#because it's a cyclic feeling at the end of it too
Note
I've been bingeing your art in this blog for, like, the last hour. Sooo much good stuff!
Can we hear more about notable members of the Cult? Cheese Parm's s/o and such
cult info below cut b/c i'm gonna be typing a lot;
Everyone listed here are basically the main runners/cast when it comes to plot relevance in the story in itself. there are plenty of cast & characters that aren't- but they wont pop up for anything other than background characters perhaps staring on in horror at god antics or one another's antics.
we'll start from the top;
GALLOWS [ girlyed cheese ]
the most recent member of the cult to be saved specifically by the lamb themself from sacrifice within Darkwood.
a lot of cult conflict will begin with the uninitiated, the unknowing. and the influence of the twin gods will be seen on her in real time as the story progresses.
she is generally a very generic playful-but-tricky fox character, but there's a lot she hides; much like the rest of the cult members. her past is not happily talked about, or seldom is.
she was a native to Darkwood. She is chaotic because of it.
she was meant to be burned at the stake.
EKPYROSIS [ asbestos ]
This word derives from a Greek word for a great fire. It represents a belief held by some scholars of Stoicism, that says that the universe has no beginning or end, and instead is destroyed and remade in a great conflagration in a cyclic manner. Just as life & death ever are.
Her name stands out among the rest of the cult because it was the name that the Lamb bestowed upon her upon being given the title of disciple. Just as Narinder took Baal & Aym to learn from him, the Lamb took her.
Her previous name is not known to anyone mind the Lamb themself, Narinder, and cheese parm.
She is more inclined to using and being influenced by the eldritch artifacts & relics the Lamb or Narinder tend to return with.
She leaves an uneasy and terrible 'uncanny valley' feeling tenfold within her vicinity, which makes her hard to be around. It is not just being outright creepy- but it's a lot more akin to literally feeling reality dip and bow around you into something not quite right.
She does not move like a normal person. The way she walks, runs, jumps- it's all too impossible to replicate without someone shattering every bone in their body.
When she speaks, her voice is delayed from her mouth. And it doesn't always line up perfectly.
most notably; cheese parm hates her. for good reason.
OTHERA [ bong water ]
An average cult member on the surface. They are a caretaker, they are matronly, they work as the local therapist. Generally just likes taking care of people.
When the Lamb, Disciples, & Narinder aren't around to listen to confessionals in the booth they are typically who does.
It's an unspoken rule to not make them angry or let them get to '1' when they start counting down from 5.
He is typically known for the reason morale is good. A good shoulder to rely on.
He is the third oldest member of the cult, resurrected multiple times over to serve his purpose, next to cheese parm & his sister. they are also the only one that asbestos seems to actively fear besides cheese parm.
EUNOMIA [ they/theminem ]
Eunomia was a minor goddess of law and legislation, whose name means "Good Laws", and is specifically a goddess of order according to good governance.
The second disciple. Known for learning the use of the Lamb's personally created curses specifically, though does know the ones Narinder passed on. They do not deem themselves worthy enough to use those.
Generally a very angry & spiteful person for a multitude of reasons. It mostly comes down to 'bearer of the curse' and the curse being knowledge.
They are the only one really permitted to 'backtalk' due to how much they actually do know their place.
they are very heavily disciplined under the rule of self-flagellation, and know the tenants and rites better than anyone else in the cult. even the head ritualist.
as said on paper. cheese parm's s/o. the significantly scarier one. they have not had a reason to be scary in a good couple hundred years! don't make them start now.
has 2 adopted kids w/ cheese parm they raise.
PANKRATIAST [ cheese parm ]
The Pankration is a sport of unarmed combat that featured in the ancient Olympic Games in Greece. This specific association fits as he's specifically an unarmed fighter first and foremost.
While not a disciple, is considered one generally in 'importance' to the higher ups of the cult. While he is no more important than Gallows, Othera, Minced Meat, or any other average member- he has the veteran's respect.
Was given a name by the Lamb, and since he does not speak, it's not like he can correct anyone otherwise.
well. doesn't talk. only ever communicates in vague grunts and noises that voice displeasure or a neutral 'ok'
Generally considered stoic, he does not feel strongly about most things.
The village executioner. The head missionary. Bartender. Does all the jobs no one else wants to do, and even others when no one else does it.
Smells of gore & wet dog constantly.
Knows. Remembers. Knows why death is broken, knows how it broke, will not tell Lamb or Narinder. He is a Witness.
Knows all the weaponry the Lamb uses & can use it just as effectively on a physical level.
The first of the flock. Will be there even when there is no more flock to have. As it will ever be, pinkie promised back in the Silk Cradle back where he was first found.
ILONA [ taco bell qsdea ]
a specialist in alchemy, cooking, & plants. Tends to the farms, gardens, & warding stones.
The first of the cult members Narinder warmed up to directly after descension. They brought him food every day, they gave him supplies, and other than the Lamb- they were the first to not be terrified of him.
They are very blind and often need a guide when they are not allowed to use their clicks and noises to find the way.
They are immune to Gallows' tricks and run off of the 'fae logic' of most things.
Their name means 'joy'. A name they decided on after speaking to Narinder for a time.
The first cult members recruited directly after Narinder's descension.
Immune to the horrors Somehow. There is something hiding behind those big ol eyes
Can fly. They have wings attached to their arms, and for it, require special clothes.
will be involved a lot in narinder plots
MINCED MEAT [ childbirth gambino ]
head cook but kind of as a threat. the lamb put them there for a reason. they are pretty mid.
constantly paranoid and in a state of fear or unease. Does not sleep because of it, and instead compulsively cooks almost all day and night.
most random screeches or noises in the cult come from this little guy
absolutely scared shitless of the Lamb.
The first Dissenter since the Lamb's ascension. They were made an example of. Now they will never. They have seen god's wrath, and would rather die.
narinder likes to bully this thing by hissing at him in the night
attached to beansnesed'd bsbisebies hip when in the chapel or out and about.
the prime example of 'the lamb is not a good person.'
ALOPE [ deep dish pizza ]
cheese parm's little sister. and borderline clone. she copies everything he's done up until adulthood when she started to become her own person. though it's been hundreds, if not thousands of years, she's still trying to figure out who she is.
made a pinkie promise to the lamb, just like cheese parm, to always be there. and she has!
ripped as fuck. like, more than cheese parm. huge. absolute beast thing.
the lamb prevented a fated death in her, the first time he ever did so, and for it her title is technically 'Saint Alope' within the cult for being the act of a miracle.
like her brother, never speaks vocally, never shows her face. gets across feelings through vague grunts. uses sign language where cheese parm does not.
the fastest in the cult. rivals narinder in base speed without using necklaces or unnatural abilities.
uses two ritual dirks or daggers at any given point, throwing knives, things of that sort. protects the village next to cheese parm, and you'll never hear her coming. totally, absolutely silent.
#cult lore#cotl oc#i also have a guy names lady gagita but you guys will have to meet them through the plot eventually they're a bit too sppoillery#edit: added my cheese parm playlist
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Pick a 🪟 for a yes or a no -
It will be good if you could feel your question for a few seconds before deciding which one, however, I will try to give context to whatever question has been stuck in your energetic field if you feel confused about the question, because I personally don’t know my questions or I can’t find a way out to what exactly it is that I want to know and it’s a turn off when a yes or no reading can’t answer it lol. So hope you find yours from mine :).
Window 1
Context- You are confused about multiple things it’s not just 1 or 2 but you find yourself in the middle of nowhere. It could be that you’re thinking so much that you’ve taken responsibility of feeling for others too. It’s your life so you should solely take decisions for yourself and not for others. Other’s expectation of you should not bother you,at all. Have trust and faith in your capabilities, because if you doubt yourself or keep questioning your existence then a shark is waiting to eat you up. Another interpretation is that you should take your time to explore all the options given to you and then you can finally decide which one will best suit you in long run. Life is cyclical in nature, so you need to be visionary, this decision can’t be taken with less invested thoughts or energy.
It’s a no. You should let this situation pass with the perspective that you need to let it go for something better to knock at your door. It is probably not in alignment with your growth.
Window 2
Context- Hmmm so whether it’s a relationship or a project, you have been evaluating your progress so far that you have reached a plateau (break/pause/boring monotonous please) in it. You can take a break but don’t end it. Every relationship requires hard work and patience and giving up or ending things is not the option always. Give the relationship enough time to heal and grow so you can get back into it with passion. Every fruit takes time to grow, you don’t want to pluck it before it’s ripe so have patience because things are still in progress even if you feel it’s not. The person on your mind still loves you even if you feel that you are on a break. Have hope and trust in what you once had.
It’s a yes. You seem to have lost hope but if you look back, everything had been good, it was beautiful and it will continue to be this way in future. If it’s about a person, then they’ve helped you get through both the good and bad times,so don’t think of ending things with them. Stay rooted where you are in life.
Window 3
Context- It’s about getting close to someone either in a platonic or a romantic sense. It has best friends to lovers vibe. Deepening of a relationship or levelling up in a relationship. There’s celebration with like minded individuals. If you were feeling scattered and lost, that you’ve waited too long for the night to pass by and now the sun can finally be seen on the horizon, there’s happiness and vitality in the future for you. Your health is improving. If you wanted to get pregnant then it’s happening. A new phase is beginning in your life. The thing you waited for can likely happen around the new moon. This is the time for divine union with unification, completion and wholeness as key words. It’s like when sun and moon together can be seen in the sky (it’s called syzygy), the union of opposites and the whole world falls in awe upon their union, that kind of happiness is entering into your life. It’s so beautiful.
It’s a FULL BLOWN YES!!! Be open to experience it!
#tarotblr#tarot#tarot reading#divination#pac#pick a pile#tarot witch#witch#pick a card#tarot community
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// csm 163 spoilers but
have mentioned earlier the unusual gravity of the gendered references the past few chapters. eyepatch's mini-monologue around adultery, the possessed woman-icon equation (for example: fans engaging with denji, barem engaging with makima. the idol whose purity is valued). on screen again we see marriage mentioned in reference to an idol.
"kissing and sex count as adultery," the fan claims. constraining certain forms of intimacy as explicitly meaningful within gendered structure ---- here made present rules -- the same rules governing relationships that nayuta in her role as control and also the location of [family] sets down in order for denji to bring the Woman (asa) home. the same rules that yoru violates for asa through the kiss, the kiss that's overwritten out of narrative by control's memory modification.
"i can't sleep at night, suicidal thoughts" this torment experienced by the fan. gendered structure renders asa outside the narrative frame and we see her discuss her darkest thoughts with yoru. viewing this alongside her concurrent inability to occupy the protagonist role, her emptiness when confronted with denji (associated with her through gender role "boyfriend"/"csm's woman") makes this feel significant. she is pushed into the role of the fan.
"i keep asking myself who to blame." - the requisition of blame and justice that underly conversations with both yuko and eyepatch. and asa's cat and criminal. who will she next weaponise? who will yuko channel her anger at the system through? external assignment of blame.
the channel concludes that the proof of adultery is someone's editing & ends up believing in the idol. this idolatry obscures the horrific news of the everyday. becomes a wholesome story of sorts -- Horror because narrative construction is sth fjmt problematises. they all feel like they're dreaming when confronted with the narrative absurdity of it! it confounds them. an analogue can be drawn here between denji not showing up for the date, & nayuta's memory editing.
it hints at something, something perhaps even commenting metatextually on how the fandom views asa & denji's relationship. i'm not sure if this means anything re: the story's direction in itself. but i think dreams are important because they occur in consonance with the In world narrative (of blame, of storytelling) & this is something kiga employs with hunger too!
also thinking about how these dreams are dealt with in this chapter. this is more of a tonal observation but i find it interesting how their cacophonies jarr against each other, one after another, a hollowness and unfinishedness that frustrates. this culminates in ball kicking -- a reiteration of part one: there an easy revenge based upon himeno's death, a revenge of apportioning blame, of externalities. here the violence is turned upon the idolised body of the CSM, denji -- all within a space that conjures up similarities to the eternity devil arc: making manifest the cyclical form inherent to chainsaw man's themes.
#crow.txt#a little tired but i really wanted to talk about this chapter. hope it makes sense lol#csm 163#chainsaw man#csm meta
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What 2023 taught you? {A Nostalgic Hit!} 🎯👀
Pick A Pile Reading
(Left to Right- Pile 1, Pile 2, Pile 3)
Hey, Senstea Souls!
Welcome to another collective reading. Here you'll get a glimpse of the year 2023 and what it taught you. Also, a tip for 2024 is given at the end of each pile. I hope you find the reading helpful!🤍
Please DM me for personal reading.
Booking Form|Rate Card
A Nostalgic Hit! + One Line Guidance For 2024
Pile 1
Tarot Cards- King of Wands, The Wheel of Fortune, 10 of Pentacles, Page of Wands, The World, 5 of Pentacles
Animal Spirit- Beaver
Well, pile 1 I see that this year has taught you to come out of the cyclical nature of your mind. This year taught you to be more focused and detail-oriented. It showed you intricate details especially when you were struggling. At the beginning of the year, you were okay with being in a box, in your own tiny space. But the scope for your growth became stagnant. You may have had anger outbursts. The dream you had somehow shattered because a new dream was emerging. You were coming out of your cocoon. Achieving goals became impossible to imagine. But you were divinely pushed to have hope and keep believing in the impossible even though it seemed delusional. And as the year started to approach its end you started to see some clarity. Without knowing you become the master at what you do. Something didn't work out the way you wanted it to but it worked out completely different from your imagination. Some of you may also have felt stuck in family dynamics and now I see healing in that area. You fought so many battles within a year. You broke more than one cycle this year. Wow! You were being prepared for the ultimate abundance that you deserve. Something in your DNA needed to be changed. Something significant happened during April, May, and August. No matter what you did you found yourself coming out of one circle to entering into another one. But now this cyclical process is over! You did it! You learned the importance of planning and understanding life as a whole. You learned the true value of actions and what's the best way to make long-term plans work. Some of you were looking for financial stability which impacted you emotionally. But now I see you are almost out of the lack phase and are entering into the phase of abundance.
One line tip for the next year:
Tarot Cards- 4 of Swords, 3 of Pentacles, Knight of Cups
Don't settle for breadcrumbs or stay in a relationship more than you should. (Strong Earth energy I can sense.) There's a soulmate out there waiting for you to come out of the relationship trauma.
Get your 2024 blueprint and be extra prepared for what's coming. (With Remedies/Recommendations)
3 Months- $10
6 Months- $20
9 Months- $30
12 Months- $40
DM me to book your reading!
Pile 2
Tarot Cards- Temperance, The Hierophant, 7 of Cups, 6 of Pentacles, 8 of Cups, The World
Animal Spirit- Owl
Hello, my dear pile 2. I see that 2023 taught the true meaning of give and take. It taught you how to balance. It taught you that you too deserve to receive love and effort. It taught you to walk away from anything that is not helping you grow or relationships that are keeping you stagnant. You learned the truth of selfless service. You can discern better when it comes to your emotional mind. Now you know what being at peace truly means. Something major might have happened around August. Perhaps, you found the courage to let go. You've freed yourself from always being in your head. You have learned so much that now you are capable of guiding others. You are finally gaining the light that shines within you. For some of you, I feel as though you have understood relationship and friendship dynamics pretty well there's still something lingering around that you need to deal with. There's something you still can't let go of or stop wishing for. There's a wish that you are attached to and you need to let go of the attachment. As soon as you become happy without the idea of having it you'll see it coming. This year brought you closer to spirituality but you still have a long way to go. I hear, “August slipped away like a bottle of wine 'cause you were never mine.” For some of you, I see that somewhere you still hope for someone to change. Perhaps, somewhere deep down you are pretending that you are over someone but you truly aren't. This year taught you a lot in terms of relationships and I hope you carry forward the lessons into the next year as well.
One line tip for the next year:
Tarot Card- Death
A spiritual transformation is coming your way. You may need to let go of something that might hurt you but it will be needed.
Get your 2024 blueprint and be extra prepared for what's coming. (With Remedies/Recommendations)
3 Months- $10
6 Months- $20
9 Months- $30
12 Months- $40
DM me to book your reading!
Pile 3
Tarot Cards- Queen of Pentacles, 8 of Swords, 6 of Swords, 5 of Cups, The World, King of Pentacles
Animal Spirit- Hyena
So my dear pile 3 I sense some conflict between your divine counterparts (Divine Feminine and Divine Masculine). Some of you may be questioning your identity. You thought you were over something but then suddenly this year made you realize that there's more to this world and there's more to you. It was uncomfortable for you to accept yourself. For you, there was no way out of this misery. The problem is that you let the situations define you, and others' opinions define you. You didn't move based on your choice but you moved or made a decision based on what others perceive of you so that you still can be loved. You were or still are trying to prove something to the world. I hear, “You make me glow but I cover up won't let it show.” I am sorry to say but I see that there's a huge lack of self-love here. And you are still making peace with yourself. You are still learning to accept yourself. But the good news is that this tough cycle is about to end as the Capricorn season ends in January. Slowly but steadily you'll be out of this mess. You will find the courage to take the action. You need to. And you must. This year taught you what it looks like to see and feel the truth. It might have been uncomfortable but was necessary for your growth. You've suffered on the soul level and it's time that you take the right action and not what the world deems right.
One line tip for the next year:
Tarot Card- The Star
Deep down you wish to love yourself and that wish is coming true. Stay true to yourself.
Get your 2024 blueprint and be extra prepared for what's coming. (With Remedies/Recommendations)
3 Months- $10
6 Months- $20
9 Months- $30
12 Months- $40
DM me to book your reading!
#life lessons#tarot reader#pick a pile tarot#pick a pile reading#pick a picture#pick a photo#pick a pile#tarot reading#tarot cards#tarotcommunity#tarotblr#free tarot reading#tarot readings#message for the collective#tarot witch#tarot#paid tarot readings#divine guidance#divine messages
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Hi I’m looking for fits where derek leaves beacon hills and stiles finds him living somewhere and somehow they end up together. Possibly in a bed. So…thanks?
Hi @rosplace! There are so many great ones.
You Have Reached... by isthatbloodonhisshirt (wasterella)
(1/1 I 5,074 I General)
“Why did you listen to the voicemails?”
“I like hearing you talk,” Derek said.
There were many things Stiles had been expecting after asking that question. That answer hadn’t been one of them.
“Any time we ever spoke before, it was always about what next problem we were facing and needed to solve. The voicemails are just you... talking.”
“Oh.” Stiles had never considered that.
A Growl-to-English Dictionary by churkey
(4/4 I 14,688 I Teen)
In which Derek finds his words and Stiles learns to growl.
it took new york to make me a cowboy by piratetattoos
(1/1 I 15,154 I Mature)
After Beacon Hills, Derek heads back to New York. He doesn’t look back, lest he be turned into a pillar of salt. He leaves it all behind, a monument, a tomb, a thousand fuck ups and betrayals left to gather dust and slowly rot away to nothing.
He read somewhere once, that time is cyclical, that the universe repeats over and over, and that he will be reborn and make the exact same mistakes over and over again, helpless to change anything. He thinks Stiles told him about a Vonnegut novel like that once.
He doesn’t think about Stiles.
*
(or: Derek leaves Beacon Hills, finds himself, and waits for Stiles to find him.)
Welcome To New York by Okaylittlebrother
(4/? I 36,657 I General)
Derek has been on Stiles' mind ever since he saw the werewolves initials in the library during Senior Scribe. He plans on attending NYU in the fall just to be close to him.
Come As You Are by Welsh_Woman
(16/16 I 55,684 I Teen)
Derek has finally found a bit of peace after the hell that was his return to Beacon Hills. He has a routine, a warm home, he even has a dog!
Then, one ordinary day, Stiles Stilinski shows up at his door with shoulders broader than he remembered, still carrying far too much.
Maybe Derek can share the peace he found and ease the burden that Stiles bears...
The Moon's Gonna Follow Me Home by turningterrific
(2/2 I 82,866 I Explicit)
Derek doesn’t want to call the window repair guy. He doesn’t want to sweep up the glass. He’ll inevitably miss a few shards and pull them out of the bottom of his bare feet for weeks.
He doesn’t want to try to make this place feel like home when it isn’t.
Derek stayed in Beacon Hills and tried to make it work because he wanted pack, wanted purpose. He gave his best effort and found himself back where he started: alone, with a few begrudging allies. He’s tired, and even though his werewolf body heals quickly, he feels the weary ache down to his center.
He packs his car with the few things he cares about enough to drag them from place to place. He locks the loft and calls a realtor about listing the building he’d bought in a misguided attempt to secure a future.
And then he leaves.
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mermaid!soap x ghost. Unfinished Drabble.
He speaks thrice a week. He has it down to the ticking of the clock in his hut, the one source of noise down there by the rocks aside the wave and the braver sea-birds. Every Monday when the sun crests the horizon he takes the long path down to the docks and stops by Price’s inn. He greets him with a fatherly grunt and a comment about the weather, cautious and concerned.
He doesn’t listen to any of Price’s warnings of bad weather, and Price knows it too.
Wednesday is the next time he hears his voice, when he takes the catch in. Gaz comes by and if he didn’t count the handful of responses he gave it still would because he speaks for an entire village. Tells him what feels like every detail of every man, woman and child’s business up and down the country. Trots beside him on the fussy beast of a creature he calls a horse and sticks like a burr to his backside all throughout the afternoon. Gaz minds his business when it comes to him, though.
The third and final time is in the dead of night. He walks up the craggy path with a lantern and waits for the moon to rise to light it. He settles on his knees in front of the gravestones, carved deep and true so their names don’t fade for years, and he talks. Inanities, comments and jokes, the happening around town. Old and new, he speaks and speaks and speaks until his throat bleeds and his knees cramp and he nearly tumbles off the cliff when he gets up at dawn. It’s a long ranting, raving speech, he’s sure he’d look entirely mad to anyone stupid enough to follow him up there. He doesn’t let them get a word in edgewise, but it burns in his head nonetheless as he makes his way down, unsteady as a fawn.
Mum wouldn’t be happy at all, she’d be right cross. She was never a fiery woman though, all sad-eyed looks and mournful sighs when she found wrong in the world. She’d fuss over the state of the hut and sit by his bedside, offering wet rags like he’s a lad and sick with a fever like she always did when she wanted to help him. She’d fuss about all of this silence, the loneliness of the ocean. She never did like it when he went quiet as a youth, saying that nothing was worse for the head than filling it full of thoughts left to rot. She’d wanted better for him then, wanted him to go to the city and find work there, leave the craggy cliffs that scraped the sea with their claws and left the great widow-maker to her own devices. She’d wanted him to take that butchery apprenticeship and pack away, leave behind the salt and spray rather than be one of the many non-people to sink among the waves.
Tommy would just be pissing mad, that is. He had their fathers temper, both of them when had to admit to himself in the quiet of the night. Tommy’s only flared brighter and hotter because he struck out at the world first, clawed at it for his place. Ever the older brother, determined to be the first. He had wanted out since the moment he heard of the city at all. He would’ve been miserable here.
He tries not to let it taint his days. It’s a losing battle, but his trade has settled in his bones now. He wakes and sleeps by the sounds of the tide and he’ll find himself at dawn with the taste of salt in his mouth. He keeps his boat towards the southernmost end, where the sea is as still as stone most days, silent quartz mirror broken by the gentlest of ripples. It reflects him, smoothing the turmoil in his head into quiet nothingness, clouds a blip on the surface of the water. Not once does he dip a finger in. There’s nothing under that calm surface but danger, he knows better than to try it.
He’s not married, and isn't interested in any of the girls that float though or anchor themselves in town. They don’t approach him often, eyeing him with caution. Better odds on picking the humble, inviting town boys than the silent, scarred fisherman. It doesn’t change a thing to him, even if Gaz and Price prod at him every once in a while.
Life is as it is, cyclic, endless in repetition, formation of a thousand possibilities in lockstep. The sun rises, yellow disc carelessly spilling over onto the ocean, flames at the bottom of his boat. The moon rises, perched high in the sky and watching over the rippling grasses. His name loses meaning, and he becomes that loss. Rumors rise and fall. Calm weather and storms trade turns, finding him unmoving as the cliff-stone.
It’s a silent day when the cyclic abruptly crawls to a halt. When the still, silent and waters of Ghost’s soul finds itself parted abruptly, tugged into a fierce upheaval. It comes without warning, without sense, swifter than any arrowhead and sharper than his knife. The apathy that colors his eyes vanishes when they meet his, all blues and greens like the ocean fed a bit of herself into two jewels and placed them for anyone to take in his head. It’s replaced so fast, Ghost doesn’t even notice. He doesn’t miss it, either.
One nameless day, the blue sheen of the water is cut by something, a foreign color that shimmers beneath the surface. He doesn’t recognize it immediately, that catches his eye more than any of its unusual features, blurred beneath the ripples of murky water and the shadow cast by his boat. It’s slow moving, placid, then it thrashes once the net covers it, but Ghost is used to being jerked around and bites down on his tongue and digs his heel in, cursing to himself as he hauls it’s struggling form inch by inch. It’s almost respectable how violently it fights for its life.
“I swear on the lord,” he snaps, twisting the net around his hands, the rope biting into his skin sharply, “I will gut you and eat you right bloody here right now, no matter how much you cost.”
That is novelty enough, the fourth time already breaking the ritual, the strange appearance of the thing in his net that seems more wide-fins and shiny scales wrapped up in a ball than any sort of dish he knows, but then at the sound of his rough cracking voice it stills Ike a frightened rabbit. He nearly falls over from the sudden slack before he recovers.
The net spills open onto the deck, the mistake suddenly so minuscule Ghost forgets the net even exists as the catch flops onto the deck. It’s no fish he’s ever heard of, no eight armed man eating beast that idiot Graves once bragged about catching himself.
It looks almost like a man, almost, head and hair and hands even, but it’s body extends, serpentine and scaled like a fish. It glistens with copper red scales and bright blues, fins sprouting from its skin like any other creature from the sea.
It looks up at Ghost, wide-eyed. Crystal blue, like sea-glass and the stones the town-men brought back from travels to adorn their brides throats, soft lips and nose.
The first thought, which is less of anything in any coherent language and more of an urge that builds in Ghost’s bones and tugs deep within him at his navel, is that he wants to touch it, cup its face into his hands and trace the contours of skin and scales and the boundaries where they blend and dance together. The second thought is that it’s trying to pull itself overboard.
The third thought is lost when he leaps forwards to bind it, cut off amid the clumsy scuffle.
#ghostsoap#cod#writing#drabbles/snippets#ghost#soap#simon ghost riley#johnny soap mactavish#soapghost#Gaz is a nickname#Only his mom calls him Kyle
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Okay headcanon time: So in Crisis Point Beckett says that Carol has "been a dick to her since she was eight", and my theory on that is that eight years old is when Beckett first started actually living on starships.
It makes sense to me that Starfleet would have an option for people with young children to live planet side and work at the academy for a bit if they wanted to, and I think Carol took that option and raised Beckett on Earth for the first few years of her life.
This is backed up by the fact that Carol is a captain while her husband is an admiral. Assuming that the two of them started in Starfleet around the same time and had mostly the same opportunities to rank up, Carol taking a long break on Earth to raise Beckett while her husband kept working on starships would explain their rank difference.
This would also explain some things about Carol and Beckett's dynamic.
Carol is functionally a single Mom for most of Beckett's early life. It's hard, but she does her best and she loves her daughter.
Then, when Beckett turns eight, Carol decides she's old enough for them to go back onto a starship (and for the sake of narrative we'll say it's the same ship Alonzo is on).
This results in a couple of things:
Carol's knowledge and expertise are suddenly taken less seriously than they were before because she's been away for so long.
Being on the ship also makes it much more apparent that while Carol was struggling to be a single Mom, Alonzo was taking those eight years to build his career and network. This is something she already knew intellectually and had supposedly accepted and agreed to, but being her husband's subordinate on the ship really hammers in the reality of it and brings up complicated feelings for her.
On top of all that, Beckett is struggling to adjust to their new environment and to her dad suddenly being around full-time (of course she is, she's eight!). She's acting out in response.
Alonzo's most regular interactions with his daughter before this took the form of evening video calls. As a result, he has no idea how to actually parent her or deal with her tantrums.
This leaves Carol to deal with Beckett's behavior, and while she loves her daughter she's frustrated.
Dealing with Beckett takes her away from her work regularly, and Beckett's poor behavior reflects badly on Carol. It's having a major impact on her ability to actually re-integrate into the ranks of Starfleet.
Carol responds to this by essentially taking it out on Beckett. She's not abusive or anything, but her parenting style absolutely does become harsher and stricter.
For Beckett, who is already adjusting to a lot, this sudden change in dynamic with her mom only makes things worse and she acts out more. The problem becomes cyclical and more extreme as she gets older, and eventually, you end up with the mother-daughter relationship we see in the show.
I also think this is backed up by some on-screen interactions with Alonzo during the series.
In the very first episode, Carol calls Alonzo and says "She's your daughter too!" In an attempt to get him to deal with Beckett and god, how many times have I heard other women say something similar about their husband's relationship with their children? You definitely don't get the impression that Alonzo pawning Beckett's behavioral issues off onto Carol is a new thing.
Then, in Grounded, Beckett and Alonzo have an exchange that basically boils down to "You listen to your mother more than you ever listen to me" which also makes some sense if Carol was a more consistent parental figure for Beckett in her early life.
Idk, I doubt we'll ever hear a lot about Beckett's childhood in the show itself, but based on what we do know this is the theory that makes the most sense to me.
#lower decks#star trek#star trek lower decks#st lwd#beckett mariner#lwd#carol freeman#Alonzo Freeman#also some of this is based on my own experience growing up in a maritime household#like I was hanging out on work boats at a pretty early age#but I wasn't allowed to go on them until I could swim#I can see starfleet parents making similar rules#like 'our kid can't be on a starship until they can put an environmental suit on by themselves in an emergency#+ I know from my mom that being the stay at home parent while your partner is off at sea very much is like single parenting#So yeah some of this headcanon comes from that too#long post
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Probably impossible, but I thought what if whenever you die, your soul talks to dorem, keeps him company. Until you go onto your next life. In every life you had, your soul, without any memories of the previous interactions, came back to dorem and just gave him someone to talk to. To give him just a little bit of peace.
I highly doubt that it works like that, but I just thought it'd be interesting. Another way his obsession could be sparked perhaps.
Also the angst of you constanly leaving him to start a new life. Not like you have much of a choice.
[Good idea! <:0]
It's more likely that your soul entices Dorem in general.
He likes it. He can't describe why, but it's a beautiful soul to him. Most of the time, he hardly looks twice at the selves he passively collects, nor does he care too much about what state they go back to the living, but yours catches his attention completely.
Dorem holds it in his gaunt, spidery hands, caging it, stroking over it ever so gently. You're a gorgeous shining hue and it makes the blackness of his torso flutter in some desperate desire to have more. Sometimes he thinks about absorbing you, but he knows it would mean never seeing such a peculiar soul again. Ever needful of stimulus and happiness, Dorem becomes greedy, making rapturous sighs when he realizes you've died, that you've come back to him- Like you always do.
Was your life good, little one? Did you do everything you wanted to?
It felt longer than the last time you left him. Just his luck, you might have been a monster with an incredible lifespan... Welcome back.
In his growing addiction, the spawn would cling to your soul for as long as he could, whispering to it, murmurs of foreign words and calls. Things you'd remember hearing in your next life without knowing who spoke them to you or when. At one point, his depravity would have him lick you, though very quickly retracting that gluttonous tongue as soon as its darkness reached out in corrosive tendrils.
Much to Dorem's immense sadness, these heavenly moments are only just that, moments, you have to leave him. You always leave.
He can feel everything around him fade to gray, shapes blurring past him, days blending into weeks and months and years- All of it nothing but one wispy drawn-out sigh until you're back once more.
It gets unbearable really. His life is cyclical by definition, but this one cycle he's established with you, in a very one-sided manner, is tearing him apart. Dorem can't bear it anymore.
He starts making sure you die early.
It's cruel. It's disgusting. But he sends you back with small ailments, thorns. Illnesses.
Through the midst of his endless apathy, the ruler of Limbo finds enough compassion to ensure your untimely deaths aren't traumatizing in nature. You die peacefully in your sleep, organs shutting down one by one. Sometimes you'll just feel slightly dizzy out of nowhere, and that's the end of your journey.
Dorem realizes things have gone a touch too far when he hovers inside your bedroom. He likes to be there when you're about to die, to welcome you back with open arms... But this time, he doesn't want to.
He knows, boy does he, that lessers aren't supposed to have contact with him. That he's not to be seen or heard from among the living-
But lords above, he would rot entire continents just to have you acknowledge his presence for a single second.
You wake up with a freezing touch to your cheek, the scent of smoke making you sneeze to awareness. The first thing you see are his eyes. Those unmoving, glowing, sunken pits of decay- And you scream, because of course you would. Instincts are unavoidable.
Dorem's entire spine shakes in a violent shudder of satisfaction. Even your terror is perfect.
You're clutched, embraced by his freakishly long arms, kicking and squirming for less than a minute, as a sensation of fatigue takes over every one of your limbs. You feel mildly dissociated from your form, hearing distant whispering about how he's sorry. It must be frightening.
But he just needs to have you with him.
Alive this time.
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let me put my lips to something | e.m - part two
eddie munson x fem!reader
content warnings: fem!reader, adult language, adult themes, angst, hurt/comfort, some canon divergence/au, reader is 19, anxiety, ANGSTY angst, fluff, no use of y/n, mentions of cheating (eddie kisses reader while with chrissy)
word count: 2.1K+
a/n: big thank-you to @sidthedollface2 for this request! can't believe how many requests I received for a part two! and of course I'm gonna give you what you want, because I love ya x
taglist: @1paire2vans @spear-bearing-bi-witch @81rain @casmosmoon @eggo-segual @jazzycurls @bibieddiesgf
part one / part two
Guilt.
It’s a funny thing, how cyclical it is in nature.
A snowball effect, coming to terms with the ramifications of your actions, rendering you paralyzed with anxiety. Your friendship with the two people closest to you in the immediate blast zone, your guilt, a grenade without its pin. You’re damned if you do and damned if you don’t. Trapped by circumstance.
You know you should tell Chrissy, she has a right to know. If the roles were reversed, her pure heart couldn’t take harboring such a secret from her best friend, needing to make things right. But, unfortunately for you, you are not Chrissy. Selfishly, you don’t know how you’d cope with that. It’s almost unfathomable, the image of her Bambi-eyes widening, heart breaking in front of you as you confess the truth. Why couldn’t it be a different truth? Mistakes happen, and surely she could forgive an intoxicated kiss between long-time friends, unattached and purely platonic. But the truth is, you have feelings for Eddie and he feels something for you. Something he doesn’t feel for his girlfriend, a missing piece only you can give him.
Eddie was right. This is so fucked up.
As you bypass hoards of your peers in the school hallway, you feel as though you’re running on autopilot. Keeping up appearances, despite wanting nothing more than to seclude yourself and pray that this situation never happened. Sometimes, doing nothing is the best option. And that’s exactly what you’ve elected to do today. Keep your space from the both of them, withdraw and hope they can settle whatever differences lead to last night’s events. Distance yourself, at least for the moment. Let the wounds scab over before you pick at them again.
Successfully avoiding Chrissy for the first two periods, you’re thankful you don’t share every class together. You need time to rehearse your withdrawal. And withdrawal doesn’t have to just be physical, you pray you can get away with just nodding and smiling during your inevitable conversations. Her altruistic nature means she could see through any facade, and you need time to stabilize before hard questions are thrown your way.
Eddie, on the other hand, is nowhere to be found. His homeroom seat remains empty as it has countless times before, you deduce he must have skipped school today. You should feel relief. Instead, you feel a sense of longing. It’s terrible, you shouldn’t want to see him after everything. But last night, with the ebb and flow of your guilt complex, you experienced moments of clarity. A cruel irony, the sudden lack of guilt breeding more of the same. Recalling the plush lips brushing against yours, hitched breathing tickling the nerve endings of your cheeks, setting your skin alight. And then, cognisance around your apathy hits you like a freight train, a new wave of culpability causing you to double over. It’s useless denying how you feel about him now, it would barely make a dent in the whole situation.
You pass through the morning like a specter, there but not. Scribbling notes onto blank pages, hoping if you scratch hard enough it might alleviate the dread lingering in the pit of your stomach. Floating from class to class, cementing yourself to a quiet corner of the school for your morning break. Your apple tastes rotten, your muesli bar far too dry. Nothing digestible right now, it seems. Less than you desire, and more than you deserve.
Eddie remains unseen for the rest of the day, as does Chrissy. It’s not until you unlock your bike from the rack at the end of the day that you spot them. Or rather, the end of them.
Eddie’s van speeds away, leaving Chrissy in the dust, still in her cheer uniform. A striking image, something so perfect stock-still like a statue frozen in time, it doesn’t take much to deduce that what’s transpired isn’t good. Betraying legs carry you towards her before your mind can catch up.
“Chrissy?” Words escape shakily, crossing the short distance between you. She doesn’t respond. You know a shell-shocked look when you see one. Like approaching a stray dog, you tread carefully and prepare for a bark or bite.
“Chrissy-”
She spins on her heel, the white’s of her beautiful eyes red with unshed tears. Anger. Heartbreak.
“Don’t come near me.”
Your stomach lurches, an ache penetrating your core, you feel as though you could collapse in on yourself. Willing that, at this exact moment, the earth beneath you might open and swallow you whole.
“I’m sorry-“ Is all you manage to get out before Chrissy retreats, beelining for the last school bus of the day. You’re smart enough to not follow her, knowing it won’t do any good right now. Teeth grinding together, your grasp on the handlebars tighten as you mount the bike and set off in a familiar direction.
Your knuckles rap against Eddie’s trailer door with such ferocity you’re sure it could break the fragile structure. Every inch of you is shaking, blood running cold with dread. You need answers, to start the Golithian task of fixing what you’ve broken.
The door swings open to reveal Eddie, standing in sweat pants and a very worn band tee. He looks like shit.
“What did you say to her?”
“Good day to you, too.” His voice is weary, complimenting the dark circles beneath his eyes.
He always knew how to get under your skin. Shoving past him into the living room, the air is stale in the stuffy room.
“Don’t start with me. What happened?” Your tone is demanding, causing the taller boy to shrink into himself. His gaze shifts around the room, uncertainty rendering him speechless. “Eddie, what did you do?”
“I ended things. With Chrissy, after school.”
“Oh my god.” Running your hands along your flushed cheeks, you pace aimlessly around the room. “Why did you do that?”
“I just couldn't, anymore. The whole thing felt like a lie-“
“To you, it was real for her. Did you ever consider that?”
Eddie winches physically, bearing the brunt of your apathy towards him. Leaning on the kitchen bench, he needs all the support he can get right now.
“I never should have said yes to her in the first place.”
“Then why did you?!” Your emotions betray you, seeping into your words. You’ve played that day over and over in your head like a broken record, when Chrissy practically skipped towards you to announce her new Homecoming date. Relationships blindside you, rendering you incapable of seeing a world without your person. You knew things could have been messy, but never anticipated just how bad it could be. But it scared you even more to imagine a world in which everything went well.
“I don’t know.” Eddie’s reply is mumbled, running his hands through his mess of curls.
“Bullshit.”
Vulnerably, you are poking around for his truth. The silence that follows hangs thick, your gaze pressing on Eddie knowing you can crack him.
“I thought if I couldn’t have what I wanted, I’d go for the next best thing.” His words are mumbled, shameful.
“What the fuck does that mean?”
For the first time since letting you in, Eddie’s sheepish gaze meets yours. He holds it, eyes softening with a sense of pleading. Communicating so much without uttering a word. And it hits you like a bullet to the head. It’s painful, the way you want to run and hold him, and the tension you experience from keeping yourself in place. You understand what he’s saying. And you refuse to accept it. You can’t.
“No…”
“Sweetheart-“
“Eddie, don’t-“
Surprisingly, Eddie chuckles, shaking his head. “Didn’t know it was possible to care about someone so much ‘til I met you.”
The pair of you remain perfectly distanced, neither daring to move a muscle. Two stars stuck in orbit, the only force keeping you together is the fact you’ve been doing it for so long. Biting the tender flesh of your cheek as you have so many times before, it offers little relief. You’d love to say something, anything, to stop what’s about to be disclosed. But you’re numb, quietly despondent.
“Thought you’d leave sooner. I mean, here’s this girl. Pretty as hell, loads of friends, treating me like a person? Felt too good to be true. Thought the day in the library was a one-off, was sure you’d never stick around. I mean, why would you? And then you did and- I just didn’t want to fuck that up. Didn’t want to lose you, even if that meant caring about you from afar. And then Chrissy-“ He signs, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “- I dunno, I guess I thought I could convince myself to care about someone else. But I just- I fucking couldn’t. I tried, I really did. But, It just never felt right. It never felt like you. I always wanted you, and it fucking killed me. You don’t know what that feels like.”
Eddie’s vulnerability dries up your mouth, leaving it incapable of formulating a response. But your expression betrays you in ways you were oblivious to. Eddie studies your expression, desperate for validation. Wide-eyed like a baby cow, big and helpless. And something shifts. A quiver in your lip, an exposing softness in your glossy eyes. He sees it. Finally.
“You feel the same way, don’t you?” There’s an air of finality to his statement that sets you on edge, backing you into an emotional corner.
“No.” You lie through your teeth, and Eddie doesn’t believe a second of it. It’s vile, the way guilt transforms to pining. Undeserving.
“You do.” Eddie takes a pace towards you, and you don’t move. You don’t think you could if you tried.
“Eddie-” Voice barely a whisper, Eddie closes the gap between the pair of you. Running a hand through your scalp, you can’t help but melt into his touch, electricity coursing through his fingertips. It’s embarrassing, really. The effect his touch has on you, rendering you drunk, right there for him to bear witness to. Wrapping you in his musky scent, the marriage of cigarette smoke and cologne. Deliciously Eddie. There’s no use lying, not now. Fingertips trace their way along the frame of your face, snaking around the crook of your jawline. It’s heavenly. Lips ghosting above yours, breath intermingling as a sigh betrays you, causing Eddie’s grip on your jawline to tighten slightly.
“Tell me you don’t want it, and I’ll stop.” His tone is firm yet sincere, the trust between you palpable. No inebriation to scapegoat your actions now, the burden of blame is purely on you. You say nothing. And your silence is a response in itself.
Agonizingly slowly, Eddie lowers his lips to yours. A suggestion of skin on skin, so many unseized moments to back out, to stop. But every fiber of your being, every screaming nerve ending on your sensitive lips, cries out for more. Muscles soften at his touch, sinking into him. His lips catch you, warm and soft, finding yours with tenderness. It’s different, without the haze of a high numbing your senses. You feel him fully. The brush of his hair, curls falling around your face, tickling receptive skin. How his exhale feels like a caress, nose bumping against yours as his lips embrace yours. The expertly subtle flick of his tongue exploring your parted mouth, an invitation of more. But what buckles you, causes a coil to tighten in your belly, is the groan. Subconsciously emitted from deep in his throat, an unintentional byproduct of mutual wanting. Laced with hunger. Relief. The sweetest sound you’ve ever heard.
And you know, right then, you need to stop. The temptation is beckoning, Eddie’s grip providing much needed comfort, solace between his lips. You could stay there eternally. Which is precisely the problem.
Before a moan can expose your neediness, you find the courage to mutter the only word flooding your mind.
“Eddie.”
He breaks away, lips feeling suddenly entirely too empty, buzzing from his touch. He sighs, holding the minute distance between the pair of you.
“I know. You can’t have it all.”
As if to keep him locked in place, your hand wraps around his, relishing in the cool sensation and grooves of his rings.
“Just- let me try to fix things with Chrissy first. She deserves that.”
Eddie nods, forehead pressed to yours. In another universe, the two of you could remain there, witnessing each other for an eternity. But you need to try to make things right, regardless of whether your guilt is absolved.
“Sure. You know where to find me.”
#eddie x fem!reader#eddie x y/n#eddie x you#eddie x reader#eddie munson x you#eddie munson fluff#eddie munson angst#eddie munson x reader#stranger things x you#stranger things fic#stranger things x reader#dumbslxtclub#eddie munson request#eddie munson drabble
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how do you make them feel? (platonic/romantic)
*please take a moment to take a deep breath and choose the image you are most drawn towards*
🍏 pile 1:
whoever you are inquiring about - you make this person reflect on things that bring up certain fears, you make this person feel like they don’t know what to do, you make this person feel more reserved and held back (in a positive and/or negative way), you make this person reconsider and reevaluate. when it comes to this connection you need to make sure you are also being self-reflective, you need to make sure that you aren’t assuming this connection is better than it actually is or treating this connection too lightly, it does seem like this connection is meant to teach both of you about something and in order to learn you need to get out of your ego and do some soul searching
🍎 pile 2:
whoever you are inquiring about - if this person is someone you don’t know very well then it’s definitely showing up that they’re neutral towards you, if this person is someone you are acquainted with that is in your life then you make them feel like it’s a more informal connection because i’m not seeing that you make this person feel much, if this person is someone from the past who is no longer in your life then you make them feel like there may have been some things left unsaid/that your connection was a defeat for them in some way but ultimately they feel like they are moving on and don’t want to rehash anything. when it comes to this connection you either need to change things up and challenge your maturity level or you need to think long & hard about this connection and what you can take away from it so that you can grow as a person
🍐 pile 3:
whoever you are inquiring about - you make this person feel comfortable, this person feels like you two have a routine or a very laid out dynamic with each other, you make them feel like there’s a reliability within your connection. when it comes to this connection it seems incredibly cyclic and you need to be wary of repeating the same experiences/lessons over and over with this person, either you need to avoid leaving too much open ended when it comes to this person because they can be/get a little too comfortable in this connection and feel like they don’t have to properly attend to your connection or the case is that you need to try to work on your own bad habits within this connection because this person overlooks a lot/is overly generous towards you
🍊 pile 4:
whoever you are inquiring about - you make this person feel challenged in a positive way, you make this person feel like they have to branch out more, you make this person utilize their wits and capabilities more, orrrr if this is someone you have beef or had beef with then you make this person feel uncomfortable and they have some shit to say about you lol. when it comes to this connection you need to make sure you’re invested and open to it because this isn’t a connection to brush off/close yourself off to, try to avoid reading into things and making snap judgments, try to give the benefit of the doubt, try to appreciate the connection, try to see the possibilities of what could be, try to take your time with it
🍋 pile 5:
whoever you are inquiring about - you make this person feel more focused on themselves, you may give this person an ego boost somehow. when it comes to this connection you shouldn’t be putting too much energy and effort towards it, this seems like a connection that is what it is so try to be easygoing, avoid trying to make strides towards this person or having aspirations for this connection, try to avoid being confrontational or getting your hackles up because it’s not worth it
🍉 pile 6:
whoever you are inquiring about - me no likey this pile. you make this person feel like they have the control and like they can do what they want with that so i am seeing a poor power dynamic. when it comes to this connection you need to grow a backbone and love yourself
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Youve talked a lot about why you admire jttw's redemption arcs for acknowledging how fucked up everyone was beforehand but i just wanna show some appreciation for how everyone still retains parts of themselves that could be considered flaws in other narratives. like when SWK becomes a buddha, he's not a pacifist, he's the *fighting* buddha. and zbj celebrates gluttony and indulgence yet when he attains enlightenment his role still celebrates that as an altar-cleanser :>
Oh you are so genuinely big-brained for this anon.
YEAH YEAH YEAH when it comes to everyone's favorite ex-assholes' attainment of enlightenment and what this could mean for any potential Xiyouji sequels, there is just so many interesting possibilities and implications you can work with when it comes to the pilgrims' post-journey lives! I know they only get their new positions at the very end of Journey to the West--and given the assumedly "great"final" ending that is achieving enlightenment this is probably why a lot of jttw-related media taking place in the future either re-writes jttw in some major ways and/or has it that the pilgrims failed in their mission and/or became basically the complete opposite of who they once were--but as you say there's something really compelling in the idea that they were successful AND retained their core characteristics BUT with all the maturity and desire to do genuine good that they developed over the course of the journey and solidified with enlightenment. I think that's at least why a few people playing around with jttw sequels have the pilgrims' be more like boddhisatvas than buddhas, as from what I understand this means that they DID attain enlightement but have put off entering paradise in order to more actively help others achieve the same. I feel like that makes a lot of sense for the pilgrims too, as they all experienced the wide gamut of pain and desires that can drive a person down the paths of samsara, which could end up providing a strong foundation for compassion for others. Plus there is something very cool with the idea that the same traits--even ones like a willingness to violence, gluttony, etc--can be beneficial or detrimental depending on how they manifest. That really drives home the idea of just how much there's no such thing as a "naturally" wicked individual, but that so much of one's moral character depends on what one actually DOES.
So (just to put it down) with the pilgrims you have:
Sun Wukong as the Victorious Figthing Buddha/Buddha Victorious in Strife, whose role is now that of a great exorcist and a protector of children. Interestingly too this title also suggests his prowess in defeating the emotions that drive negative actions as well as his victory over cyclic existence, something that we definitely see him achieve for himself!
Tang Sanzang is the Buddha of Candana (Sandalwood) Merit, a figure that others call upon to help absolve them of sin and a title that seems to be attached to the idea that the fragrance of sandalwood can help cool the passions of sentient beings and help them settle their minds (i.e. the very reason Xuanzang wanted to undertake the journey in the first place & something that Tripitaka is seen as having a lot of practice with given who his tudi are!)
Zhu Bajie becomes Janitor of the Altars, which is a role indicating that he actually did NOT in the end achieve enlightenment because he is still beholden to his base desires, but that he will now be able to put his appetite to work in a beneficial way. Interestingly enough, it seems to have been partly because of his lowest rank among the pilgrims at the end that Zhu Bajie has recently been adopted as a patron deity for sex workers in Taiwan, as many of them feel that other more "legitimate" deities would but look down on them.
Sha Wujing becomes the Golden-Bodied Ahrat. Unfortunately I wasn't able to find much information on what exactly this role suggests besides that ahrats are perfected people who have freed themselves from the bonds of desire and therefore will not be reborn, so if anyone has more information please let me know!
Bai Longma is made one of the dragons belonging to the Eight Classes of Supernatural Beings, who from what I understand are an interesting mix of entities, from demons to nagas, who all work as Buddhist protectors. For me at least it's kind of neat to think of the possibilities of everyone's favorite dragon horse, after he seems to have been so thoroughly rejected by his own family, found a bigger one both in the pilgrims and then with these other supernaturals.
#anon answered#jttw#journey to the west#xiyouji#sun wukong#monkey king#tang sanzang#tripitaka#zhu wuneng#zhu bajie#sha wujing#bai longma#jttw au#kind of lol#anyway#moral of the story is that there's a LOT you could do with a post-journey sequel#that still works with what xiyouji set down
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The nature of the riordanverse is cyclical. Everything happens over and over again, and the desire to end it is what repeats it. Percy will never get a break until he dies, because then some other dumb kid is forced to serve gods they will go unacknowledged by. He saves kids the knowledge of war until he falls and then a 14 year old is back on a quest, not having the time to mourn the girl who died too young. Jason will always be the hero, like Percy, to save some kid, some child. He will play the part of the hero, as the gods play him as. The act of saving them damns them further, the only way to fix this is to convince yourself that tragedy is honorable.
Some monstrous force will always rise again, some forefather. Because that’s is what sons do, they devour their fathers. And fathers crawl their way out of their graves, seeking revenge for a sin they made. The nature of creation is that proof of it must be eradicated. And when those sons aren’t strong enough to defeat their fathers? To sever the threads to which bind them? It teaches fathers what noose to tie to make their sons scream. And to break the chain of family, to lay the story to rest? You must learn to love the rope that chokes you, so that it is not one eventually used against you.
Apollo will always fall in love with humanity. He can’t be apathetic, it’s a wound that will never heal. Opened and opened again and again. His only choice is to convince himself the pain feels good. He can not change mortality and love it at the same time. He learns to love the grief, for it is his greatest comfort.
To end a cycle is to perpetuate it. Heroes serve the gods until they die too young. Fathers and sons can not stand to see the other live, but cannot help but become fathers and sons. Apollo will fall in love with humanity, with his own grief. Because Apollo can be a hero, can pretend he isn’t a son, but he cannot be apathetic.
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Hi! I loved water in your hands even though I accidentally read part 2 first 😩, can I please request a little drabble from readers pov when Joel just cut her off and missing work etc when he got married? No worries if not! Just wanted to say I really enjoyed reading :)
well thank you anyways for returning to read part 1!!! and i am so happy that you enjoyed reading!
i’m not sure if you checked out the playlist for the series that i made (spotify / apple music), but liability by lorde made it on there because it is literally what i imagined reader would feel during that time. my hopeless romantic who has never felt chosen </3
liability
drabble for “water in your hands” series
rating: M
word count: 1.2k
summary:
They say, "You're a little much for me / You're a liability / You're a little much for me" / So they pull back, make other plans ' I understand, I'm a liability / Get you wild, make you leave
warnings: angst, insecurity, self doubt, mentions of water/drowning
You didn’t even have any last words from him to mull over. The last thing you’d heard from him was him asking if you were okay as you lay next to him in the middle of that field.
Instead, his silence has sharpened the knife that he’s driven into your heart, his lack of acknowledgment of everything that happened twisting it to carve out a large space for the pain to seep in. And when you’d heard that he was dating someone else, seriously dating, according to Tommy, the knife was pulled clean out and stabbed into your back.
He’d spent one night with you, and somehow that was enough for him to know that he didn’t want you. All of those messages you thought he’d sent now mixed, your recollections of those fleeting, flirty moments poisoned by the knowledge that he didn’t want to be pulled into your storm.
It was the only reason you could think of that maybe drove him away. You knew that you weren’t settled, that you had your own issues to grapple with from everything you’d been through prior to Jackson, but you were secure in yourself. Maybe Joel didn’t want to deal with your shit on top of his own.
You were a little too much for him; a liability to his own healing.
You were on your own at the end of the day, superficial friendships and mere acquaintances belonging in the daylight. The only seemingly real friendship that you’d grown here was with his brother, and the saying goes “blood is thicker than water.”
Returning to a lonely house, yellowy lamplight bathing your space but doing nothing to warm your insides. You spent nights on your own, re-reading your favorite novels from the worn shelves in your cozy living room or spinning a record to dance around and forget for a few minutes. In those times, you were thankful that you were still looking out for yourself, that you still had your own back despite all of the doubt your own mind had grown.
In those solitary hours, all you had were your thoughts, which revolved around him, throwing you into a cyclical whirlpool of heartache. Only when you thought you’d pulled yourself out, had finally felt the heat of the sun on your face above the surface, one single memory of his fingers brushing your thigh or his lips ghosting over yours or a whisper of your name rips you right back into the current.
He left you behind and moved on.
Dating someone else, ignoring you for days that turned into weeks, that’s now become months.
You remember the day you found out that they were engaged.
It happened at the end of your shift, your coworker Tracy popping in to have a nightcap. She was tipsy already, spilling where she had been prior to coming to the bar. There was a party at Tommy and Maria’s, she’d said, a wide drunken smile on her face as she excitedly gossiped.
“They threw Joel and Heather an engagement party! How sweet is that?”
Engagement? Engagement. Engagement.
Engagement led to marriage.
Marriage was meant to be for life.
And Joel never does anything half-assed.
One time, a few weeks after Joel had returned to Jackson, you’d let yourself daydream indulgently. It’d been about him, about what you envisioned a life with him would look like. You’d pictured your own wedding, the closest people to you both the only ones in attendance. In your imagination, you’d seen your brother there, your sister, too.
It was a dream because, even if you ended up with Joel, you never thought he would get married. He was loyal, devoted, committed no matter what jewelry was on your fingers. Those traits were intrinsic to him. You didn’t think something like that mattered to him; he would be a husband, a partner to you without any ceremony.
Clearly, you didn’t know him as well as you thought you did.
Their engagement was fast. You’d heard from Tommy about a month later that the wedding was happening at the weekend. Bile coated your throat, burning acid settling there for the rest of the afternoon that you spent at work. You’d returned home that evening, crawling into bed and crying yourself completely dry and numb.
You didn’t leave that spot for days. Skipped out on work. Ignored the knocks at your door from Tracy, Maria, even Tommy. Limbs felt too heavy to move, bones ached deeply, dull pain sawed at your constricted heart.
Thoughts kept steamrolling each other, your brain was unable to shut them out as you spiraled silently alone.
A toy. A plaything. A little doll.
An achievement to be conquered.
He’d played with you; bantered with you. He was flirty -- suggestive at times. But once you’d given him everything, unveiled your thoughts and feelings to him in hopes of him returning them, even just accepting them, he’d gotten bored. There was no more chase. You’d rolled over like prey, submitting to anything he could have wanted from you.
You were only exciting to seek in the night, ghostly touches in the bar and a chance encounter under the moonlight.
Naive. Childish. Too much.
Delusions of a perfect summer with Joel changing with the leaves and eventually becoming rooted together had blinded you from his true intentions with you.
You were better off on your own, so it seemed the universe was telling you. Losing your siblings, your family, lacking friendships, and now your prospect for love slipped through your fingers in a rush, fleeting efforts made to contain it like water in your hands. No matter what, it would have found cracks to drip through, and eventually drained completely.
He evaded you, leaving you in an unrequited romance. You were in love with him. And now he was married to someone else, in love with someone that he could easily be with no disadvantage or opportunity for embarrassment. There were no means to confess your found feelings, so you lay for hours in your bed while tears soak your pillow and words are branded into your mind.
I’m in love with Joel Miller, and he won’t ever love me.
You repeated it so many times that it sounded like the truth, like gospel, and then, at a certain point, like a foreign language. The words eventually meant nothing in their countless repetitions, the weight of your self-confessional lessening with each second passing. Your limbs felt lighter, bones less sore, and the grip of pain on your heart loosened.
In the next moment, all you could think about was feeling the warm summer air on your face again. Finally, after days isolated, you were going to take a chance to disappear into the sun. You’d pulled yourself out of bed, changing into fresh clothes.
With one glance out of your window, the plans were soured when you saw it was sunset, that you’d have to wait until morning for your walk in the light. You decided to stay up all night to be able to catch the sunrise in the grazing field. To occupy yourself, you milled about your kitchen and living room, doing the small pile of dishes that had accumulated and straightening up the place. The clock on your wall read the early hours of the morning, and with no other chores to do, you turned towards your collection of books.
As you thumb through your shelves to find another novel to escape into for a few hours, the sound of knuckles lightly rapped on your door.
tagging the usual mutuals: @swiftispunk @joelsversion @johnwatsn @midnightswithdearkatytspb @pedrit0-pascalit0 @theelishad @undrthelights @ladamedusoif @ruinedbylanadelrey @thetriumphantpanda @pedgeitopascal @dinsdjrn @thepascalofus @pedgito @soaringcloud @somedayauthor @alloftheimagines @pr0ximamidnight @beskarandblasters @atinylittlepain @scrambledslut @lunapascal
#joel#joel miller#joel miller x you#joel miller x reader#joel miller x f!reader#joel miller x yn#joel miller x female reader#joel miller x y/n#joel miller fanfiction#joel miller fic#joel miller fanfic#tlou fanfic#tlou fanfiction#tlou fic#tw insecurity#tw self doubt#me#writing#requests
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You, forever (Chapter VII: Zenith interlude)
Pairing: Papa Emeritus IV x g/n reader
Summary: The Clergy takes something from Copia, but he refuses to let go.
Warnings/tags: Mostly fluff, some angst here and there. Mentions of blood, some sexual innuendos. I put my whole heart and pussy into this. It was supposed so be "short and sweet". It's more than 6K words, I think.
PREV CHAPTER HERE
“Cardinal? Care for a dance?”
Draped in ceremonial robes and surrounded by a faint, golden glow, a Sibling of Sin stands right in front of him. The Cardinal lifts up his head, focuses for a brief moment on their face before looking away again.
The music coming from the ballroom is distant, barely above an echo in the air. This party is supposed to be for him, Imperator said. A celebration of his arrival at the Ministry and a welcoming to his recent role as the head of the Ghost project. They are celebrating the release of Prequelle, the general favorable reception it caused on the public.
Despite that, the Cardinal is hidden away from the rest of the clergy and Siblings. He’s on a bench, and the halls continue for a long way to his right and left following a labyrinthine path. A part of Copia wishes he could mingle with the rest of the guests and celebrate, but he’s positively not in the proper mood. Even if Prequelle is a work born from his blood and sweat, he can’t help feeling that there’s something missing. He tried hard, so hard to make something good, but people are still clinging to the past.
During tedious days and interminable nights, he paid attention to the critics and reception. It didn’t matter how hard Imperator tried to shelter him from the negative reviews, focusing exclusively on the praises and applause. Copia read everything, listened to each complaint.
At last, there’s no way to escape the truth. He’s not Terzo. Not Primo or Secondo, either. He’s not the mastermind behind Infestissumam, the rebel innovator behind Meliora or the messiah that brought Opus Eponymus to life, relaunching Ghost.
No. He’s only Cardinal Copia, creator of nothing but a mild disco-flirtatious album that lacks the raw power or lyrical profundity of his predecessors.
What a disappointment. He doesn’t deserve this stupid party or even his appointment as the new frontman. A brief noise forces his head to shift again. Next, he notes you are still standing there, staring at him with dark pupils and piercing eyes. The strength behind your gaze makes his shoulders tense, and he struggles to summon the right words as he swallows. You follow the movement of his throat, the way his muscles contract and relax.
Fuck. What did you say to him?
“I’m sorry,” Copia stutters, after a beat. “I’m not… I’m not good at dancing.”
The phantom of a smug smile appears on your lips, vanishing almost as rapidly. You nod slowly, taking a few steps forward until you take a seat right next to him. The Cardinal instinctively scoots away, putting as much distance as he can without standing up.
Without mercy, you move a bit closer. There’s that small, tight smile in your lips again, and your stare is heavy on his skin.
“Is that so? Because I saw you in the Rats video and that looked a lot like knowing how to dance.”
Oh, Satan. What do you expect from him? Are you here to laugh, to mock him? Is this part of some cruel joke, or a bet?
He’s too old for this.
You are too, but some people never grow over their mean phase. He’s about to excuse himself and sprint away when you finally look away, eyes locking into the paintings on the wall. Copia does the same, analyzing the minor details in the frame before observing the painting.
The infinity is built in front of his gaze. A red snake, swallowing its own tail, symbolizing the never-ending circle of life, death and rebirth. Just like the snake, Copia feels terribly trapped in an eternal cyclic path that will just lead to his own demise. The recent, tragic and sudden passing of the Emeritus lineage has struck hard in the Abbey, causing all kinds of speculations
If he’s not cautious, Copia will end up just like them, he fears.
In the distance, the music changes. The piano is a bit softer, carrying the melody with grace. Your head follows the rhythm, foot tapping on the stone floor. “I must admit I didn’t know what to expect when I first watched the video,” you continue, whispering. The tone of your voice is soft, hushed, as if this was a secret no one else should discover. “I never saw any Papa doing something like that before.”
That’s it, then. You’re here to remind him how different he’s from the rest, how he doesn’t fit along the Emeritus’ heirs. The Cardinal gathers a deep breath, feeling the air burn in his lungs before exhaling. It’s useless for you to come here to taunt him, when he already knows anything you may say and more. He knows he’s extremely different, too unusual or particular. It doesn’t matter how hard Imperator insists he’s suitable for this job, Copia knows she’s wrong.
And here you are, to solidify his theory. No one in the Clergy agrees with his designation. He’s…
A failure.
“I like it.”
The music stops for a moment. The echo travels through the air, following the interminable corridors until it disappears down the hall. Copia studies your face, searching for any clue of sarcasm or a lie, but not a single trace appears. Your mouth is stretched in a smile, and your eyes are sincere, shining with the reflection of the faint golden light.
“You left me speechless for a while, Cardinal.” You continue, averting your gaze. An air of familiarity clings to your body and hair, slowly tearing at his walls. You’re not the frightening, intimidating person he initially thought you were. No, you’re calmer, way kinder. “That’s why I was hoping you might dance with me. Everybody's having fun tonight. It’s a shame you’re here all alone.”
“We can try it, if you want?”
The words leave his mouth before his brain can process them. Copia's mouth is agape while he's fighting to produce a coherent thought. The way your face lights up at his proposal doesn’t make things easier for him, but he achieves the strength to continue. “I mean, I still remember some of my dancing lessons.”
“I knew it!” Your hand lands on his arm, a fleeting and yet burning touch, marking his skin with your emotion. “You looked so professional in that video! You took lessons?”
“A long time ago. Sister thought it would help me become a bit less… shy? I don’t know, truly.”
“I assume it didn’t work.” The mischief coats your words, and he smiles in return.
“No, but it was a good workout. I still work-out, you know. Lots of walking inside the Ministry.”
“You do have a nice, toned body.”
The confession seizes him by surprise. Being raised inside the Ministry has made him almost immune to all sorts of lascivious, hedonist behavior. He has heard and seen things that will be forever branded in his memory, no matter how hard he tries to forget them. However, he’s not used to that being directed at him.
He should get used to it, probably. He’s read the comments some people make about his clothing and moves. They are... creative, to say at least. Tremendously interesting.
“Ah, si. I also… run a bit,” Copia says, when the silence becomes excessively oppressive on his back. “And I do some thrusting, here and there.”
You chuckle.
He has made you laugh, and it’s a breathtaking sight to behold. “Not that I need the training,” the Cardinal continues, moving a bit closer. “My junk works just fine. More than fine. Uh…No complaints.”
When you laugh once more, Copia fears the entire world has come to a stop. He sees you in slow motion, notes the way your lips stretch and your hair sways following the movement of your head. He swallows, but his mouth is incredibly dry.
You’re beautiful.
“Do I know you? No, sorry. I mean, can you tell me your name?”
You do. “I’ve been serving the Ministry for a while, but I’m mostly cleaning and cooking. I’m afraid Sister Imperator doesn’t trust me in clerical duties.”
“Why not?”
“Apparently I speak awful Latin and get lots of herbs and incense confused. I need to study more diligently, she said.”
“Well, if you need any extra help, you can ask me. I know some stuff.”
“I’d be honored, your Dark Eminence.”
“No need for that. Cardinal it’s okay. Or just Copia.”
“Copia.” The way you mention his name, pronouncing each sound with a slow, clear intonation is music to his ears. The Cardinal fears he might become addicted to it. He knows he has just met you, but he’s passionate at the core of his heart. He can’t help but to yearn for love, for someone to adore during days and nights.
It might be a fantasy, but he keeps his hopes high. Maybe, you can become the one he’s been searching for.
“So, dancing lessons?”
Holding onto your hand, Copia follows you through the corridors.
Your hand is warm between his fingers. Copia holds onto it, following you through the empty corridors.
“Thank you for helping me hide from Imperator.”
“You’re welcome,” Copia says, breathless from all the running. “But I don’t see why we are running. I thought you did well in your Latin lessons.”
“I did, that’s the problem! She thinks I cheated!”
He laughs, absentmindedly leaning closer to you.“I’m sorry for being such a good teacher.”
“Then I’m sorry for being such a good student.”
Steps resonate in the distance. You flinch, drawing a short breath before your hand jolts to grip his forearm. The Cardinal hurries behind you, rapidly hiding from whoever is wandering the Ministry. It’s only when the noise fades he realizes how close he is, how your fingers are still closed on his flesh and your bodies are almost pressed together.
The air is not enough to allow him to breathe. Copia opens his mouth to let out a slight gasp, fighting to calm the frantic beating of his heart. He can’t move. In the enclosed space, he doesn’t know where he wants to go, if he wants to put more distance between the two of you or to lean closer. His hands hoovers over your body, fingers twitching in an effort not to touch you. He wants to, but doesn’t dare.
To resist his desire becomes harder when you look at him through your lashes. From this distance, you can feel the heat radiating from his body, smell the way his perfume mixes with the minty scent of his aftershave. The Cardinal averts his gaze, staring at the stone wall. He’s extremely nervous, timid.
“Copia?” You whisper. That sultry, half lidded stare burns on his face like fire. “Thank you.”
Without saying anything else, you lean to place a kiss on his cheek. It’s a soft gesture, a chaste one, full of innocence and tenderness he never experienced before. You begin to walk away, turning around to call for him when he remains in place.
“Are you coming?”
Dumbfounded, he follows.
“Come on! Faster!”
“Come on! You can go faster!”
The wheels on the tricycle don’t agree. They creak and whine, almost as if they were about to fall off the frame and roll into nothingness. It's natural. The frame is not meant to support the weight of not only one, but two adults.
Yet, your nails dig in the Cardinal’s shoulders, as you cling to him for dear life. You laugh loud and the sound echoes on the walls and before disappearing into the hallways. Copia’s voice alerts you shortly before he turns on a corner, hoping not to crash and wreck anything. He can’t explain to Papa Nihil why more and more vases and decorations keep getting broken in the vestibules.
Oblivious to his worry, you merely chuckle louder, gripping onto him with more strength. “Faster!”
“I’m the only one pedaling here!” He yells, breathless. The muscles on his legs burn and ache, but not as much as they will tomorrow in the morning.
Oh, well. A bit of pain is nothing when he can enjoy the comfort of your body pressed against his back or hear the sound of your chuckles. You look so cheerful, gull of joy. It makes his heart race and sing.
“I thought you said you worked out!”
Upon hearing your words, Copia continues. A dead end halts him on his tracks. The wheels produce a sonorous screech on the floors, leaving behind marks. You climb down from the tricycle, and a sad, disappointed expression manifests on your face. Copia doesn’t like seeing it. He despises it.
Even if your feet make contact with the ground, your hands remain on his shoulders, toying with the collar of his cassock. The gesture sends shivers down his spine, electrifying his body. “We’ll have more space to ride outside,” he says, hoping you’ll accept his invitation.
“A race, then?”
You run without waiting for him to signal the beginning of the competition. He grants you some advantage before following at full speed.
On the patio, you run. Copia’s voice is carried by the wind, no more than a faint counting sound in the distance.
You're extremely thrilled he’s taking some time to indulge in a foolish game with you. He’s been exceptionally busy lately, so full of stress with all the tours and his clerical obligations. Sadly, you almost don’t have time to spend with him, even if he tries to dedicate a few minutes of his days to you.
Crouching behind a big statue, you cover your mouth with your palms in an effort to muffle the noise of your panting. All your efforts are fruitless, because Copia takes no time to find you.
His fingers tickle at your skin, over the ribs, and you jump in place both from the sudden contact and the surprise. “This is unfair! You always win.”
“Si, certo. I used to play here all the time when I was a child, there’s no corner I don’t know. Most orphans preferred the playground near the west entrance and not this one because it’s close to the Chapel of Rituals, so nobody bothered me.”
In a swift movement, your fingers close over his wrists, pulling him closer. Copia falls on the soft ground, green grass staining the white material of his suit. Despite that, you don’t stop tugging until his head is set on your lap. Even if he attempts sitting up, you don’t let go. You merely move your hands from his arm to his face, ghosting over his cheekbones and nose before setting down on his hair.
Gradually, your nails lightly scratch at his scalp. Copia’s eyes go from wide open in surprise to half lidded, all fluttering eyelashes. “You need some rest, Copia,” you mumble, making him nod.
“I know, I know. There’s so much to do.”
He’s right. The clerical duties are never ending, so heavy on his shoulders. More than once you have discovered him passed out in the library or in his office, head against the hard wood of the desk and hand clutching a pen. The Cardinal’s shoulders are always so tense and high on his body, from carrying both Nihil’s and Imperator’s expectations.
If only you could do anything to relieve him from some of that pressure, you would. You have been gaining more and more responsibilities, but it’s never enough to grant him respite. “I’ll tell you what,” you offer, when you think he might start snoring softly at any moment. “When this is all over, we’ll go to the beach. I heard the Ministry owned a beach house not too far away from here.”
Eyes batting open, he furrows his brows. “Where did you hear that?”
“Imperator mentioned something when she was talking with Papa Nihil the other day. I might have eavesdropped.”
A deep, slow sigh it’s the sole answer you get. “It doesn’t matter” you cut him before he can complain.“Promise it. When you have time, we’ll go to the beach.”
“I don’t like the beach.”
“Because you have never been there with me.”
The glint in your eyes, he clearly sees it. There’s so much hope and excitement within your pupils, it’s impossible to deny you. Hell, he’d accept anything you propose, asking only for you to gaze at him in return. “Okay, okay,” Copia whispers, looking elsewhere. His lips stretch in a timid smile. “When this is over, I’ll take you to the beach. But then, we’ll have to go somewhere I want.”
“Where?”
“Let’s go get rigatoni affumicati al pecorino, from that nice Italian restaurant near here,” he declares after a beat. “ Do you want to?”
“Deal. But first, the beach.”
“Vabbè. The beach.” Your palm is warm and soft when his fingers make contact with your hand. He takes it gently, placing his lips on the back of it. The black makeup leaves behind the faint mark of a kiss. “I promise it.”
There’s so much echo around. Step after step, your shoes make a loud noise that breaks the heavy silence of this place. Almost as if he was sensing your uneasiness, Copia’s fingers caress the back of your hand, moving to graze over the palm. “Only a bit more,” he murmurs. “Watch your steps, my dear.”
“It’d be easier if I wasn't blindfolded.”
“You didn't complain about it last night.”
Copia abruptly stops before you can reply. His hands move to your head, deft fingers swiftly removing the blindfold. Nothing prepares you for what you see.
The space is large and broad around you. Illuminated by candle light and a few faint lamps, there’s a fountain in the middle of the room. From right to left, you note some tunnels extend for meters and meters before disappearing in the dark distance.
Where's this place?
Has it always been here, hidden under the main building?
“I know this is not like the beach.” Copia speaks up from behind you. His fingers bend around your shoulders, pulling you lightly until your back meets his chest. As always, he’s gentle and tender, an incredibly comforting presence. He makes you feel giddy inside, so at ease. “But I thought it was a nice sight anyway.”
“Are we under the Abbey?”
“Si, ecco. A whole system of tunnels goes even beyond the fences. It’s supposed to be an escape route, used during the old times in case of an attack. Nowadays it’s mostly abandoned and closed, unless you have permission to be here.”
“Do we have permission?”
“I do. Don’t worry. I’m the only one who comes here.”
“That’s selfish of you. Maybe I want to come too.”
“I can help you with that, very well.”
His arms are strong when he surrounds you in a hug, tilting your head until his lips find yours. Copia lets out a few chuckles against your skin, closing his eyes to thoroughly enjoy the coziness of your body next to his. In front of your eyes, the water of the fountain dances to its own song. The statue of the Fallen Angel stands watchfully in the middle of it, beautiful and magnificent.
Just like Lucifer fell from the heavens to the ground, searching for freedom and truth, you feel yourself falling for Copia. If he’s your damnation or the promised land, you don’t care. As long as you can have him close, worship him and walk by his side, then nothing else matters.
Nothing can offer you absolution or console, if it’s not him.
“Thank you for showing me this.” Your voice is scratchy, coarse from the lack of use.
“Prego,” Copia replies, holding closer. “This place was always a shelter for me, to hide when things became too bad. I want you to have it too.”
The murmur of the water travels through the air, lulling you into a sense of peace and safety. In your lover’s arms, you cling to these private moments you get to expend together, away from the rest of the Clergy. Now and forever, the light from memory will conduct you through the shadows.
In moments like these, away from the world and outside expectations, you feel incredibly free.
Over the muffled music, the water is a constant buzzing in your ears. It’s dusky in the tunnels, more than usual, and a part of you wonders if Copia dimmed the lights on purpose to allow himself to camouflage into the shadows.
The entrance to the main room stands in front of you. Written in stone, an ancient warning lays carved in somber color for your eyes to see.
“Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch'intrate.”
You take a step forward. The distant ticking of the clock it’s the only sign of time passing. Under the Abbey, everything seems to be put on a stop. “Copia?” You call, and for a long moment there’s no reply. “I know you are here.”
“Si, uh. I was just…”
“Hiding?” Your chuckle is full of air. “You need to stop hiding during celebrations prepared in your honor. Everybody is up there wanting to congratulate the new Papa Emeritus the IV.”
“Lo so, believe me. I just need some air.”
Distorted, the melody of the piano keys hardly manages to resonate in the underground. You don’t recognize it, only acknowledging it’s a slow ballad. Your hand extends in Copia’s direction, floats in front of his face until his eyes look up to meet yours. There’s sadness clinging to his factions, drenching him in a unique kind of sorrow you fear you’ll never completely understand.
This man, as much as you love him, remains mostly a mystery. He has shared a few details, scarce information about his childhood and teenage years. How someone who has been through much can remain kind and cheerful it’s something you can’t comprehend.Every so often, you feel as if the world’s weight was balancing on his tense shoulders, oppressing his true nature into dust.
The Clergy clearly searches to transform Copia into the perfect frontman, a well curated marionette they can maneuver round and round. There’s a bitter glint behind your irises, a misery you hope he can’t discern in the shadows.
If your love could guard him, then not a god or Satan would be able to touch a single hair of his head.
Then, you’re just a human. Another Sibling of Sin, someone who performed their vows not too long ago and who comes from nowhere.
“We met on a night like this. Do you remember?”
Copia’s hair follows the movement of his head when he nods leisurely. He holds onto your hand, tenderly cradling the palm to his cheek. His eyelids are pressed together when he snuggles closer, lessening the deep crease of his brows.
“How could I forget it?”
“Was I the first person you danced with? After you were ordained as the new leader?”
“Yes.”
“Can I be the first person to dance with you, now that you have become a Papa?”
As if your words had struck him right on the face, Copia’s eyes flutter open. “Please,” he whispers, through gritted teeth and quivering lips. He’s scared, terrified even, and now he’s clinging to you as a life line.
It’s okay. You can be his anchor, his sheltered place. Everything will be alright, for as long as you are together.
Even if the music is muffled by the sturdy stone walls, you begin to escort him through the vast room. Your voice rises in a melody you heard him singing, nights and nights ago. Copia seems surprised that you recall it, but how could you forget the way that song draped around your aching heart and eager soul, touching every nerve of your sensitive core?
If he composed it for you or not, you don’t care. That’s the song you love, the one you’d sing forever and ever if you were ever granted life eternal. The humming travels up your chest, throat and mouth, exiting your lips and filling the silence before getting lost into a distant echo.
Clinging to your body tight and circling around the room, you dance.
Copia’s body is squeezed tight against you. Laying in bed, limbs tangled and hair tousled, the two of you struggle to regain a regular breathing rhythm.
For a long moment, you stay silent. There’s a thick veil of worry covering your skin. He realizes, sensitive as he always is to your emotions. Copia clutches your hand between his, caresses the back of it without breaking eye contact. “What’s wrong, my dear?” He asks gently.
There are no words in your mouth, nothing logical that can explain why your throat is filled with anguish. It’s most likely nothing, you know it, but your heart beats rapidly and heavy inside your chest.
“I think it’s going to rain soon.”
“Why do you say that? There’s not a cloud in the sky tonight.”
“The wind has changed,” you murmur, averting your gaze. “And I’m worried.”
“About what?”
“Your trip. How long will you be gone?”
This time, his facial expression is the one that denotes concern. “Not too long, and there’s no need to worry,” he comments, squeezing your hand. His fingers curl around your wrist, pulling you closer. “Sister will be there with me. It’s just a dumb meeting with some members of the Clergy, to plan the next tour and album.”
“Let me go with you, then. No one should object to a Sibling of Sin accompanying their Papa.”
“You’ll get bored.”
The same conversation, time after time, is what bores you the most. Why can’t Copia allow you to travel with him? That is something you don’t fathom. A part of you suspects it has to do with Imperator’s presence always following him like a shadow.
“I mean it, Copia,” you stand firm, sitting up. “ I miss you so much when you are gone. Why can’t I go instead of Imperator?”
“She’s the one behind the whole project, I can’t ask her not to go.”
“Then why does she despise me so much?”
As usual, he remains silent. “She doesn't,” Copia states, but there’s an undeniable doubt in his voice.“She has an old vision of how things should be.”
“She has a vision of me dead, I’m telling you.”
“Come on, don’t say that.I’ll be okay and will take care of you. Do you trust me?”
Yes.
“Of course I do, Papa.” The mention of his title, the one he holds in the highest regards, causes him to feel as if he’s about to burn and melt into the silky sheets. His heart is about to explode in a whirlwind of emotions and excitement. Copia is happy, so moved and sensitive every time you call him that.
“Then believe me when I say this. Everything is going to be alright. I’ll be back from my trip soon, and then we might even have some time before the tour. You know what that means?”
“Our beach trip?”
“Yes, why not.”
“It’s winter, Papa.”
“That won't stop me. If it’s not the beach, I’ll take you somewhere else.”
“Okay. Maybe somewhere warm. I really think it’s going to rain soon.”
The next morning, the clouds are distant in the blue horizon when Copia takes one last look at the Ministry before stepping into the car.
Dark clouds float above his head. It’s going to rain soon and the drops of dew that cling to the air are almost frigid cold, dampening his clothes and hair.
“They are looking for you.”
The ghoul maintains his distance. The sturdy boots barely produce any noise against the moist ground, due to the carefulness of his walking. He advances slowly, step by step, as if he’s dealing with a hurt and scared animal that might bolt away at the first sign of danger.
Maybe the ghoul is right. Copia feels like a wounded and terrified creature, about to dissolve into dust. His body is closed tight, holding him together by threads that may break and disintegrate with the slightest wrong movement.
Still, he breathes.
“Saltarian and the rest are wondering where you are.”
“How… How did you find me?”
Without hurrying, the ghoul outstretches one hand. He’s not wearing any gloves, and his silver jewelry shines under the pale glow coming from the lamps. One finger points to himself, right at the chest, over the place where the Emeritus’ sigil has been branded on his skin. “We’re bound together by our deal,” he says. “I’ll always know where you are. That way I can come when you call me.”
“Then the others know where I am too.”
Under the black night sky, the ghoul stands still. Through the dark glass of his mask, his pupils emit a dull light that can barely be discerned. Copia focuses on that glow, on the way the ghoul’s head tilts in his direction as he lowers his body to the ground. Sitting on the dirt, the creature only stares at him.
Next, his fingers toy with the long sleeves of his uniform, rolling them up his arms. Copia follows the action, silently. “Do you remember when you summoned us?” The ghoul questions. His body irradiates heat, reaching a temperature that would be too hot for any normal human. Copia feels half tempted to lean into him, because he’s freezing to his bones.
“Sí, I do. I was terrified,” he admits, narrowing his eyes and breathing through his mouth. It’s a bad habit. He knows it, but he can’t help himself. The oxygen isn’t enough. It’s never enough,
“Then you remember our deal, right?”
“You serve me, and in exchange I let you inhabit a human vessel to roam through the earth.”
This time, the ghoul moves his head slowly. His tongue clicks. “Not exactly. We are summoned here to look after the Ministry’s best interest and ensure the safety of Papa Emeritus. In exchange we are provided with a body to possess and energy to feed off. It’s simple, but the contract is up to interpretation, as it always is.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because the Clergy has issued a command in your absence. They told us to stop you from leaving the Abbey’s ground, no matter what," the creature confesses. “And right now, you’re very close to abandoning our profane land.”
Copia stiffens, skin pale. He’s struggling to inhale and exhale, almost shaking.
“Where is Sister? Has she arrived?” Copia whispers through his teeth. Each syllable is hard to pronounce, because his jaw is almost as tense as the rest of his body. The cold stone causes his teeth to clatter and stomach to shiver, but he doesn’t want to step out of his hiding spot and go back inside the building.
No. His shelter is safe, while the abbey is dangerous. Copia doesn’t know who he can trust in anymore, who might be waiting for him in the shadows. The ghoul shakes his head, solemnly.
“Something horrible happened,” Copia adds, and his companion only nods. “I know something happened.”
Word by word, his shoulders rise as his head drops. The dirt is wet, wetting his clothes. “I can’t find them anywhere,” he mutters, quivering. He wants to disappear, to curl up in a hole and die from anguish and pain.
You can’t abandon him, you can’t simply go and never come back. Copia needs you, more than anything in this world, more than anyone else.
Love me, his soul screams. Love me and never leave me. Never cast me aside, never ignore me.
Love me
Love me
Love me.
“I smell blood on the dirt.”
No.
“Not too old. It’s recent. A few kilometers from here, down the south.”
Copia stands up, but the demon grabs him by the sleeve of his jacket before he can move. The sharp nails leave behind marks, slicing through the cloth. “I have to go,” he pleads.
“You can’t leave the Ministry grounds. That’s the order.”
“Let me go.”
“Even if I do, the others will follow you. And I’m not going to lie, most of them don’t care if they have to drag you back by force.”
The reasoning falls into deaf ears. Copia struggles with all his might, but it's useless in the face of an eternal, inhuman being. “I’m the one in charge here. It’s an order!", he yells, desperate. "I command you to let me go!”
“No, you don't. You can’t even use the binding magic right. It’s a sad attempt.” There’s a glimpse of something in his voice, a bitten emotion that doesn’t quite match the ferocity of his nature. He’s not aggressive, or indifferent. He’s almost sorrowful.
“I don’t understand! You are my ghoul. You serve me!”
A deep sigh is the only reply he gets. “My loyalty is to you, but contractually I serve the Ministry's interests. The pact doesn’t mind who’s in charge of it, if it’s you, another Papa or some old human behind the shadows.”
“Then come with me. That way you’ll be certain I’m safe. No harm done to anybody in the Ministry.”
“You don’t get it, right? To ensure Papa Emeritus’ safety is not the same as to obey you. If you ask most of us, an easy way to keep Papa safe is to lock him inside the Abbey and forbid him from doing something crazy, like going outside in the middle of the night when it’s about to rain.”
Like a marionette with no strings, Copia's arms fall to his side. The creature's grip on his flesh lessens, but the sting of sharp claws remains. “If something happens to Papa Emeritus, if you get sick or injured and can’t perform, then the Old One’s message won’t be spread. There is a tour coming soon. It would be a problem to lose you.”
In the wind, the top of the trees dances in a serpent-like manner. Copia focuses on it, trying hard to match the movement with the rhythm of his air intake.
It's useless. Nothing can bring him peace if you are not around. “But I have to find my beloved.”
“That’s the problem here. You’re not only Papa Emeritus IV. That’s merely a title you endorse. Sadly, right now my duty is to stop you from leaving, not to care about Copia’s feelings and wishes. They don’t serve the Clergy or Satan.”
“I have to find them, please. You said you smelled blood. They need help.”
“I smell blood under the dirt, permeating the ground. It’s not fresh, just recent. I don’t think they need help anymore.”
No.
It can't be.
He won't believe it. Hasn't he given enough? Hasn't he given away his name, his face, years and years of his life to serve this Ministry? Hasn't he done enough?
Copia is asking only for one thing in return to his efforts: you.
They can't take you away.
No one can.
“Silenzio!” He yells. In the darkness, his eye emits a faint pale glow. “Tell me where they are, now. I’ll go.”
The ghoul's bared teeth shine when he growls, in a silent warning. His muscles are tense under his tight skin, almost as if he was ready to pounce and devour him to the bones. “Alright," he breathes out, after a beat. "No need to get so mad, I said my loyalty is to you and not to the Clergy.”
“Why?”
“Maybe I spend too much time with humans. I’m starting to feel things I’m not supposed to, like empathy and pity. It might be your fault. You always treated me like a friend and not a servant.”
“You’re like family to me.”
Instead of offering comfort, his words seem to shatter the creature's spirit even more. “Something I learnt from humans is that even family can stab you in the back. Don’t trust us. We’re not like you in the end.”
Copia listens carefully when the ghoul tells him where to go. It's not far away, but it is beyond the Ministry's fences. He can make it before it begins to rain, probably, but it will be a tough journey.
It doesn't matter. He can't fail.
“One last thing. The tunnels under us, you know them right?”
“Yes.”
“Most of us would consider them part of the Ministry’s grounds. That way, you can get farther away without any ghoul on your heels. I’ll try to distract them as much as I can, but there’s no guarantee.”
“Thank you. For everything.”
“I hope you don’t regret it. This won’t go unpunished for me.”
“I’ll reward you when I get back.”
Without agreeing, the infernal creature begins to walk away. He doesn’t turn around when Copia speaks up, only tilting his head to examine him through the corner of his eyes.
“You said you spent too much time around us, and that’s why you’re experiencing new feelings.” Copia inquires. “Would it be too bad to be a bit more human?”
For a small eternity, an infinite of seconds that weigh as much as his sorrow, the ghoul stays in silence. After that, he swallows. His fists are pressed against his body. “It’s dangerous,” he says softly. “What happens when you lose everything that makes you yourself?”
Copia doesn’t know what to reply. His gaze pierces into the creature, searching for any clue. He detects nothing, only a rare sense of humanity.
To discover humanity in a demon, that’s something he was never prepared for. Copia feels his blood freeze when he witnesses him go without looking back. Before completely disappearing in the distance, the ghoul’s voice continues in an incredibly gentle manner, almost breaking at the end
“You die.”
NEXT CHAPTER
Ps: Sorry for writing a nice ghoul and then implying they died. That wasn't very fluff of me.
Next chapter is probably the end! This is a wild ride. Be prepared, maybe? And, as always, thanks for the support! This wouldn't have been a multi-chapter fic without it <3
#ghost band#ghost band fanfic#ghost band x reader#papa emeritus iv#cardinal copia#papa emeritus x reader#cardinal copia x reader#evil cardinal copia#antichrist copia#nameless ghouls#my writing#my fics
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(in reference to your reblog)
I would absolutely love an exhaustive breakdown of all of your decisions regarding ‘Simon Riley in Situations’
That series consumes me. Much like in the way that Simon was consumed by the desert. I have been fundamentally altered by it.
Oh my god, genuinely thank you so much for asking
This became a very long set of rambles that I have two split in two, possessed by the talk too much demons... sad! Here is the first part, the second part I'll tack on in a later reblog.
More below, I get a little bit Pepe Silvia in this, but oh well lmao
An Introduction
I’m going to preface this with stating that the comics are bad. On an artistic and writer’s standpoint, their net value is negative. I have read those six wretched issues at least seven times through and feel confident in that assertion. I have no idea why people think they’re actually good, in the face of muddy rendering and an overall displeasing art style, Americanised writing with poor panelling and pacing and dialogue, among other torture-porn related things.
That being said, there are moments of competency that shine through, past the early 2000s edge and casual sexism + racist stereotypes, which in turn irritates me because it does show there could have been a better story here. And Yet. But the comics have been a well of spiteful inspiration, first with Except You, and second with In The Desert (and perhaps more to come), and I do want to talk about that. (and I do know that the comics aren’t necessarily canon for the reboot Ghost, but like. C’mon. Work with what we’ve currently got. Even if my money is on Makarov in the reboot having something to do with Ghost’s past, considering the knowing look he and Price share upon seeing the photo.)
Simon is a character that has been doomed by the narrative since day one, and while it would not be a surprise if he survives MW3 on account of the company wanting to make money off his multiplayer counterpart, there is a certain compelling grief in knowing his fate was always going to be how it was in the original trilogy. Simon suffers: Simon dies; Ghost suffers: Ghost dies. There is no other way this story ends. And there is something about the cyclical nature of his life, and patterns to be found in a such a story, which I think are extremely fun to try and enforce, as well as emphasise. It’s this, among other things, that makes him a compelling character to me. Well – that and him being tall, built like a brick-shithouse, gravelly voice, wears a skull mask, has a strong sense of loyalty and compassion for fellow soldiers… (but that’s beside the point!!!!).
The things he went through in the comics had occasionally been so over the top that I need a moment to stand back and go ‘… really? Like. Really? After all that, you put him through more?’ after every reread. It’s not enough that his entire family was murdered but also his psychiatrist and superior officer, and so on and so on. But unfortunately, I have to reiterate that the comics have been a source of inspiration. ‘Simon Riley In Situations’ is an extension of this spiteful motivation to retell/improve upon what the comics were trying to do, as well as occasionally extrapolating on them, or even warping canon to better accommodate my own headcanons/the rebooted universe.
I love stories were a main/side character goes through an incredible change, to the point where they’re noticeably and irreparably different to how they were at the beginning of the story, for better or for worse. Examples that come to mind, currently, are Jinx from Arcane, Zuko from ATLA, Ahsoka in Clone Wars, Steve from Stranger Things. To me, the transformation of Simon into Ghost is something very compelling. The Simon Riley that’s about to fly to the states with Major Vernon is a man very, very different to the Simon Riley freshly recruited into the 141 by Shepherd. But fundamentally they’re still the same person, and that can be an important facet for a big change in a character imo.
I like using a lot of poems and songs and the occasional bible reference in my works. I know it’s fanfiction and maybe for some people that’s overdoing it, but I love it. I love how art informs and inspires itself, and I love using the inherent emotional and cultural connections attached to a specific work in order to enhance that of my own writing. I think it’s good practice, and maybe it doesn’t matter that it’s expressed in the form of fanfiction. I’m a better writer because of it, and that’s something of significance to me: I never studied English lit/creative writing at a higher level of education, so this is where it will be expressed.
Skulls, Death, and the Ghost
Skulls haunt Simon throughout the comics; in turn, Simon has been haunted by the Ghost he’s doomed to become for a very long time. Roba wears skull face-paint when torturing and attempting to brainwash Simon, Simon’s father used to wear skull face-paint when performing, Simon smeared toothpaste on his face when in recovery from Roba’s captivity and it resembled a skull, Tommy wore a skull mask to emulate his father, and Simon hallucinates skeletons/skulls at different points in the comics. Finally, when his family are killed and Simon goes on his revenge mission, he wears the same face paint as he did during Día de Los Muertos when Roba captured him. He claims that the brainwashing didn’t ‘work’ (as the comics put it), but here Simon is, wearing the same mask as his tormentors. I wanted to stretch that recurring imagery by adding the vocalist wearing the skull face-paint in chapter one of Except You. Something there about returning to form, or perhaps finally looking back to see what exactly is that thing who’s been lurking in the back of your mind. I describe the skull reoccurring as “morbidly familiar” in that this has always been Simon’s fate, and it doesn’t matter what he does to try and escape, because he will always return to it.
It can also be stretched to symbolise his close relationship with Death. Simon has ‘died’ a lot of times in the story. At first he believes he’s dead on a subconscious level (nightmares with Roba’ saying he killed him), but then issues 3+4 happen, and that belief escalates into a conscious conviction that he died on the concrete floor in Roba’s captivity; he died out there in the desert; he died surrounded by his family’s corpses on Christmas; he died the moment he killed Roba; he died for good at the end of MW2. Roba killed Simon, and Ghost put whatever ‘Simon Riley’ once was to rest in the funeral pyre of his childhood home. Ghost has always had to everything on his own up until this point: even give himself a proper sendoff. A part of me wonders if Ghost believes himself, on some level, to be the keeper of Simon’s memory and identity. That is what a ghost is, right? The thing that lingers after a tragedy.
It's something incredibly interesting to consider present-era Ghost. Does he still think he’s dead? Is he waiting for the rot to set in? Has he been so dissociated from himself for so long that he doesn’t know how else to function, and on some level is terrified of what might happen, should he in turn look back to face whatever is left of ‘Simon Riley’? Maybe Ghost can be interpreted as the one that came back ‘wrong’, and he’s waiting for other people to notice that there’s nothing left but a corpse. He has gotten very little help by way of therapy/counselling, and probably doesn’t have the tools nor language at his disposal to neither work through these things, nor know how to voice them in the first place. That’s one of the reasons I wrote Simon as not fully aware of the definition of ‘child abuse’ and how it related to him. He knows Nigel (his father) was a cunt and a wifebeater, but he doesn’t know those necessary psych terms to properly begin processing what happened to him both as a child and adult, because who could have taught him? He never got the chance to go to DBT or CBT, and that hazy moment of time with Dr Halloway probably wasn’t conducive to learning about things like CPTSD and trauma and abusive households. I tried to extrapolate this, with Simon’s internalised ableism also being a block to fully accepting or even processing those terms. He’s in a lot of pain, and he very, very desperately wants to move on, to return to how he used to be before all of ‘this’. Will talk later on about how the military factors in to keeping the status quo of ‘the Ghost’.
In tarot (love you tarot love symbolisms in it love when it’s used in media mwah mwah), the death card symbolises major change, rebirth, and endings and beginnings.
If anything, Simon Riley is defined by his deaths and rebirths, how he keeps forcing himself to change in order to survive a brutal narrative set for him. And Ghost, who bears a skull-face not dissimilar to the grim-reaper, perhaps wears this taboo symbol to ward off ‘evil’, or to use that fear in order to keep people at arm’s length, in response to these injustices done to him by fate and the machinations of people far crueller than Simon. He has been through a lot, and still he keeps moving, keeps completing missions and being a ‘good soldier’, because that’s all Simon knows. He’s like a shark in that way, or a well-trained dog: he was never taught, nor given the chance to learn, how to not be a soldier. This is something me and @narramin, affectionately refer to as hound-coding, which, god, really suits Simon. Will talk about it further on.
Roba Himself
Manuel Roba is certainly there. It’s honestly incredibly disappointing to see how this specific character was handled, how heavily the writers leaned into stereotypes to depict Roba – there’s a panel of him holding a burrito for fuck’s sake. This caricature of a villain is both lazily written, but also serves to reduce the impact he has on Simon. This man is supposed to be the primary antagonist, above Simon’s abusive father. He is the reason that Ghost exists, the reason the Riley family are dead, and can be considered the primary catalyst for most of the comics’ plot. And yet this man, and all that he represents in Simon’s suffering, is reduced to the fat ‘El Gordo’ with dialogue lines that are ultimately meaningless, a personal motivation that is only said in his dying breath without further exploration, and ultimately is a villain without any teeth. I think Roba has the potential to be a terrifying figure, one this kind of dark story needs in order to ensure that Simon’s suffering isn’t made a joke when compared to the one at the source of it all.
There are moments of competency and personality that shine through here and there. The pink deck chair in the sensory overload room, the ‘plant flowers over [the grave]’ line, as well as Roba choosing to make himself appear as the grim reaper himself as a way to express ultimate power over his captives’ lives (and, in turn, Simon killing Roba and choosing to don the skull-face could be seen as him taking that control back).
There is a set of panels, one from issue 5 and another from issue 6, that piques my attention when placed together (seen below). Simon has tried so hard to convince himself and others that he is fine, that Roba’s brainwashing failed, that he is not deeply affected by the seven months of torture and humiliation and dehumanisation. But then he comes back from the dead wearing the same face-paint as Roba. He refers to himself as death, as does Roba. That man has his claws deep in Simon, and Roba knew this, and he died with a smile on his face because of it. As quoted by his final words: in the end Roba is just one man. Killing him won’t bring back the Rileys and it won’t stop the pain Ghost is in (but by god is it Ghost’s right to put that man down for what he did to him.).
The following paragraphs will discuss the torture Simon was subjected to in Roba’s captivity and features discussion of the sexual assault he experienced, as well as being him drugged + detailed acts of dehumanisation. The section itself will be bracketed with a ‘-’, feel free to skip to the final paragraph marked of this section if you’d prefer.
-
In my writing I want to show a competent, terrifying Roba. He should be purposeful in how he goes about breaking these men down in order to build them up into the dutiful hounds Roba so obviously wanted. That’s part of why I think, and wrote, Roba having never touched Simon, he made sure it was his men assaulting Simon while he watched (for one reason or another). And when they were finished Roba would try to manipulate the situation into one being Simon’s fault and that Roba, and only Roba, could fix for him. Simon needed to see Roba as the one with the power to control all these awful things happening to him, and that his own obstinance is the reason he’s suffering. Roba would make an offer – if you listen to me, follow what I say, I can make this stop. I can stop them from touching you ever again. It’s purposefully and insidiously phrased, he’s trying to make all this seem like Simon’s fault for not ‘giving in’. In turn, the prolonged torture and dehumanisation would best be served as well-thought-out tactics.
I’m not a fan of how every other captive was noted as too ‘weak’ or whatever to hold out against all that Roba was doing to them, only for Vernon to say that his methods were ‘genius’ – not with a near 100% mortality rate it fucking isn’t. It would be interesting to explore a fic where Roba was actually competent enough for those aforementioned super soldiers to be a real thing (and we’ll make death proud of us touches on this very well I recommend this fic). But, regardless, I find exploring the ways Simon could have been dehumanised/tortured without succumbing to infection or shock or a sudden heart attack from the sheer amount of stress and trauma to be morbidly interesting. I’m a morbid person, so this tracks lmao (it’s regardless a matter of balance, though, because we’re trying not to fall into that Edge the comics loved so much). I also want to note that Roba rarely, if ever, called Simon by his real name. It’s always ‘English’ or ‘Mr. Death’. A name is a powerful thing to control, stripping a person of their name is a common dehumanisation tactic, one that even the military has been known to use in order to get all these individuals into acting as one mass. It’s also a sign of non-acknowledgement, in my eyes. Simon was not a person to Roba, not really, just a dog that needed moulding. In a way, Ghost referring to himself as ‘Ghost’ may also be a tactic to distance himself from Simon in order to cope with the Everything that’s happened to him.
The next point is just as important as the prior ones: what kind of effect would all this have on Simon in different stages of the comics? And what kind of inner monologue and mindset would he have in order to endure these awful, awful things? And how would he heal from it, considering how the events of the comics went down? He has no control over the situation as a whole, but I imagine that Simon is the kind of person to try and grasp for anything to have control over regardless – he’s exhausted but he still might try to lay in a way that keeps him protected or stills his roiling gut, he’ll occasionally still try to lash out against the narcos, he’ll try and joke with Sparks and Washington in order to help them cling to their humanity (as well as preserve his own identity as a protector, which I want to get into later). He especially utilises dissociation as a ‘tool’ developed from living under the same roof as Nigel Fucking Riley. It provided a very necessary reprieve, and Simon probably believes he’d been ‘broken’ by his father long before Roba ever got his hands on him. Simon at this point probably (maladaptively, in the long run) perceives his ability to dissociate from the body to be a way to control what he truly feels. He can get some kind of control over experiencing multiple instances of sexual assault, over MONTHS, by creating a clear delineation between the body and the person. I wonder if this laid the groundworks for the self-perceived split between Simon Riley and Ghost.
He’s out of that place, Roba is dead and whatever was left of the Zaragoza cartel is hopefully long gone. But where does that leave Simon, whose primary coping mechanisms are either feeling horrific, yawning numbness, or forcing all that pain and fear and humiliation into over-powering anger? All these things kept him alive then… but now what? He has been subjected to a horrific slew of experiences in seven months, over two-hundred days. How do you approach that kind of deal and unpackaging and addressing of that trauma? It’s something in and of itself would be a compelling story to tell, especially with his childhood trauma informing how he processes those experiences. Simon has been physically and psychologically changed by Roba, even if he tried to ‘resist’ – even though interrogation resistance training only lasts for so long.
Sometimes I wonder at what point did Simon realise they weren’t torturing him for information, but to make him into something that wasn’t human. At what point did he realise that there was a reason they made him crawl down the hallways on his hands and knees with a collar around his neck, or that they fed him dog food off the ground, or that he might have been kept in retrofitted dog kennels, in a long-abandoned dog fighting pit.
I wonder if there were times he wished he’d just let go and listen to Roba, and kill the people the latter wanted him to kill; just so that the pain would stop, and he could be more than this thing surviving on the concrete floor. Very interesting to consider, what with the comics implying that Sparks and potentially Washington were also drugged in order to force a dependence on them, as a way to further exert control over them. I’m not sure why Simon didn’t also experience this. Yet another Comics Cringe Moment.
-
Ultimately, when I see Roba I think of a Judge Holden-esque figure: an intelligent man who has taken a step back, looked at the violence of the world, and ultimately came to the conclusion that, 1.) It is in man’s nature to wage war and be violent, and 2.) It is Roba’s right to control that flow of violence. He had Simon, Sparks, and Washington, and others who came before them, tortured, brutalised, dehumanised, starved, assaulted, and vivisected with intents to brainwash them into his own personal soldiers/bodyguards. He wanted to perverse nature and control something that was never his to control, and I think a character like that should ooze calculated cruelty and a disdain for the optimistic/what he perceives as weak. It’s a dog-eat-dog world, in Roba’s eyes, and he wants to be the one holding the leash.
Dogs and Hounds
Speaking of dogs, let’s get into hound-coding. Dog/hound/wolf metaphors are used for characters in a plethora of ways: dogs and other canines are embedded deeply in a lot of cultures and that can be seen in how disparate a dog can be used in symbolism. The rabid dog that requires put down, versus the loyal-to-a-fault dog whose diligence will be its downfall. The dog that hunts you down relentlessly against the dog that protects and nurtures. Vicious and borderline obsessed, pursuing a singular goal with tunnel-vision; dangerous predator stalking you from the shadows; wholly dedicated to a sole purpose in life; kicked to the point where anger lines their teeth and they meet the world with a bite, because they’ll never let anyone hurt them again; a caregiver and teacher, sometimes even a leader that will look out for who they see as family.
With Simon Riley, I feel he is a hound, the kind that’s been kicked enough times to know to bite first and ask questions later – but can someone please be gentle? Please, can’t someone let him rest? Then the narrative slaps his muzzle and tells him the story isn’t done yet. Simon, off the coattails of escaping his childhood home as a teenager, finds purpose in the military and clings to it. So much of Simon’s identity can be tied to him being a protector, as well as a soldier; he’s proud of his achievements within the SAS, cocky, even. He is well trained in violence and well experienced, too; he’s risen above to make a reputation for himself as a tough sonofabitch within the SAS, which is pretty famously full of that type of person.
The dog can be moulded into a lot of different things in fiction, just as it has in real life. So can Simon, so can Ghost: he’s a character that has been subjected to extreme kinds of change, with some very clear distinctions between Pre-Roba Simon, During-Roba, Post-Roba, Post-Family Massacre, and Post-Jungle Raid. That’s one of the reasons why I think the dog metaphor, and its imagery, can provide very impactful parallels for Simon. What is a dog, if not loyal and loving? Didn’t we make it that way? And what is a dog, if not defined by the job it can fulfil. We made it that way. What use is Simon to the military, if he won’t do what he was trained to do. I wonder if he worries about that in between missions: losing his purpose and identity one way or another.
Ghost is a good leader; he knows how to direct a team and how to keep Soap calm during the chaos in Las Almas. I imagine he found sanctuary in the camaraderie that can be found in a military environment, compared to his chaotic homelife. He doesn’t necessarily have to be open about it, or all that externally happy. But it’s regardless a community that has provided Ghost with some form of support (ironic, again, considering it’s the military, but that is how it works). Like a pack animal, one might say.
His potential relationship with Soap, if people take it that way (I do and will be talking about it more later #peaceandlove), reminds me of the poem ‘bait dog’ among others, here's an excerpt from the end of it: “And she still flinches / When I reach to pet her / but she smiles / once I get behind the ears / you will not heal from everything / that does not mean / you will stop being loved.”, and I feel that’s a very lovely image when applied to Soapghost, y’know? Simon has been through a lot, and Soap is emotionally mature enough to recognise that and give him space, while still putting in that necessary work to bridge certain gaps. Kind of like the slow burn of getting a rescue dog to trust you, except it’s your human superior officer with CPTSD and an edgy comic book backstory. They will doubtless have issues and bumps in the road, but they’ll also have shitty jokes and a lot of patience to keep things buoyed. Love wins or WHATEVER.
Roba tried to make Simon into an attack dog, too. Treated him like one, and I imagine there was a point where Simon was starting to believe it. Then he gets buried alive and has to dig his way out. He has to drag himself through the desert (more to come on that) and survive months of recovery until he has a chance to return to the state he physically was. I imagine this time of injury was awful for Simon: he felt incompetent on top of the other churning emotions one would have after surviving so many months of All That. Simon, I imagine, has always defined himself by his ability to provide, protection or otherwise, as well as his own physical prowess. It’s what kept him and his family safe all this time. It also led to him being picked for that fateful mission. I think Simon is a man shown to be capable of that single-minded focus of a hound that’s caught the scent, especially when he spent months tracking down Roba in the jungle.
Simon is a dog constantly having to remember its teeth. There is a lot to be said about dogs that learn to bite back.
I have reached a character limit here but still have a lot to talk about, please hold (and tysm, again, for the ask)
#ask#codposting#simon riley#ghost mw2#cod mw2#call of duty#rape mention#shaking my fist at the sky every time i think about the comics. god.#This is LONG and it's not done yet... freak
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possibly dumb question but… what exactly is structural editing and how do you do it? i assume it’s shifting the order of stuff around in a draft but how do you do that to end up with a cohesive story that flows in the end? it sounds very daunting!
not a dumb question at all!
structure is, at its core, the organization of a story. for the most part, stories are organized chronologically. we are given information in the order of time passing, and often at the same time the narrator experiences it.
if your story is chronological, structural editing will mostly involve major turning points for the story, ensuring that your tension (even if it is a very loose tension) is escalating. for the most part, writers focus on the escalation of external events while drafting, but the internal escalation sometimes needs to be reorganized or totally re-envisioned. your narrator's epiphany lands after the sequence of events that would prompt that epiphany. i know i have a terrible habit of making my characters realize important things far too early, and in revisions i have to move that realization later, which, yes, involves cutting and pasting and changing the order of things, but also affects the narration based on what the character does not yet know, and sometimes even the action of the story.
so it's cyclical logic in that way, which is why revision can be so hard and frustrating: if you change the character's inner growth, that may affect their actions in the story. if you change their actions in the story, it may affect the rate of their inner growth.
an example is the fanfiction italicized "oh." in other words, the moment your narrator realizes their feelings for their romantic interest. let's say in drafting, you put it in the climax. the narrator spends the story grappling with their feelings, then realizing them, acting on them, and then the romance culminates in a confession and/or a kiss and/or sex, and the story ends.
but how would their behavior change if "oh" was the inciting incident of the story? if they figure it out during the exposition, or maybe even before the story begins, and spend the rest of the story pining, with some other conflict keeping them from expressing their feelings?
very often my developmental edits for people involve something like, "your resolution is the inciting incident of the story you're really trying to tell," which no one ever wants to hear. but it's a good practice when pre-writing to ask yourself if the end of the story you're trying to write is actually the end of the backstory.
drafting (or what i sometimes call the discovery stage) is the order in which your story arrives on the page, and revision is working with what you've written to figure out the order of what must be known. one of the hardest parts of writing is figuring out what your reader needs to know and when they need to know it in order to have the contextual information and emotional priming of what happens thereafter.
although i do very much love when weird shit happens that makes me go ??? and *then* i'm given context in a form of a reveal, or what i call an illuminating moment that casts light on the previous events of the story. many people mistake this for a "twist," which is when the story sets up an expectation and subverts it meaningfully.
of course, you're not obligated to write chronologically. in fact i don't anymore. i prefer framing devices, long backstories, multiple timelines, and alternating points of view that sometimes overlap in time and space. a lot of writing advice will tell you these things are bad. they're not. they're just hard to pull off, because it requires an extra step: telling yourself the story in the order it comes in, figuring out the cause and effect sequence, fixing the cause and effect sequence, and then figuring out the order you want the information to be revealed in beyond the constraining device of time. never let anyone discourage you from experimenting with structure. it can be fun and challenging as both a writer and a reader.
tl;dr: structural or developmental revision is the process of putting your story in the order of the clearest escalating tension and stakes, both internally and externally, with an eye on the organization of the information revealed in the story as the reader would experience it.
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