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revenant-dumpster-fire · 2 years

Text

Beautiful (Revenant x Reader)

Theme: How can you do everything right your whole life and never see your hopes and dreams realized? Is it better to accept unearned punishment and hope with Death comes justice, or is it better to throw off the shackles of humility for a righteous anger known only to the angels?

Warnings: Pain, bodily trauma, body horror, medical trauma, sharp objects, political corruption, PTSD, war mention, disassociation, death, suicide mention, divorce mention, body dismorphia.

Reader's Notes: Lore expansion for my main Revenant (Apex Legends) fanfiction (Just a Volunteer). No fluff here. Treat it as world-building and a character piece, for those who enjoy the main storyline and want more context on things to come.

Writing Notes: *(cries in empathy)* “I’m gonna kill you” [<- backfeed I got]

Navigation:

First File | Previous File | Next Book

"Just A Volunteer" (Book 1) | "The Lost Files" (Book 1.5)

Brone sighed as he signed the paperwork, selling his life for a second time since his birth.

The first time was when he signed up with the Frontier Militia to fight the IMC during the Frontier War. It was a suicide mission—Brone knows that now—yet he still somehow escaped with his life: his miserable, broken life. Now he's selling it again, but this time for a single payout to the family that couldn’t handle him. Even if she won't accept a cent of his money, at least his kids will have the best life they possibly could without him.

He takes a long drag of his cigarette as he lingers behind the laboratory building, trying to get enough nicotine into his head to last him for the next who-knows-how-long. Ideally, enough to make whatever is coming to him an easy process. It's his fourth cigarette in the last hour; he reminisces on his younger days before his service when he'd throw up by the second cigarette. He contemplates death, if his life has been worth it, and if this choice is worth it.

Paperwork is signed, though. Legally, his fate is sealed. He's pretty sure they would let him tear up the contract if he really insisted, but... why would he do that? Sure, life used to be good. He used to be happy. He used to have dreams. He used to believe he would only get happier. He was wrong.

Life hasn't been good to him like he originally expected. His parents always implied that he would grow up to be happy: getting through school, then starting a solid career, finding a woman he loved in a chance encounter, taking her on a wild adventure across the planetside, marrying her under the proverbial moonlight, and eventually raising a family with her in a sweet little home somewhere away from the bustling cities where politics and strife barely touch. Nothing could have been further from the truth. He thought it would be worthwhile to fight in the Frontier War when his schooling began to struggle, but instead of coming home with honor and discipline, he came home with trauma, dead comrades, and an untamable wrath that would emerge at the worst times imaginable. He thought finding a wife and settling down would make him happy, so he married the first woman he dated out of service, but his habits of lashing out erratically left her feeling trapped and him feeling unworthy to be with her. He thought kids might help calm him down, but instead his condition only worsened from the added pressure of fatherhood until his wife left with the kids. He willingly gave up custody. He knew his kids were better off with no dad than with him. He tried his best. He went to every mental health expert, tried every drug, and tried every technique to hold himself together, but the trauma was too much for him. It was too much for her. It was too much for his kids.

He did everything right, he thought… Every time something went wrong, he did what he had been taught to do. There was always supposed to be a path forward to a better future, and he always chose the right path… or at least what he genuinely believed was the right path. So then, how did it all turn out so wrong? Was he always fated to be unhappy, unfulfilled, and a husk of a person? Or was he thoroughly brainwashed into believing all the wrong things, so he made every bad decision possible? If it was the latter, could he really be blamed then? Why was he being punished for doing nothing wrong? Either he did everything right, or he didn’t know any better. How was he deserving of anything that happened to him?

This is his last attempt to make his life worthwhile. Sacrifice it on the pyre one last time, and give the money from that sacrifice to his kids and their mother. They did nothing wrong in all this, so at least he can redeem himself in this final act. They will have enough to live comfortably, enough to get through any and all schooling, enough to never have to worry again. He drags on his last cigarette deeply, letting his thoughts end on that high note: his family will never have to worry again.

"Having second thoughts?" One of the scientists asks as he opens the back door, finding his test subject abusing his lungs one last time.

"No, none whatsoever." Brone answers plainly in his gruff tone, flicking the cigarette butt onto the ground and stepping on it.

The fire, its light, and its life is extinguished under his boot in a defiant—but ultimately vain—hiss.

• • • •

"How do you feel?" The scientist asks, watching the simulacrum stretch and retract his sharpened metal claws between a human hand shape to something reminiscent of a full-sized lance.

This simulacrum stands at six foot two inches in height; or one-hundred and eighty-eight centimeters according to the blueprints. He looks like something out of the more famous ancient Japanese animations from Earth, but streamlined to remove any superfluous shapes or parts. His eyes are a terrifying golden-yellow, demanding attention with their predatory glow, and his sturdy stance demands just as much respect. The chassis almost resembles that of a knight redesigned for the modern space age: given more rounded, aerodynamic armor and a head shaped somewhere between a human head and the wedge-shaped simulacrum pilots from the war. His body is made up of beautiful and lightweight pearlescent metals, accented around the edges and inside any gills with a light cobalt trim. He has fin-like protrusions on both sides of the back of his head, shoulders, and ankles, as well as some minor protrusions on his forearms and calves. They're likely meant to work with the built in engines that line the underside of where his rib cage would end on his back, stabilizing him for rapid movements close to the ground. There's no way he can fly without better lift, but he can certainly hover-skate at extreme speeds that no human body could withstand. His right forearm telescopes in and out of the giant, flared lance shape, more than sharp and long enough to run someone through from at least five feet away. His left hand can fan out his fingers eerily, generating a forcefield webbing between them to harden into an obvious shield. Supposedly, energy rounds won't penetrate it at all, and it takes a very heavy shot to puncture properly. Unlike other energy-based shields, it doesn't shatter but can heal itself like flesh after a shot gets through. The simulacrum pokes a hole in it himself with his sharpened fingers, testing to see if he will feel any pain. He doesn't flinch, eventually retracting his shield back into a normal hand to test his lance deployment more.

"I'm fine. Everything seems to come naturally." The simulacrum drones in an airy but medium pitch as he steps down from the small pedestal, no longer sporting a voice anything like Brone's—spare for the twinge of a Gaelic accent. He doesn't stumble or have any trouble moving, but he stares at his unusual hands curiously, shifting between his weapon and arm shape in a rhythm. "I thought you said I would be missing an AI most simulacra have. I seem to be functioning fine. What was it?"

"Ah, the E.R.S. software..." The scientist shuffles some papers on a desk nearby, perhaps trying to not make eye contact. "Normally simulacrums have a secondary AI running on top of their sensory processors, ensuring they believe they look, act, and are the same as their human forms beforehand. It's a protection against psychological degradation in the subject, but we believe between the results of your pre-emptive psych evaluation and some of the changes we have made to this method, you shouldn't experience anything like that. Not to mention you're a completely willing simulacrum, which based on other company’s published research… that is simply unheard of. No willing subject has ever passed the psych evaluation that we could find records of. That fact in of itself will certainly help protect you from the disassociation. Plus we have our own method we implemented for—"

"In English, doctor." The simulacrum demands as he bends each joint to check it for function.

"The only thing you're missing is something you shouldn't need." The scientist summarizes, obviously a bit nervous by the machination in front of him.

"Fair enough. I can't believe this works." The simulacrum is in awe of his own chassis, fawning over the polished armored plates of lightweight white metals, the newfound speed of his limbs, and the weaponry built into his person. He pauses for a moment, looking over to the scientist. "Did my family get the payout?"

"Of course, we have the transfer records for you if you'd like." The scientist pulls some paper from a nearby desk, handing it to the simulacrum. He takes it, careful to not poke holes in it with his sharpened fingertips. After a moment of scanning over the page with his yellow LED eyes, he nods his unusually shaped head and returns the sheet to the scientist.

"So, who do I answer to?" He asks, prepared for his new life.

The scientist shuffles his fingers, not sure how to go about answering.

"For now, just the company. We want to start small, make sure your limbs are working as intended, then we can work up to much more important jobs."

"Fair." The simulacrum looks around at the various computer screens in front of him, trying to adjust his optics and get used to seeing the world in different colors than he used to see.

"So, Samael, shall we go?" The scientist gestures towards a door leading to a bright hallway. The simulacrum's eyes contract at the sound of his name, staring at the scientist with veiled interest.

"Samael... that's my name?"

"Of course. New you, new name, right?"

Brone would have scoffed at such a cartoonishly simplistic summary of how change works, but a static hum overcomes him for a moment. This is a new life, after all: not the life he wanted, but the one he was handed by unfortunate circumstances and benevolently horrid choices. Maybe this new start could lead to something better. Perhaps.

"That is probably for the best," he answers instead.

• • • •

Samael looks out over the crowd at the black tie event. His robotic presence is treated as a normalcy, surrounded by lesser MRVNs of various types and quality. They walk around the ballroom, taking empty glasses, serving hors-d'oeuvres to guests in stunning gowns and tuxedos, refilling alcoholic drinks, and generally keeping the dance floor free from obstructions and tripping hazards. The jazz band plays off to the side, but the music no longer sounds pleasant to Samael. It's not annoying or cacophonous, but it's no longer pleasurable to hear either. Samael wishes he could try to clean out his ears to make sure he isn’t imagining it, but he doesn't seem to have them anymore. Sadly, that’s human instinct. If only he could turn off his hearing instead, but to his knowledge he is unable to do that either.

He touches the side of his head where his ears once were. There are gills in his metallic chassis as the angle jettisons outwards from the front of his face to the back. The divots must have some kind of microphone array embedded in them, since he hears his metal fingertips tap against the side of his head much louder than he expected to. He can hear the material of the two objects colliding and listen to the reverberation peter out in his cranial case. The music might as well be noise, what he just experienced was true music. To be able to hear at this level? Astounding.

Each conversation in the room is completely clear to him if he only focuses. There's a couple on the other side of the ballroom that are arguing over an old couch one wants to be rid of and the other is attached to. Another group is talking about the company's assets and what the next financial quarter is expected to round out to. There's a separate group of non-employees talking about their spouses' worst stories from work and comparing them. The company founder's great-great grandson—now old and gray and riddled with age's curses himself—is snoring from his wheelchair perch near the front of the event while his handler desperately tries to keep him awake long enough to shake hands and save face. He's getting to the age where he is expected to hand the reins to one of his children soon, but he has adamantly refused to insofar. As the current owner, his presence is considered a necessity at all company events.

Samael looks in the old man's direction for a good long time. His snores are so loud and clear through the fog of interfering noise it’s uncanny. In fact, every single wrinkle on his face is visible from across the room. Every liver spot, individual hair, and bruise is visible on his aging body. These optics are just as amazing, sporting the ability to zoom in to see every single detail in real time. His human eyes couldn’t even compare to this at the peak of their ability.

As Samael studies the quality of his newfound senses, he suddenly realizes how fast his thoughts are moving—or more importantly, how much the world around him feels to have slowed down. As his processors compute at their full, terrifying capability, Samael realizes he has ascended beyond humanity. He is now a simulacrum: the next step off the homo sapien branch and into a new species. He is better; he is beyond. He feels a high as he looks out at the crowd around him. He could save them all if an attacker showed up. He could even kill them all if he wanted. He could probably ruin some of their lives with the information he gleaned with his new ears. Make them squirm and beg him for mercy. Make them all bleed in a way only the soul can feel. Make them feel the searing burns of the red hot sword he has felt his whole life: of a life wasted in toiling for a simple dream never realized, never complete.

Samael throws his palms to his head—hearing a metal clunk reverberate through his chassis as they land. The high feeling and mental focus clears from his head as he shakes himself a little. That was a weird train of thought. It keeps happening over and over again, but he isn't sure why or how to shake it. Every time he thinks about his newfound power and the life he thought he would have before, he starts to lose something of himself and change into something else entirely. It's disconcerting at the least, but he's never lingered in that mindset for long. Even so, it feels like it's lurking in the back of his mind, just waiting to remind him of its presence.

A new species, huh?

There might be some merit to that. New species, new life, and a new choice of a dream.

Samael begins to meander over to the old man. After all, that's why he's here. Companies these days tend to utilize assassins too much to pick off the competition, and as an old man in a high position in a company begging to be merged with a larger one... he's a prime target. The assassins tend to be simple thugs, pulling guns at a distance rather than anything more professional, but the idea of an attempt makes Samael a bit nervous and excited. One one had, he's worried about failing. On the other hand, with the instincts Samael currently has... What are the chances he would fail? Yet, at the same time... how would he kill an assailant? He really only used guns while in active service, and only pilots made sure to keep their hand-to-hand combat sharp at all times. He never had to take it past basic training, and even then it has been years since he's sharpened those skills. Not that it matters anyway, he’s expected to use what’s built into him. He's never used a lance or sword or anything remotely similar to his jousting arm before in his life. Sure, it's a giant stabbing mechanism, but doesn't it take some level of practice?

"Ah, the guest of honor." The old man wheezes through labored breaths. He must only have a few years left in him with those lungs.

"Sir, that's not—" His handler starts before he waves her away with the back of his hand. She silences herself, aware of her place.

"How are you? Do you feel well? Brone, was it?" He suddenly seems so much more alert than moments ago.

"Apologies, my new name is Samael. Your researchers picked it out for me. I am doing very well, just adjusting still." Samael answers plainly, mostly curious by the founder's successor's sudden liveliness.

"Ah, no, no... my apologies Samael. I should have made sure to get your name right. How rude of me." He pauses for a moment to inhale. His hand shakes like a neurological disease has begun to take hold of him. "What a wonderful name, though! What devious atrocities are you capable of?" He speaks like a kindly old man, but his diction sounds like that of someone who has seen much in his lifetime but still captures the excitement of a young child.

Samael pauses, unsure of what he means.

"I am capable of protection. According to your engineers, I am capable of incapacitating assailants with a variety of weaponry, reacting faster to threats than before, and moving at speeds far faster than my human self could. I haven't had an opportunity to utilize this body to its fullest capacity, but insofar the little bit I have experienced is..." Samael pauses, trying to think of a better word, but failing, "...inhuman."

The founder—Maximillion, if Samael recalls correctly—smiles a toothy grin at the description. He shifts a little in his wheelchair as his veiny eyes shift around Samael's new form. He takes a deep breath before speaking again.

"Samael... do you know what your name means? It's an ancient name." Max asks, his handler whimpering a little as she shakes other aristocrats' hands on his behalf, hoping he will wrap up his conversation quickly.

"No, sir."

Max hums briefly, weighing if he should reveal the meaning or let it sit.

"It's a powerful name. You have been given great power and a great calling. You have something that few others can ever hope to have, and you wield a version of that power unlike any other." Max strokes his chin for a moment, seemingly a little concerned. "However, you are still human, yet you can be corrupted. Please see to it that such a future does not come to pass."

Silence falls between them for a moment. That's quite the ominous warning, but Samael has that thought again: how can he be corrupt when he was barely human in his past life? All he wanted was something simple, something achievable; or so he thought. A life, a wife, maybe some kids, and a place to call his own. He didn’t ask for unimaginable power, a ritzy party in a private corporate setting, or a second chance at life as a completely different species than human. He wanted something simple. Now he’s not even human anymore. He’s beyond, and something deep in him loathes that fact more than anything else… a loathing that spreads to every soul around him. Why do they seem so happy when he never had that chance? Did he do something wrong? He did everything you’re supposed to do. Yet… his humanity is gone now, and all his dreams with it.

Samael catches himself glaring into the empty space, shaking his head visibly to snap out of it as Max watches in piqued interest. Dammit, those thoughts keep coming back. Did the old man have to bring this stuff up? Well, it's not his fault. He's just an older man giving out wisdom. It's not exactly uncommon.

"Samael, are you all right?" Max asks again, looking right through his yellow optics with discernment. "Something ails you."

"I apologize, I will be fine." Samael rights himself, trying to show off a militant stoicism.

"Nonsense, please push me back towards the head office, we can have a chat on the way." Max kindly smiles, his lips sagging so his bottom row of teeth show as well.

"Sir, I should be the one to—" Max cuts his handler off with another wave of the hand, not breaking eye contact with the simulacrum.

"Please take care of the party while we're gone, it won't be too long of a chat." Max orders her. She sighs before immediately assuming a professional smile and getting back to shaking hands.

• • • •

"Sir, I'm a little confused, why are we visiting your office?" Samael asks, pushing Max along as he hunches over the wheelchair handles, studying each remaining silver hair on Max's bald head.

"Ah, I simply want to show you something," Max begins, slightly jostling in his chair and fidgeting his fingers from his neurodegeneration. "You see, I always go to my office around this time. Every day of every workweek at this time in the evening. I make sure I'm not in my office already at this time just so I can enjoy the trip down the hall."

Samael glances around the hallway. The thin carpet going down the excessively long hallway is a luxurious red with golden outlines that create a paneling pattern, almost as if the whole hallway is lined with little rugs. The white walls have beautiful mahogany molding and are lined with doors all the way to the end where a giant bay window sits too far away to see through. The walls between each door are a beautiful, stark white, decorated with all kinds of paintings in ornate frames. Against certain areas of the wall where no paintings are hung, there are arrays of display cases of many shapes and sizes instead—filled with technology from the past with information cards spelling out how the progression occurred from then to the modern day. Every door off the hallway has a shiny golden label with the name of the loyal employee who has earned a top floor office engraved within it, often decorated further with children's drawings, declarations of achievement, or other personal mementos. Even though the appearance of the hallway is warm and fairly welcoming, the air is chilly from the thunderstorm raging outside and the climate control being turned off at this time in the evening.

Max shuffles in his chair a bit as he reaches into his tuxedo for a moment, possibly to warm his hands.

"Which one is yours?" Samael asks. He's been down this hallway countless times to read the history infographics with all the free time he's had, but he never committed to memory which offices were which.

"Just the last door on the left, but if you don't mind, could you take a look at that open door on the right?" Max gestures towards a janitor closet ahead on the right. The door is slightly ajar and it’s completely dark inside.

Samael pushes the wheelchair a little faster until coming upon the door, opening it to find the janitor inside, gathering supplies on a cart.

"Oh! My apologies." Samael steps out of the doorway as the janitor looks up, surprised. He steps out of the way so that Max can see inside. "It's only the janitor, it seems."

Max nods.

"Ah, and here I was concerned." Max says happily, suddenly whipping a revolver out of his tuxedo cleanly and shooting the janitor in the head, spraying chips of skull and fatty brain matter all over the shelving and supplies within. "I was very concerned my instincts were wrong. I guess I'm not that old yet."

Samael stands frozen in utter shock.

Max laughs at the stunned form of the simulacrum. After all, Samael's the most dangerous creature here.

"Don't be so concerned, Samael. That's not Gregory. I know my janitor very well. That's an assassin." Max isn't tremoring any more. Something about this situation is so utterly familiar and known to him that his body functions on pure instinct and muscle memory. Neurodegeneration, age, and cognitive slipping suddenly means nothing. Max shrugs a little to himself. "Well, was an assassin. Not a very good one. I can understand the idea he had: leave the door ajar so we would go on by, he could open the door without the latch giving him away, make his kill and get out. He even had the backup of being dressed as a janitor if we saw the open door! The concept was there, execution was horrid though."

Max leans over a little in his chair, grabbing Samael's hand and patting it, snapping him out of his shocked state. Samael shakes his head a little, trying to understand what he just witnessed. It had been so long since Brone left the war, even longer since he'd seen someone die in front of him. It took him years to stop believing everyone around him might be an enemy in disguise, and now it has all come back to haunt him. There could be enemies anywhere again, and he had to become vigilant once again. All he ever wanted was a simple life.

"Let me tell you a secret, Samael. You don't need to know your enemies, you simply need to know your allies." Max continues, seemingly understanding the simulacrum's grief. "You see, I take this trip to my office every day for a good reason. I leave myself open for a good fifteen or so minutes with this trip. It's consistent, predictable, and a great time for an assassination attempt. Plus, I am an old man now. I should be a fairly easy mark apart from any bodyguards like yourself." Max wheels himself over to the body, using a loose foot to kick the bottom of the headless corpse’s shoes almost playfully. "It's a honeypot. This trip is a great ally of mine. Also, Gregory, my janitor, is a great friend and ally. If Gregory isn't standing in this closet, then I can be pretty sure whoever is doesn't have good intentions for me."

"I see. So you expected this?" Samael tries to absorb the wisdom as it is given.

"Expected? No. I rarely expect these things. I just know it when I see it, and I don't ignore the signs or my instincts." Max says as he wheels himself back towards the simulacrum, grabbing his gauntlets again, but this time placing the revolver into his hand. Max is smiling as if he didn't just kill someone sent to murder him. "Congratulations on your successful dispatch of a would-be assassin! The team will be so happy to hear of your success!" Max wheels himself back into the hallway as Samael processes what Max might mean.

"I did not—"

"Of course you did! I'm far too old and frail to have overcome an assassin on my own." Samael meets Maximillion back in the hallway, who is smiling wide as the situation calms and his tremors begin to take over his limbs once again. "After all, we wouldn't want anyone to hire a better assassin or try to exploit a different part of my schedule next time. Things are so much easier when they try the same, tired strategy over and over again."

Samael looks at the revolver in his hand. It's heavy and awkward in his new hands, almost like his new body rejects the concept of such a tool when it has killing instruments of its own. It's certainly still a useful tool capable of doing efficient work, especially from a distance, but something more primal in him feels the need to rend enemies apart by lance instead. Perhaps not even with the lance at this point, given how much he outclasses humanity now, perhaps even simpler means would do the trick… Simpler…

"I wouldn't fret over taking credit. I know you could have done it on your own. Sometimes an old man like me just likes to relive the glory days." Max is still grinning in his chair. "So, shall we go?"

"Uh, sure." Samael slips the revolver into a pouch on the back of the wheelchair, pushing Max along towards the end of the hallway as if nothing had happened at all. For a moment, the peace feels uncannily real. As they come up on the final doors at the end of the hallway, Max perks up again.

"Ah, I'll be sure to give Gregory a hefty bonus for cleaning up this one," Max says to himself, scratching under his chin a little. "We may have to stop in his office so I can leave him a note to see me next time we're both in. I hope it isn't a bother to help me with that."

"No, not at all," Samael answers as Max begins to fumble with a ring of old skeleton keys he pulls from his tuxedo pocket.

The final door on the left has Maximillion's name etched into a gold plate on the front. The door is huge and ornate, even the doorknob looks to be something out of an ancient museum of architecture. It is befitting for the most powerful man in the company.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" Max catches Samael eyeing up the door as he goes to unlock it. "I can't even remember who was responsible for designing the building, but they did better than I feel I deserve. Back when it was my grandparents running this place, each one of them held an office on each side: grandma on the right, grandpa on the left." He turns the key and the bolt can be heard with a small clink. Samael knew this business tended to be run by a husband and wife each generation, but Max’s wife died many years ago in an accident after their youngest child was born, so he’s been running it alone for decades.

"Who is in the other office now?" Samael turns to look at the opposite door, expecting a label.

He is slightly taken aback to see one, proudly etched with the name "Gregory".

Max gives Samael a long moment, letting it sink in. He grins widely, always happy to share his personal wisdom with others. As Samael turns back to him, he can't help but drive the point home.

"Always treat your janitors well and pay them even better. After all, they clean up your messes and keep your secrets better than anyone will."

Max grabs Samael’s gauntlet heartily, shaking it and using his other hand to pat the back of his palm. It’s a generous and surprisingly strong handshake for the old man, and his smile is just as powerful.

“Welcome to the family, son. It’s good to have you.”

Those words echo in Samael’s mind—or processors—the rest of the night. Suddenly, he is still human. He has someone. He has a family of sorts. He’s not lost everything. He can still hope for a simple life, despite being inhuman.

• • • •

Samael’s life in the company was varied. He was kept at Max’s side at almost all times. He was welcomed into Max’s home and was treated like a member of the inner circle from that fateful moment on. Max would regularly use terms of endearment for Samael that implied kinship, especially referring to him as “son”. Samael never minded at all. It grounded him. It made him feel something akin to the life he wanted to have when he was human. It made him feel complete, somehow.

As long as Max was around, those feelings of disconnecting from humanity entirely didn’t stick. Samael would still fight and kill, but only to protect those around him. Max’s wisdom consistently rang true, whether it was about life, business, or the handling of life or death situations. Max was almost never phased by anything despite his humanity. He lived his life as if assassins had no hope of ever coming close to him, and in a way he was right. He never doubted Samael once.

Samael hadn’t been trusted like that before, nor had he ever been able to fulfill that trust dutifully.

Is this what it was supposed to be like? Samael actually saw Max as a father, in a way. Max sure did treat Samael like a son, possibly because his own eldest son was a complete selfish degenerate who would do nothing but ask to take over the company between wild parties and cheating on his wife. Samael wasn’t necessarily replacing the real son, Cain, but was a far better alternative for Max to focus on. Samael was receptive, enjoyed spending time with him, protected him, and helped him around the office. Even moreso, Samael genuinely enjoyed it. It all felt right. Like this is how life was always supposed to be.

Sure, there were some efforts to foil assassination attempts thrown in there, but otherwise…

Things were okay, and they felt like they were going to be okay. Maybe things were going to be okay. Could things finally be okay?

The silence of mortality deafens Samael’s feelings on the matter, ensuring its presence is known but not actively acknowledged at the moment. After all, Death comes in peace and leaves in peace. The only turmoil in its wake is those who will be dragged to peace at a later time, right? Eventually everyone finds peace. Eventually everything is okay. Except—

Nevermind.

Don’t think about it.

• • • •

"So, that finalizes the sale of the assets in question, then?" Max's successor—Cain— asks as he signs the paperwork in front of him. "Dad's old projects... what a waste of good money." He rolls his eyes, making Samael seethe internally.

Maximillion had passed away only a week ago, but Samael had become deeply attached to him. Max was like a father to him. He was genuine, kind, and wise. He was beautiful in his own way. His death was surprisingly hard on Samael, not that Samael would ever allow it to show. Max survived almost a hundred years on this planet, escaped countless assassination attempts from enemy corporations and his own family, but still found time to be kind to those who worked hard and earned something more. He was the only person Samael felt attached to after his transformation. He respected Max and felt a familial love towards him.

This kid was not worthy of Samael's respect. Max's pathetic, selfish, and conniving son was nothing short of a deceptive weasel. Samael couldn't confirm it, but Cain was likely the culprit for a good chunk of the assassination attempts. Thankfully, that same portion included only the cheapest, most greenhorn assassins of the bunch. This absolute failure of an heir was too selfish to even hire a decent hitman once, so instead the lower echelons of guns for hire were culled by Samael or Max himself. Max was always quick with a single bullet, but Samael would question them considerably beforehand, attempting to scrape any information from them before eliminating them. Sadly, not much ever came from it but deep seated hunches. Meanwhile, Cain would be off at lavish parties, banking on his father's death to allot him wealth he didn't earn—wealth he didn't deserve.

Now it has come to pass, and Samael couldn't be more seething to see it so. Cain had been given every opportunity to be someone worthy of his father's shoes—he had money, power, role models, body guards, and technology all at his fingertips—but sadly he was too entangled in his own feral wants and desires to care for anyone around him. He was handed everything on a silver platter and he wanted for nothing—it made him as selfish as it did soft. Samael finds him absolutely insufferable, and it seems the feeling is mutual at this point. Like any other privileged charlatan, Cain’s main focus is money. Samael—being an asset rather than an employee—was just sold to an auction house with the lifting of an ink pen mere moments before.

"So, uh, I'll come back up to get you at the end of the day, okay?" The auction house employee says to Samael, seemingly unsure of how to talk to the white machination in front of him. Despite his inner wrath at the situation, Samael tempers himself as Max might have.

"Very well, I will meet you at the cargo vehicle at the end of the day... or earlier, should you finish sooner." Samael's voice is smooth and calming, eliciting a relieved sigh from the worker who walks out of the old office to collect the other sold assets. After all, Samael has no reason to be angry at a simple peon doing his job. The true menace stands before him, smugly smirking at the number of zeros on the contract. As soon as the worker's footsteps reach a distance of ten meters from the door, Samael's head snaps to stare down the prodigal son.

"You truly have no remorse—do you?" Samael is quick and to the point. Max isn't around to show any mercy to his son by intervening anymore.

Cain shrugs, still smiling over the money and turning his back to the simulacrum. He practically skips back to his father's old desk, sitting in the ornately carved throne and slouching in arrogant glee back at Samael.

"Your father gave you everything, and you’re simply throwing it all away for the money?" Samael doesn't move or break eye contact with this pig. The hatred boils deep within him as the whispers of humanity's exploitable frailty begins to become audible. Samael shakes his head for a moment, rectifying himself. Max isn’t around anymore to quell this rising hatred anymore.

"Oh please, I'm here for a good time, not a long time." Cain scoffs as he twirls his wrist in the air.

"Your father sacrificed so much of himself in order to ensure your and your siblings' future. You have children yourself, do you not? Why not extend his graciousness to them by continuing to carry the torch and ensuring their futures as well?" Samael's patience is waning quickly, but he tries to remain calm and logical as Max might have.

"Dad ensured their future already too. They don't need me to do anything more for them. They can make it all the way to retirement." He's now playing with an old fashioned inkwell pen, twirling it in his fingers intently, apparently unengaged by the conversation.

"Don't you care for the remaining employees that have served your family for generations?"

"No. Not really. They worked for my father, not me."

"But you benefited."

Cain perks up, obviously annoyed.

"Listen, I am going to sell this stupid little company to a larger corporation, take the cash, and retire—"

"You're only thirty-seven." Now Samael is raising his tone, nearly growling at the whelp.

"—and I've already been working too long. It's normal to have corporate buyouts." Cain barely manages to keep his composure as he throws his arms up in an exaggerated shrug. He always hated being denoted as lazy, even though it described him well.

"A corporate buyout means the vast majority of the employees will lose their jobs. Your father had a policy of not—"

"My father would want me to be happy." He quips rapidly.

The silence falls.

As Cain realizes his final gambit worked, he shoots a villainous grin at Samael as if to mock him.

Max did want his children to be happy—that much was true—but the subtext was that his children were given the opportunity to make their own way in life and had presumably found fulfillment all their own. In this case, Cain was choosing to be a complacent sloth and benefit off the love and labor of a far greater man: a man who deserved a better heir.

Samael doesn't break his glare. He hates this snake of a man, but Cain’s selfishness proves Max right yet again. Max used to lament his children, often citing that "adversary builds the man, and its absence causes one to wither". He often wrestled with the possibility that he spoiled his children into becoming haughty, unworthy, and cruel reprobates. He regularly expressed regret that he bailed them out of every situation he could, leaving them with no challenges to overcome in life. At the same time, Max couldn't repress his paternal instinct to protect his children from as much strife as he could. He was ultimately not to blame in Samael's mind though: it is every individual's birthright to choose their own path, and Cain has chosen this path.

If only Brone’s correct choices had mattered. Now he faces an ungrateful son who has done nothing but make horrible choices his entire life, and his punishment is a wife, kids, a company all his own, unimaginable wealth, and the freedom to pursue any goal he chooses. Samael feels something stronger than hatred brewing inside him. This isn’t fair. How could Cain do everything wrong and be rewarded, whereas Samael did everything right and was cursed despite it?

"You are the rot humanity would be better off without." Samael's voice hisses with loathing but comes across more like an impassioned war cry. He chokes a little to himself internally. He can’t think like that about Max’s son, can he? Then why did he say it with no hesitation, as if he might throw himself forward and slaughter Cain where he sat the instant thereafter? Samael is snapped out of his internal monologue by the silhouette of the son's hand waving him away.

"Whatever. Just get out of my office." Cain growls, seemingly unimpressed.

Samael scoffs, turning away and walking through the ornate wooden door to enter the hallway. As he does, he is able to see in the office across the way with the open door as Gregory—the janitor—is also leaving his former office. He smiles genuinely at Samael, but there are tears rolling down his cheeks. Perhaps from this distance a human wouldn't notice the tears, but Samael can.

Everything is worse for everyone else, all because of one selfish man.

• • • •

"A warehouse? You are aware I don't simply shut down like a MRVN, right?"

The worker blinks a few times in bewildered confusion at Samael, his pen still poised over his clipboard.

"Um, well, no, I didn't know that." He looks around the giant concrete building in confusion. This bit of cargo rode in the passenger's seat of one of the trucks, willingly walked out of the vehicle and into the warehouse, and has been poised next to the crates of other assets to be auctioned off without much fuss until now. If he is sentient or something, why didn't he run away?

"Um, I guess you could hang out here until the auction is over?" The worker shrugs, checking off the simulacrum asset on his clipboard with shaky hands. He's genuinely at a loss; there's no protocol for this.

"How long would that be?" Samael asks without much emotion in his voice.

The worker flips through a page on his clipboard before openly grimacing at what he finds.

"Oh... That'd be in three months, buddy." He winces a little as if to prepare for an outburst, but one never comes.

"Ah, may I come and go as I please in that timeframe?"

The worker's look of bewilderment returns. No asset, no MRVN, no helper bot, nor other machination has ever asked such a thing. In fact, most of them come to the warehouse shut down and boxed up. This isn't protocol. This isn't normal.

"Uh, I'll need to ask a few people..." He starts towards his boss's office. This is above his pay grade, anyway.

"May I come along?"

"Uh, sure, I guess." Maybe it really is time to lay off the recreational drugs for a few months like the kids have been telling him to.

They walk across lines of crates seemingly stretching for hundreds of yards. This warehouse is massive to a point where it would be easy to lose one’s sense of direction in it. If anyone wanted to hide, the gaps between the countless crates, vehicles, pallets, manufacturing machinery, equipment, and other miscellaneous objects have ample space for even the largest individuals to go undetected. How many companies had their proverbial burial in this building before the organs of their operations would be auctioned off? It’s unimaginable.

The office is a small room to the front with an simple metal and wooden desk, an old fashioned chair, some yellowing lights, and a cork board on the wall sporting expired coupons for local lunch places, a calendar from the previous year stuck on the wrong month, a dartboard target printed on a piece of paper with some thumbtacks in it, and miscellaneous sticky notes with unintelligible writing stuck everywhere. An older man sits in the office, eyeing the worker and polished white simulacrum through the office window as they walk towards his door. As the pair make their way over the threshold and into the office, the old man’s moustache and eyebrows furrow in confusion, looking them up and down thoroughly. The worker is quick to ask his pressing question.

"Sir, the simu—simula—the robot is wondering if he can come and go until auction day."

The boss leans back for a minute as he folds his arms behind his head, his chair squeaking in protest as he does so. Samael watches him closely.

"I haven't heard a request like that in all my damn years. Why not shut it down and put it on a charging port like the others?"

"I don't really sleep, sir." Samael answers before the worker can, taking over the conversation from here.

"Oh? And what kinda fangled contraption are ya?" The boss squints with interest.

"A simulacrum."

"Ah, one of them fancy types with the personalities and stuff." He strokes his moustache with his thumb and pointer finger, revealing the silver fade underneath the last remaining layer of color. "Are you the type to run off and get me in trouble?"

"No."

"You say that pretty confidently, what on earth would you even want to leave for?"

Samael pauses. He wasn't expecting that question. The boss notes his hesitation and continues.

"If you actually want me to let you come and go until then, you have to give me a convincing reason why." He waves his hand to shoo off the worker, who retreats beyond the door and closes it. He seems relieved as he walks away from the situation. "So, do tell." The glint in the boss's eye is suddenly apparent. It's mischievous, but more so interested in this turn of events. Samael pauses one last time before committing to the actions he had laid out in his head hours before.

The silence takes a few long moments, but it's eventually broken.

"I must right a wrong I have seen in the world. My previous owner was a great man; a great man who deserved a legacy befitting of his life. Right now, everything is in place for his legacy to crumble to ruins, and I cannot bear to see that happen. If you’d only let me, I can rearrange this fate. I can make things better. I can ensure the innocent are rewarded, and those who have done nothing but take advantage of others are humbled. Once that is done, then I am fine to serve someone new."

The glint in the old man’s eyes becomes a shining sparkle, and the boss's interest is fully peaked. He ruminates on his thoughts for a bit before finally speaking, nodding his head back and forth as if shaking the cobwebs off his thoughts.

"Well, I do like that answer very much. You're what I might call a 'man of principles', you know, if you were a man!" He laughs for a moment as he reaches into a drawer, pulling out an old fashioned metal key and closing his fist around it. "Well, as far as I am concerned, you've never and will never leave the warehouse. After all, when auction day comes, you'll be here and just as shiny as the day we picked you up. So what else would I know?" He takes a deep breath, suddenly slapping his hand onto the desk and making the spare key go careening to the floor near Samael's sabatons. "Oh, I think my boots need tying." He dives below the desk, out of eyesight as Samael gratefully retrieves the key and slides it into a small storage cavity below his wrist in his forearm. The boss comes back up a few seconds later, sporting a knowing smile. "So, I'm sorry to say, I'm just not aware if it’s protocol to allow roaming. So I guess I have no idea where you've been between now and the auction, but I cannot give you permission. Real shame."

Samael has a rare moment where he wishes he could smile back, but instead he nods politely.

"Thank you for your honesty."

• • • •

Pulling favors was easy. Max had one meek child among the bunch, and she had none of the entitlement of the others. She was born as sick as could be, kept to herself her whole life, and worked hard to become an engineer at a competing company to make her own way. Max never held it against her—why would he? She was making something of herself in the world however she could. She insisted upon knowing what she could do based on her own skills and merits, never because of nepotism or preference. She had to be the one. She had nothing tying her down, and her genuine care made her a better heir to the company than anyone else. At the same time, her rejection of a handout is what left her off the list of children for the company to be bequeathed to initially. It would be difficult to convince her to accept it regardless of those wishes, but she was the true heir to the throne. Samael knew it.

Samael didn't need to convince any high-ranking employee of this. They already knew. As he approached each of them at their usual after-work bars, restaurants, and hangouts, they all universally agreed to his plan. A fake final will and testament in the company lockbox, paid off notaries from the local office using a kickback out of the company coffers thanks to a little misplaced math, the testimonies of all the employees about Max’s “wishes”, and a well-meaning employee taking the new will to the daughter's on-call lawyer was all it took to start the process. It also keeps both the daughter and her lawyer clean of any wrongdoing, and there's enough money to pay off any shrewd official asking questions. Anyone can be bought these days, and it's a buyer's market.

The only thing Samael has to do beyond that is punish Cain. Killing him isn't an option: while effective, Samael won't go against Max's wishes. Somehow he has to ruin him without the simple, clean-cut, knife-to-the-throat approach. He has to make him back down and wallow like a filthy dog without physical harm. It's a task Samael has never been handed before, and the more he thinks about it, the more obvious it becomes to him. Cain has a perfect life, the exact kind of life any sane individual would be overjoyed and grateful to have. At the same time, that means Cain has so many strings to be hanged by: questionable contacts, mistresses, under-the-table business dealings, ill-gotten financial boons, a naive wife, gambling debts, children who still see him as innocent, probably some children with other women at this point, and countless enemies who have mistakenly seen him as untouchable due to his status.

Samael cannot relate. The only person that really mattered to him since he became a simulacrum was Max. Now that he is dealing with the unfortunate aftermath, he might never allow himself to feel that way towards another person again. Not only is he sure to lose everyone he cares for thanks to the immortality of simulacra, but having his wrist twisted by Cain once was enough to make him realize that his hopes, his dreams, and his former human needs for a simple family and life to call his own are dead. Especially when it seems that so many people who have the perfect life are self-serving, insignificant, cruel, and conniving beings not worthy of fire and brimstone in both life and death. Even the fact that Samael can buy off and bribe the local governance into corruption proves his point further. For now though, they are a means to a much more important end.

Samael brews in a rising feeling of ascension.

If Samael could not be happy and find peace in life, then no wicked, vain, or cruel man in his midst would either. He would make sure of that.

• • • •

It was easy to start destabilizing the house of cards that Cain had unfairly built upon a shoddy foundation of poor morals, unearned wealth, and a reputation built on the backs of others' philanthropy.

Right away Samael began hunting down former and current mistresses of his. Samael sent various confidants their way, armed with the verifiable token of Cain's new wealth and status as the company owner. Although many of them understandably played stupid at first, the idea of Cain having more wealth than before in an exploitable manner sweetened the deal of turning on him for personal gain. Many of them seemed entirely unaware of one another, and simply thought it was them and Cain’s wife in the mix alone. If they thought there was more competition, they might not be willing to out Cain so blatantly. Samael ensured his contacts made no point to correct that misconception, as it worked in their favor. After all, this way most of them were more than willing to out themselves to the wife in hopes that there might be a fortunate divorce. With no wife in the way, they could take the coveted position and have access to all the financial power associated with such a position. It’s not as if Cain was shrewd enough to make any of them sign a prenuptial agreement in this fictitious future, and they are aware of that as much as anyone. He was barely smart enough to hide his burner phone with all these women’s numbers in it, which Samael had no trouble acquiring and scraping for information.

Samael sent an array of disgruntled employees into these women’s midst to sow the seeds of mutiny and greed in their hearts, as well as leaving them with contacts for Cain’s wife, her brother, or one of her close friends. After all, if word of infidelity reached any of them, it would come back rapidly to burn Cain. If the brother was told, who knows? Maybe Cain would end up with a black eye or even worse. In any case, Cain's family would fall apart rapidly as the veil of false perfectionism is torn in half. It's not as if he deserved any such warmth or home if he was betraying it regularly. Samael only feels pity for his wife and children and how their lives will be upended, but knowledge is more valuable than any ignorant bliss. Perhaps they can find a better husband and father.

Beyond setting up the mistresses to revolt, it didn't take much further digging to find plenty of debt collectors in his wake, alongside many aliases and white collar crimes. Any one debt or crime was fairly unsubstantial on its own, but as a collection the damages grew quickly. They have been easy enough to document from the warehouse in its somber stillness and silence, but as receipts of flagrant spending charged to the company added up endlessly, Samael could not help but feel some rising sense of questioning over the whole affair. Although nothing living spoke to him in the early morning hours of a warehouse plagued with assets like himself to be auctioned away, he felt the pang of justice pluck at whatever remained of his human heartstrings one last time.

Did he truly have the right to destroy Cain's life this severely by bringing to light everything he did?

A bunch of purchases on alcohol, fine dining, and cleaning products a few decades ago. The latter was probably legitimate. The rest could be argued to be business expenses, even if they weren't. It's too late to prove otherwise now.

Was Max ultimately in the right to try to let such an ungrateful whelp still find happiness in this life?

Purchases at a jewelry store. Flag that one for sure. The rest of them are coffee purchases and corporate gift baskets probably intended for himself, but not something worth flagging. Some floral wreaths—weird—but sure. Arguably for corporate gifts.

Even if it was to simply ensure Cain was replaced with the better daughter, was it really worth taking it any further?

The spending stopped.

Why did it stop?

Samael begins flipping through the corporate expense sheets. They do. The spending reports suddenly stops. Did Cain actually turn a leaf at some point? Samael panics, unsure of himself. No other corporate expense number is associated with Cain's name, and none of the other numbers have spending even remotely matching the same patterns thereafter.

Perhaps allowing even someone who was awful to have a chance to be happy is worthwhile, even when his own happiness was denied.

Samael looks at the last purchases. Nothing seems odd. Just the usual overzealous spending his expense number was doing for decades up until this date, but why this date? Suddenly it clicks. This was the date of Max's wife—Cain's mother's—death. She was found poisoned by a bad batch of liquor, supposedly a toxic level of ethyl acetate. Such a thing was rare these days with the way alcohol distillation is so efficient, but expensive artisanal liquors and spirits would use the old methods and could sometimes be toxic.

Samael tenses up for a moment. Cain never bought cleaning supplies for the company before that date. He rummages through the files looking for a copy of the physical receipt. When he finds it, it is clearly a scan of an old paper invoice that has been crumpled up and then flattened out. Reading it might be impossible for a human, but Samael's pattern recognition for language processing is built for such a job. Samael looks up each product listed on the reciept on the web, checking their list of ingredients.

Unfortunately, it doesn't take long to come upon some lacquer varnish, inevitably used on the beautiful wooden doors and adornments up and down the company hallway to ensure they would be preserved for generations to come. Alongside that purchase was the solvent for it: ethyl acetate.

Samael feels the human spirit in himself clench its jaw. In return, he feels his simulacrum chassis tense and build pressure in his cranium, causing a venom-like flavor to build in his central processor. He isn't sure where it comes from, nor does he care anymore.

The wicked do not deserve joy. The wicked do not deserve second chances. The wicked do not deserve to be given what the innocent are consistently denied. The heartstring snaps one and for all, and Samael has settled upon his righteous and bitter wrath.

No man, machine, or beast shall ever smile, laugh, or feel a modicum of joy again in his presence without the kindness, patience, and gentleness to deserve such a thing.

Samael wonders to himself how a life insurance payout and some inheritance could ever be worth more than the love of a mother, but finds himself boiling in an internal pit of molten brimstone and rumination instead.

To offer mercy now would be unforgivable.

• • • •

Everything went according to Samael's plan. Cain went through a very messy and public divorce while also being unceremoniously kicked from his position as owner under suspicion of embezzlement, and the daughter took over the company. Cain had vanished to the investigators and even his own family, but Samael had managed to keep tabs on every single move he made between odd-jobs.

Thankfully, since this Vinson Dynamics seemed to not question the misnomer of Samael as a "personalized MRVN companion device" from the liquidation firm, he didn't need to worry about being given any difficult or demanding jobs that a simulacrum might be. He simply had to act pleasant, give visitor tours, and retrieve anything from coffee to office supplies throughout the day. Even though the concept of simulacra seemed quite well-known to this company as a whole, this tiny remote office was only temporary and it was clear Samael would be auctioned off again very soon. No one had the time to question his unique chassis or try to modify his supposed MRVN operating system further. It's ideal. It has given him plenty of time to stalk Cain's every move. It's not like this company would bother to spare the expense of shipping a so-called MRVN all the way to New Anchorage on Gridiron when this office shuts its doors either.

Finally, one of the Vinson Dynamics' company parties rolls around. They're celebrating some major achievement, leaving Samael alone to sneak away for a short time under the guise of finding some paper of a weight and size that doesn't actually exist. A simple mistake any MRVN might make, surely. Samael steps outside, waving goodbye cheerily to the real MRVN temporarily manning the front desk while the human employees are all gone to a nearby lounge.

As soon as the evening daylight reflects off his white armor, his eyes snap into a hunt. He slips his hand up to his wrist, revealing the compartment in his forearm for storage. After years, he pulls a weapon he has not handled since he met Max: the old fashioned revolver he was handed to be given credit for his first in a long line of assassin disposals.

It's as cold as any corpse, but he perceives it to be burning hot in his gauntlets.

There's a motel on the other side of town, he knows which room Cain always prefers: the only one with windows on the corners of west and south on the third floor. Makes it easier to escape, but this time there will be none.

• • • •

Justice needs no pale nor dark horse.

Cain has been limping at full speed towards the west for twenty blocks now, but Samael walks calmly, brandishing the revolver so subtly against his equally glimmering armor. Passerbys do not notice it over his strangely luxurious chassis, and none connect him to the clearly distressed and disheveled man they passed by minutes ago moving against the flow of foot traffic. Even if anyone did notice, they are unimportant to Samael now. He barely notices them as they move out of his way, awed at his form. He has eyes for only one creature, which stumbles over concrete rubble a couple hundred meters away.

Samael doesn't even need to see Cain anymore. His voice, his very breath, every desperate pant and whimper he makes in an effort to put as much space between himself and his father's old confidant gives his position and distance away. Every desperate gasp aligns with every slap his soles make against the ground, giving away how broken his feet are after he scrambled out of the motel room and leapt to the ground floor beneath to escape Samael's encroachment. Cain is making his way out of the main city and towards the manufacturing areas now, where his father's childhood once took place, and where a great man was once built. Cain's purpose is to hide amongst the concrete and rebar like a coward instead.

Samael does not bother to pick up his pace as the city crowds and buildings thin. The chemical composition in the air carries a faint concentration of cold sweat, associated with a visceral and feral fear. It is as easy to follow as the pathetic whisperings of a cruel man, undone and laid low by his own actions. Mills, quarries, and factory buildings both dormant and utterly abandoned are strewn about, many sporting a deep respect for old-world architecture that remind Samael of where this journey began. Relics of technology past surround him on all sides as he turns a final corner, entering an alleyway where a silent, crippled figure lies withering in the dark.

Samael passes the many beautiful doors, blurred glass mirrors, and masterfully carved signs in the little alleyway. A few of the factories had old storefronts or seating areas for employees before such an era had passed into the new, crueler world of efficiency and output. Cain shivered in some combination of pain and fear in a pile of broken pavers in the dead end of the alley, only trembling more as his imminent fate to meet Samael face to face approached.

Samael walks up on the sniveling vermin, now looking down upon the broken form of his former adversary.

"H—Hasn't it been enough?! What do you want now? Can't you see I don't have anything?!" The desperation in Cain's voice is all there is left of his tone. He's barely a man anymore, as he deserves.

Cain feels every fiber of his being well up, knowing what discipline he must maintain at this moment.

"You have nothing left, yet you still haven't repaid the world for the blood of your own mother on your hands." Samael states simply and clearly.

Cain's breath stops. His shaking stops for a mere moment. Every part of him becomes still just long enough to be a confession. The trembling returns and his form begins to crumple against the pile of garden tiles. His breathing resumes but relaxed now, as if he has nothing left to lose.

"How'd you figure that?" He asks, as if his question is purely of curiosity and not any form of defensive inquiry at all.

"Expense reports. You bought the poison on company funds." Samael gives away none of the hatred boiling within. He is perfectly stoic.

Cain scoffs aloud.

"And it took a damn robot to figure it out." He looks down, shaking his head for a moment like his disappointment might mean anything. "So, who all knows?"

"Soon, everyone."

Cain sighs, relaxing against the pile like it's a coffin.

"So, you gonna spear me already?" Cain asks as if he's accepted this end.

Samael hesitates, deciding if he should be selfish.

No. He won't stoop to this thing's level.

"No. I would never sully your father's work with your blood. I've merely come to deliver a message."

Cain perks up again but in a confused horror, like somehow this turn of events is wrong. Before he can even register, Samael has presented him with his father's revolver.

"W—what's this supposed to mean?!" Suddenly Cain sounds offended, despite still taking the revolver and rotating it in his hands. He checks the chamber, noting it still has four rounds loaded after all this time.

"Whatever you think it means, it probably does." Samael says, feeling the venom dripping from his mouth that does not exist. It tastes so utterly and sickeningly sweet. "Justice is coming. It is imminent. Run if you want. But know it will find you, either here when the investigator arrives to arrest you, or in the vile finality of a life ending on the most bitter and sour of all notes: every hope tarnished, and all dreams left unfulfilled."

Samael turns and begins walking away, the venom pouring from him. That is the flavor of true justice. That is how wickedness should be repaid.

Samael feels relief for the first time in months: his job is finished, whether the symphony of a pathetic suicide is played in his wake or not.

A gunshot rings out in the alleyway, but Samael feels a dent against his chassis, right in his shoulder plate.

Cain shot him? Unexpected, but vile and cowardly, just like him. What a twist that could have been if Samael was only mortal still.

Samael turns to taunt his adversary one last time, but locks eyes with a corpse. The bullet ricocheted right back at Cain, hitting him in the face and killing him instantly.

Samael is stunned once again into a silent paralysis, just as he had all those years ago.

Samael cannot help but stare into the pupil of divine and poetic epilogues weaved through him for an inconceivable period of time, reminding himself that humanity has left him in favor of a new reality—one that can savor justice's ultimate penalties upon the profane. Although his internal clock reads a mere three minutes and thirty-three seconds of idle time, it somehow feels infinite to endure. As the blood pools beneath the corpse, Samael snaps back to the present and into his future, turning away from Cain's body to leave for investigators to find.

Although it was not as Samael foresaw, Max's legacy will be carried out by a more deserving heir, and Cain's death is ultimately no one's fault but his own. Samael is free of wrongdoing, and now he can move forward into a new era of his secondary life.

No more love or personal connections. Only the pursuit of inflicting judgment on the evil and impure. That is where Samael finds his second calling. Cruelty, aggression, and apathy will be required of him from now on, and he will happily wield them to avenge his own lost dreams of a mortal life worth living.

As Samael walks back towards the street to return to the office, he catches his reflection in one of the old, fading mirrors lining the alleyway.

He's never truly looked at himself before, at least not since his name was Brone.

His snow white chassis.

His golden eyes.

His cerulean trim.

He brings a gauntlet to his face. Although he cannot see it dripping from his non-existent maw, he can taste the nectar of sweet, sweet venom.

"I am beautiful." His voice barely makes a sound.

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oysterborder58 · 2 years

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Unknown Facts About What Is Stress? Symptoms, Causes, Treatment, Coping

It’s a six-letter word that numerous of us fear. But this is a tale that goes considerably beyond just finding a brand new phrase to acquire our face to experience genuine. From being a youngster to a teenager, who was just going via a incredibly complicated time at one-year-old grow older, you have to take solace in some of these new advancements. It has been mentioned it is the first opportunity that we will definitely ever before see a human being being walk back in time. Whether it’s a strained communication along with a boss or tension coming from buddies and household, we all experience taxing situations from time to opportunity. What's significant here is that we are frequently working to beat our anxiety. Often, it is essential to perform things like call our employer on a specific day, to help make an appointment, or to walk my dog. I need to have to take the campaign to have an efficient discussion concerning my very own anxiousness. Listed here are some options for aiding you avoid stress. For some of us, these activities happen intermittently. But this is a second that goes mostly unseen. In a information conference stored at the United Nations on Wednesday, Palestinian Authority Foreign Minister Saeb Erekat claimed that Israel is preparing to halt settlement-building and expand resolutions on the occupied West Bank, getting in touch with the violence by Israeli settlers right into concern.

For others, everyday anxiety is a routine part of life. In this study, 40 subjects were randomly assigned to keep home on Fridays and Saturday nights, to be complied with by day-to-day work to complete three weeks' of a full week that consisted of work-related tasks in which they executed various tasks at several times of the night. End result showed that on days which had the best hrs devoted carrying out the regular activities, those who carried out the day activities carried out better on Friday, than those who done the full week activities. There’s a really good possibility we can easily all identify unfavorable stress, but did you know that tension can also be favorable?’s a really good opportunity we can easily all recognize good stress and anxiety, but did you recognize that stress can easily additionally be good? A group of people who function for nonprofits, and at social safety and security firms. Some of them have experienced some damaging lifestyle choices, while others have been included in only as numerous bad connections. Great tension, contacted eustress, may in fact be favorable to you. The more you invest on the stress you may provide and be better at dealing with it. When your body system produces cortisol, it is launching the hormone, which can easily help you handle your tension, as well. Once you get free of cortisol and various other stressful hormonal agents after being in a extremely demanding condition, you can easily begin feeling considerably far better. One really good point about cortisol and stress and anxiety is that you get clear of it during the course of tough opportunities. Unlike bad tension, or grief, great stress may aid along with motivation, emphasis, energy, and efficiency. Stress factors that interfere with impulse management can easily be debilitating, or also counterproductive. If our objective is to motivate ourselves, or also to create a human brain, much better job and far better results are at risk in purchase to help make change and always keep us energetic and encouraged. Nevertheless, work, motivation, and inspiration may all be at odds if we are not paying out interest to how traits function as an person. For some individuals, it can easily likewise really feel amazing. I've liked my brand new cd for so long, and I think the time I possess for it is actually limited. It is limited the second I obtain a chance to sit down along with a great deal of the band and participate in the document and chat through that method. It is very mental. It is my first time I've really seen an EP and it has provided me thus a lot delight and complete satisfaction. On the other hand, bad stress and anxiety normally leads to stress, worry, and a reduction in efficiency. This has to perform along with how stress is used as payment. For example, you don't yearn for to look upset at your husband or wife, because that would sidetrack them while you deal along with your tension. Another poor stress-producing emotional state is shame. Anxiousness Signs of Stress The term "tension" usually refers to any type of circumstance where you possess the negative sensations or worry about your significant other. I Found This Interesting feels uneasy, and it may lead to a lot more significant problems if not attended to. Yet another complication that comes up when folks mention being sexually pestered through a 3rd party isn't important is that a third celebration isn't always better than the secondly. This can easily be especially troublesome when the prey of sex-related harassment wishes an apology, not simply for the wrongdoer but for the entire event involved, also if they don't acquire it or the criminal doesn't understand he is the sufferer.

#emotional stress #psychological stress #negative stress

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allthebestscreennamesaregone63 · 2 years

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My coworkers were rowdy during the "morning huddle" today.

(The morning huddle is an occasional work thing I try not to think about.)

The coworkers in question were trying to express doubt in a system that does not value their work, and systematically takes their voice.

The MOD was trying to say, "I am working within the system to improve it."

The coworkers, for all their yelling and arguing, were trying to tell the MOD that such a task wasn't feasible.

I think the results were not great. The MOD was frustrated and the coworkers still skeptical by the end of the informal meeting.

A fate which could have been avoided if they simply fired the source of the issues and/or ratted her ass out to corporate... but of course they won't do that "without good reason" and apparently, killing the collective mental health of the team is not gonna cut it.

The trouble is, managers are needed but rarely, to make bigger decisions (if then), and the collective body can get along without them just fine, if not with more efficiency. What little work we don't achieve without constant supervision, we would make up for in time spent not sobbing in the break room, or complaining to each other. Trouble is, our bosses don't think that way, especially in retail. They are more concerned with the potential theft of an item that may make their pockets at maximum 50 cents fuller. And yes, there are unscrupulous workers who take advantage of a more relaxed system. The crux of the problem we have upon attempting to fix thieves and those taking extra breaks on company time... is that the scrupulous ones end up underappreciated and quit.

Not only do we have high turnouts at this point, but we also have major communication breakdowns, which in turn led to fiascoes like today. The worst part is, middle managers in retail cannot do anything to counter the apparent "laziness" of their underlings, and cannot ever satisfy corporate. Higher managers in retail often also make situations worse instead of better. We would still have a solid "team" without our Big Brother needing to watch us, if they hadn't sent someone with personality issues to be our warden.

Note: we have had little to complain about for physical theft since our warden started... but conversely, we have all been taking longer breaks and talking more often, which is theft of company time, arguably something more valuable than the occasional single object.

Also note: our manager has verbally abused myself and my coworkers. She also has dropped a heavy object on my foot with no meaningful apology. Point of fact, she apologized weeks after the fact (not during the event) and frankly, it felt forced.

But that's just life in retail, right?

#mine #long post #life in retail #morning huddle fiasco of may '22

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yoonpobs · 3 years

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bad boy good thing xiv.

pairing: jeon jungkook x oc

genre: angst, smut, fluff, miscommunication (we hate her lol), pining

warnings: smut, jungkook is really an asshole, the angst hurts a lot tbh, unhealthy relationships (?)

words: 5, 690

summary: a series of drabbles where you're confused and jungkook's confusing

a/n:

hello!!!! we’re here at fourteen chapters omg ✨✨when i first started this series it was mostly self-indulgent and now there are people who actually enjoy reading it??🥺 it almost doesn’t seem real T.T

thank you so much for the love and support!!! just so I don't give too much spoilers for this chap - I apologise to my fellow geminis for the potential slander 🤣 this is more of a self-drag lmaooo

anyway, I hope you enjoy this chap!!!

“Ah. I’m getting allergies.” Yena sniffs, scrunching her nose.

You furrow your brows in concern, “Are you okay? Do you need any medicine?”

“It’s just the seasonal changes,” She brushes you off.

You nod in understanding, “I get it. My mom has horrible reactions towards pollen so—”

“I’m not allergic to flowers.” She blinks.

“Then what—?”

“It’s Gemini season. It’s like—literally the worst time of the year.” She blinks.

You gawk at her, taking a whole ten seconds to process her serious tone when she doesn’t waver under your scrutiny.

“I’m a Gemini,” You inform her slowly.

“I mean …” She shrugs all as you scowl at her, opting to throw the closest object you had, which was your favourite pen so you decide against it; simply shooting her the meanest glare you could possibly muster.

“Look, it’s not you,” She sighs, and you’re half-expecting her to finish with an it’s me to make you scoff, “It’s me.” And there you go. “I mean, it’s Gemini’s in general because they’re two-faced bitches who have the worst emotional attachment issues. Like they’re literally what the opposite of glue is. And they’re so over-analytical. How is it like psychoanalysing every person you meet only to hurt your own feelings and sulk about it?”

You blink.

“I mean it’s not you but if the shoe fits.” She says casually, plopping a grape into her mouth that you’re tempted to slap away.

“You’re so mean!” You pout indignantly.

She cackles, throwing her head back as you continue to sulk. You weren’t that bad. You just … you were risk-averse! You liked having the freedom to observe everyone and anyone and package them into tiny compartments in your head so you could understand them better. You weren’t … that Gemini.

“You’re so cute,” She coos pinching your cheeks. “No wonder Beef One and Beef Two like you so much.” She teases.

Your first reaction is to blush because you know who exactly she’s talking about, but you have more pressing matters, like—

“You have nicknames for them?” You ask, baffled.

“Hey, I wasn’t friends with many girls in high school. Don’t girls usually have nicknames for their crushes?” She says through a pout.

You stay expressionless as you try to gauge the level of seriousness you can extract from her tone.

You realise she’s dead serious.

“Yeah, but we’re in college,” You argue, scrunching your nose, “And sides’, it’s not like they’re strangers. We know them.”

She rolls her eyes, waving you off like you were the inconvenience here. Then she leans forward, her eyes twinkling as she takes a complete one-eighty that you try to adjust to.

“So … you Gemini hoe, what’s your plans?” She nudges you.

You raise a brow, “Did you just call me a—?”

“Plans, ___. Stay on track.” She scolds.

You sigh, still fond but you pretend to be annoyed. You really couldn’t get annoyed with Yena. After all, the more time you spend with her the more you realise how much life sucked before you had her in your life. You spent each moment learning more about her quirks and habits, her choice of words that made you giggle or laugh until you were crying.

And you realise that this is how she loves, a little rough but welcomed nonetheless.

“If you’re talking about my birthday then … not much. I’m probably stuck doing admin work for the college’s charity programme.” You shrug, stabbing a fork into your soiled salad.

Yena gapes at you, “Not much—excuse me? It’s your birthday! You’re turning twenty-five!”

You look at her dryly, “I’ve been twenty-five since the year—”

She groans, “That’s not the same! You’re like—officially twenty-five. You’re literally hitting the mark for a quarter-life crisis. Isn’t that something to celebrate?”

“Me going through an existential crisis at the end of my degree is not how I want to celebrate my birthday but okay,” You blink.

She rolls her eyes at your realism.

“That’s not the point. Point is, this is our first birthday together and I want it to be special.” She points out.

You snort, “What? Are we doubling my birthday as our monthsary or something?”

She shoves you with a brute force that has you snickering but she continues to pester you anyway.

“You’re so dumb. So smart, but so dumb,” She shakes her head, “You’re always studying or doing some form of work that requires the use of more than one brain cell. You deserve a break. Besides, you have two dudes to pick from on how you’d like to be wined and dined and—”

“Yena!” You whine.

“—it’ll be like an episode of the Bachelorette! But just with a super cool and smart best friend that’ll make the decision for you. It’s not your birthday. It’s ours.” She emphasises towards the end.

You stare at her for a long second, before the two of you are bursting into laughter at the absurdity of her statement.

It was nice, just to laugh about things without having your heart feel so heavy. Even if it was a mild distraction, it was still wholly pleasant to be able to just talk about mindless things that didn’t require much mental gymnastics to navigate the conversation with.

“What are the two of you laughing about?” Taehyung and Jimin arrive at impeccable timing, sliding into the booth with their own packaged food. It’s very college-student-esque, a cute paper (because no plastic) container filled with an array of assortments.

“None of your XY chromosomes business.” Yena retorts.

Jimin blinks, “You are literally so hostile.”

“Then don’t give me a reason to be.” She sticks her tongue out petulantly.

You laugh, nudging her with your shoulder, “Be nice.”

Taehyung rolls his eyes but manages to keep a civil smile on his face. Always the more rational one between the two.

“Anyway, Yena definitely isn’t going to answer me so, what’s up?” He turns to look at you.

You roll your eyes but it’s half-hearted, “She wants to celebrate my birthday like we’re on the Bachelorette.”

“Like you’re on the Bachelorette.” She corrects.

“Oh my God, our baby’s turning twenty-five!” Jimin coos at the reminder, pinching your cheeks as he coddles you. You scowl and weakly shove him away, even if you preen under the attention.

“I’m literally older than the both of you.” You huff.

Yena blinks, “There’s no way I’m the oldest person at this table.”

Taehyung furrows his brows, “Wait—how old are you?”

She sends him a scathing glare that has his arms raised up in defence.

“Jeez, okay. Don’t answer.”

“I’m going to answer because you told me not to.” She clips. “I’m twenty-seven.”

Jimin blinks, “No wonder you and Yoongi hyung are so alike.”

You almost miss it, but as Yena so eloquently pointed out, you were a sucker for psychoanalysing people (even if you didn’t want to admit it yet) that you notice the way she flushes ever so slightly as she scoffs.

“Him? How dare you compare me to that sorry excuse of a—!”

“Okay, everyone is beneath you. I’m sorry your highness.” Jimin rolls his eyes.

You make a note to ask her about it because you know for a fact that Yoongi ‘complains’ about Yena every hour he can. It’s almost as if he can’t go long enough without mentioning her.

You smile to yourself as you duck your head.

“Exactly,” She flips her hair over her shoulders before turning to face you. “Anyway, back to you—our baby.”

Taehyung nods, “Exactly, the baby.”

You scrunch your nose, “Don’t coddle me.”

He pats your head before cooing at you like he would to an actual baby, “But you’re just so cute. You’re too good for this shitty world. Too good for the likes of mere mortals like us.”

“Not me.” Yena blinks before gesturing to their bodies, “You.”

Jimin sticks his tongue out in retaliation as you sigh at their never-ending bickering.

Somehow … it felt right. You think it most of the times but you don’t know any other way to describe how it feels to be back with your friends, laughing, bickering and just appreciating their presence.

When you and Jungkook had your issues, it was like you made the conscious choice to avoid everyone and anyone as much as you could, and any interaction you had during that period was purely out of coincidences and not the intention. You remember actively avoiding Jimin and Taehyung because it felt too draining to pretend like you didn’t have a battle in your head. Even studying or spending time with Namjoon made you feel guilty, the thought of Jungkook lingering in your mind. Yena was there through it all, but even then you saw her as much as you did with any of your classmates you so happened to share a class with.

In fact, if it weren’t for Yena you’d probably have zero social interactions as a whole because she just knew. She somehow picked up on your internal conflicts but never outwardly shamed you or confronted you about it. All she did was be there for you, offering you her presence and you were grateful.

So, yeah. Things were better, but your heart was still at its core—confused. Your feelings for Jungkook didn’t disappear overnight and you knew that you were the one that asked for space.

You forgave him … you did, honestly. But there are things you can’t forget, and those are the things that you wished you could. The words he said in principle, was outright shitty. But the fact that it came from him only poked at every single one of your insecurities that you developed over the years.

You knew it wasn’t healthy to compare yourself to other women when they were living vastly different lives than you were, but it’s proven difficult when you’re forced to see these type of women every day, at college, in your community work or on the media.

Believing Jungkook’s apparent feelings for you was harder because, well. Jungkook was Jungkook. He wasn’t just another guy, and despite his shortcomings, he had more merits than he’d let on and you knew that people saw that. It was also the fact that Jungkook had a charm that drew all types of people in. He was soft-spoken but passionate, and people loved a quiet achiever.

You … knew about the women. Way before Jennie and way before the thing between the two of you happened. Jimin and Taehyung would always update you about the new fling or girl he had tied to his hip just as he was in his final year in high school. You had to force a smile every single time they’d snicker and joke about how your Jungkook suddenly became a man overnight.

And you noticed the trend with the women he liked. They were … captivating. Beautiful wasn’t even enough to describe them because they looked like they could carry the world on their shoulders and spark immense change with just the movement of their lips. They were confident and charismatic, outgoing and just the right amount of flirty. You were anything but.

It sucked, majorly, because you spent years agonising over the fact that you were already coined with the older sister title in the group because of the way you acted—just a little more uptight than the average woman your age. You were quiet but loud in the right company; you didn’t like crowds, socialising or mingling around with people you didn’t know and based on your observations it seemed like that was the only thing that Jungkook’s been doing ever since he made it to senior year in high school, and even in the first years of college.

You don’t resent him, you think. You couldn’t blame him because you weren’t honest either. You consented, to all of the kisses and touches even if he hadn’t officially had sex with you. You wanted to, but you were terrified. Not at the prospect of penetration but at the prospect of not being enough and the fact that Jungkook was the only person you wanted to have sex with while he had options that were far more attractive and experienced than you were.

That’s why you needed time because at least you could get your shit together even if it was an uphill battle.

“Earth to ____?” Taehyung waves a hand in front of your face with a concerned expression.

You blink, snapping out of your daze as you offer a meek smile and an apology.

“We just asked you if you wanted a small get together at Tae’s and I’s place for your birthday?” Jimin asks.

“Really?” You beam. That was exactly what you preferred.

“Yeah, we know you don’t like clubs and stuff. Just a small and intimate gathering with all your best buds.” He grins.

You nod your head, but Yena beats you to a response.

“By best buds you mean the three friends she has, which is us and the two meatheads duelling for her affection.” She snorts.

You flush, “Y-Yena!”

Taehyung snickers at your embarrassment.

“It doesn’t help that both of them are literally the biggest dudes on the football team. It’s literally like watching King Kong and Godzilla getting into a fight for world domination.”

Jimin throws his back in laughter as you fold your arms across your chest at post at the way your friends are practically crying in laughter at the image. Jimin was clutching onto Taehyung for his dear life because if he didn’t then he’d fall off the chair.

“Stop,” You whine, “you guys are being mean.”

“Oh my God, you’re literally the only person on this earth that would take two people fighting for your attention as an offence.” Taehyung groans.

“I-It’s not that!” You deny exasperatedly, “I-It’s just … awkward …”

Jimin sighs with a small smile, patting your head.

“If it’s any consolation I think it’s offensive that Jungkook thinks he even has the right to breathe in—”

“Jimin!”

“Wow. It really is like King Kong and Godzilla.” Jimin whistles lowly, eyeing the scene before him with amusement lingering in his eyes.

“Do you think they’re gonna start slamming their chests soon or …?” Taehyung trails off in a whisper, leaning into Jimin so that the two other men wouldn’t notice.

“I can literally hear you.” You say dryly.

Jimin offers you a plastic smile, “You’re meant to hear us, babe. How about you try to tame them like Jane did with Tarzan?”

Jimin nearly shrieks when you shove him so fiercely that he topples over into Taehyung’s grasp as the second part of the duo only catches him in the process.

You sigh, completely ignoring the way that Jimin’s muttering curses that were directed to you under his breath. Instead, you were transfixed on the scene before you—which specifically is Jungkook and Namjoon staring each other down through the mirror of the gym. You were lucky that it was just the five of you since Namjoon was able to use his captain privileges to book the gym because you had no idea how to explain the fact that two big-sized men were attempting to outdo each other in their circuit reps as if they were on a suicide mission.

“Listen, when I agreed to help you out with your sets I thought I was meant to help log it in for a report.” You exasperate, but the two men continue their manly lift-off as they huff and puff their exertion away.

“Trust me, you are helping. Being the motivation is more than—”

This time it’s Taehyung who faces your wrath as you thwack him upside the head.

From where Jungkook and Namjoon were, Jungkook can only deliver death stares into the direction of his captain who returns it tenfold. He wasn’t even sure why they were doing this but something a flicked definitely switched in Jungkook when Namjoon (purposefully) revealed that you were helping out with something. At the gym. Supposedly alone.

Jungkook’s primitive side came out because the next thing Namjoon knew was that Jungkook managed to drag himself, and Jimin and Taehyung as a diversion. He still feels his chest swell with pride when recalling the scowl on Namjoon’s face when he entered the gym, all fake smiles and a pep in his step.

“____, could you help me spot?” Namjoon breathes, sitting up from whatever the hell he was doing with the barbell. You weren’t fixated with gym language and you weren’t even sure why he was asking you when there was an entire Jimin and Taehyung right next to you.

“Uh, okay sure—“

“Noona,” Jungkook calls.

You freeze.

“Jungkook … I thought we established that you don’t need to call me that anymore.” You raise an eyebrow.

You miss the obvious glare that Namjoon shoots his bitchass friend, as well as the snorts that leave Jimin and Taehyung’s mouth.

“Pay attention to me,” Jungkook pouts. Like, actually pouts. You somehow flush because he seemed so much like the younger version of Jungkook who used to always coddle you for attention.

“Okay but after I help—”

“Yeah. After she helps me.” Namjoon interjects, and you nearly jump at the way he’s suddenly behind you, more so—pressed against your back with his hands on your hips as he moves you aside to get to another piece of equipment.

Your breath hitches because while you weren’t exactly invested in Namjoon in the romantic sense, he was undeniably attractive and … big. You could salivate in private.

“Oh my God, do you see that?” Taehyung hisses in a hushed whisper.

“Hyung is petty,” Jimin gawks.

“This is Namjoon we’re talking about. Didn’t he steal all the umbrellas from your dorm because you ratted him out to the librarian when he broke a bookshelf?” Taehyung recalls.

Jimin pauses to retract his mind to that moment.

“He’s so petty and I’m living for it. Look at Kook’s face,” He snickers, nudging Taehyung with his shoulder.

Jungkook only can clench his jaw in return because he knew that you wouldn’t be a fan of him reaching out to strangle the shit out of Namjoon. But the older boy seems fine, if not pleased with how Jungkook’s fuming in his own spot.

“Let me just …” You cock a thumb to Namjoon, before releasing a breath of your own and going to help him with whatever he needed in the first place.

“Jimin can help him. I have a more pressing problem.” He complains.

You stop in your tracks before turning around, raising an eyebrow at Jungkook who finally sits up, still staring at you like you held all the solutions in the world.

“Literally wait for your turn,” Namjoon scowls.

“My arm hurts,” Jungkook says, raising his arm to show you.

“I don’t … see anything?” You furrow your brows.

“Because my muscles hurt, Noona,” Jungkook emphasises with a flex of his bicep and you can feel yourself get hot in the way your eyes can’t stray away.

You’re momentarily distracted by the blatant display of muscle by Jungkook that you completely miss the way that Jimin and Taehyung are struggling to breathe because of how hard they’re stifling their laughter or the way that Namjoon is contemplating on throwing the nearest dumbbell into Jungkook’s direction.

You flush, “Okay, you know what? Wait here. Let me get the first aid kit.” You mumble, quickly scampering off to alleviate yourself from the situation.

The moment you leave the room, Namjoon takes two long strides until he reaches where Jungkook’s sat, before wrapping a hand around the arm that was supposedly hurt—and squeezes.

“Ow! What the fuck hyung?!” Jungkook shrieks.

“Don’t hyung me, you brat.” Namjoon seethes, “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Jungkook gapes, while Jimin and Taehyung watch in amusement.

“Me?! What’s wrong with you?” Jungkook retorts, equally as agitated, “Oh, _____, help spot me! Woe is me! Like she wouldn’t get crushed under you, you meathead!”

“Like you’re any better,” Namjoon snaps, “Oh, Noona, pay attention to me. My arm hurts. You might as well have asked her to change your fucking diapers at the rate you’re acting like a damn child.”

“You’re the one that started all of this!” Jungkook exasperates, “With all due respect hyung, I love you and you’re my captain but I really feel like smashing your head into the wall right now.”

“That’s it?” Namjoon scoffs, “Well I’ll do you one better and let you know that every time you breathe in my direction I feel like—”

“Oh my God will you two idiots shut the fuck up?” Taehyung interjects, snapping at the two boys who pause, staring up at him with wide eyes.

Even Jimin is surprised at Taehyung’s intervention, purely because he was the type that usually let shit slide or let other people put problematic individuals into place. He was the mediator, the diplomat—not usually the aggressor.

“Wha—”

“Another peep and I’m going to smother your body under the dumbbells and leave you here to rot and die.” Taehyung seethes, staring straight into Jungkook’s soul.

That shuts him up.

“Both of you are acting like goddamn children, and for what? To battle out your masculinity to see who gets ____’s attention first?” Taehyung exasperates.

Namjoon clears his throat, “We were just—”

“—acting like a bunch of barbarians who’s never seen civilisation?” Taehyung retorts dryly, “Yeah. Because that’s exactly what this looks like. The two of you are so petty and for what? You two are literally rubbing the last remaining brain cells you have with each other but nothing is coming out from it. Like—nothing. Do you think she’d give a shit which one of you can lift more reps? That means absolutely nothing! She’s already freaked the fuck out at the prospect of her childhood best friend being in love with her and now we have Big Tit Number One and Two battling it out like you’re in the Greek Olympics.”

Jungkook blinks, and Jimin is mildly impressed.

“So before she comes back and tends to Jungkook’s hurt muscle,” Taehyung sneers, eyes narrowing at a guilty-looking Jungkook, “Both of you better sort your shit out.”

Namjoon flushes, embarrassed at the prospect of being called out, all while Jungkook is avoiding eye contact at all costs.

“Oh my God, do you have a crush on each other or something? Apologise!” Taehyung gestures towards the two boys who awkwardly blink at each other, feeling much like reprimanded children.

It’s Namjoon who breaks the silence first, clearly the more mature one in the situation.

“Look … Jungkook,” He sighs, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to … drag it out like this. I don’t mean it maliciously and you’re my friend and teammate, so I’d really hate if a girl got in the way.”

Jungkook nibbles on his lips, eyebrows still scrunched; and the irrational part of him tells him to ignore the apology. But with the way that Taehyung is glaring him down, with Jimin’s expectant gaze, he knows that he doesn’t have much of a choice.

“I’m sorry … too,” he winces at his own voice, “But just to let you know … I really …” He shuts his eyes, feeling his chest tighten when he tries to force the words out, “She isn’t just … a girl to me, hyung. I really, really like her. And—I know you like her too but … I fucked up and I really want to make things right and seeing you—”

Jungkook is flushing while he rambles on, fully aware that the rest of his friends are listening intently to him speaking his heart. But a hand rests itself on his shoulder, and when Jungkook opens his eyes he sees Namjoon offering him a gentle smile.

“I know,” He says, “I know I said I wouldn’t back off …” He trails off and Jungkook recalls the conversation he had with him in the very same gym just a few weeks back, “But I don’t think I can compete with a decade long love story.”

Jungkook scoffs, though his ears are flushed.

“It’s really not—”

Namjoon waves him off, clasping a tight hand onto his back that tells him it’s okay, and whatever that was going on would get better. And Jungkook feels marginally better and allows himself to let out a sigh of release.

“So are the two of you gonna kiss or what?” Jimin asks in the midst of the silence.

Namjoon glares at the boy, “Don’t make me give you an extra ten laps.”

He backs down immediately, raising his hands up in defence. And at that moment, you return, all smiles and with a pant as you raise the first aid kit up.

“Your arm?” You smile sweetly, and Jungkook can only offer a weak on in return.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Depends. Will I have to run from the government if I answer you honestly?” Yena ponders out loud.

You roll your eyes but shake your head anyway. The two of you were meant to be cooking dinner but you’ve surrendered yourself to Netflix and Yena’s witty live commentary on horrible films you were scrolling through an hour earlier. Though, your head wasn’t quite in it, to begin with; your thoughts drifting to other aspects, ones that you thought too hard for and didn’t necessarily know the answer to.

It was frustrating, the way that you wanted to have a solution for everything but overthought every single case that happens to pass by your mind.

“No one’s hunting anyone down, your anarchist,” You say, “This is a little … personal.”

You didn’t have any girl friends prior to Yena, and that was your first mistake. You weren’t the person that actively avoided having girl friends because you thought they were dramatic or overly emotional but purely because you never knew how to befriend women. It was weird—being a woman yet being muddled with your own sense of femininity that suppressed your ability to form meaningful friendships with your women peers.

Throughout most of your childhood and teenaged life, you only had Jimin, Taehyung and Jungkook. While they were more than enough to keep your memories cheerful and filled with laughter, there were more personal things that you couldn’t quite approach them with. They had each other to confide in their ‘manly’ discussions, small talk that you’d often flush at—but you couldn’t ask them the same things you wanted to.

You knew, that on a fundamental level that your personal things were just … things. It wasn’t that deep, nor did it require a PhD in Gender Studies to fully understand the nuance of periods or apparent ‘girl’ problems; you just needed to listen. But you were timid, and you got embarrassed super easily—so that never boded well whenever you’d want to approach them with a question of your own.

But now, you had Yena—debatably the most open and understanding person you’ve met in your life; and you owed it to yourself, and her—to be honest, to live yourself vicariously in your girl best friends eyes—and ask:

“How do you have sex?”

Granted, there was definitely a smoother way of peeling off the bandaid, but you supposed if you were going to be discussing this one way or another, you’d go big or go home.

“I’m sorry,” She coughs, “What?”

You blink.

“Sorry, I guess I should’ve asked if you were a virgin first …” You mumble.

Yena stares at you with a stupefied expression as she gapes at you.

“Hey, repeat after me: candy, tree and cat.” She grabs you by your shoulders.

“I’m not cerebrally compromised, Yena,” you say dryly.

“Repeat,” She glares.

You huff, shoving her hand off your shoulder.

“Candy, tree and cat. There, happy?” You huff.

She eyes you weirdly as you sigh.

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yes!” You exasperate, “So like … how? Do you just? Penetrate?”

Yena blinks one more time, her eyes trailing to the ceiling as she asks for a higher being to give her strength before she returns her gaze onto your figure.

“Babe, that is literally the unsexiest way to approach sex.”

“Penetration?” You furrow your brows.

She scrunches her brows, “No.” She gestures to you, “That.”

You scowl.

“I don’t know how to approach sex! That’s why I’m asking you. I literally don’t know who else to approach. If I went to Jimin or Taehyung I’m pretty sure they’d just stare at me and cry. Namjoon is out of the picture because he’d likely approach sex textbook style and I don’t need that level of detail right now. I definitely can’t ask Jungkook because he’s the guy I wanna have sex with. So yeah. I’m here because you’re a woman and the only person I can have a full conversation with without losing my will to live.”

Yena gawks at you, jaw slack as you finish your ramble; ears flushed.

“… you …” She begins, wracking her brain for the words that seem to fail her, “… okay. You know what, the fact that you’re here and putting your big girl pants on and asking me this is a feat in itself so I’m going to just ignore the fact that you said you wanted to have sex with Jungkook.”

You flush, “I was word vomiting—”

“Ah,” She holds her hands up, levelling you with a knowing glare, “If you want honest, you be honest too.”

You slump in your seat, sighing as you nod your head defeatedly.

“Firstly, I’m not a virgin. I could never be a virgin.” Yena declares, “Granted, I’ve slept with three people and two of them were women. But the idiot I lost my virginity to was, unfortunately, of XY chromosomes so … I guess I can answer your questions.”

“I mean … I know how sex works but … approaching it …” You mutter.

“And sex isn’t this groundbreaking act that requires Einstein’s IQ to partake in. It’s both intimate and not, and that’s definitely a personal preference. You can know the semantics of how people have sex, for hets in this case, which is just the classic ol’ penetration method where the penis enters the—”

“Your point?” You exasperate.

“—okay, I got a little carried away. But really, sex isn’t … difficult. It’s scary, I’ll give you that. But you don’t go into your first time thinking you’ll be great at it. Hell, you won’t even like sex that much your first few times unless your partner is a sex demon or something.”

“I mean when Jungkook …” You shudder, “When he … I … you know, did things … it felt …” You fiddle with your fingers. Your ears were undoubtedly on fire, and you were so embarrassed saying these things out loud because it was just so awkward!

“Good? You know I’m not going to judge you for it,” she says pointedly, “That’s what friends are for, right?”

You flush, covering your face with your hands in embarrassment. You knew that Yena would never judge you for something as trivial and as unimportant as your sexual endeavours, but this was still a road you’ve yet to properly navigate yourself.

“I … came,” you wince at your breathy voice, “It felt good. And … he’s experienced, you know? I just don’t want to …”

Yena looks at you inquisitively.

“You don’t want to …?”

You sigh deeply, considering your next words with a soft murmur, “I don’t want to not live up to his expectations, you know?”

She frowns at you, “Jungkook’s made some mistakes but you said it yourself. He’s in love with you,” she says softly, “There’s no pressure to have sex with him just because it’s out in the open now, you know?”

You nibble on your lips.

“It’s … more than just that,” you tell her, “I told him I needed time, and really, I do. But it isn’t because I’m confused. I mean, kind of—but really it’s because I don’t want to walk into something and disappoint him … I’m just … scared.”

Yena holds your hand in hers while offering you a gentle smile.

“It’s valid that you’re scared. But there really isn’t anything that can come out of being scared right now. The two of you worked through an obstacle, and here you are creating another one that doesn’t quite exist yet. Trust me, when the time feels right, it does. And you’ll feel ready. Will you still be scared? Maybe. But it’ll feel like it’s meant to fit within your timeline.”

You nibble on your lips, “Is it bad that I’m overthinking this?” You wince.

Yena shrugs her shoulders, “Like everything else in your life?” She teases.

You whine, shoving at her shoulder playfully where all Yena does is snicker in response. You weren’t quite sure what you were expecting out of the conversation, even if it was vaguely about the ins and outs of sexual exploration. And she was right, you’ll always be afraid of something, whether it’ll benefit you or harm you because that’s what change does. It shifts your comfort zone into a space that may be unfamiliar but necessary.

You lean into Yena’s shoulder, and a wave of overwhelming emotion washes upon you when you look at her. You really didn’t know how you survived a time without Yena in your life. And as if she’s noticed your glassy gaze, she raises an eyebrow at you.

“What are you looking at?”

You grin at her, all teeth and gums on display as you hug onto her arm like a koala.

“I’m just really happy you’re in my life.” You sigh wistfully.

She pauses for one whole second before she snorts.

“Wow, talk about sex once and suddenly you’re in love with me?” She wiggles her eyebrows at you, “Tell Jeon and Kim that you’re mine now.”

You giggle, rolling your eyes.

“They’re not even competing in the same league as you are,” you assure her.

She smiles.

“So … does that mean I don’t need to get you a birthday gift?”

That earns a thwack on her shoulder.

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littlefreya · 3 years

Text

Santa Baby

Summary: For over a decade, detective Walter Marshall kept a dirty little secret, thinking no one would ever find out about his past. Sadly for him, you are somewhat of a detective yourself.

Challenge prompt: the song Santa Baby.

Pairing: Walter Marshall x reader

Word count: 1.6k

Warnings: Some sexy themes but mostly fluffy floof fluff.

A/N: This is for @toomanystoriessolittletime Christmas challenge, which I am sadly a day late with. Remind me to never sign up to challenges. I stumbled upon erotic book covers that looked a lot like Walter (this and this) so decided it’s a funny idea. I never read these books, so I am not mocking it or the artist who drew it. Many thanks to @wondersofdreaming for helping me out. Not beta’d, I own my mistakes.

Please feedback, comment, reblog if you enjoyed reading. 💖

Title: Santa Baby

It’s not that Detective Marshall was the Grinch or anything, it’s just that he couldn’t afford to be merry. With crime levels peaking during that time of the year, and sunlight being scarce, his body ran strictly on caffeine and stale doughnuts.

The temptation to spend Christmas eve sprawled on the worn-out leather sofa in his office was quite strong tonight. But even big hulking bears had their weaknesses, and as exhausted as he was, he dreaded every morning he woke up without your warm body curled up beside him.

With his energy level blinking red, he finally decided to call it a night and drive home. Heavy growling and thundering drums roared within his truck, the extreme Scandinavian black-metal he listened to served as a complete contrast to the soft snow that fell from the sky and quietly piled up on the sides of the road. Pausing at the street-light, he watched the little crystals striving to form on his windshield and melting just as quickly against the heat of the car.

For a single moment, all the terrors of the night diminished by the little flame that was the reminiscent of you - his little firefly who led him through the darkness, tender as snow and wild as fire. Accelerating just a tad, he imagined you’d be asleep by the time he’d get there, and if not, Walter hoped to at least be in your good graces.

Luckily, ther warm orange hues beaming through the windows assured him that you were still very much awake, and he couldn’t help but spare one of his rare smiles.

Muffled tunes of a familiar song played beyond the door, the bass vibrating through the polished wooden flooring and the walls. Slow and sensual like honey rolling off one’s finger, the jazzy beats filled the spacious house along with the sweetest scent of crushed peppercorn and red berries. Smiling wider, he held onto the doorframe and kicked off his heavy boots.

“Pet?” he called and followed into the living room, hearing you humming along with the lyrics.

“Santa baby, just slip a Sable under the tree for me.”

Oh, he was indeed in your good graces.

Sitting on your knees with your ankles hunched below your ass, you wore a velvety Santa hat and a sheer, red nighty finished by fake white fur that outlined your breasts. Your hands held a shiny green present over your thighs, and you gave him one of those coy looks that made him want to fall before you and pledge himself as your servant.

Instead, he crooked an eyebrow and unzipped his thick winter coat, carelessly discarding it on the floor and making his way toward you.

“Have you been an awful good girl?”

Sleeves rolled up; he crossed his muscular arms together while towering over you. His cobalt eyes drank in your sight, trying to decide what to do with you first. The scent of musky sweat mingled with dark cologne wafted over you within seconds, making your chest rise and sink in a primal instinct.

“Oh, I’m definitely going down your chimney tonight,” he growled upon your reaction to his presence and sucked in his bottom lip with growing hunger.

“At least three times,” you dared him in return and then casually lowered your gaze to the box perched on your lap.

The large man caught on the hint and carefully knelt before you. One of his hands reached to stroke his beard while his mind rummaged to figure out what surprise hid behind the shiny package.

“Got something for me over there?” he wondered with a playful beam, “I thought we’re not doing presents until tomorrow morning.”

“Just a little teaser,” you answered. Your eyes shone brighter than the large decorated tree that stood at the corner of the living room.

Being a detective, Walter could practically smell the mischief that drenched every teeny hair on your body. As usual, his naughty vixen was up to no good. It always made him laugh how bad you were in trying to surprise him, which worked in his favour. Walter hated surprises.

Intrigued, he snatched the gift from your hands and shook it against his ear for shy second before beginning to unwrap it. His eyes briefly scrutinised yours, darkening, smokey with lust while he tore at the chrome paper and absentmindedly threw pieces of green wrapping all over the living room.

You watched carefully, your cheeks rounding and filling, your teeth flashing with wickedness upon seeing the colour drain from his rugged face.

“Where…”

Walter paused and swallowed the lump in his throat. Fingers oily with sweat and knuckles turning white, dug into the object held in his hand.

“How did you find this?!”

The snort you’ve been trying to hold back for the last couple of minutes finally made its way out, followed by a fit of uncontrollable giggles that made you fall to your back with your hand held over your torso.

Walter, on the other hand, was anything but amused. He always feared the day someone would dig up his dirtiest secret.

It was more than a decade ago when he was struggling to pay his tuition to the police academy that Walter found an easy and quick way to make money. As a British immigrant who barely had friends and blended with the crowd, he made the mistake of thinking no one will ever know about his short-lived modelling career for cheesy erotic novels.

He should have known better. He might have been a professional police detective, but you had a skill for uncovering the truth.

“Where did you find this?” Walter repeated with a frown, clenching his jaw and waving the colorful book in the air.

Pausing your giggles merely for a second, you took a gander at the cover, focusing on the image of your dear husband’s open white shirt. There he was, the man you knew as a brooding, black-sweater wearing grump, lost in some green meadow with a half-naked chick. A deep dramatic gaze crisped his younger face, his nose inhaling the scent of her hair, and his hand laid flat upon her juicy rump.

Oh the drama!

You tried to speak, but all that came out of your mouth was an uncontrollable peal of chuckles. The corny title of the book didn’t help either; his fiery love rod.

Walter sulked and suddenly shuffled to hover above you, one hand snapped at your wrist before the other discarded the book onto your sternum and joined in restraining your other arm. Led purely by instinct, your legs spread to straddle his wide waist and wrapped around his muscular ass.

Staring at your strong, intimidating husband, the laughter rolling from your lips slowly died down, yet the smile was still smeared between your cheeks, especially once you felt his groin pressing into yours.

“Woman!” the big bear growled at you, “I am not going to ask you more than once, where on earth did you bloody find this?”

“The second-hand bookstore,” you answered and glanced at the book lying upon your chest, “was looking for something raunchy to read when suddenly I noticed a familiar face.” You explained and then swallowed the dryness in your throat.

“At first I thought I was hallucinating with all them Christmas carols eating into my brain, but then when I took a closer peek, I recognised my husband’s ‘fuck me’ stare.”

Walter felt a burn rising in his throat and swerving to tingle at his bristly cheeks. If there ever was a moment when he regretted a life decision, that moment was now. He knew he’d never hear the end of it from you. You were dauntless and unyielding as the ocean, one of the reasons why he was utterly in love with you.

Nostrils flaring, he tightened the grasp around your wrists and rolled his hips into yours, eliciting a small moan from your quivering lips. The thick bulge in his groin hardened at the calling of the hot, wet patch in your panties.

“Name your terms, woman.”

“You are going to read it to me,” you answered without even overthinking and gestured toward the book with your chin. “Every. night. before. bedtime. I want you to hold me in your big strong arms and read me a chapter from ‘his fiery love rod’, or else…”

“Or else?...”

The fire from the mental suddenly illuminated your face, causing dark shadows to form over your irises and the hollows below your brows. “Your friends at the MPD are going to find out about this one,” you paused, “and the 12 others that you made.”

Taken back by your words, Walter gulped, his fingers became moist around your wrists as sheer horror seeped into his mind.

“You... you know about the others?”

You nodded at him and then snaked your legs around the back of his thighs to cage him in your grasp like a fickle dryad growing her roots around a helpless wanderer. With his attention faltering, you twisted your hips and rolled the two of you so you were on top. Fingers lacing into his, you pinned him down and leered over him with cascading triumph.

“12 books, all under our Christmas tree, detective, so you better be good to me tonight and satisfy all my needs.”

Adam apple bobbing up and down, Walter watched you with a mixture of awe and agitation. There was nothing he hated more than losing control, but damn if he didn’t adore his wicked queen, especially when you were in a joyous mood, which, as he found, tended to be contagious. The moments in which the grouchy detective felt at peace were rare to non-existent. It was only in the embrace of your thighs that he thought that for a minute, everything is going to be okay.

Noticing the muscles of his jaw somewhat relax, you reached for the Christmas hat and slipped it off your head, placing it atop of his curly mess instead. Your hands held firmly onto Walter’s shoulders, and with a careful twist, you flipped the two of you over once again and shoved him down your torso while blissfully chanting.

“Santa baby, so hurry down the chimney tonight, hurry down the chimney tonight, hurry toniiiiiiiiiiight.”

*No permission is given for reposting my work, copying it, ideas or parts it and claiming it as your own

Dividers by @firefly-graphics

Disclaimer: I don’t own Night Hunter/Nomis or Walter Marshall

#henry cavill #StephsChristmasWritingChallenge #walter marshall x reader #henry cavill x reader #walter marshall

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ibijau · 3 years

Note

27 for chengxian! (◍•ᴗ•◍)❤

(Losing their memory only to have it come back after a much awaited true love’s kiss.)

Y'all really like that prompt lol I think I have at least one more ask for that one somewhere?

“And he’s been like this the whole time?” Jiang Cheng asked, repressing a shiver of disgust.

“Yes, zongzhu.”

“He didn’t even make a single inappropriate joke?”

“Not so much as a smile, zongzhu. And he said he was sorry for the inconvenience.”

Jiang Cheng gave Wei Wuxian another long look. He would have suspected a joke, but that style of humour would have more been Nie Huaisang’s thing. Wei Wuxian usually went for pranks instead of comedy. Besides, several Jiang disciples had been there when Wei Wuxian had taken in hand the cursed box, and they’d all testified to feeling a powerful discharge of Yin energy. Not only that, but the owner of the box had apparently warned them beforehand of the risk, and explained as well how to cure the curse.

True love’s kiss, of all things.

Normally, when it came to Wei Wuxian, that would have been quite an easy cure to organise. If anything, it was preventing him from indulging in those true love’s kisses that proved a challenge.

So of course this whole mess had to happen when, for once, Jiang Cheng had managed to get his shixiong to come without that damn icicle he called a husband. A favour he had only obtained because Lan Wangji was away on a Night Hunt in a place where resentment toward the feared Yiling patriarch remained too great for Wei Wuxian to go with him. It would take a few days until Lan Wangji could be warned of this incident and returned to administer his cure.

Until then, Jiang Cheng was stuck with this stranger who didn’t look like his shixiong, and didn’t even act like him either.

“At least it’s an improvement over his normal personality,” his first disciple scoffed. “Let’s all enjoy it while it lasts.”

“Am I really that bad?” Wei Wuxian asked with open concern. “If it is inconvenient for others when I am myself, perhaps I’d better stay like this.”

Jiang Cheng huffed. Lan Wangji would never have allowed that, he knew. Someone in that marriage needed to have a personality, and it wasn’t going to be the second jade of Gusu Lan. Although perhaps if they were both equally boring, then perhaps there would be a divorce, and Jiang Cheng could get his shixiong back.

A most tempting plan, except for the fact that this man before him just wasn’t Wei Wuxian, and thus wasn’t worth keeping around.

“Send for Lan Wangji,” Jiang Cheng reluctantly ordered. “And you, come with me,” he added toward Wei Wuxian. “I’m not letting you sleep at some inn when you’re in that state. I’ll have your room prepared, you’re staying where I can see you until you’re better.”

The man who wasn’t Wei Wuxian meekly followed him without a single objection, nor any attempt at teasing. Jiang Cheng found it almost sickening, which surprised him. He’d spent most of his life wishing Wei Wuxian would learn to act more appropriately and to show proper deference to those around him. By all accounts, this should have pleased Jiang Cheng to finally behold a version of his shixiong that knew his place.

He refused to dwell on that, mostly because it never did him good to think too long about that insufferable shixiong of his. Instead, Jiang Cheng congratulated himself on his decision to have had a room prepared for Wei Wuxian the instant he’d heard Lan Wangji wasn’t with him. If he wasn’t going to have shameless intercourse during the whole night, there was no need to banish Wei Wuxian to an inn. Of course Jiang Cheng hadn’t been sure how to offer that bedroom to the other man without being accused of being friendly, so at least one positive side to that curse had been to remove the need for an explanation.

After a few days together, Jiang Cheng had determined that being stuck with that unnatural version of Wei Wuxian was the worst torture he’d ever endured, even counting being struck by discipline whips and having his golden core torn from him.

Now that he’d had time to observe the amnesiac man during the afternoon and at dinner, Jiang Cheng had realised that contrary to his first impression, something of Wei Wuxian remained through the loss of memory. It was only small things, a manner of movement, the way he held his glass of tea, or the gesture with which he sprinkled additional spices over his dinner without even tasting it. A hundred ghosts of who Wei Wuxian was, lingering in a man who had too much politeness and not enough humour.

It was striking also to realise just how little Wei Wuxian looked like himself in his current body. Usually it wasn’t noticeable because his personality made up for the difference, but at the moment he truly looked like nothing but a complete stranger wearing a disguise.

Jiang Cheng hated it.

And Wei Wuxian, apparently, noticed it.

“If you tell me more about what I’m normally like, I can try to act more like it,” he said in a forlorn voice on the fourth afternoon, while watching Jiang Cheng take care of his correspondence.

Jiang Cheng only grunted.

“Though from what everyone says, aren’t I more pleasant to have around like this?”

Another grunt. Others were idiots for not appreciating Wei Wuxian as he naturally behaved, while Jiang Cheng was equally stupid for missing it.

“Just tell me what to do,” Wei Wuxian insisted, and Jiang Cheng hated that those were words he’d always wished to hear but now felt so wrong. “Should I smile? Should I be…” he hesitated. “Should I be obnoxious?” he asked in a trembling voice, just pathetic enough that in a roundabout way, it did sound like something Wei Wuxian might say if he were joking.

Jiang Cheng, exhausted and on edge, almost laughed.

Sadly Wei Wuxian noticed, and took it as encouragement.

“I think I can do that,” he claimed, coming to sit closer until he was nearly on Jiang Cheng’s lap.

That, too, felt a little too much like the real Wei Wuxian, though normally he kept that sort of behaviour for Lan Wangji.

Well perhaps that damn icicle liked being climbed over, but Jiang Cheng did not. Not at all, not one bit, that scenario had never once appeared in his dreams, when his mind thought it could betray his good sense. So Jiang Cheng tried to push away Wei Wuxian, who quickly threw his arms around Jiang Cheng’s neck to make it harder.

“Isn’t this the sort of things I’d do?” Wei Wuxian pleaded, pressing himself harder against Jiang Cheng the more his shidi tried to get rid of him, until he was all but straddling him. “I’ve heard people say I’m flirty.”

“Yes, toward your husband!”

“Well, I don’t know him. But I know you. You’ve been kind to me those few days, even when it was obvious that you don’t like seeing me like this. You shout a lot, but I think you’re a very good person at heart.”

“I’ve tried to kill you in the past,” Jiang Cheng blurted, though he gave up on trying to push Wei Wuxian away. “More than once.”

“From what I’ve heard, you’re hardly the only one.”

Two thoughts crossed Jiang Cheng’s mind.

The first was that he might have to borrow some ideas and forbid gossip in the Lotus Pier, if Wei Wuxian had heard so much in so little time.

The second was that he probably ought to hate a little more the way Wei Wuxian was straddling him, and how close he was. Close enough that if someone were to come in, they’d get the wrong idea and think they were about to…

Jiang Cheng’s eyes flickered to Wei Wuxian’s lips. He wondered, and then mentally slapped himself for wondering.

“The cure is a true love’s kiss, isn’t it?” Wei Wuxian asked in a whisper.

“Your damn true love is going to arrive tonight or tomorrow,” Jiang Cheng retorted in a voice that failed to be anything but pleading. “Wait for him instead of playing games.”

“If I wait for him, I’ll never be sure about you,” came the answer, before Wei Wuxian pressed their lips together.

Jiang Cheng, at first, merely allowed it to happen, unsure what to do with his hands, with his mouth even. Wei Wuxian appeared to understand and, without breaking the kiss, placed Jiang Cheng’s hands on his hips while also moving his lips in a gentle manner, as if trying to show him what to do.

When they parted, Wei Wuxian’s cheeks were flushed and his eyes shining with emotion. Then, slowly, his lips parted into the most obnoxious grin in the world, one that Jiang Cheng hadn’t seen once in those last few days.

“Jiang Cheng!” Wei Wuxian laughed, his voice just as annoying as ever. “Jiang Cheng, who knew!”

“Shut up! Get off my lap now that you’re cured!”

Wei Wuxian laughed again, sounding like a demented wolf, and Jiang Cheng hated how much he had missed that.

“Jiang Cheng, don’t pretend, I know you care, you can’t hide it anymore!”

“Who’d care for an asshole like you!” Jiang Cheng exploded, trying again to push away the other man, only for Wei Wuxian to laugh and press another quick kiss to his lips.

“Look at you, all embarrassed! Jiang Cheng, you’re an idiot, you know.”

“I’ll murder you!”

“Been there, done that,” Wei Wuxian retorted with another kiss. “Now listen. The cure was true love’s kiss, not ‘somewhat unrequited long lasting crush kiss’, alright?”

Jiang Cheng stopped fighting instantly, thus giving Wei Wuxian the chance to kiss him again, a little longer this time. Without any input from his brain, Jiang Cheng’s hands found their way to the other man’s hips, this time pulling him closer.

“What about your Hanguang-Jun then?” Jiang Cheng breathlessly asked when they parted. “Does that mean he’s…”

“I’m a very spoiled man,” Wei Wuxian said. “I can have two true loves, to make up for the fact that they’re both absolute bitches.”

The idea of sharing Wei Wuxian, now that Jiang Cheng knew he could have him, was particularly unpleasant. The only thing that would make it bearable, Jiang Cheng decided, was the certainty that Lan Wangji would be appalled that they had anything in common.

Happy with this petty thought, Jiang Cheng kissed Wei Wuxian again.

#chengxian #wei wuxian #jiang cheng #mo dao zu shi #mdzs #jau writes #wwx is so fucking hard to write #and post canon jc is also damn hard to write #this caused me suffering but in a fun way

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xzx-xzx · 3 years

Text

...

I met him during a vacation in another country. I was overseas to attend a friend’s 40th birthday party and stayed a full month, as I had a break in work. He and I had exchanged a few Twitter DMs, but I wasn’t entirely sure if they were flirty – I didn’t know until I asked the male friend I was staying with, after showing him the message suggesting plans, “Is this guy asking me on a date?” He replied, “Absolutely!” We fell in love (or so I thought at the time) at warp speed; he was instantly warm and charming, vulnerable and tender, offering commitment and compromise, expressing he’d be willing to do anything for me to move across an ocean and share a life with him. He wrote me pages and pages of eloquent love letters, said he’d never felt this way before, declaring his devotion in flowery language and precise penmanship. He sent me bouquets and cards and gifts. It was as much of a cliche as you’re assuming, cinematic and overwhelming, and imbued with even more magic due to the fact that, post-40, most of us have been conditioned by society to give up on love entirely. We were initially happy, as the first eight months of our relationship were long-distance; I now believe that was because he was able to hide who he truly is during our brief visits back and forth from our home countries. After so many of his declarations of love, his being in constant contact (which I thought at the time was a sign of his dedication, even if I did feel overwhelmed), I decided I wanted to be with him, to be a team that shared everything, to make a new start with this person, so I gave up my career and many of my belongings and the familiarity of my family and friends and moved abroad. But very soon after moving in with him, it was obvious that what he described as his “mental illness” was far worse than he initially claimed. When we met, he did tell me he suffered from clinical depression (and took an antidepressant pill daily for maintenance), but I have many friends with similar diagnoses and never witnessed such violent and alarming behaviour. If he was upset by something, he would drop to the floor, rock back and forth, scream incoherently or shout insults at me, flail his arms, and would hit himself in the head or bang his head on the nearest object (one time he picked up large rocks from the car park we were in and smashed them against his head) – he would call these tantrums “panic attacks.” They were frequent and intense and he would shout at me for either “causing” them or not doing enough to soothe them. His behaviour was so erratic and extreme and I would always be blamed. I was given an ever-changing list of things that “triggered” him, and it would include such simple things as schedule changes or household tasks. I was told that because of his “condition” that his brain could not handle change of any kind, no matter how slight; so if I said dinner would be at 7pm, but had to change it later to 7:30pm, he would have a meltdown and the entire night would be ruined because he “needed a fixed schedule.” He would scream at me and often self-harm, again saying it was my fault, as the change I made in the schedule initiated this. If we had plans to meet say, two people for lunch, and one of those people brought an extra person, he would also fly off the handle, saying things like, “That wasn’t what was planned,” and we’d either have to leave or if I was able to persuade him to stay, he’d sulk and be overtly rude and curt to everyone to sabotage it. If he was already occupied with something else (most of the time this would just consist of reading what was on his phone/laptop) and I asked a simple question such as, “Could you empty the bins later?” he would go into a rage, shouting that I should “know better” that his brain cannot handle more than one task at a time, and later would claim that me even asking him to do a simple chore while he is concentrating on something else is tantamount to “psychological abuse.” I started a journal in order to help me keep track of strategies I was given, by him, to help him with his “condition.” (I also started the journal for my own sanity because his “strategies” would change so often. He’d dictate a specific set of rituals to perform in order to help him when he had a “breakdown,” and I was told to not only know to spring into action as soon as his breakdown started, but it wasn’t long until I was also reprimanded for not being able to anticipate a breakdown and start these rituals sooner in order to prevent it. And on top of all that, every couple of weeks he’d shout at me that my attempts to soothe him were incorrect and that I was not helping in the precise way he’d told me to, that I wasn't performing the tasks in the exact order he'd specified, so I decided I needed to keep a journal for reference. I still have it.) I was told to never talk about chores or even everyday tasks such as asking if a bill had been paid because the “stress” of me simply bringing it up would cause him to erupt and scream and potentially self-harm. Bills that were in his name would go past due because I’d be too scared to ask him to pay them. He would also go weeks without washing and when I’d gently try to find the kindest words I could to ask him to shower, I was told (directly from my journal, these are his words) “[him] not hearing about it will alleviate the stress [he] associates with these tasks and therefore [he] will gain the strength of mind to do it on his own volition.” It’s hard not to read that now as anything but “never speak to me in any way other than these very specific terms I have dictated to you.” He was able to keep a job, able to care for his children from previous relationships, able to do other things that involved managing his time and dividing his attention – but somehow that wasn’t the case whenever we were alone. I never once saw him have a "breakdown" in front of his children and never heard about him having one at work, which is when I began to realise that he seemed to be able to control what he had claimed to me was out of his control.

I’m sure most would ask, “Well, why didn’t you just leave?” I actually did try to bring it up a few times, and even framed it in a way that put the blame on me: “I don’t seem to make you very happy… perhaps we’d be better off apart?” Any time I tried to calmly offer splitting up as an option, he’d cry and wail and tell me I was “the love of his life” and his "soulmate" and that if I’d only work a little harder to “understand” him, our lives would be bliss. After the third or fourth time of my peacefully suggesting we break up, his response had ramped up so dramatically to such an unbearable rage that I started to think that staying with him would just be easier than facing the unknowable wrath that would undoubtedly follow me after I walked out the door. In addition to that, please keep in mind that the process of moving from one country to another is very expensive and time-consuming, involving paperwork and visas, and I’d spent months (and most of my savings – he did not contribute a penny) going through that. I was now living in a city in which I knew no one, in a country where I couldn’t drive; my family was an ocean away and my resources were dwindling. (And a year after my arrival in this new country, Covid hit and worldwide lockdowns kept me and everyone else from travelling.) Plus, there is some shame, some self-blame: How could I have been such a bad judge of character? How could I have missed some of those early red flags? Was I so starved for love that I overlooked the warning signs?

My life started to feel like a test I would never pass because each day brought new rules, new “triggers” I was supposed to memorise, new things to add to the list of what I am not supposed to say or do. Things that would be considered simple small talk with anyone else would cause him to collapse and writhe on the floor and scream and self-harm and often threaten suicide. I was very often accused of “not putting his mental health first” because I could not keep track of what was “okay” and “not okay” to say and do. If I ever spoke with any emotion or passion in my voice, he’d scold me for not being “gentle” and would accuse me of sounding “threatening.” He would also have wild mood swings, lavishing me with love and gifts one day and relentlessly berating me the next. Arguments would last for hours, with winding and shifting logic I found impossible to follow; they almost became a sort of word salad, and I learned to just “confess” or “admit” to whatever it was he’d said I’d done wrong (most of which I didn’t even fully understand), as that was the only way to end it and get some peace. A lot of the time I would just stare at the floor and wait for it to end, and he started to tell me my silence and lack of eye contact in the face of his shouting was "abuse." I’d even sometimes go over my own actions and question them, trying to figure out when exactly I’d said or done something that was considered “bad,” almost believing the version of events that was being fed to me even though I knew they didn’t actually happen. I consider myself a reasonable, level-headed person with a healthy degree of mental fortitude, but if someone says something to you as plain as day, then you repeat it right back to them, and then they immediately respond with, “I never said that,” and this happens hundreds of times, you start to lose it a little bit. It felt as if my own brain was unravelling and I was beginning to question my own relationship with reality. He was extremely jealous and possessive, and any time a male name would come up on my phone either via a text or call, he would interrogate me about why and how I knew them. I would have to show him text conversations I had between male friends so he could judge whether or not the conversation was sufficiently platonic. He had a rule that I was to check in with him via text every hour, no matter what I was doing – meeting with a friend, seeing a movie, working, out for a walk – it didn’t matter, I had to check in every hour or he would blow up at me. I forgot to do this once when I was having lunch with a (female) friend and left my phone in my purse, and upon looking at my phone after the meal, there were at least a dozen accusatory texts from him and just as many missed phone calls. Once I got home from that lunch, after yet another of his complete meltdowns during which I had to defend myself for not adhering to his strict guidelines, I was able to negotiate with him and get his “rule” extended to an every 90-minute check-in, which I still found suffocating. (His phrasing was almost always that he had “let” me go out or “allowed” me to see friends, with the implication -- and sometimes stated outright -- that I should have been grateful.) I ended up turning off my phone sounds and disabling text notifications because I didn’t want to deal with his inevitable blow-ups when someone contacted me; the rare times I did answer the phone, I’d sneak upstairs and talk to my friends while crouched inside the bedroom closet. For the better part of two years, I was late communicating with people and even lost touch with a few friends because it just wasn’t worth having to withstand yet more fights. But again, he presented these rules to me as what he “needed to maintain his mental health,” telling me that his strict check-in requirement was because his brain “needed to know I was safe.” I realized later on, after so many times of him accusing me of cheating, that it was a form of control, nothing more and nothing less, to know exactly where I was and who I was with at every hour of every day.

My loyalty was always tested and my commitment to the relationship was always questioned. If I complained about the weather, he’d go on and on about how I was going to leave. If I went back to where I’m from to visit friends or family, no matter how brief the trip, he’d insist I wasn’t coming back, and the phone calls and text check-ins ramped up to such a degree that I might as well have not even left at all, as I had almost no time and was given almost no space to visit with the people I’d travelled to see. It wasn’t enough that I’d uprooted my entire life to be with him in his country, I was still asked to make sacrifices and to prove my devotion daily in ways that eroded my independence. I had to assure him and reassure him and re-reassure him constantly that I wasn’t leaving him, even if I was just walking out the door to go to the corner shop. He hardly ever wanted to participate in any social events; I’ve since learned that colleagues would ask him if we’d like to join them for dinners or out at bars, and he would decline without ever telling me. I now think this is because he wanted to keep me isolated and prevent me from making friends in my new city. Whenever we would visit or be visited by my friends, nearly every time he would manufacture a tantrum, claiming that my friends were being “weird” to him (once when we were visiting my oldest and closest friend, a woman I have known since high school, he tried to convince me she was “plotting to murder” him, which I didn’t even have words for) and we would either have to leave early or he would go into another room and I would have to tend to him the rest of the night, abandoning my friends and any plans we had made. It took me over a year to realise this was a form of control, as it’s hard to question someone’s actions when they’re crying and shouting and physically crumbling in front of you, but it eventually became clear that these instances never happened when he was at work or around his children or even around his (very few) friends: only mine, and only when we were doing things I had planned.

The first year after moving overseas, pre-Covid, I had a lucky streak of several friends vacationing in nearby cities, and I would go meet them for lunches or dinners – any time it was a male friend, he would watch me get dressed and questioned what I wore. He would say things like, “Why do you look so nice to meet up with this friend?” or “Why are you wearing a skirt to meet with a man?” He would Google them and pore through photos of them and grill me on whether or not I thought they were “handsome.” I went to visit one of my closest friends who is like a brother to me, and after returning home, he extremely drunkenly watched me undress and demanded to “check my underwear” to see if anything untoward had happened. It was humiliating.

His insistence that he suffered from a mental illness dominated our entire relationship; it seemed to be his whole identity and everything, every action, every word, everything was arranged to cater to it. I wasn’t allowed any space, any emotions, any wants or needs, anything that interfered with his daily requirements and parameters he set up in the interest of his “illness.” If I expressed any needs of my own, I was “selfish.” If I wanted to make any plans for us, I was “controlling.” If I didn’t alter my behaviour and walk on eggshells around him, I “didn’t care enough about him to help him.” I wanted to disappear. It often felt like I couldn’t remember the last time I felt joy. I tried to erase my own personality, my gregariousness, as my zest for life became a liability in my own home. I stayed quiet. I tried to make myself smaller. I slept more to make time pass, to make long days end earlier, to perhaps wake up to a day where he’d gone back to being the man I’d originally met, the man who was still trying to woo me with charm and kindness, who was gentle with me before he knew he had me, before I’d given up everything to be with him and he knew I was stuck in a new country with nowhere else to go. The qualities he once praised about me became the qualities he’d attack, the ones he wanted to extinguish within me, the light inside he wanted to put out. In some ways he’s succeeded, although I hope only temporarily.

His drinking was also a problem, not only due to the effect alcohol had on his behaviour, but because I do not drink at all myself and found it difficult to communicate with a frequently intoxicated person. He would get drunk most nights, having a minimum of eight cans of beer at a time. This would intensify his mood swings and suspicions and sometimes make his tantrums even worse. I had to call the police during a particularly frightening night where he had a meltdown, punching himself in the head repeatedly and bashing his head against the concrete kitchen wall so much I was afraid he would give himself a concussion. He threatened suicide and I had to first wrestle a large knife out of his hands and then bottles of pills, all the while him shouting it was “my fault” he was harming himself. He is bigger than I am and restraining him physically wasn’t always possible. (He also started calling my attempts to stop him from hurting himself “physical abuse,” so I stopped intervening.) The mental health team came to the house to talk him down for several hours, and he was belligerent with them, dismissing their advice and saying no amount of pills or therapy would work for him, that “he already knew” nothing would help. He harmed himself in front of me dozens of times, and it was always made clear that it was “my fault” that it was happening. There was no way to predict what he would take the wrong way or what harmless joke he would twist; I began to live in near-constant fear of upsetting him.

He got so drunk one night that he passed out, and I sat and read news articles on my laptop. When he woke up a couple hours later, he frantically accused me of cheating on him – he said I was talking to men on the internet and demanded to see my laptop and what I’d been doing. He chased me around the apartment with wide eyes, shouting to see my computer, until I was able to escape and shut the bedroom door long enough for him to give up and pass out again.

He broke the bedroom closet door by bashing his head into it so many times; he came upstairs to where I was already half-asleep in bed and tried to initiate sex, but I explained I was simply too tired. He began to shout that I “didn’t love him anymore” and “wasn’t attracted to him anymore” and when I tried to explain this wasn’t the case and I was simply tired, he started to bash his head against the door so many times that the wood split and cracked and the door broke. I had to jump out of bed and try my best to talk him down and prevent him from hurting himself further and was thankfully successful after a couple hours. His interpretations of things also varied wildly, and even as something as harmless as buying him a gift would be used against me. Everything was always the worst-case scenario in his eyes and everyone always had bad intentions. (I would watch him have completely average interactions with people – wait staff, cashiers, etc – but afterwards he’d turn around and seethe, “Can you believe the way they talked to me?!” or “I can’t believe how they disrespected me!” It was very confusing.) I bought him a pair of trousers once and he loved them; he put them on and seemed so excited and loved the way they fit. I was pleased to see him happy, so I bought him a few more pairs of the same trousers, all in different colours. I thought this would delight him, but upon receiving them, he accused me of trying to “control” him and trying to “dictate the clothes [he] wore.” (He even said something similar when I brought him a goofy souvenir T-shirt from a tourist trap I visited: “You’re trying to control me by dressing me a certain way.” In order to get him to calm down, I had to ask for forgiveness and assure him it was only meant as a joke and he didn’t have to wear it if he didn’t want to.) I was dumbfounded, as I thought I was simply buying my partner a thoughtful gift. But this was the trap that was set up for me so often: me doing something I thought was kind, only to be twisted by him and used against me. I would cook dinner and when I would offer him a second helping, he would say things like, “I know you’re doing that because you think I’m fat.” Things that I never said and had no basis in reality. His behaviour was so erratic and unpredictable that I was intimidated by him and just began trying to say or do as little as possible. During arguments, he would grab the nearest sheet of paper, write down whatever it was I’d said or done wrong in the moment, put the date at the top, and make me sign it. He made me keep them in a safe place – I still have some of them – and said things like, “This way you can’t say in a week or a month that you didn’t know we’d discussed this issue because I have it in writing.” He’d bring them up in later arguments whenever I committed the latest infraction and would say, “Remember you signed that paper saying you wouldn’t say/do that again.” He probably did this a dozen or more times.

He relished calling me a liar and seemed to manufacture situations for which he could make this claim. A real example: I came home once exasperated and said, "There were a million people at the store today!" He demanded accuracy and asked why I was "lying" to him, and after several rounds of, "Were there actually one million people at the store?" I said, "... of course not," to which he replied, "Then why did you lie to me?" He made me apologise and say out loud, "I am a liar." Of course, I thought this was absurd at first, but because he was able to couch it in a "need" for "accuracy" for his "mental health" (even though every time I was still made to say aloud that I was a "liar" and accompany the confession with an apology), I started to acquiesce. After several times of this happening (me using a goofy but obvious and common exaggeration, e.g. "It was a thousand degrees outside today") and the same punishment being applied, I learned to alter my speech patterns to avoid being shamed. You do start to tell yourself that you just need to work harder, you’re not being a considerate enough partner, that you’re the “normal” one so you should make more sacrifices to help the “ill” one, so I read books and messageboards and websites designed to help partners of people with depression and suicidal thoughts, but no advice I gleaned from them ever worked. I never had the right answer to solve his problems and would often run upstairs and go to bed as early as 7pm to avoid his screams and unhinged behaviour. Everything was on my shoulders because I “didn’t care enough about him” to “learn how to manage his mental illness,” but the truth is, it felt like that was all I did: attempt to learn how to help him. It felt like I was trying to be his nurse or caretaker, not his partner. No matter what I did or what approach I took, it was wrong and he would shout at me. I was constantly dodging emotional landmines.

He’d often try to convince me that what was happening was not happening, even as it was happening. He’d corner me and shout at me that I was the one abusing him, I had done everything wrong, that I was the source of all of our relationship problems and if I’d only change, we’d be happy. I needed to do more work, I needed to stop making it all about me, I had to communicate with him better. “You need to be kinder and gentler with me,” he’d scream, missing the irony as his spittle landed on my face. I found out he lied to me about so many things, about his past, about previous relationships and how they ended (he ghosted his previous girlfriend — a woman who endured many of his same behaviours — as they were due to move in together and I had absolutely no idea; he and I were married mere months after this), just so much he told me has since been revealed to be false. I now know what projection is, because all of the times (and there were many) he accused me of cheating were likely just that: He had cheated on every previous partner and while I can’t know for certain, odds are he cheated on (or at least tried to cheat on) me as well. Covid lockdown exacerbated everything, of course, and while I previously had breaks in the day to myself while he was at work, we were now locked in the same house for an entire year. I used to dread hearing him wake up in the morning. He began drinking even more and more often, which made everything worse. His tantrums became more frantic and more frequent, with me scrambling to soothe him or avoid him completely, and I would start most days thinking to myself, “Try not to talk today, as you can’t upset him if you don’t say anything.” If I stayed quiet, there was no danger in saying the “wrong” thing. I also slept a lot in an attempt to escape, as it was my only option. He was able to convince me that I was selfish and that I wasn’t working hard enough to compromise and sacrifice for the sake of our relationship, which is something I’m susceptible to; I’m an only child who has lived alone for most of my adult life, and I do worry that has perhaps made me more insular and self-centered than most. I’m conscious of it and work on it, so if someone is telling me day in and day out that I am indeed those things, it’s not hard for me to believe it. I gave up so much of myself, my interests, my feelings, my needs, my wants, my desires, my social life… so much of me in the interest of proving to this person that I cared about that I am not “selfish,” to prove I was actively working to make our relationship “better” by doing everything he’d told me, following all of his rules. I was so exhausted. If it ever seemed like I was going to leave, he would often shout things like, “I have an illness. If I had cancer, you wouldn’t walk out on me!” It’s hard for a rational, empathetic person to argue with that scenario because of course I wouldn’t! But there are specific treatments for cancer, and presumably the person suffering from it would seek help from doctors – he didn’t. Also, there are no known illnesses where the treatment or the cure includes shouting at a person and controlling their every move through fear and coercion. I was regularly subjected to having to watch him self-harm, his chosen method either being punching himself in the head/face repeatedly or headbutting walls or furniture, and while I tried to physically intervene the first few times, I learned there was nothing I could do. Watching it happen was simply my “punishment” for whatever he decided I’d done “wrong” that day to “trigger” him. About two and a half years in, we had one of our worst, most interminable fights, and I couldn’t even tell you now what it was about, because in the last year they all blurred into a vague “you disrespected me” or “you don’t take my mental illness into account” rant, again with no real tangible focus, just a general “you said a wrong thing” tirade. (Once when we were on a walk, I casually asked him when he thought he’d start driving lessons – we had discussed it calmly weeks before – and he had such an intense, immediate breakdown because I was “trying to give him a deadline” that he collapsed on the walking trail and screamed at me so loudly that a woman across the field came out of her house and asked if we needed help and if everything was okay.) He had been shouting at me for hours, and my usual “just agree and say sorry” tactic hadn’t been working. There were quite a few times that my not shouting back made him even angrier and made him escalate things, as he would accuse me of “manipulation” since I wasn’t matching his level of upset. I’m not really a shouter by nature and don’t get angry easily, but also, I’d be so confused by his accusations that I would simply attempt to figure out what he was saying and try to figure out the nonexistent logic of his diatribe. If someone is screaming in your face that the sky is green, it’s hard to not be confused and reply with, “Wait, what? But it’s blue?” in an attempt to find some shared reality to anchor the conversation. This always made it worse, as since I wasn’t matching his intensity, he would call me a “sociopath with no emotions.” I was sat at my desk and he was standing in front of the door, where he had been yelling at me for hours, and in the frustration of not being able to make him stop and not being able to leave the room, I reached for the nearest thing, which happened to be an empty tote bag, and I threw it at him. It was the one time I’d lost my temper and I immediately felt ashamed that I’d stooped to his level. He stared at me in disbelief and then finally left the room, and I was grateful for the peace. I even apologised later and told him I’d regretted doing it, and it was never mentioned again… until months later when I told him I was leaving him, and he phoned the police and accused me of physical assault. Because of this one incident, his narrative now positioned me as the abuser.

A few months after that was sort of the apex, as the tantrums seemed to be daily, and the shouting hardly stopped. This was his busiest time at work and I was ominously warned that he was at his highest stress level. One day I asked about a simple chore (moving a paint can from the hallway and up into the attic) and he screamed in disbelief that I would dare bother him while he worked, and he got up and followed me around the house shouting until I relented and told him he was right; he is also fixated on his idea of “justice,” so if I ever crossed him in his eyes, I had to apologise a certain amount of times until he “believed” that I was sincere. Sometimes I had to apologise for not apologising enough! It started to feel like most days the only words I said were, “I’m sorry.” I was eventually in tears, exhausted and frightened by all the shouting, and he accused me of trying to manipulate him with my “fake crying.”

One afternoon in the final weeks before I left him, he calmly asked me to come upstairs and join him in the spare room, as he needed to talk. I sat down and he gave me a lecture in the most condescending paternal tone, calling me the most awful names imaginable in the eeriest, calmest, most direct way. He told me I was a terrible person, the “worst, most selfish person” he’d ever met, and that no one really liked or loved me, including my family and friends, among many other insults. (When I interjected once to ask how it was possible that many of my closest friends had been in my life for decades, he shot back, “That’s only because they don’t know the real you like I do.”) He was so calm and measured; it was surreal. After nearly ten minutes of talking down to me in this way, detailing why I was “lucky” he “stuck around” as I stared straight ahead (I had learned by now that leaving or trying to stop the conversation would cause more trouble, so I knew to just patiently sit and wait until it was over), I asked why he would even want to stay in a relationship with the person he’d just described. “Because I know I can help you change,” he said.

As a last resort and in an earnest attempt to work on our relationship, I signed us up for couples counselling, which we did for a month: four sessions. He became increasingly upset by the therapist’s gentle suggestions that perhaps he was the one overreacting, and shouted at the therapist during our final session. He told the therapist that I was clearly the abuser and that I had been “psychologically abusing” him for the whole of our relationship – that my not tending to his meltdowns “properly” with the methods he had meticulously dictated to me was the equivalent of “mental abuse.” (He’d even figured out that he’d had “approximately 300 panic attacks" during the course of our relationship, therefore I had “abused him 300 times.”) I think that was the moment I knew the relationship was irretrievable; if he’s not willing to listen to a therapist, who will he listen to? That day was one of the most difficult I’d endured, and I was again afraid I was losing sight of reality; I was again questioning myself and whether I had brought this on by not being a “better” partner who helped him more. I eventually got him to stop shouting and I went to bed (we had been sleeping in separate bedrooms for months at this point), only to have him rouse me a little while later to give me an unhinged lecture about my behaviour. I secretly recorded his rant on my phone, during which he said I was lucky he was “allowing” me to travel and I was made to thank him for his “largesse.” I sent it to a very close friend I had been talking to; I texted her and said, “Would you please listen to this and tell me if this is a normal argument between a couple? I’m afraid I don’t know what is normal anymore.” She texted back, “THIS IS NOT NORMAL! GET OUT OF THAT HOUSE!” and it finally opened my eyes to the way I’d been living. I booked a plane ticket mere days after global travel restrictions were lifted, to get some rest with my family back home and put some distance between us. I just needed to get away from the person who had been screaming at me every day and get my head straight and think about what to do next. (And I was too afraid to break up with him in person, as I had no idea how he would react or how bad it could get.) A few days after arriving, I called him with hopes of discussing a calm and civil breakup over the phone, but when I tried to tell him of my future plans to return and start the ball rolling on a divorce, he screamed that I wasn’t allowed to come back and if I tried to return he would call the police on me and/or change the locks. It escalated to a place I could have never anticipated, with mounting legal fees and paperwork, when all I wanted was my life back. All I wanted was to live without the constant burden of worrying how my every word or action would set someone off, to exist without being shouted at, to be able to make mistakes that every human makes without it having to be written down and brought up at every opportunity, to be used to shame me and keep me apologising forever for being a person, a flawed person who sometimes failed but was always punished for even trying. “You have never tried to understand me,” were some of his last words to me. But it was all I did, all I spent those years doing. And I’m so tired. The months since I’ve left him have been some of the hardest of my life. I feel like a ghost of my previous self. I have no confidence, no self-belief, no drive, none of the things I had before I met this person. It almost feels like part of the reason he chose me was that he perhaps thought these qualities I had, ones he desired to have himself, could be siphoned off of me, and when he realized that wouldn’t work, he had to stomp them out; if he couldn’t have them, I couldn’t either. I had to hate myself as much and he hated himself; that was his mission. Getting through each day is a struggle. I feel afraid to reach out to people, afraid they won’t believe me, afraid that they will judge me for “letting” this happen, for not standing up to him sooner. I judge myself for letting it get to this point, for “allowing” myself to be treated this way, even though the rational part of my brain understands the power of manipulation and that anyone can succumb to it. I’m afraid I won’t trust anyone again or that I’ll reject someone who is truly ill and really does need help and care because I will be afraid that they are using it as a weapon. I’m afraid of how “normal” I let this become and how each time I tell a different friend about the specifics, their shocked and horrified reactions remind me of how outrageous it really was and how I thought that was the treatment I deserved, that I had accepted it as “love.” That I thought because this person occasionally bought me flowers and made me dinner that I should overlook the rest because that was the only version of “love” I’d ever be able to have, a “love” that would only “work” when I gave up everything about myself in service to it, that as long as I didn’t speak or joke or laugh or feel or want or need, I’d be “loved.” During times he could see that I was frustrated and ready to give up, he’d often dramatically wail, “No one will ever love you like I love you!” Now I pray that is the case. A defiant part of me wants to pretend there isn’t permanent damage done, that I can shake this off and not allow this person to cast a long shadow over my life… but I can’t. I’m not okay. I’m not fine. I still can’t talk about this with friends without bursting into tears. I don’t feel confident enough to do things that used to come easy for me. I am too shaky to leave the house most days. Although I have learned that it isn’t my fault and I didn’t do anything “wrong” to bring this on; he’s done the same things to previous partners and will likely continue the pattern with future ones. Mental illness – any mental illness – isn’t an excuse to do whatever you want with zero consequences; you are responsible for your own behaviour. Having any sort of condition doesn’t give you the right to abuse or mistreat another person under the guise of “needing help,” and it does a disservice to those who are genuinely suffering without using it as an excuse to control the people around them. And while I’m not a doctor and not qualified to diagnose anyone, it’s hard to believe now that most parts of his “illness” were ever real; with hindsight, it just seems like willful and prolonged abuse and manipulation.

I had to – and still have to – fight his distortions and remind myself of the truth, of reality as it actually happened and not the narrative he attempted to force upon me. Many times, I wanted peace so badly that I was ready to give up, to just collapse, to just accept what was happening as inevitable, that I was too impulsive and jumped into the relationship too quickly and there were repercussions for being so hasty, but that just isn’t true. I don’t deserve this. No one deserves this.

Things that have helped me during this time: http://www.mentalhealth.org.uk/blog/toxic-shadow-emotional-abuse http://www.healthline.com/health/narcissistic-victim-syndrome http://www.refinery29.com/en-gb/love-after-abuse http://www.elle.com/culture/celebrities/amp35460385/fka-twigs-shia-la-beouf-abuse/

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butwhatifidothis · 3 years

Text

Tumblr is starting to VERY MUCH dislike how long the other reblog chain is getting, so this will be Reblog Chain 2 of my jotting down notes of this fic. Here is the first reblog chain for Chapters 1-20

But it appears as though I was correct in sleeping off Chapter 20, because Chapter 21 is. Hm. bad. Very. Not good.

Chapter 21:

Transcript under the cut:

Chapter 21: It's Called Scars so it Gonna Be Ass

- To be blunt, the constant need to reaffirm that yes, Edelgard went through terrible experimentation and that yes, they were very horrific, is tiring. This is chapter 21. The experiments occurred in chapter 2. Every single chapter between now and then have, at some point, mentioned that INDEED, Edelgard DID in fact go through horrific trauma. It is tiring to the reader to constantly have to reread the same thing - we know it happened. We know it was terrible. There's no need to constantly say so; we already understand as readers.

- "Every time the spark of life broke through Byleth’s blank face, it brought a flickering hope to the Flame Emperor’s heart." ->

- Firstly: Awkward use of the Flame Emperor epithet (its usage is on and off with how appropriate its been - this is off).

- Secondly: Once again, Byleth's face was rarely if ever blank. She was never the Ashen Demon, as even the last chapter showcased. The author is mistaking reservation with emotionlessness, which is simply wrong

- "There had been so many empty days and nights, without friendship, love or joy. With nothing to hope for, except someday, the peace of the grave." -> Suicidal tendencies: another trait that Edelgard doesn't have... (strikes against canon: 89)

- ...but Dimitri does. Counter: 12

- "Dimitri, too, was troubled by the thought, grasping the side of his head and frowning. As the spasm passed, he turned to Edelgard and smiled warmly." -> It seems a little callous to so casually toss Dimitri's symptoms into his interactions with others when such things simply don't occur in the canon interactions. It's not impossible, or strictly against canon, but it does not feel natural; it's more as though the author is shining bright neon signs that say DIMITRI HAS MENTAL HEALTH ISSUES than a genuine attempt at writing Dimitri's mental health issues. This is not the first time this sort of seemingly thoughtless showcasing of symptoms has happened (Noted separately: Dimitri having drastic mood swings)

- "No, this world must be ruled by humans…not cruel gods who ignored the prayers of little girls." -> This statement follows Edelgard internally chastising the actions of not gods, but the Children of the Goddess. This is a weaselly attempt at dodging Edelgard's racist beliefs that Nabateans should not be allowed positions of power by shifting the belief to apply to miscellaneous gods instead. While not inaccurate per se - she does also canonically believe that gods should have no power in human affairs - it is not honest

- "Byleth nodded with childlike simplicity. “We should all try to get along.”" -> Again describing Byleth as childlike and/or innocent. Counter: 3

- For those curious: yes, the rat scene is implemented, yes it is sloppy, yes it is out of character for Claude - so much so that it is being noted separately - and yes it is forced to all hell

- What will be noted here, however, is that this is yet another instance of a man being demeaned/humiliated for the honor of a woman. See quote: "Byleth was on him in an instant, a tempest forming in the sea of her blue eyes. “That isn’t funny.” She crossed her arms sternly. “Jokes are about bringing people together...about making them smile. Right now, the only person laughing is you.”" with Claude reacting awkwardly. Once again, Man Bad Woman Good

- In a showcasing of a complete lack of self-awareness within the fic: "“Maybe if you’d have taught the Deer instead…but since you seem to have no ambitions outside of cleaning up Edelgard’s messes…”" -> This is Claude being portrayed as the bad guy, not the one being completely and utterly right

- " She slapped Edelgard on the back, and smiled heartily. “I agree, Dimitri!” Edelgard grimaced, trying to hide the fact her teacher had just struck the wound she had received during the mock battle." -> As well as where undoubtedly countless scars would be, yes? Scars that still cause Edelgard pain? In fact, Edelgard has been slapped on the back by Byleth and Jeralt numerous times before, and yet expresses no pain or discomfort.

- Another thing, that I had not noted though ought to have: Edelgard, a victim of sexual assault (in this fic), rarely seems to mind people touching her. She gets a little surprised if someone tries to get her attention with touch, yes, but Byleth's constant unprompted and random touching of Edelgard is never said to do anything but bring warmth and joy and comfort to Edelgard. It seems as though Edelgard suffering through sexual assault is just another source of trauma for the author to dump onto her for nothing more than pity points

- This is incredibly harsh to say, yes, and I would usually refrain from attributing such harshness onto a piece of text, but remember that Edelgard's scars only cause her pain when it's convenient, that she only experiences headaches when it's convenient, that she experiences PTSD episodes (when Claude mentions the rat) when it's convenient (note that in this fic he does it outside of battle, where her getting triggered wouldn't compromise her chances at victory). Edelgard not being touch averse and being a victim of sexual assault are not inherently something bad - survivors react to trauma differently, after all - but it is another in a steadily longer line of instances where Edelgard is simply given trauma for the sake of making her pitiable to the reader and the love interest, not something that Edelgard genuinely has to struggle with.

- "As Claude and Dimitri looked at their classmate expectantly, Edelgard was wracked with another bout of guilt. Deep in her soul, the princess knew these peaceful days would end soon. When that happened, no feast or vows of friendship could make up for the chaos and horror she would unleash. It would be better to pull away, close off her heart, rather than fuel the flames of her inevitable betrayal." -> Aka, "Feel bad for me, I feel guilty for planning to cause the death and ruination of countless innocents' lives all because I convinced myself that my way is the only way to get things done my way without ever actually trying to see if more peaceful ways could have worked. I'm going to orphan children, force families to fight each other, have the land be rampaged by banditry, and overall bring chaos onto these days that I ADMIT ARE PEACEFUL all because I feel that my way would be better. Wah wah pity me but I don't wanna be pitied I promise wah wah."

- "Byleth shrugged with a characteristic blend of innocence and spirit. “I guess I just like winning.” She began to blush and grabbed Edelgard’s hand. "It's so exciting! I’ve never had anyone other than Papa to celebrate with before!”" -> Byleth = innocent/childlike. Counter: 4

- The fic likes to reaffirm again and again that Byleth is "now" only acting like this due to Edelgard's presence in her life. Note also these statements written previously: "Every day, [Edelgard] was watching the person she loved grow and change. Become who she always was supposed to be." This, perhaps unintentionally, again enforces the "Lesbian Love is Pure and Innocent" trope; these wlw are only allowed to be their good girl, innocent selves - who they were always supposed to be - due to the pure lesbian love they have found with one another

- Count Bergliez didn't know of the experiments initially, but he eventually found out and did nothing to stop them, fleeing from a young and tortured El who was pleading for him to save her - Unnecessarily painting Count Bergliez as a spineless coward too afraid of Duke Aegir to save a child in pain

- Once again, a man fails to save a woman and further traumatizes her

- It should be noted that Bergliez is fearful not for his own life, but for that of his children, who were the ones Duke Aegir threatened. He, very similar to Ionius, cannot save Edelgard, except Bergliez (unlike Ionius) has a tangible, physical, explainable reason as to why he couldn't, and yet it is him who is painted as the bad guy, not Ionius. He is worthy of Edelgard's scorn and hatred, but Ionius only receives a begrudging feeling of betrayal from Edelgard that she feels guilty for harboring, even though he failed her far more than Bergliez failed her.

- "Daughters must always be loyal to their fathers" trope

- "No decent person thought the things Edelgard did. Just as her body had been twisted and shattered by the experiments, her mind bore terrible scars. Scars that the monster kept hidden, so she could walk in the world of men." -> Dehumanizing oneself as a monster as well as having violent thoughts (that specifically stem from trauma) one feels guilty for harboring are not traits Edelgard shows in canon... (strikes against canon, 90, 91)

- ...but Dimitri does. Counter: 13, 14

- "world of men?" Did the author perhaps mean "world of man," as in mankind? Keep note of

- The reason as to why Bergliez is said to have witnessed young El's tortured state and did nothing to help her is revealed: in canon, he dislikes her. It is blatantly and objectively said that he and Edelgard share a mutual displeasure in the other's company. What this fic had him do will be used as an excuse as to why he doesn't hate her, since no one is allowed to dislike Edelgard on the "good" side

- Edelgard, upon being asked if revenge is the reason she is doing what she's doing (reuniting Fodlan): "“No.” Edelgard put her hand to her chin thoughtfully. “I think for a long time, it was…but after a while, I realized that revenge wouldn’t satisfy me.” She looked at the blue sky above. “After you go through that much suffering…when you beg for help, day after day, and no one cares...you realize that nothing will ever truly make you feel safe again. The only thing I want is for this madness to end.”" -> This is internally inconsistent. See chapter 15 note: ""You know why they created me in the first place.” / “To reunite Fódlan,” spat Hubert. “It was all my father talked about.” / “And I will give it to them. "" This directly connects Edelgard's want to reunite Fodlan to the wants of her tormenters (as this states she is doing it out of spite). Note how Hubert spits at the idea of reuniting Fodlan, and how it was all his father - portrayed as a villain - talked about. This is not what this Edelgard wants, at least not of her own independent want. Earlier in this very chapter, Edelgard internally states a want to hurt Bergliez for leaving her behind. To say that she now no longer thinks vengeance would satisfy her, or that none of the reason that she is doing everything she does is out of a want for revenge, is ridiculous

- Edelgard to Bergliez, upon being asked what will happen to him and his family should Edelgard rise to power: "“All those who distinguish themselves will be rewarded. Given your history, I have little doubt you will be among them.” She nervously played with her white gloves. “All I ask is that when I seize back control of the throne, I can count on the military’s support.”" -> Yes, all who distinguish themselves to Edelgard, for Edelgard's cause, that Edelgard can see and/or know of. How likely is it that a poor farmer who is exceptional at fighting will actually be noticed by Edelgard and be given the credit he deserves, when others who may not be as meritable but do have some merit have the connections to show themselves directly in front of Edelgard? What means will Edelgard give the poor soldiers (that she or Byleth aren't already friends with, notably Dorothea and Leonie) that will allow them to be able to be seen by her and have their merits recognized? Edelgard is the one who says who gains power after all, so it is her they must prove themselves to, but how can they realistically do that?

- What about professions that are not immediately beneficial to Edelgard's cause, such as the arts? How will they fare in Edelgard's society, when their works and talents yield no tangible, objective results (such as, say, farming)?

- Something the fic will address?

- Edelgard does not nervously do anything in front of those she is trying to negotiate with in canon, not even Thales. Strikes against canon: 92

- "[Bergliez] could only laugh in response. “I think we’re going to get along rather well, my lady…and the other?”" -> Except Bergliez and Edelgard don't get along well, ever. Pre ts they are stated to dislike each other, which continues even onto post ts with Bergliez being the only noble Edelgard couldn't bring to heel. Strikes against canon: 93

- As predicted: No one is allowed to dislike Edelgard on the "good" side

- Literally forgot Hubert was with Edelgard and Bergliez lmao

- Ionius tried to consolidate power to be rid of the consort system due to his unending love for Anselma -> A ridiculous idea, plain and simple. Ionius was Emperor. If he wished to be rid of the consort system there was no need for him to try and take away all power from the other Imperial houses.

- If Ionius truly loved Anselma, why did he allow her to be exiled from the Empire? Why didn't he step in and use his influence as Emperor to help her?

- Edelgard, when she is Emperor - passed down a supposedly empty crown, at that - showcases the all-encompassing power the title of Emperor truly holds to one willing to use that power. That Ionius supposedly wanted to do all of these reforms and yet nothing at all was done, ever (save for ruining Houses Hrym and Ordelia, something even this fic has as canon), if Ionius did want to make these reforms, means that he was too spineless and cowardly to truly go through with trying to pass them. This again unintentionally showcases how awful a ruler and weak-willed a person Ionius was when he had power when trying to paint him in this righteous light.

- Lambert was stated to be trying to pass reforms before he died in canon, not Ionius. From parents to the children, the author is attributing traits from Lambert onto Ionius just as he (author's confirmed gender is male) attributes traits from Dimitri onto Edelgard

- " Her father and mother…she had thought their romance a fairy tale-a story from her father to make a motherless child feel valued. But…they truly had loved each other." -> Edelgard does believe Ionius when he told her of the story of when he and Anselma (supposedly) met each other. There is nothing to indicate that Edelgard thought it to be a lie: in fact, in canon: "But I choose to believe there was genuine love between them." Strikes against canon: 94

- It seems as though finally, after around 18 chapters, Edelgard's scars will finally cause her genuine inconvenience due to her complex about them as well as her trust issues. She has a gash on her back from the Battle of Eagle and Lion, but will not have it treated if Manuela isn't the healer, and yet the woman is occupied dealing with the rest of the students who were injured. How will this fic deal with this?

- Ingrid, referring to her and Sylvain: ""We just switched from Felix lecturing us all day to listening to Edelgard moralizing, didn’t we?"" -> The author is trying to compare a childhood friend whose friends have had years to get used to their barbed tongue to a stranger that directly insults the dreams of one of them. Something which Ingrid canonically hates having be done to her, even from Felix, a childhood friend. Once again, Ingrid being so casual about Edelgard being so disrespectful of her dreams is out of character. Strikes against canon: 95

- "Sylvain shook his head knowingly, ignoring Felix’s truly alarming scowl. “You should have seen his face, Edelgard. Dimitri would go on and on about this girl he met when he was a kid…and Felix would complain about her for hours!” He looked at Felix and smiled. “For all his whining about the “Boar,” nobody loves Dimitri more than him.”" -> Oh? A romantic gay male relationship presenting itself within the fic?

- Another vision of SS experienced by Edelgard. Word from a nameless guard: "The woman, Byleth, leading their forces... She’s not human! She killed half my battalion with one swing of that sword of hers. She didn’t speak, she didn’t shout, she didn’t even change her expression!” The panicked man was teetering on the edge of hysteria. “All those people rallying around her, and it’s like she doesn’t care at all. Like she's a walking corpse!"" -> Obviously saying that Byleth becomes the Ashen Demon if not allowed to be with Edelgard.

- Unintentional statement: Byleth can't be the pure innocent (lesbian) woman without Edelgard's (lesbian) love granting her purity, reverting her to a monstrous, corrupt demon incapable of humanity

- See chapter 20 note: "Implying that choosing SS - aka, choosing the Nabateans - makes Byleth less human. Intentional?" Confirmed to be intentional. Also false: in canon, even when accounting for CF's lesser chapter count, Byleth emotes far more on SS than on CF, which matches with CF having Edelgard call Byleth detached in their A support. Strikes against canon: 96

- The same nameless soldier, same context: "And those Faerghus kids…” / Edelgard leaned forward in her chair. “Ingrid…Sylvain…what of them?” / “They…they were animals. Screaming and ranting about revenge for the King.” -> Is the author really demonizing Sylvain and Ingrid for (potentially!) being mad at Edelgard for murdering one of their childhood friends? Is that really the depths the Edelgard worship will sink to, that friends becoming enraged at a friend's unjust murder from a warlord is being portrayed as something sad for the warlord? Just what else should Edelgard be pitied for?

- "The scared girl desperately tried to drown out the thoughts that reverberated incessantly. / They’re going to despise us…it’s destiny. And how could they not? If we were truly good, the Goddess would have saved us…protected us. But She didn’t. The Goddess took Mother. She took our family. And soon, She’ll take everything else we love. She hates us. / It’s what we deserve." - Now confirmed that Edelgard hears multiple voices in her head tormenting her. That trait that, once again, Edelgard does not have... (Strikes against canon: 97)

- ...but Dimitri does. This is the third time this chapter that this has happened, and far from the only chapter to display such baffling characterization of Edelgard via Dimitri's traits. It is nonsensical.

- " Why had [Edelgard] even been born at all? Nonexistence would have been preferable to watching every faint dream be dashed, to suffering alone over and over. She was just…so tired of being alive." -> Once. Again. Suicidal tendencies/thoughts is not a trait Edelgard shows in canon... (Strikes against canon: 98)

- ...but Dimitri does. The fourth! The fourth time in one chapter the author desperately wanted to just write Dimitri!

- If the fic wanted to take Edelgard in a different direction than canon does and has her display some of these traits, it would be more passable, but this fic is under the delusion that it is in any way following canon closely, especially in regards to Edelgard, and so this can only be seen as a desperate attempt from the author to have Edelgard be sympathetic by donning the skin of an actually sympathetic character such as Dimitri

- "Edelgard looked at herself in the mirror. The back of her academy uniform was stained red, the rhythmic, soft dripping of blood assaulting the princess’ ears." -> And no one commented on this? No one was worried? Not Ingrid, Sylvain, and Felix, who were sitting right by her? Not Lysithea, who saw her take the blow to her back and never get it healed? Not Dimitri, who delivered the blow? It just so happened that literally no one at all noticed this?

- Byleth literally slapped Edelgard on the back earlier? Wouldn't her hand come back red with blood if it were seeping through the uniform?

** The scene that follows the previous note is too long to quote, despite how truly terrible it is. Long quotes, even extremely long quotes, have been presented in these notes before, but the length this quotation would be if the full extent of it were written here would be a mess, and quite frankly, at that point it would do one better to simply go to the fanfiction itself and read the text from there. With the context received from these notes, if one wishes to see the words for themselves, go to chapter 21 of The Emperor and the Goddess, enter Ctrl + F (or Find in Page on mobile devices), and enter the phrase "Byleth crossed her arms, clearly frustrated" verbatim. The following note will not be quoting the entire scene from the fic (merely summarizing it), though context is needed to understand how truly bad the scene is. **

- To have hope in this fic performing anything correctly is proving to be a fool's dream, for it has yet to do anything right; that includes the aforementioned gash upon Edelgard's back. As stated, it did not draw the attention of those who were sitting around her nor did it draw the attention of the one who witnessed the injury itself, nor of the one who delivered the injury itself, so no one commented on the gaping, bleeding wound Edelgard was "hiding" from everyone as she turned her (bleeding) back to them and left for the baths to clean up (it must be heavily stressed: immediately after leaving it is revealed that the blood is seeping through her uniform). As she was washing - naked, of course - Byleth just so happened to step into the baths with only a towel wrapped around her "for modesty," much to the horror of Edelgard, for she does not want Byleth seeing her scarred body. A slight argument arises between the two over Edelgard getting her injuries checked, before Byleth warns Edelgard that she will go to Rhea and force her to go to the infirmary should Edelgard continue to refuse treatment, which drives Edelgard past the brink. She raises her arms from the bathwater and presents her scars (""Fine!... If you want to see so badly, here!""), to the horror of Byleth ("Byleth Eisner was not a woman given to strong emotional reactions, but she staggered back, hands over her mouth."). Edelgard cries in hysteria, fear of her beloved teacher running away in disgust over her ugly, mutilated body overwhelming her. But Byleth, childlike in her innocence, shared that she too is scarred in strange ways, and that she too is scared of failing those around her - that she has no ambitions save to help and protect those around her. Byleth reveals that it is Edelgard whom Byleth looks up to for always being so strong and always moving forward, and shows that without Edelgard Byleth wouldn't know how to handle the pressure everyone else puts on her. The exchange ends with Byleth reassuring Edelgard that she is beautiful and not the monster she thinks she is.

- There is no nice way of putting this: this is a classic example of how not to write someone opening up to another about something. Edelgard views herself as weak, ugly, repulsive, a monster, shameful, but it is Byleth's love and affection that gives her comfort and warmth, that gives her hope of something more. It forces Byleth to behave wildly out of character (the author can try to excuse this with "well she wouldn't normally behave like this!" all he wants, it doesn't matter when it goes against the base, canonical Byleth. Strikes against canon: 99) in order for Edelgard's scarred body to be seen as something that is repulsive, that is ugly, that is stained, so much so that the pure, childlike, innocent Byleth couldn't stand to see something so tainted. And yet it is that same pure, childlike, innocent Byleth's pure, innocent, childlike love that pushes away the pain of Edelgard's scars for just that moment. Other characters become suddenly blind and/or forgetful of Edelgard's obvious, bleeding wound so that it is Byleth who can be the one to save Edelgard with her pure, innocent, childlike presence and her pure, innocent, childlike uncertainty about her own insecurities (but only when it is convenient for Edelgard, as even Byleth didn't noticed the gaping, bleeding wound until she was alone with Edelgard where no one could interrupt their bonding moment). This scene is inorganic and forced, ham-fisting Edelgard and Byleth in the same room - the wash room, where both are either naked or nearly naked - so that Byleth is the one to find Edelgard, no one else. No one was worried enough about the sudden exit Edelgard took from the conversation she was having to follow her and make sure she was alright, and Byleth just so happened to enter the baths right after Edelgard. The scene is, to be frank, insulting.

- There have been a couple of joking references to a book titled Stones to Abigail in these notes, but in all seriousness, this scene plays unsettlingly similar to a scene in said book, where a scarred girl who is naked reveals her "ugly" and "revolting" scarred body to the love interest, who goes on to soothe and comfort the naked girl as best they can. The resemblance is uncanny

- Byleth described as childlike/innocent. Counter: 5

- Edelgard, in canon, never expresses feeling herself to be ugly, or repulsive, or a monster. Strikes against canon: 100

- Again, Edelgard's scars are only important when they are convenient - this time, in helping develop the romantic relationship between her and Byleth

- There are ways in which scars can be utilized without being problematic, but certainly not when this much focus is placed on them and yet they are only truly present when they cannot hinder Edelgard.

- Perhaps particularly insulting is this phrase from Edelgard: "Did she actually love Byleth at all, or just being saved by her?" Yes, Edelgard, you do simply want to be saved by Byleth, because that is precisely what the narrative has been drilling into the reader's heads ever since Byleth showed herself. Byleth is Edelgard's light, Byleth is Edelgard's hope, Byleth gives Edelgard back her humanity, Byleth is Edelgard's one source of joy, Byleth is Edelgard's entire life, and nothing, absolutely nothing in this fic has shown this to ever be a bad thing. This dependence on Byleth to bring Edelgard joy at the near complete expense of everyone else has been propped up as something romantic, and yet it's now, 21 chapters and over 85K+ words in, that we're supposed to believe that this was actually Edelgard being unhealthy? Even though the author himself said that this was what he enjoyed about their relationship, how much they found each other in each other? Even though we see what the author thinks would happen to the two of them should they separate - Edelgard, lonely and afraid without her beloved teach, and Byleth, the Ashen Demon who cares for nothing without her beloved student - in her visions of SS? This is a joke

- It cannot be overstated that Byleth came to the bathhouses completely independently of Edelgard. She did not come to specifically see her because she followed her out of worry for Edelgard due to her injury - she only knows that Edelgard's injured in the first place due to seeing bloody bandages that Edelgard removed in the bathhouse, before Byleth arrived.

- Author's notes: "On Bergliez, we find out very little in-game, but he 1) offers himself for execution so his men can go free in SS and 2) seems to be actually competent at his job. I thought a nuanced portrayal was more interesting, since I've been writing Aegir as the absolute worst person in the world." -> Note: this is what the author believes to be a nuanced take on someone. Someone who likes Edelgard entirely and does nearly whatever they can to help her, but they did one thing that's morally gray (leaving a child behind to save his own children from the same fate) that is portrayed as objectively bad, so now they are nuanced. While perhaps this sort of character would be truly nuanced in better hands, as it is with his actions being portrayed as something that is obviously so completely and utterly wrong and him someone who deserves complete and utter condemnation - and yet Ionius, who does far worse for far less understandable reasons, gets a comparative slap on the wrist - it causes confusion as to Edelgard's lines. Bergliez seeing her the one time and never helping her is enough for her to want to hurt him as she was hurt, but her father repeatedly coming to and "being forced" to watch her actively be tortured and doing nothing does little to invoke similar depths of resentment? Even granting the idea that "she gives more slack to her father," Ionius is objectively and far worse than Bergliez, down to doing hard things to protect their children, and yet it is only Bergliez who is shined in this unpleasant a light

- To be clear, Bergliez's decision was not a good one, but understandable. It is a gray decision to make. But notice how he is called "gray" and "nuanced" and yet Ionius is nearly completely innocent, as described by the author himself, despite their being no given explaination as to why "he was a figurehead" should be a good enough reason to wash him literally standing there and watching as his children - some of whom aren't even teens yet - get slowly tortured and killed.

- "There are many localization changes I understand (Byleth wanting to get drunk after the battle is one of them), but Treehouse's decision to remove Ionius' entire reason for power centralization (eliminating the consorts) was a big, big mistake." -> Given the history of this author's grasp on the Japanese language, this needs to be checked, as he cannot be trusted as a source as to whether this is true

******* Notes of Claude mischaracterization: Chapter 21, section 1, paragraphs 1, 21 & 23, 27 *******

#o captain my captain #is the Cap'n's name fuckin' Greg holy shit #this chapter was baaaaad #b-but hey maybe i'm just being overly critical?

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cheerstofandomfamily · 3 years

Text

Well it's officially been 15 hours since I began realizing that my hopes were about to be crushed, and my fears would become reality.

I stepped away from Supernatural earlier in season 15 because I knew the only ending to this show would be death for at least one brother. I knew that for my mental health I needed a break, or to step away entirely, from Tumblr and from the show. It was consuming me, and I was letting it.

I didn't think Destiel would ever happen. I had made my peace with that, and I left the show during a time where not a lot of drama was happening. It worked, and I was able to continue loving Destiel through fan fiction, and occasional moments that I would later on see on Tumblr.

Then 15x18 happened. And the whole world exploded in rainbows and black goo. And I said to myself, "Well if they're going to let THIS happen, then it might soften the blow of seeing one of my boys die a perma death."

It did not.

Supernatural, I cried myself to sleep last night. And I'm crying again writing this post, because you took my hope, gave me a HEARTBREAKING death scene, and then NOTHING to tape my heart back up again.

To Jared & Jensen - you performed the most emotional scene I have seen in an incredibly long time. And I applaud you for it. I'm mad at how it went down, but I give you credit for making me feel feelings.

To Misha - you deserved better than to be an extra they had to cut due to covid. I'm devastated for you.

To the Supernatural fandom - I don't know what I'll do without you guys now. I truly cannot grasp the reality that I'll never be able to analyze another gif set, or image of Dean's bedroom, or wonder if Sammy is going to get hit in the head again. I'll never see green and blue the same. I'll never be able to listen to Carry On My Wayward Son the same, if at all. I'll never hear the words "you changed me" again without wanting to punch something.

To the friends, and mutuals I was interacting with and had to step away from - I'm truly sorry that we have been so misled by the story. I've enjoyed the last two weeks immensely, and can't put into words how much I will miss this. (Alphabetically tagging a few specifics that have been either on my mind or in my notifications recently, but there are SO many of you that I will miss dearly.) @amyoatmeal @dean-is-bi-till-i-die @emblue-sparks @legendary-destiel @madimoo31 @mmangoss @mrsaquaman187 @savannadarkbaby @savemecastiel @shippsblog @spn-bitchh @spnjohnlocked @verobatto-angelxhunter @weird-dorky-little-d

Each and every one of you has made this experience so meaningful. You asked what about all this was real? What the point was? We are.

To the writers - I have no words. I know you did what you thought would be a great ending, and maybe I'll look back in another 15 years and be at peace with it.. there were some good moments, but for me I will always remember what was missing.

I understand now. You were the Empty and WE were Castiel. The moment we let ourselves be happy, you came for us. The moment we FORGOT and let the sun shine on our faces, you brought us to nothing. And then left us to burn with our regrets.

I suppose I should thank you for letting me see Sam shirtless one last time, but then you destroyed that with a stupid wig too. I should thank you for the fact that Cas was in heaven and was able to fix it with Jack, and spend eternity as TFW after all, but we didn't even get more than an eyebrow raise and half a smile. You couldn't have used his voice in this episode instead of 15x19? Now I'm mad about Lucifer again. I will never be over the fact that you thought we'd want to see him again, instead of literally any other character.

I'm ENRAGED. That you took my Sammy, and all his character growth, and leadership development, and said "the only peace for him is if everyone he loves is taken from him and is left with only one path in life, and that's the apple pie life where he can grow old and have a kid" WHAT.

I might add more later, I don't know. Right now I am sick with grief over this finale. I know I can't look at it objectively, I know a lot of people out there did enjoy it. I am not one of those people. And I knew better.

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formerprincewille · 2 years

Note

In your opinion, what are the bottom aka worst 5 seasons of the skam universe and why do you feel that way?

Oh boyyy you’re really setting me up to piss everyone off. OK I’m not gonna put this in any particular order because it’s not something that I can really do. All of my least favorite seasons are kind of like apples and oranges because they all have their own reasons. Which I will lay out.

Wtfock season 4. I mean, no explanation is really needed on this. It’s objectively the worst season of skamverse. However, it’s not actually my least favorite personally and I will lay out some reasons. Why it’s bad: they had a girl who was racist as a main character. They also did nothing to actually make her relatable to a general audience because she was a model and Instagram influencer. Romi is a weak actress. Now, I’m actually going to be fair and say that she is not the worst actress I’ve ever seen in my life or anything. But she is way too weak to handle her own season. I thought that she was OK in season five but that’s because she only had a few lines and things were not in her pov. But her acting is weak and it’s made all the more apparent because she is surrounded by what I consider to be the most talented cast in all of skamverse. On top of the racism and having an unrelatable main character played by a weak actress, the season was also just… Boring. And I will actually give a little bit of understanding to the fact that this was done during the height of Covid and there were very strong restrictions but it was still so blahhh. But I actually did a recent rewatch, and removed from the fury of the time that the season was live, I can still appreciate a few things about it. All the actors (other than Romi) do a fantastic job with a crap script. The soundtrack is, as always, fantastic. That’s one thing wtfock can always be counted on for. I liked that Yasmina and Luca both got decent amounts of screentime. I loved the Moyo development and even though Noa deserved SO much better, he really was amazing as Moyo and made the audience love him when as a character he was not always well-liked. I loved seeing Robbe so carefree and happy after he had it so rough. It was so wonderful to see him completely comfortable with himself. Though there were only a few, I loved the sobbe and zoenne moments we got. And I loved that the show didn’t majorly fuck with them and instead allowed them be happy. And I loved seeing Milan. Even though he was used as a sympathetic ear for Kato, it is still kinda in his character to be so and I just really missed him. Yeah that’s it. All of those things can’t make up for how terrible the season was, but I’m someone who tries to see the good in things whenever possible.

España season 3. Hate it. Loathe it. I make no secret about the fact that I am not a fan of Nora Grace. I never have been. She is my least favorite Noora. I find her condescending and off-putting. I don’t think Nicole is that great of an actress either. And I know there are people who are like “but the MESSAGE” and my response is what’s the point of having a message if the season is unbearable to watch? I just couldn’t stand it. Yes, abusive relationships are an important topic. But to take a character and make them spend an entire season in one was not needed. It was frustrating and infuriating to watch Moyo with Kato (don’t get my started on them staying together ugh) but the same went for Nora. I don’t even LIKE Nora, but to make her spend the majority of her screen time with the literal devil was such a disservice to her character. And while I don’t care about Nora and Alejandro, the season made their eventual endgame feel so sloppy and unearned. As a survivor of intimate partner violence, mental and emotional abuse, and sexual assault, that entire season should’ve come with one big trigger warning. And Skam is still meant to have entertainment value, even with its lessons. This season had none. There was no lightness to balance the darkness. It was all hurt and almost no comfort. One or two or even three hell weeks I can handle. But ten? No thanks. I have only watched it once and never will again. The ONLY good part was Viri’s clips. I liked those. Oh and one other thing I liked were the posters of Nora with the shadows on her. But that’s it.

España season 4. This one broke my heart. After Joana, Amira was my favorite character on the show. In some ways, this is one of the worst of my five only because I care so much about the main. So let’s go through it just like Amira did: starting with the trailer. They baited a love triangle with her, Dani, and Kassim. Then it turns out Kassim was gay and they whitewashed Yousef. They spent entirely too much time on the stupid Lucas/Kassim thing. I don’t like Lucas and think the actor is pretty bad, but like what was the point of the storyline to begin with? Seriously why include it?? Which brings me to Dounia, who had great potential but it turns out she only existed to bring Kassim into the storyline. I hated that Amira outed Kassim to Dani. I hated that her big “I cant lie” theme had to do with outing a gay man. We spent a season of watching Amira suffer while simultaneously getting to see everyone else’s happy endings through extra clips. I hated how selfish Cris was too. It’s like they regressed her previous character development. I’m not a huge fan of Cris but I was proud of her growth as a person and s4 (for at least a while) was like bitch you thought. Now let’s move on to Dani. If we must. He is white of course, which is such a shame given the lack of poc actors on españa to begin with. The actor is terrible. Just… so bad. Dani is an asshole. He has no respect for Amira’s beliefs, culture, or boundaries. Younes, Yousef, and Mohammed would NEVER. He talks about her behind her back. He is not even worthy of breathing the same air as her. Which makes it kind of a blessing that they break up and don’t get back together in the end. But also- that is such BULLSHIT. Amira is the only woc on the show and she is also the only one to end up alone. She didn’t get to have the love story she deserved. She easily got the worst Yousef. Her season was cut short by two episodes. Her graduation speech was canceled and we never even got to know what it would’ve said. She spent 3/4 of her season fretting over Lucas/Kassim. She was done dirtier than any other Sana, and I stand by that. Yasmina’s gs was shitty, but at least she had a season devoted to her and not focusing on all the other couples with random gays thrown in for good measure. AND she had an absolute treasure of a man who deserved her. Imane’s season at least delved into the racism she experiences and even though I’m not a fan of Sofiane, she still got her happy ending too. God it was just such a waste. What I did like: Hajar’s acting. She does the shocked face a bit too much sometimes, but she is truly talented and handled her terrible storyline as best she could. And Joana’s clips. She is my fave and I loved getting stuff with her. Crisana’s tiktok shenanigans. And Cris coming out to her mom. And the ending beach scene was lovely. That’s about it.

France and OG s2: I don’t like most noorhelms, but these are undoubtedly the worst. William was so fucking toxic and seeing that romanticized was just awful. And then France saw it and was like “hold my beer” and made Charles even worse. The SA storyline was important, but then it was dropped. And Charles taking his brother’s side…and then making noorhelm and marles get back together and have it be like yay they made it…no thanks. OG had a good soundtrack at least. Idk I rewatched each of them one time and hated it just as much. I don’t have much more to say. They just suck.

Honorable mentions: Austin s1. Marlon sucks and the show was just so cringey. There was such a different vibe compared to the European remakes. And not in a good way. But Shay is amazing and I like the gs, so they had that going for them. And France s4. The gs sucked but I also don’t like Sofiane. Plus too much manon focus and stupid Charles returning (though the scene itself when he rolls up in the motorcycle is still hilarious to me).

And who knows, depending on how the rest of the season goes, Ismail could end up on this list too.

#anon #skamverse #wtfock #skam france #skam españa #skam austin #skam #druck

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spade-riddles · 3 years

Text

Submission: Adjusting expectations

Okay, guys. Wading in here where it’s possible no-one wants me, but … here goes.

We - Kaylors - are in a hard place right now. People feel hurt, they feel hopeless. They feel like they were led on by the likes of Spade. I’m not here to invalidate any of the feelings that come from seeing Karlie and Taylor play out this charade.

But I think we (collectively, as a fandom) need to take a breath and ask if any of this is really as bad or unfixable as we think it is. Because, for me, the recent stunting is hard to stomach but not truly surprising. On some level this is how I expected Karlie and Taylor to handle both the birth of the baby and the launch of the rerecorded albums. As much I wanted to believe in the idea of spring breaking loose and bringing with it a fervent revolution … I could see the pieces still in play on the board and I doubted it was coming.

I think the problem is that there was a split between the optimist and pragmatist sides of the fandom, over the last year or so. To be clear - I’m not judging the optimist side of the fandom. Not at all. Taylor has pulled wildcard moves before, and emotions run so high in all this, especially with a baby involved now, that I don’t blame people for wanting to believe the best. But it reached a stage where some of the things people were trying to talk themselves into were just wildly unrealistic. And when that happens, of course you’re going to get hurt. It’s inevitable.

But let’s really look at this for a second. We should have known that neither Karlie nor Taylor was going to be shaving her beard in March. Ditching Jerk right after or just before the birth would have been too soon for Karlie. It’s not unusual for a celeb marriage to fizzle out within a year of the birth, but before the baby even arrives? That would be weird, and would draw attention just when it seems Kaylor don’t want it. They just had a baby. That’s an adjustment in itself, and Karlie is suffering enough social media hate on top of that. I wouldn’t blame her for just wanting to take a break and lie low during this difficult time. And unfortunately, for Karlie, that means maintaining the status quo of the situation she put herself in with Jerk. She may be doing the bare minimum to maintain it, but if she wants to avoid attention, she has to make it seem like everything between her and her “husband” is normal. And that she’s trying to make it work, which I believe will be important later. Good people try to make it work, even in bad relationships.

Toe wasn’t going anywhere either. Taylor had relied on him so heavily during the promotion of Folklore, with the William Bowery narrative, that she was almost backed into a corner. She had to give some allusion to his air quotes “creative input” and their so-called happy relationship, or her failure to do so would have become the story and overshadowed her night. The headlines would have either been break-up speculation or complaints that she didn’t give him his due. We think the cutesy coverage after she named him in her acceptance speech was bad, but negative headlines have a far longer shelf life and can take on a life of their own. They would have been worse. Whatever we might think of Taylor’s actions, Folklore is one of her best albums and she deserved to have her night.

So, on to the announcement of the birth. This is a tricky one, and again, I completely understand why people reacted so badly against it. It was everything we as a fandom said we didn’t want. It was Jerk using the baby for personal good PR. But I have to be honest here. I always thought we were kidding ourselves believing he would NEVER be seen with the baby or implied to be the father. I do believe Karlie is doing her damnedest to minimize the digital footprint of his involvement and keep her actual baby out of it. But he was always going to get to bask in the glow of playing daddy for a while. It’s the trade off Kaylor made when they used him to shore up their closet.

This is also why I increasingly suspect the timing of the announcement got the green light from Kaylor too. If Jerk was always going to be assumed to be the father of Karlie’s baby, then there was always going to have to be a birth announcement that incorporated him somehow - unless the girls were ready to answer awkward questions, and it doesn’t seem like we’re there yet. So the best way to minimize the damage is to have his moment of glory overshadowed by a bigger win for Taylor. It worked pretty well actually. Even on Kaylor blogs the stunt was mostly buried by Taylor content.

I know a lot of fans feel gaslit by all the hints, but I do think there’s a possibility Taylor really didn’t grasp how hurt Kaylors would be. From her perspective, she “fed” fans three times over that night. She gave us a beautiful performance, a gorgeous red carpet moment, and a win to celebrate. I think it’s possible she really didn’t realize the double whammy of stunting that night would make it all feel worthless for many.

Taylor is in an awkward position. As a consequence of Kaylor retreating into the closet, the support base for them has shrunk. (When I use the words “Kaylor fandom”, I refer to this support base.) I would say Kaylor fandom consists of two parts. There is a silent portion, who observe events and comment anonymously, but don’t say anything “on main”. And then there are the small corps of true believers, who think Karlie and Taylor are still together and the baby is theirs. This latter group do most of the actual talking about Kaylor, but they tend to be pretty battle-hardened. They’ve been around for years, they never believe any of the stunts and their capacity to be hurt by them is, as a result, pretty limited. These Kaylors criticize sometimes, but they tend to fall back in line eventually and mostly adopt a “let’s wait and see how this all shakes out” approach. The problem is that I would say these “chilled” Kaylors are the minority. For their own sanity they curate their blog experience and often don’t post the more negative anons they get. Which is fine, but if you were looking at it from the outside, I could see how it might create an impression that the fandom as a whole can roll with the punches. And for a lot of the silent majority, that’s not the case.

But again, I can see how Taylor might not necessarily know that. She went quiet after the Grammys, when I might have expected more celebratory posts from her. If I had to guess, I’d say she didn’t expect the backlash. I’m especially noticing a backlash against her for allowing Karlie to take so many hits while her own reputation has never been better. And I can’t defend her on that one, except to say I hope she has a plan. But I understand where people are coming from when they say the songs aren’t enough and actions speak louder than words. It’s tough to watch.

Still, we’re in a position we should realistically have been able to see coming. We should have known Jerk wasn’t going to be out of the picture immediately after the birth. This is one of those things nobody likes, but maybe we all just have to be patient on. I don’t see Karlie busting out of the closet to admit her marriage was a fake, or testifying to the FBI. I think she’ll just let her marriage quietly fall apart, as many real marriages did during the pandemic. And for that to work, she needs to make it look like didn’t throw away a family unit lightly. Hence the “I tried” post, the social media break, and the suggestions of spending time with Jerk’s family. All of this can be spun later into a narrative of Karlie having tried to make it work, only to never really be accepted. The hate online affected her mental health and she gradually realized how unhappy she’d become and decided she needed to break free and find her old self again for her baby’s sake. This is the most likely narrative for Karlie’s freedom and it’s one that could work - but it’s going to take time to unfold. Personally, I’m giving it a year. If we don’t see a separation by then, and definitive moves to a reunited Kaylor, I’ll be bowing out. I’ll still know what I believe the truth to be, but I won’t see the need to devote my energy to defending it. ,

Meanwhile, the masters rerecords are about to be released, and Taylor has invested a lot in their success. Because of this, I can’t envision her coming out until at least the big three (Fearless, 1989, and Red) have dropped. She might drop hints, but I don’t expect anything earth-shattering. Even the order of the album releases seems to confirm this. She’s breaking out the big guns first.

I’ve seen people speculate that because Rep can’t be rerecorded until 2022, Taylor will hold off on any coming out until then. And I’m not so sure of that. Yes, people listening to the album for clues would give Scott and Scooter money, but if we’re being honest, a fair amount of people are probably listening to those albums already, regardless of the drama. Those sleazeballs are profiting from Rep, full stop. But if Taylor profits more, from her bigger albums, she still wins. And she can still put out a Taylor’s version of Rep with vault tracks and collabs, to seduce people away from the Big Machine version in early 2022. Honestly, I think there’s a good chance Taylor would consider this is a worthwhile trade-off anyway, if it meant she got to live a more open life with Karlie - and most crucially, begin to repair Karlie’s reputation. As children get older and the world begins to leave the pandemic behind, it becomes harder to live behind closed doors. I guess we’ll find out how Taylor finds the reality of such a life, and what she considers worth sacrificing to step away from it.

All this to say: I can’t predict the future more than anyone else, but I don’t think the situation we’re in now is irreparable, and if we’re being really objective, I don’t think it’s even surprising. I do think Taylor should give us something, if she wants to keep us around. No-one can live on a complete absence of hope, and as I’ve stated, letting the fandom dwindle to this extent has its own dangers. But I think we also need to keep our time frames realistic, even if it means rejecting lifelines like the Spade riddles. We shouldn’t expect Karlie to be free of Jerk for around a year, and we shouldn’t expect Taylor to do anything much beyond general music promo until at least the big three have dropped. Sucks to say it, I know. But at least this way we won’t be disappointed, and if Kaylor do pull a wild card and move towards freedom, we can be pleasantly surprised.

Just my two cents.

___________________

Well written and fair arguments on our reactions and expectations. I had typed up more, but I will let others post their comments before I chime in.

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let-them-read-fics · 3 years

Text

The Finer Things

Pairing: Rosé x Fem!Reader

Word Count: ~ 4,864

Warnings / Misc. -- Pining, Some Self Doubt, Fluff, Some Angst, Happy Ending

Disclaimer: This writing is a work of fiction, and no disrespect is meant for those mentioned herein.

A/N: Hey everyone! This is my first time writing for Blackpink. I hope you enjoy. Happy reading, as always! Let me know what you think.

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Part 1: Partners

“Alright class, settle in now. Today we’ll be starting our new projects. You know the drill; they’ll be a quarter semester long, and you’ll have a partner to work with. That gives you 9 weeks to complete the assignment and be ready to present your creations. Your topic is “the finer things in life”. Remember: there’s no exact way to do this. Whatever that topic means, however you interpret it, just show us what you envision when you think of that. I look forward to seeing what you come up with.”

Unsurprisingly, everyone is rather excited for this project. Considering this class is an elective, your classmates signed up for it knowing what they were getting themselves into. Regardless, even the stray few that enrolled for an easy A would rather do this than Calculus and Statistics.

Your eyes scan the room, and you smile upon seeing everyone light up as they discuss their game plans. Familiar eyes meet yours from across the room, and you feel a blush begin to rise to your cheeks. You mentally curse yourself at how easy it is for her to make you giddy, but you don’t look away. The small smile that she gives you nearly makes you combust from the cuteness; you can’t help the dorky grin that takes over your features.

Before you can fully melt under her gaze, your teacher speaks up again. You silently thank the universe for that divine intervention. “Now that you’ve had a minute to brainstorm, it’s time for everyone’s favorite part: partner time! I’ve chosen your partners based on your individual strengths and weaknesses as photographers; I want this to be a true learning experience for all of you. Being an artist takes constant growth, and I see this as the perfect opportunity.”

Since your class is a fairly close-knit group of students, no one’s upset by who their partners are. Mrs. Johnson continues rattling off the pairs, and you take a moment to look out the window. It’s a beautiful day, the trees swaying gently in the breeze. The vivid red hues of their leaves are complimented perfectly by the bright blue sky behind them.

“...Y/N, you’ll be working with Rosé.” The second those words leave her lips, your eyes shoot to your partner’s. It’s an odd feeling, to put it plainly; those were the words that you were dying to hear, but also terrified of. After all, working so closely with your long-time crush would definitely prove to be nerve racking. You didn’t have much time to worry, though, as Rosé sat down at the desk in front of you, turning the chair around to face you. It was clear that she loved to see what she did to you, your reactions to her words, everything. She studied you like her life depended on it, but you never noticed. Your brain was always too busy short-circuiting to take in the ways that she watched you from afar, remembering every detail, curve, and dimple of your face.

“So, how about we meet up after school today to get some ideas going?” She proposes, and you nod. “How’s the park sound? I’d hate to miss such a gorgeous day.” Her face lights up at your suggestion, and you smile at the sight. In her excited state, she rushes out, “That’s just what I was thinking!” The two of you spend the rest of class chatting and goofing around, and go your separate ways once the bell rings. You send her one last wave, already missing her presence. To say the two of you are eager for your next meeting is a major understatement.

Part 2: The First Few Meetings

The first couple weeks are spent getting to know one another better and spending more time together -- something you definitely weren’t complaining about. Seeing her out of school, able to really be herself, was a magical experience. You often thanked your lucky stars that you decided to sign up for the class in the first place.

Part 3: You Go To One Of Her Practices

Attending school practices and games was never really your speed, but you made an exception for Rosé. Some family issues had gotten in the way of your meet-ups for a bit, so the two of you were a little behind schedule for the project. You weren’t worried (the honor student in you knew that you’d get it done in time), but Rosé asked you to stay after school for one of her cheerleading practices. “We can work on it everytime coach gives us a break, okay?” She had said earlier that day, during class. You were almost too mesmerized by the way her lips moved while she spoke to comprehend what she had said, her accent popping out in the most adorable way possible.

The memory brought a light smile to your face, and she saw it, stealing a glance at you. You looked up at her and tilted your head to the side, letting her know she’d been caught. Her eyes widened in shock and she quickly cleared her throat, clearly not expecting that.

~~~

“Ah, ah, ah,” you protested, blocking her from sitting down in the seat beside you. “Stand in front of me, I wanna take a picture.” She put on a horrified face, looking down at you. “Excuse me?? Absolutely not! I look terrible. I’m all sweaty.” You rolled your eyes at her, letting out a dramatic sigh. “I’m sorry to inform you, Rosé, but you’re physically incapable of looking bad. My condolences.” You bowed your head in mock pity, adding to the effect. “Oh shut up, you dork.” She said, pushing you playfully. “Fine. One picture; you better make it a good one.” You smiled your signature grin at her, and she got a little lightheaded at the beautiful sight. “1, 2, 3…”

Part 3.5: Could It Be?

“Rosé, I don’t know….” You begin, a grimace crossing your face. The object of your affection had spent the past 10 minutes trying to convince you to ditch work and accompany her to the local fair that was in town for the weekend. It’s not that you didn’t want to go; in fact, you can’t think of a place you’d rather be tonight than with her, getting away from the stress of everything life had been throwing at you. If you were honest with yourself, though, the work was just an excuse for something bigger; you knew that with each step closer you got to Rosé, you would eventually be taking two steps back. You had long ago assured yourself that she didn’t share your attraction, and you had done okay in accepting that fact. By okay I mean “totally not at all, even in the slightest.” You liked to pretend, though, wanting to have some semblance of control over the situation.

“Pleeeeease?” She whined into the phone, drawing the word out to torture you a little more. Surely she had to know what she was doing.

That simple question served as your command, and it became very apparent in that moment that you’d do just about anything that Rosé asked you to. You kicked yourself, a genuine feeling of nervousness rushing over you.

A sigh left your lips as you responded, “Okay, okay! But only for a little while.”

Her high pitched cheering drew a laugh from you, and you shook your head at her antics. What were you getting yourself into?

~~~~~

Rosé looked stunning, as usual. Her long blonde locks fell elegantly over her shoulders, looking just as soft as always. The pink top she donned complimented her light blue jeans perfectly; if you weren’t so enraptured by her, you might’ve gotten jealous. How can someone look so gorgeous without even trying? It’s infuriating, to say the least.

“Ready?” Her cheery accent met your ears, and you felt yourself pep up at the single utterance. Dear lord, you’re in deep. Pushing the thoughts from your head, you send her a simple smile and nod, pulling her in for a hug.

Freezing time had never been a thing that you thought about often, but it surely crossed your mind as you stood there with her in your arms, feeling her skin against yours. All too quickly she pulled away, already rambling excitedly about all of the rides she wanted to try out. You were still in a bit of a daze, her strawberry perfume making your head spin. Before you know it, she has a hold of your hand, dragging you towards the largest drop tower that the festival had to offer. Maybe this would be a good time to mention that you’re deathly afraid of heights…

~~~~

Hair disheveled and heart palpitating, you stumbled away from the ride. It was comical really, the state you were in. Rosé must have thought so, because she couldn’t contain her laughter once she looked over at you. The sound was music to your ears, and you quickly decided that you’d be willing to get back on that ride if it meant you could hear her giggle like that again.

After your laughing fit died down, you suggested getting on the ferris wheel to see all of the city lights. Everything burned a little brighter this time of year, the downtown area bustling with life and activity.

“I was just about to mention that. I like the way you think, Y/N.” The combination of the look she gave you and the way your name rolled off of her tongue made you weak in the knees. Before your mind could even begin to question if she had meant something else -- something deeper -- you stopped yourself. It wouldn’t do any good to read too far into the things she said. It was just innocent teasing, you reasoned.

You failed to notice the way Rosé had looked at you, her eyes taking in every part of you. She wanted to remember this sight; your head thrown back, eyes welling with tears of laughter. When you didn’t pick up on her flirting, though, she took it as a sign to back off a bit. Surely it had been obvious, right? She told herself she’d give it one more try, by the end of the night. No matter your reaction, she would have an answer.

With that decision made, she led the way to the ferris wheel, you trailing happily behind her.

“Two?” The worker looked to be about your age, face marked with acne scars, and attitude already unpleasant. With a simple gesture of confirmation, the two of you made your way to the nearest cart. You held the small gate open, allowing Rosé in first. The metal was cool against your palm as you closed it after yourself.

A chilly breeze rolled in, and you noticed her body shiver in the seat across from you. You could tell she tried to hide it, but you were far too observant to miss that. “Here,” you start, already pulling your leather jacket off of yourself and offering it to her. She shook her head furiously, saying, “No, I can’t. You’ll get cold up there!” Maybe it had been the slushy you had earlier, but you got a sudden surge of confidence. “Come over here, then. We’ll keep each other warm.” Her eyes shined with something you couldn’t quite place; something mischievous, perhaps.

She quickly repositioned herself next to you, snuggling up against your side. “You’re still putting this on, Rosé.” You say lowly, lips grazing her temple. The way the words left your mouth, so matter-of-factly, made her bite her lip. You rarely told anyone what to do, so this role reversal was a bit unexpected. A welcome surprise, she thought, as she slipped the warm material over her shoulders.

~~~~

If someone offered you a million dollars to be anywhere else in the world right now, you would turn them down. You were sure that you had died and gone to Heaven, with how Rosé’s body fit perfectly up against yours and the distant skyline looked as though it had been stolen from a postcard.

Once the cart reached the top, the ride stopped for a short while, allowing you to get a picturesque view of the surrounding area. You grabbed the camera from your bag and snapped a few pictures, not wanting to forget this moment. A quiet wow left her mouth as she leaned over you, looking like a kid on Christmas morning. Has she never seen the lights like this? The untamed beating of your heart echoed wildly at the feeling of having her so close. You prayed she wouldn’t notice the tremble that ran through you as she placed her hand on your thigh, pushing herself up higher into the air for a better perspective. She must’ve noticed something in the distance, because soon she was pointing across the city and bouncing lightly in the seat. With some help, you located what she was so excited about: it was an inflatable cat. She had been that giddy over an inflatable animal on the porch of someone’s apartment. Such a dork, you muttered. She drew in a breath, feigning disbelief. “I am not!” She started, about to defend her honor, when she turned her head. In the excitement, the two of you had pressed closer together -- much closer than either of you had realized -- and now you were face to face. Your eyes darted down to her lips, and you almost threw caution to the wind and closed the distance. You didn’t, though, still missing the signs she was sending you. Her gaze raked across your features, and she grew bold; her hand came up to your cheek, her thumb soon brushing the soft skin. She was achingly close; you could feel the warmth radiating from her body, calling for you.

This cycle continued; both of you waiting for the other to make the first move, terrified that the other didn’t feel the same. It was a wicked game of cat and mouse, and you were finally getting the courage to end it. Just as you were about to lean in, the rickety ride started back up again with a groan, and she was jostled away from you, back into the seat.

That had to be some sort of symbolism.

The rest of your night went well, soon again filled with laughter and jokes, but the two of you couldn’t shake what happened. There was an air of something uncertain now, and only something significant was capable of putting an end to this cruel arrangement.

Part 4: The Realization

“Shit!” You exclaim with a huff, realizing your mistake. “Rosie, do you have any extra film for the polaroid? I lost the last pack I had.” You mentally slap yourself for that one. When you don’t get a response, which is quite unusual for Rosé, you take that as a sign to go look for her. The two of you had chosen to work on the project at her house this time, and it was definitely more spacious than yours. “Rosie?” You call out to her again, checking the rooms as you pass them. Sniffling sounds perk up your ears, and you follow them to their source: the bathroom. “What happened, Rose?” She just sniffles again, letting out a defeated sigh. “It’s nothing, Y/N. I’m okay.” You shake your head, a pained look taking over your features. Knowing that she was hurting killed you. “I don’t believe you. We don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to, but at least let me cheer you up. Please?” You plead through the door, waiting rather impatiently for her response. Wordlessly, she gathers herself and opens it, choosing to lean against the frame and meet your concerned gaze. “It’s Joon. He’s being an ass.” You set your jaw and quickly bite your tongue, not wanting to upset her more. Her sweater is soaked and matted with tears, large stains polka-dotting the fluffy material.

Who’s Joon, you may ask? Rosé’s boyfriend and star of the football team… aka your arch nemesis. The two of you typically avoided talking about him, and dating in general. As far as you were concerned, he wasn’t deserving of the attention. A muffled sob pulls you from your stewing session, and you’re quick to step forward and wipe away her tears. You cup her cheeks, softening at the way she leans into your embrace. It’s not hard to tell that she doesn’t get the love that she deserves. “You’re too good for him, Rose. He’s never deserved you.” You say softly, tired of seeing her being mistreated. One instance of this was more than enough, and knowing that this isn’t the first time that he’s been the reason for her tears makes your blood boil. You pull her in, and she rests her head against your chest. If circumstances were different, you would’ve been terrified to have her so close; however, that’s not at the forefront of your mind right now. You’re determined to be there for her, even if it’ll never be in the way you want. “You should be with someone who values you. You can do so much better.” You whisper against her temple -- just loud enough for her to hear -- lips in the same position as they were that night at the fair. It comes out as a gentle confession, but you say it like the simple fact it is.

After a few more moments of holding her close, her sweet vanilla perfume in the air, she shifts in your arms. Her eyes find yours, and the moment seems as though it was plucked out of some cheesy, coming of age movie. Something within both of you clicks at that point, and you just know. Her slightly puffy features look especially adorable right now, her eyes sparkling. That always seemed like such a strange, poetic thing to you -- how some people can manage to look so stunning after crying. It’s as though she needed that, in some twisted way. It opened her eyes to the situation she was in, although it hurt. She knew she could get through anything, though, with you by her side. And standing there, wrapped in your warmth, she really couldn’t find it in herself to even think of Joon.

Your eyes fell to her lips, and she didn’t fail to notice. God, those lips. You thought, remembering all of the times you’ve wanted to kiss her. She somehow managed to be utterly perfect without even trying. Your heart rate sped up at the feeling of her hands working their way down to your waist, gripping your hips tightly. The atmosphere shifted, and you didn’t know what to do with yourself. “Y/N…” she says lowly, almost as if she’s trying to keep herself from doing something stupid. “Hmm?” You drag out, causing her to bite her lip in return. Just as the two of you lean in ever closer, the sounds of keys jangling downstairs interrupts your moment. Feeling brave, and not wanting that encounter to pass with nothing to show for it, you give her a sweet kiss on the cheek. You chuckle lightly at the whine that leaves her lips, and take a minute to gather yourself before leading the way downstairs to greet her parents.

----

Over the next few days, neither of you mention all that’s happened. You want to, but you have no idea how; your nerves would surely get the best of you. And what if she didn’t feel the same? How embarrassing would that be? You wanted nothing more than to have that Hallmark, fairytale ending with her, but you knew that was unrealistic. So, you did what you do best; you continued falling for her from afar, attempting to settle into this routine.

Little did you know that she hadn’t stopped thinking about it. She often found herself stroking her cheek, where your hand had been that night. If she focused hard enough, she could almost remember the smell of your tropical shampoo, too. Her feelings confused her, but she knew what she wanted. Her fear of rejection outweighed her courage, though, and she never knew how to tell you that she had fallen for you.

Part 5: An Overheard Conversation

As you made your way through the halls and towards the library, your mind wandered to a place it often frequented: Rosé. You had been so caught up in other things that you hadn’t really registered that the project would be over soon. It saddened you to think about, but maybe it was for the best. Perhaps a little distance between the two of you would make it easier to ignore your feelings. Turning the corner, you collided with someone, sending their books into the floor. “I’m so sorry!” You apologize quickly, making sure they’re alright, before helping them gather their things. They do the same, and continue on their way as you readjust your clothes.

At the sound of that achingly familiar voice, you freeze.

“I broke up with him, Jennie.”

That’s all it took for you to press yourself up against the wall, set on listening in on the conversation without getting caught. Part of you felt bad for doing that, but there was no way you were leaving now.

“Good, he never deserved you anyway.” The other girl, Jennie, said, and you made a mental note to give her a high five later on.

“He took me for granted. I’m just upset it took me so long to realize it.”

“Hey, don’t do that. You remembered your worth and didn’t let that jackass hurt you anymore. That’s queen status, if you ask me.” Make that a double high five.

The sounds of her locker being closed lead you to believe that the girls are about to walk away and end the conversation, but you soon stop dead in your tracks, yet again.

“There’s another reason that I ended things, though, and I’ve been meaning to tell you about it.”

“Ooh, do tell.”

Rosé clears her throat, and quickly checks to make sure the coast is clear before speaking again. Thank God she didn’t notice your presence.

“I’ve liked this person for a really long time, Jennie.” She confesses, before continuing. “They’re always there for me when I need them… and don’t even get me started on how adorable they are.”

Jennie chuckles at Rosé’s words, and you can see her shake her head. “What??” Rosé asks, pushing her shoulder lightly.

“You’ve got it bad. I’ve never seen you blush like that at just the thought of someone. And that’s saying something.”

Rosé hides her face in her hands, embarrassed but amused. “She’s just so incredible.”

Your heart stops, blood running cold in your veins, and your hand shoots up to cover your mouth. Does Jennie know she likes girls? SHE LIKES GIRLS?? I mean, you had thought so after that night but she’d never admitted it before.

“She?” Jennie asks gently, not even a trace of judgement in her tone. A little surprise, sure, but nothing bad. Rosé simply takes a deep breath and nods her head, waiting for her best friend’s reaction to her slip up. It’s not that she thought she would be unaccepting, just that these kinds of things were a little bit of a shock to hear sometimes.

“Well, who is she? I’ll have to do some snooping on your next potential love interest.”

Rosé lets out a giggle, and you almost blow your cover by laughing with her.

“You won’t be getting that information out of me yet, Jennie. No way.” She says, taking the other girl’s hand and leading her down the hallway, away from you.

Once alone again, you let out a breath you didn’t know you had been holding. Could you be that girl?

Part 6: Presentation Day

As you make your way to your seat, you let out a tired yawn; you had stayed up late adding some last minute touches to your presentation. You wanted it to be a surprise for Rosé, so you hadn’t told her about what you had done. Hopefully she would enjoy it.

The other groups each took turns showcasing their projects and explaining what the prompt had meant to them. Some said “money”, “luxury”, “time”, etc. Your answer was a bit different than theirs, and you were excited to share it with everyone.

Once it was your turn to present, you made your way up to the front of the room, selecting the correct files and connecting your device with the projector. Rosé could sense that you were anxious, which wasn’t new for you; school presentations had always made you nervous. Silently, she took your hand within her own and rubbed her thumb across your knuckles. None of the class was paying much attention yet, since you were still technically getting set up, and you were beyond thankful for that intimate moment with her.

A short time later, you begin.

Rosé expertly introduces the different topics you chose to cover with the prompt, explaining their meaning with sincerity. Images of old couples smiling, holding one another close, graced the screen when she brought up “growing old together” as a finer thing in life. “Not everyone gets the opportunity to do that with who they love,” she said, and you noticed that her eyes went to you when she said that. Maybe you just imagined that last part, you thought to yourself. Surely so.

Other slides of animals, pets, and nature appeared as she continued her speech, followed by her suggestion that “the act of loving and preserving Earth and its creatures” is another finer thing in life.

This process continued, with you jumping in for the slides that you had chosen to take over for.

Upon hearing Rosé finish her last stretch of rehearsed dialogue, you look to your teacher, who gives you a subtle nod and smile. Rosé shoots you a confused look, but you don’t answer her with words. You move a nearby chair to face the board before bringing her to it. She sits, even more confused now, but trusting you.

You swallow nervously, and lick your lips. “Over these past couple months, Rosé and I shared new experiences,” with a click of the remote, images of your adventures flood the screen -- your trips to the lake, forest, park, and even the beach, capture the attention of the class. Rosé was right there with them, considering she had never seen some of these pictures, let alone expected you to present them. “We tried new foods, left our comfort zone, and learned more about each other.” More images popped up; some from when you went on a tour of the different restaurants around town, some from bungee jumping, cave exploring, and open water fishing.

“But as we grew closer, I realized more about myself in the process. I’m totally, utterly, and undeniably in love with you, Rosé.” The next set of candid images shows a new glint in your eyes when you look at each other; this was when you had really gotten in deep. You shyly raise your eyes to hers, your stomach in knots. Tears are quickly forming in her eyes, and she’s covering her mouth to quiet herself. “You make me happier than I’ve ever been, and life feels better with you. You are my finer thing in life.” Despite all of the emotions she’s feeling right now, she smiles at the dorky pictures of the two of you doing random things during your shared escapades.

Finally, you click to the last slide, revealing a series of pictures of you spelling out, “Be mine?”

This was the final straw; tears finally make their way down her face, spilling onto her soft cheeks. You nod at Mrs. Johnson the same way she had done before, and she swiftly bends down to grab something beneath her desk. When she returns, she hands you a single red rose. “OMG! A rose for Rosé, how cute!” One of your classmates yells from the back of the room, and you laugh aloud. That broke the tension, and soon all of you were giggling loudly together. “Well, whaddya say?” You ask, holding out the rose to her in offering. Wordlessly, she takes the flower and wraps her arms around your neck, connecting your lips in a long overdue kiss. The class erupts at this and she smiles against you.

“Mission accomplished.” Mrs. Johnson says to herself, once everyone is settled back in their seats and chatting about what happened. “I was hoping that would work out.” Confused, you decide to inquire. Reluctantly taking your eyes off of Rosé, you look to your teacher and ask, “Did you plan this from the beginning?” She gives you a curious look before scoffing, “I’m practically a matchmaker, Y/N. I saw the way the two of you looked at each other. It would’ve been a crime not to pair you up.”

Your mouth hangs agape as you look back to Rosé, finding her donning a similar expression. “I was tricked into the plan!” You realize, laughing with her. “It was destiny, then.” She says, pulling you in by your collar for yet another kiss, loving the feeling of your blushing cheeks against her own.

🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤

Thanks for reading!!!

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