#somehow feeling very loved and perpetually lonely

[lunarianbeams]

🍓 twenty-four 🫐

#jess speaks #.me #on love #i cried like 8 times today and my best friend had a kuromi themed celebration while we facetimed our long distance bestie #somehow feeling very loved and perpetually lonely #here’s to hoping twenty four is better than twenty three #anyway saw saltburn and poor things at two different theaters!

[firefly--bright]

the great pretender.

jean kirstein x gn! reader, modern a.u.

summary ; you're left written by an unknown author, feeling like a lost letter. jean helps you find a home, helps you feel real, even for a second.

warnings ; hurt/comfort, kinda sad, reader might have derealization (?) there's literally no real "ending" written to this.

a/n ; this is literally what maladaptive daydreaming feels like to me. wrote this fic as an assignment but then it kinda spiralled into something else. this is very self projective!!!! if you don't relate to it, it's okay, please head to my masterlist for other fics but honestly I'm just posting this fic so that I know I wrote it.

taglist ; @mrsnobodynobody @jeanscremebrulee @holding-infinity-and-a-book

masterlist is in pinned post! ✿ enter my taglist! ✿ requests are open! ✿ fic playlist! ✿

middle tile art creds - veil manga!

the circle has always existed outside of your being.

it sounded pretentious. you suppose it is, but now you're standing in the middle of a party, trying to fit into the limiting mold - the circle thats supposed to be surrounding you but has now moved away from you, opting to take a picture to remember the moment by. away from you, again, and their arms are around eachother. you know their faces, their smiles and how to get them to smile, their names and why they were named it, why they changed it into a sugary nickname reserved for their circle.

its perpetual. a cycle, really, of your longing and trying and trying and trying. it wrapped around you, and the photo snaps with a flash without you in it.

it sounds so small. you suppose it is, but now you're standing in the corner in your class as they make a group - yet another circle - and you watch as it expands and grows to accomdate more people, people you've watched answer questions you never could and make themselves known more than you ever have and you watch as it closes. it locks you outside it and it's not their fault for it either because for them it's muscle memory. it's the lack of your presence that brings them comfort even if you desperately would want otherwise.

it's infitite. it's symbolic, really, of your wanting to be eternal sunshine or whatever would make people feel like soaking around you, of your trying and trying and trying of being some warmth that could somehow be encapsulated and be kept in yet another warm pocket and be loved. it wraps around you and becomes thorny and your body becomes bloody and bruised because it's choking you now and the group laughs at some joke you're not a part of.

it's funny. whatever they're laughing at. it's funny, and you're smiling because you have to.

this isn't sad. it's not supposed to be this lonely to always feel like you have a dent in your chest that wont be smoothed over. it's not supposed to be jarring to have it be this difficult to breathe. you pretend that there are arms wrapped around you, the way they're meant to hold you, the way you're meant to be held, and you pretend that it soothes you and aches you and makes your knees crumble.

the circle - so perpetual and taking up so much space - is debating on a topic that you aren't supposed to be included in and jean looks at you. from across the room, his eyes are on your frame that's been hidden behind someone else and he moves his head only a little to see your face.

you're not looking at what everyone else is seeing but he supposes you never have. he wants to walk up to you and snap his hands infront of you but he knows it won't do anything. he shakes his head affectionately and discreetly enough that noone else would see. an action meant only for him, for you even if you won't see it.

he glances back at the discussion at hand. your mind is either elsewhere or fully here, he can't tell and he hates it. he hates not being able to know exactly what's going on with you. he wonders if you know it yourself and if you're not telling him because of it or despite.

--

there's respite in the bathroom you're in. you haven't felt real since the start of September, and there is no feeling in your fingertips as you brush the flyaway hairs from your forehead, looking at the mirror, at a reflection you can't recollect being there. you're removed. from your home - if you ever had one, you're not sure - from your clothes and stripped bare but there's no coldness that comes after the fact. there's nothing, and you're not unfeeling but unseeing. unseen, and everyone outside is on the spectrum of being either drunk or tipsy and you're prepared to take care of them like you're supposed to because your story has already been written.

you'll go home alone, you'll feed everyone sips of water and offer them the gum you had bought before the night started. you'd work in autopilot, routinely nod and smile and blink and do what you're supposed to do. you adjust the sleeves of your top, purse your lips as you accidentally pull on your skin but it doesn't hurt and you're sure you can't be hurt anymore. there's nothing, no recollection of how you ended up here and how the circle outside of the bathroom door feels and how you don't and how you can't. it's not sad. it's barely anything. you're barely anything.

your hands were shaking a little. this you could feel. there were only a few moments you felt real, you felt like you were human again and your skin felt like it did when you were a child and were out in the sun for a little too long.

you felt real the last night when you had somehow found an old letter you wrote to yourself when you were 13. you wrote in extent about how it felt, how you felt. you cried that night because you knew that the sadness had always been there and you don't remember it being apart from you. you don't - you aren't - anything without it. you had been this way since you were a teen, since you were seven and were again, in the bathroom crying at your party because you were tired of taking care of everyone. you were tired of having to balance the different people you had to unwillingly invite because that's what was right. and you cried because none of those people knew you.

you had been this way since the beginning. you didn't know if that was a good thing or a bad one.

you felt real when you called your best friend after class. you could hear her tired voice from all the work that was piled onto her and you wished you could take it away from her. she didn't need it. you knew how to handle it. it was a short call - five minutes and thirty three seconds - but you reassured her that it would be okay and you felt your skin. you felt your palm gripping the smooth back of your phone. you felt your words forming, your lips touching eachother and your tongue pronouncing it's measly words that somehow got her to laugh.

you felt real when jean picked you up from your dorm the other night. you felt real when his hand gripped the steering wheel and he didn't need to ask what you wanted to eat at the drive-thru. you felt real when you tasted the food he had stubbornly bought for you. you felt real when you laughed at his terrible joke and attempt to get you to laugh that had somehow worked.

you felt real when, the same night, he took you to the beach and the two of you laid down on the sand. you felt real when your shoulders brushed and you felt real when you stopped caring about the fact that the sand would get in your tangled hair. you felt real when he told you stories while you looked at the moon and the two stars that were visible next to it. you felt real that night.

but not now. you didn't feel real now. you felt like a cut-out shape of yourself working with the force and the tidal wave - refusing to drown but being washed over and over and over until you were at the shore again, left soaking and left having to try again.

you don't feel your hand grip the doorknob. you don't feel yourself as you fill up the glasses and feed your friends - the circle that you somehow have become a part of - some snacks to soak up the alcohol. you don't know what you're doing and if it's right but you're not sure if you ever have.

you come back to your room that night. the mattress doesn't feel real when you sit on it and it creaks under your weight. you place a hand on your heart. it's beating - you know this because you're supposed to - but you can't feel it under your palm. not in a dramatic way but in the way where you feel like one of your stuffed toys on your bed. you believed them to be real, for them to have a heartbeat but you couldn't feel it. you could feel their comfort but not their warmth.

you, however, provide neither. no comfort. no warmth. cool fingertips - they really had no reason to be this cold, you think, but you can't stop it - meeting the plush of your arms, hugging yourself.

it didn't feel real.

you were a part of a cicrle now, sure, but it wasn't you who was a part of it. a fragment of you was. like the characters written only to be on screen for four minutes, their life never really shown on tv but people knew they were there. part of you took as little space as you could. you werent wholly there because you couldn't be, and you always made worlds that you could take up space in. instead of being in the reality that had took place around you, you felt like god in the depths of your head. creating and removing yourself from all the different worlds you had made and read and sometimes written into tangible existence. but even then, you weren't there.

it had been a week from then. from when everyone got drunk and you went home alone as you had predicted, and you were at a diner as you were supposed to be. classes had ended for the day and sasha stretched out her limbs from infront of you, marco laughed at something connie had said as the latter used his hands to get his point across. "in my defence-" he started. his sentence was only half heard by you as you looked down at your feet. there was wind and you couldn't feel it. jean was supposed to join the four of you directly at the diner after his work and he had sent a text letting you know he had already left and should be reaching in five minutes just as you entered the diner.

he was already there. you feel real when he looks at you. out of everyone, his eyes land on you first and then your friends.

you smile. you feel yourself smile, your cheeks stretching and then relaxing as jean pats on the corner seat next to him. you take your place there. marco sits on the other side of him, sasha talks about how much she's been starving and connie looks over the menu before claiming he wants the loaded fries. jean looks at you. you're looking at the table and your mind is elsewhere - divided between this world and the ones you've spent your whole life in.

"what're you thinking about?" he asks softly, only meant for you to hear. you blink back at him and you feel fucking real.

you feel your heartbeat and you feel yourself in his eyes. you feel your fingers twitching, wanting to reach out and brush his hair away from his face so you could feel more real. you feel your chest going up and down with every breath. you feel his warmth.

you shake your head with a smile you feel. "nothing."

he hums. "ofcourse you aren't."

your brows furrow with fake offence. "what do you mean by that?" you feel your lips form into full words. a full sentence.

he rolls his eyes like it's obvious and has a small smirk on his face. you want to hold his cheeks in your hands, let your thumb rest on his lips so you could feel more of his words, feel his breath - feel his existence - under your touch. "your brain's always empty. stupid," he said, flicking your forehead. you catch his hand and punch his shoulder lightly.

"because I hang out with you too much." you say, and now it's his turn to be offended.

he scoffs. "I'm smart." he says convincingly.

"in what world?" you ask.

there's a short pause. "all of them." he says. too quickly, he clears his throat and pushes the menu towards you, "what do you want to eat? I've heard that their burgers are good."

you wonder why he changed the topic so fast but you go along with it. you consider your options, no longer feeling like your story was already written now. you had a choice to make and it felt important because jean was asking you to make it.

"i think..." you point to something that grabs your attention. "this?"

he hums. "cool." he turns to everyone. you're joined by eren and armin and mikasa and you wondered when they had entered. you flashed armin a smile as he waved at you slightly. mikasa and eren were looking at the menu. "i think we should order two plates of fries for all of us." jean says to the table. eren's head whipped up from the menu and the table could already tell what was going to happen with the way connie leaned in and sasha muttered, "fight, fight, fight, fight," and armin looked over the two of them concerned. marco sunk into his seat with a hand over his face. you sighed with a smile. not at jean, but at what was happening and how everyone had different reactions.

you felt like an observer. but you weren't removed because jean was beside you and his shoulder was brushing yours again. and you thought about how, even if it was a repeated motion - an involuntary habit - that your shoulders kept brushing and brushing and brushing, it didn't make it any less valuable. it made it real. it made you feeling and held even if it was only a small, mindless touch, but it was special because it was mindless, because he had so much space still left on his other side but he opted to sit perfectly next to you.

"who made you the dictator?" eren asked. it was obvious that he had a history class today with the words he was using. you stifled a smile.

"because you clearly aren't good enough to be one." jean said, his hand gripping the clear glass of water tightly.

sasha's mutters got a little louder. connie looked between the two of them like it was a game of tennis and there was a ball between them. marco peeked from between his fingers, mikasa didn't bother looking at them from the menu, armin rolled his eyes. you observed.

"better than your dumba-"

"have you guys decided on what to order?" the waitress either saved or destroyed the rest of the evening as everyone recited what they wanted. she smiled as practice and you looked as jean as habit. his body turned to yours slightly, back facing the world.

you're real. in this light - under his eyes, with his fingers playing a rhythm on the cool table - you feel like god. you feel like you created this moment, wrote it with perfect precision, comprehensive vocabulary. not a tv show or a book but a life, your life. one that was for you.

"how was your day?" he asks. it barely even started, you want to say, but instead you nod slightly and say, "boring. yours?"

he has an answer prepared, apparently, because he jumps into it. how hange, his anatomy professor, said something that really shouldn't have been said in a professional setting. how the soda he drank from the vending machine mightve given him a cold.

he's speaking. connie looks at him and thinks about how jean's not like this with anyone, barely talking about himself but fully listening, and he thinks about how he's glad jean found someone he can confide in. he doesn't say it, though, because he turns back to sasha to continue what he was saying to her.

the milkshakes are put on the table. you tell jean about how you had a pet goldfish and every once in a while you think about her even if she was only under your care for about a month before she died. in all honesty, the owner of the store had cautioned you and your mother to not buy it but you found it a little sad that she'd die unloved. you decided it was your duty now, to love her, and you did. you named her Goldie because your ten year old mind couldn't come up with anything else.

jean found it amusing. said that what you did was sweet and thoughtful. you shrugged. "i wanted to take care of her." you say.

he hummed. took a bite of his burger, nodding.

the food was quickly devoured by everyone, and all of you decided to walk to eren's house (yes, house) a little ways outside campus, where his family had just bought (yes, bought. sometimes you forgot how rich he was.)

"it's empty. mom and dad left for a wedding, so." he said with a shrug and an arm around mikasa's shoulder. everyone unanimously agreed. you and jean were walking behind everyone else and the queue went like this - eren and mikasa in the very front, no doubt talking to eren's mother on the phone, armin and marco discussing with wild gestures a new book they had read and then sasha and connie talking about whatever it is they always talk about. then it's you and jean and your shoulders are brushing and you're sure it's your natural state of being, something that you haven't felt since the start of this year. he's walking on the side of the sidewalk that faces the road and it's subconscious.

you want to tell him everything. anything. the orange street lights are falling down on his face and you know that he knows you're looking at him, at his side profile and his perpetually clenched jaw and eyelashes that flutter everytime he blinks and you want to tell him everything. you want to tell him that your mother doesn't call you. you want to tell him that your fingers are freezing and always fidgeting not because you're nervous but because you're born with it. you want to tell him that you're sure that he's made up by you, that you're a cruel author or an artist that refuses to put the pen down and continues to create destruction because that's all you're capable of. you want to tell him you love him more than you're willing to. you want to tell him you're scared. you miss him. hes infront of you and you miss him. you miss yourself even if you hate it. you want to tell him that there's this circle you keep on noticing, a pattern that lives up to its name, that the circle was never meant for you and you were never fit for it and you want to tell him, shout it out to him really, that he makes you not think about this circle for a moment. he makes you become a dot. full around your own self, lost in the sea of other people but that's the thing, right, because now there are other people, other dots and you aren't alone. he makes you want to be a dot in a sea.

"i can hear you thinking, yaknow?" he says in a low voice, glancing at you.

he's spinning in circles. he wants to keep saying that he wants you to talk to him about what you're thinking of, but he hesitates.

"so now suddenly I'm capable of thinking?" you ask, teasing. he rolls his eyes, bumping his shoulder against yours. it's natural, he thinks. hes spinning in circles and you ground him and make him face the music, make him hesitate less. "you can tell me what you're thinking of. you don't have to keep it in yourself. you're going to explode," he says the last bit with utmost seriousness.

you laugh lightly, "explode?"

he makes a gesture with his hands, forming circles and then enacting them to burst. you laugh with a quizzical look on your face and jean thinks it's funny.

he loves you.

it's not a realization, per say, atleast not right now. he realized it a month ago, but he kept it all to himself, even if it was obvious to everyone but you. he loves you and your laugh. he loves you and your footsteps and he hopes your feet always point to his. an old superstition his mother had told him - about how people's toes point to the person they like, and if your footsteps synchronize unprompted, even better. it means that it's fated. he doesn't know if he believes it but a part of him is hopeful because he loves you and the stray flyaways on your face. he loves you and the way you act when you're really tired. he loves you and he loves how warm you are.

there wasn't anything more to it. there was no drama, no complications. he loves you and that was that, with all its depth and quantity, he loves you. it's simple.

it's so simple but you're so far away. you're looking back at your boots again, and he knows you're trying to make up an answer in your head. your face tells it all to him, and he waits in silent promise of wanting to wait for you, always. and then you speak again.

"i dont...really understand it myself," you start. your voice is low, again, because it's only meant for him and no-one else. he has to lean towards you to listen and focus closely.

"i think I've been....I don't know, not real? i feel like I'm not here. i mean, physically, yeah sure, but mentally I feel like I'm just a spectator. yaknow? not like I'm floating or anything but this feels like a tv show. or a book." another pause. "it's funny," you breathe out a laugh, "I only feel real with you. like right now. or a week ago."

you say it so easily. jean always wonders how you say important things so easily, so softly like it's something that's not meant to be heard. but he hears it, all of it. he doesn't know what to say, but even if he did hes sure he wouldn't be able to. so he stays silent, looking at your hands that are fidgeting with a piece of lint in your pocket - an inherently you trait - instead of your face. his hands are in his own pocket, itching to reach out to yours. make you feel real. make his warmth your own, making you claim it like you always have.

he doesn't need to look at your face to know you feel the guilt. theres a 'sorry' building up in the back of your throat but you don't say it because it's jean. it's your jean, the one that asked you to say what was on your mind. and suddenly you're real again. you feel the ball of lint on your fingertips. suddenly you're aware of this - more aware. you hear jean take in a breath to say something. you feel him. you feel only him because it's what you want to feel. you feel his shadow overlapping yours. you feel his breath. you're unconscious to the world now, you don't care about the sound your boots make when they're hitting the asphalt of the sidewalk because you're looking at him and hearing his voice - low and soft and regarding you with all the warmth that he's been storing only for you - talk to you. you.

"i dont know what to say about that." he says honestly. he takes his right hand out of his pocket and then makes his way over to yours, and you're forced to let go of the piece of fuzz in your fingers, but the wide empty space is soon filled by his own fingers holding yours, regarding them just like his voice did. soft and warm despite the callouses on them from years of playing the bass. "i know its selfish, but I'm glad you feel like you're here with me. I'm glad I get to help." he says. the corner of his lips turn up only slightly and he spares you a glance, one that he regrets doing because it leaves his face flushed.

you're looking at him like he somehow had the courage to say something meaningful. you're not looking at him like he's a god or someone that strung the stars and moon on the sky but you're looking at him like he could. youre looking at him as himself, as how he's been and how he continues to be. jean kirstein, your jean. he's not far away and your hand is in his. you're looking at him like you want him to stamp his charcoal tainted fingers to print onto the backs of your hand and on your face and he wonders how someone can leave all of this unsaid. how he can hear this by looking at your face for just a second. if he were to look at you for more than that then he was sure he wouldn't be able to stop. the end of the world would be near but he'd still look at you, hoping he gets to lay by your side.

you sigh, looking back ahead. "it's not selfish if I agree with you." you say with purpose. you're a dot. in his eyes you're taking up space and he let's you. he wants you to. this is the first time his hands aren't sweating and the first time yours aren't fidgeting.

your eyes trailing ahead, watching as marco's hand rakes through his hair. armin has a slight blush on his face as he looks down, saying something and you catch the words 'annie' and 'the other night'. his own hands are scratching the back of his neck. connie has a hand gripping his stomach and the other on sasha's shoulder, laughing at something she said. sasha was wiping a tear away from the corner of her eye, shoulders shaking as she giggles. you can't see eren and mikasa all that much from where you're standing but it's enough and you don't feel like an index. you don't feel like a precursor of yourself, an indication to signify your being. you feel like you.

jeans thumb rubs circles on the back of your hand. you look at him and you don't feel like a shadow or an indefinite part of a circle or like this moment's been written and imperfected perfectly but it feels like it's yours. like you're holding it. you're holding him, and it counts for something. jean looks at you.

you're insignificant. in the world, you're a dot. a speck flying through space and time that wasn't made for you, that you had to use force to become your own, but so is little beauty. if you're a small dot, then so are the flowers that jean gave you for your birthday. so are the countless coffees that have kept you awake into the night. so are the soft browns of jean's eyes that are only soft because you made them.

you smile at him. there's insignificant dust on your cheeks, and jean consciously brushes it away with his free hand. he smiles back insignificantly.

--

the next time you feel real is on the corner of eren's couch. you haven't slept for more than three hours since the past two months, not being able to breathe properly into the night, giving up half way through. but in the corner of eren's couch as jean makes himself comfortable next to you (no-one has had the courage to do so with you), you feel sleepy. your eyes close but it feels real. if you had dreams, you couldn't remember them. all you knew was that you fell asleep on Jean's shoulder and his breathing put your own chest to ease, and you could breathe again. you weren't gasping for it, forcing oxygen down your lungs because it wasn't made for you. no-one bothered to wake you, and in about an hours time, jean, until the next morning, about seven hours later.

your neck hurt but it hurt. it ached. you felt it. you smiled despite jeans grumbling about how he'd have to massage it out now, but he wasn't grumbling at you. he looked at your face as you got up to stretch yourself and he felt himself smile in his own way, silently promising to continue to make you feel real again. to sit next to you and let your shoulders brush and let you watch him blink until you could feel your own blinks again. he vowed it, and even if he didn't do it physically, he crossed his heart.

he hopes one day you feel it. his heart beating right by yours because it's meant to, because he wants it to. he hopes you feel it. his symbol next to yours. he signs his initials with your name written in the inside of his wrist because you belong there. he wants you to belong there.

#jean kirstein x reader #jean kirschstein x reader #jean kirstein #jean kirstein x you #aot #shingeki no kyojin #attack on titan #jean kirschtein #fireflys rambles

[caveatscriptor]

Prompt: Write a piece based on a photograph. (Thank you @inkspellangel for the photo inspo ;) )

Time brainstorming: 10 minutes

Time writing: 30 minutes

This is a piece in response to one of the prompts in our book club, Little Red Writing Hoods (@joinourbookclub).

tl;dr: Do I beta read my stuff? Is the earth flat?

I have always loved the sea, there has always been a call of the water to my very essence, that is how I had become a professional diver. I lie. I have become a diver to fulfill the stupid caprice of getting my late father’s approval. He is dead, has been so since I was seventeen, didn’t even send me to college. He couldn’t.

I swam nimbly under the old wreckage of an old ship. That wasn’t what I was here for; here, the same place where I had had an accident four months ago. There it was, my car, the lights… still on? It didn’t matter.

My flashlight caught an old familiar face. The lone wooden statue of a cellist, perpetually playing even after it had sunk to the bottom of the ocean. Somehow it was terribly beautiful, between the wooden crevices and the slats created by its inexorable erosion there was new life, corals of every and each color, made for a beautiful net up to the musician’s knee, over the green algae that painted most of his suit and half of his face, and finding purchase on the cello’s base it confidently extended the colorful network up to the pegbox of the instrument. This very same statue had somehow been a personal god for me. Stupid, but so is most of hope, just a stupid little thought.

That fateful night the rain was unforgivable and unavoidable, such inclement weather had been my demise, that and sending the car over the guard rails and straight into the ocean. I couldn’t even process the moment, it just happened, one moment I was driving slowly through the road, the next I was underwater, no air inside the car, just water everywhere. Trying to remain calm and rational is a perfectly sound saying, but no one is either under the loom of death itself. I tried to take my seatbelt off, I couldn’t. I tried to break any of the windows next to me, I also couldn’t. I stupidly cried, or tried to, underwater. I remember looking at the only surviving photo of me and my dad together, it hung under the rearview mirror inside a keychain. We were smiling for the camera, ugly Christmas sweaters could be seen, we looked genuinely happy. The rest of the photos I had destroyed, childishly. Off in the distance, that was when I first made out another face, but as my brain was quickly being deprived of oxygen, I had actually thought it was a person, I had thought that I was dying and my dad was coming to get me.

A shimmer caught my eye, the keychain. Instead of going to my poor old car, I neared the statue. Hope was stupid, and yet… My hand hovered over the uncovered side of it. A gentle expression could be seen, where the algae hadn’t reached yet. Playing until the end, and even beyond, how fitting. I pulled my hand down. No need to touch it, wouldn’t feel a thing with all the gear that weighed me down as it was, at most I would disturb the little animals that hid in the coral, and even the ones that had managed to sneak inside of it and create a new home.

I finally approached the car and took the keychain out. That had been the sole reason to comeback here, even so, somehow, this had been far more than that. That statue was more than a hallucination now. It felt like a sign. Just like hope is idiotic, signs are the most illogical of nonfactual data. In my brain all of this felt like a reaffirmation, it felt like…

“All storms will pass, and there is beauty to be had everywhere.”

I tried to hold back the tears. Had my father ever said something like that? Yes, I believe so. He loved self help mottos, this sounded just like it. It was stupidly perfect.

#writeblr #book club #story prompt #writing prompt #little red writing hoods #writing #writing exercise #writing club #creative writing #write with me #aspiring writer #wannabe writer #writers on tumblr #writing tag #write #writerscorner #writers community #writers circle #writerscribbles

[morebedsidebooks]

The Illusionist by Françoise Mallet-Joris

“Often, too, she amused herself by staring into my eyes fixedly, until I would be obliged to look aside, thus implicitly admitting my inferiority. Sometimes I could hold out for a good minute, but I always ended up by giving way, and this defeat both exasperated me and gave me a confused indefinable pleasure. She enjoyed demanding my kisses at inopportune moments (as for instance when I was hurried or when she was expecting a visitor) and if I resisted, she triumphed over my objections by force. The very way she took me in her arms, the very methods of our love-making had changed. She forced me to comply to certain refinements of depravity which I would rather have avoided;”

  Le Rempart des Béguines (known in English under titles The Illusionist, The Loving and the Daring, and Into the Labyrinth) the 1951 debut novel by Belgium author Françoise Mallet-Joris is one of the more memorable novels to be viewed under the category of lesbian fiction. Indeed, one such pulp paperback tagline “a compelling novel of secret love” is fairly apt. Written only at 19 the book has endured, later in 1972 also adapted to film.

The story is written from the perspective of Hélène, an extremely lonely and emotionally neglected 15-and-a-half-year-old, falling into a toxic relationship with her father’s Russian mistress. Tamara, is a woman more than double Hélène’s age, running in bohemian libertine circles plus afoul of the hypocritical standards of the well-to-do of society.

First translated in 1952 the English translation by Herma Briffault reprinted in 2006 has a cover with the image of a lady, eyes obscured, in a well-tailored black dress with hat and pearls that gives a more sophisticated air versus some previous editions. Not entirely undeserved. The book is adroit when it comes to the inner life of its characters, teenage emotions especially. While Hélène is caught in an eroticized net of Tamara’s, women’s relationships are not being romanticized by Mallet-Joris. (Nor did she think of the relationship she wrote as a lesbian one.) Apparently, the plot was inspired by events involving a school friend of the author. Blurbs also compare the painted prose to the likes of Colette’s work. But when considering the story there was another parallel, I couldn’t help thinking of. Colette didn’t just write about a May-December relationship but in real life was a woman who seduced her stepson. Mallet-Joris as a teenager was caught in an affair with an older man and during her life had others, (including with women) and three marriages.

The edition also boasts an introduction by American literary scholar Terry Castle. Which at one-point touches on the story of a friend who had an experience akin to the character of Hélène. Later while the friend was seeing a psychiatrist, the psychiatrist “as if stating the obvious, she remarked ‘And now you will do the same to someone else.’” Castle writes “My friend made it her subsequent business to disprove the oracle”. Oracle?! How is that a fitting word? Words too do not begin to cover the psychiatrist’s statement and the damage of it either. Maybe survivors would not be so haunted by the possibility of perpetuating a cycle if society did not reinforce “the monster the monster creates”. I don’t believe Hélène qualifies as a monster at all. As if sexuality wasn’t complicated enough, so many people must sort through all types of traumas, stereotypes and how it does or doesn’t affect them. Insightfulness, identity (though not necessarily sexual), and maturity are at the fore of the novel. Castle’s also makes an assertion of the book that there is “not a trace of feminist sentiment— any residual notion Women are Somehow Better. Most of the time they seem Much Worse.”  This feels strange as well. Yes, a woman is at the zenith of brutal influence in this novel. Besides Tamara’s past mixing with events, abuse masquerades as a D/s dynamic. There are also various female side characters living their own complex lives one might evaluate too. Yet, Hélène begins to feel contempt for Tamara because of how Tamara gives in to security, submits and converts herself in a sexist, classist world. The myth of relationships between women being something higher than other forms is gender essentialism. So, one might do well to skim over the introduction.

Afterwards If one is curious of how the young Hélène fares after the ending, well there is a sequel The Red Room. Françoise Mallet-Joris while still a teen created a complex novel. Going on towards a notable career. Works of which are still compelling many years on.

  The Illusionist by Françoise Mallet-Joris is available in English, translation by Herma Briffault, in print and audio

#french literature #le rempart des béguines #the illusionist #françoise mallet-joris #20th century literature #francophone50 #cw: adult/minor relationship physical and emotional abuse classism sexism alcohol illness mention parent death victim-blaming

[estherdedlock]

@winterdawnzephyr reblogged my last post and added:

Completely agree -- TSH is such a fascinating study of the uglier aspects of human psychology, somehow written in beautiful prose.

I think another reason Richard demonizes Bunny is it makes him feel included within the Greek class -- hating on a common enemy is, unfortunately, a surefire way to build camaraderie. That's why the Greek class started falling apart once Bunny's case blew over. Their friendship was always fragile: initially, it was held together by forced proximity and their isolation from the rest of the college (Bunny included); later, by the murders (excluding Bunny, ofc). Without the murder to sustain a sense of belonging within the Greek class, and little to no external support system each member can rely on, they inevitably turn on each other.

For example, think about how the Greek class resented Bunny for his jibes about Charles' drinking problem and Camilla and Charles'...relationship, and how this fuelled their justification to kill him. But turns out, they were perfectly capable of destroying their trust towards one another without Bunny's help! Henry accuses Charles of being an alcoholic, Charles almost shoots Henry in his drunken rage, the Henry-Charles-Camilla love triangle causes problems, Charles abuses Camilla... the list goes on.

These are such excellent points! Standing in solidarity with the Greek class against Bunny must have given Richard---the perpetual outsider---such a feeling of belonging that he must have enjoyed it. After Bunny’s funeral he writes:

After what we’d been through in the previous weeks, it was no wonder we were all a little sick of one another...with Bun dead and buried, I suppose, there was much less to talk about, and no reason to stay up until four or five in the morning.

Although in the very next sentence, Richard says he felt “strangely free,” I’ve always wondered if he felt lonely, too. Later, Richard admits that he had “liked the idea” that Bunny’s murder “bound us together; we were not ordinary friends, but friends till-death-do-us part.”

I completely understand Richard here! There’s a part of me that just wants to say, “Hey let’s go to Francis’ house and forget all this stuff! It’ll be like the old days!” I admit that I actually felt bad when Richard said there was “no reason” for them to stay up late anymore! I think we’ve all experienced the letdown when an intense social group gradually dissolves as people move on -- it’s especially common in fandom, where the fiery passion for a movie, series, book, etc. can rarely be sustained indefinitely. Oh, that awful feeling of logging on to your favorite, once-bustling fandom site and finding no new posts! :( Where’d everybody go?

The unity of the Greek class is no less fragile, as @winterdawnzephyr​ points out...and of course, they have reason not just to drift apart, but to turn on each other. It’s remarkable how Tartt depicts this dissolution with agonizing detail, making it feel like a slow-motion nightmare...and like something careening wildly out of control: a car going over a cliff and picking up speed before it explodes at the bottom.

Richard eventually comes to feel sick at the prospect of being “stuck with them, with all of them, for good,” but years later he is even worse off: all he has left is the longing for an idea of them that was never quite real to begin with.

#the secret history #donna tartt #richard papen #dark academia

[boliv-jenta]

Liv...my dear sweet filthy friend...LOL!! I have an image for you and do with it this image as you will. I don't care which Pedro character you use this with....it just so happened to be Frankie in my mind.

So picture this...your schedules have just not been aligning up for the last month. Something always gets in the way of your and Frankie's plans. Like it's getting to the point where both of you can't even pleasure yourselves because your just so desperate for the other. So finally when you and Frankie get a night together you're going at it like rabbits.

The kicker is the minute Frankie "slides" in he's a goner. You feel him shudder and he instantly explodes in the condom. You look up at him in a fir of giggles. Then you tease him. "I guess we waited too long....pussy that good Frankie."

Frankie is full on blushing but replies. "Baby...you have no idea."

Enjoy that image...okay love you bye!!

Oh, Heather! How dare you take one of my favourite kinks, make it into something hot, then somehow make it so deliciously wholesome in the end. I can see Frankie's sweet little grin when he finally stops blushing and starts giggling with you.

This I will live rent-free in my head, and I'm sure it will spawn many other ideas. For now I had a little thought about Pero...

Come Undone

The setting sun caused an orange haze to filter through the wooden roof of the stable. It illuminated the dust in the air giving the space a magical quality. Or maybe that was just your view on the world since Pero, your love, had sent word that he would be arriving home after a very long absence. Too long for your loins. Even some of the tricks the more well travelled women who passed through your kingdom had imparted on you hadn't helped quell the desires you had. There was only one thing that could, Pero. 

As if your body knew this, it reacted as soon as he came into sight. Your slick practically dripped onto your thighs, your undergarments forgone for the sake of time. Dismounting with a slap to the horse's rear, he sent it deeper into the stable. His lips were on yours in seconds, giving what was missing all those lonely nights with your fingers buried in your most intimate place. Passion. Only Pero could deepen the feelings in your body until they truly satisfied you.

The touch of his hands finally back on your body felt better than you could have hoped for. With the graze of his lips on your neck, you swear you could come from his long awaited presence alone. The heat of his hard length behind you as you knelt in the hay beckoned you closer to the edge. When he finally, finally, breached you, it was Pero that came quickly. It was so sudden that before he could stop it, his molten seed filled you. 

A low groan carrier out a slew of curses in his native tongue. "Lo siento, Mi Amor. I'm sorry." His forehead was pressed into your shoulde. His body trembled from his release and the consequences of his actions. 

"It's fine, Pero. We did talk of starting a family." You fingers reached around to grasp his sweat slicked curls, drawing him into a kiss.

"We did, Mi Cielo. And I would gladly any time when we choose. For now…" he rolled you onto your back underneath him. Your legs parted for him naturally before he lowered himself between them, preparing to eat you like the perpetually hungry man that he was. "...maybe I can undo my mistake."

#how dare you come into my house and write for my kinks #i fucking love it #thank you #frankie morales smut

[songcfmuses]

continued with @sunfyred​

it wouldn’t be his first time waking up on the cold floor, limbs aching, hair damp with sweat & dirt. sometimes it happened because he fell off his bed and didn’t bother to get back up, and sometimes it was because he never managed to reach the bed in the first place .. just collapsing in a drunken stupor, feeling PROUD OF HIMSELF that he at least found his chambers !

BEHOLD — the protector of the realm, unable to protect himself from his own decay.

PANIC was written all over his ironically delicate, almost girlish features when he woke up to the sight of his mother towering over him. “mother ! i— i’m sorry,” he drawled as he struggled to sit up, an instinctive response, unsure of what he even apologized for. when he took a good look at her he realized that she was— SHE WAS SMILING. he swallowed nervously, fear all too evident in perpetually wet eyes as he wondered if he’d finally done it. had she finally gone MAD WITH ANGER ? nothing else could justify the way she was giggling and telling him nonsensical things in a familiarly slurred speech that could only be attributed to too much wine. it was a side to his mother he’d never seen before, one that made her look softer .. younger, even. and yet it somehow frightened him more than the disappointed, scowling face he knew & loved all the same.

a slight flinch at the hand in his hair, a lone tear escaping his wide, unblinking eyes. “mother,” he whispered, PLEADING. “i’m not .. i don’t understand, w—what happened to you ?”

Sorry, he’s sorry - Frustrated laughter leave her lips, and she near wants to tear her hair out. Much too late to go wandering to find Talya for more wine - not when Aegon undoubtedly has some stashed within his chambers! It is her face that stares back at her, fear wide in his wet eyes, and she wonders if she makes that expression herself...”Don’t look at me like that. How dare you have my face and look at me like that.” Her laughter has ceased, and her hand pulls back as if burned when he flinches at her touch. They all flinched from her, all of them cept Aemond. Did her children hate her? Had she not done her best to be the parent she loved most, tried to be her father for her own children? Her breathing shudders.

“What happened to me?” Her own eyes wet with tears as she looks at her hands. “Shall I start at the beginning? You are a man grown now, perhaps I do not need to hide things from you anymore.” 

Alicent pushes herself to stand, already rummaging through his things. “Where is the wine, Aegon? I need it- I know you have-” She finds it with an elated gasp, her cheeks so warm, her eyes so wet, as she pulls it from under his desk. It is still sealed, fucking Pentosi wine. Her hands unwrap the covering, staring at the cork, unsure her hands will steady enough to open it. “When I was your age - no I think I was younger... I cannot remember any numbers right now ... Your father’s first wife died. He had her butchered in search of a son. Baelon. The babe died, and I remember,” A frustrated noise leaves her as she cannot tug at the cork well enough. “I remember the blood stained sheets, and I remember one of the midwives telling me of her screams. How can he have loved her when he did that to her?” Alicent remembers then, her own fear at the very idea a man might do that to his wife. How she had wondered if that was the cause of her mother’s demise, and not the fever from the babe. 

“I was a fucking idiot then. Go to him, my father said, and I made myself pretty, and I wanted to replace her, wear a pretty crown and make my father proud and - FUCKS SAKE!” She cannot get the cork out, frustrated sob coming from her lips as she shakes the bottle, near throwing it before composing herself with such deep breaths, instead crossing the room in strides to deposit the bottle in her son’s lap. “Open it. Please. I cannot find the maester to wake him and make me...” Make her a poultice. Something to make her sleep. 

“And then we were married, and I didn’t know it felt like that when... Oh I do not wish to discuss that to you.” She sits herself on the bed instead, staring at the embers of the dying flames. “I never told anyone how afraid I was when you were in my belly. Because I struggled, I laboured, and you were not coming, and I was afraid...” Her eyes wetten further, remembering the fear she had looked at her father with. “I begged him to send the Maester away. But it didn’t matter what I wanted, and I was so afraid I climbed from the bed and I forced you out before you desired to be so. I have always rushed you, needed you to be stronger than me. MY son, and yet as I recovered, you were presented to the realm, and I just wanted to hold you-” He is taking too long to give the wine back and she near snatches it, glad for it to be opened as she takes a long scull. She chokes, and more comes out of her mouth onto the floor than she wishes for. “If you had been a girl, they might have let me keep you. It is a cruel jape from the gods to give you my mine own face and twist it so unhappily. I was not sure my face could ever look so unhappy, and I do not know how to help you Aegon.” Her voice comes as a whisper, lips wrapping around the bottle once more, face screwing up at the sudden potent taste. “And then your father wanted another child. Then another. And another. I do not enjoy being with child … It is why I asked you to let Helaena breathe. You let her breathe, yes?” Her hand reaches for his head again, like when he was a babe, just petting the greasy locks gently. Too gently. 

“I wanted you to be better than me. I felt love for a man not your father and the gods punished me for it. The gods punish you for it.” Oh how her face screws up then, hand retreating from his head to cover her face. “I am sorry, little one. Is it my fault you SUFFER?” 

#sunfyred #long post #Muse: Queen From Old Town (Alicent Hightower) #SHE DRUNK AND SPEAKING TOO MUCH #she's got so much sh ewants to say to someone #i'm sorry aegon that it has to be you

[makeste]

BnHA Chapter 302: As the Todoroki Turns

Previously on BnHA: 

Today on BnHA: We have a very fun chapter in which (1) Shouto grows up lonely on account of his parents being worried that his siblings will literally try to kill him, (2) Natsu and Fuyu grow up neglected on account of not being special and/or self-destructive enough to attract attention, (3) we get to revisit all of that exciting spousal abuse from chapter 39, and (4) Touya burns to death right on cue, pretty much exactly like we expected it to happen. Thankfully since this is a shounen manga, Horikoshi finds some hope in all this misery as the Todoroki family rallies together, with Shouto getting his long-overdue credit for being a perfect sweet angel who put up with all of this shit for sixteen years and somehow came out of it strong and kind and empathetic and determined. Anyway, so that flashback was a barrel of laughs. But now that it’s over, we can put all of that angst behind us, and move on to... well I guess, probably, more angst. Look, we’re short on variety at the moment. Bear with it.

ouch. we knew this was coming, but still

A+ parenting move there. “ho boy, our eldest just tried to murder our youngest, now what? hmm how about we isolate our youngest from all human contact”

though in their defense, we probably shouldn’t have expected this rabidly strength-obsessed fire man and his wife who was groomed since childhood to obey her family’s whims to have any idea of how to raise stable, well-adjusted offspring

SERIOUSLY YOU GUYS

this is a perfect example of Enji’s tragically self-revolving viewpoint right here. just because being a hero is your entire world doesn’t mean you can just excuse yourself from anything outside of that and act like it’s out of your control. “alas, all I care about is hero stuff and my son can’t be a hero, we are doomed to inhabit two different worlds” no you jackass, it’s called having more than one hobby?? figuring out how to spend some time with your son that doesn’t involve training?? the same exact thing you were telling him to do last week, while ignoring that you’ve never done that yourself in your life??

that said, yet again we have that complexity though because it’s obvious that Enji at least on some level is aware of his own flaws, even though he seems unwilling or unable to confront them. honestly, from what we’ve seen so far, Enji’s obsession with surpassing All Might might be more accurately called an addiction. he literally can’t let go of it even though he’s fully aware of how it’s slowly destroying his life. and so in the same way that a lifelong smoker or alcoholic might tell their child to stay away from cigarettes and booze, Enji tells Touya not to follow down the same path as him, even though he himself doesn’t know how to leave that path. so yes, it’s hypocritical as fuck, but there’s also an element of helplessness there as well because Enji literally doesn’t know how not to be like this

though all the same he sure could stand to put in more than just a token effort. but it is what it is, and we already know how much he’ll come to regret it

and meanwhile Baby Shouto has frozen his sleep bubble with his quirk lmao. so I guess his quirk did come in early. that’s a recipe for chaos right there

once again Shouto is ruining every single dramatic panel in this flashback

this was so dark and intense... and then I spotted the lil bubs in the corner. Horikoshi please control yourself

“some hero you are, running away” and then all of a sudden, “FIVE YEARS LATER” lol what. OKAY THEN

(ETA: love the confirmation that eight-year-old Natsu comes from the Iida school of puberty and is basically a fully grown man, and meanwhile Touya comes from the hobbit school of puberty and has been perpetually eight for the past five years.)

“HEY BIG BRO WANNA COME RECREATE AN ICONIC FLASHBACK SCENE WITH US. WE’VE GOT THE SOCCER BALL RIGHT HERE, BUT HURRY UP OR WE’LL BE TOO LATE FOR SHOUTO TO WALK ON BY AND STOP TO LOOK”

lol and that’s literally the next three panels. but Horikoshi did add this extra bit after Endeavor starts to drag Shouto away

seriously Enji what the hell did you expect was going to happen here. “Touya went nuts and tried to kill his little brother out of jealousy, so let’s make it clearer than ever that Shouto is the important child and all the other children are just rejects. this will definitely not make the problem 100x worse, and will surely lead to Touya giving up and living a happy life, having been emotionally abandoned by the person he admired more than anyone.” good for you pal you figured it all out. no need for that plan b, “we all just go to therapy”

anyway so he’s telling Shouto he can’t play because he needs more endurance training. and meanwhile Touya’s patented Todoroki Drama Genes are going through puberty as well

definitely the face of a happy, emotionally stable child who’s not still plotting to murder his younger brother in his sleep

“WELL ACTUALLY MAKESTE” lol I stand corrected??

apparently during the five year interim Touya actually stopped blaming Shouto and realized Enji was the one at fault. good for him! a bit inconsistent, given what we know happens later, but I assume we’ll get to that in good time

anyway. “yeah man I agree that dad sucks, but it’s the middle of the night and I’m only eight and you’ve been monologuing for the past two hours bro”

LMAO

the manga is making my jokes for me, only better. fine then

looks like someone’s still miffed about that disagreement he had with his baby sister back when she was like four

“Fuyu doesn’t get properly riled up like I want her to so ranting to her is annoying.” okay but having been in Fuyu’s shoes, it really is just a different way of coping, and I can guarantee she’s not as fine with the whole situation as Touya might think. but making your peace with something is often a decision that’s made for emotional self-preservation reasons. and I sure as hell don’t fault her for trying to shut out a situation that she had no control over, and trying to make the best of it, and scrape together as normal a childhood as she could manage

and now in Touya’s defense as well, that is of course easier said than done, and I’m sure if there was a “push this button and instantly get over all of the trauma in your life” switch readily available for Touya then he would have pushed it too. unfortunately it’s not always that simple

so now Rei is pleading with Touya not to go train up on his little emo hill again, but it doesn’t seem like much has changed since he was eight

I don’t think he gives two figs about being a hero; he just wants his father to look at him again with pride. fucking hell, stop doing this to me you damn Todorokis

guh, they keep telling him the same thing over and over again

even if we hadn’t already known he was gonna go melt his jawbone off soon, I wouldn’t have expected a line like that to go over well

yep. fuck

that Todoroki puberty angst, though. nothing else quite like it

“you have a part in this too, Mom” ooooooh man

okay but look, he’s not entirely wrong. like, I’m not saying any of this is Rei’s fault at all! she’s in an impossible situation where she’s afraid to stand up to Enji (who by this point has shown that he’s willing to physically attack her if things get too heated, which is terrifying), and doesn’t really have anywhere to turn for support. her parents aren’t helping much if at all, and Japan in general is just a terrible country to be in when you’re in a domestic abuse situation. everyone’s expected to put on a brave face and deal with their problems all on their own in private. Rei is basically completely isolated at this point, and she doesn’t know what else to do, and so she’s just trying to keep the situation as stable as possible for the kids

but on the other hand, “for the kids” is also where that argument starts to break down a bit, because at this point Shouto is also being physically abused by his father, and the other kids are continuing to be neglected (emotionally if not physically), as they have been for years. so the situation really isn’t stable at all for them. and as a kid, what you end up learning in that type of situation is that you can’t rely on either parent. not the abusive one, certainly, but also not the other one who can’t protect you from any of it. even if they love you and they’re trying, they’re just as helpless as you. Rei is struggling to deal with all of this with one hand tied behind her back, and I get it, and I’m not blaming her at all. but all the same, particularly given that she’s (understandably) putting almost all her focus on Shouto, the end result is that the other kids have basically been left to fend for themselves

so yeah! a shitty situation all around. and one of those cases where it’s not really anyone’s fault (aside from Enji’s), but I can understand the resentment Touya is feeling all the same. and I’m so glad Horikoshi is acknowledging this, because it’s something I probably would have been too uncomfortable to bring up otherwise. as it is it’s still an incredibly heavy subject, and one that I probably have too many personal feelings about

anyway, so once again the whole “we’ll try talking to him and then just shrug our shoulders when it doesn’t work” parenting strategy doesn’t really pan out for the Todoroki fam

sob this boy is Anakin Skywalkering before our very eyes. all that’s missing is AFO to come and start whispering in his ear. any minute now...

“anyway so then he got taller and his fire changed from red to blue”

guess we’re getting pretty close then huh. this is the part of the flashback that I really don’t want to see, but also unfortunately the part that I’m most curious about :/

oh for fuck’s --

“WHAT DO YOU MEAN IGNORING HIM FOR FIVE YEARS DIDN’T ACTUALLY DO ANYTHING TO SOLVE THE PROBLEM” sob. back to the drawing board I guess

I thought he got taller, why is he still only like a third of Enji’s height here

oh fuck me these are armor-piercing feels. this is the heavy artillery right here

ENJI I’M BEGGING YOU PLEASE STOP AND THINK FOR ONE MOMENT IN YOUR LIFE BEFORE DOING SOMETHING YOU’LL REGRET FOR THE REST OF ALL TIME. your child just told you that he still thinks beating All Might is the only thing you care about, and that he believes his existence is a mistake unless he finds some way of doing that for you. please stop for a moment to contemplate that and choose your next words with care and grace and oh who the hell am I kidding

-- OR WE COULD JUST BLAME REI

go on and blame everyone but yourself then!! that’s a great solution!! jesus christ man I know this is Endeavor at his literal worst but still this is fucking hard to watch

POOR BABY SHOUTO IS YELLING AT HIS DAD NOT TO HIT HIS MOMMY THIS LITTLE BRAVE BOY NEEDS SO MANY HUGS OH MY GOD

AND MEANWHILE THE OTHERS ARE HUDDLED IN THE NEXT ROOM TRYING NOT TO CRY AH FUCK

(ETA: Fuyu covering Natsu’s ears cuts RIGHT TO THE CORE OF ME. Horikoshi if you’re really not gonna get these kids some therapy then at least consider giving your readers some. what is this.)

you know it’s bad when you’re starting to think the part where the kid burns to death might actually be a less traumatic thing to cut to right now

holy shit, actual Rei thoughts

“I was the one who ultimately made that choice” well there we go, wonder if that’ll put that whole argument to bed at last. I doubt it, but you never know. actually who am I kidding it’s not gonna settle jack shit lol

oh thank god, they decided it was getting too intense and cut away back to the present to narrate this next (final?) part

get ready to cue up that Alicia Keys. THIS BOY IS ON FIREEEEEEE

yeah I think that’s one thing we can mostly all agree on. neither of them had any clue what the fuck they were doing pretty much at any point. though I will say that the hypocrisy of him being all “WHY DIDN’T YOU STOP HIM” followed by him IMMEDIATELY DOING THE EXACT SAME THING is a bit rich

(ETA: and he still has this problem, doesn’t he? he froze up when Ending snatched Natsuo, and again when Dabi was attacking Shouto. he’s so afraid of doing the wrong thing that he ends up not doing anything, which of course is exactly what led to Touya’s death. damn Enji I guess you’ve still got some additional character development to unlock.)

and of course neither of them could possibly have known how badly it was going to turn out. like, the consequences here were WAY disproportionate even for the shittiest of parenting. no one expects “I didn’t know how to talk to my son” to snowball into “my son burned to death and then somehow came back as a villain and murdered thirty people”

ohhhhhhhh fuck me

LITERALLY INCINERATED THE ENTIRE HILLSIDE. fuck. and I am so not ready for the scene of Enji finding the remains of his jawbone afterwards. at least we were spared anything super-graphic (for now at least)

I feel like the timeline here is off, btw?? wasn’t Touya’s death supposed to happen after Rei got hospitalized? this might be the first actual retcon of the entire flashback. although I think it makes more sense this way tbh

I do appreciate that ten years later Enji is finally reflecting on the fact that if he’d just given up his stupid obsession he could have stopped his family from crumbling apart. that probably sounds sarcastic as fuck, but it’s not. there are countless jerks out there who would have still managed to find a way to blame literally everyone and everything under the sun except for themselves. at least he finally figured out how to take responsibility, even if it came too late to stop his son from dying and being radicalized into a villain terrorist organization

and speaking of, it seems to me we’re missing a third and final part to this little tale of woe, and one which only Touya himself will be able to shed any light on. so we’ll see how that goes

oh man seeing the other kids blaming themselves even though none of it was their fault hits hard af. Rei wasn’t kidding when she said they’d been bearing that burden of guilt far longer than Enji

SHOUTO I SWEAR TO GOD IF THE NEXT PANEL IS YOU APOLOGIZING FOR BEING BORN, I WILL... WELL I’LL BE VERY SAD, I GUESS. SO DON’T DO IT

oh good he’s just being quiet. good. it absolutely is not your fault lil bean. it’s not theirs either, but feeling guilty about things that aren’t your fault is a time-honored shounen tradition

goddammit I braced myself for the angsty Shouto panel a page too early. gotta do it all over again now lol. okay here goes

;_;

well well well would you look at that

imagine that. talking things out with your child before they make a rash decision. looks like the Todorokis’ parenting skills are finally leveling up

OH MY GOD

holy shit. this is the most quintessential moment of father/son Todoroki bonding in the entire series. for me it even tops the “nice scar” scene lol. Enji sobbing at the fact that he still has a chance to set things right. and Shouto offering his hand in what is actually the most mature and selfless gesture I’ve ever seen, and being all “we’ll stop him together” to his dad who he hates, but also doesn’t really entirely hate anymore. and all of that is incredibly moving... BUT ALSO HE STILL REFUSES TO MAKE EYE CONTACT WITH HIM AND HE WOULD LIKE HIM TO STOP BEING SO FUCKING DRAMATIC ALREADY IF YOU DON’T MIND. “WHEN YOU’RE DONE CRYING...” fkjldsk

OH MY FUCKING LORD

(ETA: wouldn’t be a Todoroki drama fest if there wasn’t somebody listening in on the whole thing in secret just around the corner lmao.)

“you think we should have waited somewhere else?” “yeah, probably.” “are you feeling a lot of secondhand embarrassment too?” “god, you have no idea.” STFU HAWKS IT’S NOT EMBARASSING TO BE MOVED TO TEARS BY YOUR FAMILY ALL COMING TOGETHER IN YOUR DARKEST HOUR TO GIVE YOU HOPE THAT YOU PROBABLY DON’T DESERVE BUT ARE NONETHELESS INDESCRIBABLY GRATEFUL FOR

and anyway you chose these guys as your found family, bucko. too late to back out now. next time go get yourself adopted by the Iidas then

AND MEANWHILE NO WORD ON THE WHOLE “HOW DID A THIRTEEN-YEAR-OLD SURVIVE A FIRE THAT COVERED HIS BODY WITH HORRIFIC SCARS AND MELTED HIS JAW OFF, AND HOW DID HE SOMEHOW THEN MANAGE TO GO INTO HIDING FOR TEN WHOLE YEARS, AND WHAT HAPPENED IN THAT INTERIM TO CHANGE HIS GOAL FROM ‘SURPASS ALL MIGHT TO IMPRESS MY DAD’ TO ‘KILL ALL HEROES TO MAKE MY DAD SUFFER’.” as if we don’t know the answer to that. but still, would it kill Horikoshi to just confirm AFO’s involvement in all of this already. at this point it’s basically just a formality

so here’s hoping next week we’ll either get that, or more Hawks action, or (DARE I EVEN SUGGEST, I’M AFRAID TO JINX IT) finally cut back to Bakugou and Deku and All Might omg. either way I’m hyped

#bnha 302 #todoroki touya #dabi #todoroki enji #endeavor #todoroki rei #todoroki shouto #todoroki natsuo #todoroki fuyumi #bnha #boku no hero academia #bnha spoilers #mha spoilers #bnha manga spoilers #makeste reads bnha #my sincerest apologies for this absurdly long recap which is barely funny at all! #THERE WAS VERY LITTLE HUMOROUS CONTENT IN THIS CHAPTER #congratulations horikoshi you win this round

[flowercrown-bard]

For the writing prompts #14. Can’t make move because other person is a rival/enemy (please!)

Thank you so much for the prompt! So...I'm not 100% sure if this still fits the prompt but oh well, I tried

pairing: Eskel/Jaskier

word count: 5k

from this prompt list

summary: Jaskier finds anoynmous poetry that talks about how witchers are unwanted posted on notice boards. Of course he makes it his goal to find the mysterious poet and make them stop. It's too bad that as time goes on and the poet's verses change, it becomes really hard to hate them (new fic with Eskel‘s POV to this)

content warning: self-deprication, angst

Jaskier was known for many a thing. Some people knew him as a talented bard. Others thought of him only as the idiot they had seen jump out of a window to escape a scorned lover’s wrath. The list could go on forever, Jaskier had made sure of that.

But the one thing, everyone without fail would know him for, is that he was fiercely loyal to witchers.

For years he had sung about the White Wolf and his heroics, but lately, ever since that fateful day that he had finally met Geralt’s brother, Jaskier also sang about a different witcher. One who had promised to show him his collection of old poetry that scholars everywhere would kill for. The witcher that was kind and sweet despite what his appearance might suggest. The witcher whom Jaskier couldn’t stop thinking about ever since they had parted.

Briefly, Jaskier had been worried that Geralt might disapprove of Jaskier writing songs about one of his brothers. After all it had just been the two of them for so long. But Geralt didn’t seem to mind. If anything, he smiled a little wider whenever Jaskier crafted verses for Eskel. In fact, he looked at Jaskier as if there was more to it than just professional interest. Which was absolute nonsense, of course. Singing about another witcher was only profitable. It expended Jaskier’s repertoire and what better way to help all witcher-kind than to spread tales about more than just the most famous one of them?

So yes, Jaskier was first and foremost known as a friend to witchers.

Another, lesser known fact about Jaskier was that once he developed a grudge, he would hold onto it for the rest of his life.

Which is why Jaskier was seething with fury when he caught wind of some unnamed poet who apparently made it their life’s work to destroy witchers’ reputations.

What made it even worse that on the day Jaskier found out, he was in high spirits. He had been travelling alone for the past month and had just heard of Eskel – who Jaskier had been looking forward to meeting again since forever – being somewhere in the area. Of course, Jaskier had dropped everything and gone to search every notice board he could find for any clue as to any contracts close by that could have attracted the witcher.

What Jaskier found instead was enough to make his fists tremble with barely suppressed rage. Right there, in the middle of the notice board hung a piece of poetry on some cheap paper.

That in itself wasn’t too bad. Jaskier remembered well the days when he himself had been too shy to openly present his poetry and had resorted to anonymously posting it onto boards, but this – this was the worst thing Jaskier had ever read. The verses spoke of what it meant to be a witcher, of how life one the Path could look like. Some of the words and metaphors used were clear references – or even plagiarism – to Jaskier’s songs about his witchers. But where Jaskier praised and celebrated, this poet snarled and spat at witchers.

At the very least, the handwriting wasn’t too easy to decipher, as if the poet – if one could call them that – hadn’t had much time to write this. It was a poor consolation.

Jaskier read through the poem again and again, his mind catching on the words unwanted and mutant. And those were the most harmless insults.

The entire poem read as a collection of all the horrible things that were spat at witchers. Not only was it a clear rip-off of Jaskier’s work – describing the life of a witcher – but it dared to twist it into something ugly and loathed.

To make the insult worse, underneath the poem, in the place where normally the poet’s signature would be, was a clumsy sketch of a goat – clearly meant as another insult to Jaskier. Dread pooled in Jaskier’s stomach, as his eyes raked over the lines one more time and an even more horrible conclusion dawned on him.

The poet didn’t just made references to Jaskier’s works in general. It used imagery Jaskier specifically used in his songs about Eskel. The kindest soul Jaskier knew. A man so selfless that he had even saved a baby goat and had against all odds managed to take care of her while on the Path.

And now this poet spoke about Eskel’s bad experiences and posted them openly on the board for all the world to see.

Without thinking, Jaskier tore the paper with the offending poem from the board. It nearly crumbled in his fingers, but he forced himself to keep his hand steady. He would need the poem to ask people if they knew who had written it, even though the thought of showing it to more people churned Jaskier’s guts.

His search ended abruptly, when instead of finding out who the poet was, Jaskier heard about Eskel being driven out of the town.

He gritted his teeth and left the town to resume his search of Eskel. But even as he left the town behind, he swore to himself that whatever he did, some day he would find the poet and he would make sure they would never write another harmful word about witchers again.

-

Not a week later, a couple of towns over, Jaskier found another poem. The same handwriting, the same sentiment of witchers being resented outcasts.

After that, Jaskier doubled his efforts to sing the witchers’ praises.

Apparently, the unknown poet took that as a challenge. Wherever Jaskier went, it was only a matter of time before the next piece of offending poetry appeared.

The poet should have been easy to find. Poets of all kinds had the convenient habit of making themselves known – Jaskier could attest to that. And yet, this one alluded him time and time again. They were impossible to find. For a brief moment, Jaskier considered the possibility of Valdo Marx being the one writing these horrible things just to spite Jaskier, but even he wouldn’t stoop low enough for such a thing. Valdo had his place in Cidaris and he would never become a travelling bard for such a petty thing. Because that was clearly what this mysterious and hated poet was; travelling, just like Jaskier and yet always one step ahead, always out of reach.

There was no hint as to where the poet would go next. The only pattern Jaskier could find was that they always showed up in towns that remembered a witcher with scars running down his face.

For whatever reason, the poet was targeting Eskel specifically.

So Jaskier did the only thing he could do. If he wasn’t able to tell the poet off face to face, he might answer in the best way he knew how: With his own verses.

Every single poem he came across, Jaskier would reply to with poems of his own – pinned to the boards in the place where the stranger’s poem had hung before Jaskier had torn it off. For good measure, Jaskier would also sing his verses in taverns and market squares, just in case the poet would be able to hear him.

When the stranger that had quickly become Jaskier’s worst enemy, spoke of ugly scars in his lines that twisted every smile into a snarl, Jaskier answered with tales of a witcher’s laughter that was more beautiful and joyful than any coy giggles one would hear at court.

When his enemy talked about witchers being alone and scorned wherever they went, Jaskier sang about how wonderful it felt to call a witcher his friend, how loyal and protective witchers were of those they loved – this of course was underlined with a barely hidden message that Jaskier in turn was very protective of his witchers and would bring anyone down who dared insult them.

This warning evidently wasn’t received, for the next poem Jaskier found spoke of lonely nights and averted eyes.

And the thing was…the more Jaskier read those poems, the more he found that they were true. What could he say to disprove those words that he hated so much? He had seen first-hand how people scuttled away in fear as soon as they sat eyes on a witcher. He knew that right now, without his company, Geralt and Eskel would spend their nights alone, possibly hurt and feeling like they didn’t belong.

As much as Jaskier despised the poet for perpetuating the public’s opinion of witchers, Jaskier had to admit that somehow they had a deep understanding of what a witcher’s life was like, even if they used their insight to do harm.

Jaskier didn’t know how to feel about that revelation. Whoever that poet was, he knew. He understood. Maybe even felt the same way.

But that didn’t matter. It couldn’t matter.

This person was hurting Jaskier’s friends and there was no excuse for that. If he ever met the poet, no word about this irrational fascination would come past his lips. He would make sure that they stopped writing such terrible things and nothing more. They didn’t deserve anything more.

--

There was just one problem…the poetry was good. Brilliant, even. If it weren’t for the horrible subjects, Jaskier might even admire the craftsmanship of the verses.

He couldn’t for the life of him figure out where the poet had learned to write like this. Certainly not at Oxenfurt. Some of these rhyme schemes were similar to ones only found in old elven poetry that had been nearly erased entirely and there were references to some of the poems to literature that had been almost completely lost for ages.

Jaskier almost wanted to sit down with this poet and talk about their craft. Their verses were more expressive than anything Jaskier had ever read and as loath as he was to admit it, some of them brought tears to Jaskier’s eyes with how beautifully worded they were.

It was such a sharp and painful contrast reading those wonderful metaphors and rhymes describing the Path as something gruesome, ugly and hated.

It made Jaskier long for his friends. He wanted to make sure they weren’t alone anymore, that they didn’t have to see only the ugly parts of the Path.

But it also made him want to know more about the poet. Wanted to find out why they sounded so hurt in the way they wrote. He wanted to console and comfort them.

It was an ugly thought and one that Jaskier was ashamed to admit to even himself. So he pushed it into the far back of his mind. This person, whoever they were, wasn’t the one Jaskier should comfort. They were the very reason why Jaskier’s friends felt lonely.

Jaskier would never betray Geralt’s trust by befriending someone like that. Even more, he wouldn’t betray Eskel like that. Beautiful Eskel who was afraid to smile for fear of people flinching back in disgust. Who had been shy and yet excited about talking to Jaskier about poetry.

Jaskier froze and ice spread through his chest. Eskel.

All this time Jaskier had been so fixated on finding the poet that he had completely forgotten that he couldn’t have been the only one who had found their poems. If Jaskier had seen any of them, he would be crushed. Poetry was one of the few things Eskel found enjoyment in while on the Path and this could ruin that for him forever.

That thought was enough for Jaskier to regain his earlier determination. Not a hint of affection for the poet was left in his heart.

--

Except that, as the months dragged on and Jaskier kept replying to the poet’s words, the hint of affection or rather fascination flickered back to life. At some point, the poet had started to respond to Jaskier’s responses. Not openly, of course, but it was obvious in the way they wrote that they were referring to some of the things Jaskier spoke of in his newest songs.

What had started out as a passive-aggressive way for Jaskier to tell the other poet that he despised them, slowly turned into something much different. Jaskier wasn’t sure if he liked it.

Ever so slowly, the subjects of the poet’s verses shifted. True enough, overall they were still about the Path in one way or another, but now the poems about hatred and scorn were interspersed with ones about flowers and occasional appreciation and strangely enough, the joy of knitting. The last one elicited a startled laugh out of Jaskier when he read it and he quickly stopped himself. He couldn’t however keep the smile off his face as he read through that poem again.

Hadn’t this been what Jaskier had wanted all along? It would appear that the poet had finally started to see reason and change the way they thought about witchers.

And now that Jaskier found those other, happier poems, he couldn’t help but see the beauty in their verses. He still kept all of their poems, but now he no longer did so to vanish all traces of them off the earth, but so that he could read them when he felt his own loneliness creep up on him.

Time and time again he let his eyes wander over a poem that talked about the happiness that came with unexpectedly meeting family again that had been longed for. It made Jaskier think about his witchers, about Geralt who had been his best friend for years and about Eskel who Jaskier wished more than anything to meet again someday. And strangely enough, he also thought about the poet, about meeting them and talking about the beautiful things they wrote about.

More than once, Jaskier reached for his quill to put a hidden message about a possible future meeting in his next poem, but every time he stopped himself. He couldn’t do this. Not for as long as he wasn’t sure whether this person had destroyed Eskel’s happiness and the last bit of his already fragile self-esteem.

But then, there was another change, one Jaskier hadn’t expected and that made his heart beat painfully fast in his chest. No longer did the poems speak about vague occurrences of joy and beauty, but of the joy Jaskiergave the poet. About how his voice and his words could make the poet feel like maybe life wasn’t as bleak as they had been told. About how Jaskier’s responses gave them hope. About how they made them feel less alone.

The sincerity and almost admiration in these words startled Jaskier. This wasn’t what he had wanted to do when he had started to respond to the poet. And yet…he couldn’t deny that he too felt a strange sense of companionship whenever he found another one of the poems. As strange as it sounded, but the poet had become the closest Jaskier had to someone he could talk to. Jaskier had no idea where his friends were, but no matter where he went, sooner or later, the poet’s words would reach him again. And damn him, it was nice having someone think of him and craft beautiful verses just for him.

Guilt gnawed at Jaskier’s insides and he wished it would be different, but he found himself looking forward to finding the next poem, always praying with all his might that it wouldn’t be about witchers.

It was nearly autumn when Jaskier found the poem that made his chest tighten with a strange emotion he couldn’t place.

The poem was so full of longing that it became hard for Jaskier to breathe. It was about yearning to meet Jaskier, of seeing his smile and feeling the gentleness of his hands. It was about the soul-crushing knowledge that they would only disappoint Jaskier if they ever met.

Jaskier’s hands trembled as he took that poem off the notice board. He caressed the small picture of the goat that had gone from being a hated mockery to something that made Jaskier smile whenever he saw it.

That night he got so close to telling the poet where to meet them.

The song with the directions was already written and he was already gathering his nerves to prepare himself to sing it the next day, when a sudden gust of wind made the stack of the stranger’s poems Jaskier had kept flutter through the air. Pages upon pages about how witchers were despised, about how they were fated to be alone and how no one would ever be able to see past their hideous scars landed all around Jaskier, accusing him of the betrayal he had almost committed.

His heart dropped like a stone and he forced himself to read through all of the poems again. Every verse, every line, every word that reminded him why he had sworn to himself to never forgive this poet.

When he was done, he stuffed the papers into the bottom of his back, telling himself he didn’t care about them crumbling and tearing.

When he left town, there he left no reply to the poet’s last poem. He only continued reading the notice boards to make sure the poet was still writing about things other than witchers, but Jaskier never responded anymore.

After a while, the poet too stopped writing.

His last poem was but a line, asking whether Jaskier was alright. It was so simple, so obviously worried that it took all of Jaskier’s will power not to respond and let the poet know that he was still there.

By the time it had become clear that no more poems would be written, Jaskier had almost convinced himself that he was happy about never having to hear from them again.

--

Though the thought of the poet didn’t leave Jaskier’s mind, no matter how hard he tried, Jaskier found someone far better.

Not a week after he had severed his connection to the poet for good and was back to performing his old songs about witchers, the door to the tavern Jaskier was playing at opened and a familiar figure entered.

Jaskier’s heart gave a jump and his fingers nearly fumbled when he recognised Eskel. The smile that spread across Jaskier’s face at the sight of the man he had longed to see again faltered, when he took him in more closely. Eskel was guarded most of the time, but now there was something more than that in his expression. He looked almost dejected and he had heavy bags under his eyes as if he hadn’t slept in days.

Jaskier’s chest clenched and he had to fight to keep up his happy performance persona. The Path must have been especially unkind to Eskel. Dread clawed at Jaskier’s heart and his voice trembled.

Was this the poet’s doing? Had their words reached Eskel after all and taken away any peace he might have had?

Jaskier’s eyes followed Eskel as he scanned the crowd before his eyes landed on Jaskier. For a heartbeat, something akin to fear flickered across Eskel’s expression, but then his eyes lit up and his shoulders slumped in relief.

As quickly as he could, Jaskier brought his performance to an end, claiming that he needed a break to give his voice some rest. He hurried over to Eskel and practically fell into his arms.

For a moment, Eskel stiffened at the touch, but then he returned the embrace almost desperately and pressed his face into the crook of Jaskier’s neck.

“You’re alright,” Eskel breathed, barely loud enough for Jaskier to hear.

“Of course I am,” Jaskier said as brightly as he could to ease Eskel’s worry and pulled back so he could properly look at Eskel. “Contrary to popular believe, I can go some time without getting into trouble.” He made no effort to try to be subtle about checking Eskel over for injuries. “Out of the two of us, I’m not the one who risks his life every day. What happened to you?”

Eskel stiffened slightly and his eyes shifted to the side, evading Jaskier’s gaze. “Nothing. I was just worried I had lost … a friend.”

Something in Jaskier’s chest softened and as they sat down at a table, Jaskier made a point of sliding in right next to Eskel instead of sitting down opposite of him.

For some inexplicable reason, Eskel still seemed hesitant to touch Jaskier as if he was worried Jaskier might withdraw if Eskel got to close, but his eyes raked over Jaskier as if he wanted to commit every inch of him to memory.

Jaskier scooted closer to Eskel until their thighs touched. He reached for Eskel’s hand and brushed a strand of hair behind his ears while talking about the thing Jaskier had seen since they had last met.

Ever so slowly, Eskel relaxed and leaned into the touch.

What had started as hesitant replies to Jaskier’s numerous questions about the Path quickly became a comfortable conversation, just like they had had when they had last seen each other.

The easiness with which words flowed almost reminded Jaskier of the easy exchange of words he had had with the poet.

He banished the thought as quickly as it had appeared.

He put his attention back to Eskel where it belonged and listened intently as Eskel told him about the monsters he had fought, about the places he had been and about the fact that for some reason, Eskel had been paid in knitting lessons from the very same old lady that had paid Eskel by giving him Lil Bleater a year ago.

As Jaskier laughed at that story and warmth spread through his chest, Eskel too smiled at him. It was a timid, gentle thing, barely enough to lift the edges of his lips properly, but it was big enough to twist the scars. And for once Eskel didn’t seem to mind.

The sight did something strange to Jaskier and suddenly he was filled with the urge to trace these beautiful lips with his thumb.

Eskel must have seen something shift in Jaskier’s expression, for he suddenly stopped talking and his eyes drifted down to Jaskier’s lips.

“Don’t stop,” Jaskier whispered. “I love the way you talk. It sounds almost like poetry.”

The hint of a blush crept into Eskel’s cheeks. “I…I could never write something as beautiful as your songs, but…” His lips twitched upwards and he lowered his head slightly. “You are very inspiring Jaskier. The way you talked about poetry…it made me pick up a pen too, after we parted last time.”

Jaskier’s eyes widened. “You write poetry?”

“Not very well.”

Jaskier knew that his eyes were full of fondness for this wonderful, beautiful witcher, but he didn’t care if he saw. He was too relieved to hear that the poet hadn’t been able to take Eskel’s love for poetry away from him after all.

So fixated on that last piece of bitterness that Jaskier had carefully kept alive to remind himself not to contact the poet again, he couldn’t help the next words from slipping past his lips.

“Whatever you’re writing, I am sure it is better than those horrible poems I have had to read lately.”

Eskel froze and his eyes darted between Jaskier’s.

“What…what poems did you have to read?” His voice sounded strangely thick.

Jaskier’s brows knitted together and he waved his hand through the air dismissively, even as his chest clenched painfully. “Just someone who thought they should post their poetry on notice boards. It’s a good thing no one will ever have to read a word of theirs again.”

Eskel’s face fell and he drew back just enough that he wasn’t touching Jaskier anymore. “You really hated it that much?”

Jaskier huffed out a bitter laugh. “You would have too, if you had seen the things they wrote.”

Even while he said it, Jaskier knew that something was wrong. Eskel’s expression shuttered completely and he turned away from Jaskier.

Jaskier’s insides grew cold. For an uncomfortable moment that seemed to stretch on forever, he sat silently next to Eskel, wrecking his brain trying to figure out where he had messed up. Whatever it had been, it was clear that his presence made Eskel uncomfortable.

A half-hearted excuse left Jaskier, something about having to continue his performance.

Eskel only replied with a silent nod as Jaskier left the table to resume his playing. And when Jaskier risked a glance at their table during a song, he found that Eskel had already left.

Uncaring of the disappointed shouts of his audience, Jaskier’s voice broke off and he hastened back to their now empty table to gather his things.

Whatever he had done, to chase Eskel away, he needed to fix this.

He grabbed his cloak and dropped a couple of coins on the table to pay for the meal he had had earlier, when his eyes fell on something lying on the table. A slip of paper with some flimsy excuse for why Eskel had to leave on it.

For a heartbeat Jaskier only stared at it, uncomprehending what he was seeing.

But there was no two ways about it. The writing that now stared back at Jaskier was the same handwriting he had been reading for the past months. It was the poet’s handwriting.

Without a second thought, Jaskier bolted out of the tavern and after Eskel.

“Wait!” he called out to him when he caught sight of him disappearing into an alleyway.

His breath came heavy and his lungs burned from the sudden sprint, but Jaskier didn’t stop until he caught up with Eskel who stood with his back to Jaskier, obviously unwilling to face him.

“Eskel,” Jaskier said helplessly. “I-“

“I’m sorry,” Eskel interrupted and his shoulders tensed. “I didn’t know – If I had known how much you hated the poems I would have stopped.”

For the first time since Jaskier could remember, he found no words. His mind was racing, connecting memories to his knew knowledge and making connections where before there had been nothing but false conclusions.

Jaskier’s uncharacteristic silence must have been reply enough for Eskel, for he half-turned to him, just enough for Jaskier to see his scars.

“I didn’t mean to make you hate me,” Eskel said quietly and his voice was tight. “I am sorry I made you miserable with my poems all these months. I’ll stop. I promise, you won’t have to read anything like that again. You won’t even have to see me. I just…after I didn’t hear from you again, I needed to make sure you were still alive.”

“You didn’t,” Jaskier said, voice breaking. “You didn’t make my life miserable. But they sounded….Eskel, why did your poems sound like yourlife was miserable? Why would you say such horrible things about yourself?”

Eskel flinched and his throat bobbed as he swallowed. “I didn’t know what else to write about. There wasn’t much else. Until…” Eskel’s voice trailed off.

“Until you wrote about flowers and knitting and family,” Jaskier ended softly for him.

Eskel nodded and Jaskier felt tears pricking at his eyes. “I loved them. And knowing that they came from you, that you are the one who found happiness out there, you have no idea how much that means to me.”

Without meaning to, Jaskier reached out for Eskel’s hand and before he knew it, Eskel had threaded their fingers together and turned to face Jaskier fully. They were so close. Jaskier could see every speck of gold in Eskel’s eyes as they flickered down to his lips.

“Jaskier.” His voice was hoarse and he looked like it took all his strength to say the one word. Slowly, Eskel leaned forward, and Jaskier could feel his heart skip a beat and his breath hitch. Eskel’s eyes widened and he drew back abruptly.

“I am sorry,” Eskel blurted out.

Jaskier’s brows drew together and he tried to follow Eskel’s movement and close the gap between them again.

“Why? Eskel, what could you possibly have to be sorry about?”

An unreadyable expression flashed across Eskel’s face. “About this.” He gestured vaguely between them. “And about my last poems. I didn’t think you’d ever find out they were from me. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

It took Jaskier a second to understand what he meant, but when he did, his heart broke for the poet who had longed to feel Jaskier’s touch; for Eskel who had been scared that he would only disappoint.

Carefully, Jaskier lifted his hand, giving Eskel time to refuse the touch. When his hand settled on Eskel’s skin and gently caressed Eskel’s scars, Jaskier could feel Eskel’s shuddering breath ghost across Jaskier’s skin and Eskel closed his eyes, leaning into the touch.

“You could never disappoint,” Jaskier whispered. “Never you.”

“Does that mean you didn’t mind those poems?” Eskel’s voice was filled with barely restrained hope.

Jaskier let out a huffed laugh. “Oh, I did very much mind them. For so long I had wanted to punch my poet in the face for what they wrote. And those letters…they made me want to kiss them.”

Eskel’s eyes snapped open. “You-“ he broke off, a bittersweet smile on his face. His next words were so quiet that Jaskier couldn’t be sure he was even meant to hear them. “At least I could make you want me as someone else.”

Jaskier tilted his head to the side. His fingers slid down Eskel’s face, before they came to rest at the corner of Eskel’s lips.

“Oh Eskel,” Jaskier breathed, stepping impossibly closer. “The one thing holding me back was the thought that it wasn’t you.”

“Jaskier…” Eskel came no further. Before any more words of fear or self-doubt could leave him, Jaskier pressed his lips against Eskel’s.

Eskel let out a soft gasp, before returning the kiss, only interrupting it for long enough to whisper words to Jaskier that were simpler and yet more beautiful than any poem could be.

For the first time in what felt like too long, Jaskier responded to his poet’s words, with the same simple words that made Eskel’s face light up in a way that made Jaskier doubt that he would ever write about loneliness and feeling unlovable ever again.

#I started writing this during a zoom meeting in which i had my own enemies-to-friends-thing going on #so this prompt was really fitting lmao #jaskel #prompt #jaskier x eskel #eskel x jaskier #eskel #jaskier #my writing #fic #witcher fic #fanfic #this once again got longer than i intended #and it's the middle of the night so I had no time to edit #oops

[cutebutalsostabby]

For the DVD commentary meme! One of my favorite scene from "In Which Wild Avoids Meeting the Gang" is the conversation between Wind and Time about the Fierce Deity Mask. So would you care to talk about those sections in chapter 14 where they're talking about it? Especially the part that starts with "‘I mentioned this earlier, right?’ Wind tapped his skull..."

Whoa an actual response?! :o (sorry but you have no idea how thrilled I am right now haha). Ok, I'll do my best!

So this is the chapter wherein the cute little baby cryptid outsmarts the big grown up changeling child. As background for my characterisations: in my head, both Time and Wind are mentally older than their physical age, but Time is also a bit emotionally stunted whereas Wind is a "twelve year old" who sometimes creepily acts like an older teen.

Drilling into that a bit further: Time's childhood ended up on a sort of perpetual hold, from his lonely upbringing as the "boy without a fairy", to the whole being sealed away for seven years thing, to then being sent BACK seven years and losing all the friendships gained in the adult era, leaving the country and his nonexistent home (seriously, Zelda, what were you thinking sending him back?) and then going off to suffer through the events of Majora's Mask, his time in Warriors's era (yes, that's canon in my version of LU) and then any and all adventures after. It was a long time ago, so he's had some time to heal... but they're big, ugly scars. Thus he is what we may call "a disaster adult"(tm).

Wind on the other hand had a relatively normal childhood surrounded by people who loved him. His first quest WAS traumatising to some degree, but he also had lots of family, friends and allies to support him along the way - even the Rito postman (best boy, love him). But then we get to Phantom Hourglass, the adventure that took place within the course of ten minutes of "real world" time. Ah, the sheer angst potential of those ten minutes, in which Wind is cut away from his family and allies and forced to navigate a TOTALLY UNFAMILIAR world practically on his own. Linebeck counts, I guess, but a) he doesn't really leave the boat, and b) he's not exactly friendly in the beginning, which is when Wind really, really needs a friend. So Wind splits his time between long, lonely journeys across the sea and short, terrifying jaunts through a dungeon full of invincible monsters and a curse that literally drains his life force away. Oof. Then he gets back and NOBODY BELIEVES HIM. Double oof. So... has he told the Chain about any of this? Hell no :)

It's a pretty common trope for LU Wind to be able to see ghosts. Technically, most of the other Links can also do that, so I'm not 100% sure why that's seen as his "thing"? Anyway. There were some ghosts that appeared in Wind Waker, so he must've already had the ability back then, but I also hc that Phantom Hourglass honed his ability to sense both spirits and curses. There is a lot of stealth involved in that game, so he'd have to be able to "see" around corners somehow. Thus we get Wind's ability to look at the Fierce Deity Mask and think "wow, that's hella cursed".

Now, Wind - despite being pretty open about his FIRST adventure doesn't exactly like talking about the second one, but he will if he feels he needs to. In this chapter he is feeling VERY protective of Time. Fair, since Time is also very protective of him (and also since maaaybe Linebeck-related feels). And since in some ways he's actually better at emotions than his poor opponent/adoptive dad, he handily turns the tables! Even better: since none of the other Links witnessed this, he gets to go right back to being a harmless little 12 year old once he's done. No thoughts, brain empty. What'cha gonna do, Time? You gonna snitch on him? Huh?!

[The chapter in question]

#linked universe #fanfic #ask game #lu wind #lu time

[guesst]

some of the best fantasy au fics for bnha that i've read

i decided to make a fic rec list of one of my favourite aus/fusions. mostly midoriya-centric, there are some crossovers (with hp), and a lot of different ways in which the authors have taken them - so it could be Quirks, ghosts, outright fantasy aus, spirits, witches etc etc. there isn't a specific order and there aren't a tonne (these are the ones i could find buried in my bookmarks lol), but the ones on the list are all really well written i love them.

i've tried adding relevant information, the summary (shortened if it's pretty long) and just. adding some random tags that may be important. not all of them though. obviously this is not a complete list and there will most definitely be more fics out there, if there are some really good fics that you know that aren't on this list, feel free to tell me, i'd love to read them!!!

i hope someone enjoys these!

Faith Becomes You by SugaSuga

oneshot | gen dfo, quirkless midoriya summary 'There's a tiny shrine in Musutafu that's overgrown with kudzu vines between Izuku's apartment and his middle-school. There may very well still be a god inside it. There may be nothing but the myth of a man from when Quirks were first emerging. Izuku hides in its walls for a while and ends up tending to the forgotten shrine. All good deeds have their impact, don't they?'

Of Mythos and Men by Oceanbreeze7

oneshot | gen spirit animal au, kinda summary (shortened) 'When he was young, Midoriya always wondered what his mythos would be. The matching half to his quirk, the ancestry of its power. Mythos were strange things, not linked genetically like quirks seemed to be. [...] Midoriya hadn't met his mythos. Even in UA. (In his dreams, something called to him, 'Chase me!')'

what a lion cannot manage by LadyLiterature

multichapter | ongoing | f/m, m/m kitsune au, female izuku, future bakudeku summary (shortened) 'She wants to be a hero. Wants to save everyone she meets and even the people she hasn’t. [...] A smart fox avoids fights. A smart fox does not seek them out. A smart fox does not fight for everyone. A smart fox, when they absolutely must, only fights for themselves and what is theirs and nothing else. Izumi, for all that she tries to be, is not a good fox.'

My Magic Academia by Kiterou

series | oneshots and multichapter | ongoing | gen HP crossover, wizard midoriya, platonic bkdk, some ocs summary (shortened) ' [...] In which Midoriya Inko is a witch and Izuku a wizard and even after 150 years of quirks taking over the world, Izuku still couldn't tell Kacchan that he isn't worthless and that he still could become a hero all on his own.'

A Lonely Windchime Makes No Sound by Musecookie

multichapter | ongoing | multi reader/shinso, total fantasy au, very wholesome summary (shortened) ' [...] You enjoy visiting your slightly creepy local library. When you accidentally befriend the elusive owner's familiar, he begins to appear more and more when you visit. You don't really mind, and he doesn't seem to hate you, even when the two of you become tied up in each other's fate as you pursue the secret to reviving a magical species of flower. Soft Strangers to Friends to Lovers type beat with lots of fluff and naps! Sleepy cuddles included.'

The grapes of friendship by Gentrychild

oneshot | gen crack, dfo, vampire izuku summary 'Izuku, a dhampir hiding his real identity as he goes to UA, the best wizard school in the country, spends the day with his friends. None of them are aware of it.'

Yesterday Upon the Stair by PitViperofDoom

multichapter | complete | gen less supernatural, izu's quirk lets him see ghosts, he still has ofa summary (shortened) 'Midoriya Izuku has always been written off as weird. As if it's not bad enough to be the quirkless weakling, he has to be the weird quirkless weakling on top of it. But truthfully, the "weird" part is the only part that's accurate. He's determined not to be a weakling, and in spite of what it says on paper, he's not actually quirkless [...] Not that anyone would believe it if he told them.'

sum of all (and by them driven) by Elemental

series | multichapter | ongoing | gen dadzawa, spirits give quirks, izu sees these spirits series summary 'Quirks aren't what you think they are.' first part summary (shortened) 'Midoriya Izuku is medically quirkless, not technically homeless, perpetually exhausted and doing his damned best despite it all. He also sees spirits, which might be cool if not for the fact that a) no one else does, b) they really don't like him very much, and c) he's pretty sure the heroes now think he's a villain working for the League [...]'

The Struggles of a Modern-Day Vampire by miraculousemily47

oneshot | gen crack, 1-a shenanigans, vampire midoriya summary 'After Midoriya Izuku is turned into a vampire towards the end of his first year at U.A., he decides he wants to tell his classmates about his condition. The only problem is that he can't physically say the words, and his classmates are fucking idiots.'

Lights in the Dark by FrostKitten

series | oneshots | ongoing | gen supernatural au, izuku can see demons etc, quirkless/magic au summary (of first part) 'Midoriya Izuku, like most young kids, knows there are monsters. They live in closets, under beds, and occasionally in the park. As he grows older, his friends stop seeing them...but he still does.'

Hand in Unlovable Hand by jumbletea

series | oneshots | ongoing | gen vampire midoriya (and aizawa), dadzawa, toga n dabi n mido being siblings summary 'A collection of stories surrounding a not-quite-human Izuku and everyone he meets along the way.'

Simply Superstitious by CryCaladrius

multichapter | ongoing | gen lots of folklore and yokai and stuff, 'quirkless' magic user izuku, decent dad hisashi too summary (shortened) 'Izuku Midoriya’s father is a Hou-ou — a Japanese phoenix. For some reason, this means yokai have a standing invitation to pester Izuku with their existence. Birds assemble choirs for his birthday. If there’s no cedar leaf under the welcome mat, the amazake babaa that lives two apartments over will be knocking on their door by evening. His yokai-purifying excursions get mistaken for vigilantism far too often. [...]'

Cuckoo Bird (anonymous author)

multichapter | ongoing/maybe discontinued | gen it may be discontinued but theres lots of fae folklore, deku is a changeling, deals etc, plus some platonic shindeku building up?? summary 'There's something off about Midoriya Izuku. (change·ling /ˈCHānjliNG/ noun a child believed to have been secretly substituted by fairies for the parents' real child in infancy.)'

tread softly as you go by IceEckos12

oneshot | gen if you read any fae au please let it be this! has faeries but mido is not one summary 'Humans used to be good at the old ways. They used to know how to bait the trap, to spin a web of words and lies that would ensnare even the most wily. Humans used to be able to twist deceptions around knots of iron and turn them into weapons of power. They forgot a long, long time ago. A boy unwittingly makes a deal with one of the fae, severing his ties to humanity. However, he finds that the fae world is far more strange and complex than he ever could have imagined.'

Hell is just a shoujo manga by supercrunch

multichapter | complete | f/m fantasy au, bakudeku, fem!izuku, isekai, dekusquad stuff, also some iidachako summary (shortened) 'Izuku wakes up crushed under a statue, trapped in the body of a princess who doesn't exist. Turns out she's a demon, which is weird. What's even weirder is the déjà vu that surrounds Kamino palace, reminding her of the events of this one manga she used to love. [...] But that's probably just a coincidence. [...] The problem here, obviously, is that Izuku's the demon princess. Ergo, she's a villain. And that means she's going to die at the end of this manga. Again.'

hold your breath as you cross by cassiopeia721

oneshot | gen dadzawa, another 'quirks are from spirits au' (expect more of those actually), mido is sad :( summary 'As the bridge between the world of guardian spirits and the quirk users who are blessed by them, Izuku's duty is to clean up the mess his predecessor left. It's taken what feels like an eternity worth of work, but Izuku's finally finished, and he's ready to rest at last. Unfortunately, the pro heroes who just watched him take down the Scourge of Kamino have no intention of letting him just wander off, and he finds himself stuck in an interrogation room with a bunch of humans who he's sure will never believe a word he says.'

To See with Eyes Unclouded by CrazySatan

series | oneshots | ongoing | gen witch au, witch midoriya, quirkless mido, bkg is not a good friend series summary 'Midoriya Izuku is a witch. A powerful witch. And even though he doesn't have a quirk, and magic doesn't Work Like That, Izuku ends up a hero. Somehow.'

Demons and Darkness by wolfsrainrules

series | oneshots | ongoing | gen dadzawa, shinso and mido and bkg are becoming friends, they can see monsters/spirits/bad things summary of first part 'Izuku has believed in the things that go bump in the night since he was small. That means he can see them, and almost everyone he knows....can't. So he decides he's going to be the shield humanity needs, no matter what. Eventually, he finds others that See too.'

know what i've made by the marks on my hands by simkjrs

multichapter | ongoing/maybe discontinued | gen dadzawa, quirk spirit au (this inspired most of the others on this list), also eri summary (shortened) 'Midoriya Izuku just wants to lead a quiet, peaceful life. This is foiled by the fact that a) he can see spirits, b) his good nature demands that he help anyone he sees in trouble, and c) he, by all rights, should not exist. [...]'

Izuku haunts class 1-A by Artistic-Gamer

series or multichapter whichever floats your boat | incomplete (hiatus) | other there are some triggering themes! such as suicide, blood, body disfigurement! please take care of yourself and avoid reading if this will hurt you! in other news: so much dadzawa, so much friendship, hurt mido summary (of first part) 'Class 1-A is rumored to be haunted, only the residents are aware it’s more than just a rumor..'

U.A's Resident Ghost by BeyondTheClouds777

multichapter | ongoing/maybe discontinued | gen ghost midoriya, dadzawa, friendships!!!! summary 'There is a ghost at U.A. Not haunting U.A. Not even hanging out at U.A. There is a ghost. Enrolled. As a student of U.A. And it's just Shouta's luck that he has everything to do with it.'

and now, the weather by xylophones

oneshot | gen CRACK, paranormal/ghost hunters au, dekusquad stuff summary 'Izuku runs a fictional horror radio show. Because ghosts aren’t real. Right? (“Holy shit, ghosts are real,” Izuku whispers. Then, with the smugness of a sixteen-year-old who just won a decade long bet, “I knew it! Kacchan owes me five hundred yen!” “Midoriya,” Todoroki sighs, “this ghost is trying to kill us.”)'

U.A Unsolved by handcrusher(ameliafromafairytale)

oneshot | gen (it's a fic of a fic, so if you've read yesterday upon the stair then you'll understand better) izuku can see ghosts thats his quirk summary ' "Hey there, ghosts," Midoriya says, "it's me, ya boy." The dorms are haunted. Shenanigans ensue.'

The Haunting of Class 1-A by BritishRobutt

multichapter | ongoing/maybe discontinued | n/a ghost midoriya, vigilante au, crack, the ghost bit is izu's quirk summary 'Everyone always told Izuku he couldn't be a hero, so when he dies and discovers his quirk, he becomes a vigilante out of spite. Whoops. After becoming Spectre, Japan's most wanted vigilante, Izuku realizes he can just fulfill his dreams of going to the top heroic school- after all, who can physically stop him from attending UA when he's a literal ghost?'

Caged by SternStunde

oneshot | gen tododeku, fantasy au (todo is a dragon, mido is a princess), genderbent deku (fem deku) summary 'Then she held up one of the books and smiled. "Want to learn an ancient language with me?" She was kind of a nerd, and she really hoped the dragon was too.'

Magic Runs Deep by draconicschinx

multichapter | ongoing/probably discontinued | gen mido has a quirk and he can see mythical creatures. summary '"Midoriya Izuku has always been good at making friends. Not human ones, really, but they are good friends nonetheless. " Izuku can see and talk to and interact with mythical creatures. It's not exactly the quirk he was hoping for, but he's going to use it to help humans and his non-human friends all the same.'

#bnha #mha #fic recs #fantasy au #ghost au #vampire au #witch au #boku no hero academia #my hero academia #spirit fanfics #i have gone to an unnecessary amount of effort for a list that no one asked for #hmm #mythical beasts #myths and legends #i hope my tagging is okay lol #fic rec list #midoriya izuku #midoriya izumi #genderbending #shinsou hitoshi #dadzawa #quirkless au #lots of aus #magic

[sedge-yells-at-comics]

Reprinted below, in case the link implodes.

Flash #27 Reveals Why Reverse Flash Is a Truly Unique Villain                

The finale of "Running Scared" provides a gut-wrenching Rebirth update to one of DC's most complicated villains: Eobard Thawne, the Reverse Flash.

By Meg Downey Published Jul 27, 2017               

If you’re a fan of the Flash, you’re probably pretty familiar with the concept of the Reverse Flash, a man named Eobard Thawne who, like Barry, has super speed and wears a flashy costume. Of course, the “Reverse” might sound like he’s the literal opposite of the Flash -- maybe someone who slows things down instead of speeding himself up? Or maybe someone who runs backwards?

There are a lot of obvious and incorrect guesses pretty readily available for casual or newer fans to throw darts at. The reality of the Reverse Flash is, however, pretty complicated. Mostly because his “reverse” status is actually ideological at its core. Flash media, be it print, animated or live action, has traditionally made this apparent by painting Eobard as someone who is essentially pure evil -- a sort of manic, time traveling serial killer who is motivated solely by his endless need to destroy Barry Allen from the ground up.

At that point, the problem then becomes finding a way to make Thawne’s homicidal drive, well… unique in the scope of the DC Universe, a place that just so happens to be populated by enough over-the-top villains to populate a decent sized Midwestern town. Why is Reverse Flash someone that’s specific to The Flash? What differentiates him from any of DC’s other iconic arch rivals, like Lex Luthor or The Joker?

Well, The Flash #27 has the answer, and it's probably not the one you expected.

Running Scared

The rebirth of the “classic” Eobard Thawne (as opposed to his New 52 revamp) began in the Flash/Batman crossover mini-event “The Button” back in April, a four-part storyline which connected the original Thawne to the events of last year’s DC Universe: Rebirth one-shot.

Since, then, Thawne’s taken up residence as a perpetual thorn in Barry’s side in the hero's own ongoing series, stepping directly into the spotlight for the three-part “Running Scared” arc which served to highlight Thawne’s Rebirth status quo. For the most part, it’s a story that fans will be pretty familiar with, borrowing heavily from elements of stories like The Flash: Rebirth and Flashpoint. Thawne’s from the future, he time traveled to kill Barry’s parents, he’s connected to a negative form of the Speed-Force, and so on -- But that’s where things start to get their Rebirth-specific legs.

It’s not that creators Josh Williamson, Howard Porter and Paul Pelletier are trying to reinvent the proverbial wheel with “Running Scared” -- just unlock a different side of it by shining a light on one of the most unique aspect of Eobard and Barry’s relationship.

Reverse Flash doesn’t hate Flash the way Lex Luthor hates Superman, or Bane hates Batman. It’s actually (appropriately) quite the opposite. It’s the reverse. Eobard Thawne loves Barry Allen, obsessively and vengefully, which is where his endless, destructive need to ruin Barry’s life comes into play.

“Running Scared” highlights the fact that a young Eobard grew up alone (though Williamson was quick to confirm that that particular story element came out of an earlier Geoff Johns Flash issue) with only his idealized and imaginary version of Barry -- a character from his history books -- to keep him company. Barry was, for all intents and purposes, Thawne’s only friend, confidant, and emotional anchor, despite the fact that the two of them wouldn’t actually meet for years and years.

It was plenty of time for a very troubled and very lonely Thawne to fall in love with a version of The Scarlet Speedster that existed only in his imagination...and, well, it’s pretty obvious how that particular emotional endeavor actually went down. Actually meeting Barry and subsequently being forced to deal with the fact that he was just a guy and not the cartoon character Thawne had built in his head for years, proved to be too hard a stress test for Thawne’s fragile psyche.

Fatal Attraction

Meeting and being disappointed by a personal hero is a rough experience for just about anyone, but rather than allowing himself to move on -- or even allowing himself to simply decide to hate Barry instead, Thawne’s obsession only doubled down.

As issue #27 hurtles to its conclusion, Thawne’s real motivations become abundantly apparent. As Barry, infected with Thawne’s own inverted Negative Speed Force thrashes Thawne within an inch of his life, he presses him with a question - Why, if Thawne has always been so inspired by him, has he gone out of his way to ruin Barry’s life at every turn? Why has he done all of these terrible things, from killing Barry’s parents to beating Wally within an inch of his life, to kidnapping he and Iris and hauling them to the future?

Thawne’s answer is as unexpected as it is heartrendingly honest: because these horrible things are the only way Thawne understands how to make Barry spend time with him.

It’s that simple.

Thawne’s love for, and obsession with Barry Allen has permeated his life so deeply and completely that he is even willing to count his time spent being pummeled half to death by Flash as a win. He’s completely unable or unwilling to differentiate between Barry’s affection and Barry’s hatred, and he’s ready to do whatever it might take to put himself at the center of either emotion in Barry’s mind.

“A few years ago, it would have really hurt my feelings to hear you say that,” Thawne taunts after Barry threatens him, “but now to think that I caused you that anger? That I could get under your skin like this? It warms my heart.”

It’s deeply troubling, of course, and horrifyingly uncomfortable to get a look into the head of a villain who is, essentially, the personification of a fan gone terribly, terribly awry -- a theme that only gets more difficult to swallow when you begin to think about the increasingly complicated relationship between fans and their idols in actual, genuine, non-super heroic world around us.

This subtle reworking of the Reverse Flash has made him one of comic’s most poignant ruminations of the idea of toxicity in fan communities, idolization of strangers, and self destructive obsession, and it did so in a way that boldly allowed Thawne to win at the end of the day.

The issue closes, and the arc completes, with Barry exactly in the position Thawne wanted him in: completely alone, just like Thawne was as he built Barry into a hero of mythological perfection in his head. Now, where Barry will end up, and whether he’ll be forgiven by Iris, Wally and the roster of people he’s been manipulating as he leads his vigilante double life, is still largely a mystery.

It’s clear that Thawne didn’t expect, or even really want, Barry to come running into his arms to start their life together the second he succeeded in isolating him -- he makes that abundantly clear as he warns that he’ll just return again and again and again, de-powered, killed or otherwise hindered. Iris may have added an exclamation point to the end of the story arc by “vaporizing” Thawne with a Black Hole gun, but it hardly matters.

Reverse Flash will be back, somehow, at some point, and it’s doubtful that his love and obsession for Barry will have wavered in the slightest. We know now that’s just now how his mind is capable of working. It’s unlikely that Thawne will ever feel anything for Barry beyond his own supremely twisted adoration, no matter how many times the Flash pummels him into the ground. It’s just not the way Thawne’s brain is able to process information anymore.

It’s complicated, messy, and uncomfortable, but it’s also one of the clearest articulations of exactly what makes Reverse Flash such an interesting villain in the scope of not just the Flash family of books, but the DCU as a whole.

#the flash #eobard thawne #barry allen #eobarry

[cdyssey]

Need

Summary: After Nick arrives at the beach house, Frankie escapes to her studio to process her emotions. Post 7x04.

A/N: I've had such Grace and Frankie brain rot these past few days that I figured I should put it to good use and write another fic. It was really fascinating to try Frankie's POV. Lily Tomlin imbues her with a lot of subtle pathos that I totally wish the show would explicitly explore more.

AO3 Link

—

Frankie excuses herself to the studio for dinner, so she can process her very big, astonishingly inappropriate, and entirely overwhelming emotions without resorting to calling Nick a “wavy-haired, Pierce Brosnan wannabe douche canoe.” 

As delightful (and totally true) of a turn a phrase that it is, even she knows that saying it aloud would be trespassing a boundary that she’s sworn herself never to cross: Grace is married.

Unhappily married, maybe. 

Complicatedly married at the very least.

But until the day that they mutually say “I do” to divorce papers, there isn’t enough room for three people in the Skolka marriage, however much that Grace—bless her increasingly unthawing heart—tries to ensure otherwise. 

So Frankie lets the newly reunited couple have their dinner alone under the guise of a generosity that she doesn’t exactly feel, and she takes leftover pasta into her studio to moodily pick around the bowl until her fettuccine looks less like fettuccine and more like unevenly perforated confetti.

(Woo fucking hoo.)

After a few minutes of this aggressively unconstructive practice, she places her nearly full bowl on a nearby work table and stretches out across her paint-stained couch, staring at the ceiling and resisting the reactionary urge to light a joint. Mary J might help her feel better for the present moment, but tomorrow morning, she’d still wake up and feel invaded in her own home.

Paradoxically, she’d also feel alone, goddammit.

She pulls her shawl more tightly around her shoulders against an invisible and piercing chill.

Frankie hates feeling lonely.

She spiraled when Grace lived in the penthouse. She nearly self-destructed to fill the gaping void that her roommate, her friend, her practical and beloved soulmate left behind. There was a period where she didn’t wash her clothes and ate a lot of admittedly non-vegan takeout. There were nights when she’d lay awake in her awfully huge bed, staring at the empty space where Sol used to sleep, and have the familiar waking nightmare of spending her final years in forced solitude. She was happy with Jack, and then Jacob—sweet Jacob—came around too, and she did something she still feels fucking ashamed about: she hurt both of them, and she lied when she said that she had just wanted to have some fun.

She knows herself.

Intimately.

She‘d been scared of being alone again, so she tried to hold on to two people who were helping her to stave the awful feeling away. Those men wanted her, and Frankie used them. They wanted her, and she pathologically loves to feel wanted because she sometimes and irrationally fears that she might not be needed.

To be fair to her irrational fears, all the people she’s ever needed and felt needed by have hurt her before.

Sol cheated on her for twenty years.

Her own sons stuck her in a nursing home.

Grace just fucking left her.

She eloped in Vegas like a blushing twenty-one year old bride and just disappeared.

She says it was a mistake; she sat across Frankie in a sunlit restaurant and candidly told her that she didn’t like the person she had become when she married Nick.

And to be completely fair to her, Grace has been adamant about not wanting to leave again—so perhaps she never will—but if her husband is here to stay, it's also a distinct possibility that she’ll never have to make the choice to physically leave to… well… leave.

She can perpetually honeymoon with Nick and still call Frankie home. 

It could be a happy ending for Grace… and a fresh new hell for Frankie, who'd just started to feel secure again.

God knows she wants her best friend to be happy, but the big man in the sky must also surely understand that she had hoped that she alone could be enough for Grace, that this unconventional life spent together in the beach house—so crazy, so weird, and so inextricably entangled—would be their shared happily ever after.

But even as she thinks it, the vestiges of her clearly misplaced optimism begin to evade her, dregs now at the bottom of an already drained cup.

She and Grace aren't married.

It’s always been an objective fact.

Tonight, it feels more like an unpleasant reality.

When the door leading into her studio suddenly flies open, Frankie barely has enough time to swipe the back of her hand across her eyes before she sits up to find none other than the lady of the hour.

Her collared shirt popped up stiffly around her neck, a martini glass surgically glued to her right hand, Grace looks quintessentially herself as she walks in, even down to the minutiae of her trademark I'm-angry-at-the-world-and-everyone-in-it expression—brow furrowed and eyes Medusa cold. After all but slamming the door, she stalks over within a few clicks of her practical but unmistakably high heels.

“Well, hello to you, too, Sunshine,” Frankie greets wryly, hoping to hell and back that her face isn’t as red as it feels. 

It’s a tall order, though.

Alas, she was gifted (or equally cursed) with an exceptionally expressive face.

“Frankie, this is nonsense,” Grace says bluntly, using her martini glass like a pointer and leveling it straight at her head. “Come back to the house—your house—and have dinner with us.”

It’s the authoritarian nature of the demand that rifles Frankie.

Frankly, it pisses her off.

She’s always been a rebel contrarian.

“And by us, you mean you and your house arrested husband, right?” She returns evenly. She betrays herself by raising a single and devastatingly skeptical brow. “The man with whom you should be having a very emotionally honest conversation with right now about the parameters of your jacked up relationship?”

Grace shifts her weight from heel to heel and glances away a little too quickly for the gesture to be entirely natural. Frankie had blatantly stricken a pulsing nerve, and the guilt of doing so immediately swallows her. 

She shouldn’t be so hard on her friend.

(She doesn’t know why it’s permissible to be equally hard on herself.)

“Well, I tried to have that conversation, thank you very much, but then I ended up wanting to claw Nick’s eyes out.” The obvious follow up question must shine in Frankie’s face because sighing infinitesimally through her nostrils, Grace adds, “His attorney argued that my advanced age and apparent capability to croak at any moment were reasons enough to grant Nick leniency. They let him out so he could take care of me—whatever the hell that means.”

Her no-nonsense voice never falters as she delivers the brutal words, but her eyes undermine her, seething with emotion, simply roiling. They tell a story of horror and disgust and searing, absolute betrayal; they’re heavy all over with sadness and the indelicate trappings of all her raw and mercilessly exposed fears. 

Frankie understands immediately.

Nick used one of Grace’s deepest insecurities as a get-out-of-jail-free card.

Being eighty-two years old.

But perhaps more accurately, feeling like it.

“Oh, honey,” Frankie melts. She can do nothing else but melt, to be suddenly overcome with fierce, protective, and terrifying love for the woman in front of her. “That fucking bastard.”

Grace immediately laughs, the sound hoarse and watery and a little unhinged all at the exact same time.

“Tell me about it,” she half-smiles and takes the swearing as a rightful invitation to join Frankie on the couch. With a gentle clink, she sets her half-emptied martini glass on the table next to Frankie’s completely full pasta bowl. “I said the exact same thing.”

When she chooses to sit close enough that their shoulders are brushing, Frankie intuitively knows that this is petty defiance against Nick for daring to intrude upon them and the world they've so carefully created together.

She temples Grace’s nearest hand with her own in an attempt to silently communicate that this right here—whatever this is between them—is love.

“So, please”—Grace squeezes her hand back—“please don’t be angry with me… I… I didn’t want this. You know I didn’t want this. I don’t want him to even be here.”

Frankie stares openly at her best friend.

Wide-eyed and hopeful against her self-loathing, self-centered will, she searches her broken face like it's revelatory.

It's stunningly rare that Grace Hanson ever articulates her wants so clearly. Forty years of an emotionally repressive marriage did their number and toll on her. She pedestalized rigid decorum over every conscious desire. 

She played by the rules even if they hurt her.

And drank herself to oblivion on many a night to forget the very fact that she was hurt.

To deny herself the honesty she’d somehow convinced herself that she didn’t deserve.

“… you know this is your husband we’re talking about here, right?” It’s a rhetorical question. Frankie's pretty sure that they both fucking know that it’s insane that this conversation—that this entire situation as a whole—is happening. 

“I know,” Grace replies firmly. “Believe me, I'm well aware. But you’re… you’re my partner, Frankie, and if I can’t be upfront with you, then I don’t know who else I can turn to.”

The very word partner sends shivers down her spine, and the shivers collect like butterflies in her already churning belly.

It’s just a word, she tells herself. 

She scolds.

Grace doesn’t mean anything by it.

It's a label, and Grace doesn't do labels anymore.

“I... I wasn’t mad at you, Grace,” she finally admits. It's easier to do than questioning the extent to which her roommate would give up the world for her, but all the same, her voice is frighteningly weak, a pale imitation of everything Frankie usually projects herself to be: confident, cheerful, unshakeable, unshaken. Suddenly, it hits her that it’s been a very long time since she’s been so openly vulnerable, too. “I'm not even really all that mad at your jailbird husband either. I was just scared, and when I get scared, I skitter like a nervous little bug."

She shuts down.

She spirals.

She tries to put a smile on her face for the people who love her all the same.

And then she lies awake at night, drowning in the sheets of an empty bed.

Thinking about how she should probably tell someone that everything hurts.

But she’s Frankie, and she doesn’t do that.

Grace perpetually convinces herself that she doesn’t deserve honesty; Frankie has come to fear that no one wants her own.

“Were you scared of me?” Grace asks quietly, her grip so tight now that it almost stings.

“Frankie…” She presses when a few heartbeats of silence stagger by, limping painfully on all fours, pronouncing so many unspoken and profound hurts. 

“Of losing you, Grace,” she confesses, the words defeated and scraped raw. She forcefully tugs her hand away from Grace's just to temple her own hands together on her lap, to lick her sundry and shining wounds in a private corner. “I was scared of losing you, of being alone again in this big, empty house… and I don’t like being alone.”

She can’t bear to look at Grace as she says it, staring at the paint-flecked floor without ever really seeing it, her eyes burning.

She wishes they’d stop burning but feels the precise moment when they begin to leak anyway.

It’s all so embarrassing.

And childish.

Frankie is an eighty-year old woman, and she shouldn’t be upset over her best friend having a goddamn life.

She should be happy for her, fucking ecstatic.

And yet, she's—

But before she can complete the miserable thought, her body becomes aware of another sensation entirely—warm arms enveloping her from the side and inexorably pulling her in, turning the space that once existed between two bodies—between them—intangible, negligible.

Grace.

Shock turns into realization, and realization transforms into aching, sweeping relief.

It can only be Grace.

Grace’s soft lips pressed to her cheek.

Grace’s fingertips curling into the fabric of her dress.

Grace’s nose against her neck as she slides her sharp chin across her shoulder.

“I’m not leaving you, Frances Bergstein,” she declares. “Whatever happens between me and Nick, in the end, it’s going to be just you and me in this house that is our damn home. I swear that to you. I’d tell you every day just to prove it to you.”

Oh, these words.

These beautiful, tender, and long-needed-to-hear words.

They’re just words, she could tell herself again.

She could lie.

She could convince herself if she had to.

She could conveniently forget that Grace Hanson uses language carefully, that she employs every sentence with scalpel-like precision.

Or... more complicatedly still... Frankie could believe her.

Frankie could blindly accept these words for what they are, as manifest confirmation that she is loved by another—prioritized and cared for and needed.

She could be Grace’s partner and let that incredible word be electrically charged with so many complex and ridiculous and extraordinary ideas, none of which are traditional, and all of which feel true.

She could believe in her even if belief is not simple, even if belief is a product, first and foremost, of trust.

And Grace has certainly lost her trust before, but goddammit, she's earned it so many times, too.

“Oh, God,” Frankie laughs in such a way that it’s stupidly clear that she’s crying as Grace rubs slow circles into her back with her thumb. “This is all messed up. You’re the one with a house arrested, tax evading husband. I should be the one comforting you.”

“The house arrested, tax evading husband doesn’t particularly faze me,” Grace chuckles, her voice low. “Seeing you hurting and upset does. My priorities are remarkably straight.”

“I’m not sure you know the meaning of that word,” she smiles weakly as they slowly and clumsily begin to extricate themselves from their tangled embrace. 

It’s hard to find themselves again.

To be apart.

“But I do,” Grace protests, emphatic and indignant and maybe even a few shades righteously pissed. “You’re the person I wanna share this crazy life with at the end of the day and every day. Why is that so hard to believe?”

“Because every day is an incredibly long time to be with me,” Frankie offers meekly, giving her one more perfect and easily acceptable copout, a neatly packaged excuse. 

She can be too much.

She knows this.

“It’s just the right amount of time to be with you,” Grace murmurs, reaching up to brush an errant tear away from Frankie’s cheek, her thumb lingering, her quivering palm. “You’re kind enough to love me, and I’m lucky enough to be loved by you... so let me return the favor, Frankie. Let me be here for you."

And to Grace’s credit in this fleeting moment, she continues to hold Frankie.

It's a promise to never let her go.

#grace and frankie #grace hanson #frankie bergstein #grace x frankie #grace and frankie spoilers #reginianwrites #s: grace and frankie

[literaryfic]

Chapters: 5/? Fandom: 빈센조 | Vincenzo (TV) Rating: Explicit Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Vincenzo Cassano | Park Joo Hyeong/Hong Cha Young Characters: Hong Cha Young, Vincenzo Cassano | Park Joo Hyeong Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, vincenzo leaves, set five years after he left sk, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, vincenzo and cha-young are exes, they were in a relationship before, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Jealousy, Exes, Getting Back Together, Not Canon Compliant, i wrote this before ep 20, Canon-Typical Violence, Smut

Summary: Oh, how Cha-young wishes she could forget the past five years. Now that her anger has faded, she remembers clearly why she sealed herself in it; after anger comes sorrow, something she’s not sure she can overcome.

And just like the never-ending revolution of the Earth around the Sun causes the perpetual change of seasons — when flowers bloom after the frost melts and Spring follows Winter —, Cha-young finds herself knocking on Vincenzo’s door. They were two supernovas meant to collide and, although Cha-young wasn’t quite sure whether the impact would annihilate them or create a new form of life, she didn’t care.

“Who the fuck do you think you are, Park Joo-hyung?”

He opens the door, letting her in. She marches on, the door closing in a thump behind her. She turns to face him, his jaw is set. Both of them follow the familiar steps of a tango they’ve danced before, playing the part of an opera they know the end to.

“How dare you threaten and intimidate someone close to me?” She screams.

“Is that what he told you? Did he mention the phone call—”

“This has nothing to do with your behaviour!”

“Of course it fucking has, Cha-young-ah” Vincenzo is losing his temper too, and for the first time since they’ve met again, he’s yelling.“That bastard’s cheating on you, for fuck’s sake! Did you just expect me to pretend I didn’t hear anything? I thought you said we should be friends. That’s what friends do.”

“Whether he’s cheating on me or not, that’s none of your business. And I take it back, I don’t want to be your friend, I don’t want to be your anything. Leave me alone.” Cha-young’s index finger is pointing at him, and suddenly she realises how close they’ve gotten in the heat of their argument. She’s flushed, anger shading her cheeks red.

“You’re the one who came to me.” He whispers.

She can feel his breath on her face, and it’s taking everything in her to not look at his lips. His intoxicating scent is making her feel dizzy. She bites the inside of her cheek, the sharp pain bringing her back to her senses. She takes a step back.

“Because you think you can just waltz into my life as you please, Vincenzo.” She’s not looking at him anymore, the edge in her voice softened.

“If that were true, we both know very well that your little boyfriend would be dead by now.” His lips curl. His tone might be playful but she’s not sure he doesn’t mean it.

He’s looking at her and Cha-young knows he’s trying to make peace. He’d never liked to argue with her in the past, and he especially hated screaming matches. To everyone else, Vincenzo was intransigent, intimidating or even frightening. However, during their relationship, and although he’d been stubborn, he’d always been strangely compromising. She started the fights and he ended them. He would crack a joke, apologise and kiss her hand. He would burrow his face in her neck, wrap his arms around her waist and mouth ‘Forgive me’ against her skin. She’d feign resistance until he’d start tickling her. Then, they’d laugh together, forgetting about why they fought in the first place.

Oh, how Cha-young wishes she could forget the past five years. Now that her anger has faded, she remembers clearly why she sealed herself in it; after anger comes sorrow, something she’s not sure she can overcome. Submerged by a wave of melancholy, she can’t hold back the truth anymore.

“He’s not my boyfriend.” Vincenzo’s eyes widen, he’s stunned. A few seconds pass, and it doesn’t look like he’s going to say anything, so she goes on. “I lied. I’m here with my employees, he’s my personal assistant.”

Finally, the weight of her words strikes him. “Why did you lie to me?” He asks quietly, his face unreadable. Was it so foolish of her to search for relief in his eyes?

She swallows the lump in her throat. “What, so you could see how pathetic I was without you?”

There it is.

In a few seconds, the man she loved would realise she’d always been nothing more than an empty shell on the shore, discarded by the seas. All her life, Cha-young had been abandoned by the people she cherished. Whether it was intentional or not, it seemed that no one stuck around for long. Contrary to what one might think, her father had been the first one to go. He’d stayed out late, prioritised his clients over his family and avoided them. Then, her mom had gone, her loss altering Cha-young’s life and identity so profoundly she had began to think of herself as split in two — pre-death Cha-young, the one who had been naïve and hopeful, and post-death Cha-young, the jaded and bitter adult who had designed her life around self-preservation. Later, when her dad passed away, abandoning her for the second time, she had promised herself that she wouldn’t let anyone leave ever again. She had wanted to protect those around her: the tenants, Babel’s victims’ families, the innocent.

Slowly, her partnership with Vincenzo turned into something deeper, into something more. She’d prepared herself, readying her heart; he would leave soon. But everything changed when he sealed the promise of forever with a kiss— or so she thought. Cha-young realised a heartbeat too late that she had mistaken an oath of love for an act of war; she had taken him prisoner, put him in shackles and thrown away the key.

Odysseus, the legendary hero set on an epic journey, had accidentally landed on Ogygia, and Calypso, the troubled nymph, had fallen in love with him. How could she not, when he was strong and beautiful, and she was lonely in her exile? She had held him captive as long as she could, but she had no claim over him, and the devastating sadness she had felt after he had escaped was laughable. He had deserted her, the last remains of their love piercing her heart like shards of glass.

“You’re not pathetic.” Vincenzo said firmly, interrupting her thoughts.

Cha-young turned away from him. “Drop it.”

“No. None of this is your fault, Cha-young-ah.” He closed the distance between them, and she could feel him right behind her. “I wanted to tell you later but— I legally changed my name to Park Joo-hyung. Wanna know why?”

“Because it was obnoxiously hard to pronounce?” Her attempt at diversion doesn’t work.

Instead, Vincenzo grips her arms and presses his forehead against her shoulder blades. She’s still not facing him, compelling herself to not look at him or touch him or feel him against her.

“I hated it so much that just hearing it made me sick. I hated myself, Cha-young-ah. Not because of the murders, the torture or all the atrocities I’ve committed— no.” He laughs wryly. “It’s because of what I did to you. Leaving you is the one sin I can’t seem to forgive myself for. And that is pathetic.”

She holds her breath. One. Two. Three. She faces him. Red eyes, hollow cheeks, desperation carving deep lines on his forehead. He looks like a tormented devil.

“What do you want, Vincenzo?” Cha-young whispers, an echo of the past.

Slowly, he locks his eyes on her. Those eyes, she thinks, they’re back.

“To repent.”

One. Two. Three. Cha-young grabs his face and kisses him. At first, Vincenzo stays still, hesitant. She’s about to break the kiss, reality catching up to her, when he opens his mouth and slips his tongue in hers. His hands grip her waist, bringing her closer, bringing her in. Her heart is beating so loudly she can’t hear herself think — or maybe she gave up on thoughts, and now she only feels. She feels him flush against her, she feels his hands; they burn her, leaving the imprint of him all over her body. God, how she had missed him.

There is no romance between them, only a visceral need to possess each other again. Soon enough, they’re on the bed, Cha-young on his lap, her hands pulling his hair so hard he hisses. Vincenzo bites her lower lip as retaliation and she rolls her hips against his erection, staring at him. He moans, head thrown back. Cha-young’s right hand cups his jaw firmly, making sure he’s looking at her. She wants to watch him fall apart, unravel under her touch.

“Take off your clothes.” What she asks, he does — rather awkwardly, she has to move off of him as he gets up, discarding his clothes on the ground without a care. He gets back on the bed from which she’d been watching him strip, lying next to her, completely naked. Their five years apart have somehow made him hotter, his upper body more toned, his biceps firmer. She counts a total of six or seven new scars, one of them still pink-ish and swollen. She reaches out, her finger following the gash running from his navel to his lower abdomen. He gasps when she doesn’t stop where the scar does — she continues on her way, surely, and takes him in her hand.

Vincenzo’s heavy breathing guides her movements, telling her when to stroke faster, when to slow down, when to twist. She stops right before he’s about to come, and the frustration in his eyes turns her on more than anything her last fling ever did.

“Don’t stop.” He asks, going in for a kiss.

Cha-young puts her hand on his mouth, “Tonight, I’m in charge, Joo-hyung-ah.”

His eyes light up and he smiles, “Yes, ma’am.”

Slipping out of her dress in no time, she climbs on top of him, taking his hands in hers and putting them above his head. There’s something thrilling about having him at her mercy, vulnerable under her. He’s hard against her thigh, and although he’s not talking, she hears his silent plea. Slowly, she sits on his cock, savouring the pleasant stretch; he feels so good, and her so full, at last.

“Oddio!” On his lips, God’s name becomes a curse.

She keeps a slow pace, it takes time to revisit a long-lost lover after all. She rolls her hips, turns, bounces. Once she’s figured out how to pleasure herself, she moves faster. Closing her eyes, she frees his left hand and puts it on her breast. Vincenzo is nothing if not an eager disciple trying to prove his worth, and so he caresses her enthusiastically, his thumb brushing against her hardened nipple. What a good boy, she thinks, before pressing her body against his, engulfing him in a kiss.

His hand finds her hair, cascading down her naked back. She kisses him everywhere — his lips, his cheeks, his neck. She needs to have him whole, to consume all of him, so she can keep him in her forever. She feels a familiar warm building up inside of her, but she’s not ready for it to be over yet. She stops bouncing on him abruptly and his eyes fly open, irked. She intertwines their fingers, and whispers, “Look at me.” Once again, he obeys her command, his eyes roaming her face, her breasts, her thighs. They go up and down, taking her in, devouring her. She feels hot under his gaze, and she picks up the pace. He parts his mouth, whimpering faintly. He thrusts back into her hard, and they find the right rhythm. Soon enough, Cha-young is there, right there, a white-hot flash of pleasure overwhelming all her senses.

“Cazzo!” He must have come too then. Fuck, indeed.

Cha-young is still on top of him, Vincenzo still inside of her. She rests her head against his chest, their flushed skin sticky with sweat. He’s playing with her hair absentmindedly, still trying to catch his breath. She looks up at him, and they kiss again, but this time it’s different. She feels it all, his longing, how much he’s missed her, how scared he is that this is all a dream. In this moment, she can’t tell where she ends and where he starts. She’s never been closer to him, never understood him as much as she does now.

Were the tears on her lips hers or his? The time for questions will come later, right now there’s only them, together — an ever-lasting moment they stole from the Fates.

#vincenzo #chayenzo #chayenzo fic #my fic #vincenzo fic

[anti-endings]

I’m fairly sure at this point that Naruto is more or less fascist propaganda. There are so many things that we as a fandom want to turn a blind eye to yet when SNK was called out for being fascist, we had no problem boycotting it because it wasnt an anime that we’d come to love throughout our childhood. Unfortunately Naruto was a lot more subtle and pulled a fast one on us towards the end - 14/15 years after its initial release. 

Theres a lot of intricate reasons as to why I’d call it fascist but I’ll list the general points to be made that everyone can easily recognize. 

• Genocide for the good of the nation. This one is pretty obvious but I thought I’d get it out of the way. Slaughtering possible defectors of the state is apparently an honourable and justified choice. Even if some members of the oppressed minority were completely unaware of their leaders planned coup or had no desire to revolt against the system, each and every single one of them apparently deserved death. 

• Brainwashing children into military violence goes completely unquestioned by the narrative. The only people who challenge this idea are portrayed as “hateful.” The best example of this is how the narrative feels the need to emphasize that Itachi murdering his clan was his own decision. I just find it awfully strange that we’re expected to believe that a 13 year old, who was sent to fight in a bloody war for his country when he was just a toddler and was shown to suffer from severe PTSD, apparently wasnt brainwashed with threats of war on his impressionable child brain when he was already completely numb to the concept of killing people. Itachis history details the story of a brainwashed child soldier yet goes to great efforts to brush it aside and give Itachi the autonomy that he never actually had. On a meta level it’s pretty messed up that Itachis actions as a result of his brainwashing, was praised by Hashirama Senju - the ultimate force of ��peace” who founded the village and “the will of fire” that were so expected to admire. 

• Consistent denial of blatant military violence. In the manga, the truth about the Uchiha massacre is covered up by Naruto, Sasuke and eventually Sakura to “maintain honour of the Uchiha.” This makes absolutely no logical sense whatsoever. How is it more honourable to say that a clan was slaughtered by a rogue criminal of their own (further perpetuating the selfish, bloodthirsty and power-hungry stereotype) when the truth is that an oppressed group of people were slaughtered off by the government? How can an act of genocide be prevented by a future government when the truth is actively censored by the governemnt? Neither Naruto nor Sasuke did anything to implement some sort of bill of human rights, laws or Geneva conventions in honour of Uchiha to prevent more innocent bloodshed at the hands of the state.

• Ultranationalism at every opportunity. The village is literally gated off. No one enters or leaves without permission from authority. The unification of the village under the statist military + the slaughter of any and all potential defectors is pretty telling. Its scary that “the will of fire” and protecting the state is the only honourable and good goal/ideology to have in this series as shown by Sasuke only ever being seen as “not evil” when he is beaten down into conforming to the government.

• Evil is in the genetics of the oppressed. This was pretty unsettling to witness and I’m surprised there havent been more people speaking out about it. Ideologies are inherited not just by fate, but by your genetics. The Senju-Uzumaki obviously have “The will of fire” which is known to be the supreme ideology. It consists of uniting and enduring the hardships of the world under the totalitarian government but NEVER pursuing revolution or change for the better. “The curse of hatred” is its counterpart which has its origins exclusively to the Uchiha. Its explained to be Uchiha culture to some degree. The narrative very desperately tries to paint the pursuit of revolution to prevent more violence as evil, bloodthirsty and selfish. This, in reality, makes no sense. Why are the Uchiha hateful for trying to fix a situation for the better of their family yet somehow the senju arent characterized by hatred despite openly hating the Uchiha? Simply put, the Uchiha are GENETICALLY undesirable and their push for equal rights are characterized as hateful, selfish and lonely. In reality, Madara Uchiha would not become a rogue ninja who decides to attack the entire village including his own family with Kurama because he could not get equal rights for the Uchiha. This doesnt add up with why he was so angry in the first place. Non of the “bloodthirsty” actions of any Uchiha do. They’re a fictional race of people that are only evil by the design of the author to portray oppressed people as selfish and aggressive. Towards the end of the fourth war, the story of Ashura and Indra is told to Naruto and Sasuke. Indra is apparently the original Uchiha who was influenced by some deranged evil spirit to pursue power over unification for completely selfish purposes. This is very unfairly equated to Sasuke and the rest of the Uchiha clan to explain to audience that the Uchiha are inherently evil and selfish detractors. 

• To be a revolutionary is to be lonely. This ties into my last point. Sasuke is constantly referred to as lonely by just about everyone in the cast, Naruto especially. This has always been bothersome because Sasuke wouldnt have been lonely if his entire clan wasnt slaughtered by the very same people that Naruto stands by. This point is incredibly simple yet its overlooked because the anti-uchiha propaganda is so successful in what it sets out to do. To add onto this point, what if Naruto had simply said to Sasuke “I believe you have every right to bring the murderer of your clan to justice and I’ll stand by your right to justice every step of the way” instead of physically fighting him and screaming at him all the time? Sasuke isnt inherently lonely exclusively by his own means, he is alienated by everyone around him. The narrative acknowledges Sasukes emotional unfulfillment, IGNORES the real reason why hes lonely and then states that the only way that Sasuke will find a sense of family through the acceptance of his peers is if he conforms to the government and adopts the hegemonic ideology…. after “repenting” for ever daring to get justice for his clan in the first place. This eerie emotional blackmail is completely normalized and unquestioned by the narrative. It sends a harrowing message to the audience that it’s more desirable and fulfilling to conform to the government despite their poor treatment of your people and should you question otherwise, you must repent for forgiveness. 

• The leader of the village is the most powerful member of the military, who is chosen exclusively through nepotism by a rich man who owns the land instead of the people, and is in power for an indeterminate length of  time. Again with the military obsession! Not even necessarily the best military commander or anyone with experience in any leadership position at all. This is partly fascist due to the fact that theres no limitations on what a Kage can do to their village, they’re selected through nepotism and not democracy and they’re in power for as long as they please no matter how the public feel. The leader is not necessarily someone who is shown to be compassionate, responsible, trustworthy, intelligent or reliable. In fact, you could be a known, unpersecuted war criminal like Danzo and still get the position. 

• To add on to that, war criminals in the Government or Military go completely unpersecuted and often unpunished - as shown by Danzo and the village elders. The village elders are still in the same position during the events of Boruto as they were in over 20 years ago when they conspired to execute the Uchiha massacre. Naruto and Sasuke know of their involvement yet havent held them accountable in any way. 

• Child soldiers are sent to die for the government. It seems that only Obito notices this when Rin dies. The second he becomes critical of the fact of this reality is the second he becomes “hateful” and “evil." 

Theres plenty more but I’ve already spent an hour typing this up and checking over every little detail. Generally speaking, much like SNK, the theme of Naruto is to just simply ENDURE hardship, stay loyal to your government at all costs even if they cause the hardship and NEVER revolt. Naruto as a character serves as the purpose of being as reductive as possible to every single character that faces hardship with "I too was lonely and oppressed but I coped by worshipping the government for a sense of emotional validation and you can too!" 

#anti naruto #anti konoha #submission