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aoibhinnslater04 · 1 year

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Kanej AU

The scene (specifically from the series rather than the books but basically the bathroom scene) where Nina doesn’t interrupt them and Kaz doesn’t decide to sabotage himself

Basically a whole load of Kanej angst!!

Word count: 1697

Requested by @arany-studio

TW: mentions of rape, trauma, injuries

Kaz walked into the small room to find Inej packing her knives. He saw her pause at the sound of his steps, her head tilting slightly towards him, before she resumed sorting her knives.

"You've been lying low?" he asked, his voice rough.

"I've been gathering Intel on Pekka's assassin. I've discovered my bladesmith supplies him with bone-cutters and fillet knives," she responded, still not looking at him.

"Taxidermy tools," Kaz choked out.

"His name's Mogens. I've got his address,"

"That must have cost you."

Inej cut him off. "A new set of blades." She paused before continuing. "He intends on taking me alive, so he can put me back in the Menagerie."

"I won't let that happen," Kaz said gruffly.

"And why should I believe you?" Inej asked, sharply, turning to face him at last. "We were ambushed, Kaz. Whatever this is, this blood feud you have with Pekka Rollins, I don't believe it's about some Saints-forsaken club! You are gambling with our lives and I deserve to know the reason! You owe me that much," she spat out, the first time Kaz had truly seen her angry. She always managed to find something positive about every situation, even being taken by slavers, sold to a Menagerie where she was abused and raped nearly every day, because her parents and brother weren’t there with her, they were safe, they were alive. Suddenly a bright red staining her sleeve caught Kaz's eye.

"Inej, your arm," he whispered, his eyes fixed on the blood spilling out of her. She paused and glanced down, before sighing and rolling her eyes. She seemed to whisper a silent prayer for patience before removing her shirt, leaving her with just a vest on. She checked the bandage, before removing it, wincing. Kaz looked away, unable to bear it, before finally answering her question.

"Pekka Rollins killed my brother."

He felt Inej stiffen slightly, and heard her turn to face him. There was a long moment of silence, as she searched his half-hidden face, before finding whatever it was she was looking for.

"Then we destroy him."

Kaz turned his head quickly up to face her, and saw the openness and anger in her face. She meant it, too. They shared a look, a brief moment where they were both just two people in pain, where they could get comfort from each other, before Inej winced again, and the moment shattered. She glanced once more at her arm, before turning away from Kaz again, reaching for the alcohol to disinfect the wound. She poured some on a piece of linen, and started dabbing at it, twisting her neck to make sure she was reaching every bit of the exposed cut. Kaz, hardly even aware of his own body, moved towards her. She glanced up at him, her beautiful doe eyes searching his face, before she turned to the cut again. Kaz reached out his hand silently, an offer. With her eyes now again on his face, not moving, as if hypnotised, she handed him the cloth. He wasn't able to remove his gloves, not yet, but he hadn't been so close to another human being since Jordie had died.

Inej saw his momentary hesitation, and turned away from him, allowing him to move at his own rate. He reached towards her, dabbing at the wound with the cloth. He heard her breathing hitch slightly, and kept dabbing, not wanting to break the spell by speaking. But then Inej spoke, her words soft and hesitant.

"Is there anyone to protect you?"

You, Inej. You.

But instead he responded, slightly harsh, "Was there no one to protect you?"

Inej turned to look at him, her face soft and vulnerable. She opened her mouth, but he cut her off before she could say a word.

"Look for Mogens' tells. Signs of an old injury that point to a weakness or a repeating action that tells you what he's going to do next."

He saw her face turn contemplative, before she asked hesitantly, "Do I have one?"

He turned his head back to her soft brown skin, before responding "you shift your weight onto your back leg before you lunge. "

She turned fully, facing him again. He stepped back slightly, cursing himself inwardly. She whispered, so softly he could barely hear her. "What's yours?"

Kaz paused, before looking her in the eye. "The limp. The cane. No one's ever smart enough to look for the real one."

Inej moved slightly, just an inch towards her. It was as though his senses were heightened. He smelt her gentle jasmine scent, saw her lips slightly parted, heard her soft breathing, felt her gentle touch as she recovered the cloth he forgot he still held, and all he could think about was her nearness. He hadn't so much as removed a single glove, but he felt as vulnerable as though she had stripped him naked.

Kaz cleared his throat before stepping back, grabbing the fresh roll of bandages off the bench. Inej obediently turned away again, allowing him to take a deep breath. The silence was killing him, and he spoke without thinking.

“You know, I don’t find this part easy. The cutting, the slicing, causing pain is the easy part. Repairing the damage afterwards is far more difficult.”

He wondered if she knew that he wasn’t talking about her wound, then, not really. He was trying to explain that although he was broken, he was trying to repair himself, trying to fix the cracks to become the sort of man she would be proud of, that Jordie would be proud of.

Inej let out a deep breath, sending strands of her dark hair fluttering outwards. Kaz reached out automatically, smoothing her hair down against her head. She stiffened, and so did Kaz, that brief moment of automatic affection an oddity to both. But Kaz then again, feeling almost dizzy with desire, allowed himself to gently stroke her hair. His gloves were still on, a barrier that separated them, but as he felt Inej relax at his touch, he allowed himself to want more, to want Inej. Perhaps one day she might want him too.

Inej cleared her throat, bringing back reality. “Once, when I was much younger, the first time that I tried to walk across the tightrope, I fell. Not when I was on the wire, but at the end, can you imagine? I fell, and hadn’t yet learned how to fall properly. My parents ran to me, but I didn’t feel the pain. I think I was in shock.”

Kaz waited, sure she had a point to this story.She hesitated, before continuing.

“I broke my leg in three different places. My mother thought I might never walk again. My leg healed, but some scars still remained. I couldn’t walk on the tightrope for months, fearing what would happen when I reached the end.”

She turned to face him now, causing him to step back.

“Finally I decided enough was enough. I had been afraid for too long. So everyday for three weeks, instead of walking across the tightrope, I would climb the ladder and just stand at the end. I stood there for an hour that first day, until I had calmed enough to climb down. The second day, I stood there for forty five minutes. Finally, I was only standing there for a few seconds. It took a long time, and the end is still my least favourite part, but I fought against my fears and won.”

She stepped closer to him, and this time he didn’t move back.

“You will fight your fears Kaz Brekker, and then one day you will live without the same fear. It might still hurt occasionally, but you are stronger than you give yourself credit for.”

Kaz looked down at her, his face soft, open and vulnerable. Inej looked straight back up at him, her eyes wide and searching, waiting. Kaz bent down slightly towards her, and brushed his lips slightly against her forehead in the gentlest kiss. Her eyes shuttered closed briefly, the softest sound escaping her throat, but she didn’t move. She allowed Kaz to tell her without words what he was capable of, what was too far and yet not enough. She allowed the broken man before her to fix a small, fractured piece of himself, before she stepped back, quivering slightly. She was feeling everything all at once, her emotions threatening to overwhelm her. But she stayed steady, and breathed, like she was at the end of the wire once again. Kaz gazed at her, his expression full of wonder, like a young boy, his future full of possibilities.

She turned, so he wouldn’t see the tears that had filled her eyes, and grabbed a hairbrush, unpinning her plait to rebraid it. But he held out his hand, and said, softly, gruffly, as if he, too, was fighting back unshed tears, “Let me.”

Inej handed him the brush, and climbed onto the small bench in front of him, and as Kaz began to gently brush her hair, untangling the knots with such care it was as though he thought she might break at the slightest tug. Inej allowed, then, the tears to fall. She didn’t see that Kaz, too, had tears trickling down his cheeks.

She let out a deep breath, she didn’t realise she had been holding, shuddering slightly, and allowed her eyes to shut for a moment. It had been so long since she had slept, and she had never felt so tired, as if her emotions had drained her more than usual. Her body swayed slightly, but then felt Kaz steady her. He gently laid her back onto the bench, and she felt him move away. She thought he had gone, but then heard his uneven steps return. She felt the softness and warmth of a blanket cover her, and felt him gently lift her head to put a pillow underneath.

“I thought you had left me,” she whispered, her voice heavy with sleep.

“Never,” he vowed. “I will never leave you.”

And then Inej fell asleep, guarded by the healing man above her, his dark eyes keeping watch, protecting her from anything that meant her harm.

#kanej #kaz brekker #inej ghafa #six of crows #crooked kingdom #bathroom scene #angst #kanejedit #kanej angst #netflix shadow and bone #shadow and bone #shadow and bone netflix #shadow and bone season 2

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lennart11412 · 1 month

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17“Therefore My Father loves Me, because I lay down My life that I may take it again. 18No one takes it from Me, but I lay it down of Myself. I have power to lay it down, and I have power to take it again. This command I have received from My Father.”

“The Lord came from Sinai, And dawned on them from Seir; He shone forth from Mount Paran, And He came with ten thousands of saints; From His right hand Came a fiery law for them. 3Yes, He loves the people; All His saints are in Your hand; They sit down at Your feet; Everyone receives Your words.

17The chariots of God are twenty thousand, Even thousands of thousands; The Lord is among them as in Sinai, in the Holy Place. 18You have ascended on high, You have led captivity captive; You have received gifts among men, Even from the rebellious, That the Lord God might dwell there.

19Blessed be the Lord, Who daily loads us with benefits, The God of our salvation! Selah 20Our God is the God of salvation; And to God the Lord belong escapes from death.

1Who has believed our report? And to whom has the arm of the Lord been revealed? 2For He shall grow up before Him as a tender plant, And as a root out of dry ground. He has no [a]form or [b]comeliness; And when we see Him, There is no [c]beauty that we should desire Him. 3He is despised and [d]rejected by men, A Man of [e]sorrows and acquainted with [f]grief. And we hid, as it were, our faces from Him; He was despised, and we did not esteem Him.

4Surely He has borne our [g]griefs And carried our [h]sorrows; Yet we [i]esteemed Him stricken, [j]Smitten by God, and afflicted. 5But He was wounded[k] for our transgressions, He was [l]bruised for our iniquities; The chastisement for our peace was upon Him, And by His stripes[m] we are healed. 6All we like sheep have gone astray; We have turned, every one, to his own way; And the Lord [n]has laid on Him the iniquity of us all.

7He was oppressed and He was afflicted, Yet He opened not His mouth; He was led as a lamb to the slaughter, And as a sheep before its shearers is silent, So He opened not His mouth. 8He was taken from [o]prison and from judgment, And who will declare His generation? For He was cut off from the land of the living; For the transgressions of My people He was stricken. 9And [p]they made His grave with the wicked— But with the rich at His death, Because He had done no violence, Nor was any deceit in His mouth.

10Yet it pleased the Lord to [q]bruise Him; He has put Him to grief. When You make His soul an offering for sin, He shall see His seed, He shall prolong His days, And the pleasure of the Lord shall prosper in His hand. 11[r]He shall see the labor of His soul, and be satisfied. By His knowledge My righteous Servant shall justify many, For He shall bear their iniquities. 12Therefore I will divide Him a portion with the great, And He shall divide the [s]spoil with the strong, Because He poured out His soul unto death, And He was numbered with the transgressors, And He bore the sin of many, And made intercession for the transgressors.

19The Lord has established His throne in heaven, And His kingdom rules over all.

20Bless the Lord, you His angels, Who excel in strength, who do His word, Heeding the voice of His word. 21Bless the Lord, all you His hosts, You [c]ministers of His, who do His pleasure. 22Bless the Lord, all His works, In all places of His dominion.

Bless the Lord, O my soul!

36Jesus answered, “My kingdom is not of this world. If My kingdom were of this world, My servants would fight, so that I should not be delivered to the Jews; but now My kingdom is not from here.”

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tc-fmp · 5 months

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MONEY GAME

While I have said I am likely to move away from the storyline aspect of my game, I would still like to add this to my blog.

Money Game is a series of 3 songs released by independent artist Ren Gill. He is one of my favourite artists personally, and I think some of his music shares some themes with both my game and the Just Cause & Far Cry trilogies.

Money Game

Money Game is the first song in the series, and discusses topics such as capitalism and immigration. The first verse briefly touches on greed and capitalism within governments, seen in the lines "Hierarchy parties, they make us feel inferior" and "Greed runs through the parliament interior". I believe these lines are specifically talking about members of parliament who are more interested in personal gain through profits than the best interests of the people they represent.

The next few lines, which I will quote below, reference the unique ability money has to turn innocent people into greedy capitalists.

Money was invented for trade But now those bits of paper twist hearts, make slaves Turns a saint into a sinner, a child into a killer His finger on the trigger of a money game

These lines make reference to the fact that humans invented money for the purposes of trade, but in modern societies, people are more concerned with their wealth than feelings and other people - I.e., we are living in a selfish and greedy society. This ties in very closely with the capitalism found in General Di Ravello, in Just Cause 3, as he obviously cares more about power and money than his people (he burns an entire town down to gain profits).

The song also touches on hypocrisy and hatred, especially in the lines "When did freedom become a reason to hate? A way to justify a racial slur or insult we make?", referencing how people are so quick to hate people and attack them (whether emotionally or physically), just because they are given the chance. This again ties in with themes in Just Cause and Far Cry.

youtube

Money Game: Part 2

Money Game: Part 2, being the second song in the trilogy, uses a similar tune and the same chorus as part 1, except it elaborates on the themes using humorous and funny techniques. The best example of this is Ren using the familiar "tongue twister" - "She sells sea shells on the sea shore", as a literary device and twists it to discuss capitalism and greed.

She sells seashells on a seashore But the value of these shells will fall Due to the laws of supply and demand No one wants to buy shells 'cause there's loads on the sand

Step one, you must create a sense of scarcity Shells will sell much better if the people think they're rare, you see Bear with me, take as many shells as you can find and hide 'em On an island stockpile 'em high until they're rarer than a diamond

This sense of presenting dark themes such as capitalism and corruption using jocular and whimsical devices is a particular interest of my project, and also can be seen in Just Cause (the entire franchise) and several Far Cry games. In Just Cause 3, this is seen in the fact that there are plenty of humorous weapons and vehicles for the player to use.

The song is also somewhat ironic, as it shows that something as innocent as a nursery rhyme can be twisted into something that represents greed and capitalism.

youtube

Money Game: Part 3

Money Game: Part 3 is obviously the third addition to the trilogy, and uses a new tune and theme. This time, the song follows the life of a boy called Jimmy, who is abnormally intelligent, and how his opinions were affected by foreign influence, and the negative impacts that this had on him.

The song has no chorus, and is played on only a select few instruments, and is also performed live in the music video - also, no autotune is used and the audio tracks are not altered. I believe this was done intentionally to show that the topics that the song is discussing is very much real and a genuine problem in today's society.

Firstly, the song mentions that Jimmy has been indoctrinated with the ideology that (quote) "Money is the means to all ends" from a young age, by his father. This shows that capitalism and greed is an ideology that is learned, and not a natural human instinct.

Throughout the song, Jimmy (the character being described) gradually descends from being genuinely successful to greedy, capitalistic and corrupt. I particularly find the quote "If you manipulate the data, then the lie will sell itself" interesting as it also shows the harsh realities of today's society.

Towards the end of the song, the music stops, and Ren talks about the fact that the song "Isn't entertainment" and how it is "real life".

This isn't entertainment, this is real life, the way we live is lunacy, community it declines, We're hyperpolarized, we're always fighting and we divide Truth is less important than the money that we designed? Money's an invention, politics from our invention, they all come from people's ideas, Did I mention border's an invention? Law and order fuels the tension, that leads to people killing each other?

This also interests me because it further elaborates on the fact that capitalism and corruption are real issues and seriously happen within society. This is particularly useful to me, as it also shows that such subjects must be handled sensitively and with consideration to those affected by such wrongdoings.

youtube

#Youtube

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worldfootballrumours · 2 years

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#World Football Rumours

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auraofazure · 2 years

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NFL Divisions Roundup (as of week 12)

Six weeks remaining in the football season, it's time to assess the teams and judge their chances to make it all the way (this time) - bring out the contenders. NFC EAST - Contenders and Pretenders EAGLES (10-1) - This team has "team of destiny" written all over them. The offense is clicking on all cylinders, the defense is stout from top to bottom, but there are holes in the wall if you look close enough. This team isn't indestructible, but it's a steep uphill battle when going up against this formidable squad.

COWBOYS (8-3) - When "DEM BOYS" are good, America is sad. When they're bad, we all laugh in unity. Alas, they are good and we must all suffer because of it. There is no QB controversy to be had, though, with Dak back under center and being lifted to prominence with strong weapons all throughout. May God help us all if they get OBJ in the end.

GIANTS (7-4) - Is this team good? Or are they just lucky? It's hard to tell, but when the pieces are in place the Giants CAN be good. It's all just a matter of being in the right place at the right time, so all they have to do is not collapse in the end. And they can do that... right?

COMMANDERS (7-5) - Somehow succeeding in spite of everything this franchise is being lambasted for, if these records hold true then we will see all four NFC East teams in the playoffs. And yes, that includes Washington. We are inching closer and closer to the chaotic timeline, fueled by a QB with the name of Heineke.

NFC NORTH - Laughing in Devil Magic VIKINGS (9-2) - The devil ice is not indestructible, and there are times where Kirk Cousins reverts to his usual form, but as of late it's mattered little when the major offensive weapons are carrying the load to success. This team is good AND icey, and that's dangerous to everyone.

LIONS (4-8) - Can a team be likable AND unlikable? The personalities this squad has are some of the most likable in the league, yet the gaffs make this team sink back down to laughingstock status. They are THIS close to being good, but as of right now they're just the beneficiaries of a division that's crumbling under the devil ice of Minnesota. And speaking of crumbling...

PACKERS (4-8) - This team is COOKED with a capital C. They never planned for the future, either long-term or interim, and now they're paying the price with Aaron Rodgers swearing to play hero-ball at every possible moment, much to the detriment of the team and Tom Grossi. And nobody feels bad about it, either.

BEARS (3-9) - What's so baffling about this season is that this is Justin Fields' best career year so far. He's free of the Matt Nagy playbook and has grown into being the modern QB that Chicago has longed for for years, only with the rest of the team floundering around him. Full credit for overachieving in a rebuild year, though.

NFC SOUTH - New-Age Tank Division BUCCANEERS (5-6) - Tom Brady should've stayed retired. So many things could have changed if he just stayed home, but he just HAD to prove Adam Schefter wrong. Now it's costing him in several ways, least of all his team completely collapsing week by week. Yet they're probably going to host a playoff game with a record that's close to or below .500 - isn't that sad.

FALCONS (5-7) - Some habits are just too difficult to break. And for the Falcons, it's their habit of choking wins away. The fact that they're still in contention for the division proves how trash the NFC South is this year.

PANTHERS (4-8) - This is a team with literally nothing left to lose. They lost their head coach for sucking, their best running back for draft capital, and their QB1 because Baker Mayfield in 2022 stinks. But that's given them a wild inconsistency, they were supposed to lose out - yet they find wins whenever they can. Good for them? SAINTS (4-8) - The Saints giveth and the Saints taketh away. They will give their fans a shutout win against the Raiders, and then they will take that false hope away with a shutout loss against the 49ers. The rebuild is going to be long and arduous and it's going to suck for a while in NOLA. At least you went out on sorta-top?

NFC WEST - North vs. South 49ERS (7-4) - This team wasn't supposed to be good. Their QB of the future was sidelined and Jimmy G came back to save the day. They got Christian McCaffrey at the cost of several draft futures. They've been shutting teams out in the second half - FOUR straight with zero points allowed. When this team is healthy, they are a formidably dangerous squad to go against. They've gone all in - the ultimate risk for the ultimate reward.

SEAHAWKS (6-5) - Regardless of how the season ends, this has been a banner year for Geno Smith, proving his worth as a strong QB after several backup job stints. But this team can't win it all with just the likes of Lockett and Metcalf, not the way they've been playing as of late. It's a tight race for the division between the two northern teams, as it always is between SF and Seattle.

CARDINALS (4-8) - The good news is that they're not totally dead yet. The bad news is that they're stuck with their GM and head coach for at least five more years, and given what they've done recently that's a big cause for concern - or rather, what they HAVEN'T done recently: win.

RAMS (3-8) - At least they won a ring, right? Somebody forgot to tell the Rams that there's a price to pay for a ring-chase campaign, and it comes with the team completely collapsing in on itself. It's the one time where it's a good thing that a team doesn't have any fans, nobody should be subjected to watching this team play.

AFC EAST - The Salty Spittoon, Confirmed DOLPHINS (8-3) - After a rocky start to the season, this team has come out like a rocketship to stake their claim at the AFC title, and everything is clicking here. Time will tell if they can keep their momentum throughout the rest of the season, but if they do? We might be waddling our way through January.

BILLS (8-3) - It's clutch time for this squad, there is absolutely zero room for mistakes to be had going forward. And recently, Josh Allen has moved from his newfound status as "the only QB in NFL history" to his earlier year form - that isn't good. The window will only be open for so long, so it's now or never for Buffalo.

JETS (7-4) - Much like the Giants, is this team good or just lucky? It's a bit of both, really, but it seems like it'll be the Mike White show for the rest of the season. You won't make it to the playoffs with mistakes, so the Jets need to keep them to a minimum, just like Buffalo. Imagine saying that a few years ago, though - the Jets are PLAYOFF contenders.

PATRIOTS (6-5) - Somehow, someway, the evil empire is still sticking around and looking for an opening to get into the playoff picture. And what's the most concerning is that they can get away with it if everything plays out according to plan. May God have mercy on us for it.

AFC NORTH - Can Someone Win the Division? RAVENS (7-4) - This team can't be trusted to hold a lead. At all. Prove me wrong or fire Greg Roman as soon as humanly possible.

BENGALS (7-4) - The goal for the year was to prove that the Super Bowl run wasn't a fluke. It's not easy to repeat a miracle season, so can they make it to the playoffs again? So long as they keep the issues and injuries down, they might. Or if the Ravens collapse, whichever comes first.

BROWNS (4-7) - Everyone will get to see the unsavory truth about the Factory of Sadness: Deshaun Watson is not the all-in-one fix this team needs. It's a shame that they have to learn this the hard way, but it's the only way they'll learn.

STEELERS (4-7) - The "Steeler Way" is dead and this season will be proof of it. People will be getting fired after this season. Bank on it.

AFC SOUTH - Frauds. Frauds Everywhere. TITANS (7-4) - This team is doing the barest minimum to lead their division and that's because every other team is a flaming dumpster fire of various degrees.

COLTS (4-7-1) - We're at the "hire an ESPN analyst to be the new head coach" stage of this team. That's how things are going in Indy.

JAGUARS (4-7) - Whatever wins they're getting are just moral victories. But at least they won't get the #1 overall pick for the third year straight.

TEXANS (1-9-1) - Behold, the ultimate tank of tanks. Unable to win, unable to compete, but absolutely able to make sure they sink all the way to the bottom for that sweet draft capital. It sometimes help to suck absolute ass.

AFC WEST - Division of Contenders? No. CHIEFS (9-2) - Oh wow, the Chiefs are still a top contender in the league because they have some of the best players in the whole league. I'm so shocked.

CHARGERS (6-5) - I think it's time we have a talk about Brandon Staley: he's not a GREAT coach, he just needs to ditch his weird quirks and start being more of a normal coach. Maybe then they'd be in contention for the division.

RAIDERS (4-7) - This team is so cash-strapped that they actually can't fire Josh McDaniels. So they're stuck with him and now they have to make the best of a bad situation, and get wins wherever they can. But it absolutely can be worse.

BRONCOS (3-8) - BRONCOS COUNTRY. LET'S RIDE ALL THE WAY OFF A CLIFF BECAUSE NATHANIEL HACKETT NEEDS TO BE FIRED ASAP.

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ongole · 2 years

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DAILY SCRIPTURE READINGS (DSR) 📚 GROUP, Sun Oct 09th, 2022...The Twenty Eighth Sunday in Ordinary Time, Year C

Reading I

---------

2 Kgs 5:14-17

Naaman went down and plunged into the Jordan seven times

at the word of Elisha, the man of God.

His flesh became again like the flesh of a little child,

and he was clean of his leprosy.

Naaman returned with his whole retinue to the man of God.

On his arrival he stood before Elisha and said,

"Now I know that there is no God in all the earth,

except in Israel.

Please accept a gift from your servant."

Elisha replied, "As the LORD lives whom I serve, I will not take it;"

and despite Naaman's urging, he still refused.

Naaman said: "If you will not accept,

please let me, your servant, have two mule-loads of earth,

for I will no longer offer holocaust or sacrifice

to any other god except to the LORD."

Responsorial Psalm

---------------

Ps 98:1, 2-3, 3-4

R. (cf. 2b) The Lord has revealed to the nations his saving power.

Sing to the LORD a new song,

for he has done wondrous deeds;

his right hand has won victory for him,

his holy arm.

R. The Lord has revealed to the nations his saving power.

The LORD has made his salvation known:

in the sight of the nations he has revealed his justice.

He has remembered his kindness and his faithfulness

toward the house of Israel.

R. The Lord has revealed to the nations his saving power.

All the ends of the earth have seen

the salvation by our God.

Sing joyfully to the LORD, all you lands:

break into song; sing praise.

R. The Lord has revealed to the nations his saving power.

Reading II

---------

2 Tm 2:8-13

Beloved:

Remember Jesus Christ, raised from the dead, a descendant of David:

such is my gospel, for which I am suffering,

even to the point of chains, like a criminal.

But the word of God is not chained.

Therefore, I bear with everything for the sake of those who are chosen,

so that they too may obtain the salvation that is in Christ Jesus,

together with eternal glory.

This saying is trustworthy:

If we have died with him

we shall also live with him;

if we persevere

we shall also reign with him.

But if we deny him

he will deny us.

If we are unfaithful

he remains faithful,

for he cannot deny himself.

Alleluia

-------

1 Thes 5:18

R. Alleluia, alleluia.

In all circumstances, give thanks,

for this is the will of God for you in Christ Jesus.

R. Alleluia, alleluia.

Gospel

-------

Lk 17:11-19

As Jesus continued his journey to Jerusalem,

he traveled through Samaria and Galilee.

As he was entering a village, ten lepers met him.

They stood at a distance from him and raised their voices, saying,

"Jesus, Master! Have pity on us!"

And when he saw them, he said,

"Go show yourselves to the priests."

As they were going they were cleansed.

And one of them, realizing he had been healed,

returned, glorifying God in a loud voice;

and he fell at the feet of Jesus and thanked him.

He was a Samaritan.

Jesus said in reply,

"Ten were cleansed, were they not?

Where are the other nine?

Has none but this foreigner returned to give thanks to God?"

Then he said to him, "Stand up and go;

your faith has saved you."

***

DAILY SCRIPTURE READINGS (DSR) 📚 GROUP, Sun Oct 09th, 2022...The Twenty Eighth Sunday in Ordinary Time, Year C

FOCUS AND LITURGY OF THE WORD

… if we persevere we shall also reign with him.

“This saying is trustworthy: If we have died with Him we shall also live with Him….” Saint Paul, in saying this, is not subscribing to the belief that some Christians hold: namely, that Jesus suffered and died so that you don’t have to. In fact, Jesus suffered and died so that your suffering and death would not be meaningless: so that your suffering and death would not be a brick wall, but a doorway.

Living with Jesus is our goal. Dying with Jesus is our means. Dying with Jesus is the way by which we enter into Jesus’ life. But the choice is ours.

The first way that we can die with Jesus is baptism. Now, you might say to yourself, “I was baptized as an infant, so I don’t remember anything about my baptism, and besides, that was a long time ago. A lot of sins have passed under the bridge since then.” Nonetheless, it’s important to look back at what happened at your baptism.

In his letter to the Romans, St. Paul asks: “Do you not know that all of us who have been baptized into Christ Jesus were baptized into His death? We were buried therefore with Him by baptism into death, so that as Christ was raised from the dead by the glory of the Father, we too might walk in newness of life” [Romans 6:3-4].

One of the important truths that St. Paul is setting down is that the effects of Baptism don’t completely vanish once you commit your first mortal sin. On the contrary, dying and being buried with Jesus in baptism changes a person’s life forever. The Sacrament of Baptism marks one’s soul with an indelible mark or seal that cannot be erased later in life even by the worst of sins.

But what exactly is this mark or seal that Baptism imprints upon your soul? You’ve probably seen individuals who have towels in their bathrooms with their initials on them. It’s something like that with your soul, except it’s not your name, but God’s divine Name that’s imprinted on your soul. This mark or seal is God’s way of saying, “This person belongs to me. This person is my child and is destined for Heaven.”

Clearly we need never to presume upon this great gift, but there is a flip side to this coin. The other side reminds us that with every gift comes a responsibility.

The first responsibility that comes with every gift is gratitude. The great English journalist G. K. Chesterton once wrote: “I would maintain that thanks are the highest form of thought; and that gratitude is happiness doubled by wonder” [A Short History of England]. The responsibility of gratitude is illustrated by Our Lord in today’s Gospel Reading.

“Where are the other nine?”, Jesus asks. “Has none but this foreigner returned to give thanks to God?” This “foreigner” was a Samaritan, a group of Jewish people not only looked down upon by most other Jews. The Samaritans, in fact, were people who refused to worship as God had asked in the Old Testament. Nevertheless, in spite of this fact, Jesus praises this Samaritan because he knows the first responsibility of being given a gift: that is, to give thanks in return.

The second way to die with Jesus is through our moral life. When we decide whom to vote for, and when we decide whether or not to participate in gossip that someone else in the room initiated, and when we decide whether to spend money for luxuries, or for necessities, or for others, we are making moral choices.

Some moral choices are easy to make, but others demand a difficult dying-to-oneself. It’s not difficult for a mother to love her infant and take care of him, although it might be more difficult at 2:00 a.m. Nonetheless, the bond of love between mother and infant moves her to care for the child even when that requires self-sacrifice.

But other forms of dying-to-oneself are far more difficult, such as choosing to love someone who is not lovable, as an infant so naturally is. This is akin to Christ’s love for you on the Cross. His crucified love, in turn, has the power to lead you into the heavenly love who is the Most Holy Trinity, and even to let you dwell within this love during your earthly days.

***

DAILY SCRIPTURE READINGS (DSR) 📚 GROUP, Sun Oct 09th, 2022...The Twenty Eighth Sunday in Ordinary Time, Year C...SAINT OF THE DAY

Saint Denis and Companions

(d. 258?)

Saint Denis and Companions’ Story

This martyr and patron of France is regarded as the first bishop of Paris. His popularity is due to a series of legends, especially those connecting him with the great abbey church of St. Denis in Paris. He was for a time confused with the writer now called Pseudo-Dionysius.

The best hypothesis contends that Denis was sent to Gaul from Rome in the third century and beheaded in the persecution under Emperor Valerius in 258.

According to one of the legends, after he was martyred on Montmartre—literally, “mountain of martyrs”—in Paris, he carried his head to a village northeast of the city. Saint Genevieve built a basilica over his tomb at the beginning of the sixth century.

Reflection

----------

Again, we have the case of a saint about whom almost nothing is known, yet one whose cult has been a vigorous part of the Church’s history for centuries. We can only conclude that the deep impression the saint made on the people of his day reflected a life of unusual holiness. In all such cases, there are two fundamental facts: A great man gave his life for Christ, and the Church has never forgotten him—a human symbol of God’s eternal mindfulness.

Saint Denis is the Patron Saint of:

France

***

▪︎【Read God's Word daily on "Daily Scripture Readings (DSR) 📚 groups"' WhatsApp Tel. +256751540524】

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yandere-daydreams · 4 years

Text

Title: Survival of the Fittest.

Pairing: Yandere!Bakugo/Reader/Yandere!Kirishima (BNHA).

Word Count: 3.6k.

TW: Apocalypse/No Quirks AU, Unhealthy Codependency, Non-Consensual Touching, Mentions of Death/injury, Non-Graphic Violence, Imprisonment.

You were lucky Kirishima had been the one to find you.

‘Find’ might’ve been the wrong word. It implied that he was looking, that he wanted to discover you, bleeding and battered and bruised, cowering in a grimy corner of what used to be a grocery store. It must’ve looked pathetic, but you couldn’t bring yourself to be embarrassed by your torn clothes, your matted hair, the way you’d whimpered as he first approached, all wide eyes and open arms. Survivors were few and far between, and it’d been weeks since you saw another living, breathing person. Kirishima hadn’t seemed like a god-send, not in the moment, but he was a miracle. You’d been too shocked to thank him properly, as he pulled you to your feet and practically carried you out of the city, but you should. You wanted to. You owed him that, if nothing else.

You were lucky it’d been him, rather than Bakugo. You were grateful it hadn’t been Bakugo.

You’d probably still be rotting in that corner, if it had been.

He didn’t seem to like you very much, even if he had begrudgingly moved aside when Kirishima asked if he could bring you inside. It was a bunker, judging by the sparse furniture littered around the common area, plain cement walls only adorned with the occasional hunting knife or bat left to lean against them. The bench Kirishima had left you on was wooden, too stiff to ever be comfortable, but it was a practical choice. Fabric was a luxury to be stowed away and treasured, saved for things more important than a stranger’s comfort. You’d do the same thing, if you’d been in his shoes.

That didn’t stop Bakugo from glaring, though, perching himself on the edge of a nearby crate and refusing to take his eyes off of you, as if you’d already earned and lost his trust. “There’s no fucking advantage,” He started, but he wasn’t talking to you. You weren't worth his time, just yet, not while you were still just a stray Kirishima was too much of a saint to turn away. “We’re not a damn food bank. It’s not out responsibility to babysit every dumbass on the verge of death.”

“Don’t listen to him.” At least Kirishima was kind enough to address you as he slipped back into the common room, taking his place at your side and handing you something – a mug, cremated and unchipped and filled to the brim with something watery, steam still rising off the top. Your first sip was hesitant, but you couldn’t stop yourself from draining the cup once you recognized the taste. Coffee. Cheap, bitter, heavenly coffee, the kind you didn’t have enough clean water to risk trying to make. You could’ve kissed him. You might’ve, if the calm levity in his voice hadn’t snapped you out of it. “Katsuki’s just a little defensive, when it comes to guests. We’ve got plenty of supplies to go ‘round, and…” He trailed off, glancing over you. To the bruises circling your wrist, the stained bandages peaking out from underneath your shirt. To the spot where your ankle twisted just a little too far to the left for the angle to be natural, the evidence of a fall you tried and failed to break with something besides your own body. “I don’t think we can kick someone out in good faith with those kinda injuries. Not with all the crawler activity, lately.”

You flinched at the name alone. Crawler, creatures, the things that used to be people and weren’t, not now, not anymore. You used to think of them as zombies, but that wasn’t right. Calling them zombies would be an injustice, even if they did tend to rot if left to their own devices. Zombies weren’t that fast. Zombies weren’t that distorted. You’d encountered three or four, but you tried to avoid attracting them, when you could. It was easier, when you were on your own.

Bakugo groaned, bringing you out of your thoughts. You tried to stop your hands from shaking, as he spoke. “You’ve got a group to run back to, right? Nobody survives that long without one.”

You tried not to sound as small as you felt. Judging from the way Kirishima glanced away, it was a futile effort. “Nobody survives that long with one, either.”

Kirishima’s hand came to rest on your shoulder, and Bakugo crossed his arms, a sign that must’ve meant submission, judging by Kirishima’s optimistic response. “Just until your ankle’s healed up,” He promised, a compromise you hadn’t asked him to make. “You’ll stay until then, right? ‘d be a shame if we had to lose another person because of Katsuki’s bad attitude.”

There was a sharp ‘hey’, a barely stifled laugh, and slowly, you forced yourself to nod, immediately receiving a bright grin from Kirishima by way of reward. It was a practical choice, honestly – they had food, they had shelter, they didn’t seem to be grasping at threads just to get by. Even if Kirishima was a little too friendly and Bakugo wasn’t nearly friendly enough, you could life with that, you could get by. Once you’d worn out your welcome, you’d leave. As soon as you were fixed up.

You didn’t want to wait for things to go bad, this time.

Despite his reluctance, Bakugo didn’t take long to warm up to you.

Kirishima was still the approachable one, obviously. He was who you went to when you needed to find something, when you had a question about their ration system or weaponry or the parts of the bunker you weren’t allowed to go in, rooms with steel doors and deadbolts on the handle and a raw, metallic smell emanating from the other side, but Bakugo always seemed to be lingering just behind him, ready to scoff and roll his eyes before he took you by the wrist and explained that, if you expected to reap the benefits of their hospitality, you had to at least try to pull your weight. He was helpful, like that, his help less patronizing than Kirishima’s, albeit twice as easily frustrated. Still, he didn’t hate you. If anything, he seemed to—

“If you slow down one more time, I’ll feed ya to the damn bears myself.”

You sped up, reflexively. He didn’t hate you, but it wasn’t too late for him to start.

It’d been Kirishima’s idea for you to go hunting. You were still in a splint, the majority of your calf an abstract blend of medical tape and cloth padding, but you bit back the pain as you followed Katsuki down the rough, unpaved trail, gritting your teeth past the ache forming under your skin. It wasn’t a raid. If anything, you were only getting further from the city, working your way up the mountain their bunker was carved into the base of. You’d be lying if you said you hadn’t been concerned about the crossbow in Katsuki’s hands, the weapon already loaded and poised, but the hunting knife strapped to your thigh eased your nerves, as did his disinterest in doing anything but trudging forward. If he didn’t take the time to call back to you every few minutes, you might’ve thought he’d forgotten you were there entirely.

But, silence never suited you never well. Not with a near-stranger, at least. “You’re not afraid of crawlers?”

“This far out? Fuck no.” It was an immediate answer, quick and shameless. Like an amputation, if an amputation left you nursing a bruised ego rather than bleeding out. “There’s enough fresh meat in the city to keep ‘em occupied. Only the runts ever bother coming out here to look for scraps.”

“I would’ve been that meat,” You mumbled, absent-mindedly. It was an idle thought, more of an admission than an accusation, but judging by the way his posture slackened, how quickly his attention shifted to the foliage, he wouldn’t have cared either way. “If Kirishima hadn’t found me, I mean. God knows I look like an easy target.”

“You are an easy target. Just be glad he’s got a weak spot for charity cases.”

You opened your mouth, ready to ask what he meant, you lost your footing before you got the chance, slipping on the damp leaf litter as a spike of something agonizing ran from your heel to your knee. Bakugo didn’t flinch, letting you catch yourself on his shoulder as he raised his crossbow, barely taking a moment to aim before firing. You could feel the kick-back, a jolting reverberation that only seemed to make the wet thunk that followed a little worse, the sound of an arrow piercing skin and flesh.

You expected that. You were ready for it. But, you hadn’t been prepared for the deafening scream that came afterwards, heart-piercing and human. You moved to rush toward its source, but Bakugo only caught your arm, shaking his head. Like he’d missed, like he’d only killed a deer. Like there wasn’t a person thrashing in the underbrush, still crying out as he spoke over them. “Looters,” He explained, like that was an excuse. “We’ve been dealin’ with them for a while, now. ’s just a scout, but he would’ve been back with reinforcements if we let him run off untouched.”

Bile rose in the back of your throat. For your own sake, you chose to believe him. “So? We can’t just—”

“Yes, we can.” It wasn’t a question. He didn’t need your permission, and he didn’t want your compliance. He didn’t even bother to justify himself before he turned away, starting back on the trail as you stood, still too shocked to move. “C’mon, we’ve already lost enough sunlight, and I’m not wasting arrows on scum. The fucker can drag himself back to his hideout, for all I care.”

You could’ve argued. Bakugo didn’t seem to think the blow was fatal, but you could’ve checked, made sure, offer what might’ve been a dying man a few last seconds of company before he bit the bullet. You could’ve, part of you wanted to, but…

But then, Bakugo tossed a glare over his shoulder, and your attention was brought back to the crossbow in his hands, to the machete strapped to his belt, to how pitifully small your knife was, in comparison. You didn’t want to lose the trust you hadn’t really gained, just yet. You didn’t want to take that kind of chance, not when Kirishima wasn’t around to give you the benefit of the doubt.

So, you shut your eyes, took a deep breath, and tried to ignore the quiet sobbing in the background as you followed in his tracks.

Surprisingly, Kirishima was the first one to slip into your bed.

You told yourself it was a mistake, when he let himself into your room in the middle of the night, closer to sunrise than it was to sunset. None of the doors locked, thin plywood serving as more of a source of comfort than an actual barrier, and beyond your small collection of personal possessions and the bedside table you’d commandeered from storage, your room was identical to any of the eerily unoccupied barracks on the lower layers of the bunker. Still, you expected him to turn around, to see your sleeping form curled up in a corner of your cot and realize he had the wrong room. It was late, and he made a mistake. It didn’t have to be anything more.

But it wasn’t that late, and Kirishima never really made mistakes. He was too careful for anything like that.

At least he was being careful now, too, as far as you could tell with your eyes clenched shut, your breathing restricted to slow, shallow inhales that left your lungs feeling just a little too tight. He was gentle, if nothing else, wrapping a strong arm around your waist, pulling you against his chest and burying his face in the nape of your neck. You didn’t squirm, you didn’t push yourself away, but you must’ve been too stiff, too still, too rigid. He didn’t seem to buy the act, however desperate it was.

“’suki’s real proud of you.” His voice was tired, weighted down by exhaustion. Clearly, he wouldn’t be leaving. “He told me about yesterday. Says you were good, cooperative and all. He likes that kind of thing.”

You didn’t respond, digging your nails into the sterile, medical sheets. Your ankle throbbed, and you tried to focus on that, to justify it. To remember why you could still convince yourself to stay.

“He’s a big softie, though. We both are, but I don’t try to hide it.” There was a light squeeze to your side, the ghost of his lips over the crook of your neck. His breath was warm, compared to the bucker’s constant chill, and you tried to think of his smothering body heat as a small silver lining. “I think it’s sweet. Gets lonely ‘round here, y’know? You’re a good fit.” There was a pause, a chuckle. For a moment, you thought he might push a little further, hold you a tighter, but Kirishima only shook his head, going on with that same careless, tired lilt. “I knew you would be, when I first saw you. A fragile little thing like you could never survive out here, not all alone.”

He was half-asleep. He didn’t know what he was saying. He’d probably apologize tomorrow, if he even remembered. “I’m not going to stay for much longer. I’ll be on my own again, in another month.”

“We’ll see.” The cot’s barred frame creaked as he shifted, his weight coming to rest against your back – a constant, oppressive reminder of his presence. A memory flickered to life in the back of your mind, a familiar intimacy that’d been earned and asked for, but you pushed it away quickly. You didn’t want to think about things like that, not here, not when this was so one-sided, in comparison. “Get some rest. You haven’t been getting enough sleep, lately.”

You’d leave when it was safe to. When you healed. When you’d worn out your welcome and become more of a burden than a benefit.

You wouldn’t stick around long enough for things to get suffocating, this time.

It was a mutual decision, when Bakugo and Kirishima stopped you from leaving the bunker.

They didn’t ask. That was the part that stung, really, the thorn that started working itself under your skin the moment you caught them standing in the threshold, an empty duffle bag slung over Kirishima’s shoulder and a baseball bat tucked under his arm. Bakugo had his crossbow, a pistol you’d never seen before holstered at his hip, but that bothered you less than the way they were muttering, keeping their voices purposefully low. Like they knew how you’d feel, if you saw them. Like they wanted to avoid the tension.

You’d never been very good at picking up hints, though. Much less those you were desperately trying to ignore.

“You’re going out?” You called, approaching them before you could stop yourself, suppressing a yawn as you made a show of rubbing the sleep out of your eyes. It was early, and you didn’t want Kirishima to know you’d already been up for hours. If he thought you were tired, he’d assume you were losing sleep, and if he thought you were losing sleep, he’d take it as an excuse to visit you at night, again. You… you didn’t like it, when he did. “Let me grab my stuff, it’ll only take a minute. If I knew you two were planning a raid today, I would’ve—”

Bakugo was the first to shut you down. “Sit this one out, alright?” It was a question, this time, but barely, his usual bluntness wrapped in a layer of kindness so thin, you could practically see through it. “’s just a quick supply run. We’ll be out and back before you notice we’re gone.”

“We’ve done this a thousand times,” Kirishima added, offering a small smile. At least he was trying to be nice about it, in his own, patronizing way. “It’s starting to get boring, honestly. It‘d be a shame to ruin all the progress you’ve made for something so minor.”

Right, your ankle. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d complained about it, the last time you’d been in enough pain to limp, even if Bakugo still insisted on tending to your ‘injury’ once a day, at least. The truth was glaringly obvious, even if they still made a half-hearted attempt to hide it, to let you avert your eyes and pretend you believed them.

You didn’t bother trying to hide your disappointment, your expression dropping as your nails bit into the meat of your palm. “You don’t think I can keep myself safe.”

In their defense, neither tried to deny it. Bakugo only looked away, and Kirishima smiled apologetically, his hand already pushing against the bunker’s metallic door. “We don’t want to risk it,” He explained, like you were a liability. Like you hadn’t survived out there for months without their help, injured or uninjured. “If something happened to you, if someone got to you, I wouldn’t be able to live with myself. We both care about you, even if Katsuki doesn’t want to admit it.”

“It’s practical.” Bakugo didn’t look at you. It was a small mercy, really. At least he was self-aware enough to be ashamed. “You need more time. You fucked yourself up bad before Eijiro found you – all that doesn’t go away overnight.”

Expect, it hadn’t been a night. It hadn’t been a day, or a week, and you were starting to question if it’d even been only two months. It was hard to keep track of time, but the weather was already turning, every scrape and bruise Bakugo could’ve concerned himself with was already healed, and you’d already let yourself get comfortable. You’d stayed too long. You’d let them get attached, and you’d failed to make it clear that you weren’t.

You had to get out. Now.

Or, you could try to get out, at least.

You’d waited too long for Bakugo and Kirishima to just sit back and let you walk away.

They were stronger than you’d assumed. It was easy to forget what the human body was capable of, when you were so used to be exhausted and half-starved, but it wasn’t difficult to remember, not with Bakugo’s hands wrapped around your wrists, one of Kirishima’s arms splayed over your knees, stopping you from thrashing as they shoved you against a bed, a real bed, the frame wooden and the mattress more than just sponge and stuffing. It was one of theirs obviously, and if you’d stumbled onto it at any other time, you might’ve felt insulted, left out.

Right now, the only thing you could feel was terrified.

“Fucking bitch.” It was a grunt, a growl, followed by something close to a snarl as your elbow connected with his check. He was the one who’s caught you gathering up what little you had to take with you, a canteen already filled and strung across your back. It was on the floor, now, the metal dented and the contents spilling out, but if either of them minded wasting clean water, you couldn’t tell. They were busy, now, too busy dealing with you to worry about something so minor. Too angry to care, leaving you as the center of their rage. “We tried to be nice. We tried to give you a choice. You just couldn’t take the fucking hint, could you?”

“Let me go.” You couldn’t bring yourself to raise your voice, but you tried to come across as frantic, desperate, as betrayed and as disgusted as you really felt. “You’re both fucking crazy. I don’t want to—”

Kirishima didn’t let you finish, he’d never really bothered to. He was already shifting, leaning on one of your calves while grabbing at the other, calloused fingertips pressing into your newly-healed ankle, the remaining bruises still raw and tender. You cried out, more out of instinct than agony, but Kirishima only grit his teeth, rubbing circles into your skin, like that would be enough to soothe you. “We’re just taking care of you, alright? We’re just doing what’s best.” It was pointless to say, but the didn’t stop him from going on, rambling like he was going to convince anyone, including himself. “It’s dangerous, out there. You just need a little more time to realize that. You just need to see that ‘suki and I are your best option.”

They weren’t. They weren’t your best anything, but you didn’t have a chance to retort before Bakugo cursed under his breath, gathering your wrists up with one hand and forcing the other over your mouth, cutting you off before you could protest further. “Just do it,” He spat, all-but ignoring you as he spoke to Kirishima. “There’s no point in trying to explain this to someone so irrational. Let’s just get it over with before we have to do something worse.”

For a moment, you went still, a series of worst-case scenarios flashing before your eyes before you could rationalize them, before you could tell yourself to stay calm. For a moment, there was panic – pure, unadulterated, brutal panic.

And then, something cracked under Kirishima’s hand, and you forgot how to think of anything at all.

You let out a stilted, faltering sob, something akin to liquid fire running from your thigh to your calf to the point where everything stopped – everything below your ankle numb, disconnected, dead meat that still managed to hurt. The rest of your body went limp, your survival instincts gone and replaced with the unbearable desire to curl into yourself and cry, but Bakugo was still holding you, his arms strung around your shoulders, pulling you into his chest as Kirishima slotted himself against your back, cooing soft nothings as you fought not to break down completely. They were talking again, both of them, but you couldn’t seem to listen. It didn’t matter.

Your ankle was broken. Not sprained, this time, not bruised, but broken. Shattered. Dislocated. Forced into a position that meant you’d be forced to stay, voluntarily or otherwise. Whether or not you could still stomach looking at Bakugo and Kirishima, let alone living with them.

You couldn’t leave, and you were beginning to think they were never going to let you.

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tj-wrote-things · 3 years

Text

𝐇𝐞 𝐖𝐡𝗼

Nikolai Lantsov x fem!Grisha!reader

Based off of this ask

A/N- Hey besties, this is kinda late,, and i hate it but only a little bit. Can you guys like -stop requesting arguments??? pls its breaking my heart.

Mega thanks to @itisroe e for being my editor and shoulder to whine on :)

*Id like to take a moment to say that Nikolai is a bit of a dick in this one, and id like to reiterate that its never okay to invalidate or insult a so. I dont condone that type of behavior, im just writing it

enjoy:)

•

If there was one thing Nikolai Lantsov knew how to do, it was pout. You caught him— more than just a few times— slouched over on the blush red couch with his arms crossed, face smushed into a scowl as he studied you packing your bag.

You sighed, casting an increasingly irritated glance at him as you folded the coarse cloth of your winter coat and tucked it away with the rest of your belongings. The weight would be too much to bear, but you knew it would be cold up north where you were headed alongside Zoya and the Bataars.

“I’m leaving at dawn, whether you like it or not, Sobachka.”

The King looked away briefly at your words, hating understanding that you were right. He hauled himself out of his seat and redirected his sulking to the world outside the large window. It was beautifully blanketed in steadily falling snow.

“Will you really make our last night together a bitter one?” you commented.

“It wouldn’t be our last night if you’d just let me come with you,” Nikolai huffed.

You exhaled, dreading that this would be the third time you had this discussion, which, in his world, was more so a debate.

The reason was simple: Nikolai had no business accompanying them. The objective of the mission to Fjerda was a peace treaty between the Drüskelle and the Grisha populous. As Nikolai fit neither category, it had been decided that he would stay back and continue to hold the country together.

“We’ve been through this: to bring more people on the expedition would only irritate the Fjerdans. Especially, the king of a country with which they’ve been at war for a considerable amount of time,” you reiterated.

Nikolai shook his head again, unwilling to accept it. He refused to welcome the fact that the love of his long life would be away and in perpetual danger for weeks.

The wind whistled as it bounded against the window, filling the room with a violent creaking.

“It’s dangerous, Y/N, why can you not understand—”

You cut him off swiftly as his voice began to rise, “You watch that tone, Lantsov, or I’ll—”

Now, it was Nikolai’s turn to cut you off: “You’ll what? Leave early?” The young man turned to you from the window and met your incredulous gaze. “Oh, don’t look at me like that. We both know it's your only vice.”

“My only vice,” you mocked cynically. “In what regard?”

Nikolai spread his arms patronizingly as if he were explaining the obvious to his childhood self.

“Your heart craves adulation,” he said, pointing a sharp, accusatory finger your way. “You’ll take any opportunity to leave Os Alta— leave me— and flaunt your gifts.”

Your heart thudded heavily in your chest. In anger or despair, you could not tell.

You would not lie to yourself. You knew with all your heart that, all things considered, your mastery of the Small Science was a blessing, hidden behind the mask of a devil. In the days you served faithfully in the Second Army, your gifts were revered and you were respected in the highest regard amongst your Grisha peers. However, in the years following the war, you became like everybody else.

It was at the behest of your husband that you progressively began to use your power as an Inferni less as the days passed. Ever the political mastermind, he had approached you one summer evening and begged you refrain from using your power in public, claiming that the presence of a Grisha Queen was too much for his fragile country to bear. In the beginning, you had agreed, for if there was one thing that surpassed your love for your husband, it was your shared love for Ravka.

You knew that relations between the Grisha and the others were strained, and so you agreed, taking your husband's hand and promising to limit the displays of glowing orange flames which had burned your enemies as well as warmed the hands of your allies.

It was becoming increasingly difficult to train behind a closed gate, under a roof, beneath the watchful eye of First Army guards armed with fire extinguishers. In fact, it had grown so stifling you had begun to resemble Alina Starkov when first she came to the Little Palace, with her pallor skin and brittle locks.

You brushed the aforementioned hair, now soft and healthy from the effects of tailoring, behind your ear as you placed the brush down and sharpened your stare at Nikolai’s face, shrouded in silver shadows from the icy light of the moon.

“Craves adulation,” you grumbled, knowing that if your voice rose any higher, it would betray every emotion storming around your heart. “Have a look in the mirror, Nikolai, and tell me which of us truly fits your description.”

His description, in all its insulting glory, fit Nikolai Lantsov to the tee.

Nikolai Lantsov, who would smile and wave to a crowd with a Sun Summoner on his arm, allowing you to watch with disdain from your place on a horse beside Mal. Nikolai Lantsov, who would hide behind a pair of gloves to escape the truth of what he had become. Nikolai Lantsov, who had pushed his wife into a state of sickness, albeit unknowingly, sacrificing her life’s blood for the sake of his country.

Nikolai Lantsov, who resolutely shook his head, running a hand through the already dishevelled hair on his head, before waving it dismissively, as if swatting a fly. “Please. You’d flick your hands for anyone who’d ask— if they clapped hard enough.” Nikolai moved for the bookshelf, drawing out a novel as if his words were mere small talk with an old friend.

Your anger blurred to shock. “Flick my hands—”

“Honestly, you take every opportunity to flaunt it. I’m surprised the Little Palace is still standing after having you inside for twenty years!”

There was no sense to his vile declarations now. Though, Nikolai could not see it. The anger, betrayal, and frustration at being left behind were all that clouded his boyish mind as he hurled one unkind word after the other.

“Nikolai,” You moved towards him, arm outstretched, eyes beginning to water. “Lapushka, please—” As your hand approached his, the storm heavier than ever. He wrenched his arm away from you, leering his head back to look you in the eyes.

“Truly, I can’t be sure why you haven’t left already.”

“For saints’ sake, Nikolai. Look at me!”

The dam broke as you flicked your hands, removing the tailoring to your appearance, unveiling the truth of your restrictions.

Nikolai stared with an open mouth and hard eyes as the warm winter flush of your cheeks was replaced with dulled skin, and the sleek shine of your hair was redefined with a brittle and unkempt bush.

“The only person from whom I crave adulation,” you whispered, “is the only man who’s too thick to look past a wavering mask.”

The Lantsov King swallowed, flipping the book restlessly in his hands. “Y/N—”

“Get out.” You left no room for him to argue, even when he opened his mouth once more. “I said leave!” You stalked to the door, pulling it open with a loud shriek of wood. “Now.”

Nikolai Lantsov, who spent the night in a guest room, in a state of perpetual regret.

No amount of tossing and turning brought any comfort to his aching heart, nor his pounding head. He flopped halfheartedly in the guest bed, stiff from lack of use, and from lack of you, revisiting the disgusting words he’d spat. The reason for them, however unjustified, sat heavily on his chest, suffocating him at an agonizing rate.

Nikolai Lantsov, who was afraid that— like his mother and father— you would grow to resent his blood, resent it for its stark difference to yours. The fear that you would regret your marriage to what your people called an otkazat’sya: the abandoned.

The King figured it was only a matter of time before the title served him fully.

It was reasonable, wasn’t it? To lash out at a time of vulnerability? Nikolai couldn’t be sure, having grown up in a family of despots who had never given him the time of day when it mattered most.

Watching the tailored facade fall from his wife’s face, Nikolai was reminded solely of his mother, who, like you, was coerced into moulding her face into that of the perfect queen, at the behest of her husband. He knew then that all he had said and done was wrong. Wrong to her, and wrong to her people.

How could he bring himself to apologize? To walk into their bedroom and beg forgiveness? Would she forgive him? Even if he stooped— a king in tears and on his knees for the woman he loved perhaps more ardently than the country he vowed to govern— would she, in all her scorned glory, crouch beside him, take his face in her hands, and kiss away his regret?

Could he expect her to?

Dawn came around all too swiftly, rousing husband and wife from their fitful sleep in separate rooms, and with it came your departure to the northern lands.

You stood side-by-side with Nikolai as the carriages were loaded with provisions, luggage, and gifts for the Drüskelle, refusing to look at him. Instead, digging fruitlessly in your shoulder bag as an excuse to keep your head down.

The call came from the footman as the time arrived for you to leave. You didn’t make it more than one step forward with your hand gripping the leather strap of your bag before a firm grasp was on your waist.

“Wait,” whispered Nikolai, tugging you back. He cast a glance at the guard, letting him know that they would need a moment. “I can’t let you leave— not like this.”

You held your gaze to the floor. Gently, he tilted your head back up with his thumb and forefinger. “Not now, not when you can barely look at me,” he continued. You held his stare as his hand shifted tentatively towards your jaw. “Not when I can’t be sure you won't come back to me, Milaya.”

You sniffled softly at the nickname, moving your own hand to his face and pausing to tuck away a loose golden curl.

“Please come back to me,” he said softly as if he were sharing a secret. There was an unspoken apology apparent in his reddening eyes while the seconds ticked by.

“Of course,” you murmured back, tipping his head down as you pecked his brow, then his cheek. “Nikolai, there’s not a thing in this world that could keep me away from you.”

You kissed him soundly, your hand running across the expanse of his jaw as he leaned into the tender forgiveness settled in your palm. When you broke apart, Nikolai took your hand from his face. He kissed your palm and walked you to your carriage. The King watched with concerned eyes as you took your seat.

Nikolai kissed your hand once more from his place on the ground and looked up at you. “Swear you’ll write,” he said. “Or I’ll crash the proceedings.”

You barked a hearty laugh, squeezing his hand as he tried to let you go. “I will,” you promised. “And I’ll see you when I come back.”

It was another moment before you let go of his hand. His palm hit the carriage door bearing the Lantsov crest. You watched as the carriage travelled further and further away, Nikolai’s frame disappearing into the horizon.

“I promise,” you whispered.

•

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glowingbadger · 3 years

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It is the S/O’s first time and she has to deal with, as you call it, Seteth’s “foot long Dragon cock”? That one text post where you wrote that still has me rolling

/cracks knuckles/ FAIR WARNING folks, we're going full Size Queen today and I am not about to apologize for it.

And like idk if this is even good I just went into a fugue state and got carried away and here we are xD

Seteth (FE3H) x Reader's first time

NSFW 18+

Seteth had been absolutely meticulous about your pleasure. If your sense of time weren't so thoroughly scattered by now, you'd guess he'd easily spent an hour worshiping your every curve, seeking out your every precious sweet spot. You'd felt stray locks of emerald hair tickling the flesh of your chest and stomach, the harsher graze of his beard along your inner thigh, the long, luxurious warmth of his tongue pulsing at your cunt. All the while, large, strong hands explored and adored you with barely restrained hunger. And Goddess, you longed to see that restraint crack. To see what lied beneath the trappings of Seteth's day-to-day existence of paperwork and reports, stern looks and perfect posture.

Yet as of now, he hasn't even removed his breeches, though you'd been bared and thoroughly pleasured already. He wraps one arm under you as he lies by your side, and his free hand brushes tentative fingers along your soaked lower lips. Your breath hitches in your chest, and you barely manage to focus your eyes enough to meet his.

"Seteth," you say, closer to a moan as a fingertip presses to your entrance, "You... don't have to- to do all of this for me," the words rush out of your lips so you can finish your thought before he pushes into you. Your head tilts to the side, nuzzling against his shoulder, and you force just a few more words out, "What about you...?"

"I am quite content attending to you, Y/N" he says, his voice low and even, even as his finger curls at some wonderful spot, and your body arcs into him. Once he's satisfied with the first, he pushes a second digit into you, thrusting at a deep and steady pace. He varies his movements and angle, slowly opening you up, relaxing your body beneath him and coating his fingers in your juices.

"Please..." you whisper, clinging to his sturdy frame, "I... I want- mmmh-!" You're already close again. His fingers spread apart, stimulating you in a completely new way. When your pleasure-blurred eyes meet his, you can just barely glimpse the restless need behind them. "I want to help you... fell good too... Please, Seteth?"

He exhales heavily, and his fingers ease out from you. You catch your breath as he pauses in silence for a moment, seemingly grappling with some last hesitation. You're still collecting yourself when he gets to his feet to finally discard the last of his clothing, but when your eyes refocus and you glance over at him, your heart skips and your body warms through.

"Oh... I, uh... wow." Your pupils are blown wide as you size him up. Sure, you had never been with a man before- not really, anyway -but you know enough to quickly realize that the pious man before you is near impossibly endowed. His massive cock stands almost entirely erect, yet pulled down just slightly by its own sheer size and weight. Seteth clears his throat, a hand sheepishly rubbing the back of his neck.

"You understand now why I have been so insistent upon preparing you," he says as he moves to join you on the bed once more.

"I suppose so..." you mutter, unable to keep your eyes from wandering his body in a way that any devout believer would consider sinful.

"Men of my kind possess certain... reproductive advantages over humans." he goes on as he positions himself over you. A hand beneath your chin urges you to look him in the eye, "Promise me you will tell me if I hurt you."

You nod. And then, you feel the tip of his manhood, hot as it pushes between your lower lips and against your opening. Seteth's brow is furrowed in focus, his expression so intense he's practically glaring at you, and it's all you can do to keep your eyes on his as he begins to spread you open. In a moment, the bulging head of his cock is nestled inside of you, pushing out against your inner walls as he stays himself for a moment to check on your comfort.

You're already panting softly despite yourself. Your cheeks are flushed a dark crimson, burning almost as hot as the rest of your body. With nothing but unabashed lust in your eyes, you look up at him and whisper,

"Seteth... muh- more, please..."

The holy man utters a low groan and grits his teeth. His head dips down to rest on the pillow beside yours as he sinks deeper and deeper into you.

"Don't... I can't bear it when you plead with me like that."

And for a moment, you think to test that bit of new information; but then he's pushed several inches into you and he's stretching you like nothing you've ever felt before, and it's all you can do to spread your legs just a bit wider for him. Wordlessly, he reaches down and hooks an arm under your knee, drawing your leg further up and opening you up more for him. Before he's even thrust all the way into you, his hips begin to sway just slightly, and you're grateful now that he made sure you were wet enough to take him. Every stroke of his cock sends a jolt of electrifying, stimulating pleasure up your spine.

You wrap your arms around his broad shoulders. His breath is hot, panting softly against the crook of your neck, and now he's bucking into you just a little harder. The muscles of his back are wound so tight, and his moans are shaky, unsteady. He's doing everything in his power to hold himself back for you, and you can tell, but you know it's for the best. Every time he drives deeper into you, you're more full than you ever thought possible. Soon enough, his thrusts do bring a tinge of pain amidst pleasure- yet you don't think for even a moment to ask him to stop.

And it dawns on you that, in some way, you find it intensely thrilling that the Church's Right Hand is fucking you so deep you can't think with a cock that would seem like an exaggeration to speak of. Even the pain is arousing, and you wonder if Seteth would believe you if you told him. For now, you simply cling to him until with one final push, he pauses. His arms have both traveled under the arch of your back to hold you flush against his body, and your legs are wrapped around his hips, and he growls against your chest,

"That's... that's all of it..." he huffs out a deep breath, then raises his head to kiss you so sweetly that you wouldn't think his manhood was stretching you to your limit at that moment. Your eyes are watering just a bit, and he murmurs your name softly.

"Goddess..." is all you manage.

"Language." he replies with surprising levity, and it barely even registers in your mind that Seteth just made a joke- on purpose, at that. But then he's shifting his hips against you once more and your mind is dashed of all but your heart and body's worship of Saint Cichol. He pushes himself up from you just a bit. Just enough to watch your expressions, either out of caution or fascination or both. He begins slow, easing in and out of you until you adjust fully to his size- at least, as well as you possibly could.

Then, his hands are at your hips, holding you firmly in place, and he's bucking into you harder and just a little faster and you can feel his abdomen flex with each tightly controlled motion. He checks in with you at least two or three more times as he edges closer and closer to fucking you in earnest. You're impressed at how coherent you manage to be when you tell him not to stop, that he feels incredible, that you adore him. His head tilts back for a moment, and at long, long last he lets out a true and unabashed moan of pleasure. The sound alone floods your body with new heat, and you feel yourself clench around him, your thighs shaking. You're not certain how long you manage to last after that, but by the time one more electrifying climax has swept through your body, Seteth has lowered himself to hold you close to him once more.

And once he does, his hands grip you more tightly, his fingers digging down your back. You gasp aloud as his entire body shifts forward over you and his hips meet flush with your inner thighs. Every thrust sends a jolt of pain and pleasure up through your core, radiating through your nerves. His voice is low and husky when he frantically says,

"Where-"

"Inside- please, Seteth-!" you don't need to consider this for a moment- it's how you'd always imagined it. Hissing your name through his teeth, his entire length throbs powerfully inside of you, and suddenly the intense heat of his orgasm begins to fill you. You feel the first shot or two, but before long you're so over-full and over-stimulated that you merely allow him to pour out his load into you while you lay beneath him, boneless and panting and utterly giddy.

You're both entirely spent. Seteth exhales as he carefully pulls himself from you, even this one last moment of friction causing you to squirm beneath him. He collapses at your side and rests his head on your chest, a hand lazily tracing loving paths along the curve of your waist. You can feel his cum trailing down your backside, but you're too sore to move and too content to care.

"I... I apologize if I-"

"Hush." you kiss his hair, and he softly laughs, his breath feather light across your skin. "I won't have you apologizing for making me feel that good." you add, your arms cradling him in turn. He smiles and blindly kisses whatever inch of your skin is closest- anything will do if he can show even an ounce of his adoration.

"Then I apologize for underestimating you. You are far too good to me, my love."

#seteth #fire emblem #seteth smut #seteth x reader #fire emblem three houses #fe3h #fire emblem x reader #fire emblem smut #fire emblem fic #seteth brainrot #feh

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redspiderling · 3 years

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MCU Breakdown: Black Widow, Part 1

I can’t believe this is happening 😭

First of all, congratulations to all of you who’ve been here all these years. We got it. We begged for years, and it’s finally here.

For once I wasn't dreading revisiting this film to write down what I got from it. I felt more like I might not do it justice. This film is so special to me, but here it is, the MCU Breakdown of Black Widow, part 1 (of who knows how many).

I remember back when I started running this blog and talking about a hypothetical Black Widow movie that had never been announced, always "yeah, we would be happy to do it, maybe, someday in the future", and arguing that it would be important for women and girls, no matter its content. I'm so glad we got it like this. So, so glad.

The rest under the cut.

Let's start with some technical details. The film has a lot of setups and callbacks, nothing is done in chance. For example, I love how the light, and the sounds we hear when we first, and last, see Natasha in the film, are the same. We greet her in bright -birds cheeping- morning light, while she's riding her bike home, to her family

and we leave her in bright -birds cheeping- morning light, while she's riding her bike home, to her family (I'm using the term family very liberally here in reference to the Avengers for the sake of the movie, bear with me, you know how I feel about those dudes).

It's signifying new beginnings, each time, not endings. Notice how, what we see is natural light, which makes this scene pop out, and look more real because the light is coming from the sun, and isn’t artificially made on VFX software. You will notice the stark differences in colours and lighting when the emotions and the atmosphere change in this film, because there is a visual language being employed here, the director has a story to say, and she uses all the tools she has to tell it. The light is exactly the same in those 2 scenes, because Cate wants us to make that connection, even if we make it unconsciously.

Natasha is placed in such a positive way, both at the start and the end of the film. There's this discussion about how "real" their little family was, but it was the characters that muddled up that image. The reality of their lives in Ohio is presented in a happy way, that had deep rivers under the surface, for sure. This wasn't accidental, for a lot of reasons.

First of all, if you take it the literal way, they were spies, and had to present themselves as normal. If you take it the allegorical way, any girl could fall victim to trafficking, and if you take it the character way, both Scarlett and Cate wanted to showcase that Natasha is human. They also wanted to give her something that wasn't always dripping with pain and sadness. They were both parts of her life, yes, but there was also joy, and light, and once upon a time she had been a kid, playing with her sister.

Also, and this has been mentioned before but it bears repeating: I love the actress they chose for young Natasha, and I love how they presented her character. She's allowed to be a young teenage girl. She's not sexualised. She's at that gangly stage between childhood and adulthood, and there's nothing sexual about it, no provocative clothing, no excessive makeup. She's a kid.

Plus, I know Cate said the actress already had her hair dyed blue and they just decided to let her have it, but I think it works well for Natasha's character. That small act of defiance, even that early on, against the system that wanted to break her. Also, the film gives us such great character moments, because they let the camera roll and don't rush through scenes, look at Natasha looking at Melina comforting Yelena. We can see the pain, the fear, where she knows that this isn't going to last, and wonders about what will become of them once their lives begin to unravel.

We also get to see the joy on her face, the wonder of discovering the world, how often do you get to see Marvel characters do this, just live in the moment?

Bioluminescence: the production and emission of light by a living organism. Or how Natasha is a bright light, that shines from within. Not my words, Cate Shortland's words. I felt it when I was watching this scene, but it was lovely to have it verified in one of her interviews. I wish I could meet her, and tell her that everything she wanted to put on screen came through, incandescent and crystal clear. Fireflies are a symbol for Natasha, as a bright light that shines from within, and never dies.

Small details that I love, the magnet on the fridge: Don't forget, above a picture of Natasha. LIKE WE EVER COULD, CATE.

We have another setup here, where the family gathers up to have dinner together. Even the sitting arrangement is the same as later on in the film.

Notice also how both young, and adult version of Natasha, communicate so well with Melina, just with their eyes. It doesn't necessary show a deep history between them, but it does show a bone deep level of understanding. Not just of their current circumstance, but of their future, and of what it will do to them. Melina knows what's coming and she's says it "I'm sorry", but they're both resigned to their fate, Melina because she doesn't see a way out, and Natasha because, well, here she's a kid, and therefore is powerless.

The dynamics between Yelena and Alexei is so different. Yelena is young and doesn't understand, so they're speaking about completely different things. "I don't have my shoes" is what she says, and it's heartbreaking in its innocence, as Alexei is loading his gun and reading himself for battle. We can still see that he's not indifferent to her, telling her she can have "fruit loops in the car". He's not a monster, he just doesn't have a choice (or at least, he thinks he doesn't).

Also, notice how the camera angles are employed here: Natasha and Melina look each other eye to eye, Yelena looks up to Alexei, Alexei looks down on her, there is an imbalance of power and understanding in the second set of images, and the camera tells us that.

Melina doesn't let Natasha take the photo album. For one thing, it's certain that Natasha wouldn't be able to keep it. For another, Melina wanted the memories, and probably didn't want anyone else to realise/think that they cared about their little family unit.

There's just a lot of thought that's been put in the details of the script, to show us their bond, their attempts to hide it, to show the characters' personality in everything around them (notice the plants that are ever present in Melina's home, in Ohio and later in Saint Petersburg). She might seem cold, she has been through a lot, but she cares. And that care has brought her pain. And we have to see that pain, because we get the quiet moments like this one, where she stands alone in an empty home knowing that part of her life is over, never to return.

The mission, is the last thing Melina asks about. The last thing Alexei mentions, the last thing either of them cares about. First, she refused to accept that they had completed the mission and were now hunted, then she accepted it and they loaded their family in the car, and then she asked about the leaked files.

Also, notice how that shot is framed. Both images silhouetted by the light because it’s the moment and the prop smack down in the middle of the frame that’s important, now what they’re going through, emotionally, they’re not themselves in that moment, they’re nameless, tools of the trade, expendable in front of that tiny floppy disk.

Yelena is singing while the rest are plunging in despair, but still humour her and play her song.

I found this shot a bit... Jarring. I get it that for American audiences this would show that they're actually leaving "home" behind, but for the rest of us... Eeeh, I'll give it a pass because it is an American production and this is just something to be expected. I mean, Yelena's song was American Pie. We get it, you still love America, just because you're making a film about Russian spies doesn't mean you're a commie Marvel, it's ok.

But in any case, the setup for the action scene here was excellent. Happy, familiar music playing, car is on the main road, car goes off the main road familiar music gets toned down and eventually completely lost in the darkness.

Yelena knows what to do, we see it, so that we know that this 6 year old girl who holds her stuffed animal and walks barefoot has practiced for this moment.

By the way, Natasha did take another item with her along with the photobooth pictures (it also looks like a photo album with Disney princesses on it), it didn't survive the trip. We are informed of this for a very specific reason: Melina didn’t ask Natasha not to take the photo album out of malice, or just because she wanted to keep it for herself. She knew it wouldn’t survive the trip in Natasha’s hands. We also get a close shot of the image strip (and we get it again, during the credits), because it will be important, later on.

Bet y'all also forgot you were watching a superhero movie until this happened? That wasn't accidental, they wanted us to see them as normal people, this is the moment when that ends.

Natasha saved her family, even though she was a terrified kid.

I know that they did the huge titles thing to connect this film to Civil War but... Listen, Civil War needed the huge titles because that script and the way that movie was directed was a complete disaster. We needed to know where the characters were each time with huge ass title because there was NO OTHER WAY TO TELL. Between complete lack of a timeline, and the fact that you couldn't even tell what time of the day it was due to the horrible lighting, you definitely couldn't tell what the location was because it was irrelevant to the plot like, 90% of the time. Not to mention the title cards in Civil War were usually followed by dimly lit grey corridors so, yeah, give us a title so we know at least where they are, generally.

This film. Didn't Need That. For the most part anyway, there are 2 locations where the titles worked. First one was Ohio, the other I'll reveal later.

But here. Guys, they're Russian spies escaping from the US on a small plane... Where else would they go if not to Cuba?!?! This is the Black Widow movie paying for the sins of Civil War, in a small way in this instance.

Yelena tells Melina that pain only makes you stronger, Natasha cries, and they setup my heartbreak for later.

Natasha protecting Yelena, terrified, and staring men down the barrel of her gun anyway. Such a badass and heartbreaking callback.

Notice how this scene makes us look at how men view this. There's an allegory here as well, but I'll address what's actually happening in the film:

Dreykov notices Natasha's natural instinct to protect herself and her sister, and all he sees is something he can use. A tool for violence, instead of sex, in this case. But the implication is there. Not a person, or a terrified girl, just an object to be used by men.

So glad that piece of shit got blown up and never mentioned again. Any man looking for exposition on Dreykov to feel the "loss" when the villain is gone: Fuck you. Go get some therapy.

Moving on from that piece of shit, difference between Melina and Alexei: Melina apologised. Alexei lied, but he also tried to give them hope. We can see the devastation, because the soldiers never thought of them as girls like he did, and didn't blink before drugging them and taking them away.

Yet another setup, of Natasha and Yelena, drugged and powerless as they are taken away. Because it wasn't enough that they were kids, they took away all their choices, and rendered them unconscious.

What can I possibly say about this credits scene.

It's very real, probably the realest minutes in the entire MCU, and it's merciless. They don't try to sugar-coat what's happening, and there are no jokes to diffuse the drama. These are girls being trafficked from all over the world. I don't know about you but I felt the switch from true parallel to real life traffic victims like this shot that looks like footage from Interpol

to Red Room victims as being a clear shift, and I was actually grateful for it. Because here I could put my back against the fact that the red room wasn't real, otherwise I would have broken down before the credit sequence even ended.

It was a stroke of genius to create an introduction to this entire world like that. We rarely see credit sequences anymore and it's a shame, because when they're well done they tell stories in and of themselves, and this is one of the best I've seen.

Even the villain is set up here. He's pointing at girls and saying "that one, and her", like he's picking pigs for slaughter. How much more setup than that do you need, to want to murder that man dead? Not any more, that was enough.

Nobody speak to me I’m crying.

Subtle, but there. Trafficking (and traffickers) exists because it IS being tolerated by governments around the world.

Unnecessary title aside, who else says Natasha looks at herself in the mirror hear and repeats "pain only makes you stronger", as she's being hunted away from yet another family.

Then she's saying it again because it bears repeating and Natasha has been through A Lot these past few years. I love how unfiltered our first image of her is. After all she's been through, we basically see her stripped of all her tricks in a moment where she’s alone with herself and her thoughts(something we later learn she tries not to do much), and she's just a woman having a tiny breakdown in a semi-public bathroom. Again, human.

This is where I will leave you for this first part. Hey, I got through the intro, I count that as a win given just how long this breakdown has already been. If you’ve gotten this far, thank you for reading, come yell at me in my inbox whenever, see you for the next one xo

#MCU Breakdown #Black Widow #Black Widow Spoilers #Natasha Romanoff #I'd like to think that all my followers have already seen it but just in case

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nordleuchten · 3 years

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La Fayette in Les Misérables

Les Misérables is one of my absolute favourite books. I never get tired of it – funny coincidence, La Fayette is also in there. I have read the book in three different languages now and noticed that the amount of La Fayette varies in the different versions. The French original sets the precedent of course. The English translation (or, as there are of course several different translations, the English translation I read) featured La Fayette ten times (just as often as the French original). My two German translations feature La Fayette less often than the French and my English one. With that being said, I present to you the La Fayette-szenes in Les Misérables (Les Misérables by Victor Hugo, translated by Lee Fahnestock and Norman MacAfee, based on the translation by C. E. Wilbour, published by Signet Classics, 1987)

Courfeyrac had a father whose name was M. de Courfeyrac. One of the false ideas of the Restoration in point of aristocracy and nobility was its faith in the particle. The particle, we know, has no significance. But the bourgeois of the time of La Minerve considered this poor de so highly that men thought themselves obliged to renounce it. M. de Chauvelin became M. Chauvelin,.M. de Caumartin was M. Caumartin, M. de Constant de Rebecque simply Benjamin Constant, M. de Lafayette just M. Lafayette. Courfeyrac did not wish to be backward, and called himself simply Courfeyrac. (Marius, book four, The Friends of the ABC, p. 653)

So the bourgeoisie, as well as the statesmen, felt the need for a man who would say "Halt!" An Although-Because. A composite individuality signifying both revolution and stability; in other words, assuring the present through the evident compatibility of the past with the future. -This man was found ready-made. His name was Louis-Philippe d'Orleans. The 221 made Louis-Philippe king. Lafayette undertook the coronation. He called it "the best of republics." (Saint-Denis, book one, A few Pages of History, p. 829)

I can not give you a direct written example where La Fayette said “the best of republics” but the statement mirrors his early impressions on Louis-Phillipe’s reign perfectly.

These memories associated with a king fired the bourgeoisie's enthusiasm. With his own hands he had demolished the last iron cage of Mont-Saint-Michel, built by Louis XI and used by Louis XV. He was the companion of Dumouriez, he was the friend of Lafayette; he had belonged to the Jacobin Club; Mirabeau had slapped him on the shoulder; Danton had said to him, "Young man!" (Saint-Denis, book one, A few Pages of History, p. 834)

These doctrines, these theories, these resistances, the unforeseen necessity for the statesman to consult with the philosopher, confused evidences half seen, a new politics to create, in accord with the old world, and yet not too discordant with the ideal of the revolution; a state of affairs in which Lafayette had to be used to oppose Polignac, the intuition of progress glimpsed through the riots, the chambers, and the street, rivalries to balance around him, his faith in the Revolution, perhaps some uncertain eventual resignation arising from the vague acceptance of a definitive superior right, his desire to remain in his lineage, his family pride, his sincere respect for the people, his own honesty-all of this preoccupied Louis-Philippe almost painfully, and at times strong and as courageous as he was, overwhelmed him under the difficulties of being king. (Saint-Denis, book one, A few Pages of History, p. 841)

The distress of the people; laborers without bread; the last Prince de Conde lost in the darkness; Brussels driving away the Nassaus as Paris had driven away the Bourbons; Belgium offering herself to a French prince, and given to an English prince; the Russian hatred of Nicholas; at our back two demons of the south, Ferdinand in Spain, Miguel in Portugal; the earth quaking in Italy; Mettemich extending his hand over Bologna; France bluntly opposing Austria at Ancona; in the north some ill-omened sound of a hammer once more nailing Poland into its coffin; throughout Europe angry looks peering at France; England a suspicious ally, ready to push over anyone leaning and throw herself on anyone fallen; the peerage sheltering itself behind Beccaria to deny four heads to the law; the fteur-de-lis erased from the king's carriage; the cross tom down from Notre-Dame; Lafayette weakened; Lafitte ruined; Benjamin Constant dead in poverty; Casimir Perier dead from loss of power; the political disease and the social disease breaking out in the two capitals of the realm, one the city of thought, the other the city of labor; in Paris civil war, in Lyons servile war; in the two cities the same furnace glare; the flush of the crater on the forehead of the people; the South fanaticized, the West uneasy; the Duchesse de Berry in La Vendee; plots, conspiracies, uprising, cholera, added to the · dismal mutter of ideas, the dismal uproar of events. (Saint-Denis, book one, A few Pages of History, p. 843)

In an instant the little fellow was lifted, pushed, dragged, pulled, stuffed, crammed into the hole with no time to realize what was going on. And Gavroche, coming in after him, pushing back the ladder with a kick so it fell onto the grass, began to clap his hands, and cried, "Here we are! Hurrah for General Lafayette! Brats, my home!” Gavroche was in fact home. (Saint-Denis, book six, Little Gavroche, p. 956-957)

Hence, if insurrection in given cases may be, as Lafayette said, the most sacred of duties, émeute may be the most deadly of crimes. (Saint-Denis, book ten, June 5, 1832, p. 1052)

A circle was drawn up around the hearse. The vast assemblage fell silent. Lafayette spoke and bade farewell to Lamarque. It was a touching and noble moment, all heads uncovered, all hearts throbbed. Suddenly a man on horseback, dressed in black, appeared in the midst of the throng with a red flag, others say with a pike surmounted by a red cap. Lafayette looked away. Exelmans left the cortege. This red flag raised a storm and disappeared in it. From the Boulevard Bourdon to the Pont d'Austerlitz a roar like a surging billow stirred the multitude. Two prodigious shouts arose: "Lamarque to the Pantheon! Lafayette to the Hotel de Ville!" Some young men, amid the cheers of the throng, took up the harness and began to pull Lamarque in the hearse over the Pont d'Austerlitz, and Lafayette in a fiacre along the Quai Morland. In the cheering crowd that surrounded Lafayette, a German was noticed and pointed out, named Ludwig Snyder, who later died a centenarian, who had also been in the war of 1776, and who had fought at Trenton under Washington and under Lafayette at Brandywine. Meanwhile, on the left bank, the municipal cavalry was in motion and had just barred the bridge; on the right bank the dragoons left the Celestins and deployed along the Quai Morland. The men who were pulling Lafayette suddenly saw them at the bend of the Quai, and cried, "The dragoons!" The dragoons were advancing at a walk, in silence, their pistols in their holsters, their sabers in their sheaths, their muskets at rest, with an air of gloomy expectation. At two hundred paces from the little bridge, they halted. The fiacre bearing Lafayette made its way up to them, they opened their ranks, let it pass, and closed again behind it. At that moment the dragoons and the multitude came together. The women fled in terror. (Saint-Denis, book ten, June 5, 1832, p. 1059-1060)

Ludwig Snyder was a historical person who indeed existed and not a person that Hugo made up.

Alarming stories went the rounds, ominous rumors were spread. "That they had taken the Bank" ; "that, merely at thencloisters of Saint-Merry, there were six hundred, entrenched and fortified in the church"; "that the line was doubtful"; "that Armand Carrel had been to see Marshal Clausel and that the marshal had said, 'Have one regiment in place first,' " ; "that Lafayette was sick, but that he had said to them, 'I am with you. I will follow you anywhere that there is room for a chair' "; "that it was necessary to keep on their guard; that at night people would pillage the isolated houses in the deserted neighborhoods of Paris (the imagination of the police was recognized here, that Anne Radcliffe element in government)" ; "that a battery had been set up in the Rue Aubry-le-Boucher" ; "that Lobau and Bugeaud were conferring; and that at midnight, or daybreak at the latest, four columns would march at once on the center of the emeute, the first coming from the Bastille, the second from the Porte Saint-Martin, the third from La Greve, the fourth from Les Hailes"; "that perhaps the troops would evacuate Paris and fall back on the Champ de Mars"; "that nobody knew what might happen, but that certainly, this time, it was serious." (Saint-Denis, book ten, June 5, 1832, p. 1067-1068)

I could not find any historical reference about the chair-quote and I am pretty sure that Hugo made that up - however, it sounds very much like something that La Fayette would say - and Hugo and La Fayette probably knew each other, although superficially. Toward the end of La Fayette’s life, when Hugo was still a young men, there were different salons in Paris that both attended and it is quite likely that they both ran into each other during one of these meetings.

At this moment the bantam rooster voice of little Gavroche resounded through the barricade. The child had climbed up on a table to load his musket and was gaily singing the song then so popular:

En voyant Lafayette

Le gendarme repete

Sauvons-nous! Sauvons-nous! Sauvons-nous ! (Saint-Denis, book fourteen, The Grandeur of Despair, p. 1143)

This scene is not featured in my German version. It is mentioned that Gavroche sang a song but the text is not given in that translation.

They take you, they hold on to you, they never let go of you. The truth is, there was never any amour like that child. Now, what do you say of your Lafayette, your Benjamin Constant, and of your Tirecuir de Corcelles, who kill him for me ! It can't go on like this." (Jean Valjean, book three, Mire, but Soul, p. 1317)

La Fayette did not made it into the musical version of Les Misérables (neither in the French Original nor in the more popular English version) although he would have fit perfectly in there. I also have never seen him featured in any of the countless movie or TV adaptations - officially at least. Some adaptations that feature the funeral of General Lamarque have some extras running around that I sometimes turn into La Fayette - that was not the intended casting but it worked out for me nonetheless :-)

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themasterofstudies · 4 years

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Deconstructing Mormon Hymns #1

Hymn #30

Come, come ye saints, no toil nor labor fear.

But with joy, wend your way.

Though hard to you, this journey may appear

Grace shall be as your day.

Tis better far for us to strive

Our useless cares from us to drive.

Do this, and joy your hearts will swell -

All is well, All is well

Okay. Basic message. Get in there and work. Be happy about the work. Even if it seems like hard work, your eternal reward is waiting for you. Drive out the useless cares. What counts as a useless care? Anything not aligned with god or his work. Easy enough.

Except it's not easy enough. This reinforces to the member that they need to get rid of anything not serving The Work. The little things that make life worth it? All of it gone. And feel bad about it too. Feel bad that you put effort into something that makes life bearable. Part of the tactic here is to be vague enough to catch everyone in a sin and force them to course correct.

It also uses Loaded Language. Grace, useless, joy, etc.

Ends in a thought terminating cliché. All is well.

Why should we mourn or think our lot is hard?

Tis not so, all is right.

Why should we think to earn a great reward

if we now shun the fight?

Gird up your loins, fresh courage take.

Our God will never us forsake.

And soon we'll have this tale to tell

All is well, All is well.

Hooookay a lot more to unpack here. Gaslighting 101. You're not suffering. Everything is fine. Besides, even if you WERE suffering, you have to suffer in order to get to heaven. Get your shit together. The wording of this next line is key, God will never forsake US. Even though the Book of Mormon and the Bible talk about countless, COUNTLESS times that god decided to forsake people.

The second to last line is threatening. Soon. Soon we will have the tale to tell. The end is Nigh.

The verse wraps up here with some more gaslighting and thought terminating cliché. All is well. Even though we just threatened you with eternal damnation, everything is fine!!

We'll find the place which God for us prepared,

Far away in the West.

Where none shall come to hurt or make afraid,

There the Saints will be blessed.

We'll make the air with music ring,

Shout praises to our God and King

Above the rest these words we'll tell –

All is well! All is well!

This talks about the establishment of a theocracy. A Paradise. Everything will be fine. Can you draw the parallels to the rhetoric around the election and the orange in office?

Except it doesn't give a precise location. Far away in the west? Sure, we think of Salt Lake City. Except people hurt and make afraid there. And what about the members around the world? It's vague on purpose. It's a prophecy without specifics. In Phoenix we thought it meant the Second Coming, since we felt like we were still persecuted.

Not only do we sing this thought terminating cliché to ourselves, but we must tell it to others too. Don't worry, all is well.

And should we die before our journey's through,

Happy day! All is well!

We then are free from toil and sorrow too,

With the Just we shall dwell

But if our lives are spared again

To see the Saints their rest obtain

Oh, How we'll make this chorus swell

All is well! All is well!

I have so many feelings about this verse. The first four lines literally glorify death as an acceptable option, preferable option. If you die, no biggie, the suffering we told you wasn't happening is over. And if you live, the only reward sung about is the theocracy in the previous verse.

Personally, singing praises to god all the time seems dumb. God did none of the work here. The saints are the ones doing the work, toiling and laboring. And when the saints finally, finally get to rest, god expects credit and praise.

Let's briefly mention musicality. The song is written in a major key. It is a walking song, decent pace, strong first and third beats. Motivational but not exciting, ya know? Loaded language is placed on the upswings of the melody. The thought terminating cliché is calm and neutral, and the only “chorus” in the song. A constant refrain. The focus, the core message.

If you listen to the MoTab singing to this song (which is played all the goddamn time), the last verse is sung triumphantly. Dying is the best thing to happen in the tune of the song.

Finally, let's talk about the act of singing itself. Like bearing a testimony, it reaffirms to yourself and the group what the message and behavior is. Public displays of obedience are key. Like saying a prayer, it introduces a trance like state, where you are more easily indoctrinated. It's a double whammy. And, on top of that, the music is meant to evoke a specific emotion.

The same reason why we were scolded for listening to “worldly” music is the same reason why we sang hymns. Catchy tunes are easy ways to rewire thoughts and associations and patterns.

#im feeling very exmo in this chilis tonight #exmormon #exmo #ex lds #ex cult #tw hymns #ex mormon #apostake #deconstructing #deconstructing mormon hymns

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worldfootballrumours · 2 years

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#World Football Rumours

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bookcoversalt · 4 years

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Have you noticed the latest edition of Charlie Bowater can only draw one (1) face? She did The Princess Will Save You and Cast In Firelight both YA Fantasy set to be released this year. And they are how you say... the same fucking cover

Ah yes so you saw the same tweet I did

I know I literally just posted that we cannot outlaw book covers from looking like each other, but ! Oof!

The only thing that softens the blow here is that Charlie has improved at representing nonwhite features such that characters look like POC rather than tan white people, although,, that bar was low. Anybody remember the ACOTAR coloring book.

(Would you have guessed that 2/3 of these people are nonwhite? Or even that they’re supposed to be three different men? I guess all the men in Prythian have the same haircut?)

But that minor victory is mostly lost in the quagmires of the fact that Charlie’s style is to give everyone instagram face:

I wouldn’t even call this “Sameface” necessarily: that implies limitation, that an artist is only capable of drawing a single facial structure competently. Bowater is incredibly technically talented, she just chooses to give everyone catlike fae eyes and the cheekbones of a starving nymph. (My previous post on this here.)

But I don’t really blame her for that, or for these hilariously identical, nearly devoid of personality covers. Artists are allowed to do whatever they want. Artists who make art for covers are being art directed by designers and marketing teams who bear responsibility for how the finished pieces turn out.

No, this is our fault, as a community and an industry and..... society, kind of, for valuing character portraits that are “pretty” (“pretty” being an extremely loaded, culturally subjective concept) over art that actually Says Something About The Story. Bowater’s style happens to dovetail perfectly with what we currently collectively find pretty, and so we’ve put her art on a pedestal at the cost of everything else art can or should do for our stories.

And this is understandable: in contemporary western culture, pretty is a value unto itself. Seeing our characters portrayed as pretty denotes them as special, as smart, as powerful. It’s almost impossible to de-program ourselves from that reaction. There are approximately five kajillion studies on how beautiful people are at personal and professional advantages; how they’re perceived to be happier, healthier, more successful, and how those perceptions can translate into realities. (Nevermind how thinness and whiteness enter that equation, see above note about “pretty”.) I would love to see more “average” or weird- looking characters abound (and be accurately visually represented) in the YA/ Genre lit sphere, but for now... everyone is pretty.

Which sometimes means everyone is pretty boring.

But that’s just the specific, "What’s the deal with Bowater’s success in book circles and her style and all the sameiness” part of this equation. What if we backed up and asked: why character art at all? Beyond a question of “pretty”-ness (and general obvious Artistic Quality), why do we gravitate towards it, what's the purpose of it, how does it fall flat in a general sense, and how can it be utilized more effectively?

This is something I think about all the time. I follow writers on social media (because..... I am a writer on social media, regrettably), and we have an enormous collective boner for character art. “Getting fanart [of the characters]” is one of the achievement pinnacles constantly cited when people get or want to get published. Commissioning character art is something we reward ourselves with, or save up for (WHICH IS GOOD AND CORRECT. FREE ART IS GREAT BUT DO NOT SOLICIT IT. PAY YOUR ARTISTS). And like???? Same????? We love our stories because we’re invested in our characters. Most humans, even prose writers, are visual creatures to some extent, and no matter how happy we are with our text-based art, it’s exciting to see our creations exist in that form. So we turn that art into promo material and we advocate for it on our covers-- because it’s so meaningful to us! It goes with the story perfectly!! Look at my dumb beautiful children!!!!!

But on an emotional level, it’s hard to grasp that it only means something to us. Particularly when you take into account the aforementioned vast landscape of beautiful visual blandness of many characters (in the YA/ genre lit sphere, that’s pretty much all I’m ever talking about), character art can be like baby photos. If you know the baby, if that baby is your new niece or your friend’s kid, if you’ve held them and their parent texts you updates when they do cute shit, you’re probably excited to see that baby photo. But unless it’s exceptionally cute, a random stranger’s baby photo isn’t likely to invoke an emotional reaction other than “this is why I don’t get on facebook.”

Seeing art of characters they don’t know might intrigue a reader, but especially if the characters or art are unremarkable-looking, it’s doing a hell of a lot more for the people who already have an emotional attachment to that character than anybody else. And that’s fine. Art for a small, invested audience is incredibly rewarding. But like the parent who cannot see why you don’t think their baby is THE MOST BEAUTIFUL BABY IN THE WORLD???? I think we have trouble divesting our emotional reaction to character art from its actual marketing value, which.... is often pretty minimal. This is my hill to die on #143:

Character portraits, even beautiful ones, are meaningless as a marketing tool without additional context or imagery.

I love character art! I’m not saying it should not exist or that it’s worthless! Even art that appeals to only the one single person who made it has value and the right to exist. And part of this conversation is how important for POC to see themselves on covers, whether illustrations or stock imagery, particularly in YA/kidlit. I’m not saying character portrait covers are “bad”.

I am saying that I have seen dozens and dozens of sets of character art for characters who look interchangeable, and it has never driven me to preorder a book. (Also one character portrait for a high-profile 2019 debut that was clearly just a painting of Amanda Seyfriend. You know the one. There’s nothing wrong with faceclaims but lmfao, girl,,,,)

I’m sure that’s not true for everyone! I am incredibly picky about art. It’s my job. There’s nothing wrong with your card deck of cell-shaded boys of ambiguous age and ethnicity who all have the same button nose and smirk if it Sparks Joy for you.

But if your goal is not only to delight yourself, but to sell books, it’s in your best interest to remember that art, like writing, is a form of communication. The publishing industry runs on pitches: querys, blurbs, proposals, self-promo tweets. What if we applied that logic to our visuals? How can we utilize our character design and art to communicate as much about our stories as possible, in the most enticing way?

Social media has already driven the embrace of this concept in a very general sense. Authors are now supposed to have ~ aesthetics. “Picspams” or graphics, modular collages that function as mini moodboards, are commonplace. But the labor intensity and relative scarcity of character art visible in bookish circles, even on covers, means that application of marketing sensibility to it is less intuitive than throwing together a pinterest board.

Since we were talking about it earlier, WICKED SAINTS, as a case study of a recent “successful” fantasy YA debut, arguably owed a lot of its early social media momentum to fanart.

(Early fanart by @warickaart)

The most frequently drawn character, Malachiasz, has long hair, claws, and distinctive face tattoos. WS has a strong aesthetic in general, but those features clearly marked his fanart as him in a way even someone unfamiliar with the book could clearly track across different styles. Different interpretations of his tattoos from different artists even became a point of interest.

(Art by Jaria Rambaran, also super early days of WS Being A Thing)

Aside from distinctiveness, it's a clear visual representation of his history as a cult member, his monstrous powers, and the story’s dark, medieval tone. The above image is also a great example of character interaction, something missing from straightforward portraits, that communicates a dynamic. Character dynamics draw people into stories: enemies-to-lovers, friends-to-lovers, childhood rivals, platonic life partners, love triangles, devoted siblings, exes who still carry the flame-- there’s a reason we codify these into tropes, and integrate that language and shared knowledge into our marketing. For another example in that vein, I really love this art by @MabyMin, commissioned by Gina Chen:

The wrist grip! The fancy outfits! These are two nobles who hate each other and want to bone and I am sold.

In terms of true portraits, the best recent example I can think of is the set @NicoleDeal did for Roshani Chokshi’s GILDED WOLVES (I believe as a preorder incentive of some kind?):

They showcase settings, props, and poses that all communicate the characters’ interests, skills, and personality, as well as the glamorous, elaborate aesthetic of the overall story. Even elements in the gold borders change, alluding to other plot points and symbology.

For painterly accuracy in character portraits on covers, I love SPIN THE DAWN. The heroine looks like a beautiful badass, yes, but the thoughtful, detailed rendering of every element, soft textures, and dynamic, fluid composition form a really cohesive, stunning illustration that presents an intriguing collection of story elements.

The devil isn’t always in the details, though: stark, moody, highly stylized or graphic art with an emphasis on textural contrast and bold color and shape rather than representational accuracy can communicate a lot (emotionally and tonally) while pretty much foregoing realism.

The new Lunar Chronicles covers are actually the best examples I found of this (Trying to stay within the realm of existing bookish art rather than branch into All Art Of Human Figures Forever):

Taking cues from styles more typical of the comics and video game industries. (Games and comics, as visual mediums, are sources of incredible character art and I highly recommend following artists in those industries if you want to See More Cool Art On Your Timeline.)

TL;DR: Character art and design, as a marketing tool (even an incidental one) should be as unique to your story and your characters as possible, and tell us about the story in ways that make us want to read it. I tried to give examples because there are so many ways to do this, and so many different kinds of art, and I could give many more! But I’m bored now. So to circle all the way back:

These are not just bad because they look like each other, although that is embarrassing and illuminating. These are bad covers (although,,,,, PRINCESS is the far worse offender, at least FIRELIGHT suggests a thoughtful cultural analogue) because a desire for Pretty Character Art overrode the basic cover function to tell us about the story. We get no sense of who these people are, what their relationships are, what these books are about beyond the most general genre, or why we might care. The expressions are vague, the characters generic-looking, the compositions uninteresting and the colors failing to be indicative of anything in particular.

They’re somebody else’s baby pictures.

(And yes, that’s the CRUEL PRINCE font on PRINCESS. I better not have to do a roundup post but it’s on thin fucking ice.)

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