#the CATHARSIS the FEAR the part where they finally make it to the escape only for kino to reveal he can’t swim and kassa never gets the

[idkaguyorsomething]

Top 10 Best Moments in Star Wars History

10. You

9. Can’t

8. Rank

7. Them

6. They’re

5. All

4. Special in

3. Their own

2. Ways

The prison break from Andor

[wardevilwins]

What is the point of a hero?

Anticlimax in Chainsaw Man Part 2

Part 2 is garnering more and more criticism as it extends its excruciating middle portion towards the inevitable collapse. There are talks of Fujimoto losing the plot, skipping over important details, the story not making sense, Asa being flattened into a supporting character for Denji, and more.

To my mind, these criticisms center on the same thing: anticlimax.

The Falling Arc ends with the first major anticlimax of the entire Chainsaw Man series. That moment turned out to be a sendoff of many aspects of the series which had defined its identity in part one: the breakneck pacing, the grotesque monsters, the ultraviolence, the detailed rendering, and most significantly, the cycles of catharsis.

Part One was a face up rendition of the heroes journey: the cathartic cycle. This cycle was paralleled with the hedonistic cycle of consumerism. From the very origins of the series, Fujimoto was critiquing the heroic narrative by exploring a different perspective on the hero’s existence. In the lineage of Devil Man, Evangelion, Utena, etc. Fujimoto considers the harm that heroism does to the hero.

However, in part one, we don’t understand this dynamic until the final arcs of the series. The hero’s journey is played mostly straight, with exciting adventures, a lovable cast, a host of creepy monsters, despicable villains, cosmic fantasy. On the surface, this is normal Shonen Jump. The walls are closing in behind the scenes.

This is the mechanic behind the Makima turn. It is a reveal, but not a twist. We are well aware that Makima is not human, is suspicious, and has some malicious intent surrounding Denji. The reveal is what those intentions are, and what makes it so compelling is the nature of her intentions.

We learn that all the events of this story — the job, the romance, the organization, the friends, the family, the adventure — were being manipulated with the express purpose of destroying Denji. His cycle of catharsis was always leading him to his doom. It was made to destroy him. His tragic flaw is ignorance: he didn’t stop to think about what was going on.

Part 2 picks up on Denji in this same state. He is still chasing the cycle. He goes out, defeats the monster, everyone praises him. It’s great. However, we see the same lingering signs that something is off. The people he abandons in his fight against Cockroach. Corrupt government institutions using him as a popular spectacle.

But in the first Asa-focused section of the story, we the readers are also locked into the cycle. Asa follows the same journey — literally the same, from bat devil, to the eternity devil, to a final climactic battle where she faces her childhood trauma and arises an actualized hero. Or did she?

Because that isn’t what happened to Denji. The cycle of catharsis was not a journey of self discovery; it was a trap. A distraction. A cover for the underlying intentions of the state as embodied by Makima. Even the idea of Chainsaw Man as a hero was a part of the plot to destroy Denji’s life.

But with Asa, as we approach the apex of her story, right as she has asked Chainsaw Man to save her, and she herself is using her own powers to save him as well, overcoming her fear of the other to risk her own life, plummeting towards certain doom! How will they escape!

They don’t. They get eaten. And somehow Nayuta is there and she just saved them. ??????????????????????????????????????????

It’s like their powers didn’t even matter! What about all that character development? They just lose? And then it doesn’t even matter that they lost? Then what was the point?

What is the point of a hero?

Asa’s introduction ends with the series’s first anticlimax, but that will not be the last. In fact, it is only the beginning. Because for the rest of the series, it will be constant. Every single tension will be diffused. Every single horror will be dodged. Every build will break.

Let’s go down the list:

Denji is forbidden from being Chainsaw Man, and his identity is stolen. He isn’t Chainsaw Man anymore.

Denji thinks about rejecting Fumiko’s advances, but can’t.

It appears Fumiko and Denji will fight, but then they don’t.

Asa becomes a minor celebrity and cult figurehead, but we never see any of it.

It seems like Miri will be Denji’s friend, but he’s an insane cultist.

It seems like Miri and the other hybrids will go on a spree, but Quanxi stops them.

It seems like Denji, Nayuta, and Fumiko will have to fight a mob of monsters, but Quanxi saves them.

It seems like Yoru will fight Yoshida, but he runs away.

Denji fights and defeats the hybrids, but is attacked and captured by a random mob.

Nayuta is in danger, but we cut away.

Denji gets chopped into pieces, and is quickly put back together.

Quanxi appears again, defeats everyone, but immediately surrenders.

Asa’s time as a hero is explained away as a passing fad.

As a reader, I can’t lie, it is annoying. And aggravating. And it is so blatantly intentional that it pisses you off. Fujimoto is refusing to give catharsis. Even the climactic moment of Denji’s arc — facing down Barem in front of his burning home — is not catharsis. It is torture. More building trauma and tension. Never any satisfaction.

Basically, he’s narratively edging his audience. And face up telling you that this is what is going on too. He even does it as a gag during Fumiko’s introduction. He gives a little peek at the catharsis that he knows we all want to see, but he won’t do it. He can do it — he was doing it all through Asa’s development — but he is deciding not to, and showing you that he’s deciding. He’s playing with his cards face up, but folding every hand.

Asa’s celebrity being totally sidelined is by far the most controversial of these instances. Her introduction fully engages us in her hero’s journey — a true hero’s journey. She isn’t a hedonist like Denji; she has ideals. She is fighting to save people. She actualizes. She becomes a real hero of the city.

But we don’t see it. Instead, we leave her story and look at Denji, who explicitly can’t be a hero. And through Denji’s story, we see the other side. Asa’s heroism is Denji’s downfall. She is getting everything that he was after. We understand what Asa has by what Denji lacks.

Asa’s catharsis is hidden. Or rather, her heroic catharsis is hidden. We got to see her journey to becoming a hero — to taking Chainsaw Man’s place — but not what happens when she is living that life. The same kind of life Denji lived under Makima.

Denji had Makima rooting for Pochita, manipulating and deceiving him. Asa has Fami rooting for Yoru, manipulating and deceiving her. Makima made Denji a hero to manipulate the public. Fami made Asa a hero to manipulate the public.

So in some sense, there’s no need to show it because we’ve seen it all before. But you still could. And it would be fun. Everyone would like it. It’s fine to, right?

Right?

Running parallel to the anticlimax is a long winded critique of popular culture. Particularly fandom culture. That is to say, hero worship.

The members of the Church worship Chainsaw Man because he saved them. The media uses Chainsaw Man and Asa as distractions from the horrors of life under threat of devils. Fans of a certain idol are driven to stress and conspiracy by a scandal. Meanwhile, wars are breaking out, government facilities are being invaded, people are turning into monsters.

Their love of Chainsaw Man turns them into monsters.

Barem and Fumiko are a notable skewering of the real-world Chainsaw Man fanbase. Fujimoto roots his critique of hero stories in a critique of his own hero story. While it is a reckoning for his fans, it is more so a reckoning for himself and the impact that his story had on the world. What was the point of what he did? What did it accomplish?

As of writing, the story isn’t finished, so the ideas aren’t complete, but at least at this point (chapter 164) it doesn’t look good. We see Fumiko is lost in her sexual obsession, abusing her target. We see Barem is completely insane, overwhelmed by a glorification of violence. We see a vast mass of fans whose obsession is harnessed to turn them into mindless killers.

You cannot help but think about the Chainsaw Man fandom in the wake of the anime. Harrassing the series director, constant asinine opinions all over the internet, the discourse around MAPPA — not around Chainsaw Man at all. Egregiously horny art. Legitimately disturbing sexualization. Popular response focused on the action and violence, not on the meaning of the story.

Is this what he wanted? Is this what heroes inspire? Is this what happens when you give people catharsis?

Is this what heroes are?

So, for Asa, he doesn’t do it. He won’t do it. He won’t create a cycle of catharsis. He won’t make a heroic tragedy. Instead, he will divert, avoid, hide, pause, deny. When she follows the path, we look away. When we want the hero, we get nothing instead.

Fame — heroism — isn’t a triumph. It’s a flash in the pan. An illusion. A tool of distraction. A vector of misogyny — society. A corruption of the self. For the hero and the fans.

Denji’s long arc is the positive exploration of the negative space Asa’s story leaves. Look away from the hero at hand and look at the hero that was. Look at what it did to him, what it does to him. Think about what this story does to you. Think about what it does to the world.

We are done with the spectacle. We’ve left catharsis behind. We’re living beyond the high. So, what is there? What can there be? What other story can you tell? How do we relate, exist, outside of saved and savior? If the hero is a lie, who will save the world? Can the world be saved?

We’ll have to find out.

[delimeful]

Snapshot: Release

new WIBAR Snapshot! 

warnings: mention of trafficking, PTSD, mentions of funeral rites, catharsis, crying, sad hours

-

Patton liked to think himself an optimist, but even he could admit that there were some days where things were bad.

He didn’t like to, of course. Gratitude was a virtue in Ampen culture, and he had carried it with him gladly when he first started spacefaring. It was easy, most days, to find something to be grateful for and thank the sea’s tidings.

Most days.

Though it had taken time, Patton had learned to loosen his grip on the idea of the foam edge, the bright side to a bad situation. He still found the cup half-full, of course, but he also knew that sometimes things were hard, and it was okay to be sad about that.

He was still getting to the part where he told others when he was sad, but that was okay! He was working on it, and as Logan always said, growth took time.

A few rotations after Virgil and him were reunited with his best friends, Virgil had one of those days.

It had started innocuously enough. Patton had been sprawled over Virgil’s legs, continuing his not-so-secret agenda to show Roman and Logan exactly what kind of Human Virgil was. Not harmless, certainly, but-- what was the Common word? Disciplined.

They both knew how easily Virgil could hurt him, could hurt any of them. Patton had been there watching while they escaped, when Virgil slammed into aliens much stronger than an Ampen with unforgiving force. There was no question of his capability for violence, when faced with a threat.

But that was just it. Virgil knew he could hurt them, even through simple carelessness, and he worked so hard not to.

It was clear in every movement. How could Patton feel the subtle tremor in Virgil’s hands when he held him, the attentive stillness of his body when Patton perched on him, the careful softness of his fingers carding through feathers, and feel anything but treasured?

Virgil had protected Patton with everything he had, and Patton was going to return the favor however he could. That’s what friends were for, after all.

So, Patton was nestled into the crook of Virgil’s legs, listening intently as he told a story from back home, occasionally piping in with questions or a story of his own.

Logan would have metaphorically killed for the opportunity to even just listen in on these firsthand Deathworlder anecdotes, but Virgil was still avoiding the Ulgorian with skillful determination. It was a little saddening, but Patton knew better than to push.

Everything was still settling down from their last incident; he didn’t want to disrupt the delicate balance again by shoving Virgil out of his comfort zone.

Instead, he just listened, happy to see the little differences that had overcome his friend since they’d finally gotten free of that horrible cell.

This was far from the first time they’d sat around storytelling.

There was little else to do in their cell, and besides, it was one of the fastest ways to share words, telling tales tall and small and only pausing whenever a word didn’t quite translate or their voices went out. Back then, though, Virgil had shared his stories with an almost bittersweet air about him.

It reminded Patton of the way Crav’n held wakes, long stretches of time spent gathered around their pyre, sharing stories, remembering and honoring the deceased in every way they could. It was as though Virgil was giving up those little pieces of himself in advance, for someone to remember after he was gone. As though he was performing his own funerary rites.

His coatfeathers fluffed up sharply at the thought, and he shuddered a few times to try and settle them back into place. That time was past, Virgil was safe, and so it bore no further thought.

Unaware of the way Patton’s attention had strayed, Virgil ran a hand over his back, shifting feathers back into alignment with surprising delicacy for such a large being. Patton trilled lowly in pleased gratitude, wishing wholeheartedly that Roman would stop glaring long enough to notice this aspect of the Mindscape’s newest resident. They could get along so well if they gave each other a chance, he just knew it…

“Hey, Patton?” Virgil asked, shifting from the bright, long vowels of Patton’s native language to the lower register he used for his own home tongue. Patton perked his antennae up to show his friend that he had his undivided attention; Virgil usually only used English when he was asking something he didn’t want anyone else to overhear.

Nobody was nearby to listen, but that didn’t stop Virgil from casting a guilty look over his shoulder when he admitted, “I snuck into the map room yesterday.”

The ‘map room’ must have been referring to the nav room, where they plotted courses. It had a manual pilot control station as well, which was why Roman had been safeguarding it from Virgil as though he thought the Human would suddenly take up space piracy and seize control of their vessel.

Patton certainly didn’t have any problem with trusting Virgil in there, so he didn’t even twitch at the confession, only narrowing his eyes in silent encouragement for his friend to continue.

Just as Patton no longer shied away from bared teeth, Virgil no longer assumed narrowed eyes signified anger or doubt. He had picked up on a fair amount of Ampen body language during the course of their friendship, and so his lips quirked to the side slightly before he took the invitation to explain.

“I just wanted to know where we were, I guess. It was difficult to make sense of the maps-- It’s not like I’ve had a lot of opportunities to check them out on any of the other ships I’ve been on,” he said, and only the way his eyes rolled up slightly told Patton he was mostly-joking, the hesitant way he did sometimes.

Patton knew their time spent with the smugglers was something everyone on the ship would prefer to forget, including them, but things like that changed a person. They couldn’t be denied. If small, slightly-bitter jokes like this one were how Virgil honored that change, Patton could support it.

“I’d be mappalled with their terrible hosting skills, if I were you,” he chimed in, and he couldn’t help the way his feathers’ glow increased at the sight of Virgil’s smile, even muffled behind a hand. “Do you want to learn how to read the maps?”

“Yes,” Virgil answered, unable to conceal the too-quick way he leapt on the opportunity. There was a pause, his face going slightly pink, but Patton didn’t comment, feeling a swell of sympathy in his upper heart. It was hard to remember sometimes, with how adjusted Patton was to the wayfarer lifestyle, that Virgil was immeasurably far from everything he’d ever known.

“I mean, yeah,” he corrected, clearing his throat in a way that Patton had once mistaken for a growl, “but that’s not actually-- I was trying to see if I could recognize anything. Any stars, or-- or planets, y’know?”

He was avoiding eye contact now, staring at a distant point. He hadn’t moved his hand, which meant that Patton could feel the tremble in it when he butted his head into the point of contact. He crooned soothingly, the type of sound a parent would use to soothe a hatchling.

“I, um. Well, I figured if I knew how far it was, I could figure out how much it would cost to make that sort of…,” he fumbled for a word Patton would know, slipping back into Common for a few words, “extra trip. But I couldn’t find anything familiar. So, I... I thought I’d ask. Like I probably should have in the first place.”

Patton waited, but that seemed to be all Virgil could manage. “Ask what?” he prompted gently. “Space is big, but if there’s certain skysights you miss, I’m sure we can get started on finding them! What are you looking for?”

Virgil’s attention dropped down to him and then flitted away again, not a single sign that he’d even heard Patton’s pun. He clenched and unclenched his fists, and then dragged his gaze back to meet Patton’s.

“... Earth?” he managed, in one of the smallest voices Patton had ever heard from him.

Oh.

Oh.

Patton’s antennae flicked back in dread before he could stop them, and Virgil’s face twitched slightly, making an expression that he’d never seen before. His chin had dimpled, his jaw clenched, tense as though waiting for a blow.

Waiting for Patton to tell him he couldn’t go home.

This wasn’t the first time he’d thought about it, Patton realized. Far from it, it seemed as though Virgil had been cradling this question like an egg surrounded by downy feathers, keeping it tucked away, waiting desperately to be secure enough, safe enough to ask. To try hoping for a future again.

He was so afraid to want, and Patton couldn’t help but whine slightly, because this time, he was right to fear the worst.

They couldn’t go to Earth. Patton knew, because it was the first thing he’d talked to Roman and Logan about, that first day, as soon as Virgil had retired to his new room.

It wasn’t a matter of should or would. They couldn’t, not even if they all agreed to try, not even if they were willing to go directly against the council’s edicts. They didn’t have the equipment to get past the barricade undetected, they didn’t have the knowledge to slip between patrols, they didn’t even have the cloaking capabilities they’d need to land on an uninformed planet. They didn’t have enough funds to try and obtain any of those.

Honestly, they were barely scraping by as it was. Roman and Logan had halted their normal cargo runs to search for him, and their savings had suffered as a result. It was part of the reason they had been taking more jobs, any they could find that wouldn’t put them in the sights of any potential Human-hunters.

He’d done his best to shield Virgil from realizing just how much his presence had changed their routine, but going by the way he thought he’d have to pay them just to get back to a home he never should have been stolen from in the first place, he hadn’t been successful.

Patton glanced to the door with a half-formed desire to go get Logan, who had patiently walked Patton through every possible scenario until it sunk in that they really, truly couldn’t do it.

It wasn’t fair. Patton had chosen this life, and he could still go home, and see his family, and greet the ocean breeze. Virgil hadn’t had a choice in anything, hadn’t had the freedom that spacefaring brought so many, and now he didn’t have the option to return home, either.

“It’s not— I don’t want to leave you,” Virgil forced out, looking a little frantic. “I mean, we’re friends, right?”

He used the Ampen version of the word, the one that translated literally to ‘treasured one’, and could be used by any who had bonded closely, blood or nest-sharing aside. Patton nodded firmly, mouth clamped shut to keep from sobbing.

��Right,” Virgil continued, near-pleading, “so it’s not you, I promise, and I can find a way to pay back my debts, I know Roman wants me gone and Logan wants s-samples, and I can do that. It’s fine, it’s worth it, just… I miss home. So bad. Even the parts I used to hate.”

“I’m sorry,” Patton said in the most honorable way he had, the low, agonized call of I repent and I regret. “If we could— I promise we would, Virgil. It’s not your fault, you have no debts here. You deserve to go home.”

Virgil’s face was miserable to even witness, the way faltering hope had been crushed under the weight of his worst suspicions being confirmed. Patton reached for him automatically, his attempts to comfort his friend coming out as a soft empathetic cry instead, and that wounded sound was all it took for Virgil’s self-control to finally break.

He crumpled all at once, a breezecatcher with its tether cut, crashing to the sand below. The top of his head butted gently against Patton’s side, a mirror of the way Patton so often sought comfort from him, and he began to cry in earnest, as though releasing months of built-up misery.

Disciplined, Patton remembered with a pang of bitter sorrow, and let his Deathworlder finally weep for everything that had been taken from him.

[sinfulsigh]

𝙶𝙾𝙳𝙳𝙴𝚂𝚂 𝙿𝙰𝚁𝚃𝚂

summary : in our psychedelic fever dream forged with obscenities

pairings : matsukawa issei x fem! reader

caution warnings : smut, choking, drug use, finger play, blasphemy

word count : 1.5k

You were saturated in acid as he pushed you down onto the plush of your bed, honey sunlight pouring through the open window as the heat of summer’s humidity coaxed you like a second skin. The citrus empyrean collided into hues saccharine nectar (as if the sky was drenched in hydrogen peroxide) ; and with his sweat and slime saliva on your flesh, it felt like you were swimming in tranquil pools of honey. The music playing in the background began to distort into hedonistic hours, time as you knew began to slow then stop and together, you were living in the moment.

Matsukawa promised he could make you feel like a god awakening on the edge of a new era and he promised to worship you with a chaste kiss that only made you crave more—his lips on yours, on your skin, on every protruding bone, on every soft curve and every rugged surface until his mouth met your love. He assures you’ll fall in love and be loved in return (the pad of his thumb brushing your pouty bottom lips soaked in nectarine juices as he urged you to part them; you can taste the salt and iron on his fingertip), and that all you needed to do was open your mouth. Calloused thumbs caressed your tongue, tracing his thumb over the surface of your wet muscles as his antithetic smile pierced down over you—his eyes glazed over with amorevolous provocation that reminded you of prisms of fescennine akrasia.

Binding your tongue down with minimal force, Matsukawa leaned his figure down and placed soft, open mouthed kisses on your tongue. With closed lids, you allowed his mouth to wander as the softness of his lips lingered, leaving a numbing trace of euphoria that made you sigh like solar nymphs basking in a field of strawberries at golden hour. He stayed like that in those selcouth consuming three minutes, his mouth placing kisses on your tongue, the corners of your mouth and cupid’s bow; his touch a scintilla of embracive dramatics. When his touch dissipates and the feeling of captivity no longer luxurates on your flesh, you slowly open your eyes with half lids squinting at him. The smirk carved into his moon bruised cheeks reads ethereal concupiscence and he waited a mere seventeen seconds for you to pay attention to him, wanting to witness the birth of an alluring, illict soaked goddess that tasted of Jasmines and Orange Blossoms. You watch him place a thin piece of paper on your tongue, the weight of it sitting on the center of your tongue as Matsukawa, with little force, helps you hinge your jaw shut.

Dilated eyes were unable to comprehend the collision of multidimensional realities as everything seemed vibrant—BLOOMING—with vertigo swaying your vision. You don’t know where you stood from sober thoughts to now, the memory of your escalation to madness now drowned in the shores of your receding consciousness. Friable afternoons now wasted with little clearance as you purged sober thoughts for the auditory hallucinations reminding you that you’re beautiful, sprawled naked on your bed as your comforter wrinkled beneath you and the shag pillows (the Matsukawa pleaded for you to own) rest near you. The sheer curtain you hanged to welcome the sun’s rebirth from pitch winters now sways in the gentle zephyrs of golden afternoons; and you can swear you can hear the flowers moaning from outside your window.

Matsukawa rests between your legs, gently gliding his hands over your bare flesh as he listens to the soft gasps pouring past your mouth. Fingertips tracing the curve of your hips before his calloused hands laid flat against your ribcage. You felt him travel higher, groping at your chest as he takes a feel of the circumference around your thorax. The sunlight pouring in placed an emphasis on your beauty as the heat of golden suns loitered around your face, chest and torso. Matsukawa takes notice of the subtle highlight in your hair and the glimmer of iridescent shadows from your saliva seeping past your parted lips. He blinked at the radiance you emanated as his hands scratched the surface of your flesh against your chest.

“You really are a goddess in your own right.” He murmured.

You stared at him with half lidded eyes, adoring the hallucinations of buckwheat sprouting from his skin and how, in your vertigo infections, you can clearly see three Matsukawas towering over you. Your smile was feeble yet it radiated with vanity, voice breathy yet he heard every word you said despite the music playing in the background ringing louder and louder in his head—“then worship me.”

At your command, he crawled over you, feeling the mattress sink under his weight as he pinned you beneath him. He straddled your waist as his cock rests between the two of you, luxuriating between his own stomach and your petal soft torso. His hands traced the curve of your neck, feeling how the skin molds to you too tightly before trailing upwards. Fingertips brushing your lips and pulling the muscle down to admire your ivory molars and pomegranate gums, your mouth smelling of spearmint and raspberry lemonade. The tip of his thumb tapped at the edge of your teeth in threes and on the final tap, you obeyed and opened your mouth for him.

“I fear perfection,” Matsukawa began, his fingers rubbing at the bottom of your lips, “I always feared it was the equivalent of persecution.”

Slowly, he slid his index finger into the cavern of your mouth, his sensitive skin being punctured with the humidity of you exhaled. He wrapped his finger around your tongue and swirled against it, getting his fingers sticky with your slime and elixirs. He traced the edge of your tongue till it softly scraped the tip of your cherry stained tongue, “But you, are the closest thing to perfection that I ever got to witness.” Matsukawa allowed his middle finger to dip inside your mouth, wandering towards the back of your throat as you felt a heaviness weighing you down. “You’re a plethora of flaws and vacant stares but you’re laced with ecstasy.”

Matsukawa slid his fingers down without warning, curving downwards into your throat as far as he could. With tears in your eyes, you looked at Matsukawa, who now in your hypnotic consumption was the errorist of ritualistic corruption. His fingers choking you as they lightly caressed your esophagus with the pad of his fingers, “You. You became my everything as the hours soaked into days.”

Matsukawa quickly pulled his fingers out, allowing you to breathe with a heavy gasp. He looked at you through your teary eyes, your expression a disarray of midsummers pleasures, before turning his attention to his fingers. Slime drenched, your elixir stained his fingers white and heavy. He pulled his fingers apart to witness the translucent threads connecting between his slender fingers, admiring how, in his acid drenched brain, that your saliva seemed to sparkle like lunar gold. He smirked, taken aback at the glare of mauve eyes that now adorned you—an eye on the center of your chest, the base of your neck, on both wrists and at the center of forehead. His acid saturated brain completely mistook you for holy, completely turning him into a devout follower.

He returned his fingers to your mouth, softly smiling at you as you unhinged your jaw for him. He thrusted his fingers inside before, dragging them down at the back of your throat till his fingers brushed against your esophagus—the sound of you choking now a melody that he wishes to engrave into his memory. “I would do anything on your command,” he continued, “if it means living or dying, I'll do it.” Matsukawa pulled his fingers back to allow you to breathe before he became too impatient, sliding them down too far without warning that you felt the sudden rise of stomach acid threatening to burn you alive. “I’d beg or cheat or steal…”

He slipped his fingers out your mouth, this time replacing his touch with his lips as he harshly kissed your mouth. He lifted your nimble fingers to his neck as he held your hands down with his own. Slowly he began to place pressure between agonizing kisses that made your mouth slightly bleed. Between every little gasps, his words would pour out of his mouth to frame yours. “I love you.”

You mellowed in the heat he radiated as your fingers still grasped against his neck, kissing him with pearl entrapment of your obsession. He was beauty that sought nirvana between the skin and love of a mortal girl he named goddess; that devotion causing your acidic brain to mistake yourself for a refined celestial and sex with him was like his oblation. In these moments, where you began to notice the honey skies fade into a shade of lilacs with agglomerative stars dotted the sky above you. You could melt and sink deeper into the sheets to reincarnate as the goddess with cosmic catharsis. Forever dripped in this acid. You pulled away from his lips as the darkness surrounding you enveloped, his face blooming into hues of opalescent pale rose.

However, your actions seemed to offend him as Matsukawa glared down at you. His head shaking in disappointment while the sweat glistening his skin painted him in golden platinum. Before you could escape his grasps, he pinned you down deeper within the bed as his lips captured yours. In whispered breaths, he prayed, “I’m not done worshipping.”

[revengeisourlullaby]

If I Never Knew You Pt.4

Pt.1   Pt.2   Pt.3   Pt.4   Pt.5   Pt.6

Warnings:18+, angst, secret relationhsip, kinda royal au, arranged marriage plot

a/n: Part 4 everybody! I will be posting part 5 this evening bc this one is kinda fillerish so I don’t wanna leave y’all hanging for too long. If you wanna be tagged let me know! I’m sorry it gets a little bit more angsty before its resolves, but I promise it will resolve. 

Word count: 1.7K

Loki x female!reader

Sun shone through the arches in Loki’s bedroom, the fresh Asgardian air whirling through the room. You rolled on your side to get a look at your lover to see if sleep had evaded him yet. His eyes were still closed, lids flickering back and forth causing a smile to form on your face because you were wondering what he could be dreaming about. 

You returned to your back staring at the ceiling imagining that this atmosphere of serenity would soon be all yours to have until the end of days. Closing your eyes you tried to relish in it for a little while longer, but your thoughts would soon be rapping at your fantasy. Eating away at you with shame, guilt, and unfortunately a heavy dose of fear.

You grabbed the top silk sheet and pulled it over your exposed body. Sliding to the edge of the bed, you hang your head in disappointment. Knowing that in a few hours you would have to fight not only for your freedom but for your love. It was a nightmare come to life but you had to remember that nothing worthwhile in life came easy and if that meant losing in one aspect or another you felt that you could muster the courage to go through with it. You turned your head to gaze at Loki still sleeping and with a snap of a finger, your worries seemed to pale.

He was your strength, your rock, your whole world. He taught you more than you could ever have hoped to learn and most importantly he taught you how to be annoyingly persistent to get the things that you wanted in life. Not to say that you gave up easily but he showed you how to weasel your way into ensuring you got what your heart desired. Life is full of losing but he showed you how to make the best of it.

“Perhaps we should get someone to make you a personal statue of me so you can stare at it as long as you want.”

Loki’s voice pulled you from your thoughts and you felt heat rise up in your face.

“My apologies, I was just lost in thought. Didn’t mean to be staring at you as you woke up.”

Loki chuckled, finding your fluster endearing in the situation. Sitting up in the bed he patted the space on the bed where you were laying through the night. You scooted back into the bed making your way to Loki where he wrapped his hands in yours and stared at you. 

A gentle seriousness cast upon his face.

“Understand that by mulling over the situation you dread to confront, you will make it harder in the process to assemble the resolution you seek. You mustn't fear what you fear, but rather take it head-on like a bull. And with the stubbornness you harbor, I know you have it in you.”

You snorted a little extra air out of your nose at his ending comment. Knowing he was always at the receiving end of your stubborn nature. At first somewhat annoying but became something he loved about you in a little time.

“I would run to the edge of time for you Loki. Even though it’s just my childhood home I’m going to have to run in and declare my objections, love, and fears to the people that brought me into this world. It feels like I’m running into a rabid lion’s den, but I would be lying if I didn’t say the preemptive catharsis I’m feeling is liberating.”

You squeezed his hand and looked up at him, his eyebrows furrowed and eyes soft. It looked as if he was about to cry.

“Not for nothing but I always figured I would be alone, especially in a romantic fashion. Then you came quite literally out of nowhere and I never grasped the thought that finding you in that garden a year ago would make that fear wither away. For that, I am eternally grateful to you.”

Your eyes and face softened from its initial confused form to that of warmth and admiration. You even failed to realize the tears beginning to prickle at your water line. Not of sadness but rather pure happiness. At this moment you knew that Loki was the soulmate you were meant to meet in this lifetime. The words he spoke struck a chord within you because you too felt the same way. 

That loneliness was just a card in your deck you were left to bear, but Loki let the hopeless romanticism within you survive the trials of life.

“Eternally yours, Loki. I am eternally yours. Through all either of our falls, we are each other’s stone. Let’s rewrite this acrid end and finally enjoy our story.” Loki’s hands wrapped around your face, looking into your eyes searching for any falsity in your being and he found none. 

You brought your hand up to his face and moved a strand of hair out of his face, allowing for him to be on full display to you. You opened your mouth to say words but they fell off, afraid that they would feel foreign on your tongue. You tried again and Loki’s mouth parted at the same time.

“I love you.” The words echoing from being said at the same time. The meaning ringing throughout each of your ears becoming fully aware that the truth was being shared between the two of you. Loki placed a tender kiss upon your lips and you relished in the sincerity of it. Pulling away you decided there was no better time than the present.

“I suppose I should be heading back home to face the one last hurdle for us.”

“Right. Let me fix your dress for you.”

Standing up from the bed you waltzed around the rail of the bed and found the shredded pieces of fabric that once was your dress.

“You sure you can magic this back together?”

You cocked your eyebrow unsure of the possibility of the repair of your dress. Opening his mouth, nothing but a squeak escaped from his throat realizing the predicament you two were in.

“I may have another idea. Just wait here for a moment.” Loki got himself dressed and left his quarters to head somewhere you knew not of. Before he left he turned his head behind the door to look at you.

“Help yourself to anything in the bathroom and get ready otherwise besides your clothing.”

You nodded your head and waved him off to wherever he was going. Walking to the bathroom you stared at your reflection in the large grandiose mirror that adorned one of the walls. You were glowing. Your eyes actually held something other than resentment and fear. You looked like yourself. 

Something you hadn’t seen in years. Smiling you finished getting yourself ready and when you were getting ready to turn on your heel you heard the door open. Stopping in your tracks you hid in the corner, but soon hearing Loki’s voice you released a sigh of relief. Stepping out of the bathroom Loki had a midnight blue dress draped over his arm.

“I figured my mother would’ve had something she could spare and she did and I feel that it will suit you just right.”

Tentatively you reached out to grab the dress from his hands

“And you’re sure she’s okay with this?”

“Yes darling, she’s the only one besides Thor that is aware of what’s going on. I can’t wait for her to meet you. Now, go ahead and try it on.”

Rolling the dress up in your hands you pulled it over your head and wiggled your arms into the sleeves. 

Letting the dress fall down to the floor after fitting it over your torso you were in awe. The color complementing your skin, the sleeves falling off your shoulders and the gold accents on the neckline was much more beautiful than what you were imagining.

“You look stunning. Well, you always do but especially today.”

“Thank you, Loki.”

You smiled and wrapped your arms around Loki’s neck.

“Wish me luck?” “Luck is for losers, I’ll wish you strength and perseverance.” “Good enough.”

Standing on your toes lightly you brought yourself to his lips and shared what you were to find out to be the last tranquil and harmonious kiss. You pulled away and smiled at him. Bending over you grabbed your satchel and shoes that you threw into the room earlier yesterday. Walking to the door, Loki sped up behind you to open it.

“What are you doing?”

“What kind of man would I be if I let my lady not only walk alone but to open her own doors?”

“Chivalry isn’t dead!”

You smiled at him knowing your sarcasm was endearing. Walking you out to the front of the palace where you came in yesterday you turned to look at him and little worry apparent in your features. You reached for his hand squeezing it in your own in search of some type of reassurance. Loki reached for your other hand and turned you to face him fully.

“Whatever happens Y/N, I’ll always be with you. Forever.”

Placing your hand upon his cheek, you thumbed his soft skin and placed a strand of hair behind his ear. Sighing you found your fire once again and you looked at him. Silently letting him know that you were ready.

“I’ll see you, hopefully, this evening Loki...and hopefully with good news.” 

Removing your hands from each other you walked down the steps and your feet crunched the earth beneath your shoes. Getting one last look, you waved at Loki and you began the walk back to your home. Preparing for the worst but foolishly wishing for the best.

[chalkrevelations]

Episode 35 of Word of Honor, and I AM NOT OK. I think we all know how this is going to go, so we may as well get to it.

(Spoilers. Keep scrolling and come back later, if you want to watch it unspoiled.)

I dunno, maybe don’t expect any deep analysis in this one? I’m really just a mess of feelings, because THAT MOTHERFUCKING MOTHERFUCKER. You’re right, Wen Kexing, that it should have been a longer, more painful death. I forgive you, though, because I wanted to snap his neck, as some poetic justice. GOD, I could see it coming, as soon as Mo Huaiyang reached out and put both of his hands on Cao Weining’s jaw. As soon as his fingers touched Cao Weining’s face, there was a voice in my head, shrieking, “get him OFF of him, don’t let him touch him, he’s going to …” And what makes it even worse, if that’s possible, is that he had Cao Weining in such emotional distress before it happened. But, can we take just a minute and go back to this, the theme threaded through the show, this word of honor, embodied in these two men, Zhou Zishu and Cao Weining, reflections of each other, both of whom are now in the position of dying for the person they love, reflections of each other: I won’t fail you. And Cao Weining pleads this case to his shifu, kneeling in the sand and the dust and the barren rock of the Ghost Valley, where multiple women who have been failed, over and over, have sought refuge. Where a girl who was raised in all this could have had the chance to escape it, if Wen Kexing hadn’t turned out to be tragically, prophetically correct when he told her humans and ghosts can’t mix. In any kinder magical universe, fucking flowers would have sprung up around Cao Weining as he knelt in front of his asshole shifu and renewed the vow that he’d already made, multiple times, to the woman he loved, where he stood by it, even unto death, where he met his end in the Valley of Ghosts, in the land of the dead where his wife apparently wasn’t allowed to leave and he wouldn’t leave her behind. And then she follows him into death, just as he vowed he would follow her. In her own way, the way she knows how, she follows him into death. I suppose those bracelets from Wu Xi from the previous ep are supposed to be some comfort, particularly since we actually saw them closed around both wrists, and they echo, again, the vow Cao Weining already made to Gu Xiang, to be reincarnated with her, but right now, they are some cold comfort. This is not the pairing I expected to be torn apart over, when I started watching this show.

I have to give them props - especially, again, Zhou Ye - because I had about a minute and a half of grief, and then I, right along with A-Xiang, was consumed by rage that wanted nothing more than to see Mo Huaiyang die slowly and painfully. And then even as my heart was pushing for this, I kept remembering WKX’s conversation with Chengling in the last ep about the three Ghosts in the cold pool, and the philosophical conversation at the tip of Ye Baiyi’s sword in Ep 27 re: retributive vs. restorative justice, and the shift in WKX from wanting to burn down the world to being satisfied with exposing Zhao Jing, and how proud his shixiong was of WKX for not just stabbing Zhao Jing in the face right there in front of everyone, and the effect all of that must have had on Chengling. And then on the other other hand, even as all of this was going through my head, I wanted Mo Huaiyang flayed alive. His death scene was hella gratifying, I’m not gonna lie – this was the kind of catharsis I didn’t get from the interminable fight scene with Zhao Jing, and I’m trying to convince myself it was the pacing, and the fight choreography, not just the sated bloodlust that made the difference. But I felt that sneer on Gong Jun’s face, he was great in that scene, although I suppose it’s not great for WKX’s soul, to be back where we came in, in Ep 1, with the signature Ghost Valley Master choking move in the signature Ghost Valley Master blood-red robes. It sure did feel good, though, and I suppose that’s the seductive appeal of backsliding on your ethics.

I also was pretty impressed that as much as they’ve built up the zhiji relationship between WKX and ZZS, all of it disappeared for WKX in the face of his meimei’s death – as soon as he cradled his dying little girl in his lap, no, as soon as he saw her down on the ground, he was blind to anything else. I really appreciated it, that this little girl who WKX saved and was saved by mattered so much to him that nothing else mattered, to the point that as he’s getting ready to die, he tells her to wait for him because he’ll be there with her in just a minute, he’s on his way to her, without a single apparent thought for anything or anyone else he’ll be leaving behind. It gave their relationship so much weight - a weight that helped make both of them such complex characters, I think. During her death scene, I couldn’t help thinking about the last time we saw A-Xiang this wracked with emotion as they talked, the fear and pain in Ep 23, when she was curled up protecting all the tenderest, most vulnerable places, speaking not only for herself, but for all the things Wen Kexing couldn’t yet say and show, at that point, and now to see them both sobbing and curled into each other just about killed me, particularly when this episode was the realization of all the worst fears of that episode.

Also, yes, all the super-manipulative flashbacks scenes of Cao Weining and then Gu Xiang and then Cao Weining/Gu Xiang absolutely worked on me, along with both of A-Xiang’s goodbyes to WKX – including the one when ZZS apparently used the Drunk-Like-A-Dream on him and A-Xiang telling him she was OK and with her parents was the thing WKX wanted most in the world - and I spent a good part of the episode a snotty mess. I don’t know, did anything else actually happen in this episode?

Oh, yeah, the truth about the (lack of) Seven Nails came out, and while it was an appropriately emotional scene, although only about a minute long and lacking WKX’s reaction, boo show, it also was buried under a mountain of trauma that had already happened.

Other things that also happened:

Not precisely an other thing, but maybe tangential - I remember thinking, wondering - with a detached part of my brain that wasn’t shrieking a danger alarm, as I sat there watching Mo Huaiyang’s hands on Cao Weining’s face, KNOWING what was going to happen at any minute, and helpless to stop it – I remember wondering if this was some kind of commentary on religious (or other) fanaticism, on compulsions so strong that you’ll literally and figuratively sacrifice your own children in the most horrifying ways and think you’re righteous for doing it, and that reaction was only strengthened by Mo Huaiyang’s language to WKX that he needed to “cleanse” his sect. Wen Kexing wasn’t wrong when he said that evil doesn’t just reside in the Ghost Valley. Also, we’re told later in the ep that Mo Weixu is still missing – is that Cao Weining’s da-shixiong? Oh my god, Wikipedia tells me he’s Mo Huaiyang’s son. Wasn’t it implied then, that Mo Huaiyang killed him, too, along with Fan Shishu?

Oh, wow. So, when Liu Qianqiao said “Loser Boyfriend? I don’t know him.” she literally didn’t remember him. So, Water of Lethe, then? My dude was not expecting that, particularly after he just saved her. Well, I guess you’re dying together after all, you and your girlfriend and her girlfriend. (Rocks fall, everybody dies. That felt a bit meh.)

Finally, nope, we’re done, Xie’er. I mentioned at some point earlier that I had a hard limit, and that was hurting A-Xiang, and indirect responsibility COUNTS, with your little deal with Mo Huaiyang, and not even a double-cross gets you out of this, so you are dead to me. (I did like your moment over Beauty Ghost’s death, though. Are you having a little, tiny, digging-a-grave-with-a-sword moment? Y’all have been a little weird about each other since you met.)

[morgana-ren]

I noticed youd said that you get more shiggy requests. So, if you'll indulge me for a sec.

We've had gatos input on how strade would be if the roles were reversed. Mc somehow had him under their control with the shock collar on.

I want your input because your writing is so detailed i know id enjoy reading what a submissive little bitch he'd become.

Please and thank you Morgana.

ily :3

Oh OH You know me so well! This is one of my favorite things to daydream about when I get angry or annoyed because since Strade is such a garbage human being, it tickles me so much to think about how cathartic it would be to turn the tables.

So as well all know, Strade, while very experienced, is not the brightest bulb in the box. He’s got years of know-how behind his expertise in kidnapping and torture, but there’s some shit that just kind of evades him sometimes. Double checking your ropes after he gets a little too excited and wants a dirty basement floor romp, for example. Thanks to his overexcitement and shit-idiot brain fungus he’s got going on, it’s entirely possible for you to slip your bonds. This mistake, in canon, costs him his life. 

But what if MC wasn’t so kind? 

With a level head, you might be able to scrounge around his torture room for a little bit. Maybe he has a needle with some knockout liquid hanging around for “difficult” catches. Maybe you just wait around behind the door until he walks in and smash him on the head as hard as you can and knock his ass out. Either way, he’s got plenty of restraints, and now he’s the one cuffed to a rusty pole. The look on his dumb face when he comes to is priceless. 

You’re not making the same mistakes he did. He’s triple tied to that thing. You know he’s strong, and you’re playing on his home field. You’ve got to be prepared for everything. At least long enough to get upstairs and find help or call the police. Right? Right? 

But what if you don’t?

What if, after he comes to and is sputtering and howling and hissing things at you in German that would make Lindemann blush, you decide not to go for help? He’s mad. He’s oh so very mad. He does not like this, not one bit. But he’s panicking beyond what you’d expect, even for a serial killer who’s been two-timed by his own victim. There’s something else in those dilated eyes. Something you’ve become very acutely familiar with over the last few days. You can still smell it lingering on you the same way it’s staining his shirt now. 

Fear. He’s afraid. And not of death or capture. 

I mean, he very well might be terrified of those things, but whatever it is he’s feeling right now is far overshadowing that. His face is red, and you can practically see the veins in his neck popping in rhythm with his thrumming heartbeat. He’s sweating extensively, and while that’s not uncommon for him, there’s not that macabre jolly smile plastered across his face. He’s baring his teeth and snapping at you like a feral hound, swearing to end your miserable life in a manner that would make the ghosts of his past shudder in horror for you. 

You don’t put it past him to snap these ropes any second and wrap his hands so tightly around your neck that your eyes pop like overinflated balloons. Even if the cops show up and try to escort you to safety, there’s an unspoken darkness in his glare, something that promises pain in your future even if they manage to subdue him. A promise that you can’t guarantee yourself that he can’t keep.

It strikes you that you know nothing about this man.

Surely someone out there knows about this. Someone knows about him and his little hobby. Monsters run in packs and even if you can’t see them, you know they must be there. Best case scenario, they can’t have him spilling their secrets so they find a way to end his life before the police can. Worst case scenario?  Worst case, they come for you. 

You’ve seen enough Hollywood horror movies to know just how wrong it can go if justice is left to the authorities. You haven’t seen much of it, but this looks like a pretty nice house. If he has money, he can just buy his way out. Who is to say that he doesn’t already have a deal with the cops? Kidnapping people is risky business, especially when folks begin to notice that you’re gone. Surely he has some safety net? 

What if he’s part of a network of psychopaths? There’s been enough late-night conspiracy youtube binges in your existence to know that shit like that is perfectly plausible. What if he’s just one of many? What if they have the pull to see him set free even after you’ve gone through the proper avenues to get him locked away? What if, one night, when you think he’s rotting in a 6 x 6 cement cell miles away from you, you wake up back here in this basement with even more Strades with different names and faces but each one shares the desire to see you ripped apart at the seams and devoured?

No. HELL no. You’re not going to be the cliche victim. He can bark and screech at you until his throat is sore and his gums bleed, but the plain and simple fact of the matter is that you have this monster on a leash, and you’re not about to hand that leash over to someone else. 

How many people has he killed? How many have met their end in this godless basement? How many unsuspecting people has he dragged here only to take them apart piece by piece until their eyes glaze and their final breath moistens his cheek as he watches the light in their eyes extinguish? Do you even want to know? Would it make you feel better or worse to know that, at least for now, you’ve narrowly escaped such a fate? 

You have to know. 

His screaming turns fearful as you ascend the stairs. Again, not for fear of being caught, but because he already has been. It’s so odd to hear the phrase “Don’t leave me here!” from his quivering chest when he’s apparently in the place he values most, and there’s a sick sense of catharsis that settles in your gut as you listen to him begin to whimper and whine. You don’t let yourself dwell on it but you do slam the door behind you loudly enough that he will be forced to acknowledge that his pathetic pleas mean nothing to you. 

His house is painfully average, at least for someone like him. He’s even got portraits up with what must be friends or family or someone that cares enough to pose for a cheesy photo with him. If you didn’t know better, you’d say an upstanding, if a little tacky, upper-middle class man lives here. The furniture is unremarkable and well cared for but lived in enough to not raise suspicion. His kitchen is filled with expensive appliances that might as well be fresh out of the box. His fridge, as expected, is filled with beer and various quick meals. Not much of a cook, you guess.

The car sitting in the garage costs in the six digit range and looks like it’s the most beloved thing in the entire area. It reeks of Armor All and disinfectant, and you’re willing to bet that if he was so inclined, he could put it on a showroom floor right now. He’s got tools and cables of all sorts thrown about, but not the kind you’ve gotten so used to. Maybe he actually does use them for their intended purpose sometimes. 

As you walk the length of his home, you notice a distinct lack of screaming. You can’t hear anything, not even a peep from the basement, and you are very certain he’s crying up a storm down there. Interesting. He’s go this place sound proofed. You’re not sure what you’d expected, but it’s good information to have regardless. 

After you’ve sated your curiosity by observing the dragon’s den, you make your way to the upper level. He’s probably not foolish enough to leave any sort of evidence behind where friends and neighbors can see it, so whatever it is you’re looking for is going to be somewhere a little bit more personal. Perhaps like a bedroom? 

Bingo. 

His bedroom, much like the rest of his house, looks about what you’d expect. King sized bed, wooden dresser with a TV and player on top, and a desk beneath the window. Sliding closet doors with all manner of free range dad apparel inside, and honestly, it’s the closest you’ve been to laughing since you got here. He would wear cargo shorts and plaid, wouldn’t he? A scrounge through the drawers of his dresser and closet reveal nothing remarkable, but you’re willing to bet your injured thigh that there’s something special in the desk. 

Just like you’d expect, the desk is locked, but you’d noticed a pair of keys sitting willy-nilly out in the living room and you’d picked them up. About 7 key changes later and the desk pops open for you like a cheap whore. He really isn’t too bright, is he? Or maybe he just wasn’t expecting this to ever be a problem. Either way, you’re grateful he’s a moron. 

Inside the drawer seems to be loads of DVDs, unmarked except for dates. It feels like you’re the unprepared cop in a serial killer movie as you look down at them. You don’t need to watch them to know what they are, but you’re going to anyway. You have to know. You need to know just who you’re dealing with here. 

You pick one at random and pop it into the DVD player and the scene that greets you seems all too familiar. A hunched figure, bloodied and tied to the pole you’d become so intimate with over the last week. This person was in much worse shape than you, however. You could see shadows moving off screen and the camera fuzzes and refocuses repeatedly as what you assume is Strade messes with the controls. Not long after, he emerges, practically skipping into frame. Even though most of his face is concealed behind a hideous bandana, you can tell he’s smiling. It reaches his eyes. 

He says what appears to be a rehearsed greeting and you’re left wondering just how crazy is he? Is he talking to his future self? You can see him making these videos to relive his sick, sadistic fantasies but talking to himself like an absolute lunatic is just a little disconcerting. However, you also acknowledge that the only reason you’ve even thinking about this is to distract yourself from the fact that you’re watching a homemade snuff film that you almost starred in yourself. 

And then he begins. 

Despite the visceral horror on display before you, the urge to vomit never comes. You watch, blank faced, as this poor soul is faced with every horror a human mind can conceive. It goes on for long. Too long. And Strade never stops talking. 

The realization sets in that’s because he’s not the only one watching. 

He’s not talking to himself. He’s responding. This wasn’t for him. This was for them. 

If you had any emotional energy to give, surely you’d be absolutely horrified, but you don’t and you can’t. You’re not even surprised. Someone like Strade, that bubbly personality and 1,000 watt smile, of course he’d find a way to utilize his talents. He’d found a market. He had a hobby and he made money from it. ‘Love your job and you’ll never work a day in your life.’ and you are just so willing to bet he loves his fucking job. 

You let the video keep playing as you sit up from his bed and leave the room. You make your way down the stairs, back to the living room, and then back to the basement door. You open it and immediately are bombarded with the sounds of his screaming and hateful vitriol. It doesn’t phase you. You’re not sure anything will ever again. 

Calmly, you walk into the room and stare at him. He doesn’t cease his incessant threats until he realizes you’re waiting for him to finish so that you can speak. He finally silences himself, though he continues to rip and tear at the ropes holding him hostage as you tell him you found his little home video collection. 

“Let me out.” He demands, and you realize he doesn’t quite understand that he’s not the one in control anymore. Of course a dog without a tangible leash will continue to run wild. You needed to drive the point home. 

You turn your back to him and begin to ruffle through his various cabinets, searching around the nooks and crannies for something that will help him understand just what position he’s found himself in. You make a very interesting discovery next to his med kit. A collar. A literal collar. 

Poetic justice. 

It’s thick and burdensome and more than a little hideous. It’s definitely homemade, because not even the most fucked of BDSM sites are going to offer something like this. It’s accompanied by a small remote with a large red button and not much else. You push the button and yelp in pain, the collar clattering to the floor as it slips from your fingers. It shocked you. It was so very painful, but you’re smiling. 

You retrieve it from where it fell and pop it open, observing it curiously. Strade watches you through wide eyes and sniveling, trembling lips. The look on his face is a dead giveaway that you’ve found something you really shouldn’t have. The toothy grin you flash him shows him that you understand that. 

Without a word, you approach him, holding the open collar in your sweating palm. His struggles begin anew and before long he’s practically yanking his arms out at the sockets trying to get away from you and your newfound toy. He’s throwing his weight around and doing whatever he can with his limited movements to make damn sure you can’t get that terrible thing around his neck, but it’s all in vain because energy is finite and he’s been expending a lot of it over the last hour. 

He’s breathing heavy and you could swear he’s begging between heaves as you clap the collar around his thick neck. His flesh bulges from the side and you’re fairly certain it was made for someone much less burly than himself in mind. You get the odd urge to adjust it on him like a necklace but he’s still dangerous, even caged. You feel weirdly... proud.

“Stop-! you don’t know what you’re doing!” He hiccups, and as he pulls his head upward, you can see he is indeed crying. “Please! Don’t!” 

You’ve never thought of yourself as particularly sadistic, at least in that sense, but some ghostly force pushes your thumb down on that big red button. Watching his eyes go wide and his body convulse and seize fills you with a sense of sheer euphoria that can’t properly be conveyed. The utterly satisfying clang of his head hitting the pole at mach 5 as he shakes and bumbles almost humorously while the collar sends x amount of volts through his body makes you giggle. 

When you finally pull your thumb off the button, he’s still shaking from the residual shock, drool and mucus bubbling from his mouth and nose and sloping down onto his chin. He looks defeated; utterly pathetic. Is this how you looked to him all those times he stood over you grinning as he gifted you pain the likes of which had been unthinkable to you before you met him? The desire to push down again is overwhelming but you’re determined for him to understand there’s a point to this misery. 

There’s a thousand thoughts going through your mind right now faster than you can comprehend them all, but they all have the same general principal. This man is a murderer. This man is a rapist. This man is contained. This man is afraid. This man is at your mercy. 

And unfortunately for him, you just ran out. 

‘How many’ you ask, despite already knowing. If the videos upstairs are any indication, there’s more than he can probably count. More names and faces than he can practically remember and they’re dead because of him. He looks up at you through wet lashes with a trembling lip, already caught on to the fact that there is no correct answer. Your thumb hovers over that seductive red button and he’s quick to spit out whatever he can regardless. 

“I don’t know! I don’t!” 

You don’t doubt that he’s being honest, but it sickens you none he less. You press that button for half a second and he jolts up off the floor as much as his restraints will allow. When he comes to, his eyes can barely focus in on you and when his slumps over, you can see the burns from the collar already settling in on his tan skin. You’re not sure how to turn down the voltage or how lethal it is, but you don’t really care at the moment. If he dies, he dies. You’ll deal with the complications of that later. 

You could sit here all day and grill him, literally and figuratively, about his track record of atrocities, but it won’t bring you any peace. You’re not sure that peace is something that you’ll ever feel again, all things considered. Meeting the monsters that dwell in the dark is drastically different than simply acknowledging that they exist, and through some twist of fate, you’ve been given the opportunity to show this particular monster that he’s no longer at the top of the food chain. There’s so much you could do, so many things you want to do, and it’s at that moment you realize you’ve spent too long staring into the abyss to try and claw your way out. 

You’re being offered the chance they never were. You’re holding the controls now. He’s already crying and you’ve barely touched him, barely done anything besides shock him a little. You remember that feeling well. If you recall, you were already crying before he put that knife to your thigh on your first day with him. 

Truth is, you decided the second he fell unconscious what you were going to do. 

Maybe a revenge like this isn’t yours to take, but you’re taking it regardless. For yourself, and for every sorry sap that’s met their end in his cement hellhole. They died for you to have this opportunity, and you’d like to think that maybe they’re there with you in this moment. Even if you never knew them, you feel a strange kinship with them. After all, it was almost you. 

He continues to babble underneath his breath, various pleas for mercy or sympathy or any form of compassion you can muster from your still aching body, and though you desperately wish you did, you can’t find any. You’re certain when you look in the mirror next, it won’t be your own eyes looking back at you anymore, but something closer to his. Maybe you did die in this basement, because whoever you were before you met him is long gone and has been replaced with something so much more empty. 

You explain to him, as gently as you can, that it’s your turn now, and his resistance will only make this harder. You don’t delight in seeing him in pain (whether or not that’s a lie has yet to be determined) but it’s a necessary evil for all he’s done. You don’t believe his life is yours to take, but you’d be as terrible as him if you let him loose on the world again. You can’t trust anyone but yourself, and since this situation is so delicate, you need a bit more time to think on it. 

He doesn’t seem to understand, at least until you’re binding his legs and securing his head snuggly to the pole. Maybe it’s overkill considering the man looks like he belongs in a shibari magazine right now, but there’s no precautions you can’t take. You can’t have him escaping. It’s far too soon, and you have such wonderful things planned. 

Were you a kinder soul, maybe you would put him to sleep because it’s so apparent he’s terrified. Being bound like this has really brought out his inner little bitch, and the way he’s looking, he’s going to piss himself. But its a price it’s only fair that he pay, all things considered. You don’t know what time it is or even where you are, but you know you’ll return to him when you’ve been rejuvenated, eager and ready to begin on him. You’re only a few steps toward the door when he begins shouting, words barely discernible between his emphatic weeping and sobbing hiccups. 

“D-don’t leave me here in the dark! Let me go, let me out! You can’t! You can’t leave me here like this!”  You grin softly, turning slowly to face him, and tell him that you can and you will. You ask what he’s so afraid of, but you don’t wait to hear the answer as you step through the frame and shut the door behind you, leaving him to rot in his personal dungeon. It’s only been an hour and he’s already so pliable. You wonder what you can make him do when you really make it hurt. Psychology says it takes 7 years to brainwash someone and coerce them into absolute compliance, but you’re willing to bet you can have it done in a few months. 

You already know one of his fears, and are very clearly not ashamed to exploit it. How many else does he have, you might wonder, already planning tomorrow’s festivities. Maybe you were sicker in the head than you thought. Maybe Strade just brought out the worst in you, stripped away all that made you human and left you with raw hurt and despair. 

It’s tempting. To give in. To sit and massage your aching body while listening to his screams as they echo through the soundproofed basement. But you’re tired, and you haven’t slept in a bed in over a week. His looked awfully nice. Maybe after that, you’d wash the dried blood from your battered body, order some food, and appreciate the niceties that civilized life had to offer. Niceties you took for granted. 

After that?  Well, after that you had a new pet to train. 

[opinions-about-tiaras]

Some brief structural thoughts on the Marvel TV series now that the first wave of them has concluded, independent of specific narrative or thematic strengths or weaknesses:

None of these are bad, per se. I’m not sure it’s actually possible to make a truly bad Marvel product at the moment, although the reasons for that prevent them from making anything truly great as well. But all three of them, WandaVision, Falcon and the Winter Soldier, and Loki share a common structural failing that I find remarkable:

All three of them are a lot, and I mean a lot, more interested in laying the groundwork for and hinting at projects yet to come than they are with fully executing their own theses.

There’s some variability here; I would say that Falcon is the least guilty party here, while Loki is the most. But all three of them hit very rough patches where they just suddenly stop executing on their own stuff in order to hint, tease, and point at stuff yet to come.

With Loki it’s especially frustrating because this is the only show we know explicitly is getting a season 2, which means the final episode didn’t have to be the awkward mess it is.

Lemme be blunt here: Episode 6 of Loki is not a season finale. It is a mid-season finale. It is the kind of episode that, once upon a time, you would dropped at the end of a batch of episodes, with the promise that in, mmm, two to three months, you’d tune in to see more, to see how it’d turn out. Battlestar Galactica did this sort of thing a lot, but is far from the only example; DC’s various genre shows on the CW did it as well.

Mid-season finales don’t have to execute the same way season finales do. They don’t need to have the same level of catharsis and they don’t need to wrap up the arc of a season in the same way. The great problem of “For All Time. Always” is that it is trying to do two things simultaneously and is far more concerned with the least important thing it has to do (set up Season 2) than with the most important thing it has to do (close out Season 1.) As a result it sort of fails at both.

And the hell of it is... if you really need the end of your season to lead into your next one, there’s a model for that. A genre show model, even!

Star Trek: The Next Generation knew how to make this work.

The analogy isn’t precise; ST:TNG didn’t have season-long story arcs. But by season three of its seven season, it hit on a formula for ending your season AND setting up the next one in ways that satisfied the requirements for both.

And that’s end your season with part one of a two-parter, with the second part being your next seasons premiere.

The two-parter has its own narrative flow and structure it needs to adhere to with broadcast television that I fear has been a bit forgotten in the age of streaming, which I won’t go into here... but one of the things it can get away with in the first part is ignoring the need for dramatic, thematic, and narrative resolution, because it’s offloading those needs into the second part and the audience knows that. That lets you play around a lot more!

If Loki were really committed, as a show, to making their season finale a lead-in to season two, they should have explicitly made it part one of two. This would have let them gut the episode and completely re-work it from the ground up, rather than needing to try and cram in everything they did (which, again, some of the things they were trying to tie off they clearly did not care about as much as leading into their next thing) in an effort to also make it do the job of “ending” season one.

Basically: you can get away with not really ending your season (and that’s what Loki did; Season One can not be said to have “ended” in the way we usually think of a season of television doing so) by making a two-parter and using that as your escape hatch into your next season.

[off-in-the-moors]

Joseph Kavinsky analysis, part 2

aka no voice and no dream pack

Warnings: spoilers for the whole Raven Cycle, mentions of: drug-use, abuse, death, s*cid, xenophobia

Part 1 // Part 2

Before starting, I wanted to thank for likes and support, not only on part 1 but also on my other posts. I was writing this more for the catharsis, after months of seeing and not really speaking about a lot of stuff. It’s nice to know, somebody read it. Some say, Kavinsky is their comfort character and, well, he will stay with me for a very long time. But enough of that. Let's talk about the point of view, xenophobia and the Dream Pack.

PoV

The running motif in TRC is, all antagonists get PoVs. No matter if they appear in one book (like Whelk) or reoccur (like the Greenmatles). The reader gets multiple chapters with their backstories, internal thoughts and goals. This move by the author is a double-edged sword, on one hand we get a better understanding of them but on the other, by knowing them better they become less effective antagonists and the air of mystery and surprise of what they're up-to/what they know is lost. E.g. In TDT we are first told about Colin Greenmatle and what is he capable of, making him a good threat for our main characters. But when we finally meet him in BLLB, with his attitude and scenes like dissing Ronan's Latin grammar or making cheese crackers while his wife is held at gun-point, he becomes more of a comedic antagonist than a villain to fear.

But here's the thing: I already lied to you. In TRC, all antagonists get PoVs, except for Kavinsky. It's a odd exception from the rule, considering Gray Man in TDT and The Wasp Demon in The Raven King, also got PoVs. But why? There are two things to look at. One I already mentioned. By giving a character PoV, the reader gets better understanding of them. By not giving Kavinsky one, Margaret didn't give anything to make K or his actions clear or understandable. By not knowing his motivations, K is left to pure interpretations, but how the reader will do it mostly will be influenced by his demonetization. Of course, not everybody will just accept what the book tells them without thinking for themselves but most fans don't.

"Bang", he said softly, withdrawing the fake gun. "See you on the street."

Alone, this single line can be interpreted in many different ways. Is it K being angry and threatening Ronan? Or maybe Joseph breaking inside because he was proofen, he really has no one? It all depends on the reader.

Second, when asked on her tumblr, if she'll ever write anything from K's pov (in 2015, before The Raven King was published), M*ggie said she won't, because: she already explored that type of character ("the thoughts and motivations of a powerful, suicidal, creative person with few inhibitions") in Sinner (2014, spin-off/companion book of her older series, The Wolves of Mercy Falls, 2009-2011 for the main three) with Cole St. Clair; that writing through PoV of such character is emotionally and mentally draining for her (which is understandable); and even if she wanted to explore it again in the future, she would through a different character's lenses than K's.

Let's talk about St. Clair.

The characters of Cole and Kavinsky have some similarities: both are drug addicts, who are rich.

That's where they end.

Cole was a famous musician, having the stereotypical rock-star life (drugs, alcohol and sleeping with fans included) with good family relationships, while K was a son of a mobster who tried to kill him and a mother who was a drug-addict herself. While their perspectives would have similarities, there is also other problems. Cole St. Clair already got PoVs in his series and a stand-alone book, Joseph Kavinsky got nothing and will get nothing. Cole had friends that cared for him and helped him, Joseph Kavinsky had his Dream Pack (which whom we don't know what type of relation he had) and his customers who we can safely say, only cared for what he can provide them with, he tried to befriend or start a relation with Ronan who rejected even the idea of it and no one even reached out to him. Cole got his happy ending and (hinted at) a girl he loved, K got rejected by everyone and committed public suicide. (Now, I heard a opinion that K didn't commit suicide, because the dragon killed him. Here is the thing, K could move out of the way multiple times, even Ronan shouted to him to move. But he didn't. He watched the dragon fly towards him and just said "The world is a nightmare.". He choose death.)

People wanted K's PoV, because they wanted to know, what pushed him to do what he did in TDT. But, in my opinion, even if M*ggie gave K pov, she would use it to further demonize him than to make the reader understand him more. She already did write a whole post exaggerating and straw-manning the canon, just to also say "Kavinsky has a very logical backstory that leads him to this place". A backstory we as the reader never truly see and one she forgot to write into her book. At the end, she truly cared only about Ronan.

Xenophobia

The Raven Cycle is a very flawed and problematic series, there are already many other posts taking about racism, misogyny, lack of diversity and many other issues with it, but in regards to Kavinsky, I'll only touch on the xenophobia. (I could talk also about portray of metal-illness, but I'm not the person to talk about it and I would feel comfortable with it.)

Kavinsky is a stereotype of a Slavic person, one we see in American media since the Cold War, especially in 80s movies. The Evil Russian trope. The son of the mobster, drug-addict, forger who can get you anything even illegal stuff, a thief.

When describing Kavinsky, one of the things Ronan mentions is: "refugee's face, hollowed-eyed and innocent". One could argue, "refugee" has many meanings, but boiling it down, is a person who came to the country to escape and seek a refuge. Many people moved to America to find a better life, in the believe of the American Dream, and many of them where driven to do that, especially from ex-Eastern Bloc countries. Kavinsky's Bulgarian, unknown if an immigrant himself or a son of immigrants, but the point still stands.

About Blue’s comment "import from somewhere else" I don't need to say much. First, obvious: You don't import people, only foreign goods, like cars. Second: this shows, he is "the other" in the eyes of the characters.

There is more to it, then just the physical description. We need to look at the outfit he wears. White tank top, white sunglasses, a small earring in one ear and a gold chain around his neck. This gives two images: one of a typical douche-bag, party asshole and the rich kid; the second of a Slavic stereotype, especially of a Russian criminal. If Margaret wanted to make K even bigger stereotype, she would dress him like a dress/gopnik, in a tracksuit.

The thing is: M*ggie could had saved the situation if she had subverted the stereotypes. E.g. K didn't wanting anything to do with the crime live, his family was forced into by circumstances or K being the guy to get stuff from, but he isn't doing it for any gain.

The truth is, K being Bulgarian doesn't add anything to his character, except for xenophobia. (Personally, I tried to find where the surname "Kavinsky" came from. It is Slavic, that much I can tell you for sure, but the rest is my speculation and searching. My best guesses are: Russian (it appears most commonly in Russian, after USA and a use in Russia set novel) or Polish (because it has uncanny simulates to the surname "Kawiński", if it was anglicized like e.g. "Kamiński" into "Kaminsky"). This isn't a common surname and with Peter from the To All the Boys trilogy and the musician, it's hard to find any information.)

But for now, K's portray is one of the many issues.

The Dream Pack or the lack of it

The Dream Pack is the unofficial name for K's group, with whom he parties and races (the canon name is "Kavinsky's Pack of Dogs" which is ugh). They're unfortunately, a non-characters. It's bolt to even call them background characters. Their portray, or again, lack of it, leaves them as props, their only role is to be K's followers and to show K as a leader on a equal ground as Gansey. We're lead to believe, they are like Kavinsky, yet another raven boys, and to make are main characters so “not like the other raven boys”. Problem rises in connection to the previous point, out of four members, only one has an English surname.

Prokopenko is a Ukrainian surname and for his description, we get "ears like wingnuts", "crooked shoulders" and his voice as "milky with drugs". It's said he had "recently attained official crony status", and was noted being in close desecrate to K for a while. Later we discover Proko is a forgery, a dream creature like Matthew and Aurora. It's heavily implied the real Prokopenko is dead, but if K had something to do with it, is unknown. He is the only character to "chortle", which Margaret said she hates and also "fratty boys and the chortling men they turn into". From this we can deduce, that not only the Dream Pack and people at K's parties but all raven boys (with the exception of the main characters) were writen like this on purpose as the personification of everything M*ggie hates. We are also informed, he drives a Golf.

Skov, who according to a deleted scene, full name is Blake Skovron, is polish (or at least anglicized version of it). In said deleted scene he's described as "major asshole, minor bigot" (unfortunately I couldn't find it to confirm it). The only canon stuff about him is: he drives a RX-7 (Mazda RX-7).

Jiang is Chinese, making him one of three canon Asian characters we see in the series (not counting Henry's father, because he's just mentioned, same goes for the Vancouver crowd). Like Proko, his role is a little bigger. In the Raven King, after Ronan finally returns to school after a long time of skipping, he tells him: "Hey, man, I thought you'd died". Ronan doesn't respond, but tells the reader he doesn't want to see Jiang outside of his car, racing. The only other thing we know about him: he drives a Supra (Toyota Supra).

Swan is the only one with an English name, but all we know about him is: he drives Volkswagen Golf, one that matches Proko's.

(For future writers: what car a character drives, isn't a personality trait.)

With the already minimal diversity, this shows the non-Americans as the antagonists or at least "the worst". On the opposite side, we have our main characters. Richard Campbell Gansey III, who has the whitest and British name I ever saw; Adam Parrish, born and raised in Henrietta, Virginia; Ronan Lynch, son of a Irish immigrant, whose Irish identity starts and ends on tit-bits; Blue Sargent, who is half-tree and ambiguous, but was drawn as white by the author multiple times (Yes, I am aware of the Instagram post, but Margaret herself said, she isn't confirming anything that isn't already written in her books. She couldn't even confirm Adam's hair color and made a joke out of it.) The only exception is Noah Czerny, whose surname is Slavic (probably Czech), but this bares no effect on his character.

The Dream Pack are the whole communities babies, created by head-canons and fanons, their relations with Kavinsky and themselves are explored, who they are as people, their appearance, their interests... This is beautiful how many different versions and interpretations of non-existing characters is there. (I, myself also made a version for a rewrite, based partly on the fanon.)

But at the end of the day, the fans did the author's job of creating believe friend group and in the end, their only function was to show, Kavinsky is a king, just like Gansey.

[thesoloists]

Unsweet Dreams

Summary: Bucky may be free of Hydra’s influence, but he’s not free of that of the Winter Soldier. He’s slowly coming to terms with that.

Pairing: Bucky x Reader

Words: 2.1k

Warnings: PTSD, trauma and anxiety, brief graphic depictions of murder (assault & strangulation), chronic nightmares, fluff via post-nightmare comfort (if it’s any consolation, I tried to keep it balanced)

A/n: AHH, I’m so nervous! It’s been awhile since this corner of the interweb has seen my writing (I made a new tumblr and everything), so if whoever reads this could just, y’know, drop me an ask telling me what you think about this fic, I would really appreciate it. Also, I promise not all my fics will be this dark. I just needed the bit of catharsis at the end. :’)

Bucky used to live in constant fear. It was like a malignant tumor, slowly killing him and robbing him of the ability to live every damn day of his life.

To be in a crowd was like sticking him in a coffin full of nails. As he struggled to stay out of the swirl of hurried people, his anxiety would skyrocket to the point of short-circuiting his mental system. His whole body becomes stiff, his responses shortened and robotic, as he becomes helplessly overwhelmed by the blaring warning signs going off in his head. Until his brain, finding no other option, shut down enough to function on autopilot. Only when he was away from everyone, when his mind was sure they were a safe distance from the danger of the Winter Soldier, would he come back to himself. But, to be honest, was there ever a safe enough distance from such a mindless beast?

The idea of becoming him again was so crippling that before Shuri offered to fix him, Bucky would spend days at a time locked in his room and weeks without leaving the compound. Shuri said he would never be that man again, the crudely molded vague interpretation of one, anyway—not after whatever indescribable thing she had done to him with Wakandan technology that Bucky still finds respectfully confusing. Bucky wanted so badly to believe her, but why, even now, if she is as certain as she was then that the gangrenous part of him is gone, why does he still see him in his dreams at night? Sometimes standing before him like a ghost, void of his humanity, empty of soul, filled only with commands of murder and mission and the pain endured in every attempt to scrape away the bloodshed. 

There’s no place in Bucky’s mind he can hide where the monstrous Winter Soldier cannot find him. In pleasant dreams of sandy beaches with the smell of salt on the open air, the beast will tear open a gaping black rift right behind him, grab Bucky by the back of his collar, and drag him into the void as his screams fall on apathetic ears. Where he ends up is a place where his cries are heard by no one, Where color cannot penetrate the bitter black, and where shapes and barriers do not exist. He can run forever and never hit a wall, and all the while, the Winter Soldier will stalk toward him. Inevitable, just as Bucky is with his surrender.

Agony awaits him, but he knows it will end. It has to end. And when it does, he will wake.

Bucky has long given up trying to escape on his own. Every attempt has proved futile, and it only draws out the agony. He prefers his death to be as quick as ripping a band aid. So, he goes nowhere, just stands in the very place the Winter Soldier dropped him, and waits.

The Winter Soldier stands maybe twenty feet away. His eyes are shrouded in smears of dark black, but his eyes are a stark contrast of light blue shards of cryogenic ice.

Knowing the end will be the same as every other end before it brings Bucky no semblance of comfort. He is helpless to it. No more than a prisoner to his own imagined fate.

After a while of the Winter Soldier reducing the encounter to nothing more than a one-sided staring contest, Bucky hangs his head, shaking it at the absurdity of being made to wait. “Just get it over with,” he mutters.

The shape of the Winter Soldier flickers and disappears, manifesting with daunting intensity right in front of him. Bucky finds nothing but the hoard of his own past screams in the Soldier’s empty gaze. 

In a blink, the Winter Soldier moves. The plates on the Soldier’s metallic machine arm whir and shift as his cold metal hand latches around Bucky’s throat in an unyielding vise, squeezing tighter and tighter, killing the human, killing Bucky. 

Then it is over. In that particular dream, after Bucky dies, Bucky wakes.

Most of the time, however, it is Bucky looking through the lens of the Winter Soldier as a captive, unable to control his movements. It is Bucky’s traitorous metal arm around the throat of someone he cares about, tightening around their choked gasps and rasped pleas...

[Bucky has no desire to live out the Winter Soldier’s greatest hits on all of his friends, so he asks that the burden be left to another’s imagination. If it is any consolation, he is very sorry.]

He’s killed them all more times than he can count. Steve always knows when he’s had one of the dreams the next morning and who it was about because Bucky is incapable of looking that person in the eye. The image of his hand wrapped around their throat is still too fresh a wound in his mind. He’s nothing more than a shell on those mornings. His eyes are gaunt, his attention impossible to keep, and he’s left haunted for most if not all the remaining hours of the day. It’s an inevitability.

It wasn’t until he met you that Bucky allowed himself to believe Shuri’s words of comfort weren’t just empty words meant to reassure him. It’s taken months for him to get to this point, but you have been nothing but patient, never forcing him into anything, never questioning the slow speed at which your relationship progressed. You only take what he gives and in return give what he needs. He still has nightmares, though they occur far less often with you sleeping beside him. In fact, before tonight, Bucky hadn’t had one in months. To know what it felt like to be well-rested, he hadn’t felt that probably since he was digging his stupid five-foot-nothing best friend out of trouble. Before either had turned their gaze toward joining the war. 

When Bucky has either nightmare involving the Winter Soldier, it doesn't matter which, he always wakes up crying. Sometimes silently, sometimes with whimpers or explosive sobs—freshly rebuilt only to be destroyed by the horrors that play out in a hell of his mind’s own making. You sleep notoriously light, so it doesn’t take much for you to wake, and you never want him to apologize for it. His whimpers begin quietly, but they are enough. With the fast action of someone who has done this many times before, you move across the bed until your chest is flush with his back, throw your arm around him, and hold on tight as you whisper sweet assurances into the crook of his neck as his body is wrecked by sob after sob after sob. Grounding him in the existence of his humanity, in the reality of his life as it is now—good and warm and safe— until his tremoring body stills. It’s by no means a quick remedy, and perhaps the emotional exhaustion does most of the work, but with one final shudder, Bucky lets out a hard breath, his last few tears nothing more than wet stains on his pillow.  

In unspoken words of comfort, you press kisses along the jagged scaring where flesh meets metal, before resting the side of your face against his shoulder which is damp with cool sweat, and guide his ragged breathing to a slower, fuller calm with the warmth of your breaths on his back. 

In the now quiet dark of the bedroom, Bucky strokes the back of your hand, tracing lightly over every knuckle with his fingertips. 

With tender movement, you turn your hand beneath his to grasp his hand loosely between your fingers. Your gentle squeeze is simply to ask, Are you okay?

He squeezes twice. No.

He shifts his hand again and after a beat, makes a small request by tapping three times on the back of your head. Your voice breaks through the darkness as you whisper to him, “Who was it, my love?” 

It takes him a minute because he has to remember, and that involves reliving the memory of the dream, if only for a glimpse. But he wants to remember, if only for an attempted catharsis. 

“Steve,” he says hoarsely. Or Natasha, Sam, Tony, or someone else unfortunate enough to have been dropped into the role of victim—But it’s Steve who affects him the most, sometimes in aftershocks that last for days. 

Three taps means he wants to talk about it, but doesn’t want to speak first. Something about having to break the silence after having to relive that trauma just feels too daunting to him, especially now that he’s just been reminded of the monster hiding in his closet after months of silence gave him the false security of maybe being finally free. If anything, it was the sobering realization that he would never truly be free, but it’s an affliction of which he’s willing to find ways to cope. So far, his best success has been found in months of therapy and in the love he found with you. He doesn’t solely rely on you. That’s a burden, and he’s not about to expect you, an extraordinary ordinary human, to somehow be the cure for his chronic mental disturbance. But you bring him words of encouragement and a presence that puts him at ease, and if this is merely the baby-steps to learning to walk on his own, he’s willing to take it and continue practicing. No matter how much he falls, you have made it clear you will always be there to catch him if he needs it.

You wait until he’s ready for you to get up, spending several minutes brushing strands of damp hair away from his face and the rest of the uncounted time trailing your fingers up and down his arms and across his chest in an endlessly light, thoughtful caress. Only when he tells you it’s okay do you briefly disappear into the kitchen to put a kettle on the stove. It’s always been difficult for him to go back to sleep after a dream like this, but it’s easier after he talks through it, and it’s easier with tea.

He doesn’t find sleep again, but you fall asleep on the couch an hour before dawn and halfway through his fourth episode of M*A*S*H. Your whole body is curled in a tight ball on the other half of the couch as you hug an empty mug of tea close to your chest. He carefully removes it from your grasp one vise-like finger at a time (jeez, you have an insane grip for someone who’s asleep), vaguely feeling like he’s trying to disassemble a bomb, and sets it on the side table next to the couch . 

As the credits roll, Bucky carries you back to bed and is part way through tucking you beneath the covers, all warm and snug like a cute little sausage roll, when you begin to stir. Instantly, Bucky freezes. Then he remembers you always do this as if it’s part of some weird post-nightmare bedtime ritual and always manage to go right back to sleep. Comforted by the assurance, and also a little amused by the memories, he turns to close the blinds to block out the rays that would have cut unbearably bright lines against your face had he done nothing (and he’s never been much of a do nothing kind of guy), but when he turns back around, you’re rubbing your eyes with your fingertips—awake, it seems. (Aw, hell.) You blink blearily at him with a lopsided smile he finds adorable, a smile there just for him. 

Sometimes he forgets how lucky he is. 

When your mouth opens with an obscenely loud, drawn-out yawn, he's never loved you more.

After smacking your lips, still in the midst of a sleepy haze, you ask, “You okay?”

While you look at him, Bucky realizes you’re trying monumentally hard to keep your eyes from opening fully, narrowing them to the point that he wouldn’t even know you were still awake if you hadn’t said something. Bucky’s smile turns butter soft at that.

His heart swells. He’s just so appreciative of you. Your kindness. That you willingly sacrifice precious hours of sleep just to tend to the wounds of his own psychological warfare.

“Yeah. I’m good now,” Bucky assures you, and he means it. He lowers his hand to cradle your cheek, sweeping the pad of his thumb back and forth across the swell of your cheek beneath your eyelashes. At the caressing motion, your eyelids flutter, then fall completely closed in total surrender. He leans down, pressing a lingering kiss to your temple. “Sweet dreams, doll.”

Your response is swallowed by the pillow as you shimmy down the bed to bury your face beneath the covers, but he’s pretty sure he heard you say something endearing.

[brightasclepiusadvice]

I know this is mainly an inspirational blog but Hope you’ll indulge my little analysis on why halloween is so important to me and other people who have trauma, are outcasts, face oppression, and all kinds of other things.

First off I’m going to specifically talk about this time of year and the holiday, then I’m going to talk about how horror plays into it.

This is the time of year about warmth and death and change. It’s the time for the leaves to fall and for standing around fires and drinking cider and eating junk food.

Halloween specifically is the only holiday I can think of that isn’t based on other people, isn’t about family, it’s a holiday about you. Where you can be as weird and wild and not in sync with everyone else and its totally normal! You can be something nice like a unicorn or ordinary like a business man or odd like a doll or Gumby or scary like a killer. It’s the only time where oddity is almost a requirement, and there’s this idea of the world being so much larger than yourself, for ideas of other worlds that are stranger.

Horror is important to me. It is in my opinion the best genre to deal with trauma and loss.

We have stories like the yellow wall paper about the issues and fears women face. You have the lottery about the issues traditions cause, get out about racism, even when it’s not the stereotypical “I think you’re all bad.” Fears of aids in “it follows”.

It deals with fears that are more experience based. Haunted houses being about domestic abuse, changlings and shape shifters the fear that something will be wrong and you won’t notice it or be believed, werewolves and vampires being about corruption and fear of losing control and hurting others.

A ghost to me is the perfect picture of trauma, something that got so caught up in something horrible that it leaves it’s mark so deep, that even in death you can’t escape.

Catharsis is important. So we get a time of year with revenge stories, where you can be angry and finally put an end to those who hurt you. You get tragedies, stories about pain and suffering. You get to be afraid on your own terms, and no one can tell you you are making things up or being dramatic.

These stories, this season and holiday, they are about death in large part too. They are about moving on and putting things to bed. Obsession leads to corruption, ignorance to danger, and you can’t hide forever. You have to run, or fight, or let go of what’s hurting you. This is especially true in stories where people don’t stumble into it, but keep it alive. Keeping keepsakes of dead relatives or continuously feeding the danger, or stories where loved ones are the danger.

There comes a time when you have to grieve something. It can be a time of life, or a person, or the relationship you had with them, but you need to stop staying with the thing that is hurting you. and maybe it doesn’t end well. Maybe you end up a member of a cult or dying in the haunted house.

But you moved on. You made a decision, and one way or another, something changed for you.

And we need that. We need to be weird, we need to treat ourselves, and allow ourselves to be scared and angry and grief stricken.

And we need stop holding onto things that are determined to hurt us. We can be upset and angry about it after, but before that, we need to get out of the dangerous place as best we can.6

[loyally-unfaithful]

—; don’t run from me river

word count: 2605

pairing: upgraded connor | rk900/gender-neutral!reader

genre: hurt/comfort

summary: nines filed the results of the system check to the back of his mind, to be analysed later, and sighed. he wasn’t originally programmed to sigh, but he sure did it alot nowadays. he sighed once more. this check would most likely return like the previous few, [ all systems optimal; functionality: 100% ]. so why does his processor stutter, causing him to freeze and catch his voice in his throat, when he was around you? there was only one logical explanation: he was broken.

a/n: ya boi is an idiot who made more wips than he could handle,,,, but anyway i wanted to write a nines fic because,,,,,,,,,,,, idk inspiration struck? i must admit i had no idea where i was going w this fic skfksfjaskdfhjk btw nines is deviant in this fic, i just have a hc that since he was forced into deviancy (unlike the 3 protagonists who reached some sort of catharsis) he isn’t as familiar with emotions as those 3, hence his difficulty identifying and expressing them. also rk800-60 and rk900 have assigned names, being colin (nickname sixty) and conan (nickname nines) respectively. connor is just connor lmao,,,,, i am god in my fics and i decide that my 3 bois are bros and happy lil deviants,,,, mk, go!

the ambiance inside the bar was loud and suffocating. many people came to celebrate an officer’s promotion to detective, and while nines wasn’t particularly close to them, he showed up regardless (although a certain duo of rk800 models may or may not have had something to do with his decision). mere formalities; he politely congratulated them and stepped away to ruminate on his own in a corner, absently watching the scene in front of him. for a reason that escaped him, he was (disappointed?) (hurt?) that you got along with colin. he still experienced anomalies in his system when near you, even after being told that he was perfectly fine at the maintenance centre. if the problem wasn’t from within, then there was only one probable cause: an outside factor. a recurring event. one that triggered these anomalies. you.

so he requested to change partners. now, he really wished he didn’t.

while you have taken to your new partner wonderfully, he wasn’t as gracious with his. between reed’s incessant snide remarks and overall unwillingness to cooperate, he’d much rather be deactivated. he found himself missing your partnership. for one, your cooperativeness was a relief. you were determined, passionate and kind. truthfully, he missed you. the shine in your eyes when you find a lead, your composure and professionalism, the soothing quality of your voice, the way you’d let you hand linger in his, how your features softened when you smiled—smiled at hi— he caught himself. why did that last part come to mind? how did you still manage to affect him when you’re so far away? he was about to check why when a laughter caught his attention. your wonderful  laughter. One he was oh so familiar with. you were laughing with his brother, probably at another of his bad jokes. seeing you happy with him stirred an ugly feeling inside him. one that he did not recognise nor acknowledge. one that caused him to glare at his older counterpart.

he was miserable after parting ways from you, having to deal with reed’s complaining. he was hurt, he was away from you and it didn’t feel right. this distance between you two manifested as physical pain on his part, so how come you were fine? how were you able to move on in your life as if nothing happened? sadness and hurt turned into something more despicable: how dare you not feel the same pain he did? seeing you so happy twisted the knife deeper in his heart. how could you? conflicting emotions; he wanted to see you happy. he also wanted to see you suffer with him.

his glowering must’ve been pretty obvious as connor “addressed” him, asking if he was alright, to which he replied with a curt « all systems fully functional ». clearly the wrong answer as the rk800 frowned slightly and asked him to follow him. nines did as told. you watched him as he left, but he’d never know that.

the alleyway wasn’t the cleanest of places, but it was private and quiet enough that the two could converse verbally. connor watched his younger brother, concern in his eyes, and tentatively threaded the topic of his relationship with you. nines squinted his eyes fractionally as he observed his brother, pausing before dismissing anything connor may have assumed: « i don’t know what you’re trying to insinuate. the older model raised a brow in as he doubted his younger counterpart’s words. – you’ve been scowling at them for the past few minutes. – everything is perfectly fine between the detective and i. he forced out, probably more defensive and harsh than he meant it to be, as his brother’s eyes widened slightly, flashing with something akin to recognition. there was a pause before connor spoke up. – are you… jealous? he finally asked. »

nines looked a bit more than scandalised as the thought of being jealous, face contorted to slight disgust: « that’s preposterous. he scoffed. jealous? jealous of what? connor thought back about the scene before he intervened: nines was glaring intensely at you and colin, just after you laughed at one of his quips. – well for one, of collin. how he managed to get the detective’s attention. maybe you’re yearning for theirs, for their affection. his proposition has certainly made nines realise something as his eyes widened, making him look like a deer caught in the headlights. – what are you trying to say? his voice wavered in unsurety. – what i’m trying to say is tha— » he didn’t manage to finish his statement as another voice, not too dissimilar to his own cut him off, announcing how “nines had the hots” for you. connor looked slightly irked at being interrupted while nines quickly dismissed the statement before fully processing it. colin was slightly taken aback by the quick rejection, before smirked mischievously: « great! then you wouldn’t mind if i asked them out right? – colin! exclaimed his twin. »

a sudden rage took over nines’ body as he pushed colin out of the doorway and stormed back inside the bar. a few beats passed before connor threw a chastising look at his twin, which colin shrugged nonchalantly to.

yes, nines knew what dating was. he knew that if two individuals were to harbour romantic feelings for each other, they would come together and be “dating each other”.

date /dāt/ verb gerund or present participle: dating 3. go out with (someone in whom one is romantically or sexually interested).

technically, it was fine. logically, it was fine. he didn’t own you. if you were to date his brother, then that would be your choice. but the thought of you being close and loving someone other than him felt so incredibly wrong. he wanted to leave. he needed to leave. this is all too much. he had feelings for you? he needed time to digest that statement. in his rush to get out, he accidentally bumped into another person, who made a small « oof » and an apology. he was about to apologise as well when you both realised who you were talking to.

« nines! i’ve been looking for you! can we… uh, talk? » he realised from this distance that he could smell your scent: lavender, fabric softener, and something pleasant that was unmistakably you. he nodded and followed you absentmindedly. how did you have this power to erase all thoughts from his mind, make him think of you and only you? has he really fallen for you? you both went outside, a distance away from the bar’s entrance when you finally restarted the conversation: « nines. – detective. » you bit your lips at that reply, and he realised now you looked tired, that radiant smile absent. « look, nines, i- i’m not dense, okay?... i-i know when someone’s avoiding me. – what do you mean detect— – i thought i told you that it was alright to call me by my first name… look, i… by “avoiding” i mean this. acting like you don’t know me. speaking to me as if we were just “coworkers”. acting like we aren’t friends. you sounded tired, the lilt in your voice that he has grown accustomed to sullen. – i’m not avoiding you. he lied, but he knew you were smarter than that. – nines please don’t lie… this distance… between us. i don’t understand, nines. your voice cracked. what happened? Why are you doing this? »

watching you hurt inside because of him was worse than any punishment he could’ve received. any and all previous wishes for you to suffer was quickly erased. he’s much rather suffer alone than watch you break. he took hesitant steps back. away from you. distancing himself from you. you noticed his actions and whispered a desperate « nines… please… » he wanted to run away. he wanted to stay. he wanted to leave and pretend this conversation never happened. he wanted to hold you and tell you everything: his fears, his doubts, his growing affection for you. in the end, he found himself running away from his problems like a coward. you didn’t bother to chase after him, desperately crying out « please… please don’t run from me conan. », last part choked out as you tried to hold yourself together. hearing your voice crack and waver because of him was awful. he wanted to turn back. comfort you. But his body didn’t obey him. when he finally stopped to pay attention to where he was going, he was right back at his shared flat. he swallowed dryly and moved to enter his house, a solemn air around him.

the next few days were absolutely torturous. he increased his initiative to avoid you, never seen in the same place as you, much to your chagrin. an act so blatant than someone as ignorant as reed noticed, an act that become the core of his recent round of taunts. avoiding you hurt. so why did he continue to do it? the thought of approaching the subject made him go cold. it immobilised him, stopped him from uttering a single word. a quick search told him he was scared. nervous. for rejection. he doesn’t know if his heart could take much more. he does resolve to tell you one day… just… not today…

but maybe he should’ve taken the chance when it was presented to him, as he may never get one again.

you died. well, you almost did. his mind jumping to the worst case scenarios as anxiety filled his system. arrest gone wrong. gunshot. 9mm bullets embedded within your abdomen. what if it hit your vascular system? you were rushed into the er. he knew that in this profession, the chances for an individual to get shot rises. but he didn’t expect to grow so attached to one of them. so as the surgeons work to quickly remove all bullets from your body, he sat, rigid, as he waited for the procedure to be done. he fiddled anxiously with his coin when your partner placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. he mechanically glanced at its owner, who told him to not worry, that you’re “too much of a stubborn ass” to die from this event. he didn't acknowledge colin’s input as he continues to play with the quarter. he should’ve told you. told you when he had the chance.

the clock ticked. and ticked. and ticked. when finally, the surgeon informed the two that you were alright. they managed to take out all the bullets. your condition was stable. you were ok. heavily sedated and going to be in a lot of pain. but you were ok. nines didn’t stop the heavy sigh of relief that escaped him. the doctor told them that visits will be allowed as soon as you were settled in recovery. he was going to tell you. he told himself, like an unspoken promise. he was going to tell you then. it’s the least you deserve. he was going to apologise and come clean. hopefully you’ll have it in you to forgive him.

when you finally came to, your body ached, you didn’t want to move, so you settled with eyeing your room. what happened? you were chasing this guy… and he pulled out a gun… pain and then darkness. and now you’re here. the recovery room was filled with gifts and get-well soon cards. balloons of assorted colours filled the room, bouquets of diverse types of flowers adorned the table.

« you’re awake. »

you turned your head at the source, seeing connor at the doorway. « how—you cleared your throat—how long was i gone for? you asked, voice raspy. – around 3 days and a half. you’d gain consciousness a few times, but you were too heavily sedated to be fully coherent. he explained as he took a seat near the bed. you groaned. – gosh that long? connor nodded. how’s colin? – doing pretty well all things considered. he does, however, feel immensely guilty about failing to protect you. – well, tell him it’s not his fault and that i forgive everything he’s blaming himself with. you worried about him. despite sixty’s mischievous exterior, he had a tendency to get himself stuck in a depressive loop of self-deprecation. connor smiled graciously. – will do… he placed a paper cup filled with what you assumed was thirium on the floor. how are you feeling? – everything hurts but i’ll live, you quipped. » the android chuckled and was about to reply when a knock caught both of your attention. the door creaked slightly open, as nines peered in. he hesitated before asking if he may speak with you. the “alone” part being left unsaid as connor bid you farewell and left.

you and your former partner were locked in an intense stareoff, you on the bed on one end and him glued to the door on the other. he took tentative steps towards you. closing that distance. when he was besides your bed, he nervously called out your name. you parroted him, mustering out a curt « conan. » he took a deep breath that he technically didn’t need and whispered out an apology: « i… i’m sorry. for everything i’ve caused—for all the hurt i’ve caused… for what it’s worth… i never meant for all this to happen. » his voice was clipped as guilt overcame him. you watched him, silent as ever. he wished you would say something, anything. the silence was deafening.

« then please tell me why… he promised himself that he’d come clean. – i… i don’t… i don’t think i know... for sure… i experienced anomalies in my system when i was around you.. you’d consume my every thought, i’d feel immobilised and i… i’ve been told that i’m being nervous… i’ve been told that i harboured romantic feelings for you… i-i don’t know. i… i yearn for your attention, your touch, your affection… but is it right for something like me to desire such a thing? am-am i broken…? his voice was barely a whisper when he choked out the lay part, and he waited for his response, growing more anxious as each second ticked by. what if you didn’t want him? what if he wasn’t enough? – no, you aren’t broken. you shook your head. just human. »

nines. confident and assured nines was an insecure and trembling mess as he poured out all of the doubts that plagued his mind. your heart aches as you wished to comfort him, so you do. you reached out, best you can, and grabbed him into a bone crushing hug. an action that took him by surprised as he stiffened at your touch. but he soon relaxed and carefully snaked his arms around your waist, returning the hug. you slowly caressed his hair as he nuzzled into your neck.

you both stay like this for a moment, relishing in each others presence, before you spoke up again: « it’s okay to be unsure, you know. he stopped his nuzzling, indicating to you that he was listening. if you don’t feel ready at the moment… if you just wanna be friends for the time being, i’m ok with that. and if one day you decide that you want to be more, just remember i’ll be right here. » you pressed a gentle kiss on the crown of his head and stayed in that position for a while, neither wanting to part ways, but this awkwardly positioned hug took a toll on your back so the both of you half heartedly pulled away from each other. hands holding the other’s, you asked for one more request: « just promise me one thing. – anything, he breathed out. – please… don’t ever run from me again. – never. he promised, fully intending to fulfill said request. »

« thank you. »

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[wonderfulworldofmichaelford]

Psycho Analysis: Huey Emmerich

(WARNING! This analysis contains SPOILERS!)

The Metal Gear franchise is known for its hammy and despicable villains, villains with complicated schemes, giant robots, and awesome boss battles. But what if I told you that, out of all the villains in the series, the most disgusting, vile, reprehensible, and cruel one had the same face and voice as the kindest man in the series.

Huey Emmerich is, in short, a piece of shit. There is absolutely nothing redeeming about this worthless  ass. This may seem a bit shocking if you’ve only played Peace Walker, where he seems little more than a clone of his son Otacon, or Metal Gear Solid 2, where he is mentioned as having committed suicide after catching his wife taking advantage of Otacon. But play through The Phantom Pain, and you’ll soon see that Huey is perhaps the most morally reprehensible monster in the entire game, and maybe the entire franchise.

And you will absolutely, without a doubt, love to hate him.

Motivation/Goals: Huey is motivated by one thing and one thing only: cowardice. He sells out Big Boss to Cipher to for a job offer and then lies out his ass to Venom, Ocelot, and Kaz when they eventually come and get him. Huey is just always in it for himself, and is perfectly willing to screw over any person who gets in the way of his research; even back in Peace Walker, he was strangely happy about cheerfully being able to continue developing WMDs for Big Boss and company after betraying his (admittedly crappy) former boss Hot Coldman, and after that he abandoned his wife to die for daring to hide their child Hal away from him before he could use the kid as a living battery in Metal Gear Sahelanthropus.

And while being a megalomaniac is nothing new for A villain in this franchise, Huey takes it to the next level by never once accepting any responsibility. He constantly shifts blame onto others, denies doing anything bad ever, and lies, lies, and lies to the point of insanity. At one point he straight up continues to insist his wife Strangelove committed suicide even when irrefutable evidence was shown that he left her to die inside the Mammal Pod. The man is a pathetic, nasty little weasel through and through, and his complete and utter lack of honor just makes him stand out as reprehensible even when compared to an absolute lunatic like Skull Face or even a violent brute like Eli (AKA Liquid Snake).

Performance: Christopher Randolph, the actor for Hal, somehow manages to turn everything good, sweet, and heroic about Snake’s best pal Otacon and turn it on its head for Huey. Huey has the same voice and the same face as his son, but his actions and deeds show that, no, this man is absolutely nothing like his son, and is in fact the very antithesis of who Otacon is. Props to Randolph for using the same voice we’ve come to know and love and delivering a performance so twisted that even if it is the same voice, there is absolutely no way you would ever confuse Huey dialogue for Otacon dialogue.

Final Fate: The best part about Huey is that he is constantly, constantly getting his ass handed to him. In The Phantom Pain, after he unleashes a virus onto Mother Base which forces Venom to put down some of his own soldiers, with Huey blaming him all the while, Huey is put on trial and found guilty, because… of course he is. Literally the only person who believes Huey is innocent is Huey himself, and that is because he outright rejects reality and all of the evidence against him. Venom casts him adrift on a dinky life boat, one that begins leaking and causes Huey to ditch his precious robotic legs to the sea, turning him into little more than a miserable cripple once again.

But if you thought that Huey would go out in any other way other than making the world a more miserable, bitter place, you’d be wrong. Years later, he discovers his second wife having an affair – that is to say, statutory raping – his son, Otacon. Rather than being a good father and trying to do anything about this sexual abuse of his child, Huey decides to do the world a favor and kill himself… but unfortunately, he drags his stepdaughter Emma along with him, causing her to nearly drown and giving her a crippling fear of water as a result.

And when you first play Metal Gear Solid 2, this seems like an awful, depressing tragedy… but after playing The Phantom Pain, it becomes abundantly clear that Huey’s suicide was one final, spiteful act., and Emma nearly dying was almost certainly on purpose. His final act in life was to try and spite his own son and the woman who was abusing his son by taking away the person they loved most in the world. He saw his own son as having cuckolded him and took his son’s sexual abuse as a blow to his own masculinity, and so went out of his way to hurt and traumatize him in the only way he knew how: by dragging innocent people down with him. Huey Emmerich couldn’t even kill himself without ruining everything.

Best Scene: Pick a scene where Huey is abused or forced to face consequences, be it Hot Coldman or Skull Face pushing him down the stairs and causing him to piss himself, Ocelot torturing him brutally, or Venom banishing him from Mother Base and sending him back to the world to be revealed as a fraud, and you’ve got yourself a good time. The sound of Huey suffering is music to the ears.

Best Quote: I think the quote that truly defines how much of a despicable two-faced hypocrite Huey is  would be the vicious verbal berating he gives you as you kill the Diamond Dogs infected with the parasite that he released. He berates Venom for doing this despite being fully to blame for the situation. It is the culmination of this snivelling little bastard’s arc, and he’s only revealed to be worse from there.

Final Thoughts & Score: Huey is perhaps the ultimate hate sink in all of fiction. There is absolutely nothing likable about the guy; he’s a pathetic coward, he constantly lies, he’s an utter prick to everyone around him, and he causes untold amounts of suffering all while whining and crying about how it’s totally not his fault! He commits atrocity after atrocity, heinous act after heinous act, and spreads so much misery, and he does it all without ever once looking cool or intimidating like just about every other villain in the franchise. You’d think this would make him the bottom of the barrel and a terrible character… but it does the opposite.

Huey serves as a dark contrast to his own son and helps to highlight how much of a better man Otacon is. Both came from similar backgrounds and both have similar roles, with both developing Metal Gears and befriending a Snake. The difference, though, is that Hal has a moral courage that allows him to own up to his mistakes, accept responsibility for his actions, and dedicate himself to doing better. The man is so utterly selfless that he basically blames himself for his stepmother raping him; Hal is beyond humble, to an almost martyr-like degree, and truly lives up to the ideals of The Boss more than anyone in the series. His mother would be so proud of that. Meanwhile, Huey lacks that, and as shown throughout The Phantom Pain, his lies eventually pile up to the point where even he can’t escape the truth, and he suffers for it. Huey is a cautionary look at what would have happened if Hal didn’t have the spine to stand up for what was right and own up to his mistake, and this is nowhere more evident than Hal having a long-lasting relationship with Snake that went until the day he died whereas Huey was cut out of the life of Venom with extreme prejudice after Huey again and again stabbed his so-called friends in the back.

But aside from this wonderful contrast, I think how awful Huey is becomes more acceptable because he constantly, constantly suffers for it. The man gets constantly put through the wringer for his lies and schemes, and is despised and treated like garbage by Ocelot and Kaz. His own wife even hated him and considered Hal her kid with The Boss more than with him. Huey’s own moral failings catch up with him, and while it doesn’t lessen how evil it is, it does give you a sense of catharsis when that son of a bitch gets kicked, literally or otherwise.

Huey gets a 10/10. No, I’m not exaggerating. He isn’t the most impressive villain in the franchise. He’s not flashy, or hammy, or over-the-top and exciting. Huey is a very real, very miserable type of person who is cowardly, self-serving, and loathsome, and it is just so much fun to watch him suffer for his own sins. He is the epitome of “love to hate” villains; it’s just such a blast to despise this man and attribute everything awful to him, even if it isn’t really his fault. He’s a dark deconstruction of the lovable coward, he’s an utterly evil reprehensible bastard, and I hate him oh so very much… but it’s the kind of hate that I’m happy to have.

Fuck you, Huey.

[visionsofus]

Hi! Since i saw you already did another the script song, may i ask "I'm Yours" or "Flares" both by The Script?

Thank you and please keep writing, i love your fanfictions they give me so much joy!

hi anon! thanks for requesting - I ended up choosing Flares because I felt it really fit with Wanda and Vision's early companionship. I hope you continue to enjoy reading <3 

Track #15: Flares by The Script

| read on AO3 here | mixtape playlist | send me an ask with your song/prompt request |

Synopsis: Mere days after the battle in Sokovia, Wanda is still coming to terms with Pietro's absence and the new life she is faced with in upstate New York. Waking from a nightmare she leaves sleep behind and takes solace in Vision as an unexpected comfort.

Novi Grad was falling, taking Wanda down with it.

Distantly, she registered the strange sensation as she floated weightless above the city the was falling apart around her. She knew it was the end, could feel Pietro reaching out to take her hand, to guide her to another place beyond this physical plane. It was about time, she thought, Death had been trying to claim her since the faulty Stark missile all those years ago.

And so Wanda surrendered herself to the freefall, hoping that it would at least by painless, even if that wasn’t what she deserved.

What she didn’t expect was the Vision flying down to save her. He darted gracefully amidst the rubble flying up around them and didn’t hesitate to pull her out of the air. He slipped one arm around her back and another under her knees and they rose, him spinning between debris until they were clear of the falling city.

And it was as though Wanda’s heart remembered to beat, as though her body had momentarily given up but now screamed and begged for life. She was sure her heart was thudding out of her chest and her lungs burned painfully as she desperately dragged air in. The Vision didn’t say anything to her and even if she wanted to thank him, Wanda couldn’t speak past the tightness in her throat. He held her even as the sky around them raged with lightning and the god below split the city into hundreds of pieces.

He held her even as the tears began to stream down Wanda’s cheeks and the sobs came one after the other. Desperate to avoid the horrors below Wanda turned her head into the crook of his neck, ignoring how he flinched at the unfamiliar contact. The damning destruction was burnt into the back of her eyelids and there was no escape.

Wanda jumped awake, the dream, no, memory ending abruptly. She grasped at her neck breathlessly, still feeling the tightness of panic and grief and wiped at her eyes which had begun to stream in her sleep.

Her bedroom was dim around her but the moon outside was so bright that a little bit of its beam managed to reach past her windows. It made the shadows seem longer and Wanda gathered herself up, pressing against her bedframe and pulling the covers closer. She briefly considered closing the blinds but knew that if she did the next nightmare she’d wake up from would be of her time in Strucker’s lab.

The tears continued to fall though she barely noticed them, she’d been in a constant tearful state since arriving in America. She didn’t leave the compound building they’d placed her in and usually didn’t leave her room unless it was to eat. She avoided the others who lived on the other floors and turned down Steve Rogers’ invitations to join training with the other new recruits. Most days she was too overcome with emotion to do anything but lay in bed and cry, while other days she felt nothing and was so numb that she just slept and slept and slept.

Wanda’s heart seized when the room suddenly lit up with soft gold light for a moment, before going dark again. She blinked against the surprising brightness and shook her head, sure she had been imagining things. But then it happened again and for a moment it was like the sun had come out from behind a cloud before disappearing again.

Of course, Wanda’s next concern was that the light was coming from an explosion outside of the compound and fear raked its claws down her spine, making her shiver.

Pulling the covers up over her shoulders she eased out of bed and slowly approached the big windows that occupied one side of her room. She was prepared to run out and raise the alarm (not that she really knew how to do this, but she was sure the Compound AI would help) when she saw exactly what was causing the warm light.

Vision was standing out on the wide lawn, on his own. Wanda watched as he picked up a brick from the pile at his feet and threw it into the air. His extreme strength meant that the brick flew up so high Wanda was sure it had disappeared into the clouds until it spun back down, twice as fast. When it was about 20 feet off the ground Vision shot it out of existence with the stone in his forehead. That was the light she had seen. Wanda caught sight of her own reflection in the glass and her eyes which widened against the golden glow.

She felt a tug behind her naval, calling her outside even as Vision hefted another brick into the air. Curiosity and the strange drag in her abdomen had Wanda tugging on a sweatshirt from one of the piles littered around her floor and walking out the door. The Compound was hauntingly empty, and she took solace in knowing that it could have moments of peace such as now. Already she was used to the hustle and bustle of the superheroes she lived with.

Wanda hesitated in front of the door just long enough to second guess what she was doing. But her decision had been made the moment she left her room and so she opened the front door she hadn’t gone beyond since they’d invited her here to live. The driveway was rough and cold against her bare feet but she didn’t give it much thought, instead working to keeping walking until she reached the grassy lawn and Vision in the middle of it.

He had paused his brick destroying with his back turned.

“Hello,” Wanda said, realising how hoarse her voice sounded after a week of little use.

Only then did the synthezoid turn around, his gaze hesitant as he met her eyes. “Hello, Wanda.” She blinked, tilting her head feeling sure that it was the first time that he had used her first name before. The strange feeling that had brought her outside was back and she stepped closer.

“What are you doing?”

Vision opened his mouth once or twice as though trying to find the right words. “I confess, I was having trouble resting and a bit of research told me physical exertion can help.” He looked pointedly at the bricks.

Wanda walked around the pile and then looked to the pieces brick that lay scattered about them, suddenly conscious that she should’ve worn shoes. Those shards were probably going to break a few lawnmowers.

“Why could you not rest?” She asked instead and looked into Vision’s eyes, which seemed to change with the days. Or at least she was sure they had looked different when he’d been created compared with how they were now. Not that she was monitoring him or anything.

Vision again took a moment to think before he spoke. “It was very loud up here,” he said tapping at his temple.

Wanda nodded, knowing the feeling. “But can’t you just turn that off? You’re part computer, right? What if you just blocked out the things you didn’t want to think about?”

“Well, yes,” Vision said thoughtfully, “there is that, but I don’t know if I want to turn it off. I think I’d like to experience it all, even the bad parts.”

Wanda nodded at his interesting response and nudged at one of the bricks with her foot.

“Would you turn it off?”

“Probably,” she said quietly but knew that after the last week the answer was closer to a yes than it ever had been. She could probably have switched off someone else’s grief in their head but knew it wasn’t as simple when it came to being in control of her own mind.

“Would you like to try?” Vision asked and Wanda was slightly confused by the topic change. He hefted a brick in one hand. “I believe it is quiet cathartic.”

Wanda almost smiled at his understanding of such a feeling as catharsisbut nodded, taking him up on the offer before she could hesitate.

Vision smiled at her before turning and throwing the brick into the air, not quite as high as he had been doing before.

It was the first time that Wanda had used her powers since the battle in Sokovia but calling the red mist to her fingertips felt as natural as it always had since getting her powers. She watched the brick fall and squinted her eyes slightly in the darkness of the night. She raised her hands and followed the brick’s downward descent, catching it just before it hit the ground holding it there with her powers. She looked at it, trembling in the air and then snapped her fingers into a fist, vaporising it instantly.

She glanced at Vision and he tilted his head at her, a curious look in his eyes that she wasn’t quite able to place. He picked up another brick and she nodded, preparing herself more this time and wiping it out of the air with a single blast of carefully aimed red energy.

She wasn’t sure exactly how long they spent destroying the bricks, but the moon still shone high above them as they reached the last one. This time Wanda took it and sent it careening around in the air as Vision fired blasts of yellow energy, finally hitting it on his third try.

“That was close,” he said turning to her, the stone in his head glowing slightly at the expending of power.

She looked down at the space where the bricks had been, surprisingly disappointed that they were over. He had been right about the catharsis; she had felt an immense relief at blowing something up without causing any serious damage. And though she hated to admit it, it felt good to be using her power again.

“I didn’t anticipate company,” Vision said rubbing his hands together, a mannerism Wanda was sure he had picked up from one of the teammates, “I should have brought more bricks.”

“Another time, perhaps,” she replied, her lips turning up a little at her own suggestion and at what their companions might think if she started blowing up bricks in the middle of the night with the team’s robot. But Vision wasn’t a robot, he was something more. She’d known that from the beginning when he’d first broken out of the cradle. Even now she could see there was so much more to him, and she wanted to know. It felt strange to be feeling anything other than the suffocating grief that was her constant companion and Wanda suddenly wondered if she were allowed to be feeling such trivial things as relief or curiosity.

Vision distracted her with a wide smile that had her blinking in surprise. “I would like that very much.” She tried not to frown too much at the foreign idea of someone at the compound actually wanting to genuinely spend time with her.

“I suppose we should go back inside,” Vision sighed after a moment when it became clear that Wanda was not going to suggest anything more.

“Actually,” Wanda interjected, not wanting to return to her unfamiliar room just yet, “could we stay out here a little longer.”

For a moment she wondered if she had overstepped, if his eagerness before had been for blowing up the bricks and not actually spending time with her. But his returning smile was enough for her to ask the next question.

“Can you help me to fly?”

This time Vison seemed genuinely surprised at her admission. “Please,” she added on quickly.

“I can try,” he said, sounding uncertain.

Wanda took a few steps back, just in case, though she was sure she couldn’t hurt Vision even if she wanted to. “I was practicing this before but was never able to get it right,” she said and let her power grow, “could you catch me if I fall?”

“Alright,” Vision said taking a few steps back, his arms at the ready if things went wrong.

Wanda bent her knees and then directing her palms downwards, letting the power go, surprised at just how far she managed to send herself into the air. It was all fun and games until she started to come down, spinning slightly as she tried to right herself with her powers. She was stopped abruptly when Vision flew up to meet her.

“You looked like you were going to hit the ground,” he said hesitantly, by way of explanation even as they hovered together a few feet above the ground.

“Ok, thank you,” Wanda said her breath huffing in a little laugh. She used her power to push away from him and this time didn’t use too much, instead keeping a steady stream from her hands as she darted away. It was difficult and required more concentration than was expected. She couldn’t bounce off tangible objects around her as she was used to when fighting but had to control her density through the air. A few minutes of practice and she was soaring, breathless from using so much power but relishing the adrenaline rushing through her blood.

She arched up above the compound, pushing herself up with a boost and then letting herself freefall a little before bouncing up again. Vision was as effortless and graceful as always as he joined her, his cape fluttering behind him.

“How do you walk anywhere?” Wanda marvelled as she teetered before him, trying to hover in one place. “I’d fly everywhere.”

“It’s a wonderful feeling isn’t it?” Vision said smiling at her and darting in a circle around her.

“It is,” she said thoughtfully, managing a small and purposeful smile. At this Vision dipped as though he had momentarily forgotten how to fly, and she instinctively reached out with her power to support him. He regained himself quickly but held up a hand to marvel at the red power coalescing around his fingers as she withdrew it back to her.

“Remarkable,” he said under his breath. “It feels warm, familiar almost.”

Curious, Wanda tilted her head. His description wasn’t unlike how he felt to her, how his presence called to her. Familiar, yet unexpected. She wanted to know more but was growing tired of staying in one place and gave Vision a daring look as she flew off higher.

He was quick on her tail and they spun so high they were nearing the clouds. The moon shone even brighter overhead as it filled the dark sky above and Wanda held an arm out, marvelling at how bright it appeared now they were this high up.

Vision caught up and spun circles around her as they ascended, his gaze intent on her face and she desperately wanted to know what he was thinking.

When she had finally gotten her fill of the night air, she let herself fall, barely softening her descent and relishing in the air’s caress as it rushed past her face. Before she could make to stop herself, Vision once more had his arms around her waist and was slowly lowering her to the ground.

He let her go as soon as they hit the ground and Wanda looked down at her hands, tingling from all the power. Since she’d been experimented on, she’d learnt the power was something like a muscle, and the more often she used it the stronger it grew. Which explained why she felt so tired now, her depleted power and likely the late hour making her ready to return to bed. But it was satisfying. For the first time it made her not only want to go to bed, but to rise the following morning and actually dosomething.

“Thank you for letting me join you,” Wanda said as they began their walk back to the compound, agreeing in unison that it was time to return.

“There is no need to thank me,” Vision said, “and you know you are welcome to train with the rest of the team, Wanda.”

She was quiet as they stepped up to the front door. Steve had been asking her every few days to join. He’d coming knocking at her door in the morning and then after lunch again, letting her know that he was doing some training with the other new recruits and that she was more than welcome to join if she wanted to. But Wanda, struggling to do the most basic of things, couldn’t bring herself to reply when he did this.

“That’s kind,” Wanda said quietly as they walked inside, “but maybe not just yet.”

“Of course,” Vision said shaking his head, “forgive me.”

“Nothing to forgive,” she said shrugging and fiddling with her sleeves as a reason to not meet his gaze.

They paused at the corridor to Wanda’s bedroom. “Perhaps if you need to blow bricks up again you can tell me?”

“Of course,” Vision said smiling hesitantly, “and anytime you need to talk or—or anything else, my door is always open.”

She smiled at how awkwardly he gestured over his shoulder and gave him one last small smile before continuing down to her own room. It had been a strange evening, but Wanda thought she might have found a reason to get out of bed the next morning. In anticipation her hands warmed, recalling the power even as she tried not to think of all the destruction it had caused. But she knew that hating her gifts and hating herself wouldn’t get her anywhere. It would just cause more harm.

She slipped into bed and in moments was asleep. It was different than any of the rest she’d been getting in the past days and nights. Different to the hazy hours spent drifting in and out of consciousness. This was proper rest, the kind that restored depleted energy. She didn’t dream, as though in getting so much power out she had also earned herself a little break from the relentless nightmares and grief. Within the quiet of her mind, she was distantly aware of the being who lived in the compound, not far from where she now lay, his energy, his mind calling to hers in a way she could not yet explain. A light in the endless week of darkness that had made her struggle to breath and cry so hard she couldn’t see. A flare of hope, growing stronger.

_________________________________________________

Update taglist open on request (dm or ask me and I’ll tag you when I update)

[breakingbadfics]

Thought Experiment. Part 1.

or “How would I have done it” 

So The Sith Resurgence is a petty bashfic driven purely by a desire to spit in the face of canon, but specifically ReyLo Shippers, specifically the Kylo Ren/Ben Solo lovers of the ship. The plot is hollow, the only characters given any consideration of depth are the romantic leads making the supporting characters even more bereft of substance. and in trying to fix certain things with in the canon it somehow has even less than canon

What does a good version of this look like? 

“Course Correction”

So lets start with an easy version of this question. The story is sitting at 35 chapters as of my writing this section of the essay. 

Lets say Hypothetically Lily Orchard reached out to me to outline the final arc for the story. How would I do that? 

So as of the end of chapter 35 these things happen 

Kylo Ren is intending to fake the return of Emperor Palpatine. 

Aliana and Rey have just gotten married

Rey’s growth in power has been climbing and causing concern among her friends for her safety. 

The First Order know the location of the Resistance’s new base after they survived the events of episode 8

There is still some sort of conflict between Aliana, Rey, and Leia.

Kylo Ren is Angling towards setting up the fall of the republic. 

Rey and Aliana are sent to Nathema  reinforce the extraction of child recruits from The First Order. 

I’m missing something I’m sure, but we’re moving forward from these points. 

Chapter 36 begins with Aliana and Rey arriving on Nathema, They do the fighting, clear out the base, begin the evacuations and save a bunch of children. During this The Message is sent out to all First Order bases. The Emperor has returned from the dead. 

On Nathema The Message arriving causes a shift in the morale of the fighting and while Rey and Aliana make it out in time along with any resistance back up they had, but everyone is ratttled. 

in spite of that Aliana is basically no-selling the threat of The Emperor’s return. and while Rey is also nervous about it Aliana assuages those fears by explaining that, that wasn’t Palpatine at all. Because there was no shock in the force. If Darth Sidious had cheated death, it would have been something everyone force sensitive could have felt, and would have been felt long before the emperor even composed the message. 

And so Chapter 36 ends

Chapter 37 

With the force bond having been unblocked Kylo Ren was able to detect Rey had left the Resistance base. And in an impulse chose to personally lead an attack on the base. During this he made sure to have The Message from The Emperor sent out 

During the attack a lot of casualties occur, but The Core Cast srvives but the big casualty is that Kylo Ren slashed a path through and took out his mother. 

the rest of the story is trying to recuperate and then convey that Palpatine’s message was fabricated as propaganda. 

during all this it’s decided amongst the remaining resistance that when they make the retaliatory strike it has to be the final blow that sets off the collapse of the first order. 

Chapter 38

Aliana and Rey train more, Rey start learning various Sith Techniques. 

Captain Phasma leading the last remnants of The Knights of Ren reveal themselves to have been waiting in hiding, they’re further accompanied by a collection of bounty hunters aiming to overwhelm the jedi and the sith through sheer numbers and power. 

It is not an easy fight but Phasma’s attack force is defeated and the captain is forced to retreat as one of the sole survivors of this attack. The victory is owed in both to Rey and Aliana’s capabilities as a unit as well as Finn and the remaining Resistance assisting where it counts. 

--

Kylo Ren is continuing his own private solo training and has found a collection of sith holocrons in Snokes original private quarters that have aided in honing his skills.. 

The First Order itself has made an order for all forces across the galaxy to return to the original coordinates of Star Killer Base.

once the full force of The First Order arrives in one place the plan is revealed that they intend to pull a full final assault on The Republic, intent to basically glass the surface of Corruscant. 

Chapter 39

The First Order again. 

They are preparted to set out only to find themselves faced with The Resistance and The Sith Fleet having arrived to make their own final attack. 

The fight begins

During all this Rey, Aliana, and friends infiltrate the lead ship with intent to find and eliminate the leaders of the first order. 

The eventual final confrontation between Kylo Ren, Aliana, and Rey happens. 

And Then everythings for a moment as hundred of thousands of Imperial Star Destroyers warp in from nowhere. And start attacking both sides. 

A mesage relayed across all channels. 

Emperor Palpatine is actually somehow alive, and has arrived to reclaim control of his fleet. 

Chapter 40 

Emperor Palpatine’s message is simple; he’s returned to take his throne as ruler of the galaxy. To the Resistance he demands surrender so that their deaths may be quick and merciful. To The First Order a message to stand down, declare fealty to him or die. 

The entirety of the battle as far as the fleets go dissolves into chaos and immediately Rose and Holdo declare a fall back and as many people in the resistance get out, leaving the first order and imperial forces to engage in a massive civil war. 

While this is happening Aliana and Rey are trying to gauge what to do while also fighting Kylo Ren, only for Kylo Ren to get shot in the back of the head by General Hux, who retreats to take his side with the empire. 

Aliana and Rey spend the rest of the chapter escaping and being very very angry they were denied the catharsis of killing Kylo Ren 

Chapter 41 

everyone is panicking. 

The resistance is down to their last legs and the entire galaxy is with little hope 

meanwhile Hux and Phasma are called forth to see The Emperor personally. where it is explained that even in spite of the unifying desire to re-establish the empire the first order was not the entirety of the remaining imperial forced and some chose to quietly seek out planets known to be inhabited by the dark side of the force. during this a ritual was carried out to allow a suitable individual to become the vessel for the emperor. The Emperor is basically wearing full fitting body armor at all times. but basically he’s inhabiting the body of a Galen Marek clone. 

Oh also Hux is executed, because the emperor saw what he did to Kylo Ren who was the acting supreme leader of the First Order, and so determined Hux to be not trustworthy. 

The resistance are still having doubts to their abilities now that they’re low on forces. further faith in Aliana is wavering due to the whole “I’d know if the emperor was back” blowing up in her face. 

However because Palpatines Message was delivered across the galaxy, and on all channels they get a message from The Senate that basically declares that they’re going all in on the resistance and fully endorsing them. planets from across all systems as well as former rebel alliance members are en route to bolster their forces. it is now a full scale war to snuff out The Imperial Remnant. 

Chapter 42.  

Aliana and Rey are declared high generals with only Holdo and Rose Tico holding equal authority to them 

The Resistance manage to find the current whereabouts of the emperor. 

They set out to finally put an end to his reign of terror once and for all. 

Chapter 43 

Rey, Aliana, and crew launch a strike on Emperor Palpatines personal cruiser. 

It’s revealed that Palpatine has “resurrected” Kylo Ren. though no more than a puppet to act as an extention of Palpatines will. 

The final fight for the fate of the galaxy and the right to be The one true sith lord begins. 

Chapter 44 

The fight happens.

 Rey fights the husk of Kylo Ren, The final step in Rey Beniko’s empowerment, destroying and ending the life of her abuser, lamenting only in that the soul of kylo ren never occupied the husk so she couldn’t revel in the end of his pathetic existance. 

Aliana and Palpatine fight, The right to call themselves the True and Rightful Sith Lord. Palpatine almost wins, even with the act of the fight becoming a one on two drag out brawl between the two lovers and the emperor.

However Galen Marek proper, and Finn arrive, and proceed to even the odds in a 4 on 1 fight.

As one last attempt at a moral blow is Palpatine reveals that somewhere along in the past he set up an arranged marriage with the Beniko line of sith lords something that had been set up several hundred of years back somewhere between lana and aliana’s grandmother. The suitor was a member of his bloodline which he says to be rey. And that in falling for one another they’ve played into his plans to the letter 

Aliana, does not care. Murders palpatine, and as to whether or not he was telling the truth. No one cares about that either. taking it as an attempt to fuck with the both of them 

Chapter 45

The story ends with the usual “where are they now” 

Finn and Poe get married, Rey and Aliana adopt. under the leadership of Holdo and Rose The Resistance slides back into being the officially backed “Rebel Alliance” hunting down the last remnants of the first order and the empire with the full scope of the republic military 

The future for Force users is made a little more weird because the sith and the jedi are effectively the same thing trying with what ever opposes them being recognized as extremists of both sides

Somewhere the sole remnants of the first order and empire gather quietly to lick their wounds, lead by “Supreme Leaderl Phasma”  as a potential sequel bait

The story ends with Rey and Aliana drinking wine. and a toast to the future. 

[neuxue]

Wheel of Time liveblogging: Towers of Midnight ch 4

Perrin goes hunting and we consider the problems with zero-sum solitaire, and Galad... is Galad.

Chapter 4: The Pattern Groans

We’re with Perrin, but it smells like corpses and the grass looks infected and it’s not the first time this has been brought up, so… how sure are we the Blight is staying put?

Oh, the Aes Sedai agree. Is this part of the Pattern fraying and the Dark One reaching out into the world, then? That the Blight sort of crops up in those stretched spaces?

Especially because at this point in the timeline, Rand’s not exactly counteracting it.

Light, Perrin thought, taking the leaf as Nevarin handed it to him. It smelled of decay. What kind of world is it where the Blight is the good alternative?

I don’t know, ask Lan.

“It’s probably not dangerous,” Perrin said.

Presented without further context. Famous last words, Perrin. Right up there with ‘a trap’s not a trap if you know it’s there’ –Rand al’Thor.

Meanwhile Perrin’s still dealing with Office Politics: Epic Fantasy Edition on a constant basis. Well, you and Egwene will have plenty to talk about when you finally meet in Tel’aran’rhiod or maybe for that dance you owe her on Sunday.

(I have absolutely no expectation of the latter happening; I just like to remember it sometimes because it’s the right kind of sad. The former though… please).

If only those clouds would pass so they could get some good sunlight to dry the soil

Given where you seem to be relative to Rand’s timeline, Perrin, you… might be waiting a little while. Might I recommend an umbrella? Or perhaps some fire insurance?

A strange village with an architectural style that seems out of place? Shiota again, perhaps? Either way, You probably do not want to go into that village. You may not ever come out. Well, okay, you’re a protagonist so you’ll probably be fine, but all the same.

Light! How bad were things becoming?

The thing with the timeline misalignment is that it takes away from the effect of this a little bit, for me. Because while I get that the Pattern itself is being strained and the Dark One is drawing closer to the world and all that, and Rand’s revelation on Dragonmount isn’t going to immediately fix everything, some of the tension there is gone. When such a major arc has finally passed its darkest point and reached a kind of catharsis, it’s a little weird to then go back to ‘okay but pretend that hasn’t happened yet’.

So, yes, I think this is probably not specifically related to Rand (inasmuch as anything at this point can be said to be not related to Rand, given his power and his role and his Fisher King-like link to the entire world), and therefore isn’t just a ‘oh don’t worry this will fix once the timelines are caught up’ but I can’t help feeling some of that anyway.

“Burn the village,” he said, turning. “Use the One Power.”

Should’ve invited Rand.

WOLF DREAM WOLF DREAM WOLF DREAM!

Even in Tel’aran’rhiod there’s a storm. But again, I can’t help but feel that some of the impact that should have (‘I am the storm’) is lacking a little, now. It’s not a major criticism and a lot of it is probably just me, but… I don’t know. It just feels ever so slightly off.

The wolves are calling to Perrin and so of course we come back to his central conflict with himself but surely this, too, must be approaching its point of crisis soon. There’s just not that much time left, and he’s been circling this one for so long, and especially after Malden he’s constantly being forced to look at it, just as Rand came closer and closer to that necessary confrontation with himself and the part of him that was Lews Therin and what he’s doing.

The invitations awakened something deep within him, the wolf he tried to keep locked away. But a wolf could not be locked up for long. It either escaped or it died

This touches on a particularly ironic aspect of this conflict: Perrin tries to lock the wolf aspect of himself away, to shut it out and refuse it, because he is afraid of losing himself to it. But it is a part of himself, and so by shutting it away in order to keep from losing who he is, he is in fact trying to kill or lose… a part of who he is.

Again, there’s the obvious parallel to Rand here, and the whole question of how to accept a part of yourself you’re terrified of, a part of yourself you hate or fear or cannot reconcile with the rest of your self-perception. The whole struggle of identity, of acceptance and denial, of answering that age-old question of who are you?

And I like how we get to watch so many different characters take on that struggle, from slightly different directions or with slightly different variations, but at the centre of it all that same question of identity, and what it means to be who you are versus who you must be versus who you choose to be, and how to find that balance. So many characters at war with themselves one way or another, and ultimately they all have to find some way to make peace, and so we just get Identity: Theme and Variation across the series.

(Of course, there are also the characters who aren’t at war with themselves, and whose stories of identity take on a slightly different flavour – Egwene being an obvious example – but I’ll just… save that one for another time or else we’ll be here all day).

“No!” Perrin said, sitting up, holding his head. “I will not lose myself in you.”

(Said Rand to Lews Therin).

Except by denying them, Perrin, you only lose a different part of yourself. And if so much of your energy and self is dedicated to fighting yourself, are you not also then lost? You can’t win a war when you are your own opponent.

He’s looking at this as a zero-sum game: himself against the wolf, and only one can win, and the other must be lost. And so he chooses himself, and tries to suppress or defeat the wolf, but it’s not a zero-sum game, for the very simple reason that there is no other player. He just thinks there is. Much as Rand viewed Lews Therin as an opponent, rather than as a part of himself.

In summary: don’t play prisoner’s dilemma with yourself, because that way lies madness.

You are invited, Young Bull, Hopper sent.

An invitation, not a demand. A gift, an offering, and of course a choice. It’s not something trying to consume him or fight him.

“Hopper, we spoke of this. I’m losing myself. When I go into battle, I become enraged. Like a wolf.”

Like a wolf? Hopper sent. Young Bull, you are a wolf. And a man. Come hunt.

I like the way they talk almost across each other here; Perrin is so set on viewing this as a fight, as a zero-sum game, as an either-or. And Hopper doesn’t understand what he’s on about, because as far as Hopper is concerned, Perrin is a man and a wolf and the two are not mutually exclusive. (Rand and Lews Therin are one and the same).

“I will not let this consume me.” He thought of a young man with golden eyes, locked in a cage, all humanity gone from him.

Except that as he is now, the wolf-aspect of him is effectively encaged, and that’s probably not healthy either. Still, though, so long as he insists on seeing it as something separate to himself, something invasive or antagonistic or other, some part of him will always be trapped.

Which… we’re given Noam as an example, and I do think there’s a path down which Perrin could theoretically end up being ‘consumed’ by the wolf, just as there was a path down which Rand could have ended up, as Moiraine put it, calling himself Lews Therin and Lanfear’s devoted lover. Or, you know, killing his father and the world and himself, and succumbing to the exact fate he pushed Lews Therin away in fear of in the first place.

Because when you’re that committed to framing it as a fight, and suppressing one side or the other, it’s hard to keep it from becoming that, even if that’s not what it ‘should’ be. Not all battles against oneself end in reconciliation. But there’s a bitter kind of irony to it, in that I think the only way Perrin would end up truly ‘losing himself’ to the wolf would be because he framed it as something he could lose to in the first place. (Or, I suppose, if he specifically chose that path and chose to suppress the human side of himself instead).

“I must learn to control this, or I must banish the wolf from me,” Perrin said.

Except that perception, right there, is the entire reason it’s such a struggle in the first place right now. It’s not an either-or. They’re not two separate things, and it’s not something that needs to be leashed.

It's that whole… the more you fight against some part of yourself, the harder it becomes to actually keep it in check, and so we arrive back at something very like ‘surrender to control’. Or, perhaps more accurately, ‘accept in order to control’. Control being also not quite the right word here, because that’s also part of the point.

Basically, throwing up a wall against parts of yourself you’re afraid of rather than understanding them and figuring out how to integrate or improve or work with or channel or grow past or whatever-else them is not a sustainable solution, Perrin. Because those parts of you aren’t just going to go away if you deny them strongly enough; you have to at least understand them, and acknowledge them for what they are, and then you can figure out where you want to go from there. Which, likely, will mean recognising that they’re neither as simple-black-and-white nor as terrifying as you think. It just also means having to do some introspection and maybe realise some things about yourself that challenge your existing self-image. It’s good for you. As Rand could perhaps tell you, once he’s done picking apples.

I do sort of wish this could have been done in the previous book, aligned with Rand’s own last stages of his fight with himself and eventual realisation – sort of the way the cascading ending of characters coming into their power was done in TSR – but also I get that sometimes it’s just not possible to fit everything in exactly the way you want. I promise I’ll stop complaining about having to play timeline catch-up soon.

Anyway, Hopper’s bored of this and wants to go hunting already. Especially because he’s looking at the calendar and realising they have maybe half a term to cram at least a few years’ worth of learning into, so can we get on with it already.

In a previous visit to the wolf dream, Perrin had demanded that Hopper train him to master the place. Very inappropriate for a young wolf – a kind of challenge to the elder’s seniority – but this was a response. Hopper had come to teach, but he would do it as a wolf taught.

Yes. And I think the point there, beyond anything to do with a challenge to seniority, is that if Perrin is going to learn how to walk the wolf dream, he’s going to have to come to terms with the part of him that brings him there in the first place. He can’t learn if he’s holding half of himself back at the same time.

“I will hunt with you – but I must not lose myself.”

But this is you, Perrin. And okay on the whole issue of hunting, I think Perrin sees it as a kind of… succumbing to base instincts, which is part of why he fights it. But I really don’t think that’s what we’re talking about here. I don’t think it’s ‘sure, go for murder breaks whenever you get bored’; I think it’s about… finding a balance in the side of himself that is capable of violence and that thrills in a fight, not by just letting it run wild but just by… understanding that it’s there, because once he does that, he can decide how to direct it.

I mean, we all have parts of ourselves that maybe aren’t always fit for polite company, but pretending they don’t exist isn’t going to make them go away, but understanding them and accepting them sometimes makes it easier to find another way to channel them that’s more… well, I suppose the word Perrin would want here is ‘controlled’. But really, I think it’s more ‘conscious’.

To use his own analogy, it’s the whole ‘the iron in front of him, not dreams of silver’ idea. Work with what you have; understand the components for what they are. That doesn’t mean you can’t work them at all, or reshape them, or hone them, or turn them into something better; it just means seeing those pieces, those starting points, honestly. And understanding what will and won’t work in terms of shaping them. He’s been given these pieces of metal but he insists on not using some of them, or on not even looking at them closely enough to see what metal they are, and I don’t know anything about metalworking so should probably stop this analogy here before I break it.

Anyway Hopper is just enjoying the opportunity to drag Perrin repeatedly, for his own amusement and that of the other wolves.

Meanwhile Perrin’s getting stuck in the long grass, which is absolutely not a metaphor for anything.

I can’t ignore my problems! Perrin thought back.

Yet you often do, Hopper sent.

Well and if that’s not a perfect summary of Perrin’s arc pretty much since the Two Rivers, I don’t know what is. ‘I can’t ignore my problems,’ says Perrin, ignoring at least five problems he doesn’t want to acknowledge in favour of the one or two he can do something about.

Or, as may be more accurately the case, ignoring his own problems in favour of the external ones he can hammer out a solution for.

Credit where it’s due: Perrin knows Hopper’s right.

There, lying on the ground, were the three chunks of metal he’d forged in his earlier dream. The large lump the size of two fists, the flattened rod, the thin rectangle.

Those are oddly specific. Shame there’s not twenty-three of them.

I’d say it sounds like the makings of a hammer except I don’t know what the thin rectangle would be in that case, and he already has a hammer.

Oh hey his prophetic dream-visions are back! It’s been a minute.

Mat stood there. He was fighting against himself, a dozen different men wearing his face, all dressed in different types of fine clothing. Mat spun his spear, and never saw the shadowy figure creeping behind him, bearing a bloody knife.

So the immediate association I have between Mat and a knife is, of course, the ruby dagger currently in the hands of our good friend Padan Fain. Though I suppose we’ve also now introduced the Seanchan Bloodknives to the scene, which would fit with the whole ‘shadowy figure’ as well.

But it’s the rest of this vision that has me intrigued, here. Because my immediate thought – that he’s fighting himself in the sense of all the men whose memories he now holds – doesn’t really make sense at all, because Mat accepted those memories a long time ago; they’ve not felt like a challenge to his identity in nearly the same way as the wolves have been for Perrin or Lews Therin was for Rand.

So then… more figurative? Is it still an identity thing but more about reconciling all the different roles he holds, that pull him in different directions (and some, like his status as Prince of the Ravens, that he has perhaps not quite so fully accepted)?

Or is this some Eelfinn/Aelfinn shit? We know he’s headed there, and it’s another dimension so all bets are off, really.

Or are we going to get into some kind of… decoys strategy? He’s being set up as a general for the Last Battle, so maybe someone or something turning his own strategies or forces against him?

Perrin’s not sure either, and next up we get wolves chasing sheep into the woods full of monsters. That… could honestly be anything. The wolves look wrong, so Darkhounds, maybe? Though in that case I’d expect him to recognise them. As for who he’s chasing… I mean, you can hardly swing a cat in here without hitting a malevolent force these days, so your guess is as good as mine, Perrin.

Hopper doesn’t have time for prophetic movie screenings and would very much like to get on with this hunt now, please, seriously Young Bull it’s been two years, I’m not getting any younger here.

(Hopper, you’re dead; you don’t even age. ‘NO BUT MY PATIENCE DOES’).

Perrin remembered the time; it had been during the early days of Faile’s captivity.

Had he really looked that bad? Light, but he seemed ragged. Almost like a beggar. Or… like Noam.

Oh okay this is a really interesting realisation from Perrin, and a perspective I hadn’t actually considered from this angle. There’s more than one way to lose yourself, and in giving entirely in to the very human side of him (and, perhaps, what Hopper might call a human need for control), and fixating on a single task in that sense, he came close to the same kind of loss of self that he associates with becoming entirely wolf.

And that this version of himself came not as a result of ‘giving in’ to the wolves at all. That maybe, Perrin, the wolves aren’t the source of the problem you’re having with finding a balance within yourself; they’re just a convenient scapegoat, something to project the division within yourself onto.

“Stop trying to confuse me!” Perrin said. “I became that way because I was dedicated to finding Faile, not because I was giving into the wolves!”

Which is… kind of the point, Perrin. There is more than one way to lose yourself. And your dedication to finding Faile was just… another form of focusing only on aspects, and neglecting all the other parts of yourself. But how is neglecting the wolf part of yourself going to solve that? Is that not just another way of fixating on what you think you should be, or on a single task, to the exclusion of what is there?

Hopper’s decided to move on to an object lesson: if you want to keep up, you’ll have to figure out how to run. No more holding back.

I want Hopper and the Wise Ones to meet, sometime. I just think that would be entertaining on all sides.

And so Perrin runs. Finally.

The forest was his. It belonged to him, and he understood it.

His worries began to melt away. He allowed himself to accept things as they were, not as he feared they might become.

Now, the next step: do the same for yourself. Accept yourself as you are, not as you fear you might become. You’re so close, Perrin.

It was exhilarating. Had he ever felt so alive? So much a part of the world around him, yet master of it at the same time?

There’s a surrender/control kind of feeling to this, as well. So much of this is so very, very close to what Perrin needs to learn – or rather, learn to apply to himself. This idea of being part of yet master of at the same time. Master of my fate, captain of my soul, that whole deal. That he can accept and be the wolf, but not be lost in it, just as he is not lost in this world around him that he allows himself to be part of, yet still retains himself and his control.

Whoops caught a whiff of a stag so no more time for existential crisis because that means DINNER.

The stag, I mean. Not the existential crisis. I don’t think they make edible versions of those.

He was the herald, the point, the tip of the attack. The hunt roared behind him. It was as if he led the crashing waves of the ocean itself. But he was also holding them back.

I cannot make them slow for me, Perrin thought.

And then he was on all fours, his bow tossed aside and forgotten, his hands and legs becoming paws. Those behind him howled anew at the glory of it. Young Bull had truly joined them.

ROUND. OF. APPLAUSE.

But actually the main reason I quoted this is because it strikes me that Perrin is, perhaps more so than any of the other major characters, a very Sanderson-esque character in some ways. I’ve compared him to Kaladin before, but even without trying to draw a like-for-like relationship to one of Sanderson’s characters, his character concept feels very much along the lines of what Sanderson would write.

Anyway, I thought of that here because this reads a little like – again not like-for-like but just in the same vein of – some of the other discovery-of-magic or acceptance-of-power or learning-the-scope-of-one’s-abilities scenes Sanderson has written.

I don’t mean it as either criticism or praise; it’s just something that struck me here.

The stag has twenty-six points on its antlers, so that’s not the missing twenty-three from last chapter either.

And we’ve shifted to Young Bull in the narrative now, so Perrin’s actually going along with this wolves-do-guided-meditation class for once.

He needed to be ahead, not follow.

Definitely not a thought applicable outside of this hunt, nope, not at all, nothing to see here, nothing more abstract about needing to act rather than react, or claim the wolf thing and all the aspects of himself he hides from rather than let them drag him along or anything like that.

The stag bolted to the right, and Young Bull leaped, hitting an upright tree trunk with all four paws and pushing himself sideways to change directions.

I am quoting this solely because WOLF PARKOUR.

Sorry.

He howled, and his brothers and sisters replied from just behind. This hunt was all of them. As one.

But Young Bull led.

Leader of men, leader of wolves, LET’S DO THIS.

It’s interesting as well because for all that it’s a hunt, there’s a rather meditative quality to this scene – the simplicity of it once he fins his place, allows himself to be a part of this world around him, acting almost on instinct and leading a perfect chase, not thinking or faltering or hesitating, every movement fluid and precise and beautiful – that actually reminds me of that scene way back in TDR when he worked at the forge in Tear.

Just these few simple moments of Perrin being… himself. A kind of beautiful economy of motion and a meditative sort of rhythm and the absence of doubt or uncertainty.

Which is perfect, of course, because that first scene is for Perrin as he was, for the part of himself he knew and knows and now fears to lose, the part of him that he linked so closely to his identity. It was a reminder of who he was, at a time when he needed it – this whole story just beginning and Perrin away from his home and out of his depth and not sure who he was or what he was becoming. It was a grounding in his foundations.

And now, nearly at the end, we get something with a kind of similar feel to it, but this time it’s the wolf, the part of himself he has yet to accept. There’s almost a bookending here of past and future. One scene to ground him, and one to carry him forward. Once for acknowledgement and once for realisation. Name him true and set his path, I suppose, if I really want to shoehorn another character’s quotes in here.

Anyway.

Perrin – or rather Young Bull – brings down the stag and is looking forward to that sweet sweet venison.

There was nothing else. The forest was gone. The howls faded. There was only the kill. The sweet kill.

A form crashed into him, throwing him back into the brush. Young Bull shook his head, dazed, snarling. Another wolf had stopped him. Hopper! Why?

The stag bounded to its feet, and then bounded off through the forest again. Young Bull howled in fury and rage, preparing to run after it. Again Hopper leaped, throwing his weight at Young bull.

If it dies here, it dies the last death, Hopper sent. This hunt is done, Young Bull. We will hunt another time.

Oh.

Why, Perrin wonders here. And I think the answer here is, because this is how we do not lose ourselves. The hunt is about the joy of it, but it’s not just mindless violence. That’s Perrin’s fear, and Hopper here is teaching him… nuance, I suppose. Control. Restraint.

Because there is a difference between the hunt, between being a wolf, and just succumbing to bloodlust and violence. And I think part of Perrin’s fear comes from conflating the two in his mind, but they’re not the same thing. But without letting himself ever know or be the wolf, without understanding that side of himself, it’s hard to distinguish. And so we come to this, where he sees the wolves acting with this restraint that still does not tarnish their joy, and can perhaps understand it himself and see that ‘joining the wolves in the hunt’ does not mean ‘losing all humanity and becoming a mindless killer’.

“That,” Perrin finally said, “is what I fear.”

No, you do not fear it, Hopper sent.

Thank you, Hopper, for being absurdly wise and also for your patience.

But this is the crux of it all, isn’t it? That Perrin fears – or does not quite fear – what lies at the end of this hunt for him. And hasn’t yet learned to… I suppose trust himself? Or understand that it’s not an all-or-nothing black-or-white kind of thing. To hold on or to let go. But it’s about, as so much of this story is, a more nuanced kind of balance, and an acceptance.

And self-awareness. That too.

Worry, worry, worry. It is all that you do.

“No. I also kill. If you’re going to teach me to master the wolf dream, it’s going to happen like this?”

Yes.

You do kill, Perrin, but it’s not all you do. And I think part of this hunt was also about learning that there’s nuance even in that, maybe. That he can kill and not be monstrous.

But he had been avoiding this issue for too long, making horseshoes in the forge while leaving the most difficult and demanding pieces alone, untouched.

YES! THANK YOU PERRIN AYBARA! YOU’RE GETTING IT.

Man I love when characters finally stop fighting themselves. (I’m me, so I have a slight preference for when that surrender actually takes a much darker ‘so be it’ kind of form but listen, the heroic side is also lovely and this has been such a long time coming).

I also do really like that Perrin comes to these realisations himself. Yes, it’s taken him a long time and yes, Hopper has been pushing him and pushing him to try to get him here (along with Tam, and various others), but ultimately it has to come from him. From an understanding of himself, and an acceptance of that.

Much like Rand’s own realisation, though so many others played into it and guided him along the way or pushed him towards the edge, anchored him or tried to cut him loose, ultimately came down to him, on a mountain, thinking.

Or how Nynaeve breaking her block happened alone at the bottom of a river, in a moment where at last she understood surrender.

These books do self-realisation well, is what I’m getting at. Giving characters those chances to see themselves, and to reach these understandings, and then letting those moments – those quiet, unwitnessed, outwardly unremarkable moments – carry such weight.

He relied on the powers of scent he’d been given, reaching out to wolves when he needed them—but otherwise he’d ignored them.

YES! THIS IS! SO GOOD!

(Like Rand with Lews Therin’s memories, and knowledge of the Power).

But he gets it now. You can’t use this if you’re also trying to fight it. You have to accept it, even when that’s terrifying, even when that means confronting parts of yourself you’d rather pretend weren’t there. Because the reward, ultimately, is that you’ll actually be able to wield them, rather than being at their mercy by virtue of being constantly at war with yourself.

You couldn’t make a thing until you understood its parts. He wouldn’t know how to deal with—or reject—the wolf inside him until he understood the wolf dream.

YES THAT’S EXACTLY IT I HAVE BEEN WAITING FOR THIS.

“Very well,” Perrin said. “So be it.”

HERE. WE. GO.

*

And now over to Galad. Fine. If we must.

Those Light-cursed swamps were behind them; now they travelled over open grasslands.

Because they’ve figured out their leadership situation and murdered the corruption from their ranks, get it?! So they’re not mired in the swamp of their own indecision and division now! They’re united and can move forwards in a cleaner direction!

If there was no danger of death, there could be no bravery, but Galad would rather have the Light shine on him while he continued to draw breath.

I mean, fair enough, and same, but that’s almost a surprising thing for Galad to think. Not that I think he’s the type to want martyrdom, but…hm. I don’t know. Maybe it’s the whole bravery thing here, but it just feels a little odd for Galad. Then again I will be the first to admit that there’s a lot about Galad that just Does Not Compute for me, so…sure. Lawful Good Paladin and all that.

He wanted to know what kind of traffic the highway was drawing

Refugees with a chance of wolves, most likely.

He remembered well the words that Gareth Bryne had once said: Most of the time, a general’s most important function was not to make decisions, but to remind men that someone would make decisions.

I just find it weirdly endearing that all three of Galad, Gawyn, and Elayne end up relying on Bryne’s wisdom from time to time, quoting him in their thoughts. Of course, it just as likely leads them in entirely opposite directions because this family is a bit of a mess, but still.

“The letter must be sent,” Galad said.

Okay but if we’re on the topic of shared family traits, evidence suggests letter-writing is not exactly a strong suit. You sure about this, Galad?

Ah, it’s a letter to the Children with the Seanchan giving them the bullet-points version of everything that’s happened. Well, far be it from me to criticise open and honest communication in this series, I suppose.

And he still plans to ally with Aes Sedai, which understandably is going over as well as a pile of Blight-mud with some of his men.

“But the witches are evil!”

Says a member of an organisation perfectly willing to overlook the torture of innocent people in order to wring confessions from ‘Darkfriends’, but…sure. Just, you know, glass houses and all that.

Once, he might have denied that. But listening to the other Children, and considering what those at Tar Valon had done to his sister, was making him think he might be too soft on the Aes Sedai.

Listening to other Children and thinking about his sister but consider this, Galad, have you ever thought of listening to her, maybe? Or, like, actually trusting her judgement when you do? Just a passing thought.

Seriously, what is it with Elayne’s brothers and continually underestimating her, her ability to look after herself, and also her reading of her own damn situation?

“However, Lord Harnesh, if they are evil, they are insignificant when compared to the Dark One.”

Well… alright, sure, at this stage I guess if that’s how you have to look at it to make this work, then fine. We don’t have time to solve everyone’s problems with everyone else before they all need to at least act as allies, so if uneasy ‘enemy of my enemy’ trust is what it takes…

Then, as Bashere said, there’s always another battle. Or as Rand said, they can all go back to killing one another once it’s done. A sad way to look at it, but for all that Rand has come a long way and is no longer looking at this in quite the same way, I think some of those things are still true. The great battle done, but the world not done with battle.

Tarmon Gai’don’s alliances won’t solve all of that, even led by a Dragon Reborn who truly has a purpose now. It may be enough to see them through, but after…?

The Wheel of Time turns.

“We need allies. Look around you, Lord Harnesh. How many Children do we have? Even with recent recruits, we are under twenty thousand. Our fortress has been taken. We are without succour or allegiance, and the great nations of the world revile us.”

Wow, I WONDER WHY.

I mean, good on Galad for taking on the task of redeeming the Whitecloaks but… it sure is going to be a Task.

“The Questioners are at fault,” Harnesh muttered.

“Part of the blame is theirs,” Galad agreed. “But it is also because those who would do evil look with disgust and resentment upon those who stand for what is right.”

Uh.

Sorry, Galad, but you’re leaving out a very large slice of the blame pie, which is: maybe the Questioners were the worst of the lot (or at the very least they make a convenient set of scapegoats), but the rest of you didn’t exactly object, or do anything about it. And plenty of you went right along (Two Rivers, anyone?) – or, sorry, were you Just Following Orders?

I mean morality is a grey area and all that but trying to pass off widespread hatred of your borderline-fanatic organisation with an unfortunate habit of killing innocent people as ‘evil people hate the righteous’ is maybe a bit of a stretch.

“In the past, the boldness – and perhaps overeagerness – of the Children has alienated those who should have been our allies.”

Euphemistic but…not wrong, I suppose. And to be fair to him (if I must), he does have a rather difficult line to walk, as the leader of this organisation. He maybe can’t just denounce them completely, but he also has to get through to them that some thing are going to have to change. And that this isn’t going to be an easy path ahead.

He's trying to enforce what they should be fighting for, underlining their stated principles and trying to get them to shift direction and also preparing them for what they’re going to face, without… undermining their foundations, or challenging them in a way that might break them.

And I suppose he actually believes some of this as well. Which is still just… sure, Galad. Okay.

I do love that he’s quoting Morgase to them. So much of her legacy has been tarnished that it’s nice to see these moments of… recognition, I guess.

“We follow no queen or king.”

“Yes,” Galad said, “and that frightens monarchs. I grew up in the court of Andor. I know how my mother regarded the Children.”

And yet! Look where you ended up! Quoting Morgase’s own thoughts on leadership to the Children, whom she hated.

See, the problem with Galad in this chapter is that he’s neither being a deadly-graceful swordsman nor defiantly enduring torture, which means we’re back to plain old annoyance with him on my part.

“Darkfriends,” Harnesh muttered.

“My mother was no Darkfriend,” Galad said quietly.

Yeah, Harnesh? If you value your life, do not insult Morgase Trakand in front of Galad. He can and will end you.

“You speak like a Questioner,” Galad said. “Suspecting everyone who opposes us of being a Darkfriend. Many of them are influenced by the Shadow, but I doubt that it is conscious.”

Oh, not just them, Galad. As Egwene said, “I think we all are serving the interests of the Shadow, so long as we allow ourselves to remain divided.” Or, for another and more recent example: “I think he almost had me, Egwene.”

But Galad does know his audience here. The Questioners do provide a convenient scapegoat, and a way to sort of… point out all the problems with the Whitecloaks, but slantwise. Deflected just slightly so that they do not sound like accusations, but rather like a very pointed ‘we are better than them, right?’ A kind of oblique warning, and a reminder of all that they must no longer allow themselves to be. A way of criticising indirectly, and allowing them to maintain their pride and convictions and certainty.

Which is also interesting in contrast to Egwene’s approach with the Aes Sedai, of being incredibly direct in her criticism of both the rebels and the Tower Aes Sedai. It’s interesting, because both approaches work. Because these are two very different organisations and situations, despite their occasional parallels.

“We cannot become lapdogs to kings and queens. And yet, think of what we could achieve inside of a nation’s boundaries if we could act without needing an entire legion to intimidate that nation’s ruler.”

Whitecloaks: ‘we’re a paramilitary organisation answerable to no monarch or nation!’

Galad, son of a literal royal house: ‘sounds good’

Then again, I suppose you could say much the same of the Dragonsworn and the Band of the Red Hand (leaving aside the fact that Rand rules or has ruled at least four nations in fact if not always in name), and in terms of facing Tarmon Gai’don as unified forces of the Light, that’s fair enough. But that’s the sort of thing that tends to cause, er, problems domestically.

A group of travellers on the road! I wonder who this could possibly be!

Galad sighed. Nobody could deny Byar’s dedication – he’d ridden with Galad to face Valda when it could have meant the end of his career. And yet there was such a thing as being too zealous.

Let it not be said that Galad doesn’t have his work cut out for him. That much is for sure.

Though Galad calling anyone else too zealous is, of course, mildly entertaining.

“Peace,” Galad said, “you did no wrong, Child Byar.”

Depends on the timeframe…

There was talk of a gigantic stone from the sky having struck the earth far to the north in Andor, destroying an entire city and leaving a crater.

…Shadar Logoth? Not quite a meteorite, no, but I can see how someone might arrive at that explanation. Especially if all the forces at play there were enough to leave traces of stishovite or coesite.

The talk among the men revealed their worries. They should have understood that worry served no useful function. None could know the weaving of the Wheel.

In which Galad Damodred discovers the cure for anxiety. Seriously, Galad, that’s all well and good for you, and I personally see where you’re coming from, but not everyone is going to just logic away their fear; it doesn’t always work like that.

Yeah this sounds like Perrin’s group. Well this should be fun.

Wait a second.

Morgase is with Perrin.

Oh man.

The man in the cart gave a start upon seeing Galad. Ah, Galad thought, so he knows enough to recognise Morgase’s stepson.

The man in the cart is Basel Gill and definitely knows enough to recognise Morgase’s stepson given that he’s currently travelling with Morgase, yes.

Basel Gill also really, really needs to work on his poker face. Though I don’t think even Mat’s ability to tell a lie would get Perrin’s entire caravan past Galad without arousing some kind of suspicion.

So Galad’s giving him the airport security treatment, Gill is trying his best to lie like a rug, and there’s only one way this is going to end.

“Anything else I will sell, but the food I have promised by messenger to someone in Lugard.”

“I will pay more.”

“I made a promise, my good Lord,” the man said. “ could not break it, regardless of the price.”

“I see.”

I have to laugh here because yes, Gill is lying through is teeth and Galad knows it, but he’s also chosen the one lie that Galadedrid ‘do the right thing no matter the cost’ Damodred can’t actually directly challenge.

So instead he’s just going to separate the group and see if they all tell the same story.

“After all, what it seems like to me is that you are the camp followers of a large army. If that is the case, then I would very much like to know whose army it is, not to mention where it is.”

WOULDN’T YOU JUST.

It occurs to me that Perrin is the only one of the ta’veren boys – and, actually, the only one of the original Emond’s Field crew – who Galad hasn’t met.

And while it might be kind of funny if it were Mat’s army and he and Galad had a ‘….you?’ moment, given their last meeting, it’s all kinds of appropriate in terms of actual story and characters that Galad, new leader of the possibly-soon-to-be-reformed Whitecloaks, is the one meeting up with Perrin ‘Whitecloaks were my first kill’ Aybara.

Because Perrin is the one with the most… messy history with the Whitecloaks, and so it is fitting that if there really is to be a shift, and if they really are to move forwards, it would be by turning that, somehow, into alliance.

“We may have a situation here,” Bornhald said. His face was flushed with anger.

Uh oh.

Speaking of Perrin’s history with the Whitecloaks. Bornhald (mistakenly) thinks Perrin killed his father, Perrin (somewhat less mistakenly) thinks Bornhald let his home be ravaged by Trollocs and betrayed him when he had promised to help… you know, just a few disagreements between friends.

“Have you ever heard of a man called Perrin Goldeneyes?”

“No. Should I have?”

“Yes,” Bornhald said. “He killed my father.”

Prepare to die.

Well THIS should be fun!

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