#metaphorical face with the self-sacrifice not working out.

[iamthescalesofjustice]

the psychosexual tension between an evil wizard who created the dungeon to lure adventurers so he could siphon the souls of those who die in its labyrinthine depths for his ultimate summoning and binding of an ancient evil but got too impatient and greedy (much like the many doomed adventurers) and  made the dungeon more difficult to try to get the last few dozen souls already bc its been over 20 years and hes so close to the finish line but now people are avoiding the dungeon bc its risk has grown past the rewards it promises and the last reckless fool still actively venturing into the dungeon, who the necromancer does not know has through sheer luck managed to get themself recognized by the dungeons magics as being the waizard’s familiar and thus they have learned to access the secret tunnels he uses to more easily traverse the dungeon, and they have been plumbing the mysteries left behind in his laboratories, paging through his own journals, the wizards own story more interesting to them now than mere gold or enchanted trinkets. 

#anyway by the time he realizes they are living in his walls and eating food out of his pantry he has already gotten so frustrated with #their looney tunes-esque ability to survive whatever he twists the dungeon into throwing at them that he (to his perception) goes ahead and #completely blows his cover to directly confront them and when they get through his boss rush of high-tier draconic minions hes like #yeah fuck this and uses his own soul as the last to finish the summoning (arrogantly assuming he will be able to control the ancient evil #from within) and then the final battle between the adventurer and the evil keeps having its dramatic tension interrupted by the #souls within it roiling in conflict with each other bc theyre all trying to beat the shit out of the evil wizard at once and its really #distracting for the ancient evil and finally the evil goes 'alright fuck this it feels like actually ive got 1001 souls so i can kick this #one out and then finish it but actually thats the glitchy fake familiar bond again telling it it already has the adventurers soul which it #doesnt so it starts collapsing without the full measure of a thousand souls and the wizard is desperately trying to fight alongside the #adventurer but is just like. really bad at it this is not his wheelhouse thats why he has a dungeon to kill people for him so his #contributions to the whole thing are in the end minimal. almost ended the world and didnt sheerly bc he got ahead of himself and fell on #metaphorical face with the self-sacrifice not working out.

[cobragardens]

The Golden Lion

For all that Aziraphale is the more frightened of the two of them, Crowley is the snake: he camouflages himself carefully, and his first instinct is always to flee.

Aziraphale's is to stay. He insists on facing the Apocalypse. He insists on facing the Second Coming. He insists on trying to make a difference. He doesn't want to go up to Heaven, but he does it anyway, alone, because he wants to stop the destruction of Earth (again) and keep Crowley safe.

He's very difficult to shame, too. He never gives up his innocent pleasure in eating, even though Heaven, Hell, and probably people on Earth all mock him for it. He's soft and he remains soft, even after Gabriel shames him for both his physical and metaphorical softness. That takes a lot of strength and an unshakeable character.

You know the gold ring Aziraphale wears as a badge of office, that functions as the counterpart to Crowley's snake tattoo? The charge on that ring is a lion.

The heraldic attitude of the lion is rampant (i.e., reared up): it stands on its hind legs with its forelegs raised, as though attacking, and its head is forward-facing: it looks forward, toward the future.

Obviously in popular symbolism, lions represent bravery, and that definitely fits Aziraphale. He's literally leaving the only person who has ever loved him to go make the universe a better place for that person and for everyone, and he's going alone amongst the people who have despised and shamed him his whole existence and tried to kill him at least once; those people are mfing Heaven and have been entrenched in their power for thousands or millions of years. It doesn't get a whole lot braver than that.

In Christian symbolism specifically, the lion represents Christ. (He's referred to in the book of Revelation as the "lion of Judah" because the heraldic symbol for the tribe of Judah was a lion and Jesus was said to be from the tribe of Judah because his [step]father Joseph was from Judah.)

Normally when a story draws a parallel between a character and Christ, the parallel is one of self-sacrifice. That's not what's happening here. When symbolism for Christ represents his self-sacrifice, Jesus is invariably associated with a lamb--the sacrificial lamb--not a lion. When that symbolism represents Christ's mercy or holiness or divine nature/ordination, the dove of the Holy Spirit is used.

But the lion is a symbol inherited from the Old Testament. It represents royalty, power, threat, and seizure from others by force. Jesus is symbolically depicted as the lion upon his return to Earth during the book of Revelation. The lamb is Jesus' self-sacrifice and death for the sins of humanity, but the lion is Jesus' return, powerful, royal, and triumphant.

Does Aziraphale's ring foreshadow his involvement in the Second Coming of Christ? Probably! Is it a symbol that Heaven is the proverbial (and biblical) "lions' den" where they should be doves and lambs? Maybe.

I think it more likely that Aziraphale himself will be the lion, on a righteous rampage like Jesus chasing the moneylenders from the steps of the temple, telling them "It is written, My house shall be called the house of prayer; but ye have made it a den of thieves." Because the ring is a signet ring, meant to impress a seal that legally represented the wearer as an individual. So the lion is linked to Aziraphale himself.

Aziraphale is soft. It is one of his very best qualities. And soft and weak are not the same thing: because he is soft, he tried to kill the Antichrist, a child. Because he is soft, he stood alone before a demon in defiance of the will of Heaven and demanded with no power whatsoever to back him up that the demon spare children whose murder God had authorized. He, an angel of God, worked with a demon to deceive the Heavenly Host and, as he points out himself, thwart the will of God. Even before that, because he was soft, Aziraphale gave humans the gift of fire and self-protection and then lied to God Herself about it. I mean it literally does not get any more courageous than that.

And I can't stop thinking about what that lion, and that softness, and the link between the two is going to mean for S3.

#good omens #good omens 2 #good omens aziraphale's ring #aziraphale's ring #aziraphale #good omens analysis

[thosewildcharms]

The dreaded echelon briefing 😔 What was your interpretation of Michonne keeping her gaze steady on Rick when Jadis was spouting her propaganda and trying to make him feel selfish? It seemed like after the emotional work she and Rick did last episode she wanted to makes sure he stayed strong. Not gonna lie I’m so worried about Rick in the last episode (I’m fairly certain Michonne’s safe); “this world is broken, YOU build it back up” “things usually go to shit when people try to save the world in their own way” “til my last breath I’m yours” and the correlation of Rick’s childhood story about the burning crops and possibly burning the CRM to the ground. I know if it were up to Andy and Danai, Rick and Michonne would make it home to their babies. So much death and tragedy in the apocalypse can they please just let us have this 🥲

the dreaded echelon briefing. i don't know what it could possibly be but i know it's gotta be BAD bad.

rewatching that scene with rick, michonne and jadis, i like your interpretation because i think michonne is quite frankly always steadying rick lol but i also think something else was going on there. to me, the hard work in 1x04, as you aptly put it, was forcing rick to admit that he knows that going back to the CRM to keep their family safe is bullshit and just a self defense mechanism for his own trauma. so i don't think michonne is particularly worried about rick wavering at this point - she knows he's fine with killing jadis and going home, they just need the file first. rather, i think hearing jadis mention the "true size and scope of what the CRM is going to do to bring this world back" made michonne in particular realize right then and there that escaping the CRM wasn't enough, that they would have to stop them from doing whatever it is the echelon briefing is outlining. when jadis is talking, they both seem to realize she's hoping they'll leave not just to protect their childrean and alexandria from the CRM, but to protect the CRM from them. michonne held rick's gaze because a) they were coming to the same conclusion at the same time and b) she was silently communicating with him that what she was about to say ("this can't end with us going home") had a different meaning so he needed to follow her lead and play along.

as for being worried about rick. well.

i'll be the first to say that i'm terrible at making plot predictions lol i'm literally just here to watch my favorite people make out. but! i think you are right, that the show is clearly setting up some sort of big sacrifice for the greater good. it's been a constant theme since episode one, and i think the obvious conclusion to that would to be for rick (or michonne) to make the difficult decision to sacrifice themselves or each other for the greater good - if we are to take this foreshadowing at face value. BUT. the show is also very insistently trying to get us to draw comparisons between okafor/thorne/jadis and rick and michonne and giving us the constant refrain that while separately rick and michonne are vulnerable, together they can do anything. i think we are supposed to connect that while okafor, thorne, and jadis gave up not only their loved ones but their own sense of self to commit to the mission (whatever that mission may be for each of them), rick and michonne by contrast are not going to do that. rick, as i've said previously, already metaphorically killed himself for okafor's mission only for michonne to bring him back to life. why retread that? so, when i'm in a hopeful mood, i like to think that all of these red flags we're seeing are going to lead so some sort of fake out only for rick and michonne to figure out how to survive this and get home, while also protecting the world from the CRM. it's just that they may have to make a morally questionable choice, or some other sort of sacrifice, to do so. my best guess is that they might need to mass-kill all of those soldiers at the summit that's happening.

but, i do get it. i'm worried in general, not necessarily because of what's actually happening onscreen but because i've been burned so many times before that The Anxiety will not let my brain do anything other than assume the worst as a self-defense mechanism lol. that's just me personally trying to temper my own expectations though. my fear is actually the complete opposite of yours - i think AMC would keep rick and michonne alive indefinitely as they are clearly some of the biggest cash cows they have. my worry is that i think if andy (or danai) felt very strongly that their character should die or just wanted to be done with the franchise once and for all, that choice would be respected and honored. on the other hand, they have clearly demonstrated with these first five episodes that they are dedicated to giving their fans exactly what they want. and while i suppose episodes 4 and 5 in particular could be seen as a swan song before a tragic end, i don't think either one of them is stupid enough to think fans would be satisfied with losing either of these characters at this point. if rick dying was always the endgame, why not just kill him on the bridge in the first place? what would be the point of all of this? it wouldn't make any sense and it would be incredibly awful writing. michonne dying is simply so inconceivable to me i can't even contemplate it. still, anything can happen and i try to be prepared for that so i'll just say that should either rick or michonne die i'm sure danai and andy would do it justice and make it meaningful and respectful. i'm saying this through gritted teeth btw.

#richonne #the ones who live #twd #am i capable of answering an ask without writing a novel the world may never know #answered #just to reiterate re: that last paragraph #that's just MY anxiety brain doom spiraling and coming up with worst-case scenarios bc it doesn't know how to NOT do that #definitely not saying i have any evidence that andy OR danai have expressed such things nor am i trying to put words in their mouths #like this is very much a ME problem lmdasfsdkla

[itsdrawingmen]

That perfect moment, that last tear you shed, All you've done in bed, all on Memorex All 'round 'round your head, All 'round 'round your head

So I have this extensive post-canon that has been developing in my head...

where Yoosung does get assaulted by Saeran in a heroic act of self-sacrifice. The doctors try to salvage his left eye, and the initial prognosis of the treatment seems pretty good, but his cornea is too badly scarred.

As the optimist he is, Yoosung gets his hopes high. Zen is his confidant through the healing process, angry at him for getting himself into trouble, but proud of him for getting his life together (and he does get it together briefly, seeing himself now as a hero, and becoming more confident).

Then, however, all of Yoosung's hopes are shattered as he is told that the sight in his left eye is not coming back, and he is left to come to terms with his permanently changed life. Zen is the first to hear the news, as Yoosung calls him from the hospital bathroom, sobbing into the phone, completely devastated. Zen hurries to the rescue, takes him for a bike ride, tries to get him to look around and understand that little is actually changed, that what matters is his perspective, and even seems to cheer him up a little. He stays over at his for a little while, but ultimately is again consumed by work, and Yoosung is left alone to cope with his new life.

He is faced with the fact that his sacrifice has not made him a 'hero', but instead he is now a 'burden', who has trouble doing even the things he was good at. As a result, he crumbles unto himself, and slowly stops getting out of bed at all. He spends his days mostly sleeping, avoiding opening his eyes as much as possible. He tries to maintain an online presence, but Zen eventually catches onto him being weird and more and more absent. He tries to invite him to places, but Yoosung finds excuses, and at last Zen shows up at his apartment, getting him to open the door after a little back-and-forth.

Yoosung, of course, tries to play it cool, but it's pretty much impossible in his state. His apartment is a mess and he himself hasn't showered in days, he's skin and bones, and his eyes are red with near-constant crying. As Zen realizes what has been going on, he is instantly alarmed, and decides to intervene. He mobilizes Yoosung to keep him company working out, trying to turn his mind to the positive instead of what is lost, and Yoosung honestly tries, if mostly for Zen and not for himself, but by then he's so malnourished and confused he breaks down. Zen realizes that it's serious, and takes matters into his own hands. He moves into Yoosung's apartment, makes himself a nest on the floor of his bedroom, and gets to work. He gets Yoosung to try making simple schedules, keeps him company constantly, motivates him to eat, shower, and move his body, and in general tries to put Yoosung back on his feet, metaphorically and literally. He's firm but gentle as he tries to get through to the Yoosung he knows and cherishes.

One time Yoosung can't even bring himself to walk to the shower, so Zen carries him. There isn't much of him to carry, though, and Zen can't help but notice. He stays there talking to Yoosung while Yoosung sits in the stall, and even washes his hair for him. He doesn't think in the moment to feel any kind of awkward.

They spend a lot of time talking, and Yoosung confesses to feeling worthless, good for nothing, and to having seriously contemplated ending his life. Zen, suddenly faced with the very real possibility of losing him, decides to make it his mission to help him. Seeing him so weak and being the one he relies on stirs something in Zen, and he finds himself getting more and more affectionate and protective. Yoosung appreciates, and is very responsive, but his progress is unsteady, and for each little victory he lapses back into hopelessness.

Little by little, however, he becomes more and more stable, and finds it in himself to get professional help. He starts studying again, and Zen starts noticing more and more often how inconvenient it is to have two people living in a tiny one-bedroom apartment. However, as he's planning to return, both realize they've gotten too used to living together, and Zen is still wary of leaving Yoosung alone for long, so the decision to move in together to Zen's apartment comes naturally.

They still talk a lot, hang out, and are very affectionate with each other. As Yoosung is finally getting back his energy and positive outlook, he finds himself more and more smitten by Zen, who opens up and lets his guard down in Yoosung's non-judgmental presence. His brash kind heart and well-articulated (if sometimes completely misguided) opinions captivate Yoosung, and he really notices his passionate sincerity, lust for life, and how good he is at his art. Zen himself is by then long enamoured by Yoosung's outlook on life, his honesty, his deep and compassionate understanding of people, his comfort in being weird, and his way of always finding something to admire.

The first time they kiss (Yoosung refuses to acknowledge that as a proper kiss) goes absolutely haywire. They're watching some kdrama when Yoosung, set in a romantic mood, suddenly finds the courage to ask Zen if he thinks he could love him like that. And for some reason, Zen decides that the best way to handle virgins is to go straight for the jugular, and kisses him right then and there just for the hell of it. It probably has something to do with 'all men being wolves'. Yoosung is VERY not thrilled with such a rapid progression of events, he panics and breaks away, and Zen himself immediately catches the nastiest flashback, comes undone, and almost tells Yoosung to get lost and to never come back. Thankfully, with some patience and care from that same Yoosung, they manage to sort it out and agree to go slow. Which would prove turbulent, as Zen, who has promised himself to never again fall for a man, is suddenly reminded why that's come to be in the first place, and Yoosung is kindly offered a glimpse into the world of gangs and teenage delinquents, where the stronger devours the weaker and where little Hyun Ryu has been devoured more times than he can count. They both kinda sorta don't know what to do with each other, and tiptoe around getting closer for a while, trying to understand who they are now and what it means to their roommate situation.

But they will get through it, and Yoosung will get his 'proper' first kiss, pretty like in movies, that he has dreamed of and imagined so many times.

#yes i do headcanon that Yoosung is a virgin supreme because he wants his perfect fairytale love #and who are we to judge him #zensung #yoozen #yoosung kim #hyun ryu #mystic messenger #mysmes

[goose-books]

goose-books productions: a 2023 review

only [checks watch] two months late! view the image in higher quality here; read past years-in-review here; and thank you as always to my beloved @yvesdot for the template!

i shan't be dishonest; 2023 was not exactly the year of max. but i still got a lot of good writing done! transcripts + commentary under the cut, and, uh, take the godsong character roster again.

cws: animal death (february), pregnancy/miscarriage + body image issues (july), addiction (september), self-harm-as-metaphor (october)

january

what’s that? godsong ran away with me for another year? well, it does that. in the second of a plotted trilogy, anna (roughly: what if aeneas were a very sad lesbian?) and her lieutenants visit a soothsayer. ichari wants to kill for her, btw. anna please let them kill for you,

“Have we got to sacrifice an animal?” Sascha said, tilting his head. “Let you dig around in the entrails?” “If you’d like,” the Sibyl said, upper lip wrinkling. “But I’m haughty enough to believe I can make do with a bit of holy blood. Not you. Annadrijanna, if you would give me your hand.” Anna didn’t move. Her eyes widened, very slightly, as she stared at the hand the Sibyl had extended to her, palm up. Ichari’s hand was on their knife again before they could blink. Damn the gods and Avender’s Sibyl, and damn Anna’s quest, the moment she needed it they could have their blade in the prophet’s throat no matter what holy punishment tumbled down on their heels— “It won’t be like the other,” the Sibyl said, nodding to Anna’s right hand. “I keep my tools clean. Far less messy than entrails.” From their cloak pocket they drew a glinting silver pin, topped with a bead of pearl. “Just a prick, that’s all.” Ichari couldn’t tell if Anna’s chest was rising and falling beneath the robes, or if she had calcified entirely. “Anna,” they said, soft, warning. Almost pleading. Just give me the word, Anna. Just say the word. “You’ve a lot of ghosts clinging to your robes, Annadrijanna,” the Sibyl said softly. “I need a bit of life.”

february

while anna’s doing that, ambergris is causing problems. raised in regency patriarchyville, she recently befriended a dragon and received Powers; now she’s working toward 1. making it seem like her family’s manor is haunted 2. killing her parents and 3. having gay sex. not necessarily in that order.

Blood and yolk still stuck to her hands, gumming the webbing between thumb and forefinger. But it was a pretty picture, the mews desecrated, the falcons gone mad and tearing open their eggs. The duchy would whisper that Pyranimia had forsaken even the birds, that the Armindale fortune was suffocating in broken shells, and no one would consider that it was only nature, that rabbits and snakes and stable cats would swallow down their young if they got hungry. But not here, Ambergris thought, serene, picturing what her mother would say when she learned of the mews—the slight twitch of her mouth before her face settled back into glacial calm. Not you. You wish you could. You’re starving for it. But you won’t be rid of me now. You don’t know that yet. But I hold you in my hands now. If I were really a sorceress, I could twist up your body, ruin the organs that made me, the ones that hurt you. Or I could take them out and let you go free. She could sympathize. Abandoned by the goddess, she too might have withered and waned, and come to loathe the children sapping her strength as they grew inside her body. But her mother had made Ambergris too well for that—too cold to love a child or a husband, too cold to shrink from blood. You took the knife from your chest and put it in mine, Ambergris thought. But the gods have been watching. My god has been watching. The storm is building. And before I ever let you eat me, Mother, I will finish a daughter’s work and drain you dry. She raised her hand to her mouth, where her thumb met her forefinger, and licked away the blood.

march

in the spring i wrote a very long paper about antony and cleopatra (the shakespeare play, and also the people, and also the echoes of their story in the aeneid). which got me thinking about the deliberate narrative parallels between dido and cleopatra, which got me writing a ten-minute play where they have a one-night stand. happens to the best of us. i’m very proud of how this one came out, actually, but i have no idea what to do with it. target audience of weird lesbian classicists?

D: I want to be someone they don’t write tragedies about. C: (to the audience) Well. How charmingly ironic. D: If I could just—have—if I could just—just a life. Just someone who loves me. Just someone who won’t go away. Something boring. Something monotone. I don’t care how good I look burning. I want to stop being on fire. C: You have absolutely no sense of flair. D: I miss my sister. (A pause. She looks to C.) C: Can’t help you there. I had mine killed. D: (exhausted) Happens.

april

fans of the aeneid, please enjoy The Scene In Which The Protag Loses To A Tree. if godsong ever drops i will accept a 10-page double-spaced essay about how it is in conversation with the jason & medea myth.

Anna set his jaw. He braced his wooden hand against the trunk, then stepped up onto the coil and reached for the golden branch. It was slick and cold under his fingers, closer to stone than wood; Anna took hold and yanked. The branch slid from his fingers. Anna grabbed the trunk so he didn’t fall backward, ice jolting up his spine. The serpent hadn’t moved. Again he tried to snap the branch. A whisper of leaves as it bent, but there was no give; again his sweat-damp hand fell away. The word that slipped from his mouth startled him, because it was the sort of word no one used in a temple, something Caradorra had been scolded for saying in front of their mother. Another glance at Sascha. The serpent hadn’t stirred. Anna wiped his hand on his robes, straining up on his toes, and wrapped his hand around the base of the branch. If he could saw at it—but his sword lay gleaming and useless in the grass, his calves starting to ache, the branch warming under his touch. Please, Iv, please, please, please— He ignored the flicker in the corner of his eye: movement from the lakeside. But then came the hiss, rising like steam from the water thrown at the charred walls of a burning city, and his blood ran cold. Breaking from the lake, wet and shimmering, came an enormous frilled head. The second serpent, awake and alert, slitted yellow eyes fixed on Anna. It moved faster than thought—legs bunching, coils rippling, launching itself for the tree. “Sascha, down!” Ichari shouted from the treeline, and the gun went off, louder than godly thunder, and the branch beside Anna burst into splinters, and as he gave a last desperate yank the golden branch snapped cleanly into his hand.

may

while working on the actual plot of godsong, i was also fleshing out the backstory, and ended up stumbling into the personalities of anna’s parents (a t4t4t throuple! let’s go gay people). so here’s a bit of anna backstory from the perspective of his mother, who is wonderful and nervous. did you know anna was chosen for priesthood at age 11? probably had no long-term psychological effect on her at all.

It was a celebration for Eli’s records: three days and three nights of festival feasting, of singing and dancing and hymns, of the temple bells ringing a clangorous echo from dawn until dusk. In past years, after past Ivtouchings, the celebrations had been citywide but quieter, briefer—the ceremonial anointment before the temple doors, to mark the new priest as a new melody in Iv’s living voice, and then a song. But it had been three hundred years since Iv had plucked a child from the rings of Ivander to holiness. No simple ceremony would suffice. On the first day, the older Ivtouched helped Anna atop an oxcart, the horns of each ox wrapped in gold ribbon, and led him in cheering parade through the city’s spiraling roads to the temple. In the street, in the surging shouting crowds that followed on foot, Radi cheered her voice hoarse and tried to etch the picture into her memory: the brilliant blue of the sky, the loose tail of ribbon flapping from one oxhorn, the glint of the sun off the bronze-painted spokes of the cart’s wheels. All of those details she might have set to canvas, with a small enough brush and a steady enough hand. But she knew even then that she wouldn’t try. There was no replicating her son’s smile, so broad it must have ached, or the dazed look of joy in his eyes. As if he were dreaming and praying not to wake. As if some curtain had unveiled before him to show him the heavens in shining vivid color, the world created for him anew. Someone else’s hands would mark him holy; someone else’s hands had dressed him in the dark Ivtouched robes, billowing out behind him in the breeze. He wasn’t quite tall enough. The hem was pinned up so it didn’t drag. Every few minutes atop the cart, Anna’s hand drifted down to hike the fabric up, more twitchy than deliberate, each yank a quiet spear through Radi’s heart.

june

please refer to my february comments on that list of ambergris’s.

Ambergris regarded them coolly. She had pulled them around the back of the orchestra into a corner: curtained from the rest of the room by a clot of musicians, the strings near too loud to speak over, the lanterns throwing warped shadows over the floor. “I apologize,” she said, slow, “if I startled you, Captain. I’d like a word.” Ichari’s heart still pattered at their ribs. Again they forced down the shaking need to wipe that faint smirk from her face. “You’ve had a few. You satisfied yet?” “Y-you’ve met my husband,” Ambergris said, “twice now.” So she had been watching, then, probably sunken into the shadows like a grotesque. “Twice too many times,” they said, curling their lip. “You aren’t impressed.” “Don’t let me offend your wifely sensibilities.” Ichari flashed their wickedest grin to see if she would squirm. “But you’re too pretty to go to waste on an ill-dressed fool’s limp cock.” Ambergris didn’t flinch, but her eyes widened slightly. Big innocent eyes, Sascha’s eyes, with all the guilelessness of a kitten. “Am I?” “Too good for him? I’m sorry you had to find out this way, duchess.” “Not duchess,” Ambergris said, “yet. I find—I know I’m too good. Am I pretty.”

july

more backstory, this time in second person about ambergris’s mother, who gets a POV in the book proper. not a very fun POV, but there's generational trauma to explore. creusa is the doctor that's been called in to help jonquilla through a miscarriage; she is gnc as fuck (jonquilla voice: you're insane).

Four weeks Creusa tends your bedside—four fuzzy weeks drifting in and out of fever, your thoughts racing like loosed horses, as you bleed out the last of your hoped-for heir. You loathe her for it, with a bright-hot intensity you can only grasp for moments at a time between unconsciousnesses. You loathe her for daring to pity you, for helping you sit up to drink down your pain relief; you loathe her for doing it well. You loathe her because she is fresh and young and rosy-cheeked and you are soft and lumpy and pathetic. You loathe her because she is beautiful despite all she does to destroy it, despite the way she prowls the manor in trousers, despite the fact that you have never once seen her suck in her stomach. Beautiful the way you were mere years ago. Beautiful enough to make breath catch when those worn fingers tuck her shorn hair behind her ears. What gives her the right to see you like this? What gives her the right to sprawl out in your home, in your chambers, in all her impropriety? What gives her the right to choose to be—this? Does she have a husband somewhere who lets her run free? Children she tends to with the same slight curve of a smile she gives you? Sisters? Brothers? Who does she fall into bed with at night? You want to step inside her skin, to pry it up, to take her apart and see how her heart beats. She’s had her hands in enough of your blood. You want to hold her organs. Your dreams come in tatters. Your stomach swollen to bursting again. The endless hallways. Dittany soaring away from you. Children squirming in your gut. Creusa stroking your hair. Sometimes those are not dreams, you think; sometimes your eyes flutter open and she is there, patient, quiet, calm. As she always is, except for the crease in her soft rose-petal lips, because when you are asleep she does not smile at you. She watches you as if she is afraid for you. She watches you as if she is guilty of something.  There are other dreams, too. Dreams you refuse to remember.

august

in august i had a Medical Experience. but first i finished the draft of godsong2, because i never fucking lose. this bit is from the very last scene, where no one is doing well.

Most days she shaved her face each day after morningsong, when she had the strength and a passable mirror. In Ivander she had not needed to, but she liked the look of it, the cleanness; in Armindale Manor she had been particularly careful. Sascha must have noticed, or picked it up from her face, because he scrambled wobbling back to his feet. “I’ll fetch a razor, eh?” “Sascha—” Ichari started, but Sascha waved a hand. “I’ll do it, Anna,” he said, earnest. Her twinge of warmth was faint; she inclined her head slightly. They had done something like this before, Sascha scrunching up next to her to wind his fingers through her hair—hair, Anna realized distantly, that was soot-choked and tangled now. He had spun her waves into a thick braid, then a number of tiny ones, chattering all the while; she had repaid him for it once with a spiraling swirl of mehndi across each of his fluttery hands. Now, though, when he held the razor up to her face, there was a new trepidation in the set of his lips. It took Anna too many sticky seconds to realize he was trying and failing to settle the terrible shake in his hands. “Sorry,” he said, blanching, when Anna looked at him. “Ah, I’m sorry, I…” “Armindale,” Ichari said, soft. Gentler than she had ever heard his name in their voice. They held out a palm. “S’okay.” Anna tilted her face toward them. Sascha scooted back to wrap his arms around his knees and watch Ichari sliver the hair from her chin, one hand braced against her cheek, their hands callused and cold and kind.

september

and we've reached the part of the year where school hit me like a Fucking Train. here's some carronash. that is, MILF julius caesar x neopronouns mark antony, in an extremely uneven borderline-religious-worship dynamic that has swallowed the latter's entire life (more about their deal here). you know, out of context here, they almost look sweet.

Ash shut xir eyes so xe wouldn’t see her hear it, and xe croaked, “I need a drink.” Her chest rose and fell beneath xim in silence. Somewhere beyond xir walls, a cart rattled over the streets. “I know,” Ash said, panic starting to rise cold in xir throat. “I know—I know, but it hurts, I need a drink, Julienne, it hurts, I think I’m going to die. I think I might fucking die.” I know you do, she had said the last time xe’d told her xe needed a drink. I know you do. I know you know why it’s a bad idea. And she had kissed xir forehead like an anointment and held xim when xe shook with frustrated sobs. Nothing now. Just her hand combing through xir curls. “Julienne,” Ash said, near a whine, the craving a spidery itch beneath xir skin. “Ash,” Julienne said. “Am I asking too much of you?” It didn’t sound like a condemnation. Xir insides curled anyway. “No,” xe said, small as a scolded child. “No, I just—I just…” “If it’s too much,” she said, soft. “If you can’t bear it. There’s no shame in that.”

october

i posted this poem here, but we’ll see it again! i think it’s kind of heavy-handed, but that's what happens when you try to articulate an insanity.

2:35 grindstone // max franciscovich there is a knife in my hand. there is a knife i am holding in the palm of my hand. i hold it by the blade. when i squeeze the blood runs down through the webbings of my fingers and the sting is hot. if i uncurl my fingers i will let go of the knife and it will not hurt. if i let go of the knife i will forget pain. suffering and fear will dull and scab over and my eyes will close. when i squeeze i remember it hurts. i remember i am dangerous. my eyes can close. i can cut with a touch. if i let go of the knife it will not hurt to make a fist. if i let go of the knife i will make a fist. if i let go of the knife in my hand i will forget there is a knife in my hand. when i squeeze the sting whets my thoughts and i see the world in all its brutal glory and i touch nothing i could ruin. there is a knife in my hand. there is a knife i am holding in the palm of my hand.

november

no nano this year :( i was being crushed by school and mentals, unfortunately. which sucks, because i've had a streak since 2018! but alas. next year. i did write a little more godsongverse backstory, set in anna's old city and starring the book's hector and andromache figures (ira and lucia, respectively; imi and nia are their twin toddlers).

Here was a part of the war that would not be told: that sometimes it would be late, very late, the sun sunken into the earth and the children in bed, before Ira came home. That Imi and Nia were asleep, Lucia suspected, was not an effect but a reason, because sometimes her heart-knit lover was nigh unrecognizable in the doorway, hunched and haggard, bathed in gore, and the twins would have been terrified. Blasphemous, maybe, for Lucia to see the dried blood cracking in rivulets on Ira’s skin and think of Iv’s shattered face. But even blasphemy was better than the other reason she shied from the thought—that likening Ira to the holiest of martyrs felt like giving up. Giving into what she suspected everyone else already thought inevitable. After the first night she had stopped fearing the worst. There would have been no missing the uproar in the city. Her fears were simpler: how much blood there might be, how many times Ira would wake in the night. But unless the wailing rose high enough to shake the temple down, the sixth wall of Ivander stood, and Lucia sat at home with the spinning and waited.

december

and… would you look at that, more godsong. i did write non-godsong things this year! but most of them are short stories i'm hoping to send out for publication, so i'm not keen on sharing yet. this, however, is literally a godsong x hadestown AU that i’ve been calling spadestown, and if i ever finish it i Will be posting it here. in a beautiful alternate world, godsong is an annaspades romcom. (it's not even that in this AU.)

Lying on the bed watching Anna write, Spades said, “You know xim. The queen.” Not an accusation, exactly. But a search for solid ground, an escape from the ice shifting under her. At the desk, Anna tapped the end of his pen against his lips. Distracting lips, unfairly plush. “Yes,” he said after an absent moment. “It is—natural. Xe returns every summer.” “Only here?” “As far back as I remember.” Anna blinked; Spades watched it sink in. “But not where you come from.” Spades shrugged. There were gods where she had come from, too. Not the sort one poured drinks for. “I suppose we can’t all be holy,” she said, reaching out across the narrow span of the room to his chair. Anna took her hand, his skin warm against hers, his pen calluses already familiar—the tip of his second finger, the inside of his third. When she closed her eyes, Ash’s grin flashed behind her lids. Xe must have known who she was. Gods always knew. “Sing it again,” she said, patting the bed beside her. Anna was staring at the page. He hummed another bar under his breath. Spades thought she might have to get up, to close the journal for him, to slip the pen from his hands and kiss him and hope he kissed back instead of dreaming louder. Then Anna said, “Sing what?” Spades tipped his chair back to hear him yelp. “What do you think, dipshit?” “My song?” Anna said, and there was his little winking smile. “Or our wedding hymn?” There was only one bed in the attic room, so they slept curled together. Invariably Spades woke with silky hair in her mouth. Not bad, she figured, for a night always warm.

and that's a wrap! i know i didn't post much this year, but i'm still hard at work at various odds and ends. thank you for sticking around, and i hope everyone reading this has a wonderful 2024!

#max.txt #max actually writes #year in review #okay tags time innit. #godsong tag #anna ivtouched #ichari felidore #sascha armindale #ambergris armindale #jonquilla armindale #julienne carron #ash pyrris #hellenira ivtouched #lucia tag #< poor girl doesn't have a last name yet. that's on me #cinquedea spades

[dolphin1812]

I love that Marius’ poverty is discussed through the metaphor of food. On the one hand, it’s not exactly a metaphor – he did literally sell his possessions to feed himself, so in a sense, he did eat his watch. On the other, it places poverty as his “nourishment,” highlighting the extent to which it deprives him of everything. The one that I found worst to read was this one:

“a door which one finds locked on one at night because one’s rent is not paid”

A lack of food and light is horrible, but we saw worse with Fantine. It’s still easy to feel for Marius, of course, but the horror of working in dim lighting, in the cold, and without food is familiar. Someone not even having a place to stay at night brings us back to Valjean’s situation at the very beginning of the novel (although that was because of his history, not his money). Closed doors have never been a good sign in this book, and seeing Marius have to face one hurts.

The moralizing aspect of this chapter is more mixed. Hugo seems to imply that those who become “scoundrels” because of poverty do so because they weren’t as moral, contradicting much of his own novel (where even characters that seem very virtuous, like Fantine and Valjean, end up as “criminals” simply for trying to survive). That being said, the “heroism” part is a bit better. It still feels a bit like idealization, but it also speaks to the novel’s general intent of centering the “misérables” as the protagonists (or “heroes”) because they’re ignored. The sacrifices Fantine made should never have happened, but they did make her an “obscure hero” in a way, with the amount of suffering she faced for the sake of her daughter.

I also like that we return to the humiliation of poverty here. Again, Marius is not as poor as Fantine was. Still, the loss of confidence and self-worth she experienced as she became poorer and poorer is similar to what he goes through, especially in relation to appearance. Initially, Fantine tried to maintain her clothing and appearance, but as she became poorer and lost her beauty (selling her hair, her teeth), she stopped caring. She was already a social outcast, but that visual marker remained a heavy burden. Marius doesn’t stop caring in the same way, but he is hyperaware of what he looks like, and it’s likely that his sneakiness in public places and his refusal to linger is tied to the poor state of his clothes.

More than that, poverty controls their lives and appearances. Fantine’s hair was not just beautiful to others. It made her happy. In addition to liking to feel beautiful, she loved brushing and caring for it. Selling it ended that happiness. Marius isn’t losing joy, but he is losing the chance to express his grief as he deems appropriate, and his loss is one of the ways he defines himself right now. It’s isolating him as well, as going out during the day would probably increase his chances of meeting people (if he weren’t too embarrassed). Going out at night helps preserve what he sees as a core aspect of who he is (a son mourning his father), but it limits him. Fantine didn’t even have that flexibility – she had to sell her hair, and there was no replacement for that except time – but in both cases, poverty challenges one’s sense of self and even forces one’s identity into certain molds.

The end of this chapter may mark the only occasion in Les Misérables where becoming a lawyer is a happy moment. Marius has hope now!

#les mis lettters #Lm 3.5.1 #marius pontmercy #fantine

[this-world-of-beautiful-monsters]

For the LIS 2 ask game: 2, 6, 8, 26, 27

2. favorite non-brother character

Karen--not in the "i want to hang out with her" favorite but the "I want to study her for days on end because she is so very Fascinating" favorite. ditches her sons for a decade and explains herself with the most bizarre teenage-leftist word salad i've ever seen. brings condoms on a trip to rescue said sons from a cult. is mia for esteban's death, multiple explosions, and Sean's eye, but shows up based on a letter from some weirdo she's never met. reenacts her and Esteban's fight-and-smoke-together ritual with Sean like he's a ken doll of his dead dad. sets a church on fire for her sons and protects them after they commit a murder. turns herself in to the cops because she loves her kids and doesn't want to spend too much time with them. refers to having children as "breeding" in that one letter to her parents. i need to put her under a microscope so bad.

6. favorite scene

torn between dancing on the bed at the beginning (FUCKING feelings) and the blood brothers border massacre (FUCKING chills). the dance scene is so sweet and also an amazing parallel to the canon romance pairing from lis1, which I love, and blood brothers is just--epic. watching Daniel reach his full potential like that, how far he'll go to protect his brother, is the most beautiful and spectacular thing in the world.

8. favorite choice

definitely the Lisbeth one. it's such an amazing culmination to an already brilliant and terrifying ep. i'm a slut for weird parallels and fucked-up christian imagery and it's just so...so fucking good, my god (literally).

the way Daniel just raises her into the air like he did the cross in the earlier scene? the way that was just a performance, but things are different now and Daniel isn't a little wolf cub doing tricks, he remembers he has teeth? Sean's cutting Daniel's metaphorical puppet strings and Daniel hoisting Lisbeth up on telekinetic ones? the callback to the fucking puma from ep 2? the fact "you raise me up" is literally a christian song i remember singing as a kid and this is the harsh reality of being actually raised high by your god? the way the heavenly space around them has been transformed into hell, all pretensions at eden stripped away? the jarring difference between the last ep where Sean is permanently marked by Daniel losing control and now he knows exactly what he's doing and the difference is so fucking real?

the way it's the most ruthless choice in the game, maybe even in the franchise, this vengeance for nothing more than vengeance's sake, and it turns out that's a perfectly good reason? Sean facing Lisbeth at Daniel's side where she had been only a few minutes ago? Daniel saying she tried to use me like he's heartbroken and she hurt you with the fury of a thousand suns? the wiki describing Lisbeth as being hung from a "telekinetic noose" and it calls back to Sean being "Judge Diaz" to Daniel's executioner, to Judas Iscariot hanging himself, to Daniel's dream suicide at the beginning of the ep, to hell, even Kate Marsh's suicide in lis1?

the cain vs abel vibes of this whole ep, brother and brother unsure who is the righteous and who is the damned, sean's forehead literally being blooded like a mark of cain, only to turn together on the force that tried to split them up like that? the way Lisbeth has spent the whole episode forcing godhood upon Daniel until she suddenly realizes that gods have the capacity for judgement? Lisbeth trying to adopt Daniel and Karen coming back for him, but Sean is the one who gets to influence what Daniel ultimately does, the secondary access to godlike power that he's earned through all his hard work and self-sacrifice, his love and care and determination to fix his mistakes, where the others have only offered abuse and neglect?

the alternative where Sean tells Nicholas shoot me in the face and live with it before he blows Lisbeth away and lives with it just fine? Karen seeing what her children are truly capable of in every sense of the word, having to live with what they became to survive when she wasn't there for them? Sean spending the whole episode being helpless and heartbroken and brutalized in so many ways, only to very suddenly be gifted more power than he's ever had in his life, this complete control over the life and death over another human being? how fucking satisfying it is for him to either kill his little brother's abuser or let Daniel do it himself?

just. fucking. fucking HELL (literally). this episode.

26. one headcanon?

i kind of like the idea of the Diaz family having a generational reputation in Puerto Lobos for being a little bit Weird--like nothing on Daniel's scale, but there are rumors, whispers, stories of miracles and ghosts and strange happenings on their land, of secret truths older than colonization. not everybody can decide if it's of god or the devil, but when the parents die and young Esteban leaves, the whole town feels like it's lost something more than just a mechanic. nobody really has the guts to go onto the property until two young brothers set up shop there, and the other citizens can't help thinking something important has settled back into place.

27. one au?

detroit become human! inspired by this art and a playthrough i've been watching a friend do, lol. would love Esteban as an android mechanic taking in two lost little androids from a discontinued child line and giving them a home and a last name, only for them to get in trouble when they're caught "deviating" (gaining sentience) and he gets murdered defending them from the police, so they have to go on the run...

#lis2 ask game #thank you so much for the asks! #life is strange 2 #lis verse #ep 4 faith #sean diaz #daniel diaz #lisbeth fischer #karen reynolds #esteban diaz #puerto lobos #boy god #suicide mention #monsters talks life is strange #detroit become human #christianity #christian imagery #religious imagery #diazcest #we are the wolves

[hauntedjpegcollection]

two years

wc: 1959 au: dishonored au ch: xavier, benji

Xavier will die in two years.

His throat will be cut so deep bone is exposed; he won’t even have any last words, they don’t let him. He’s drugged, unconscious on a stone slab as a sacrifice (gone wrong, or right, depending on who is asked)—and Benji dies in a lot of ways that day as well. His heart and humanity. They both die, physically and metaphorically and every other sense, two untethered souls, a throat not the only thing cut.

Maybe they both come back too; come back wrong or changed, but come back. Searching for each other.

But that’s two years. Right now it’s

—

When Xavier moves the sword to defend his neck, he isn’t paying close enough attention to Benji’s right hook. He’s never paying enough attention to fists, which is always his downfall in sword fights with Benji. He feels the knuckles skate off his ribs, only half meant to hurt. They’re sparring after all, and even if Xavier has countless times asked Benji to take it seriously, he’s never walked away with anything worse than a shallow bruise here or there.

Xavier dances backward, sword coming up once, twice, three times to deflect wicked and pursuing jabs from Benji. Sweat rolls down his face, drips from his chin. He has to lick some off his lips—which hilariously does distract Benji for a moment. He can see sleepy eyes widen with interest. Xavier get’s his in, slips past a well guarded defense and slaps the sword across Benji’s side.

“Oh, fuck you,” his partner hisses, swatting at the blunt blade. Xavier laughs, giving it a playful twirl in his hand.

“Later,” he winks, wiping a hand down his face to wick away sweat. “You’re the one throwing fucking haymakers during a sword fight.” Which they’re always argued about relentlessly, never to come to a good conclusion. Xavier loves the art form behind blade work. He wants to be good—he wants to own a real sword and feel the weight and responsibility of it. He studies books stolen from the giant library on Maran’s estate. He practices in the early morning hours, different forms that work for his slender grass blade of a body.

Benji usually dissolves into something closer to a fist fight when he spars.

It suits him though. The passage of time always makes Xavier nervous to think about (perhaps, because deep down he knows he’s going to die in two years—don’t worry, not really, he won’t become omnipotent until the sacrifice, but sometimes people simply know when a blade is secretly hanging above them all their lives), so he doesn’t often spare time to think about how Benji has hit mid twenties and bulked up from that awkward teenage boy Xavier had first kissed.

But it’s also undeniable whenever Benji is using his body like this, sparring or the occasional manual labor he gets tasked into doing. He’s hefty and defined and strong and Xavier is still a little too slender for his own liking. It makes him self conscious occasionally, until Benji’s warm calloused hands close around his waist and tug him closer. He likes looking down and seeing himself held.

“Again?” Xavier asks, trying to stop himself from spiraling on thoughts of Benji, heavy and solid and holding his waist. Yanking that waist back and forth—and Xavier’s face to the pillow and—he easily blames the heat on his face to the work out. He fans his shirt, plucking at the middle with a little bit of an anxious hand.

“Alright,” Benji snickers, falling into his easy defensive posture. His smug expression makes Xavier’s heart throb a bit. Maybe Benji isn’t the best sword partner.

Easily proven when they come together again, the loud clang of swords striking against each other. Xavier’s long reach should provide him advantage—he is much taller than Benji. But maybe it’s because they know each other too well (they know each other to the ends of the earth, untethered souls, don’t forget, that are going to always be reaching for each other, even after deaths both metaphorical and literal) but Benji consistently finds the weaknesses in Xavier’s form.

They become a bit unkind to each other for a moment—competitive as they are. They weren’t always lovers, once they were just two boys who grew up together who could not help but try and one up the other. The strikes become harder and quicker and meaner. Benji’s expression turns from smug to wicked and Xavier curses more than once, face red now because he’s annoyed and not thinking of a few nights ago when Benji had—

His leg is swept out from underneath him. Xavier crashes to the floor, breath knocked clean from his lungs. The only reason his head doesn’t snap down against the floor as well is because the front of his shirt is held in a tight fist, keeping him just shy of collision. He’s still dizzy, even without the head injury. His sword lays a few feet from him, discarded from a weakened hand. Xavier stares up at Benji, who half crouches over top of him.

“Cheater,” Xavier seethes.

“How is that cheatin’?”

“That’s not how people actually—”

“If you’re in a fight,” Benji continues, slowly settling himself down onto Xavier’s lap and making stars pop up in front of his eyes. “You should probably lose the honor shit and fight like you want to win.” The weight of him is so warm and satisfying, his knees slid perfectly around Xavier’s trim waist. He’s panting through his words and his hair is messy with sweat and exertion. He has a flush to his cheeks that makes Xavier momentarily light headed. His pale, giant palms slowly slide up and over Benji’s thighs.

The swords are forgotten as Benji leans down. His fist slowly releases Xavier’s shirt and lets his back fully hit the floor. There is the soft thudding sound of his head meeting wood. It makes both of them giggle, strangely high pitched—a crackle of energy between them is arousing and electric and immortal.

They are both still breathing hard when they kiss, so it’s messy. Open mouths panting against each other. Xavier’s hands become a crueler hold, tightening so hard he feels a bit of shake to his limbs and that only encourages Benji to grind himself back and forth, harder and harder with each new way they fit their mouths together. They’ve been kissing for nearly ten years now (in two years, it will be ten years, and Xavier will be dead), and yet it never feels dull.

Nothing about Benji could ever feel dull.

When they part for more than just air, Xavier is sitting up frantically. Their chests bump together and it isn’t enough. Kissing isn’t enough.

“Please,” he says in a desperate little whisper, brushing back sweat slick strands of hair from Benji’s face. “I want—”

And he doesn’t even have to ask for more.

—

Xavier was allowed to convert a small, wooden storage shed on the Giarizzo-Cohn estate into a home for himself. He was no longer able to live at home—not just because of the overwhelming amount of bodies in the Wolffe household, but because Xavier and his father didn’t see eye to eye on things. It was a simpler way to put it, and it sometimes hurt less if he thought of it that way. But Maran’s father had been oddly gracious, had been welcoming even when he’d let Xavier in.

It was easier to save money this way, because Maran’s father also didn’t ask for anything in return except manual labor here and there. Which Xavier was always happy to provide—he was not turning the profit he thought he would by working on the docks. Xavier wouldn’t sacrifice himself (and he doesn’t, mind you, but they do sacrifice him) to become a fisherman, because it means long stretches at sea.

He doesn’t want to be away that long, even if the money is better.

It’s such a meager little place, but somehow has become the most comfortable shed in the world. His mattress sits on a plank of wood he’d constructed, just high enough that as he and Benji lay on it together, they can look out the window. It doesn’t have a good view, but that isn’t necessary. It’s just a view at all, a little glass world that they bask in together.

Xavier runs his hand up and down Benji’s spine, appreciating the way occasionally he’ll twist or turn away or into the movement. His lover makes a soft sound and then a groaning one and then a rough huff whenever Xavier stops. It makes him laugh.

It should be uncomfortable to lay together, bodies pressed when they haven’t showered. He can feel the snag of skin together, Benji’s coarse body hair, the sweat that sticks to them. But it isn’t unpleasant. He likes this, he feels them glued together almost. Xavier brushes his hand up once more, curling around Benji’s shoulder blade, where he then presses a gentle kiss.

“And I think we should have a dog,” Xavier finally says, sighing contently.

“You’re not enough of one?” Benji mumbles, his head pillowed on Xavier’s chest. His own hand grips possessively at Xavier’s hip. His thumb traces a pattern there that seems the same every time, like it is a morse code that he hasn’t figured out yet. Xavier loves that feeling, that parts of his body have a little secret from Benji. He rolls his eyes and then rolls them. He puts Benji on his back, watching a bit of a wince through his expression.

“Oh?” Xavier grins widely, his ego swollen.

“Fuck off,” Benji snaps, settling more into the blankets. A maid had given him extra because Xavier had a pretty smile. “And why am I the one buildin’ the house? Let’s go back to that fuckin’ part ‘fore the dog. You’re lazy, you know that?”

“I am not.”

“Layin’ on your back the whole time, grinning just like that.”

“You’re so cranky when you’re sore,” Xavier purrs, pressing swift and sweet kisses to Benji’s chest. He smells so good after sex. Like sweat and body and that for some reason, is when Xavier can’t get enough of him. He rubs his nose and cheek into Benji’s sternum, eliciting a low, husky laugh.

“I want you to build the house, because—” Xavier rises up slightly, his hand soothing over Benji’s arm. He comes across the significant swell of his bicep. He squeezes and smiles, not his sleazy satisfied post sex smile, but something softer. A little gentle—maybe just emotional. He squeezes once more, a soft appreciative gesture. “I like when you—when you’re strong for other shit. Not—You’re good at fighting, Benji, alright? But, build me a house, okay? Before all this strength goes somewhere it shouldn’t go.”

A strong breeze batters the side of the shed. Benji stares up at Xavier, his dark eyes pooled with emotion. Neither of them can seem to say anything for a minute, Xavier’s words hanging between them. Dunwall has become a disgusting place; has done a slow crawl into something horrible and rotten. Men become worse just living in the city. Xavier wants them to escape. He wants to live somewhere quiet, where neither of them ever have to have a sword for anything other than just fun. Where Benji slowly forgets to throw a punch.

(Unfortunately, as we know, this is not what happens, but for now…)

“What color?” Benji asks, folding hands behind his head. Xavier sits up slightly to admire the shape of him. He bites his lip, sinking down to kiss Benji’s chest and lower.

“Green.”

#writing #dishonored au #xw #bp #xw x bp #:)

[dujour13]

💎💎💎 your choice from sia <3

Em! Now that’s someone riding the same rainbow. Em and I really get each other.

I love just being in her presence, but I’ve been informed by certain of our mutual friends that it’s officially Too Much, kind of like the explosive reactants in one of her bombs. Put us in the same room and you’ll come out covered in kiss marks and fairy dust.

She’s so bubbly and optimistic that it’s easy to forget she has a solid foundation underneath it all. She works hard to maintain that outlook in the face of catastrophe. It’s all come crashing down on her before—forgive me, that’s not the best choice of metaphor—but she keeps smiling because she can’t countenance the alternative. Making other people happy is too important. And that, I love about her.

All the kindness and generosity people have shown her she reflects back a hundred times, especially to people who need it the most. It’s not just smiles and hugs though—she cheerfully gives her time and resources for people. I’ve seen her do it, even when she’s got to be exhausted, even when there are other things weighing on her mind, she’ll go out of her way to, you know, braid Ember’s hair. Or save the world. Whatever needs to be done.

I worry sometimes that that’s another explosive combination—her kindness and her selflessness. Both great in isolation, but together they could mean self-sacrifice that goes too far, and I would hate for the world to lose Emerie. We need her too much.

#friends' ocs #emerie #siavash #pwotr pals #another kindred spirit he adores

[pinkumiilku]

I keep saying this, but as (at times) inconsistent One Piece has been through the years, Sanji remains the best written character in the series.

Looking back, his every bit of mannerism was already telling us everything we needed to know, and I’m still so proud to have foreshadowed his mental state years before his story was revealed.

I’ll write a more in depth analysis eventually, but starting from the Baratie Restaurant, we learn of this introverted, “cool” chain smoker, who wears a suit and accepts no disrespect towards food, or his adoptive father.

He speaks in a very hushed tone, and seems to put up this image for every bit of his personality and appearance. A carefully crafted exterior, which occasionally breaks when he shows excitement talking about his dream of “All Blue”. It’s as though he made the conscious choice to censor as much of himself as possible, convincing himself that the few characteristics he does show are the only acceptable ones. These are mainly his chivalry, and relationship with food, which are more values than personality. Even his skill with cooking stems from a deep seated need for control, where not one, but two metaphors involving starvation, lead us to imagine a possible eating disorder.

He is willing to sacrifice himself immediately out of the idea he is indebted to his father, and refuses to leave the Restaurant where he grew up, despite his dream. This is very important, because it makes the viewer stop to think for a moment.

Feeling indebted is understandable, but to put one’s own life at a complete halt due to an act of kindness at the hands of someone else already gave us a huge clue as to Sanji’s upbringing. Before Zeff, he was a child surrounded by a biological family who left him mentally and physically destroyed. In such circumstances, he grew without the fundamental concept of worth.

Therefore, any act of kindness would equal an insurmountable level of debt he would need to pay off. And seeing how he perceives himself as worthless, he often relies on sacrificing himself for the benefit of others.

I presume Zeff suspected as such, despite Sanji never mentioning anything, and purposefully kicks him out of the Restaurant, pushing him to fulfill his dream, and above all, live his life. What Sanji had to experience and understand throughout the journey, is how others care for him as well.

However, trauma so severe couldn’t possibly heal that quickly, and I’ve said before how impressed I am with Oda’s approach with depicting trauma in such detail (Sanji’s panic attacks at the thought of seeing his family, twitching, sweating, snapping, chain smoking, etc). Despite the years of bonding, affection, taking care of the crew’s basic needs, trusting them blindly, he still subconsciously believes to be interchangeable. The idea of being able to rely on them for anything substantial, especially against the titanic level where his family stands, is inconceivable. This was further implemented by his trauma, where victims of abuse catastrophize the power of their abusers.

His affection towards his biological family despite the abuse however, is the most difficult challenge to face. Fundamentally, he believes to have a chance still at redeeming himself in their eyes, perhaps as an adult. His punishment, someway somehow being rational and understandable, if he could only figure out what the right thing to do is.

Once he understands there is no answer to that question, is when he finds freedom. However, this realization is devastating.

He chooses to save his biological family, with the condition of never interacting with them again, his mind free of doubt over how no father would wish for his own son’s death.

This is where Whole Cake Island ends. Sanji joins the crew once more, with a newfound sense of self worth and from any Shounen we’d expect that to be the end of it.

But it isn’t. Because trauma doesn’t work like that, and Oda knows. Despite his determination, Sanji consistently shows signs of not only being tied to his family (politically or metaphorically), but shows constant anxiety over becoming anything like them, perpetuating the cycle of a put up personality.

While Sanji is aware of his found family and their affection, it will take time to fully break free from the vicious cycle of depression and panic he falls back into.

Now, looking at fictional characters as means to tell a story, Oda was making a statement. He wanted to give anyone struggling, anyone who at one time felt their life slipping away, anyone who considered suicide, a fighting chance, by using his privilege as artist and writer with the biggest platform.

#vinsmoke sanji #abuse tw #suicide tw #one piece #sanji #starcloud rants

[bubblegumfanfictions]

Down the Rabbit Hole |A Zack Foster Fanfiction| Prologue: The Facility.

Fandom- Angels of Death

Ship- Zack Foster/Original Character

Warning(s)- Mentions of Death and Torture, Poison

Summary- Elizabeth is bored of her living conditions

Word Count- 522

Elizabeth groaned, her eyebrows furrowed as she lay back in her hammock, held by two large cherry-coloured mushrooms with cream-coloured spots. Despite the overwhelming beauty of her floor, she had to admit that she was bored. When she joined the facility, a bright-eyed serial killer of 17 years old she was elated at the idea of being able to kill people with no repercussions. But after four years it was losing its appeal.

There are only so many ways you could kill someone and Elsie has gone through many of them. Poison, Torture, Beheading, Drowning, Stabbing. She found her favourite way to kill someone was to earn their trust and then poison them, the look on their face made her heart hammer.

A notebook sat unused in her lap, open on a page with a drawing of a green and brown butterfly, followed by some writing that started with ‘dear diary.’ Elsie was truly lost in her thoughts, weighing out the pros and cons of being there and chastising her younger self for not reading the fine print that stated she couldn’t leave the facility under any circumstances.

Elizabeth gazed around blankly at her floor. The large glowing mushrooms, the assortment of tall flowers of all species and colours, projections of the Cheshire cat popping up haphazardly on different parts of her floor, a never-ceasing grin plaguing Elizabeth’s thoughts.

Then her eyes landed on the eyesore that was an iron door. It led to her bedroom full of books, everything from Science, Poisons, and Torture to fairy tales, and books on flower language. 

A loud bell tolling made the girl physically jump out of her thoughts. She huffs, climbing out of her hammock. She looks down at her Pajamas, “This certainly won’t do.” She walks over to the locked iron door as a voice over the intercom speaks.

"The girl on the bottom floor is hereby a sacrifice. All floors please make preparations." 

“Yeah, Yeah, I know. We hear this every week. Jesus Christ.” She mumbles, rolling her eyes as she groans, yet again. She strips out of her Pajamas and exchanges them for a more suitable get-up. Once she was dressed she gave herself a once-over in the mirror. 

She is wearing a blue dress with puffy sleeves that goes down to her knees, a white apron that stops just shy of the bottom of her dress, a black bow to cinch in her waist, and a bow around her neck. She put on some thigh-high white socks and finished off the look with a black bow in her hair, some white lace wrist gloves, and a pocket watch which she attached to her waist. 

“Okay, done.” She starts to walk out of the room before her eyes widen, she quickly goes back in and picks up a small bottle of Cyanide. The party table has an extensive number of real-looking cakes and other foods, it is situated in the middle of a clearing surrounded by a mix of (fake) pine trees and a few large glowing mushrooms. Elizabeth metaphorically rolls up her sleeves and gets to work on the tea. 

Art by Baicalpascal

#fanfiction #beginner writer #writing fanfiction #zack foster x oc #zack foster #isaac foster x oc #Isaac “Zack” Foster #angels of death #satsuriku no tenshi #original character #oc #Elizabeth “Elsie” Reyes #Eddie Mason #edward mason #Edward “Eddie” Mason #rachel gardener #fanfiction writer #fanfics #angels of death fanfiction #angels of death fanfic #down the rabbit hole

[rubbleinrainbows]

I've seen a few posts about how jiang cheng and wei wuxian have no chances of ever being the same pair of brothers they were before everything happened. That it's never going to be them standing up for each other, but standing on the separate sides of the room. Taking separate roads, only glances exchanged sometimes, burden of reciprocated fault too heavy to bear together. And as angsty and seemingly rational the idea may be—I don't thinks that's quite it.

(For the sake of convenience, I'll be referencing only the scene from the Untamed, when jiang cheng is captured by jgy and confronts wwx about the golden core. )

Jiang Cheng goes through all the phases of grief—first, angry at wwx turning out to be the misunderstood hero, shunned by the public as he sacrifices himself again and again, living out the Jiang clan's motto while all jc could do was live in his shadow.

Angry that after all the years he spent rebuilding everything wwx tore down by accident—his whole family just collateral damage of his arrogance—couldn't have happened without another one of wwx's sacrifices. That he couldn't even protect his nephew from it.

Painful desperation and unwillingness to accept it when Jgy tells jc he's partially responsible for wwx's fate.

After everything, all he can do is repeatedly shout at wwx, asking why he did it. He'd had everything, and just when jc had maybe hoped in the deepest part of his soul that his brother would prove to be a self fulfilling prophecy. Y'know. Out of spite, he gave it all away and lied about it so jc wouldn't suffer.

As such, accepting that hurts. Understanding that hurts.

True, before the knowledge that wwx wasn't just his irredeemable bastard brother who flew too close to the sun and JC had to watch from the ground, tending to earthly matters, their relationship might've ended at the hurt being the final straw. Instead, we are given a scene of forgiveness.

Jc allows wwx to get closer to him, even allowing him to touch his face and wipe his tear. Using visual symbolism, I believe this exchange is foreshadowing for the brother's reunion and building of something new out of themselves.

Someone may argue—left with no debts between them, they are perfectly free to part ways.

But is that it? Sure, debt and repaying it by all means is a theme woven throughout the whole story—screw the differences of the novel or show. However, no matter how often debt is a metaphor for love, we cannot equate such two things. Debt and love aren't synonymous.

So while Jiang Cheng and wei wuxian do not owe each other anything anymore (as wwx clearly states, telling him to forget all the mistakes they both made in wwx's first life), loving someone is not a job. Jc doesn't need a contract to love his brother despite everything that happened, because that's just not how the love between siblings works. Wwx is the same, and you cannot tell me he doesn't miss jc—for the love of god, he gave away his golden core for that man and that's not a thing that stops mattering when he dies.

In the end, it will take time. Jiang Cheng has to forgive wwx, and then himself for it to work and it'll be no small effort on wwx's part either; no one said anything about reforming bonds being easy. I'll even allow myself to use the golden cores as a reference, in that losing them is far too easy and reclaiming them often requires far too much effort for people to do it.

It's like I wrote before though—loving someone is not a job you choose, you're payed for, or that you quit.

In other words, even if they can part ways, in no universe would either of them choose to. If JC really didn't know about wwx's sacrifice, why waste 16 years of your life looking for your presumably dead brother who probably dispersed, when you could finally live without him in peace? With all the trouble he'd caused?

After all, when you start to love someone, it's impossible to erase that. And Jc is just human, seeking out other humans.

#the untamed #mdzs meta #jiang cheng #wei wuxian #yunmeng brothers #character study #character analysis

[plusultranumber1]

My Thoughts on Wolf Children

I found this film to be pretty solid, even though the children could be annoying at some times. This film offers another entry of a coming of age story, and although it is told through the perspective of a child, it is mainly focused on the experiences of the parent. The story follows a woman who falls in love with a werewolf, and her subsequent trials and tribulations as she raises two half-human half-wolf hybrid children alone. As the children grow up, the new painstaking struggles of nurturing the unique children presents itself in several forms. The film focuses on having to live with the decisions of choosing a path in life, learning to embrace one’s nature, and the struggles of child rearing. The mother is tasked with hiding their nature out of the fear of social discrimination and ostracization from the rest of society, while also learning how to nourish each of the children’s self-image.

The film subtly addresses the hardships of discrimination and the struggle of coming to terms with one’s nature. In the first part of the film, the Wolf Man is hesitant to reveal his true nature, and tells Hana that all that he has ever wanted was to belong somewhere, especially a home where he has the freedom to be who he really is. His fear of being treated harshly for what he is and his longing for a sense of belonging is a metaphor for the marginalized who are discriminated against for having what society deems as a blemishing characteristic. Because of the children’s distinct makeup, which combines the wild animosity of wolves with the curious and problematic behavior of humans, Hana must hide the truth in order for their safety. This backfires when Yuki gets sick and Hana does not know where to get help. This instance might also reflect how the marginalized feel when they are in need of help and may feel afraid to ask for it. However, there are those who come to accept the children for what they are. When Yuki reveals her true nature to Sohei and accidentally injures him, he is understanding, and is not critical of her. Sohei represents those who go against the grain of society to reach out to the marginalized and make them feel accepted. 

The film heavily emphasizes the painstaking, but ultimately rewarding journey of raising children. While Hana is not perfect, she does her very best to provide her children with the best lives possible, even at her own expense. She risks life and limb to adapt to their animalistic nature, while also teaching them about themselves and how to be in the world. Her hard work for her children also inspires her small community to help her provide, showing that it does take a whole village to raise a child. Her experience is an idealistic reflection of a parent’s sacrifice for the children until they find their own path in life. Even in the end when she is left lonely as her children make their way in the world, she faces the hardship with a smile on her face, and accepts them for who they are.

[enddaysengine]

Monster Mash: Claimed Echo (Demon the Decent)

Any Demon getting a close look at the Westen household would be forgiven for thinking the entire thing is Lare. The house appears normal until you look in places people don’t usually go. Crystal brains flashing with fibre optic circuits grow out of the attic walls while gears pumping with oily blood fill up its crawlspaces. The Westen family has so far remained oblivious to the strangeness around them, and the presence in the house intends to keep it that way.

You see, Peter Westen has the habit of getting into bad deals. Gambling debts, bad investments, deals with people who get nasty when you don’t pay them back — it all started adding up. Peter isn’t a bad person by any means, but his judgement has never been great and he is desperate to keep his family from suffering from his mistakes. So when a stranger with many faces showed up saying he could take away all the debt, Peter jumped at the opportunity. 

Peter didn’t really think he’d sold his soul until the Demon came to collect it. He thought it was all some metaphor for a client system like what the Romans used to do. He didn’t mind being wrong; keeping his family safe and financially stable mattered more than his continued existence. The kids would still have their dad, even if it was just someone wearing his face. 

Peter was only half right about that. The Demon did a good job playing the part, but its Agency was involved in sabotage on an unprecedented scale. One night, they actually hurt the God-Machine. Not damaged it, not destroyed Infrastructure. They stabbed God and made it bleed, but such a victory demanded sacrifices. The Cover that was Peter vanished - sacrificed so a Demon could have the power to fight again another day. 

The catch is that Peter made his Soul Pact in an alternate timeline. The Peter Westen living in the house right now is the genuine article, not a Cover. He’s never encountered the supernatural, has his regular nine-to-five and sings his babies to sleep each night. There, however, is a second Peter watching over the family - the one who has taken over the house. 

Peter’s Echo doesn’t know exactly how he came into being. He remembers the showdown with God Machine where his Nemesis went Loud and shredded his identity. He remembers the Demon he made a Soul Pact with and hates all Unchained as a result. He gained consciousness as an Echo years before he had any inkling of the supernatural before anything went wrong. From what little he has been able to glean, he suspects the God-Machine reset the timeline to an earlier date to save itself, but hell if he knows if it intended for his Echo to go back in time as well. It could have been a coincidence and sheer luck he got thrown into the past, or he could have been deliberately sent to act as a spanner in the works. 

Peter’s Echo doesn’t care what the truth is. He only cares about ensuring his family is safe and that he doesn’t make the same stupid mistakes all over again. He Claimed the House, ensuring he is always there when they need him, but takes great efforts not to scare or use Embeds in front of his family unless he absolutely must. Other Peter, however, gets no such special treatment. The Echo takes great care not to be overt, but he has zero qualms about using its abilities to manipulate his past self — although the Echo looks at it as saving him from himself.

Peter’s House, Echo-Claimed 

Vice: Overprotective

Virtue: Loyal

Aspirations: Keep Other Peter out of trouble, kill his nemesis, protect the rest of the family

Anchors: Other Peter, his children, his nemesis

Attributes: Intelligence 3, Wits 2, Resolve 4; Strength 8, Dexterity 1, Stamina 6; Presence 3, Manipulation 4, Composure 2

Structure: 32

Willpower: 6

Size: 30

Initiative: +3

Armor/Durability: 2

Embeds: Associate and Integrate, Ellipses, Knock-Off, Shift Consequences

Dread Power: Claimed Might

Influences: Anchors 3

Essence: 20 

Ban: Cannot harm members of its family. 

Bane: An axe wielded by a person Other Peter owes money to. 

New Dread Power - Claimed Might: Peter's House adds Rank instead of Skills to his dice pool when activating Embeds. 

#Echo #Ghost #Chronicles of Darkness #demon the descent #Monster Mash #monster stats #RPG #Urban Horror

[thegrimmmystic]

The Shadow Of Christ

By: Chris Grimm

When it comes to our shadow, with the new mainstream push related to conciousness and self-awareness, I've noticed a remarkably high amount of inaccurate information. But theres one thing I want to set straight in particular. Your Shadow IS your highest self. Yet, simultaneously, it's your lowest.

"But Grimm how could that be? That doesn't make ANY sense"

Think of it this way. When we imagine our highest self, we picture an angelic, white robed, beautiful extension of ourselves. This variation of who we are is all-loving, empathetic, selfless, and incapable of only ever seeing the 'good' in people. But wait... Truly think about that a moment... Does that not sound exactly like the "version of you" you embodied in the first place which resulted in your very destruction? ALWAYS putting others first? NEVER speaking up when you have an issue? Giving people the benefit of the doubt who VERY CLEARLY never deserved it? In fact, I'd be willing to be that's the only reason you INVITED your Shadow into your life to begin with is BECAUSE of the person you were and the self destruction that had caused.

So what would the Shadow be then? While one voice says to continue doing things the way you were to become destroyed by fantasy based optimism, your Shadow is the Objective voice. The voice that says 'Why are you still loaning Bryce money? CLEARLY he's using it on scratch off tickets. And has he ever paid a dollar back? Of course he hasn't, yet you STILL choose to ignorantly believe he will?'. Your Shadow is the voice that tells you when you aren't reaching your full potential. It's the voice that, when you're on emotional overdrive, tells you how it truly is. Unfortunately though, most of us choose to ignore it, seeing it as 'us bullying ourselves', or in extreme cases, see it as 'hearing bad voices in our head that say mean things to us'. In reality it's just the objective half of our highest self.

Trying to embody your highest self without your Shadow is the textbook recipe to your very own self destruction. THIS is what one of the main (though there's A LOT) significant meanings behind the story of Jesus is about. Jesus listened to only one half of himself. He cared for and worried about only everybody else around him and it resulted in those very people destroying him.

Now, everybody knows that Jesus Ressurected after 'dying for all of our sins'. But whatt they won't say is that Jesus had to go to Hell upon death (metaphorically speaking) because the important part of that story, is before his Death, Sin would send you straight to Hell. Those sins didn't disappear. Jesus took them onto himself and took the punishment instead, which as I said, was going to Hell. Sound familiar yet? It should. Wouldn't you say that before waking up and learning to love yourself you had found yourself in your own personal Hell?

After his death he didn't only go to Hell. He woke up in the pits of the absolute bottom layer of Hell, and his only way out was to walk through each and every layer, facing every demon along the way. Would this not sound EXACTLY like walking the path, reliving all of our worst and most Traumatic experiences that resulted in our self sacrifice, or Shadow work, as you may better know it?

BUT upon finishing the long, painful journey, Jesus prevailed. He fought and destroyed every demon which dared challenge him and when he finally resurfaced, he was holding the very key to the gates of Hell. After locking the door, he'd won. He learned that all of the things which destroyed him were healed again, and no longer did he see a broken world and broken people in need of saving. He realized that each and every person was able of saving themselves and ressurection after breaking. That the only way to Heaven, truly, was to first walk through Hell. Only then could someone value all life, including their own, as beautiful and worthy.

THIS is integration of The Shadow. Being loving and caring, while treating others the way the treat you. Allowing yourself to question someone's motives, while remaining in control. Control is vital. Lean to close to the light and you'll sacrifice yourself. Lean to close to The Shadow and you'll sacrifice the world. Remain right in the middle though, and you'll achieve absolute balance.

Your Shadow isn't your enemy.

It simply wants what's best for YOU.

The dangerous part, is it only wants best for JUST YOU.

#esoteric #meditation #spiritualgrowth #spirituality #shadow work #alan watts #divination #norse #pagan #runes #tarot

[willsimpforazula]

New WIP

because I can't seem to actually sit the fuck down and finish a fucking story due to IRL stuff (work, mainly just work) here's another WIP after rewatching EP11 of 86 cour 2 (kenot recc this anime enough, worth all the rewatches and then some) Notes: - it kinda sorta ties in to the christmas gift thing i did last year, so you might wanna check that one out before you start. link is here.

it's pre-relationship fic so if that's not your jam consider other fics like my sokkla saturday submissions for 2020 / other assorted one shots.

put on either Voices of the Chord or Avid at the part where you see an * trust me, it helps set the mood. alternatively, just have the ep playing as you read.

lastly our girl azula (+ a whole bunch of atla characters) is slightly (or very, depends on how you wanna slice the pie) OOC but it be like it do when it comes to AUs. i don't make the rules.

Anyways....

Enough. 

The dead belong to the past.

They must be separated from those who still remain in the world of the living, Sokka thought to himself as he piloted his Feldress towards the sentient railgun, using the fact that it was distracted by Kiyi placing the muzzle of his pistol against her temple. Firing off the grappling hooks, he maneuvered himself up onto the grotestesque machine, keenly aware he only had one shot left in his gun, the weight of his comrades' sacrifices hanging heavy on his mind, the last being Zuko's crippled mech seemingly obliterated by the field gun they were tasked with destroying.

Bobbing and weaving amongst the deadly appendages that threatened to slice his own machine like a hot knife through butter, Sokka put on a masterclass of Juggernaut piloting for a non-existent audience, even as his thoughts churned and swirled like the River Styx of the underworld.

What good is there for you to so desperately cling on to this sham of a life?

You can't go anywhere.

You're nothing.

So let go. 

Sinking his machine's piledrivers into his target, he depressed his gun and shoved it down at the central nervous system of the railgun and pulled the trigger. With a dull roar, the one remaining shell exited the barrel of his gun and slammed 20 pounds of HEAT into it, blowing a hole out the other side and sending fragments of hot metal in all different directions. In that split second, his thoughts were rudely interrupted by an external voice, as he felt a phantom hand grip his own.

Tsk, take a look at yourself in the mirror.

We're closer than you like to admit. You, and I, have nothing left. 

No, you want to die in battle more than you ever wanted to live, correct? Then why are you still alive?

As the phantom voice left him with the one question Sokka did not wish to answer the most, the self-destruct sequence that had begun counting down since he blew its metaphorical brains out hit zero, initiating a chain reaction of explosive charges that reduced it to a hunk of burning metal, the force hurling his machine into the air like a toy tossed aside by a petulant child. Knocking his head against the headrest, he blacked out as the machine sailed through the air, before crashing into the field some five hundred meters away.

Dream sequence one

Slammed against the wall of his bedroom, Sokka could only whimper, his hands scrabbling against Katara's as she attempted to choke him, her face twisted with rage as she blamed him for the death of their mother, the phrase "If it wasn't for you….if it wasn't for you…."

Dream sequence two

Just as the chant grew to a crescendo, it just as suddenly ceased as the scenery now changed to the rolling grasslands, the spiteful hurting tone his sister used now reverting back to the kind and gentle voice as he now felt the shard of his sister's Juggernaut in the palm of his hand.

You won't be bothered by me anymore. Just forget me.

No, no no no no, wait for me sis!

Just then, a familiar voice called out his name, startling him.

"Sokka!"

Turning around, he saw a bloodstained Jet, the trademark stalk of wheat hanging from the side of his mouth at the head of a group who all sported similar injuries, a distinctive patch of dried blood on the side of their heads.

"Thank you, Sokka." The spectre of Jet spoke, prompting a flurry of gratitude from each member of the group, thanking him for not letting the Legion condemn them to an eternal existence as ghosts in the machine before flickering out of existence. 

Out of nowhere, the mocking voice of Kiri interjected once more with his sneering words

You are nothing.

Belong nowhere.

Nothing to live for, no end goal in sight.

No one to bid farewell to, no reason to live.

Killing me was the one thing that kept you going all this while. So what are you going to do now?

I mean, you don't have anything else to live for, right?

Dream sequence three

Before he could even reply, Sokka found himself chipping away at the metal husk of the Juggernaut with his bayonet, trying to extract a piece of his sister's Juggernaut, even as the kind voice of his sister seemed to mock him with every blow that he swung.

Of course, I'm not expecting you to completely forget me. Just, y'know, think of me occasionally.

Live, Sokka. Be free and happy.

"Freedom?! Happiness?! Easy for you to say! You. Left. Me. Alone!" he snapped back. With a final blow, the blade on his bayonet shattered, grazing him above his left eye.

"Why does everyone have to die and leave me behind ?" he half sobbed, half whispered to himself, the burden he bore threatening to sever his already tenuous link to sanity.

It can't be helped, can it?, Kiri's voice answered. I mean, you've always been putting your life on the line like you've got a death wish, dragging your friends and companions into the jaws of death every single time you go out to combat. Kind of selfish, no?

Looking up, he found himself at the memorial site staring at the first person he performed a mercy kill on since leaving the Republic on a suicide mission all those months ago.

"Thank you…Shin." it smiled, showing him a portrait of a small girl in a locket before closing it and vanishing.

Out of nowhere, he heard Kiyi's voice come from behind "Your heart has already been hardened, hasn't it? That's why it hurts so much when your friends show care and compassion for you, doesn't it?"

"You don't have to bear this cross alone."

"You can count on us."

Turning around, Sokka saw his comrades Zuko, Suki, June and Lu Ten approach him in a column with Kiyi leading them. Upon seeing them, he stretched out his hand towards them, only to have it sliced clean off as his field of view narrowed down to a slit.

"Looks like we're leaving you behind. Again." Zuko's phantom commented in a tired tone.

"Wait, wait, wait no!" he cried. Suddenly, he felt his body jerk and Sokka found himself back to reality, his hand stretched out as if reaching for some distant object over the horizon.

Glancing around, he saw that the railgun he and his team set out to destroy a little over two days ago was now a smouldering wreck in the distance. Turning to his other displays, he saw that the rest of his friends showed no signs of life, confirming what he suspected to be the case.

He was alone. 

Left behind. Again.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that the fragment of his sister's Juggernaut had fallen out of his pocket. Bending his body forward, he stretched out to grab it when an alert blared out, informing him that there was a hostile approaching him.

So naive to think it's all over.

Did you really think it would be that easy, Reaper? Surely not. Kiri's mocking voice sneered at him, one last cruel joke from beyond the grave as a lone Amiese scout crawled ever closer.

At this, Sokka finally snapped and he screamed "Kill me already!", tears of frustration flooding his eyes as he awaited the inevitable.

Opening his eyes, the last thing he expected to see was a Republic soldier running towards him, the ubiquitous battle rifle slung over her shoulder as she approached his stricken mecha. Pressing the loudspeaker option on his side panel, Sokka called out "Hey, you there, are you from the Republic of San Magnolia?"

At this, the girl stopped and turned, before replying "Yes. Who are you?"

"We're at the westernmost limit of the Federal Republic of Giad. I am affliated with the 177th Mechanized Corps. To maintain our defensive lines, we initiated a long range reconnaissance patrol to neutralize the railgun, which has been codenamed 'Morpho'. Thank you for your support."

"Thanks, but are you….alone? Being sent on a suicide mission like this deep behind enemy lines? That's a harsh and inhumane thing to do!" Azula replied.

"Thank you for your concern. The main force is only a few clicks away. See you again someday."

"That's good to hear."

"Do you want to come with us?"

"What?"

"I mean, there can't be too many of you left, right? If so, we can protect you." At this suggestion, Azula's face hardened.

"No. To suggest that I do so is to spit on the blood sacrifices this country and their soldiers made so that others may live. I have a duty to them as their commanding officer even….even if I might fail." Azula responded, the last part coming out as a whisper as her mind flashed to the recent memory of close quarters street to street fighting in the heart of the capital itself, the stench of blood and gunpowder still fresh in her mind.

"I will stay here and keep fighting to my very last bullet and last breath."

At this, Sokka snorted and replied "Keep fighting? For what? Do you have a death wish or something? If not, then why?"

At this, Azula marched forward, intent on giving the pilot a piece of her mind (and a couple of hard spankings with the butt of her rifle if need be). Behind her, a Republic Juggernaut in olive green scuttled up to her, only for Azula to activate her para-raid and order the Processor to stand down.

"What the hell are you thinking? Get the fuck out of there, Your Majesty! The hell do you think you're doing prancing around the battlefield with no armour on?" a familiar voice rang out to Sokka.

*"No. Besides, how would you know if anything were to happen, if at all. Besides, if I didn't run then why would I run now? Until my last dying breath, I'll keep fighting. There's a lot of people who hold the same belief as I do, it's only right that I catch up with them and lead them forward!"

"Listen up, I am the commander in chief for the defense of the Republic, Captain Azula and I will never, ever, abandon my people and my country!"

"Ma-ma-major?" Sokka hesitantly asked, immediately recognizing her voice and prompting a gasp from Azula as the gears in her mind started to click into place.

"Those whom you speak of have already gone to the land of the dead. What obligations do you have for ghosts and spectres?"

"Because someone once told me 'Don't forget me.' Because of him, I survived the Legion's assault on the capital. That is why I keep fighting, so I can meet him one day. Even if they're all dead, I want to keep living. Because that's what they would have wanted for me."

Pulling out a faded Polaroid and a sketch of a pig dressed like a princess, she turned it around and showed it to him.

"That is why I fight. Because they wouldn't have had it any other way. Surely you think the same way right? After all, you fought so hard to get to this point, I think you should be proud of yourself."

At this, Sokka choked up again, relieved to hear the familiar voice of his beloved major.

Pressing the hatch release, Sokka could only stutter "Ma-major, I-" before the chatter of approaching Legion forced him to reseal his hatch. Grabbing the controls, he gritted his teeth and attempted to have his mech get back on its legs.

Just then, the olive green Juggernaut skidded to where Azula stood and interrupted her "Gran Mur's calling, Legion are approaching!" 

"Shit! You from the Federacy, come with us!"

"No." was Sokka's reply, just as artillery shells streaked across the sky, before slamming into the horizon.

"No…no way..you've got to be-"

"What's wrong Cyclops?"

"You don't recognize that mark?"

"That's a Federacy emblem right?"

"No, that-well, you wouldn't have seen it before."

"Huh?" Cyclops replied, as the corps commander strolled out from a helicopter.

"Good work, Lieutenant."

"Sir, please don't assume we're all dead, y'know." 

"Exactly, I mean, did you Suki was crying non-stop for five hours straight?" Lu Ten chided.

"I was not!"

"Well now Sokka, I did warn you what would happen if you made her cry again." June added.

"You dumbass, we thought you died after you failed to move from that blast." Zuko lectured. "Well, the good news is we all survived. No one has gone ahead of the other. So rest easy."

#sokkla but pre-relationship #tsundere sokka is actually a nice challenge to write this one #since he's never seen azula's face until this point #you know he'll blatantly lie to his comrades that he didn't get a good look at her #we need more sokkla fics where sokka's the tsundere #but also more sokkla fics in general #sokka x azula #AU #sokkla