#i know they mean decades /of the show/ but i love the implication that ash did some Timmy Turner shit & bamboozled everyone into

[platonic-pals-punchout]

Preliminary Polls: Pokemon (Multimedia)

Ingo & Emmet:

Alright alright, LISTEN. First of all they are identical twins. They're the opposite of the other and complete eachother (example : Ingo always has a frown while Emmet smiles, Ingo is eloquent and talkative whereas Emmet is very direct and blunt) (also they are dressed in black and white like the games they are in and I find it awesome). They are shown to care for eachother deeply : Well fisrt of all they work together But mist importantly, in the mobile game Masters EX they have SO MANY lines where they talk about the other it's adorable. They are together in all special events and there is one in particular where Emmet does everything to help his brother achieve one of his ideas (which is technically building a small battle Subway from a remaining mine). On a side note, they are the embodiment of autism and I love them for that

Ash Ketchum & Pikachu:

Ash and Pikachu have spent decades together fighting everyone from little kids to literal deities after Ash saved Pikachu from a bunch of angry pidgies, so they're basically the unstoppable force half of "unstoppable force meets immovable object". And frankly? I have yet to hear an immovable object in your list of submissions.

[rei-ismyname]

X-Men #3 (From The Ashes)

At last, this book is starting to cook and show us where these people are at. Scott Summers enjoyers are eating well today, always good to see. Full coverage under the cut, and spoilers of course. TW discussion of violence, anxiety/PTSD mention.

Jed McKay hits the ground running with a bunch of goons called Shrikes having inserted into the Factory, the Alaskan X-Men's base. Shrike is Latin for 'butcher' and the eponymous bird is known for impaling stuff, so we can assume that they're not nice dudes. They caught a ride from the Vanisher (a 60s X-Men foe who has popped up here and there as a mercenary teleporter/unwilling X-Force asset. His aesthetic is much better these days) who's like 'damn y'all live like this' but objects to them using the term 'mutie.' Bro, you're dropping black ops goons into their house for an unnamed quid pro quo, you think their allies?

Implications...

- The Shrikes want to be inflicting casualties but they're deferring to Lundqvist, who doesn't. Not yet at least. We don't know if they're contractors or part of O*N*E (Office for National Emergency), a government agency I'm surprised still exists, given its abject failures in containing, protecting, or killing mutant schoolchildren.

- These jerks are Team One, clearly part of a larger group or organisation.

- They're professionals with quite advanced technology, and while one slur doesn't necessarily make them frothing racists, they're seemingly ideologically aligned with this mission.

Meanwhile, Scott ain't home right now. We don't get enough of his conversation with Rogue to see where their relationship is at, but we learn the Uncanny X-Men team are moving on Graymalkin and will not wait to synchronize plans or discuss it further.

- They're moving on Graymalkin? That name has been used quite a bit, so we can't be 100% sure if it's Cable's spaceship (unlikely), Xavier's 200 year old ancestor who was buried beneath the mansion for centuries (also unlikely), Graymalkin Industries, or a little house on Graymalkin Lane.

- Considering Scott's estimation that it'll escalate everything, I have to assume it's the X-Mansion. Rescuing Chuck? I don't see Logan wanting to do that. Killing him? That'd be a no from Rogue. Shutting down the torture prison that Chuck's in? Maybe. There's a lot of threads in the X-books and if the 'strays' came from there it'd tie a bunch together while inciting conflict. I guess we'll see.

- Of course Scott has plans. No clues here as to what they are.

- I've said it before, but I don't buy why these teams are separate or even in conflict with each other. It's going to feel inorganic for as long as we don't get an explanation. In UXM 1, Logan was acting like Schism Logan, which didn't even make sense back then. He's been living with Scott and Jean in a polycule for the last X years, and Scott/Rogue were on a Krakoan team together. These people trust and love each other, they've been family for decades. Everyone considers it a dark time for mutants and they have every reason to both want and need to work together. Show us why they're not! I beg you.

- The aforementioned Lundqvist has showed up with heavies to the diner, which the cop doesn't love. He says it's payback for embarrassing him, but considering what team one are doing that's almost certainly not the full reason.

- Looks like their relationship is adversarial. What's holding him back, though?

- Interesting. It was a government-owned Sentinel factory, and it was part of a settlement. I really want more information on Scott Summers v The United States. She-Hulk was his counsel too, I wonder if she was his trial lawyer on this. I'm assuming settlement has at least 3 meanings there, which is clever.

- I wonder if Scott got to choose. He likes Alaska, I could see him demanding it strategically. If the US chose it, ooof. A sentinel factory about as far as you can get from the Marvel hotspots while still being in the US. The whole 'implication' is ugly as hell too.

Is Scott Summers taking this shit?

As Collossus would say, nyet Tovarich, he is not taking it. Good to see he's not fucking around, though in that list of damages I'm very aware 'being forcibly deported from our nation' is not on it. Krakoa comes up, but it's being deprioritised and erased. It's a fist pump moment, but it still makes me sad.

- Shit yeah, get angry dude. You should be.

- Lundqvist is hard to read but he seems to be put in his place.

- Love the BLT power move.

Hahaha! Look at him chowing down with his mouth full. I just ordered a BLT, sometimes you forget how much you enjoy something until you read or hear about it, you know? Anyway, what does this dickhead want Scott to do about it? You know, aside from what he already is - trying to handle it. If he wasn't stalling for his goon squad I'd dismiss it completely.

- The ongoing mystery of the manifesting mutants gets a nod as national news. I can imagine Tucker Carlson or JK Rowling being the worst with this. The Truthseekers name feels very true to life. Right wing kooks are all about weaponising what is true and what is not.

- Scott not knowing what a thermobaric bomb is has some significance, but I think it tells us more about Lundqvist that he does. They're a fuel only type of explosive mostly associated with atrocities. Research indicates they're a very painful and comparatively slow way to die, bc the brain is still active while the body is torn apart or worse. Fuck this guy.

- I did wonder what those drone looking things were last issue. Seems the Truthseekers have some good technology, and may be looking to deny the X-Men theirs (if they're working with the government, which, come on. They always are.

HAHAHA. EAT A DICK LUNDQVIST. Okay he's getting to the point. The X-Men make him look bad because they're doing his job and not covering it up.

- Either he doesn't know Scott very well or he's running out of shit to say. I really dig what's happening with body language here.

- X-factor are a joke in and out of universe. Sorry not sorry but Alex is too. I do wonder who has better intel on x-factor. Scott has always valued intelligence, though I wonder if he's more likely to get it from Warren or Alex. Warren is reliable AF, always has been. I can totally see him enduring that embarrassment to be the man on the inside. Alex could go either way tbh. He is not reliable at all. Most recently he moved to Limbo to be with Maddie and it was not a healthy relationship. It was codependent and Alex, at least was delusional. He also spent a while as a demon zombie.

- That's been brushed aside and for some reason he and Lorna seem to have regressed 15 years. They argued and the impression I got was Lorna was team mutant, Alex was team government/human? That kid's a mess so it's hard to tell. They could be running a long con - we'll see.

- But yeah, Scott's not having it. At all. Carrot or stick - choose! I do like the Brotherhood mention but I swear to god this better not be used to villainise Scott and fuel infighting with the Uncanny team.

Meanwhile... Shrike Team One are well prepared for the mission. They can't be sensed psychically or with any technology. Beast gets knocked out like a chump, but Ilyana can see souls.

See what I mean about technology denial? The last Cerebro unit too.

- Obviously it would be a loss but Beast could build another, right?

- Tumblr image limits being what they are I'm not including the action panels. I'll just say they're okay. Nothing amazing.

- Temper/Idie takes them out and laughs at their thermite (really not messing around, that stuff is wild) while getting off a few badass one liners.

- Magneto doesn't join the fray for some reason (He'd solve it instantly) and chats with Temper. Krakoa is mentioned, as is her imprisonment, but I'm not touching that further right now. When they actually show us where Magneto is I'll have lots to say, for now he's just sitting and saying lightweight stuff. Temper doesn't like or respect Mags though.

Wrapping up, the goons failed and the X-Men minus Mags and Beast drop them off.

- The official position is 'yes, we will fight America if you insist. Stop making threats and breaking into my house. Also, my wife is a God. You know that right? Now gtfoh.'

- It's really cool, though we've kinda been here before.

Something is wrong with Scott? It looks like an anxiety attack to me, tbh. Can't blame him, though I have a feeling it's more than that. Full on anxiety disorder/PTSD Cyclops would be new, I wonder if they'd do it. I guess we'll find out.

And to end on some... news... Trevor Fitzroy is back. yay 😮‍💨. Alive somehow, and resurrecting a ludicrous group from the 2000s. I wonder if Shinobi Shaw and Cortez will be there too. He's also killing mutants for ratings, something that's been done as recently as Krakoa. Not looking forward to it. MAKE UP NEW STUFF FFS.

At the end of the day I enjoyed the issue, mostly by virtue of something happening. Cyclops and Agent Lundqvist chatting in a diner carried it with moments that I'm sure we'll be seeing for years to come as 'fuck yeah' posts on Reddit. The art is competent, nothing really stands out for me besides the body language I mentioned. The art style and choices are probably a whole separate post, like why Cyclops looks 25.

Thanks for reading.

[hobidreams]

november 1869.

to remember what has been lost; to protect what still remains.

pairing: joseon king!yoongi x reader genre: drama. words: 2.4k contains: descriptions of blood/death, a reckoning.

moonlit throne index. this is drabble 26. start from the beginning?

Before Queen Jeonghui’s tomb, you stand with hands bowed in reverence, mind laden with warm memories as sticks of incense burn above your fingertips.

“We all miss you, daebi-mama. I hope you are resting well,” you murmur, letting the smoke mingle with your breath in the air as you bow, deeply. “Happy birthday.”

A little ways away, the single guard that accompanies you is also offering his thoughts to the raised, grassy mound that the queen lies beneath. You’re glad it’s Myungho to come with you today. He’s a good man, one who allows you as much freedom as possible. He understands your need to escape sometimes. Nearby, the horses you rode here are grazing on the field, quietly snorting as their tails swish from side to side.

As you look upon the tomb, you wonder wistfully if mother has found the queen in the spirit world. If they’re playing the game of janggi they so loved in life, when both could find the rare time to continue their decade-long (friendly) rivalry while indulging in cups of strong, dark tea. The thought brings a smile to your face even as fresh tears fall at the remembrance.

In your peripheral vision, you see a swish of fabric, the sign of someone approaching. You give one last bow and slot your incense in the traditional tray, realizing it must be time to leave before it gets too cold and your limbs begin to freeze even under the layers of clothes. You must go back eventually, you know it, but that doesn’t make it easier.

But when you turn, the man that stands beside you wears royal robes — the scarlet fabric and golden dragons unmistakable.

“Jeonha?”

The king’s face holds only sorrow as he holds matching incense in his hands. Staring straight ahead, he bends into a bow, dipping his head repeatedly low, low, lower until he’s almost on the dying, waterlogged grass with it, the lit grey tips flickering in the wind as they are nearly doused from the force of his movements. He bites his lip hard, so hard he draws blood as he punishes his own legs with the bows but he doesn’t stop.

You watch him with emotion clinging to your throat, but you swallow the questions you want to ask as you swipe at your wet cheeks. Why are you here? Why did you change your mind? How are you? Are you okay? All these impertinent questions are for you, to satisfy your own curiosity, and that’s not what he needs right now.

Quietly, steadily, you wait until he has finally stuck in the incense in the memorial ash. You wait until he opens his eyes, red-rimmed as they are, and finds your gaze.

“I… decided at the last moment,” he murmurs. “You… were right. I had to see her.”

You nod. Think you understand everything else he means as well, even if he’s left it unspoken. “Me too.”

“She would have liked that you’re here.”

That simple sentence threatens another wave of nostalgia and longing. You let it pull you under. Sink yourself into it. The mourning, the grief. And the love. The love that was there. The love that still remains, the traces of it held in you both. Your fingers twitch with a sudden, daring want to take his hand. To meet your palms and find the warmth and the life pulse that beats so closely, so resolutely just beneath the surface despite all this pain and all this loss. If you could just reach out. If you could just take another risk…

“Jeonha, run!”

The scream comes from the hill behind you. You both whirl.

The head of the royal guard comes running over with his sword drawn. His teeth are grit, hair blown from the wind that sweeps through the grass, rippling. His blade is already stained with a color that makes your stomach lurch at the implication.

“Hoseok— What’s going on?” The king yells back.

“Rebels! An ambush. We don’t have enough men!”

These few seconds are all the warning you get.

An incredible roar of voices comes exploding up and then you see them. The thick crowd of men that come surging over the hill, fighting their way towards you. The unforgettable clatter of metal on metal desecrates this once-sacred ground. Your legs go soft as you panic, scrambling. You’re trying not to watch as guards and rebels alike are cut down, but the enemies are steadily advancing still. What should you do? Where should you go?

“Myungho, get the horses!” The king barks out. But one look at the steeds tells you that they’re frightened, rearing back as men descend upon them. They’re off, running away on instinct to preserve their own lives while damning yours.

“Jeonha, what are your orders?” Myungho’s grip on his weapon is tight.

“Go. Help Hoseok.”

“Yes, jeonha!”

But as the battle wears on, the dread in you only grows. The king’s men are skilled, but it seems there were only a few to begin with. They are overwhelmed by sheer numbers, yelling for jeonha to escape but he doesn’t move. You don’t know what to do. You are at a complete loss, standing beside him with fingers growing steadily numb. You have to do something. You— You can’t just let it end here, at the hands of these men bellowing with violence and anger and pain.

“Jeonha, w-we have to run,” you stutter, forcing yourself to move, tugging at the fabric of his robes. But when you look back at the opposite side, your only escape route, a throng of rebels come scattering across the grass. Cutting you off; rendering you helpless.

“Myungho, cover the rear!” Hoseok spits out as he takes down another three by himself, the quick whip of his blade reflecting a beam of sun. But even he, with two other guards in front, cannot hold all of them off, though there are less of the rebels now that remain standing.

Caught in the middle, you can only watch your allies strain and sweat. In your heart, you promise desperately that you heal them in the end, if only they will hold on now.

With an awful cry, one of the guards hits the ground and a rebel uses that chance. Breaks through the line of defense and charges right towards you both.

“Fuck the king!” He yells, his face smeared with dirt, his sword raised as his bare feet trip upon the grass but he just keeps coming somehow and you have no weapons and you have no shields but the very first instinct, the most primal one you have is to throw yourself in front of the king and take his pain for him and—

Hoseok dispatches the rebel from behind just as you move a single step forward.

“You…” The king’s voice is hoarse. His eyes are wide with shock as he stares at you, at what you just did. Then he’s shoving you aside and stooping to pick up the abandoned sword from the ground.

You realize what he means when he sweeps up his sleeves, adjusts his grip on the worn handle. “Wait, no, jeonha, you cannot—”

“Stay behind me.”

“I cannot allow you to—”

“Do not argue with me.”

Again, he leaves you with no choice but to watch his back.

Fear pounds away in your body like a thousand drums, thunder booming through the pulse of your clenched heart in your ears as the king takes a first brutal swing at an enemy. Somewhat out of practice against the towering man, he’s shoved back by the sheer force of the clash, feet skidding across the wet grass but he refuses to yield. Stubborn as he always is, he rushes in again only to be pushed back. Again.

The king tilts his blade, slices it quick only to have one sent right back at him, barely missing his shoulder by an inch. He doesn’t even flinch as he stands firm. Adapts in the moment and tries a new strategy, a new tactic that has him spinning, robes fluttering in the winter air as his shuddering breath comes out in a puff of white and ends in a fury of red. And again. And again until finally, finally, only the strongest of the rebels remain standing with the few allies you left, along with your brutal, bloodied king.

Before you, all the men are panting, open mouthed, every last one of them desperate for a victory that spells the doom of the other.

“Come on then,” the king goads, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand in a show of nonchalance even though he’s obviously fatigued. “Attack.”

“You little shit!”

This man is enormous, easily a head above the king and he’s strong, muscles bulging from his torn tunic as he thrusts the sword ahead with surprising speed. The quick rush of air slices through two layers of robes, splitting the dirtied fabric open as the king narrowly escapes without a new scar. But his return stab doesn’t meet a mark and he’s slow on the rebound, steps lost some of the agility he had at the start.

Please. Please, you beg to whatever god may be listening, don’t let him die. But that rebel seems to have an endless strength as he forces the king back, meets him blow for blow for blow and you are so worried, terrified you’re going to see his last moments like this. Like this you will have been with him until the end just like you once stupidly wished. You’re so caught up you don’t realize what’s going on behind you.

“Su-uinyeo-nim! Watch out!” Myungho’s voice cracks as he cries your name, but you turn too slow. Myungho’s on the ground and the rebel that beat him is sprinting towards you, savagery in his scowl, his crude axe already suspended in mid-swing, just a few more steps, just one more shove to land right across your heart and you, you who has never held a weapon before in her life, you who has lived to heal and mend instead of hurt, what can you do right now but die?

“No!”

The scream is hoarse, a furious sound matched with a rush of robes that whip past your own.

You peel open your eyes in time to watch the king take the axe blow meant for you with his left arm. Despite his bark of pain, he swings with his right in exchange and it’s enough. The rebel falls, his axe plummeting uselessly beside him. Then the king falters too, sword clattering down as he finally drops to his knees.

“Jeonha!” You scramble to him. “Oh god, oh god, jeonha, why did you do that— Jeonha, how could you do such a thing? Jeonha!” You part the stained robes, stomach churning at the raw sight of his sacrifice. “We need to fetch you help. You need medicine, oh god, oh god.” This is panic like you’ve never felt it before as you look around, as if some miracle could occur, as if it hasn’t already occurred by the fact that you’re both still alive.

To one side, Hoseok is alone, gasping hard with the enormous rebel lying prone beside him, evidently having finished him off. Myungho has a gash running down his side, but he’s crawling towards you both still with a hand pressed to his wound for pressure. There is no one else. You have to do this on your own. You have to calm the hell down.

Using the nearby sword, you force yourself to focus and stop shaking as you cut strips of the inner layer of your skirt. You have to save his arm even as nausea swims in your mind, nerves making you want to empty your stomach.

“Hah...” The king’s chest lurches as he struggles for air. His eyes are hazy but he manages to fix them on you, as if to ground himself. “You’re… safe?”

Nodding frantically, you start to wrap the cloth around him, willing your fingers not to slip. “I-It’s deep, jeonha. Your wound is so deep.” You’re quietly sobbing as you tie the makeshift bandage to stop the worst of the bleeding. How could he be thinking of you at a time like this? It must hurt excruciatingly so, yet he is still trying to be strong.

Beside you, Hoseok is carrying Myungho’s weight, using the extra cloth to help his ally with his limited medical training.

“…Hoseok.” The king sucks in another long breath. “They… Those rebels were peasants, weren’t they?”

“Yes, jeonha… I think they were.”

He accepts this knowledge silently as you finish your preliminary treatment, but lack the resources to do anything else. You stare at the fresh red seeping through the flimsy cloth and hope desperately that it will be enough for now, until one of you can return to the palace and gather reinforcements to take you home. Feeling your fingers stop, he immediately tries to move his arm but winces, bites his lip at the sudden jolt.

“Don’t move, please,” you instantly say.

The king huffs a long, exhausted sigh as he sinks into the ground. Lets the tension seep out of him, though likely not by choice. His dark eyes flicker to the tomb briefly before they slide closed, the scar ever slashed startlingly crimson across the right side. Despite his best attempts, he is still winded, depleted. Human, after all. After all of this.

You brush matted strands of light hair away from his forehead, and pat at the drops of sweat that linger and prove how hard he pushed himself to fight. He shifts into your touch like a stray animal, allowing you take care of him for once without argument until his breaths even some, settling only in your arms.

“It seems it’s been a long time,” he says softly after a moment, his eyes remaining shut.

“Since?”

“Since I’ve protected someone.”

Your pulse catches. Blood thrums through you as you whisper, “but you did.” Your voice is viscous with relief, and gratitude. “You did.”

Only now do you dare to reach for his hand, to lend him some of your strength, even though you have seen again just how much of it he already holds in himself.

Wrapped in your warmth, he squeezes back just the once. Lets you know he is here, he is here, he is here with you still.

a/n: because i could never forget the way he wielded that sword in the mv. so... how you feel about our king now?

[sage-nebula]

Now that I’ve got a moment at home, I want to elaborate a bit on my thoughts on the newest PokéAni episode, and why Pikachu’s behavior wasn’t OoC at all, but rather a demonstration of how he’s finally being treated like a character again, after just about two decades of being reduced to a prop to sit on Ash’s shoulder, look cute, and occasionally win battles. Disclaimer up front, I think this is easily the best episode Pikachu has had since the original series.

Let’s take his behavior piece by piece, shall we?

Jealousy:

Before the episode even aired, I saw people claiming that it was “out of character” for Pikachu to feel jealous over Ash training pokémon other than him, and for the most part I can kind of understand where people are coming from with this one. The fact is, since Pikachu has basically just been a series mascot rather than a character for most of the past twenty years, we haven’t really seen much from him with regards to Ash favoring other pokémon on his team (most notably in cases where the bond between Ash and the other ‘mon was super hyped up, as with Greninja). However, that’s not because it’s not in Pikachu’s character to be jealous, but rather because the writers didn’t want to spend enough time on Pikachu to show him being jealous. It’s a subtle, but key difference. Because Pikachu wasn’t “important” to the story in previous sagas, his thoughts and feelings on the given situation were pretty much ignored. But even then, we still saw flashes of it here and there, the most recent example of which I can think occurred in XY(Z). During the second battle with Alan, Pikachu really wanted to battle Alan’s Metang, only for Ash to call upon Noivern instead. (At least, I believe it was Noivern.) Pikachu got huffy over this, and Ash sheepishly said he’d let Pikachu battle next time. Pikachu’s response was to cross his arms and mutter to himself, pouting about it. It wasn’t followed up on after that (though notably, Pikachu got to battle Alan’s Metagross in the League finals), but nonetheless, we still did see Pikachu get jealous over Ash using another pokémon to battle when he wanted to, even in a saga that ignored his character for the most part.

So to say that it’s out of character for Pikachu to get jealous is just incorrect. I understand why some might think that, but it’s incorrect nonetheless. This isn’t to say that it wouldn’t be nice to see it build and build over multiple episodes, but I think it’s worth it to acknowledge the fact that it’s implied this has been building in the beginning of the episode. When Pikachu asks Ash if he can battle next, Ash tells Pikachu that Riolu’s on a winning streak:

For Riolu to be on a roll, this means that this is not the first battle Pikachu has sat out. It means that he’s sat out multiple battles, perhaps over the span of multiple days, and he’s still been a good sport about it up until this moment—the moment when Ash acknowledges that Pikachu is super pumped up to battle, and yet still tells him that, nah, he has to sit on the sidelines and continue to watch. It’s no wonder Pikachu gets pissed; it’s been days and he still hasn’t had his turn on the Xbox.

So while it would be nice to see an actual arc spanning multiple episodes, we’re still given enough information to know that Pikachu has been stewing for a bit and is finally hitting a breaking point, particularly when Ash continues to brush him off (and even scold him for falling asleep on the bench and not, I guess, being ~excited enough~ that Riolu is training instead, and even saying that Pikachu won’t get to battle at all if he naps, like, Ash, tf is your problem??) as the episode progresses. It’s been shown in previous sagas that Pikachu can get pouty if he isn’t chosen, and being looked over again, and again, and again, and then being scolded for not being excited about being looked over, is bound to wear on his nerves.

But that said, Pikachu has some other issues that should be addressed, too.

Abandonment:

In the OS, there were numerous episodes that implied that Pikachu had a fear of abandonment, which led many (myself included, and I’m still not convinced this didn’t happen between Pikachu leaving Mamaskhan and Oak finding him) to believe that Pikachu had a trainer prior to Ash who both mistreated (hence his hatred of pokéballs) and ultimately abandoned him. The most noticeable episode is “Sparks Fly for Magnemite,” in which Pikachu is so terrified of Ash abandoning him that he leaves the Pokémon Center in a severely weakened, ill state to chase after him. Ash is exasperated, but he agrees that Pikachu can come along so long as he rests and doesn’t push himself. (Ash, Misty, and Brock were actually going to the power plant to restore power to the Pokémon Center, so they really weren’t going to be gone long, but Pikachu’s illness made his insecurities come to the forefront and so he chased after anyway.)

Now, much like all other aspects of Pikachu’s personality, his fear of abandonment really hasn’t been brought up since the OS, at least not in any major way to my recollection. But JN started off with an episode detailing Pikachu’s early childhood, and his feelings surrounding no longer belonging with his family. In that instance, he chose to leave despite how much he still loved them, rather than force Mamaskhan to bid him farewell (which she would never do), or have something else terrible happen. Even though it was Pikachu’s own choice to leave, the fact that he felt he had to leave behind the only family he ever knew no doubt still left a scar on his heart, one that was possibly exacerbated by an awful previous trainer, one that might have been unwittingly reinforced in episodes like “Pikachu’s Goodbye” (where Ash legitimately tried to release him) and “Sparks Fly for Magnemite” (where Pikachu thought he was being abandoned) . . .

. . . and one that came up again in this episode.

Because in this episode, we see that Ash has been neglecting Pikachu for a little while, constantly overlooking him, brushing him off, scolding him for not being happy that he’s being brushed off, et cetera. Pikachu, obviously hurt and dejected, spends the night in Delia’s room . . . only for Delia to leave before Pikachu even wakes up, and almost leave without saying goodbye to him at all. Then he turns back to Ash again, but this time he barely has time to get two words in before Ash tells him “I’ll train with you later,” brushing him off yet again in favor of Riolu. 

And that’s when Pikachu breaks, and decides to run away.

Pikachu running away in this instance speaks volumes to me, as someone who also has abandonment issues. Because if you think about it, Pikachu going to Pallet Town was his way of benching himself. After all, provided he hasn’t released them, where do all of the pokémon that Ash isn’t actively training live? Either in Pallet Town with Oak (or in this case Delia), or in Alola. (Or in the Charicific Valley / with the Squirtle Squad etc, but those are special cases.) Pikachu decided, “Okay, I’m not going to wait around for you to bench me. I’m going to do it first so you don’t get the chance.” And that’s something that’s so familiar to me, because I cannot tell you the number of times I’ve decided to stop reaching out to / being around people because I felt like they didn’t want me around / didn’t like me / were silently rejecting me and so I said, you know what, I won’t make you reject me outright, I will just remove myself from your presence so it doesn’t come to that (which, yes, is always the wrong move to make and I try not to make it, but mental illness is a real bitch sometimes). It’s called Rejection Sensitive Dysphoria, and I think that Pikachu displayed big signs of it in this episode. Ash wasn’t “rejecting” Pikachu from his perspective, but Pikachu felt that he was being rejected and reacted accordingly. Issues from his past flared up to make this a much bigger deal than it might’ve been for other pokémon, and as a result Pikachu turned tail and ran.

So what we saw in this episode was not only Pikachu being jealous / irritated that he was passed over for battle (though he was, and that’s not out of character for him either), but also Pikachu exhibiting Rejection Sensitive Dysphoria that was likely borne from abandonment / displacement / rejection issues that have been building in him since he was a Pichu. Neither Ash nor Delia meant to stoke this in Pikachu, but they still did nonetheless, and so his behavior makes total sense (so long as, again, you consider his history and the implication at the beginning of the episode that he’s been passed over for multiple battles before this).

And finally, one more thing . . .

The attitude:

Man, I was so happy to see his attitude come back!

Here’s the thing about how Pikachu behaved back when he was focused on more as a character: he was a brat. Later sagas often give the implication that Pikachu was only bratty in the first episode, before he came to like Ash, but that is far and away not true. Pikachu got a little skull and crossbones reaction emoji when Delia called him “weird” and shocked the whole crowd. Pikachu got irritated when Ash told him to hush and not blow his cover in Celadon Gym and shocked the disguise right off him. Pikachu would pull out a sleeping bag and pretend to sleep if he didn’t want to do something (such as battle or go into a haunted tower). Pikachu showed open disappointment when Team Rocket, and Meowth especially, didn’t drown to death after a shipwreck:

So the Pikatude that we saw in this episode? 100% IC characterization from start to finish for the first time in what feels like a very long time. Pikachu sulking after getting passed over? IC. Pikachu stubbornly trying to get Mimey to leave him alone because he is leaving Arceus-damn-it and you can’t stop him? IC. Pikachu getting tired and refusing to walk and angrily shoving Mimey off when Mimey tries to drag him because he wants to take a rest? All Pikachu had to do was pull out a literal sleeping bag and it could have been a scene right out of the OS. And that glorious bit at the end when Pikachu shocks the daylights out of Ash (as Ash wonders “why . . . ?”) and then pulls this face?

THE MOST IC THING I HAVE SEEN FROM THIS ANIME IN YEARS. That’s the Pikatude that Pikachu had when the series first started out and he got to be an actual character! That’s the Bratachu I know and love! While Ash has never really had a return to his Sass Ketchum days (and oh, how I miss those), to see Pikachu treated like an actual character again, separate from Ash, allowed to have his own thoughts, feelings, reactions, and arc . . . it’s wonderful. Masterful. Chef’s kiss. The whole episode was amazing, but seeing Pikachu actually be himself again really sold out.

So, TL;DR:

Pikachu has been jealous before, albeit in much smaller instances because the narrative hasn’t wanted to really treat him as his own character in a very long time.

Pikachu had abandonment issues established in OS, reaffirmed that he has issues with not feeling like he belongs / leaving before he can be openly rejected in the first episode of this series, and brought all of that up again in this episode after multiple on-screen “rejections” and implied ones before the episode.

Pikachu always had an attitude until it was smoothed away so he could be a cute mascot and other pokémon could get narrative focus; having it come back in this series/episode is wonderful and no one should begrudge that. Let Pikachu Be Interesting Again 2020

And that’s that on that.

[kashimos-hajime]

wake me up | amaranthine (4/6) | b.b.

summary: A mended heart is stronger every time it breaks.

WARNINGS: swearing, angst, fluff and tenderness, painful treatment practices, blood, tony’s a cute baby, implications of smut :^) pairing: bucky barnes x fem!reader word count: 9.2k

a/n: written for @the-omni-princess for her writing challenge and inspired by @the-darklings​ who writes such heart-wrenching scenes concerning john and vipress (my WIFE) and also by the film marriage story. vibe song is the cover of wake me up by fleurie and tommee lee profitt.

amaranthine masterlist

So wake me up when it's all over When I'm wiser and I'm older All this time I was finding myself And I didn't know I was lost You wake, lurching forward as your hand flies to your breast. Cloth meets your palm and you swallow the foul taste in your mouth, sweat dappling your skin and gathering in your throat and underneath your arms and breasts. The figments of your nightmares disappear like ashes in the wind, and you try to catch your breath, your mind reeling. You don’t recall walking back to bed, nor dressing the wound on your chest.

You’d been too exhausted to do anything more but tape some gauze to your chest and settle in the chair in case Bucky needed something

Bucky.

Your heart wilts at the mere thought of him, and everything inside you empties out when you look around your room in your base. He must’ve been the one to bring you here. Has he gone? 

Pushing yourself up, you swing your legs carefully off the bed and lean over to turn on the lamp. The light shining on your clock shows a bitter 4 AM, and you sigh, rubbing at your face. Saturday morning and you’re up at 4 AM.

Saturday. You roll the word over in your head, nearly groaning once you’ve realized what you promised to do. Howard could not have chosen a worse weekend for you to look after his son, but you are not about to let Tony down, and although you want nothing more than to throw yourself into bed, sleep off yesterday and today and every other day until your chest doesn’t feel like a massive bruise, you get up.

You have a call to make.

.

Standing in the corner store, you scour the aisles for cans. If you’re staying in the safe house, you’ll need to stock up once again. You pluck a can of tomato paste and add it to your basket where pasta, soup, bread, eggs, milk and meat already lay. Medical supplies await you in the backroom, and you debate the possibility of making two trips to save your right side some grief. No. It’ll be a waste of time, you chide yourself. You pay these agents for a reason.

The bell above the door chimes and you freeze. 

“Sir, we’re not open yet.” The S.H.I.E.L.D. agent who’d been waiting in the backroom comes out and you shift closer to the shelves, your hand reaching for the heaviest can in your basket. 

“The Doctor asked me to meet her here.”

Edwin. A wave of relief rushes through you show yourself to both the agent and Edwin, who soaks in your appearance carefully. His eyes flutter from your face, ragged and pale, to the white blouse you’ve pulled on. Beneath it, you know he can see the white bandages still wrapped firmly to your chest. You wonder if he can smell the sewage clinging onto your skin. You’ve grown so used to it by now that you can hardly tell if you reek.

Your eyes meet his, and you swallow with a sigh.

You walk forward to set down the basket on the counter, tilting your head to the agent to signal for him to begin packing it up for you, and Edwin sighs, adjusting the child in his arms. Leaning slightly against the counter, you look out the windows, at the very beginnings of dawn. It’ll be a few hours yet before the sun rises, and you can hardly believe a day has passed. It feels like only hours ago you hauled a broken soldier back to the safe house.

“I wasn’t aware there was another S.H.I.E.L.D. safe house in Brooklyn,” Edwin begins softly, and your lips press together in a grim smile.

“There isn’t. This one’s mine. Howard insisted on keeping agents posted just in case trouble arose.” Your eyes flicker back to Edwin, and then to Tony. “How is he?”

“Running a slight fever, although he’s been sleeping like a rock through the night. He was quite excited to hear he would be spending time with you, although I assume you’re not quite up to the task?” Edwin’s head tilts and you smile weakly. “I can always stay home, Doctor.”

“No, Edwin, I promised. I—” You throw your arm up, letting it fall without a care. Shaking your head, you try to search for the words— “I need something to go right. The past twenty-four hours… I can’t stay in that place with him.” You feel strangely numb to saying the words and he reaches forward to touch your hand on the countertop. You let him do so, twisting your hand to offer your palm. His fingers grasp yours firmly as if silently telling you you can do this and you bow your head.

“Who, ma’am?”

“Someone… someone I thought was dead. I can’t tell you, I’m so sorry.” You raise your head wretchedly to your friend, and his eyes, warm and comforting, soothe an icy wave that crawls down your spine. “Ghosts make terrible friends.”

“You needn’t explain it to me.”

“Doctor.” The agent returns with your bag, his figure looming at the door to the backroom and you glance at the darkness, your fingers numb as you remember jumping into the sewers with a bleeding man behind you. You stare at him for a moment, taking a deep breath as you try to fortify yourself. He might be awake by now, or maybe he’s gone.

He’d been fast asleep when you’d checked on him this morning, and the absolute agony that had torn through your soul had blinded you, to see him sleeping so peacefully between sheets that never had his name marked into them. 

You know when he leaves—and he will, you know it is inevitable that everyone will leave—you’ll never be able to sleep in that bed again. 

“Ma’am.”

You blink, and the agent’s eyebrows are furrowed together as he stares back, too respectful to break the contest.

“You should go,” Edwin’s gentle voice snags your attention and you turn back to him, lost. “Even ghosts get lonely.”

You reach for Tony and take him with your left arm. His tiny arms latch around your neck and you let out a tiny breath at the familiar weight that settles on you. Tony’s gentle breaths puff against your ear and you kiss his cheek. “He’s asleep, Edwin. I’m sure I can afford a few more minutes of life unhaunted.” Although you mean it to be teasing and a forced smile does make its way onto your face, you see the concern etched onto Edwin’s face and know you need to face the reality of your situation. In the quiet morning, you can pretend you did not find the man you’ve fallen in love with an odd thirty years ago. In the quiet mornings, you can pretend you did not defile your sanctuary, bringing him there.

“I wasn’t talking about him.”

I’m. Not. Lonely. A stiff lump sits in your throat and your smile falls off like a bird shot mid flight. Tightening your grip on Tony, you clench your jaw and walk around the counter towards the agent. He hands you the supplies and you sling it onto your right shoulder with a slight grunt. Staring at the darkness before you, you give yourself a moment to remember why you have lived all these years. Before you descend down into the pathway that will lead you back to your past, you turn back to Edwin.

“Good morning, Mr. Jarvis, and have a good day.”

“And you as well, Doctor.”

.

Kissing Tony goodnight, or good morning, you pull back from the old crib and retreat to the door, turning off the lights and closing the door until it is barely open an inch. Your stomach grumbles, but you keep your hand on the knob, just listening to his tiny breaths fill the room before you tear yourself away.

The first thing you did as a founder of S.H.I.E.L.D. was buy this building, and you’ve spent decades, walking through the building that has changed tenants more times than you can count. No matter what, you always leave one loft empty. You don’t care what Howard or Peggy say about letting go. Ever since Mama Barnes passed, you don’t have the heart to fill up a place where you’ve found pieces of Bucky with those who might wash him away.

You’d planned to visit yesterday for his birthday. Instead, you hide away in the safe house you had built right beneath the building with the man you’ve been grieving over sleeping just at the end of the hallway.

Grabbing your medicinal bag from your room, you head to the kitchen and sit down, digging out some supplies for you to properly take care of your wound. You peel off your shirt, the lights casting your skin in an oily gold as you carefully begin to undo the bandages around your chest.

Does he remember who I am? Your thoughts grow torrential as the silence of the safe house grows unnerving. Or does he only know me as a past mission, if even that? Did H.Y.D.R.A. wipe his mind so completely that he can never come back to me? Will he stay if given the chance? Who does he work for? H.Y.D.R.A. is nothing but ashes now. The KGB? The Soviet Union? The thought makes you nauseous. Or perhaps he works for anyone willing to pay.

You still remember that night in 1949. Only two days prior, an attempt on your life had sent Colonel Phillips to issue an entourage that would follow you and check your home every night before you entered, and you’d been at your wit’s end. You could not fathom why an attempt on your life had to be made, when there were others—Howard, Peggy, the Colonel—who were more important to S.H.I.E.L.D. than you ever could be. 

You are just a doctor, after all, and yet someone wanted to kill you.

And he had been standing there, black mask muzzling him like some dog, dark iron wire hair that separated him from your world, and those eyes that screamed of a caged animal. Eyes you would never forget as he grabbed you with an unseen speed and threw you onto your bed. Eyes that caused you to recognize him twenty years later, still feeling the rush of wind as the knife dug into the mattress beside your ear.

The only reason you still live is the fact that the super-soldier serum had given your leg enough muscle to launch him through the window and gave you enough time to hide away here. In this safe house.

You blink and glance at your chest, at the red hole that has closed on your back but still gapes on your chest, and sigh. Too many attempts on your life have been made and only his eyes have been burned into your head. You close your eyes for a moment, a knot in the middle of your head causing an ache that begins to throb as you try to focus. You know you must get some sleep. Your body protests as you grab the bottle of iodine from your bag and a towel.

Stuffing the towel into your mouth, you feel your gag reflex revolt at the intrusion and your whole stomach convulses painfully. The dryness of the cloth causes tears to spring into your eyes as it continues to poke at the back of your throat, and you twist off the cap of the bottle, your lungs struggling to prepare themselves for the searing pain that is about to seep into your bones. You grab onto the edge of the chair, trying to steel yourself.

This is the life you chose, a voice inside your head chastises just as you raise the bottle to your chest. 

You tip iodine into the hole a bullet left in you and the pain—agony in its ripest form—rips you into pieces. Your nerves sing as they are burned alive, and your flesh recoils as iodine and alcohol slosh through your blood. Your teeth clenched around the towel, a muffled scream tears its way through your throat as you continue to pour a steady, small stream onto the gunshot wound. Your eyes squeezed shut, hot tears begin to race over your sweating skin as your back arches off the chair, head tossed back in torture.

The pain begins to dull into a pulsing fire as it drips down your chest, and you slam the bottle back onto the table, letting out a ragged groan as you thread the needle with practiced fingers. Pushing yourself up and leaning heavily into the chair, you begin the heartrending chore of sewing your flesh back together, and you begin to feel strangely numb to it all. You weave the needle through your skin and muscle, and you don’t feel any of it. Perhaps it is the fire of iodine that has made you numb or the exhaustion adding to the adrenaline that is no doubt pumping through your body, but you just sew mechanically until it is done, tying a knot with one hand and snipping the excess thread within minutes.

Perhaps being a doctor is good for one thing after all.

Covering the wound again, you get up and clean off the iodine that’s dripped down your body and the table with the towel from your mouth, the pain slowly draining away. You carefully slip into the blouse, your stomach grumbling once again, and you decide despite the hour, you need to eat.

Besides the groceries you’d just retrieved from the store, you rifle through the shelves for whatever you can scrape together, and you nearly grin at the ingredients. It’s a tired almost-smile that barely makes its way into your cheeks, but you just want to forget all that’s happened.

You turn the radio on the countertop, and pull flour, sugar, eggs, and milk onto your workspace as some tune begins to fill the empty air. Softly, it weaves into your ears and you let out a relieved sigh.

Waffles and bacon—Mama Barnes always said it was her boy’s favourite.

.

As you set your plate of waffles and bacon down and head to grab your hot cup of coffee, you hear a door from the end of the wall open with a subtle click. Ignoring the sound, you take a long pull, letting the black coffee run through your chilly blood before setting it down next to your plate. You hear his footsteps come down the hallway as you go to grab another plate. He lingers by the door and you set down the second plate before turning around to finally notice him.

His hair is wild around his face, and he looks around blearily, a softness to his usually hard eyes. He’s mainly exposed from the chest up, save for the thing he carries. A red and yellow thing you recognize as your godson.

Of course Tony sneaks out of his bed. 

You let out a short breath of disbelief, eyebrows knitting together at the tender way the soldier carries the two-year old. Like a fragile sack of potatoes, or perhaps a regular sack of potatoes. He no doubt looks awkward and you approach him to save him.

“May I?” you begin quietly and he nods with a small swallow. His eyes search your face for a moment, and you take Tony from the man’s arms. “I’m sorry if he woke you.”

“He didn’t,” is the curt response you receive. Your soft smile doesn't falter as you settle the boy in your arms and turn to the table. 

“Help yourself to breakfast, and the coffee.” You move to walk past him, your head ducked against Tony’s cheek, but a warm hand touches your wrist tentatively and you whirl around, your heart lurching into your throat.

“I wanted to speak to you,” he begins, eyes wide as he soaks in the wariness that must be on display on your own face. “If that would be alright with you.”

“Of course.” You swallow down the knot. “I’ll be back in a moment.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

“You don’t need to call me that,” you say. Not so seriously. Never as a show of power imbalance. We are equals, you and I. He does not hear your thoughts and he does not reply. He pulls his hand away and walks to the table, and you watch him go with a quaint sensation of something falling in your chest.

You walk down the hall and put Tony to bed, and you nearly smile at how he seems to wriggle in his sleep back towards you. 

“Stay in bed this time, Tony. No wandering back into my room. A guest is staying there,” you whisper against his forehead and he rolls away from your lips just as you press a little kiss against his temple. Smiling to yourself, you pull back and shut the door this time with a soft click.

Returning to the kitchen, you notice him sitting at the table, poking at the plate with a fork and you grab yourself another set of cutlery, sitting down across from him with a quirk of your lip. Despite the slight unease coiling in your gut, you want him to speak to you first—to open up. You want to know everything you’ve missed.

“How’s your gunshot?” he asks, peering up at you through strands of his hair. You perk up, forcing the smile into your cheeks.

“Healing. How are you feeling? You took a hell of a beating,” you return and he experimentally shifts in his seat with a slight shrug. “I want to check on your stitches again later.”

“What happened? Where are we?” You notice he doesn’t touch the food and you pick up your own cutlery. Perhaps if you show that it’s okay… that he’s safe… he will follow suit to do however he pleases. You cut the waffle and place it into your mouth, testing your own cooking skills with a pleased result. Swallowing, you watch as he stops poking at the food on his plate and begins to eat.

“After we left the cemetery, you were barely conscious from blood loss and pain. We managed to hide in an alleyway before I found a manhole into the sewers and I brought us here. It’s my own safe house; barely anyone knows about it.”

“You trust me enough to bring me here?” 

“What other choice did I have? I couldn’t let you die.” Your eyes fall to the greasy bacon on your plate and you fill your mouth to avoid talking any more. Bucky stares at you for a moment and you feel the weight of his gaze rest on your shoulders before he looks down. The scrape of his fork against the porcelain fills the silence and you try to figure out how to even broach the subject. You feel empty, as if everything you knew has been scooped out of you and replaced with sand. 

You’re not hungry anymore.

“You should’ve.” You have no answer to the vileness in his voice—the hatred you don’t understand the meaning of. “I remember you,” he continues, dangerously quiet. “I tried to kill you in 1949.”

“Yes, well, seems something’s not letting you pull the final trigger,” you reply. You sip on your coffee and he watches you with an emotion you cannot quite decipher. It makes you squirm—it makes you sick. “Is that all you know me from?”

“You said my name is Bucky.”

“It is.” You set your cup down. You can do this. “Your name is James Buchunan Barnes. Your best friend’s name was Steve and you were a Sergeant of the 107th. You moved to Brooklyn when you were three, to the building right above us.” You see him look up at the concrete ceiling, and your lips barely pull into a smile. “Your sister moved back to Shelbyville after the war.”

“Sister?”

“Rebecca. You had three siblings. She’s the last one left.” Your voice has grown hushed as you watch his mechanical arm set down the knife he used to tear apart his waffle. It’s half-eaten and the bacon is all gone, so you don’t know if it means he’s full or if he just doesn’t like waffles anymore. The thought makes you sad. “Your parents, your other siblings—they died in transit to the safe house where Rebecca lives.”

“I killed them,” he whispers and your head jerks up, eyebrows furrowing together as a harsh breath is drawn between your lips. Your stomach twists as he meets your eyes and you see the frantic, muzzled animal within the blue of his irises. “They made me kill them.” He glances down at his plate again, blinking. “I’m not hungry. I’m sorry, I…”

“No, it’s alright.” You stand up too quickly, too sharply that the chair scrapes against the floor, causing both of you to flinch. You bite down on your lip to stop yourself from letting the stinging in your eyes blur your vision as you grab the plates and head to the sink. With your back to him, you turn on the sink to hide the sound of your shuddering sigh. “You should rest,” you add louder, praying your voice does not shake. “I can come to you later.”

You listen to him go and wait until the door to your room clicks shut.

You resist the urge to throw the porcelain plate and watch ti shatter against the wall.

. 

When you think you’ve managed to fill the hole inside you with something other than sand (broken pieces of your heart fit better, even if the cracks reach your skin), you knock on the door.

“Bucky, may I come in?” In your hand weighs the medicinal bag you don’t remember feeling so heavy. A soft ‘yes’ on the other side prompts you to twist the knob and enter and you see him standing there, just staring at himself in the floor length mirror. He’s much more muscular than you remember, lean and toned in his back and shoulders, his arm enough to snap you in two. His mechanical arm moves like his flesh one, wrapped around his bandaged chest, and glints in the warm lamplight. Dark hair falls over his face and it’s a gut punch to the system. Disastrously handsome, and all too damaged, there is barely half of him left for you to hold. 

Heat surges through your body. You haven’t quite seen Bucky like this in a while, and before, well, before it was life and death. Now…

“Do you want me to sit on the bed?” he asks, watching your reflection. You nod and he walks back onto the corner of the bed, sinking into the mattress. You perch down behind him and you notice he doesn’t tear his eyes away from his mirror image. 

“I’m unwrapping the bandages now,” you begin and he nods. He still smells like sewer and you’re surprised Tony hadn’t cried at the smell, and there’s something cold about his skin as you unwind the white cloth. You try your best not to stare at the lines in his back, at the scarring that twists into his shoulder, but your eyes can’t help but stray. The bandages fall away and you’re greeted by the sight of healing red marks. The stitches are already dissolving and you smile at the bruising that mars his back. It means he’s healing.

“Who are you?” he asks in the quiet, startling you out of your thoughts. His healing factor is much faster than yours and you wonder how many doses it took for him to heal from gunshot wounds overnight. Gently pressing onto a yellow-green mark on his shoulder blade, you feel him tense up.

“I’m the Head of Developmental Medicine and Science,” you say, just as soft. “Although, I suppose whoever sent you already knew that because of what Howard is trying to concoct.”

“Who are you to me?” 

Your throat cinches shut, and you paste on a smile just in time for him to turn around to look at you. Tormented, his eyes are hooded by his sagging eyebrows and you see how tired he is, how guilty. You don’t know how you are supposed to answer such a question.

“Shouldn’t you know?” you tease weakly. “You heard me in the cemetery, all weepy about it.” He stares at you for a moment and then turns back to his reflection. A bruise begins to form in your throat as you hold back the stinging in your eyes. This is the man you loved, broken apart like he was nothing and made to believe it, and now... now you can’t even be honest with him. Your fingers gently trail up his back, to his shoulder and you feel his breath hitch. You run your fingers reverently over the scarring twisting into his shoulder and he shivers. “Does it hurt when I do this?” Your fingers dig into the soft flesh and he sucks in a sharp breath.

“No.” You catch sight of his reflection, and you watch as his eyes flutter shut. Shuffling closer towards him, you place a gentle hand on his other shoulder, the smooth expanse of his skin frigid against your searing palm. “It… it feels good.”

“I’ve tended to more war veterans than I can count,” you whisper gently, eyes focusing on your work. His metal hand clenches and then relaxes as you find a knot of tension hiding between his joints. “I’ve treated amputated sites where the patients complain of phantom pain or tension they can’t quite relieve.” You gently dig your thumb underneath his collarbone and he lets out a soft sigh. You wonder if he knows what tenderness is, what love and comfort is. Has H.Y.D.R.A. purged that from his mind the way they killed his memory of you? 

Your shattered heart crumbles at the way he falls apart in your hands.

He seems to melt into you and you peer at his reflection with a bleeding heart. “Don’t stop, please.” His own ice blue gaze stares at you, wary still, but he is no longer stiff. “You’re an angel.” He says it like he’s never known it before, the word a stranger on his tongue. You shatter at the word.

You want to tell him you’ve loved him far longer than you’ve not. You want to tell him you love him, and you have loved him, and you will love him every day, and that has never changed and will never change.

Instead, you say, “You’re not the Devil, you know,” as he stares at you with glass eyes. Your hand trembles against his shoulder, and you feel tremendously fragile. Biting your lip, you try not to tell yourself that everything is okay, knowing he’s alive. 

“I loved you,” he murmurs lowly, “didn’t I?” His flesh hand catches yours and you press your lips together, determined not to lose yourself before him but you know he’s recovering more of his memory the longer you stay in his presence. You tell yourself you can take it if he doesn’t quite remember you—you stay in hopes that he does. “Angel. That’s what I called you. And I loved you more than anything.”

Something explodes in your chest, and you cannot take it, knowing he does remember you. You are washed in shame, in if I tried harder, I could’ve found you sooner and saved you, and it burns to touch him.

“Excuse me.” You rip yourself away just as the searing in your eyes grows to be too much. That isn’t your Bucky. Not anymore, a patronizing voice in your ear whispers. The words are cruel, but the lashes your mind inflicts on itself are cruler. “I…”

You cannot bring yourself to finish the sentence. You are out the door before he can tell you to stay.

.

Hot water pellets your skin harshly as you let out a sob. You barely have enough air to breathe as you lean against the tile and try to soothe the fire that burns between your ears. Burning tears race over your cheeks as you let out another cry, your hand slapped over your mouth in a piss poor attempt to muffle your want to scream.

Eyes shut against the bullet rain, you wish the shower can wash away more than just the smell of sewage. You want to slip into the drain and leave. You want to feel more than just hollow. Your chest heaving, you try to ignore how your lungs gasp and struggle, how much it feels like drowning and there’s no way to know which way is to the surface, and how you feel like you’re in shambles.

Sobbing into your palm, it is cathartic to just scream it out. Although the hiss of the shower is not enough to mask your sobs, you feel the tension in your back unwind as you wail loud enough for it to echo back at you. Soaked to the core, pulsing and cold, you want to feel something—anything other than pain and hollowness.

What if I punch my hand through the wall? Blister myself in this hellfire? Ask him to kill me. Put an end to this misery. 

How have you spiralled.

The curtain rattles against the pole as it is pulled back but you don’t even flinch at the light that streams into your dark little cell. You’d heard him for the past five minutes, pacing outside the bathroom, and now you stare at him through the tangled mess of his dark hair. He’s wearing an A-shirt you left out for him and his tac pants, the smell of antiseptic and cold winter rushing into your stall. His blue eyes shadowed, his gaze drills into yours and you swallow your tears down, your breath still shuddering in your throat as your lips part.

“What do you want?” Your voice, throaty and deep, sounds unrecognizable to you, and he merely stares for a moment. What more can you take from me? What more will I give you?

“I loved you,” he whispers and you push off the tiled wall, staring at him through the stream of steaming water. “I think I still do.” 

All breath leaves your body and your knees nearly give in as you blink tears out of your eyes.

“Bucky.” The name barely flutters past your tongue and you want to say this is not love, you don’t remember me, I don’t want you to, it aches, can’t you see me dying every second you look at me? but you can barely regain your wits before he cups your face and his mouth is hard on yours. You stumble back into the wall and the cool tile against your back causes your mouth to open wider underneath his burning mouth. Every touch sets you on fire, and you can feel the ice of his metal arm gliding down your side as you wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him closer. You don’t care about the pain from the stitches in your chest or from the jagged remains of your heart digging into your ribs.

Strength surrounds you as he pulls back before you drown in his smell, and you nearly gasp for air. His whispered apologies gloss over your skin and your chest heaves against his as you tell him ‘It’s okay. It’s okay.’ The thick heat of him clouds your vision as his lips brush against yours, catching and gliding reverently as he breathes, his nose tracing through the tears on your cheeks, his eyes closed. 

You pull your hands back to cup his face and he lets out a tremendous sigh, his shoulders sinking as his head drops to your collarbone. Raking your fingers through his hair with one hand, your other travels down the expanse of his back, feeling him breathe, beating, alive. 

You can’t quite feel it yet.

“I’m sorry. Forgive me,” he whispers against your skin. He braces himself against the wall with his metal arm, his flesh one wrapped tight around your waist and you let out a soft sob as he rests his head against your collarbone. Raising your chin, you hold him to your chest and a quiet fills the shower. “I’m so sorry.”

“You’ve nothing to be sorry for,” you murmur into his ear. “That wasn’t you. This… this is.” His arm tightens and you let out a sigh at the closeness you’ve only experienced in your best nightmares. You don’t want to wake up. You never do. “This is you, Bucky. Everything you say now, it’s you.” You gently rake your fingers through his hair and your lips find the cord in his neck. Brushing tender kisses up to his ear, you press your cheek into his shoulder. 

���I love you,” he breathes and you can see the moment the world seems to lift off his shoulders. “You are chaos to my thoughts and… and I love you.” Pulling back, he stares at you with a wonder, a light you haven’t seen since 1945. The image of a boy soldier before you causes your lips to pull into the shakiest smile and you let out a laugh, pressing a desperate kiss against his mouth. 

He kisses you back with a tenderness that seals the cracks in you, and you continue to laugh at the brightness in your chest. For a moment, the man you love is not some nameless face burdened with a trauma you cannot even begin to imagine, but Bucky, the Sergeant in the hospital bed.

“So do you remember?” you ask against his hungry mouth, and at last, a hesitant smile presses against your skin. “Do you remember how much I love you?”

“I don’t think I’ve ever forgotten,” he whispers. “It was just buried beneath so much crap they thought I’d never see the light of day again, but I have.” His metal fingers brush away the tears that dot at your cheeks, and you nearly shiver in his arms. Your eyes dart to his pink lips to the warmth in his blue eyes and you close your eyes. “Thank you.”

“If this is a dream, I don’t want to wake up.” Your nose brushes against his as you hold his forehead against yours. His soaked shirt clings to his chest as you grab at his A-shirt’s hem, pulling up. You don’t know what rules your head, but it is most certainly nothing sane and everything wild.

“Angel—” Just the name, the name you haven’t heard in so long, sends shockwaves through your system and you let out a breath, eyebrows knitting together. In his arms, you feel nearly whole, as if he is the glue that holds you together. Without him, you are nothing more than pieces.

“There’s been no one else,” you promise. “No one besides you. Please.” Your voice softens as the shower begins to run cold and you tremble as he pulls back to stare into your eyes. He searches for hesitation, for the possibility of regret, but you merely touch his cheek and nod. The fire that has been extinguished for near twenty years ignite at the gentlest swipe of his fingers along your waist. “Please.”

“We never…” His words fade as you kiss him warmly. His eyes close and he chases your lips even after you pull away.

“I know we promised that our life will start after the war. But the war is over and life has swept us both away. It was always you. Please let me choose you.” You finally manage to pull his shirt off, letting it drop by your feet and you loop your arms around his neck. You wait in bated breath for his response.

He answers by shoving you against the wall and kissing you as if you are a feast and he is the hungriest man on the planet.

.

His mouth press against the plane of your shoulder, and you let out a soft sigh as he runs a hand down your stomach. You are sore in places you didn’t know existed, and somehow, your arms ache as you reach to turn the clock. In the time between you’ve stumbled into bed with a man back from the dead to now, hours have passed.

“What time is it?” he asks quietly, and you turn back to him with a serene smile. This could’ve been my every morning, you realize dully and your smile shrinks as you brush hair out of his face. He still smiles as if there is someone who will shoot him if he shows any joy, but there is a true light to it. You kiss him quickly, rolling over in his arms.

“Nine.”

“That late, huh?”

“I suppose.” Pulling him close, you sneak a kiss against the corner of his mouth. His hand settles on your waist delicately and you smile, simply embracing him tightly. You feel his heart thud against your ear and you want to sob your eyes out. A thickness in your chest makes you sigh and you close your eyes, squeezing him closer.

“I’m here,” he whispers into your hair. “I’m here.”

“Good.” You tilt your head up to kiss his chin and he grins. “I’ve got to get out of bed and start my day.”

“Hard to believe it’s just getting started,” he whispers and you laugh, kissing the corner of his mouth and detaching yourself from his arms. Scampering over to the dresser, you feel his gaze weigh on your back as you pull out another set of men’s clothes for him and set it on the dresser before slipping a silk gown over your own body. Turning, you roll your eyes when you see Bucky confirming your suspicions. You jerk your head in a gesture to tell him to get dressed and scowl playfully when he doesn’t move. “Are you going to get up at all today?”

“I’m just admiring an angel,” he retorts, and your heart splits painfully. It’s so Bucky of him to say that you want to throw up. “I hope you plan to stay here. It’s not safe for you outside.”

“If you mean my bedroom, no. The safe house, yes. I’m not an idiot.” He finally gets up and you take a moment to admire his sculpted muscles before reminding yourself of the day ahead of you. Phone to S.H.I.E.L.D., to Howard, inform them of what has happened. It’s hard to imagine a world of duties outside of this blissful room. “I’m going to cook breakfast after I wake up Tony. I’d like it if you joined me.”

He sets his hand on top of the pile of clothes, flipping through to find briefs before pulling them on and you lean against the counter with a slight pout. He barely glances at you, his expression hard, and your eyebrows knit together.

“Were my waffles so horrendous?” you ask, keeping your tone light as you rest your chin on your arms and try to catch a glimpse of his face. “Bucky—”

“I can’t stay here.”

“What?” The word pushes its way out of your mouth unbidden and you straighten up, your fingers scratching along the wood of the dresser as he unfolds the A-shirt against his chest. “But—”

“It’s not safe. You know that.” He pulls the white shirt over his head and you pull back, blinking. Wrapping your arms around yourself, you don’t even know what to say to the bluntness in his voice. The clock ticks in the silence as he stares at you for a moment and then turns away, running his hands through his hair. “They’re probably looking for me already, and if they crack down on this safe house, neither you nor Tony is gonna make it out of here alive.”

“Right,” you intone lifelessly, broken-hearted, lost, and you scream at yourself for being so incredibly stupid. Of course you can’t have it easy, you can’t have it peaceful, you can’t have it go right. Resting your forehead against your palm, you smile bitterly to yourself. “Right, how can I forget.”

“Angel—” His arms float around your body as if he wants to touch you but you jerk back, eyes darting to meet his—knife points, razor sharp. 

“They’ll find you. You think I don’t know that?” The way he stares at you, looks at you, softly and with too much tenderness your battered heart cannot take it, makes you want to wretch. “You think I don’t want to pretend that I can keep you safe?” Your voice, bitter and frosted, punches through the air. “I’ve just found you again.”

“My handlers are dangerous.” He looks ashamed for the things he cannot control and he shakes his head, grabbing the pair of trousers from the pile. “More dangerous than you can imagine. All they have to say are the words and you won’t be able to stop me.”

“Then let me help you,” you whisper. You reach for his arm. His blue eyes dart to yours and you see the fear. The fear you cannot begin to comprehend. “Let S.H.I.E.L.D. help you. We can move to another safe house and figure out how to reverse the programming—”

“I can’t. They’ll kill you if they find me anywhere but with them.”

“Fuck, well, I’m not about to let you walk back into the arms of the people who took you away from me!”

“Let them! Let them take me!” He spits the words in your face and you flinch back at the wolf that seeps into his cold eyes. His lips twisted in a snarl, he throws off your hand. “I don’t fucking deserve to be saved.”

“Bucky—”

“You don’t know what I’ve done. I- I don’t deserve to be saved.” You nearly laugh at how you’re back in this situation again. At this stupid back and forth between the two of you. The place has changed but the people stay the same, apparently, and you want to slap sense into him, and erase the glossiness from his eyes. When he blinks, the beginnings of tears bead and you wish to kiss them away.

“You do. You do deserved to be saved. And I just… I want you to stay. We can have the life we want, can’t we?”  

He stares at you wretchedly and you know that you can’t. Not when there are still people out there who want the both of you dead.

“You and I both know that’s not possible so stop trying to fool yourself. You’re much smarter than that.”

The tears come easier this time and you stare at him with glassy, blurry eyes. With every second that passes, you think you might die from the pain, but you don’t. You never do.

A mended heart is stronger every time it breaks.

“So, that’s it?” You’re just going to leave?” Your anger unleashed, your words burn hotter than magma, hotter than hell, hotter than hate. You think of all you’ve been through in the past day: tears, pain, pleasure, soul-splitting agony. You hate him. “You’re not even going to try to make it work? Were you just going to disappear if I hadn’t woken up? Did you confront me just to take me into bed because you should’ve killed me instead if that was your intention.”

“I want to keep you safe.” He is begging for you to stop but you are too furious with how hopeful you’ve allowed yourself to become in his presence. How deeply in love you’ve been reminded you are. How the moment he leaves, he will take your happiness with him. “Whatever you’re thinking, it’s not true.”

“Then what is? That you love me? Because the Bucky I knew wouldn’t just leave me here alone without a fight, stuck somewhere where I can’t follow him; stuck here, so bloody unhappy, so fucking empty that I don’t even know who I am! I wish you never fucking woke up and just pulled the trigger. I really wish you did because, at least, I wouldn’t be here again letting you rip me apart at the seams. I hate you! I hate you! I hate you with every cell of my being and I hope I never see you again!”

Your heart beats in your throat, a deep pulse that you want to swallow as he stares at you, eyes wide. You suck in a shuddering breath, nails scratching at your scalp. Grasping fistfuls of your hair, you let out a soft cry, the simmering heat in your eyes too much and you shut them tight, falling to your knees. Keening over, you let out a deep, low, note of pain and your face floods with heat. You breathe in a lungful of hot air as hands gently clasp your shoulders and you lash out, letting out a feral scream.

“Let me go! I fucking hate you!” You thrash in his arms but he merely wraps you in his embrace, squeezing you gently as you let out a desperate cry and you feel the sobs pushing their way up your throat. Pushing his chest, you hear him grunt as he falls back on his bottom and your shoulders shake as another sob wracks through your body. He presses his cheek against your wet one and you feel the fight leave you, at the warmth that begins to sink into your bones, the fatigue of the last twenty-seven hours catching up to you. He holds your head to his shoulder, your whole body pressed against his in an effort to prevent you from harming him or yourself and the sanity chains back the monster H.Y.D.R.A. stuffed into you, the one you’ve managed to cage until him. Something about him makes you go feral, wild with love. You could kill on it—you have.

“Shhhh,” he murmurs into your ear, voice dulcet, low in his chest and you open your eyes blearily as he strokes your back. Your fists relax and you let out a whimper as he gently brushes a kiss against your neck. You realize dazedly that you’re sitting square on his lap, your legs wrapped tightly around his waist, and you pull back, blinking fresh tears down your face. Somehow, it is your nature to be as close to him as possible. To hold onto him as tight as you can.

“It’s alright,” he whispers, eyes warm and tender as he takes care of your new tears as well. He wipes away every droplet with a care you recognize and you sniff as he smiles. The smile reminds you of the moon, beautiful, mellow, all too kind and brilliant. “Maybe one day, hm? Maybe we’ll have a chance one day.”

You sniff again, wiping at your face furiously with the heel of your hand and try to stop yourself from breaking again as he brushes a slick strand of hair out of your face, behind your ear. He tilts his head just so, still with that lunar smile.

“I’m supposed to be helping you,” you whisper and he chuckles, the sound filling your chest as his hand on your back runs up the length of your spine. “Helping you fix whatever’s in your head.”

“That’ll have to wait.” You lean into his palm cupping your cheek, sliding your hand atop his and his smile melts. “I would stay if I had any choice, you know that.”

“I do.” You throw your arms around his neck, hugging him tightly and your eyes close. “Stay for breakfast. Just for a moment longer.”

“Okay.” He buries himself closer into your neck. You clutch onto him tighter. “Okay.”

.

“What do you want to do now, hm?” You pick Tony up from his seat and he presses his chubby cheek against yours as you mouth a ‘thank you’ to Bucky who collects the plates and takes them to the sink. He gives you a slight smile as you walk down the hall. Tony squirms and you set him down, letting him run on ahead. He runs down the halls, into your room that you’ve left to Bucky, and you smile to yourself.

Jogging after the boy, you catch him just in time for him to try and climb into bed. You hoist him up, kissing his hair affectionately before planting a hand on your hip. 

“Book!” He claps his hands and you frown thoughtfully, threading your fingers through his downy hair. “Book!”

“You want me to read to you?” you ask rhetorically. “What books do I have in here?” You run through a list in your head as you set the pillows up around him. You’ve got adult literature to keep yourself occupied, but you haven’t been here with Tony since he’s been a few months old. His exceptional memory and intellect means he remembers what you’ve read to him to a certain extent and he won’t want you reading books composed of pictures.

You don’t think you can take on a displeased Tony today.

“I’ve got… letters. Correspondence I never had the chance to return.” You finally give up, perching on the edge of the bed. Tony lunges onto his stomach, landing on one of the pillows with a playful smile and you grimace to yourself. “Do you want me to read to you boring letters?”

“Letters?” You nearly jump. Bucky’s the only person who’s ever managed to sneak up on you, and although you should be more aware, you know he does it when he wants to be unnoticeable. You turn to the door to see him there in white and beige, a far cry from the black death that had followed you days before, and blink. He looks so soft here, with his hair tucked behind his ears and a gentle smile etched onto his face. 

“Yes. Just… work letters.”

Your heat nearly explodes as he walks in. You can’t tell him his letters are what you’re talking about, tucked in a small box here so no history museum or organization can take them. You’re not about to be made into some commodity and you’re not about to be spun into some tragic love story that has ended in sorrow. 

You want to believe that that is not how it will end.

“Well, it’s better than nothing, isn’t it?” 

“I shouldn’t.” You feel Tony tug on your sleeve and you see him with his huge doe eyes staring at you impatiently, his lips twisted in a huge pout. Your heart wrenches and you kiss his forehead, scooting back so he can crawl into your lap. You pick him up and he snuggles up against your chest as Bucky crosses his arms, thoroughly enamored by the two-year old. You sigh in defeat. “In the room you carried me to, there’s a box on the dresser. Inside are the letters.”

Bucky stares at you for a moment, and you only give him a sad smile. He goes to get the box.

.

Paper is sprawled across the bed. You are on your back, arms wrapped around Tony who rests like a tiny sack of potatoes on your chest. The tiny boy’s hands wipe at the tears that continue to drip down your cheeks, an innocent task that makes you smile, but you can’t help the few tears that slip away from your control. As Tony continues to try to fix the tears and fight off the yawn that’s been dogging at him for the past five minutes, you press a long kiss to his forehead, eyes closing. Your hand cradles the back of his head, and he rests his head on your sternum, a tiny little thing you can’t help but feel so much love for. He snuggles underneath your chin and you smile, grateful for this boy who has made this easier.

“This isn’t something you can fix, Tony,” you whisper, eyes opening, and he raises his head against your palm. His eyes search yours and you wonder if, to the extent he can, understands. “I hope you’ll never understand.” You urge his head back down against your chest and run your other hand up and down his back. “Time for a nap,” Tony wiggles for a moment more before finding a position comfortable enough to fall asleep in and you breathe in deeply at the tiny weight on your chest.

“Fuck,” Bucky whispers and you open your eyes. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

“Watch your language,” you murmur without heart. The mattress dips beside you and Bucky crawls up the bed, his hands full of letters in his own writing. He shuffles through them, eyes scanning each one and then looks at you with wet eyes. “I told you I didn’t want to read them.”

“Yeah, well, apparently I need to learn the lesson of listening to you again,” he whispers and you laugh to yourself, the heel of your palm digging into your eyes. He has read every single one aloud, enough anguish in his voice to kill the strongest man three times over, and yet here he is, reading them again. 

Is this torture? Is that all this love is?

“I love you,” you whisper, eyes closed, the heel of your hand plugging one of them, and you can feel his presence like you’re attuned to him, only him. “I love you more than anything.” His fingers brush against your tear-wet jaw, his other hand delicately wrapping around your wrist to pull your hand away from your face. You open your eyes just in time for his lips to meet yours and you gasp in pain as you taste the salt of his own tears in your mouth. Your heart feels like it’s tearing itself in two, your organs collapsing, your lungs failing, and here he is, kissing you, keeping you alive for moments longer. The heat of him, the smell of sweat and breakfast clinging to his skin, overwhelms you and you let out a small cry when he pulls away. Something dies in you the instant his lips leave yours.

“I love you.” Kissing each tear off your cheek, he whispers it over and over again until you’re sure it is engraved into your skin, and a wave of exhaustion crashes down on your head as you manage to snag a fistful of his shirt before he can pull away again. “I love you. I love you. I love you.”

“Stay,” you plead. His cheek presses against yours, and you feel his hand, cold, metal, just as alive as yours, lay on top of yours on Tony’s back. “Just until I fall asleep. I can’t… I can’t watch you go.”

“Okay,” he whispers, and he sets the letters aside. Laying down beside you, he slides an arm around the both of you, and tangles your legs with his. You turn onto your side, your forehead pressing against his, and you let out one last confession, one last proclamation with your eyes closed and sleep at your door.

Tony is sound asleep between the two of you, so unaware of the agony that cracks the air. You know Bucky looks at you as you whisper ‘I love you.’ With his thumb against your jaw, the tender press of his lips against your forehead, you want to believe this can be forever.

You cannot bear to look at the devastation in his eyes. You know when you open your eyes again, he will be gone.

[mybukz]

Review: At Night We Come Out by Yanna Hashri

Title: At Night We Come Out Author : Yanna Hashri Genre: Poetry Format: Paperback, 24 pages Price: RM10 Released: August 20, 2018 Reviewer: Jeremy Chin

First, a disclaimer from me. In her poem, Wondering, You Wander, Yanna Hashri speaks of “the soul, looking for/whichever god will/house its needs”. Reality bends itself to our biases, and we all have a mesh over our eyes that lets through only that which we want to see. What follows is my take on Yanna Hashri’s collection of nineteen poems, through a lens that is entirely my own. A fair bit, I reckon, I’ve interpreted differently from was intended, but poetry is beautiful in that way; its cryptic nature leaves it open, invites you to give meaning to it, to make of it what you need it most to be.

A 26-page chapbook, At Night We Come Out is a light book with a heavy message. I found a few recurring themes in this body of work, and have sectioned my review accordingly.

ENTRAPMENT

Every time we get caught in an eddy of anxiety and depression, we create a prison for ourselves. The walls, as they become more stifling, induce reflection and expression, and have compelled many to push pen to paper, which perhaps is why entrapment shows up as a common theme in many poems, including Yanna’s.

In her poem The Weight of Her Light, she writes, “only blindness of self/ could make the night’s sky a cage” and “When she could take no more/the night begged me to let her go/ but all that flew out of my mouth was a bird the shape of death/tumbling down a black hole/its wings cutting deep into the edges of a universe”.

In her next piece, Three Paths, she speaks of the “map of the human heart/with no side doors or exits?”. In the Oldest of Ghosts she unleashes this line, “Time is a ponderous jest/under which I cup my tears”.

The outcome is a little different in Shhh, a poem on physical abuse, breaking out of the silence, and payback, which she artfully brings to life using the concept of shapes. Often it is the aggressor who entraps, smothers the voice of the weak, but in this instance, the victim refuses to stay down, and violence finds its way back to its owner.

LOVE

A few poems of Yanna’s touch on love. The one titled Tempest depicts the destructive nature of flare-ups in a relationship, how they sometimes come from a place that escapes reason, manifesting as “a one-eyed tempest/ howling up a fire from nothing/ until everything is wet ash”. Yanna goes on to describe how the cycle is renewed, her poem tapering off with the following verse: “She rages on and on/seeking answers to questions she doesn’t know/and in the morning, spent and shrunk/she wrecks herself, as always,into/ the moor of your battered arms”.

In her next poem, Curtain Call, she speaks of a house that had retained memories of its tenant: the blooming of her relationship with another, the “early tiptoe/of maybes and why nots”, the inevitability of rapture, the way their “hearts began to howl from the force/of collisions too violent to heal”.

“The song ends like so many sad things do -” Yanna writes, “sputtering to a stop as it drags/its last notes across the finish line.”. The house still stands, except the walls that once trapped in all the joy now cradles the emptiness that comes in the wake of love lost.

WAR

In many instances, we inherit the sins of our fathers. Yanna Hashri touches a fair bit on war and its implications, the way violence gets propagated from one generation to the next. In one of her pieces she opens with “The history of my people/is a history of madness”. In another she claims that there are only three paths to freedom: “To wade through decades of blood/To go mad from the silence of martyrs/To leap headfirst into the/ beast’s crepuscular belly”.

“Go look a mad man in the eye and ask/ how the flames wolfed down his heart/ and then tell me what you know of war”. In Neither Dream Nor Fable, she addresses the fire of violent conflict, the way it consumes everything in its path, how it makes us do the unthinkable: “We were hungry and desperate you see/ so we dug up the graves and sucked /the old pain from our grandmothers’ bones”.

The Dead Men Go Singing tells of the young who are exposed to war propaganda, who “gobble these songs up in their dreams like/hot fat dripping down their tongues/and into the proud swell of their chests”. Our youth are recruited into the violence and slain before they can understand its futility, “piling up mountains of useless regrets/ on the tips of blades they never learn to wield/until their bodies succumb to that last fall”.

DEBAUCHERY AND FALSE PERSONAS

In her poem Taste, Yanna brings to light how society is lost to gluttony, fakery and drunkenness, pointing to the idiots who could “drink/their weight in excess/and plop down to the earth,/sated and singing to each other/ in a language only beasts/ could understand”.

In her next poem, Hassia and the Fools, she speaks of a group of brutes, intoxicated by wine, wealth and lust. They fail in their pursuit of Hassia, who, to elude capture, “swam with swans in the day/and sang with wolves in the night”.

This theme of donning different personas trapezes into her next poem, Natural Disasters, where she writes: “Here comes Father in his suit and tie/choosing a face from the wall/to wear with care for the day”.

Final Words

Yanna’s Hashri’s collection feels like a walk through a gloomy cave with dripping fangs. But to my surprise, and delight, she concludes her collection with a piece that lights up the darkness, this turn-around brought on by the arrival of a child, her own, perhaps.

“You may have your father’s eyes/but you don’t have to look/at the world through them”, she writes in her concluding poem, One Day I’ll Love Yanna Hashri. “Gaze past the ramparts./It doesn’t matter what came before/or whose skin you were born into/… Lift your little boy into your arms/and wear his joy like armor/Leave all the bodies behind/and cross the moat/into the soft light of the morning”.

Yanna Hashri has produced an insightful, artistic and frighteningly real representation of the human condition, of a world lost to greed, violence and foolery. In her poem, The Garden, she writes, “The stories you cradle/in the dark palm of your hand/can serve you well if you/learn how to wield them”. I don’t know how autobiographical her poems are, but from what I’ve read, they appear to have been penned by one who has emerged from the fire a little scathed, a little scarred, but a whole lot stronger.

*

Yanna Hashri is a writer and editor with a degree in English Language and Literature. Her poetry takes inspiration from the complexity of human nature, surrealism and the magic of everyday things.

Jeremy Chin is a Malaysian-born author best known for his book FUEL, a story of a novice long distance runner who, fueled by sadness, wins the New York marathon. His book has developed a cult following amongst runners globally, and has been read by coaches, ultrarunners and Olympians worldwide.

If you are interested in obtaining a copy, you may do so at: https://www.amazon.com/Jeremy-Chin/e/B018LXOJJA/

[larrykrakow]

The Capitol Insurrection And The Aftermath

New Post has been published on https://theprogressivemind.org/the-capitol-insurrection-and-the-aftermath/

The Capitol Insurrection And The Aftermath

The capitol insurrection attempt on January 6th left us with a number of questions to try to answer.

Why have so many people lost touch with reality?

Why wasn’t there ample protections in our capitol to prevent people from storming in?

What does this mean for democracy going forward?

How does race play a role in the events that unfolded?

There are so many questions left to be answered, but by and large, our democracy is still pretty much still intact. That said, let us be reminded of what led to the attempted coup.

The Capitol Insurrection Is The Product Of A Cult.

Let’s be brutally honest. The people that stormed the capitol are all Donald Trump loyalists. They do not care that his policies have been destructive. They simply love the cruelty in his tone, the race-baiting and xenophobia that mark who he is. Trump’s followers are not grounded in reality and are followers of QAnon. These people believe anything that Donald Trump said, tweeted, or shared. Donald Trump is a pathological liar and his supporters believe his lies because he created a cult of personality.

First, let’s define what a cult actually is.

In modern English, a cult is a social group that is defined by its unusual religious, spiritual, or philosophical beliefs, or by its common interest in a particular personality, object, or goal. 

Christianity is against adultery, but Donald Trump is a serial adulterer. It is unusual for Christians to extoll godliness into a man who in the eyes of the faith is a serial sinner.

Trump’s core philosophy of “Make America Great Again” is a slogan to latch onto with racial undertones.

It is against the core of Christianity to push for a border wall or a ban on Muslims entering the country. This passage should show the contradiction.  Deuteronomy 10:19 And you are to love those who are foreigners, for you yourselves were foreigners in Egypt.

It goes against freedom when he takes actions against democracy. His cult was fine with the surrender of democracy in order to keep him in power as long as possible.

The goal of Trump supporters is to make America as white as possible. They do not care about economics. His supporters do not care about foreign policy. They care about two things: race and abortion.

Trump is a cult figure that grew in the eyes of his supporters mainly starting at his questioning of Barack Obama’s birth certificate. When he did that, the racist portion of the Republican Party knew that someone had their back by speaking to their grievances. Nothing works up the Republican base more than immigration and abortion. Trump knew it. Trump knows how to read a room. Donald Trump is the embodiment of the sentiment that has been building in rural white America for decades.

The attempted coup was inevitably going to happen.

YouTube host Kyle Kulinski calls the Capitol Insurrection a “diet coup” because it was not well organized and it was made of a ragtag bunch of Trump cultists. Donald Trump built up anger in his base. He refused to concede when it was clear that he lost. Trump called the election ‘fraudulent’ leading his base to believe that they had to take things into their own hands. We heard the terrible threats from Trump that incited the incident in the Michigan statehouse and the failed attempt to kidnap Governor Whitmer. White supremacist groups like the Proud Boys have been making threats for weeks leading up to the election and subsequent inauguration of Joe Biden.

The Capitol Insurrection attempt gave us a rude awakening about the state of our country. The difficulties that we face are extreme, but we must face them and learn from them.

Cult leaders tend to make their followers do irrational things. We think back to the Jonestown Massacre or the mass suicide of the cult Heaven’s Gate. Trump drove his supporters to try to stop the certification of the Presidential election. As much as I don’t want to advertise words of Trump, you need to see how much he lied in his speech on Pennsylvania Avenue before rioters stormed the capitol. It can be found here.

The Capitol Insurrection Was Spurred On By Lies.

Donald Trump lied directly to his supporters. He does not believe in telling the TRUTH.  He is incapable of telling the truth. Not one word that comes out of his mouth is meant to make our country better. It is meant to incite violent behavior. Donald Trump told over 30,000 lies while in office. There were slightly more than 2 million minutes in his Presidency. That means he lied on average of around once every 70 minutes. So, if his supporters ardently follow him based on his lies, they will be outraged to the point of acting irrationally. Just about every election in the history of our country left one side disappointed, but nobody ever tried to overthrow the government to overturn an election. This time, it was incited by a sitting President. That will have reverberating implications for decades.

One positive that will come out of this will be increased security in our capitol. Leaders will be protected and continuity of government will be protected. Another positive will be the increased scrutiny put on domestic terrorists. We will be paying much closer attention to hate groups and law enforcement will be able to respond more quickly.

The negatives that come out of this are tough to swallow. We know that hate is popular among certain groups. That hate is strong enough to make attempts on the lives of elected officials. The hate is strong enough and the rhetoric is violent enough to scare innocent people. It is very negative to know how fragile our democracy is. The fact that we may descend into authoritarianism at any moment under the rule of white supremacy should scare everyone. Voter intimidation and suppression will further become the weapon of choice of those trying to preserve a white majority in this country. The fight will be nasty and trickery will be the weapon. Governor Kemp of Georgia proved that in 2018. Attempts were made this cycle, but they were not strong enough to overcome the sheer numbers.

This is a time in our history that we need to learn from.

I mean this not only for what happened here in America. We need to learn from what happened in Europe with the rise of Hitler. A nationalist fervor rose up in both Nazi Germany and the United States under Trumpism. The Capitol Insurrection was a last gasp attempt to preserve that white nationalist feeling embedded in so many loyal Trump supporters. Many ignored the warning signs of the rise not only of Trump but white supremacy. All that Trump did was say the things that his eventual supporters had said for a number of years. Birtherism existed before Trump reopened the question of Obama’s birth certificate.

Paul Ryan said in the 2012 campaign that it was about “makers and takers” referring to minorities as the takers. It was a dog whistle.

Mitt Romney spoke of “self-deportation” in his campaign.

Hate groups were being formed and populated from the time that Obama first took office.

The Tea Party rose out of the ashes of the election. Rick Santelli made his classic dog-whistle about subprime mortgages with a racial undertone.

Former Congressman Steve King of Iowa accused Mexicans of “having calves the size of cantaloupes because they were carrying fifty pounds of marijuana on their backs”.

We have to pick up on the signs immediately as a society. We cannot ignore divisive rhetoric. As a society, we must pressure employers to fire employees who say things that are inappropriate. We must let businesses know that we will not do business with them if they employ racists or support racial insensitivity. We also know that racism is the feature that draws many Republican voters to the polls. That, we cannot help, but what we can do is exercise our strength in numbers. There are more people of color and non-racist white people than there are racist white people. In fact, there were about 82 million people that aligned with our values. It is time that we exercise our strength as a block to thoroughly defeat Trumpism so we never have another capitol insurrection attempt.

[faithisaverb]

Day 9: Ecology. [40 Days of Listening]

“Nothing But Flowers” by Talking Heads

I didn’t grow up giving up things for Lent.  I grew up in the church, but as many protestants, we never felt expected to give thing up during Lent.  I was always intrigued by friends of mine who were Catholic who were giving things up, but I also realized (as nearly any kid would), it’s nice not having to give things up.  It wasn’t I was in seminary that I revisited the notion of giving something up for Lent.  First, it wasn’t until then that I first realized that this isn’t a specifically Catholic practice, but one that has origins in the general Christian church going back to the early church.  I realized that I giving things up were less about denial of things, but more about intentionality of things.

So I started some practices to make special note of Lent.  Even better than giving things up, I’ve found that taking on new practices can be a very positive experience during the 40 days of Lent.  I read through the Bible, kept prayer journals, prayed in new ways, took on volunteering opportunities, amongst other things.

A few days before Ash Wednesday, I heard about a youth group that was pledging to give up single use plastics for Lent.  This means doing to the best to avoid any plastics that are typically used once and then thrown out – things like grocery bags, water bottles, plastic utensils, etc. I hadn’t personally considered what I was going to take on this Lent yet, and this seemed a very timely and prescient thing for me to have come across.  

So without much thought, I pledged to try to give up single use plastic for the next six weeks.

After a nine days, I have discovered two things: 1. giving up single use plastics on a personal lever is relatively easy, and can have  pretty big impact on things.  Traveling with a refillable water bottle and a travel coffee mug are not too difficult, foregoing straws and plastic silverware demonstrates how often unnecessary both of those are. Each of us can make small changes that have big implications.

2. giving up single use plastics on a family level or a larger scale level is at this point virtually impossible. Even giving up the plastic bags at the grocery store, virtually everything is wrapped in plastic – often plastic wrapped in plastic wrapped in plastic.  You cannot escape it.  In order for that change these things in a meaningful way, it would take a community to say, “We do not like this.  This is not the right way to do this.” Before there could be any meaningful change on this side of things.

The saddest part about this practice is that somehow in the past few decades, caring about the environment has become something that is often seen as a partisan issue, and even worse as an issue that is not part of the mission of the church.

Both of those beliefs are catastrophically wrong.  There is no issue more universal than the care of the planet that we all live on.  While regulations to protect the planet may be a threat to unfettered corporate opportunism, it is not a threat to conservative politics, but rather should be a tentpole of conservative politics.  

Likewise, the mission of the church is not simply the salvation of souls (which Christ has already accomplished – the church doesn’t save anyone, we merely bear witness to the Christ has done and is doing), we are also tasked from the beginning with stewardship of the earth.  From the onset of human relationship with God in the Garden of Eden, we have been tasked with the care of and preservation of the earth.  Everything we do is connected, and this is God’s intention in all things.  Not only are we to love our neighbor and find community together, we are also to live in community with the world God has created.  What we do matters, and it reflects our relationship to God – whether that relationship is something to be accepted and appreciated as a give or for us to attempt to subdue and control it as a thing that is only hear to benefit us individually.

Today’s song is by the Talking Heads and envisions a time when the the scars on the earth have healed and allowed the world to be restored in a way that covers over the Pizza Huts and 7-Elevens with trees and berry bushes, and in the end the singer realizes this was better all along.

I don’t think God intends things to get to the point that the song is talking about, but I do know that the bible regularly talks about the culmination of all things resulting in the collision of heaven and earth to make a fully restored heaven and earth (rather a heaven on earth).  If the earth has a role in the life that is to come, why would it not have a role in the life that is right now?  If we are to help this world be a foretaste and a glimpse of that which is to come, then we should work not only for peace, not only for unity, but also for a healthy planet that more closely reflects the reality that is to come.

We show our care for God by showing our care for God’s creation.  

One way or another.

Here is a link to “Nothing But Flowers” by Talking Heads.

Here is a link to the entire playlist for the Listening for God series.

[jediofeldarya]

Midnight Howl: Prologue

These days nothing in New [REDACTED] was considered unusual for the city's police department. More and more fay emigrated from Eldarya to Earth, New [REDACTED] was their Ellis Island, and oftentimes New York City. Ever since the Great Maana Restoration brought the twin worlds from the brink of destruction, residents of both sides struggled with how to deal with each other. Mankind with its questions about what maana even was, and fay learning that the 'Dead World' was actually alive and well. Several Earth nations extended proposals of alliances towards anyone in Eldarya who would listen, unfortunately the fays natural resistance to change proved to be their greatest obstacle.

Holding a special hostility towards any and all fay-human hybrids, the majority of Eldarya advocated for isolationism and in many parts of the world, laws against the marriage between humans and fay were enacted. After decades of rising and falling tensions, a new generation of fay led by the newly crowned king of Balenvia managed to convince his allies to overturn some of their harsher isolationist laws after seeing the results of his own successful Earth alliance. In time, waves of fay immigrants arrived on Earth. Whether they felt the call of an ancient homeland they never knew or to search for new opportunities was anyone's guess. What they did know for sure was that New [REDACTED] held the most promise to both fay and the hybrids who had become lost in this sea of change.

Of course, there were always a handful of cases where one didn't know how to fit into the new era with all its bells and whistles. Such was the common thought between Officers Ruben Gratus, a stone mage who had finished laying down a set of stones he reserved for such occasions, and his half-orc partner Yamila Montoya. They waited in silence as their new case was brought into the interrogation room. Escorted by a hulking officer with a rough hand and fast pace, she tried to keep up as quickly as her leg restraints would allow her to go. Nearly tripping as the officer shoved her inside, her heart and head sank low as she heard the door behind her seal shut. "Sit down," Officer Montoya ordered. To the half-orc, the frail woman with her ragged clothing and long, dirty hair looked like any homeless person she'd seen in certain parts of the city. This one however resisted arrest and snapped at anyone who came near her that she had to be muzzled along with specialized restraints over her hands and feet. All for a leg of lamb apparently.

Docile as could be, the petite fay did as she was told, carefully avoiding their gazes and letting her hair fall in front of her face. Officer Gratus brought up the case file on his holo-pad and a projection was displayed for all three to see. "So, according to this we have you for petty theft, resisting arrest, and attempted assault on an officer. It's not the worst for a first-time offender, but I'm sure that you tried your best!" Clearing her throat to hide her obvious amusement, Officer Montoya took the reigns so her partner could focus on the stones instead. "What my partner means is besides obviously wanting a cheap dinner, what the hell was up with everything else? Was that really necessary?" Behind her filthy tresses, she struggled to understand the meaning behind their lightheartedness. She was accustomed to outright hostility from fay, but was this their humanity showing through instead? Even with the muzzle on her face she could note how their individual maana was different from their full-blooded counterparts. "I... I will die here?" She murmured. Officer Gratus quirked an eyebrow and took his gaze off the stones. "No..." He drawled. "That's a pretty huge reach for petty theft, what gave you that idea?" "I am ghoulah." "And a ghoulah is?" "...An abomination against the natural order." She parroted.

Ruben and Yamila looked at each other, the half-orc's gaze from the stones back to her partner, only for him to shrug back at her. Nothing indicated that the fay was lying in any way. "Hoo boy, that's no way to love yourself!" Ruben remarked, shaking his head. "I think it's safe to assume that you're originally from Eldarya too?" Yamila asked, typing in some notes onto her own holo-pad. "Do you at least have any family on this side that we can contact?" "...I am ghoulah," she repeated. "Being vague isn't going to help your case, Miss..." Ruben scrolled through the projection and frowned. "You didn't give a name when you were brought in. Why is that? And no more of this 'I am ghoulah,' we need realanswers." Shrinking further into her seat, the fay began rubbing her restraints together as if to scratch an itch. "Name..." She began at last. "That... That is not for ghilan to have." Yamila sighed, just as helpful as her previous answers, she thought. "Why don't you just start over from the beginning?" "Beginning... In Eldarya?" She asked. "Not unless you're actually from outer space," Ruben joked. "You might as well, we got all day to hang out with you, kiddo!"

Again, the fay began rubbing her restraints together and looking towards the floor. "In Eldarya, blood is spilled on ground. Big battle, many were lost. From ground the ghilan are born, but others come to kill ghilan before they rise. 'Do not look in their eyes! Bad luck!'" She imitated in a low croaky voice. "Unless you can shoot laserbeams outta them peepers, there's no such thing, even with magic!" Ruben interrupted. "Now since we're in charge of going over your case, I order to look us in the eyes when we're speaking to you. No ifs, ands, OR buts either!" Biting back a protest, the fay fidgeted in her seat, tapping the muzzle on her face as she considered the implications of the order. Was it their human side that drove them to be crazy enough to invite misfortune into their lives? Biting her lower lip, she raised her head until the officers could see a pair of acid yellow pupils peeking from behind her ash brown hair. "See, not so hard to do, right? Plus that's bad for your back, you can continue with your memoir now." Ruben said.

"Uh... The others were not fast enough, I and other ghilan escaped into the forests. We hungered. We preyed on familiars and the moogliz herds. Many days I have done only hunting, resting in shelter, and fighting other ghilan for both of this. Ghilan like alone. Other ghilan make trouble, but others are big problem. Others are not undead like ghilan, and others hate us. When I slept, others tried to kill me, but I escaped again... I don't like sleeping now. Soon, I begin to count the days, watch the others where they cannot see me, and learn that I am me... I am not just ghoulah and I learn to change to another me." She motioned towards her face. "More days are counted, and from watching I learn of Earth. I take this clothing so others won't see me as ghoulah. I want Earth-Home, not Eldarya-Home..." It was now Yamila's turn to raise her eyebrow. "Clearly we don't have enough coffee to deal with this." The next few hours were spent with coffee and doughnuts while the fay recounted her story in further detail right into the present. With the muzzle off the fay's face and a few cups of coffee in her system, her composure improved vastly.

"I have a good feeling that the judge will go easy on you considering your circumstances. Now all that's left is for you to choose a name and figure out your date of birth." Yamila explained. "Names are the scratchings there?" The fay asked, motioning towards their badges. "You're illiterate too?" Ruben's expression softened as he looked up in thought. "Oh well, you're entitled to a lawyer anyway and we'll mention that in our notes." "Just remember to tell anyone who asks you about your case that Yamila Montoya," she pointed at herself and then towards her partner. "And Ruben Gratus are handling it, okay?" The fay nodded, repeating the names to herself. "Ruben... Yamila..." She furrowed her eyebrows, staring back and forth between the two. "Ruya. I want to be Ruya." "Hm, I suppose that's a name as good as any. You wouldn't believe the dumb shit people rename themselves and their kids!" Ruben commented, entering the name into his holo-pad. "And for your birthday?"

"Do all days have names?" Ruya questioned. "Of course, we gotta keep track of time somehow." "Does this day have a name too?" "Yeah, it's Friday for one, and September 20th." "I like this day." For the first time since her arrival, Ruya smiled. Which would have been heartwarming were it not for her enlarged teeth. "Hell yeah, and that makes our job done!" Yamila declared, dancing in her seat. "We'll send this to the judge, but in the meantime be on your best behavior. No biting, scratching, or nothing! Do that and you shouldn't get anything worse than community service, okay, Ruya?"

The words held no meaning to Ruya, not yet anyway, but anything would be preferable over death, wouldn't it? The start was rough, but Earth was even better than anything she'd ever dreamed possible.