Initial Thoughts on Kiro's Final Westmoon Chapter

Of course when I reached the climax of Kiro's chapter, I wasn't strong enough to beat the mission with the weak karmas I had but thank God for bilibili.com. I'm very sad to hear that Westmoon is coming to an end and I wished it was the actual main story but it could be because I have a strong bias for historical fantasy. I thought the story/plot was executed better and easier to follow compared to the one in Loveland City. The relationship dynamic between Kiro and MC was written more strongly and MC as a character was better written as well. This chapter was absolutely EVERYTHING I could ever want. It made feel so many emotions: sad, angry, happy, and hopeful. I was worried that it was gonna be rushed and really messy like the later part of season 1 main story but it turned out to be the perfect satisfying and fitting ending. The pacing was just right and I didn't feel like there were too many loose ends. If the main story can have this kind of ending or even better then I will gladly take it. I feel like I deserved that much after sticking with this game for so long. A more detailed post of the highlights from the chapter will be out later in the week. Below is a slight spoiler (not from Kiro's chapter) so DO NOT READ IF YOU DON'T WANT TO KNOW!!!

SPOILER: Westmoon universe and Loveland City universe are actually connected!!! I saw the words “QUEEN” and “Evol” in the text and my reaction was literally this: 

Uncomplicated (Steve Rogers Oneshot)

Character/s: Steve

Word Count: 1,179

Tag List: @dontdowhatisayandnobodygetshurt @myriadimagines @lilyswritings @encounterthepast @writerdream22 @brithedemonspawn @lotsoffandomrecs @locke-writes @thedarkqueenofavalon @fangirlsarah16 @randomfandomimagine @amirahiddleston @diana-westmoon

A/N: Someone very close to me told me something like this a while back, that I'm a hard person to love, and it's been stuck in my head, so I guess I wanted to make it into something more positive :) Who else to do it better with than my #1 Mans? It's not my best in the whole world, but oh well :P Anyways, this is a lil reminder that no matter what anyone says, you are loved and it is so easy to love you. Nothing you could ever do could change my mind. Hope you like it!!! Feedback is always appreciated 💜💖💜

Summary: Love can be simple, even when it's never felt like it 💕

Gif Credit: @anakinskywalk :)

FIC MASTERLIST PART ONE. / PART TWO. / PART THREE.

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"You are an incredibly hard person to love."

A fact, maybe one they'd read in passing, reciting verbatim. A poem, their words dipped in heartache and honey. A song, their pitch light and effortless. Something of meaning, of substance, instead of the cold truth. A truth, in their eyes, instead of something that's used to kill. Hard. To love. Questioning the root of the anger, the distaste, the disgust. An indifference so pure, so untouched, it's almost perfect. Almost. Tiles cracked, split right down the middle. Hard, and angry, the kindest place to rest your weary, aching head. The lines in your skull aligning perfectly, as if it had been the source of destruction, the source of smashing,the source of rage. As if you had been the weapon all along. Sometimes, that's what love felt like, their love. You were sure, somewhere out there, someone else's love could be gentle, affectionate, painted in pastels and kissed, cheek to cheek, each night. Love could be patient, understanding, it had the potential to be pure of heart. Theirs was not, and you were never quite sure why. Cracked open. Red seeping between your teeth, your gums, spitting, drooling iron. A heaviness deeper than bone marrow, than the center of the universe. Old wounds open, gaping, hemorrhaging, curious fingers picking, plucking, tearing away scar tissue, scab after scab. They did this because they loved you, because that's what others had done to them, but you couldn't help but question, why in the world would they want to willingly hurt someone because they themselves had been hurt?

You can picture it. The ease of it all. An effortless kind of feeling, light, airy. Nothing that sits on your shoulders, nothing that stifles your sobs, nothing that leaves you shaking, cowering, begging for something, anything, to change.

This is bare soles against the cold wooden floorboards. A refreshing stir midst the summer heat. Avoiding the creaks and crevasses of each board, floating down the staircase of such a place. No worries of slipping. That kind of pain doesnt live in a place like this. Along the wall there are framed pictures of every shape and size. Old and new, him, you, the both of you, black and white, fraying at the ends, all of them smiling through the glass, knowing they're exactly where they should be. You could still feel the ache in your sides, the tears down your cheeks, the laughter that refused to stop, unable to catch your breath. He clung, sure you'd find your way to the bottom, a hammer in his other hand. Another nail poked through too far, just like the others. Assuring him you could do it, but always too stubborn, wanting to try again. All this time, and still so forgetful, his own strength slipping his mind. Now, the walls themselves are bloated and sweating, cursed by the heat, the warmth, the humidity, waiting for the sun to settle. You can hear him, on the porch, the door open, screen letting in what little breeze there is. Calling his name because it's the sweetest word you know, wanting nothing more than to be with him, the distance between you already too great, too much.

This is shooing away the bugs when the stars come to play. Temmperature dropping, his arm around you, doing his best to protect you from the onset of shivering. Together, at last. Nothing but the crickets, the buzzing of a new world come to life, come to play, and the sway of the tall grass can be heard. Constellations sprinkled across the abyss, watching you like you watch them. He tells you all he knows, the stories of men long dead, war torn bones, the comfort they found in the same night sky as you did. You rest your head against him, close enough to hear his steady breathing, a sound you find yourself lulled to sleep by each night. There's a calm in the air, bright like the fireflies, one you can't find anywhere else, nor would you want to. Your own slice of heaven. Stripped of nothing but the smallest wonders of life. The breeze against your skin, nuzzled against your face, reminding you that you're alive, that there is so much more out there than what you see and feel right now.

This is a home alone, in need of space. Escaping the clutter, the noise, wanting more room to breathe. Escaping the noise, and the terror that comes with it. Space to grow, to thrive, to be allowed to change. Stifled for too many years, suffocated under the weight of others. Now it was only two, and that was okay. He is always nearby, reaching out, pulling you close, talking even when he's far away. His hand outstretched waiting for your own. Long walks through the grass, picking flowers, watching the birds and bunnies, naming them one by one. There are no expectations. Nothing waiting home to do, or wanting to be done. Things are as they are, and that's all. He stares, though not the way they used to. His jaw is not tight, his eyes are not narrowed, there is no flinch at the anticipation of words he dould never take back. He stares in awe, wearing a hint of a smirk, a light in his eyes settled sweetly. Sometimes you're able to catch him, your skin burning, looking away before he sees. Sometimes you don't, and those are his favorite moments, when you let him get lost in all your littlest details, reminding him again and again, why he fell for you.

This is the kind of love, of life you used to dream of, hope for, wasting every shooting star and eyelash on what you have now. The ones who weaponize their love, who use it as a means of getting what they want, who only love you for what you do, and not solely for your existence, are gone. They can't touch you anymore. The wounds they left are healing slowly. Sometimes, something will tug at them, snagging on a sharp corner or a distant memory, and it will reopen. Those are the days you fear the only thing you're good for is bleeding out. He's there now, doing what he can, cleaning up the mess. He doesn't always understand, he can't, but that doesn't stop him from trying, and it doesn't stop you from trusting him.

Suddenly, though you guess not so suddenly, the saying is no longer jaded or jagged. It's sharp, pointed ends slicing you through and through are dulled, softer now, tracing your skin instead of slicing. The ways in which they prettied up their words grow old, lipstick smeared, mascara run. This love is not that. It's not dolled up, or pretending to be soft. His words, like himself, are thoughtful, chosen with care, with patience, spoken so softly you can barely hear, as if any louder, something inside might suddenly crack. . . .

"You are an incredible person, so much so, it's impossible not fall in love."