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phoebehalliwell · 4 years

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can we talk about richard for a minute. i was browsing your paige tag and found a mention of paige/richard and got in my feelings. mainly the feeling that dominates is annoyance because WHY why on earth did the writers try to do an addiction storyline only to fuck it up this badly. richard was straight up villified by every character other than paige for being an addict and my god it makes my blood boil. i thought willow's addiction storyline bugged me but this is on another level

and the way they ended this pairing too? like richard and paige deserved better let's just say it right now. richard deserved better. they basically tried to send the viewers this message of richard is no good for paige, he's not bad but he is bad FOR paige but then they turn around and have an actual toxic relationship (i don't wanna say abusive but it borders for sure) with her and brody but we're supposed to root for THEM and him? what the hecking fuck ever?

honestly i feel like they really did richard dirty. like i think he had a great potential maybe not as a love interest (though it definitely could have worked if they viewed paige and richard’s relationship as anything other than an obstacle) but just as like a character they don’t really have any witch friends just to have this family who are allies sorta in the background could have been so nice. in regards to the addiction storyline, it was...... i really don’t know what their intention was. to prove paige is a good person for trying to help him? to say addiction is bad? like the first two episodes richards like no i don’t practice magic it makes me into a person who i really don’t want to be and then after his dad is murdered he’s like i feel like my hand’s been forced i feel like i have to take up the craft and paige is like no you don’t have to please just listen to me you can solve this without magic and richards like you’re right and then the next episode he’s still like i support you but i really don’t feel comfortable performing magic and paige is like no i would never ask you to do that and richards like oh : ) thanks And Then The NEXT Episode richard’s fuckin using magic like hello? make it make sense?? i only use it once in a while, for little things like that’s not really how addiction works?? if i was a former alcoholic i wouldn’t be drinking champagne on new years like as a little treat uwu because that is the first step towards a major backslide. like okay if we had him use magic to dramatically save paige bc there was no other way and that triggered a backslide sure. maybe. but this? everything we’ve seen about richard so far is like centered around the fact that he doesn’t practice magic and then you give us this? and then it’s villainization from here on out from the abuse of their book of shadows to the attempted brainwash like why. why are you giving us this. why do we need to see this.

and not top of that paige is a former addict (which they never brought up once in this storyline) she was an alcoholic throughout high school and i think into college and now she just doesn’t drink. so to think she would sit idly by as richard starts using magic “for the little things” is fuckin buckwild! bro when she sees him use magic for the first time she’s like nice : ) as if the past two episodes weren’t about him not using magic bc it’s like an addiction. like Ma’am. if your sisters came home and saw you with a bottle of beer they would be Extremely Fucking Concerned and rightfully so?? they wouldn’t be like oh it’s good to see paige kick back and relax with this one time little thing at least it’s not vodka : ) they would like stage an intervention right then and there. and they went insofar as to have like phoebe say hey wasn’t richard like an addict didn’t he like explicitly say he didn’t like the person he became when he used magic and paige is like yeah lmao but he seems fine like your former addict who is now completely sober is saying that are those the worlds coming out of her mouth rn??

And Another Thing! all richard does in the end is take a power stripping potion and boom addiction gone bc he can literally no longer access this. so like?? why didn’t he do this like five years ago??? if you swore you were never gonna use magic again because you knew it was addictive and also hurt the people you love, why not take it away right then. completely eliminate even the possibility of a relapse. hello??

back to paige and richard’s relationship: they spent so much time on this addiction thing that we never really got to see the actual goddamn relationship. like oh paige was so open hearted and optimistic that pessimist richard actually starts to feel hope. they hook up. magic addiction plotline. like?? could you give us maybe ninety fuckin seconds of how they actually feel about each other. can we see them as a couple once?? evifuckindently not. and so many people are like blah blah blah i don’t like paige and richard’s relationship but bro,, What Relationship. all we got from then was an addiction plotline. there was never romance portrayed that wasn’t directly connected to richard’s abuse of magic. we never got to see a real relationship. and that’s fuckin bullshit man bc you know what they could have been really cute together the sullen straightlaced pessimist with the exuberant wild child optimist hello?? that’s a great trope. they fit those roles so well. and yet we got nothing. goddamn disrespectful.

now if i’m switching gears from a less emotionally driven rant lemme give you this headcanon about richard: okay. so he’s addicted to magic, right? it fucks him up, it’s difficult to quit, etc. but this really shouldn’t happen to a witch. they’re born magic, they’re never given more than they can handle. really the only time we’ve ever seen any being act this way is dr. williamson when he was dosed with the charmed one’s blood. now, in that episode, leo said that the ability to sort of control/wield/manage that much magic is something that is built up in a line for generations, and if someone is infected with a magic too strong for them to handle, they lose it. (we also see something akin to this where prue, when given empathy, almost completely loses it, because it was a power she was never meant to have.) now. am i accusing richard of dosing himself with the blood of a being more powerful than him? i am not. i’m accusing his parents. think about it. they literally have a black magic vault in their house. they’ve been in a feud for centuries and they keep losing loved ones. maybe they thought giving richard the blood of a greater being would give them the edge to win this battle, and make sure the montana line stays safe. i don’t think they would ever tell richard what they did either. i think he would just live believe that something in him is cosmically screwed up. a witch who can’t control their own magic. a cruel joke. which is another reason he stops believing in fate and destiny and a grand design. because if there was one, it was clear he was supposed to be a villain.

and onto kyle. see okay here’s the thing i know i just said we never got to see paige and richard’s relationship but it did really feel like they were in love with each other. we never got that with brody. richard tried to manipulate paige by saying other girls would love to be showered in gifts and she should appreciate what he’s doing for her. brody manipulated paige by infecting her with a paranoia crystal so he could further his own agenda. his grand sacrifice in the end is Murdering someone. richard’s was admitting his wrongdoings and drinking a power stripping potion. and yet the show paints kyle as the greater man?? dude brody wasn’t even like constantly battling addiction he was just an asshole and for some reason was regarded as a better relationship for paige. hard pass.

#1000 words on richard montana 😌#in which more effort is put into his character #than anyone on charmed actual tried to produce #💌#paige matthews #richard montana #paige x richard #charmed

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thotwonu · 5 years

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relapse/backsliding - j.p.

oh my gah- i’m back from hibernation. and not filling any of the prompts in the inbox bc this is in my brain rn and i gotta get it out before i scream. it’s not the best bc i literally wrote it in 45 minutes and didn’t edit anything, but ayyy it’s out. - rei (relapse and backsliding by carrie underwood were the inspiration)

you met joel pimentel when you were both 19. you had a private hidden relationship from the public. the fans never even had an idea that you were with him. you seemed like just casual friends to the outside world. some of your friends knew that you’d had feelings for each other, but no one knew the extent of your relationship.

the two of you had shared many firsts together. enough that every time he came back to miami, it was always like magnets when the two of you tumbled back into bed together. neither of you tried very hard to stay away from each other. even though you were both starting to talk with other people and didn’t hang around in the same friend circles anymore, somehow you kept finding yourself reaching highs in his bed every night.

at the end when you got up from the bed to leave and go back to your apartment and try to forget what you’d done, he’d beg you to stay. “baby, please, why can’t we just cuddle a little?” he’d ask as you pulled the straps of your bra onto your shoulders. “because we can’t keep doing this,” you’d whisper before getting up and pulling your shirt over your head and heading out his front door.

the whole way home, you would repeat in your head, “i don’t love him, i don’t need him, i’m not going back.” and he’d leave for tour again and it was easy. for a few months you could get on with your life. you wouldn’t check up on him. but then, you’d hear from a mutual friend that he’d be back.

this time he showed up at your doorstep. you had been laying up awake in your bed thinking about him and trying to remind yourself of all the reasons why you shouldn’t be together anymore. 2AM and you pulled out your phone to call him for the first time in a year, and there was a knock at your door. you slowly opened it and there he was standing in front of you.

he looked exhausted. he’d grown out his beard, his curls were wild, and his eyes were filled with pain. “what are you doing here joel?” you asked trying to hold your ground and not give in again. “i was supposed to be at an event, this girl i’ve been talking to was with me,” he stated with a shaky breath. “i don’t under-” you started before he held up a hand to cut you off. “but i couldn’t do it. i was talking to her and it wasn’t the same. i couldn’t stop thinking about you. i didn’t want to be with her. i wanted to be with you.”

you shook your head and stepped back from your door, “joel you know why we can’t-” he slammed his hand against the door frame, “no i don’t!” you jumped a little surprised at his outburst. tears started pooling in his eyes. “i know- i know that this became just sex for you. that we had something good last year but then we kinda fell apart and we just became a pair of people who hooked up some times- but...but i never stopped loving you.” he whispered out the last bit, reaching out a hand to cup your cheek but letting it fall back to his side when he was inches away.

you squeezed your eyes shut and tears you didn’t realize had built up in your eyes started to fall. you shook your head and stepped back again. he followed you into your apartment and closed the door behind him. you stood facing the window that looked out over the miami skyline and he stood behind you watching your back from a small distance. “if we’re not meant to be, why do we keep coming back to each other?” he whispered through the darkness. you spun around and threw your arms around his neck and pressed your lips to his.

your tears mixed in the kiss. one of his hand cupped your cheek and wiped your tears away and the other gripped your hip so tight it was like he was afraid you’d disappear. he moved the hand on your cheek to your thigh. “jump,” he whispered against your lips. you did what he asked and wrapped your legs around his waist. he held you and moved to press your back against the window. you knew this was a bad idea but you couldn’t resist him.

“this has to be the last time joel,” you whispered some time later while you were laying in bed facing each other. the sun was starting to peak through the window. your sheets were half off the bed, half wrapped around your bodies. joel had a soft sleepy smile on his face as he laced his fingers through yours and pulled you onto his chest closing his eyes. “you know that never works, why are we fighting this?” he ran his fingers up and down your bare back and you thought about it. back to the same place you’d been moments before he walked back into your life.

why couldn’t you try and make this work?

#cnco imagines #cnco blurbs #cnco headcanons #cnco #joel pimentel #joel pimentel imagines #cnco concepts #joel pimentel blurbs #joel pimentel headcanons #joel pimentel concepts

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etherealwaifgoddess · 5 years

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Don’t Lie to Me

Main Characters: Thor x Reader

Summary: Thor tries to wake up his sweetheart with breakfast in bed and things don’t go quite as planned.

Warnings/ Content: Nothing terrible, our boy gets a little down but that’s kinda normal for our poor, post - Endgame Thor.

Word Count:1870

Author’s Note: Hi lovies! I’m back again with another entry in the writing challenge for the amazing @bxcksdoll. This is the last one, I swear! LOL. My prompt for this one was #22: Don’t Lie to Me. Hope you all enjoy!

XOXO - Ash

Thor watched you sleeping peacefully by his side as the early morning sun washed the room with golden light. He was so thankful to have you in his life, you had been the one driving force that kept him from sliding back to the drinking and self destruction that had consumed him during the years between The Decimation and The Blip. You had been by his side through the therapy sessions, the failed rounds of medications, and the backslides.

Things had finally settled down about a month ago and Thor was starting to feel more like himself again. Your care-taking of him continued even as he improved, and Thor was always so eager for your affections that he didn’t want it to stop. It was the little things you did: reminding him on the day trash needed taken out, doing the shopping so you didn’t run out of his favorite things, setting out his clothes the night before so he’d feel obligated to get dressed the next morning even if he didn’t really want to. It was a series of seemingly insignificant things that all added up to making him feel loved and cherished everyday. Thor had been thinking a lot lately about ways he could reciprocate all the love you’d shown him. Now that things were more stable for him, he wanted to do little things for you as well but didn't know where to start.

Thor’s stomach rumbled as he watched you sleep and he realized that was something he could do for you, breakfast in bed. There were countless days that he had woken up to the smell of coffee or baked goods floating out of the kitchen and it had always brought a smile to his face. Thor had never tried to cook anything from scratch before but he had watched you and it didn’t seem too difficult. Careful not to wake you, Thor lumbered out of bed with as much stealth as a man his size could manage.

Coffee would be a good start, Thor thought to himself. The coffee maker was easy to use and he needed a little pick me up while he cooked. Thor pulled the bag of grinds from the cupboard and shook some into the paper liner until it looked about the same as when you did it. Thor was very pleased with himself as the machine started up and the first few drops fell into the pot. Emboldened by his first success, Thor decided he would make pancakes and eggs for you.

Thor poked around the cabinets until he found where you kept the box mix. It looked simple enough and he poured some of the beige powder into a bowl he’d found during his search. The box said “just add water” so Thor let the faucet run into the bowl just a little until it pooled on top the mix. He’d watched you do this countless times and didn’t once think to read the directions. The mix clumped together so Thor gave it a heartier pour of water just to be safe. The batter whisked easily then and Thor started up the pan you always used, getting it good and hot.

The first pancake burned within a minute after running all over the pan. Thor frantically waived a dish towel at the smoke, fearing you would wake to the smell of it. It was late November but Thor cracked a kitchen window just to be safe. He could deal with the cold in order to clear the air. Thor turned the burner down from high to medium realizing his mistake. The second pancake was still too runny and he ended up with a very thin, raw, pan-sized pancake. He left the third on longer trying to get it a little more done but then that one burnt and was misshapen as well. Frustrated, Thor poured more pancake mix into the batter hoping that would help. The end result was a little thicker than he wanted but was better. The next pancake looked okay but was still raw in the middle. Thor continued to experiment with cooking times and consistencies for almost twenty minutes with no success and by the time he ran out of mix he had yet to make something edible.

Thor was upset but he worked through the feeling and was undeterred. Feelings of failure were at the heart of his mental health struggles, and now what was supposed to be an easy endeavour was starting to truly test his patience. He slowly repeated his affirmations while pulling out the carton of eggs. Eggs and coffee would be a fine breakfast, he thought to himself. He cracked the first egg on the side of the bowl like he’d watched you do a hundred times but in his large hand the egg shattered everywhere. The slimey egg whites dribbled down the side of the bowl onto the counter and the yolk burst, trailing behind the whites. Thor huffed a moment and then started cleaning up his mess. Two eggs later, Thor pretty well had the hang of it and cracked two eggs to whisk in the bowl. Pouring the eggs into the pan he thought he saw a flash of white but it never resurfaced so he assumed he was mistaken. After moving the eggs around for a few minutes they’d lost their loose, wet, appearance and Thor plated them with pride. He picked up a forkful and blew on it carefully before taking a bite. Thor knew something was wrong when the eggs crunched between his molars. With a trembling hand, Thor pulled a crushed piece of shell from his mouth. The white he thought he had seen was shell and there was no telling if there were more pieces or not.

The pancake failure had been one thing to overcome, but the eggs failing too had him sitting down on the little kitchen chair, desperately trying to keep himself together. He was so lost in his despair he didn’t even hear you approach.

You had woken up to the smell of coffee and something slightly burnt. You wrinkled your nose and followed the scent to the kitchen curious to see what your sweet man was up to. Thor was sitting with his head in his hands, his breaths coming in large, heaving gulps. It didn’t take much to figure out what had happened. The kitchen was a complete disaster around him.

“Hey you.” You said softly, placing a hand on his broad shoulder. You hadn’t seen him this upset in almost six weeks and it broke your heart a little that he was struggling again.

Thor sniffed back the tears threatening to fall and looked up at you. “You’re not supposed to be up yet.” He all but sobbed out. Thor had tried so hard but it still wasn’t enough to make you something as simple as breakfast. Now you were standing in front of him looking like a goddess in your thin nightshirt, your hair mussed attractively from sleep, and he was just... a mess.

“Sweetheart, what’s going on? Were you trying to surprise me?”

Thor nodded quickly, his voice wavering as he tried to explain himself. “I wanted to wake you with breakfast in bed. You always cook breakfast and... all the meals really. You take such good care of me all the time. I was feeling better and wanted to take care of you for once. But I couldn’t get anything right.” Thor’s tremendous shoulders shook as the tears finally came.

You pulled Thor’s head against your chest and started stroking his hair gently. “It’s okay.” You murmured over and over while he sobbed. “You tried and that’s what counts. I love that you wanted to surprise me. You are the sweetest man for trying.”

Thor grabbed you by your waist and pulled you into his lap so he could curl himself around your smaller body. You let him move you and he was clinging to you like a lifeline. Thor sometimes needed a minute of closeness to calm himself down and you waited patiently until his breathing started to normalize. You rubbed a palm along his back soothingly and quietly reminded him that he was safe and good and loved.

“I’m truly sorry, Y/N. I will do better next time, I swear it.” He told you after his tears dried up.

You pressed a kiss to his lips, cupping his cheek with your palm. “I know you will. I’ll have to start teaching you things as I make them. You’re a smart man, you’ll pick it up in no time. Now, do I smell coffee?”

“Yes! I made that first.” Thor was so relieved he had something to give you after the mess he’d made.

“Wonderful. So you did make me something after all.”

You stood up so Thor could go pour you each a cup of the steaming brew, which he handed you with pride. You noticed it smelled a little off but took a sip anyway. It might as well have been jet fuel. Thor must have used four times the grounds needed making it bitter and too dark. You forced a smile at him over the cup. “Thanks, sweetheart. It’s great.”

Thor could see the crinkles on the corners of your eyes, the furrow of you brow. He also got a whiff of how terrible the coffee smelled. “Don’t lie to me.” He said with defeat.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart. Please don’t get upset. We could add some milk and maybe some sugar. Make a latte out of it?”

Thor shook his head, “No, I think I’m done trying for today.”

“Oh, my love. I’m so sorry this didn't work out.” You wrapped your arms around him and pulled him in for a hug. He wasn’t crying but the sadness radiated off him in waves. “Can we start our day over?”

Thor looked down at you suspiciously.

“We can go back to bed, snuggle for a little while, and then go get those strawberry waffles you love so much from the cafe over on Juniper Street.” You suggested.

Thor’s eyes were shining a little again but he nodded, “That would be wonderful, my love. You always know what to do to make things better.”

“Come on, sweetheart.” You tugged gently on his hand, “I’ll even let you be the little spoon.”

You lead your perfect thunder god back down the hall to your bedroom, thankful his moment of upset hasn’t spoiled the whole day. You would deal with the kitchen mess later. All that mattered in that moment was your sweet, tender hearted man, who needed a little more love to get his day back on track. As wonderful as it would have been to have breakfast in bed you knew it would take practice, time, and patience just like everything else in Thor’s life. But as you wrapped yourself around his warm, plush body you realized you wouldn’t trade him for all the perfect pancakes in the world. Thor might have been a mess at times but he was real and kind and loving, and most importantly- he was all yours.

#bxcksdoll writing challenge #thor #thor odinson #endgame thor #fat thor #thicc thor #fluffy thor #post endgame #post avengers endgame #marvel #marvel fanfic #thor fanfiction #thor fanfic #god of thunder #bxcksdoll #thor x reader #thor x you #marvel fandom #marvel fanfiction

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rena-rain · 5 years

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The Shortcut Home ch. 4

Chapter 3

Marinette woke slowly, reality filtering into her mind like sunlight as it rose. It was hot. Her body felt like it was being roasted. With a little groan she moved to get more comfortable and realized she wasn’t alone in the bed when she met resistance. Half her body had someone else’s naked skin pressed flush against hers, from her shoulder to her waist to her feet. A lean arm encircled her back, palm gently cradling her tricep. Hot breaths puffed against her neck where her partner’s head was nuzzling into her. She blinked away the sleep fog. She saw messy blonde hair, and for a split second she thought she’d somehow fallen into bed with Chat Noir.

Then the memories came back from last night. Careful touches, sweet kisses, whispered questions in her ear. Strong hands, smooth skin, soft hair, and even softer lips. Even while the memories made Marinette relax in Adrien’s grasp, her heart thundered in her chest.

If she told fifteen-year-old Marinette where she was right now, her younger self would scream then probably pass out.

Adrien stirred. Marinette carefully sat up, dislodging his arm, and stretched with a satisfied groan. He rolled over, rubbing his eyes. She pulled his fluffy comforter more completely on top of their bodies and snuggled back up to him.

“What happened last night?” Adrien muttered.

She laughed. “Don’t tell me I have to explain to you what sex is after we just had it.”

“No, I mean - ” he stopped. “I don’t know what I mean.”

Marinette would ordinarily feel bad for laughing at his expense, but she felt too much like the embodiment of sunshine this morning to care. She contented herself with absorbing his body heat through her cheek. “Last night was so good. It’s been way too long since I got to do that.”

Adrien looked at her with serious eyes. “Do you want to have sex with me again?”

“Right now, or in general?”

“Both.”

She was still high on endorphins and dopamine and sexual relief. She crawled over him to kiss his lips. “Yes to both.”

Adrien tried not to be nervous. He failed.

He pulled up to the gates of the familiar mansion, Marinette crocheting in the passenger seat. He hesitated before getting out of the car. She looked up at him.

“Are you okay?”

He shook his head.

“Are you worried about his reaction?”

His voice wasn’t working. He nodded.

There was a several second long pause. “Do you think...he’ll be disappointed that it’s me?”

“No.” Oh hey, the words are back. Adrien realized it came out more forcefully than he’d intended. His leg was bouncing and he took her hand and squeezed it. “My father likes you, Marinette. He’s just traditional. And we’re not…”

“Not together,” she finished. She squeezed back. “I can’t promise you anything, Adrien, but we’re a team, remember? I’ve got you even on the off chance the worst happens.”

Adrien thought there was more than an off chance the worst would happen, but he appreciated her support. He gave her a small smile and got out of the car.

“Isn’t this backsliding, Tikki?”

“Backsliding?”

“You know. Getting dumped then rebounding onto old flames.”

“Well does this really count? You weren’t with Adrien before Luka.”

“But I liked him! Ugh, I don’t want to ruin what we already have. I love being Adrien’s friend. I don’t know if I’m over Luka!”

“It’s okay if you’re not, Marinette. Trust your instincts.”

Marinette wasn’t sure if that was the best idea in this situation. Her instincts all really wanted to get laid.

Inside, Nathalie directed them to his father’s office. Gabriel was sitting behind his desk looking far more like a boss giving a performance review than a father meeting with his son. The contrast would never had occurred to Adrien before he’d spent time with his friends’ parents. The first time Nino’s dad squeezed his shoulder, or the first time Marinette’s mom stroked his cheek, had startled him so bad his brain had skidded to a complete stop.

“Good morning, father.”

“Adrien. Mlle. Dupain-Cheng. I trust you have some important news to tell me.” Gabriel’s face was unreadable. Well, more unreadable than usual.

Marinette jolted. “How - ”

“I had a rather alarming visit from Mlle. Bourgeois yesterday,” he interrupted. “However, knowing her, I suspect that the more ludicrous details were exaggerated. So, what is it you have to tell me?”

That was just vague enough to be nerve-wracking. Adrien breathed in, then out, and said, “Marinette and I are going to have a baby. That’s pretty much all there is to it.”

“I see. When are you due?” he asked.

Marinette answered this time. “March 14th, sir.”

“A little less than six months from now. Well, I owe you both congratulations. Younger than I expected, but I’m pleased my grandchild will have a mother as responsible and resourceful as yourself.”

Relief washed through Adrien’s system. Coming from his father that may as well be the signature of approval on a binding contract. Beside him, Marinette said, “Thank you, sir.” She nudged Adrien lightly, and he looked to see her grinning at him. He couldn’t help but return it.

“Unfortunately, there are some housekeeping matters we must go over.” Ugh. He should’ve known his father wasn’t done. “As inconvenient as it may be, this family is in the public eye. It would be wise if you planned to get married as soon as possible for the sake of your reputations and careers.”

“Father!” Adrien burst out. He wasn’t certain , but he felt pretty damn sure that ‘it would be wise’ was Gabriel for ‘I’m ordering you to.’ “You can’t force Marinette into a shotgun wedding.”

“There’s no need to be upset. I assure you there are far worse things to happen to a couple than marriage.”

“But we’re not even dating!”

Silence reigned for several minutes. Adrien stared at the floor, clenched his fists, rolled back and forth on his heels, and chewed his tongue nervously. “I’m surprised at you, Adrien. That is, however, inconsequential. A scandal will open up you and Marinette to public scorn. The press is more forgiving to young lovers who married after learning they were expecting than to whatever really led to this unplanned pregnancy.”

“But - ”

Gabriel stood to walk around the desk and place both hands on his son’s shoulders, effectively shutting him up. “I do not ask this of you lightly. Once this goes public, and it will , you will both be judged harshly. I cannot allow that to happen and you to get hurt.”

“You’re just worried that if it got out your son was a single father, your company would be ruined,” Adrien responded icily.

“Trust me as a father, Adrien, this is your best option.”

Adrien didn’t respond, just turned away and stalked out of the room. He burst outside, the sun too bright, the breeze too cold, the traffic too loud, too much, too much, too much.

A soft voice spoke in his ear. “Adrien.”

He whirled around and clung to Marinette, who in turn wrapped her arms tightly around him. Frustrated tears leaked out of his eyes onto her shoulder. He didn’t mean to scream, but god there was too much crap built up inside him and he needed it out.

Five minutes or maybe an hour later he calmed with deep, shuddering breaths. Adrien realized they’d sunk onto the bottom step in front of his father’s house. The stone felt hot against his knees. Apparently neither Father nor Nathalie had come outside and he’d never been more grateful to have them at a distance while he melted down.

“I’m sorry.” He murmured the words into Marinette’s neck.

“You have nothing to be sorry for.”

“Mari, what’s wrong?”

Marinette had come into Adrien's apartment, sealed their lips together, pushed him onto the couch, kissed him senseless, and taken off his shirt. Now she straddled his lap fiddling nervously with the fabric in her hands.

“I don’t want our relationship to get weird.”

Adrien rubbed her shoulders. "Then we won’t let it.”

“Can it really be as simple as that?”

“I think so. We just have to be honest and keep trusting each other.”

“Okay. Okay." She laced her fingers at the back of his neck. "I want to keep being friends and I want to keep sleeping with you. If that’s what you want, too.”

“Then consider us on the same page.” Adrien had no words or understanding about what he felt. But what Marinette said sounded about right.

Chapter 5

Ko-fi

#the shortcut home #ml #mlb #adrinette #adrienette #adrien #marinette #miraculous ladybug #miraculous #chat noir #cat noir #future fic #unplanned pregnancy #gabriel agreste #adrien agreste #marinette dupain cheng #marinette dupain-cheng #fanfic

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iatethepomegranate · 5 years

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Homecoming Chapter 23

For story masterlist and AO3 links, see the “my tags and fics” page on my blog. This is part of the Human Connection series.

Tumblr removed my last chapter from the tags and I’m not sure why, so I won’t be reblogging myself this time or tagging anyone. We’ll see if that works.

Pairing: DickTiger

Rating: Teen (this chapter)

Length: 3.7k

Summary: Dick recuperates, Tiger has a visitor, and Jason engages in some very healthy coping mechanisms.

Notes: Warnings for alcohol abuse, allusions to the previous torture

***

Chapter 23

It was difficult to concentrate on anything while Dick was laid up in bed. Tiger found the manor stifling most days due to the problems with Bruce and the affections of an overbearing family. Add in the argument and Dick's condition, and he couldn't breathe while surrounded by those walls.

So he found himself outside again, by the back door, leaning against a stone railing likely older than most American architecture he had seen. The roof covered the area, which was fortunate, as it was raining today.

It rained often here, cleansing the air until it was cool and fresh. Tiger leaned over the railing, catching raindrops in his palm.

He was in no hurry to return indoors and face the consequences of that conversation in Dick's bedroom. Where would he go if he had to leave this time?

“Yes, Tiger,” came a familiar woman's voice. “Water is wet.” Helena threw a duffel bag at Tiger's feet. “Your things.”

“Thank you.” Tiger wiped his wet hand on his pants. “Who let you in here?”

“The old man who answered the door,” Helena replied, leaning on the railing on the other side of the stairs down to the manor grounds. Tiger was certain Helena knew Alfred’s name, but sometimes she didn’t like to reveal exactly how much she knew. “He mentioned Dick is suffering some side-effects from the machine.”

“Migraines,” Tiger replied. “Is the machine destroyed?”

“I made sure of it.”

“And the prisoners?” Tiger had been too worried about Dick to give them much thought, but now Bannon was on his mind. Death for that man would be ideal, but Tiger would settle for a lifetime in a high-security prison.

“I've been talking to Batman about that.” Helena gazed out at the manor grounds, frowning, which could either be a bad sign or utterly meaningless. She frowned often. As did Tiger. “Checkmate is our best option for dealing with them. They will likely recruit some who can be rehabilitated.”

“And Bannon?”

Helena sighed. “I don't know. I've been in touch with Checkmate to make sure they have all the information. They know he's a piece of work. But you know them better than I do.”

Tiger hadn't spent much time with Checkmate in several years, given the deep immersion required for his mission in Spyral. They were more principled than Spyral had been, but they were still a group that believed the ends justified the means. Tiger had once thought the same.

“They might want to use him,” Tiger mumbled. Bannon had an uncommon set of skills and an even less common temperament to match. “People like that are hard to find... and control.”

“I could still make him disappear,” Helena offered.

“Do not tempt me.” The thought of Bannon being allowed to keep working made Tiger feel lightheaded. The scar on his shoulder burned.

“I can make it look like an accident.”

“Helena, please.”

Helena held up her hands. “Okay. But if you change your mind...”

“Matron.”

“Message received.” Helena joined him at the railing, nudging the bag aside with her foot. “Checkmate wanted me to bring you one of their own.”

Tiger wasn't sure he wanted to hear Checkmate's message. He sighed, and waited for her to tell him.

“Apparently you never officially quit,” Helena said. “They want you to report to their Gotham headquarters for evaluation and potential reassignment.”

Tiger sighed. “Very well. I can resign in person.”

“Not so fast. You might need their resources to research Dick's condition.”

Tiger hated that she had a point. “Fine. I will debrief with them and ask for assistance. They owe me.” The thought of what would happen when Dick's family discovered he had been a double agent this whole time, however, landed heavily into his mind. “I may not be welcome here for much longer, even if Batman is unconcerned about my allegiances.”

“Oh?”

“He knows I shot Alia.”

“Well, shit.” Helena nudged Tiger's bag with her foot. “Listen. I got Gloria home to her family, so I have no more commitments. I'm staying in Gotham a while longer. If you need a place to stay, my couch is free.”

Tiger didn't know what to say to that. Helena had already helped him run from his problems in the past, and she was offering to do it again. But Tiger would not leave without a fight this time. The thought of being separated from Dick was unbearable. He could barely tolerate being in a different room out of necessity.

“I'm using an old Spyral frequency on my communicator,” Helena said. “Your first one, remember?”

A long time ago, but Tiger remembered. “I will contact you if needed.”

“How do you rate your chances of staying here?”

“I don't know.” Tiger leaned heavily against the railing, weathering a wave of exhaustion. “Bruce can be... stubborn. But the rest of the family likes me, for whatever reason. Dick and Jason won't let me go without a fight. If the others become involved, I can count on Damian at the very least. Possibly the others.”

“You could be okay,” Helena said. “It's hard to blindside somebody twice in a row.”

“Even if I am able to stay,” Tiger muttered, “Bruce can make life unpleasant. I don't know how I can...” He sighed. “Dick is not well. I cannot leave him.”

“Remember that when it gets hard,” Helena said. “Is he up to visitors?”

“Not right now.”

“All right. I'll just have to visit another time, remind Bruce I'm watching. Maybe I'll bring the new uniform I'm working on, since I no longer have any director duties to distract me.” She squeezed his shoulder. “Hang in there. And stay in touch.”

“I will try.”

***

The pain ebbed away after several hours of suffering, but Dick had to move slowly or risk his shitty leg crumbling beneath him. He couldn't quite figure out where it was sometimes. But there were plenty of walls in this place, and Dick knew how to drag an injured body.

Also, he was just plain bored. Reading and watching television were both out of the question; his head split with pain whenever he tried. The rest of the family was likely at dinner, but Dick's stomach hadn't quite settled yet.

Pain memory was a pain in the ass, but he had managed to hold onto enough of the conversation right before he'd been knocked flat. Bruce knew Tiger had helped shoot Alia, and that Jason had practically torn out his own heart on the process of defending him.

Dick still had his communicator, so he tuned it into Jason's frequency, not quite ready to put Tiger through the pain of seeing him in only a semi-recovered state. Jason could take it, and they needed to talk... well, as much as Dick was capable. Words still took time to form in his mouth.

“Jay?” he said into the communicator, leaning against the bedroom doorway. His arm wasn't too bad as long as he was looking directly at it.

“Up already?” Jason let out a long breath through the link. “Shouldn't you be resting?”

“Bored.”

He snorted. “Right.”

“Where are you?” Dick couldn't quite enunciate the words as well as he normally would, but he got the point across.

“Shouldn't you be asking Tiger?”

“Not yet.”

“Still look like shit, huh? I'm on the roof. No way you can make it with half your limbs out of commission.”

“Help me, then.”

“Fuck's sake,” Jason muttered. “Fine. Hope I'm not too drunk yet.”

Of course he was drinking on the roof. Dick would've loved to make a smartass comment, but he couldn't quite get his mouth around the words.

“Tim's room has the easiest foothold,” Jason said. “Kid should still be at dinner. Meet me there.”

Dick didn't comment on the use of Tim's name, rather than 'the replacement' or any of the similarly asshole-ish varieties Jason had used over the years. Jason would backslide the instant he said anything.

Jason sat sitting on the windowsill when Dick staggered his way into Tim's room. “Hey, loser. You look like shit.”

Dick rolled his eyes, grateful that the migraine hadn't affected his eye movement; that would be too far. “Thanks.”

Jason slid outside and helped Dick climb through, keeping a tight grip on his bad arm as they picked their way across the sloped surface and up to a flat point with a bucket full of beer bottles, some full, some empty.

Jason set him down in the middle of the flat section, up against a chimney, and sat opposite him with his back to a slope, snagging a half-empty bottle from the bucket. “Okay. You're up here. Now answer me this: the fuck, dude?”

“Should you be that close to the edge while drinking?” The sentence came easier than Dick expected. Good.

“Fuck off.”

“I can't.”

Jason grumbled under his breath and took a swig of his beer. Dick glanced down at the bucket. More than half the bottles were empty; he'd been here a while. It was just as well Jason could hold his liquor, then.

Dick waited until he'd finished the bottle and started on another before asking, “What happened while I was down?”

“I'm not drunk enough for this conversation.”

“Give it thirty seconds.”

“Were you always this much of a smartass?”

“Yes.”

“Ughh.” Jason took several more gulps and wiped his mouth. “Okay. Fine. Bruce kept being a shithead until I told him to shut the fuck up. Then Tiger disappeared to fuck knows where. He's still in the house, though. Don't freak out. Then Bruce tried to talk to me about shit.”

“How'd that go?”

Jason raised the bottle. “How do you think?”

“Wanna talk about it?”

“I really fucking don't.”

“Drinking hasn't improved your temperament.”

“How would you know?”

Dick could feel his headache coming back just from this conversation. “Jason.”

“Don't Jason me.” Jason drained the rest of the bottle. Dick was really starting to worry about him. This thing with Bruce had been going on for years, ever since Jason came back. They'd never resolved it, and Dick was starting to wonder if they ever would. Maybe some things just weren't fixable.

That wasn't something Dick was prepared to accept, though.

Jason slammed the empty bottle into the bucket and opened the next. “Why are you even out here?”

“Didn't feel like dinner,” Dick replied. “And Tiger doesn't need to see me like this.”

“You're looking better already. Or maybe I'm just getting drunker.”

“It's both, Jay.”

“Yeah.” He took a long swig. “So, you've come to keep the family fuckup company.”

“You're not a fuckup.”

A laugh burst out of Jason, most definitely louder than he had intended. “Bullshit. The only reason Bruce hasn't been on my ass as much is because he's been busy with your boytoy.”

“Call Tiger that in front of him. I dare you.”

“Get me drunk enough and I will.” Jason reclined on his side, propped up on his elbow. It was probably a more stable position given his inebriation. “God damn it. You just had to go and get yourself injured, didn't you?”

“Wasn't planned.”

Jason wasn't listening. “Here I was hoping you'd come back in one piece and step back into being everyone's annoying big brother so I didn't have to do it anymore. But nooooo.” He tipped his head backwards and emptied the bottle into his mouth. “You go ahead and make everyone think you're gonna fucking die. And, like... you don’t die. But you're too damn sick to be yourself, so I'm stuck here filling your shoes in Bruce's house and none of us even know if this is a permanent thing or...” Jason dropped his face onto his arm. “Fuck, I'm an asshole. Pass me another bottle.”

“I think you've had enough, Jay.” Dick didn't trust himself not to drop the damn thing anyway.

Jason groaned into his arm. “I forgave him, you know. For not saving me.”

“I know, Jay.” Dick had reminded Bruce of this on several occasions in the past.

“But letting the Joker live... fuck. I don't know. It's just—it's a lot, okay?”

“I know that, too.” None of this was new information. Dick had struggled with this before, with what happened to Jason and Barbara. There were times he had been so angry he easily could've killed the Joker himself. He'd come close on several occasions.

“He would've done it if it had been you, you know. All his bullshit about how he really did want to kill him and had to stop himself or he'd, like, keep killing or whatever... he would've done it.”

“You don't know that, Jay.” Dick wasn't in the mood to fight over who was the favourite tonight. “He loves you.”

Dick was getting to the point where he hoped Jason wouldn't remember this in the morning. He wasn't great at comforting Jason even at the best of times. He tried, but he didn't have the frame of reference to truly understand where Jason was coming from. Bruce had made mistakes with both of them, but in different ways. Jason's death had altered the trajectory of his life, put him in direct opposition to Bruce and the rest of the family. They'd reached an uneasy equilibrium, where Jason didn’t involve them with the more homicidal aspects of his vigilantism and they didn't dig too deeply anymore.

That didn't work for Bruce. He took responsibility for Jason's actions, especially those that occurred within Gotham. Dick couldn't see a solution without one of them giving in, and Bruce and Jason were two of the most stubborn people he had ever known.

Jason wasn't a bad person. He just had very different ideas about how to deal with the worst criminals they encountered. In a way, it had prepared Dick for Tiger and, in turn, experience with Tiger had given Dick greater patience with Jason.

It was still hard to reconcile, even when Dick wasn't coming down from hours of pain.

Jason flopped onto his back. “Jesus Christ, I'm drunk.”

“You're just noticing now?”

“Ughhhhhhhh.” Jason threw an arm across his face. “Why the fuck are we talking about this? You trying to make me cry?”

“I won't tell.” Even if Dick was strongly tempted to tell Bruce that Jason was still really messed up about this. “Nice to know you care that much about the kids, though.”

“Someone has to. And you're...” Jason gestured vaguely in Dick's direction. “You know.”

“Why, Jason, you're almost responsible in your old age.”

“Fuck off.”

“I told you before: I can't.”

A chill wind picked up, jabbing through Dick's coat. The tip of his nose was turning into an icicle.

Jason groaned and sat up. “You should get inside. Don't need to get sicker on my account.” He had to put a hand down to stop himself from pitching sideways. “And I'm way too drunk to help you.”

Dick put in a call to Tiger, who didn't arrive alone. Tim had tagged along.

“You've got to stop using my window as an escape route,” Tim complained, pulling Jason to his feet. “How much did you drink?”

Tiger helped Dick stand, peering past him at the bucket. “That... looks like many empty bottles.”

“It is,” Dick confirmed.

Tim and Jason went down first. Despite his inebriation, Jason was steady on the slope, more so than he'd been on the flat section. Muscle memory was a hell of a thing.

Tiger pulled Dick close, kissing the top of his head. “How are you feeling?”

“Better.” Dick pressed his cold cheek to Tiger's shoulder for a moment. “Come on. Talk more inside. Tim'll get the bottles.”

Jason had sprawled on Tim's bed when they got inside. Tim slipped back out to grab the bucket of empty bottles, muttering under his breath the whole time. Dick lowered himself into the desk chair.

“Have you eaten?” Tiger asked.

“No. Still a bit queasy.”

“Better than I feel right now,” Jason muttered, pressing his hands over his eyes. “God damn, why did I drink so much?”

“We'd all like to know the answer to that question,” Tim replied, dumping the bucket by the window, slamming that shut. Dick flinched at the sound.

“I don't pry into your shitty coping mechanisms,” Jason mumbled.

Tim crossed his arms, leaning against the windowsill. “What'd I miss?”

“A lot,” Dick replied. He wasn't sure how much he wanted to tell Tim, or how much Tim suspected already. He was a smart kid, smarter than Dick by a huge margin. There was no shame coming in second to a certified genius. Well, third, behind Bruce... and possibly some of the others. Definitely Barbara. Dick knew a lot of smart people.

“Three shooters took down Alia and I was one of them,” Tiger said.

“Oh, I know. Jason did a really bad job hiding the evidence.”

“Had no time,” Jason muttered.

“Bruce knows, too,” Tiger added.

“Yeah, because you told him,” said Dick. He still wasn't sure how to feel about it. Some tiny part of him had been hoping Jason was gonna pull off something spectacular and throw Bruce off the scent.

“He already suspected.” Tiger fixed Tim with an odd look; Dick had a vague pain-fogged recollection of Alfred telling him they had spent some time together while everyone still thought he was having a stroke. “This doesn't bother you?”

“I heard what happened,” Tim replied, giving Tiger a steady stare in response. “It doesn't sound like you had many options. Or any. I hate killing as much as anyone else in this family, present company excluded, but I would've made the same decision in your shoes. I mean, if I had quick access to a gun. Which I normally don't.”

Tiger's expression was hard to read. Confused, maybe?

Tim shrugged. “I'm glad I didn't have to make that choice. Would it help if I talked to Bruce about it?”

“Maybe,” Dick said. “Jay and I have obvious reasons for being on Tiger's side. You don't.”

“I'll catch him after patrol tonight,” Tim promised. “If it helps, I think the others would understand, too, especially if they knew how close it was. Damian and I don't always see eye-to-eye on things, but I think this might be an exception.”

Dick really didn't want to think about close he had come to either dying, or being possessed and then eventually dying anyway. Judging from the way Tiger's body language had completely shut off—crossed arms, rounded shoulders, mouth set in a thin line—he didn't either.

Tim held up his hands. “We can deal with that tomorrow. You should go to bed.” He walked over to Jason and kicked his foot. “You, too. Thanks for putting us a man down tonight.”

Jason snored loudly. Tim watched him for a moment, before sighing.

“Bastard,” he muttered, shoving the bucket of bottles into Tiger's hand. “Go stick those in his room. I'm not catching the blame for this.”

Tim headed down to get changed for patrol, leaving Jason asleep in his bed. Dick and Tiger made their way to their room, detouring to put the bottles in Jason's room.

Upon entering their room, it became clear that Alfred had been in here. The bed was made, the whole room dusted and a bowl of fresh fruit sat on the desk. Dick grabbed a banana, recruiting Tiger to open it for him.

They sat on the bed together, Dick leaning into Tiger a little. Holding his body weight up with only half his limbs working properly was damn exhausting.

“Helena visited today,” Tiger said.

“I missed her? Damn it.”

“She'll be back.”

“Did she say anything interesting?”

“She said... many things.” Tiger ran a hand over his face, drawing attention to the dark circles under his eyes. “She returned my belongings. I think Alfred was going to... ah. There they are.” There was a duffel bag in the corner. “Checkmate has taken the agents who did not cooperate with us, including Bannon. They may recruit some of them.”

“And Bannon?”

“He might be one of them.”

“Fuck that.”

“Helena told them what he did.” Tiger closed his eyes, head downturned, and Dick was surprised he hadn't fallen asleep yet. “They also want me to report in for a debrief. And possible reassignment.”

“What are you going to do?”

“That depends. If they can help research your condition... I can be friendly. Otherwise, I will resign.”

“I didn't think you wanted to go back.”

“I do not.”

Dick rubbed his forehead, willing a stab of pain to go away. “Bruce has resources. We can—”

“Checkmate has other resources,” Tiger said. “I want to give you the best chance to recover.”

“You don't even want to be a spy anymore.”

“I want you to be in pain even less.” Tiger grabbed an orange from the bowl, digging into the skin to peel it. “They owe me for Spyral.”

“You think Maxwell Lord will see it that way?”

“I will make him see it that way.” Tiger plucked out a segment and handed it to Dick. “You missed two meals. Eat.”

Dick was nowhere near well enough for this argument, not after dealing with a very drunk, very emotional Jason. There was still a good chance he could puke all this fruit up anyway, which made talking a rather unattractive proposition.

“They will make me do a psychological evaluation,” Tiger said, passing Dick another segment. “It is unlikely I will pass, and therefore will not be cleared for field work anyway.”

“About time that PTSD was good for something.”

Tiger almost smiled. Almost.

Neither of them really felt up to sleeping yet. They'd tended more towards insomnia than nightmares recently. Talking about what happened hadn't really been on the radar, either.

Right now, it was just easier to lie side-by-side, hands intertwined, staring up at the ceiling. The whole thing hung heavily between them, a thick pane of glass pressing down on their chests. It would eventually shatter, and there was no telling how much damage it would do, but maybe they could start breathing again once it was done.

They weren't ready to take that chance yet. Dick still felt too damn fragile, and Tiger, though he'd fared better physically, was just as messed up on the inside... if not more.

They needed more time, and now they had to make sure they would have it.

#dicktiger #dick grayson #tiger king of kandahar #homecoming dicktiger fic #my fics #fanfiction

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thunderheadfred · 5 years

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Why I Love Spike But Also Hate Him A Lot: an unsolicited essay by me

OR: Why I personally relate to blood-sucking poseurs OR: dude what if I ever got high enough to rewrite season six?

(under a cut because this goes on for a while. also discourse frightens me)

Okay. I’m like twenty years late. But I’ve been rewatching BtVS s5 during my latest depression spiral and wandering against my better judgement into the Spuffy fic verse. Disclaimer that my grasp of the series’ larger canon is meh at best, and frankly I don’t care.

As usual, I have too many thoughts.

Spike is, hands-down, my favorite character on this show. Maybe one of my favorite characters, period. He’s just... good to watch. But listen. Secret poet or no, he was never an inherently good person. Meek and shy does not equal Buffy’s equal. I squirm at this apparently massively popular canon interpretation of his human character as some kind of adorable perfect cherub, as if William the Dipshit Poet is somehow preferable to Spike the Complicated Murderer or like, we should just automatically assume that cute shy white people who lived in 1880 London are default Lawful Good when in fact... ahahaa haaaa YIKES COLONIALISM?

I actually think the reason Spike is “more human” than other vampires (in the weird, contradictory Buffy soul-canon) is exactly because William was not Pure, he was a Pratt. Sweet? I guess. Loves his mum? He’s got that going for him. But that guy?? Is not Buffy’s long-lost true love, not a weepy ghost to be shoved into Spike’s Billy Idol cosplay bod at the last minute. In a show that, at its best, tries to give us a protagonist who fundamentally believes we must always make the choice to keep living mindfully, accountably, and with purpose... we get a love interest who is... Spike. A guy who, until the very end of his arc, acts as though he has zero fucking free will. Even though, through a combo of deliciously fun and inconsistent writing, Spike is apparently the only vampire in the Buffyverse who does.

I’ll get to that but first, let’s accept for a minute that Free Will + Buffy = good, and people who roll over and say “I had no choice” + Buffy = Mr. Pointy. This counts for her friends too, (*coughWILLOWcough*) and it’s one of the reasons I love the show despite its many textual problems. As a character piece, it’s great. People fail to take accountability for their behavior all the time. It’s an extraordinarily human flaw, one that rarely equals automatically evil, and I love that it can bite characters on the side of good, too. But that’s not the point of this, oh shit!

Okay. William, cute glasses aside, has no free will. He didn’t even sign up for the vampire thing, he just wanted to get felt up by a pretty girl who saw him cry and didn’t laugh at him. At every point, he was an immature, weak-willed, naive dreamer type who wanted nothing more than to be validated by his shitty friends. The vampirism made him a killer, yeah. But it also inadvertently gave a cowardly nobody a lot of good qualities. Now he’s a weirdly observant, relentlessly optimistic, fun-loving, sexually secure Cool Guy who gave up poetry for punk... but still tries too hard to impress his shitty friends. Basically, being a vampire made this guy a happier-but-still-undeniably-crappy version of himself, especially... considering all the murder.

But now, let us transparently and metaphorically link cartoonish Vamp!Murder to addiction. Because wow, death in BtVS is either a manipulative authorial gut-punch or a dumb joke, and either way, it’s almost impossible to take seriously in this show, so let’s not.

How to make a remorseless bloodsucking fiend out of of “boo hoo I’m a bad writer and I wish some jerks thought I was cool?” Ha ha you can’t! Turns out you basically recreate my early twenties but with more murder. Spike is a socially-dependent ADHD art school reject on a century-long avoidance bender. He’s a codependent, moon-eyed boyfriend who learns how to aggressively project not caring while caring Far Too Much, all while clinging to aesthetic as an identity. ALTHOUGH let us not deny that he 100% enjoyed all the killing - wtf so much killing - because for vampires, killing equals pleasure, and charming, “happy” addicts always justify the comforts of their vices. He talks the talk cuz fitting in is his whole deal, but he’s not actually in it for chaos and destruction or any high-falutin’ evil reason, or even really for eating delicious ladies but because, in the end, it feels good and the only girlfriend he’s ever had thinks eating people is cool. Even his whole (gorgeous, splendid to watch) episode-long speech about killing two slayers was written more for Buffy’s character arc than his; we don’t really know why he killed the slayers other than like, “Because they had a death wish I guess. Side note: it was fun.”

There wasn’t much legitimately vengeful or hateful stuff in sad little William for demon!Spike to work with, and apparently William’s soul-or-whatever moved about twelve inches over his left shoulder and stayed there, occasionally poking him for the next hundred years. So it should shock no one that he immediately switches sides when a) his girlfriend dumps him, b) his addiction suddenly hurts, and c) it’s time to impress a new friend group.

I get that Spike’s whole soul-getting between s6 and s7 has been interpreted in fanon as a grand romantic sacrifice (ehhhhhhhhhhhh) and I get why that’s tempting, but the show itself bungled that up way bad and I just can’t get behind it. R*pe idiocy aside, making it ultimately all about Buffy just kinda cheapens what could have been a really fucking powerful redemption arc, one that would have led to a far more satisfying love story. Especially from Buffy’s perspective.

Okay listen.

We have a guy who has been playing the “duh, Vampire!” card for a century, pleasure-seeking and self-centered, pandering to various peer groups, murderous or otherwise, a happy addict, impervious to change. So when finally, after a HUNDRED SODDING YEARS of being a soulless, hilarious dick, Spike has consequences shoved into his gray matter by the government, he doesn’t change. At all. He just starts obsessing over another woman, doing what he thinks she wants. A woman he thinks will give him new pleasures, a new, perpetually fine status quo. But this woman is Buffy, whose identity is rock solid even though her life is constantly full of challenge and change and choices. She “rewards” Spike only when he makes willful, selfless decisions. And the rewards aren’t romantic, either. Not early on. Even in canon, she keeps rejecting him over and over again, for crystal clear reasons. Thank god. Because when he accepts that she’ll never have him, but still does the hard stuff anyway, he’s unwittingly starting to change. It’s not just Buffy. Buffy demands real personhood. Independence. Identity. Choice.

Uh oh. She’s gotten to him, then. Though it starts out selfish, he still makes a CHOICE. Quite literally, he takes on the pain of self-improvement - first by embracing the consequences of his chip, later by going on his fancy sparkly soul quest. Buffy is the catalyst, no doubt, because once a poet always a poet and girls are pretty, but Spike’s path to improvement (if not redemption) was already there, laid out nice and neat. His narrative low point, the lightbulb moment that makes him want a soul again, should never have come out of a season of terrible backsliding, culminating in the shower scene we all regret.

It should have been The Gift.

Death isn’t Buffy’s gift. It’s love. And not that simpering, easy kind of love that just says, “there there,” but the hard, truthful love that makes you want to keep getting that goddamn rock from the bottom of the hill. Yes, Spike’s arc should still be about Buffy, it’s Buffy’s show, but it should have been more about the hole she left behind. Not just in Spike but in the world.

What’s left? This latest and greatest group of people who have so far RIGHTLY rejected a demon whose sole motivator seems to be comfort. And maybe when these particular people hit rock bottom, they have enough wisdom to see a monster down in the dark and recognize themselves. Maybe Dawn (whose humanizing effect on Spike has been nearly as important as his obsession with Buffy) shows him that rare, rare thing called Validation. And oh god, he realizes he’s never actually moved beyond trying to sell effulgence to Cecily Whatsherface, that he’s been sitting on his own grave for a hundred years, waiting for someone to coddle and fix him, and now the only woman who might have, the best woman, literally the one girl chosen one above all others... is gone. This would be a good time to die.

Or...

...maybe there is no magic soul cave, maybe he tries to end it and makes the CHOICE not to. Chooses to stay and help, because what else is there? Then BAM! it just slams back into him in a way that hurts like you can’t even believe, because admitting how bad you’ve fucked up is the most painful moment of a lifetime and I’ve lived it and I wish I’d had a hellmouth to jump into, but the Scoobies pull him back, and he takes care of Dawn until life seems to have some meaning again, then Buffy comes out of the earth traumatized and broken and no one is better equipped to help her than a recovering Spike, not because he’s magically her rock but because he’s also learning how to roll his own rock and keep on climbing, because Camus ruined us all for metaphors...

THE END

Anyway. As a recovering addict and toxic person who has been struggling a lot recently... who wants to improve and be able to give more to the people I love, Spike has an arc that just like... cuts me deep, man. Especially because of what should have been.

#I'm also afraid to tag this as anything #haha aaa aa #uh

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cieloxcnco · 6 years

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yo te haré mía (cnco) - ch5

Chapter 5

Words: 4,000+

Warnings: hardly even bad language in this chapter. I know, I’m surprised too.

A/N: I’ve been super busy lately, so I’m sorry for the delay but I appreciate you all still reading. any feedback at all you have is so so appreciated.

chapter 1 is here chapter 2 is here chapter 3 is here chapter 4 is here if you need to catch up.

The clear gel was shockingly cold against he skin as the sonographer rubbed it over Isa’s protruding belly. She winced at the uncomfortable feeling but smiled as Kaja eagerly shook her left hand. You would think that she was in the delivery room from the way she was flanked by her friend and mother-in-law holding her hands so tight. They stared at the monitor intently, anxious to see live what they have so far only seen in printed pictures. Noemi tore her eyes away from the screen for a quick moment before she looked down to investigate Isa’s whimper. “You okay, Isabella?” Isa nodded. “Fine. It just feels weird.” She didn’t recall ever seeing Kaja smile so widely. “This is so exciting,” she squealed. “I let you come and see last time with Joaquin,” Isa laughed. She shrugged, but her enthusiasm couldn’t be contained. “It doesn’t mean it’s any less exciting. It’s a new little baby I can’t wait to meet.” Noemi’s voice was quiet but Isa saw her eyes smiling. “My baby is having another baby.” “You still really want the gender to be a surprise?” Kaja whined. “We won’t tell Zabdiel. Swear.” Noemi didn’t echo the sentiment, but her smile told Isa enough that she didn’t need to. She was waiting just as anxiously. “He wants to wait until the baby is here to find out,” Isa answered simply. “And what about you?” Noemi prodded. Isa bit her lip, trying to contain her smile and clearly failing. Kaja’s jaw dropped and she chided her, “She knows! She knows and she won’t tell any of us!” Isa blushed and averted her eyes, her secret out. Noemi patted the hand of hers she was holding and smiled. “Well, if she does, that’s her choice. Her pregnancy is her journey and everything involved is her decision.” Kaja rolled her eyes. “But do I get to buy tutus or soccer jerseys for my new niece or nephew?” she groaned. “Buy onesies with CNCO printed all over them and the baby will wear them either way. Anything Dolce & Gabbana, we'll be good,” Isa suggested. Kaja grunted lightly in disapproval. “I’m gonna bribe the nurse. I’ll get you to spill eventually. I’ll figure it out somehow.” Isa chuckled. “Good luck.” The sonographer moved the transducer over the gel coating her stomach. “Alright, Mrs. de Jesus, we’re going to try to get a good look and check on our baby here, okay?” Isa nodded and fixed her eyes to the monitor to see whatever fuzzy monochrome images of her daughter would come on the screen. “It’s a girl,” Kaja concluded aloud. “How do you figure that?” Isa questioned, still scanning the screen for when she’d appear. “You can’t even see the baby yet.” “If it was another boy, you would have told us already,” she surmised. “Zabdiel would be over the moon if he had another little boy. The only reason he wouldn’t want to think about it would be because he's scared it’s a girl.” “You can have your theories,” Isa answered. “And if I was wrong, you would have told me right now that I’m crazy,” she added. “Well you’re crazy regardless,” Isa joked. “It could be another boy,” Noemi murmured. “It could be that since it’s what we expected that we have nothing surprising about this time around so they’re waiting until he’s here.” “Like I said,” Isa went on, “have your theories. But you’ll find out when the baby is out. Zabdiel wants a surprise, it’ll be a surprise.” Kaja rolled her eyes and giggled. “And since when do you listen to what Zabdiel has to say?” “Kaja,” Noemi warned lightly. Kaja winked. “It’ll be more of a surprise to him if everyone knew but him, don’t you think?” "Well right now,” Isa interjected, “all that’s gonna show on the screen is an empty stomach. I’m starving.” Noemi tapped her daughter-in-law’s hand gently. “Jasmyn is going to meet us with Aaliyah and Miguel for lunch in half an hour. We’ll get you and the little one in here something to eat, don’t worry.” “Okay, Mrs. de Jesus, the heartbeat sounds wonderful,” the sonographer interrupted gently. “The baby isn’t breech like Dr. Kirkpatrick believed, so that’s good. The doctor will be in momentarily to review this and get you going.” Noemi wiped a tear from beneath her eye, staring at the wriggling figure of the little fetus. “Mira a la carita… Looks like my baby as a baby… I can no wait to meet you, amor.” She kissed the tips of her index and middle finger and touched them to the small screen, immediately apologizing for the smudge as the doctor walked into the room. The doctor examined Isa, reviewed how the baby was developing, and sent them on our way, but not without the three extra copies of sonogram prints Noemi asked to bring home with them. It wasn’t a far trip from the obstetrician’s office to the restaurant where Jasmyn was meeting them with Miguel and Aaliyah for lunch. “Tia Isa,” Aaliyah yelled, beaming. “Hola mi vida,” Isa said, kneeling and hugging her tight, careful not to lose her balance. “¿Donde esta Tio Zabdiel?” she asked, shifting into her booster seat. “He’s at the studio with Papi,” Jasmyn said softly. “We’ll see him tonight.” She reached for the crayons on the table and began to color the paper placemat. “I draw a picture for him.” Jasmyn ended the embrace with Noemi and kissed both Isa’s cheeks. “How did everything go at the doctor with our little… Niño? Niña?” “Save it,” Kaja interrupted, “She won’t tell you. She won’t tell any of us.” Jasmyn smirked, touching the top of Isa’s stomach. “Una niña. I can tell.” “Sientanse, chicas,” Noemi urged, clicking the buckles of the restaurant high chair she had secured Miguel into. “We never really have time to enjoy with each other. Please, sit.” Isa scanned over the menu as Jasmyn stirred her straw absentmindedly in her glass. “So if you won’t tell us whether the baby is a boy or girl, can you at least tell us what you were hoping for? Or what Zabdiel’s hoping for?” “A healthy baby,” Isa answered, still reading the options rather than looking at her. “The politically correct answer,” Jasmyn groaned with a roll of her eyes. “The truth,” Isa insisted. Jasmyn smiled now but bounced anxiously. “I know but I’m just so excited.” “You’ll find out eventually,” Isa giggled, rubbing up and down her forearm comfortingly. Aaliyah scribbled in wild blue circles over a stick figure she’d created on the paper. “And here is the baby in Tia Isa’s belly- azul porque es un niño.” Kaja smirked knowingly and tapped her nails against the side of her water glass. Isa giggled, not even looking up from her menu. "I didn't tell her anything, so whatever she's saying is pure speculation.” Kaja narrowed her eyes at me. “That’s exactly what you want me to think.” Once they ordered their food, the conversation went around in small circles, always about the same. The new album, Isa’s pregnancy, and Aaliyah please don’t do that. Isa tried to focus on helping her niece with her scribbles, avoiding Noemi's glance. As much as she adored her mother-in-law and all she did for her, it caused the guilty sensation in the pit of her stomach to swirl. If she could hardly look her husband in the eye most of the time, she could much less look at his mother. Isa’s focus fell to her water glass, staring at it blankly as her thoughts began to race. She didn’t deserve the de Jesus family and how they put her on a pedestal, even though her husband didn’t. Zabdiel had his usual turn around since the last time they’d had sex. First he tried to be more physically affectionate, but grabbing her around her waist from behind and kissing up her neck felt more like trying to initiate round two than just wanting to be close and remind her that she was loved. Most everything he tried was rebuffed for that reason alone. Then he quickly backslid into the typical actions of only the most basic of attention necessary to get through the day, more quiet in her presence, gradually turning into almost nothing at all. There were the sporadic hills in between- an attempt at affection and then absence again - but the lull of nothing was the longest and the most threatening. Isabella’s phone vibrated in her pocket, reminding her that it’d been two minutes since it first had alerted her to a text from Christopher asking how the appointment went and hoping she was having a nice time out. Isa didn’t want to unlock it and see that there was nothing unread from Zabdiel showing any concern about her or the pregnancy at all. For her family, friends, and the sake of his fame, Isa pretended to be happy. She was absolutely miserable. She was with someone she was falling, maybe had already fallen, out of love with and was in love with someone she couldn’t be with. The little girl inside her womb wiggled and she’d usually be distracted and entranced with her movements but Isa just gulped down the knot in her throat and sat unmoving. “Isa,” Kaja murmured, tugging gingerly on her elbow. “Are you alright?” Isa snapped from her daze. “Hmm?” “Come on. Come with me to the bathroom,” she pleaded in a way that made it seem like a suggestion but Isa knew better. “Sure,” she replied, struggling over her belly bump to right myself in the chair before following her into the restroom. “You looked completely spaced,” she said once the door behind them had shut. “Do you feel sick? Are you okay?” Isa’s frustration and despondence had clouded over her usual exaggerated answer of “oh, of course, everything is fantastic.” She ran her hands under the warm water of the faucet only to splash her face with it afterwards. “Take a minute,” Kaja urged, watching her as if she was a bomb set to explode and she was taking note of how much time remained on the clock. “Just frustrated,” Isa murmured. Telling the girlfriend of one of her husband’s bandmates wasn’t exactly going to keep any exposed detail secret for long. Telling her friend was almost a given, as studying her expression told her almost all she needed to know without her say. “They said at the appointment that everything is okay with the baby. Is something going on with Zabdiel?” Isa was so accustomed to the fake smile and answer for everyone else, but not her. Isa didn’t answer with words but she was sure the falter in my face gave it away. Kaja sat on the counter beside the row of sinks. “Talk to me.” “He’s just been so distant,” Isa offered finally. “He only seems to want to be around me to have sex and nothing else. We don’t talk, we don’t love, we just… are here. He doesn’t engage about the baby unless he’s prompted to and I just worry that while I thought everything was coming together that we’re falling apart.” She jumped down from the ledge immediately and pulled her friend into a hug. “I’m so sorry, bean.” Isa bit back the tears that threatened to fall. She had no right to be sad or upset. If the whole story came to the surface, she was the villain. She couldn’t blame Zabdiel for not wanting to touch the same places where Christopher had. At the same time, the less that Zabdiel wanted to hold he, the more alluring being in Christopher’s arms became. Kaja took a paper cup from the dispenser on the wall and filled it with tap water for her to sip and calm down. “The work on the new album has been rough on all of them,” she suggested gently. “I know they've all been away from home more than we’d like. I don’t think he’s doing it maliciously.” Christopher had the same schedule and he made time for Isa when Zabdiel found reasons to be somewhere else. “I know. He just seems to be busy when I know the band has downtime. It just makes me wonder.” Kaja arched her eyebrow as Isa sipped the water. “You think he’s cheating on you?” Isa nearly spit out her drink. “What?!” The idea itself wasn’t preposterous. The fact that she had been so obsessed with her own affair to entertain the idea that her husband was having one of his own was. “Oh, no, Zabdiel isn’t like that. None of them are. I just thought that was what you were insinuating,” Kaja explained quickly. Isa tried not to scoff. None of them are? Kaja didn’t know them as well as Isa did, clearly. But no one knew Christopher like Isa did. “No, I just think he’s lost interest in me, and trying to do all the stuff for the baby with everyone being excited about us being this happy couple… It just isn’t real anymore and it’s frustrating.” “It’s hectic now, but I promise it’ll get better.” Kaja hugged Isa tighter, forgetting the cup and squishing it between them. Kaja eventually brought Isa back out to have lunch, but even though she was eating for not just herself, she couldn’t even fake an appetite. Noemi’s concern was quiet but obvious. Isa knew she’d hear something about it later, but her nerves wouldn’t allow her to do anything now in peace. Noemi scrutinized her plate. “Everything okay, Isa? You had said how hungry you were.” “The baby is just making me nauseous,” Isa said with a shrug. Noemi nodded in acknowledgment but Isa knew she wasn’t buying that completely. Never to stop for a moment, preparations immediately began when they returned for dinner- Noemi had decided a long day at the studio was going to be celebrated by a small feast Isa wanted no part in making. Her apprehension was easily excused as pregnancy fatigue, so she was able to sit and hear all about her son’s day out with Tio Carlos when he returned with Zabdiel’s brother about an hour later. Half an hour after that, the cars began filling the driveway and the prickling crawl of anxiety traveled up her spine. The dread of dealing with this feeling of impasse with her husband was always overshadowed by the thrill of knowing she would see Christopher’s honey eyes, but the two sensations mingled like a sweet tasting poisonous cocktail. It tasted amazing but God was it going to be the end of her. The only greeting she got from Zabdiel was a wave and a wink while he hugged their son and his brother in turn. That was fine by her when Christopher entered the room instead and hugged her close. “Hola, preciosa,” he said with his signature smirk. “¿Como estas?” His lips grazed her cheek and Isa tried to hide that she shuddered. “¿Como fue la cita con el doctor?” Her blood ran cold as Krista followed in behind them and grabbed Christopher’s hand. She was immediately too nauseated to recall the question. Noemi poked her head in the room to grab all of their attention. “Ya, a comer, todos! La cena está lista! Y Chris, no te preocupes, yo tengo los fotos.” She did a small dance as she walked into the dining room, giddy about anything she could share about her newest grandchild. Dinner was the same as lunch, the same circular conversation only with the band being able to share more about the new music. When Erick started talking about the captivating melody on the latest track that was composed entirely by Zabdiel, it was the first time in the longest that Isa had seen a proud smile grace his lips. She clasped her hand over his knee in supportive comfort and he squeezed her hand in return. Isa didn’t need to look in Chris’ direction to know that seeing her interact with her husband meant his gaze was on fire. The table had started debating on whether they were Team Niño or Team Niña when Isa got up to begin washing dishes and not have to listen to the same repetitive talk- that everyone knew more about what was happening in her belly than she did. She was so on autopilot trying to clean to relax my anxiety that she hadn’t heard Zabdiel approach from behind and kiss her cheek as his arms wrapped about her waist. “Y ¿a donde tu vas, hermosa?” The endearment made a smile flash on her face. “Tengo que lavar los platos, amor. Me voy a la cocina.” “Despues, cielo. Relajate,” he reasoned. “Come back- sit with me. I missed you all day.” Her eyebrows furrowed. Missed her? “¿De veras?” “Claro que si,” he answered, pressing another kiss to the crown of her head. “Yo no quería molestarte cuando estaban almorzando con ellas pero yo estaba pensando en la cita con el doctor todo el dia. Yo siempre pienso en ti, pero… Hoy te extrañé mas, yo no sé.” He spun her around in his arms and pressed his forehead to hers. As Isa gazed into his chocolate eyes, she realized how lucky she was. Her husband was, indeed, gorgeous. His chiseled features made him look like some sort of Greek God come to Earth. His tan skin was smooth and flawless, and his eyes were piercing. It wasn’t that he appeared cold, but he could touch your soul by just glancing at you once. That was what scared her most- she hoped he couldn’t see through her. There was not a moment of every day that she did not try to analyze the reason she did what she did before the shift in our relationship occurred, before they were so far apart when they were next to each other; who could ask for more from this perfection? Apparently she did. During the moments of frustration, Isa could put the blame on him in her mind. He has been avoiding her, he has been distancing himself, he’s pushed her away. But in moments like this when she saw him trying to reignite the spark, she knew she was the wind immediately extinguishing the flame and the guilt was unbearable. “Te amo,” he murmured. The thought of it killed her. This was the man she had promised her life and unwavering devotion to, and Isa couldn’t say the same to him. He had said he’d treasure her forever, and she could barely talk to him at all anymore because the shame she felt made her feel even more ill than she already was. This alone was more genuine attention than he’d shown her in weeks, and she didn’t want to turn that possibility away this time. But then again, it raised doubts. Did he truly love her? He could say it- he said it over and over. But actions speak louder than words and when was the last time he proved it? Could he just have had a little too much to drink and be talking nonsense? Was Kaja on to something - that his distance was due to him being comforted by another woman? His smile took her breath away and her racing thoughts came to a halt. Unable to reply, Isa kissed him tentatively. He gently took soft, slow, intoxicating drags on her lips, gasping at the feel of her against him. Isa slid her fingers down his cheek and his hand gripped the side of her waist. She wasn’t used to any genuine display of affection from him, and the renewed feeling was such welcomed attention that she leaned into him and reciprocated. Krista carefully slid the door open, more dishes in her hands, softly clearing her throat until they separated. “Hey, we were wondering where you two had gone.” “Why? ¿Qué pasó?” Zabdiel asked. “Noemi needs you.” Zabdiel walked out of the room and Krista glanced at Isabella. “You know,” Krista pointed out, “you’re lucky to have someone that cares about you so much.” Isa shook her head, not thinking that she heard her correctly. “What do you mean?” She shrugged her shoulders. “I mean Zabdiel absolutely adores you.” “Chris is head over heels for you,” Isa said quickly in hopes of Krista dropping the subject. She sighed, dejected. “Not the way Zabdiel is for you. Chris is always so preoccupied. He never pays attention to me anymore. He buries himself in music and rehearsal to avoid everything and everybody. He’s civil towards you, at least.” Krista shrugged again and was about to say something else when they both heard a loud scream of, “Oh my God!” coming from the backyard. Everyone dropped what they were doing and ran outside to see Kaja and Joel embracing, tears running down Kaja’s face. “Kaja,” Isa gasped, “are you okay?” Joel let her out of his arms and she nodded, walking over to the group and displaying a large diamond ring on the fourth finger of her left hand. “We’re getting married!” Zabdiel looked around, passing Joaquin to Chris. “You want to marry this loco? You sure you don’t want to rethink this?” Joel elbowed him harshly in the ribs. “I was actually being romantic. Don’t ruin it, pendejo,” he chuckled. Noemi wedged herself between them. “Joel, can I see you in the kitchen for a second?” Joel pointed to where they were still awe-struck over the ring. “Pero, I got-” She tugged Joel’s sleeve, showing she meant business as she hissed through clenched teeth, “Now.” Noemi was sure that the patio door was shut and no one else was around the kitchen before she turned and began to read the riot act to the boy she saw as another son. “Joel, what are you thinking?” “What do you mean?” Joel asked, pulling a Pepsi out of the fridge. Noemi rubbed her forehead to try and alleviate the forming headache. “You two haven’t been together long. You want to dive into this so quickly? You’re too young to know what you want.” Joel lowered his gaze, for one moment trying to see if the pouting face would work for her. When it didn’t, he murmured, “Noemi, I love her.” “I know you think that. I just don’t think you’ve been out enough,” she admitted with a sigh. “You haven’t dated much before her. You haven’t lived life all that you should before tying yourself down.” He searched for a reply, eventually growling, “Noemi, in the end, it’s my choice. I’d appreciate your blessing, but I don’t need your approval. A choice I decide to make is my business, not yours.” “Not my business?” she laughed dubiously. “Oh, you’d better be kidding, Joel. You’re like my son- every move you all make is my business.” “Noemi, I’m marrying Kaja. There’s nothing more to be said.” He made his way to the door to go back outside but Noemi grabbed his shoulder to sit him back down. Noemi was rarely pushed to the point of anger, but the way her voice thundered lowly and her eyes went alight made the hair on the back of Joel’s neck stand on end. “I start it, I end it. Now sit down.” “Pero, I-” “Sit. Down.” He grumbled as he slammed himself down in a chair at the kitchen table. “What’s the problem?” Noemi took a long deep breath before beginning. “Joel, you’re not thinking clearly. You’re too young to get married!” He exclaimed, knowing he could use a parallel as his point. “Zabdiel and Isa got married at nineteen!” “And do you want to make that same mistake?” Noemi rolled her eyes. “Joel, that was totally and completely different situation.” “How was it different?” he demanded. She hollered, “It was different because Isa was already pregnant!” Joel couldn’t reply, only tapping his fingers across the side of the can, and realization hit Noemi like a brick. “Oh, Jesus Christ, Joel.”

chapter 6 is now here

#cnco #cnco imagine #cnco fanfic #cnco fanfiction

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bthump · 6 years

Text

The Brightest Thing - A Griffith Analysis

Part Three - you made Griffith weak

Part One Part Two

To Griffith, the dream is emotional security. It’s assurance that if he’s dirty, then it’s because it’s necessary to be so, so he can keep winning for the sake of the dead. It’s a way for him to repress his guilt and self loathing, because when he gets that kingdom-shaped seal of approval, it will have been worth it.

So when I say that Griffith’s relationship with Guts is beginning to replace the dream, that’s what I mean - rather than relying on the dream to reassure himself that everything he’s done, even his very existence, is worthwhile, he could rely on Guts for that. He starts opening up to Guts, rather than repressing through his dream.

Despite Griffith's Promrose Hall speech, nothing actually changes on his end. He prioritizes Guts above the dream again when he sends a search party after him and Casca despite the nobles he’s trying to suck up to telling him he shouldn’t. He drops everything during the Battle of Doldrey to have a quiet panic attack when Guts’ sword breaks. His first reaction upon achieving a huge milestone on the path to his dream when the Band is officially integrated into the royal army is to find Guts and share the moment with him.

And boy I love how the chapter that depicts Griffith’s moment of triumph for his dream ends with Griffith just smiling at Guts across a vast ballroom.

The story between Promrose and the end of the war is filled with little moments that are suggestive of Griffith’s reliance on Guts. Another of my favourites:

I just hope he stays calm and composed.

Casca worried that volunteering to defeat an army of thirty thousand with five thousand men might be an act of recklessness because a predatory pedophile who took advantage of Griffith’s extreme self loathing when he was like fourteen is the leader of that army? Naaaaaah impossible, Griffith would never let that faze him. Oh and speaking of Griffith being calm and composed, this is my last battle, it’s almost time to leave.

But Tombstone of Flame is the main attraction here.

This is the second night of assassinations, and it’s a neat mirror to the first. Where Guts came away from Julius’ assassination consumed with inadequacy, self-loathing, and generally feeling like a monster, now it’s Griffith who comes away totally fucked up and filled with self hatred.

Between Promrose and Tombstone we learn Griffith’s backstory. This adds to the mirror image effect between these assassinations by revealing Griffith’s insecurities to us so we can understand his perspective, and it serves as its own parallel to this scene.

And this is the scene where we see that not only does Guts surpass the dream in importance to Griffith, but he could have potentially become a much more emotionally healthy alternative to it. This is where we see how Griffith could have not just prioritized Guts, but replaced the function of the dream with his relationship with Guts.

And I want to emphasize the emotionally healthier part. One of Berserk’s most consistent themes imo is that relationships with others are a superior way of dealing with your issues compared to dreams and swords.

eg, Godo, our favourite dispenser of wisdom, has some pretty telling lines to that effect.

You were right beside those irreplacable things... yet you couldn’t bear to immerse yourself together in sorrow with them. So instead... you ran away so that your own malice could burn inside you.

Guts’ personal growth post-Eclipse is associated with making friends; his backsliding and mistakes are associated with going off on his own to fight monsters; he begins to overcome his revulsion to touch when he becomes part of the Hawks;

on the rooftop after the Zodd conversation Guts recalled the night he killed Gambino and wondered if this was the answer he’d been searching for since then (family) before dedicating his sword to Griffith; part of his healing process for his childhood trauma is talking about it to Casca; etc. And Guts and Griffith’s relationship is very much included, even though it’s far more of a tragic missed opportunity.

The second half of Tombstone of Flame Part 2, aka my favourite chapter of Berserk, abruptly shifts tone from triumph and pure badassery to quiet, contemplative vulnerability halfway through. As a chapter I feel like it really encompasses the highs and lows of Griffith’s character, from defeating his enemies and cooly predicting Foss’ actions to wrap everything up in a neat little bow, to highlighting his guilt, self-loathing, and emotional dependency on Guts.

Here, Griffith opens up to Guts in an intensely vulnerable moment.

I involved you in this filthy scheme... and I didn’t even get my hands dirty. I left all the dangerous, taxing work to you...

Idiot! What kinda question’s that for the guy who killed a hundred men?

This is another scene the significance of which cannot be overstated. There’s so much to unpack here I hardly know where to start. Like... this is the moment. This is what Griffith flashes back to when he’s fucking Charlotte and burning his life down around him. This is a moment Guts remembers when slowly realizing that Griffith loves him. This is what the Godhand shows Griffith to get him to agree to make the sacrifice. Guts remembers this after Griffith makes the sacrifice. This moment is basically the linchpin of Berserk.

This is both a mirror to Guts overhearing the Promrose Hall speech, and a call-back to Griffith in the river after Gennon.

So first, the set-up of this chapter recalls Promrose Hall strongly. It’s the second night of assassinations, Promrose Hall took place on the first night. When Guts assassinated Julius he came away from that encounter wracked with guilt over accidentally killing Adonis as well, strongly and traumatically reminded of his childhood, and basically thinking of himself as a monster in a way inseparable from his own childhood trauma:

Guts is consumed with self-loathing, comparing himself to monsters like Zodd overtly, and like Donovan symbolically. He’s also reminded of killing Gambino, like, basically this event just brings a pile of old issues crashing down on Guts’ head.

In a concussed daze he wants nothing but to find Griffith, presumably for reassurance. I don’t want to get too heavily into Guts’ side of things here, but remember that this is shortly after he dedicated himself to Griffith when Griffith told him he risked his life for him for no reason. I think it’s safe to say that he wants that reassurance again, he wants to feel the same sense of being valued and respected that he got during that staircase conversation.

And instead he overhears Griffith telling Charlotte that he has no friends. More to the point, what he gets is Griffith’s dream blocking the emotional bridge that Guts is trying to cross like a troll.

In Tombstone, Guts and Griffith assassinate the Queen and this time it’s Griffith who turns to Guts for emotional reassurance in a moment of vulnerability.

The way killing Adonis reminds Guts of his many, many issues is echoed in the strong parallel between Tombstone and Griffith in the river. We don’t get to see what’s going through Griffith’s head the way we see into Guts’, but we can infer an awful lot based on this comparison.

In the river, Griffith asked someone for reassurance after doing something he considers shameful for the sake of his dream.

Casca’s response isn’t all that reassuring.

She cuts herself off in the process of automatically reassuring him and instead she asks why he was with Gennon. This is totally understandable and not at all something I blame Casca for lol. She’s a kid, she’s understandably disgusted at the thought of Griffith having sex with Gennon willingly knowing that he’s a pedophile, and she’s out of her depth in a highly charged, difficult discussion. But that doesn’t change the fact that Griffith probably took her answer as a “yes.”

Griffith then goes into his self-harming dream spiel, as he reiterates to himself exactly why it was worth it to dirty himself for his dream while tearing open his arms. What may have been his first attempt to open up to someone else in a moment of extreme emotional vulnerability was shut down, inadvertently, so he violently returns to his original justification and defense mechanism, his dream.

The saddest thing about Tombstone, to me, is that this time Guts brings up the dream for him.

Ain’t this part of the path to your dream? You believe that, don’t you?

Guts’ answer is a depressing double-whammy of both implicitly agreeing that Griffith is cruel, and reminding him that the cruelty is necessary to achieve his goals. This second time we see Griffith try to open up to someone is also shut down, inadvertently, and the fact that Guts is the one to bring up his dream this time rather than Griffith tells us that the dream wasn’t even on his mind. Guts’ answer comes as a very painful reminder.

Like, imo this is huge. In the first part of this meta I tried to show how wholly reliant Griffith is on his dream. It’s what he clings to as his shield against his intense self-loathing and guilt. It’s a way for him to tell himself that everything awful and dirty that he’s done was worth it, and that one day he’ll be able to prove that.

Well this moment shows Griffith forgetting all that in the face of Guts’ potential acceptance, until Guts reminds him and his self loathing comes crashing down on him all at once.

If his dream was what he turned to for validation from fate or some higher power, then now Guts is who he turns to for validation. He needs Guts’ reassurance that he isn’t cruel. He needs Guts to see his “dirty side” and continue to remain by his side - that is all the validation he needs now. Not fate, not a kingdom, just love.

The same way the only thing Guts needed in order to feel like he was where he belonged wasn’t his own dream, but the knowledge that Griffith loved him, the knowledge that he had after their staircase conversation about Zodd, and which dissolved after Promrose.

But instead Guts, with Griffith’s dream on his mind getting in between them again, says the wrong thing and Griffith looks the exact same way he looked when he felt like he was responsible for a kid’s death.

So, to sum up, Griffith feels self-loathing, tries to open up to other people to assuage his sense of self-loathing in the hope that, having seen him at his worst, they don’t see him as filthy/cruel the way he sees himself, and each time his self loathing is only reinforced. The first time he clings to his dream in lieu of Casca’s reassurance, while the second time Guts is the one who brings up his dream, in so many words pushing Griffith away and telling him to cling to the dream instead of him.

Each time the dream serves as a replacement for real human connection and love.

The first time Griffith was able to close himself off, place a hand on her shoulder, and tell Casca, “it’s nothing,” when he realized how emotionally vulnerable he was in that moment. But when it comes to Guts, he’s much too far gone to separate himself and play the perfect leader.

Now, as opposed to putting the mask of perfection on and saying, “it’s nothing,” with Guts he says:

Unlike Promrose Hall, Guts putting the dream in between him and Griffith and thwarting Griffith’s efforts to open up to him and take comfort in his potential reassurance doesn’t immediately ruin their relationship. I’d say that Griffith is very accustomed to seeing himself as a monster by now, so while Guts’ implicit confirmation of that fact is incredibly fucking depressing considering what could have been, it’s nothing Griffith didn’t expect to hear.

Guts remains the man allowed to see behind the mask and into the real him.

And then there’s this contrast:

This is depicted as a cute moment, but it’s also indicative of how utterly weak and emotionally vulnerable Griffith is now that he’s let Guts in. With Casca he was still able to step back and remove himself, put the mask back on, and be the one to comfort her despite clearly needing it more.

Now Guts is the one to put his hand on Griffith’s shoulder. It’s not depicted as a hugely significant and character revealing action the way this moment in the river is, but it’s a perfect illustration of what Griffith finally realizes after it’s too late:

And it’s exactly the moment Miura uses to show us how emotionally vulnerable Griffith has become to Guts. Griffith couldn’t separate himself when he tried, and now he doesn’t try, he just accepts Guts’ assessment that his cruelty is necessary with a sad smile, and intends to continue on with Guts at his side.

Finally, there’s seemingly one thing missing from this comparison between Griffith in the river and Griffith in Tombstone of Flame: the self harm.

But, well, it’s not actually missing, we just don’t get to see it until a month later:

And the reason we’re not shown Griffith’s self-harm scratches*** until this scene is because it’s actually another big contrast between Griffith’s reaction to Casca and his reaction to Guts.

Presumably, based on the other parallels I drew between Tombstone and Casca’s flashback, and based on the placement of these panels - Griffith’s memory of Guts reminding him about his dream and questioning Griffith’s resolve followed immediately by our first glimpse of those scratch marks on Griffith’s shoulder - Griffith self-harmed at some point closely following the assassinations.

One can imagine it following exactly the same pattern we saw with Casca: Griffith asks someone if they think he’s X thing he hates about himself, doesn’t hear a no, and then some time following he reinforces his resolve, tells himself that it’s ok, it’s necessary for him to do these dirty, cruel things for the sake of achieving his all-important dream, for the sake of the people who have given their lives for it, for the sake of making their sacrifices meaningful, etc, while self-harming. Just like he did in the river.

The contrast comes now, after Guts has left.

Griffith could probably convince himself after Tombstone that the things he does for the sake of his dream are necessary and important and it’s worth becoming a monster to achieve his goal. “You believe that, don’t you?” Guts had to remind him, but Griffith agrees. “You’re right.”

But after Guts leaves him?

When Guts leaves, Griffith takes it as a rejection. Those little moments that by themselves never ruined their relationship or amounted to more than mild rebuffs have probably turned into wholesale condemnations in Griffith’s mind. Guts saying, “just order me to do it,” goes from a mild reminder that they don’t have an equal relationship to, “I won’t dirty myself voluntarily, but I’ll do it if you order me to because that’s my job.” Guts saying, “ain’t this part of the path to your dream?” turns into, “your dream is paved with cruelty and I’m sick of being dragged through the dirt with you.”

Griffith winning Guts’ loyalty in a fight turns into Guts being forced to associate with him, and leaving as soon as he’s accomplished what he thinks Griffith wanted him for, thereby fulfilling his end of the bargain.

The moment Griffith is remembering here is our first glimpse of them together. “It’s funny... you’re the first person I’ve ever spoken to like this.” It’s a memory of Griffith choosing to open up to someone and share his innermost thoughts for the very first time. And he’s convincing himself that Guts was disgusted by him from the very first glimpse he got of the Griffith underneath the perfect image, and wanted to escape him since the beginning.

Ironically, we know exactly how Guts felt in this moment: “At that time he shone before me as something beautiful, noble, and larger than life.” It makes the choice of this particular memory all the more painful.

The other thing this particular memory signifies is Griffith’s driving motivation behind his dream. This is the scene where he tells Guts all about his belief in fate and his desire to know what he’s destined for - it’s our first indication of what Griffith’s dream means to him. It’s a contrast: Griffith then, just beginning to open up to Guts and explaining the pragmatic philosophy behind his dream, and Griffith now, falling to pieces because he believes Guts is rejecting him.

In other words, Griffith then, reliant on his dream, vs Griffith now, reliant on Guts.

The very fact that Griffith is the one challenging him, refusing to let Guts go without a fight demonstrates how far the dream is from Griffith’s mind. Remember how important it is for the Hawks to choose to follow him? How even when Guts first joined, the duel and the stakes were chosen entirely by Guts and Griffith just went along with it? Now that’s not even a factor. The feelings of guilt lying just below Griffith’s surface don’t matter at all in the face of Guts leaving. Griffith is now so far beyond distancing himself from Guts with reminders that he may die for his dream that he’s willing to risk killing him directly, in an irrational attempt to negate Guts’ rejection.

“I guess it’s because they themselves chose to fight,” is a careful rationalization, and Griffith is no longer anywhere close to capable of rationalization in this moment. This is what happens when the emotions he buries and spends his life denying burst to the surface. Despite being more emotionally open with him than he’s ever been with anyone before, he’s never put a label on his feelings for Guts and never even identified them to himself. He asks Guts, “do I need a reason each time I put myself in harm’s way for your sake?” he tells Guts, “it’s for those reasons that I’m asking you to do this,” he tells Guts, “you’re rough enough to share this with. To the end,” he tells Guts, “you’re the first person I’ve ever spoken to like this,” but he never tells Guts that he cares for him, prioritizes him, trusts him, loves him, and I don’t think he’s ever told himself either.

Having ignored and rationalized away his emotions for most of his life, now he’s finally run out of logic and rationalizations. He has no experience dealing with feelings like this because he lives in denial of them; I genuinely don’t think he himself understands what he’s feeling or why as Guts announces that he’s leaving, so he ends up lashing out through an established framework that he does understand, that Guts himself once suggested as a way to win his loyalty, that, might I point out, Judeau, Corkus, and Pippin all think is reasonable, and Guts is reassured by lol.

Griffith won Guts in a fight, so Griffith will keep Guts through another fight, because he can’t bear the thought of Guts rejecting him.

Which brings me back to the scratch marks on his shoulder.

He remembers the moment Guts implicitly agreed that Griffith is cruel and called his resolve into question. “You believe that, don’t you?”

A month earlier his answer was yes. He scratched himself and told himself that everything was necessary for the sake of his dream.

Here’s his answer now:

No.

He doesn’t scratch himself - he traces the marks, trying to remind himself that yes, it’s worth becoming a monster for the sake of his dream, even if it drove Guts away... but it isn’t. Now instead of self-harming he curls up and cries. No blood this time, just tears.

Griffith scratching himself is tied to affirming his dream and repressing his feelings of self-loathing, and the pointed absence of scratching here tells us that he can no longer affirm his dream or repress his self-loathing. It’s not worth dirtying himself for, it’s not worth the deaths on his head, it’s not worth becoming a monster, because that, he believes, is why Guts left, and nothing was worth losing Guts, not even his dream.

This whole sequence with Charlotte*** is Griffith’s attempt to fall back on his dream after losing Guts. Charlotte represents his dream perfectly - Judeau even reminds the audience of that fact in the chapter preceding the second duel (chapter 34). The key to his dream is Charlotte, and Griffith showing up at her window is an irrational attempt to attain his dream now, no matter how premature it is, because he is in dire need of the emotional reassurance his dream provides him.

Guts is gone, seemingly having rejected him, and Griffith retreats to his dream the way it’s always been a defense against his self-loathing and a way of repressing his emotions.

Take all the frightening and sad things... and cast them into the fire.

But again, it doesn’t work this time - it’s not enough to cope with the loss of Guts.

I think there is also a strong component of self-destruction here. Griffith knows how risky sleeping with Charlotte is, she even points it out while he’s standing in a tree outside her window. The King alludes to Griffith “destroying himself,” as well, and everyone and their horse except Corkus, stubbornly, connects Griffith’s meltdown after Guts left to the way he and the Hawks are declared traitors the next morning. It may not be a planned suicide, but it’s an act of self-immolation just the same, and something Griffith did knowing the risks full-well.

It’s no surprise when he lands himself in a dungeon.

Oh this chapter. This chapter this chapter this chapter. I’ll admit, it’s been giving me some trouble, not because it doesn’t fit with my point, but because it fits too well lol. I debated for a long time whether I’d try really delving into it or whether I’d omit some stuff and just like, ignore the fact that I genuinely believe this is the meaning behind it.

But lbr I’m taking the first option, as hard as it’s been to find a way to talk about this shit that doesn’t like... give entirely the wrong impression, because it’s basically the capstone to this part of Griffith’s character arc, and therefore this part of this meta, and it encapsulates everything about Griffith’s self-loathing perfectly.

Everything he calls the King out on is something he hates about himself.

You’ve lived on by resigning yourself to the monster [war] you envision. But you’ve by no means tried to harness that monster.

The second part is fairly obvious. The King was born to the throne and didn’t even bother to use his power for anything worthwhile. Griffith wasn’t born into that power but he spent his life trying to attain it, and just as he was about to succeed he threw it away, ultimately accomplishing nothing. "This is... worthless.” Both of them failed to utilize that power.

The first part, the mockery of the King’s feelings for Charlotte, was the part that tripped me up for a while, because frankly, it’s such a clear parallel to Griffith’s feelings for Guts, to the point where when I tried to write this section while ignoring it it felt like a really glaring omission, but oh man, let’s be real here, it’s unpleasant as fuck.

I’m choosing to give Miura the benefit of the doubt because while I don’t think he’s above comparing gay pining to incestuous rape, I do think, as I’ve said, that this scene is about Griffith’s self loathing, and Griffith considering his own feelings to be just as pathetic and grotesque as the King’s lust for his daughter makes a depressing amount of sense to me.

First I want to explain why this parallel is so clear to me because I’d hate to look like I’m making this up. So first, once we’re agreed that the King bemoaning the weight of lives on his shoulders and assuming Griffith has no idea what that’s like, and getting a very knowing look from Griffith in response, is as clear a parallel between Griffith and the King as you get, I feel like it’s impossible to ignore how neatly obsessive love for someone fits in as well.

Griffith’s feelings for Guts have been defined by giving himself in exchange for him, risking his life and his dream/kingdom for him, as Casca points out at every possible opportunity. And now he finally has given up a kingdom for him - or at least, because of him.***

We know why Griffith is in that dungeon. Griffith knows why he’s in that dungeon. (“He was the reason I’ve been thrown into this darkness”) Casca knows why he’s in that dungeon. (“Because you left us! Because you abandoned Griffith!”) Rickert, a little kid, knows why he’s in that dungeon. (“What I think is... it must’ve been over you, Guts.”) Eventually even Guts gets a clue. (“Was I the one who brought all this upon you?”)

Like, just to reiterate the main point of this meta, Griffith’s narrative so far is about becoming emotionally reliant on Guts as a defense against the weight of death on his shoulders, instead of the dream which had been his defense until Guts. This scene is about the King’s emotional reliance on Charlotte as a defense against the weight of death on his shoulders instead of using the “sword called the throne” to defend himself against that weight by doing something worthwhile with it - something to justify what the King’s subjects have been dying for.

And it’s no coincidence that the throne is described as a sword.

In Berserk, swords are coping mechanisms. Griffith is mocking the King for his emotional dependence on someone else to shield his heart rather than using his “sword” for that purpose, which is, of course, exactly what led to Griffith ending up in a dungeon.

The King goes on this diatribe:

I would give myself... even this kingdom in exchange for her! She’s my whole life!

What value is there in this world? Wars rage on and the people’s lives are lost like they were insects! After how many decades of war and how many tens of thousands of corpses, we’ve finally built a time of remembered peace, but it’s only for an instant! On the underside, the monster named war is always seeking new blood, starting to brew itself anew! In the face of that monster, the will of one land’s king is powerless! The wisdom of one man is folly! And yet I cannot cease being king! There’s no way I can stop! In this... blood stained, meaningless world... if there is one single ray of hope to be found... it is... warmth. Only warmth covers and protects me from this world.

You’ve taken that one flower that gives me that warmth... and plucked it! Unforgiveable!

Alas, my poor Charlotte. I’ve brought her up for seventeen years. She knowing no impurity... now that she’s given herself up to the sport of a commoner... I’d rather that... rather that...

Directly from the King lamenting that monster called war and the lives lost to it, to declaring Charlotte his one defense against the world. His one means of protection from the weight of “the lives of all the people, all on [his] shoulders.”

Again, Guts was becoming Griffith’s defense against his feelings of guilt. A large portion of Griffith’s story revolves around how his relationship with Guts is in part a coping mechanism, a defense against self-loathing.

And not in a negative way - remember, compared to dreams and swords as coping mechanisms, finding emotional support in a connection with someone else is by far the superior option, according to Berserk as a whole.

Griffith’s expression of his feelings for Guts wasn’t altogether healthy, because Griffith is not altogether emotionally healthy lol. He’s an extremely repressed guilt-ridden obsessive dude who self harms and thinks achieving an arbitrary goal will justify his existence, and who fell in love, had no way to understand those feelings, and became very emotionally dependent without even noticing.

Hence freaking the fuck out, challenging Guts to a duel and thinking as he strikes that he’d rather kill him than let Guts reject him. But despite that, overall, we’re shown that Griffith’s feelings for and relationship with Guts could’ve helped him grow as a person, had their relationship been given a chance to flourish without misunderstandings getting in the way.

I’m pointing all this out because I’m trying very hard to avoid coming across like I’m saying that Griffith’s relationship with Guts is at all equivalent to the King’s relationship to his daughter.

Griffith and Guts’ relationship falls apart because of a failure to communicate and because neither realize that their feelings are mutual. Griffith believes that Guts is rejecting him when he leaves, but we the readers know that in reality Guts is leaving entirely because he loves Griffith and wants to be worthy of his friendship.

I believe that the parallel here between Griffith and Guts and the King and Charlotte is so utterly loathsome because it reflects how Griffith feels about himself, not because it’s anything close to an objective parallel or a commentary on relying on relationships with other people as a means of emotional support.

The King is nothing more than a lonely, miserable man who can’t find any reason to live beyond the one person he loves, while Griffith threw his life away over Guts’ perceived rejection, and he knows it. As much as he represses, he can’t deny this - when he curls up and weeps beside Charlotte, that’s Griffith failing to deny his feelings for Guts, and he later describes him as the reason he’s been thrown into the darkness of the torture chamber, and the sole sustenance keeping him alive. Griffith is realizing that somewhere down the line his life had switched from revolving around the dream to revolving around Guts, and he thinks it’s pathetic.

The distinction Griffith makes between the King wanting Charlotte to have him rather than having Charlotte is relevant too. I used to take this line as little more than Miura feeling like he needed to justify why the King eventually flees instead of continuing his sexual assault attempt - ie because Charlotte’s rejection was too much to bear - but it works within the framework of Griffith’s feelings for Guts very well, particularly in light of the second duel.

I mean

And again like, ngl I hate to do this lol, like I said I’m not thrilled by this parallel, but fuck, it works perfectly and I do think it’s deliberate:

The King attacking Charlotte is a parallel to Griffith challenging Guts to the second duel. In a way. Again, not an objective way, not in a way that’s truly comparable - hell, we get Guts’ inner monologue and he’s literally comforted by Griffith’s challenge while Judeau and co think it’s perfectly reasonable as former mercenaries - but within Griffith’s self-loathing mindset where he sees himself as a rejected monster, he sees himself in the King and his fucked up attraction to Charlotte. The King’s subsequent attack and “rejection” by Charlotte mirrors Griffith’s perception of attacking Guts and then being left, rejected, in the snow.

Griffith makes the distinction between having and wanting to be had because everything about his own breakdown revolves around Guts’ perceived rejection of him. Griffith thinks Guts sees him as a monster, and, through their duel, from Griffith’s perspective, Griffith was trying to keep Guts with him despite that rejection, against Guts’ will. In hindsight, removed from the heightened emotions of the moment, he believes his actions to be as pathetic as the King’s lust for Charlotte. He tried to “have” Guts against his will, when what he wanted was to be “had” by him - wanted by him, loved by him, accepted by him. He wanted Guts to want to stay with him, not to be forced to stay.

And of course, the supreme irony is that Guts did love Griffith, and that’s exactly why Guts was leaving. He wanted Griffith to want him, he just didn’t recognize Griffith’s irrational actions as a show of desperate need until it was too late. This is directly stated in the text several times, so I’m not going to try to justify this statement through a big tangent about Guts’ decision to leave. Here’s one of the most self-explanatory moments where Miura tells us what happened from Guts’ perspective:

So, again, the King attacking Charlotte is not an actual objective parallel; it’s a parallel when filtered through Griffith’s false framing of what happened between him and Guts as a vicious rejection, which ofc fits because Griffith is the one bringing it all up and condemning both the King and himself.

At the end of the day I don’t particularly care whether “If I can’t have him, I don’t care,” is taken as a super dark moment or barely a drop in the pond when it comes to dark things people do in Berserk. Judge Griffith harshly for it or go ‘meh people try to kill each other in Berserk all the time, he wasn’t even trying so much as accepting the possibility,’ I just want to draw a clear distinction between that and a father trying to rape his daughter, which I think is fair.

And now the King’s final condescending judgement.

“Such a worthless matter.” We know what that worthless matter is. The King thinks it was lust for Charlotte that landed him there, but we (and half the cast of Berserk, vocally) know that it was his feelings for Guts.

And on the very next page we transition to the King’s assault of Charlotte. The King is doing some projecting himself here - he mocks Griffith for destroying himself over lust for Charlotte (Guts) which is what the King immediately proceeds to do. This attempted rape decimates him as a person; the next time we see him he looks like he’s aged thirty years, and he’s growing senile - just as Griffith is tortured to irreversible physical damage after Guts’ rejection.

After Charlotte wakes up and screams a horrified no, we return to Griffith for the last page of the chapter:

Charlotte’s assault is perfectly bookended by Griffith in the dungeon, and the repetition of “worthless,” a word used three times in this chapter.

The first time it refers overtly to the King not utilizing his power to justify his existence and assuage the guilt on his shoulders, instead comforting himself with Charlotte, with the implication that this is how Griffith feels having thrown away his dream over Guts.

The second time the King uses it to refer to the matter that Griffith destroyed himself over, ie stupid, impulsive actions based on feelings for another person. The King thinks it’s Charlotte, but we know it’s Guts.

The third time is how Griffith feels about himself, a final conclusive statement after his mockery of the King's feelings for Charlotte, the King’s accidental mockery of his feelings for Guts, and Charlotte’s assault. The way this chapter is structured essentially tells us that the attempted rape scene applies in some way to Griffith’s final declaration of his own worthlessness, and hopefully I’ve made a convincing case for how it’s an illustration of his self-loathing regarding his feelings for Guts.

Griffith, thrown into the darkness of the dungeon, may as well have been plunged into his own self-loathing. “Worthless.”

SO! What’s left? The torturer rips off Griffith’s behelit a short while later, nicely symbolic of the lost dream. A year passes. Guts returns. And Casca neatly condenses this enormous meta into the four sentences I stole for titles and writes the conclusion to this section for me:

Griffith had to make himself strong - remember, that refers to the way he represses his emotions and projects his image of perfection, the way he smiled at Casca and put his hand on her shoulder after violently self harming.

Guts made Griffith weak because Griffith was starting to open up to him rather than repressing those emotions and relying solely on his dream to defend against everything that haunts him. Do I need a reason? It’s for those reasons that I’m asking you to do this. Do you think that I’m cruel?

After being rejected by Guts and believing that Guts sees him as a monster, the promise of his dream was no longer enough for him to rely on, and he crashed and burned in an implosion of self-loathing and feelings of worthlessness.

Griffith’s no good without Guts anymore because his feelings for Guts made him weak. He came to rely on Guts to sustain his heart, because people need other people, and Guts was the person Griffith needed.

Wish Casca could’ve written this whole thing for me, it would’ve been a lot shorter and neater lbr.

That’s the end of Part Three. The next and final part is going to explore how Guts growing more vital to Griffith than the dream leads, contrary to expectations, to Griffith sacrificing Guts for his dream.

Part 4 - Griffith’s no good without you

*** There is a common misconception that this is one big, thick scar rather than scratch marks, presumably thanks to the anime depicting it as such, but frankly, the anime got it wrong. There is zero reason for Griffith to have a scar there, and it would have no significance - Guts’ sword didn’t touch him, and if it had he’d have either a bruise or a gaping wound lol, not a scar. They are two parallel lines that you can see Griffith trace with two fingers right as he starts crying, and since we already know Griffith has a tendency to scratch himself, this leaves no doubt to me that they are two scratch marks, not one big mark of unknown origin.

*** I think the scene with Charlotte is deeply flawed, and I’m treating it as consensual sex in this analysis because I believe that’s what Miura intended it to be read as, despite shitty, misogynist, tropey writing. More on that here, if you’d like a further explanation.

*** I remember an old conversation I had with I think @yesgabsstuff and @mastermistressofdesire where one of you suggested that Griffith burning his life down by fucking Charlotte could be interpreted as a childish act of bargaining, at least subconsciously. Griffith trying to trade his dream for Guts. And I’m js, that rang true to me and this comparison made me remember it.

#griffguts #griffith #berserk meta #a #b #this is so long i'm sorry and i think the next part is even longer #character: griffith #theme: dreams #scene: tombstone of flame #theme: self loathing #theme: coping mechanisms #theme: self harm #arc: ga #scene: second duel #scene: casca's flashback

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tyrantisterror · 6 years

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FUCK IT LET’S GET ASININE

TT’s SUBJECTIVE RANKING OF THE MARVEL MOVIE VILLAINS (AND A FEW SPECIAL MENTIONS FOR THE TV VILLAINS TOO)

I maintain that ranking characters is stupid but sometimes I dare to be stupid so let’s do this. SPOILERS FOR EVERY MARVEL MOVIE YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED SEE YOU AFTER THE CUT FUCK I’VE BEEN TALKING ABOUT SUPERHEROES A LOT IN THE PAST TWO DAYS HUH

Ok, I guess I should give some criteria for this, so we’re going to be judging these guys both as villains and characters in general. As characters, they need to be interesting and compelling - i.e. you want to follow their journey, you want to hear their story, because that’s a characters job. If a character isn’t making a story compelling, they aren’t a great character. As specifically antagonistic characters, they need to provide an interesting counterpoint and conflict for the heroes - there has to be a substantive reason for why they are opposing the main characters. And as villains - and while villains are often antagonists, those two words AREN’T synonymous - they need to bring a level of menace to the table. We don’t just want to see the heroes/protagonists win - we also don’t want the villains to succeed in their goal, because their goal is, y’know, bad.

If a villain is successful in all of these things, then there’s another criteria to consider: did they reach their potential? There are some villains - actually A LOT of them - in the Marvel movies that are good on paper, but didn’t reach their fully potential, either because they lacked time or the writing just didn’t give them enough to do. A number of the guys on this list would be higher if they hadn’t been, essentially, wasted by the screenwriters.

There are also some antagonists in the Marvel movies who I don’t really think qualify for the villain label - they were obstacles the heroes had to overcome, sure, but they weren’t meant to be full on SUPERVILLAINS. There’s nothing wrong with that - hell, I honestly prefer stories to have multiple kinds of antagonists, because it makes the world more complex and interesting. I’ll give these successful non-villains some honorable mentions.

Let’s dive in then!

As it currently stands, Loki is the best Marvel villain. I know, I know, a lot of you hate Loki because teenage girls think Tom Hiddelston is cute, but has ANY villain in the Marvel movies gotten even close to as much development as he has? Loki was one of the strongest aspects of the first Thor movie, with a sinister cunning backed by motives we could understand but not condone. This guy has reasons for being the bad guy he started as - hell, the main one, his dad, is also the father of the hero he arches for, Thor. From the start there was complexity and intrigue built into him, and his devious mind presented a great problem for not only Thor but also the three other big names in the first Avengers lineup - because while Captain America, the Hulk, and Iron Man can all hit really hard, those powers aren’t really great at beating a scheme.

Loki also opened the door (literally) for a greater scale of threats and scope of story possibilities in the universe. Then, once his big starring villain moment in The Avengers came and went, he proceeded to take a slow but well done turn from villain to hero - one fraught with missteps and backsliding. He didn’t turn into a good guy easily. Again, he was arguably the best part of Thor: the Dark Wold, a movie that’s kind of a low point in the series (and yet one that’s still far from bad, because that’s how Marvel do). Admittedly, Loki wasn’t the high point of Thor: Ragnorok, though that’s only because Thor: Ragnorok was great in so many other ways, taking a series that was up till that point a more middling part of the greater Marvel Franchise and making it one of the best. Notably, Ragnorok finally allowed Loki to complete his turn to hero, all while keeping his personality traits that we’ve grown to love. No villain has been better served by the franchise, and likewise none has served it better.

The first Guardians of the Galaxy had so much work to do - not only did it have to introduce us to and get us to love the five weirdest fucking superheroes of the franchise so far, but it also had to introduce the entire Space Opera side of Marvel’s universe to us - infinity stones, celestials, various planets with various sapient species with a great and varied history. We had to learn about Groots and children of Thanos and the Kree and the Nova Corps and the Ravagers - we can forgive that movie for having a weak villain, especially given the fact that it had FIVE protagonists to develop meaningfully instead of one like every movie before it.

Guardians of the Galaxy Volume 2, by contrast, has a lot less to do. Its heroes are introduced, as are a lot of great supporting characters, so in that regard it just had to follow through on what it had already built. That gave the writers significantly more time to work on the antagonist, and the result was Ego, the second best Marvel movie villain. Though his relationship with Quill is first and foremost, Ego also has meaningful thematic ties to the other heroes as well - he’s an abusive father of unfathomable power, much like Gamora and Nebula’s adoptive father Thanos, he’s an inherently lonely being that longs for a familial connection that may well be lost to him, like Drax, Rocket, and Groot, he’s a deeply flawed parent figure to Peter much like Yondu, and, well, he’s personally isolated and abused Mantis. Ego’s motives are understandable but reprehensible. We feel his pathos - no one wants to be alone, and most people can understand the desire to reconnect with one’s offspring - but we also know he can’t be allowed to succeed. The threat he brings is palpable, and his conflict changes all the heroes in a meaningful way.

Like most Marvel movie villains, Ego dies in his debut, but to the film’s credit, Guardians of the Galaxy Volume 2 makes every second of his screentime count. We could have gotten more tales from Ego, but if this is his only one, then I feel we can say his potential was used well.

Like Guardians of the Galaxy, Black Panther had a lot of stuff on its narrative plate. While it had a slight headstart in introducing its titular hero thanks to Civil War, it still has to do a lot of work to make us understand who T’Challa is, while also introducing Okoye, M’Baku, Wakanda’s greatest export Shuri, Nakia, and oh yeah, the Afrofuturistic country of Wakanda. It also had to justify the existence of fakeout villain Ulysses Klaue and unnecessary white man Martin Freeman for, I imagine, the comfort of the white executives taking a “gamble” on a big budget movie with a predominately non-white cast, because somehow that was even more ludicrous in Hollywood’s eyes than a movie starring a talking racoon and an Ent.

where was I?

Oh, right, my point is that there was significantly less narrative space for Killmonger than the two villains above him, and that’s the SOLE reason he’s at number three here. Killmonger’s motives are just as complex as Loki’s, and he is as thematically relevant to the MANY heroes opposing him in this film as Ego is in Guardians of the Galaxy Volume 2. And he gets a lot of good development!

but... Killmonger dies at the end of Black Panther. He dies when there is so, SO much more story we could have gotten out of him. And while his story in the film is well told for the most part, some of it is abbreviated. This dude needs, nay, DESERVES more time. If they retcon his death and bring him back for a sequel, Killmonger may very well climb to the top of this list.

Thanos is the only villain on this list who is arguably the protagonist of a Marvel film - really, Avengers Infinity War is his movie more than anyone else’s. He does a lot of the same stuff as the three villains before him - his motives are understandable, the threat he poses is immense, he challenges the heroes, and at the same time has thematic connections to... well, some of them (look there’s significantly more heroes in Infinity War than there are in Thor, The Avengers, Guardians of the Galaxy, and Black Panther, so cut him a little slack). But he’s a bit weaker at all those ways except for the “level” of threat he poses. The only heroes he’s really intimately tied to are Gamora and Nebula - for everyone else, his threat is more general than personal. Sure, he’s a lot more SUCCESSFUL at killing named characters than the previous three villains on this list, but if you think all of those deaths are gonna stick you’re a very gullible person. Ultimately, Thanos’ character had to sacrifice narrative complexity for the sake of establishing a higher scale of threat, and the result if a character that’s a bit weaker than Marvel’s best - but still pretty damn good. I mean, he was good enough to feel like a credible threat to a literal army of superheroes - that’s gotta count for something.

Funnily enough, the Vulture is kind of on the opposite side of things from Thanos. The threat he poses is significantly lower stakes than the villains that preceded and followed him - and, oddly enough, that’s in his favor. He felt new as a result. This wasn’t a guy who was starting wars or committing genocides - he’s just an asshole who sells illegal and highly dangerous weapons. His motives are understandable, too - dude wants to give his family a good life, and this just happened to be a solution to that problem (if not a moral one). He’s much closer to the kind of “villain” an average person would be affected by in real life.

At the same time, well, he’s not a world shaking villain. He does what he’s meant to do well, sure, but he wasn’t meant to be the next Loki - he’s a one shot filler villain for a movie that was really about introducing its hero to us. There are a LOT of villains who were meant for that niche, and of those villains, Vulture is the cream of the crop.

Though she was going to be higher, didn’t you?

My immense attraction to her aside, Hela is... kinda flat. Her motivations are kinda weak - she’s a warhawk who wants to start wars and was kicked out of Asgard for starting wars too much and now is back to start some more wars because... because war is cool, I guess. Cate Blanchett’s wonderfully campy performance elevates the material she’s been given a lot, don’t get me wrong, but objectively... Hela’s not very interesting. In terms of her relation to the hero, she’s basically Loki except with no development or intrigue - yeah, she’s technically Thor’s sister, but we don’t feel a familial bond between them, so their conflcit doesn’t really get any intrigue out of that. Hela isn’t really a character - she’s a conflict, as developed and emotionally complex as the tornadoes in Twister.

I hate to say it, because I love Thor: Ragnorok and just, like, the concept of a Goddess of Death played by Cate Blanchett, but Hela just isn’t very well developed. She’s a lot of wasted potential - wasted potential made very... entertaining by Cate Blanchett’s... entertaining performance, but if it weren’t for the skills of the actress playing her and, uh, some aesthetic preferences on my part, she’d be even lower on the list.

Hey, speaking of really good actors who played elf leaders Lord of the Rings, here’s Red Skull! And, like Hela, he’s kind of wasted. Movie Red Skull is basically the cartoonishly exaggerated caricature pop culture has made nazis into - “evil” in the Snidley Whiplash sense, but not evil in the have-you-actually-read-up-on-how-fucking-horrifying-the-holocaust-is sense. And, look, I understand that bringing in the actual horrors of the holocaust in a movie about a guy who’s basically wearing the American flag as a costume could very easily become uncomfortably misguided, but the defanging of the nazis - I’m sorry, HYDRA, the “more evil” nazis who somehow don’t do any of the actually ridiculously evil shit nazis did - that Red Skull represents isn’t a great solution to that problem.

Movie Red Skull is less complex than Cobra Commander. He is pure “I’m evil because... because!” villainy. He’s less deep than Hela, and unlike Hela’s actress, Hugo Weaving was kind of phoning it in. There’s some hammy fun in Red Skull, sure, but he could have had so much more impact than he did.

Ronan the Accuser’s motives are a bit better defined than Red Skull’s. His people have been in an on again, off again war with the rival civilization of Xandar, and yeah, that’s a tale as old as time - dude wants to destroy a country because they fought his country in the past and all that, happens all the time, fine and dandy. But... while we can understand that because it’s basically the bulk of human history, we never really feel it, y’know? Xandar and the Kree’s history is TOLD to us, not shown, and as a result we don’t really FEEL Ronan’s motivation.

So what does that leave us with? Well, a very shouty and hammy performance by his actor done from under some thick makeup. It’s fun and campy, but Ronan’s a filler starter villain - he’s weak so the heroes may have time to be strong. It’s fine - he does his job - but he’s not what he could have been.

Although I will say, the moment where his brain just short circuits when Peter Quill stops their fight to challenge him to a dance off? Hands down the most satisfying thing in the entire Marvel universe.

Aww yeah, here’s an interesting guy! Isn’t this not at all underwhelming after the colorful cast of characters above? Look, it’s... a dude! A white dude! Swell!

Zemo is, like, the less-good prototype for Killmonger. Dude got fucked over by American Imperialism and blames the superheroes for it, using a bunch of dastardly tricks and cunning schemes to create strife in their ranks! He does it well enough, and he’s got a good amount of pathos, and the actor playing him does the job very well, but... c’mon, do you really want to see more of this guy? Did you even remember his name? He’s just complex enough to get the job done, but just boring enough to let the movie focus on its REAL conflict, which is the titular super hero Civil War. Like the Vulture before him, he’s just as good as he needs to be - but since he didn’t need to be as good as the villains higher up, he didn’t reach those heights.

Also it should be noted that comic book Zemo looks OUTRAGEOUS and interesting and fun so it’s kind of a shame that, like, exactly 0% of that was translated into film. You could have called this character Greg Fucktruck or whatever instead and saved that character for a movie where, like, he could be interesting and cool, instead of a one off filler villain.

Robert Redford begins as a good guy in Captain America: The Winter Soldier and initially feels like a reasonable authority figure, only to be revealed as a secret bad guy in a surprising plot twist! It’s effective, but as villains go. he’s just, like, a guy. He’s a guy in a suit. Not a supervillain suit, just a... a normal suit. He wields a lot of power and has an evil plan and is played charismatically by a very good actor, but like Zemo, he’s not exactly memorable. I mean, fuck, I just listed him as Robert Redford because I couldn’t remember his character name and didn’t want to look it up.

Y’know how I said Zemo is the crappy prototype for Killmonger? Yeah, well, Whiplash is the shitty prototype for Zemo. Same motives but shittier, same personal connection to the hero but shittier, same critique of American Imperialism but much, much shittier. At least he loved his bird, though.

I couldn’t find a gif of his monster form, but the Abomination is... uh... he’s a guy... a mercenary? And he turns into a monster. That’s neat. Turning into a monster is the sole reason he’s this high on the list. And I couldn’t even find a gif of it.

Ullyses Klaue was a boring, one dimensional filler villain who was given some fun quirks by his actor, Andy Serkis, but ultimately failed to not be boring and was thankfully killed off halfway through the movie so the actually interesting villain of the movie could take center stage in a surprise twist that made said interesting villain all the more memorable. He died so a better plot may live, and a better character immediately filled his shoes. Rest in peace, you boring ass red herring of a villain.

“I’m selling the entire universe to a hell dimension because the hell dimension doesn’t have death because there is no time! That’s a complex motive, right? Right?” No, c...caecilian? Cesarian? Caeser Millan? No it’s not. I mean, an attempt was made, I guess? It’s technically a different motive than past villains? I guess? This guy is the “You Tried” sticker of Marvel’s movie villains.

Ultron tried to be so, SO much more than most of the characters on this list. In terms of authorial intent, he would rank higher - they were really, REALLY trying with him! They really were!

But, for me, Ultron fails in everything he tries to be. That’s why he’s this low on my list - not because he’s not complex, not because he’s a boring concept, but because there was so much potential and effort here and it was all WASTED, and that is so much more frustrating than the boring villains that preceded him on this list!

Like... comic book Ultron is a giggling, manic lunatic of a villain, full of energy and intensity that is so unlike most of Marvel’s rogues gallery, especially those that made it to the films. The default movie villain is “smug, disinterested bad guy who talks way too much and takes himself too seriously.” Comic book Ultron ISN’T that. Comic book Ultron is fun and passionate and coo-coo for coco puffs bonkers bananas! And yet he’s also got a lot of pathos - he’s a new life form whose creator didn’t know how to nurture properly, who grew too fast for his unwitting parent to deal with. There’s a tragedy to Ultron.

Also, he’s an awesome robot man with a scary as fuck unmoving robot mask that looks like some alien skull that is both screaming in fury and laughing in maniacal glee at the same time. Like, visually, comic book Ultron is really good.

And... and an effort was made to capture some of that, but it failed. They tried to capture Ultron’s loopy thought process, but in reality they just made his motivations and plan a fucking mess that’s impossible to parse. They tried to give him a good design, but ditched the iconic and creepy screaming skull mask in favor of... weird robo lips, and then stuck those on a Michael Bay transformer body. They took his manic personality and, well, chucked it out in favor of...

Well, a smug, disinterested bad guy who talks too much and takes himself too seriously.

Ultron should have been something we hadn’t seen before, or at least not recently - he should have been, well, Comic Book Ultron. Instead, they forced him into the mold of MOST Marvel villains, and forced his design into the mold of the most profitable robot designs at the then-current time: the Michael Bay transformers. The result was so disappointing. It’s heart breaking.

You know what they should have imitated, but didn’t? Darth Vader. Darth Vader is perhaps the most well known movie villain of all time, and certainly the most lucrative. You know what Darth Vader has? An immovable mask that is iconic and terrifying and brought to life by a passionate, inspired vocal performance from the actor playing him.

Ultron is most effective at the very end of the movie, when he’s speaking through his drone, which DOES have that immovable, scream/laughter face of his comic counterpart. It’s way more unsettling and interesting to watch, even if James Spader’s performance in that part still has that smug, bored disinterest to it. I know this sounds like a minor point but really, it’s one of the many big missed opportunities of this character, and it’s a damn shame.

Malekith is a shitty prototype for Ronan the Accuser, played by an actor of great talent who was given absolutely nothing to work with from the script and then had his performance hampered by thick makeup. Malekith sucks.

There are, like, fifty evil businessmen who want superhero technology to make money via evil in the Marvel movies. They all have different names and different actors and they’re all boring and they suck. They suck hard. They’re all the exact same character, and the fact that some of them are played by really good actors sucks doubly hard because those good actors could have played, like, someone INTERESTING instead. Fuckin’ Sam Rockwell? You waste Sam Rockwell’s talents on this bland stereotype of a character? You wasted the Fucking Dude on this? Christ.

Honorable Mentions pt. 1: the Not-Really-Villains

Jeff Goldblum’s performance as the Grandmaster is a gift that humanity must treasure till the end of its days and beyond. He is so delightfully weird and charming in every scene he’s in and I would watch a thousand movies with this character in him. So why isn’t he on the villains list? Well, because he’s... not really a villain. He’s an antagonist, sure, and on paper he sounds pretty villainous - tyrannical ruler of a planet who forces people into gladiator games and all that.

But in execution he’s more of... a goof. He’s basically Michael Scott from The Office - a weird fucking idiot who was given way too much power and weilds it irresponsibly. He causes problems that can ruin peoples’s lives, sure, but, like, he’s entirely unaware of what he’s doing. He’s not consciously evil - he’s just a silly bastard who doesn’t understand the consequences of his actions. He’d be harmless if you took him out of that power structure.

When we first meet him, he metls a guy with a stick. Most movies would play that for horror. In Thor: Ragnorok, it’s a comedy beat. Audiences lose their shit laughing at the dark comedy of that moment. The Grandmaster COULD have been played as a villain, but instead he was played as a buffoonish antagonist - and he’s BETTER for that. He’s more memorable for that.

Bucky is a great antagonist in Captain America: The Winter Soldier, but he’s not a villain. He’s a victim - you can’t hold brainwashed, mind-controlled man accountable for his actions, as everything he’s done was carried out specifically because his own will was overridden. Bucky’s a damn good character, and if this was a ranking of ANTAGONISTS he’d be up in the top five, but you can’t call the dude a villain.

There are a lot of henchmen in the movies that were full on villains in the comics, like Skurge and Crossbones and so on. But, look - in the films, these guys are just henchmen. Some of them are very fun, very interesting henchmen - I chose Skurge to represent them for a reason - but they aren’t VILLAINS. They aren’t the focus. They’re a side dish, not the main course.

Holy shit I posted this only to remember Dormammu’s been in a movie ten minutes later while getting cereal. Movie Dormammu isn’t a villain or a henchman - he’s a cameo, much as Thanos was until very recently. He fills the same narrative role as a McGuffin - he’s the big bad weapon we have to stop the villain from using. He’ll probably get to be a character in later movies, but for now he’s little more than a prop. Fuck, I couldn’t even find a gif of his movie self - had to use his comic counterpart instead.

Honorable Mentions Pt. 2: Sirs And Madamns Not-Appearing-In-These-Films

So the Marvel movies technically share the same universe as various T.V. shows, though at this point the likelihood of that ever being played for more than a few winking nods and veiled references is PRETTY LOW. Most of these series are designed to be binge watched on Netflix - i.e. consumed all at once, from the comfort of a couch, so the audience can enjoy a longer form story than an individual movie without having to wait several months between installments. That’s a very different writing task than writing a MOVIE villain - structurally, it’s significantly different, with a whole lot of different problems and possibilities. Judging the villains of the shows by the same criteria as we judge the villains of the movies isn’t fair - the villains of the shows have a LOT more time on their hands to prove who they are, and without long gaps. Loki, the villain with the most screentime in the movies, still had less time for his arc than, say, Kilgrave, and Loki’s arc was staggered in two and a half hour chunks with years in between them, while Kilgrave’s story could be consumed all at one upon release. That’s not a fair fight.

That said, I want to talk about some of the TV villains:

Kilgrave is the single most complex, terrifying, and overall effective villain the Marvel Cinematic Universe has produce, at least from all the content I’ve seen. None of the other villains (that I’ve seen) are explored as thoroughly, none of them are as personally tied to every facet of the hero they oppose, and none of them - not even world ending Thanos - are as starkly fucking terrifying the depths of their depravity and the strength they have to achieve it. Kilgrave is brilliantly written, and David Tenant outdoes himself in bringing him to monstrous life. He is the best villain the MCU has produced.

You know how a lot of the movies have somewhat bland villains by necessity, because giving them too much narrative weight would keep them from properly introducing the hero? Cottonmouth would have that problem had Luke Cage been introduced in a movie instead of a show. As it is, Cottonmouth still feels like a “starter” villain - he’s a normal sort of criminal, not a Supervillain - but at the same time, he’s a damn complex and interesting starter villain. He’s miles ahead of most of the movie villains, but it’s purely because he’s got a lot more time to develop.

Diamondback, by contrast, has a really interesting concept, but is kind of bland in execution. The show builds him up very well, but slowly drops the ball once he finally shows up in the final half of the season. Maybe a second season can make good on his concept, but as it is he was kind of mishandled.

I watched about three episodes of Dardevil. It was very good, but there was a scene where Daredevil tortured a criminal to get information out of him to stop crimes, and that is a dealbreaker for me. I don’t care if they “explored the ramifications” of it - as far as I’m concerned, when a character tortures someone for information, they are no longer sympathetic and I cannot call them a hero. I will not watch the rest of that show.

I’ve heard Wilson Fisk is VERY well handled and interesting from enough people to feel that’s almost certainly true. Shame I can’t see it.

Outside of Jessica Jones and Luke Cage, I also watched two seasons of Agents of SHIELD as well as The Defenders. I can’t remember any of the villains from either. I mean, there definitely were some, but I can’t remember a single one. Unless we count Danny Rand - I certainly felt personally victimized every time he opened his shitty mouth to say some shitty dialogue and take some screentime from Jessica Jones and Luke Cage in The Defenders. Or the writers of Agents of SHIELD for killing Lucy Lawless off in the same episode they introduced her into the show, thus denying us an awesome character played by Lucy fucking Lawless. But other than that, I don’t know the TV villains that well.

#Marvel #Marvel Cinematic Universe

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wickedwitchofthewhothehellcares · 6 years

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Strength

You are strong.

I promise. Please know this. And remember it.

I am also strong.

I am strong because I live with mental illness and I am still here. I am moving forward with my life and I have come a long way.

This is something I have to remind myself of daily, because I don’t feel strong.

The people closest to me don’t see me as strong either. I get a lot (and got a lot) of things like “Your mental illness shouldn’t define you.” and “I really wish you were mentally stronger.”

Today I told my supervisor that I am sick. I told them that I am not okay. I admitted that I just cannot do things as quickly as my peers. I told them the truth - things that are incredibly hard for me to admit, whether it be from pride or just the stigma of mental illness or the fact that I don’t want people to think I’m making excuses.

I told them about my past abuse by family members, my peers, and my teachers. (I’m not going to tell everything because it’s already a novel of a post that I’m writing and I don’t even have the strength to read it.)

It was so bad that my sister tried to kill me last year.

It triggered a major depressive episode of epic proportions. It’s been more than a year now and I’m still stuck in it. Despite the fact that I have been doing pretty well with the whole “how to deal with/cure depression” checklist that gets handed out like candy on campus and at my psychiatrist’s office.

It was so bad last year that my best friend would literally call me when I had to be in the lab to start my experiment, then I would go back to bed during the waiting period, get called awake again to go and finish the experiment, go back to bed... Well, you get the idea. For three months that was my life.

My psychiatrist has wanted me to be admitted to hospital the entire year. I see them and my psychologist weekly just so they can be sure that I am alive.

Everyone I have met has told me that this isn’t a masters project - it’s a PhD project.

Oh, and the topic of my project is causing me to dissociate. Because, obviously. Why wouldn’t it?

I told my supervisor this today, after finally having to come out as bipolar with a major depressive episode earlier this year when I just couldn't manage the workload.

At first they told me that I was letting them and several other people down by not having finished my project yet.

I told them that if it wasn’t for the fact that I knew that I would probably have quit already.

They told me that if I didn’t produce results I would be committing fraud by stealing the tax payers’ money which funds my research.

I told them that I overwork myself for three to four weeks and then my entire being collapses and I cannot get out of bed for a week. Not even for food.

They said I had to get my masters. Throw myself into my work as a coping mechanism.

I told them that it’s killing me that other people are having this much control over me and my future, but it’s not like I’m just giving up and giving in. I’m still showing up and I’m still moving forward. No matter how hard it has been.

They proceeded to tell me I would never get a job if I continue like this.

I told them that it’s not that I don’t want to - it’s that I literally can’t do more than what I’m currently doing. Not for lack of trying.

They then proceeded to tell me that they were aware that everyone handles things differently, but that they’d been through all of this as well. That they had been through abuse. That in their masters they had gone through a great deal (that I’m not going to mention for the sake of their privacy). And that they had made it, even gotten their masters cum laude.

They then proceeded to say that maybe it was the “poverty mindset” which made them stronger.

(Which is assuming an awful lot when they know that I have had grants and scholarships for the entirety of my academic career since I entered high school. But okay.)

That they thought that if they stopped they would probably die. But that they never let it get them down and they managed to power through it.

And my first though was “That’s terrible. Are you okay? Can I help you? Do you need a hug?”

Apparently all they need is my results. And if I don’t produce within the next week I will be issued the first of three written warnings, after which the matter will be referred to the head of research.

You can imagine how I feel after that.

Weak.

Worthless.

A complete failure.

Angry.

But I am putting it out there, screaming it so everyone can hear: I AM NOT WEAK.

I am not standing still.

I am crawling along, but I am still moving forward.

I am surviving.

I am getting help.

My brain is not healthy, and it is making my whole body sick, tripping me up and making life difficult, but I am still here. Still trying. Not giving up.

Everyone handles things differently. That’s okay - we’re individuals, not clones.

Maybe they are still mentally healthy.

But I’m not mentally or physically healthy. I’m disabled.

And yet I’m still giving it my all.

That makes me stronger than my depression is telling me.

It makes me worthwhile.

It means I’m resilient and awesome.

I’ve overcome a lot. I’m continuing to overcome a lot.

I’ve come further than anyone ever predicted that I would.

I’m worth more than data and publications.

I’m crying as I write this, because it hurts and I am sad. But I’m putting this out there because maybe you’re feeling the same and you’ll see this and you’ll realise that this is true. Even though I am petrified and I hate sharing my personal story/issues with anyone.

You’ll realise that you’re not weak.

Any progress - no matter how slow and painful - is amazing.

You deserve a pat on the back and a break.

You deserve love and appreciation.

You’re living in a world that isn’t kind, and isn’t built to accommodate you.

Maybe you’re backsliding. That’s okay. Your body changes with age. Your neurochemistry changes with age. Everyone gets tired.

You can do this.

Don’t give up.

I won’t give up either.

And one day, we will get to a better place. And when we get there we will be able to appreciate it.

We’ll be able to say we made it through tough times.

It gets better.

So don’t give up.

And remember: You are strong, and I believe in you even if no one else does.

TLDR: You are strong, valid and amazing.

Your disability doesn’t make you weak - it just means you’re a badass for making it this far. Remember that and be kind to yourself.

You can make it further. One step at a time.

I believe in you and love you, even if you don’t or can’t love or believe in yourself.

#tw: bipolar #actually bipolar #actuallybipolar #tw: abuse #tw: assault #tw: violence #abuse #academia #postgrad #disability #depression #damn this is a whole book #it gets better #love yourself #don't give up #you matter #this counts for every person on here #personal #neurodivergent

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k-i-s-m-e-t · 6 years

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Secret Santa

TianShan Xmas Event: Presents (Day 2) Fandom: 19 days Rating: Mature Status: 1/2 Warnings: None Pairing: TianShan Words: 4,102

Summary: Based on this freaking hilarious & amazing prompt!! I hope you don’t mind that I ran with it. I’m not sure this is what you expected but hey lol enjoy!

When Mo took the volunteer job at the mall, he had done so begrudgingly. It was punishment after all, brought about by boiled-over frustration that had fueled the language he’d used to respond to his teacher’s inquiries about his tardiness. It was the third time that week he’d been late. Put on the spot, he didn’t know how to explain that money was always tight around the holidays and he’d been walking to and from school each morning in lieu of the train.

He was monopolizing any place he could cut some corners to save a few dollars. The allowance he got wasn’t much, but he saved as much of it as possible. This year he’d told himself he’d get his mom something good for Christmas. He hated seeing that overjoyed look on her face when she opened his handmade or cheap gifts. Like the “Mom of the Year” plaque he’d made in shop class last year that she boasted about having on her desk at the hospital, or the cheap earrings he’d bought at a stand she still wore proudly several times a week. A person like her deserved better, she deserved the world, and it frustrated him that he was just a broke high school student.

Getting a job was, “Completely out of the question!” she’d barked when he had off-handedly mentioned it. It was her duty to provide for him, not the other way around. If they needed to make ends meet, she’d work double shifts, he couldn’t afford to slack off on his studies.

Seeing his taken-aback expression, she’d softened instantly. “I know you mean well honey,” she’d said a hand cupping his cheek, “but we’re doing fine.”

The command to, “See me after class!” had been given on the spot and when the bell rang Mo hung back, dread setting in. He waited until the room cleared before even considering approaching his teacher’s desk.

Taking a breath, he stood and gathered his belongings, packing them up slowly, stalling for time. Sweat from his palms smeared along the cover of his history textbook as he fumbled with it, slick fingers shoving it into his bag. He nearly yanked the zipper off his bag when his name is called.

The walk to the front from his back-row seat seemed infinite, blood pulsing in his ears, each step forward magnified in the now empty classroom. But then he was there, hanging back a few steps as if proximity could diminish his impending punishment. He figured this slip-up would earn him a few days minimum in detention.

“What?” Mo spat standing uncomfortably in front of the teacher’s desk. Agitation amounting from anticipation.

The man looked up with a raised eyebrow.

“Watch your tone with me, that little outburst you had this morning coupled with your tardiness has you looking at a week-long suspension right now.”

“What the fuck!” Mo exploded.

The man slammed his open palm down on the desk. “Language!”

Mo flinched.

He pointed a finger level with Mo’s chest. “One more offense like that and we can finish this conversation in the principal’s office.”

Mo clenched his fists, seething, he could feel his temper flaring but he nodded. A week long fucking suspension? His mom was going to kill him.

“As of today you have been tardy 13 times! 13! And you don’t just show up five minutes late, oh no! Sometimes you stroll in here 20 to 30 minutes late. I need an explanation for this, it’s completely unacceptable!”

When Mo remained silent the man rubbed at his temples, trying to ease the tension gathered there, then sighed.

“Look Guan Shan, I’ve seen a significant amount of improvement in your schoolwork and behavior this year. I’m proud of you. I don’t want to see you start backsliding, got it?”

“Got it,” Mo mumbled.

“Look, let’s make a deal: The Humanitarian Club, which I lead, needs a few more volunteers for our Santa’s Workshop at the mall. We desperately need a photographer as our current one recently got sick with the flu and I know one of your electives this year was photography. I’ve seen your work and I’m pretty confident in your ability. You’d just have to take photos of the kids sitting on Santa’s lap.”

“I..” Mo hesitated.

“Don’t feel pressured to do it but.. I’ll be frank with you, it’s either this or suspension. At least this won’t show up on your record. Also, I’d need you to be able to commit to doing it for two weeks, just until our photographer gets better.”

An image of his mother’s disappointed face flashed through his mind, he sighed… but two weeks?

“Ok, when do I start?”

His teacher smiled, glasses glinting. “Today.”

That afternoon Mo found himself at the local mall, and as the automatic doors slid open he was immediately engulfed in a retail wonderland, Christmas style. He wandered around for a bit, window shopping, eyes drinking in the season’s assortment of clothing and trainers in his favorite shop’s windows.

Truth be told, he wasn’t exactly sure where he was supposed to meet for this volunteer job, he hadn’t really paid attention to the details. He been too relieved that he wouldn’t have to explain to his mother his suspension and could instead spin the situation in his favor, as doing some community service out of the goodness of his own heart, having caught the holiday spirit. Yeah… she was going to see right through that lie.

In the food court he made his rounds, filling up on free samples to stave off his hunger until dinner. As he exited the half circle of vendors he could see a Santa’s Workshop display near the children’s play area. Tossing the toothpick the last sample had been on, he shouldered his backpack and headed over.

The site was bustling and he could recognize plenty of familiar faces from school. A few eyed him warily given his delinquent reputation, but most were absorbed in their duties.

Amid the group he spied Zhan and felt his body relax, not realizing how much tension had built up. This might not be so bad after all, he thought. Zhan barely talked but neither did he, at least he knew someone here.

“You too?” He inquired as he approached, bumping Zhan’s outstretched fist.

“In a way, my mom’s part of the PTA,” he stated as if that explained everything. “Apparently they never get enough volunteers.”

“Where’s Jian Yi?”

“Why do you assume he’d be here? We don’t do everything together.”

Mo waited.

Zhan sighed. “He had clean-up duty after school & caught a later train, he should be here in a few.”

“Alright everyone,” a bespectacled girl addressed the group. Movement halted as everyone paused giving her their full attention.

“Last week was great and we had an amazing turn out!” Many in the group clapped and whistled.

“Let’s try to do even better this week,” she laughed. “You know your positions, if you have any questions don’t hesitate to talk to me. Let’s go out there and spread some holiday cheer!” A few whooped in response, Mo rolled his eyes.

They all drifted to their respective roles, and as the crowd thinned the girl’s eyes fell on him.

“Oh, it’s you,” she sighed in annoyance. Mo recognized her as his class rep from middle school. The same one that had demanded he stop playing cards on school time.

“Pleasure to see you too,” he quipped.

“Save it, come on so we can get you set up and out of my hair.”

Off to the side there was a trolley parked with several suitcases stacked on top, she pulled off the topmost one, resting it gently on the floor and unzipped it. Nestled between foam cushioning laid the nicest camera Mo had ever seen, let alone touched. She removed it from its casing and held it out to him.

“You’ll be shooting with this.”

Taking it gingerly from her, he cradled it carefully in both hands. The DSLR was a larger model, a Nikon D series, he tested its weight, pleased that it was nice and solid, felt good in his hands. He ran his fingers along the textured gripping on the side. The lens he could tell came standard but the depth it could shoot was still considerable. He’d be able to get plenty of clear, close up shots. Damn he was in love, he would in a few words, totally fuck this camera. It was sexy as hell and sensitive to the touch. Bringing it up to his face, he aligned the eyepiece carefully along the curve of his cheek and brow, lightly pressed the shutter release. The smooth click of the shutter opening and closing was music to his ears, like the purr on a nice sports car. He thumbed at the playback button to review the photo. It was displayed on the screen in crisp quality; a Christmas tree in a store front effortlessly preserved in time.

“Nice,” Mo breathed.

“The photos you take will save automatically & transfer immediately to that computer station,” she pointed “where we display them to allow parents to pick their favorite. There’s a tripod in that bag too that you’ll shoot from, you just need to set up in front of Santa’s chair. All I ask is, that at the end of the night you box everything up just how you found it.”

“Sounds easy enough, so all I have to do is take the pictures.”

“Yea, try not to fuck it up. Oh, also ruin that camera and I’ll kill you.”

“Noted.”

“Oh, one more thing.” She unfolded an elf hat, and held it out to him. “I need you to wear this.”

“I’m not wearing that,” Mo said dismissively.

A hand clutched his forearm and she looked up into his face, light obscuring her eyes behind thick frames, “Yes, you are.”

“Okay, okay!” Mo exclaimed. What the hell was wrong with these people??

To their left a child bounded down the roped off line, dragging his mother behind him.

She patted his arm. “You’re on.”

Once Mo set up the camera and tripod, which he would admit he struggled with, just a tad, things ran smoothly.

The first few kids, though excited, followed his instructions to smile and say cheese. The student playing Santa he was sure helped facilitate the process, the guy was really good with kids. He greeted them in a cheery manner and made them feel comfortable. He even calmed a watery-eyed little girl, wiped her tear streaked cheeks and got her to smile wide for the camera.

Mo couldn’t help but find himself chuckling at some of the jokes he could hear exchanged or Santa’s reactions to their wish lists. It softened his mood and he found himself greeting the parents and kids in similar pleasant manner. He was almost disappointed when 7:30 rolls around and they close-up shop for the day. Almost. Gathering up the camera and tripod he carried them both back to the trolley; unzipped the travel bag and folded up the tripod stowing it neatly in its compartment. Before packing up the camera he pressed the playback button, cycling through the images he’d taken over the past few hours, mentally making notes of where he’d succeeded and how he could improve.

“Nice work today,” a voice said and he was ashamed of the brief scream he emitted.

“Could you announce yourself.”

The class rep leaned back, a smirk on her face. “Where’s the fun in that? Anyways, I saw the shots you took, good thing your stay is only temporary or our current photographer would be out of a job.”

“I…”

“You’re talented, glad to have you on the team. I’ll see you tomorrow,” she clasped his shoulder briefly before walking away.

Mo soaked in her words, a newfound vigor guiding his actions as he popped out the camera’s battery and stuck it into a portable charger to power-up overnight. I’m… talented.

The words carried him afloat as he left, waving an honest goodbye to the few stragglers. Zhan was still hanging around the set and Mo moved to see if wanted to walk home together but the other politely declined. Mo could see Jian Yi cleaning up the and he gets it. No explanation needed.

The high got him through the sliding doors of the mall exit only to be knocked flat on his ass.

He was blinded for a few seconds as the stupid elf hat he forgot to take off is knocked askew covering his eyes. Rage ensued.

“Who in the mother fuck is looking for death?!”

He ripped the hat off and was met with an outstretched hand in his face. Genuinely confused he looked up as the owner of the hand chuckled.

Fucking He Tian, of course.

“Don’t you have a graveyard to lurk in?” Mo bit out irritably, and smacked away the offered hand.

“Are you implying that I’m the grim reaper? I like that,” He Tian purred.

“That wasn’t a compliment.” Mo got gingerly to his feet, dusted his pants.

“Why are you even here? The mall’s closed.”

“I was doing some shopping,” he gestured to the small bag dangling from his wrist.

Mo could tell by the bag’s logo it was from some pricey jewelry store. He rolled his eyes. “Fancy gift for one of your admirers, I’m sure.”

“Not quite,” He Tian said but didn’t offer an explanation.

“Anyways, I gotta get going so are we done here?”

“I can’t lie you look pretty cute in that get-up,” He Tian said, looking him up and down. “Why don’t you come sit on my lap.”

“Yeah, you’re about the 5th guy to spit that line today,” Mo remarked pushing past him. “Try again.”

“Hmm okay, you know you’re pretty cute when you’re wrapped up in your own little world.”

“The hell kind of comment is that?”

“I saw you walking, you looked content with yourself. A nice change from your usual mad at the world persona.”

“And for this you chose to knock me on my ass.”

“You bumped into me, actually.”

“Right.”

“Why don’t you let me walk you home?”

“How ‘bout no?” Mo said stalking off. Body tensed in anticipation of the strong arm he knew would swing around his shoulders and drag him off anyways but nothing came.

He glanced over his shoulder but He Tian was gone. Weird.

The next day wasn’t as easy as the first. It was, in short, mild chaos.

Mo bounced a screaming baby on his hip as the mother and Santa tried to console its twin. He looked down into her ruddy face, eyes squeezed shut, tiny fists balled as she opened her mouth, silent for a few seconds catching her breath, little body vibrating with the subdued rage she planned to unleash. Mo sighed steeling himself for another round of screaming.

‘Why are you crying? You have no real problems, fuck I should be crying.’

“Say cheese,” he dead panned as the mother finally stepped out of the frame, the other child momentarily consoled.

The baby looked surprised in the picture but at least he wasn’t crying. Good enough. Handing over twin number two to Santa, he glanced at the endless line of parents and toddlers.

“Let’s get this over with.”

Click!

The daily 15-minute breaks were heaven sent and he executed his usual system of hitting up the food court, stopping at every food place offering free samples. By the time he had reached the end, his appetite was comfortably sated. There was still about ten minutes left before he was due for the second half of his shift so he sat on a bench nearby, pulled out his phone to review his finances. The amount he’d saved up so far gave him enough bandwidth to explore several options but he still had no clue what to buy his mom for Christmas. After making this much effort it had to be good, memorable, but what do you get the woman that claimed she had everything she’d ever wanted. He rested his chin in his hand in defeat. Ughh, this shouldn’t be so hard. The bench jostled and he glanced to his left, surprised to see Santa sitting next to him.

“Hey.” the guy offered, voice muffled by the giant white beard that obscured most of his face. One hand shifted his belly so he could sit comfortably.

“Hey..” Mo returned.

“Nice job out there today, I didn’t know you were so good with kids.”

“Likewise man, today was.. something else.”

Santa cracked open a bottle of water, taking a few gulps. “Yeah we have days like that but it’s generally smooth sailing.”

They sat in silence for a bit, the soft murmur of the bustling mall and crinkling of the water bottle drifted between them.

“You.. can’t take the costume of?” Mo asked, breaking the silence.

“Nah, can’t risk one of the kids seeing me and realizing Santa’s not a chubby jolly old white dude. Imagine if they found out he isn’t only not real but a high-schooler.

Mo laughed. “They’ll find out sooner or later.”

“That’s cold man,” Santa said but his grey eyes twinkled behind the spectacles.

Mo shrugged, checked his phone. “Crap, breaks up. I’ll see you back at the workshop.”

Santa raised an arm in farewell. “See you.”

Mo jogged the short distance back, but couldn’t shake the odd feeling that he knew Santa. He couldn’t place why exactly, but the costume restrictions made it difficult to see what he looked like and his voice didn’t sound familiar. Whatever, he would ask him his name next time he had a chance.

As soon as he stepped back on site the class rep ushered him back to the camera, scolding him about tardiness being why he was here in the first place.

Face breaking into a scowl, all previous thoughts vanished from his mind as he double-checked the camera battery supply and adjusted the lighting. He’d just finished tidying up around Santa’s chair when the guy returned from break. Mo resumed his place at the camera as the line reopened and mildly subdued chaos ensued.

Two days down. A week and a half to go.

“Who the fuck are you supposed to be? Rudolph?” Mo addressed Jian Yi as he unpacked the camera and tripod for his shift.

“No,” Jian Yi sniffled, wiping at his vividly red nose. “I’m sick. I think I caught something from one of these brats.” He sneezed, open mouthed of course, snot and drool dripping.

“Gross dude, cover your mouth, you aren’t five,” Mo muttered hastily gathering his supplies so he could vacate the area asap.

Every day that passed without coming to a decision on what to get his mom was making him more and more irritable. Walking out to the set, camera at the ready, the sounds of crying increased the closer he got, an opposing battle cry.

Please, just take me now.

When his break came around, he found himself anticipating the arrival of Santa. It’s not like Mo was looking for the guy or anything. Yet meeting up had become almost an unspoken ritual, in the same vein as Mo forgetting to ask for his name.

The question was always at the forefront of his mind but the guy was hilarious and Mo became easily swept up in the conversation, usually not realizing he had again forgotten to ask until he arrived home that night.

This time the guy showed up with dumplings that keep Mo’s mouth occupied the majority of the conversation, as pickings were light in the free sample area. A few of the vendors had caught on to his scheme and conveniently weren’t handing out samples when he came by.

“Can you believe that last kid spat up on me? I’m never having kids,” Santa declared shaking his head in disbelief.

“Yeah sucks to be you,” Mo chewed thoughtfully. They were quiet for a bit.. “Hey,” Mo started “This is kind of random but what’s your name? I didn’t catch it the first time we talked.”

Santa paused, swallowed. “It’s uh Li Jie,” he said slowly.

“Oh.” Unfamiliar. “I guess I don’t know you after all, I know pretty much everyone at school.”

“I tend to blend with the crowd,” he shrugged, eyes focused on the waning dumplings.

“That’s cool,” Mo said, popping another piece into his mouth. “Me too.”

The week ended and casually spilled into the next. Mo had gotten used to the ebb and flow of the volunteer job, and could proudly say his photography skills had improved considerably. Li Jie and he were becoming good friends but there was something off about never actually having seen the guy out of costume, which Mo joked about. Actors like Li Jie, along with a few others who played Santa’s elves had to get dressed in the mall restroom or come already in garb. Li Jie had a habit of disappearing by the time Mo had finished packing up the camera equipment for the night. He had even invited the guy over for dinner one day but Li Jie had politely declined claiming he was behind on his schoolwork. Understandable, given the fact that they spent three hours after school at the workshop. He had promised to come by once the job ended, a week after Mo’s punishment. Mo had even vented to him about his struggles in finding his mother the perfect Christmas gift, asking him what he should get her.

“You know your mom best,” he had said. “I’m sure she’ll appreciate any gift you give her. Just remember it’s not about the price but the meaning behind it. If the effort comes from a good place, which I know it does, she’ll love it.”

It had brightened his mood at the time but he still wasn’t sure what to get her.

As much as Mo thought he understood life and might even be one step ahead, it had a way of knocking him back ten feet when he least expected it.

“10-4, we gotta brat,” Jian Yi muttered off to his left, pretending to be occupied with adjusting decorations on the set’s Christmas tree.

Mo twisted on his stool, turned his attention to the line, eyes widening as he watched a mother wrangle her screaming daughter into her arms and walk up to Santa’s chair. The girl had a handful of her Mother’s hair and was yelling for all she was worth, limbs flailing.

“Man,” Zhan whispered, “my sister was bad but never like this. “I hope this guy can handle her.”

Mo watched for a reaction from said Santa but it was hard to gauge anything given how much of his face the beard obscured.

The mother looked embarrassed and nervous as she handed the screaming child over to Santa. Mo had to give it to him, the guy was composed, bouncing the girl on his knee, cooing to her, easily calming the crocodile tears. The mother beamed at the turn of events, whipping out her phone to snap a few tear-streaked pictures.

Mo relaxed, relieved to see the situation easily diffused, his heart bloomed a bit in pride for his friend, which he quelled, brain cycling through the mental gymnastics of why he doesn’t actually really care.

Mo had to give it to the guy, he was really good, he watched as Santa leaned in, beard tickling the little girl in his lap, she giggled in response. At this point the lines were rehearsed and Mo could imagine him asking her what she wanted for Christmas. She pondered, tiny face scrunched up in clearly serious thought, then suddenly a tiny fist shot out and she yanked his bread down around his chin.

Mo was on his feet instantly, because no, no way, this couldn’t be happening.

“Ah shit,” he heard Zhan mutter off to his left.

Mo turned on him.

“You knew,” his voice cracked. Zhan looked pained.

“10-4 He Tian is fucking Santa!” Jian Yi whispered loudly behind them. “He’s fucking Santa, are you guys seeing this!”

“Who’s fucking Santa?” another student offered with a snicker.

“Guan Shan..” Zhan said, but Mo doesn’t want to hear it. He felt nauseous and too hot, his hands shaking, felt like couldn’t breathe as if all the air had been sucked out of the space. Mo bolted because fuck this, he would rather have suspension. He can’t believe how stupid he was, how oblivious he’d been, everyone must have known but him. What a fool.

Sorry not sorry to leave y’all on a cliff hanger but part two will come out on Day 5, so if you enjoyed this stay tuned, resolution come soon ;D

As always thanks for reading, your comments & tags give me life x

#19 days #tianshanchristmasevent #tianshan #he tian #mo guan shan #my writing #kis writes

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missrkl · 3 years

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Descendants Acts 2 -

Chapter Three

Rachel was having a very stressful day. Her parents were giving her a hard time about not being married yet whilst all their friend’s children were married and had babies. Rachel knew she could not explain to them her reason for being single still. Not only did she find it hard to let people in and trust them, she also had issues with being physically intimate with anyone. The whole thought of how it goes it down really creeped her out. Rachel sighed as she made her way out from the house. The last thing she wanted to do was hang out at home and pretend that everything was fine. The last thing she wanted was to be around her mother who kept nagging her about not having a husband and how bible school won’t exactly be reeling in profits. Her dad had suggested she become one of those mega church pastors and reel in the money through tithes and offering, he was snickering as he told her so. Her dad thought her whole faith was a joke. He had given up on God a long time ago and no longer believed he existed. Yet even after his heart attack and Rachel and her church praying for him and God healing him, he still chose to not believe in God. Rachel sighed again as she walked up the steps to her church, despite it being a weekday she always visited the place, not because it held the presence of God, but it was a place where Christians roamed the halls and by chance she might bump into one. Rachel sat in the foyer for a while, the silence of the church was quite welcoming. Rachel surveyed the entire main hall and imagined the different church services she experienced within its walls. Nothing like home to remind her of home.

Rachel decided to go back out, maybe she should go for a walk in the park. Before she could leave her phone pinged. She opened up the notifications screen and saw she had a message on The Holy Bible Game. The game was also available on the iPhone, but it did have limited features compared to the computer. She had a message from someone named David_Samuel738. She opened the message and read:

Dear Rachel,

You have the highest points ranked in this game and I was wondering if you would like to team up in saving more citizens to the kingdom of God? It would be an honour to work with someone with such a high ranking such as yourself.

David

Rachel thought about it a moment. The levels would begin to get harder and she still did not have The Blood Stained Sword for ultimate victory (overcome by the blood of the lamb). Rachel checked first David’s profile. He was quite high ranking himself, second to hers. She smiled, good, that means he could keep up. She accepted his offer and accepted his friend request. As Rachel was going to put her phone away she saw Matt Kane walking into the building. Lovely, just what she needed, a friendly happy face. Matt smiled widely when he saw Rachel and said hello, she did too. He asked her how she was doing and that they had a worship rehearsal now and the main room will be closing soon. Rachel left him and walked out to the park. She was always happy when seeing other children of God knowing full well they had a mutual understanding of the Lord of Most High. Rachel’s phone pinged again and she opened it, another message from David:

Hi there Rachel,

Thank you so much for accepting my friendship request. Looking forward to working with you. Maybe one day we could meet in person. It would be nice to meet the girl behind the screen.

David

Rachel sighed again and rolled her eyes. This was why she didn’t accept a lot of people online, especially the men. They always ‘wanted to know the girl behind the screen’ which always sounded super creepy to her. Still, the fact he was second highest ranking was something she could not ignore. So as Rachel walked into the park she sat down on the bench and logged into her programme. She changed her clothes and went to the market, as per usual, to see if anything was there to help her on today’s mission. She found Discernment Dove. This was a power that would give her greater wisdom and insight into frauds and deceivers, including wolves in sheep’s clothing. Definitely she needed that. Rachel bought the item, it was very expensive and took half of her virtual savings. It was worth the investment. You don’t get great things for free.

Suddenly David was online and standing beside her. His character was very handsome. Looking more like a warrior hero in a secular comic book than a Holy Bible hero’s of the heart. Rachel wondered if he looked like that in real life? One could only dream. Still, Rachel found herself blushing. She had to remind herself that this wasn’t real. Although there was a real person behind it. As the sun lay its heavy heat on Rachel in the park, the wind blew slightly caressing her skin and cooling her down. Here she sat under the big massive tree, with its branches and leaves giving her the shade and the breeze. The wind blew her hair around her face and David said ‘so, what’s the plan now?’ Rachel smiled, despite this being virtual, there was a real person behind that handsome virtual character and she quite liked him. He reminded her of Pastor Gabriel In her church. Handsome looking and she was glad about that. Rachel explained that she wanted to go down the south side of town to see if there was any citizens down there. She also explained that she was using her phone not her computer so her movements would be limited and would he be willing to cover her if necessary? She explained how she had not lost a life yet during this game, hence she was number one on the charts. David agreed to cover as he was at home using his computer. Where he was it was raining so he wasn’t out. Rachel realised then maybe that he lived far away. Oh well..their two characters on screen walked together in amiable silence. When they arrived at the south side of town there was many many citizens. Too many to choose from and a few specials. Rachel explained that she wasn’t equipped right now to handle any specials. David agreed and said that was a wise decision, no wonder she was number one. Rachel smiled, was he flirting or just complimenting her? Rachel had never put up her photo on this account and in no way was it connected to any of her social media accounts. Her virtual character looked nothing like her, slim and stealthy. Whilst in real life she was round and plump. This man can’t possibly believe she looked anything like her character could she?

Rachel motioned in the game to a group of citizens. None were specials. You could save an entire group of citizens, if you had backup, which she didn’t have. Rachel was usually a Lone Ranger, but maybe God in real life was trying to show her something?

Ecclesiastes 4:9 Two are better than one,

because they have a good return for their labor:

If either of them falls down,

one can help the other up.

But pity anyone who falls

and has no one to help them up.

David agreed and they both approached the group of citizens, about 10 in total. They were having some sort of picnic. So that meant 10 demons to fight, 5 each. As the demons manifested themselves as they began sharing the gospel story of the kingdom of heaven, Rachel got out her sword of the spirit and began wielding it against them. David too. For some reason their weapons were not working. Rachel remembered then her newly bought product she had bought today, Discernment Dove. Rachel motioned to David to cover her and as he did so, quite epically in fact, Rachel took out the Dove of Discernment and it began to shine and spoke into her characters mind, her spirit presumably in the game:

What they need is deliverance. Prayer is required. Forgiveness needed.

Rachel shouted at David what Discernment Dove had spoken and he understood. So instead of fighting at the demons floating about Rachel and David got on their knees and began to pray. They asked for (special words in the game) Deliverance and Forgiveness in Mashiac Yeshua Name. Discernment Dove spoke again and informed Rachel that the citizens had some forgiving to do, as some of them were backsliders. Rachel repeated what the Dove had told her and the citizens cried and soon was released from their bondage by forgiving. Then David and Rachel took them to the Temple of the Lord to train them. 10 citizens, each on their list. Making them almost unbeatable in the game.

Soon the sun was hiding behind some clouds and Rachel realised that some time had passed. Maybe it was time she went home. She couldn’t stay out forever. Rachel told David ‘good game’ and ‘I have to go now’ and logged out. Her character left David’s standing in the temple of Lord. David had waved. Virtually. Rachel put her phone back in her bag and decided to stop by the church again. She could use the bathroom, much cleaner than McDonald’s. They knew her face, she wasn’t a stranger, they would allow her. Rachel entered the church foyer and saw the worship team taking a break. So she went to the bathroom and one of the worship members was there, Juliet. She had her big curly hair out and Rachel loved that about her. They chatted a little and then Juliet invited Rachel to have tea and biscuits during their worship break. So Rachel joined in and had a good time, talking about the Lord, worship and their upcoming album. Rachel soon made her way home and as boarded the bus she prayed and asked God that her mum would have calmed down by now as she couldn’t handle the stress or the pressure. Rachel breathed in heavily and exhaled heavily. At least she had some fellowship today. Plus she had made a new friend, David.

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bravegirlwrites · 6 years

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painted rocks

I have lived in western Washington for over half my life now and I’ve learned a thing or two from all the rain. Getting wet is inevitable, for one, so there’s really no need to arm myself with an umbrella at all times. It can stay stashed in the trunk of my car underneath the pile of Amazon boxes I’ve been meaning to recycle or remain forever lost in the back nether regions of my coat closet, useless and unused.

I’ve also learned that in the wintertime when the rain relents, it’s go time. Never mind that it may still be 35 degrees outside, so cold I’m surrounded by smoky clouds of my own breath. The moment I notice that the puddles outside are still and smooth as glass, no longer rippling with split second bullet marks from the rain’s merciless falling, I’m outside. It may seem a bit overboard, staying on such high alert during the darker, drearier months, ready to pounce on any scrap of sunlight or clear sky Nature sends my way. But I’ve yet to find a better way to ensure that I do not spend the whole of winter stowed away inside.

Which is why I found myself at Fish Park the other day, one of December’s first, dropping bits of Chex Mix into my children’s open, waiting mouths like they were baby birds. The miserably cold air bit at their hands each time they braved the outside of their tiny pockets, rendering them helpless to eat the picnic lunch I’d packed all on their own. Without a single raindrop in sight though, I’d led the charge to explore the outdoors while we had the chance.

Fish Park sits close to our house, just a two minute drive through the heart of our small town’s main street to get there. Void of any swings or slides, or the splash of primary colored handprint murals that seem the hallmark of any thoughtfully constructed community playground, there’s only wide open wetlands and winding paths throughout. My kids love to walk here, feet stomping fast upon the gravel spread smooth in neat lines, bounding down the boardwalks built up over every mushy place. Mostly we look for rocks.

Our community has a program where people paint rocks and then hide them in any number of public places for others to find. We’ve planted plenty of our own stony masterpieces, but nothing is more fun than stumbling upon the surprise of one that’s been left behind by someone else. I usually spot them first, slight specks of bright shooting through the sandy browns of nature. The kids will stop sword fighting with sticks or hunting in the tall grasses for any manner of wildlife and follow my hints to the end, where the newfound treasure lays waiting to belong to them. (Except for the two times when I’ve kept my mouth shut and snagged the rock for myself. One purple hued, with ‘Be Free’ brushed boldly across the top; a second, emblazoned with a giant red bow and the words ‘Love Yourself’).

During our last visit, I knew the freezing cold and never-ending string of rainy days meant any continued searching would be fruitless. No one was taking the time to carefully conceal rocks just for the fun of it in these conditions. Still, as my kids busied themselves seeing how far they could stray from me while remaining in my line of sight (family rule #4), I couldn’t help but scan every inch of ground around my plodding feet in hopes of spying just a bit of color. With each step my pursuit grew both in purpose and in passion, and though barely twenty paces from the trailhead, I completely lost myself in seeking. I mean, I was really going for it, even attempting to administer the law of attraction I’d read about in my husband’s battered copy of The Secret. (I will find a rock. I know it. I will find a rock.)

I feel compelled to side step my little story here and fill you in. As a young child my parents led me to Jesus, and in so doing, gave me Everything. All the other stuff that came along with being raised in a conservative, evangelical Christian home was simply part of the package. Spiritual warfare was a whole big thing and I had a pretty far-reaching knowledge of demons, hell and (worst of all!) backsliding before my age was even in the double digits. I never let my eyes scan the horoscopes in the newspaper for more than a passing second in fear that some black voodoo magic might lob onto me and never let me go, and at birthday parties when someone pulled out a ouija board, I’d go sit in the corner by myself and wait out all the debauchery until the game was over. I understood that dark, demonic forces were very real and that I could never be quite sure which MTV show or secular song they lurked in. Every single religion besides Christianity, even Catholicism (sorry guys, so close), was also lumped into Bad Stuff That Isn’t Good Or True. The lines drawn in the sand for me were hard and fast. Buddhism? You might as well be a witch.

This is why employing the power of my own mind and using visualization as a tool in order to scout out a painted rock in the park made me laugh at myself. Emily of 1999 (hell, even the Emily of 2012), would never be caught participating in such sinful schemes. Back then I wouldn’t have opened up the front cover of The Secret, dismissing it without even reading it because it wasn’t the Bible and that made it Bad. God’s clued me in on some of my own ignorance since then, and as He’s continued to draw me closer and closer to Himself, a lot of the ‘hard and fast’ has fallen by the wayside. A lot of the fear, too.

So I walked and I walked, looking high and low all over Fish Park, trying to maintain a responsible enough watch on my kiddos while envisioning the rock I just knew lay waiting for me to find it. The sight of it formed crystal like in my mind: small, smooth, rich glossy paint, the word ‘YOU’ sprawled across the top. Suddenly I was searching for myself, or rather some way in which to commemorate the hunt that’d become the whole of my life in this last season. A sense of urgency began to grow within me, more excitement than panic because I knew the rock would turn up, even if it wasn’t till my very last step before hopping in the car to leave.

Except it didn’t. There were no painted rocks. And then it was time to go.

The sun had teased us the entire time we were there, shining forth in spurts and slivers for minutes at a time, until finally it seemed to cover itself in clouds for good and we all realized just how frozen cold we were. Immediately, we hightailed it back to the parking lot where our car waited with its glorious warm heat. While the kids piled in and fumbled to do their buckles with their numb, little fingers, I stooped down and scraped at the packed dirt, prying free a rock. It took a nearby stick to get the job done, and my coat and hands were dirtied in the process, but still I picked it up and brought it home with me.

Later, after a quick rinse in my kitchen sink and time to dry, (and also a special trip to the store just for a new art brush), I painted it. Blue, both bright and deep, with the word ‘YOU’ scripted on top in cool, clear white.

When my husband came home from work that evening, I shared my search with him, including a description of the rock I’d been visualizing in my mind. Before I was able to add the detail of my disappointment, we were interrupted by a whole host of whines and groans when the kids came into the kitchen looking for dinner. Our conversation picked back up after I’d started heating up the Costco package of pulled pork (did I mention I’m a gourmet chef?), but by then we’d moved on to another subject.

It wasn’t until much later, as I was readying to head to bed, that my husband came across the rock I’d painted laying on the windowsill in the kitchen. Calling out to me from across the house he said, “Oh hey, you ended up finding your rock, your YOU!”

And by then I’d realized that I had.

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