t untie me?”

She smiled at the ceiling and rubbed her forehead. “What a treasure you are, Raha.”

“Hmm?”

She raised herself on her elbow and beamed a hero’s smile. “What kind of man asks a question like that while bound, stripped, and wet with his own seed?”

He flushed and twisted his fingers around the fabric. A hot smile bloomed on his face, but he couldn’t help but look down as he considered his answer with care.

“Yours.”

[bbclesmis]

Composer John Murphy on Creating A New Musical Identity for ‘Les Miserables’

John Murphy returns from a personal hiatus to score PBS Masterpiece and BBC’s adaptation of Victor Hugo’s classic novel.

When you hear the title Les Miserables, you automatically think of the bombastic and overly played Broadway musical that came to a city near you. Or you saw the film adaptation that won Anne Hathaway her first Oscar a few years back. Since it debuted over 3 decades ago, Les Miserables has won the hearts of millions around the world. John Murphy, however, isn’t really a fan.

You’ve heard the music of John Murphy but you may not know it. I had no idea that he was the man who created that jolting music behind the opening sequence of 28 Weeks Later, and he also composed the lyrical and epic sound to Danny Boyle’s Sunshine (not only an underrated film, but an underrated score).

After taking a personal hiatus to focus on family and his personal life, Murphy wanted to jump back into scoring something completely different. If you look at his resume (you can sample his music here), there isn’t anything like Les Miserables on it. This is a classic tale of redemption with a sprawling scope and massive cast, and that wasn’t lost on Muphy. The score shows a huge amount of range, and he really digs into the minds of the characters. One moment the minds of Jean Valjean and Javert are amplified by the incessant plinking of simple piano strings and the next we are witnessing the horrors of Fantine literally selling her body for the sake of her child.

It’s a familiar story, for sure, but the execution is sophisticated and smart. The music is classic and enthralling in a way that a staged musical never could be.

You haven’t done a big project like this in a long time. Why return from your hiatus with Les Miserables?

I had enough of the movies, to be honest with you. I wanted to spend time with my kids. The spark had gone from me, and I felt that I was going through the motions. I wanted to feel like a human being again. When I decided that I was going to come back, I went in to see my agent, and we sat down to figure out what I wanted to do. I didn’t want to pick up right where I left off—with the wall of the sound, post apocalyptic sort of edgy thing I was getting known for. I wanted to do something a bit more grown up with more weight. I wanted something with gravity. A few days later, my agent said there was interest in my doing Les Miserables. I just cracked up, because, of course, I was thinking of the musical.

I do think that’s everyone’s immediate thought.

I hate musicals. I told my agent that I’d be the worst person for that—I’d mess it up. When he told me it was the book, something clicked. I remember that I read the book years ago. I used to tour a lot, and every time I was on the bus, I’d take a big stack of books. On a tour through France, I read Les Miserables. I loved it. I’ve never seen the musical, and I never want to—it’ll ruin it for me. It’s got everything. It’s got these dark characters wrestling with demons, good versus evil, death, betrayal. When I found out that it was going to be a 6 part adaptation and that it was going to be written by Andre Davies—who did the last War & Peace series—I knew I had to do it.

I had a Skype interview with the producers and the director, Tom Shankand. He was so passionate that I knew he was the real deal. He wanted to go back into the Victor Hugo book. It’s like a French Uncle Tom’s Cabin. Part of what Hugo was trying to do was let the world know of how these people were suffering. He was a brilliant man. He was trying to change legislation—he was a real champion of the poor. Tom wanted to get back to what the story was about and keep it raw. I was sold. A week later I was lucky enough to sit in a read through with the actors. Normally, I get brought onto a movie and they’ve practically finish the cut. It was interesting because they hadn’t even started filming yet.

Oh wow.

Yeah, I got to sit in and listen to their inflections the first time they were reading through it. There were ideas straight away. Lily Collins is this tiny thing, so that vulnerability was there immediately. I got to see Dominic—this huge guy. It was very inspiring. When I came onto it, I thought they weren’t going to start shooting for another 2 or 3 weeks, so I thought I’d have 6 months to wait for it. Then Tom and producers told me they wanted songs written, and I was like…hold on, what do you mean songs. There are these little songs and piano pieces in Hugo’s novel. They asked me if I wanted to do it, and I told them that I had never written anything before they started shooting ever. So I had 3 or 4 weeks writing these things.

With sitting in on that first reading, did it feel like the music could change with the characterizations or maybe that it would even help build the characters? I’ve never heard of a composer getting to see that so early.

Neither have I! With these great actors, it was amazing to see them. With David Oyelowo, you could see the posture he adopted—just reading it aloud. And I thought to myself, “That’s not natural.” There were all these different things I was watching—with him especially. When you’re composing in a medium that you already know about, you’ve got to make the distinction that you’re not scoring the book. You’re scoring this new retelling of the story. You have to be sensitive to what this new version is going to me. So, for me, watching David to his read through, he did a very quiet, controlled voice. It was different than the book. The same with Dominic. Dominic was a lot warmer with his Valjean than I remember the character being. I was putting notes in my phone and a lot of the things I felt that day helped me later on.

Once they started shooting, I just faded back to LA, and I was on my own. Just being there that day and cross referencing that with the scripts allowed me to write most of the scenes before they dropped the first episode with me. I got a real head start. I couldn’t write anything to picture, obviously, but by the time they gave me the first episode made such a big difference. I was lucky that when I agreed to do it, the read through was 5 days later. It was an amazing experience.

The miniseries has such beloved characters—whether you’re familiar with the book or the musical. Was there someone you really liked writing themes or motifs for?

It’s obviously to say the two main characters, but for them that was the biggest well. And it’s not just character scenes. I think some of my favorite things in there were the hulks scenes. I wanted to have something that felt utterly repetitive. What would be the repetitive sound of nothingness of this guy’s life? I ended up climbing inside the piano and muted some strings and was tapping one of the low piano strings with my finger to get this “dun…dun…dun…” It was this annoyingly repetitious thing that is so uncomfortable because you’re waiting for the chord to change. And it kind of doesn’t for ages. His biggest fear is getting caught. As soon as Javert sees him again at the factory you hear very quietly the “dun…dun…dun…”  I was trying to do the John Williams thing with Jaws. If he can do it with two notes, I wanted to do it with one. I thought it was a way to be effective without being necessarily musical. It’s not necessarily the character themes, but it’s the situational themes.

That repetitiveness feeds into Javert’s obsession with catching him.

You’re absolutely right. Javert’s version of it was much lower. His driving force throughout the whole story is his skewed sense of justice. In episode 3, 10 years have passed and he’s receiving the Medal of Honor, and when the camera comes to his face, it means nothing to him because this one man got away. You see him go to his room afterwards and when he starts eating his meal, you can see he does not taste it. Then you hear the lower version of the same theme and this hunger will never go away until he’s caught Valjean. It was a nice way to tie in the repetitive life of Valjean in prison with Javert’s mechanical obsession. It’s sort of Javert’s state of mind theme actually.

One of the most distinct pieces of music is when Fantine cuts her hair off and her teeth are ripped out of her mouth. The music feels like the score of a horror movie.

It was such a difficult decision to do it that way. Some people at the BBC said, “You can’t do it that way!” We had this scratchy viola when she gets her teeth pulled out. I thought it’s more gruesome without music. I argued with Tom because I thought that you need to hear the sounds of the teeth getting wrenched, and he said it’s too hardcore. We needed music to remind people they are watching television. I had that little theme for her on a music box with whole carnival. I wanted to do it a bit more macabre cinema—a bit otherworldly with this circus vibe. The guy who does the teeth pulling already has this painted face and hands, so I played into that. What changed it was I had this wonderful violist named Andy.

I need something to be whimsical but also be kind of fucked up and edgy. We had him in the studio and we were working through some articulations. We tried it with harmonica and tried it with the bow going one way and then the other, and then we tried putting it all together. We came up with this sound and I take no credit for it—it was him. It was swirling around and it was so fucked up. So we pulled the picture up, and we started as if we don’t know what’s going to happen to Fantine. Like she’s just going to get a haircut but we know it’s going to get bad. When we go into the teeth pulling, we were going let loose a little bit. There’s a moment when the old woman grab’s Fantine’s shoulders and pulls her back, and I thought wouldn’t it be cool if we did a viola version of the great guitar crash of Radiohead’s “Creep”? I asked him if he could do an 18/16, Johnny Greenwood crash in when he goes to take the teeth. He did it in one take. It made it completely over-the-top, but sometimes you gotta say fuck it. We may get hung for this, but let’s go for it.

I was going to ask if you used any nontraditional sounds in that sequence.

It sounds like a Les Paul with a lot of pedals with a lot of distortion. It was just the sound that we were getting from the viola. Once we had that sound, we wanted to use it in other places.

The scratching sound reminded me of the sounds people are scared of when they go to the dentist. It helped that she’s getting her teeth yanked out, so thank you for scaring the crap out of me with that.

We did use some non-orchestral sounds, but in that moment it just happened to be an orchestral instrument making that metal scraping sound. I hate the dentist too, so that sound really helped. It’s what you get with great musician.

There is obviously a lot of heavy material with this piece of fiction. When you get to do something different for the story—like the sweeping romance for Cosette and Marius—was that a welcome change?

It really did. Tom had an idea of what he wanted, and I had an idea of how I wanted to do it. He wanted a very gnarly folk score and to just use the music of the day. My original idea was 1816 Velvet Underground meets classic French 60’s romantic film music so we had these really light highs with grungy darkness. We ended kind of meeting in the middle. Some of the Velvet Underground stayed. What we both loved was when we went to the world of Cosette and Marius, we went to a stylized version of what she thinks love is. She’s just this abused kid who goes to live in a convent, so she has no idea what it really is. She’s 16, so she has every right to be romantic about everything. When we got to play her frame of mind, we got to play this romantic style. It was a relief after all the dirty stuff we’d be doing. I never thought I’d say that I was ready to get into some of that love stuff.

Since it’s 6 hours, this version really feels like 3 movies stacked on top of one another. Did the size of it all intimidate you?

I’ve done movies that have become big. My first thought was like, “I can’t win here.” Even though I’ve never seen the musical, people are going to watch it and wonder where those songs are. I didn’t think it was intimidating, but I did feel like I had a monkey on my back. Whatever I do, it’s not going to be the musical. A cloud that was always there. The only way to get through that is to completely own it. It’s clear that we aren’t trying to reference the show in any way. The first time I got the first episode, I think I was in denial. When I told people that I was doing it, they got so excited. But the first time I saw those famous two words come up on the screen, I thought, “Fuuuuck.” I had a beer and calmed down and we were fine from there. One small moment, and I got my shit together.

Les Miserables is streaming now.

https://www.awardsdaily.com/2019/05/06/john-murphy-interview/

[glapplebloom]

I’m doing this with sutures on my Right Elbow. So I do hope you appreciate it.

This was my first assignment under the new researching method. Despite my name, I was doing the research for Jin. Among the Vs Community, it seems Jin seems to win over Ryu and I wanted to see how much of it was true. And for a while, Jin was looking to be the winner. And yes, this was considered with scaling. But eventually, when numbers were being exchanged, Ryu’s stuff proved to be superior. Jin has the speed but without power behind it, it was Ryu’s for the taking.

My research (outside my knowledge of Ryu) was all focused on Jin. All the game appearances including Tag Tournament and SFxT, any comic I could find (Titan, Online, and Forever) and yes even the movies. The Live Action one wasn’t so bad. But BLOOD VENGEANCE was so boring. There is only one, I repeat, one good scene in that movie: Jin Vs Heihachi Vs Kazuya. If you want something that summarizes their entire relationship, that’s the fight. Once the Devil Versions come in, you can stop watching.

If you noticed the rundown, you may have saw Shin Ryu. This is a form in the Udon comics where he combines the Power of Nothingness with the Satsui No Hado. With this power boost, he defeats Gill and Oni. While it was mentioned, it wasn’t ultimately focused on because of multiple factors: one of which the comic seems to take place before V but after 3, which doesn’t make sense.

See this shot? I requested it to be in the fight. Though I did so as the finisher. Other things I suggested was referencing this scene for Devil Jin, and that the pun of the episode being “I guess the Devil Gene can’t do what the Hado Can.”

To me, the best Death Battle was TJ Combo Vs Balrog. And I’ve been hearing that people’s new favorite is Jin Vs Ryu. And seeing it, I can definitely agree and may have to consider it myself. Both fights feature lyrics by Omega Sparx. Coincidence?

Of course, no Death Battle is without complaint. One I hear about is how the scaling worked. Since Kazuya fought Akuma, people assume that Jin could scale to him in A>B>C logic. This really won’t work for numerous reasons. 

First, Tekken 7 Akuma isn’t SF Akuma. While the Raging Demon can be seen as one for one, it is entirely possible that this version of Akuma is weaker than the main canon version.

Second, we do not know the results of the fight. Devil Kazuya and Akuma’s fight ends inconclusively. Even if Kazuya returns in Tekken 8 and Akuma doesn’t doesn’t mean he won. Like Heihachi before, Akuma could think he was done and left him alone.

And finally, despite everything he threw at him, Akuma took it all. So right there you can’t even say Kazuya scales to Akuma. While I don’t like scaling, the true way of scaling is if the one person proves superior to the other. And Kazuya does not prove it.

Do you know where this comic page of Akuma destroying a meteor came from? You’re half right. It is an Udon work. But the source was Capcom Fighting Evolution. And you thought me having him beat Cell was outlandish.

(Art by etubi92)

The next assignment where I’m the head researcher is after Jack Vs Afro. And we’re 5 episodes away from #100. So see you then.

[bthump]

My Big Gay Berserk Analysis 3

Casca’s Role

Part One Part Two

In this post I’m going to discuss how Casca’s narrative role as a love interest overlaps with her narrative role as a substitute for Griffith, how those roles ultimately serve the main story that is the love/hate relationship between Guts and Griffith, and how Miura utilizes her as an emotional/sexual conduit between the two while also conveniently no-homoing them. Plus some additional straightforward stuff on Guts and his crush on Griffith here and there.

Advance warning: this is long. Looooooong. Also be warned that I do touch on the hound and the Eclipse, but only in one section of this post.

I also want to make clear upfront that I love Casca but I dislike the Guts/Casca romance subplot, for many reasons including my general dislike of most het, Guts’ awful treatment of her, and the sense I get that she’s been inserted as a buffer between Guts and Griffith, but mostly because I think the romance was added almost entirely to set up the destruction of Casca as a character for the sake of Guts’ manpain.

So yeah going in you should be aware that this is Guts/Casca negative. I don’t consider their romantic feelings for each other a valuable part of Berserk, and I spend a lot of time calling the legitimacy of those feelings into question. If that sounds like it’ll piss you off but you still want more Guts/Griffith content, you can totally just skip to part 4 without missing any necessary information for that part.

Ok that said, let’s get into it.

We’ll go back to the Golden Age eventually but I’m going to jump ahead first and start at chapter 130, during Guts’ night of self-reflection after he returns to Godo’s cave and finds Casca missing.

Guts is basically having an internal debate about whether or not his revenge rampage was worth abandoning Casca. He eventually emphatically concludes that it was in fact not worth it and he fucked right up when he draws this connection:

Again again again again. I’m starting here because it’s one of the most clear and straightforward examples of Guts viewing Casca as a replacement for Griffith. The connection is drawn explicitly - he considers abandoning Casca to be the equivalent of abandoning Griffith and drawing that parallel is what motivates him to save her.

But despite wanting to start atoning for past mistakes, he still intends to abandon her in a cave again after he gets her back.

“Actually, I only half mean it.”

Cue this #iconic page:

Now I talk about this page all the damn time because of how off the charts gay it is, but more importantly right now is that it draws a strong contrast between Casca and Griffith. It begins with “Just as I got her back... no, in the middle of swinging my sword to get her back...”

In the middle of getting her back... he... saw him. By framing Griffith’s appearance as an interruption that rips his attention away from rescuing Casca, Guts expresses the feeling that he’s torn between them. And of course he is, we see this throughout the rest of the manga, in his internal struggle not to toss Casca aside (or worse) and run after Griffith to, “give him... a heap of raw iron.”

We also see this inner conflict during NeoGriffith’s appearance when this happens:

But as of right now, Griffith has won the fight for Guts’ attention.

Guts’ half truth, as far as I can tell, is that he’s going to help make Godo’s cave a little homier and then take off again after Griffith.

As we saw in chapter 130 he decided to dedicate himself to getting Casca back, and we can assume that he fully intended to give up his revenge quest at that point. Godo tore him a new one over abandoning her to fight monsters, Guts realized he’s been being a dick, and he’s figured that maybe staying and helping take care of Casca is a better way of dealing with his issues than going back on a rampage, especially since last time he saw Femto he couldn’t even come close to touching him.

But then Skull Knight tells him the Godhand are going to be around, there’s going to be another version of the Eclipse, and we see Guts conflicted again:

Anyway Isidro ultimately saves Casca, she and Guts are reunited, and Griffith appears. Maybe Guts’ original plan was to stay with Casca and forget revenge, but now Griffith is reachable, he’s on the same plane of existence, and to top it all off, he’s hot again!

And no I’m not joking, I absolutely think that Guts’ sexual attraction to Griffith is, for the first time since Promrose Hall, being clearly visually conveyed again. I already posted that iconic page in which Guts pictures Griffith’s ass and gets distracted from revenge, but there’s more where that came from.

Griffith's sexiness is genuinely an important plot and thematic point lol, but it’s Guts eyes we’re shown that through, and holy shit does his gaze get a lot of attention in this scene. And why? Because Griffith’s reachable again. When he’s monstrous and demonic he’s out of reach on a whole nother plane of existence and shown as distant and untouchable:

When he’s incarnated as a physical being again he’s said to be “the desired,” he’s so beautiful no one can shut up about it, and imo Guts’ temptation to pursue him now that he’s “where [his] sword can reach,” is tied to the sexual temptation on display here.

Basically, while he’s certainly not intending to pursue Griffith so he can literally fuck him, there are blatant sexual undertones to his desire for revenge that ramp up hard and fast real soon, and they start with Griffith’s sexy as fuck rebirth.

And to elaborate on how the depiction of Griffith is a huge contrast here to the depiction of Casca:

Casca is shown at her least sexualized. She’s wrapped in a shapeless cloak and mirroring Erika, depicted as utterly childlike.

And this is Griffith:

Griffith is the temptation, he’s the one Guts wants to pursue, and Casca is the responsibility, and this is shown loud and clear through Griffith’s intense desirability and Guts’ enthrallment at the sight of him vs Casca’s desexualized childishness.

As for the Hill of Swords reunion

“More like someone out of a fairytale.”

Not overly relevant but it’s a fun detail that “He was so pretty” is on Guts’ face while “someone out of a fairytale” is on Griffith’s image.

That sound - like Griffith’s apparent acknowledgement, at long last, is a physical blow. Love it.

But of course then Griffith’s like, I came to see you to test my capacity for emotion, and it looks like this whole emotionless demon thing was a success. And this is Guts’ reaction - not rage, or at least, not solely rage, but so much hurt too:

Look at those sad eyebrows man. This scene thoroughly shows us how emotionally conflicted and confused Guts is. He’s angry, he’s hurt, he’s full of longing both for revenge and for “the way he he used to be,” and after everything he still wants acknowledgement, he still wants Griffith to look at him.

“I’ll not betray my dream. That is all.”

And it’s now that Guts finally attacks. So far he’s let Rickert hold him back, then shoved him away only to scream “you don’t feel anything?!” instead of rushing him. But when NeoGriff tells Guts in no uncertain terms that his dream is not only more important, but his sole priority, Guts snaps.

I do think it’s really easy to read this scene as Guts looking for a hint that Griffith still cares about him, along with the hope that he feels regret for what he’s done. Guts had a lot of misconceptions about Griffith’s feelings, but by the time of the Eclipse he’d realized that Griffith loved him - he’d left to seek something (love and respect and affection, friendship and equality) he already had and, in leaving, lost it.

Scroll back up to that first picture I posted, he says it right there: “Did I lose something before I even noticed it again?! Without even realizing I’d thrown it from the palm of my hand!” There’s a small part of him that was still hoping, now that Griffith is un-demonized, that his heart and his love had returned with his human body, that it’s not lost forever. But in declaring that he’s free, NeoGriffith shoots that hope down.

Anyway big fight, cave collapses, Griffith’s heart starts doing shit unbeknownst to Guts, he mysteriously saves Casca and takes off, and Guts

says he won’t abandon Casca again and decides to escort her to Elfhelm, with his dickish reluctance handily pointed out by Decent Person Puck lol.

Now look at this shit:

“Weren’t those Godo’s parting words?” Says Guts to Rickert to convince him to stay with Erika.

“You should have known. This is the man I am.”

Don’t abandon what you can’t replace. He finally learned that lesson when he compared abandoning Casca to abandoning Griffith. He frames his choice to stay with Casca as making up for it. Guts once deserted Griffith, now Griffith has deserted him, so he’s promising not to desert Casca. Given that Guts’ mind is solely on deserting and being deserted by Griffith, as opposed to that time when he left Casca in a cave for two years and she wandered off, “I won’t desert you anymore. This time... I won’t lose you,” is given a double meaning of applying to Casca while also referencing losing Griffith.

But what’s with that interlude up there of Guts remembering Griffith saving Casca? The man Guts “knows” NeoGriffith is, the man who dgaf about anything except his dream, isn’t the man who would randomly decide to save Casca from falling rocks. Guts is shown thinking about that apparent contradiction immediately before “I won’t leave you behind. I won’t... desert you anymore.”

Taken all together, to me this scene comes across as so utterly Griffith centric that it makes Casca feel like an afterthought, conveniently there so Guts can take some form of action in response to his extremely Griffith-centred emotions.

Guts charlie brown walks away because Griffith “deserted” him. Guts draws a comparison between abandoning Griffith and abandoning Casca, and being abandoned by NeoGriffith and refusing to abandon Casca. Guts remembers NeoGriffith saying he knows what kind of man he is right before recalling him saving Casca.

Then he declares he won’t desert her again - and I have to wonder if part of what gives him the willpower to take a break from his revenge quest despite NeoGriffith residing so temptingly in his plane of existence now is the ambiguity of NeoGriffith’s actions here, casting “the kind of man” he is now into doubt and deflating Guts’ rage boner the same way he says seeing NeoGriffith looking “so human... the way he used to be” makes him forget his “urge to kill.” It hardly seems like a stretch given how much of Guts’ decision here is explicitly shown to be about Griffith.

So far, post-Eclipse, Casca’s been treated as a prop for Guts’ internal conflict between revenge and not being a dick - a symbol of his lingering humanity. She exists to be put into peril so Guts can decide to save her and then waver between her and Griffith. She’s the poster girl for failing to pass the sexy lamp test. It’s real depressing, and it’s about to get worse.

Enter Beast of Darkness.

Now we’re at the really bad shit, but also the actual most explicit verbal suggestion of Guts’ sexual attraction to Griffith, so it’s impossible to skip in a post on the topic. Plus there’s no point pretending that Casca isn’t done incredibly dirty by both the narrative and Guts.

It’s important to understand that the Hound is Guts. It’s not an evil malicious spirit trying to manipulate and possess Guts (which I have seen suggested before), it’s simply Guts’ dark emotions given substance. Just on the off chance this statement requires support for you, here’s a post on the subject. This scene is pretty much Guts arguing with his id.

And the way it’s framed with “dreams of him?” “let’s go to him” coming first on the image of an eager, excited puppy, followed by the teeth and “heap of raw iron” feels so deliberate to me. Guts wants violent revenge but it’s a feeling complicated by the fact that he loved Griffith, that he once strove to be his equal, to be considered his friend, and now he strives to kill him.

Like Guts facing Femto in the Black Swordsman arc, like Guts pleading for a shred of regret from NeoGriffith, there’s still an element of Guts wanting Griffith’s acknowledgement here.

More direct comparisons between Casca and Griffith and how Guts feels about them. Who’s more precious, your love interest or your arch nemesis?

And I’m not here to say that Guts doesn’t care for Casca and only cares about Griffith. As this scene shows, he’s torn between them, but he’s chosen Casca now, and he’s trying to get his doubts and his rage and his suppressed attraction to Griffith that’s now coming to the surface, coloured by hate, to shut the fuck up. But these are his own doubts.

“The wound Griffith left, because you want to keep feeling the pain he caused you?” Okay, certainly an eyebrow raising description here but all right, this is about Guts’ motivation to kill Griffith. The Hound is suggesting he values Casca only as fuel for his rage. Which certainly seems like a relevant suggestion after Guts’ “I'd forgotten my urge to kill. And that... can’t be.” His rage needs fuel. So while that’s surely not all there is to his feelings for Casca, the Hound isn’t making shit up. Again, this is essentially Guts internally debating what his true motivations are.

Longing. Hell of a word choice. Granted I can’t double check the translation with others because I’m incapable of tracking down old raws (tho I did a cursory search on skullknight.net to see if anyone had criticized the translation of this scene and didn’t find anything) but this is such a boldly romanticized choice of phrasing that I feel it’s safe to assume the undertones are there in the original Japanese. You don’t accidentally describe someone’s urge to kill a dude as “longing” for him. That’s a blatantly deliberate double entendre.

And on top of that it fits right in with the Hound’s first eager, excited words to Guts in this scene. Again, it’s an illustration that Guts’ vengeful feelings are complex, and intertwined with his original feelings for Griffith.

And then the Hound tells Guts to rape Casca so he can get closer to Griffith and I throw up my hands.

There’s so much innuendo and homoeroticism in the lead up to this (including earlier, w/ Griffith’s sexy rebirth scene and the reunion on the Hill of Swords, ft Guts thinking about Griffith’s ass), and then this scene just doubles down as hard as possible. “Let’s give him... a heap of raw iron,” “because you want to keep feeling the pain he caused you,” “she’s a sacrifice so you can continue longing for Griffith,” “you’ll get closer and closer to Griffith.” The innuendo in this scene makes it one of the most homoerotic scenes in the manga.

Like, tl;dr Guts’ vengeful pursuit of Griffith is tied so thoroughly to sex in this nightmare that tbh I have a hard time calling this subtext.

And while it is absolutely homophobic for one of the gayest scenes in the manga to basically tie Guts’ desire for Griffith to his desire for revenge and a suggestion to rape and kill Casca, it’s also worth noting that this isn’t exactly Guts’ desire for revenge being given a dark sexual element.

This is the Beast of Darkness using Guts’ pre-existing desire for Griffith to try to tempt him into sticking a sword in him. Still fucked up, obviously, but it’s at least deeper and more interesting than the alternative.

The earlier parallels I described, Guts comparing leaving Griffith and leaving Casca, etc, draw an emotional connection between Guts and Griffith through Casca as, essentially, a bridge. Guts is assuaging his desire to go back and fix his mistakes by replacing Griffith with Casca and refusing to leave her. Casca has become an outlet for Guts’ feelings about missed opportunities with Griffith.

This chapter draws a very direct sexual connection between Guts and Griffith through Casca as a bridge. By raping the woman Femto raped, Guts can get closer to him.

And it is, of course, not the first time the manga has done this. Femto’s unwavering stare into Guts’ eye(s) during the Eclipse rape scene isn’t subtle, though I don’t intend to go into it in detail as this is about Guts’ sexual desire, not Griffith/Femto’s. I feel like the stare (the fucking stare omg) speaks for itself.

I mention this only to make the point that there’s an established precedent for Casca bearing the brunt of these dudes’ repressed feelings for each other, whether it’s genuinely intended to be interpreted as repressed sexual desire or whether it’s meant to be platonic spite/longing to get closer and closer to Griffith no homo. It’s not fair, it’s bad writing on several levels, it’s both misogynist and homophobic, but there you go.

Ultimately my main takeaway here is that Berserk would be about 500x less fucked up and offensive if Guts and Griffith just cut out the middlewoman and fucked each other.

Okay, that’s enough of that. Let’s go back to the Golden Age.

So far I’ve done my best to show that, post-Eclipse, Guts’ relationship with Casca largely revolves around his feelings for Griffith, both regretful and vengeful, and the fucked-up sexual component of his relationship with her also relates to the sexual component of his relationship with Griffith. So what about pre-Eclipse? Does the same principle hold true then, back when Casca was an actual character and not just a plot device and projection screen for Guts?

And I would argue that it does. It’s less in-your-face about it, but tbh not by a whole lot.

Casca and Guts start off as romantic rivals for Griffith’s affection. Only Casca is aware of this, since Guts’ attraction to Griffith is subconscious and repressed imo, but that’s their early dynamic. Their first emotionally intimate scene together, when they finally stop hating each other and start to bond as friends, is when Casca tells Guts her backstory, which happens to be almost entirely about Griffith.

The Casca chapters end with Casca crying about Griffith having fallen in love with Guts and not her (”Why... why did it have to be you?”), but all Guts manages to get out of Casca’s story is that she’s into Griffith, so after he decides to leave he starts trying to be a good bro and set them up. Finally, right before Guts leaves, Judeau introduces him to the concept of hooking up with Casca.

During the course of this conversation Guts does a kind of 180:

to

“The one who has her eye... is Griffith. That’s why... right now... I’m no good for her... like this.”

This is presented like part of Guts’ motivation for becoming Griffith’s equal is to be worthy of Casca, but we’ve seen his thought process for wanting to be Griffith’s equal, and Casca has never figured into it. He’d completely written her off before this chat with Judeau, as we see at the start, and he certainly never seemed to be consciously aware of the possibility of getting with her. 

He’s been trying to set her up with Griffith for several chapters - pushing her into his arms, mentioning her dress to him, suggesting she ask him to dance, carrying her down to see him after Doldrey, saying “good luck with Griffith,” to her as he heads out, and now telling Judeau he expects them to get together.

There are three possible explanations for this behaviour:

1. Guts just wants to be a good bro and help his friends be happy together. 2. Guts is sublimating his unconscious desire for Casca into trying to hook her up with Griffith. 3. Guts is sublimating his unconscious desire for Griffith into trying to hook him up with Casca.

I think maybe Miura wants us to think it’s #2. Hence Guts’ awkward sweatdrop when Judeau brings her up, hence Guts complimenting her dress before mentioning it to Griffith, hence Guts carrying her down to him bridal style after Doldrey, hence Guts swiveling from “Less a woman I see her as... a comrade,” to “That’s why... right now... I’m no good for her... like this,” within seconds.

Yk, he’s subconsciously attracted to her now and acts on that attraction by trying to hook her up with Griffith to make her happy, but once Judeau tells him that’s not an option, he can admit that he’s attracted to her.

(And, just to throw something out there, once we establish that Berserk has subtextual, repressed sexual desire in this love triangle it only adds more validation to the other combinations. Even if we are genuinely meant to read Guts as unknowingly attracted to Casca, it puts unknowing attraction on the table. Who else might he be unknowingly attracted to? Casca also apparently took some time to recognize her feelings for Griffith as potentially romantic. Lots of subconscious desire wrapped up in this love triangle, I’m js. But lol I digress.)

That said, I’m here to argue that, whatever Miura’s intentions may be (and hell they may be exactly this), it comes across as option #3.

I’ve already gone through the first part of the Golden Age to highlight how Guts looks at him and how visuals suggest attraction. After Promrose, that fades away because Guts no longer views Griffith as reachable, rather, he puts him on a pedestal. Enter Casca, right at the point where Guts is deciding what to do with the “fact” that Griffith doesn’t give a fuck about him.

Suddenly he gets invested in setting Griffith up with Casca, who he views as more worthy of Griffith because she has a dream (be Griffith’s sword) and he doesn’t.

This is when Guts starts pushing them together. He’s encouraging Casca to take his place at Griffith’s side, whether he realizes the implications of that or not - at the very least he knows that Casca believes Griffith feels things for him she wishes he felt for her, even if Guts doesn’t believe that Griffith truly values him.

“Until that day. The day you showed up...”

What’s interesting to me is that Guts recognizes that Casca wants to fuck Griffith lmao. He’s hooking them up romantically, even though Casca never directly says she’s in love with Griffith, and only alludes to her feelings in terms of being pissed off at Guts for stealing Griffith away from her side.

Guts doesn’t believe he himself is close to Griffith after overhearing the Promrose speech, but he seems to realize that Casca is jealous of him, manages to interpret that (correctly) as Casca wanting to bone Griffith, and yet still doesn’t realize that Griffith’s feelings for him may be a lot more significant than he thinks. Feels like repression at work to me.

Guts wants Casca to take his perceived place at Griffith’s side, except Casca’s theoretically able to do so romantically bc she’s a woman, so there’s plenty of heteronormativity at work too, though whether that’s coming from Miura or Guts I can’t say.

So yeah after Judeau explains the plot of Berserk to him and keeps nudging him towards Casca, Guts agrees that maybe he could hook up with her... but only if he becomes Griffith’s equal first.

So the other way of looking at this is that, rather than suddenly changing Guts’ entire motivation out of nowhere from “become Griffith’s equal to be his friend” to “become Griffith’s equal to get with Casca,” and generally being bizarrely terrible writing, this instead neatly situates a future relationship with Casca, in which she sees him as just as good for her as Griffith, as proof that he’s on the road to achieving his goal of becoming Griffith’s equal.

Which holds true later on - Guts and Casca’s relationship is not an endgame for Guts, it’s not his goal, it’s another step. He still intends to go back out and keep pursuing his own dream. He’s still motivated by wanting to be Griffith’s equal.

So yeah, Judeau’s like, whatever, I tried, Guts ducks out, and shit proceeds to go down.

Fast forward a year.

Guts comes back. Casca, interestingly, has taken over Griffith’s most notable narrative role as leader of the Hawks. Everyone sits down around the campfire.

Rickert tries to explain things to Guts:

Look what Judeau does! He’s telling Rickert to shut up.

Judeau is... weirdly invested in Guts and Casca getting together. Setting them up is largely his motivation in the latter half of the Golden Age, as far as I can tell.

After this moment he changes the subject to:

Subtle, Judeau.

I think it’s telling that Guts never comes up with the idea of hooking up with Casca on his own. He’s led to it by resident shipper on board Judeau, every time. The same dude trying to avoid any mention of Griffith’s feelings for Guts now. Why? Because he wants Guts and Casca to leave together after they rescue Griffith, and he has a feeling Guts won’t want to if he figures out how Griffith actually feels about him.

Whether by accident of slapdash writing by Kentaro I actually hadn’t planned for Guts and Casca to get together, you know — it just occurred to me partway through that it’d be more dramatic that way Miura or design, Guts’ interest in Casca comes across as pretty damn narratively forced to me, and the fact that Judeau has to be there to constantly nudge Guts in that direction doesn’t help.

Waterfall time!

Hey here’s something interesting about this scene:

This is when Guts first starts trying to fix his mistakes by substituting Casca for Griffith, imo.

Casca attacks him while screaming that he ruined Griffith by leaving. As the point finally hits home, so does the point of Casca’s sword as Guts, shocked, lets her stab him.

Before Guts can really draw a useful conclusion from Casca’s diatribe, she offers a distraction from the subject at hand by trying to kill herself while bequeathing Griffith to him.

“I couldn’t be a woman. Or something invaluable. To keep on protecting the almost broken dream of someone who might not even be alive...“

Guts didn’t save the last Hawk leader who had a self destructive breakdown after dueling him.

Presented with another person who seems to need him, who is desperate and lost and needs comfort, this time he does something.

And what really makes me believe this is actually, for real the correct reading of this scene - that, to Guts, Casca is a substitution for Griffith here - is that Casca is doing the exact. Same. Thing.

Griffith is (seemingly) unreachable, (seemingly) emotionally and romantically unavailable, but Guts and Casca aren’t.

And they kiss for the first time right after Casca tells Guts how Griffith felt about him, right after Guts lets Casca stab him because of it, right after the memory of Griffith kneeling in the snow, and the beginnings of the realization that by leaving he lost what he set out to earn, hit him, right after Casca tells him that Griffith is his responsibility now. It’s hard not to take that as Guts using Casca as a substitution for Griffith, giving her what he’s now very slowly beginning to realize he should’ve given Griffith.

Guts and Casca getting together here is two people obsessed with the same person trying to offer the other what they couldn’t offer him: comfort. And sex.

Once again a scene that looks like it’s going to be about Casca and Guts, that should be if this was a typical romance, turns out to revolve around Griffith.

And on the subject of Guts leaving Griffith in the snow instead of kneeling down and kissing him the way he responds to Casca much later, how about Griffith going out and getting self-destructively laid while thinking about Guts after the duel? Thematically there’s a very well-defined empty space where Griffith and Guts connecting romantically would’ve fit, is what I’m saying, but they didn’t. They both sought out other sexual connections to compensate for the loss of each other.

Finally, here’s the straightforward account of how Guts and Casca are feeling three days later with Griffith’s imminent return to their lives. Casca confesses to Guts that she’s still jealous of Charlotte, Guts gets pissy, but then thinks:

I hate that you’re still hung up on Griffith but I’d be a huge hypocrite if I got mad because I’m even more hung up on Griffith.

Which pretty much sums it up.

And I think I can stop there. There’s a lot more to say in the lead-in to the Eclipse about Guts’ intense feelings for Griffith, but when it comes to sexual attraction specifically, and how Casca figures into it, I think I’ll call it a day.

I hope I’ve made a decent case for Guts’ feelings for Casca, both positive and hugely fucked up, being largely built out of redirected feelings for Griffith. Whatever the reasons for this - actual authorial intent, intended redirection of Guts’s platonic bro feelings but adding sex bc Casca’s a woman so it’s obligatory without realizing how gay that looks, me totally reading into a half-assed het subplot created for the sake of more Eclipse drama, whatever - this is earnestly how Guts’ relationship with Casca reads to me.

In the final part I’m going to conclude this epic adventure in homoeroticism with what is essentially a “why I ship them,” going into why I think it makes perfect sense, from both a character and a thematic perspective, for Guts to be sexually attracted to Griffith. Stay tuned.

shout out to @mastermistressofdesire bc we’ve had a few conversations about this subject and some of your ideas really helped me coalesce these thoughts. Ty!

Part Four

[jouissezduprintemps]

Something to Gain, Chapter Seven: Rasa’s Daughter

Rating: T Words: 3052 Fandom: Naruto Summary: Sequel to Something to Prove. Shikamaru and Temari navigate their relationship now that it’s in the public eye.

Something to Prove   First     Previous      Next

Kankuro stuck his hands in his pockets as he walked down the empty corridor, on his way to his brother’s office. Evening had fallen, and the building was mostly empty at this time of day. Gaara was always the first to arrive and the last to leave; Kankuro had come to remind him that he needed to eat and suggest that he join the rest of his family to do so. In the dimly-lit passage, he grew too comfortable in the relative silence. He was startled when a voice shouted, shaking through the building.

“Damn it, Joseki!” Tojuro shouted, slamming his hands down on his colleague’s desk. “We gave you your two days. Baki is the only council member who agrees with you. Rasa would never stand for this!”

“Rasa is dead.”

“And we have a demon ruling in his place! You think this is stability?!”

Kankuro hid himself inside one of the darkened alcoves that littered the hallway. Once displays for Suna’s treasures, they had long since been abandoned in favor of proper storage. At the moment, they were perfect to conceal himself from sight. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Tojuro was far too bold if he was voicing such opinions.

“Careful, Tojuro,” Joseki’s voice remained calm and even. “The wrong person might hear and accuse you of treason.”

“Right. Rasa’s daughter goes and makes herself a Konoha whore, but I’m the one committing treason,” Tojuro spat.

“Get out of my office.” The next word was a growl. “Now.”

Tojuro stormed through the door, slamming it hard enough to rattle the wall. Kankuro remained concealed. A quick series of hand signs produced a clone, which he sent to follow the loud-mouthed councilman. He needed to report to Gaara, and quickly. If Tojuro was indeed their information leak, he was likely to slip up when his anger ran high. After a few seconds, when he could be sure that Joseki wouldn’t leave his office, Kankuro hurried down the hallway as quietly as possible.

“I don’t need to practice. I know what I’m going to say.” Temari ran a comb through her hair as she spoke. “Besides, none of it really matters. Once Gaara finds the leak, he’ll come forward with how all of this was planned. Those councilmen can shove their walking sticks back up their asses and get on with their lives.”

“See, when you say things like that, it makes me think you should give it another run-through.” Shikamaru’s eyes scanned the paper in his hand, moving over the outline that he, Temari, and Gaara had agreed upon.

“I’m just tired,” Temari explained as she turned the knob on the sink, letting cold water run through the pipes. “I’ve talked more to people in the last few days than I do in a year. That’s a lot for me.”

Shikamaru hummed his acknowledgement, listening as she splashed her face. After a moment, he looked up and admitted, “I’m worried that we don’t have any solid leads.”

“We’ll have Ino’s sensory skills in the council chamber with us. If anyone reacts, we’ll know. Kankuro will be watching the village from the aviary; Choji is going to patrol the kazekage building, where we’ll be. Baki is going to lead a training exercise for the guard as an excuse to keep watch over the gates. If they show themselves, they won’t have a chance. I imagine they’ll assume I can’t, or won’t, fight because they think I’m pregnant. Trust me, we have the upper hand.”

Well, at least she wasn’t worried about it. If only he could be so sure. “Lady Tsunade is going to have a field day with this when I file my report.”

“You’re helping preserve the alliance from outside forces. Yeah, it’s a little unorthodox, but Ino’s the one who needs to take the fall for that.”

“You’re not wrong.”

“Now, stop using all your energy thinking of contingencies. I need you sharp for tomorrow morning.” She took the paper from his hands and set it on her dresser, well out of his reach. “We’re too far gone to back out now.”

She might as well have been walking into her own trial. The judgmental glares of the councilmen tried to burrow into her skin as she approached the table, at which she boldly took her usual seat. Ino stood behind her chair to her right, severe and unyielding in her assumed position as bodyguard. The role came naturally to her, which was a blessing to the operation. To Ino’s left stood Shikamaru, who did his best not to look alert. The village knew him as the lackadaisical chunin exam proctor; to change his demeanor would be a complete giveaway.

Gaara glanced to his immediate left to look at his sister. To his right, Kankuro’s seat sat empty. It would be incredibly taboo to invite Shikamaru to take the seat, even if there was no real reason for him to stand. The gesture of allowing a Konoha nin to sit at the Suna council table would be too bold a move.

Temari’s eyes were cold as she stared down each of the councilmen in turn, daring them to make the first move. Her power play worked in her favor, and she decided to push it further. She shifted in her chair and leaned forward, placing her elbows on the table and weaving her fingers together. “I know I wasn’t called to the council to be gawked at. If you gentlemen have something to say, I suggest you do it.” Her challenge hung in the air, refusing to be ignored.

Shikamaru resisted the urge to wince at her brash tone. She clearly thought she’d already won, even though the battle hadn’t started. For now, all he could do was stand back.

Sajo, the narrow-eyed councilman on the other side of the table, was the first to speak. “Lady Temari, you must know that this council puts the good of the village above all else. Due to your…” he cleared his throat, “predicament, there are factors that need to be considered for the sake of Sunagakure.” He proceeded with caution, carefully choosing his words. “You are Rasa’s eldest, and, although the council selected Gaara as Kazekage, any child you bear will be from the main branch of the kage bloodline. Ordinarily, this would be natural, but the child in question isn’t entirely Suna.”

Picking up for his senior, Goza stroked his goatee as he spoke. “Even with the alliance in place, this council cannot accept a Konoha child as an heir to the kage bloodline, even as a firstborn. The conflict of interest is too great.”

“You talk as if my brothers will never have children of their own,” Temari countered.

“As that may be, there is no way to know that either Gaara or Kankuro will produce an heir of their own before tragedy strikes.” Goza’s words clearly referenced Gaara’s temporary death and Kankuro’s brush with Sasori’s poison. Both young men could easily be dead by now, and this served to emphasize his point.

Ebizo moved in his chair, surprising most of the council that he wasn’t asleep as they had assumed. The old man narrowed his eyes and looked directly at Shikamaru. He said nothing, and Joseki took his chance to speak.

“I suppose it would be best if we start at the most basic level,” Joseki spread his hands on the table. “You clearly intend to keep the child.  What does your…” he hesitated, trying to find the best word to describe Shikamaru in this situation, “lover plan to do?”

Speaking for him, Temari stated, “If you’re asking if he plans on remaining a part of our lives, the answer is yes.”

“The council cannot support a relationship such as this across village lines. Emotional ties are one thing; with a child in the mix, it could be a diplomatic nightmare if our villages go to war.”

“And would the council continue to disapprove if he were to relocate?” Temari asked, addressing the entire table.

There was some mixed murmuring before Tojuro voiced their answer. “Yes.” His decision fell heavy in the room. “He is born and raised Konoha. Relocation is no guarantee of allegiance.”

“Well?” Ebizo spoke, his voice strained and wavering with age.

“Honored Grandfather,” Temari began.

“No, Princess. I was talking to him.” He pointed a bony finger at Shikamaru. “I want to know what he thinks.”

Shikamaru wasn’t expecting to be addressed so openly. His mouth felt dry, but he pushed himself to speak. “Honored Grandfather, sir,” he used the same honorific he’d heard Temari employ, “I will do whatever it takes to remain with Temari and our child. I don’t know what this council will decide, but I would swear my allegiance to Suna tomorrow if it was required.”

The old man smiled a toothless grin, chuckling to himself. “Oh, Chiyo will haunt me for saying it, but I like him!” He looked over at Tojuro. “You don’t get to be my age without knowing what loyalty looks like. That boy would die for our princess, I guarantee it.”

“Honored Grandfather, that doesn’t have much to do with the problem at hand,” Tojuro did his best to maintain his respect and civility toward his elder. “Rasa would never stand for this, and neither should this council.”

“Rasa is dead,” Gaara rasped, adding his voice to the mix for the first time. “You’d do well to remember that I am not my father, Tojuro, and my Suna is not his.”

Tojuro’s hand balled into a fist underneath the table. “Yes, my lord.”

“Don’t misunderstand,” Temari said coolly, “I came to this council meeting as a courtesy. I have already made up my mind. Whether the council approves or not, I know which move I’ll make.” She met Tojuro’s gaze. “You say my father wouldn’t stand for this. I’ll remind you that he was strictly utilitarian. Tell me, what solution would he choose?”

Tojuro clenched his jaw, angry that he didn’t have an answer. Fighting her insolence would only put him in a bad light, and so he remained silent. To his ire, Ebizo’s wheezing laugh sounded to his side.

“Very good, Princess. Very good.” Ebizo’s face wrinkled more dramatically than it already was. “I couldn’t say you’re wrong, either. Your father wouldn’t be pleased, but he would draw the same conclusion, I’m sure.”

“And what would that be?” Joseki asked.

“Our Lady Temari plans on relinquishing her bloodline claim and relocating herself.” Ebizo’s tone made it sound as obvious as telling someone the sky was blue.

The table went up in a roar as protests fought over one another, trying to be heard above the rest. Ebizo, Gaara, and Temari remained silent, and the glint in Temari’s eye betrayed her amusement at the result. Leave it to the Honorable Grandfather to land her shocking twist better than she ever could.

Shikamaru looked down at Temari with wide eyes. This wasn’t what they’d discussed, what they’d planned. Sure, it got a bigger reaction than they’d hoped for, but he didn’t know where she was going with this. She’d completely abandoned the strategy.

When the room quieted, Temari explained, “To the council, having Shikamaru relocate is a risk. My child having Konoha blood is a risk. You’d have me abandon both, I’m sure. But Suna has my brothers, two possible branches for the family. If the council wishes to follow the law of my father, it should see that my relocation will cause the largest net benefit to the largest group of people.”

Ikanago slammed his fist on the table. “Such an action would have you branded a rogue nin!”

“That decision is mine and mine alone to make, Ikanago.” Gaara didn’t try to veil his threat. “This council serves to advise, not rule. Remember that.”

Ikanago stood, his chair scraping along the sandstone floor. “I refuse to stand by while this council seals the fate of Suna. I will have no part in this.” His footsteps echoed throughout the room, and, by the time he reached the door, Tojuro and Ryusa followed his lead. When the door clicked shut, Gaara stood, placing both hands on the table.

“Dismissed.” In an instant, his sand enveloped him, and he was gone.

“Let’s go,” Temari looked up at her companions before standing. It was time to move. So as not to arouse suspicion, the trio walked out of the room with purpose. In a low tone, she whispered, “Ino, go back up Choji. Check the offices. We’ll head to the street and see if we can’t use ourselves as bait.”

Kankuro scanned the streets from his perch, hidden in one of the many open windows of the aviary. He’d come close to falling asleep when he saw three figures storm out of the building that was his mark. He narrowed his dark eyes against the sun, watching their movements. They stopped and seemed to exchange words before parting ways. One of them walked to the north, but the other two broke into a run at the west and south. Now, that was interesting. To his regret, none of them seemed to be headed his way.

He had a choice to make. He could only track one of them. Trusting his instinct, he set off after the westward-bound council member, running along the rooftops, just out of sight. He couldn’t be caught before he had proof that this man was a part of the information leak. For the moment, he had to lie low and keep his distance.

The council member – Ryusa, he could tell now that he was closer – took him in a massive loop back toward the administrative building, and Kankuro started to wonder if his presence had been detected. Ryusa slipped down an alley, turning left, then right, then left again. When he stopped, he stood in front of a back door, shrouded in shadow. Kankuro hid himself in wait, and it wasn’t long before Ryusa was joined by both Tojuro and Ikagago.

Ikanago knocked four times on the door with various pressures, and the door cracked open for him. He and the two others slipped inside, and the door was swiftly shut behind him. Kankuro had to move quickly if he was going to get backup for this one.

Ikanago put as much detail as he could into the scroll, trying not to leave out anything of importance. Tojuro was peering insufferably over his shoulder, and he resisted the urge to stab him in the thigh with his pen. If this plan was to continue unhindered, they needed to maintain some semblance of camaraderie.

Once finished, he rolled the scroll back up and made a series of hand signs, sealing it with a jutsu. To anyone else, it would look like a basic letter. There was nothing to make it official or any sign that it would be from someone of importance. The messenger was chosen for the same reason; a boy of sixteen, with nondescript features and an average build, stood across the room, waiting patiently for his assignment. They were paying him handsomely to deliver the message, and their partners were sure to do the same upon his arrival.

Ryusa stood opposite the boy, making sure he knew his responsibilities. “Now, tell me again.”

The boy bit back a groan. “I’m taking the message past the demon desert, to the boarder of the Rain. I’ll be met by a man in a black and red cloak with a mask over his face. I’m supposed to pass the scroll off to him and take the long way back, so I don’t look suspicious.” He frowned at his employer. “Can I have my money now?”

“Ingrate,” Ryusa growled as he handed him a bag of coins. “Ikanago!”

Ikanago tossed the scroll to the boy, who caught it and tucked it away in his pack, along with his payment.

“Now get going,” Tojuro commanded.

The boy disappeared up the flight of wooden stairs, headed for the back door. In a matter of seconds, there was a loud crash, a heavy thud, and the boy came tumbling back down into the cellar. The three councilmen jumped to the ready, kunai drawn.

Kankuro threw himself over the railing, diving at Tojuro. Their kunai clashed, and they broke apart, only to clash together again. Temari followed her brother, using her closed fan as a club to send Ryusa flying into the wall. Shikamaru engaged Ikanago while Ino bound the hands of the messenger boy, her knee planted firmly against his spine to keep him from moving.

The cramped quarters made fighting difficult. Kankuro and Shikamaru were used to mid-range tactics, but Temari was a long-distance fighter by nature. This almost proved fatal when Ryusa threw himself at her, lodging his kunai in her abdomen up to the hilt. Ino was quick to intervene, engaging him in hand-to-hand combat.

Temari stumbled, her hands clutching her side. She knew better than to remove the kunai. There was nothing more she could do. She barely registered that Kankuro had trapped Tojuro inside Black Ant before he was at her side.

“Tema! Aw, shit. Tema, you’re gonna be ok. C’mon, sis, stay with me.” He gave her a small shake as her head fell onto his shoulder. “Fuck! Hurry it up!” he shouted at his comrades.

“Ino!” Shikamaru shouted, holding on to Ikanago with his shadow possession. His teammate struck her opponent in the head hard enough to concuss him before hurrying to his aid. She wasted no time in binding him. As soon as she was done, she was at Temari’s side. She took her from her brother and lay her gently on the floor.

“Shit. She’s losing a lot of blood. I’m going to have to do some patchwork before we can get her to the hospital.” Ino looked at Kankuro, who nodded. “Tema, this is gonna hurt, but you’ve got this, okay?”

“Just do it,” Temari hissed, clenching her jaw as Ino removed the knife. She was bleeding freely without the obstruction, and Ino worked quickly to close the wound enough that she wouldn’t lose anymore blood. The last thing she saw was Ino gesturing to Shikamaru and Kankuro to give her more room. Then, everything was black.

[rickwayneauthor]

Language and the Lunatic Fringe

 Doris Lessing, who also wrote under the name Jane Somers, was British by ancestry, although she was born in Iran and raised in Zimbabwe. She won the Nobel Prize for Literature in 2007.

 This essay was referenced in one of my posts from yesterday. I hadn't read it, so I dug it up this morning. It was published in the NY Times in 1992, and in many ways, it hasn't aged particularly well. But then, thinking about that and why it might be so is useful for understanding our place in things.

 For example, now a generation removed from the horrors of Communism, the name doesn't conjure immediate demons as it would have to any sensible person in 1992. In fact, there seems to be a kind of nostalgia setting in. (I saw a long post on Tumblr recently, written by a young person, that asked the question 'was Communism really so bad?' with the purported answer of no -- this as China begins a fresh round of persecutions of its Muslim Uighur population.)

 To some degree, this is to be expected, with Fascism rattling its chains again. You have to remember, the two grew up together and hated each other bitterly, like sibling rivals, each seemingly trying to outdo the other in extremism and atrocity.

 There's a contemporary joke in there. Stalin, seeing the Holocaust, turns to Khrushchev and says "Hold my beer."

 The essay is short, if you want to read the whole thing, but honestly the conclusion is the relevant bit:

 A successor to Commitment is Raising Consciousness. This is double-edged. The people whose consciousness is being raised may be given information they most desperately lack and need, may be given moral support they need. But the process nearly always means that the pupil gets only the propaganda the instructor approves of. Raising Consciousness, like Commitment, like Political Correctness, is a continuation of that old bully, the Party Line.

 A very common way of thinking in literary criticism is not seen as a consequence of Communism, but it is. Every writer has the experience of being told that a novel, a story, is 'about' something or other. I wrote a story, 'The Fifth Child,' which was at once pigeonholed as being about the Palestinian problem, genetic research, feminism, anti-Semitism and so on. A journalist from France walked into my living room and before she had even sat down said, 'Of course 'The Fifth Child' is about AIDS.' An effective conversation stopper, I assure you.

 But what is interesting is the habit of mind that has to analyze a literary work like this. If you say, 'Had I wanted to write about AIDS or the Palestinian problem I would have written a pamphlet,' you tend to get baffled stares. That a work of the imagination has to be 'really' about some problem is, again, an heir of Socialist Realism. To write a story for the sake of story telling is frivolous, not to say reactionary.

 The demand that stories must be 'about' something is from Communist thinking and, further back, from religious thinking, with its desire for self-improvement books as simple-minded as the messages on samplers.

 The phrase Political Correctness was born as Communism was collapsing. I do not think this was chance. I am not suggesting that the torch of Communism has been handed on to the Political Correctors. I am suggesting that habits of mind have been absorbed, often without knowing it.

 There is obviously something very attractive about telling other people what to do: I am putting it in this nursery way rather than in more intellectual language because I see it as nursery behavior. Art -- the arts generally -- are always unpredictable, maverick, and tend to be, at their best, uncomfortable. Literature, in particular, has always inspired the House committees, the Zhdanovs, the fits of moralizing, but at worst persecution. It troubles me that Political Correctness does not seem to know what its exemplars and predecessors are; it troubles me more that it may know and does not care.

 Does Political Correctness have a good side? Yes, it does, for it makes us re-examine attitudes, and that is always useful. The trouble is that, with all popular movements, the lunatic fringe so quickly ceases to be a fringe, the tail begins to wag the dog. For every woman or man who is quietly and sensibly using the idea to examine our assumptions, there are 20 rabble-rousers whose real motive is desire for power over others, no less rabble-rousers because they see themselves as anti-racists or feminists or whatever.

 A professor friend describes how when students kept walking out of classes on genetics and boycotting visiting lecturers whose points of view did not coincide with their ideology, he invited them to his study for discussion and for viewing a video of the actual facts. Half a dozen youngsters in their uniform of jeans and T-shirts filed in, sat down, kept silent while he reasoned with them, kept their eyes down while he ran the video and then, as one person, marched out. A demonstration -- they might very well have been shocked to hear -- which was a mirror of Communist behavior, an acting out, a visual representation of the closed minds of young Communist activists.

 Again and again we see in town councils or in schools councillors or teachers being hounded by groups and cabals of witch hunters, using the most dirty and often cruel tactics. They claim their victims are racist or in some way reactionary. Again and again an appeal to higher authorities has proved the campaign was unfair.

 I am sure that millions of people, the rug of Communism pulled out from under them, are searching frantically, and perhaps not even knowing it, for another dogma.

 https://archive.nytimes.com/www.nytimes.com/books/97/09/14/reviews/lessing-language.html

[backslashn]

Cultist Simulator, Day 3

Continued from Day 2

12:26 PM - 3 Jun 2018

Got my complaints about Cultist Simulator's user experience, but I'll say this: it hasn't crashed once in 25 hours of play.

12:57 PM - 3 Jun 2018

RIP Elridge. The Lanterns will guide you beyond the Mansus.

Elridge, skilled in the Edge aspect, had seen us past countless enemies on expeditions, and captured or dispatched at least half a dozen Hunters who imperiled us. But this time he never returned, and the Hunter remains.

1:08 PM - 3 Jun 2018

Oh no, we're fucked. After Elridge failed, I sent Victor after the Weary Detective too.

Victor has not returned.

Fuck.

1:16 PM - 3 Jun 2018

I am hiring Professional Muscle now to deal with this tenacious Hunter. I ought never to have risked my Disciples on such mundane errands.

I have learnt this harsh lesson now, but too late.

1:37 PM - 3 Jun 2018

And now the Professional Muscle also has failed to return! Has the Weary Detective defeated him too, or merely bribed him? Does it matter?

I, too, am Weary: of this Hunter and his seeming imperviousness. But I have no more earthly forces to send after him.

And so I shall have to use Unearthly force.

I have summoned a demon of Edge and Winter. This detective will not survive. Of this I am certain.

3:05 PM - 3 Jun 2018

Did the demon seek to twist my words and subvert my commands? The detective still lives. But captured, now. I shall leave him sweltering in my dungeons.

3:07 PM - 3 Jun 2018

While one weary detective lies shuddering and forgotten in a blind cell, another has arisen to trouble us.

What ardour drives these fellows? Why do they recklessly ignore the fate of their forebears? With a sigh, I send my demon out on the errand again.

This one did not survive. My demon returned grinning, matched by the rictus of the detective's corpse.

3:33 PM - 3 Jun 2018

I have rearranged my cards so I can see what Lore I am missing, and what Lore I can upgrade or subvert. And also to align the many Tools and Ingredients I have with the Lore of the same Aspect.

And only now do I realise that they are colour-coded by their Aspects.

Another thing I've learned recently: send demons away on expeditions, they're really good at dealing with obstacles 😅

3:44 PM - 3 Jun 2018

But not quite good enough.

O my arch-demon of Edge and Winter! O slayer of Hunters and devourer of shins! O ice-cold eyes and frozen heart! You have vanished in the forest, and gone wherever lost demons go.

3:58 PM - 3 Jun 2018

And what became of the detective I imprisoned? I woke one night whelmed in exotic cravings. An urgent need to speak with the prisoner. All through the night we talked: debating, reasoning, arguing. When dawn came my mind was once more at rest—and the prisoner no more to be seen.

4:06 PM - 3 Jun 2018

And the second demon I sent on the expedition? It also failed to return. These vertiginous blundering diaboli are as useless as my feeble craving disciples. If they had not already perished, I would vent my wrath upon them now!

The funniest thing about that is I only sent them on the expedition because it was there, and because I could. I didn't have any need compelling me to. 😂

4:10 PM - 3 Jun 2018

I have now learnt a fifth dead language: Phrygian. Three books written in it are awaiting translation.

Meanwhile I dream through the Stag's Door in search of powerful Influences; and continue my slow and painful exegesis of the lesser Lores in search of the key to the next door.

4:43 PM - 3 Jun 2018

Another weary detective is dogging my steps, somehow tirelessly. I hired a hulking fellow to go bother him, but without much hope of success.

Yet the fellow returned, bearing a body.

4:45 PM - 3 Jun 2018

Now I begin a newly-learned rite: I am calling on the Cartographer of Scars to animate the thing into shambling half-life. Perhaps it will be useful for odd jobs around the house.

4:53 PM - 3 Jun 2018

The rite failed. The corpse arose, but could not be controlled. Not allowing myself to panic, I used my intellect to banish it.

The rite was a failure, but nothing of value was lost. Perhaps my next attempt will succeed better.

5:09 PM - 3 Jun 2018

I tried to summon another Maid-in-the-Mirror to take on dangerous tasks. The ritual wavered; I continued the invocation more passionately, but to no avail. The creature is loose. It seeks something mortal to devour. I may have only seconds left.

5:13 PM - 3 Jun 2018

I am spared! It whispered past me, fluttering through the air in search of sustenance. Of all the disciples it could have taken in its jaws, it has chosen the most powerful, who was deepest initiated into our mysteries. It has taken Cat Caro, my Seer, and is devouring her.

I shall have to get the health and safety inspectors in to see if there's a better way of containing these demons. I can't afford to lose disciples like this: what would become of my cult without followers?

(This is actually a very significant loss: there are very few followers who are able to be promoted to Seer. Cat Caro was one; another perished in an expedition before I had discovered the ceremonies to uplift Seers. There is one more: my last Seer. I hope he lives.

5:21 PM - 3 Jun 2018

Wait, what is this? The demon has been entrammelled again, and banished. And Cat Caro lives! What occulted power does she wield?

And here I was thinking "Seer" was not much more than a ceremonial title.

6:12 PM - 3 Jun 2018

Grinding, grinding, grinding.

Upgrading and subverting lore to try to find the one I need.

Passing the time by summoning more demons and hiring more thugs, and sending them on expeditions.

It's all quite tedious.

Who'd have thought being a cult leader would be so unglamorous?

6:22 PM - 3 Jun 2018

Have I said much about the writing in Cultist Simulator? It's rich and intense, even though it's not drenched in words as Sunless Sea was. Not a full buffet, but a platter of delectable treats.

6:48 PM - 3 Jun 2018

Cultist Simulator protip: if you ever feel stuck and don't know what to do next, do the ritual to summon one of these:

It won't actually give you any clues, but maybe the summoning will go wrong and you'll end up with a different problem to distract you 😈

7:36 PM - 3 Jun 2018

I have uncovered a new source of vitality that had hitherto been hidden. It's of uncertain reliability and takes a somnolent quantity of time to pursue, but may be of value if utilised on top of the usual fresh air and exercise.

At around the same time, I chanced upon a marvelous, delicate technique that can preserve a little vitality far beyond its normal duration!

Using all these things in concert, I have succeeded in increasing my health to a robust five. I fancy I can increase it at will in future.

Even more vital than that, I have—after long and arduous research and cross-referencing—discovered the entrance to the Spider Door. I wonder what biquadrupedal revelations are preserved beyond it?

9:23 PM - 3 Jun 2018

I have found my way from the Spider Door to the Peacock's Door. "The Peacock's Door does not open, exactly." What, exactly does it do?

I am afraid to find out.

9:47 PM - 3 Jun 2018

I've encountered a bug in Cultist Simulator about five times: if autosave happens to kick in while a window is being opened or closed (it was Talk this time, but happened with many), then the game stops responding to mouse clicks. Have to save then reload to fix.

In more detail: when the bug happens, the window (if it was opening) disappears. And the game doesn't stop responding to mouse clicks entirely: it just thinks every mouse click is for info on something in the window, so just shows an info window.

So I can't click on any cards, or pan around the desk, or anything like that.

The HUD still works, so I can save & quit. Then when I reload the game, it loads with the window in question visible, and everything's back to normal.

9:56 PM - 3 Jun 2018

Anyway, bugs aside…

I've got a pretty strong team for this expedition, although it seems they forgot to bring matches.

10:07 PM - 3 Jun 2018

Odd. My hireling and my demons came back from that expedition with their timers rounded up to the nearest minute: two of them were back to their full 180s timers, one at 120s, and one (that had been close to expiry) at 60s.

10:20 PM - 3 Jun 2018

Oh no. I'm fucked, aren't I?

10:30 PM - 3 Jun 2018

Maybe… maybe not? "I Am Seeing Things" finishes collecting the third Fascination in 3.6s. Meanwhile my desperate dreams of Reason have led me into nightmares, which will deliver a Dread in 6s. Will that be what I need?

And right this instant the Moth principle has served up a Restlessness for old unhappy far-off things: which in another 60s will decay into Dread too.

Maybe, just maybe, I can survive the Visions? I am about to unpause and find out.

10:33 PM - 3 Jun 2018

In 1.9 seconds my Dream will end, delivering the Dread I need just in time. I'm not dead yet, thank the Hours.

I will still need to find at least one more dread. Time for more reasonable dreams—and hope they don't end in Fascination. It was one such not very long ago that supplied the second Fascination for those visions, in fact! 😱

10:41 PM - 3 Jun 2018

The crisis is over, but the danger is not yet abated.

Even as I dream, I continue my translations from Fucine (the sixth dead language I learned, the language of witches) as my minions pursue their expedition in The Rending Mountains (three thousand mile—or was it years?—away).

I guess I should count myself lucky that this was the first time my Visions had encompassed three Fascinations.

And even more lucky that the Moth principle turned up (I'm not sure where from) with that Restlessness while the Visions were rising, and that my Dreams rolled the Dread I needed.

All in all, that's the closest I've come to death in about 35 hours of play (yes, this is still my first game of Cultist Simulator).

From what others have told me of their games, death usually comes much more often, and much sooner.

10:59 PM - 3 Jun 2018

Well, I'm still trying to get more Dread, and meanwhile another Fascination has turned up. So I'm back to two! 😢

11:01 PM - 3 Jun 2018

And another Moth has flown by, delivering another Restlessness. There is something more than chance at work here, I am sure of it.

11:06 PM - 3 Jun 2018

While I was working on the Visions crisis, yet another Hunter turned up on my tail. I ignored him for a while, since my minions were busy and I had more important things to worry about.

But he's still there now, and I was about to send a nasty demon after him—but first I looked up other ways to get Dread [yes, 35 hours in I'm okay with looking up the odd tip], and turns out—I'd even done this earlier in the game but forgotten!—that talking to a Hunter about Winter lore has a chance to terrify them. And doing so will always produce Dread. Bingo!

11:14 PM - 3 Jun 2018

Oh dear. I was so caught up with the Visions, that I failed to pay attention to my Affliction getting worse. It has now matured into Decrepitude, decreasing my health.

Fortunately I know of a ritual that can help here…

11:15 PM - 3 Jun 2018

Haha, my latest dream of Reason has also descended into a nightmare which will produce Dread. I'm going to have too much of it 😅

At least the odd Dread is easy enough for an artist to deal with.

Right, that's enough talking specifics of the game. Back to vagaries!

11:34 PM - 3 Jun 2018

So I managed to dispel those Visions, but more have arisen. And the rite to defeat my decrepitude is feeding them.

Whoops.

Maybe that excess of Despair I have is also lucky! 😂

11:35 PM - 3 Jun 2018

Oh wait…

These new Visions are of a different sort. Something I've never encountered before. Something I don't begin to understand.

1:03 AM - 4 Jun 2018

I have passed the Peacock's Door. I have seen the Worm Museum and the Red Church. I have learnt a sixth dead language, although perhaps one that does not die: "Before gods arose from blood, before ever ape stood upright, this was the language heard in the House of the Sun."

1:10 AM - 4 Jun 2018

The slowest and painfullest grind in Cultist Simulator is the Lore upgrade. Six 30-second stages, three of which demand a perishable resource—Erudition or Glimmering—or Reason. If you can't meet the demands of each stage as it arises, you usually fail and must start over.

It's definitely easier to obtain Lore from books, if you can find them, and if you can read them. But high level Lore is rare even from books.

And it's never been clear to me which Lore I'm actually going to need: so I'm trying to get the highest level of each. Perhaps overkill.

2:43 AM - 4 Jun 2018

Whoa whoa whoa! I have just discovered that you can PREDICT when things like Despair and Visions are coming up in the next minute.

Click on the Time tile and the next thing due is shown on the right hand side! My mind is blown.

And it only took me 40 hours of playing to notice!

5:12 AM - 4 Jun 2018

I just summoned my first Percussigant, and its description made me laugh aloud.

I'm not telling you what it was: you're going to have the joy of discovering it for yourself. 😄

5:22 AM - 4 Jun 2018

I've hit another huge plateau. For I-don't-know-how-long I've been pretty stuck. I've passed the time with expeditions and upgrading Lore as much as I can, but I'm not making forward progress towards anything.

I want to try to find the Tricuspid Gate, but haven't a clue how to get there. The Peacock Door doesn't seem to lead there, cause the only cards I can use with the Peacock Door just take me to the Mansus.

There's two other hints of something I'm missing: I have discovered just one book in yet another dead language, but no idea where to learn how to translate it.

And I found a Gold Spintria, but have no possible use for it. Oh, except as a mediocre ritual ingredient I guess.

I can't believe this is still going on in Day 4

[footballleague0]

Atlanta Falcons exorcise their 28-3 Super Bowl LI demons — for now

ATLANTA — It’s official: The 2017 Atlanta Falcons are no longer a study in human psychology. No matter what happens over the next 14 games and beyond, their successes and failures will be about football and only football, and not about the things that haunt men in the dead of night.

The Falcons will take the most staggering Super Bowl collapse ever to their graves, that much is guaranteed. They will never need to inspect the 283 diamonds in New England’s latest championship rings to see their 28-3 Super Bowl LI lead over the Patriots frozen in big scoreboard lights, only to be reduced to a punch line in cocktail parties from Connecticut to Maine.

But on Sunday night, when the Falcons opened their shiny new stadium with a reenactment of their NFC Championship Game beatdown of the Green Bay Packers, they declared themselves a liberated lot. This was Atlanta’s first prime-time appearance before the country since treating its fans to the mother of all meltdowns in Super Bowl LI. It appears the Falcons won’t have to worry again about 28-3 until they’re holding a considerable lead in Super Bowl LII in Minneapolis.

They sure look strong enough after two weeks, mentally and physically, to make that trip. The Packers opened Sunday’s 34-23 defeat without their two starting tackles and quickly added Jordy Nelson and Mike Daniels to the injury list — but hey, that isn’t Atlanta’s problem. If Aaron Rodgers ends up performing another one-man traveling show, so be it. Matt Ryan, reigning league MVP, has already suffered enough postseason trauma to worry about another former MVP who already owns a ring.

“I don’t think about it too much,” Ryan maintained Sunday night. “I think everybody else does because the question keeps coming up.” The quarterback referenced the work his team did in the offseason, and their season-opening victory over the Chicago Bears.

“We tried to answer it that way,” he said, “but it kind of seems like nobody believed you when you were saying it. It’s felt that way in our building for sure. Were we disappointed in it? Absolutely, but we got past that. We started working on trying to become the best 2017 football team we could be. We’re two games into it. Mission accomplished on those first two games.”

Make no mistake: The Falcons wanted this one, badly, and for reasons that transcended the grand opening of Mercedes-Benz Stadium. Outside the winners’ locker room, Falcons owner Arthur Blank wrapped his coach, Dan Quinn, in a full-throttle embrace. Theirs was a January and February hug, not a September hug.

Devonta Freeman celebrates a touchdown with Matt Ryan and offensive guard Andy Levitre during Atlanta’s 34-23 victory over Green Bay. Brett Davis-USA TODAY Sports

“It was a great night for the city and for the fans and especially for Mr. Blank,” Quinn said.

The coach and his players had talked confidently all offseason about putting Tom Brady’s miracle comeback behind them. What else were they going to say, anyway? They had to convince themselves it was over and done with before they could convince anyone else.

In the immediate wake of the collapse, Ryan forced himself to watch the tape of the Super Bowl three times. It hurt more than Dont’a Hightower’s sack and strip. But it’s always better to confront championship-round disasters head on, just as the 2013 San Antonio Spurs did after they blew Game 6 (and ultimately the series) with Miami Heat fans in the parking lots and arena officials preparing for the visitors’ coronation.

The Spurs secured vengeance against the Heat the following June, and it’s quite possible the Falcons will even the score with the Patriots in February. It’s also possible they’ll end up like the 2011 Texas Rangers, who twice stood one strike away from winning the World Series in Game 6 before the St. Louis Cardinals stole it in seven. The Rangers haven’t won a playoff series since.

The early returns in Atlanta are more promising than that, and some changes in scenery and personnel have undoubtedly helped. This new building couldn’t have opened at a better time. With its retractable roof and giant, sky-high videoboards forming a halo, the stadium helped change the conversation. On opening night, the place looked so spectacular it made Jerry Jones’ palatial home of AT&T Stadium look like the StubHub Center.

Thirty seconds Sunday night in a win over the Packers showed why Atlanta might be better equipped for a Super Bowl run this season.

A revamped Packers defense once again folded and gave up 34 points to the Falcons in Green Bay’s loss.

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The presence of two new coordinators hasn’t hurt, either. Marquand Manual is running a defense that appears improved, and necessarily so, and Steve Sarkisian has assumed the role of Kyle Shanahan, who pulled a Pete Carroll (he passed the ball in the Super Bowl when he should’ve run it) and left NRG Stadium in Houston with a whole lot of explaining to do. Shanahan is now the 0-2 head coach of the San Francisco 49ers, who line up Brian Hoyer at quarterback (99 passing yards vs. Seattle on Sunday) and an offense that has so far delivered four Robbie Gould field goals and no touchdowns.

Shanahan was Atlanta’s undisputed Super Bowl LI bogeyman, and as good as he generally was at running the offense, his subtraction represented a psychological addition. In Seattle, Richard Sherman and others still have apparent issues with Carroll and offensive coordinator Darrell Bevell over their decision to have Russell Wilson throw the ball rather than Marshawn Lynch rumble it over the goalline. But the Falcons don’t have residual issues with Shanahan because they don’t have to look at him anymore.

So there they were Sunday night, a new team with a new outlook in a new building carrying a 34-10 lead into the fourth quarter. Devonta Freeman, who whiffed on the Hightower block that changed everything in Houston back in February, scored two touchdowns. Julio Jones, who made the absurd catch that should’ve beaten New England, caught four balls for 95 yards in the first half. Ryan, who had a quarterback rating of 144.1 against the Patriots, threw for 201 of his 252 yards in the first half and ended up beating Rodgers for the third time in 11 months.

Desmond Trufant intercepted Rodgers and scooped up a Rodgers’ fumble and returned it for a touchdown after Vic Beasley Jr. nearly cut the Packers quarterback in half. The Atlanta defense needed to deliver this kind of performance as much as it needed to protect the remains of a 10-point fourth-quarter lead in the opener in Chicago, where Brooks Reed sacked Mike Glennon in the final seconds on fourth-and-goal.

“In the past, we haven’t won a lot of those games on the defensive side,” Falcons general manager Thomas Dimitroff said. “It was usually the offense pulling it out.”

In the middle of a delirious locker room — by mid-September standards — Dimitroff stopped for a moment to say that he was proud of the resilience of his team “even when things went awry a little bit,” and that he’s seeing the growth needed on both sides of the ball. “It’s the second game of the season,” the GM said, “but it’s a nice start for us to set a nice tone and show that we’re not looking back on anything, that we’ve been looking forward.”

The view looks pretty good from here. The Falcons own the Packers. The Dallas Cowboys were humiliated in Denver. The Seattle Seahawks have been shaky and the New York Giants have been more than shaky. In other words, Atlanta appears to be the early team to beat in the NFC.

They were also the early team to beat in Super Bowl LI, with a better-than-99 percent chance to win when they held a 25-point lead in the third quarter. But they lost. The painful memories will last a lot longer than the rest of their NFL careers, but the Falcons deserve credit for the way they have managed the nightmare.

Now they’re 2-0, and they just smacked around Rodgers on muscle memory. That doesn’t mean they’ll return to the Super Bowl. But it does mean whatever happens between now and then will be about blocking and tackling their opponents, and not about exorcising ghosts.

The post Atlanta Falcons exorcise their 28-3 Super Bowl LI demons — for now appeared first on Daily Star Sports.

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