#felt like writing some Righteous Female Anger

[azikarue]

2023 Fic Recap

Little late with the recap this year, but it's still January, right? For now?

Going into 2023, my goals were to 1) update "Bliss", 2) participate in MayBlade, and 3) work on/finish some WIPs. Poor "Bliss" is still waiting for its chance, but two out of three isn't bad!

I'll ramble more at the end of the post, but here's a recap of everything I posted in 2023.

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A Kiss for Luck

Summary: Before his crucial battle against Mystel, Max takes a moment to center himself. He wasn't expecting company. Set in my Saint Shields in G-Rev AU. Pairing: Max/Mariam Chapters: 1/1 Words: 1,855 Rated: K+

This fic was the first of six short oneshots I wrote to commemorate Valentine's Day. I did something similar in 2021, where I wrote a handful of Max/Mariam kisses and published them during the week leading up to Valentine's Day. When I was planning my writing for 2023, it felt like something fun to tackle again, and it gave me a lighthearted and relaxed start to the year writing-wise. So, I ignored my entire list of goals and wrote this (plus the next five) based off of six kiss tropes. I chose a different pairing for each.

For this one, I indulged myself doubly by starting with Max/Mariam and by setting it in my Saint Shields in G-Rev AU. Ever since I started pondering this AU, the moment in this fic is one that I knew had to happen. I'm sure the Saint Shields would have a lot to say about BEGA. I'm also sure that Mariam would remember the lessons she learned from Max and would be happy to throw them back in his face when he needs it most. And I love the excuse to visit early Max/Mariam days, even if it's in an AU setting. I write so much about them as adults that it always feels refreshing to write a little closer to their roots. This one holds a special place in my heart.

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A Kiss on a Scar

Summary: Every mark on Tala's body has a story and Julia does her best not to ask questions. She doesn't always succeed. Pairing: Tala/Julia Chapters: 1/1 Words: 1,883 Rated: T

When I chose this trope, I knew exactly which ship I would write for it. I was glad to have more practice with these two after writing them for a couple of my MayBlade 2022 chapters. For some reason, I tend to shy away from any member of the Blitzkrieg Boys when I write. I think it's partially because they have such a strong fan base and I'm never sure how my personal image of them will rate. Honestly, I've spent so many years in the fandom focusing on more underrated characters that I'm not even sure I have fully developed ideas for the Blitzkrieg Boys. Tala/Julia feels more niche, though, like it's a safe place for me to play around in.

While writing this, I was a little unsure on characterization. Namely, how much Tala would share without prompting and how much Julia would prompt him. I think there's still some gaps in Tala's character arc between seasons that I need to fill in mentally. He's very open with Tyson when discussing BEGA and Boris. I can only assume that's some combo of righteous anger and maybe therapy? Or just figuring himself out now that he's free from Biovolt's clutches. Julia is a bit of a mystery, too. Mostly, I worry that I'll end up writing her too similarly to other female characters on accident. Reading this fic back, I don't dislike the way I wrote them. And it was a stage in their relationship that I hadn't written before this point, so I enjoyed it a lot!

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A Kiss with Red Lipstick

Summary: Usually Queen has more fun at Enrique's family parties. But she usually doesn't have to go out of her way for his company or spend the night stone cold sober either. Pairing: Enrique/Queen Chapters: 1/1 Words: 1,784 Rated: M

This chapter was just me writing for me. I was pleasantly surprised when it got more than a single note when I posted it on Tumblr, because I know this is such a random ship with an, arguably, even more random interpretation. These are the two I write about when I want messy drama and chaos. Red lipstick kisses feel very messy and chaotic, so here we are.

This falls into the same story line as the last Enrique/Queen fic I wrote. It was fun building upon that idea.

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A Kiss at the Beach

Summary: Salima gets caught staring. It lands her in deep water…so to speak. Pairing: Ray/Salima Chapters: 1/1 Words: 1,180 Rated: T

I'll never turn down the chance to write some cutesy Ray/Salima. I imagine the two of them traveling around together a lot, living an almost nomadic lifestyle between tournaments or stops home (to White Tiger Hills or Salima's apartment). It's always a treat to indulge in that line of thinking, especially for a sweet moment like this.

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A Kiss to Shut Her Up

Summary: Mariah has a talent for uncomfortable conversations. Rick's working on his strategy for getting out of them. Pairing: Rick/Mariah Chapters: 1/1 Words: 1,253 Rated: T

This was one of my favorites when I wrote this series, and I still love it a year later. At the risk of sounding like a broken record, I love writing Rick and Mariah's dynamic, especially from Rick's in-denial, grumpy point of view. He's a fun character in general, and I love how Mariah is the perfect person to keep him on his toes. And I had the line about her climbing him like a tree in reserves for what feels like forever, so it was nice to finally give it a home.

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A Kiss for the Winner

Summary: Tyson wins another World Championship and Hilary needs a minute to process his reaction. Pairing: Tyson/Hilary Chapters: 1/1 Words: 1,987 Rated: K+

I remember agonizing over this fic because I didn't want Tyson or Hilary to feel out of character. I've written a fair bit of TyHil since then, so I think that worry has subsided somewhat, but it was VERY REAL when I wrote this. I think the fact that the fic centers around a disagreement added to that anxiety. Arguments can be tricky. I didn't want it to feel like they resolved things too quickly to be believable or that Hilary's feelings were dismissed. In the end, I'm very happy with how it turned out.

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Subtly Sweet

Summary: When Hilary's computer crashed, she hoped work would be a distraction. Instead, she has a run-in with a vending machine and finds an unlikely hero in Tyson. Now if only he wasn't such a royal pain. Pairing: Tyson/Hilary Chapters: 1/1 Words: 4,320 Rated: K

I have this fic to thank for being able to tick my "work on/finish some WIPs" box in 2023. Very grateful to it for the feeling of accomplishment it gave me. 😄

For a fic that was sitting as a WIP for a year, it cleaned up nice! As a WIP, it was mostly dialogue with some vague outlining that I'd started, then left hanging. Sometimes pinpointing the perfect dialogue to take a plot from Point A to Point B can be a struggle, so when I reread my notes, I knew I had to take advantage of a good thing while I had it. The phone call scene wasn't originally included, and I remember doing a healthy amount of tweaking to get it right, but once it was there I couldn't imagine the story without it.

Fun fact: The original spark of an idea for this fic came from a conversation with RedWheeler literal years ago. I can't remember if we were discussing TyHil specific songs, but "Tangled Up In Me" by Skye Sweetnam came up and I couldn't get the thought of Hilary kicking a vending machine out of my head. Also, how is that song 20 years-old already?

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Life in Color

Summary: A collection for MayBlade 2023. Pairing: Multiple Chapters: 31/31 Words: 65,225 Rated: Varies (everything from K to M)

The pièce de résistance of my year. 💎

I, once again, did not finish my MayBlade entries on time. Unlike my first try, I accepted the fact that I would fall behind ahead of time. I think it made me feel much less stressed overall, but it also might have contributed to me falling behind faster than before? It's a double-edged sword. I know that I was in a better place for this round than I was when writing "Just A Moment", though. Life was much more balanced and I gave myself time to rest and recoup in between chapters, as needed, rather than spending all hours writing, editing, and falling asleep on my keyboard.

I'm very proud of this collection. I love challenging myself to write about some of my favorite, underappreciated characters alongside some of the characters more typical to my fics. I think I said this last year, too, but I love to see which chapters people like best and how it can vary between FFN and Tumblr. Sometimes I'm surprised by how things play out. Like, I was very shocked that the first chapter was so well-received on Tumblr, seeing as it focused on the Saint Shields. I'm sure it was because it was Day 1 of the event, but it was nice to know that some of my favorite characters got their time to shine. That was the case for more than one chapter, and I'd write a slew of notes on them all if it wouldn't make this post way too long.

All in all, I saw more engagement on "Life in Color" versus "Just A Moment" and I'm so grateful to anyone who read or interacted with it in some way! 🤍

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As I reflect on 2023, I can acknowledge that I took some positive steps forward in my never-ending quest for balance.

I'm teaching myself every day that it is okay to let go of things without guilt and pick them back up later. I can't be everything or do it all 100% of the time, and that's all right. It doesn't have to be all or nothing, and I can start things without having any idea of when I'll finish them. I can take a break from things that aren't serving me or causing more stress than I can handle. I can choose myself first and follow my whims. I can log off and be present.

In 2024, I don't know what my fanfic uploads will look like. I'd like to update Bliss and work on more WIPs. MayBlade is up in the air. I love participating, but it always turns into a bigger production than I bargain for. I may just need to participate differently, if I choose to do so.

September thru December are notoriously busy months for me, with May and June getting honorable mention. I'm not saying I'll be totally absent those months. Just putting it out there for me, so I know to go easy on myself. If I do nothing but read and take day trips and spend quality time with the people (and animals!) I love during that time, then it will be a year well spent. 🤍

As always, thank you to everyone who has interacted with any of my uploads this year and to the people who cheer me on and feed my fandom fire. I appreciate this little circle of the internet so, so much, and I hope 2024 brings only the best to you all! 🥰

[naberiie]

thirteen minutes

As Sabé pilots the stealth vessel down onto Mustafar, tracking the signal from Padmé’s royal starship, she can pretend for a moment that everything will be alright. The chromium vessel glints like a starknife’s edge in the boiling crimson and scarlet of this world, cutting through the volcanic ash with ease, the tracking signal a steady--a healthy--heartbeat. For a moment, Sabé can tell herself she was simply being too paranoid, as usual. Thirteen minutes will not have made the difference, she lies, and knows that the words are too hollow to even try to believe. Thirteen minutes behind Padmé’s ship had been as fast as Sabé could depart. Once more Sabé wonders if Padmé would have rushed here if she had known her Sabé was so close, so desperate to help. Moteé and Ellé had sent her the message as soon as their mistress had left, but still the Captain of Amidala’s Royal Handmaidens worries that she had moved far too slowly. Time is constricted, breathless; something terrible is unfolding and Padmé is alone at the heart of it.

Aside from the starship, the landing platform is empty. In the midst of the perpetual roiling landscape that surrounds it, it’s far too still. Death and pain linger above it like a scab picked raw. And then Sabé’s eye catches on the figure lying, unmoving, on the platform.

She curses and throws the ship down, extending the ramp even before it touches down. Alarms scream back at her but she overrides them all. The knowledge that her paranoia had been right all along is drowned before it can fully live under the terror and panic of seeing her oldest friend, her most beloved, injured and alone and still, so, so, so terribly still.

Sabé jumps down onto the landing platform and immediately the soles of her shoes begin to burn. Sulfur weighs down the atmosphere and Sabé wants to scream again as she races to Padmé’s side--had the smoke inhalation knocked her out? Or had it been something, someone, else?

She falls to her knees by Padmé’s side. Ash coats her skin, her too-pale face, her hair. Her breathing is labored, struggling through her throat. “Padmé, flower,” Sabé begs. She works her fingers under the side of Padmé’s jaw and fights the despair that rises with the too-weak fluttering heartbeat. She fumbles for Padmé’s hands. Her fingernails have blood under them--her neck, bloody welts and scratches.

Despite the immortal inferno raging around them, the chill that races through Sabé could have frozen the entire galaxy.

As she carefully, gently lifts Padmé in her arms--too light, Sabé thinks, the fear in her throat, too light--someone calls her name. They almost sound relieved.

The droid.

She does not stop in her strides back to the ship, back to the clean air. In her arms, Padmé whimpers, the sound fragile. “Threepio. Tell me what happened.”

“It’s been such a terrible day, Master Sabé, such a terrible-”

“Shut up,” Sabé hisses, patience already frayed to a hair’s width. “Shut up and get to the point.”

“We followed Master Anakin here, but we didn’t know... we didn’t know Master Kenobi had hidden himself aboard before we left.” He follows her up the stealth vessel’s ramp, and his next words chill the very marrow of her bones. “We didn’t know, but Master Anakin didn’t believe her. Master Anakin thought she’d betrayed him. He got angry and...”

The claw marks on Padmé’s neck--her own, left by her own nails as she fought to breathe against invisible, crushing fingers--are stark in the artificial lighting of the vessel’s tiny medbay. Sabé stares down at them as she fixes an oxygen mask over Padmé’s mouth and nose. Thirteen minutes too slow. Thirteen minutes unlucky.

She wonders if gods move with their believers, or if Shiraya, too, is as helpless as Sabé on this burning planet.

“Where are they now?”

If the droid catches her frozen anger, he makes no mention. “I’m not sure. They started fighting.” He gestures, uselessly, and his next words are quiet. Genuine. “I’m very glad to see you, Master Sabé.”

Fighting, while Padmé lay unconscious on the ground. Animals, she hisses through her teeth. Selfish bastards. She hopes, selfishly, with another bright flash of anger, that they might kill each other.

If not, she’ll hunt down the survivor and kill him herself.

As the medical gear comes to life around them, Sabé doesn’t look at Threepio when she says, “You monitor her. Anything goes wrong, you come get me. Understood?”

“Yes. Are we leaving? What about Master Kenobi?”

Her lips curl back. Snarl, rather than a smile. “I don’t care.”

If she ever sees Anakin Skywalker or Obi-Wan Kenobi again, anger and blood coiling in her stomach, she will rip out their throats before even their Force can warn them of her blistering, consuming rage.

She will annihilate them for leaving Padmé, alone, injured, and unconscious on that platform. The rest of the galaxy be damned.

[drivingsideways]

Hey talk to me about your top three favourite kdrama women. What makes them special? What's a fic you would like to write about any one of them?

Mystery anon! :D What a lovely ask. 

I’m going to cheat a bit and divide my answer into characters I loved a lot, but do not want to write fic about, because I think the canon gives me what I need; and characters that I loved a lot but NEED TO BE RESCUED ZOMG.  (My fic writing impulses are 50% spite and 50% fix-it )

Caveat being that I’ve still watched only maybe a dozen kdramas, so I’m pretty limited in my knowledge!

Characters that I love a lot, but have very zero fic impulses toward:

Han Yeo-jin from Stranger/Secret Forest: What a delight! What an iconique character! Is there anyone like her? NO. LSY-nim gives us a delightfully complex character, and Bae Doona knocks it out of the park in every single scene, so I’m just happy to be along for the ride. I think what makes Yeo-jin special for me is the intrinsic place of empathy that she operates from.  I think “righteous” is a word that often comes with negative connotations (self-righteous, for eg), but I do think she’s one of the most righteous-in-the-good-way characters I’ve watched in kdrama or any drama. I’m tired of stories that portray goodness as “boring” , as unworthy of narrative breadth or depth, and I love that Han Yeo-jin comes to us like a breath of fresh air in our particular dystopian narratives hellscape. She’s good, but never naive. She’s righteous but never cruel in her moral certainties.  I think that LSY nim, in the second season especially, gave Yeo-jin the kind of arc that character deserved when she’s forced to really dig deep into herself to figure out how she’s going to live in the world in the face of a deeply cutting, deeply personal disillusionment, and I’m really hoping for an S3 to see how that plays out further. 

Goo Hae-ryung from Rookie Historian: Ok, I will admit this may be rose tinted glasses view due to this show being my gateway drug into kdrama, but c’mon! She’s a reader! and a Thinker! And loves her wine! She’s plucky! She’s cute! She’s got a wry sense of humour! She’s got principles! She’s got a solid common sense to her that somehow doesn’t get in the way of her dreaming BIG! Oh dear, doesn’t she sound like the Mary-est of Mary Sues? Good for her.gif,  I say! Anyways, Shin Se-kyung is unutterably charming in this (AS IN EVERY SHOW OMG GIRL) and I just have a huge fondness for free-spirited heroines who get to tramp through the narrative changing the world as they do! 

Lee Ji-an from My Ahjussi: I’ve never had my heart broken more OR restored by any single character. IU is *phenomenal * in this, I think she really stepped up to what the script demanded from her. Ji-an’s weariness, her fear and vulnerability, her prickliness, her anger and her bitterness, and how, despite everything, she fights : GOD. Just. Again, what I love about the writing in this show is that it’s deeply empathetic without being cloyingly sentimental. I think a less, hmm, imaginative writer/PD might have focused on the Lee Ji-an the victim, and while the show definitely tells you in no uncertain terms that she is one,  of both circumstances and a cruel society, I think it refuses to take away her agency over her own life.(Lee Ji-an when we meet her is too busy hanging onto life by tooth and claw to indulge in self-pity, but we also see the toll it takes on her not to be able to say “this is too heavy a burden for me to carry myself and it isn’t my fault”; the show I think approaches Dong-hoon from the opposite side- his emotional isolation is partly a result of his own choices, but he doesn’t see it yet, and so his journey is also about letting people in and sharing the burden, but also recovering his own agency over his life. It’s an interestingly gender-bent arc, which is one of the things I love about this show. )

Ok, can I please add one more?

Hwang Han-joo from Melo is my Nature: She just felt SO real to me. She’s someone who doesn’t have the spectacular brilliance of either Jin-joo or Eun-jung, and struggles with accepting her limitations but not allowing herself to be defeated by them? I love her struggles as a mother, as a working woman in a sexist industry, a woman who’s perhaps having to rethink and reimagine what she wants from romance. I love that she’s a little silly, a lot kind, and an optimist, and just. I just think she’s the bravest of the three, tbh, and I LOVE HER AND I WOULD WATCH A SPIN OFF ABOUT JUST HER (i shouldn’t have faves among the three i know, BUT I DO, IT’S HER, IT’S HER.)

Ok! On to the next section! And I’m going to cheat again because I can’t stop at three. SORRY. NOT SORRY. 

Characters I love and SHOULD write fic for if I weren’t such a tired and lazy bunny:  

Song Sa-hui from Rookie Historian: Oh, girl, girl, GIRL. I love how she fights to snatch her freedom from the jaws of the patriarchy. I love that she unapologetically centers herself while doing that, because she knows that nobody else will.  I love that she’s prickly and calculating. I love that she’s smart and knowledgeable. I am SO HAPPY that she got to carve out a little bit of freedom for herself, even if it also is exile to some degree. She *should * be Emperor Jin’s Prime Minister and steering the ship of state, while also carrying on a tumultous affair with Queen Min Woo-hee, while ALSO commiserating with Emperor Jin about his boyfriend Historian Min Woo-won’s regrettable tendency towards Principles (TM) and masochism-but-not-in-the-fun-way. (This takes up much of his time which is why Song Sa-hui is running the country, of course. It works out well for all concerned, well, except her dad, of course.)

Song Ga-gyeong from Search:WWW: What’s NOT to love about our brilliant, beautiful, emotionally tortured gay icon? Nothing, absolutely nothing. I loved how the show allowed her to be flawed and make bad decisions, and then allowed her to make better decisions and regain control of her life. What I do need to do, of course, is see the CANON LOVE STORY between her and Cha Hyeon through to the end. It must, of course, include at least one baseball game, a lot of tequila and messy beach kisses. 

Oh Ji-hwa from Beyond Evil: Oh boy, this year’s runaway hit cleared the extremely low bar for standard crime/ thriller shows by leaving more than one of its female characters breathing and with all limbs intact, and got called feminist for it BUT it didn’t do justice to any of them in any meaningful way and that never hurt more than in the way they sidelined Kim Shin-rok’s talent by not giving Oh Ji-hwa anything much to do. She’s a tough as nails cop, a loving sister, a devoted but unsentimental friend-and by rights SHOULD HAVE BEEN THE HEROINE OF THIS SHOW. My secret fic fantasy is to rewrite the show entirely by making her , and the two other female characters in non-antagonist roles- Yoo Jae-yi and Im Sun-nyeo- as the central characters, as they investigate a serial killer who targets women.  It’s the only acceptable version of this done-to-death (ha!) genre, I have no idea what the Baeksang jury and tumblr fandom is smoking when they hype the show so much, I want none of it. 

Jung Sun-ah from The Devil Judge: I love her rage, her spite, her passionate defense of women, her style, her sexiness, her rage, her rage, her brilliance, her tenaciousness, her smartness, her clothes, her refusal to hate herself for everything she is and chooses to be, her ambition, her comfort wielding power, her EVERYTHING. Dead, her? NOT IF I HAVE ANYTHING TO SAY ABOUT IT. Here’s what *really * happened at the end of canon- she gets out of the building by planting that lady-like but still deadly gun against Kang Yo-han’s temple and making him lead her through his own “secret escape route” or whatever the fuck it was the show wanted us to believe. From there on out, it’s all sunshine and beaches, and scheming and waiting for the right moment to strike again-though of course, this time around, she also has to reckon with vigilant, tenacious cop Soo-hyun -another character who REALLY didn’t die for manpain reasons and had the good sense to leave her gay best friend to follow his psychopath boyfriend to Switzerland or wherever it is that star crossed lovers in kdrama land meet up on the regs these days- anyways, Soo-hyun and her are in this catch-me-if-you-can epic transnational honest and cute cop-and-beautiful sexy villain chase and yes, they WILL kiss (and more) AND IT WILL BE GLORIOUS. 

*whew *

Thanks for coming to my TEDTalk.

[hamliet]

The Girl Who Gets to Have It All: Buffy Summers

So with @linkspooky​‘s encouragement, I have binged Buffy the Vampire Slayer and relived my childhood culture. And, it's a 10/10 for me. Not that it doesn't have flaws, but it's genuinely one of the best stories I've seen, with consistent character arcs, powerful themes, and a beautiful message. It's also like... purportedly about vampires and demons and superpowered chosen ones, but it's actually all about humanity.

Buffy was able to be a teenage girl, allowed to like the things teen girls are scorned for (boys, shopping, etc), to be insecure about the thing teenage girls are insecure about (future careers, dating, school, parents), and to be a superhero with its good and its bad aspects. The story wasn’t afraid to call Buffy on her flaws (sometimes she got in a very ‘I am the righteous chosen one’ mode) and to respect and honor each of her desires (to be a good person, to be loved, and more). The story listened to what she wanted and respected her desires, giving her the challenges needed to overcome her flaws while also never teaching her a lesson about wanting bad boys or romance is silly or any manner of dark warnings stories like to throw at teenage girls. 

It respected teenage girls--nerdy girls like Willow, jocks like Buffy, lonely wallflowers with trauma like Dawn, and popular/snobby ones like Cordelia, girls gone wild like Faith. It never once reduced them to the stereotypes that were lurking right there: each character was fully rounded, human, flawed and yet with respected interests and goals. This is so rare for a story that I’m still in awe. 

The story as a whole follows Buffy from 15 to 21, of her as she grows from teenager to adult. She acts like a teenager and grows to act like a young adult, wrestling with loneliness and duty. The adults, like Giles, Joyce, and Jenny, are not perfect either, but neither are they “bad parents” or “bad mentors” necessarily. Joyce in particular says something terrible to Buffy, but she tries to do better, and it’s rare to see a parent in YA stories shown with such nuance. Basically, it wrote the long-lasting adult characters as human beings, too. 

Speaking of growing up, I appreciated how Buffy’s love interests mirrored this. Angel was someone Buffy loved and admired, wanted to be like, but who was always either extreme good or extreme bad, and combined with Buffy’s own tendencies towards black-white thinking, made for a beautiful relationship to help her grow, but didn’t necessarily form a foundation for a long-term partner. Spike, on the other hand... they both saw each other at their worst and were drawn to each other even then, and were inspired to become better because they couldn’t bear to be a person who treated the other person so wrongly. They pushed each other to become the best them they could be, and believed in each other. Also, Spuffy is an enemies to lovers ship for the ages. 

(Also, most of the other ships were well-done or at least can be understood. Riley was very obviously wrong for Buffy which paralleled Harmony and Spike in being 100% wrong for each other. Cordelia and Xander were a fun ship even if we all knew it would never last, and Willow and Oz were beautiful and cute. But Xander and Anya and Willow and Tara? OTPs. As were Giles and Jenny, the librarian and the computer teacher.) 

That said, it’s not a perfect series. No story is. All of the characters and ships had problematic aspects to them worthy of critique, and the writing is very 90s in a lot of ways. It’s a product of its time, and in many ways it’s good society has progressed beyond some of the tropes/metaphors used in the show. In other way, though, the show was ahead of its time, and in a good way it wasn’t bound by the fear of purity policing with its takes on redemption (many characters would never fly today). 

So, in order of seasons ranked from my very favorite to my “still enjoyed it very much” (no season was actually bad, imo), here’s my review. I’ll also review my top 10 villains in the show, because Buffy does villains very well in terms of the redeemable and irredeemable.  

Season 7:  Yep, the final season was my favorite. 

Overall Opinion: Buffy's finale is literally "f*ck them men, our power is ours" and while it seems cheesy it actually works (also, f*ck in both a literal and figurative sense). The series strongly hit all the themes: love as strength, and redemption. Buffy consistently shows love as her strength--*all* kinds of love. Friendship w Willow/Xander, familial with Joyce/Dawn, romantic with Spike/Angel. These types of love are also never pitted against each other as is so often the case in current-day media. It's beautiful. Also, Spike’s confrontation with Wood was so powerful in terms of exploring forgiveness, redemption, and reconciliation: where they overlap and where they don't, and what it means to move forward. 

Unpopular Opinion: I have seen a lot didn’t like the inclusion of Potential Slayers, and while I agree they could have been better incorporated/characterized, it was a great way to show Buffy’s final stage of growing up to be ending her chosen one status and projecting/multiplying her powers over the world. 

Biggest Critique: Kennedy was female Riley--the anti-Tara to Riley’s anti-Angel (by ‘anti’ I mean opposite in every way). Kennedy was annoying and immature. Her role, like Riley’s, was less about exploring her as a character and more about her just being stamped as “love interest: lesbian.” 

Favorite Episodes: Beneath You, Lies My Parents Told Me, Touched, Chosen

Season 6: 

Overall Opinion: I said this on Twitter, but I felt like this was Buffy’s The Last Jedi or Empire Strikes Back moment. It is polarizing and dark, deconstructing the tropes it stands on--but by digging to the core of these tropes, it actually makes what’s good about them shine brighter. Everyone’s enemy was the worst versions of themselves. Giles left Buffy, Willow's struggle to relate to the world led to her trying to destroy it, Buffy hurt everyone through her anger, Xander abandoned Anya at the altar, Spike... yeah. It ages well as an integral part of the story, and the Trio were eerily prophetic. 

Unpopular Opinion: Dawn is a great character with a good arc. A traumatized teen acting out and struggling to come to terms with loss and identity? She wasn’t whiny; she was realistic. 

Biggest Critique: Willow’s addiction coding (I’ll discuss this below) and Seeing Red as an episode. I see the argument for both of its controversial scenes from a narrative perspective: Willow starts the season not grieving Buffy but instead being determined to fix it with magic and needs to learn to grieve, but. Still. Bury your gays is not a good look. For the Spike scene... he conflates sex/passion and violence (”love is blood, children” is something he said way back in season 3), but like Tara’s death, it had more to do with Spike (as Tara’s death did for Willow) than with Buffy’s arc, and as for the actual execution... they really botched that. Did it like... have to go on that long or go that far? No. Also, the framing was good, but inconsistent with the rest of the series (Xander to Buffy in the hyena episode, Faith to Xander and to Riley, etc.) 

Favorite Episodes: Once More With Feeling, Smashed, Grave

Season 3 (tied with Season 5):

Overall Opinion: The opening continuity of Buffy meeting Lily/Anne after saving her life in Season 2 was sweet. The Witchhunt episode had really powerful subtext: stories of deaths that aren’t even true are actually demons that possess the town and convince them to turn against their children in the name of protecting the children. It’s a good commentary on, oh, everything in society. Faith’s character arc was fantastic, and her chemistry with Buffy was off the charts (look, I may be Spuffy all the way, but Fuffy has rights). The finale was satisfying in so many ways, seeing the entire graduating class unite to destroy the Mayor and the school with it, symbolizing Buffy et al’s readiness to move on to college. Oz's relationship with Willow was very sweet and meaningful for a first romance for Willow. 

Unpopular Opinion: I actually don’t really have one. Maybe that the miracle in Amends was earned? I think you can make a decent case that Season 3 is the best written of the seasons, but can only truly be thematically appreciated to its full potential in the light of subsequent seasons (which finish Faith’s arc and deconstruct Buffy’s).  

Biggest Critique: It forgot Buffy killed the hyena guy in Season 1, making her continual insistence that she can’t kill people very ????? 

Favorite Episodes: Lovers Walk, Amends, Graduation Day Part 2 

Season 5, which ties with Season 3:

Overall Opinion: The entire season is about family and what it means, from Tara’s to Buffy’s to the Scoobies. I loved Glory aka Enoshima Junko as the Big Bad, I loved Dawn’s interesting meta commentary on retconning (like, the fact that she’s retconned in matters), and most of my ships are still alive. Joyce’s relationship with Spike is one of the most heartwarming aspects, and Spike’s arc’s desire is clearly highlighted: he wants to be seen as a person. The episodes after Joyce’s death are the most honest portrayals of grief I’ve ever seen, and absolutely brutal to watch. 

Unpopular Opinion: Buffy’s choice at the end seems a deliberate inversion of her choice at the end of Season 2 (sacrifice a loved one to save the world), but it actually isn’t: much like at the end of Season 2 where Buffy skips town because she’s devastated after killing Angel and doesn’t want to sort out being expelled, her mom knowing she’s the slayer, and her own trauma, Buffy’s sacrifice here was as much about her wanting the easy way out of relationships, family, college, etc. as it was about saving Dawn. Buffy’s death is coded as a suicide, which Season 6 emphasizes as well. 

Biggest Critique: Like Season 3, I don’t have a lot to critique here. I wish the suicidal coding had been a little more obvious in Season 5 itself, but also I’m not sure it could have been more obvious; it’s pretty apparent if you pay attention. Maybe also that Buffy and Riley’s relationship failing should have been more squarely blamed on Riley, you know, being insecure and cheating. 

Favorite Episodes: Family, Fool for Love, Intervention. 

Season 2:

Overall Opinion: Heartbreakingly tragic but exciting and revealing at the same time. It asked the viewer interesting questions about redemption and forgiveness and atonement through Angel being honest about his past, and then decided to show us his past now reenacted, challenging us. And still, we saw them save him in a parallel to saving Willow in Season 6 (but Season 2 was tragic because it wasn’t enough, while Season 6 was not). Jenny’s death was agonizing, and the scene were Angel watches Buffy, Willow, and Joyce get the news through the window was powerful. We didn’t have to hear them to get the grief. 

Unpopular Opinion: Jenny’s death isn’t a fridging; it works for her arc too when you consider her history. She worked to save the person whose life she was tasked to ruin, and it cost her her own--yet she still succeeded, because Jenny brought joy and wisdom to the show. Kendra’s death, on the other hand... was because they needed the stakes to be high--but we already knew that before she died. So, her death was useless. 

Biggest Critique: The subtext was Not It. It was essentially “do not have sex. Your older boyfriend will lose his soul, kill your friends, you’ll lose your family, your school, your home, and have to kill your true love or else hell will literally swallow earth.” 

Favorite Episodes: School Hard, Passion, Becoming Part 2.

Season 1:

Overall Opinion: I really liked it; it’s just lower on this list because the others are just better. It’s a great introduction to the series and to its characters, from Giles to Buffy to Willow to Jenny to Cordelia. It has great subtext a lot of the time (for example, Natalie French as She-Mantis is a literal predatory bug who engages in predatory behavior with students). Additionally, it subverts the typical YA trope of two guys and a girl, in which the girl is usually the least interesting character. Buffy and Willow were both fully fledged characters from the beginning with distinct strengths (even before Willow became a witch, as she wasn’t one in season 1 yet), while Xander was the more ordinary of the group. 

Unpopular Opinion/Biggest Critique: Xander’s arc showed its first flaws that unfortunately continued throughout the series: his writing was either very good or very indulgent in ways it never was for other characters.  (cough, the hyena episode, cough, in which he gets to skirt responsibility--and acknowledges that he is skirting it--for something the show will later hold others to account for). Xander’s just kind of inconsistent, which weakened his character over all. (Which is why both his love interests--Cordelia and then ultimately Anya--were good for him: they did not indulge him.) 

Favorite Episode: Witch, Nightmares. 

Season 4:

Overall Opinion: it’s still a good season. It’s a good portrayal of college and the growing pains of branching out, the strains of college growth on relationships (romantic and platonic). It shows us the first hints of Spuffy, giving us some serious Jungian symbolism between Spike and Buffy early on, and does well in establishing Xander/Anya and Willow/Tara as beautiful OTPs. Faith and Buffy’s foiling is fantastic. The Halloween episode was very fun as well. However, it suffers because its Big Bad, Adam, is not all that compelling thematically--yet, he could have been. See, the final battle pulls off the Power of Friendship in a really strong way but notably the season does not end there. Instead, it ends on dreams of each character’s worst fears, continuing what we saw in Nightmares in Season 1. Why? Because it shows us that the characters’ wars aren’t against monsters, but monsters of their own making: their flaws. Adam, as a literal Frankenstein, exemplifies this, but it wasn’t capitalized on as well as it could have been. 

Unpopular Opinion: Beer Bad isn’t a bad episode, at the very least because Buffy gets to punch Parker. It’s not one of the series’ best, obviously, but it does give Buffy an arc in that she gets her daydream of Parker begging her to come back, but she has overcome that desire and her desire for revenge. If we wanna talk about bad subtext in Season 4, Season 2′s Not It sex subtext continues in the Where the Wild Things Are episode in this season; it’s a powerful callout of abusive purity-culture churches, until the fact that the shame creates a literal curse undermines the progressive message it’s supposed to send. Also, the Thanksgiving episode (Pangs) is a nightmare of white guilt and Oh God Shut Up White People. 

Biggest Critique: Riley is awful. Like Kennedy, he had “love interest:normal” stamped on him and that was it. The thing is, he could have worked as an Angel foil, representative of the normal-life aspect of Buffy to Angel’s vampire/supernatural aspect, but the writers never explore this and seemed to even try to back away from that later on. They threw all the romantic cliches at the wall to see what sticks, from klutzy “I dropped my schoolbooks, that’s how we met” to cliché lines that had me rolling my eyes. Do you know how bad a romance has to be to make me dislike romantic tropes? 

Favorite Episodes: Fear Itself, Hush, Restless

Villain rankings: 

Dark Willow, the only villain to be truly sympathetic. While the addiction coding was insensitive and, while unsurprising for its time, aged extremely poorly. That said, Willow’s turn to the dark side after Tara’s death worked well for her character and the story: it was believable and paid off what had been building since Season 1's “Nightmares” episode (Willow’s inferiority complex). 

Glory managed to be genuinely terrifying, and humorous/enjoyable too. Her minions and their numerous nicknames for Glorificus were hilarious, as was her intense vanity. Her merging with Ben--a human being who genuinely wanted to be kind and good--added complexity and tragedy to her role. 

The First. A really good take on Satan. The seventh season as well as the First’s first appearance in season 3′s “Amends” had kind of blatant Christian symbolism, and so the First being essentially Satan works. Their disguising themselves as dead loved ones and the subtle manipulation they used to alienate people was really disturbing and well done. 

The Mayor, who was a terrible person but a truly good father. He provided an interesting contrast to the normal ‘bad dad’ bad guy character, in that he provided Faith exactly what the other characters refused to: he saw the best in her and offered her parental support, while the heroes didn’t and wound up pushing her away. 

The Trio, who were villains ahead of their time: whiny fanboy reddit dudebros, basically. The stakes seemed so much lower than fighting Glory, a literal god, the previous season. But that’s why they worked so well for Season 6′s human themes, and were especially disturbing because we all know people like them. I also appreciated the surprisingly sensitive takes on Jonathan and Andrew, who got to redeem themselves, but Warren did not, and I don’t think he should have either. 

Angelus + Drusilla. I’m ranking them below the Trio because Angelus was just sooooo different from Angel that it was difficult for me to feel the same way for him. He was still Angel, so it wasn’t possible to enjoy his villainy, but he also wasn’t nearly as sympathetic as Dark Willow, had no redeeming qualities like the Mayor, and wasn’t as disturbingly realistic as the Trio. However, the emotional stakes were excellently executed with him as the Big Bad, in that you were never quite sure how to feel and it just plain hurt. Also, Drusilla was a favorite recurring character. She was sympathetic and yet batsh*t enough to be enjoyable as a villain at the same time. 

The Master, who was just completely camp and really worked as an introductory villain. He was scary enough to believe he was a threat, and was funny enough to introduce the series’ humor as well. He was, like Glory, an enjoyable Big Bad. 

The Gentlemen, the one-off villains of Season 4′s Hush who were genuinely terrifying. It’s not as if they got a lot of explanation or any backstory, but they didn’t need it. 

Caleb, the misogynist priest. Fitting with the First’s Christian symbolism, Caleb serving as a spokesperson of all bad religious beliefs felt appropriate. He was also a good foil to Warren--being actually supernaturally powered instead of a wannabe--and to Tara’s family in being full-out evil. I despised him. 

Snyder. Okay Snyder is not a Big Bad like Adam is, but let’s face it: Adam is lame compared to the other villains. But Snyder as a principal? He was so irritating and yet really well used in the series to critique overly strict, hypocritical teachers. Like, we all know teachers like him. I loved to hate him, and his ending was so satisfying. 

[duchessofferia]

Isn’t she just delightful?

Catherine of Aragon has one of the more fascinating media legacies of anyone in the Tudor period, not in terms of how her image has fluctuated over the years, but because of how notably it hasn’t. Other hardcore Catholics of the Henrician court are inevitably vilified in stories from Protestant perspectives - Thomas More, Cardinal Wolsey, Jane Seymour and above all else Mary I, to name a few. “Protestant perspectives” doesn’t just refer to reformation texts, it includes books from the perspective of Protestant figures; usually Anne Boleyn or Elizabeth I, and more recently Thomas Cromwell with Hilary Mantel’s Wolf Hall books. Despite her unwavering faith in both the Catholic Church and her own position, Catherine’s reputation has, up until the past twenty years or so, remained close to stellar; her marriage into the English monarchy at a young age did well to divorce her from her parent’s religious persecutions, and her death some fifteen years or so before her daughter took the throne kept her from being tarnished by association to Mary’s resurrection of medieval heresy laws.

As a Tudor queen, Catherine has largely gone down in history for her irreproachable conduct, even after that history began to tilt towards the side of a religion she opposed - she is known for her charity, her piety, and her belief in her husband’s good nature no matter how vile his behavior grew to be, even at the expense of her own self image. According to Chapuys (who in this case there is no reason to disbelieve) she went to her grave questioning wether Henry’s actions after their divorce was her fault, wondering wether, if she had given him what he wanted, he may not have felt the need to break from Rome, mistreat their daughter and execute two men - one a long term friend and one his own grandmother’s religious advisor. Catherine is a noble figure, she is a tragic figure, she is most of all a dignified figure, and in Tudor media she is always given at least a sympathetic nod if not a complex or three dimensional portrayal. 

The key phrase there, though, is as a Tudor queen. Whatever else she was, Catherine was decidedly not a modern woman, just like all of her female peers living five hundred years ago were decidedly not modern women; her unflinching religious beliefs, her many attempts at producing a male heir and her devotion to her marriage are admirable traits of a female noble of the sixteenth century, less so of a twenty first century wife or businesswoman. She was a product of her time, and modernized or semi modernized Tudor media’s attempts to portray her - specifically the brand of modern Tudor media that sets out to depict Anne and Henry’s relationship as one of Sexy High Romance - always end up turning Catherine into a misogynistic caricature of herself, historical legacy be damned. The blog anneboleynnovels describes it best:

“Catherine’s greatest hurdle has been not Protestant novels, but modernized ones. These are the one subgenre in which her character at best is severely degraded and at worst is completely unrecognizable. It’s not surprising that it should be like this — finding modern corollaries to Anne and Henry, whether in an office, a Hollywood mansion, or a high school, is doable. As for most of the people who surrounded them, while some some people are harder to wrench into modern poses than others, it’s relatively easy to cut and alter those characters to make them work better in a modern setting. Catherine, however, is completely lost here. She needs to exist, or else the central conflict disappears — but she simply doesn’t have a real modern equivalent, at least not in the kinds of societies that modernizers write about; her determination that God had put her in her position and that she had to safeguard her daughter’s legitimacy, and thus her inheritance, is impossible to convey fully, especially since Henry’s historical behavior — taking a presumed inheritance from Mary, forcibly separating the two women, and confining them in residences of his choosing — can’t be precisely replicated in a modern novel without making him at best a creep and at worst a criminal. In neither case would that Henry be an appealing love object for a modern Anne, so his behavior is inevitably made more standard — he’s simply a wealthy man divorcing his wife of twenty years, and instead of taking her settlement and moving on, his wife just refuses to let go.”

As the post on Catherine’s fictionalized history points out, attempts to judge her through a modern lens, particularly in stories that center around that grand, not-at-all-murderous love affair of Henry VIII and Anne Boleyn inevitably fail to produce a balanced assesment. Susan Bordo’s highly modernized study the Creation of Anne Boleyn treats her like a footnote at best and a self righteous fool at worst, while the Catherine of Suzannah Dunn’s The Queen of Subtleties is disgustingly nicknamed “Fat Cath” (stupid cow, how could she let herself go like that after six pregnancies?) and features its leading lady, another ahead-of-her-time portrayal of Anne Boleyn, going out of her way to condescendingly paint Catherine to the reader as vengeful and delusional. Anne of Hollywood and Anne and Henry present the worst portrayals, one a hideous, deliberately unsympathetic drug addict and the other a teenage psychotic forced on Henry by his father, leading her poor, brow beaten boyfriend by the hand.

That’s not to say it would be impossible to write a well rounded modern Catherine of Aragon, but most modernized Tudor novels simply don’t care to try and make her well rounded; she exists solely to be the convenient road block to Anne and a whitewashed Henry’s happiness, a flat example of the Hysterical Woman trope rather than a Queen, a mother, or a politician. It isn’t Anne Boleyn’s fault that this happens (she can’t exactly object) but this version of Catherine never fails to rear its ugly head in Tudor media that aims to portray Anne, literally or figuratively, as a “woman of the future.” Since that reading of Anne has gained momentum over the years, this Catherine inevitably does so too.

What makes the Spanish Princess so unbearable is how blatantly Emma Frost is trying, and egregiously failing, to flip the script on this. Whatever her personal dislike of Anne Boleyn, she is very obviously trying to take this fictitious version of Anne Boleyn that has sprung up over the past few decades - that of the rebellious, sexy, pseudo feminist Modern Woman™ - and apply it to Catherine of Aragon, who was neither rebellious, a feminist or, after six pregnancies, five infant deaths and a battle with heart cancer, all that sexy. The intimacy and very real affection she and Henry shared in the early years of their marriage is stilted and unemotional, replaced by an absurd number of sex scenes and a very out of place “warrior kween” nickname. It isn’t enough for Catherine to organize a massive military campaign and give a speech to an assembly of soldiers while heavily pregnant, real life accomplishments of hers which have gone largely unacknowledged - no, the Catherine of the Spanish Princess needs to literally fight in battle, pregnant belly armor and all, subtly implying that her many miscarriages were the result of her own behavior, never mind the fact that Henry’s later wives had miscarriages as well. The deeply devoted friends Catherine actually had, one of whom served her for decades and risked royal punishment to be with her on her deathbed, are either erased entirely or put into invented conflicts with her. Her relationship with the only one of her children that survived infancy is perverted into a cold, uncaring motherhood, marked by disappointment and a refusal to even hold her daughter, let alone personally teach her Latin, commission scholars to write books for her, and request those same scholars take charge of her education.

In place of all these details, the things that make the historically minded audience love Catherine in the first place, several sordid aspects of Anne Boleyn’s fictional representations are assigned to Frost’s Catherine of The Upside Down: the ~unnatural~ blowjobs and poorly designed French hoods, the general air of cattiness, the excessive nudity, the hatred of her daughter, the inability to sexually please her husband, and the weird sense of anger at all the women in her life all stand out as hallmarks of Anne Boleyn’s less flattering portrayals, but so too do the clear attempts to pander to a feminist audience and sell itself as new age and progressive.

The fouler examples of Catherine as a modern woman aren’t yet the prevalent perception of her; a gaggle of misguided twenty first century books isn’t enough to erase the near spotless reputation she’s maintained for half a millennium. But the Spanish Princess fails to depict a more positive modernization of Catherine because it’s lazy in the attempt - it sees the habit of trying to turn sixteenth century queens into anything but sixteenth century queens and tries to replicate it by taking a handful of theatrical trends and having their protagonist perform them. Those trends have been apart of Anne Boleyn’s portrayal in the media for so long it wouldn’t be that strange to see her acting that way on screen, no matter how historically inaccurate they may be, but to assign them to someone with such a vastly different public history as Catherine is just jarring. She wasn’t like that, nobody thinks she was like that, Tudor media has always known her as being not like that, and the result is something that’s confusing at best and outright offensive at worst. It’s not fun to watch, but it’s interesting to examine, broader context in mind.

(Also credit to @queenmarytudor for that image of Meg and Mary, and seriously, check out anneboleynnovels. They’re great.)

[thedpu]

“I love studying the ways women wrestle with and portray anger in film. Can you talk about Cassie’s anger a bit more and what you wanted to communicate? Because there’s something really interesting in how women’s anger is righteous in this film, even if it is ultimately kind of dangerous to live like that, while men’s anger proves very destructive and surprising and can come at any turn.

I think you’re right. That’s the fear: The trouble with men’s anger is that it can, as you say, come from nowhere. It tends to be — I would say in my experience, and certainly talking about stuff like this in the context of this film — it tends to be when you touch a nerve. This is a movie about men who don’t think of themselves as aggressors, who are much more … If the apex predator is a sort of a lion, [then there are the] men who are maybe the jackals, who are sort of skulking around seizing opportunities when they see them and also kind of hiding under the cover of a culture that’s allowed this for years.

So that’s the kind of thing that I’m interested in, is those people who just think, Oh, this is fine. But it’s amazing how angry people become when Cassie or any of us asks a simple question, and how defensive that makes them. It’s so hard to talk about this stuff. There are certainly different things about it that are fascinating to me. This will feed into her anger, but all Cassie wants is an apology and an acknowledgement that something was bad. That’s really what her journey is about. It’s a journey where she’s offering redemption or punishment. The redemption can only come with an apology and an acknowledgement, and it’s so interesting how people will not give it. That their default is defensiveness and anger, and that can occasionally spill into something much more frightening and physical.

As for Cassie’s anger, I guess, again, it’s that thing that’s like, I can’t think of too many examples of female anger that kind of way. We see a lot of badassery with whip-smartery, which I don’t mind. I love all that stuff as well. It’s not to say that there isn’t a place for it or that it’s not incredibly cathartic and pleasurable and fun. But the thing about anger in anyone — but I suppose more specifically in women — it’s not sexy or glamorous, you know?

That’s true.

[Anger is] horrific. It takes over everything else. Rather than, like, a gunshot wound, it’s like an ingrown toenail. It’s there always, everywhere you go. That’s so much of what me and Carey discussed. The root of her journey really was her love for Nina and the grief that she feels there. But also for me, writing it, I was looking a lot at addictive and self-harming cycles of release and then self-loathing, which then leads back into needing to do the thing, doing the thing, feeling invincible, then immediately spiraling back into anger, self-loathing.

Probably my friends say I’m quite boringly coarse about lots of things and definitely prone to ranting. But I think actual anger, real anger, makes me feel ill, really ill. It’s not something I … For me, it’s not pleasurable and the release of it isn’t pleasurable. It’s frightening.

When it comes to women’s anger on-screen, I think there’s one actress who I feel like really got it, and that’s Bette Davis. In a way, her whole career was exploring it and showing how nasty it could be. She played … I hate the word unlikeable, but she did play some assholes who were not nice people. That’s what’s interesting with Cassie. She makes these decisions, and you’re like, Damn, girl. Did you really do that? And I think that taps into both the allure of embracing anger and the downside of it. This movie really subverts our expectations with the rape-revenge genre. On one hand, it’s not the woman who was wronged who exacts vengeance but her friend. And then on top of that, Cassie’s anger is fueled more by her guilt than by anything else. Were there any genre tropes you wanted to avoid or upend specifically in dealing with these ideas?

Absolutely. I mean, again, it’s a genre that I, like a lot of people, love and find very gripping and in many ways cathartic. I don’t think any of us are immune to a woman seriously inducing a major bloodbath. It’s going to be incredibly satisfying. [Yet] it never made sense to me that somebody would necessarily go on a journey of vengeance for herself. I think what Cassie really wants is to try and make it better. And you can’t, you know? You can’t. So that felt very real to me. I didn’t want [the avenger] to be a relative [of Nina’s] because that felt too simple. But I have a best friend like Nina, who I’ve been friends with since I was four. I think so many women have that friendship, and it’s something that the world maybe doesn’t recognize. For Cassie, part of the grief, apart from the guilt that she feels because she wasn’t there, is the guilt that she feels because she can’t fix it. [With] the recreational nighttime stuff she does before her real personal journey begins, I think she’s hoping that she’s making a change somewhere, you know, man by man.” - Angelica Jade Bastién 

[victoria-daydreams]

Till Kingdom Come

Chapter Six: Introductions

AN: When I first began writing this chapter I had an idea in mind, but seeing how long this chapter ended up being I decided to save it for the next chapter. Also, I was going to hold off on uploading this chapter, but I just finished watching the Lovecraft Country finale and now I’m depressed, so posting this is my boost of serotonin.

Word Count: 3.2k

Trigger Warnings: racism, racial slurs, dated/offensive terms, sexual assault

Chapter Seven: Target Practice

Two Months Later

The sound of a single gunshot cracked through the air, making the birds that rested in the nearby trees hurriedly fly away.

"You missed," Booker announced dryly, his breath a visible puff in the chilly, early December air that showed no signs of warming up.

Sabine eyes narrowed, "Thank you, for your wonderful commentary Booker," she said sarcastically, shooting him a glare.

"Just in case you didn't know," he retorted, lifted his hands.

"I have shot a gun before," Sabine reminded.

"So you've told me," he replied, moving behind her. "You aimed for the man's heart and somehow shot him in the ribs," he recalled, with a soft hum. "Great shooting there Sabine," he chuckled, and she could only envision the smug smirk on Booker's lips.

Sabine cursed under her breath, lowering the musket from her face as she stared at her target. Briefly, she wondered if the breeze had affected her aim, she had done everything right. The sudden contact of Booker placing his hand on her mid-back instantly made her body became rigid, her mind immediately flashing back to her time on the Martin Plantation.

"Don't get familiar," Sabine gritted out, looking over at him.

"I wasn't trying to!" Booker replied defensively, snatching his hand from her body. "Your posture was lacking and I was trying to correct it," he explained, clasping his hands behind his back.

"Well then find a way that doesn't involve touching me like that!" Sabine snapped, sticking her hand out to the side. "Matter of fact, just tell me next time," she suggested, with a slight shake of the head. Sabine exhaled and turned her attention back to the musket in her hands so she could reload. "What happened to Nicky and Josef teaching me how to shoot?" she questioned, glancing over at Booker before she brought the hammer to half-cock.

In the past two months that Sabine has known him, she's taken to calling Joe, 'Josef'. She liked the way it rolled off her tongue.

"It doesn't take two people to teach someone how to shoot a gun," Booker answered simply. "They were needed elsewhere," he added.

"And let me guess, Andy is busy as well?" Sabine asked rhetorically, and from the corner of her eye she saw him nod. "So, I'm stuck with you?" she asked, sliding the rifle down onto the butt.

"Sorry to disappoint," he quipped, a smile tugging at his lips. Booker unclasped his hands and began rubbing them together as he paced back and forth, trying to generate some warmth in his body. "You know, when I went looking for you in the wounded tent I had the strangest encounter," Booker stated, turning his head in her direction.

Sabine arched a brow, "And what's that?" she asked curiously, slipping her hand into the ammunition pouch.

"I came across this Irish fellow who warned me about and I quote, 'a she-devil, colored nurse'," he recalled, and Sabine's lips twitched up into a smirk.

Screams, yells, and moans of the injured echoed in Sabine's ears as she stood inside the field hospital tent. All around her, doctors and nurses were patching up anyone they could get their hands on. The air was thick with the smell of blood, bile, and other bodily fluids. The day was hard and encountering difficult and stubborn soldiers like the one in front of her, made Sabine's day more difficult than necessary.

Sabine went to reach for the injured Union soldier's leg again, but he jerked his body away from her.

"Get your nigg-" the soldier began to shout.

But Sabine was having none of it.

Before the man could finish his sentence, Sabine remorselessly jabbed her index and middle fingers into the gaping hole of the man's gunshot wound. The man let out a roar of pain and began thrashing in bed, unfortunately for him, nobody in the tent was paying attention to them because there were several men just like him screaming in pain. Only difference was, Sabine was inflicting it on purpose.

"Get my what hands off you?" Sabine questioned, staring down at the soldier as continued to scream in pain. "I'm sorry, I don't think I quite understood you. You said put my hands on you?" she asked again, pressing her fingers harder against the wound. The volume of the soldier's scream increased further more.

"Make it stop!" the man cried, writhing in pain.

"Say, 'I'm sorry, Miss,'" Sabine suggested, still maintaining pressure.

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry Miss!"

"You wouldn't happen to know who that might be would you?" Booker wondered, staring at her with a knowing look.

"I bet that Irish bastard won't think to say it again when addressing me," Sabine remarked, grabbing a paper cartridge from the pouch a lot harder than necessary. "These ungrateful, Union bastards believe themselves to be all high and mighty compared to the seceshs," she continued, her grip growing tighter around the cartridge as her anger rose. "When they themselves, treat me like I'm some child who needs constant supervision or I'll hurt myself, disrespect me by calling me out of my name when I pass by them, or even as I try to help them. When they're the ones, bleeding out on the goddamn, blood soaked wooden floors of the hospital!" she seethed. "But hey, it's alright. Since the Union soldiers treat colored folks like me with a little more humanity than the Confederates would, I guess I should be grateful," she finished, sarcasm laced in her voice.

"Sabine,"

She looked over to Booker to see his hand hovering over hers. "Your hand," he said, and Sabine's eyes move down to where the packed paper cartridge once rested in her hand, but now there was nothing but black powder smudged all over her hand. "Here," he offered, digging inside his coat pocket and pulling out a handkerchief.

Slowly, she pulled the cloth loose from his fingers, "Thank you," she said quietly, lowering her eyes back to her hand. "I'm sorry," she apologized, shaking her head once more. "I don't know where that outburst came from," she stated, rubbing the cloth onto her palm.

"No, don't apologize," Booker replied, grabbing the rifle that rested on Sabine's body. "Your anger is righteous Sabine," he affirmed. "Let's take a break, eh?" he suggested, motioning to the grass where they could have a seat and Sabine just nodded in agreement.

She lowered herself to the ground, tucking the skirt of her dress underneath her as she went.

"Earlier...I snapped at you and I shouldn't have," Sabine commented, bringing her eyes away from her hand that she still cleaning the powder off from her skin.

"Don't let it trouble your mind, I deserved it," he defended, laying the rifle beside him. "You were right, I should've asked before touching you like that," he agreed, as Sabine slid her gloves back on.

She placed a hand on her forehead, "It's been a long day and it seems like nothing has gone right since the moment I woke up this morning," Sabine said, rubbing her fingers back and forth.

"Nicky and Joe told me about the nightmare you had this morning," Booker stated, looking over at her. "Was it about-" he started.

"No, it wasn't about the Orient woman drowning again," Sabine cut in, dropping her hand into her lap. "It was something much worse, if you can believe that," she added, a sardonic chuckle escaping her.

"Your time on the Martin Plantation?" Booker guessed.

"Yes," she answered, her voice suddenly becoming hoarse

"Do you want to talk about it?" Booker questioned, and Sabine remained quiet as she stared out in front of her. "Don't feel pressured-"

"It was three months ago," Sabine interrupted, craning her head to look back at Booker. "Only a month right before my death," she noted, feeling her arms raise in goosebumps.

Booker turned his body more to face her better, "What happened?" he asked.

"Have you ever heard of a mandingo fight?"

Sabine sighed as she sat in front of a vanity mirror, a look of pure disgust painted all over her face as she felt herself being pampered and doted on by Louisa and Joan, two female house slaves who were working on her "unruly" hair, as they liked to put it so. Tonight Master Martin was visiting the French Quarter for some "entertainment", but Sabine knew better, whatever Master Martin considered fun or entertaining was undoubtedly the exact opposite.

"Sabine, are ya payin' attention girl?" Louisa asked impatiently.

Her words snapped Sabine out of her thoughts and she shook her head, looking at the older woman who was no more than about thirty something years old, but already was sprouting gray hairs.

"What is it?" Sabine asked, irritation etched onto her features.

"I's was sayin' that ya hair and face is done,"

Sabine's gaze snapped towards the mirror on the vanity and she felt herself deflate. Her curls had been combed and brushed to the point that her hair was now in soft waves, styled into a middle part chignon. Instead of seeing her nude colored lips, she was greeted with the sight of them being painted a deep, sinful red. Her eyelids were blackened with eye paint, bringing attention to Sabine's dark brown orbs and making her appear more alluring, and her cheeks were tinged in pink rouge.

Who was the woman looking back at her in the mirror?

"T-this-" Sabine stammered out, looking at herself in horror.

She was never done up this nice for the Martin family parties, ever.

"Very pretty?" Louisa asked, with a bright smile.

"Lovely?" Joan offered, sharing the same expression as Louisa.

"No...not me," Sabine corrected, waving her hands in disagreement. "I am not this woman, and she is not me," she went on, pointing at her reflection.

"Yes, you are," a male voice objected. "You look more like a dignified negro gal now," he informed.

Sabine felt herself bristle as she saw the reflection of Master Martin leaning against the doorway. He was dressed in what Sabine could only imagine was a very expensive black suit, a waistcoat the color of sherry, and black patent shoes that seemed to have a small and mostly unnoticeable scuff on them.

"Ladies, will you give Cecile and I a moment?" he asked, giving a false smile towards both the house slaves who suddenly looked terrified at his presence. They both nodded and scurried out of the room, knowing it was good to leave Master Martin and his favorite slave alone.

Once the door closed Master Martin advanced onto Sabine who only kept her gaze on the mirror, her full lips drawn into a tight, straight line. He came behind her, placing a hand on her supple naked brown shoulder, a sickly smile on his face as he leaned down towards her, inhaling her sweetening scent. He chuckled lowly as he felt her shudder in repulsion, her eyes still hard as stone as she kept her gaze forward.

"Do you know how beautiful you are...?" he asked in a mocking tone, his hot breath on her ear.

"You have told me many times Master Martin," she replied curtly.

Master Martin would always call her beautiful, but she always knew those were words of spite and menace. He never saw her truly as beautiful. She was a mere toy.

His toy.

Master Martin then laughed lightly, grabbing a loose strand of her hair, tucking it hair behind her ear, sending a shiver down her spine. Sabine suddenly let out a loud gasp when she felt his large calloused hand roughly hold her cheeks, forcing her to look at him. Fear sparked into Sabine's eyes as she stared into the penetrating eyes of her Master. He gave her a tight lipped smile, his hand squeezing her cheeks, making her wince in pain.

"How many times have I told you to call me Aaron when we are alone?" he questioned, low and menacingly. Sabine knew not to answer, she could only stare into the face of evil. "How many?!" Master Martin shouted in her face, shaking her a little, making Sabine let out a slight yelp of fear.

Tears burned at the corners of her eyes as she felt him remove his large hand from her face and she squeezed her eyes shut, a few tears falling down her face as she waited for the pain to arrive. Master Martin never did like to hit her, however, on rare occasions he would. But the pain that Sabine was so anxiously awaiting, never came. Sabine cracked open an eye, seeing Master Martin, smiling at her ruefully.

"What...?" he asked mockingly. "Did you think I would hurt you?" he asked again, using the same tone.

Sabine nodded her head slowly, her body trembling lightly. Master Martin then tsked her, shaking his head lightly, walking over to her and then wiping her tears away from her face. The act seemed almost intimate, but she knew that it was far from it.

"Sabine, do you think I'm some kind of monster?" he asked, removing his hand from her face.

"Yes," she thought.

The thought of answering out loud had crossed her mind, but she was in no mood to be hit tonight. She just wanted to accompany him to this stupid outing and then go back to doing her duties as a house slave.

"You don't have to answer that," he said humorously. "Just come downstairs in the next five minutes. Our carriage will be ready soon," he informed, patting her cheek rather roughly. "Also, I want you to provide some music for this little get together we're going to. And none of that mongrel music I hear you sing. Sing something more dignified and more...white,"

Master Martin then cupped her cheek and gave her a soft and lingering kiss. Sabine resisted the urge to bite down so hard onto his lip that he would bleed or spit into his mouth. But she just simply kissed him back, though every inch of her internally was screaming at her to fight back. But she didn't. She couldn't.

She was scared.

Once Master Martin broke the kiss his gray eyes gazed into her dark brown ones in a very sickening love way and he smiled, running his thumb over her plump bottom lip. "Je t'aime…" he said softly, before leaning up and walking away from her.

And once Sabine heard the door close shut, she felt herself break down, tears running down her face as she choked back sobs that would surely bring Master Martin back to the room.

"In all the years I was on that plantation," Sabine began, tears flowing freely down her face. "He was never that physical with me until this year," she explained, with a sniffle. "And I-I don't know what triggered it. Maybe it was because Marc and Alain were gone, or m-maybe I-I did some-"

"Sabine there is nothing you did to deserve being assaulted," Booker cut in. "You hear me? Nothing,"

And Sabine just silently nodded in agreement, another sniffle coming from her.

"Now, go ahead and use my handkerchief to dry your eyes," Booker suggested, motioning to the cloth that rested in her lap.  "Be careful though, I'd hate to see gunpowder all over your face," he joked, a warm smile on his face.

A watery laugh escaped Sabine, "You liar," she responded, bringing the clean part of the cloth to her eyes. "You'd probably think its funny and let me walk around with my face all dirty," she pointed out, dabbing the fabric underneath her eyes.

"It did cross my mind," Booker remarked, with a chuckle. "Come on, we should get back to camp. We'll continue this tomorrow if all goes well," he said, before placing his hands on the ground to help him stand.

"No," Sabine answered, shaking her head vigorously. "We're not going back until I hit that target," she stated, pointing in the direction where the target was.

Booker let out a sigh of faux exasperation, "We'll be here till sundown if that's the case," he quipped, reverting back to his usual self.

Sabine's face broke into a grin and she balled up his handkerchief and threw it at him, smacking him right in the chest. Booker mirrored her smile, grabbing the cloth and stuffing it back inside his coat before pushing himself off the ground and dusting his coat off.

He stuck his hand out, "I'm only joking," he said, sticking his gloved hand out which Sabine took. "Well, only a little bit," he added, and Sabine just rolled her eyes.

She picked the rifle up from the ground and placed it on the butt as she did earlier. Taking out another paper cartridge from the ammunition pouch, she ripped open the top with her teeth and poured the pre-measured black powder into the barrel. Afterward, she pushed in the bullet, paper and all, into the barrel and began ramming the contents with the ramrod.

"Sabine," Booker called, and she glanced up from what she was doing. "That night you told me about, he didn't...he didn't..." he trailed off, struggling to finish the question.

"No Booker," Sabine answered, as she finished ramming down the bullet with the rod. "He didn't rape me, he was too drunk to do it," she informed, tossing the rod down. "The worst I got was some wet, sloppy kisses," she recalled, bringing the rifle to her face.

He cleared his throat and nodded to himself, a look of relief clearly on his face.

After a moment, Booker took a few steps back, "Alright," he started, clearing his throat once more. "Remember to stand up straight and stand your ground," he reminded. "That rifle is pretty powerful, so keep the butt of it pressed against your shoulder," he instructed. "And keep it steady," he added, eyes keenly set forward.

Sabine cocked the hammer back with two clicks, her finger curling firmly around the trigger of the rifle. A glossy bead of sweat formed on her forehead as she aimed her gun at her target. She used her other hand to steady the barrel, closing one eye in the process. Looking down the barrel, she aligned the sights toward the target, which was still slightly obscured by the midday haze. Tiny whispers of doubt began floating in Sabine's mind on whether or not she could hit what was in front of her, but those thoughts were pushed out of her mind as she squeezed the trigger.

First, there was a powerful bang, and immediately after a shuddering recoil pushed her back. Sabine kept her balance, albeit barely, but Booker rushed to her side and kept her grounded.

She blinked, "Oh. So that's what it feels like," she looked to the Frenchman and burst into a fit of laughter, seeing his lips twitch up as well. "Come on, let go see the damage," she giggled, after regaining her composure a little.

Lightly, she grabbed Booker by his sleeve and they made a brief journey to the makeshift target, a stump between a pair of bare trees. A few torn scraps of metal were all that were left of the tin can Sabine had been aiming for.

"Wow," she breathed, an awed look on her face, as she picked up a piece of the destroyed can. "I guess that was a lucky shot though," she added with a giggle, lifting her eyes to Booker's.

He sauntered up to her, hands in his pockets. "Don't sell yourself short," he commented, his mouth curving upwards. "There may be a markswoman in you yet,"

Chapter Eight: Tis’ the Season

[ardentprose]

Cold Brew - Prologue

This is my attempt at the old coffee shop cliche. I’m warning you now, my writer’s block is strong. But I will tell you this story to the best of my abilities. 

*I don’t own the gifs.

*Dialogue: English will be in standard font while Korean will be italicized.

Yoongi x Reader

Genre: Fluff, Slow-Burnish, Romance

Warnings: Language (if more are found, please message me)

Summary: Going to an American college for music was an opportunity Min Yoongi could not pass up. Despite the comments about his eyes and accent, he’s determined to make it through the semester and prove himself to his parents back home. After an awkward but fateful conversation, Yoongi finds himself crushing hard for a girl he only has so many weeks to confess to. If he will at all.

November

He sits at a table shoved against a wall, his mind concentrated on chasing down the train of thoughts bustling through his mind before it escapes him. His hand scurries across the page, the inevitable pain slowly rising in his wrist as the pen audibly scratches through the journal. Now and then, his left hand brushes the pale hair settling on his eyelashes. The brim of round wire glasses faithfully slides down the smooth bridge of his nose and so his fingers are kept busy with this task as well.

In the past hour, the bell has jingled a hundred times, the voices of patrons intermingling with the whistling espresso machines and clank of the register drawer. It’s background noise easily tuned out, and yet with an uncanny sense, when the bell chimes again announcing a new arrival, Yoongi slams his journal closed, slipping it into the safe cavern of his backpack.

He pulls out his English Composition 101 textbook and the accompanying black spiral notebook to set on the table.

She slides into the chair across from him, her sweet perfume cutting through the ever present aroma of coffee. The soft thud of her messenger bag accompanies her warm tone.

“Yoongi.” His eyes train on his notebook, watching the veins in his hand flicker as he opens the massive textbook to the current chapter. Only after finding the correct page does he looks up at her and her awaiting smile. That brief moment of delay does nothing to prepare his heart as it skips twice, taking in her shining eyes, rosy cheeks, and chapped lips parted for him.

“Hey.” He swallows the strain in his vocal chords, hoping to disguise their fragility with a long sip of his cold brew.

“How are you? Did you get any sleep last night?” She asks as she leans forward and slips out her winter coat. She drapes it over the back of her chair, left in a hoodie dyed the navy blue of the university.

“The same.” He mumbles, licking the aftertaste from his lips and anticipating the crinkle in her brow.

“Yoongi, you have to learn to go to bed! It’s not healthy to skip sleep. One of these days you’re going to collapse from exhaustion.”

“I have...too much work.” He reasons, watching the lavender scarf she claims to have knit herself unravel around her neck. She leans over to stuff it into her bag and then gives him a glare.

“We all have too much work to do, Yoongi. You need to sleep.”

Why does she keep saying my name? He muses, intrigued and yet horrified at the electricity that shoots through him every time he hears her say the familiar syllables.

“And you?” He chides, watching her momentarily cover a cough and then sniff. “You gonna catch a cold.”

“No, I’m not. I was just outside.” She shakes her head, tugging out her own textbook and note-taking utensils.

"Your voice is scratchy. That wouldn’t happen if you drank the warm honey water like I told you to.” Yoongi says.

“Yeah, well...” She sighs, and her eyes flicker to his along with a guilty smile. Despite her age, youth couldn’t prevent the exhausted wrinkles creasing under her eyes.

“Let’s both agree to take better care of ourselves. You go ahead and start, I’m going to order some tea.”

“I got it.” Yoongi says, allowing her to remain in her seat, albeit with a confused expression. He waves his hand above her head, catching the eye of the barista, who nods and disappears behind the kitchen. He returns promptly with a porcelain tea cup on a saucer, setting it down in front of her wide eyes.

“Thank you!” She glances from the barista to Yoongi, blinking several times at the steaming cup of tea.

“Let’s get started.” Yoongi clears his throat, taking another sip, and flipping open his notebook to the next blank page.

She hums, taking a careful sip of the spiced chai she so dearly craves. Soon, they slip into routine silence and time passes as it always does. She explains the English language in a patient voice, sometimes reaching over with her pen to point out a particular word or phrase. He writes it down, taking note of her correction and the way his knuckles burn when she grazes them in proximity. The atmosphere is calm and productive, and Yoongi can’t help but notice the contrast between the silent companionship in the café to the initial meeting they had only a mere three months ago.

September

He had just arrived in America, via a Student Visa and Study Abroad program. Though he had only spent three weeks at most on campus, he quickly realized the color of his skin and the accent of his words was evidence enough to attach numerous stereotypes to his character, most of which he had never heard of before in his life. The American students would clap him on the shoulder in class, asking if he could check their math homework. The teachers would speak to him in a patronizingly slow English, as if he had a mental issue, not a language barrier. A fair share of giggling girls with pretty Asian men tucked into phone cases would ask for his number, but struggle pronouncing his name. The worst of it came from the frat boys who, though having never seen his crotch, assumed it was lacking in comparison to their superior American-made crotches. It was by that time, Yoongi decided that save for the incredible opportunity it was to study music in America, the rest of it could burn in hell.

The only one stopping him from taking the next ticket back to South Korea was his roommate Hoseok, who came over on a dance scholarship the year before. Having acclimated for one year to American college life, Hoseok tried to convince Yoongi on a daily basis that not all Americans were as ignorant as they let on. However, it still took Hoseok disconnecting Yoongi’s laptop from the school Wi-Fi on a particularly climatic night in order to convince him to stay in America - at least until the end of the semester.

That being said, Yoongi had, fair or not, formed a prejudice against American students and avoided them at all costs. Ironically, it was this mindset that caused him to open his mouth, one picnic table away, and comment on some American’s awful pronunciation of his native tongue.

The soon to be victim was sitting at the picnic table next to his sitting with a presumably Korean girl.

“I haven’t gotten it down perfectly, but I definitely know how to have a basic conversation.”

“Really? Show me, show me!” Her loud volume caught Yoongi’s attention, which up until now had been focused on the next four measures under his pencil.

Having forgotten his earbuds in his dorm, he was left with no other choice but to eavesdrop.

“How are you?" The friend immediately asked and Yoongi could hear her smile in the eager question.

“I’m great! How are you?” The American responded.

A frown wrinkles Yoongi’s brow. He understood her words, but the pronunciation was slightly jarring, as if she was talking with rocks in her mouth.

“Very good!” The native encouraged and asked her what her career is, a basic introduction that any stranger would ask.

“College study gift. I’m study music and singer.“ Stumbling and humming her way through the sentence, Yoongi can’t help but snicker, holding his knuckles to his grin.

“Yes!” Expecting a correction, Yoongi scoffs as she ignores the obviously incorrect sentence and encourages her on. 

“Are you kidding me? She sounds like a damn Google translation.” He laughed, resuming his writing with a shake of his head.

“Hey! Who the fuck asked you?!”

Yoongi’s heart jumped into his throat. One moment he was scribbling notes on a composition sheet, chuckling to himself. The next, a furious Korean female was in his face, cursing him out. 

He blinked up at the sudden fire and brimstone before him. Before he fired back a few choice words of his own, he pieced together that his comment had been overheard. 

He glanced at the woman currently sitting at the other table, her tears brimming and her lips tucked in shame. She may not have understood his comment, but clearly, by the tone of his words and the righteous anger of her friend, he had insulted her. She cautiously lifted her eyes to him and Yoongi felt the boulder of remorse hit his stomach.

“Fuck.”

Leave it to him to insult the one American woman who, at the very least, was doing her best to understand his culture, and at the very most, was the prettiest woman he had ever seen.

Without a moment’s hesitation he met the eyes of the furious friend, choosing to deal with her first. “I’m sorry, I didn’t think you could hear me.”

“That doesn’t mean you can insult her! She was trying her best. We weren’t even talking to you.”

“I’m an asshole, okay? I didn’t mean to take it out on her. Can I at least apologize?” Choosing to agree in order to calm her down, Yoongi maintained his calm exterior despite the guilt twisting his stomach into knots.

The friend huffed, tossing her raven hair over her shoulder as she stepped back slightly. Yoongi cleared his throat, ignoring the tremble in his fingertips and shuffled over to the picnic table, sitting down on the opposite bench.

“Hey, I’m...” Doing his best to clearly pronounce his English was just another lash of shame against his burning cheeks.

“I’m very sorry for...my words. I was...idiot. Very big idiot. I...You speak...good Korean. More good than...I speak English...” Stuttering and flitting his eyes around her face, the table, and his shaking hands, Yoongi stumbled through an apology, his voice gruff but his expression sincere.

“It’s alright.” She sighed, swiping under her eyes with the back of her fingers. “I get it. I probably do sound really dumb. But thank you.” 

Her instant compassion tore at Yoongi all the more and he wondered at which point he turned into the monsters that terrorized him all day long.

“I...I help you, if you help me.” He was speaking the words before he could register them. Once they do, a cold terror drained his expression at the same time a large smile warmed her face.

“Really? You’d do that?”

“Hey, what about me?” The two glanced at the Korean friend who sensed the sudden shift in the conversation.

“I need all the help I can find, Eun. You know we hardly have time to meet up as it is. This is the first since two weeks ago I’ve been able to practice with you."

Eun rolls her eyes. “He just insulted you. Don’t trust him so easily.”

Yoongi blinks, lacking the words to defend himself and still processing why he offered his help to a stranger when he hadn’t given the time of day to anyone other than Hoseok - who wore a watch.

Her gaze fell on him now, taking in his features for the first time. Her eyebrows wrinkled. 

“Haven’t I seen you in a class before?”

“I...uh...I take music.”

“Oh, I am too! Music Production with Mrs. Harris, right? You’re the one who plays the piano all the time. I never see anyone with you. Have you made friends here?” Before he has time to think of an answer, she cuts him off. 

“Oh my word - ignore that! That was so rude to ask! I’m so sorry.” 

Again, how could he have insulted the kindest person on campus?

Yoongi licked his lips, shrugging. There weren’t enough English words in his vocabulary to explain the prejudice-driven harassment and bitterness he had experienced since moving here. He never noticed someone so genuine and sweet in that classroom of entitled pricks, himself included as one of them.

“Never mind. All the more reason. It’s a deal, then.” She held out her hand, brimming with a newfound excitement that hadn’t caught onto him yet.

“You’ll fix my pronunciation. I’ll help you pass ESL 101.” She promised as Yoongi slid his palm over hers. The fact she knew he was taking the English as a Second Language course wasn’t a surprise. All exchange students were required to take it and this incident more than warranted her assumption of his class register.

Swallowing thickly he nodded, now finding himself the one put out. Eun rolled her eyes but sat down beside her friend again.

“At least tell each other your names if this is gonna happen.” She exhaled.

Yoongi’s new tutor laughed, and it’s so contagious, he cracked a smile.

“We’re off to a great start, aren’t we?” She giggled, giving him a look that could rival the stars.

Chapter One

[reynesofcastamere]

Splintered Perspective [β]

(A/N: For reference, any fics I write that aren’t related to my main series will be marked with [ β ] in the title. I may just have to make a masterpost to organize these at some point. Anyway,the prompt for this was: ‘How Rex or some other person from Ahsoka’s past would react to her being enemies with benefits or in a relationship with Maul.’ I decided to go with multiple POVs for the fun of it. And so I didn’t break myself with The Sad. Poor Rex T_T. Perspectives are not in chronological order. Mentions of past Ahsoka/Barriss. Warnings for dehumanization, mentions of torture, death, violence, some ableism and possible misogyny.(Maybe? Your mileage may vary.) Unbeta’d.  ) Being one with the Force is...not exactly what she had been taught to expect. Barriss Offee is part of everything, all at once. Those in the Light, living and dead, she is all of them, and yet still herself, in a manner of speaking . Time is no longer such a rigid concept, nor is there any particular sense of urgency. What has happened was meant to be, and the future...Is forever shifting, ripples overlapping in a still pool. Which is why it comes as such a surprise when she can feel Master Plo’s disapproval like a storm on the edge of breaking. At first, she cannot determine what has woken his ire, but slowly the images come into focus. Ahsoka.

Barriss no longer possesses a heart, and yet she cannot deny the lance of bittersweet pain through her chest. There is relief that her friend is still alive, but also regret and something bordering on envy. A feeling that only sharpens when she notices the tattooed Zabrak that Ahsoka currently has pinned down. Wait. She knows him. Not personally, but...He is a Sith, a murderer, a monster. Why is Ahsoka-brash, kind, clever person that she is- smiling at him?  It is possible that she is misinterpreting this. Both of them appear rather bruised and a touch bloody, and the lack of lightsabres doesn’t mean-She misses the words exchanged between the pair of them, but...The kiss is unmistakeably passionate, bordering on obscene as the Force crackles around them. Somehow, this is not the worst of it. When they part for air, there is a...look, shared between their eyes, and Barriss experiences true dread. Long ago, she and Ahsoka had-been close. Intimately so. As much as anyone could be, following the Order’s mandate that attachment was forbidden. She’d harboured dreams then, of maybe and one day...But no. Too much had happened, and her rosy illusions had been cruelly shattered. Somehow, watching this unfold hurts worse. Because there is something genuine beneath the crude physical attraction on display. Master Plo does not say a word, but his righteous indignation is so strong that it is a miracle he does not physically manifest in front of them.

Her dearest companion does not belong in the Dark, with this...creature trapping her in his coils, dripping venom into her thoughts. Barriss can only hope Ahsoka will extricate herself before it is too late.

=====

The failed apprentice. A wretched vermin who simply refuses to die. Not for much longer. Darth Vader’s gaze narrows as he reviews the incident reports. A decade of nothing but the occasional annoyance and whispers from the dregs of the galaxy, and only now does Maul scurry out from beneath whatever rock he has been sheltering under. Why? There is no grand plan, no great advantage in breaking into an Imperial prison. Especially one that contains such...unimportant occupants. Then again...The swathe of carnage and destruction left behind had been almost a direct path between the Dathomirian’s entry point and the interrogation chambers. Not a calculated assault, but an act of rage and desperation. Vader had felt it at the time, how the Dark Side had howled and torn at itself like a half-crazed beast. And then there was the fate of the interrogator: Hands cut off, abdominal perforation, shattered jaw,and eyes torn from their sockets. He had suffered a great deal, however briefly. As for the prisoner with him- Records list a female Togruta, mid-to-late twenties, with blue eyes and orange skin. Possibly Force sensitive, but difficult to determine due to her physical state upon capture. The prisoner hadn’t been in possession of anything resembling lightsabres, but had been carrying a wealth of assorted small armaments. It couldn’t be. She died back when...We found her sabres among the graves. Anakin Skywalker is long dead, but sometimes his ghost is loud enough to be heard over the multitudes that inhabit Vader’s hulking, monstrous shell.

Graves required someone to dig them first. Which meant that either some unknown individuals had come along and taken pity on a multitude of strangers...Or that the survivours had done the work themselves. Yet, if Ahsoka Tano lives, and was temporarily imprisoned, it still does not explain the identity or methods of her unlikely rescuer. She was sent to capture him on Mandalore, why would Snips-? Why did she leave us? We needed her when Padme- The room around him warps and buckles in a single, furious moment of clarity. She chose that...animal. That thing, Oh, but she’d been richly rewarded, hadn’t she? One only had to look at the risks her...protector had taken just to secure her freedom. Approval and utter disgust war within him as he rises. So be it. Sentiment has already destroyed them, and it will be his pleasure to finish a task that should have been resolved long ago. Traitors to the Empire must all be purged.

===== Rex should probably be angry. Ahsoka is certainly looking at him like a shiny expecting a stern lecture for breaking regs. Instead he just feels...tired. He can’t be mad at her, not really. Maybe if he’d stuck around longer or managed to make contact more often, this wouldn’t have happened. Or maybe it would have. Maker knows his trio of Jedi could never stay out of trouble for long, and that war makes for strange alliances and even stranger...pairings.  Still, he has to ask, because he knows her, knows the depths of love and compassion that make her who she is, beneath the layers of soldier and spy.

“Is it serious?” Ahsoka fidgets with her lekku a bit. “I don’t know.” A long pause as she inhales. “It keeps happening, and...I want to murder him half the time, Rex. The problem is that he likes it.” The expression on her face perfectly sums up her opinion on that little tidbit of info. He might have laughed, under different circumstances. Instead, he takes her hands in his. “We’ve known each other for a long time. I might not understand why you’re doing this, or how it works-” He absolutely does not need to know the mechanics, as there are not enough drugs or alcohol in the galaxy to purge the associated mental images. “-but I trust your judgement. And your ability to slice his horns off and hang him from his ears over a pit of rathtars if he pushes you too far.” Rex grins, silently offering to be her backup should that ever happen. Kind of a surprise it hasn’t already, since Maul never karking shuts up and Ahsoka’s patience has a set limit for windbags. Her eyes are wet when she hugs him tightly. “You’ll be the first person I call, Captain. And I’m sorry.” He knows she’s not just apologizing for this, not with their history. “I’m sorry too, Commander.” Rex murmurs, hugging her back. They can stay like this for a while longer. Her superiors are just going to have to wait. He might not be such a ‘good’ soldier anymore, but he knows damned well how to be a good friend. And that’s what they both need, more than anything. People that will survive the disaster long enough to see it end, and come out smiling.

=====

“When I warned that you might be tempted by the Dark Side, I did not expect it to be quite so literal.”

“Master.” “Then again, I suppose there is a certain appeal. Ventress was certainly a...passionate opponent. Lovely sense of humour, too. I suppose you don’t get much of that with your-No, I suppose you are the better half in this equation.” “Master Kenobi.” “Come now, we haven’t spoken in ages, surely you can indulge your grand-master’s curiousity.” “You did not break comm silence after years of letting everyone think you were dead just to call me about my sex life.” “Well, no, but it is an unexpected bonus. How does that work, exactly?” “It sounds like you’re angling for a demonstration.” “Oh Maker, no. I’m not that eager to find out.” “Good, because I don’t particularly feel like dealing with him if he decides to drop everything just to hunt you down.” “Ah. He’s...still upset about that, is he?” “You have no idea.” “Well then. To business. And Ahsoka?” “Yes, Master?” “It is good to hear your voice again. Do take care of yourselves.” “You too, Master Kenobi. And don’t worry, we’ll be fine.”

“One last question: When should I expect great-grand-padawans?”

“OBI-WAN!!!!” (A/N: Yes, I had to end with levity. Especially considering the characters involved. To clarify, Anakin isn’t upset because he has any sort of romantic inclination towards Ahsoka. It’s general Darksider possessiveness/jealousy mixed in with a lot of anger and some guilt. Looking after Ahsoka’s wellbeing was ‘his’ job, so far as he’s concerned. And now it’s apparently been usurped by That One Asshole. Also, if anyone’s going to recognize that level of...obsessive regard, it’s gonna be the OG Skywalker Drama King. Many thanks to the anonymous person who requested this, both for the prompt and your compliments. Cheers!) 

[feministshawnmendes]

Bold and Bubbly 

a/n: inspired by that story Shawn told of that woman not knowing who he was and my love for cocky!Shawn. There might be a steamy part two? We’ll see. 

summary: Shawn meets a beautiful film director at an After-Party during the Cannes film festival who has no idea who he is. 

_____

Champagne had been flowing freely all night, swirling about  in expensive champagne flutes before dancing down into the bellies of some of Hollywood’s finest. Mireia had gulped down her fair share of free alcohol, feeling tipsy but in control as she took photos with old friends and chatted up new faces, the alcohol sitting in her belly and making her feel warm as her lips turned upwards into a permanent smile. She usually hated film festivals. Especially the Cannes Film Festival. It had become somewhat of a fashion show over the years, hoards of supermodels and musicians attending the event for a few photo ops if anything. But that night she didn’t care about her self-righteous anger. She’d spent the past three years writing, directing and producing the film that had become her passion project and it had just opened at one of the biggest film festivals in the world. She was too busy soaking up the alcohol and affection floating around to worry about much else. She’d been working in the industry for years and if she had learned anything it was to bask in moments like this - ones where she wasn’t worried about writing, meeting a deadline, pleasing studio execs. Temporarily free of any worries that might later surface to the top of her brain, Mireia broke off from her friends who were laughing loudly as they consumed more alcohol than necessary and ate bite sized servings of bread and cheese.

After-parties like the one her cast had dragged her to were really meant for actors to meet casting agents and directors. A lot of schmoozing and fake flattery was involved. The good thing about being young, female and a relatively new director in the industry was that most actors had no clue who Mireia was. They knew her name, knew her work from the tv shows and films she’d written for. But most people barely recognized her. Which she used to her advantage as she strolled past tables full of celebrities who were eager to land acting gigs, their eyes scanning the room to hopefully catch a word with Tarantino or Scorsese. She smiled to herself as she made her way to the bathroom which was situated in a dark corner of the room. When she pulled on the door handle and the door swung open a little too easily, her eyes widened, a gasp pushing its way past her lips as her eyes met two brown ones.

“Oh uh,” She stammered instinctively, her hand still grasping the door handle as her eyes scanned the stranger’s face in front of her. He was handsome. The knock your breath out of your lungs kind of handsome. He had a good half a foot on her, his frame towering over hers, his head tilted as his eyes traveled up and down her body, his eyebrows furrowing as a warmth started to form in the pit of her stomach.

“You look familiar,” he said as his tongue poked out to wet his parted lips, a crooked smile playing on his face as Mireia’s grasp on the door handle tightened. She gulped nervously, her cheeks burning as the handsome stranger’s gaze stayed locked on hers. She shook her head, confusion washing over her face.

“I’m sorry. I don’t think we’ve met before,” She responded. 

“Hm,” He hummed, crossing his arms over his chest. He screams suave and confidence, his cocky smirk and strong eye contact making the tips of Mireia’s fingers burn as he stares back at her. She swallowed her nerves.

“Um,” She trailed as he continued to stare at her, an amused smile on his face. “I actually have to pee super bad. If you could just-“

“Are you an actress?” He interrupted, his teeth seeking into his bottom lip.

“Ha! No, I’m not.”

“I swear we’ve met before,” He insisted.

“I really don’t think so,” She laughed, her hand falling from the door handle. “You must be mistaken - I don’t know who you are.”

“Wha-Really?” He asked, his expression shifting as he shoved his hands in the pockets of his dress pants, his smile falling. Mireia shook her head, watching as he grimaced slightly and pursed his lips. She rolled her eyes, letting out a small huff.

“Listen I’m sure you’re very impressive and a great actor and if your agent has a card I’d-“

“Whoa whoa whoa,” He laughed, putting up a hand as he shook his head. “Are you a Director?”

“Yes,” she answered hesitantly.  “Why do you sound so surprised?”

“You look young is all,” He replied, a crooked smile appearing on his face as he tilted his head again, his hand reaching up to rub the back of his neck. “You really don’t know who I am?”

“Am I supposed to?” She asked with a cocked eyebrow, feeling her skin grow warm with anger. He held himself like every other young celebrity in Hollywood. His charming smile and dark eyes, which were zoned in on her making her cheeks burn. As handsome as he was, she couldn’t help but read him as another arrogant actor with a big ego. She’d played this game before and she wasn’t willing to do it again.

“And who are you?” He smirked, ignoring her question and leaning against the door frame of the bathroom, crossing his arms over his chest as the warmth in Mireia’s belly grew.

“Someone who REALLY has to go to the bathroom so if you could just…” She smiled an overly sweet smile, a laugh falling from his lips as he pushed himself off the door frame and ran his index finger along his bottom lip.

“You really don’t know who I am?” He repeated.

“No I don’t but judging by how hurt you seem to be that I don’t, you must be a really big deal,” She retorted.

“I mean,” He trailed, a glint in his eyes as they danced across her face. “I wouldn’t say really big but...big.”

“Mm I’m sure you are,” She breathed, pursing her lips in annoyance as she took the time to let her eyes really take in the man in front of her. He was wearing black dress pants and a white dress shirt, the sleeves pushed up to reveal his muscular forearms, the top two buttons of his shirt undone to reveal a little bit of chest hair. A bed of chocolate curls rested on top of his head, his skin glowing underneath the warm lighting the bathroom provided. He was classically handsome, a boyish smile etched onto his face as he leaned smoothly into Mireia, her breath hitching in her throat.

“I can’t remember the last time I met someone who didn’t know who I was,” He said in a low voice, making Mireia’s face burn in a way it hadn’t before, her throat tightening as his gaze moved down to her lips.

“Here,” She whispered back with a confident smirk. “Let me hold that for you.”

“Hold what?” He asked with a tone of surprise, his forehead creasing.

“Your ego,” She replied. “Seems like it must be kinda big. Hard to carry.”

A chuckle fell from his lips, Mireia’s throat drying up as she takes in this stranger’s cocky demeanor, the way he pushes his chin up and squares his shoulders making her want to roll her eyes. She’s irritated by his confidence that seems to drip from his very being, his tongue poking out again to touch the corner of his mouth. Mireia felt her head start to spin, tingles shooting up and down her body as he stepped closer to her, a good foot away from her but closer than before, his musky scent filling her nostrils and making her stomach do cartwheels.

“You’re really cute,” He said slowly, his lips curving into a bigger smile as her nose scrunched up and she stuck her tongue out in mock disgust as a laugh fell from his lips, his eyes turning into slits as his body shook with laughter.

“Is that your way of hitting on me?” She asked with a purse of her lips.

“If I said yes?”

“By law I’d have to vomit,” She answered.

“Funny,” He laughed. “Kind of assumed it was obvious I’ve been hitting on you the whole time,”

“Funny. Usually people introduce themselves if they’re trying to hit on someone”

“Well,” He said plainly, smiling as she raised an eyebrow at him inquisitively. “You tell me yours and I’ll tell you mine, honey.”

“Mireia Bodillo.”

“Nice to meet you, Mireia,” He breathed, nodding his head as he rocked back on the heels of his feet, placing his hand flat on the door as he pushed it further open, Mireia eyes following his every move. He smirked down at her, his cheeks a few shades darker than they had been earlier as he pushed himself against the door, slotting himself between it and Mireia as he purposefully brushed past her. An uneven breath fell from his lips as she stared up at him, her chin held high and her shoulders squared as she tilted her head.

“And you are?” She asked cooly, his chest rising up and down as she purposefully shifted so her body was facing his, the tips of her shoes bumping his. She smiled up at him, a satisfied grin taking over her face as his eyes dropped down to her, his Adam’s apple moving up and down along his throat as she purposefully ran her tongue along her bottom lip. His warmth was radiating onto her, his labored breaths gently brushing against her face.

“Shawn,” He breathed. “Mendes”

“Mm,” She hummed in a low tone. “Doesn’t sound familiar.”

“You really know how to stroke a guy’s ego, eh?” He choked out, the tip of his nose now a nice shade of pink. Mireia’s stomach churned and her fingers tingled as she watched a familiar glint of desire swim in Shawn’s eyes as he gulped once again. If anyone were to catch them standing so close in a dark corner of the room they’d probably think the two were familiar, more than just strangers who’d bumped into each other.

“Nice meeting you, Mr. Mendes,” She smirked up at him as his cheeks flushed red once again. She liked being in control. Liked watching the way he bit the inside of his cheek as he fought to keep himself from smiling. He nodded, her eyes dancing across his face as her smile widened.

“Yeah it was nice,” He whispered, a ghost of a smile on his face. “Might google you later.”

“You might?”

“Mhm.”

“Okay,” She started, biting down on her bottom lip as she smirked up at him as she watched him unravel as a smile broke out onto his face and he rubbed the back of his neck with one hand. The cool exterior he’d put up was slowly melting away, giving way to a much softer interior, a nervous breath falling from Shawn’s lips as Mireia purposefully let her fingers brush against his. The small amount of contact burned her skin, making the warmth in her belly travel lower as she pressed her legs together. She was in control and she knew it but she slowly felt herself coming undone. “Might google you myself, then. Might be hard to find you, though. Ya know...since you’re not very big.”

“I’m sure you’ll be able to find me,” he chuckled.

“Mm. I’m sure. What did you say your name was again?”

“Oh come on.”

“Mendes,Yeah?” She teased.

“Yeah,” He smiled back at her as she nodded and slowly backed away from him, their eyes locked on each other.

“See ya, Mendes,” She smiled, taking in the way he heaved a sigh and nodded before he slipped away and she closed the bathroom door, her mind running wild as she wondered about the handsome stranger she’d just met, the warmth that had taken over her body slowly fading away.

[murdochmysteriesimagines]

The Rose of Texas

Request: Female S/O and George writing love letters to each other please.

A/N: What was asked of me and what I provided are completely different. I had an idea and it snowballed into a product not only longer than intended but something I plan to work on further. In the end I wrote something that I wanted to write. I hope you enjoy it.

__________________________________________

12/02/1910

My Sweetest George

I assume its too late to say Merry Christmas while I’m writing to you, no doubt when you finally receive it. If it manages to get through whatever blockade is set up for the Red Cross Couriers. I should have written to you when I first departed. That night I left it felt like I hadn’t said enough to you, now I can barely think of any words that could explain the world I find myself in.  But like you say George, its best to start from the beginning. What I ask myself is what is the true beginning of this? I suppose your start would be me sneaking off in the middle of the night. I’ve had a lot of time to think about what I said to you that evening, or to be more accurate, to say what I yelled at you in blind anger. All the trouble I’m going through seems to be an appropriate punishment for my sins, but I still feel guilty for it. I guess I’m not as heartless as you think. Kidding aside I am truly sorry for what I said about you George, you are one of the best men I know. No man I’ve met can hold a candle to you, such a man does not deserve to be branded a coward because he refuses to follow every whim I have like a trained dog. Regardless of what you believe me to be, just know I deeply regret what I said to you. I love you George, do not ever think otherwise.

To most Canadians this ugly situation would have officially started back in ‘01’, when McKinley was shot dead and our beloved Roosevelt ascended to the Oval office, to the rank of self-appointed King. Another Caesar stabbed in the senate house with an opportunistic Augustus looking to forge his throne from the blood of the opposition. For every Pure Food and Drug Act making headlines, there was a coal miners strike repressed by federal troops. For every shining railroad built off the labour of the Southern states in his so-called relief camps, political opponents arrested and shipped out west. Corruption in the government pulled out like a weed and replaced with a loyal lap dog. Any man could see Roosevelt moved against anyone who dare opposed him with a vengeance, quickly and decisively. The press would say it was all in the name of stability and security; those journalists untouched by the Bears Claws at the cost of singing him endless praise and justifying every sin they could not cover up. The press in Canada more than happy to parrot their kin who looked up to the ever kind, ever present presidential king. How many truly knew the light of democracy that all sources held on the highest pedestal was being snuffed out. Fuel to the flame being cut by a tyrant who would stop at nothing to consolidate power around himself. Roosevelt’s party switch in the ‘04’ election should have been the wake-up call to the world, yet most remained ignorant. From the Republicans to the newly founded Progressive Party of America. The medias favourite figurehead as the acting chair; old officials sent to replace the ‘corrupt’ surprisingly changing sides to the governing party. The ignorant sang their praise at the man, no longer was America a two-party country, surely liberty and prosperity would follow us into the new century. The naïve and unenlightened will maintain that rhetoric, those paid to believe that it was the ungrateful south that opposed our King who kindly kept us under the federal government’s thumb. I guess we should be grateful to Roosevelt George: he had generously allowed our suffering to continue rather than slaughter the disgruntled southern population entirely, although even his media sources would have a rough time justifying that atrocity.

To me George, this started all the way back in ‘65’ with the end of the civil war. I’ve heard the cries that we are nothing more than a second coming of the Confederacy, succession is the last thing on our minds George. Instead of state and property rights; our cause is against tyranny and for a liberation of our enslavement. Only Lincoln wanted to reintegrate the confederates into the union. When he died so did any hope of unification. They liberated the slaves only to create a new breed to replace what was lost. While the new states in the west would thrive, we were kept in limbo, we were added back to the boarder but treated like foreigners, a conquered population, an enemy. P.O.W’s were sent home branded as traitors, permanently disfigured, or not at all. Their labour was used to rebuild the country they supposedly destroyed. If they refused: beatings would be felt, if they persisted: executed. All vailed as righteous punishment for a war that was spouted to end such treatment. When the work force gradually trickled back to their impoverished states the federal government still needed bodies for their factories, to build their rails, roads, to work for starvation wages. They have been stealing our men since the war’s conclusion, leave it to the Bear to expand upon a profitable idea. The men before him content with only conscripting the innocent for a camp or costly war abroad.

I remember the stories Pa would tell me of his time in the labour camps, whips, a hot iron and chains placed onto the worst offending farmers and militia men, not one rich enough to own a slave. That fact still true when they passed reforms for meager wages to be paid after years of free imprisonment. He’ll never tell us the full story of how he made it back to Texas. Just whispers about riots and hard choices being made. You’ve seen photos of him back when I was a youngling. It’s hard to imagine that moustache wearing the skin of an old gray back bludgeoning a guard for his freedom. He wore the uniform so his sons and daughters could wear suits and dresses. That fantasy gave way to reality when the Bear took the office. We all know now that was the turning point, the final act calm before the storms return.

When that French self-proclaimed Marxist revolutionary tried to rob Roosevelt of his life outside the senate building last September, we all knew there would be no turning back. A final push for greater political power while he was still in the hospital; forced eradication of opposing political parties, arresting any figure suspected of discontent towards the Bear, tightening the reigns on labour camps; all in the name of security and stability. Just short of a throne and crown for the new set appointed Royal and his noblemen. That revolutionary expected to trigger an uprising of the workers of America. Perhaps the French immigrant will be disappointed he mistook the civil discontent for an overthrow of the upper class. Maybe he’s in such a state with the provider answers given to him from outside that cell, upset that the only revolution to come is for the fate of our democracy rather than his ideology.

They call us Confederates, slaver, traitors: we are no such thing George. We didn’t betray the constitution, our foundations of the Republic. Our police forces haven’t arrested innocent diplomats and citizens for imagined crimes. The re-emerging National Unity Party did not crown a king. The Federalists fight for the Progressive Party and their oligarchies own interests. The Union States Of America fight for a greater purpose than self improvement; we fight for our republic, our constitution, our freedom. That is why I went home George, to save my country, not destroy it. The territory of an old enemy along with states tired of Washington’s rule now harbor the government they once opposed.

When we departed from Toronto, I expected the worst, years of training and work in hospitals as a nurse has filled my mind with standards for the dead and injured. All were surpassed when we arrived. Medical tents filled with victims of the Bull Run offensive executed by the federalist along the Virginian boarder. Such audacity does not surprise me: expecting us to falter at a single push into the Tennessee mountain ranges and entrenched divisions. Their hastily assembled army under Pershing has failed to end this war in the one fell swoop that the Bear has promised. As the winter snows began to set in November, we all knew this would be another long war.

However, we are determined to fight until our flag flies over Washington. The problems of the old war are gone. Allies from South America and Europe not blinded by the Tyrants propaganda rally behind us, bringing with them the newest toys of war. Self loading rifles from Mexico, artillery and generals from Germany, raw materials from Chile; manpower from all. I’m curious if it was more surprised to hear the Kaiser’s finest were getting involved rather than the United States got caught in another war. The old guards of Europe stay neutral for the time, I doubt the British will stand idle if an ally to the Germans were to set up south of their biggest dominion, not while world tensions are on the rise. I pray that this war stays contained to a single country. Perhaps with some luck the Germans, Unionists and British can unite against the tyrants of the North.

It must have been a field day for the parliament and press when the German Kaiserliche Marine flying the new flag of free America appeared off the eastern coastline. We don’t always get the best information of their front, rumours of skirmishes between the two fleets at best. It’s ironic: after the Spanish American war the federalist tried to bring their armada into the modern age. Their expensive steel monsters laying at the bottom of the Atlantic or under siege in harbour to another European power; neutralized, useless. Unable to halt the merchants and never-ending convoys bringing supplies into the bastion of freedom that will be their undoing. The southern men they conscripted as canon fodder returning home with knowledge of war. Liberated slave labour taught the craft of large-scale production under the threat of death now building our infrastructure from the rubble it was left in. All in due time George, we will rebuild our homes into a flourish state.

The war was quiet for most of December; everyone was busy drawing lines on maps to lay claim to whatever they could get their hands on. When the dead and wounded came down to what the regulars call “acceptable levels”, the medical staff finally got some rest. I got word from my older brother; he’s been stationed in loyal Missouri as a mechanic. Apparently, he learned a few more tricks with a wrench while interned in Wisconsin last year. He’s still not pleased I moved up to Canada, it’s not my fault there was no work in Texas. He’s a stubborn man, stuck in his own mind most of the time. He really is a spitting image of my Ma at times.

He did tell me something wonderful. Since the actual constitution was re-enacted after our schism the original voting laws have been put in place. Any citizen who owns property has a formal vote in government affairs. My brother wrote to me and informed me that after I left Pa added my name to the family homestead. I was able to vote George; man or woman, gender and race made irrelevant in a single move. Now I know they say a man’s vote is his own business, but I won’t pretend I’m not pleased with President Wilson being sworn in as the true leader American republic. God willing, he’ll be able to see us through these trying times.

In more personal news George, I have an update. I received a promotion of sorts, although I’m sure you would have a less glamorous title for it. Back in January our medical unit got assigned to the 12th Union Division near the Missouri, Illinois boarder. We were near the front providing what we could to soldiers on rotation to reserves when our dressing station was attacked by the federalists. Apparently, they exploited a breach the line and rushed into gain land. We were doctors and nurses being targeted, fresh faced recruits and wounded apparently a grave threat.

Pa always said I had the best shot in the family, hunting rabbits in my youth to avoid starvation has paid off. I managed to organize what soldiers remained and we held the federalists off, long enough for the reserves to come in. I’ll spare you the details George, but shooting an animal isn’t much different than a man. Not here at least.

We managed to push them back to the starting line of trenches before they gave up. In the heat of the moment no one noticed or cared about a nurse with a rifle and ammo pouch along side them. It came to a marksman battle between the two trenches cut short by an artillery barrage. When the explosions and flying dirt came back down to earth the Boots finally noticed the out of place skirt.

I received a medal for my work. “For outstanding bravery in service of the American Republic, her citizens or sons of war in the daunting presence of the enemy.” Words inscribed on the back of a silver wolves head now pinned to my new uniform. The same animal that occupies our flag. The red and white stripes guarded by a ferocious beast.

I expected to be chewed out for stepping out of line. Instead, punishment gave way to practicality and I was given the ability to be more than a subject for propaganda.  I agreed to become a Lance Corporal for the first company in the division. A hybrid of marksman and field medic, whatever the situation calls for. I’m happy to serve my country however I can, even if the task has become more deadly. I will answer the call, even if I maybe one of the only woman on the battlefield of this war. I know I still have to earn the respect of the men around me, citizen soldier or foreign volunteer. I know I can rise to the challenge George. I know I can prove myself to be a model soldier, perhaps an officer if I get lucky. I know I can be the strong woman you believe in. I know that together our united effort from around the globe can crush the tyrants of the North.

I don’t expect you to forgive me for what I’ve sin to you George. I want nothing more than to be back by your side. To be held in your arms that seem to protect me from the horrors of the world. We might be in for a lengthy war, but I have eternal confidence, our armies, our allies, our mission for freedom for all Americans; not just those in the Bears preferred party. Our armies will march north until we reach the Canadian boarder, crushing all resistance in our path. Then George, perhaps we can be together once again.

Lance Corporal y/n Crabtree.

[trixcuomo]

4. Slay Dalaran City Clinic

((Part four of the craziest Kael’thas fangirl story I intend to write! Get ready for the ultimate Trixany-Gaga parody... 10 min read, 18+ for sexual themes.))

When I look back on my life in Outland, it’s not that I don’t want to see things with Kael’thas exactly as they happened. It’s just that I prefer to see them in a happier way. And you know, the way that the new me, the carefree Kaja-Cola Girl I had to become might experience these things is more honest because my better self invented it.

Clinical psylosophy, if you ask that Forsaken guy near Durnholde Keep, tells us that trauma is the ultimate killer. My people faced extinction. We lost our king, our way of life was nearly obliterated. And in a mad attempt to recover it all on his own, we ultimately lost our beloved Prince Kael’thas.

And then the Void Elves… To me, it still feels we might lose ourselves forever.

It’s like my life in Quel’thalas, today, is this broken mirror. And as the owner of that mirror, I’ve tried to fit the pieces back together. Make it perfect, clear again. But I can still see the crack in that mother fucker’s reflection.

It’s not that, ‘Trixany, by becoming a Kaja-Cola Girl, and a parody singer—which sounds so spectacularly weird in a way—and then getting high in Pandaria with a succubus to re-live moments with Kael’thas, when you’re supposed to be a righteous Blood Knight and follower of the Light… you’ve been so dishonest.’

No. It’s just that Blood Knight Trixany Cuomo loathes her reality.

For example, the Dalaran nurses here at the clinic? To me, they all have these super short, fashionable skirts on, with their tops open to the navel. And every one of them looks like Kael’thas Sunstrider.

And Kael’s shoes?

I’ve always wanted him to show off those legs, so he’s in white platform stilettoes.

I know what kind of world this is, I don’t care. I’m not talkin’ bout the weapon.

I tipped all the Kael’thas nurses’ hats to the side, because I need this to feel like another delicious, dirty dream. Like the one in back Pandaria…

And also because that’s more romantic, better than being admitted to the Dalaran City Clinic by a Night Elf stranger who found me hallucinating alone in the woods.

I also think people making cute meme fanart of Kael’thas will be very big in the next expansion.

Check out that Kael’thas nurse on the right, the one opening the door for my stretcher to go through. He’s got a great ass.

…Bam.

The truth is, back in the Ghostlands, when I mistook that Night Elf Dannox for Kael’thas because Dannox was standing in a sunbeam, and then he groped me? I came out of it, at least I think that I did, then I mauled Dannox like a she-bear. Bit right into his arm with my teeth, like the civilized, highly-trained fighter for the Light that I am.

Oh, there Dannox is now. He’s following the team of Kael nurses as they wheel me into the intensive care ward. Poor baby, whatever I did to his arm, he’s got it in a sling now.

And that Kel’thas nurse on the left? I asked him to order me some fel crystals mixed into a tall, icy glass of Kaja-Cola a couple of hours ago.

They only gave me the Kaja-Cola.

I wish that, back at Tempest Keep, they’d only given Kael’thas the Kaja-Cola.

Oh, here’s the head nurse. Looks like I know him pretty well already.

“Hi again, Kael’thas. You look lovely in that. The gold phoenix stethoscope was a nice touch.”

“I know. I’m a little scared, but then again I do look damned good, don’t I?” I watched him look down over the hot little outfit, “I’m such a clotheshorse too, Trix. I can’t believe slutty women’s fashion is a new thing for me.”

“Mhrm. You should let me dress you in my hallucinations more often.”

“Well, in any case,” He very deliberately and professionally removed my hand from his leg, “Good morning, Bloodthistle princess. How are you feeling?”

“Pretty horny.” Well, that was far more deadpan and threatening than I intended.

“Uh-huh. And anything other than the obvious?” Nurse-daddy Kael’thas did let me reach up and play at twining his long blonde hair in my weakling fingers. He smiled pleasantly at my devoted effort to flirt, even now. Then he went on checking the equipment, magical meters and tubing by my bed. I enjoyed watching him bend over to do all this for me, “Everything went really well, Trixany. You survived the Ghostlands with that Night Elf. Then, you survived Tempest Keep with me.”

“Isn’t that… somehow out of order?”

“Look at you. I remember back when they first assigned you to be my body guard at Tempest Keep. And you saluted me.”

I suddenly felt like screaming at him. Small miracle that I didn’t. I felt like I was out of my body already, with rage, with pain. I was losing control of even sweet this…

“And do you remember what you said to me back then? Trixany?”

“My life for my prince… Except my prince was supposed to be a great man. Back then, I thought my zealotry was warranted.”

“I did what I had to do. You were a Sunfury, you knew that.”

“Kael’thas, you lied to all of us.” Then, in a spark of anger, I don’t know how, I finally found the strength to lunge at him. But two more duplicates of Nurse Kael’thas held me, slammed me down. He then gestured, and a fourth blonde princely nurse strutted up with a syringe. All sharing his wicked, wonderful crooked grin. I kicked out, kicked over a silver tray by my cot. Dannox staggered back, cradling his arm. Twisted silver implements I’d never seen in Silvermoon, nor in all my life fell to the floor, scattered.

But Nurse Kael’thas came in and injected something clear blue into my arm. I slowed. I eased off.

I heard Kael’thas speak with Dannox, while the fifth clone of this crazed, resurrected Bloodmage had a clipboard, taking notes. A dull magical hum swelled in the room.

“Her heart rate is a little low. But that’s Miss Cuomo coming off the Bloodthistle…” Dannox nodded as if this was totally usual, for Kael’thas in heels, a slinky miniskirt, buff chest exposed and accented by a hanging gold stethoscope to be providing medical advice. “She’s just dehydrated now. A few more hours of rest here in the clinic should help.”

Dannox seemed sincerely worried. I assumed he’d dragged me way out to Dalaran out of guilt, or for fear of a bunch of angry Farstriders hunting him down. At least then, he could say he tried and he’d be in neutral territory. “Thank you, nurse. And thank Elune that Trixany didn’t—”

I spoke over them both, “I’m… I’m going to make it?”

Kael’thas smiled handsomely, and he had a dimple just there on his cheek, “Plenty of fluids. And no more Bloodthistle.”

Dannox asked Kael’thas more questions. A part of my brain waited for Dannox to reach around and grope Kael’thas too, while the Blood Elf prince was distracted. I mean, that’s what Dannox did to me, it’s what started this damn mess. But Dannox was trying to negotiate getting me out of there sooner, something about me being a big name, and discretion.

I couldn’t stand it. A part of me had dwindled away, I think. My voice raised like a little kid, who doesn’t know how loud they’re being, because they’re so panicked, because what’s in their imagination is far more important than what the big adults think. “I’m going to be a star, Kael’thas. Do you know why?”

He gave me a tender, patient look. As if he’d never slaughtered thousands and turned to the Burning Legion, or had ever ordered me to collude with him and other Sunfury soldiers to do the same.

“…Because after what they did to our people, Kael’thas. I have nothing left.”

“Aww, Punkin. That’s so nice.” Hair flip there, that put him back to being as callous as I remembered, “Do you need anything else?”

My breathing slowed against my will. Whatever they gave me was kicking in, surely. “I… I want my real life back? I want you back, Kael’thas.”

As always, in nearly everything, which was tragic—Kael’thas proved astute. “Is that why you sing?”

No. I think it was Dannox who asked, this time. Suddenly, it was just the big Night Elf standing by my cot. The nurses had departed to assist other patients in the large ward.

I confided, voice gravelly, “Either that or I’d be crying all the time.” My head lolled to the side, so that I could only see the wall, not him, not anyone else in the gray, gray clinic, “But I see tears as so last season.”

Dannox sat down in the metal chair beside my bed. He was heavy and strong. The metal screeched on the floor when his athletic body budged it. I peeked back his way. Dannox spread his feet on the floor and leaned elbows on his knees. I watched Dannox feel his hurt arm in the sling. Then he weaved his fingers together and squeezed his hands anxiously. He was wiped out. Me and my antics had done all this to him.

I have some goofy instincts, I guess. I presumed getting him to crack a smile might make up for all he endured on my behalf. “Everyone in here looks like Kael’thas in a miniskirt, Dannox.”

His abrupt laugh stirred a few people in the beds around us. “Well, that’s alright. Coming to the Dal City Clinic is always pretty fun for me too, in an um... similar way.”

I think we were both checking out the nurses before I drifted back to sleep.

-fin-

((Please. I please have a request for the Kael’thas stans and the art community on Tumblr here please. Please! Someone draw me a sexy Kael’thas in a female nurse’s outfit. I wanted one for this post but could not find please.

And when you do, please tag it with #slay trixany so we can all bask in its glory. Thx!))

[rabbi-brian]

“How to fight your Battles!”

 BY RABBI BRIAN BILECI - Simchat Yeshua Messianic Congregation

Have you felt like you are constantly the target of spiritual attacks? There is no doubt that the adversary of our souls has a strategy to try to defeat us and win in a battle against God’s people. How can we overcome problems, temptations and spiritual battles in our daily lives?  What can we learn from the battles of Abraham, Moses, Joshua, Deborah, David, Jehoshaphat and Yeshua? As we take a journey together through the Scriptures, we will discover seven powerful principles of successful battle strategies that can help the believer defeat the enemy’s plan and fulfill the Lord's purpose in the daily battles of life.

Rabbi Brian Bileci has been shepherding and instructing believers for 33 years of ministry, to know their Messiah, and how to develop a greater understanding of the Jewish/Hebraic roots of their faith. He has a bachelor’s degree in Biblical/Theological Studies with a focus on Jewish studies through Vision International. Rabbi Brian was trained in Torah studies and Hebrew classes, under Dr./Rabbi Alon Barak, of Desert Hot Springs, Ca. and Israeli Hebrew teacher, Sari Ben Or, from Haifa, Israel, at Temple Baruch HaShem (UMJC). He and his wife, Magali, have been the rabbi and rebbetzin at Simchat Yeshua Messianic Congregation, in San Jacinto Ca., for over 12 years, while raising their 11 1⁄2 year old daughter, Elianna.          

BIBLICAL BATTLES: 1. Abraham battles for Lot - FIGHT FOR FAMILY

BERESHIT / Genesis 14:8 Then the kings of S’dom, ‘Amora, Admah, Tzvoyim and Bela (that is, Tzo‘ar) came out and arrayed themselves for battle in the Siddim Valley 9 against K’dorla‘omer king of ‘Elam, Tid‘al king of Goyim, Amrafel king of Admah and Aryokh king of Elasar, four kings against the five...11The victors took all the possessions of S’dom and ‘Amora and all their food supply; then they left. 12 But as they left, they took Lot, Avram’s brother’s son, and his possessions; since he was living in S’dom. 13Someone who had escaped came and told Avram the Hebrew, who was living by the oaks of Mamre the Emori, brother of Eshkol and brother of ‘Aner; all of them allies of Avram. 14 When Avram heard that his nephew had been taken captive, he led out his trained men, who had been born in his house, 318 of them, and went in pursuit as far as Dan. 15 During the night he and his servants divided his forces against them, then attacked and pursued them all the way to Hovah, north of Dammesek. 16 He recovered all the goods and brought back his nephew Lot with his goods, together with the women and the other people. CJB

Guerrilla warfare is a form of irregular warfare in which small groups of combatants, such as paramilitary personnel, armed civilians, or irregulars, use military tactics, like ambushes. Fought largely by independent, irregular bands, sometimes linked to regular forces, it is a warfare of harassment through surprise. The Spanish word guerrilla is the diminutive form of guerra ('war'). The term became popular during the early-19th century Peninsular War, when the Spanish and Portuguese people rose against the Napoleonic troops and fought against a highly superior army using the guerrilla strategy. In correct Spanish usage, a person who is a member of a guerrilla unit is a guerrillero if male, or a guerrillera if female. The term guerrilla was used in English as early as 1809 to refer to the individual fighters (e.g., "The town was taken by the guerrillas"), and also (as in Spanish) to denote a group or band of such fighters. However, in most languages guerrilla still denotes the specific style of warfare.

and he armed: and similarly (Lev. 26:33): [which Onkelos renders]: “and I will arm Myself with My sword against you,” and similarly (Exod. 15:9): “I will arm myself with my sword,” and similarly (Ps. 35:3): “And arm Yourself with a spear and ax.” - [from Gen. Rabbah 43:2]

his trained men: It is written [in the singular], his trained man (other editions: It is read). This is Eliezer, whom he had trained to [perform the] commandments, and it is an expression of the initiation (lit. the beginning of the entrance) of a person or a utensil to the craft with which he [or it] is destined to remain, and similarly (Prov. 22:6): “Train a child”; (Num. 7:10): “the dedication of  the altar”; (Ps. 30:1): “the dedication of of the Temple,” and in Old French it is called enseigner [to instruct, train].

2. Moses battles for Israel - FIGHT FOR FREEDOM

SH’MOT / Exodus 13:17 After Pharaoh had let the people go, God did not lead them along the road to the land of the Philistines, although that was nearby, for God said, “The people might change their minds if they see war and return to Egypt.” 18 So God led the people around by the way of the wilderness to the Sea of Reeds, and Bnei-Yisrael went up out of the land of Egypt armed. TLV

CHABAD: Rashi - armed: Hebrew: Chimushim! [in this context] can only mean “armed.” (Since He led them around in the desert [circuitously], He caused them to go up armed, for if He had led them around through civilization, they would not have [had to] provide for themselves with everything that they needed, but only [part,] like a person who travels from place to place and intends to purchase there whatever he will need. But if he travels a long distance into a desert, he must prepare all his necessities for himself. This verse was written only to clarify the matter, so you should not wonder where they got weapons in the war with Amalek and in the wars with Sihon and Og and Midian, for the Israelites smote them with the point of the sword.) [In an old Rashi]) And similarly [Scripture] says: “and you shall cross over armed (Chimushim <yv!m%j!)” (Josh. 1:14). And so too Onkelos rendered Me'zar'zin /yz!r+z`m=  just as he rendered: “and he armed (v'zareiz ) his trained men” (Gen. 14:14). Another interpretation: Chimushim means “divided by five,” [meaning] that one out of five (Chimishah hv*m!j!) [Israelites] went out, and four-fifths [lit., parts of the people] died during the three days of darkness [see Rashi on Exod. 10:22]. — [from Mechilta, Tanchuma, Beshallach 1].

Chamush: in battle array, arrayed for battle by fives, armed; passive participle of the same as H2570; staunch, i.e. able-bodied soldiers:—armed (men), harnessed.

3. Moses and Joshua battle Amalek - FIGHT FOR VICTORY

SH’MOT / Exodus 17:8 Then the Amalekites came and fought with Israel at Rephidim. 9 Moses said to Joshua, “Choose men, go out, and fight the Amalekites. Tomorrow I will stand on the top of the hill with the staff of God in my hand.” 10 So Joshua did as Moses said, and fought the Amalekites, while Moses, Aaron and Hur went up to the top of the hill. 11 When Moses held up his hand, Israel prevailed. But when he let down his hand, the Amalekites prevailed. 12 Moses’ hands grew heavy, so they took a stone, put it under him, and he sat down. Aaron and Hur held up his hands, one on each side. So his hands were steady until the sun went down. 13 So Joshua overpowered the Amalekites and his army with the edge of the sword. 14 Adonai said to Moses, “Write this for a memorial in the book, and rehearse it in the hearing of Joshua, for I will utterly blot out the memory of the Amalekites from under heaven.” TLV

AMALEK: In some rabbinical interpretations, Amalek is etymologized as am lak, a people who lick (blood). Also the first letter Ayin u is a pictograph of an “eye” [,connected to malak, to sever, which can mean “severed eye,” or implies “spiritual blindness.” Amalek also has the gematria of 240 as safek  (“doubt”).

CHABAD: Rashi - “When Moses would raise his hand”: Did Moses’ hands then make them victorious in battle, etc.? [Rather this is to tell you that when the Israelites looked up and subjugated their hearts to their Father in heaven, they would prevail, and if not, they would fall,] as is found in Rosh Hashanah (29a).

“Now Moses’ hands were heavy”: Since he had been lax in [the performance of] the commandment [of warring against Amalek] and had appointed someone else in his stead, his hands became heavy. — [from Mechilta]

“So he was with his hands in faith”: And Moses was with his hands in faith, spread out toward heaven in a faithful and proper prayer.

1 Timothy 2:8 So I desire ALL MEN TO PRAY everywhere, LIFTING UP HOLY HANDS, without anger and argument. TLV

4. Joshua battles for Jericho - FIGHT FOR INHERITANCE

MESSIANIC JEWS / Hebrews 2:30 By FAITH the walls of Jericho fell down after they were circled for seven days. 31 By faith Rahab the prostitute did not perish with those who were disobedient, because she welcomed the spies with shalom. TLV

YA`AKOV / James (Jacob) 2:18 But someone will say, “You have faith and I have works. Show me your faith without works and I will show you faith by my works"...24 You see that a man is proved righteous by works and not by faith alone. 25 And likewise, wasn’t Rahab the prostitute also proved righteous by works when she welcomed the messengers and sent them out another way? TLV

YEHOSHUA / Joshua 6:1 Now Jericho was tightly shut up because of Bnei-Yisrael—no one going out and no one coming in. 2 Then Adonai said to Joshua, “Look, I have given Jericho into your hand, with its king and mighty warriors. 3 Now you are to march around the city, all the men of war circling the city once. So you are to do for six days. 4Seven kohanim will carry seven shofarot of rams’ horns before the ark. Then on the seventh day you are to circle the city seven times while the kohanim blow the shofarot. 5It will be when they make a long blast with the ram’s horn, when you hear the sound of the shofar, have all the people shout a loud shout—then the wall of the city will fall down flat, and the people will go up, everyone straight ahead.” TLV

JERICHO 

This city was famous for Joshua and the Israelites marching around the city seven times, until the walls came down, with the blast of trumpets [ram’s horns]. Jericho is a place of total victory that young leaders learn, as they follow the commands of the leadership over their lives. It’s a place that starts with a silent submission before a shout of victory. Jericho teaches us to be consecrated to God’s action plan, and not question His strategy. The walls in our life won’t come down until our overcoming obedience and prayerful praises go up.

YEHOSHUA / Joshua 1:6 Chazak! Be strong! For you will lead these people to inherit the land I swore to their fathers to give them. 7 Only be very strong, and resolute to observe diligently the Torah which Moses, My servant commanded you. Do not turn from it to the right or to the left, so you may be successful wherever you go. 8 This book of the Torah should not depart from your mouth—you are to meditate on it day and night, so that you may be careful to do everything written in it. For then you will make your ways prosperous and then you will be successful. 9 Have I not commanded you? Chazak! Be strong! Do not be terrified or dismayed, for Adonai your God is with you wherever you go.” 10 Then Joshua commanded the officials of the people saying: 11 “Go through the camp and charge the people saying: ‘Prepare provisions, for within three days you will be crossing over this Jordan, to go in to possess the land which Adonai your God is giving you to possess it.’” 12 Then Joshua spoke to the Reubenites, Gadites and half-tribe of Manasseh saying: 13 “Remember the word that Moses the servant of Adonai commanded you saying: ‘Adonai your God has given you rest, and has assigned to you this land.’ 14 Your wives, your little ones and your cattle will remain in the land which Moses gave you beyond the Jordan, but you will cross over before your brothers armed, all the mighty men of valor, and will help them 15 until Adonai gives your brothers rest, as He has given you, and they also possess the land that Adonai your God is giving them. Then you will return to the land of your inheritance, and possess what Moses the servant of Adonai gave you, beyond the Jordan toward the sunrise.” TLV

5. Deborah battles with Israel - FIGHT FOR YOUR NATION

SHOFTIM / Judges 4:4 Now Deborah, a woman who was a prophetess, the wife of Lappidoth, was judging Israel at that time. 5 She used to sit under the palm tree of Deborah between Ramah and Bethel in the hill country of Ephraim, and Bnei-Yisrael came up to her for judgment. 6 Now she sent and summoned Barak son of Abinoam from Kedesh in Naphtali, and said to him, “Hasn’t Adonai, God of Israel, commanded, ‘Go, march to Mount Tabor, and take with you 10,000 men of the sons of Naphtali and of the sons of Zebulun? 7 Then at the Kishon torrent, I will draw out to you Sisera, commander of Jabin’s army with his chariots and his multitude, and I will give him into your hand. 8 But Barak said to her, “If you are going with me, then I will go. But if you aren’t going with me, I won’t go.” 9 “Surely I will go with you,” she said. “However, no honor will be yours on the way that you are about to go—for Adonai will sell Sisera into the hand of a woman.” So Deborah arose and went with Barak to Kedesh. 10Then Barak summoned Zebulun and Naphtali together to Kedesh, and 10,000 men marched up after him, and Deborah went up with him. TLV

MESSIANIC / Hebrews 11:31 And what more shall I say? For time would fail me if I tell of Gideon, Barak, Samson, Jephthah, also of David and Samuel and the prophets. 33 By faith they conquered kingdoms, administered justice, obtained promises, shut the mouths of lions, 34 quenched the power of fire, escaped the edge of the sword, were made strong out of weakness, became MIGHTY IN WAR, and made foreign armies flee. TLV

6. David battles against Goliath - FIGHT FOR YOUR GOD

SH’MUEL ALEF / 1 Samuel 17:26Then David asked the men who were standing by him saying, “What will be done for the man who kills this Philistine and takes away the reproach from Israel? For who is this uncircumcised Philistine that he should defy the ranks of the living God?” 36   Your servant has killed both the lion and the bear, so this uncircumcised Philistine will become like one of them—since he has defied the ranks of the living God.” 37 Then David said, “Adonai, who has delivered me from the paw of the lion and from the paw of the bear, will deliver me from the hand of this Philistine.” “Go!” said Saul to David, “and may Adonai be with you”…49  David put his hand in his bag, took from it a stone and slung it, striking the Philistine on his forehead. The stone sank into his forehead, so that he fell on his face to the ground. 50 So David prevailed over the Philistine with a sling and a stone, struck the Philistine down and killed him. Since there was no sword in David’s hand, 51 David ran, stood over the Philistine, picked up his sword, drew it from its sheath, slew him and cut off his head with it. TLV

BATTLE TACTICS

As we have seen to this point, the Philistines boasted an effective military consisting of infantry, chariotry, archery, possibly cavalry, and some vassals or mercenaries. They were armed with effective weaponry for their time and protected their cities with strong fortifications. The numerous scriptural passages about the Israelites fighting the Philistines give some indication of Philistine military strategy.

7. Jehoshaphat battles for Judah - FIGHT FOR YOUR WORSHIP

DIVREI HAYAMIM BET / 2 Chronicles 20:1Now it happened after this that the Moabites and the Ammonites together with other Ammonites came to make war against Jehoshaphat…3 Jehoshaphat was afraid so he resolved to seek Adonai, and he proclaimed a fast throughout all Judah. 4 Judah assembled to seek help from Adonai; indeed, they came from all the cities of Judah to seek Adonai. 5 Then Jehoshaphat stood in the congregation of Judah and Jerusalem in the House of Adonai in front of the new courtyard. 6 and said: “Adonai, God of our fathers, are You not God in heaven? You rule over all the kingdoms of the nations. Power and might are in Your hand and no one can stand against You. 7 Are You not our God who drove out the inhabitants of this land before Your people Israel and gave it to the descendants of Your friend Abraham forever? 8 They settled in it and built You a Temple there for Your Name saying, 9 ‘If calamity comes upon us—the sword of judgment, pestilence or famine—we will stand before this House and before You—for Your Name is in this House—and cry to You in our distress and You will hear and deliver us.’ 18 Jehoshaphat bowed down with his face to the ground and all Judah and the inhabitants of Jerusalem fell down before Adonai to WORSHIP Adonai. 19 Levites, from the sons of Kohath and the sons of Korah, stood up to praise Adonai, the God of Israel, with a very loud voice. 20 Early in the morning they arose and went out into the wilderness of Tekoa. As they went forth, Jehoshaphat stood and said, “Listen to me, O Judah and inhabitants of Jerusalem! Believe in Adonai your God and you will be confirmed. Trust in His prophets and you will succeed.” 21 After consulting with the people, he appointed singers to Adonai praising the splendor of His holiness, as they went out before the army saying, “Praise Adonai, for His mercy endures forever.” 22 As they began singing and praising, Adonai set ambushes against the children of Ammon, Moab, and Mount Seir who had come against Judah, and they were defeated. 23 For the Ammonites and Moabites rose up against the inhabitants of Mount Seir to exterminate and annihilate them. When they had exterminated the inhabitants of Seir, they helped to destroy one another. TLV

·  HaShem wanted His People to be Equipped for Battle

·  HaShem wants His People to use the sharp two-edged sword of his Word

YESHAYAHU / Isaiah 59:16 He saw that there was no one—He was astonished that no one was interceding. Therefore His own arm brought salvation for Him, and His righteousness upheld Him. 17 He put on righteousness as a breastplate and a helmet of salvation on His head. He clothed Himself in robes of vengeance and wrapped Himself in zeal as a cloak. TLV      

·  HaShem wants His People to Discipled by the Messiah and be  Fully-Trained

BERESHIT / Genesis 14:14 When Abram heard that his nephew Lot had been captured, he mobilized the 318 trained men who had been born into his household. Then he pursued Kedorlaomer’s army until he caught up with them at Dan. NLT

Luke 6:40 A disciple is not above his teacher, but everyone who is fully trained will be like his teacher. TLV

DISCIPLE: a follower and student of a mentor, teacher, or wise leader; a disciplined one.

Hebrew: talmid  - from the Hebrew root “lamad,” meaning “to learn;” a student

Greek: mathetes - learner, pupil, disciple; from the Greek verb “manthano” - to learn or increase in one’s knowledge, including applying its principles.

Latin: discipulus - from the verb “discere” meaning to be a learner or a “disciplined one”; disciple comes from this word in Latin. Discipline can be defined as training, that corrects, molds, or perfects the mental faculties or moral character of a disciple.

www.simchatyeshua.com

[livvyplaysfinalfantasy]

I'll say that although 4.3 and the subsequent ending of the Doma arc will never be among my favorite parts of XIV's story, I've nonetheless come to see it differently.

A lot of this change - or maybe acceptance - came from some heartfelt discussions I had with friends and acquaintances following 4.3's release. By far the most insightful things I heard about the story were from female and nonbinary friends who endured domestic abuse similar to Yotsuyu's. Usually, I try my utmost to amplify others' voices when it comes to observations that have changed the way I interact with a story; given the sensitive nature of these themes, though, I'd instead like to open this bit of coverage with an acknowledgement that a lot of what has shaped my thoughts on this arc has been seeing how it has affected those closest to me - for better and for worse.

Now, 4.3 opens with a lot of the same things I greatly disliked about 4.2 - including a truly bizarre moment early on in which Yotsuyu telling Gosetsu to take off his clothes while still having the mind of a child is played off for laughs. That said, it can't be denied that 4.3 makes much more of an effort to show Yotsuyu's point of view than 4.2 ever did from the very beginning, even going so far as to show the player that Yotsuyu's memories of the atrocities she committed are returning to her in bits and pieces.

And Yotsuyu's initial response to seeing flashes of cruelty that she doesn't understand is to go out of her way to help Gosetsu. When he offhandedly mentions persimmons from Namai, she slips out of the Doman enclave to head for Namai and bring him back a persimmon herself. As a result, the people of Namai see her face and recognize her as the woman who brought them so much grief - but with Hien's intervention and the young girl Azami's forgiveness, a crisis is averted. Nonetheless, though Azami brings Yotsuyu a persimmon, she's more startled than ever at the horrible things she's starting to remember herself having done.

From here on out, the story again ratchets up the cruelty directed at Yotsuyu. Asahi's master plan for bringing back Yotsuyu's memory is to reunite her with his parents - her biological aunt and uncle, who abused her throughout her childhood and exploited her as an adult. Clearly this interaction upsets Yotsuyu more than any of the others she's had: whereas she was able to protest against Yugiri and Hien and even the villagers of Namai, her encounter with her adoptive parents is enough to nearly make her dissociate. Through it all, her only motive is to ensure that she brings Gosetsu his persimmon; Asahi, though, threatens her with the promise that she will "come back" to them - and takes back the mirror he gave to her at the end of 4.2.

As the others ponder over the changes that have taken place in Yotsuyu and what this might mean for Asahi's peace negotiations with Doma, word arrives that Yotsuyu has disappeared from the enclave again - for the second time in one patch. It's absolutely nonsensical as a plot development that she wasn't being guarded, but at this rate, I didn't expect much from anyone's writing after the last patch had Hien write off a slaver with "it's not my place to judge."

When you go to search for Yotsuyu, you find only her adoptive parents lying dead in a pile of rubble, and you receive a vision through the Echo of all that transpired.

Yotsuyu, her memories having returned in full, ran away with the intention of killing herself. Then Asahi's parents appeared at the last second. Asahi's mother berates her - "You're the bane of our existence, Yotsuyu! A font of misery!" - which brought several of my friends to tears. Asahi's father discusses openly his plans to once more sell Yotsuyu into sex slavery. Those words are all Yotsuyu needs to hear for her bitterness and anger to return in full at 35:20:

Yotsuyu: Ah, my beloved parents. No sooner do I wake from gentle slumber than the world returns in all its cruelty. Yes, this is how it always was. How it was meant to be. To the very depths have I sunk, my soul steeped in spite and rotten to the core. The self-righteous hide behind "justice," but I need no such mask. Father. Mother. Was it not you who made me into this monster? Who taught me the truth of this miserable world?

And with that, her first action upon returning to her "former" self is to kill her abusive parents.

Initially, I was of the mind that it felt cheap and wrong to delve so deeply into such an intimate portrayal of abuse - that this scene was just one more insult to add to Yotsuyu's heaping pile of injuries. It also felt to me, going through this scene for the first time, that the story had simply set Yotsuyu up to fail: an entire patch in which it was emphasized that any chance she might have had at a new life was now moot, because players were made to see that she likely never had a real chance at redemption if even she thought of herself as being "rotten to the core." And yet a friend confided in me that they found this scene not just satisfying but even empowering in its own right: a woman's abusers are portrayed as the monsters they are, and that woman can have her revenge against those who made her life a living hell.

And after rewatching this scene, I can't argue with that point.

As soon as the bodies hit the floor, who should emerge from the shadows but Asahi, who planned all along for Yotsuyu to murder his parents - and this time, he offers her the means to achieve "a deeper vengeance" against those who have wronged her. She accepts, of course. The one thing that strikes me revisiting this patch is the parallel between this scene and the one from 4.0 in which Zenos breaks down the last of Fordola's confidence in order to prompt her toward joining the Resonant Project.

You relay your findings to Hien, who then relays them to Gosetsu offscreen. Regardless of what the consequences of Yotsuyu's reawakening may be, however, you agree that the peace negotiations cannot be permitted to falter.

[amidalasmistress]

Us || Chapter One:

{gif cr}

pairing; Michael Langdon x Reader

warnings; swearing, angst, & violent descriptions

summary; After Michael has been named Supreme, the woman he loves has been killed by Cordelia and the Coven. Out of rage and loneliness, Michael begins his apocalyptic reign. The witches have only one way to possibly save/redeem the world. Bring Y/N back.

a/n; Damn it feels good to be back! A lot of the dialogue I did steal from a few episodes so, you may recognize them. I just felt that changing around the canon dialogue for a fic, made it feel a bit more...real(?). I’ve erased the whole time travel plot ‘cause it’s pretty pointless in this story. I do believe this fic will only be two chapters but, we’ll see. As always, I hope you all enjoy! <33

words; 2,664

-

The morning sun woke Y/N up from a sleep she’d very much enjoyed. It was her and Michael all cuddled up and cozy in bed. No worries or cares in the world. Michael had been too busy at Hawthorne’s. Always having to prove himself to someone even though it was obvious that he was special. It was her suggestion that he takes some time away from there to relax and the only place he truly wanted to be was with Y/N. It warmed her heart how much he had loved her. As much as he did, tonight was the night he’d spend with Mead. That woman freaked Y/N out in so many ways. Plus, it seemed like she hated her for some unknown reason.

“I wish I could just stay here forever,” Michael mumbled half in the pillow.

She rolled over to face him, letting her fingers play with his soft curls, “You know you can. All you have to do is say so.”

“I know,” his eyes were still closed and a soft smile appeared on his face. “But, if I don’t go to Mead, she’ll come here and you don’t want that.”

No she didn’t. The two of them fell back asleep despite the bright sunlight and singing birds. As long as they were together, they could probably sleep on top of an erupting volcano. They both needed this moment though. Just the two of them at peace and feeling the utmost comfort with one another. Nothing but complete and utter serenity.

-

After Michael had left, Y/N made a quick run to the store to stock up on food for the next few days or so. She had figured Michael would be back the next day and she didn’t want to just order takeout for him. Everyone deserves a good, home cooked meal and Y/N was kind of slacking in that department. Once she had packed the groceries in her car, Y/N started it up only to see that the gasoline was so close to being empty. So, her next stop was the gas station.

The station seemed very vacant. The lights kept on flickering on and off. It made Y/N’s stomach drop. Nonetheless, she needed gas. The silence echoed all around her, chilling her to the bone. It felt as if there was some sort of horror film serial killer lurking in the shadows. It didn’t help that the light at the pump went out as she began filling her car up. She jumped once her phone began to ring, only to see that it was Michael calling her.

“Hey,” she picked up almost instantly, her voice shaking out of fear. “How’s it going?”

“Boring,” Michael practically whined. “I miss you.”

She smiled at how adorable his need for her was, “I miss you too. I’ll pick you up early tomorrow and we can go out for breakfast. Sound good?”

“Sounds perfect,” his smile was audible through the phone.

“I’ll see you in the morning then,” she hummed. “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

The moment she hung up she regretted doing so. She had forgotten her frightening surroundings. The silence had returned and sent goosebumps all over her arms. If only Michael had been physically with her, she wouldn’t be so afraid.

“Y/N?” A female voice sounded from behind her.

She quickly turned to see a group of women dressed in black stalking towards her, “Can I help you?” She searched the group to try and find the voice that had just spoken.

“My name is Cordelia Goode,” the woman’s voice spoke again. “Are you Y/N Y/L/N?”

Something wasn’t right but, Y/N couldn’t lie for the life of her so, she gave in, “I am…Is there something I can do for you?”

“Don’t scream,” another woman spoke then appeared right next to her, stabbing her side.

Y/N squealed loudly at the pain and was rewarded with another stab through her belly. She was stabbed over and over until someone had come up behind her and slit her throat. She lay there bleeding out at the scene. Twitching and sputtering. The woman called Cordelia said some sort of chant and it was all over.

-

Michael waited until late in the afternoon for Y/N to pick him up. Mead came out onto the porch only to talk him down. She swore up and down that Y/N wasn’t coming for him and it’d be best if he had just gone inside. Michael couldn’t accept that. His Y/N would never ditch him without calling him beforehand. This was unlike her. He had called her well over hundreds of times only to get her voicemail. He had warned her of his enemies, how relentless they were to see him fail.

“Fuck it,” Michael spat as he began to his journey to her house.

With his determination and worries, he was outside her door in no time. He waved his hand to open her door. All of the lights were out and her car was no where to be seen. Michael’s heartbeat quickened. If the Coven were behind this, he’d destroy them all.

“Y/N,” he called out, examining her house for any signs that she may or may not be there somehow. “Baby girl?”

No answer. Her entire house was empty. Michael began to shake out of fear and anger. She was no where to be found. The love of his life has gone missing and he didn’t no whether she was safe or not. Harmed or unharmed. All he knew was that he would make it his mission to find her and bring her back.

Michael booked it back to Mead’s only to find that her home, too, was abandoned. What the hell was going on?

-

Michael had received a message from Cordelia, summoning him to some lot it looked like. When he arrived there, he had noticed three poles of charred wood standing, surrounded by nothing. On those poles looked like burned remains. Michael’s heart dropped at the thought of Y/N being among them. If she were dead by Cordelia’s doing, the Devil himself couldn’t stop the reckoning Michael would bring upon the Coven.

When Michael had touched each body, he saw glimpses of their final moments. The first two were from Hawthorne’s. The last was Mead. The only mother he had. Touching her burned corpse gave him the image of her embracing the flames with a smile on her face. Michael fell to his knees. He was truly alone. He didn’t have the four people who had believed in him most with him. He only knew where three were. Y/N was gone and that fact alone had broken his heart.

“It’s over,” Cordelia spoke after his agonizing scream. “We know who you are. Your allies are all dead. You failed.”

Michael wasn’t giving in to Cordelia’s threat easily. Besides, Y/N could be alive somewhere for all he knew. All he had hoped.

“What have you done to Y/N?” His face was wet with tears that fought against his struggle to put on a brave front.

“As I said,” a smirk spread across Cordelia’s face, making Michael want to punch it off her. “Dead.”

“I’ve already proven to you that I can defy death,” Michael’s voice slightly cracked. “I’m just gonna bring her back. And when I do, my Y/N will stand by me as we watch you die.”

Bringing someone back from the dead was no simple task but, Michael could do it. Michael would do it to bring her back. Y/N was all he needed to go on. She was the source of his strength.

“You can certainly go to hell,” Cordelia mocked him. “But you won’t find her there.”

Michael’s stomach dropped, “What have you done?”

“Her soul is hidden by a spell only I can break,” Cordelia spoke shamelessly. “You’ll never see her again.”

That was it. Michael dropped to his knees. Silently asking himself why anyone would ever harm someone who played no part in all of this. Cordelia and her Coven’s war was with him not her…not her. This was proof that Cordelia was just as evil as he was, if not worse.

“You’re alone,” she continued.

“I’m never alone,” Michael fought against her power to intimidate him with a broken voice. “I have my father.”

“Where is he now?” Cordelia spoke in a condescending tone. “Why did he let this happen?” She knelt down before him, now displaying some sort of motherly bullshit, “You don’t have to follow this path your father laid out for you. You can write your own destiny. You can still turn away.” Michael only wanted to burn her alive to see how she feels but she still continued, "There’s humanity in you. I see it.”

Michael played into her attempt to lure him into her trap. Michael knew what his fate would be if he actually believed in her “good” intentions. She’d slaughter him. Probably make some sort of sick, sadistic show of it.

“If you come with me,” she stood. “Maybe we can find it,” she held out her hand. “Together.”

Michael continued this act. Hesitantly grabbing her hand before she pulled him up. She was such a fool. Especially when she thought things would work out in her favor. Self-righteous Cordelia Goode actually believed she had brought the Antichrist over to her side. She was dumb enough thinking he’d go with her after the stunt she had just pulled.

He rose to her feet and jerked her towards him, looking into her eyes with a hard-set jaw, “Somehow, some way, I am gonna bring her back. And then I’m gonna kill every last one of you.”

-

Post Apocalypse:

The scent of the witches hit Michael as he tried to share a moment with the robotic Miriam Mead. Why they’re still fighting when the earth has been wiped clean was something he found pointless. There was no human race to save. Everyone was dead or going to die. The best thing they could do now was give up. Especially since the majority of the population of witches and warlocks have been destroyed before the Apocalypse.

Michael had made his way to the main staircase. The witches were having some idle conversation about “defeating” him. There was no “defeating” him. Everything had worked out in his favor. Aside from…He had won. And that was all to it.

“How can any of you defeat me?” Their heads all turned to him as he spoke from atop the stairs. “When I’ve already won?”

Cordelia took a step forward, already annoying Michael with her existence, “You haven’t won.”

“Perhaps you haven’t noticed the state of the world,” he boasted.

“Almost as bad as your dinner jacket,” the woman with the crazy hair, Myrtle, spoke. “But at least the world could be saved.”

“By you?” Their arrogance amused him.

“By all of us,” Cordelia corrected him.

This was all too entertaining. The witches’ pathetic attempt at trying to intimidate him at his strongest peak nearly made him burst out in laughter. They just couldn’t accept that they had failed to save the world. There was no “saving” the world. Especially since there was no world to save. Michael had made sure of that.

“When I’m done,” Michael spoke again after they had argued amongst themselves. “You’ll all wish you were still dead.”

“I always thought the world would end in fire and ice,” Myrtle spoke again. “Not witches and warlocks.”

An image of…her...flashed in his mind. It was an image of her smiling. The one smile that had brought him a peaceful and carefree world. If only she were here now. If she could just be by his side. The very reason why she was no longer with him was standing right before him. If they wanted to avoid a war, they shouldn’t have isolated him. Most importantly from the woman he loved.

“What would Y/N think of all of this?” Cordelia noticed his silence and took advantage of it.

“How dare you,” Michael’s jaw clenched as he spoke through his teeth. “How dare you speak her name.”

“I don’t think she’d appreciate you being the cause of the Apocalypse, Michael,” she continued.

“You didn’t know her,” he wasn’t going to let her get the best of him. “You wouldn’t know. Yet you killed her anyway.”

Cordelia took a moment of silence before continuing, her eyes narrowing, “Knowing what I do now, I never would’ve harmed her. She may have guided you to making the right decisions. Killing her is something I regret.”

“Spare me your false sympathies, Cordelia,” Michael spat, the anger rising in him. “You took the one person I have ever truly loved away from me. Simply because you wanted to isolate me. Make me feel alone,” Michael’s jaw wavered. “You only made my hatred for this world worsen. You’ve failed.”

“Cordelia,” Myrtle reached out to the Supreme before she could say anything in return.

Cordelia only turned to look at her. Myrtle must’ve said something with her eyes. There were no words spoken yet, Cordelia turned back to Michael with hope in her eyes. Which, made Michael even more irritated with her. All he had to do was snap his fingers and those girls would be dead. Something within him told him to hold off.

“I know that you’re angry, Michael,” Cordelia began. “But, please allow me to gather with my girls in private.”

Michael scoffed, “Why should I let you do that?”

“The world is not over yet,” she took a step towards the stairs. “Allow us the chance to at least try and change your mind.”

Michael’s initial reaction was to just laugh off such a ridiculous request but, looking into Cordelia’s eyes, he could tell that she was cooking up something. Whether it actually was worth his time or just mere entertainment, he wouldn’t know unless he let them congregate. What ever the idea was, they’d never be able to defeat him or his mission.

“I won’t wait forever,” Michael warned.

Cordelia let out a sigh of relief before she turned to motion the witches into the dining room. As they made their way to plan, or what ever they were doing, Michael turned to Ms. Mead before heading back upstairs and into his bed chambers. There was no way the witches could devise a plan to save themselves and the world. The world was already destroyed. Their fight was hopeless.

-

Michael sat in his room. He had asked Ms. Mead to guard the door, both for protection and so he could be alone. The mention of the woman he had loved made his thoughts clutter with images of her. The only thing he had left of her were memories. The image his mind had painted of her made him question whether he could truly remember what she had looked like. All he knew was that she was beautifully perfect. Everything about her made Michael want to exist. It wasn’t just about her appearance, though, Michael’s mind could go on and on worshipping her beauty but, it was also the love she gave. The love she had for the simplest of things. The love she bore him. The feeling of being loved by her was unlike anything he’d ever imagine. She was, well, everything to him.

The sting of tears in his eyes brought him back to reality. He couldn’t cry. Not now. Not when the witches were proposing a battle strategy. Showing weakness only made him weak. Which was something he had fought against for quite some time now. Since the day Cordelia had confirmed Y/N’s death, to the current state of ashes and radiation.

Then he felt it. A sharp punch in the gut, nearly knocking him off his feet to where he had to grab onto the mantle for support. The air left his lungs as his heart swelled with the familiar feeling of her overwhelming presence.

Y/N was back.

[deadlifts-and-derrida]

Well, it's been a while since I posted any long form writing here. So how about I do that now? Let's get UNCOMFORTABLY CLOSE.

To tell the story of my first boyfriend, I need to tell the story of coming out to my mother.

I came out to my mother the week before I left to begin university. It didn't go as I hoped it would. I chose mom instead of dad because I thought mom would be easier. Girls and women seemed safer than boys and men. To teenaged me, active homophobia seemed mostly a masculine trait.

I'll stop there. I don't want to set mom up like she had the worst reaction. She didn't get mad. Mad, I could have handled. I was a bold, righteous, outspoken teen; I was equipped to deal with anger. Mom wasn't mad - mom was sad. As if a precious object had dropped to the floor and was now damaged - even if it could be repaired, the crack would always be there.

I couldn't handle sad. It was like I told her I had an inoperable cancer. That's a homophobic attitude just as much as throwing your kid out is, but it's… subtler. How do you respond to it? If you get angry she'll just get sadder. Her sadness hurts you to witness. You wish you hadn't spoken up, because you love your mother and you don't want to make her sad. You regret ever opening your mouth. By you I mean I.

I left for university a week later having had no follow-up discussion, having stuffed myself back into the closet, more or less. When I got to university I would be free to be as gay as I wanted, and I intended to be very. Very. Very. Gay.

Why do I need to tell this story before I get to Matthew? (His name was Matthew). Well. I guess I'm trying to explain why I was the way I was, and I'm hanging the blame on Mom. It's not really fair. Her reaction was bad, and it hurt me, it didn't give me the support I needed at a critical moment. But all of it - her reaction, the fact that I needed the support in the first place - is because of our damned stupid homophobic society, right? Mom and me, we're both just products of the hate machine that spat us out, right? Right?

I love my mother. I forgive her. She danced joyfully at my wedding. It's all fine. Everything is fine. The precious thing got repaired so well you can only really see the crack if you know where to look.

So Matthew.

I spent all of highschool wanting a boyfriend and sex. Unrequited crushes on unattainable men. But the fear. That was real, too. Not just fear that if you got caught checking out the wrong guy he'd gaybash you - although that was a real, potent fear. But also the fear that if you got caught checking out the right guy, then you'd have to go through with it.

Isn't that crazy? Being afraid to go through with the thing you want to go through with! But it's true. Actually attainable men? No. There was one other gay guy in my high school class, and we shared a friend group, although the two of us never really clicked. I was too weird and he was, for want of a better word, too basic. I was also very unfortunate-looking in high school. But in addition to all of this - there was the sense that I couldn't be attracted to him because if I was then something would have to happen and I wasn't ready for that.

But I wanted to be ready for it!

So Matthew, again.

When I got to university, free from my mother's terrible sadness, free from my high school self, I wanted to shed my skin like a snake and slither my way into a new me. Now that I was out and lived in a city (a small city, but the biggest one we had), I really femmed up. Glitter. Tight clothes. Limp wrists. Hair dye. Even eyeliner, sometimes. I wanted the world to know. In part because I was signalling to whoever around me who had the correct receptors: I'm here, I'm queer, for the love of god please do something about it.

Matthew picked up on that signal. He was a (female) friend's best friend. He was in his last year of high school in a town about 90 minutes away, but he made trips in on some weekends to see his best friend. One of those weekends, only a couple of weeks into my very first semester, he and I fell into each other's gravity. Nowadays, I know the sensation well. I'm sure most people will, too. You feel this tug between you and someone else. You draw closer. You look at each other. Closer. A few touches, at first passing it off as innocent. Then more touches. Closer.

We were so close our lips were brushing each other's as we spoke quietly. I don't remember how long the lip brushing lasted before it became kissing, but despite everything, despite the utter hell Matthew would eventually unleash on my life, I still think this is probably one of the best first-ever kisses on record.

(It wasn't his first-ever kiss. He already had an ex-boyfriend. I was his second. But it was my first-ever kiss).

Matthew wasn't my type. He had a shrill, harsh laugh. He had a giant mop of curly hair that he liked to dye. It was kind of like a clown's wig. I was still unfortunate-looking myself, please understand. He wasn't active, didn't exercise - which is fine, except all of my sexual fantasies focused on very muscular, large men. "Being young, gay, and mean isn't a personality," as the line goes. Matthew had a bit of that. But he was smart and funny, too. I shouldn't pretend he wasn't.

But I was so ready. Over-ready. I needed someone to fuck me, already, and I figured I would be lucky if anyone, anyone at all, would ever be willing to do it. So. It was Matthew because he was the first one who stepped up to the plate. Although attempts at sex were always awkward and we never really quite figured that out.

He became my boyfriend. It lasted for about four months. Because he lived 90 minutes away and was still in high school, I only saw him on weekends, but not every weekend. Maybe one weekend a month. This was 2001. Smartphones weren't a thing. Texting wasn't even really a thing. I wouldn't even own a cellphone until 2005. We messaged each other on ICQ and spoke on our landlines.

He broke up with me in January.

Did I love him? I don't know. I think I did. Or I loved the idea of him. I loved the icon I had built in his shape, a representative of all the things I wanted to achieve by Having A Boyfriend. I wanted it to affirm my sexuality. I wanted it to mean I wasn't unlovable. I wanted it to refute my mother's sadness.

It felt like a failure that I couldn't keep him. When he got a new boyfriend before I did, that felt like a failure too, like it had been a race to see who could land a new man first. Why was I thinking this way? Looking back, it's awful. I instrumentalized him, made him a symbol, and made relationships and sexual experimentation into some kind of… clout game. It wasn't about having fun and enjoying myself - it was about proving something, something to myself, something to my family, something to the world. Sex? A boyfriend? Things to acquire.

But maybe I did love him. I cried a lot, and it wasn't just over the insult to my ego and the setback to my plans. I remember distinctly walking through the underground tunnels that joined buildings on campus, thinking to myself - well, we're still friends, maybe we'll get back together in a few years. It was a story I told myself to comfort myself. It wasn't a forever breakup - he'd come back to me in a few years if I was just patient and kind, if I just waited.

When he got a new boyfriend, I needed to get one too. I found a guy on the gay.com chatroom, which is the closest thing we had to apps back then. He… had problems. Valentines was a couple of days after our first date and he got me an ostentatious bouquet of roses, an over-the-top gift that made me more uncomfortable than charmed. He already showered me with the l-word.  I remember waking up in his bed, the one night I spent at his place, him slipping his dick into me. It's this hazy nocturnal memory and I'm not even sure if it's real or false. If it's real, it was my first time successfully bottoming. If it was real, he didn't use a condom.

A few days later he told me that if I ever left him he'd kill himself. I didn't know what to do. I just turned very cold, hoping he'd break up with me. It worked. He dumped me after another few days. The whole thing didn't last more than two weeks.

Matthew was still with his new boyfriend and they seemed very happy together.

So. It's clear I reacted badly.

Around the time we broke up, I moved into a basement apartment with his best friend (remember, she was also a friend of mine) and a third party who was also a good friend. Our apartment was a bit of a party house. Matthew would come into the city on weekends, and he'd stay at our apartment - because his best friend lived there, and I lived there too, and even though we had broken up we were still friends, right?

I don't know what I did to deserve what he did to me. I don't think I was ever malicious to him. If I was ever cruel, it was a clueless and unintentional kind of cruelty.

He was staying with us. I was out of the house. He went into my bedroom and went on my computer. He snooped around and found folders of niche porn that I enjoyed. Should I say what sort it was? Is it pertinent to the story? It wasn't all that weird. It was basically bodybuilders. Muscle men. Some of them photoshopped to be bigger than would otherwise be possible (some much bigger). Some of them with exaggerated genitalia (some of them very exaggerated). I also had an interest in fat guys and I know there were some pictures of that nature in there too (some of them very fat).

But he was 17 and mean and judgemental. He showed my friends my secret porn in a deliberate attempt to humiliate me. He shared it around. He let everyone know, in a cruel, mocking way, about sexual interests I didn't yet feel strong enough to share with the world. Sexual interests I still felt a lot of shame about.

I only learned about this because my other friend who shared that apartment took me aside and told me what he had done. She did this because she thought it was wrong of him.

Despite this show of support from a friend who had the good sense not to follow the current of cruel mockery, I was beyond mortified. The shame was galling.

My new gay life ended there. My clothes became drab, baggier. My manner less femme. I stopped transmitting "I'm gay!" to the world. I stopped trying to fit in with the gay crowd Matthew had introduced me to. They all had a name for me now, anyway. Psychael. Like, psychotic Michael. How could I fight a battle when the first strike was nuclear? I quit. It seemed like the only move available to me.

It was 5 years before I'd kiss another man. I fled back into the embrace of my family. My coming out was never mentioned. I basically went back into the closet. At least the people in there loved… some version of me that I could maintain without that much effort. Just… close the door on the seven months when I had been an out gay man and pretend the whole thing didn't happen. Easy.

I don't hate him.

We were both very young.

We were both inexperienced.

I would hate for someone who only knew me as an 18 year old to think of me now, in my mid thirties, as if I was the same person. So I don't think of him as he was when he was 17. He's 34 now. He's probably a much better person.

Maybe he feels sorry.

Maybe he doesn't.

I wish I could have those years back. The long years I spent frightened to be myself.

I wish I had been strong enough to look him in the face and say "so what?" I wish I had been strong enough to own my sexual interests, none of which are immoral or wrong or even all that strange.

But I was weak. I was weak and alone. And wishing doesn't get you anywhere.

I don't know if there's much point to this story.