#like it's remarkable for its very normalcy
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The Glory -> You Leave Them
Requested: No
Kdrama: The Glory
Genre: Angst.
Warnings: Mentions of murder. Mentions of bullying. Mentions of death. No remorse. Swearing. Violence.
A/N: I absolutely do not condone anything that was presented in the kdrama. No one should ever bully others. This is all purely fiction.
Moon Dong-eun
The apartment was remarkably quiet, not filled with the with your singing voice as you would flounder around the rooms, usually the kitchen, as you made dinner for the two of you. Dongeun closed the door behind her silently, dark eyes flinting across the room as she began to take her coat off. It was dark, not a single light on, a sign that you were not home.
She frowned.
You always were home before her, being a creature of routine as you always returned home after work, diligently waiting for her as she would be out doing her own work and alternative dealings with Yeojeong, productively placing all the puzzle piece of her plan together. She was close to achieving her revenge on everyone, time being her side as it always has been since her high school years. She had the five of them running around like headless chickens, flustered and terrified about her next moves. It was silently delightful, to see them so terrified of her presence, of her very lingering around the diameter of their lives, not really truly lifting a finger of direct interaction with them.
Mice do not truly feel terror towards a cat until they see it watching them, only then do survival instincts kick in, but Dongeun was not ready to pounce yet. She was simply biding her time until the ultimate position was set for her to deliver the final kill.
But aside from that, she was concerned on where you were. She pulled out her phone, checking to see if you had perhaps sent her a message about your whereabouts, something you always do even though she has stated that it is not necesarry.
Nothing.
Dongeun’s frown deepened as she pocketed her phone before reach out to switch on the lights, eyes blinking as they adjusted to the sudden light in the apartment, still hoping to catch a glimpse of you in the room.
“Y/N?” she called out, her voice leaving a slight echo in the empty room as it went unanswered.
A small bundle of unease began to form in Dongeun’s chest, not enjoying the aspect that you were not home like she expected. Throughout her life, Dongeun has never had anything that was constant, especially after her ordeals in high school, so when you stumbled into her life, it has been a concept she has never had to deal with before.
You were so...good. Dongeun has never been surrounded by something good or positive, her whole life until now being filled with pain, fear, and wrath. So when you were adamant to become involved in her life, slipping through the concealed cracks in her armor, she thought herself and you to be insane. Although Dongeun lost her sanity years ago, lost all sense of her humanity ever since that curling iron laid its first kiss to her skin.
But since meeting you, she felt that perhaps she will finally be able to feel a sense of normalcy in her life again. Or to just feel something again. She hasn’t quite be able to outright say what her feelings towards you were, but she knew that it was something that could be worthwhile. Something tangible and something that she can act upon which will not wind up with someone paying for their past sins.
But the feeling of unease was not welcomed and even though you did not answer the first time she called your name, she tried again, hoping that just perhaps you were someone deeper in the apartment that you simply did not hear her.
But you voice didn’t answer her back.
This was a strange circumstance, and Dongeun knew that she did not like it. Swallowing a bitter pill of nerves, Dongeun walked through the kitchen and headed towards your bedroom, it being the other likely place you would be aside from the kitchen. She opened the door without hesitance, hand going for the light switch, eyes moving to where your bed was, hoping to see your sleeping bundle in it.
But nothing. Your sheets were pressed and straight, not a single sign of disturbance on their immaculate design. Her eyes flinted across the room, your organization obvious to the naked eye but Dongeun froze when she noticed a piece of paper on your desk, a pen on top of it which indicated that something had been written down. While usually Dongeun respected your privacy, only entering your room when she required your assistance or when you finally managed to convince her to sleep beside you for the night, she could not help but forgo her previous reservations upon entering your room without you as she bee lined for your desk.
She immediately noticed the writing on the piece of paper, your cursive writing curling with one another, forming her name on the folded piece of paper, making the ball of unease increase as she reached out and picked it up from the desk, unfolding the piece of paper with slightly shaky fingers.
To Dongeun
There is nothing more that I want than you happiness. After everything that has happened to you, it is what you deserve.
I have tried to be a source of your happiness, to try be a semblance of what you can call happiness. But I don’t think that I am someone who is able to give you what you want.
Your revenge...it is what you want. And I understand why. I sincerely hope that you are able to find what you need Dongeun, but I am scared that I will fall into a hole which I will never get out of. And while you are happy to fall...I am scared to fall with you.
I am not sure when you will find this letter, but Dongeun, please don’t think I have left because of you. I have left because of myself. Because I am not strong enough to handle to consequences that may come from your revenge.
If this will add me to your list...then I accept it.
I just hope that you will hopefully find your happiness soon.
Goodbye
Dongeun stared at the piece of paper, rereading the word, a stone forming itself in her throat as she tried to get a handle of herself. And yet she could not stop the tear that escaped her eye, nor could she stop the following ones as she lowered herself to her knees, slumping over the letter as it fell from her fingertips to the floor.
The last time she cried was when she was saved from making the ending choice that winter in the river. When she was embraced by her landlady, giving her the comfort she so desperately craved. Afterwards, she became completely numb with her emotions, the only thing motivating her forwards in life was the ultimate revenge she was going to carry out against Yeonjin and the others.
And yet now she is finding herself beginning to bawl like she did all those years ago, her arms wrapping around her body as she attempted to comfort herself, halfheartedly patting herself as she slumped her head forward.
You were gone...and she had no idea where she could start to find you.
Her constant was gone. And you didn’t even realize just what you were to her. And it seems that she will never be able to tell you.
Joo Yeo-jeong
Both of you froze when you locked eyes, him already having stared at you in shock as he watched you shoving clothes into a suitcase, you not realizing he was there until you lifted your head. Neither of you said a word, just staring at each for a few long moments, either trying to figure out what to say or to truly determine if the other was in fact in the room.
But eventually you were the one who broke eye contact first, turning around to head back to the closet and yanking out more of your blouses, hurried undoing them from the hangers. Only then did Yeojeong hurry pass the threshold and headed towards you.
“Y/N, what on earth are you doing?”
“Packing.”
Your voice was firm, but he could hear the fragility of as you kept your head down, not daring to lock gazes with him. But he was not going to allow that, not when you were doing something sudden. He reached out to you and grabbed you by the arm, only for you to rip it out of his hand.
“Don’t touch me.” You hissed, still not looking at you as you shoved your blouse in the bag before grabbing another, only for Yeojeong to grab it before you.
“Stop. Y/N, what is going on?” he asked, tugging the piece of clothing closer to him as you reached out to grab it back. You paused for a moment before deciding to forgo the captive blouse, turning around and shoving the others in before heading back to the closet, him following quickly after you. “Y/N, what are you doing? Why are you pack? Where are you going?”
“Away from you.”
Your words were as sharp as three daggers being plunged into his chest, curved blades that have truly wedged themselves into is sternum, causing excruciating pain while he was trying to determine your reasoning for such harsh words.
“W-Why? What did I do-”
His words got caught in his throat when you suddenly whirled around to look at him, eyes hard but red with tear streaks down your cheeks, clearly indicating to you that you have been crying. But before he could reach out to try wipe away the old remnants of tears, your words made the blood in his body freeze.
“Are you seriously going to try play dumb with what you did. To what you have been drawing out for the past years until you finally managed to achieve what you wanted?”
While you did not outright state what he did, he knew immediately what you were referring to. His revenge, his long, drawn out revenge which he finally managed to achieve last week. To watch the light fade away from that monster’s eyes, to see the blood seep out of his body, the sign of life escaping him, it had been wonderful. And the best thing about it is that it all seemed to be an accident, the pouncing of other prisoners on the monster. No one has suspected his participation in the attack, after all, he was just a doctor. The beast had been brought to the medical wing of the prison, but he already knew that the beast was gone, as he waited the entire time during the whole ordeal until his last breath was taken.
It was hours of pain for him, but Yeojeong, it was hours of bliss. And he made sure to treasure the memories in his mind.
But now...it seemed that he was no longer the only one who knew about it.
“H-How did you-”
“It doesn’t matter. But what does matter is that I am leaving.”
You whirled around and grabbed your favorite cloak, his eyes flicking to the closest to realize that all the clothes that he had gotten for you during the entire relationship was left hanging in the closet, you having no intention of taking them with you. As you moved to walk past him, he immediately stepped in front of you, his hands moving to grab you.
“Wait, Y/N, just listen to-”
“NO!”
Your scream made him flinch backwards, not expecting you to scream so suddenly. Your eyes were blazing, but he noticed that they were becoming wetter by each passin second until you angrily wiped at them, tightening your grip on your cloak before you pushed past him and head towards the suitcase on the bed.
“I don’t need to listen to a damn thing you say.”
“Y/N, you have to understand that-”
“Understand what?” you said, whipping around to face him again. “Understand that you killed a man in cold blood? That you had been planning it out even before you transferred to that prison? That you enjoyed it? What else is there for me to understand?”
Yeojeong tightened his hands into fists, slightly shaking on the spot as he clenched his jaw tightly, his adam’s apple bobbing as he stared at you, trying his best to keep his emotions in check.
“Y/N...he deserved it. After what he did to me, to my father, he deserved to die. He deserved it!”
He didn’t mean to raise his voice towards the end, but he couldn’t help it. Just...the thought of that beast, the memories of him laughing and mocking Yejeong as he laid on the floor in the hospital as his father bled out...it made his blood boil. His father was a great man who was only doing his job. He saw the best of people, and yet that monster slit his throat without hesitation. He deserved to go out the way that he did, by Yeojeong’s hand, precise and slow were all of the cuts and stabs, he made sure that he suffered, he made sure that he felt his wrath.
You had flinched at his raised voice, but your features tightened up even more, the cloak in your hands being thrown onto your open suitcase before you took a step towards him.
“He deserved to die...but not by your hand.”
His jaw dropped in shock. What the hell were you saying.
“Y/N-”
“That monster deserved to die Yeojeong. But not by your hand.”
“I...Yes he did! He killed my father Y/N! He has sent me letters about it for years! You’ve read them! You’ve seen them! And you are saying that he didn’t deserve to be killed by me! I had the right to do it! It was my right.”
He couldn’t help but be infuriated by your words. Out of all people, you should be the one the most understanding. You understood the utter disgust and hatred he felt towards that man, no, that beast, and yet you are staring at him like he was some kind of stranger, or a predator you had been locked in with in a cage.
You stared at him with cold eyes, cool tragedy fooling your orbs while your lips quivered as you stared at him. Your jaw was clenching and unclenching, your neck flexing as you swallowed before you shook your head.
“You just don’t see it Yeojeng.” You said before turning around, moving towards your suitcase and slamming it shut with a resounding click. “You refuse to see it.”
“...refuse to see what?” he probed, his eyes staring darkly into yours as you turned around to face him again, hands on the handle of your suitcase. You gazed at him solemnly before uttering the words which made his entire conscious freeze.
“You’re just like him.”
It almost felt like you fired a bullet through his brain, bring an entire end to his living soul when he heard those words. He didn’t even realize that you had left until he heard the resounding slam of the front door, which startled him out of his daze. He hurried to chase after you, only to trip on the lone blouse you had abandoned in his hands earlier, making him fall to the ground with a hard thud.
Pain...that was all he could feel. Physical, emotional, and soulful.
Ha Do-yeong
Following his disastrous marriage to Yeonjin and divorce, Doyeong was apprehensive to get involved with someone else, believing that he had to just focus on his overseas expansions and on providing Yesol the best life that he could.
But then you entered his and Yesol’s life, and managed to slowly fill in the void that was caused by his ex-wife. You had a warm air about you which was different Yeonjin, or rather any other woman he has come across in his social circles. He was not naive enough to believe that woman were attracted to him because of his personality, but because of his wealth. The reason he and Yeonjin had been introduced to one another was because her mother had been an acquaintance of his father’s, the two of them running in the same social circles that eventually she caught his attention, charmed him, and managed to convince him to fall in love with her and give her the life she had always wanted.
But you were different because you had no idea who he was when the two of you first met. In fact, you weren’t even aware of the wealth that he had as he had happened to bump into you at a soccer match at Yesol’s school, you being there to support your niece as she played on the opposing team to Yesol. You introduced yourself and offered to buy him a coffee, almost bewitching him at first sight with your kind smile and bright eyes.
Yesol took a liking to you, she was a bit shy at first but when you had offered to buy her a victory ice-cream after beating your niece and nephews team, she lightened up like a Christmas tree. And soon afterwards, you started become an aspect to their life, a development which had startled him.
It was not that he did not want you a part of his life. He did, in fact, he craved it. But he couldn’t help but worry the confusion his relationship may cause with Yesol, especially since it has not been too long ago that the whole ordeal of Yeonjin had affected their lives. Doyeong did not believe that Yesol needed Yeonjin to be happy, that him being her father was enough for her. But when he watched you and Yesol bond with one another, playing soccer, dress up and going on shopping and arcade trips, he could help but start to feel panicked with how much of a figure you were becoming in their lives, and with how fast things were starting to move.
Doyeong would not describe himself of being a coward. In fact, he would consider himself the opposite, but with how fast things were moving, he was getting scared. Of what, he did not exactly know, but he couldn’t stop the fear from growing until he finally snapped in an unfair moment of panic when all you were doing was trying to be there for both Yesol and him.
When he had received a phone call from a hospital about Yesol, he thought his entire world had shattered when he heard the word’s ‘accident’ and ‘missed traffic light’. He flew out of his office like a banshee out of hell, uncaring of the meeting that he was to enter because the only thing that was on his mind was his daughter. He probably broke about a dozen overseas laws with his driving but he did not simply care for it because nothing was going to stop him until he knew the state of his daughter.
He had all but sprinted into the hospital and demanded to know where Yesol was, nearly scaring the receptionist half to death with his rapid Korean, not understanding what he was saying until he eventually had to calm himself to speak English, eventually being directed to the after-care unit where Yesol was being kept. He sprinted through the corridors and corners until he eventually arrived in the corridor to where Yesol’s room was, only to see you stepping out of a room with your arm in a sling.
“Y/N!”
You immediately turned your head in the direction of Doyeong as he hurried towards you, a small smile on your face as you raised your uninjured arm towards him.
“Doyeong-”
“Yesol! Where is she? Is she okay?!” He immediately asked, staring at you with panicked eyes as he demanded to know the status of his daughter. You gave him a comforting look, resting a hand on his arm in an attempt to calm him.
“She’s okay, the doctor is busy checking up on her now. He will be done in a few minutes and then you can see her.”
Doyeong relaxed slightly now that he knew that Yesol was okay, but his anxiety immediately raked up again when he remembered the reason Yesol was in the hospital in the first place. You had your day off and wanted to spend it with Yesol since it was the school holidays. Doyeong was initially hesitant about it since he knew that he was going to be busy all day and not be able to join the two of you, but when Yesol pleaded for him to agree to your desire, to let the two of you spend the day together, he eventually succumbed to his daughters wishes and agreed.
But it seemed his initial hesitance was valid because if he had refused your request, then Yesol wouldn’t be injured and in the hospital in the first place.
“You said that she would be okay with you. Why the hell didn’t you take care of her?”
Doyeong didn’t realize that he had said such harsh words until he said them, and by the way your furrowed your eyebrows and flinched, you weren’t expecting such words from him either. You removed your hand from his arm and took a step back.
“I didn’t mean for it to happen Doyeong. It was an accident. It was my right away and another car had jumped the stoplight and-”
“That is not enough! Yesol was in the car! You should have been more aware on the road!”
You furrowed your eyebrows even more and took another step, taking an unsteady breath while you bit your bottom lip.
“I didn’t see them coming Doyeong. You know that I would never deliberately put Yesol in danger like that. It was an accident, and while I understand how you feel-”
“You have no idea how I feel. Yesol is my daughter!” He yelled, his hands tightening into fists as he whipped past you to stand in front of the door where you had come out from. He needed the doctor to come out already, he needed to see Yesol for himself, to scoop her up in his arms to truly comfort him that she was okay. He heard you sigh and walk up behind him, reaching out to touch his elbow.
“I understand why you are upset Doyeong and I’m sorry. I should have been careful, and you know that I love Yesol like she is my own daughter-”
Before Doyeong could stop himself, he whirled around to face you with a snarl on his lips, his eyes flashing angrily as he glared at you.
“She will never be your daughter, just like you will never, ever be her mother!”
...
He might as well have slapped you with how strong of an effect his words had on you. You completely stumbled away from him, eyes wide and jaw slacked, staring at him in complete and utter shock. Doyeong widened his own eyes when his own words and indication of them dawned on him, filling him with immediate regret as he watched you fold in within yourself, your bottom lip quivering as you looked away from him.
“I-I see.” You stuttered out, your voice strained, an indication to him that you were trying to stop yourself from crying. “T-Then, I will see myself off.”
Without another word, you turned around and began to hurry away, his own body acting on instinct to chase after you, but before he could, the door behind him opened and another voice called out to him.
“Oh, are you Mr. Ha? Yesol’s father?”
Doyeong turned around to see a well-dressed man in a doctor’s coat, a kind smile on his face as he looked at him. Doyeong swallowed thickly, trying to push down his emotions of dismay and regret as he nodded, running a hand through his hair.
“Yes. I-Is Yesol alright?”
The doctor smiled and nodded before inviting Doyeong in, Yesol smiling face immediately greeting him as she sucked on a red lollipop which the doctor must have given her, a plaster on her cheek.
“Hi daddy!” She greeted, giving him a wave, only to frown slightly as she looked behind him. “Where’s Y/N?”
And Doyeong was at a lost to what to say.
Park Yeon-jin
We’re over
Not a lot of things have ever scared Yeonjin, but the second she saw that text message from you, an avalanche of terror and panic washed over her. She knew that the reappearance of Dongeun in her life was going to be the cause of so much trouble, especially since Sara had already taken a fall, being one of the first of them to crumble under the so called ‘revenge’ Dongeun was trying to pull over them, but she thought for certain that you were going to remain untouched throughout this duration of Dongeun’s stupid revenge scheme.
She was in the middle of broadcasting when she had received the message, and it was only afterwards did she finally managed to read it and was sent into a complete state of shock because she refused to believe you would actually send such a text to her during a time when she needed you the most.
She immediately tried to call you, but it went unanswered, prompting her to call you a second time, then a third, and then a fourth to finally realize that you were purposely ignoring her calls. And she could not stand for it.
Yeonjin did waste another second of her time, immediately grabbing her stuff and all but sprinting out of the studio to get to her car. She all but stranded her assistant behind, not bothering about them because they were not a priority. They could take a taxi for all she cared, but the only thing she had in mind was to find you.
You could not leave her. Not now when she needed you the most. Sara was a lost case, Jaejun has lost his mind, Myeong-oh was dead, and Hyejeong is a pathetic bitch who could get burnt alive for all she cared, but she could not handle the thought of you leaving her as well. You were her only constant right now, the only reminder that she had that her life was still fine. Doyeong was all but a distant memory, her husband being the last thing on her mind when the only person she needed was you.
You were the only one able to bring pleasure and joy into her life. They only to make her feel alive and rejuvenated.
And you were leaving her.
She could not allow it.
She knew journey to your home like the back of her hand, her body driving to it with muscle memory while she continued calling her number via her car system, but each time it continued to go unanswered. You were ignoring her...but not for long. She could not have you treat her like this, she needed you to listen to her, to explain why you were doing such an outrageous thing.
Yeonjin roughly parked her car in the apartment parking lot without a car and slammed the door shut before hurrying towards your building, not sparing a glance to any other the home owners who noticed her presence as she made her way towards your apartment. She sprinted up the stairs like a hell hound was at her heels, her eyes focused on one thing, being your front door apartment when she immediately reached your floor. She hammered her fists against the door while simultaneously ringing your doorbell.
“Y/N! Open this door! Open this door right now!”
There was a possibility that you were not home, but if you were, it would only be a matter of time before you answered her because you were the kind of person who hated drama being aired out in public, and while no one knew of your and her relationship aside from her friends, you would rather not risk anyone else finding out since it will only send tongues wagging and have some kind of effect on you, especially since Yeonjin was a married woman.
And Yeonjin was right when after a few minutes of her make a ruckus at your front door, it whipped open and revealed an infuriated you dressed in pajamas.
“Are fucking insane right-”
Yeonjin didn’t let you finish your sentence, pushing herself past the door and into your arms where she immediately wrapped her arms around your waist and then forced you against the wall, forcing you to let go of your front door and let it slam itself shut, the sound echoing through your apartment. Yeonjin pressed herself closely against your body, pinning you to the wall while her nails dug into your lower back as she held you tightly.
“Just what is it that you are trying to do to me?” She hissed softly into your cheek, brushing her lips against the skin as she tried to gather as much comfort that she could from the warmth of your body, her throat tight with blurry emotions that she could distinguish to herself yet. “What are you trying to do to us? Y/N, you are not thinking straight again.”
You scoffed.
“The only one who is not thinking straight is you. Now get off me.”
She felt your hands on her shoulders, trying to push her away, but Yeonjin was not going to allow herself to be moved so easily. She instead curled her chin over your shoulder, forcing you closer into her body as she tightened her hold around your waist. She heard you hiss annoyance and felt the increased pressure of your hands against her shoulders.
“Yeonjin! I am not joking, let go!”
“No.”
“Yeonjin I am serious!”
“So am I. No.”
“Bloody hell Yeonjin, get off!”
She was not expecting you to headbutt her, gasping immediately in when she felt your head collide with temple, making her loosen her grip on you to clutch at the injured spot, giving you the opportunity to shove her way entirely from you. Yeonjin stumbled backwards, almost falling if not for her quick reflexes. Betrayal spouted out of her chest as she locked eyes with you as you cradled your own head, eyes burning in fury as you stared at her.
You have never laid a hand against Yeonjin. Never. Not even when she maybe deserved when she was more cutting with you during some of her bad days. But never have you been physical with her, not even during arguments, so the fact that you headbutted her...she felt as if the entire world had been pulled out from her.
“H-How could you?” She said, her voice betraying her usual intention to try be as composed as she could be. You scoffed.
“How could I? I told you to get off but you didn’t listen. But then again, you have always done what you wanted and have never considered the feelings of someone else.”
Yeonjin flinched at your words, so unused to hearing your voice to be so curt and sharp. You were usually so soft-spoken with her, endearing and loving as you whispered sweet nothings in her ear while burning kiss marks against her skin as she arched her body into yours for more of your embrace.
You were acting so different, it having been only a day since she last saw you. Just how could you be acting like such a different person in a short amount of time. What has happened.”
“I know you got my message. So I don’t get why you are here.” You hissed, crossing your arms over your chest as you glared at her. Narrowing her own eyes, Yeonjin took a step towards you, tightening her lips into a straight line.
“You are stupid if you think I would just read that message and do nothing about it.”
You laughed.
“Calling me stupid in my own home? Wow, that is quite something to say.”
“Stop fooling around Y/N. You are making no sense with anything?”
“I’m not making sense of everything? I think I have been pretty clear.”
“Y/N, stop messing around already, otherwise I will-”
“You will what? Burn me?”
The way that you said those last two words, looking at her with such cold conviction, made the blood in Yeonjin’s body freeze. And her body continued to become more ice cold as you took steps towards her, eyes growing more infuriated with each passing second.
“Are you going to burn me Yeonjin? Perhaps with a curling iron? Or maybe a normal iron will be better. Although who knows, maybe you have taking a liking to boiling water instead, or maybe just your lighter. You have on you at all times, so perhaps that will be your weapon of choice. Everybody matures from their past actions after all.”
As you got closer, Yeonjin couldn’t help but stumble back away from you, your words scaring her more than she has ever been before. And you could see it clearly on her face, but you did not care. Instead of stopping in front of her, you walked past her without another words, making Yeonjin slowly turn around to watch you retreat. She took a few hesitant steps forwards, only to freeze again when you returned back with some documents in her hand. But when you got closer, she realized that they weren’t just documents, but rather photographs.
You didn’t say a word as you shoved the photos in her chest, making her clumsily clutch at them as she felt your burning gaze on her as she slowly lifted them to see their captured picture. Her eyes widened in horror when red, burn marks on skin, most particularly, on Dongeun’s skin as the teenage Dongeun looked at the photo, only to be followed with a current Dongeun photo staring at the camera with an empty gaze. There were about ten photos of Dongeun as a teen and as an adult, displaying the new and faded marks from captured time period.
“I can’t believe you could be that cruel.” Your voice interrupted her thoughts, forcing her to look up and see you disgusted face, arms crossed as you stared at her. “How could you have done something like that to her?”
“I-I didn’t-”
“Don’t even try lie to me Yeonjin. Don’t you dare.”
“I-This wasn’t me! T-This was-”
“She came by my house today. Alone.” You finally said, making Yeonjin’s words become trapped in her throat as she stared at you in horror. “She told me everything. About what you and the others did to her in school.”
“S-She-”
“I never want to see you ever again.” You finally said, uncrossing your arms and pointing at the front door. “Get out of my house before I call the fucking police.”
“Y-Y/N.”
“Now Yeonjin.” You growled, lowering your arm as your glare brightened with each passing second. “Otherwise I will do it myself.”
Yeonjin started to shake her head, the photographs falling out of her hands as she walked towards you, reaching out to touch you, to grab you and tell you that everything that Dongeun had told you was wrong. That she was a delusional girl who wanted to blame her very everything bad that went in her life. But you didn’t let her. Instead, you roughly grabbed her by the hair, making Yeonjin screech in pain as you pulled her towards the front door and all but tossed her outside, making her land painfully on her knees before she turned to look at you in shock and horror. You stared her down with disgusted eyes, you face screwed up in fury.
“I never want to see you again.”
And then you slammed the door shut, leaving her outside with bruised knees and a shattered heart.
Jeon Jae-jun
Shock washed over him like ice-cold water as he stared at your crumbled body on the floor, your head turned away from him and your shoulder shaking as you tried to compose yourself from the pain that he just caused you. His hand was sting from the slap, his body frozen stiff like a statue as he stared at you in shock, unable to say anything as he came to terms with what he did.
He hit you.
He...
He...
He just...he didn’t realize he did it until he saw you on the floor.
He just knows he was angry. He was angry over the fact that no matter he did or said, there was no way that he was ever going to have Yesol. There was no chance for him to be a father to Yesol. His little girl, his own flesh and blood. He had the right to her like Yeonjin did, and the fact that some snobby motherfucker like Ha Doyeong was acting like Yesol’s father when he was actually her real one, it pissed him off to no degree.
You came by to visit him to try calm him down, to just let him see a little reason, but he did not want to listen. He didn’t want you there because there was no way you would be able to understand the problem he was dealing with. You were no mother and no wife; therefore, you had no semblance of understanding towards his situation.
Jaejun has gotten better at handling his temper, knowing he was a little shit in high school, kicking everyone's ass when given the opportunity, but that didn’t mean that he didn’t lose it sometimes. And he was already raging when you arrived at him home, already have a spare key to his place. You tried to calmly talk him down out of his rage, keeping to the edge of the room as he kicked and punched furniture and walls as he marched around the room. His mood certainly wasn’t helped with the half of bottle of whiskey he had already consumed, having swallowed the glasses with one mouthful one after the other before answering the your previous phone call.
Your words were half-heard, the buzzing in his head taking preference as he cursed around the room, his blood pressure only rising when he thought back on that arrogant look Doyeong gave him, reminding him that the law was on his side, that Jaejun will never be able to call Yesol his daughter nor that Yesol will ever call his father. The fact that it was the truth, that even though the shared blood between him and Yesol means nothing, it made him so furious that he was ready to kill someone.
“...Jaejun, you know that I am on your side. You know that I will stand by you every way that you want to go.” He recalled your voice saying, someone near the edge of the room while continued to pace up and down. “You are her father, nothing changes that.”
“But Yesol will never know that until I tell her. Until I do, she keeps calling that motherfucker her dad when he isn’t!” He kicked his coffee table hard, pain shooting through his toes but he hardly paid any mind to it because he was still so furious. He grabbed at his hair roughly, growling before he screamed out another curse and wildly slammed a punch to his armchair before pacing again. “She’s my fucking daughter! He can’t have her!”
“I know she is Jaejun, I know she is.”
“If I have to fucking drive down there and tell Yesol myself, then I will fucking do it! She will choose me over him! I am her real dad!”
The thought of doing the deed, the images of Yesol leaping into his arms in a tight hug while calling him dad made a ball of happiness and hope fill his chest, making a dent in his anger as he thought of the wonderful look of dismay which will cross that motherfuckers face when he realizes that he will no longer be called dad by Yesol.
Fuck it, he was gonna do it.
“-Jaejun, that isn’t a good idea.” He heard you say, your contradiction to his thoughts suddenly make that ball of hope disappear and be replaced with his anger. He whipped around and glared at you.
“What the fuck do you mean? She is my fucking daughter! She deserves to know who her real dad is!”
You flinched at his raised voice being directed at you, but you fixed him with a sympathetic look, your eyes genuine in emotion.
“Of course she does Jaejun, but she is young. You telling her the truth will only confuse her. As far as she knows, Doyeong is her dad, and you suddenly telling her that he isn’t will only hurt her.”
“I will never fucking hurt Yesol! Fucking never!” he screamed, insulted by you insinuating that he would do such a thing. With another curse, he turned around and started marching towards the door. “Fuck it, I’m going to tell her!”
“Wait, Jaejun don’t!” He heard you yell behind him, following after him with hurried steps as he headed towards the door and grabbed his car keys. “You’ve been drinking and you’re angry! Think this over tomorrow!”
“I don’t need to fucking think it over! I am going to tell her I’m her real dad!”
He reached for the front door, ready to leave, only to feel your hands on his arm, trying to pull him back.
“Jaejun please think this through! This won’t help Yesol, and if you go there and tell her the truth, it will only push her more into Doyeong’s arms and-”
It happened so quickly.
He was just so furious that you didn’t support him with his decisions, as well that you were trying to stop him, that he just dropped his keys and spun around with his other hand, his palm connected directly with your cheek, sending you flying to the floor with the powerful blow.
He didn’t even really remember doing it. Or rather, it felt like he was an outside observer to someone controlling his body when he did it. And now that the truth dawned on him, he just stared at your crumbled body in shock, his hand still sting from the blow.
The wool which was dangling in front of his eyes caused by the alcohol suddenly was lifted, sobering up really quickly as he watched you move so that you were kneeling, your hand cradling your face while you took shaky breaths to try control yourself, obviously trying to control the tears that were no doubt falling from your eyes.
“Y-Y/N...” He called out, horror slowly filling his veins as you continued to remain on the floor, not uttering a single thing aside from the pained gasp that broke past your lips when he struck you.
The saying of your name made your breaths freeze entirely, making Jaejun watch in frozen fear as you hastily stood up from the floor, your head bowed down as you turned around and tried to move past him, not saying a word. He immediately reached out to you.
“Y/N, wait-”
You flinched at his approaching hand, making him freeze from his actions as he stared wide-eyed at you, stunned like a deer-in-headlights that you would flinch at his approaching touch.
Only he understood why.
Instant regret filled him at your flinch, and you took the opportunity to hastily grab the door handle and open the door and retreated out of it, slamming it shut just as he rushed at it to follow you.
“Y/N! Wait!”
He immediately opened the door and rushed out of it just to make out your figure disappearing around the corner as you escaped from him, prompting Jaejun to immediately give chase, not wanting you to leave him like this. He had to apologize, he had to make you know that he didn’t mean it. But just as he managed to run outside, he saw your car speeding out from the parking lot into the street, escaping him entirely and leaving him stone cold in his even more colorless world.
Lee Sa-ra
The twitches in her body were uncontrollable, curses leaving her lips every few minutes as she nibbled at her nails, tearing them down until they were almost exposing her nail beds, making her curse even more as she was unable to do anything else. The drip on her arm was hardly improving her mood at all, limiting her movements in the hospital bed that she has been chained to for the past few days.
Her father was adamant about getting her cleaned up, or rather to try clean up his reputation as much as he can since the police was sniffing around the church and other activities he has been conducting aside from daily services, Sara being nothing but extra goods which he is locking up to keep her out of sight.
Fuck, it pissed her off.
Hyejeong has been unbearable as usual, trying to act all high and mighty in front of her during visiting hours to the extent that Sara nearly threw her entire lunch tray at the bitch. Yeonjin and Jaejun have been no shows entirely, although to be honest she was quite glad because she was just about read to tear both of their faces off with all the shit they have started ever since that damn Moon Dongeun returned.
Her mother has visited her every single day, offering her prayers of recovery but each time her mother spoke, Sara just wanted to scream. Fuck, all of this could just be avoided if her parents will just let her leave the country again! But no, they have to be these hard-assed holier-than-thou parents suddenly wanting to be all responsible and prim, even though she knows they are everything but that.
Dammit, she was just so fucking pissed!
Probably the only thing that was keeping her from losing her damn sanity was you, visiting regularly whenever you could, always making sure to visit during the hours her mother and father’s weren’t there, as well as Hyejeong because she knew that she would rip that air hostess’s head off if she made a comment towards you and her during one of your visits. She has anxiously been waiting for your arrival, needing to have some sort of stability in this damn place before she completely lose her shit.
And just as she was contemplating ripping her drip out, consequences be damned, she was interrupted by the hospital door opening up and you stepping through it. Sara let out a sigh of relief.
“Thank fuck you’re here.” She said, grabbing you by the wrist and tugging you close to her once you got into close proximity, pressing hers lips to yours in a kiss.
But as she kissed you, she could feel something was wrong by the way you stood stiffly next to her bed, lips barely moving against hers. She pulled back to look at your face, eyebrows furrowed, and she noticed how downcast your eyes were, barely maintaining any eye contact. She squeezed your wrist, fingers flexing around your delicate delicate arm.
“What’s wrong?” She asked, her thumb subconsciously rubbing circles around your wrist bone in some sort of comforting manner, but it seemed her actions made your more anxious, your arm halfheartedly trying to tug itself from her grip but she wouldn’t let you. “What happened.”
“Sara...” you started, biting down your bottom lip as you paused your words, seemingly contemplating what to say next. And then you seemed to figure out your next phrase. “How...are you feeling?”
Sara immediately frowned at your questions, glancing at her lap and her bed before looking back at you with a slight sneer.
“How am I feeling? Shit, that’s what.” She hissed, letting go of your wrist to slam her hands against her bed mattress. “Fucking look at this Y/N. I am in hell! I mean fuck, the nurses are a pain in the ass and the doctors are even worse! Fuck, they look at me like I’m some pitying school girl! I’m not, I’m fucking not!”
Her blood boiled at the images of the doctors and nurses that she regularly sees, all having the same look as the other, pitying and at times disgusted. It pisses her off. They have no right to judge her. They have no right to feel they are better than her in any other way. Fuck, they should just mind their damn business! She doesn’t even want to be here! She is being held captive by her own damn father, she should probably get one of her lawyers to sue him, fuck, that will teach him a lesson. And probably mess up his reputation even more.
The idea really seemed like a good idea and Sara started to smile at the prospect of it, but then a sudden chill hit her and her teeth rattled as her body twitched, breath catching in her throat as her body tried to re-stable itself. Your hands went out to touch her, grounding her by the hold on her shoulders as she broke out into a cold sweat, her hands gripping her bed sheets tightly as she trembled.
Dammit, she hated it when this happened.
Since she hasn’t had anything in her system in weeks, her body was trying to reconfigure itself, but it was absolute hell for Sara because she felt that she was conducting a sinful punishment handed to her by hell itself. Her hands were gripping her sheets so tightly that her knuckles were turning white and she felt like she was breathing through a test tube which was forced down her throat. Minutes felt like hours and when she eventually felt her body settling itself down, she couldn’t help but curse.
“Fuck I hate them! I hope they getting hit by a fucking bus!” She hisses, putting the wish into the universe with the hopes that it will carry it out. She felt your stiffen beside her, hand tightening for a moment before finally releasing her as you moved to stand in front of her bed.
“Don’t wish for something like that Sara. They are your parents.” You murmured, making Sara let out an empty chuckle.
“And what? That gives them the right to fucking throw me in here against my will! They are only acting like decent parents now because a fire has been lit under their ass. Dad is only trying to save face.”
“...That’s not true Sara.” You said, knitting your fingers together and rubbing your thumbs uncertainly. “They are worried about you. They want you to get better.”
A flash of irritation snipped through her mind, making Sara grit her teeth as she glared at her.
“Don’t give me that shit Y/N, they just fucking want to save face for the church. They don’t give a shit about me.”
“That’s not true Sara, if they didn’t care about you, they wouldn’t be trying to help you get...clean.”
You looked at her with an uncertain flash in your eyes, which immediately made her blood boil because it replicated the same looks as the doctors, nurses, and even her mother whenever they visited her. Her lips curled back and she bared her teeth like an animal, eyes burning in anger.
“You have been fucking speaking to my mother, haven’t you? She has tricked you into adopting her fucking stance, hasn’t she?”
Your eyes widened at her words, immediately making you shake your head as you reached out to her.
“Wait, no, Sara I am just saying-”
Sara slapped your hand away, lip curling further in anger as she pushed herself up to the head of her bed, pointedly ignoring your hiss of pain as you cradled your struck hand.
“I should have fucking known they would have gotten to you too! Fuck, you are supposed to be on my fucking side! You should be supporting me!”
You looked up from your struck hand, lips wobbling but your eyes suddenly resolute.
“I do support you Sara! But Sara...the drugs, they are eating away at you. You are becoming the shell of yourself, I’m worried about you. While it may be hard, I know that once you go through this, that we can-”
“FUCK OFF!” Sara screeched, grabbing her pillows and hurling them at you with so much force that the impact was loud as they hit your body. She then grabbed the glass and jug beside her table and hurled it at you, uncaring of the shattered remnants that flew across the wall and floor as you dodged them, backing away towards the side of the room as Sara went ballistic. “YOU CAN GO RIGHT TO HELL!”
“S-Sara please, c-calm down-”
“DON’T TELL ME TO FUCKING CALM DOWN!”
Sara grabbed whatever she could and threw it at you, screaming and cursing as fury filled every inch of her body. You, of all people, siding with her parents. That was the most absolute betrayal you could ever pull against her, and it made it furious. And it certainly didn’t help that her body was starting to go through one of its episodes again.
“Sara, please-”
“JUST LEAVE! JUST FUCKING LEAVE! I DON’T EVER WANT TO SEE YOUR FUCKING FACE AGAIN!’
She was so bloody angry, she was seeing red in everything in the hospital room, uncaring of how her arm was burning from the drip as she ripped her arm around. She heard the door of her room open and saw nurses rushing towards her, hands attempting to pin her down, which only infuriated her even more. She immediately tried fighting them off, hissing and biting at them like a wild animal.
“LET GO! LET ME FUCKING GO!”
“Miss Lee, please calm down-”
“DON’T FUCKING TELL ME TO CALM DOWN!”
Sara snarled and twisted about on the bed, trying to rip her body away from the nurses, barely paying attention to your lingering body as you slowly edged towards the exit, your eyes sad as you gazed at her. Feeling your gaze, she whipped her head in your direction, locking eyes with you as you shoulder your bag with wobbly lips, swallowing thickly as you attempted to keep your tears at bay.
“Goodbye Sara. I hope you recover from this.”
And then you were gone, and only after a few more weeks in hospital did Sara realize that it was for good.
Choi Hye-jeong
“Let me go! Just let me go!”
You were fighting against her, trying to break free from her strong grip but Hyejeong held firm. There was no chance of her letting go until you heard her end of the story. To just understand where she is coming from.
“Y/N-”
“Just let me go already!” You screeched, renewed energy soaring through your body as you kept fighting, but Hyejeong tightened her grip even more.
“Just listen to me!”
“No! Because nothing you will say will ever make this any better.”
Hyejeong gritted her teeth and curled her chin over your shoulder to try keep you in place, squeezing her eyes shut as she tried to calm herself.
You knew just hard it was to live the life she wanted without the aid of her friends, even she could even call them that. All her life she has struggled, either it be socially and financially, and even though she makes her own money, it is only a matter of time before she will be replaced with a prettier, younger air hostess who will cater to all the needs of passengers. Taking over her parents business was out of the question, she already has taken social blows due to her association with them, so for her to inherit the business will be the entire end of her upstanding reputation.
Even though Jaejun is the dirtiest bastard she has ever known, he can provide her with a life which she knows her deserve, only expecting a few nights from her to cater to his manly needs and maybe give Yesol a sibling, but otherwise the two of them will be open to any other relationships without hurt feelings.
You and her didn’t need to separate...and yet you were adamant to leave her.
“It won’t mean anything Y/N! I promise it won’t mean anything!” She pleaded, digging her fingers in your body in attempt to reaffirm her grip, and yet your fighting body wiggled around furiously.
“How the hell will it mean nothing? You are going to become his wife Hyejeong! His wife!”
“He and I won’t do anything! We will just-”
“Please...as if that asshole will not want to do anything on his wedding night.” Finally finding some success, you managed to rip yourself out of Hyejeong’s arms and scurried away, raising a warning finger at Hyejeong as she attempted to close the distance between the two of again. “Don’t treat me like an idiot Hyejeong, cause I’m not.”
“I’m not trying to-”
“Bullshit,” you hissed, “You would much rather marry a bastard like Jaejun than even try have a life with me.”
“That’s not true Y/N!” Hyejeong exclaimed, horror shooting through as you spoke, scurrying towards you to pull you into her arms again, only for you to match her footsteps and to keep the distance between the two of you. “You know that I love you! I love you so fucking much it scares me!”
You let out an empty laugh.
“Scares you so much that you run into the arms of someone else.”
“Y/N, you have to see it from my point of view!” Hyejeong screeched, hands suddenly rushing to her hair to tug at it furiously before throwing her hand in the air. “I have nothing to make something decent for myself. My parents own a damn laundry cleaning service and it will only be a matter of time before I can no longer air hostess! I need Jaejun to help me to maintain...well, this!”
Hyejeong indicated towards the room, pointing out the luxurious items that she has managed to afford and gather, either by herself or given to her by one of the others. But instead of adopting a more unstable expression, your face became more thunderous.
“So in the end, it is all about money. I am not even surprised, that is all you care about.” You growled, shaking your head. Hyejeong tightened her hands into fists.
“Y/N, without money, I’,-”
“You. And to me, you are enough. And yet it seems I am not for you, cause I wasn’t born with a damn golden spoon in my mouth.” You shook your head and moved across the room to grab your bag. “But I guess that is it then.”
Hyejeong immediately shook her head and hurried after you, grabbing you by the elbow before you could pull away entirely.
“Y/N, you and I can still-”
“Let me stop you right there.” You snapped, ripping your elbow out of Hyejeong’s grip, glaring at her. “There is no way I am going to become some sidepiece to you while you are happy wife to that bastard!”
“I don’t love him Y/N!” Hyejeong suddenly snapped, tossing all caution out the window as she grabbed you by the shoulders, looking at your earnestly while panic started building up in her throat. “You are the one I love! You are the one who matters the most to me! Jaejun is just-”
“Going to marry you. Call you his wife, and have you raise his child. And me?” You grabbed at Hyejeong’s wrists, squeezing them angrily with your own death grip that Hyejeong flinched at the instant pain you began to cause. “And you expect me to wait around at home like some good little lapdog, wagging my tail when you decide to give me the time of day once you finish doing your wifely duties? Not a chance in hell Hyejeong.”
You ripped her hands off of you and began marching for the front door, only to be pulled back by Hyejeong again, the air hostess refusing to simply accept you wanting to leave her. She has already said that the two of you could still be together, that she and Jaejun will only be wife and husband in name, albeit with some exceptions.
But she wanted you. Of course she wanted you. And her marrying Jaejun does not change that. Why can’t you just see how important it was for her to maintain the lifestyle she has had until now?!
“You can’t just leave me Y/N! Think about everything we have been through together!”
You paused in your footsteps and then turned to look at her with a sarcastic smirk, shaking her head.
“Are you seriously trying to pull that card right now in this discussion. Hyejeong, out of the two of us, you are the one who has not considered the fact we have been through a lot together. In the end, you are just a selfish bitch who is content to stay a gold digger for the rest of her life.”
Hyejeong couldn’t help but gasp in shock at your words, never having heard them from your lips before. Sure, she has heard it from Yeonjin, Sara, and many others, but you...you have never used the same labels as the others before. And the fact that you are using them now just sends unshakable pain to her heart, as well as fury.
“Y/N, you-”
“Let me put it this way Hyejeong,” You said, pulling your arm out of her grip again and turning fully to face her, a cutting glint in your eye. “If I was the one marrying Jaejun, would you even bother staying by my side as number 2?”
You didn’t even bother to hear you answer as you turned around and stormed out, slamming the door hard behind you, its slam echoing through her house while Hyejeong lowered herself to her knees, numbness flowing through her entire body, rendering motionless as you words repeated themselves in her head in an indefinite loop.
#the glory#The glory imagines#the glory reactions#the glory scenarios#moon dongeun#Joo Yeo Jeong#ha doyeong#Park Yeon Jin#jeon jaejun#lee sara#choi hyejeong#Moon Dong Eun x reader#joo yeo jeong x reader#ha do yeong x reader#park yeonjin x reader#jeon jae jun x reader#lee sara x reader#choi hye jeong x reader
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In the heart of the metropolis, where the streets buzzed with the eclectic energy of its inhabitants, Elliot, a young man of distinctive taste and a penchant for the unconventional, embarked on a quest that would etch an unforgettable chapter in his life's narrative. Known for his love of vintage vinyl and the art of coffee brewing, Elliot was the epitome of urban hipster sophistication. His journey into the unknown commenced with the discovery of the Moonlight Diet, a regimen shrouded in mystique, promising not just weight loss but a transformation of the self.
As the moon waxed and waned, so did Elliot's enthusiasm for his nocturnal feasts. Under the luminescence of the celestial orb, he dined on a cornucopia of exotic fruits and rarefied edibles, each bite an ode to the night. Initially, the changes were subtle: a lightness of being, a newfound vigor. But as the nights unfurled, a more tangible metamorphosis took root.
Elliot's belly, once flat and unassuming, began to burgeon. It swelled like a balloon on the cusp of flight, stretching his flannel shirts to their limits. The transformation was both bewildering and mesmerizing. His midsection took on a life of its own, a spherical monument to the moon's enigmatic power. It jiggled with a peculiar grace, a soft, pillowy expanse that elicited a mixture of awe and consternation in those who beheld it.
The sensation of his expanding girth was peculiar; it was as if he carried the moon's essence within him, a constant, gentle weight that nudged him towards an understanding of the universe's mysteries. Each step he took was a dance with gravity, a negotiation with the newfound corpulence that marked him as a disciple of the night's shadowy diet.
Embarking on a quest for answers, Elliot sought the counsel of a wise nutritionist, whose laughter at his tale echoed the whimsy of his predicament. She explained the folly of his ways, how the disruption of natural rhythms and the allure of moonlit enchantments had led to his remarkable transformation.
Yet, despite the wisdom imparted, Elliot's belly refused to concede to the realms of normalcy. Instead, it continued its celestial expansion, growing to sizes beyond what was typically possible, a phenomenon that defied the laws of physics and biology. Elliot's silhouette became a legend in itself, a living testament to the night sky's boundless influence. His belly, now a marvel of the modern world, shone with a luminescence reminiscent of the very moonlight that had begotten its growth.
Far from seeking to reverse this unparalleled transformation, Elliot embraced his unique condition. He became a symbol of the extraordinary, a beacon for those drawn to the mysteries of the universe. Crowds would gather to witness the man whose belly had transcended human limitations, each viewing a reminder that the world was filled with wonders far beyond our understanding.
In this new chapter of his life, Elliot navigated his existence with a buoyancy both literal and metaphorical. His story, a blend of curiosity, adventure, and the sheer unpredictability of life, echoed through the streets of the city, a tale not of caution but of embracing the unknown with an open heart and an unyielding spirit. Elliot, and his ever-expanding belly, became a legend, a mythic figure dancing in the moonlight, forever a part of the celestial tapestry that had so dramatically reshaped his destiny.
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zone of interest: good film, deserves all the awards it's getting. the film-maker's video art installation background really shines through, lots of long static shots, repetition, creative manipulation of the type of recording used. The praise the sound design got is also very well deserved.
an interesting aspect is the depiction of Mrs Hoss' mother. She is of course an anti-semite and nazi, but i think uniquely within the film she feels the need to articulate her anti-semitism with reference to the jewish woman who used to hire her as a cleaner, how she took part in the "street auction" for this woman's personal possessions and is only disappointed that she got outbid for her curtains. It's like she has to prove her legitimacy to her daughter. On the other hand, for the Hosses the holocaust is simply the thing that they are doing -- they don't need to find a way to morally justify it. They are not bothered by the sounds of industrial slaughter, unlike this pathetic old woman; she approaches antisemitism as something external to her, which she has entered into; for them it is something that they are the bearers of, the theory which structures the world and which they are putting into practice. There is an important point about how ideologies operate and can evolve, and not only racist ideologies.
i don't think it's exactly saying anything new, but it's an accesable depiction of the concept of the banality of evil. Of course the commandant of auschwitz is both a monster and a normal person, with his monstrousness grounded in his normalcy, and the same is true of his wife. The actress playing Mrs Hoss is especially good at depicting this. An early scene is her trying on clothes taken from the new arrivals at the camp -- this isn't the story about repression which i was basically expecting. She knows what's going on, the kids know what's going on, but for all of them it's just a part of life -- part of the process of building their new life in the east, ugly because it's not yet complete, like the vines she's planted to grow over one part of the garden. And of course we have the high-level management meeting discussing the extermination of the jews of hugary, the form of which will be familiar to anyone who's attended a management meeting.
These peop|e did not shock me exactly, but they did disgust me. What it actually put me in mind of was the mindset of a terrorist: such people, carrying out this industrial slaughter with a smug self-confidence, should be made to die. If that would mean hurting their kids in the process, so be it. The disguting nature of their existence in the world is such that some innocent deaths would be a price worth paying to remove them from it. Given the affect of the film -- it's clearly meant to induce a sense of brechtian alienation, drawing deliberate attention to its status as a film -- acheiving this emotional outcome is a remarkable acheivement.
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Savior - 1/?
⋆ relationship ⋆
John Price x F!reader
⋆ summary ⋆
Your deadbeat boyfriend up and leaves you, turning your world upside-down. After a mishap at the local liquor store, an older man with a mysterious background takes interest in you.
⋆ notes ⋆
found this in my docs lol. its like 4 months old but i decided to finish this part of it (where is this motivation coming from??). hopefully it turns into something half decent but god knows because i have no idea where i want to take this. soo.. enjoy lol.
⋆ warnings ⋆
implied/referenced harassment (very brief)
˚ ✦ . . ˚ . . ✦ ˚ . ★⋆.
hope you enjoy! (●'◡'●)
Part One : Bad Decisions
Your hands are trembling as you angrily pull at fistfuls of hair. All of you want to do right now is feel anything but this stabbing pain. You’re drawing in unstable breaths but it still feels like you can’t breathe. Like all the oxygen in the world will not be enough because your lungs feel like they're going to collapse in on themselves. Like they’re going to explode. Your vision is blurry from all the tears you’ve been crying. You hate this feeling. Hate how the area under your eyes stings as more hot tears stream down your cheeks. You want everything to stop, stop, stop. You can’t do this right now.
Just last week your deadbeat piece of shit boyfriend had up and left you, using the excuse that he’d found someone better. That he’d been seeing that someone for a while. The insinuation that you had never ever been good enough for him in the four years that you’d wasted with that fucking piece of garbage hurt you more than you expected it to. You’d already emotionally detached from him months ago but it still hurt so much. Even though he was the absolute epitome of trash, he was still a major part of your life. He was stability in the sense that your life had been relatively the same for the past four years. Now that he was gone, what were you supposed to do with yourself? Were you just supposed to pick up the pieces that he had so haphazardly broken and discarded and put them back together? It seemed impossible.
Your breathing was again becoming more labored. Your body physically fucking hurt. Everything hurt. You wanted things to go back to normalcy. Even if normalcy meant feeling alone with him. Even if normalcy meant suppressing your tears every time he made a backhanded comment or cruel remark. Even if normalcy meant being in the worst emotional pain you’d ever felt for the last four years. You hoped maybe he’d come knocking on your door in the dark of the night, telling you how sorry he was and how he’d treat you right this time. But this wasn’t a fairytale. He wasn’t your knight in shining armor, here to save you and take away all your pain. Hell, even thinking that he would apologize or give you anything that even resembled comfort was a fever dream. Why did you still want him to come back? You knew the promises of changing his behaviour were empty and hollow. But you wanted your normalcy back so fucking bad. Stop, stop, stop, stop. You wanted to yell at yourself for even thinking that. Fuck. He had screwed your brain up so much. Fuck, you hated him.
You wanted to scream. Wanted to break something. Wanted to punch a fucking hole in your wall. Wanted to break everything in your shitty apartment. God, you were such a fool. You’d wasted so much time on him and he was such a piece of shit. Fuck. This apartment was suffocating you. The walls felt like they were closing in, coming to crush you. You had to get out. You grabbed the nearest hoodie and pulled on your sneakers and in nothing else but shorts, you left your apartment. Liquor and Tylenol sounded like a nice combo to forget this shitty week. If you were lucky enough maybe you could forget the past four years too.
The chilly March night air nipped at your bare skin as you pushed the lobby door open. You should have bothered to put a decent pair of pants on and you could hear your father’s voice in the back of your head saying “This is how you catch a cold,” but you pushed on.
The streets were quiet. The sun had long since set so there weren’t many people out and about. The liquor store was only a couple blocks away but it probably wasn’t a smart idea to be going out in the first place. Your neighborhood wasn’t exactly what one would call safe. The apartment was dirt cheap, and for good reason too. This side of the city was riddled with crime and shady personnel. It was all you could afford though. It didn’t matter much either. You just wanted booze and some pain killers. The store wasn’t that far away and you’d never been hassled.
The door to the liquor store opened with resistance as the chimes hanging above announced your arrival. You went right to the cooler. It was slightly isolated from the rest of the store, the sliding doors separating it from everything else. The cold once again sent goosebumps racing up your legs as the doors slid open. You walked to the back of the cooler, in search of a six pack of Heineken. Maybe you’d get a twelve pack. You were pulled from your thoughts as three men approached you.
One of the three stepped forward. He was wearing a baggy hoodie with grey sweatpants splattered with stains. “What’s a lovely lady like you doing out at this time of night?” His breath smelled of cigarettes and alcohol, with a pungent undertone of something you could only describe as shit.
“Just picking up some beer,” you replied flatly. You had suddenly become aware that they were blocking your exit and a twinge of panic began to bloom.
“How ‘bout I take you back to my place. I can show you what a real party looks like.” He gave you a smile and it sent shivers up your spine. You should have never left the safety of your apartment.
“No, it’s okay, my boyfriend is waiting for me at home.” You tried to return a smile and hoped your bluff didn’t sound too far fetched.
“C’mon, don’t be lame. This would be way more fun than going home to your boyfriend. Just come with me, yeah?”
“No, really, it’s okay-”
“I don’t think you’re getting the fucking hint.” He reached for your wrist, grabbing it tightly. The two other men that were with him took a step closer.
Your stomach dropped. You were so fucked.
“Do we have a problem here, gents?” A thick British accent came from behind the group of goons.
“I think you should mind your own fucking busines-” Before he could finish his sentence, he jaw was connecting with the British man’s fist. You were pulled forward for a second before you were able to release yourself from his grasp. He crumpled into a pathetic mess, blood pouring from a gash in his cheek. One of the other goons went to swing but was stopped by another man who kicked at the back of his knee and sent him sprawling to the floor like his friend.
“I’d suggest you leave now.” The other man spoke in a low, calm tone as he bent down to look the two men in the eyes.. His voice was also thick with a British accent.
The group of men left the cooler quickly without any more protest.
“You alright?”
Your hands were once again trembling as you stared at the little splotches of blood on the floor. You should have never left the apartment. What were you thinking? God you were such a fucking idiot.
“Ma’am?” The voice was calm and soft as it broke you from your trance.
“Fine. Yes, I- I’m fine.” You stumbled over your words, hands still shaking uncontrollably.
“Uhm, the name’s Gaz, and this is Price. Sorry about what happened,” he paused. “Is there anything we can do for you?”
“N-no, it’s fine.” You felt lightheaded, like you were going to pass out any second. What the fuck just happened? Your head was spinning.
“Did you come here by car?” The one named Price asked. Price, a funny name, a last name? It must have been a last name. Price. Like a price tag.
“Walked.”
You might’ve been more concerned if not for your dazed state. These men were still strangers and despite the fact that they saved you, they could also be acting with ill intentions. Why was he asking if you had a car anyways? Was it so he could determine whether or not you were an easy target? Your head was spinning
Trembling hands grasped for a case of beer. This night was just getting shittier by every passing second. You had to get out of this cooler. It was suffocating you just like your apartment was.
You pushed past the men, bumping into the older one as you left.
“Ma’am, are you going to b-,” His voice was cut off abruptly. The younger one said something to him and the talking ceased. They were probably plotting to abduct you. You were so, so stupid. Why on Earth did you ever leave the safety of your apartment? Sure, the complex was shitty and the security wasn’t great but at least you’d be behind a locked door.
You tossed the case of beer onto the counter, paying little mind to the cashier.
“Everything okay? I heard a commotion in there.” He scanned the beer, eyeing you as he did.
You scoffed, not replying. It felt like the world was against you. Maybe you were confusing genuine concern for something more insidious but you could care less what he was thinking.
The bells chimed once again as you exited the building. As you began walking towards your apartment, you saw the two men who’d beat the goons up getting into their car. A black sedan type. You were thankful it wasn’t a white van. You sighed, pulling your hood up over your head. You were so tired of this shit.
#john price#captain price#john price x reader#john price x you#kyle gaz garrick#cod x reader#cod mw2#cod x you#eventual romance#eventual fluff#angst?
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This digression serves as an important introduction to the political context of the June Revolt, but I am not qualified enough to interpret Hugo’s interpretation in all its intricate details (a comprehensive discussion on this topic is available here if you wish to delve deeper).
I will make just a couple of observations. I like how Hugo presents the Restoration as an outcome of societal fatigue and inertia. After experiencing years of significant figures and momentous events, 'the nation' yearned for something 'small' (an interesting suggestion). This desire led to an inclination to return to a perceived state of 'normalcy,' a tendency fraught with peril!
Guarantees and charters vs. the divine right. The dynasty took it for granted that the divine right places them above the guarantees. It’s a very nice passage about the roots and the past: “It thought that it had roots, because it was the past. It was mistaken; it formed a part of the past, but the whole past was France. The roots of French society were not fixed in the Bourbons, but in the nations.”
It’s worth noting that Hugo does credit the Restoration with progressive accomplishments: “the nation had grown accustomed to calm discussion, which had been lacking under the Republic, and to grandeur in peace, which had been wanting under the Empire.” The time of peace gave rise to many things, praised by Hugo: “For a space of fifteen years, those great principles which are so old for the thinker, so new for the statesman, could be seen at work in perfect peace, on the public square; equality before the law, liberty of conscience, liberty of speech, liberty of the press, the accessibility of all aptitudes to all functions. Thus it proceeded until 1830.”
Hugo describes the July Revolution as a “strange revolution.” Indeed, it stands out for its relatively non-violent nature; no previous ruler was executed, and the transformation was achieved with remarkable gentleness (it also just replaced one monarch with the other, one dynasty with the other). And he calls it “the triumph of right overthrowing the fact” a concept that elucidates its relatively non-violent nature. Intriguingly, that for him, Machiavelli is the embodiment of “the fact.” Thus, in retrospect, the July Revolution is seen to possess its own merits (same as the Restoration). As far as I understand, tomorrow we'll read about its shortcomings.
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I can't help but imagine...
Imagine what RWBY could have been like:
Without over-reliance on "Gods did it"/"Magic did it" - Imagine if there were actual reasons why the setting is the way it is beyond conveniently handwaving it away via magic? Actual effort into establishing Remnant, its countries, how the current world order came to be, how its myths, legends and religion came to be.
With properly complex morality and characterization - bad people doing good things? good people making mistakes and doing bad things? Imagine that! What if well-meaning proponents of status quo had genuine flaws in their world view? What if people's allegiances could shift and change based on their life experiences? What if characters could make mistakes, do the wrong thing, have different justifications for their actions that clash with justifications of others and could grow and change?
With a properly handled Faunus plotline - That subplot really did not work even in the Monty years, but holy...it sure does not work in present day and even the best parts of it have aged like milk. The story had a real chance to explore the power dynamics and "normalcy/status quo" of Remnant but instead we got a very thinly veiled poorly thought out "looting is bad" metaphor. I for one think the idea of how different groups, be it those in powers and those marginalized, can view Remnant's power and social structures differently would have been EXTREMELY fascinating.
With more actual consequences from Fall of Beacon - Hey remember this little thing that happened years ago now where the world was plunged into chaos, half the characters suffered tragic and traumatic life-changing experiences, multiple characters died and the fragile balance between countries fell apart? Show sure seemed like it was trying it's hardest not to with how easy it has, for years, handwaved away what could have been volumes of content and plot and characterization. And whenever it tried to touch upon it we got the infamous "Fear of Mice".
With more proper character arcs for Ruby, Blake, Yang and Weiss - Imagine a world where we got a proper breathing room for Ruby's conflict between the cold reality she found herself in and her naive childhood dreams and actually got to parse her trauma? Imagine a world where we could have seen a proper exploration of Yang dealing with disability and trauma? Imagine a world where Blake got to face her own hypocrisy and grow? Imagine a world where Weiss actually faces the weight of her own privilege and the change in her worldview that the three volumes at Beacon brought her? Imagine Blake and Yang actually getting to work through their issues the end of Volume 3 might have caused? Imagine a story where characters didn't instantly ignore everything that happened to them and had to actually progress through arcs to deal with things - be it with their complicated feelings or feuds or mistakes or their growth.
With actual respect for various topics like social issues, disability, LGBTQ+ issues and representation, etc - What if we did not solve PTSD issues with vague patronizing remarks about fear of mice from a person whose favorite past time was trying to flirt with his students? What if topics of depression, trauma, disability, etc were dealt with the gravitas they deserve? What if overall inclusivity(be it LGBTQ+, gender equality, race, etc) was actually persistent element rather than vague short pieces of patchwork writers apply to dodge criticism? What if issues like racism, sexism, etc, were given even a modicum of thought? What would RWBY storyline be then?
With actual retention of its semi-grounded weirdly contemporary setting - Remnant has always held it's more contemporary setting close and it's more magical elements further away in that "Final Fantasy 7" kind of way where magical and supernatural meets contemporary and urban. We started with premise of every weapon being a gun and we opened Episode 1 with a store robbery in a modern looking city. Filling the setting with medieval villages, relic mcguffins, magical realms, etc feels like diluting what made the world interesting in the first place . For all the times Miles was talking bad things about Korra, he really seems to have wanted to just do Korra instead. And for how much they wanted to do that, Korra to this day is STILL more grounded than RWBY will ever be...
I think it really is a shame we never got any of that.
Every year I look back at what this franchise COULD have been, what it could have SAID thematically, the interesting ways the characters could developed and changed and its just...sad?
Volume 3 was a perfectly pulled off pay off where everything the show built up till then, in spite of missteps, in spite of weird decisions and mishandled stuff, went off without a hitch. It was a case of build up and pay off that is VERY rare in television.
I still sometimes rewatch the final stretch of V3 because even to this day, those last five-ish episodes? they hold up REAL well....
And then nothing...
Just...puke boy and the talking magic animals...
I don't think the people behind the show realize just quite what a gold mine they had...
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Invasion! Rewatch
The main problem with Invasion is that they have a collection of character arcs that happen too quickly and also have the characters just kind of stating the beginning and end points
-The best of these is Cisco's arc where he's mad at Barry for changing the timeline which resulted in Cisco's brother dying, and it's best because it started before the crossover and spans the whole thing. But his turn around is too quick. It's like a switch is flipped where he instantly goes from "I hate Barry, he basically killed my brother" to everything being back to normal and they're best friends again. It's just too fast, and too rational a response to an emotional problem.
-Then there's Oliver's arc which kind of starts in part 1 but is mostly in part 3, where he is uncomfortable around Kara and so is just kind of rude to her and tries to bench her. And his actions don't quite feel out of character but his reasoning for it does (they say its because he's trying to hold onto a sense of normalcy, but that's more a Diggle reaction. Oliver generally rolls with new things remarkably easily-- he barely blinks when Ra's Al Ghul offers him immortality-- so that doesn't quite fit. BUT Oliver disliking Kara because he has trust issues and she's a stranger who's ridiculously powerful and he doesn't want to risk having her turn on them... that would track). But the bigger problem is that he flips his position WAY too quickly. He falls once and Kara catches him and suddenly he has no issue with her? Oliver who this same season is taking months to warm up to and really trust the team that he hired? No way that's all it takes for him to change his mind
-The absolute worst one is Rene's bit in part 2. I won't even call it an arc. He walks in says "I think metahumans and superpowers are evil", tries to fight a metahuman and almost gets killed at which point Barry and Kara save him and he stands up and says "I was wrong, I think metahumans and superpowers are a good thing actually". It's like 2 minutes of screen time. It's very poorly written and completely unnecessary. It also doesn't make sense because at this point one of Rene's closest friends is a guy with magical powers and Rene has no problem with that.
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Illicio 26/40
Part 25
TWs for this chapter:
Fire
Grief
Gore (implied)
Insecurity/jealousy, but the second part is mostly lighthearted and discussed almost immediately
"You got any plans?" Martin asks. The fire in the middle of their 'camp' -are they really stopping for the night if there's no night anymore?- gives off little in terms of heat, but it pushes the illusion of normalcy, which Martin is grateful for. "After we fix this?"
"If we fix this," Tim shrugs by the other side of the pit.
"When we fix this," Martin remarks a bit more firmly. He feels a lot more like himself today, 'camping' with his friend and with his boyfriend stuck to his side, still clad in Martin's green hoodie that clashes so much against the rest of his outfit.
It's easier to believe it like this, that Gerry doesn't want him just because of Jon.
Oliver isn't home.
Of course he isn't, he left months ago after another row of fighting. It hadn't even been the worst by far, but they just- Graham was tired, and Oliver was always busy.
Graham looks at the table again, running a finger over one of the curved edges of the spiderweb.
Perhaps that's why he's thinking of Oliver after all this time.
Despite his collected, professional looks, Oliver's got a very endearing weakness for "the occult", as he likes to call it. Somewhat of a guilty pleasure, he often says.
Said.
Anyways, Oliver would've been all over the table, with its web design that if you look at juuuust close enough, turns out to have hundreds and hundreds of names written into the canal-like grooves, in a font so tiny it reminds Graham of that carved rice grain at the Ripley's museum.
Perhaps- perhaps he'll give him a call.
They didn't end in the best of terms but it doesn't mean they can't build a relationship again, right? Doesn't mean they can't be friends. He once loved Oliver, that can't be gone just because he's no longer in love with him, which is something Graham often tells himself despite being very much sure of the opposite.
Maybe just lunch, and then a visit to the flat so he can fawn over the table. Run a finger along the edge like Graham likes to do when things are overwhelming, only to look up and find it's been hours since the last time he did so.
Only if Oliver isn't busy, though.
"And you were," Sasha says. Her voice feels- it doesn't feel like her voice, and there's a pang of panic in her stomach. If it's not hers, whose is it then? "I- you never picked up the phone."
The man looks a bit pale still, looking at her like he's seen a ghost.
"I'm- no. I think I might have- Jon?" He turns to give him a questioning look, and Jon shrugs.
"Hm. I didn't think you'd recognize Graham's real appearance," Jon hums casually, almost to himself. "Maybe because you were dead when she was taken. Anyways, you were on the ship at the time. Bad reception, and then the satellite killed you."
"Excuse me, the what?" Sasha blinks. None of this makes any sense, why is Oliver here and why was he dead? Who is this Oliver person, what-
"Graham-"
"My name is Sasha," she shakes her head. That's the main thing she has to be sure of. She's Sasha. She may have been Graham once, but now Graham is Sasha and that's all there is to it. "Jon, care to explain what's going on?"
Jon gives her a worried look, the corner of his lips turned down in a concerned gesture.
"Back when you were only Graham," he starts slowly after a moment, "you knew Oliver. I think you were-"
"A couple," Sasha nods abruptly. She remembers, intimately. But this makes no sense... was- how did she never notice Oliver was an avatar? He was always a terrible liar, she would've- "How- how did you end up like this?"
Oliver's eyes -they're light gray now, she realizes, like the color has bled out from them- slide to Jon somewhat nervously, like this encounter isn't going as neatly as he wanted.
It's very Oliver of him to have planned the whole thing, Sasha thinks with a spark of fond amusement. They must cut an appalling picture smack in the middle of his no doubt carefully orchestrated dramatic encounter, the Distortion and the Them dogpiled up on the Archivist.
"Oliver," she says, her voice firm. "Jon is alright, with some luck he's not going anywhere while we talk. But now, I think you owe me an explanation."
"I owe- what happened to you?" Oliver asks back, still looking for all in the world like he did all those years ago when Sasha asked him what his plan was if Barclays didn't work out, bewilderment and confusion warring on his usually calm, handsome face. "You were safe! I- why are you not Graha-"
"Don't call me that," Sasha snaps. "Don't ever call me that."
Ollie's face clears up all of a sudden, the way Sasha remembers it doing whenever he caught onto the plot twist of a movie. His eyes soften, and he looks at her gently, sadly.
"Stranger?" Is all he asks. His voice is careful, almost apologetic, and it makes Sasha want to cry. It's- this new existence is confusing at the best of times, and there are so many things she didn't get to tell Oliver, so many things she only thought about after he left.
Is this the constant in all of her lives? Loved ones left behind none the wiser, unsaid words that weigh her tongue down?
"...There was a table," she says after a moment. A table, popping up in her life again and again, to rip her away and fill her absence with poison. To hurt those she loved wearing a face that isn't hers, killing her a little more every day. "I got it at an antiques sale, you know I liked- you would've liked it. It was black shiny wood with a spiderweb design. Very on-brand for your aesthetic," she adds with a wet-sounding snort.
"...That's why I couldn't see your root," Oliver says after a long, tired silence. "It wasn't you anymore."
"I'm going to pretend I know what that means."
"It's- Jon can explain later, I'm sure," Oliver sighs. "I- Jon? Was it because of me?"
Sasha feels Jon move under her, partly to shrug, partly because of the Web urging him to escape. She readjusts her position to hold him down, and he gives her ankle a grateful squeeze.
"At this point I'd say it's just as likely that it was because of her past association with you as it is that it was because of her future association with me," he says in the end. "I'm not too keen on figuring out the Mother's mess anymore."
"I'd say that's wise." Oliver runs a hand down his face, and Sasha's stomach contracts with a sudden, fierce rush of fondness, as she knows with unerring certainty what words will come out his mouth next. "This is not going how I expected."
"Always glad to rain down on your plans," she grins.
Oliver snorts at the familiar exchange, shaking his head softly as his lips stretch into a smile. The dimple forms on his left cheek still, Sasha notices with muted amusement.
She loved him so much. Those should've been her parting words, instead of a scathing remark and a sarcastic 'wish-you-well'. And now they're quite literally two different people -many different people, in her case-, and whatever bridge still connects them to the past is now weak and crumbling.
Will it feel this way with Tim too? With her daughter, her wife, her cousin? Though she's back after so long, she's not the person any of them lost, just enough of it to hurt them.
"Sasha..." She can hear Jon under her starting to speak, and she shakes her head.
"I'm fine. Just- I'm fine." She turns to Oliver again. He's still giving her that pained, sorrowful look, and Sasha looks away. "Tell him what you need to tell him."
Oliver sighs, and moves around them to crouch by Jon's head.
"I'm sure you've noticed by now, but-"
"Humans are dying here," Jon interrupts. "It makes sense, but it's still unexpected."
"Do you know what that means?"
She feels Jon nod.
"It's not a big leap," he says, and Helen snorts.
"You don't need to be Martin to figure it out?" She asks.
"Exactly," Jon says, and the smugness in his tone makes Sasha smile. "The Watcher isn't loving the revelation, I must say."
"I didn't think it would," Oliver agrees. "There's plenty still here, but mine isn't the only End domain."
"Not by a mile. And other avatars are not as into the passive observer style as you are," Jon says. "Which is a bit surprising from you, by the way."
"Is it really? t's not like trying to help ever did me or anyone any good." Oliver shrugs.
"It did me a lot of good, I'd say," Jon's voice has turned almost contemplative.
It feels like an eternity, before Oliver responds with another question.
"What about everyone else?" he asks in a careful, measured tone.
And then another one, before Jon speaks again.
"I... can't speak for anyone else, but- but Oliver, I'm grateful I woke up. For many reasons," he says thoughtfully. "Even if I shouldn't be."
Out the corner of her eye, Sasha sees Oliver nod slowly.
"What will you do about this?"
Jon sighs. "I don't really know. The Mother and the Watcher are both trying to take me to the panopticon, but I suspect they each have a different goal once they get me there, and I can't say I care much for either of their plans, whatever they are."
"That'll make them happy," Oliver observes. Then, after a moment, "you know what's funny?"
"Historically, I don't," Jon says in a dry, monotone voice that makes Sasha snort. "What is?"
"I could feel you, back at the hospital. You were halfway into my patron by the time I opened the door for you to leave if you wanted," Oliver says. "You weren't afraid of dying back then. You felt mostly... irritated."
Jon sighs. "I didn't want to- I couldn't stand not knowing what had happened with the others. Or why this had happened to me."
"I figured. But yes, you weren't afraid." Oliver shrugs. "You are now, though."
There is silence, as Jon contemplates how to respond to that.
"Didn't have much to leave behind back then," Jon shrugs. "Sasha? I think it's time we get going. Helen left."
"Oh?" Sasha turns around, only to find that Helen and the door are nowhere to be seen, and she's already halfway through getting off Jon. "Well, that sucks."
"It's okay, it worked for a lot longer than the last time," Jon smiles up at her as he gets up, his eyes already turning the poisonous neon green of the Beholding. "I'll see you soon, and... thank you, Oliver."
"It was nothing. Really," Oliver says quietly, watching Jon walk away. "So... so you cut him off from the Eye?"
"Both of us," Sasha corrects him. "One of us can weaken the call so he's conscious, but both of us can make him stop."
"That must be useful."
"It is." Sasha shrugs. She should say something else, but she can't for the life of her figure out what. She's no longer the Graham he knew and loved a lifetime ago. "I better get going. I have to keep up with him."
It's only about a dozen or so steps, that Oliver speaks again.
"Sasha?" He asks, and it's the same tone he used for her old name before, despite the word itself being different.
"Yes?" She half turns to look at him, keeping an eye on Jon even as her heart hammers in her chest.
"It was- it's nice to know you're back," he says. His lips are curled in the gentle smile that not once failed to make Sasha respond in kind, not even now.
"You too," she says. Then, because she has to, because it wouldn't be fair otherwise, "I'm different- I'm not the one you knew. Not really."
Oliver seems to mull this over for a couple seconds, before looking back up at her with those uncanny pale eyes.
"I'm not, either." He shrugs. "But... those two didn't end up well anyways, did they?"
Sasha snorts; it feels like a weight is dissolving off her stomach, and she gives him another smile before she goes to turn again.
"Don't be a stranger, Ollie."
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The Eye feasts and feasts and feasts, gorging gluttonously on its brethren themselves feeding.
The other entities have ever resented it for that, but there's little they can say when it was the Beholding and its avatars that brought for the world they've been crawling towards for millennia. Feeding it with the suffering they cause is the least they can do.
And still, the feeding isn't quite as satisfactory as it should, not after the Archive's continual revelations, which the Eye is increasingly peeved about, were overlooked by the Pupil in his search for triumph.
More humans have to be being created now, despite the world's new state. Even the Lonely bred its own stock. Surely they won't all end up waltzing into Terminus' cold, impassive embrace.
The eye feasts, but what before felt a scrumptious banquet tastes like ash, and scatters just as fast.
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"You got any plans?" Martin asks. The fire in the middle of their 'camp' -are they really stopping for the night if there's no night anymore?- gives off little in terms of heat, but it pushes the illusion of normalcy, which Martin is grateful for. "After we fix this?"
"If we fix this," Tim shrugs by the other side of the pit.
"When we fix this," Martin remarks a bit more firmly. He feels a lot more like himself today, 'camping' with his friend and with his boyfriend stuck to his side, still clad in Martin's green hoodie that clashes so much against the rest of his outfit.
It's easier to believe it like this, that Gerry doesn't want him just because of Jon.
"Hm. I don't know. Traveling, maybe. I liked that before. And now I don't have to stay at the Institute, so..." Tim shrugs brusquely. "You?"
"Well... we have to stay up north until Gerry's carrots are ready to harvest-"
"Stop that," Gerry smacks a hand against his thigh, his face coloring charmingly in the light of the fire.
"I'm serious! I've got plans for those carrots," Martin snorts. "But yeah, after that... I don't know? I don't want my flat back, and Jon probably lost his already..."
They- maybe the cottage? If they get Daisy back, they could purchase it from her. If they don't- well, she won't be asking for it back anyways.
The three months they spent there were nothing short of heavenly, and Martin remembers even the awkwardness of learning to move around each other with undeniable fondness, boundaries and tastes learned slow and carefully, like they had all the time in the world.
They'd been very naïve, in hindsight.
"The bookstore and my mother's house above it are still standing," Gerry pipes up. "We'd have to find out if Gertrude did something with the papers; hopefully it won't matter that the owner was dead for a while."
"It's still sad though," Martin boops him on the nose. It's hard to feel down when faced against Gerry's absurd sense of humour.
"Oh, tragic. I hear he left behind two grieving boyfriends, he was apparently supernaturally handsome and charismatic."
"Bit of a big head, though. But hey, there's no accounting for taste," Martin shrugs, then smiles when Gerry places a kiss on his shoulder. "But yeah... I guess it's an option. I just didn't expect you'd want to live th-"
"We can raze it to the ground, sell the plot and use the money to purchase something," Gerry cuts in, his voice casual and light.
Tim's eyes flash orange across the campfire though, so Martin guesses there's a lot more feeling in the remark than what Gerry meant to put into words.
They sit in silence for a moment, until Martin softly squeezes Gerry's shoulders.
"I wouldn't be opposed to a little flat, I suppose. Granted that there are no wet towels left on the bathroom floor."
"What kind of unconditional love is this?" Gerry laughs.
"If Jon loves us less because of improperly dusted surfaces, I can love you less for having to step on a towel at three in the morning." Marin smiles. This feels good. They will fix this. They will.
"I still can't believe you two tried cleaning in front of Jon," Tim snorts. "Did you learn nothing from the first three months down at the archives, Martin?"
Martin shrugs. "I learned he liked his tea with two sugars, he was less of an ass when I made it that way."
"Your taste in men sucks," Tim says for the umpteenth time, rolling his eyes to the sound of Martin's laughter.
------------------------
"We'll need to stop him soon," the Dist- Helen says. Her voice reaches the Archive as if through water, the call of the Spider adding to the natural muddying of the Spiral.
"So soon?" Sasha- yes, it's Sasha, the real one. "He said we shouldn't do it too often, didn't he? Or they'd get impatient."
"It will be a short one," Helen reassures. Just like everything else Helen does, it's not too reassuring. "I've been keeping something for him, and he's going to need it before you go into that one."
"...You know? That was also very annoying back when you were Michael."
The Archive feels its lips curl into something resembling a smile. With all the overlap between Stranger and Spiral, it's not too surprising that they bounce off each other so easily.
"You still went to the cemetery, didn't you?"
"That says more about my lack of self preservation than it does about your powers of persuasion, if you ask me," Sasha says dryly. "Should I sit on him again?"
"Oh, for sure. She's not going to like it one bit." Helen's sharp, angled smile is all too easy to picture.
"Wonder why she hasn't stopped you yet, then."
"Can't reach me in here," Helen responds, and the Archive hears a loud creak, like old hinges and wood. "Dear Tim did quite an exhaustive cleaning last time he was in me."
"...You're just saying stuff to make me curious on purpose aren't you?"
Helen chuckles. "There's just enough Beholding in there."
"Real funny," Sasha says, and then there's a pair of slender arms wrapping themselves around its torso, and then a long hand does the same around its wrist, and the call fades off into the background.
Jon blinks owlishly up at the sky, a bit disoriented as he always is whenever Sasha and Helen call him back.
The sky blinks back, and Jon rolls his eyes before focusing on his captors.
Sasha's barely older than a teenager today, he realises with a pang of sadness. It's- not having known them personally, it's easy to ignore the many victims the Not Them took, the many lives it cut short far too early.
Young Lisbeth Ackerman had meant only to squeeze in a last minute rehearsal for their acting club's performance, even willing to ignore the prop table that had unnerved them so much the whole week.
Still, this body's strong and heavy enough that it will take Jon some effort to break free when he inevitably starts trying.
"Hi. Want me to sit on your stomach?" Sasha asks, leaning her head on his shoulder as she tangles her fingers behind his waist. "Your lap?
"Hi... My- my lap I think. I should be able to see- Helen said she had something for me?" He turns to look as they lower themselves to the ground, and finds that the hand on his wrist extends into a forearm and then an arm clad in a pristine purple suit jacket that disappears behind a bright yellow door.
'That doesn't bode too well for Martin,' says Helen's voice behind the wood, and Jon's heart skips a beat.
"H- Helen?" He asks, his voice hoarse with anticipation.
'-oesn't. But I'm- I wonder if you'd be this far gone, if I hadn't turned you away when you first came to me.'
"It's time," Helen says; Jon can only barely catch a glimpse of her mischievous grin through the cracked door.
And then a lone tape recorder pokes through the threshold.
'Is that what this is, then? Making amends?' A tired sigh. Has he always sounded this exhausted?
'Not really. I- we were always going to change, I think. Our only choice is how we do it.' The sound of something being pushed across a flat surface, and Jon remembers the eerie stillness of the office, the hopelessness after Anabelle's revelation. 'I hear you collect them?'
'Only until it's time.'
'Time for what?'
'I don't know.' An amused huff that is echoed from behind the door, even as Helen's hand convulses around his wrist. 'Doesn't it frustrate you, Jon?'
A little, choked up laugh that has Sasha giving him a little squeeze in her arms. 'You'll have to be a bit more specific.'
'All these rules about what should and shouldn't be done. We are power. Why should we be contained?'
Helen's hand flinches and spasms, and Jon reaches out almost desperately to grab on to her jacket. There's- this feels like Eric Delano's tape, and even back then the Spider never did factor avatars helping each other into her plans. There's something here that he needs to hear, and she will not stop him.
'I think... Because I want to be contained.' Jon says so many months ago. A man not yet broken but starting to crack, held together only by the flimsy promise of hope. 'If I'm going to be a monster, I'm going to be one on my own terms.'
Jon feels his breath catch on his throat, as the feelings that back then accompanied the words rush back into him.
'How noble of you.' Helen says, and Sasha snorts on his lap.
'Selfish, really. It's the only thing I have left.'
'Didn't she say it wouldn't matter, in the end? The grand scheme of things, and all that?'
'It matters to me.'
'So you'll spend the entire journey there being miserable, just for the sake of some moral high ground?'
'If I weren't miserable in this situation, I wouldn't be Jon. I- maybe the Spider dropped me gift-wrapped at the Eye's front door, yes. But it can't take that from me-'
"...It can't take who I am," Jon speaks over his own voice.
There's- Sasha's weighing him down, and Helen is still trying to cling to him, and the Eye and the Web are pulling him forward while his pained heart pulls him back, and it's just- it's just too much.
He earned his happy ending, and they tore it from him. Just like his life, his loved ones, his home, his hope for a future.
His hands clench -the burnt one with a spasm of mind-clearing pain- in Helen's jacket, in Sasha's sweater.
"Jon?" Sasha whispers against his shoulder, her breath hot through the fabric; a reminder that she's alive because of him. Because of his actions, not the Eye's, not the Spider's.
"Let me up," he says, and when Sasha leans back in surprise her face is illuminated in an eerie green glow that makes her skin look pale and greyish. "I need to be up."
Helen's hand spasms so violently it releases its hold on his wrist, and a moment later Jon feels the sharp sting of her knife-like fingers in the flesh of his forearm, trying to anchor herself by whatever means possible.
And Jon looks up.
At the panopticon so far away, at the empty expanse before them where he Knows the Mother of Puppets waits patiently for her little toys to return, dancing to the tune she plays so cheerfully.
The glow of his eyes Illuminates the way ahead, and for a moment Jon fancies himself a beacon, a lighthouse standing impassively while the storm rages around it.
The world around him trembles, rises up to meet the one who created it, who gave it a new purpose.
"I think," he says, his voice deep and laden with power, just like he remembers it being when he brought the world down. "I'm quite done being told what to do."
And the call breaks.
It feels like coming up from a deep dive and breaking the surface to take a deep breath, like he can see the world around him clearly for the first time since his time at the cottage.
The pain of Helen's fingers digging into his flesh is sharp in a way it wasn't before, like it's Jon who's feeling it rather than the Archives, which he guesses is just the thing.
"...Are you okay?" Sasha asks, and Jon nods a bit shakily, grateful for her arms around him as he doesn't feel too steady on his feet at the moment.
"I just- I'm going to need a moment," he says, squeezing back at Sasha's chubby frame.
And so they stand there, their silhouettes profiled by the bright, angry orange light of the burning city waiting ahead of them.
------------------------
This new domain feels... odd, is the best way Gerry can describe it.
Familiar but not quite right, like visiting your childhood home after a few decades, and finding you no longer fit in it, if you ever really did.
All around them hundreds, maybe thousands of people walk towards their own death, dragging their feet along the bright, pulsating red root that marks their individual ends.
"This one feels worse than the Stranger," Martin grumbles by his side.
"You think so?" Gerry hums absentmindedly.
There's something almost peaceful to the victims' journey, a sort of poetic acceptance to their long-awaited rest. Like-
"Gerry?" Martin's hand lands on his bicep, pulling him to a stop.
"Hm?" Gerry blinks, looking up at him with a lazy smile.
"...No." Martin frowns, snapping his fingers an inch from his eyes. "Cut it out, I'll pinch you."
"Cut what- oh, fuck!" Gerry flinches away at the sudden jab of pain, his mind coming back into focus. It feels a little like waking up from the dormant, pseudo-conscious state he remembers from the book and-
Ah. Of course.
"Are you with me?" Martin asks, his hand still heavy on his arm.
"Let's revisit that later, but yes," he blinks a couple more times, careful to keep his eyes on Martin instead of focusing on any of the victims. "Where's Tim?"
"We were having a conversation before you went Walking Dead on us," Tim's voice behind him sounds decidedly grumpy.
"What happened?" Martin's hand moves from his arm to cup his cheek, and Gerry feels his face warm up at the tenderness in the gesture. It's not- despite being so liberal with his own touch, he's not too used to others reciprocating in kind. "I thought the Eye-"
"The book," Gerry's voice sounds a bit hoarse when he forces it out again. "I'm- I did spend a good chunk of time wishing for an End of my own, I suppose."
"...Ah."
"I'm fine now, it's- it just felt familiar," Gerry says as reassuring as he can even as he still hears the siren call of Terminus all around him. "I'm sorry for scaring you."
It takes a few more moments, but Martin eventually huffs with what could pass as amusement. "Just warning you, if you do it again I'm just going to drag you out."
"You know what? That sounds perfectly fair, you deserve your own 'dragging a stubborn mule of a man away from a fear entity's grip' experience, it's life-changing." The smile comes to Gerry's lips a lot easier now, and he scrunches his nose at Martin just to make him snort and shake his head in fond exasperation.
"So funny, mister Keay..."
"This is very sweet and all," Tim grunts behind them, "but could we please get going? This place is not even scary, it's just depressing."
"I'm sorry it's not up to your standards," says a new voice, and Gerry whips around with Martin in tow.
The newcomer is a slender, young black man with short cropped dark hair, giving them an unimpressed stare with his eerie grey-white eyes.
"We don't want any trouble," Gerry says, slowly and carefully. There are three of them, but End avatars are different. He's not too sure any of them can even be killed anymore, but all they need is to pass through; better to do it without any fanfare. "We'll just be on our way."
"Everyone is, it seems," the man rolls his eyes, before pinching the bridge of his nose. "No, ignore that. Sorry, I'm not having a great time."
Gerry risks a look at the travelling corpses in lieu of voicing his retort, and the man shakes his head.
"Yes, I know. It's not like I can do anything about that, though, so-"
"It's- you're him," Tim's voice cuts through like a knife, and Gerry's surprised to see his brow furrowed in thought. He hasn't heard of this particular avatar, and he can't imagine why Tim would've either. "With the- Martin, the veins."
"The- what?" Martin scowls in confusion.
The newcomer seems collected and peaceful, but Gerry keeps his gaze trained on him; he's met kind monsters before.
"You came by the Archives to warn Gertrude she would die," Tim says, and Gerry has to rip his eyes from the man then. "Jon asked me to look for him," he says, and the tiniest pinprick of orange glow alights in the depths of his dark eyes when he turns to look at them. "He said the Web kept me from finding him. His name is Oliver Banks."
Gerry feels Martin's hand twitch in his arm, as the man nods in response to Tim's words.
"Apparently I’ve made of trying to help archivists somewhat of a hobby," Oliver shrugs, before his gaze settles on Gerry. "You feel like the End."
"Books fear me, the Entities want me," he says with a shrug as Martin's hand flinches on his arm again, and Tim snorts. "Are you going to let us through?"
"Ah. Gerard Keay, then." Oliver's gaze is a bit unnerving still, but Gerry holds it as steadily as he can, with the certainty that he's simply not going to die until- "You're going after Jon, aren't you?"
Huh.
"How'd you know?"
"Your root ends with him," Oliver half-shrugs, tilting his head to the side as his gaze intensifies. "Or... starts. I've never seen anything quite like you."
"He gets that a lot," Martin cuts in dryly. "Now if you excuse us, we ought to get going," he adds, when Oliver doesn't immediately look at him.
"Yes, I suppose you should," Oliver nods in the end. "They aren't too far ahead."
"Got it, thank you, bye."
Gerry arches an eyebrow as Martin marches on, pulling him along by his grip on his arm.
"They?" Tim asks behind them, but Martin is channelling a draft horse and they're out of earshot by the time Oliver responds, if he even does.
They stop when they reach the end of the territory, which is as any other liminal stretch between domains; just empty, barren land with little to no defining features other than a rock or two.
Martin very tellingly doesn't let go of his arm.
"So. Are we going to talk about that?" Gerry arches an eyebrow.
"About the dead people walking, or you wanting to join them?" Martin huffs, going to sit on a boulder a few feet away.
Gerry snorts fondly, walking calmly up to him.
"I told you why I wanted to walk with them," he shrugs. "Are you going to tell me why you were jealous of that man?"
Martin's head whips up to look at him like a deer in the headlights, and Gerry feels a burst of triumph in his chest. Getting one over Martin doesn't happen often, and he doesn't think he'll ever stop enjoying it.
"I wasn't- where on earth did you get the idea that I was jealous?!"
"Martin, not six months ago you were looking at me like that," Gerry rolls his eyes. "So either you're jealous, or you have a very curious way of showing me you don't like me."
"You know what, I'm starting to question it myself," Martin grumbles, his face colouring a little when Gerry laughs. "Stop that. Come here."
"Coming, coming," Gerry says consolingly, taking a seat next to Martin and throwing an arm over his hunched shoulders. "What is it?"
"...Jon was in a coma for about three months," he says in the end.
Gerry nods. "Melanie did mention something like that when I woke up and she was threatening him with a knife, yes."
Martin's lips twitch, but they don't quite smile, and his eyes are still downcast and, when Gerry leans in a bit closer, going somewhat grey.
"I went in to see him every day," Martin says, his voice not white sullen anymore, just... defeated. "Every day for three months. I talked to him, I asked him to come back, but- and this Oliver guy went in once, gave him a state- it wasn't even a statement, he just spoke to him! And-"
"And Jon woke up?" Gerry completes the thought when Martin abandons it. Then, after a weak nod from the man, he adds. "He's an avatar of the End, Martin."
"It doesn't matter," Martin remarks sullenly. "All I know is he pulled Jon back. I couldn't bring him back from the End, I couldn't bring him back from the Buried, and I wasn't even there when you called him out from the Dark. I keep failing him when he needs me the most and-"
"If it helps somewhat, you didn't even try to pull him out of the Buried, I'm still convinced you could've reached him."
"...Gerry, how on earth would that help?" Martin deadpans, and Gerry holds his hands up in surrender.
"I said if. All I'm saying is I just know you went straight for the tapes idea because of the Lonely. It worked just fine in the end, but if you'd called him, he would've heard."
"But then-"
"The End is different, Martin." Gerry's arm goes back to its place on Martin's shoulders, his free hand coming to tangle their fingers together. "Terminus doesn't give up its victims so easily. I doubt anyone but one of its avatars could've opened the way back for Jon, especially if the Web was involved."
"...It's very stupid, isn't it?" Martin mutters after a few minutes.
"You can't help how you feel." Gerry squeezes his hand. "As long as you understand it's not something you need to be worried about."
Martin snorts softly, before pressing a kiss to Gerry's cheek. "I should learn from you, then?"
"Oh no, I'm not possessive but I'm very jealous," Gerry shrugs with a sheepish smile, "I just dealt with it in a completely different way, apparently."
He squeezes Martin's hand again when he breaks down laughing, satisfied with his efforts. Gerard Keay, paragon of emotional maturity and healthy communication.
"Am I interrupting?" Tim's voice breaks him from his reverie, and Gerry looks up to find him standing a few feet away, arching an eyebrow at the tableau they cut.
"We were just done," Martin responds, somewhat breathless still. "Did he tell you who Jon was with?"
Tim shakes his head, his brow furrowed. "He just said some other avatars. Helen, I guess."
"Maybe he found Daisy?" Martin asks, his amusement fading into intrigue.
"Maybe..." Tim mutters.
Gerry arches an eyebrow. "You don't sound too happy about that."
Tim gives a half-hearted shrug, and a tired sigh.
"I saw her change, down at the tunnels. It was- I never said it because Basira had been running herself ragged, but... at this point, I wouldn't want anyone to find Daisy, not even him."
------------------------
All around her it smells like fire and burnt hair and cooked meat. The smoke tastes of salt, like evaporated tears, and she can hear anguished cries coming from countless ragged throats.
These aren't prey, she decides. The hunter feeds on panic and adrenaline fueled by the eons-old instinct to escape or be killed. She despises the taste of sorrow, of hopeless desolation. Of those that have given up and lost all the fight they could give.
The fire licks at her sides, at her paws. It singes off patches of raggedy sand-coloured fur, and makes every step on her already misshapen legs even more agonising. Her form, which is only suited for giving chase and taking prey down, is all but encumbering as she tries to make her way through the burning buildings.
What was she looking for here?
Was it- retribution?
She came here to settle debts, to pay harm with harm. To find-
"And to what do I owe the honour? The great and powerful Archivist, and his pet monsters?" says a voice, up, up, up in one of the burning buildings, and the hunter's chest swells with a snarl that crackles louder than the fire around her, before she jumps.
The building's wall cracks under her weight, her claws digging deep into crumbling concrete to pull the hunter up. The smoke chokes and blinds her, but the sting barely registers in her mind. All she has to do is go up, up, up.
"I'll be honest, we could've taken the long way. I was just curious," says another voice, and the hunter flinches, her torn, leathery ears perking up in recognition. Is this the prey she's looking for?
"-were already a little nosy prick back then. Sometimes I still regret not having killed you, your pain was so tasty," a voice says. It's hoarse, like the speaker has spent years inhaling smoke, and bitter. It sounds like mean laughter and pained cries, and the hunter's hackles raise.
"It's a very popular opinion, I've found," says the other voice, quieter, tired. Unamused.
The Hunter's brain flares up with alarm as recognition finally hits. This is the voice in the deep, the one that spoke of home, and he shouldn't be here- or- or should he?
The hunter stops her climb for a moment as her smoke-addled mind snaps and chases at itself. Which one has the blood that sings to her? Which is the one she's hunting?
"But then again, I wouldn't have this sweet, sweet little corner of hell to myself would I?"
"Ideally, no. I suppose you've enjoyed it so far?"
"Who was this again?" asks a third voice, one that sounds like confusion, like lies. It makes the Hunter angry, she doesn't like its kind. It was voices like it that took her into the deep and tight and crushing, where her will broke along with her mind and body.
"No one, really."
"Oh, is that so?" the first voice cackles. "Look at that, becomes an eminence and forgets about the ones who made him. You wouldn't be here without my mark, Archivist."
"You say that like it's a bad thing, though I can see why you would be under the impression that I ought to be grateful for that."
"Jon- the fire is-"
"Of course you'd be one of those," the voice laughs again, "all holier-than-thou and pretending you're above the rest of us. Pretending you're not the worst of us. Does it make it easier for you to sleep at night, after what you did?"
"I don't sleep much," says the voice. Then calmly, quietly. "I'm going to kill you, Jude."
"Jon?!" the lying voice asks. "You said-"
"You're bluffing," the first voice barks. "You're feeling their pain aren't you? Feeding off of it, like the parasite you are. Are you enjoying it?"
There's a pause, during which the hunter crawls higher up towards the smoking window the voices are coming from. She's so close, so close to being done.
"I am."
"Why would you shut down an easy meal?"
"That's just who I am, I suppose." The response doesn't wait this time, and the voice in the deep is firm and calm, before it adds almost sheepishly, "that, and I really don't like you."
The steel frame of the window is partially melted, soft and malleable under the hunter's claws, and she can finally see inside the room, preparing her hind legs for a jump. The woman reeks of wax and smoke, facing away from the hunter and towards-
The hunter freezes.
And she knows all of a sudden, with the sort of instinct all great predators are born with, that she's no longer the biggest danger in the room.
The creature on the woman's other side pulls at her as much as his presence terrifies her, soothes her and agitates her in equal measure.
Apex, whispers some tiny, primal voice at the back of her mind, and a low, anxious growl leaves her throat.
She should leave. She should turn tail and run and make sure to never again cross paths with this being, to never-
"You can't be angry at me still, Jon. You shook my hand didn't you? It was your fault, like everything else," the woman laughs, and the hunter sees red.
The woman crumbles like sand under her weight, and her claws dig into soft, pliant flesh that tears so easily, that bleeds out choking rivulets of thick black smoke that swirls up into the hunter's nose and eyes.
Boiling wax sticks to her teeth and sears her gums and tongue as the hunter bites and tears and chews. The woman is not so much afraid as she's shocked at the pain, at finding herself a victim. Prey.
Swallowing her bit by bit satisfies a deep, old hunger seated deep within the hunter's stomach, and she feels herself relax at last.
It took her a lifetime but she did right by her pack, which is what matters, she thinks as she plops down on the hot floor to lick the wax off her paws.
"Jon, what the hell is that thing?!" The hunter whips her face up at the voice. She's on the shorter side, plump-faced and with a large, soft belly, and she reeks of the Stranger.
The hunter hates her immediately.
She climbs to her feet again; her humped back bumps against the burning ceiling, searing some more fur off.
"Uh, you- you may want to go into Helen," the man says as the hunter takes the first step towards them. He's small in size, and were it nor for the power the hunter feels contained within his frame, she could swallow him in a single bite.
"I really don't," the stranger says. She takes a step back, and the man steps before her. "Jon-"
"It's- she can't hurt me," the man says, though he doesn't sound so sure. There is a certain hint of fear to his scent, a dubious, sad sort of terror. What scares this monster, the hunter realises, is not knowing if he should be afraid of her. "I- do you remember me?"
The hunter snarls.
He smells of old paper, of shiny plastic and blood. Of suffering, so much suffering that the hunter wonders for a moment how it is that he's still walking around.
He smells of- of everything.
Darkness, lies, pain, deep, fog and all the others, they swirl around inside him like he's containing them all, like he's made out of them all.
Another step. She cannot kill him, but she can kill the stranger.
"Y- you said you'd kill the other one, maybe you want to redirect that murderous energy?"
"I- no!" The man's face pales. He takes a step back as the hunter advances towards him. "No, she- Daisy?"
"This is the cop?!" The woman retreats all the way back to the crumbling, smoking door. "The one that tried to kill you?!'
"Daisy, can you hear me?" the man asks again, and the hunter responds with another snarl. She doesn't want to fight this being, but she will if he stands in the way of her prey. "We've- we were worried about you, all of us."
There's a thin, pale scar in the man's throat, and something aches in the hunter's chest.
"Please," says the man. His voice is soft, and it reaches the hunter as if through many miles of rock. "Please, Daisy. I don't want to hurt you."
"I don't think she'll do you the same courtesy, Jon." The stranger has managed to open the door behind him. "Come on."
"Sasha, I can't- I need to at least try to-"
"She's clearly not recognizing you, let's get out of here!"
"We can't."
"What?!"
"Don't- Sasha, listen to me," the man gives the stranger a worried, anxious look that sends a pang of recognition through the hunter's mind. "Don't try to run, she wants to chase you."
"I- why me?!"
The man's eyes, large and dark and sad, turn towards the hunter again.
"She's not too fond of the Stranger."
"Well- well, that makes two of us," the woman stutters, but she lets go of the door. "Jon..."
"She's in there," Jon- the man says. "Daisy, I found you once-"
The hunter snarls, but he trudges on, unimpeded. He's always been so stubborn.
"No, listen! I've been looking for you! Basira's looking for you!"
The name feels like a whip across the face, and the hunter recoils. It's a name of- of coconut and yellow, a name whispered with a last, dying breath.
'Will you find me?'
It pulls at her like a hot-red hook through her entrails, the name, the man's voice.
'Always.'
There's dirt closing off all around her, sharp stones digging into her flesh, and try as she may she simply cannot draw a breath that doesn't smell of rotting old wood and rain. Her ears are ringing with thousands of agonised screams, and the hunter can't tell if it's the Desolation's prey or her own, or if there's any difference at all.
"Jon, I- fuck!"
"Daisy- !"
The man's blood on her tongue tastes familiar, and his fear is delicious and filling and wrong. It burns her tongue and makes her choke like she just bit into something foul, but her jaws are locked around him and she feels-
She feels defenseless.
She was so afraid of this, of losing control, of losing herself.
But she did it for him, for- for her. It was worth it, to give herself away one last time. Why does this hurt? What is she missing?!
"Daisy!" The man is screaming in pain, and it hurts, the word jabs at her blood-lusted mind like a knife, and the concern in the man's voice is the cruel hand twisting the weapon in the wound. "Daisy, please!"
"Daisy, the quiet!"
------------------------
"You know... I still stand by my opinion that the carousel was far too on the nose, but this isn't a much better look," Tim sighs.
The heat of the fire all around them feels like a pleasant, almost familiar warmth, and the victims' pained cries taste absolutely scrumptious with sorrow. It serves to remind him of what he is, and he hates it.
The flames nearby flare up, fed by his resignation.
"I don't know where you got the idea that these things know how to be subtle," Gerry says, pulling him out of his mind. When he looks over, the man is almost done putting his hair into a messy bun, which he ties with a hair tie Martin pulls from his own wrist before pulling the hood over his head and tug on the drawstrings, presumably to keep the ash out. "If it makes you feel better though, you're as far removed from an avatar of the Desolation as you could be. I think the reason it brought you back-"
"Was to make me miserable, I know," Tim grunts, as they resume their trip across the burning city. "I just- I hate it here."
Or more accurately, he hates that he doesn't hate it. That knowing everyone around him is for once in as much pain as he constantly is in gives him a sense of vindication he hasn't experienced in years.
He could stay here, he thinks.
They pass the remnants of a burning hospital, and Tim breathes in the hopeless cries of those who will just never find peace again, not in this place. He could make it so that each and every one of them suffers what he suffered- what's the saying?
Misery loves company.
"Are we going to run into someone here too?" he asks after a while. "I don't think I ever met anyone from the Desolation."
"I don't think so," Gerry says carefully. "This place is....recently unoccupied."
"What's that even mean?" Martin turns to look at them with an arched eyebrow. "How would you know?"
Gerry shoots a look at the infinite, unblinking eyes that cover the sky.
"Right-" Martin nods, "dumb question."
"Was it Jon? Like he did with the- with the thing that took Sasha?" Tim asks.
"I... Think? I only get vague knowledge, nothing too specific. Right now all I know is this place is looking for someone to sit on the big chair." Gerry looks at him out of the corner of his eye, and Tim keeps his gaze fixed firmly on him. "How are you doing?"
"I don't like what you're implying," is all he says, sending the closest flames flaring up into the sky.
"That's good. I don't like it too much either." Gerry looks on ahead. "But here we are."
"Here we are? What- oh." Martin says before following Gerry's gaze. He seems to deflate, but his colour surprisingly doesn't wane when he turns to look at him. "Tim?"
"I'm not going to stay here," Tim says so shortly it sounds strained even to his ears, like he's trying to convince himself more than he's trying to reassure Martin. "I won't. I-"
"Tim," Martin repeats, gentler this time.
"What?" Tim clenches a fist in the fabric of his jacket.
"I'm- I know you wouldn't do this-"
"I wouldn't." But he would, wouldn't he? Hasn't his entire existence been about causing pain, ever since he woke up? To Jon, to Martin, to himself- hasn't he fed on it, fueling his fire with their loss? "Martin-"
"I know. But- but I think you need to look up," Martin's hand feels warm for once, the chill of the Lonely chased away by the fire's heat.
"I don't want to," Tim shakes his head. "Just- just guide me out."
"...I get the feeling that won't get us anywhere," Martin says gently. "Gerry? Am I wrong?"
"It would be too easy, I think. We've established the Desolation will gladly feed on him, and- and the Watcher wants to see him choose."
Tim shuts his eyes tight, resenting in a way he never did when he was human the bright orange spots that explode behind his eyelids as he does. He- he doesn't want it.
Not the pain blossoming at his chest, nor the power he can feel at his fingertips, or the voice -his own voice- that tells him this is justice, that he deserves this.
Who knows pain if not him? Who knows better how to rip these humans to pieces, how to show them just how insignificant and hopeless their lives are, until all they are is an agonising longing for that all that they have lost, all they have destroyed?
Who-
"Tim. You have to look." Martin's voice is still gentle, but firmer this time.
"I really don't want to," Tim says.
I really don't think I can.
"You're not alone this time." Martin's hand on his shoulder squeezes a little, and surprisingly doesn't flinch when Tim lets out a dry bark of laughter.
"That's rich, coming from you." There he goes again, striking where he knows it'll hurt the most, where-
"It is, isn't it?" Martin's voice sounds like- Tim opens his eyes to see the sad, gentle smile spread across his features. "I think it makes sense, though."
"It does."
"I would know."
"You would."
Martin doesn't react to the jabs, doesn't retaliate with the pointed, barbed remarks Tim knows he's capable of dealing.
"I don't think you want to be here anymore," he goes on casually, like they're talking about leaving the office early. "I don't care much for it either."
The crackling of the fire calls him, the screams of those that are like him, that decided to take out their hurt on the world, to strike first, lest it strikes them down.
"Martin-" it feels like the smoke is choking him, even though that shouldn't be possible anymore. "I don't think I can say no."
"I think you need to try." Martin squeezes his shoulder again, and his voice is so calm, so casual that Tim clings to it to try and anchor his own whirlwind of emotions, before looking up.
The House of Wax museum looks just like he remembers. Just like he dreamed it would look like burning to the ground.
It smells of burnt plastic and wax, and through the smoke-blackened windows he sees silhouettes, so many silhouettes. Some are human of course, clawing at the walls and at themselves and each other and screaming through tear-hoarse throats.
Some others move far more gracefully than they should, trapped in a haunting dance even wreathed in flames as they are.
He- this is for him.
This is the little tailor-made corner of hell afforded to him by the grief and the spite that simmer at his core.
In here, it doesn't matter how much he lost, how much he hurts, because he can make sure everyone else hurts more. Isn't this what the Desolation means for him, a way to pay back the world for how much it took from him?
"Tim?" Martin asks gently. "Are we going?"
Tim wants to say yes, he knows he should. He doesn't want to stay, he's relieved to realise; his feelings about that haven't changed and the burning wax museum is not as much a lure as it is a sad reminder.
Where is he going to go?
Walking away from this doesn't mean he doesn't take it with him everywhere he goes. Not contributing to torture the people trapped in this domain doesn't mean he will not do the same to the people out there, he doesn't think he knows how to do anything else anymore.
"I- Martin, what for?" They don't really need him, do they?
"What? We're looking for Jon-"
"Well, you can keep doing that. Gerry's the one that can find him, not me," Tim sighs. "Just... just fix this mess."
Make everything right so that Tim can go back to sitting in the dark in Martin's old flat thinking about everything he lost.
"That's exactly what we're doing," Martin says firmly. "All three of us. You said you didn't want to stay."
"I don't." Tim shrugs, his eyes still glued to the blazing building, and it almost hurts to tear them from it to look at the other two. "But Martin- this is what I am. It's always going to be what I am."
"Don't be-"
"Martin, just- stop," Tim interrupts, punctuated by a loud crack from one of the museum's windows. "I've tried to fix it. It doesn't work. Maybe it's time to accept that. Maybe there was something else in there at some point, but it's gone. This is all that's left."
Martin's face crumpling down just accentuates his point, he feels like. Dealing with Tim is like trying to handle broken glass, you're bound to slice your hand open at some point, no matter how careful you are.
"Tim-"
"Hey. I'll say something too," Gerry cuts in, leaning around Martin to look at him. His eyes are Watcher-green and he has no doubt the man is seeing more than what Tim means to let out. "First off, I think you're an asshole."
What.
"...This is your pep talk?" Martin gives his man a very unimpressed look, but Gerry merely shrugs.
"It's true. You get under my nerves, but they love you, so I'll deal with you," he goes on. "You hurt people when they try to help you, because you're hurt. It sucks, sometimes we get dealt a shitty hand."
The flames covering the building flare up in response to Tim's irritation, but he pays them no mind in favour of glaring back at the man. "You would-"
"I would know, that one's not going to stick with me." Gerry clicks his tongue. "But I digress. What I mean to say is I'm impartial here. You can't try to rationalise this as Martin being Martin and trying to cheer you up because he likes you, like you were doing just now."
"You're making a real good case to get me to come." Tim's eye twitches. He sees Martin's eyebrows raise, and his lips twitch like he's holding back a smile. "It's not like I think Martin's a doormat or-"
"Good! He isn't, but he and Jon are willing to let you get away with a lot of crap I don't particularly care about." His eyes are fixed on him with laser-like focus, yet he speaks casually enough that Tim gets the feeling he isn't even interested in the conversation, which is- Tim no longer feels too guilty about melting his hand by the carousel. "I only met you after the Desolation brought you back, so I have to imagine you weren't always an insufferable prick, just most of the time. But I did notice something about you."
"Oh?" Tim grunts, annoyed. "Really? Aside from that charming diagnosis of my psyche, you had time to notice something about me?"
"I'm observant like that," he says, and his neon-green eyes flare up a little. "I've only seen you use what the Desolation gave you one time, you know? Which is quite tame for avatars with your particular alignment, like I told you."
"I- what?"
"Come on, Tim." Gerry smirks. "I'm sure you remember lighting up Manuela Domínguez like a summer bonfire."
Tim clenches his fists by his sides. "Don't- it's not like I enjoyed it, I had to do that!"
"Oh you had to?" The asshole has the gall to fake shock. "Why?"
"Because-" Tim starts then stops, his indignant snarl stuck in his throat.
Because Jon was in danger.
Gerry's smirk grows more pronounced the longer he stays quiet, and Tim- Tim hates him for that-
"What about-"
"Stop."
"-the tunnels? With Julia and Trevor?" Gerry steamrolls over his objections, like he doesn't know the answer, like he doesn't know it's because he was trying to buy Jon time to get to Martin, to help.
"What's your point?!" he bites out. The asshole is still just standing there, looking like a particularly smug turtle with the hood of Martin's hoodie pulled tight around his face.
"My point is you're trying, Tim, whether you think it's enough or not." Gerry shrugs, and the animosity melts off of his face. "It's really the only thing we can do, any of us. It's what Martin and I will do. Now, are you coming with us, or not?"
Tim blinks. And then he blinks again. And then a third time.
The building still burns behind him -inside him-, but it's no longer the only thing in his mind. He saved Jon, that time up north. He helped save Martin, helped protect Basira. The Desolation never meant for him to do anything other than cause more pain either to himself or others, but he did it still.
He takes a step forward, and then another, and Martin and Gerry fall into step beside him, all three of them in silence.
He can only guess they did what they had to here, because they come to the end of the burning city not long after- or rather, the end of the burning city comes to them, marked by a tall, blackened building with claw marks up its side.
"Jon was here not too long ago," Gerry's eyes flare green again as he looks at the building. "We're closing the gap."
"Is that how he pulled you out of the Lonely?" Tim grunts as they watch him walk further on, looking at the ground like a hound sniffing for a trail.
"It's very frustrating, isn't it?" Martin snorts by his side. "But very effective, I'm afraid."
"I suppose," he says. Martin is smiling at him when he looks up. "What?"
"I knew you'd come."
"...I have to try, I guess," he sighs. "Is that a house up ahead?"
It looks far too normal than it has any right to be, just an old manor with a large garden, and moth-eaten curtains billowing out every open window.
"I... guess?" Martin arches an eyebrow. "Doesn't look too bad compared to the others we've seen, does it?"
"It doesn't, and I don't like it," Tim scowls. It feels... familiar. Like it's sapping warmth away, like even the Watcher averts its gaze from it. "I think we'd better take the long-"
"We have to go through the house!" Gerry's faint voice reaches them, the man merely a point of bright green profiled against the building's silhouette, waving his arms at them.
Martin winces. "...Looks like we have to go through the house."
"We have to go through the house," Tim sighs.
------------------------
"Doesn't that feel weird?" Sasha asks, because she's mostly sure she's not in mortal danger anymore but also because that has historically never stopped her before anyways.
"I figure it feels better than going naked through the apocalypse," Helen says, sticking her head out her door a few steps away. "Besides, she's done worse."
The other woman doesn't answer.
She's clinging to Jon's hand like a kindergartner about to cross a busy street, and hasn't said a word other than his name from the moment she climbed out of the bloody, misshapen hide naked and covered in gore, and now she walks behind him in silence, dressed in the ill-fitting, torn garments of the woman she mauled to death.
She looks- frail, is the only word Sasha can think of.
Despite her lean frame being lined with muscle, despite her height and her teeth sharpened to a point, she seems lost and confused, like Jon is the only thing she's sure of anymore.
Bit of a surprising look, for someone who made him dig his own grave before she decided not to execute him.
A few steps ahead, Jon sighs.
"I- please don't bring that up. Out loud, I mean," he says.
Sasha arches an eyebrow. "First off, if you keep looking into my head, you'll see things you don't want to see-"
"That's very ironic, coming from you."
"-and second off, why? Is it a bit too R-rated for her?"
"Sasha," Jon sighs again, and she bristles.
It still irks her, to think of all that happened, all that she couldn't help with because of her stupid detour to Artifacts Storage.
"It wasn't your fault," Jon says, a lot more patiently than Sasha would've thought him capable of. "And Daisy- she's different than she was back then."
"Must've been one hell of an apology." She crosses her arms over her chest.
"Not really..." Jon looks away, his gaze fixed at some point by Sasha's shoes. "... it's not like I can forgive her for that. She knows that."
"Then? What changed?"
"She did." Jon shrugs. "It's never going to make it right, but- but she's no longer the person that could justify those things. That would do them on the first place."
"Hm," she huffs, and Jon gives her a tired smile.
"We may not be humans anymore, but we're still just... people. It's always going to be messy." He looks forward then, before squeezing at Daisy's hand and gesturing at Sasha to keep moving. "We should go on; I'm getting cold."
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Day 263: Wednesday September 20, 2023 - "Tucson Overnights"
On Monday we sat in the pool and mentally crafted how this next two weeks would go. Its a long stretch in front of the two of us. And our goal is for William to not have to feel anything but complete normalcy and stability from his parents. I want to be above any self imposed anxiety, and rise above the exhaustion of the grind. I suggested that we just take it in small chunks - just one quarter at a time. And I like the idea of winning each quarter. Especially the 4th Quarter. I am not sure that any of this resonated with Audrie, but I was saying it for myself anyway. Ahead of me an important gauntlet and measure of my nurturing fatherhood intentions - 10 Nights of "Primary Parenthood" - the phrase I am lending to these stretches where we let Mama focus on her career and the demands of her profession - during a time when potty training is fragilely in focus, and his two-year-old tides seem remarkably regulated; important, very important days. I told Audrie, "I just really need to on top of my game. I have to be well prepared to do good here." But the saving grace, making a 10 night stretch like this reasonably possible was that across the 10 nights, were some well placed Mama-breaks to get us on through. As I laid it out, it was perfect and smooth and easy in my mind - I totally got this! First Quarter - Monday evening "Bye Bye Mama" to Wednesday Night, where after a Tucson Overnight, we'd all get a break and refilled with Mama's love. We'd all go into the Second Quarter replenished and cruising towards the weekend halftime show in San Diego, where we'd be crashing mama's overnight for break #2.
In the second half, we get Mama home on Sunday night and Wednesday night again, as we close out the month, with me getting a little solo break for all my efforts.
Suddenly this big long intimidating stretch was manageable. 4 quarters. Take them one at a time. And so I had a plan to get me positively from Monday afternoon until today. I won the first quarter. I left Audrie alone and let her sleep in our bed most the day, and then she took William in the evening and did bedtime on her own (as if William would have it any other way - a couple times I tried to join them and was met with "Daddy go away". His Mama break time. I totally get that. And was grateful for the brain break that this gift gives me. I laid on the couch listening to them read books, mind mapping the 2nd quarter game plan. "These Tucson overnights are so damn cool." And by cool I knew the reflected expression was of being able to be totally off the hook for a few hours this evening. But it was also in seeing just how damn much William enjoyed having his mama here, to pick him up from school, to take him to dinner, to do his bath time. I have this thing with William where I ask him if he loves his mama and he says "yesssss. and then I tell him, "not near as much as she loves you." I tell him so often how much she loves him when shes gone to work. And he knows it. And when shes home, he feels it, and soaks it all up, every bit he can get. They talked at bedtime, about how shed be gone when he woke up, and sure enough he wailed and cried at 5am when he rolled over to try to find her. He knew she was back at work. He cuddled into my warm armpit with big real tears, and we breathed in the flowers, and out the candles, a trick shes taught both of us. She was there,even when she was gone - in the loving confidence and nurturing stability I can lend him in her absence - its all her. The 2nd Quarter started off in such a loving memorable way, thanks to that little break that let us all reset and regulate. She was off to work for one more leg back to LAX before starting her two day to Austin and San Diego where we'll see her again in about 60 hours. We cruise into the next quarter talking and scheming about San Diego and our next fill-up.
Song: Fall Out Boy- We Didn't Start The Fire
Quote: If you're lost you can look and you will find me
Time after time
If you fall, I will catch you, I'll be waiting
Time after time
If you're lost, you can look and you will find me
Time after time
If you fall, I will catch you, I will be waiting
Time after time
~Cyndi Lauper
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No hate to jimin, I love him to death, but I do find him quite boring too, music and stages aside cause they are always great. I find it funny that people call him it boy and he’s always number 1 in that influence ranking or whatever that is, when he doesn’t care about social media and his style outside the stage is quite basic (not every clothing ofc, and there’s nothing wrong with basic, i’m a basic myself). And I think part of this high standard people put him is due to the way his solo stans see him, not to be patronizing but I think a lot of them only see him as this sexy guy and don’t care about one word he says or sings, as long as he’s making numbers and being their it boy.
right like. like i don’t necessarily agree with all your point like his styling - i think jimin has a rly fun and leisurely sense of style that’s yeah not super flashy but he knows how to dress and what looks good on him - but like. jimin is one of my biases yes but im also rly comfortable admitting that he’s BASIC as HELL and that’s FINE. he’s the It Boy of my heart but the guy obviously seems to want as little social presence as possible. hes never on social media, he keeps his private life to himself, he doesn’t share what he’s into save for the very rare occasion he shares something offhandedly. n there IS this weird expectation and assumption of casual and continued social presence from fans that simply isn’t there….. like sure he has the influence of what would make an It Boy but that really only comes from how popular he is rather than any remarkable or sustained presence. and again, its totally fine! privacy and normalcy are obviously things that are really important to him. this too i think goes back to what jimin has spoken abt on his relationship with fame and identity and whats reflected in most of his work so far. and like. i don’t wanna be a downer and pretend i know anything about what he thinks. but if it were ME putting my all into my work like he does and the only thing my fans took away from it was a minimal interaction i had with my coworker and how it was proof we’re fucking or smt or every time i went online i see ppl talking about how ugly they find me like YEAH i wouldn’t want to share much about my life on the internet either and id probably have a really warped and fractured sense of my personhood. idk its very much in the same lane of kpop stans claiming their fave is buff or has an ass like he DOESNT he doesn’t and its OK you don’t need to lie to urself …. why not pay attention to the stuff that they actually do or the way they actually are instead of treating this like fanfiction. i think some fans DO need to be patronized tbh bcs the way they view their faves is itself patronizing even if they might mean well.
#sorry this got saur long im on my lunch n my work addled brain just needs to word vomit#💌#anonymous
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6 and 29 for ao3 wrapped? 👀
6. Favorite title you used
...i'm realizing now that i only published four new fics this year so i don't have a lot to choose from lol. if we're only counting published fics then i think my fave is a short matchablossom fic i posted, "dawn goes down to day" (the title is from a robert frost poem, and that poem is quoted a lot in the outsiders which is one of my fave books, so it's sort of a double-reference lol).
if we're counting unpublished fics... i rly like the working title of my sylvix pacrim au which is "a vicious, vengeful sea" (a lyric from "black water" by of monsters and men, which is one of my fave songs!!)
29. Favorite line/passage you wrote this year?
OH MAN tbh there's like a couple lines from the sylvix dreamscape fic that i think are my fave but they're from chapters i haven't posted yet and they're very spoilery lol. so i'll go with this passage instead (also from sylvix dreamscape fic). It's a bit long so I'll put it under a Read More 🙈
ao3 wrapped
Crickets chorused in the fields, and the hush of a gentle breeze swept over the tall grass. Sylvain kept staring up at the sky, eyes flitting over the constellations as if he could see his memories written there.
“Remember when we used to drink on the roof together at Garreg Mach?”
Felix remembered. During their academy days, Sylvain would occasionally procure a bottle of wine in town and persuade Felix to drink with him at night on some secluded rooftop or wall somewhere. Although Felix always acted reluctant to go on these escapades, it was one of his fondest memories from that time.
Yes, it had been reckless and stupid—but there’d been a certain thrill to sneaking around the monastery grounds in the dead of night after curfew. There’d been something pleasant about it, too—how it was just him and Sylvain, sitting side-by-side under the moonlight, passing the bottle between them.
Even all these years later, Felix could picture it vividly: The pale glow illuminating the rooftops below and the mist above the distant mountains. The strong taste of wine on his tongue, sliding down his throat, settling warmly in his stomach. The timbre of Sylvain’s voice, lowered to a pitch that made the skin on the back of Felix’s neck prickle. Sylvain’s muffled laughter, erupting again and again no matter how many times Felix shushed him.
“What about it?” Felix asked quietly.
Sylvain inhaled the night air and let it out. “There was that one time, not too long after the war began.”
Another memory materialized: A knock on Felix’s door late one night, after they’d returned to the monastery after a harrowing battle. Sylvain’s tired smile and a bottle of wine in his hand. “What do you say, Felix? Just like old times?” Felix had somehow held back any scathing remarks. Didn’t Sylvain have a girl to seduce or something? Instead, he’d agreed without hesitation. After all the bloodshed and terrifying uncertainty they’d faced recently, he was desperate for even the slightest sense of normalcy.
“I’ve always remembered that night so clearly.” Sylvain examined the wine bottle, rubbing a thumb against the glass. Moonlight glinted off its surface.
“There was something about it... the two of us stargazing and drinking wine together. And I just looked at you, and I suddenly thought, ‘I could do this for the rest of my life.’ That was when it really hit me, I think.
“I realized that was what I wanted more than anything in the world—just to be with you, for as long as I possibly could. That I wanted to marry you.”
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General 2 and love 12 for the ask game :D also you can pick whether you want to answer for Squirrel or Pilot :3 or maybe both? 👀
oooh, thank u for ur questions! 🖤🖤✨️👀
General 2 — Did they have an official first date? If so, what was it like?
Love 12 — What kind of nicknames do they call each other?
General 2:
Definitely. Saeran made it happen — he really wanted it (for the experience, for fun, as a marker that the hardships of the AE were over and that everyone could truly begin to heal). Squirrel was indifferent, didn't even think about it until he said something, but she gladly agreed to it. It would make Saeran happy, after all!
I think Saeran would've previously debated with himself over what type of date he should suggest — whether it should be a taste of normalcy for him (and a return to it for her) or something more tailored and unique. He would eventually settle on the latter.
An afternoon garden walk. When the cold, late-fall day is at its warmest, and the sunlight turns golden by the end of the date, illuminating the warm colours of autumn. She gawks at their surroundings here and there; they point out fascinating things to each other. They come across some curious flowers, and he tells her all about them. They talk about this and that, anything that comes to mind. She complains a little about the bugs occasionally flying into her face, and he can't help but chuckle at her humorously (purposefully) exaggerated reactions.
They reach a resting point — a vista with an old sturdy bench. They sit down. The bench is cold and a bit damp; Squirrel makes a joking remark about it, and Saeran scoots closer to share his warmth. But it's more of a kind gesture, and they both know it; Squirrel is the walking heater of their relationship. She brings it up later, teases him for "being sneaky."
"You just want my warmth, don't ya? I see right through you~."
"Of course, my love." Like it was obvious; a soft, teasing smile. "I don't even need the sun when I'm with you."
Later, he opens his bag, revealing the food he brought. They have a light, early dinner, and spend most of it in blissful quiet. But soon, the sun dips lower, the air grows colder. It'll take a while to continue down the path and reach the bottom again, so Saeran suggests they leave now.
Just like on the way up, they hold gloved hands on their way down. Squirrel's fighting back a grin as she thinks back on the day. The date. How amazing Saeran is. She squeezes his hand; he tugs her closer. She promises herself that next time, she'll make him feel just as spoiled as she does.
Love 12:
Oh, all sorts of things, especially from Saeran. Y'all know the classics: my love, my angel, my sweet. A lot of highly affectionate, almost reverent terms. My goddess, sometimes, especially because it really flusters her (side note: he calls MC this once in his AE). Sweet things, things that show his admiration and adoration for her. Beloved, darling, sunshine, cutie, flower. He has two whole languages of words available to him; he uses whatever he can. He loves seeing her different reactions to each one.
Squirrel doesn't use them very often. She's just not used to it; beyond her cats, she's never been one for pet names (I did NOT intend that to be a pun lmao 💀). But she does have a few she likes to use with him: duckie becomes her go-to. Her friends and some of the RFA tease them a little for it, but after a while, she stopped caring about that and it started becoming more natural to use and to hear.
She also uses some of your more typical ones. The occasional darling or sweetheart. She uses sunshine on him, too. Has found herself calling him babe ironically. And she's started throwing out whatever pet name she can think of, even the most ridiculous ones, just to see how he'll respond. He always responds — either without batting an eye, or with an amused giggle or smile.
Pilot, well... She'll call him "your nice boy" to Squirrel, but that's about it.
[Questions are here!]
#mystic messenger#mysme#saeran choi#ge saeran#squirrel bakken#mammonprotectionsquad#squirrel x saeran#ask game#mysme-rifters au#417 says stuff#pilot#cmc#my cmc
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Get off your knees you sad, pathetic serfs! It's the 21st Century not the bloody Dark Ages!
By Stanley Collymore
It's high time for this expensive
pantomime to end! Obviously
so, discernibly quite relative
to a very privileged bunch of taxpayer
funded, quite pretend celebrities, but
unquestionably, in reality, a basically
incestuously inbred; really medieval
mindset, unquestionably effectively
obviously very thoroughly outdated
but all the same accepted by many
in the lower strata naturally as well
the social climbing elements of an
entrenched rather class-structured
British society, as well as evidently
among their overseas kin; not only
living in but simply having through
their clearly, odiously perpetrated
genocidal practices; so irrefutably
and distinctively rather inhumanly
effectively carried out against the
indigenous peoples whose actual
countries they very unwarrantedly
and most unwelcomingly entered!
Then, having barbarically usurped
the human rights and ownership
of these essentially indigenous
inhabitants, who legitimately as well as
morally obviously own these countries,
crucially took absolute control of what
wasn't their own; then and literally still
forcibly do exert their own undeniably
dishonest ownership and, unilaterally,
deceitful control, over these evidently
indigenous peoples, and rather vitally
their countries; quite essentially as if
both categories were manifestly and
unquestionably, really their medieval
chattel: human -wise as well as land
aggrandizement - to do with, as they
wished; while earnestly, wanting the
European lands they left and clearly
most specifically so Britain to really
be this exclusive haven of, and only
for supposedly actually Aryan white
Caucasians, and rather additionally
and actually specifically in the UK's
case a viable ongoing monarchical
system; fittingly, really devoid of all
democracy on the insane pretence
that it's a vital tradition, and clearly
conventional normalcy, and simply
in the best interests of the country.
Therefore financially, societally and
likewise from a stability point of
view, it was clearly absolutely
necessary that Britain should evidently
quite continuously remain a monarchy
as per norm, and effectively attendant
too with the obviously very customary
value input from its crucially, naturally
and likely evidently, loyally hereditary
sources, simply significantly assisted
of course by the very wealthy! Clearly
cognizant, in all of this, that the serfs
effectively because of who and what
they really actually are; very naturally
and simply realistically have no part,
or should ever intelligently think that
they unquestionably do in all of this!
(C) Stanley V. Collymore
17 December 2023.
Author's Remarks:
Laughably, were it not so glaringly and sickeningly pathetic, these are the very same sycophantic serfs who basically quite readily, enthusiastically and rather publicly, rather shamelessly do stupidly but nevertheless most fervently declare their conspicuously and evidently, aptly ill-founded pride and patently recurrent, quite unquestionably also, encouraged odious and toxic sycophancy by being unquestioningly a daft supplicant to the vaunted offspring of bygone barbarous warlords and very ruthlessly murderous tyrants. Surely you and your vile gullible sort need your heads examining!
And likewise too blind in your obviously entrenched brownnosing to realize or even see that the Church of England, the Monarchy itself and the State: this unholy trinity, are quite complicit and likewise very active in keeping you sad and pathetic serfs in what they actually, distinctly and obviously quite evidently see in your case, as "your proper place".
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Schizophrenia: The Silent Prey― Essay
You say “schizophrenia” and people think of someone in food-stained clothes, running around wielding an axe, muttering to themselves. Say ‘depression’ and they think of someone flung in bed with the curtains drawn, sobbing about everything.
As the first rays of sunlight filtered through the delicate fabric of the curtains, their golden tendrils gently caressed the room, filling it with a warm, ethereal glow. It was a moment that stirred up a whirlwind of memories and introspection, like a weathered manuscript with its pages yellowed with time, yet etched with indelible emotions. Lost in this realm where the past and present merged seamlessly. Life, oh life, it has a way with its unpredictable twists and turns, leaving us in a perpetual state of sadness. As I found myself gazing out the window one pleasant mid-June morning, the atmosphere exuded a delightful sense of tranquility. The weather was mild and benign, not too hot like the scorching summer days that lay ahead. However, there was a subtle crispness to the air, a reminder of the fleeting nature of this blissful season. In this moment of quiet contemplation, a sudden burst of movement caught my attention. A peculiar creature sprang forth—a chameleon, a true master of disguise. With its artistry to seamlessly blend into its surroundings, this vibrant creature is a living testament that embodied the epitome of adaptability. Its kaleidoscope of hues serves as a visual symphony, demonstrating its unparalleled ability to adapt and survive.
As my eyes remained fixed on the mesmerizing chameleon, my thoughts meandered to someone who mirrored the chameleon’s remarkable ability to adapt—the resolute figure of my grandmother. However, her adaptation was not one of physical camouflage but rather an ongoing battle with a formidable foe known as schizophrenia.
As a wide-eyed child, oblivious to the shadows lurking within our family, I would sit at her feet, captivated by her stories, and enthralled by the magic that seemed to emanate from her very being, blissfully unaware of my grandmother’s condition. She was just my Nana, a warm and caring presence in my life. But as the years unfolded, so too did the mystery that surrounded her. Whispers of her peculiar behaviors reached my ears, like a haunting melody that both intrigued and frightened me.
Just as a chameleon’s eyes can rotate independently, providing a panoramic view of its surroundings, my grandmother’s perception of the world is unique and complex. Schizophrenia distorts her perception, creating a fragmented reality. I first noticed the dizzying array of emotions that danced across her face. She would speak of fantastical visions, where mystical creatures frolicked to harm, hear whispers that found solace in her ears alone and exhibited erratic mood swings. Confusion gripped my young heart as I struggled to fathom the perplexing nature of her existence. What was I to think than simply she had gone mad.
Yet, like a chameleon adapting its appearance to both protect itself and capture its prey, My grandmother's mind had an uncanny way of forging connections between seemingly unrelated ideas.
In the company of others, the chameleon would often hide, concealed beneath a veneer of normalcy. But behind closed doors, within the sacred walls of our home, her true nature would emerge like a vivid mirage in the desert. The room would transform into a canvas, splattered with hallucinatory strokes and delusional narratives, blurring the boundaries between the real and the imagined.
Schizophrenia, a tempest that swirled within the depths of her mind, would often manifest itself in unpredictable ways. As the seasons changed, like the ever-changing colors of the chameleon, so did her mental landscapes, often without warning. In the throes of spring, her thoughts bloomed with creativity, and her laughter echoed through the village like birdsong. Summer brought moments of clarity, where she could grasp the threads of reality, much like the chameleon basking under the warm sun, revealing its true colors. But with autumn's arrival, the winds of confusion would blow once more, and her mind would transform into a whirlwind of fragmented thoughts. On winter days, the clouds would descend, casting a shadow over her world, and her soul would become melancholy with a sorrow for her deceased son—my uncle whom I never knew. Rather, it was a mental illness that affected her perspective of reality.
Whispers of misunderstanding tainted the air, and we bore the burden of society’s unkind assumptions. Oh, the embarrassment and shame that coursed through my veins, like molten lava scorching my soul! Schizophrenia, unfortunately, carries a heavy burden of stigma and misinformation. Our family often felt the weight of societal judgment and fear of disclosure. I would shrink within myself, yearning for invisibility as neighbors and friends cast judgmental glances, unable to comprehend the torment that lay within my grandmother’s mind. Their ignorance was a sharp blade, slicing through my heart with each whispered comment, each sidelong glance that branded me an outcast.
But as I matured, as the petals of wisdom unfolded within me, I began to perceive the true nature of the chameleon. Schizophrenia, like this elusive creature, possessed the power to adapt and blend into the tapestry of ordinary life. Living with a family member affected by schizophrenia had a profound effect on our household dynamics. Our daily routines revolved around providing a stable and supportive environment for my grandmother’s well-being. While this responsibility fell primarily on my parents, I, too, played a role in adapting to the situation. We had to be flexible, understanding, and patient, often adjusting to accommodate her needs. Growing up in an environment where mental health struggles were an integral part of our lives taught me valuable lessons in empathy and compassion. Witnessing the hardships my grandmother faced daily instilled in me a deep sense of understanding. I learned not to judge someone solely based on their condition but to see beyond the illness and recognize the person beneath. In time, I shed the weight of embarrassment and shame, for I realized that my grandmother’s battle was not mine to bear alone.
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@deathfavor asked:
For a moment, it looks as though Izana isn’t quite sure what he wants. He lingers by the doorway, and then makes his way over to where Kakucho looks like he’s half-dozing in the autumn sunlight. He looks comfortable, if nothing else. “ It’s just me. “ He murmurs softly as reassurance before he crawls onto the couch with Kakucho, settling his weight atop the other. “The crowds are bad today.” He mumbles, and its not about the crowds at all really. It’s just a moment of odd normalcy in the violent world of their lives, like they’re normal teens. He yawns. “ How has your day been? You looked very comfy. “ He remarks, a ghost of a smile in his voice.
The couch had always been somewhat his space. Feeling it was where a servant belonged. So it didn't bother him to let himself relax on it when they were in his king's home. That didn't mean he wouldn't come to attention the moment Izana appeared in the doorway. Sitting up just a bit and making sure he wasn't needed.
It seems the case, but not in a way he was expecting. Remaining still as Izana crawls up onto him. His gentle weight was like a blanket on him. "That's unfortunate." He finds himself replying. Knowing neither of those things mattered in reality.
Kakucho can't hide his smile at that yawn. A normal sleepy response from someone so far from normalcy. Those subtle actions were often so welcome, almost cherished in a way.
"Long." He admits, "But you're right, it's comfortable here." Especially now. Strong arms are his blanket. Brushing back fallen strands from his king's face. "I hope I'm as comfortable as I look."
#( & ) Kakucho ( ic )#deathfavor#( & ) How could a heart like yours ever love a heart like mine? ( KakuIza )
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"And just when are you going to take over a tropical island, exactly."
It was the first time Lexi had spoken to him in two days - not that Ozzie was counting - and she didn't even have the decency to phrase it as a question. No, she felt the appropriate course of action was to burst into the kitchen, interrupting his breakfast, full of piss and vinegar as if he was going to tolerate this kind of disrespect from an underling - as if she had any rights at all, as if she was entitled to snap and snarl and nip at his ankles with all the credible threat of a sleepy Pomeranian. He sat there for a long moment, letting her stew in the impotent rage of the disenfranchised, until it became obvious that she was, in fact, not about to do that, so he sat there for a second long moment, just on principle.
It was a completely mundane scene as long as you didn't look too closely, almost hostile in its normalcy. Like sure, the newspaper was scrawled with arcane symbols, but that was probably just a new marketing scheme, right? The coffee might have gained sapience and was now attempting to crawl out of the mug, but that was probably just a side effect of some unknown machine in the bowels of the lair, jittering the table so slightly the eye couldn't detect it. And maybe that was toast, maybe it was a bagel, but--
Shit, no, that was definitely a bagel, and now she wanted one, and he no doubt took the last one because he was a selfish wanker. Lexi fumed, internally, at his unnecessary assholery, and glared. He sat fuming in equal measures behind a façade of disinterest, wearing nothing but a pair of boxers and with his hair mussed so carefully to imply he had just woken up. He lounged there, in that chair, as if he owned the damn place.
Ozegovich, the great and terrible Magus, was such a pretentious bastard sometimes. Slowly, ever so slowly, he deigned to lift his gaze and acknowledge the interloper. It landed on her with a tangible weight, and she brushed at her shoulders absently, with no intention at all of backing down.
"That doesn't sound like an apology," he informed her, voice scratchy with feigned sleepiness.
"It's not," Lexi agreed, utterly shameless. She stalked towards him, grabbed a chair out from under the table, and flipped it around to straddle it. She, too, was wearing boxers, and the way Ash's shirt rode up now revealed they matched the same ones he did. He pretended not to notice, and she chose not to point out how obvious it was that he did. "It is, in fact, a demand."
The newspaper hit the table a moment later with a solid thump, far louder than was strictly realistic, and he fixed her with the intimidating strength of his full attention. She basked in it, pretended she didn't, and he was too focused on her insolence to mention he noticed.
"A demand," the Magus echoed. His voice was low and dangerous.
"Yep." Her hackles were raised despite the sing-song tone, and her eyes narrowed right back at him. "You expect me to - without complaint! - live in this, this moldy, dark, stanky old--"
"Stanky," he choked out, in something between disdain and disbelief. Was that even a word? It couldn't possibly be. He was almost positive it wasn't, and yet.
"I want to go to the beach," Lexi interrupted, more concerned with whining than with his display. "I want to lie in the sand and be warm, and drink margaritas and--"
"--and you are under the impression that if you demand me to, I will bow to your every whim?"
Her brow quirked in amused consideration that would imply his biting remark hadn't quite hit the mark he had intended it to, but the expression was so fleeting he could have imagined it.
"Should I ask you nicely, then, Ozegovich? Would that convince you to bend your knee?" Her tone had taken on a mockery of seduction as she leaned forward slightly, matching his cadence and intonation, lilting the words just as he would. She knew him very well, unfortunately. He didn't much delight in that reminder.
His expression soured, answering her question without a word, and she spread her hands. With a vague shrug, she spoke volumes of how clear her conscience was on this matter.
"What do you think?" he enquired aloud, ominous in his civility.
"Never in a million years," his minion chirped, but the downward twitch of her lips betrayed she wasn't quite as fine with that as she pretended to be. "But at least you're going to be thinking about it, now."
"Ridiculous," the Magus sneered, picking up the newspaper again to indicate their little game was done. He flicked it once, straightening the pages, but the arcane symbols were long since forgotten in their spat. It took effort to keep up illusions, after all.
"You will." The complete, unshakable confidence in the truth of her words almost made him pause, until she ruined it by continuing to talk. "You'll be thinking about all that sand--"
"Ah yes, that would inevitably end up in your asscrack, my hair, all the food--"
"--the warm sun, beating down--"
"Burning your ever so fair skin to a crisp, I'm afraid--"
"--icy cold margaritas--"
"As if I would ever debase myself by touching a second rate cocktail--"
"--an inviting glow, far off, past the waves--"
"That would be the burning village left in your wake; just think of all those helpless civilians destroyed by your lust for a vacation--"
"--and about what we would be doing with all of that solitude."
Ozegovich snapped his mouth shut, the weight of all those implications and intentions taking him off guard for a split second. The statement definitely was not accompanied by her shifting in the chair, drawing attention back to her stolen garments, even if it was just in the corner of his eye. His nails tore little holes in the edges of the newspaper as he gripped it, refusing to engage.
"But alas, it will remain only a dream." Lexi sighed with great and terribly despair, sliding off the chair and tugging her shirt down. One bare foot deftly flicked it back under the table, and she cocked her head with a syrupy sweet smile. "Just like me ever asking you for anything." It was a biting remark, nipping at his ankles, and the Magus rolled his eyes to show just how little he cared. "So as long as we both don't get what we want, I guess that's good enough."
Then she spun on her heel, laced her hands behind her back, and casually strolled out of the kitchen like none of this was worth anything. He was left abandoned in his suddenly pointless morning routine, feeling dismissed and foolish without an audience, and fuming about it. He glared at the door for a long moment and then sent the newspaper up in flames with a flick of his wrists, letting the ashes rain down onto the spotless table the second he was sure she wouldn't see, just to prove he could wreck whatever wanton destruction he wanted, and he just didn't feel like indulging her whims. It was important, that distinction.
But it bothered him, as he sat there, far more than he was ever going to admit, even to himself, that he most definitely was going to be thinking about it for the rest of the day, now.
#fd au: xmen evolution#not mine: ozzie#fd chars#its my ot3 your honour#theyre flirting like normal people do i swear#lexis villain arc she was always destined for#my writing
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