#is for those oppressed people to then turn around and be worse?? sure was something!!!

[leofrith]

putting an agnes obel song over the end credits??? NO that's the thing i'm sensitive about!!!!!!!

[neoneun-au]

THE MIRROR-BLUE NIGHT; ACT I

―PAIRING: joshua hong x fem!reader ―GENRE: SLOW burn, affair au, suggestive, angst, romance ―CHAPTER WORD COUNT: 11.2k ―CHAPTER WARNINGS: mild language, very minimal josh in this chapter (sorry), death mentions, cheating, lots of introspection ―STATUS: ongoing

―AUTHOR'S NOTE: this is act i to my entry for svthub's world tour collab. it's heavily inspired by wong kar wai's film 'in the mood for love', and it's been fun to play around with a totally different atmosphere and setting, and i hope everyone that reads this enjoys it! if you do, please consider reblogging with your thoughts and comments i would love to hear them. hopefully before long i will have the following two acts out for you to continue <3

ACT I

. . .

It’s raining. You hear the patter of droplets as they fall against your windows, a symphony of sorrows cascading from gray skies. When you were a child your mother used to tell you that the rain meant the heavens were crying. That some angel high above was weeping for the sorrow of those below–for the tragedy of humankind. She made up a lot of lies when you were young, stories to either make you feel better or to just force you to stop asking her questions while she was trying to watch her favourite shows. 

It never worked, and you never believed her. 

It was raining, too,  on the day that you cremated her. A near torrential downpour that had washed out the roads on your way to the funeral home and caused a four car pile up on the on ramp. You made it, breathless and haggard, just in time to drip your way through the procession to the front of the church pews where you sat, cloaked in the black of mourning, to watch a small line of people espouse pretty stories and prettier lies about the woman who raised you. 

Were you sad about her death? Of course you were. Death was always sad, in some deeply philosophical and uniquely human way. The ending of all things–life moving onwards to something better (or worse). Leaving everyone else behind to deal with the sorrow and suffering and debt. You could feel her death around you everywhere you went. The last breath of her life sighing over you on windy streets, the final whisper of her words in the chattering of birds in the morning dew. She was omnipresent. Oppressive. Somehow even more than she had been when she was alive. A heavy shroud over your every move. 

You were sad about her death, but you did not feel the pang of it in your heart as you might have if she had been anyone else. Instead it was abstract–elusive. A fleeting thought that followed you throughout the day. A thought that you were sure would dissipate over time. Molecule by molecule as her soul moved on from this world it would dissolve and you would finally be left standing in a life of your own making, no longer bent to the will of the woman who molded you to fit neatly into her own life. Her death was sad but it also finally opened you up the hope for freedom. 

When it was your turn to speak, after the mass had ended and the few other speakers had said their peace with your mother overseeing from inside her casket, you hesitated. Standing in front of the crowd of people that had managed to crawl their way through traffic for the promise of a free lunch and a voyeuristic look at the poor, bereft daughter left to deal with this whole mess. The only remaining relative of this woman that had made everyone’s life around her a living hell. You stared out at their faces, blank with waiting, and expected the words you had prepared to come out as you had rehearsed. None ever did. You stood silent under the scrutiny of a hundred eyes and seconds ticked by into minutes as the blank expressions morphed into confusion or pity. Even your husband’s carefully neutral expression devolved into one of concern as he stared up at you from his seat. 

Thunder clapped outside the church, the rain picked up speed, buffeting the stained glass windows in its fury, and you thought that maybe your mother hadn’t been lying to you when you were a child. Maybe it was her fury that was clinging to your clothing–soaking you to the bone. 

You left the altar without a word–just one apologetic glance cast over the audience of mourners–and sat back down next to your husband. Head held high against the brewing storm. You realised finally that you had nothing to say. 

For your husband’s part, he played it well at the time. His silent hand found yours and gripped it tight as you both kept your gazes focused on the priest as he tried his best to stitch the proceedings back together after the abandoned eulogy. He kept your hand in his throughout the rest of the funeral–from the end of the mass, through the reception, and all the way to the committal he was there with you. The anchor at your side. 

When had he stopped? 

When had he stopped being there–holding your hand, playing his part as your partner through it all on this grand stage of life. When had he decided he no longer wanted to be that? 

You watch a rivulet of rain carve a line through the reflection of your face, splitting you in two as you stare out through the window in your living room and into the neon darkness of the city surrounding you. Who were the heavens sad for tonight? 

For your own part, you couldn’t bring yourself to feel much sadness. Only a hollow aching at the pit of your stomach, like a hunger long ignored. Gnawing at your insides as you stare out into some unfixed point on the horizon and wait for your husband to return home. Late, again. Always late these days. Always some excuse or another. Traffic, work, friends wanting to grab drinks, errands to run. Tonight though, perhaps, the excuse would be the rain. 

With a sigh you abandon your post at the window, floating through the apartment by the dim light of the city pouring inside. No reason to turn the lights on inside–you knew your way around. The remnants of your dinner sit undisturbed on the kitchen counter, steam long since evaporated, as they wait for a mouth to enter, a stomach to fill. You had lost your appetite when you received the text message. 

You knew it was coming, had known for months. At first it was easy to trick yourself into believing that nothing had changed at all. Everything was normal. These excuses were all truths and you were in fact in the wrong for not believing your husband when he told you. After a time this denial stopped working, however, and you moved on to believing that the changes were only superficial–temporary–that the fissure that had opened up in your marriage was not a yawning pit preparing to engulf you but an easily repairable crack in the foundation. Before long he would return to you as a ship to the shore. He would pour out his feelings and you would mend them easily, with tears of your own. Your relationship would grow in strength for enduring this storm and all would be well again. 

As the days and months dragged on, though, it grew harder to ignore the signs. You had seen them so many times before–on television, in film, in friends’ relationships, in your own parents’ marriage before it fell apart when you were 9. 

A whiff of an unfamiliar perfume in the air, breezing behind your husband as he enters the apartment after work–orange blossom, ginger, patchouli and jasmine. Cloying and heady. A scent of seduction and sex in the wake of a man that hadn’t touched you in days. He waited to kiss you hello now, waited until he had changed out of his clothes, maybe until after he had a shower. You would sit, perched on the arm of the couch, and stare out the window of your living room while he scrubbed the scent of another woman off of his skin. 

More evidence collected over the next few months. Pastel purple and blue splotches dotting the nape of his neck–just above the birthmark you used to trace over with a loving fingertip in the early days of your marriage. Lipstick stains faded on the white collar of a shirt–brick red, a shade that never painted your own lips. He was getting careless–bold. And you continued to observe without a word. Maintaining the calm on the surface of your life, letting the stains and perfume to sink deep underneath. 

Maybe you should have confronted him early on, when the days were still young and you still had lingering affection for this man that was becoming a stranger to you. You should have yelled, screamed, fought, let your tears flow freely in a torrent of anger and betrayal. Every rational thought in your mind was screaming out for you to face him down and do something. You would work yourself into a fury of anger and anxiety waiting for him to come home but the second he stepped across the threshold of your apartment, all of it dissolved. Melted away into nothingness and left only that old, hollow ache until that was all you had left inside.

You remember how your mother had reacted when she found out about your dad’s affair. The consequences were swift and brutal–a storm of emotions and rage bursting out and swallowing everyone in its vicinity. If rain was sadness, surely her rage had been a tsunami. Your dad left and you retreated–into your room, into yourself. Left alone to rebuild in the wake of this natural disaster. 

When you got married your mother warned you–warned you of your duties as a wife. To keep him happy, keep him home, and remember that marriage is work. Life was so hard after your father abandoned us, she would say, don’t let the same happen to you. She would sermonize his weakness and cruelty, and you would listen. But you loved your father, in spite of all his flaws and humanity. He was kind and soft-hearted and you never blamed him for what happened, how could it all have been his fault? This one man that bought you ice cream and tanghulu and took you shopping for school uniforms up until he died? No. You blamed your mother.

What would she say to you now, sitting alone in the dark staring at a photo of your husband with his arm slung casually over the shoulders of another woman, her head resting against him with a soft smile on her face. Pathetic, spineless child. 

You shrug off the ghost of your mother and focus back on the picture. They were in a restaurant, tucked into a corner booth. The low lighting cast soft shadows over their faces, obscuring the details of their features, but there was no doubt in your mind that  it was him.  It was the same slope of brow and cheek that you have run your fingers over so many times before. The same slight upturn in the corners of the mouth that you fell in love with. The glimmer of mischief and daring that so easily drew you in when you first started dating, now turned towards someone else. A stranger? You were sure you didn’t know her but there was something familiar about her in the photo, something about her profile that tugged at the recesses of your recollection. 

Your imagination has been running frantic circles in your mind since you opened the message. Where had he met her? Work? He wasn’t a part of any clubs, didn’t play mahjong on the weekends with friends, hadn’t been selected for any work trips where he might have brushed elbows with her in a conference. Might have snuck into each other's hotel rooms, followed each other onto the plane. She could have been a stewardess–as alluring as they are professional. An untouchable creature bending to your every whim and all you can do is look and hope and wish. Slip her your number as you disembark, pray she deems you worthy enough to contact. 

But he hadn’t been out of the city in at least a year. So that couldn’t be it. 

Maybe she had a more humble occupation. She worked at the hot pot restaurant his company frequented after work. That was how you had met so is it so out of the realm of possibilities that lightning might strike twice? 

Maybe he had always known her. Maybe you were the other woman–some twist of fate had led him to marrying you instead of his highschool sweetheart. A girl that had occupied his mind for longer than you had known him. Maybe she had traveled after graduation–moved to the US and taken his heart with her while he pined away and finally, losing all hope, he settled for the strange girl with the zealot of a mother. Turned you into a project to fill his loneliness and occupy his thoughts until she returned and he was reminded of all the things that she had been for him that you never could. 

Maybe. 

Or maybe she was just a whore. 

Your thoughts flitter back and forth; all possibilities confronting you at once, neon red  in alarm. You watch taxis and motorbikes speed through traffic on the rain soaked street 15 stories below your apartment–each one weaving a new thread of anxiety in your mind as you wait for one to stop in front of your building. Wait for your husband to emerge, shielding himself from the rain and rushing to get inside before his white-collared shirt is soaked through with the sins of his flesh. 

He arrives shortly after you give up waiting and prepare for bed. The rain has begun to let up and with it he steps through the front door of your apartment while you sit perched on the edge of your bed, running a hand over the embroidered silk duvet coverlet you had received as a wedding present. You listen as he drops his keys, briefcase, coat onto the kitchen counter. Focus on the sound of his footfall as he  walks through the short hallway to the bathroom. He doesn’t see you sitting in the dark, doesn’t seek you out to greet you. You watch as he flicks the light on to the bathroom and shuts the door behind him. The sound of the shower running follows a few moments afterwards. 

You brace yourself when he enters the dark bedroom after washing himself free of the day. Body tense as he slips under the blanket beside you. The anticipation of something, anything, stiffens in your muscles and you wait for him to say something, to give you some explanation for his whereabouts. Nothing comes. He, believing you to be asleep, slips too into the arms of the night and you’re left alone–staring blankly into the dark of the room before you give into the heaviness of your eyes. 

Morning dawns, grey and overcast. You’re alone again, your husband having left for work with the tin of leftovers you had pre-packed for him, and the day stretches out in front of you–long and lonely–as you shove all thoughts of last night to the back of your mind and turn your attention to the household tasks that require it. 

The fluorescent lights of the supermarket buzz overhead as you make your way through the aisles with a basket hanging on your arm. You know what you’re getting–you’ve rotated through the same small selection of meals since you were 11 years old and started cooking for yourself–but you take your time anyway. Wandering through the rows of produce, fish, and imported goods. Enjoying the distant company of strangers, their idle chatter and routine conversations are a welcome reprieve from the oppressive silence that has dominated your apartment over the past few months. 

You drift to the fruits, letting their bright colours draw you in, and reach for a melon. It’s heavy in the hand, weighed down with the density of the flesh inside. It would be delicious–perfectly ripe, bursting with flavour and juice–you could almost salivate at the thought of slicing into it, bringing a cube of its sweetness to the tip of your tongue. You haven’t had it in ages. Your husband was not fond of fruits–he never had been. Always preferred spice and heat over sweetness, and you were more than happy to accommodate–to oblige his tastes and sacrifice your own for the sake of love. But now? 

The melon stares up at you in askance and you set it back on the stand with its brethren before you can give the temptation a second thought. As soon as you do, a hand reaches out to grab it, neatly manicured fingers wrapping around the fruit still warm from your touch. You smell her perfume before you see her face–that aroma of orange blossom, patchouli,  and jasmine (with a hint of ginger) cutting through the air of the supermarket like a knife through fruit. It’s even more overwhelming first hand. You turn your head, catching a glimpse of her face, her bright red lips, before she turns away and clacks towards the green wall of vegetables. 

You follow transfixed behind her as she weaves her way through the market, picking up an array of items as she goes. Mindlessly you fill your basket behind her, hands reaching out for whatever as you try to disguise your objective. You had only seen one blurry photo of her, clandestinely snapped with her head buried in the crook of your husband’s arm, but you would know her anywhere. In fact you did know her. Not by name, you had never been introduced, but you recognize her instantly now in the bright noonday lights of the shop. 

She lives in your building, a few floors up, you were sure of it. You had run into her in the elevator a few times, never exchanging a word, but always evaluating each other with that cold calculation of strangers destined to become rivals. Not that you knew that at the time. She had a husband. A man with kind eyes and a kind smile. You weren’t sure if it made you feel better or worse to know that you weren't alone in your suffering, that someone else was tied to the other end of this red string that entangled the four of you in its noose-tight vice. 

Does she recognize me? you wonder as you get in line a few people behind her at the register. Your eyes remain fixed on the back of her head while she pays and you tap your foot in anxious impatience as her form disappears through the doors and you’re left waiting for the elderly woman in front of you to deal out her entire coin purse to the cashier for spring onions and flour.

Finally you step out into the streets, bag of assorted groceries clutched tight in your fist, and you whip your head around to try to locate her. It doesn’t take long–she’s a flash of red in a sea of black–and you hasten your stride to catch up with her as she rounds the corner towards your apartment building, taking care to maintain a neutral expression. You trail her over the few blocks it takes to get back home, pulse quickening whenever her step halts–paralysed with the fear that she may turn around and realise what you’re doing. 

Does she  know who you are? Aa a neighbour, maybe, but as the wife of the man she’s having an affair with? Has he told her about you, have they shared jokes in confidence at your expense? Or are you some shameful secret he has kept hidden in his coat pocket. Maybe he slips his wedding band off before each meeting, spinning it around his finger thrice before tucking it out of sight, alongside his conscience. Does he know about her husband? Does her husband know about him the way you know about her? Were the same thoughts turning over in his mind as he sat at his desk at work, staring idly at their wedding photo? 

You follow her, a few paces behind, through the lobby of your shared building. Part of you–a bold, reckless part–wants to slip into the elevator with her, just before the doors can slide closed. Meet her face to face. Confront her and lay bare your knowledge of her discretion. Maybe she would cry, maybe she would yell, maybe she would laugh. Not one of the scenarios you envision ends with you triumphant, in each one your husband’s arms reach forth to comfort her and leave you standing alone, consumed with the red hot fires of rage and seething hate. 

You push that part of you away, back into the shadows, and watch as  she gets into the elevator. The numbers on the display above the doors climb higher and higher as she ascends and you hold your breath, waiting for them to halt. 22. Higher up than your own, more expensive. So it wasn’t money that had drawn her to your husband. You jam your finger against the button, calling the lift back down and wrestling between going home with this new knowledge or feeding into your curiosity and following her up to her door. Would you know the right one if you saw it? 

You press both floor numbers when you finally climb into the elevator, staring at the illuminated buttons as you slowly ascend. You stand still, staring at number 22, and wait as you move up and up–torn between the two options you’ve given to yourself. The doors finally slide open to reveal your floor, 15, and you stare out into the empty hallway, waiting for some unseen force to push you out of the lift. To make up your mind for you. Nothing does, and you just stand silent and still, frozen in time until they slide closed once more and you’re left looking blankly at your own twisted expression in the stainless steel. You keep eye contact with the twisted version of yourself reflected back at you and wait as the elevator continues its ascent. 

What were you hoping to gain from following this woman? Confirmation that she is, indeed, real? As if the brush of her arm against yours as she stretched out for your relinquished fruit hadn’t been enough to convince you. Her head bobbing through the crowds of people on the street as you kept pace behind her was just a figment of your imagination. Did you think you would find him there? Waiting for her? Eating slices of fruit from her outstretched hands in an act of worship? Your reflection purses her lips, eyebrows knit in thought, and you shake your head at her in askance, a silent plea, before the elevator finally stops at floor 22. 

The door slides open for the second time and you brace yourself to alight, but your path is blocked. 

“Oh, sorry,” he says, stepping aside to give you space to pass, “are you getting off here?” 

You freeze on the spot, standing on the threshold of a million converging thoughts as they crash through your mind. His smile is the same as you remember it, soft and kind. The smile of someone for whom life was easy, someone who hadn’t seen much strife. Or perhaps the opposite . Someone who had seen all the horrors life had to offer him and chose to remain soft despite them. You’re distantly aware that you look like a fool, standing there in the elevator with your mouth hanging slightly agape as you stare into the eyes of your husband’s mistress’ husband, but you can’t make yourself move. Paralyzed by a strange twist of fate that had, unbeknownst to him, entangled you in a web of deceit and betrayal.

Surely he didn’t know. 

“Is this your floor,” he asks again, prompting you to move or speak or do something more than just stand still as the elevator beeps its final warning. It wasn’t going to wait much longer. 

“N-no,” you stammer, trying to right your thoughts. “I was going down, actually.” In a panic you jam your finger against the button for floor 15. If he notices the obvious lie, he doesn’t say anything–instead politely skirting around you as he steps into the lift and presses the button for the ground floor.

The lift jerks as it starts to descend, and you hold your breath. Afraid that any movement might somehow reveal every thought you’re holding tight within. He keeps a polite distance, checking his phone as he stands in the opposite corner of the narrow, enclosed space. The elevator inches closer to your floor and your muscles tense in preparation to bolt through the door as soon as it slides open at floor 15. You stare up at the numbers as they transform–20, 19, 18. Eyes transfixed on the digital display as your brain whirrs with static noise. 

“We’ve met before, haven’t we?” You jerk your attention towards him as soon as he speaks, head spinning too fast to pass off your expression as casual and you’re sure that you look as panicked as you feel. “When we first moved into the building, I mean. It’s been a while but I recognize you.” 

You nod and take a second to clear your throat of the built up nerves before replying, voice trembling with a light quiver. “Yes, I uh–it’s been over a year now I think. I’m sorry but I don’t remember your name.”

He smiles–that same soft, kind smile as earlier–and shakes his head reassuringly. “It’s Joshua. Hong.” 

“Joshua?” your voice betrays a hint of curiosity–it’s not a common name here. 

“I moved here from LA years ago with my wife,” he supplies the answer to your unspoken question. Unwittingly adding a layer of intrigue to his personage that you hadn’t expected. At the mention of his wife, however, you feel the hairs on your arms rise to attention. A cold chill ripples through your body. The elevator dings, startling you out of your daze as it arrives at your floor. You turn to face the hallway as it appears between the doors, lingering astride the threshold between him and the emptiness ahead of you. Something inside of you hesitates, hanging back to remain in his presence despite the anxiety still flooding through your body. Something about the way he spoke had drawn you in, a strange curiosity taking root in your mind. You shake it loose; it’s not your place to say anything, and it’s not your place to further entangle yourself in this web. His life is his own. You take a step forward, finally clearing the door just before it beeps its insistence at you. 

You turn to say a farewell to Joshua–it wouldn’t bode well to appear impolite after he was so courteous to you a moment before–but before you can open your mouth to speak, he beats you to it. 

 “I think she and your husband know each other, actually. My wife,” he says, and you freeze again, stuck now staring at him from the hallway. He waves goodbye as the doors slide closed and you’re left standing statuesque in the hallways alone. Ears ringing with the echoes of his words. 

Does he know? 

Nothing in the way he held himself, in the casual expression gracing his handsome, well composed features would have led you to believe so but…why else would he have said that? 

You stand still, staring at the scuffed stainless steel doors of the elevator as if they might reopen and he might still be there. That he might dull the sharpness of your anxieties with some clarity . Instead you’re alone, bag of groceries cutting the circulation in your fingertips off as they hang forgotten in your hand.

You try to search the memory of his face as it lingers in your mind’s eye for any clue–any miniscule hint–as to what thought had been hiding beneath his calm facade. His face twists and contorts in your mind, swirling and transforming as you try to keep hold of the static image. Joshua, your husband, his wife, your own warped expression in the polished metal of the door. Many parts of an ever colliding whole. 

When you finally manage to get your legs moving and step away from the elevator the hallway seems to stretch out in front of you endlessly. You walk as if to the gallows, imagining all the horrors waiting for you when you open the door to your apartment. Your husband, Joshua’s wife. Limbs entangled in carnal desire. The heat of their bodies steaming the windows and fogging your vision as you stumble through the darkness. The thought overwhelms you, slows your already stuttering pace, though you know in your logical mind that no one’s there. She’s in her own apartment, and your husband is at work, and you’re alone. A state you’ve become numbly accustomed to. 

The familiar silence of your apartment is all that greets you when you finally enter, in spite of the baseless worries of your frazzled mind. It soothes the storm of worries clouding your mind as you stow away your meager haul of groceries and set out the ingredients needed for dinner. Joshua’s face fades to darkness as you slip back into routine–letting your hands take over and your mind to narrow to a single thought. 

So what if he did know. Would that change anything about your present circumstances? If he wanted a scene he had the chance to cause one and let it go. He could have held you in that elevator and interrogated you for all your husband’s many sins; pouring his hurt and betrayal out at your feet as you bear witness to your own anguish reflected in another person. But he didn’t. Instead he was polite, almost kind, and you parted without the cosmic clash the worst parts of you might have anticipated.  

The water for the noodles starts to boil and you quickly finish chopping your small array of vegetables before turning the heat down to simmer and tossing them in. Leftover shrimp lay on the side of your cutting board, ready to add in at the end. It was a lazy meal–one you never would have made early on in your marriage–but who cared about that now? You knew it would be the same routine tonight. Eating without tasting, alone in the kitchen, lit only by the light filtering in through the windows, while you stare at the clock on the wall. He’ll show up after you’re finished–maybe 15 minutes later, maybe an hour–and eat the portion set aside for him while you disappear into the bedroom and will the day to come to an end. 

Would Joshua’s night end the same or were he and his wife better at maintaining the charade of marriage? Were their hearts as distant when they lay in bed next to each other, barely touching? 

You had a hard time imagining it. You try, between mouthfuls of noodles and broth, to capture the image of them. Joshua sidestepping his wife in the kitchen, carefully avoiding her touch–her skin stained by the kiss of another man. Was his smile as soft and kind when turned upon the face of the woman who, with every breath she took, dared to remind him of the sadness that lurked beneath the surface of their life? Was the love he still held for her enough to erode all of her transgressions, even as she continued to transgress? Did he still hold her in his arms at night like no one else had ever touched her? Like he was the only one for her? Why, if he could so easily absolve her of her crimes, could you not do the same for the man you had promised yourself to? 

You shake your head, ridding yourself of the scene that was playing out. You knew nothing about this man–about his life or his thoughts. This scene you had conjured up, fleshed out with his feelings and emotions, was just a projection of some possible life dwelling within you.

But still, you couldn’t help but wonder. How different would things be if you tried?

The night drags on as all the previous ones have. You sit in front of the window, letting the TV drone on in the background, and stare down at the street below. Watching as people come and go–each with their own thoughts, their own lives, their own worries and desires. None more or less important than your own. It was comforting, in some odd way, to imagine the lives and futures of others. It took the distinct sting out of imagining our own. 

The front door opens, earlier than expected, and you glance over your shoulder to see him enter. He nods in greeting and you return the gesture before acting on an impulse you haven’t followed through on in months. You move towards him. You don’t even realise you’re doing it until his form comes into focus only a few feet in front of you. He doesn’t notice you right away, too busy reheating the noodles; you wait and you watch as he moves through the task with a slight droop to his shoulders. He’s tired. 

“How was work today?” you ask. The question spills unbidden from your mouth but you don’t rush to stop it. 

“Long,” he sighs, stirring the food as it begins to steam in the pot. There’s no hint of surprise or shock in his voice at your sudden interest in his day. He accepts it–whether from sheer exhaustion or ignorance of the deafening silence that has defined your life for the past few months. Maybe he never noticed how distant you were. How could he when he still held someone so close? “How was your day?”

“Fine,” you reply, intending to leave it at that before a thought flashes through your mind. “I ran into one of our neighbours earlier, in the elevator. Joshua Hong. We met them once or twice when he and his wife moved in just over a year ago, do you remember them?” 

“I can’t say that I do,” he shakes his head, flicking the heat off on the stove. His back is still turned, so you focus on his tone, on the micromovements of his muscles under his shirt. Searching for anything other than the polite disinterest he was feigning. Anything that might betray some feeling brewing below the surface. Fear, love, guilt. Anything at all. 

“Hmm, yeah I couldn’t remember him well either at first,” you agree, pausing to allow him the space to settle in, to pour his dinner into a bowl and sit down at the counter. He leans forward, blowing the steam away as he prepares to take a bite. “He mentioned you though,” you say finally, watching his face as he glances up at you with his chopsticks suspended above his bowl. “He mentioned you know his wife.” 

Silence. One brief, fleeting moment of hesitation. A slight lift of the eyebrow. You watch his Adam’s apple bob at the base of his throat, just above the knot of his tie. 

“That’s odd,” he replies, voice carefully neutral, he drops his gaze from yours and brings his chopsticks the rest of the way to his mouth to slurp up the hanging noodles. You stay silent, watching–waiting–as he finishes his bite before he continues. “He must be mistaken.” 

“Must be,” you nod, trailing a finger lazily over the countertop. You don’t say anything else. You don’t need to. You let the silence settle in between you–an observer of its own, interrogating him with the absence of speech. You’ve had months to become accustomed to it, to make friends of the stillness of the air in your apartment, but you can see as your husband carefully avoids your lingering gaze that he hasn’t. He’s been too preoccupied to even notice it as it slowly moved in, taking over his place at your side. 

After a few moments you shrug, straightening your posture and smoothing down the front of your dress–releasing him of the heaviness of your gaze. The atmosphere settles back into one of easy stalemate and your husband resumes eating in silence. Nothing more is said. You slip back into blue.

 You never wanted a traditional wedding. 

With your father long buried and your mother under the spell of religious fervor, you never saw any appeal in the tradition or ceremony. You felt estranged from your scattered family–disconnected from the broader world. You floated in blissful independence, living life on your own terms and only reigning it in to pay fealty to your mother when required. Then you met him. 

He was handsome–dark hair and dark airs and expertly sculpted features. The sort of handsome that was easy to overlook at first but unraveled more and more as soon as you tugged at a loose thread of it. You looked at him across the lecture hall and took your time, dissecting his profile as the lectern’s voice melted out into the distance. It didn’t take long for your introduction to follow these looks. College is like that. Friends of friends of friends, dorm rooms, study hangouts in the library. Before you could even notice, your blissful independence had given way to comfortable partnership. 

After college, still in the early days of your courtship, you had grand ideas of elopement. The last lingering strands of your individuality. Traveling to a foreign country, marrying on a beach under the stars, and not telling your families until you either came back or decided you were going to live out your wedded bliss and future marriage in the streets of Rio de Janeiro or Sydney. 

He would entertain these fantasies–feeding into them, one morsel at a time, filling you with the hope of your aligned future. Filling you to the point that when the proposal inevitably came you couldn’t see the hunger still gnawing inside of you. 

Your husband was a good son, and his family paid for the wedding. It took little effort for you to resign yourself to ceremony and cast aside your dreams for love. The story of every fool in the world. 

That should have been the moment you knew that this would not last. Or at least that the happiness and contentment that shrouded your relationship was just that–mere illusory material. If you could turn back time, redo the last years of your life, you would have taken your meager inheritance from your father and booked a one way flight to the US. Used what little connections you had from distant family to build a life and chase your dreams. Live for yourself instead of the external expectations that you had been raised to abide by. You could have sent your mother back what little extra income you had–supported her from a distance as she ruined her own life where you did not have to bear witness. 

Instead, like the perfect picture of a good daughter, you went along with your husband and his family’s wishes. You let them arrange the entire thing and you–a mere passenger in your own life–silently went through the motions. Assured by word and by every soft kiss that all your dreams would be realised once it was all over. Your hands would reach the farthest destinations of your imagination, your feet would touch the sands of your desire. You let yourself be carried forward into this future with a smile, unaware that the only sand your feet would see would be the foundations of your own life as it crumbled and fell around you. 

You could only blame yourself. Even your mother tried to warn you, in her own way. Her own misery bearing down on your throughout your life–her inevitable cracking under the weight of everyone else's dreams bearing down on her until she simply couldn’t take it anymore. If you had been smart you would have seen it for what it was when you were 12. 

But you didn’t. You continued to simply go with it, smile waning as the years began to drag on and none of those golden promises spoken to you at night ever materialised. Business was good, now was not the time to take a break away it would only spell financial ruin for yourself and your entire family. Fine, you could wait. Were happy to wait, in fact. Dutiful and loyal and ever patient as you filled your days with the duties you had accepted in spite of yourself. Homemaking, cleaning, cooking. You had longed to work yourself, use your degree for something other than simply occupying space on your wall, then in a drawer–but no, your obligation was to the home, to your husband. Business was good. It was the right time to start trying for children. Did you want children? Did it matter? 

The flames of passion burned bright in your union early on. Your skin was on fire in the moonlight, bathed in sweat and dappled by the heated kisses of your new husband. Your body felt like a temple of worship, and he was there to pay his respects. He was the first man you had ever been with and you felt like you had won the jackpot each night as he brought you to new heights with his devotion. 

Maybe it’s true what people say about newlyweds. That passion is fleeting. The newness and excitement of having each other at the tips of your fingers would inevitably dull down until even sex simply became a part of your daily routine. A task to be completed, to stave off the questions of family and friends speculating on the growth of your family. Yours wasn’t meant to grow, though, it seemed. No matter how often you came together in pursuit of it, your monthly courses came as consistent as the full moon. Month after month until you stopped trying.

But there was love there, in the beginning. You think about it still, lying silent in the vast wilderness of your marital bed next to your sleeping husband. When you think to yourself  ‘how could I have let this happen’ your mind drifts back to those moments–wrapped up tightly in his embrace as he peppered your face, neck, shoulders, with kisses and promised you the world. How could you have known that it was built on such faulty foundations? That it would all drift away over time? 

You run a slow finger over your thigh, tracing the paths that he would take each night before. Remembering the love that you had shared. Wondering if the woman he shares it with now feels it as deeply as you had. Did he think of you when he was with her or had she eclipsed you completely in his memory? Was her back the only one that arched as he was deep inside her, spilling his love into her? 

The thought digs its barbed wires into your chest–ripping and tearing at what little tenderness you still held for the man. You let the pain sing you to sleep–weeping and burning for what once was and what might never be again as you let the darkness consume you in the dim blue of your bedroom. 

Dawn comes, as it always does, sunlight taking the place of the filtered neon of the city–streaming its way into your windows and nudging you awake long after your husband left for work. You’re alone again, and the thoughts don’t cease for the daytime. 

The flickering bulbs of the supermarket welcome you as you hunt around for a decent bunch of spring onions for dinner. Your hands find them and you add them to your basket, moving on to the next item on your list while your mind is half-occupied by the thought of the woman from yesterday. 

You wonder if she’ll make an appearance again. Standing behind you in line, perhaps, or waiting for you in the cold section–eyes scanning tanks of crabs for the perfect one. You wonder if she’ll be wearing red again. The contrast of the colour against her milky white skin as it hugs her body just so, conveying the image of someone with the world at her fingertips. 

Your own dress–emerald green, accented with black florals–suited you well enough. It was clean, well made, and fit you well even after all these years of wear, but it was just that. A dress. Function over form. It was the dress of someone who didn’t want to stand out, who wanted to blend into her surroundings and remain unnoticed as she moved throughout her day. It was the green in the shade of the bright red orchard as it shimmered in the sun.

As if summoned, a flash of red lights up your periphery–calling your attention away from the pear you had been inspecting. You lift your gaze to see her, a few stands down from you, a beacon of red just as you had envisioned her. You blink a few times to solidify her existence–not entirely convinced that you hadn’t just conjured her up out of smoke and mirrors. She remains, gathering a small selection of tomatoes before striding out of the produce section. 

The shock of her appearance from yesterday has long since faded. You’ve had time to reckon with the weight of her existence in your proximity. What was once a desperate, aching curiosity has since dulled to a cold, calculated interest. Instead of abandoning your grocery haul you stick to your list–taking the time to pick out the right ingredients–and achieve your own goals all while keeping her in your sights. You time your actions to match hers, moving on as she adds items to her basket, lingering by the teas as she stalls at the opposite end of the aisle from you. You make your way to the till, trailing her casually, and choose the cashier adjacent to her so you can pay at the same time. 

You leave the market assured with the knowledge of your mutual destination. No need to hurry, no need to chase, no need to match her pace. You let yourself fall into easy step a few feet behind her–content with enjoying the temperate weather that the day has brought. She arrives at the apartment a minute before you but you meet her in the lobby, standing silent beside her as you both wait for the elevator to descend. 

The anxieties of your trip yesterday melt away as you evaluate her through the steel mirror of the door–letting your gaze drift over her distorted figure. How long until she starts to notice your presence as more than mere coincidence? Would you be able to maintain this routine–living alongside her and watching from the peripherals as she goes about her daily tasks without so much as a second thought? 

As if in answer her eyes meet yours in the reflection. You politely avert your gaze, unwilling to be bested in this dance before it had even begun. Whether she was aware of who you are or not, you didn’t need to relinquish the satisfaction of knowing to her. 

The doors open at your floor and you alight into the hallway, leaving her to ascend the rest of the way to her own apartment where she would maintain her own charade. Your heart lurches at the thought, an odd disruption to the calm satisfaction you had been feeling up until now. You remember Joshua’s face from yesterday–the soft curve of his lips as he spoke to you. Polite, kind. You could blame yourself easily for your own husband’s infidelity but what had Joshua done to deserve this? 

Was he plagued with the same self loathing thoughts that haunted your every step? Or was his kindness, too, an illusion? Hiding some deeper malice that lurked at the heart of everyone wrapped up in this love affair.

You shake your head free of him as you enter your apartment and set your groceries down on your kitchen counter, but he returns as swiftly as he leaves. A thought circling round and round–unable or unwilling to give you a moment's peace as you unpack your bags. 

Somewhere in life you had adopted this sense of pessimism about life and the people that walked through it. It was easy to imagine cruelty at the hearts of everyone–to picture the worst case scenario, the worst intentions. But something inside of you revolted as you tried to apply it to Joshua. 

How silly, you think. I don’t even know him. 

And yet it remains, this tiny revolution inside of you. A hope for a kinder heart amidst the sea of troubles that you had been cast adrift on. Some lifeboat in the blue-black of it all. If you just reached out, maybe you could save yourself from drowning. 

Foolish, you think, casting the thought aside. No one is coming to save you. Not from your misery, not from your life, not from yourself. You had gotten married under the guise that your life would forever be tied to another person–that you would carry each other through everything–and now that that has dissolved to nothing, you know. You are alone. You have always been alone. 

The fog of winter rolls in shortly, blanketing the city in gray. For a few weeks in the beginning of December, your husband’s mistress disappears. He comes home on time, eats dinner with you, and you spend your days together like any married couple might. You’re lulled into a false sense of security and for a moment you think you could simply float back into the life you had expected to have and forget everything that has been. But only for a moment. Before long she reappears, her hair cropped shorter and  a spring in her step as she bounds through the aisles of the market. Your temporary marital utopia dissolves into the mist and you resume your post as observer. 

The weather starts to warm again, sunlight finding its way through cloud and smog to dapple the sides of buildings, and you take up a nightly ritual of walking through the streets in your neighbourhood. You never stay out too late, or stray too far, but you were starting to feel like a caged animal as you paced through your home and your thoughts night after night. 

On the nights your husband stayed out–either still at work or somewhere with her–you would forgo cooking all together, instead heading to a nearby restaurant as the sun starts to set over the city skyline. You eat slowly, relishing in each flavour and texture, and watch the rest of the patrons as they would do the same. It makes you feel less alone–or at least, less alone in your loneliness–as you would sit and watch the strangers around you bury their own miseries in the warmth of the broth steamed over countless hours. Their minds filled with thoughts and worries of their own. 

Tonight is much the same. You linger at home, straightening cushions and wiping down already clean surfaces to keep your hands occupied while you watch the clock tick down the time. Your phone lights up with a message–your husband informing you that he will be home late, telling you not to wait up. You slip on a light jacket and head out the door. Your feet know the way by now, they carry you almost mindlessly forward–down the elevator, out through the lobby, down the street, two left turns, one right turn, a few blocks ahead. You pass by some familiar faces–vendors and other denizens of the evening that you’ve become accustomed to during your walks–and you acknowledge them as a friend in your mind. Kindred spirits. 

You enter the small restaurant, blinking away the temporary fluorescent lights induced blindness, and take up your usual seat in the corner. Time ceases to exist in this place. If it weren’t for the last vestiges of sunlight forcing their way through the small, foggy window at the front, you wouldn’t be able to tell if it was day or night. 

Over the month or so you’ve started becoming a regular fixture of the place, you’ve grown familiar with a number of the other restaurant denizens. The cook and his wife–presumably the owners of the establishment–are ever silent unless yelling instructions about orders back and forth at each other. The wife, a small woman of indeterminate age, would move with efficiency between the five tables dotting the small space–taking orders, handing them to her husband in the kitchen, taking payments, refilling tea. She never appeared to be rushing, and no one was ever left for too long waiting for anything.

Occasionally a young man would take her place–likely their son or another relation roped in to help with the family business for a night. He was young–university aged maybe–and clearly disinterested in spending what little free time he had serving customers and bussing tables. The disinterest showed plain on his face even as he scribbled down your order (the usual, hot and sour soup and tea) and delivered it to his father in the kitchen. 

Tonight it was the woman, she didn’t even bother to ask you what you wanted as you had ordered the same thing every night over the past week. After a few moments she walks over with a teapot and cup in hand, setting them down with a silent nod, before turning to greet the next customer as they enter through the front door. 

You take a sip of tea, not too hot, before leaning back in the chair to settle in for another evening of people watching. The window in the front of the restaurant is clouded slightly with steam built up from the inside, and a light dusting of grime from the outside, but your eyes have adjusted to the distortion over the past month. You sit and watch as people pass by on the street outside, a few salarymen will stop in throughout for silent meals alone before returning to the streets, but often you’re the sole patron during the few hours you spend there each night. 

You watch as the new patron takes a seat at the table nearest the entrance–you haven’t seen him here before, but he looks the same as the rest. The same white button down, creased with a long day's work; the same black trousers; the same black tie and blazer thrown haphazardly over his shoulder. They were a dime a dozen in the city, these salarymen. Your husband had been one of them, once upon a time. Even with his many promotions over the years he still dressed much the same. You wonder briefly what made him stand out from the crowd to his mistress. 

The woman returns to your table a few minutes later, bearing your soup in her work worn hands. Steam billows from the top and you thank her before straightening in your seat and picking up your spoon. 

The food is not remarkable–truly nothing about this place is. Much like the salarymen that dip in and out through its front door, it’s no different than any of the other random hole-in-the-wall establishments that populate this city. The menu varies little from the usual, and the dingy white tiled walls do little to visually differentiate it. Everything about the place appears to be almost designed to blend into its surroundings. To serve its purpose without disturbing the status quo. It was solid and reliable and it's this very reliability that keeps drawing you back. 

It could be any restaurant. You could be any woman. 

You sink into the anonymity, slowly savouring the warm comfort of your food, and watch the slightly obscured figures of people as they pass by outside under the darkening sky. The man at the table by the door finishes his food quickly–in all of 15 minutes he orders, eats, and pays–with the chiming of the front door you’re left alone again as the only customer inside and the wife returns to rifling through a stack of papers spread out across the small table next to the kitchen. 

An hour passes as you sit in your chair, draining your soup and sitting silently as the scene repeats itself twice over. You glance at the clock on the wall, nearly 8:00pm, then down at your phone screen. No messages, no notifications. The light of the evening sun has all but disappeared by now, only a faint yellow clinging still to the corners of blue that construct the city at night. You push your bowl to the side and sigh–both ready and not ready to head back out into the street and begin your short walk home. As has become the routine, the woman sets her papers aside and presses a few buttons on the old till. You linger a moment longer at the table, watching a pair of women stroll by outside, before getting up and pulling out your wallet. No word is exchanged as you set down a few paper bills on the counter in front of her. 

The night air still bites with the remnants of the winter air and you tug your jacket tighter around to your chest as you step onto the sidewalk. It’s a quieter part of your neighbourhood, but still the streets are abuzz with people even aa the sky deepens with the threat of twilight. You fall in line behind a trio of women, walking a few paces behind them and letting your mind focus in on their conversation as they talk and laugh with each other.

Their conversation is nothing interesting–daily gossip about people you know nothing about, feel nothing for–but it reminds you of when you would wander around at night with your friends in University. Aimless and carefree, talking about nothing and everything that came to mind. When was the last time you had seen any of them? Not for months, surely. Maybe you should reach out.  

The women make a left turn a few blocks later, disappearing in the opposite direction that you’re headed and you let your thoughts drift off as their voices do. Would your husband be home already? Would he be upset with the lack of prepared dinner? He hasn’t mentioned anything about it up until now, but you do wonder how long that might last. You know you should summon up some excuse for why you’ve taken up these walks, why you’re sometimes not home when he gets back, but you can’t bring yourself to care enough to lie. What does it matter anyway? 

You round the final corner towards home. The building looms ahead at the end of the street, lobby lights casting yellow highlights onto the pavement out front. 

“Mrs. _____.” You don’t hear the voice at first. Your attention is far away, lurking in the recesses of your thoughts, and it takes a minute and a repeated call for you to register that acknowledgement. With a quizzical look, you turn towards the source of the voice and see Joshua Hong striding towards you from the opposite side of the street, pace quick to avoid an encroaching motorbike. 

“Mr. Hong?” you ask, wavering with confusion. Still unsure if he’s a real person or a spectre come to warn you of some impending doom awaiting you as you approach your apartment. 

“I thought that might be you,” he smiles, coming to a stop under a streetlight a few feet away. “How are you?” 

You blink him into reality, righting your attention back to alertness after it’s time away. He’s sporting a cream coloured corduroy jacket over a plain white t-shirt. Blue jeans. He looks the same as the last time you met him in the elevator–the same dark brown hair carving waves over his forehead, the same easy smile. You return the smile, sense reasserting itself enough for you to remember your manners. “I'm well, thank you. How are you?”

“Also well,” he replies, gesturing for the pair of you to resume walking towards your shared building. “We were away for a while, my wife and I. Visiting my family in LA.” 

You know this–the kiss of sun on her skin and your previous knowledge of Joshua was enough to clue you into where they had disappeared to those few months ago. Though you weren’t about to tell him this. “Ah, that sounds lovely. How long have you been back?” Polite conversation demands the question, though the answer to it is already blaring red in your mind. 

“About two months ago or so,” he replies. “It was a nice  trip, thank you.” You arrive at the entrance to the apartment complex, Joshua reaches for the door before you have the chance and you nod a thank you as he holds it open for you. “Have you ever been?” 

“To LA?” you ask, though the question is rhetorical and serves mainly to fill the empty spaces in between. He nods, affirming. “No, I haven’t.” You fall into step beside him, low heels clacking across the well worn black and white tiles of the lobby floor. You think to leave your answer succinct but reconsider it as you approach the elevator for fear of the silence that might ensue if you do. “Though, I did once have a dream to move there and become an actress,” you laugh. 

“Oh?” He looks surprised at the sudden confession and you worry you might have said too much about yourself. “Why didn’t you?” 

No one had ever asked you that before. It��s your turn to be taken off guard now as you step up to the dual elevators. Joshua presses the ‘up’ button and you consider how to reply. 

Why didn’t you? 

“I–well,” you start, fumbling through your thoughts. “It wasn’t a very serious dream, and it wasn’t like anything would have come of it. My mother preferred that I stay here and do something more practical.” 

He nods, thoughtful, appearing to seriously consider your response as you watch the numbers descend on the display above the right side elevator. “That’s understandable,” he says after a minute, “I think most parents just want security for their kids. Acting isn’t the most stable or assured career.” 

The elevator arrives, its buffed stainless steel doors sliding open to grant you access to the lift. Joshua gestures for you to step in first, so you do, lighting up the button for your floor as he steps in behind you. 

“Which floor?” you ask. Another question you know the answer to but he humours you anyway and you press the button for him as well. 

Silence steps into the elevator with you just as the doors shut. You realise you’re twisting your fingers together in front of you–a nervous habit you thought you had gotten rid of years ago–and you shake them lightly before dropping your arms back to your sides. 

“What about your father?” Joshua breaks the silence after a moment and again you take a second to register his question, too focused on the audible sound of your breathing. 

“I’m sorry?” You glance at him, not trusting that you had heard him correctly. 

“Your father,” he repeats, soft smile still lightly dusted over his lips. “What did he think of this acting dream of yours?”

“Oh, I don’t–” you pause, clearing your throat. Truthfully, you had never even told your mother about it, you just knew what she would have said if you had. “I’m not sure, he passed away when I was 14.” 

“Oh, I’m sorry,” he apologizes, expression sombering. 

You revert to silent passengers as the lift continues to rise towards your floor. A part of you aches to say something, to break the silence again and continue polite conversation. Something about his demeanour was easy–easy to talk to, easy to be with. But you flounder for questions, comments, topics to mention. The weight of your partner’s affair presses at the front of your mind and you wonder how long you’ll be able to keep it at bay before it spills free from behind the dam of your resolve. 

“What were you doing?” he asks suddenly. Breaking the silence just as you think you might not be able to withstand it any longer. The question confuses you and it must show on your face because he clarifies, “when I ran into you outside. It was getting pretty late.” 

“Oh, right of course,” you say, “I was just out for a walk.”

He nods, understanding. “I was as well. Do you walk often?” 

“Most nights, these days,” you reply. 

“Does your husband not mind?” 

You want to laugh. “He’s not home often, these days,” you answer after a moment, casting your gaze to the floor. Dancing around the implications as the weight presses heavier in your mind. “Your wife?” you ask, flirting with the edges of truth unspoken nestled between you. 

“She’s similarly occupied,” he responds, voice softening. You meet his gaze in the reflection of the doors. A spark of understanding reverberates through you and you wonder if he feels it as well. Swelling like a bloom of light bursting in your chest. He holds your gaze steady, unwavering but silent. He knows. He must. 

The elevator dings, warning you of your arrival, and you clear your throat, tearing your eyes off his and smothering the warmth that had blossomed in your heart. “Thank you,” you say, unsure exactly what you felt compelled to thank him for but giving sound to the sentiment anyway. “For um, the chat. It was nice to see you.” 

“You as well,” he smiles as the doors slide open to let you out. You nod and step into the hallway, torn between the eagerness to be alone once more and a strange resistance at departing from his company so soon. The doors begin to slide closed behind you but you hear him call your name once and spin to see his hand blocking their attempt. “Maybe we’ll see each other again soon, on one of our walks.” 

You nod again and watch as he lets his hand fall, body swallowed back into the elevator as the doors shut and it continues its climb upwards. You stand for a minute, stock still in the hallway once more staring at the space where he was. 

It's amazing how little time it takes for your whole world to shift. It’s a fact you’ve been presented with again and again throughout life–the deaths of your parents, accepting your husband's proposal all those years ago, the photo of him sent to you by an old friend with his arms around another woman. Mere seconds of time that seemed to move entire planets–rearranging your life without your consent at a subatomic level. 

Standing in the hallway now, with the sound of Joshua’s voice lingering in your mind, you get the uncanny feeling that you’ve just lived through another of these moments. You turn away from the elevator and walk the final steps to your apartment accompanied with this knowledge, and the hope that his final statement proves true. 

© 2024, neoneun-au. all rights reserved.

please consider reblogging, i would love to know your thoughts on the story so far !

[pilferingapples]

this is an invitation to infodump. i would LOVE to hear the thoughts you have on beggars at the feast, should you want to talk about them

AUGH ok ok let's see how well I can articulate...anything

OK so first: In the Letters server lately we've been talking a bit about how , in the book, Thenardier is WAY more the Human Nemesis than Javert is. He shows up earlier than Javert does; he's able to be a threat in ways Javert can't be, and to people Javert can't and wouldn't even try to touch ; he shares a TON of paralleling symbolism and class-blurring roles with JVJ; he's the last Personal Threat remaining in the novel, and the last thing we hear about him is that he's not only thriving , he's committing worse atrocities on a grander scale than anything we saw in the book, and getting nothing but social approval for it.

Thenardier is a nightmare, and he's triumphant, and as such he's a condemnation of society in an equal and opposing way to Jean Valjean. Valjean's story (and Fantine's , and the Thenardier siblings' ,. and the Amis , etc) says "look what we're destroying, look at the actions we punish". Thenardier's ultimate triumph as a literal slave trader flips it around and says "look what we support, look at what we endorse, look at what we elevate and approve." (now within the book I could take this farther , I could point out that the only thing within the novel that breaks any of the miserables free of their oppression to any degree is crime of some kind, be it revolution or theft or Being an Accomplice or exploitation, and the only thing that costs the (relatively) privileged their security and power is to truly ally with the miserables, but !! I'm talking about the musical)

In the musical Thenardier is softened a lot. Like... a LOT. The Thenardiers' exploitation of Fantine is barely mentioned ; their violent abuse of Cosette is turned into a joke; their abuse of Eponine is minimized (and their other kids are either Not Appearing in this Play or not obviously connected to them) ; and that final doomstrike epilogue, Thenardier becoming a slave trader, is gone. He's no longer the primary and most dangerous human antagonist; as in many other adaptations, that's now Javert.

So there's a different arc but it's there : From Master of the House and the Robbery , when he largely comes across as a gross but funny Comic Villain ; to the Attack on the Rue Plumet, where we finally see a bit of danger to him; to Dog Eats Dog, where he is really just acting on the same philosophy we saw in MotH but now doing something most people have a more immediate revulsion to, and the mask is really off; to , finally, Beggars at the Feast. If Beggars at the Feast is done RIGHT, This is Where The Villains Win.

They've gotten knocked around, sure, but they've also just gotten a ton of money, and, if done right, they are either blending in with the society party or, in the best staging * , they end up leading the dance. It's Master of the House all over again, only this time we're not being invited to laugh along with Thenardier's "band of soaks" ; this isn't the dregs of society, an easily stigmatized lower-class punchline.

This is Society, capital S Society, and they're just as ready to go along with him-- MORE ready to go along with him, even, because at least some of his inn customers usually get to be affronted and argue a little, but arguing with him risks some Unpleasantness, and isn't everything in Society so pleasant? Isn't it nice here, at the party? Let's not argue with the openly hateful people singing about how they want to destroy us all; look, they're dancing and singing! Let's just follow their lead. Won't that be nice.

And without getting into modern politics just because it's ALWAYS so current and I could never update the references frantically enough, I'll say that this is where Stage!Thenardier most echoes those Book!Thenardier Napoleon III vibes. Hugo knew what this dance looked like. He fell for it at one point.

(and hey, maybe it even raises some unease in audience members who laughed at MoTH and the child abuse and the Robbery without thinking about it-- maybe some people realize Oh Shit, We Fell For It Too. Not necessarily, but maybe?? ) And so it's fitting that it's this scene that has IMO a very clear sense of the book's incredibly specific political message ("Parisians, France, Please Overthrow Napoleon III, Probably With Barricades" ) , albeit in reverse. The Thenardiers gloat "Clear away the barricades and we're still here!" -- to them, a brag on how they endure all the changes around them.

But also implying: don't clear away the damn barricades. If you don't want the Thenardiers to run the show , help shore up that furniture wall and fight (for a modern international audience, this is probably going to be Not AS Specifically Involving Barricades).

So yeah. I'm not gonna say it's the most important song in the whole show , but it's important in ways I rarely see critics or commenters notice.

...Or it's just a funny musical reprise and you can have the Thenardiers be immediately thrown out of the wedding as frauds bc hahaha the poors thought they could play with their betters, good thing we're all so much smarter and cooler than that in the upper crust. That's fine too.

yes I have opinions; also I'm Correct

[gabgabwrites]

LOLITA | Patrick Zweig

2 -> RIVER

summary ⇝ everyone needed an escape from the blistering sun, and thankfully River Day was the perfect excuse for that, except even when trying to cool off, you can’t help but feel hot and heavy with a certain neighbour’s sweet talkings.

warnings ⇝ language, suggestive talking, Patrick shamelessly ogles reader coz he’s low-key a perv (then again…it’s Patrick)

That Saturday was almost as hot as the rest of the week. You wanted to peel back your skin and lay in the fridge but that was not possible.

The day was blisteringly hot, and the heat felt like a heavy, oppressive force, weighing down on your shoulders and making you feel sticky and sweaty. The air seemed thick and hot, and even the simplest tasks seemed to exhaust you.

You tried to find ways to beat the heat, taking cold showers and wearing light clothes. But no matter what you did, the heat was relentless.

You were almost upside down on the couch, fanning yourself while your father foraged around in the fridge for a cool beer to quench his thirst, then let out an annoyed grumble.

"Damn, there's nothing but lukewarm beer in there,” he closed the door with an irritated sigh and turned to you, taking in your uncomfortable state."You doing okay, kiddo? You look like you're about to melt."

You groaned, letting your arm drop. "It feels like it, I don't understand how we don't have a giant pool like all those rich people."

Your father chuckled, his eyes twinkling in a mix of amusement and understanding. "Yeah, tell me about it. If only we had that kind of money, right? But hey, at least we have the river to cool off in, even if it's not as fancy as a pool."

"We can only go tomorrow. Miss Higgins says she's gonna host a river day or something." You shrugged, trying to sit up before your head ached and your vision blurred.

You quickly blinked the feeling off before sitting back onto the couch.

The small box TV you had was saying something about a heat wave, and that it was going to get worse.

The TV droned in the background, reporting on the heat wave and the predictions that it would get even hotter in the coming days. The news anchor's voice was dry and monotonous, as if they were used to reporting on the heat.

"And there you have it folks, the heat wave is expected to get even worse in the next few days, with temperatures reaching record highs. Make sure to stay hydrated and cool as much as possible."

There was a knock to the door. You were lazily watching the news when you suddenly heard a knock at the door. You sat up a bit, your eyes flickering towards the door.

"Pa, someone's at the door." You called into the kitchen, where your father was still rummaging around.

Your father stuck his head out of the kitchen, a beer bottle in one hand and a slightly annoyed look on his face.

"Huh? Who would be knocking at this hour?" He asked.

"Need me to get it?"

Your father let out a breath through his nose and nodded. "Yeah, you mind getting it, kiddo? I'm in the middle of something out here." He gestured toward the kitchen counter with the beer bottle.

You got up, and walked over the the door, that held a few drawings of your childhood, before opening it, revealing the very woman you just spoke about.

"Ah, Miss Higgins, what brings you here?"

Miss Higgins is standing on the porch, her face shining with a cheerful smile.

She is wearing a light, airy sundress, the kind that looks perfect for a hot day like this.

"Oh, hello dear," she says brightly. "I just came by to deliver the flyers for tomorrow's river day. I thought you and your dad could use a copy."

Your nose crinkled as you smiled at the woman. She was always so polite to everyone, always offered them extra cookies or knitted wear. "Thank you, Miss Higgins. Pa and I will definitely be there."

Miss Higgins beamed at your response, pleased that you would be attending the river day.

"Oh, wonderful," she said, her voice brimming with excitement. "I'm so glad to hear that. It's going to be a lovely day, you know. We'll have a little picnic, some music, and of course, plenty of swimming."

You nodded, staring at her marbled eyes that beamed through her thick lensed glasses. "Sounds wonderful. Need us to bring anything? We're more than happy to help?"

She let out a sigh, her weight shifting from one foot to the other. "Look, I have about a few more houses to drop this off to, but my hip, sweetheart...it's too sore and I’m getting old. Would you be dear and hand these out, that's about as much as you can do for me."

You looked at her with concern, noticing the discomfort on her face. You felt a pang of empathy for the elderly woman, knowing she was getting older and the tasks of everyday life were getting more difficult for her.

"Of course, Miss Higgins," you replied, taking the flyers from her. "Don't you worry about a thing. I'll make sure these get delivered."

She smiled thankfully. "You're so nice to this granny right here, just like your mom, thank you. I'll bake you an extra muffin for tomorrow. How's that sound?"

You felt a warm feeling in your chest at the mention of your mom, and at the same time, you were touched by Miss Higgins' kindness. "That sounds great, Miss Higgins," you replied, returning her smile. "I'll look forward to those extra muffins tomorrow, thank you."

She nodded happily before turning and trotting off to her caravan, two trailers down.

You watched as Miss Higgins made her way back to her caravan, her steps somewhat slower than usual. You hoped she would be okay, and that she wouldn't overexert herself with the flyers.

With the flyers in hand, you closed the door and turned to your father, who was now leaning against the kitchen counter, sipping a beer.

"Pa?" You called out.

Your father looked up from his beer and gave you a curious glance. "Yeah, kiddo? What's up?" He asked.

"Miss Higgins came by and gave me these," you placed one flyer on the countertop. "Flyers for tomorrow, but she wants me to hand out the rest. Just thought I'd let you know where im off to."

Your father took a swig of his beer, his eyes flickering over the flyer. He seemed to consider what you said for a moment, before nodding. "Alright then," he grunted. "Be careful, kid. Don't go walking around in this damn heat for too long."

You nodded. "Kay, see you."

Your father gave you a small wave as you took the flyer and headed back out the door. "Yeah, be back soon," he replied. "And mind yourself, it's hot as hell out there."

You nodded before turning and leaving.

You stepped outside and felt the full force of the heat hit you like a wall of hot air. The sun was blazing high in the sky, and the heat shimmered off the ground.

You felt the sweat already start to form on your skin as you made your way down the row of trailers.

There were about seventy off trailers to visit, and Miss Higgins stopped at four.

With a heavy sigh you began on your voyage.

As you began your trek down the row of trailers, you clutched the flyers in your hand, feeling the sweat start to drip down your forehead. The humidity was stifling, and the sun beat down on you mercilessly. But you were determined to hand out the flyers, knowing it would make Miss Higgins happy. You went from door to door, knocking and waiting for each trailer occupant to answer. Some were happy to take the flyers, others were grumpy from the heat, and some trailers remained unanswered no matter how many times you knocked, leaving you to slip the paper under the door.

You repeated this process for what seemed like an eternity, knocking on door after door, feeling the sun and heat beating down on you. The trailers all looked the same after the first few, but you continued on, sweat now plastering your clothes to your skin.

You dodged that trailer until it was the only one left.

The last trailer was the one you had silently promised yourself to save until last. The thought of dealing with the rude man from the day before was not something you were looking forward to.

But now, with the last flyer clutched in your hand, you had no choice. You sighed silently, steeling yourself before heading up the path and knocking on the trailer door. You didn't want to see him, for many reasons. One, he's rude, two, he's rude, three... well you had erogenous thoughts about him.

You cursed. Your mind raced as you stood outside his trailer, feeling conflicting emotions.

You didn't want to see him, knowing how unfriendly and rude he could be. But there was something more, a feeling of curiosity and attraction that you couldn't shake, no matter how much you hated yourself for it.

You took a deep breath and braced yourself, trying to push those thoughts out of your mind as you waited for him to answer the door.

You could hear footsteps from inside the trailer drawing closer and closer to the door. They echoed in your ears as you stood on the porch, awaiting his appearance. Soon, the footsteps stopped right on the other side of the door.

You held your breath, waiting for the door to open. After a moment, the door opened, revealing the man you had been dreading to see again. He was as intimidating and foreboding as ever, his dark eyes boring into you with an intense gaze.

He looked at you with unreadable expression, his face a mixture of surprise and annoyance.

You took in a breath. "Evening, uh..."

The man stood in the doorway, his gaze still fixed on you. He didn't say anything for a moment, just silently staring at you with his dark eyes. Finally, he spoke, his voice as blunt as ever. "What do you want?"

"Okay, so that's how it's gonna be," you mumbled to yourself. "Well, Miss Higgins, who lives at number 2 is having a river day tomorrow. It's up by the river a block away, and it's a nice way to cool off. She's given me flyers to hand out, so." You stuck your arm out and extended the flyer to him.

The man's eyes flicked down to the flyer you had extended towards him. He made no move to take it, just stood there with his arms crossed, his expression still unreadable but seeming slightly annoyed. "A river day, huh?" He grunted, his tone gruff.

You nodded. The man's gaze flicked from the flyer to you and back again. He seemed to be debating something in his head, his arms still crossed over his chest, his expression still guarded.

Finally, he reached out and took the flyer, but not before his fingers brushed against yours, sending a shiver up your spine. He held the flyer in his hand, but didn't look at it, just continued to stare at you.

You could feel the heat of his gaze, intense and penetrating, it made your heart beat a little faster.

"A whole day of swimming and music?" He asked, his voice a low grumble.

You nodded again. "Yep, so bring your swimming and picnic stuff," you told him. "It'll be a nice way for you to get to know everyone."

The man's eyes flicked over you, studying you with a mix of curiosity and annoyance. He folded the flyer in half and placed it on the side table next to the door, his eyes not leaving yours. "You think I want to get to know these people?" He asked, his voice rough and a crinkle in his nose.

You pursed your lips. "I mean, I guess? Most of us are nice, except for Janice's lot and Terence and his wife, but we're all one big community."

The man rolled his eyes at that, and let out a scoff. "One big community," he repeated, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Yeah, that sounds real special and all, sweetheart."

You couldn't help the scoff that left your lips. "Okay, there's no need to talk like you've got a stick up your ass. We do take pride in being a community and we'd happily extend it to anyone, who's willing."

The man's eyes widened in surprise at your scathing remark, but the corner of his lips twitched up into a small, almost impressed smile. "Well, look at you," he said, a hint of amusement in his voice. "Seems like you've got more fire than I gave you credit for."

He leaned against the doorframe, his arms still crossed, eyeing you with a newfound curiosity. His lips quirked up in a small smile.

"And here I thought you were just a pretty face." He mumbled, that gruff timbre of his voice sounding a tad more gravelly.

You rolled your eyes. "Yeah, so guess I'll see you there or something, don't forget to bring something to share, it is a picnic after all."

The man's smile remained on his face, his eyes locked onto yours. He nodded slowly, his gaze still intense as he continued to lean against the doorframe.

"I guess you will," he replied, his gruff voice taking a more plavful tone. "And I won't forget. I'll make sure to bring something good, just for you."

You clicked your tongue, giving him no other response other than a quick 'Bye', before walking away.

The man watched as you walked away, his gaze following you until you were a few paces down the paved path.

As you made your way back down the path, you could feel his eyes on your back, a feeling that sent a shiver down your spine.

You didn't look back, but you could practically feel his gaze burning into you as you got farther and farther away from his trailer.

You pushed open the door to your trailer and gently closed it behind you, seeing your dad had finished his beer and was washing it down with soda.

Your dad looked up as you came in and shut the door behind you. He was sipping on a cold soda, his eyes drifting over you as you walked in. "Hey, kiddo," he greeted you. "How'd it go? You hand out all the flyers?"

You nodded. "Yes, most said they'd go while others didn't open the door. Janice almost lost her gold tooth with the way she was talking, but I sorted it out," you told him. "You leave some pop for me?"

Your dad chuckled at the mention of Janice, shaking his head fondly. He gestured towards the refrigerator where a few cans of soda were sitting. "Yeah, I left a few cans for ya," he replied. "How many times do I have to tell ya not to listen to that old bat?"

You grumbled, turning to the fridge and pooling out a cherry flavoured soda. "Yeah, yeah, but it's hard not to when she's rattling your ear drum. You know she's pregnant, again?"

Your dad let out a deep sigh and nodded, shaking his head in disbelief. "Yeah, I know," he grumbled. "That's what, baby number six now? She seems mighty fertile for an old woman."

You snorted, before plonking yourself on your usual spot on the couch. "Her and Buck breed like rabbits."

Your dad chuckled at that, shaking his head in agreement. "Yeah, they sure do. Can't keep their hands to themselves," he said with a smirk. "And you wouldn't believe how loud they are too, sounds like a damn zoo."

You cringe. "Okay, Pa, you can keep that one to yourself." You shivered.

Your dad chuckled again and held up his hands in surrender. "Alright, alright, 'll keep it to myself. Just remember, kiddo, make sure you use protection when you get to my age." He gave you a pointed look, with a look of humour in his eye.

You smacked your lips, pushing yourself off the couch. "Yep, and you ruined my drink, thanks."

Your dad laughed and shook his head, grinning cheekily. "Just trying to look out for ya," he replied, still chuckling. "I don't want any sudden grandkids running around just yet."

You shook your head. "Bummer, and here I was planning on making you an early grandpa."

Your dad let out a full hearty laugh at that, slapping his knee once before taking another glug of soda.

"Ah, you got jokes, huh?" He said, grinning. "You're a real comedian, I tell you. But I'm not ready for that, not yet."

"And it'll be that way for a while." You told him before disappearing into your room.

With that, your dad turned back to the TV, still shaking his head and chuckling to himself silently as the sounds of a sports game blared in the background.

You flipped onto your bed, your bedroom was once a brilliant pink, now sun-bleached into the palest pink imaginable. You had glass charms dangling from the curtain rods, and a neat bookshelf you cared for deeply, Teddy bears decorated your bed, and so did flurry cushions, and other than the singular framed picture of a white mustang, your walls were bare.

You lay on your bed, staring up at the ceiling. The sounds of the sports game and your dad's occasional laugh from the living room provided a familiar background noise.

Your mind wandered, thinking about the river day tomorrow and the man who lived in the last trailer. You couldn't quite put your finger on why he made you feel So... strange.

You groaned, before flipping yourself over and grabbing a book to read and tried to distract yourself from the heat and the thoughts of that man. It was a familiar book, one you'd read many times before, but it was comforting and it helped take your mind off things. You lay on your bed, the book propped in your lap, trying to lose yourself in the story instead of the thoughts that kept popping into your head.

And eventually you found yourself getting lost in the pages.

Your eyes scanned the pages of the book, the familiar words drawing you in and making you forget about the thoughts that had been nagging at the back of your mind.

Soon, your surroundings faded away as you became completely immersed in the story, the sounds of the TV and your dad's laughs fading to the background as you transported yourself to the world of the book.

That was the last thing you remembered before you woke up, your cheek stuck to your arm and the book kicked off to the side.

Your eyes fluttered open, and you groggily sat up, realizing that you must have dozed off while reading. Your cheek was warm from being pressed against your arm, and the book lay discarded on the bed next to you. You rubbed your eyes, slowly coming back to reality, and wondered how long you had been asleep for.

You glanced around the room, taking in the familiar surroundings, and then your eyes found the clock on your bedside table. It said it was almost four o'clock in the atternoon.

You let out a sigh, realizing you had only been asleep for an hour or so. You sat back against the headboard, feeling a sudden wave of restlessness wash over you.

Blinking away the sleep in your eyes, you looked out the window, seeing the sun was out. A smile tugged on your lips when you remembered it was River Day today.

The sun was still high in the sky, casting a warm glow over the trailer park outside your window, and you felt a sudden burst of energy at the thought of spending the rest of the day by the river. Hurriedly you got up and ran off to the kitchen to eat breakfast.

You rushed into the kitchen, the energy coursing through you making you feel eager to start the day.

Your dad was sitting at the small kitchen table, sipping on a cup of coffee and reading the newspaper. He looked up at you as you entered and raised an eyebrow in question. "Someone's full of energy today, huh?" He said with a chuckle, setting down his cup of coffee and folding his newspaper.

You nodded. "Of course I am," you saw your dad had made you waffles, you turned to him while picking up the plate. "Thanks, Pa."

Your dad smiled in response, his eyes warm and kind. "No problem, kiddo," he replied. "You know I always got your back."

He sat back in his chair, watching you as you carried your plate over to the table and sat down to eat the waffles he had made for you. Once the last drop of syrup was scraped off your plate, your dad didn't bat an eye as you jumped up to go get ready.

The bikini you chose to wear was white and had a big, red love heart on each cup while the matching thongs were just plain white. You thought an oversized T-Shirt would be great for a cover up so you grabbed one, it used to be your dads but it somehow found its way to your closet, it was old and torn, and had a worn out print of the American flag.

You grabbed your sunglasses and sunscreen and placed them in a small bag before exiting your room.

The last thing you grabbed was your even fuller basket of peaches, more were picked and they were stored in the fridge to keep them cool. Your dad started the truck and you climbed into the passenger seat, buckling your seatbelt as he pulled out of the driveway.

Looking out the window, you noticed that many of your neighbors were also heading to the river, either walking or driving in their own vehicles. The excitement in the air was palpable, and you could feel it buzzing around you like electricity.

As soon as the beat-up, red truck parked, you threw open your door and grabbed your basket of peaches.

You and your dad hopped out of the truck, the basket of peaches balanced precariously in your arms as you slammed the door behind you.

The sounds of laughter and music greeted you as soon as you stepped out, and the sun was beating down onto the grass of the riverbank, making the atmosphere feel hot and sultry.

The river was an iridescent shade of blue, and all shades of green trees on the opposite side. The river sparkled in the sunlight like a jewel, its waters clear and refreshing, while the trees on the opposite side cast shadows onto the riverbank, providing a little respite from the heat.

You looked around and noticed that many of your neighbors had already taken up their spots on the riverbank, some swimming in the water, and some simply lounging on the grass.

You helped your dad throw open a picnic blanket, before he popped open a cooler, that was just for the two of you, and you grabbed your peaches, taking that to the plastic tables set out for those who brought something to share.

You and your dad spread out the picnic blanket on the riverbank, the soft fabric sinking into the grass, and then he opened the cooler and started to pull out some snacks and cold drinks.

Once the cooler was unpacked, you picked up your basket of peaches and carried it over to the plastic tables set up nearby.

You placed the basket on the table, the peaches looking plump and ripe, and stood back, admiring the spread of food laid out before you.

Your eyes lit up as Miss Higgins appeared, a friendly smile on her face and a box of muffins in her hands.

"There you are!" She called out, her cheerful voice drawing your attention. She handed you the carefully wrapped box of muffins, the smell of freshly baked goods wafting out of the paper. "And here you go, sweetheart. Just as I promised," Miss Higgins said, her eyes twinkling with warmth.

You took the box from here. "Thank you, really."

Miss Higgins beamed, her eyes warm and kind as she looked at you. "No problem at all, darlin'," she replied, patting you on the shoulder. "I know how much you love my blueberry muffins."

You nodded, tongue tingling at the thought of the taste. "How can I not? Oh, and I brought peaches, I was going to make an ice tea but I didn't have enough of the right tea bags."

Miss Higgins smiled at your words, her eyes crinkling at the corners. "Well, those peaches look mighty delicious," she said, nodding approvingly at the fruit in the basket. "And an ice tea sounds mighty nice, too, but don't sweat it darling."

She patted your shoulder again and then stepped away, saying she had to go find her husband.

You were about to open the muffin box when a hand reached out and took a peach from the basket, the flesh of the peach gleaming in the sunlight.

Your eyes peered up to see a rather sculpted arm, you followed the lean flesh and stared right back at the curly head of hair. "I thought you didn't like peaches?" You asked.

The man turned his head towards you, a smirk on his face as he took a bite of the peach.

"I don't," he replied, his eyes meeting yours, "But I figured it would be impolite not to try something that someone had gone through the effort of providing."

You raised an eyebrow. "Right, and what did you bring?"

The man's smirk widened slightly, his eyes not leaving yours. "Well, sweetheart, I brought the beer, of course." He replied, taking another bite of the peach, the juice glistening on his lips.

That's when you noticed the six pack he was holding, you chose not to dwell on the thought of the veins you saw travelling up his arm. "Real nice of you." You bit, sarcastically.

The man chuckled at your tone, his smirk still firmly in place. He took another bite of the peach, his eyes never leaving yours. "Oh, come now, sweetheart," he said, his voice a touch playful, "Don't be like that.

You should be grateful that your favourite neighbour made an effort."

"I'm forever grateful and is in your debt," You clicked your tongue, while crossing your arms over your chest. "And only one pack?"

The man rolled his eyes, his smirk quickly turning into a full blown grin. "Oh, so you're ungrateful as well as sarcastic," he retorted, his eyes flickering down to your crossed arms, "And yes, only one pack. I can make more trips to my truck if we need more."

You blew out a long breath of air out your nose. "Alright, but at least you brought something so."

"Oh, so now you're giving me the benefit of the doubt, huh?" He said, his voice still playful, "How gracious of you, sweetheart."

You decided you had enough chitchat, so with a flippant roll of the eyes, you spun and walked back to your picnic blanket.

You saw your dad was off by a few of the other men around his age, talking and having beers.

The man watched you walk away, his eyes following your every move. You made your way back to your picnic blanket, noticing that your dad was now chatting and laughing with a few of the other men in the area, beers in hand.

With your dad distracted by the conversation with other men, you decided to take advantage of the moment and slipped off the oversized T-shirt.

Underneath, your skimpy pair of bikini bottoms' fabric clung to your hips and leaving not much to the imagination. You gathered up the T-shirt you had just removed, and placed it on top of your bag.

You grabbed the sunscreen and knelt down on the blanket, beginning to rub the lotion across your bare skin. The sun was hot on your back, and the sunscreen was cool and soothing as you applied it liberally to your body.

You worked the sunscreen into every part of your body you could reach, the lotion quickly heating up from the heat of the sun.

Your eyes wandered around as you noticed some of your neighbours had already jumped in the river, cooling off in the water and splashing each other.

You glanced up just in time to catch a glimpse of muscular biceps and the top of a shaggy head of hair disappearing from view as the man from the peach basket stepped into the water. You found yourself looking longer than necessary, only snapping out of your trance when you heard a rather loud splash of water.

You quickly finished applying the sunscreen and stood up, making your way towards the rocky edge of the river.

The water looked refreshing and invigorating, the sound of laughter and joyous shouting filling the air as people swam and splashed each other.

The cool water felt wonderfully refreshing as you stepped into the river, the water up to your ankles.

You could feel the tenseness of your body begin to ease away, every muscle relaxing as the water soothed and cooled you.

You took a few more steps into the water, letting it rise up to your knees, and splashed some onto your legs. The feeling was heavenly, the cool water a welcome relief from the scorching heat of the sun above.

You waded deeper into the water, the river's current gently slapping against your bare legs. You took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, feeling the last remnants of stress leave your body as you continued to wade further in.

You stopped when it was at chest level, before you kicked off the bottom and began to float.

You floated in the water, the river cool and soothing on your skin.

You felt relaxed and at ease as you drifted through the river, the water supporting your body and allowing you to just float lazily for a moment. You closed your eyes, relishing in the peacefulness and quiet of the moment.

The sound of the water lapping around you was lulling, and you could easily have just stayed here, floating in the water indefinitely.

After floating for a few moments, you eventually flipped yourself over and got back onto your feet. The water now came to mid-torso level and you could see some of the other neighbours playing in the river, their splashes sending sprays of water flying.

You glanced sideways, and caught glance of your rude neighbour sitting on a large, flat rock, one leg propped up with his arm resting straight on it, the other bringing a cigarette to his lips. As your eyes connected and his eyes met yours, you felt a jolt of something jump in your chest. His gaze was intense somehow, unwavering as his eyes didn't leave yours, the smoke curling around his face.

For a moment, you were tempted to look away, but there was something about his intense gaze that held you captivated.

You just couldn't seem to tear your eyes away from him, even as he exhaled a puff of smoke. You watched as his free hand fell from his knee and landed on the pack of beer, his palm petting it, bickering you to join him.

You swallowed, wallowing on what to do.You looked over at your dad, seeing he was still busy chatting and laughing with the other men.

A single beer seemed harmless enough, didn't it? And the man was looking at you intently, his eyes urging you to come over to him and join him.

So, you began to trek through the water. Deciding to accept the man's silent invitation, you began to wade your way through the water to where he was sitting.

For some reason, your heart started to beat a little faster and you felt your nerves start to prickle as you splashed your way over to him. You finally reached the rock where the man was lounging, the water coming just under your chest. You looked up at him, his gaze now more intense the closer you got, the smoke from his cigarette still drifting around his face.

"Well don't just stand there."

You were snapped out of your thoughts by the sound of the man's voice, his dark eyes still fixed on yours.

"Come on," he said, gesturing lazily to the space next to him on the rock, "Sit down."

"Geez, alright," you grumbled before moving to sit down next to him, leaving a good distance between the two of you. Your eyebrows shot up when he carelessly placed his towel, slightly damp, onto your lap. "Thank you."

"You're welcome, sweetheart."

He popped out a bottle of beer for you, the condensation droplets dripping down the neck as he tipped it in your direction. The man reached out and grabbed a bottle of beer from the pack, the condensation running down the neck as he extended it towards you.

"Here," he said, the slightest hint of a smirk on his face, "For you."

You took the bottle of beer from his hand, your fingers brushing against his slightly as you did so. His touch was calloused and rough, but it sent a strange spark through your hand as you took the cold glass from him. "Thank you."

"No problem," he replied with a shrug, his eyes moving up and down your body, taking in your skimpy bikini. He quickly shoved his cigarette back between his lips, while mumbling a quiet "Fuck."

You brought the bottle to your lips and tipped it back, letting the malty liquid wash over your tongue. You took a slow and steady sip of the beer, the cold liquid washing over your tongue and leaving a smooth, malty taste in your mouth.

The man watched you intently as you drank, his eyes trailing over your body.

You brought the bottle away from your lips, seeing that he only ever took one out, which was the one you held. "You want a sip? I don't backwash or anything."

The man raised an eyebrow at your offer, a small smirk coming onto his face.

"Oh, so now you're offering to share, huh?" he asked, his eyes flickering between the beer in your hand and your face. "You're being awfully kind all of a sudden."

You shrugged. "You would have realised im always kind, but that kindness does get tested every now and then."

The man smirked, while taking the bottle from you. "You don't say."

He took the bottle of beer from your hand, his fingers brushing against yours once again. He took a long swig, the muscles in his throat moving as he drank. Then he pulled the bottle away, his lips smacking together slightly.

You noticed a frothy droplet slip from his lips and run down his jaw, your hand shooting out to wipe it before it contracted like it stung. "Sorry, you just spilt some."

The man's eyes widened slightly as your hand shot out and wiped his chin, the unexpected touch sending an electric shiver down his spine. He quickly recovered, however, and shrugged nonchalantly. "No big deal," he said, his voice rough and gruff, "I'm not that picky about a little spilled beer."

You frowned. "Yeah, but then it will dry up and be sticky. It's gross." You told him.

The man chuckled, amused by your concern over such a minor thing. "You think I care about a little bit of beer on my beard?" he asked, his tone slightly mocking, "I'll just wash it off later."

You rolled your eyes, wiping the beer off your fingers. "Just trynna help."

The man smirked at your eye roll, clearly enjoying your snarky attitude. "Oh, I'm sure you were," he said, his tone dripping with condescension, "And believe me, sweetheart, I really, really appreciate all your help."

Your eyes narrowed as you picked up on the tone of his voice, the mocking and teasing edge to it grating on you slightly.

You could feel your irritation starting to rise. "You're welcome," you replied with a forced sweetness in your voice, "I just couldn't bear the thought of you being sticky due to that spilled beer. Truly a tragedy."

"Oh, I'm sure you're just the picture of concern and charity," he said, his eyes fixed on your face, his expression smug. "But really, you don't have to worry about me, sweetheart. I can take care of myself." You chose not to comment on anything, instead sticking your hand out for the beer again.

The man handed you the bottle of beer back, his eyes still fixed on yours. This time, the smirk on his face had turned into more of a small smile, one that wasn't quite as condescending.

You took the bottle from him, your fingers brushing against his once again. His touch was still rough and calloused, but this time, the feeling didn't feel quite as foreign.

You tilted the bottle back, taking another swallow of the cold beer, the cool liquid washing over your tongue. The man continued to watch you, his eyes still fixed on your face, but now with a hint of curiosity in them.

"You're staring." You pointed out, placing the bottle next to you. The man raised an eyebrow at your comment, tilting his head slightly to the side.

"And?" he said, his voice gruff and rough, "Can't help it if you're worth looking at, sweetheart."

Your cheeks flushed slightly at his comment, the unexpected compliment catching you off guard. You tried to play it cool, however, and just rolled your eyes. "Don't let my Pa catch you saying that."

The man rolled his eyes in response to your comment, his smile still playing at the corners of his lips. "Your Pa?" he asked, a hint of mockery in his voice, "And why would I be worried about him? Does he have a shotgun or something?"

"Or something." You shot back.

The man cocked an eyebrow at your vague response, his expression now a mixture of amusement and a hint of curiosity. ''Or something, huh?" he repeated, a small scoff escaping his lips, "Sounds like your Pa's a real charmer."

You bristled at his sarcastic remark, your irritation rising once again. But you tried to keep your cool, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of seeing that he was getting under your skin.

"My Pa's just protective," you said, your voice a touch defensive, "He's a good guy, just looks out for me."

The man smirked once again, clearly enjoying your defensive response. "Oh, I'm sure he's a regular knight in shining armor," he said mockingly, "No one's allowed near his little girl, right?"

You clicked your tongue. "Care to find out?"

The man chuckled, the challenge in your voice piqued his interest. "Are you threatening me, sweetheart?" he asked, his smirk growing wider, "I doubt your Pa would approve of you getting all worked up over me."

You clenched your jaw, your irritation now at its peak. But you tried to stay calm, not wanting to give him any more satisfaction. "I'm not worked up," you retorted, your voice cool and calculated, "And I'm just saying, my Pa wouldn't like it if you said something inappropriate to me."

He feigned a sad face. "But would you?" The man adopted a mock-pouting expression, his smirk turning into a small frown. "Oh, come on now sweetheart" he said, his voice dripping with false innocence, "You wouldn't rat me out to your Pa, would you? I thought we were gettin' along so well."

You rolled your eyes at his over-the-top behaviour, the irritation from before slowly fading. You couldn't help but find it slightly amusing, despite your best efforts.

"Don't count on it," you replied, your voice slightly less cool than before, "'m not a snitch, but if you don't behave, I might change my mind."

He threw his hands up in defense. "Okay, missy. I'll be on my bestest behaviour, l promise."

You couldn't help but snort at his exaggerated apology, a small smile tugging at the corners of your lips. "Your bestest behaviour, huh?" you asked, your voice laced with mild sarcasm, "That's reassuring."

The man shrugged, the smirk on his face returning "What can I say?" he said, a hint of mock-innocence in his voice, "I'm a changed man. I'm trying to be good now, really."

You shook your head. "You're real funny, mister.

He chuckled at your reaction, clearly enjoying the back-and-forth banter. "I'm glad you think so, sweetheart," he said, his tone slightly mocking, "Being funny is one of my many, many talents."

"Yeah? And what are your others?" You almost regret asking that question when you saw a devious glint in his eyes.

Almost.

The man's smirk grew wider, his gaze now fixed intently on your face. "Oh, sweetheart..." he drawled, his voice low and suggestive, "That's a very dangerous question to ask me, you know."

You raised an eyebrow. "I don't know."

The man was clearly enjoying your feigned ignorance. "Trust me," he said, his voice dripping with innuendo, "There are lots of things I could tell you that I'm talented at. But I don't think your innocent ears could handle it, sweetheart."

"Innocent?" The word tumbled from your lips, you snapping them shut after, embarrassed.

The man's smirk turned into a full-blown grin as you blurted out the word. He clearly enjoyed seeing your embarrassed reaction and couldn't help but tease you. "Yeah, sweetheart," he said, his voice silky smooth, "You look like a sweet, innocent little thing. But I bet you've got a bit of a dirty side to you, don't you?"

You shook your head. "No...l don't know what you're talking about."

The man raised an eyebrow at your denial, clearly not buying it for a second. "Really?" he said, his tone laced with mockery, "You're telling me you're as pure as freshly fallen snow? Not one dirty thought has ever crossed that pretty little head of yours?"

You licked your lips. If only he knew, like actually knew. "No?"

The man's eyes followed the movement of your tongue as you licked your lips, his smirk growing wider as he noticed your slight hesitation. "No?" He repeated. "You really expect me to believe that, sweetheart? A cute little thing like you?" 

You said a bit more defiantly, "I don't have those thoughts."

The man chuckled outright at your response, clearly not believing you. "Oh, really?" he asked, his tone teasing, "Not even once? Never had a naughty dream or anything?"

You shook your head, fingers reaching for the beer bottle again.

He beat you to it and snatched the bottle up. "Alright, if you say so, but know you're a terrible liar, sweetheart," he said, his voice now laced with amusement, "But I'll play along if you want. I'll pretend to believe that you're pure as the driven snow, alright?"

You eyed the beer bottle, you just wanted something to wash away your thoughts.

He noticed the way you were eyeing the beer. "You want it back, huh?" He asked, his tone teasing, "But I don't know if I should give it to you. You seem a bit on edge, sweetheart. You know what they say about alcohol and emotions."

Your eyelid twitched, you didn't say anything as you feared it would be something harsh and brazen.

The man laughed heartily, clearly enjoying getting under your skin. "Oh, sweetheart," he said, his tone condescending, "Don't go all quiet on me now. You were so mouthy just a minute ago."

You swallowed. "Can I just have the beer?"

"Sure, you can have the beer, sweetheart," he said, his tone light and playful. "But only if you agree to tell me one honest truth, no matter what it is."

Your jaw clenched, no, you weren't not eager to have beer, your dad had brought some, but... actually you couldn't explain why you continued to play the game. "What?"

The man's smile turned wolfish as he saw your hesitation.

"Just a simple question, sweetheart," he said, his voice low and enticing, "And I promise I won't judge you, no matter what your answer is. I just wanna know something about you."

Your heart started beating a little faster.

You knew his "simple question" wasn't going to be so simple after all. But you were still intrigued, and a strange mix of curiosity and nerves compelled you to agree. "Alright," you said, your voice sounding more confident than you felt, "I'll bite."

The man smirked, clearly pleased with your compliance.

"That's the spirit, sweetheart," he said, his voice sultry and alluring, "I knew you weren't a total goody two-shoes. Now, here's my little 'honest truth' question for you, and I think you know what it is," he paused, his gaze raking over your face again. You braced yourself, unsure of what was coming next. "Have you never had a naughty dream about a man?" He finally asked, his tone a velvet-covered dagger.

You swallowed, turning your gaze back to the river. You were an adult, it wasn't uncommon for these thoughts to happen, but they felt wrong, this felt wrong. So, with a meek voice, you mumbled a "No."

The man's smirk widened into a sly grin as you muttered your answer.

"Oh, really?" he purred, his tone dripping with smugness, "And who is this dream man, sweetheart? Is it someone I know?"

You clicked your tongue. "Like you know anybody."

"Oh, I know people, sweetheart," he said, his tone oozing with confidence, "I know lots of people. So, who is he? Is it someone from your little town here? Some boy who's just dying to take you to a Sunday picnic?"

"You've asked your question now give me the beer."

The man chuckled again, his smirk never leaving his face. "Alright, alright, sweetheart," he said, holding out the beer to you, "I suppose I did say l'd give it to you if you answered honestly. Here you go."

You took the beer from him, your fingers brushing against his rough ones again. The now-familiar sensation sent tingles up your arms, but you tried to ignore it.

"There," he said, his smug smile still on his lips, "I held up my end of the deal. Now I'm gonna ask you another question, sweetheart."

You shook your head. "Nah, enough about me. What about you? You have any...sinful thoughts?"

"Sinful thoughts?" He repeated, his voice a low drawl, "Oh, sweet thing, l've got more sinful thoughts than you could ever imagine."

You swallowed, his response sending a shiver up your spine. His words were cocky and full of bravado, but there was a hint of truth behind them that made your heart flutter. "Like what?" You asked, your voice a little breathier than you'd liked.

He licked his top row of teeth, it was almost too easy, you were almost too easy. He couldn't compare you to anything other than a lamp trapped by a pack of wolves.

With a sly smile, he leaned in closer to you, his voice lowering to a low, sultry whisper. "Like, maybe, what it would be like to have those sweet, pretty lips of yours pressed against mine..."

You gasped, the beer bottle slipping from your grasp.

The man's quick reflexes kicked in, and he reached out to catch the bottle before it hit the ground. "Careful there, sweetheart," he said, the corners of his lips tugged into a smirk, “Wouldn't want to waste all that beer. That would be a real shame."

You blinked, hard. "I—| gotta go, it was nice talking to you, uh, what's your name?" You asked, hazardously standing up.

The man chuckled, clearly amused by your flustered state. He stood up as well, towering over you, his smirk never leaving his face.

"The name's Patrick, sweetheart," he replied, his voice still low and sultry, "But you can call me Pat, or whatever you like."

You quickly told him your name before staggering off.

Patrick watched as you stumbled off, a bemused expression on his face. Your hasty exit clearly didn't dampen his spirits. In fact, he found your awkward retreat rather endearing.

"See ya later, sweetheart." He called after you, a hint of mockery in his voice.

You had to get out of there. Your skin was heating up and it wasn't because of the sun, and your bikini bottom was wet and you knew it wasn't just water. You almost crashed into the water as you threw some on your face.

As you splashed the cool water, your mind was still racing, filled with thoughts of the man you had just encountered. You tried to push the sensations of your body out of your mind, but it was a futile endeavor.

As you looked back towards the spot where you had been sitting, you saw Patrick watching you from a distance, his smirk ever present on his face.

You quickly whipped your head back to stare at the rippling water.

You were fucked.

Beyond fucked.

He was almost double your age yet you couldn't help but be drawn to him, if only you knew...

[ NEXT ]

[laryna6]

My worldbuilding for how nobles and werewolves happened in Noblesse goes like so:

Nobles are energy/dimensional beings and the first one to achieve sapience, the original Lord, got very bored and wanted intelligent company. So he started looking for other intelligent life: he found other beings like him, but they weren't actually smart because they didn't need to be, they just floated around and existed.

Then he managed to filter signals out of the universal background noise, and found an intelligent species roughly similar to humanity - carbon based, evolved on an earthlikeish world, etc.

Unfortunately, they had developed the ability to modify themselves, and of course the rich and powerful were the ones to benefit and use it to become even more powerful/oppressive, while treating the people who couldn't afford to extend their lifespans like their lives were worthless.

Basically, they were making the same mistake the Union made: not valuing selfhood means losing selfhood when you're an immortal. Kindness, actual intelligence - the species was losing those traits by assholes killing all the non-assholes.

So the Original Lord was like 'shit I found people but I can't use them as a template for uplifting my kind because they're devolving into mindless things that just kill, which is even worse than being mindless things that just exist.'

So he created the original Noblesse to make sure that never happened to him (if he started looking down on his intellectual inferiors too much) or his kind.

Eventually he got sick of being alone, created a child, and then went into eternal sleep (went back to just mindlessly existing) as technically the second soul weapon (the Noblesse being the first).

That Lord was the one who went 'okay, this other species became intelligent from being in bodies on a planet' and pushed the rest of the nobles to manifest bodies on Earth and also put some of the descendants of that species there too in case that helped - which it sort of did, because the species that would eventually become werewolves attacked everything including the nobles, so they had to do/get good at *something* (fighting/self-defense) instead of sitting around like lumps.

After Earth developed its own life, that Lord saw that evolution was a thing and made it a rule that if you couldn't keep your body from being destroyed you had to go to eternal sleep. However even in the present day the youngest nobles are only sixth generation so they haven't had enough time for any real evolution to take place.

Nobles interacted/contracted with more species than just early hominids and gradually started to pick up how to think/solve problems from the minds around them, which accelerated when proto-humans came around and they started cohabitating. The Lord then ordered that nobles had to take human form because human brains were good at thinking.

Unfortunately, the werewolves were modified into chimeras that got the abilities of other species by eating them, and humans obviously objected to being eaten. But if werewolves didn't keep eating humans for their neurons their intelligence dropped back down. Nobles lent humans power so they could defend themselves and there was basically a werewolves vs. nobles/humans war until the Previous Lord figured out enough of werewolf biology that he could make them grow their own neurons and pass quasi-human bodies with brains down to their descendants. This is the result of a ~spell anchored in one of the noble sanctuaries and one of the reasons Muzaka was 'if we fight with the nobles and humans we don't win' when other werewolves were 'why DON'T we subjugate the inferior humans?' because forget fighting, the noble Lord could have turned off the array and lobotomized their entire species. (The Previous Lord did NOT pass any of this information down to Raskreia. None of the awake nobles know how their species originated except Rai, because the Noblesses have some programmed knowledge so they know what their job is.)

The rest of the werewolves didn't know about the array because like the nobles, they lacked any oral history tradition and the older werewolves didn't want to talk about how they once had no choice but to eat actual people because they were ashamed of it. Muzaka was told about it by the werewolf he defeated to become Lord.

So even though there are two other species on earth that are in theory very different from humans, they both think a surprising amount like humans because they're mostly using human brains to do it with, so there's no Lovecraftian 'these beings are so different from us we're just ants to them' and this is enforced because the Noblesse exists and their job is to go 'oh, so you think the powerful have the right to crush the weak? Alright, have it your way' before people who think that way can kill, or worse, influence others.

The concept of superior(gets to abuse)inferior is a predatory meme that already wiped out one sentient species - the modern werewolves are descended from that species, sure, but they're so different from them it would make more sense to call them humans than remnants of that species.

The nobles were confined on Lukedonia because they kept getting attached to humans and then as a species of immortals, not having any healthy way to deal with LOSING generation after generation of humans was really fucking them up. So the nobles still awake were quarantined on Lukedonia until humans became less fragile/achieved immortality and would stop dying on the nobles. The Previous Lord took most of his generation of clan leaders into eternal sleep so that their kids would have tons of problems and would have to get better at thinking to solve them. That's why he didn't want Raskreia to be Lord, because he felt guilty about how his entire plan for noble development was making the lives of the next generation of nobles as hard as possible, with them barely having any idea what they are or how their powers worked and then starting to interact with humans again when humans are predators and humans thinking nobles are shiny isn't necessarily going to end well for a noble once the average human is capable of fighting a noble without a contract.

So the project to uplift nobles is doing pretty well, but they still need to actually start talking to each other and passing on information. Given how good some oral traditions are, certain humans probably remember more about what things were like when nobles like Gejutel and Lagus were young than those nobles do.

The Union/Maduke's fascist 'family' need to be taken out before they do to this planet what happened to the original werewolf species.

Rai's brother tried to wipe out humanity because in their generation there were two noblesse and so their job got split in half, with Rai being tasked with internal threats and his brother with external. Rai's brother decided that humans were causing so many nobles to enter eternal sleep and humans were also possessive of nobles, so once humans evolved to be equal to nobles they'd probably try to subjugate them, so they had to be wiped out. Rai was 'the strong killing the weak is a much bigger danger to nobles than humans are' and ofc genocide is wrong, so Rai had to take him out. Some nobles who lost too many family to humans (those family members choosing to enter eternal sleep instead of staying awake with the noble family who loved them) were making bloodstones to support Rai's brother because of all the nobles who were attacking him to protect humans.

Rai's brother didn't want Rai to die, so the idea was to knock him out until he was done eliminating the humans and then make him eat a bloodstone to repair the damage. Most of the humans Rai's brother killed and the nobles who also died in the conflict were resurrected by the Previous Lord: there's an array that gathers human souls so they don't cease to exist on death that he created. It's powered by the array that drains the Lord's power in the throne room so they don't rip open the Earth's crust every time they lose their temper (see the two large blue crystals). He didn't tell Raskreia that the castle array does anything but protect Lukedonia from her power either.

Gejutel knows about the artificial afterlife but it wouldn't occur to him to tell anyone because talking is a fairly recent concept for him and doing it unnecessarily is being noisy. Raizel knows about it too but assumes Franken knows about it because Franken knows a lot of things. It's possible to resurrect them just like it's possible to wake up sleeping nobles. Unfortunately it doesn't work on werewolves because werewolves have defenses against getting engulfed by foreign energy fields and dragged out of their bodies, so werewolves actually die when they are killed.

[leading-manhattan]

The weather has really put a dent in selling this week and after another day of meager profits Jack and Crutchie decide to call it quits and head back to the lodging house early to get out of the rain. Shame they never make it that far. It turns out that ever since the strike the Delanceys have had a bone to pick with Jack and they're more than happy to take the opportunity to air out their grievances. Crutchie, despite his best efforts, is helpless to do anything but watch.

"It's lookin' worse," Jack tisks, head tilted up to look at the sky with a stiff frown, hands braced on his hips, and a line of tension visible in his shoulders. The weather hasn't been great the past week or so, overcast and drizzling throughout the whole day, and the oppressively dreary atmosphere has made the sparse passersby increasingly unwilling to buy a paper. Crutchie hums a little, carefully making sure his crutch doesn't slip on the wet stones as he hobbles over to Jack. He joins his friend— brother— in looking up at the sky. It looks the same as it has the past many days, a large expanse of gray devoid of even a sliver of the sun trapped behind the thick wall of clouds. Admittedly, it appears that the sky is darkening ominously. It's barely even ten in the morning so Crutchie can agree that it's not exactly a point in their favor.

"Ain't nothin' we can't handle." Crutchie grins, playfully knocking his shoulder against Jack's. Jack shoots him a small smile but it drops swiftly the moment he turns back to the sky. There's a deep furrow between his brows and Crutchie watches as his eyes shutter with something dark and heavy. It's like he has front row seats to Jack heaving the weight of the world up onto his shoulders. "At least we's can still sell back what's left, huh?" Crutchie stares at Jack with a soft, proud smile on his face, fully aware that the older boy could see him in his periphery.

Jack sighs, deflating, and finally turns to fully face Crutchie. His expression melts when he meets Crutchie's eyes, lips twitching upwards when faced with Crutchie's unwavering support. "Yeah, yeah, alright." Jack nods, digging what he's made out of his pocket. Crutchie can't help but wince at the pocket change, it has to be one of Jack's worst turnouts, and Crutchie's pathetic earnings weren't any better. Jack sighs again and shoves the pennies back into his trousers, eyes hardening with a very familiar determination, "Let's head back before yous get sick or somethin' alright?" He sniffs as he slings an arm around Crutchie's shoulders and merrily steers them back in the direction of the circulation gates.

Money's been especially tight recently, what with the weather and all. At first people had been happy to buy all the papers the newsboys had as they sympathetically watched the poor kids get soaked from beneath the safety of their parasols and umbrellas. Those days quickly came to a stop as the freezing rain persisted, inevitably turning the kind customers into snappy strangers who just wanted to get home and out of the wet. Crutchie couldn't blame them, being out in this cold and soaked to the bone again and again he felt like he'll never be able to escape the chill nestled into his very bones. Still, it wasn't great for business. The Jacobs, sweet as they were, had come by with a few big ol' pots of soup just the day before and the newsies of Manhattan have been slowly working their way through the hefty broth to keep themselves fed while they try to make the most of what little they're bringing in. When they got their meager earnings together they could even afford some good bread to go along with it.

Jack's been stressed. More so than usual, even. People who didn't know Jack never thought to look past the confidence he projected so flawlessly but Crutchie knew better than anyone just how much Jack worried. Leading Manhattan isn't something Jack would trade for anything, especially after he truly found his place during the strike, but he had a bad habit of blaming anything and everything that went wrong on himself like it was a result of a personal shortcoming and not something entirely out of his control. Like the weather. Jack's been running himself a bit ragged trying to make sure that everyone was doing okay during this lull in sales. That's the only reason Crutchie was selling with him to begin with, tagging along to keep an eye on their leader before he had the chance to actually run himself into the ground.

Crutchie has to give his crutch extra attention as they shuffle through the streets, avoiding any mud or especially slick stones so he doesn't slip. Jack doesn't even comment on their snail's pace, more than content to drag his feet if it meant sticking at Crutchie's side regardless of how it kept him out under the dull sky just that much longer. Annoyingly Crutchie's bum leg is absolutely soaked, seeing as he couldn't exactly pick it up to avoid puddles, and he was sure the cold would send some gnarly cramps through the paralyzed limb later that night. It wasn't something he looked forward to but it was something he's long since gotten used to dealing with. Honestly, he's been ready to head back to the lodging house for the last hour but he knew if he left Jack to sell by himself the guy wouldn't come back until he sold out and who knows how long that would've taken under the current conditions. Crutchie didn't mind the extra hour out in the constant drizzle if it meant he got to do a little something to keep Jack safe too.

It's not too long before the circulation gates come into view and Crutchie can't help the relief that blooms in his chest. Now that they were heading home his discomfort was really starting to make itself known. His clothes aren't exactly soaked just yet but they're wet enough that every layer is clinging uncomfortably to clammy skin and his limbs are stiff and uncoordinated from the cold burrowed deep within them. He can't wait to get inside and find some of that soup to warm himself up. Jack looks just as eager to get back as Crutchie feels and his heart pangs empathetically. It was a sign that Jack was truly at the end of his rope when he started to get visibly tired.

They shuffled through the gates together, Jack's arm still wrapped securely around Crutchie's shoulders, and behind the counter the Delancey brothers scowl back at them. Jack grunts, slowing to a stop a good few yards away from the counter. He draws his arm back slowly, movements sluggish from his own cold-induced stiffness, and holds out a hand, "Give me your bag. I'll sell the whole lot back and we can get the hell back to the lodging, alright?" Crutchie nods and ducks his head under the strap of his paper bag so he can hold it out to Jack. Easy enough, the sooner they sold everything back the better.

Jack takes the bag and digs out both sets of papers as he walks over to the desk, wearing a shit-eating grin as he hands back the damp papes. Crutchie tries not to laugh, biting his lip to keep his amusement buried as Morris holds the wet papers with open disgust. Oscar grumbles under his breath the whole time he's counting out their money, face twisted into an ugly snarl when he slams the coins into Jack's waiting palm. Jack doesn't so much as flinch, pocketing the cash with a carefree grin, "Pleasure as always boys!" he practically sings as he turns on his heel and makes his way back to Crutchie. "Ready?"

"Definitely." Crutchie nods, allowing himself to be openly miserable now that they're on the last stretch home. "I swear, I ain't ever gonna be warm again," He bemoans. He'd wring out his cap if he could, just to be dramatic, but that would mean having to stop and he had no interest in doing that.

Jack chuckles and Crutchie basks in the warm sound, "Yeah, well, we'll get you under a whole lotta blankets when we get back then. It'd be a real shame if the cold was what did you in." He jokes and Crutchie smiles brightly right alongside him. This was what made life so wonderful. A lot of people didn't understand how the newsies could remain so upbeat. Crutchie's seen it time and time again, confused and pitying glances shot their way when they barreled down the streets without a care in the world. Hell, even Davey had looked at them in their ratty clothes with dirty faces and been flabbergasted by just how happy they seemed. It was easy, if you asked Crutchie, to be so content when you were surrounded by people you loved. Life could be hard, and most of the boys under their roof had suffered greatly, but they found family and joy in each other.

A deep, long rumble tore through the air and suddenly the drizzle turned to rain. Jack cursed under his breath as they quickly went from damp to wet and Crutchie was sure the rain would turn to a downpour sooner rather than later. Jack is still cursing, anger rearing its head at the sheer audacity of the universe, and Crutchie is fine to let that run its course as he continues to trudge forward. Jack is right on his heels, of course, but the bitterness is obvious still even though Crutchie can't see him where he's lagging behind. It's only fair, Crutchie thinks, that Jack be allowed to curse out the weather. He keeps enough under lock and key, emotions and fears and anything else potentially vulnerable wrapped up and kept hidden. He's allowed to curse out the weather.

The rain does, unfortunately, make it that much harder for Crutchie to move at a decent pace. His crutch got worn down and scuffed up at the Refuge and he'd put off any sort of maintenance on the thing for weeks. It had zero grip on the bottom, no cloth or wax or anything of the sort to give it any traction, and with slick cobblestone and mud covering the majority of New York Crutchie was slower now than he's ever been before. "You can go on without me." He tells Jack softly, knowing full well that Jack will decline but feeling better for having offered.

Jack scoffs and jogs up to Crutchie's side, rolling his eyes and laying a comforting hand atop Crutchie's head. They both pointedly ignore the way Crutchie's hat squelches under the pressure. "Like hell. We ain't too far now, we'll be there sooner than you think." He was right, of course, the lodging was just a street over now but it might as well have been in Brooklyn with the speed that Crutchie was moving. Still, Crutchie doesn't push it. He really hadn't wanted to walk alone anyway. Jack ruffles Crutchie's hair through the hat and laughs fondly when Crutchie tries half-heartedly to bat his hand away. He fixes Crutchie's cap before he pulls away and the mood is lightened briefly by their antics. Jack was good at that, cheering people up with smiles, jokes, and warm touches. It was one of the many reasons Crutchie admired him so much. Jack just had a way with people that was unmatched in Crutchie's experience. He connected with everyone, from people with high standing like Katherine Pulitzer to people with hard eyes and scuffed boots like Spot Conlon. Jack saw people with a good heart and he nestled his way in with such sly ease that Crutchie was certain he didn't even do it on purpose; it was just who he was.

Jack freezes abruptly and his eyes widen a fraction. Crutchie knows that face, he's seen it often enough, and his stomach drops. Jack twists to turn around but he doesn't even make it halfway before a fist is flying into his face. Crutchie cries out, startled, and turns around as quickly as he dared to without toppling over. He only catches a glance of Morris Delancey before Oscar is swooping in and pushing Jack forcefully into the nearest alleyway. "What're you doing!" Crutchie yells not because he thinks it'll get the bastards to stop but because he prays there might be some bystander to overhear somewhere nearby. With the way the rain is crashing down Crutchie doubts it but he isn't able to do much else and he refuses to just stand there and do nothing.

"Ah, shut it, crip," Morris sneers, grabbing Crutchie by the arm and pulling him easily along despite how Crutchie slips and stumbles against the quick pace.

Oscar shoves Jack again before he can regain his footing and Crutchie pulls roughly against Morris' unrelenting grip. "We didn't do nothin' to you!" Crutchie snaps, pulling again and only getting jostled in warning for his efforts. Oscar scoffs, slipping neatly behind Jack just as he finally gets his feet steady under him. He hooks his arms expertly under Jack's and pulls, yanking Jack flush against his chest and restraining him in one swift move. Jack's eyes widen, panic flashing so clearly across his face, and he thrashes uselessly in Oscar's grip.

Morris smiles and it's a smile like a shark, evil and sharp and bloodthirsty. "Bringin' back memories, Kelly?" The Delanceys share a cruel laugh and Crutchie can't help but feel like he's missing an important piece of the joke. Jack, for his part, doesn't even look like he caught a single word of the biting remark, still struggling against Oscar's hold like his life depended on it. Crutchie grinds his teeth together and steels himself. He adjusts his grip on his crutch, lifting it off the ground before slamming the bottom down on Morris' foot with all the strength he can muster. Thing is, Crutch is crippled, not weak. Hauling himself around the way he does he actually has quite a bit of upper body strength and he uses all of it to smash Morris' toes. Morris shouts, instinctively shoving Crutchie away and Crutchie, unable to move his crutch back into place in time, is entirely helpless to keep himself from falling roughly against the brick wall of the alley. He manages to catch himself against the wall to avoid hitting the floor but he had to drop his crutch to do so. He can do nothing but watch as Morris kicks his only means of walking out of reach. "You damn cripple." Morris snarls, eyes shining with ruthless anger.

"Don't fuckin' touch him," Jack snaps, panting in Oscar's grip. It's clear he's put a lot of energy into trying to get away. Crutchie feels a bitter satisfaction seeing Oscar trying to catch his breath too, knowing that Jack, while trapped, was still a force to be reckoned with.

Morris hums, licking his lips as he turns away from Crutchie and looks at Jack. "You think you're better than us now, huh, Kelly?" Oscar's lips pull back in a sneer and Crutchie can only imagine the disgusting sensation of his hot breath on the back of Jack's neck. The rain only seems to come down harder as Morris bends down and sweeps Crutchie's crutch up from the floor. Crutchie's stomach drops, squirming uncomfortably, and he stares with bated breath as Morris makes a show of inspecting the old wood held in a tauntingly delicate grip.  

"I am," Jack quips but his sharp eyes are locked only on the crutch. There's something guarded and resigned in his expression and Crutchie is surprised that it's something he can't place. He likes to think that he knows Jack better than anyone but whatever's going through his head right now is something that Crutchie can't even begin to decipher. Somehow that's more terrifying than the situation they've found themselves in.

Crutchie can see how Oscar's grip tightens even through the heavy sheet of rain soaking them all to the bone. He sees how Jack winces as his shoulders are forced back and how he shifts to try and relieve some of the pressure. Morris is still twisting the crutch against his hand, tapping the wood experimentally against his palm. He doesn't look up when he speaks but he raises his voice to make sure he's heard over the cacophony around them, "I guess we didn't beat it into well enough last time, huh? You may have won the strike, Kelly," Morris grips the bottom of the crutch like a baseball bat, winding it back as he widens his stance. "But you're still nothin' more than the dirt beneath our feet." He growls and Crutchie realizes what he's doing just a beat too late.

Morris swings and the heavy top of the crutch slams full force into Jack's stomach. Jack tries to keel over, the air rushing out of him, but Oscar's hold doesn't allow him the luxury. Jack coughs, wheezes, and chokes out a stiff, "Fuck you." Morris repositions himself and swings again.

"Stop!" Crutchie shouts, his hands slipping against the wall and sending him roughly to the ground. He glares daggers despite how the Delanceys ignore him, wincing sympathetically when another blow lands against Jack's chest followed by another and another and another until a choked cry is drawn from Jack's lips. Crutchie looks frantically on either side of him, hoping that maybe he'd find something he could potentially throw to maybe distract the brothers for even a second. A frustrated shout slips out when he comes up empty-handed. "Leave 'im alone!" Crutchie demands uselessly, fists clenched tightly against the gritty alley floor.

The Delanceys don't care for his protests, if anything Crutchie's shouting seems to spur them on. He can't do anything but watch as Morris keeps swinging, a satisfied smile spread across his face as he slams the crutch repeatedly into Jack's torso. He only narrowly avoids smacking into Oscar's arms but Oscar looks more than happy to be in the danger zone, a similar grin plastered across his own ugly mug. Crutchie doesn't know what to do, his desperate yelling hadn't attracted any passersby and Crutchie would be surprised if anyone was even out and about in this downpour. Jack's jaw is clenched defiantly and Crutchie's breath catches in his throat when Jack pointedly meets his eyes. Jack's gaze is hard, determined, but it softens significantly when he looks at Crutchie. This one is a look that Crutchie knows like the back of his hand, this is Jack's��hey, look at me, everything's gonna be okay, kid look. It was a very familiar sight with all the trouble Manhattan managed to get themselves into and all the trouble that Jack had to get them out of.

Things change when Morris adjusts his grip and rolls his shoulders, sharing a terrifying glance with Oscar. The brothers share a nod, something dark and excited in their eyes. "What was it you said back then?" Oscar ducks his head and Charlie swears that his lips almost graze the shell of Jack's ear he's so close. He has to strain his ears to catch the words as they crawl slimy and vile out of Oscar's mouth."One unfortunate day you might find you got a bum gam of your own." He mocks in some poor imitation of Jack's thicker accent. Morris' smile is twisted on his face through the heavy rain and the shadowy alleyway barely lit by the light of the overcast day only makes him look even more demented. He reels back the crutch and swings so hard Crutch can actually see the wood cut through the falling rain. The hit lands sharp and heavy to the side of Jack's leg and the howl that escapes him is a sound that Crutchie doesn't think he'll ever be able to forget. Jack screams and Crutchie sees the leg give out but Oscar still keeps Jack unwillingly up on his feet.

"Shame you didn't heed your own warnin', huh, Jackie-boy." Morris coos mockingly, chest heaving with the inherent exertion that came with beating someone.

"Let 'im go!" Crutchie tries again, desperation sparking anew at the sheer violence. This wasn't the first time he'd seen the Delanceys beat on someone, and he remembers starkly how it feels to be beat down by his crutch, but this was a new level that planted something deeply terrified in Crutchie's chest. This was something that he was afraid would kill someone if it didn't come to an end soon. The Delanceys have never ruthlessly and intentionally broken something so sadistically before and Crutchie finds himself genuinely horrified by how things could escalate if they kept going. "Please, just let 'im go!" He begs, all thoughts of maintaining some fragile dignity gone. He couldn't care less if the Delanceys somehow managed to think even lower of him as long as they just let Jack go. 

Morris and Oscar snicker, "You heard the kid, Oscar." Morris chortles. Oscar shrugs, unhooking his arms in one quick movement and watching with obvious amusement as Jack crumpled bonelessly to the ground. Jack groans and Crutchie looks on with worried eyes as Jack's face screws up in distress. Morris leans over Jack and digs his toes roughly into Jack's side. He waits until Jack blinks his eyes open to glare up at him before he speaks, "Learn your place, Jack." Morris snips, smile falling abruptly from his face. "Don't go thinkin' you're somebody just because you got a few extra pennies in your pocket. You and your boys? You're still nothin'." He pulls his foot back just to kick Jack in the side and Jack groans again, arms snapping down to wrap protectively around his middle. Oscar huffs, staring down his nose at Jack like he was some weed growing unwanted in his yard and not a real person they were trying to cruelly tear apart. Something flashes in Oscar's eyes and Crutchie yells wordlessly as he pulls his own foot back and slams his heel angrily into the side of Jack's head.

"Jack!" Crutchie calls, eyes wide as he watches Jack's head snap to the side. Even from a few feet away he can see how Jack's eyes seem to glaze over, growing more hazy by the second. Morris scoffs, pulling himself back up to his full height. The brothers share a smug look over the beaten man laying broken between them. Morris looks again at the crutch in his hands and grins, gripping the base once more, and Crutchie's blood runs cold thinking that the beating still hadn't come to an end. He's wrong, thankfully, and instead he cringes as Morris swings the crutch into the wall above his head with all his strength. The wood splinters and nearly breaks clean in half before Morris tosses it carelessly aside. It lands with a soft clatter barely audible over the roaring storm. Crutchie swallows thickly, forcing his glare to stay in place as he watches the Delanceys saunter off with a sickening sense of pride rolling off of them in waves. He waits a beat and then another before turning back to Jack. "Jack," he calls quietly, concern so strong it nearly chokes him. Jack is staring listlessly at the wall, blinking sluggishly, and nausea churns fiercely in Crutchie's gut. "Jack!" he tries again, breathing a relieved breath when Jack startles and meets his eyes.

"Mm, 'ey, Crutch," Jack mumbles, wincing as he shifts. Crutchie winces right along with him, scanning Jack over as best he can from the short distance. There's a smear of blood at Jack's temple, his cap lost somewhere in the scuffle, and Crutchie hopes that it was just something superficial from the heel of Oscar's boot and not anything serious. Jack grunts, breath hitching, and Crutchie can only watch as he forces himself to just breathe through the pain.

"Hey, Jackie. C'mere, will you?" Crutchie does his best to keep his tone light, trying not to sound too hopeless despite how dreadful this whole situation was. Jack grunts noncommittally. "C'mon, Jack. I need to look you over, okay? Make sure you ain't gonna die on me." He says it with a teasing lilt to his voice but his heart hammers a frightened beat beneath his ribs the whole time he speaks. Jack swallows, eyes screwed shut, and Crutchie sees his throat bob. Jack nods, head lulling against the hard ground. He doesn't move immediately and Crutchie wonders if he's going to have to ask again. "Jack?" he presses tentatively.

"Yeah, 'm comin' alright. Just—" Jack swallows again, lips parting as he gasps weakly for breath, "Give me a second, okay?" It doesn't take long for Crutchie to realize that Jack's trying not to throw up. He knows that isn't a good sign, especially not after a blow to the head like that. He doesn't dare push Jack any further though. He doesn't want to contribute at all to the agony that Jack must be going through and he can handle the extra dash of worry added on top of the mountain already crushing his chest. It only takes a few more minutes before Jack heaves himself up onto his elbows but those few minutes feel like an eternity to Crutchie. He forces himself to focus on muttering soft encouragements to Jack as the older boy drags himself closer on unsteady arms, whining when his knee drags against the uneven alley floor. "Fuck," Jack hisses under his breath, nearly lost beneath the falling rain.

"Almost there, Jackie," Crutchie assures warmly, reaching out when Jack is close enough to grab the collar of his shirt. Crutchie hauls Jack the rest of the way as carefully as he can, frantically mumbling apologies when Jack cries out. It's awkward and ridiculous and Jack squirms a bit more than would've been convenient but they make do because they can't exactly do anything else. "That's it, alright, you're alright." Crutchie knows he's assuring himself more than he is Jack at this point and there's no doubt in his mind that Jack knows that too. Still, Jack lets Crutchie spew meaningless words without even a token protest, a tired smile on his face while he listens to Crutchie ramble.

He gets Jack settled halfway onto his lap, back pressed into Crutchie's knees in a way that had to be uncomfortable but Jack doesn't say anything. It only takes a glance at Jack's leg and a passing thought of oh, knees don't bend that way for Crutchie to avert his gaze. Not good. He has to battle with the nausea in his stomach but he forces the rising bile down with relative ease. He doesn't report his findings to Jack, he's sure that Jack is painfully aware of just how useless his leg's suddenly become. Crutchie knows they can't afford a doctor, especially not with the way business has been this week, but he wills himself not to linger on the implications of that. Instead, he starts prodding at Jack's torso with inexperienced fingers, poking at his ribs and hissing sorrowful apologies every time Jack flinches away from his touch. Nothing gives under his shaking hands and while that doesn't necessarily mean that Jack's okay it certainly means that no more bones are broken so Crutchie tentatively takes the win.

His hands hover hesitantly over the blood dribbling down the side of Jack's face. He knows that head wounds bleed a lot and the excess of rain water is only making it look worse than it is but it still makes his anxiety spike all the same. Jack grins lazily up at him, awkwardly laid across Crutchie's legs the way he is, "It's fine, Charlie," He assures despite how the way his words catch and slur say otherwise. He twists himself around with a series of grunts and winces until he's laying on his stomach and lowers himself down fully on top of Crutchie, completely uncaring of how Crutchie is sat up against the wall in a continuously growing puddle. He crosses his arms neatly atop Crutchie's lap before pillowing his head on them. "It'll be alright." He promises, sucking in as deep a breath as he dared as he made himself comfortable.

Crutchie barks a disbelieving laugh and allows himself the selfish comfort of running his hands carefully through Jack's hair, fingers glancing over the bloodied area as he searches for the wound hidden beneath the dark strands. Jack hums, tilting his head up into the touch, and Crutchie huffs an amused breath despite himself. He feels the warm blood beneath his fingers but fails to find the wound regardless of how long he searches. He found that oddly reassuring. If the wound wasn't even big enough to find then he didn't feel the need to worry too much. Slowly but surely the tension begins to bleed out of Crutchie and with it the adrenaline starts to fall away. Without the rush of worry and panic pounding through his veins Crutchie realizes just how freezing he is. The rain is icy and each droplet feels like a small knife piercing through his already frozen skin. He shudders, shivering starting up and wracking through his slight frame.

"Someone'll find us," Crutchie says, fingers still tangled in Jack's hair. It was already getting later into the morning by the time they were on their way back to the lodging house and Crutchie was sure that a decent chuck of time has passed since then. With weather like this the boys will be out on the streets searching for them soon if they weren't already. Someone would stumble across them sooner rather than later considering the fact that they were only a mere couple blocks away from the lodgings. Regardless, Crutchie knows that the wait will stretch on.

"Mhm," Jack agrees and Crutchie can feel the way he tenses as a wave of pain rolls through him. It doesn't help that Jack is shivering too. He's sure that each shudder is just another stab of agony through his beaten body. Crutchie wants to know what the Delanceys meant when they talked about beating Jack into submission before. He wants to know what horrible memories Oscar had dredged up by restraining Jack the way he did. He wants to know the pieces of the puzzle he was missing. He keeps his mouth shut, knowing this isn't the time, but the curiosity still mixes in with the fear and worry.

Crutchie's eyes fall to his crutch not too far away, splintered and bent and completely useless now. Had his crutch still been in one piece maybe he would've been able to hobble over to the lodging house himself and get help but now he was trapped just the same as Jack. He feels so utterly useless, untouched by the Delanceys but still unable to do anything but watch as they'd taken an extension of himself and used it as a weapon to beat his closest friend. He wasn't used to this kind of helplessness, even with his leg he's never been made to feel so utterly defenseless before. Usually he had a pack of newsies at his sides ready to come to his aid and not a single one of them ever made him feel less than for having a bum leg. He wonders, vaguely, if this is what Jack had felt like when Crutchie was taken to the Refuge. That's another question he wisely keeps to himself.

Crutchie doesn't know how long he sits there, fingers pressed idly to Jack's scalp while they wait. The rain dies down a bit at some point, easing back up into a heavy drizzle. Crutchie pokes at Jack here and there, asking him simple questions or drawing him into a halfhearted conversation just to make sure that he's still awake. Crutchie doesn't know how bad this head wound of Jack's is but he doesn't want to know what'll happen if he falls asleep. Crutchie himself is getting impossibly tired when he hears multiple sets of footsteps rushing down the sidewalks. He jerks to attention, eyes wide, and before he can even consider his next move he's yelling. "Hey!" He cries, cringing when Jack flinches in his lap, "Over here!"

"Crutchie?" Racetrack's familiar voice calls back. Relief slams into Crutchie so hard that tears immediately spring to his eyes.

A wide grin splits his face. "In here!" He shouts as the footsteps rush closer. "Jack's hurt bad!" He warns, a desperate tinge bleeding into his voice. Within seconds a handful of boys come barreling around the corner into the alley, each and every one of them drenched. Crutchie wonders how long they've all been searching.

"Christ," Romeo murmurs when he spots them, wide eyes flicking from Crutchie, to Jack, and then finally to Crutchie's crutch laying broken off to the side.

"Aw, man," Racetrack combs a hand through his hair, wet curls falling into his face. He winces at the sight of Jack, calculating eyes looking them both up and down as he silently tries to assess the damage. Jojo, for his part, doesn't say a word and he swoops in and starts gently gathering Jack up into his arms. It's not an easy feat and Jack makes an absolutely gut-wrenching keening noise when Jojo finally manages to get him settled into a careful bridal carry. "What happened?" Race asks as he comes up to get a closer look at Jack.

"The Delanceys," Crutchie answers with no small amount of bitterness. He happily takes the hand that Albert offers him and only stumbles slightly as he's hauled to his feet. He braces a hand on Albert's shoulder to keep himself upright and Albert slides an arm around his back to hold his steady. "Theys just followed after us. Came outta nowhere. They was gunnin' for Jack, barely laid a hand on me." It wasn't exactly shocking, Crutchie's never been the kind of instigator that Jack is. Jack got a kick out of making fun of the Delanceys and those boys had a shorter fuse than Spot Conlon some days.

"Your crutch," Romeo says mournfully, scooping the poor thing out of a puddle.

"We'll fix it up," Crutchie wasn't really worried about the crutch, all things considered. He was much more worried about Jack.

"Yeah, we will." Racetrack agrees with a curt nod, expression hardening. He carefully lays a hand on Jack's shoulder, looking fiercely into Jack's dazed eyes. "We got you, Jackie. Let's get you boys home, okay?" It was moments like these that made it so easy to see why Race was Jack's right hand. Racetrack was a wild card, full of boundless energy with a mouth that could compete with Jack's, but he was more than capable of getting serious when it was called for. He carried with him a sort of demand for attention that came in handy when his anger flared and he threw himself into a call for action with reckless abandon.

Jack huffs a soft laugh and groans immediately after, head rolling to press hard into Jojo's shoulder. "Sounds good to me." He grinds out through gritted teeth. It's enough of a go-ahead to get them all moving. Albert turns to Crutchie with questioning eyes and Crutchie only nods before Albert scoops him up into his arms. Crutchie would be able to walk fine with Albert's help but it'd be best if they could all get back to the lodging house as quickly as possible. Crutchie certainly didn't want to spend another second outside.

With how close they are the trip back is swift and painless for everyone but Jack. The whole way to the lodging house Jack is trying to muffle the sounds of pain that claw their way out of him with every step that Jojo takes. Crutchie doesn't tear his eyes away from Jack the whole time and Albert, the sweet guy that he is, makes sure that Jack stays in Crutchie's line of sight without so much as a word.

They burst through the doors to the lodging house and immediately rush over to where the rest of the boys are crowded around the lobby. By the looks of it they've all been huddled up down here already, every ratty old blanket they had brought in here so they could bundle up to chase away the cold. The boys all scramble apart once they catch sight of Crutchie and Jack, making a clear path to the center of their circle where Jojo and Albert waste no time in lowering them onto the floor. Albert is already helping Crutchie unbutton his shirt before Crutchie can even attempt to try with his numb fingers, pulling the wet fabric away and tossing it to the side to be dealt with later. Crutchie's undershirt is still damp but they didn't have much when it came to extra clothes so he'd have to make do. His hands are, thankfully, coordinated enough that he can at least take off his own boots and slide out of his trousers without much struggle. The second that he's free from all of his sopping clothes blankets are piled on top of him from all directions. They're already warm from the body heat of whoever was using them before him and he huddles into the warmth without a second thought.

When he looks back in Jack's direction he can see that he's nearly undressed similarly to how Crutchie himself was, down to just his undershirt while Jojo tried to carefully slide his trousers over Jack's busted knee. The thing is already bruised horribly, bright purples and searing reds snaking up his thigh. Jack is trembling violently, eyes squeezed shut, and he's panting where he's propped up against Spec's chest. It's a slow and agonizing process but Jojo does eventually succeed in wiggling Jack's pants off and, just as quickly as Crutchie had been covered, blankets descend upon Jack.

The bodies around them shuffle in, pressing against them and offering their warmth as conversations slowly start to pick up again. It's not as lively as it had been when they'd been interrupted and worried glances are shot in both Crutchie and Jack's direction frequently but the warm and homey atmosphere is quick to soothe Crutchie's nerves. He watches as Jack starts to relax, melting further and further back against Specs as he soaks in the comfort of their friends and family. After the morning they just had Crutchie absolutely basks in finally making it home. He knows that they'll have to get Jack to a doctor if that knee was going to heal right, none of them knew what to do about broken bones like like, and they'd have to worry about the cost of it all. He also knows that without his crutch he won't be able to do anything or go anywhere. Nothing's fixed despite the fact that they're home now but Crutchie has to hold on to the idea that things will be okay. He's never been one to back down in the face of a terrible situation and he's always been an optimist at his core. They'd be able to make it through this the same way they've made it through everything that's come before.

The bodies around him shift and suddenly a bowl of something warm and heavenly is being shoved in his face. He looks up to see Racetrack smiling softly and he reaches up to take the bowl in shaking hands. The heat feels almost like fire against Crutchie's cold hands but he doesn't dare put the food down. Instead he watches as Racetrack offers another bowl to Jack and Jack takes it with hands that tremble similarly to Crutchie's own. Specs watches Jack carefully, prepared to reach forward if he needed to should Jack's grip falter.

Jack raises the bowl to his lips. He meets Crutchie's eyes over the rim as he sips at the warm broth inside and Crutchie quickly follows his lead. The soup is just as amazing as it was the first day Davey brought it over and Crutchie lets the heat from the food flow through him. Jack smiles, leaning comfortably back against Specs, and Crutchie lets the worry bleed out of him for the moment. Right now he was surrounded by the people he loved, chatting happily, and he couldn't ask for more.

[norellenilia]

Damn, I remember the first time I watched FMA 03, when I was 16 or 17, I stayed up until 1 am to finish it, and today, watching episodes 38 through 42 turned me into such an emotional mess that I have to take a break lmao what happened??? My own emotional traumas, that's what happened

I'm feeling so many things again

In episode 38, when Ed and Al are fighting, Al drenches Ed in water and he says "it's going to rain!!!" and I'm like haha no don't try to pull a Mustang on me I know this episode won't make me cry and GUESS WHAT the flashback with Trisha convincing Ed to go and find Al so they can talk things out and Al looking so happy that Ed isn't upset with him anymore it's so cute I CRIED

I need -- no, I DEMAND a spin-off series where Winry and Scziezka solve murder mysteries together (I'd love to write it myself but I know I'm not nearly good enough at coming up with mystery stories lol), they're adorable I'm so happy they totally get together post CoS

Martel's death hits SO MUCH HARDER than I remembered holy shit, she and Al actually got close, we see more of her, her death is so horrific and hearing sweet sweet baby boy Alphonse cry just BROKE MY HEART I never wanted to hug an armor so badly

Scar's brother's last moments, the way he looks so terrified and desperate to protect his little brother from Kimblee and Scar being so devastated when he dies I just-- *clenches fist*

Sloth using Ed's PTSD against him that's so UNFAIR; also I was thinking that I was a bit disappointed that this anime did not include the nightmare that Ed has at some point in the manga where he sees his mom saying "why didn't you make me right" etc but this is it, this is this scene, and it's worse because he's hearing it for real, he is very much awake, he has the real voice of his mom in his ears and she's saying this to him and I'm-- *clenches fist harder*

Rose's story, I'm still so mad, she deserves all the happiness in the world

Speaking of Rose, it's so funny how the moment Al is like "I wonder how Rose is doing" the show just full on goes "Ed/Rose shipper" mode lmao, with Ed blushing while pretending not to remember her, him being so awkward when he speaks to her just before they go on their separate ways and her son just smiling and giggling when he speaks (first time we see the baby laugh, he had only been crying up until then) :') To be honest it feels a bit out of the blue to me but idk

Dante sporting Lyra's white ass in the town of brown people and speaking as if she was part of them just because she's following Rose around to manipulate her is incredibly cringe, but then again, it's Dante, she's the villain and we're already supposed to know something is up with "Lyra". But still.

Very random but Al pulling objects from or putting objects inside his armor from behind the cloth always looks very awkward lol

I used to never really care about Scar but I have learned the errors of my way as I now realize he is actually one of the best characters in this goddamn series, even with the orb of knowledge and the three arm losses, and Mangahood!Scar being much more villainized and ending up working with the military will never come even CLOSE to 03!Scar using his last bit of strength to save Alphonse to honor his love for his lost brother and take his ultimate revenge on those who murdered his people in the goal of protecting oppressed people, all of this while an epic music is playing (honestly it even feels like Ed is made to be seen as an obstacle as he tries to prevent the soldiers from entering Liore lol)

Sorry but Wrath is annoying as hell, I know that I'll probably have a different opinion if I rewatch CoS after that, but for now I hate him

We're finally entering the "Rewrite" era of the show and I had forgotten how much it rocks (Ed's hair animation at the beginning fhjkfhkdhjk)

I only have 9 episodes left but between Lust and Sloth in the upcoming episodes I'm not even sure I'll be able to watch it all in one go lol. Still excited to see more of Winry and Scziezka and remembering how much Hohenheim is absolutely useless in this x)

[mathematical-apprentice]

Back on Tumblr to rant into the void

But it's not just stupid people though, any body when confronted with evidence that they are wrong doubles down, it takes conscious effort to shake off that reaction and accept the fact that yeah, I'm not in the right here, let me step back.

In fact, by this very same logic, Ves is a very very very very very stupid person. Countless times they have warned him against passing through Smiling Samuel, but instead of admitting that maybe they were right, even in the face of the battle against the Ferril Province where he's clansmen died for absolutely no reason, instead of admitting wrong and turning around to do something else, he cause the collapse of an entire state. He doesn't admit his wrongs, but drags countless others to their death in the process of digging his heels in. And this is not the first time.

But that's just a personal gripe with the overly simplistic way Mech Touch presents religious people. As if not believing in God somehow makes you much smarter, as if all the things they blame on religion don't also happen under secular people. Not believing in a higher authority whatever it may be, does not make you suddenly a better human being, or a more logical creature.

It's not just a question of whether their god was tall or short, it is a question of whether he is their oppressor or not. The dwarves fight against the rule of humanity, and having a human god sort of goes against that. How do they explain worshiping a god in the very image of the people who enslaved and oppressed them? Like a colony who supposedly gained independence but still received and follows instructions from their colonial masters, the time required to smoothly integrate the two through philosophy and discourse is not small and such a thing is bound to cause trouble.

And they are conveniently ignoring the fact that Ves instigated the whole thing! They weren't at each others necks until Ves sent those statues. It's like someone causing two people to fight over a girl and laughing at them that they are fighting over a girl. It's just absurd.

However, I'd like to note that, there was literally no need for the fighting, none at all. Though the novel pins it on the lack of separation of church and state, I don't think that's it. Sure qualified people should be the ones to lead, by virtue of being in an environment, your thought process will always be coloured by that environment, which in this case is one's religious background. Secular people have also started wars for less. Mehn, now I'm reminded of Vinland Saga.

Sure, Mr. Narcissist. The end Justifies the Means and all, sir. Oga 'it's okay that we bomb and kill millions and push countless others into poverty and make the lives of people trying to survive a hundred times worse because GDP increase 0.0000001%' We see you on your grind.

Mech Touch out of context, strange choice of words, just saying

[glamphantasm]

OMxWhumptober 14

poor Mammon. I don't know why you're so fun to torment. 💛 he gets a break after this one for awhile (if i'm remembering correctly)

The Devildom was never quiet, not really. There was always something slithering in the shadows, something creeping just beyond the edge of sight. But tonight… tonight felt different. It was as if the entire realm was holding its breath, waiting for something to go terribly wrong. The kind of wrong that Mammon – though he would never admit it – was scared of. He stumbled through the dense, mist-choked forest, heart hammering, chest tight with panic. His mind kept running over the events of the night, trying to figure out how he got into this mess. He should’ve known better. He did know better. But his greed always got the better of him, dragging him into situations where the price was far too high. This time, the price might just be his life.

"Stupid… so damn stupid," Mammon muttered under his breath, voice shaking as much as his legs. The trees seemed to be closing in around him, gnarled branches reaching down like skeletal fingers. Every gust of wind felt like icy fingers tracing his spine. The fog made it worse – made everything worse. It clung to his skin like cold sweat, thick and suffocating. Somewhere behind him, he thought he could hear her laugh. Maddi. The witch. Her laughter had haunted him since he’d left, and that was only hours ago. But it felt like an eternity. She was beautiful. No, more than that. Maddi was the kind of stunning that makes your stomach turn. The kind of beauty that makes you uneasy, like something so perfect couldn’t possibly be real. Like looking at her too long would melt your mind. Mammon had been stupid enough to cross her, thinking he could charm his way out of it, as usual. But this time… she had all the cards. All he had was the creeping dread in his gut, growing with every step he took away from her. The blackmail – shit, how had he thought it would work? A letter, sure, a simple piece of leverage he thought would be enough to get him what he wanted. Instead, she had smiled. That sick, knowing smile. And now, she was hunting him. Not in the way most people would hunt; no, this was something different. This was a game. A twisted, dark game. And he was the prey. A sharp crack echoed through the trees, and Mammon froze, his breath catching in his throat. His heart pounded so loud it was almost deafening, drowning out the low hum of the forest around him. His eyes darted from shadow to shadow, expecting – no, dreading – to see her step from the mist at any moment. But nothing. Just the mist curling tighter, the trees pressing closer. He hated this. All of it. The dark, the cold, the oppressive weight of the air around him. Mammon wasn’t built for this kind of terror. Spooky shit? Hell no. He avoided it, dodged haunted houses like they were traps set specifically for him. And now? Now, he was living his worst nightmare. The Devildom’s worst ghost story, come to life, and he was pinned down smack in the middle of it.

Shit shit shit, he thought bitterly, his fingers gripping the pendant in his hand. The damn thing had been the bait, the shiny object that promised wealth beyond imagining - should have paid off every grimm he owed for the rest of his life. But it was cursed, of course it was cursed. He should’ve known the moment Maddi mentioned it. Should’ve stayed away. Should’ve stayed home. The ground beneath him shifted, his feet sinking into the muck. A thick, wet sound squelched as he took another step forward, and Mammon gagged. The smell of briny rot filled his nose, sickly sweet and overwhelming. He stumbled, his vision blurring for a moment, and as he blinked it away, he saw her. Maddi. She stood a few yards away, her figure barely visible through the fog, but unmistakable. That perfect, porcelain skin. Her dark, flowing hair like a night sky. Her eyes… those eyes, wide and knowing, sharp as broken glass. She looked like she belonged there, in the mist, like the forest itself bent to her will. "You’re not very good at running, are you?" Her voice drifted through the air, soft, teasing. That same voice had whispered promises in his ear earlier, when she’d let him believe for just a moment that he might have the upper hand. A joke. Mammon backed away, nearly tripping over his own feet. "Look, I… I didn’t mean for this to get so outta hand, alright? Let’s just… let’s just talk about this." She smiled again. That smile. Like a knife glinting in the dark. "Talk? We’re well past that, Mammon." His heart sank. She wasn’t going to let him off easy. No, she wanted him to suffer. And he was suffering. His skin crawled under her gaze, a creeping sensation that made him feel like bugs were burrowing beneath his flesh. The fog swirled around her as she stepped closer. Too close. Mammon’s chest tightened with the kind of fear he didn’t know how to face. This wasn’t something you could fight, wasn’t something you could bargain with. This was ancient beyond ken. This was primal. And it was terrifying. "You really thought you could blackmail me?" Her voice was low now, almost a whisper. "You thought that letter would be enough?" He couldn’t even form words. His mouth felt like sandpaper, his throat too dry to speak. His eyes locked on hers, wide and wild, pleading without meaning to. He wasn’t used to being on this end of things. He was Mammon, for crying out loud – the Great Mammon. But right now? Right now, he was just a terrified man, desperately wishing he’d never gotten involved. Maddi reached out, her fingers brushing against his cheek, cold and soft. A mockery of tenderness. Mammon flinched, but he didn’t pull away. Couldn’t. His legs felt rooted to the spot, as if the earth itself was conspiring to keep him there, at her mercy. "I could kill you right now, you know," she murmured, her breath like frost on his skin. "But that wouldn’t be fun, would it? No… I think I’ll enjoy watching you fall apart first." The weight of her words hit him like a punch to the gut. He couldn’t breathe. His chest ached, his pulse raced, but his body wouldn’t move. His mind screamed at him to run, but he was paralyzed. She’s gonna kill me. She let her hand drop, stepping back just slightly, enough to give him a breath of space. "Go on," she whispered, almost sweetly. "Run, dear Mammon. Let’s see how far you get." For a moment, he didn’t move. And then instinct took over. He turned and bolted, running as fast as his legs would carry him, the fog tearing at his vision, the trees twisting into strange, unnatural shapes. His heart pounded in his chest, terror pushing him forward, but no matter how fast he ran, he could still hear her. That laughter. It wasn’t loud, but it was there. Always there, following him, chasing him down like a predator toying with its prey. Mammon’s lungs burned, his muscles screamed in protest, but he couldn’t stop. Couldn’t let himself stop. Not until he was far, far away. But even as he ran, he knew the truth. There was no escape.

He crashed through the underbrush, tripping and falling face-first into the mud. The thick, wet earth swallowed him, cold and suffocating. He scrambled, clawing at the ground, trying to pull himself up, but his strength was fading. His vision blurred, darkness creeping in at the edges. He could feel her now. Right behind him. "Mammon." Her voice was right in his ear, soft and gentle, as though she were cooing to a lover. But there was something cold underneath it. Something cruel. He felt her hand grip the back of his neck, and he froze, every muscle locking in place. "Don’t worry sweetheart," Maddi whispered, her lips brushing against his ear. "You’ll get what’s coming to you soon enough." And then, she was gone. Mammon lay there, shivering, his body sinking further into the mud. He was too weak to move, too tired to fight. His heart raced, but there was no adrenaline left to push him forward. No hope left to cling to. The forest was silent again, but the silence wasn’t a relief. It was the kind that comes just before something terrible happens. His vision darkened, the world spinning around him as the cold began to creep into his bones. He was going to die here. Alone. Forgotten. All he had was the regret, cold and suffocating, as Maddi’s laughter echoed in the distance.

[britcision]

So Vivienne’s wonderful and I love her forever

I stan her “well have you considered getting good” approach to literally everything in her life

She is very much still in the stage of “I shall bend the system to my will”, which is an interesting illustration of why she’s the only First Enchanter around right now;

The others have all been at it long enough to notice that the system is designed and built with Vivienne specifically in mind (and others like her)

An oppressive system does not survive decades without major internal dampeners to turn or break every single ambitious star that seeks to rise and make it their own

And it’s already working on her

Kirkwall is the bad Circle, but it’s an outlier; never mind that every single Circle has the potential to become as bad or worse, based only on which templars rise to control it

The ones she’s met are perfectly lovely, obedient little guards, and she has no complaints with her own treatment (which she ensures for herself by being a powerhouse and political goddess, something absolutely anyone could definitely do for sure don’t think too hard about it)

She’s seen the “good” outcome, so she thinks the system works because it’s working for her, and she can play within the bounds of the system… and she’s not exactly concerned with helping up those behind her

The interesting part is that she’s also not entirely wrong in her issues with the rebel mages; most of the other mages aren’t at court, and didn’t see the rising danger in public opinion that Vivienne did

(And they’re all likely a lot more affected by the restrictions than Vivienne, who only goes to the Circle when she wants to and lives where she likes)

She couldn’t understand their perspective on the suffering because… yeah, this was not a great time for the mages to rebel. Right after a possessed mage murdered hundreds?

Vivienne’s right; it makes them look like they care more for their comfort than the lives of citizens, because most of the citizens don’t know the conditions the mages endure

(Most citizens are part of the shitty conditions the mages endure, but again, Vivienne’s not had rocks thrown at her for being a mage)

The thing is that there would never be a politically acceptable time to rebel. That’s why it’s a rebellion, not a polite request

There would never be a single, perfect time that no one would spin to be about the mages being selfish and caring about their comfort over lives

Now is not a good time, but the other mages aren’t choosing it because they’re impatient and don’t want to wait

They’re rebelling now because they have been pushed beyond endurance by the templars (who still have not dealt with their own rogue people wandering around and murdering random civilians, but shhhhh don’t think about that, only mages are hurting the innocent for sure)

Vivienne can’t see their urgency because she doesn’t live that life, and because the system is already busily wrapping her in a shroud of comfort

Her actual view of what she wants for the Circles is still good; a safe place for mages to learn and come together

Magic schools, protected from superstitious populace by the templars (which requires a complete 180 turn of thinking by the templars themselves on if the mages are prisoners or people)

Maybe even some basic fucking protections to stop people from getting possessed, which literally everyone needs anyway because we’re living in wood and thatch houses and every single civilian has access to fire

EVERYONE is dangerous when possessed, mages just scale up faster the more powerful they are, but the more powerful they are the harder they should be to break

Unless they’re broken and mistreated and ground down until they buy into the “us against them” that the templars and citizens force on them, and stop caring if their tormentors are hurt

Which, again, is why Vivienne’s vision for the Circles cannot be realised under the system as it stands

As long as the Circles are a place to lock up mages so they can’t hurt “good, normal people”, someone will abuse it

And the person who abuses it the most, gets their mages the most “under control”, rises to the top on a tower of magic

And the rot spreads

And when you’re on the inside, but at the top? Not being stepped on but treated with respect and reverence? Well, how hard can it be to stay there all the time? Surely they can just wait for a better time to be free

The game’s trying so fucking hard to push its “Not All Templars” agenda but it’s actually only highlighting just how flawed this logic is, and I am FASCINATED with how perfectly they’ve replicated an oppressive system without even meaning to

They so clearly want you to buy the “not all templars are bad like not all mages are good”, but the problem’s right there on the surface:

The mages are dealing with their problems

They don’t want to get possessed either, and nor does anyone else

The templars are pretending their problems don’t exist

That they don’t need to deal with every rogue templar wearing their banner, drinking their lyrium, murdering random villagers and nobles left and right

You’re literally not allowed to even bring it up to the head seeker when he’s off grandstanding

Every mage who tells you “well not all the templars are bad” tattoos respectability politics on the insides of your eyelids because that’s the whole actual problem:

It doesn’t matter if not all the templars are bad. What matters is that the good templars cannot or do not try to stop the bad ones

The bad ones are the ones in power, making the rules

Good people who follow bad rules are complicit

A rotten apple only spoils the barrel if you leave it in there to fester

Anyway Vivienne > Cullen all day every day because

1) queen of Step On Me energy

And 2) we do not blame the actions of oppressors on the oppressed, even when they are propping up the same oppressive system

Also all the templars being mandatory drug addicts is a fucking wild twist and I can’t wait to see where that goes, I am blaming it for Cullen’s weird pinchy redness around his eyes and nose

[akirenhell]

Devilman OC: Azrael, the angel of death

SO AFTER AN UNGODLY AMOUNT OF TIME, I've finally decided to make a post about one of my most developed OCs I've had. (who is also related to Devilman. How surprising.)

Before starting, however, I wanna give a huge shout-out to @missn11 and @amyfartsart for the wonderful drawings they did of my boy. Seriously, go check out their art if you're also a Devilman fan. They're both a joy to talk to. ^w^

As the title suggests, Azrael is the angel of death in the Devilman world, with his main job being appeasing dying souls and then guide them to the afterlife; be it Heaven, Purgatory or Hell. It should be worth noticing that the angel is the "unnoficial" ruler of Hell as well (since he's related to Ryo/Satan), so he also makes sure to keep everything under control in the land of the damned. At least, as much as he can help it.

Despite his gloomy appearance and quiet nature, Azrael is a kind and sweet person. He’s always willing to help people, and he’s quite friendly as well. So much so he's even able to befriend demons of all beings, besides just humans, which makes sense considering everyone is equal in death’s eyes. He’s also incredibly curious, to the point that almost becomes a fatal flaw for him considering it can get him into danger.

However, Azrael isn’t as innocent as he seems. He can be quite cocky when he wants to, and despite being a silent dude, he’s a surprisingly strong angel in battle. So much to the point he became a rather feared fighter for demonkind. He’s overall a rather lovable dork, so long as you don’t get on his bad side.

While his main job as an angel of death is to appease dying souls, he doesn't always gives the same treatment to the souls of rotten, corrupted people. In fact, they might get something worse and more terrifying coming from Azrael before he drags them to Hell with him.

On the same topic, Azrael has a bit of a dislike for “unnecessary death”, especially when it comes to wars or politics that bring more bad than good when it comes to humanity or demons. Even more so if it is something that can be easily avoidable. He also has a strong dislike towards injustice, and will call out those who genuinely oppress someone with their ignorance. He’s not even afraid to be brutally honest with them.

~~Little bit of backstory and fun facts about Azrael in readmore~~

Powers and abilities:

-Being able to fly

-Superhuman strength

-Incredibly quick healing/regenerative abilities

-Can teleport himself

-Invisibility

-Can lend some of his powers to anyone by just handing them a feather

-Cannot die

-Facial distortion

-Shapeshifting

-Telepathy

-Merging with a living being and allowing them to use his powers

Trivia:

-Azrael got most of his fighting abilities thanks to the demon champion Amon taking him under his care.

-While Azrael can fight bare hands, he tends to use his whips most of the time, with one made out of leather and the other made out of silver. (Think of it like something from Castlevania). He also has a scythe, but oddly enough, he doesn’t use it in battles that often.

-Azrael actually has a castle in Hell, which is located in the first circle of Hell known as Limbo. It’s called Pandemonium, and a few demons live there with him.

-He has three demon familiars. A goblin, a pixie and an imp. They're his most trusted allies and they're based on the horsemen of the apocalypse. (Besides death).

-Since Azrael can shapeshift, he can turn into a crow or a black cat.

-Azrael’s bodily temperature is incredibly cold, which not only allows him to travel around the hottest spots in Hell with very little problem, but it also allows him to eat the spiciest of foods you could ever think of.

-Huge video game nerd.

-While Azrael genuinely cares about humans and thinks they’re interesting, there is some stuff about them that he can’t help but find weird. An example would be why they are so obsessed with the meaning of life, why some of them need to follow a religion, things like that.

-He’s a surprisingly decent cook, and has occasionally cooked demon meat before.

-He sometimes uses his whips to fish.

-Azrael possesses the terrifying ability of being able to distort his own face, which he can use to make the most scary of expressions that look like something straight out of the Mandela Catalogue. Some demons are genuinely horrified by this ability of his.

-Azrael keeps a journal where he writes down information about demons. It also has a few silly doodles of demons as well, as some sort of reference picture for each one.

-While Azrael cannot die by any means, the only way that he could be killed would be if it was done by his own hand.

Backstory:

While living in Heaven, Azrael was a bit of an outcast amongst the angels due to his gloomy appearence and quiet nature, with Satan being one of the few who he talked to. The two angels developed a brotherly bond between each other as time went on.

After getting the job of angel of death, it didn't take too long for Azrael to discover the existence of the demons, which was a frightening discovery as he ended up losing an arm during an ambush. Thankfully, it grew back thanks to his healing abilities, and despite the horror that shook him to his very core and the pain inflicted on his body, Azrael's morbid curiosity desired to know more about the demons.

With only his heart and instinct to guide him through, Azrael would continue with his job of reaping souls while living in the brutal world of the demons, gaining allies and enemies along the way. He even encounters Satan once more, who's now the main ruler of the demons, and the two decide to keep in contact with each other.

However, thanks to the violent and raunchy nature of the demons, Heaven's ruler, God, decides to destroy them by sending several angels to Earth in an attempt to hunt them down, with the attacks becoming more and more frequent as time goes by. It gets so intense to the point Satan has to request Azrael if he would join the demons’ side so that he could aid them in the war.

Unfortunately, due to a mix of fear and hesitation of wanting to hurt his divine siblings, Azrael has to decline the offer; and while it pains Satan, he somewhat understands his decision. However, the three-headed demon Zennon (one of Satan’s second in command) isn’t pleased at all by this and angrily declares Azrael a traitor of demonkind, something a lot of demons end up believing as well. Considering he isn’t longer welcome there, the angel ultimately ends up leaving in exile.

While Azrael still doesn’t end up joining the battle and remains neutral to both the forces of Heaven and the demons, he still tries to aid the demons in any way he can by building shelters where the weaker or smaller demons can hide from the war. All while he focuses on collecting the souls of the dead demons, and witnessing just how brutal his siblings have become by mindlessly destroying what was once a chaotic yet beautiful world.

Eventually, Azrael is taken back to Heaven after he has been found out helping the demons, and after a rather heated argument with God, the angel of death ends up being trapped in a void of darkness that leads him to Hell; the afterlife of the demons and the enemies of Heaven.

Once the war is over, and with the demons (alongside Satan) buried bunder the ice to gather strength, Azrael gets free again; still quite affected over what happened. In fact, he barely talks to God and his other angelic siblings at this point, spending more time on Earth collecting souls and even in Hell or the void, for he no longer feels safe in the realm of Heaven.

From here on, the events of Devilman take place. Something Azrael ends up witnessing on every detail, including how the human Akira Fudo became a devilman thanks to his friend Ryo Asuka (who Azrael quickly assumes is actually Satan taking the form of a human), his battles with several demons…And the tragic end of the world by the demons revealing themselves to humanity, driving them insane with paranoia, and with the demons and devilmen going through a war with no winner.

Things would get worse as not only Akira ends up dying, but Azrael eventually finds out about the timeloop God has put Satan through as punishment for what he did thousands of years ago.

Obviously, due to his fear, Azrael at first tries to stay out of this; thinking Satan deserved such a fate upon him. However, the longer the time loop continues, and the more suffering he sees, the angel starts to realize just how utterly cruel this punishment is. It doesn’t help that, loop after loop, Satan starts to become more jaded and emotionally exhausted, to the point Azrael is worried his brother could become an empty shell of his past self.

Once he realizes just how utterly despicable this is, Azrael finally makes his choice: to finally stop God from putting his creation under such a vicious cycle of self destruction, even if it means he has to kill the being he once called “father” to free Satan, Akira, the demons and all of humanity.

[neoneun-au]

THE MIRROR BLUE NIGHT; JOSHUA HONG [TEASER]

―PAIRING: joshua hong x fem!reader ―GENRE: angst, romance, slow burn, suggestive, affair au ―TEASER WORD COUNT: 686 [full fic tba] ―FIC WARNINGS: angst, mild language, cheating/affair, death mentions, overall melancholy, suggestive, other mature themes, 18+ only

teaser is highly unedited, there may be changes leading up to the full release of the fic. thank you for your patience

―AUTHOR’S NOTE: for the @svthub 2024 world tour collab. please head there for the taglist and to check out the rest of the fics/writers that are a part of this project! also please send me any thoughts or comments about the fic so far if you have them! its the only thing that keeps me motivated as a writer on here. hope you enjoy ❣️

It’s raining. You hear the patter of droplets as they fall against your windows, a symphony of sorrows cascading from gray skies. When you were a child your mother used to tell you that the rain meant the heavens were crying. That some angel high above was weeping for the sorrow of those below–for the tragedy of humankind. She made up a lot of lies to tell you, things to either make you feel better or just to get you to stop asking her questions while she was trying to watch her daytime dramas. It never worked, and you never believed her. 

It was raining, too,  on the day that you cremated her. A near torrential downpour that had washed out the roads on your way to the funeral home and caused a four car pile up on the on ramp. You made it, breathless and haggard, just in time to drip your way through the procession to the front of the church pews where you sat, cloaked in the black of mourning, to watch a small line of people espouse lies about the woman who raised you. 

Were you sad about her death? Of course you were. Death was always sad, in some abstract, human way. The ending of things–life moving onwards to something better (or worse). Leaving everyone else in this life with debt and sorrow and suffering. You could feel her death around you everywhere you went. The last breath of her life sighing over you on windy streets, the final whisper of her words in the chattering of birds in the morning dew. She was omnipresent, oppressive. More so than she had been when she was alive. A shroud over your every move. 

You were sad about her death, but you did not feel the pang of it in your heart. It was abstract–elusive. A fleeting thought that followed you throughout the day. A thought that you were sure would dissipate over time. Molecule by molecule as her soul moved on from this world it would dissolve and you would finally be left standing in a life of your own making, no longer bent to the will of the woman who molded you to fit neatly into her life. Maybe her death finally meant you could be free. 

When it was your turn to speak, after the mass had ended and the few other speakers had said their peace while your mother watched from inside her casket, you hesitated. Standing at the front of the people that had managed to crawl their way through the traffic for the promise of a free lunch and a voyeuristic look at the poor, bereft daughter. The only remaining relative of this woman that had made everyone’s life around her a living hell. You stared out at their faces, blank with waiting, and expected the words you had prepared to come out as you had practiced but none ever did. Seconds ticked by into minutes and the blank expressions morphed into confusion or pity. Even your husband’s calm demeanor dissolved into one of concern as he stared up at you from his seat. 

Thunder clapped outside the church, the rain picked up–buffeting the stained glass windows in its fury–and you thought maybe your mother hadn’t been lying to you when you were a child. Maybe it was her fury that was soaking you to the bone. 

You left the altar without a word–just one apologetic glance cast over the audience of mourners–and sat back down next to your husband. Head held high against the brewing storm. You realised you had nothing to say. 

For his part, he played it well at the time. His silent hand found yours and gripped it tight as you both kept your gazes focused on the priest as he tried his best to stitch the proceedings back together after you went off script and abandoned your eulogy. He kept your hand in his throughout the rest of the funeral–from the end of the mass, through the reception, and all the way to the committal he was there. 

When had he stopped?

[aita-blorbos]

AITA for causing the apocalypse in order to prevent all future more minor apocalyptic events?

I (63M) live in a world where plate tectonics are very unstable and every few hundred years, some earthquake, volcanic eruption, or similar event happens with enough force to block out the sun and cause mass starvation for years. Our societies are built around able to survive and not be destroyed by all of this, but the constant preparation has held people back a lot and many people still die during those times. I've done a lot of research into the history of this world and found that it wasn't always like this, but was the result of people many thousands of years ago, who had a more advanced civilization than our own, using their technology to try to harvest energy from the Earth, which unknown to then was sentient and the resulting events of their attempt to do so led to the moon being knocked out of orbit and lost, for which the Earth has been mad at humanity and trying to kill us ever since. It so happened that the moon was going to return very soon.

Now, at this point I was desperate and tired of the endless cycles of violence in our world. It wasn't just what the earth did, but the way the more I learned about history, the more it seemed that oppression of people like me and our ancestors was a constant. I've been discriminated against for my powers all my life and used as a tool by the empire in power. They claim that people like me are the privileged ones, when others with the same powers are often murdered, but I've learned enough to know that's all a lie. They still killed my lover for to punish me for questioning things too much, and forced me to have children who they then lobotomized and forced then to use their powers to prevent earthquakes in constant agony, and when I was able to escape by accident to a place where people with powers like mine were welcome they tried to kill or capture my whole family. And this is never-ending; the very reason we lost the moon in the first place is because the civilization at the time used the people they oppressed to power the machine that did it.

So seeing no other way to break all of these cycles, I realized that I could use the remnants of the magical engine used to take away the moon in order to bring the moon back. But in order to do so, I needed to use it in a way to release so much energy from the earth that I would have the power I needed. This would require me to create a crack in the earth so big that it would block out the sun for thousands of years, creating a disaster far worse than the ones before that would kill everyone on the planet - although it wouldn't have a chance to kill everyone if the moon was returned first. So I decided to do that, breaking apart the continent right where the capital city of the empire was. This killed millions of people immediately, and I could have done it somewhere less populated but I thought the only way to make sure the world wouldn't be rebuilt with more oppression was to destroy the power that was responsible for it completely.

And one more thing that might make me the asshole here; using the power of the remnants of the engine was not something I could do twice, because using it once means you will turn to stone if you ever try to use it again. Therefore I had to hope I would find someone else with the same high level of power as me (which is rare) who would be able to finish the job within the two or three years before the moon came back, or else it would be the end of the world for real. But I saw no way to make the constant horrors of both natural disaster and bigotry end.

[thedevilsruby]

Foe of the Guide (Clierra multichapter fic)

Sierra Rossi's parents died in front of her because of Giovanni Pasini and his family's invention, the Guide. Oppressed by years by corruption and greed, she comes of age to fight against those who have wronged the world she lives in. She just didn't expect to fall in love along the way.

She feels her mother's hand yank her to her bosom, cradling her as close as a mother could her baby.

"No, no, you can't, she's only a child! Please, please-!" A gunshot is all Sierra hears and she feels something warm land on her dress. All she can see is her mother flying to the ground, eyes now dark and lifeless and crimson splattering her once yellow dress.

She screams out for her mother, tears filling her eyes.

"Sierra, baby, listen to me." Her father says, cradling her face in his hands. "Run, run as far away as you can and don't look back. I love you baby, so so much."

"But daddy!" Sierra tries to protest.

"GO!" Her father yells, pushing her away.

Sierra sobs out, running as fast as her little legs can go, before more gunshots ring out and she hears her father's body hit the ground.

She sits up with a loud gasp, clutching her blanket to her chest. She pants hard as she looks around. No blood or bodies, much to her relief.

Sierra sighs, holding a palm to her forehead. That was what, the fifth time this month? The dream has haunted her time and time again since she turned 18.

Her Houndoom Dexel, whines and military crawls to her, calming her down with kisses only a pokemon could provide.

"Hey, it's okay, I'm fine, it was just a dream." She whispers to him, petting him. "A...very bad dream that happened for real years ago."

A knock snaps her out of her thoughts and Houndoom's ears perk up.

"Give me a minute!" She calls out, throwing the covers off her and shivering at the slight chill in the air. She grabs whatever hoodie in nearby and her white pants. She slips them on and walks to her living room door.

"Hey Willow." She hugs the older man upon seeing him.

"Hey Erra, good to see you." Willow replies, hugging his surrogate niece back. "Are you okay? You look-"

"I know, I know." Sierra sighs. "I'm fine."

"You had the dream again, didn't you?" Willow asks, concerned. Ever since she moved into this tiny apartment to be on her own, the dreams of her parents being murdered have been getting worse. He hated to see her like this.

"It's nothing, Will, I'm okay." She decides to change the subject before Willow pushes it. "What's the new plan today? Last plan almost got us found out."

"Not exactly Candela's greatest plan." Willow mutters. "But Blanche has cooked something up and we're gonna try it."

Sierra goes to her coffee pot and brews enough for two cups. "Of course that brainiac made something. What is it?"

"It's something they call a 'drone'." Willow replies, sitting at Sierra's dining room table. "It's a flying camera basically."

Sierra raises an eyebrow. "A flying camera? Like Giovanni won't find that suspicious?"

"It'll be disguised as a Yanma, so it'll be inconspicuous." Willow says. "There are plenty of Yanmas in the city, this one isn't special to him."

Sierra shrugs. "I'll take a look after breakfast, we just gotta be careful with the cameras watching."

Cameras were the normal in the cities. Giovanni's ancestor Armand had the idea to install them in case anyone tried to badmouth the family or Guide in public.

Years ago, the Pasini family invented Guide to try and help humanity, to improve the lives of many. IT was going to help elderly people to their feet when they fell, help movers lift heavy objects, help people who's cars had breakdowns and there were no mechanics around.

Now it was only a tyrannous device, making sure the people stayed in line, beat others if they looked or acted suspicious, report minor crimes and jail people.

Many hated it, but the Pasini family ruled with an iron fist, so there wasn't much that could be done.

Until Sierra's family gave people hope and started a secret rebellion, The Golden Fighters.

The very thing her parents gave their lives for and left for her to continue.

"Well, maybe this time the Golden Fighters actually have a small chance." Sierra sighs, pouring sugar and cream into Willow's coffee. "Let's hope this works."

Willow only nods in response.

-

Can you tell it's been awhile since I've written? I hope I'm not TOO rust lmao hope you all enjoyed!

[deathfavor]

@yeonban​ said: for chrollo and shalnark to spend the night together in a shared room on the whale after the traumatic experience of his and kortopi's unexpected deaths. shalnark doesn't say anything for while, too focused on trying and failing to keep his eyes from changing colors every other second (from green, to crimson, to green, to crimson again) and after a sigh, he raises a hand over his eyes to shut them close altogether. he doesn't mention it, though, preferring to bring up their plan instead. ever rational, whether naturally so or through his sheer force of will.

"chrollo," the blond starts by not using the title that bears responsibility for their deaths in the other's eyes. "do you have any abilities that can erase hisoka's body entirely, or should we rely on blinky and hope it doesn't trigger hisoka's revival?" it's better not to think about the past, even when it still bleeds, and bleeds, and bleeds into his every move. "if he managed to revive himself once, we can't rule out the possibility that he can do it again. machi said he just sprung out when her nen touched him, so shizuku's might trigger it too, but on a ship of this size... even if none of us were to touch him after the fact, someone's nen is bound to. assuming that whatever trick he used only works if there is a corpse, we need to make sure not to leave any inch behind, and preferably erase it at the same second we kill him, to avoid complications."

    It is not abnormal for Chrollo to sit in silence, the calm at the eye of the hurricane that was the volatile nature of the troupe. Perhaps that is what makes him so efficient as the head, how so many powerful and loud personalities can come around him, like the dark rain clouds of a storm that is deadly and violent, yet the eye of a hurricane always seems at peace for a moment. But there is an unspoken heaviness in this silence. Something omniscient and oppressive even against the unyielding head. He does not yield, he does not shatter, but even his head and shoulders bow beneath the weight of it.

   Too often people assume he feels nothing. In many cases he does not. But for those close to him, he cherishes them. He will laugh and he will cry for them. Shalnark is here in spite of death’s jaws ; for that he is grateful. It does not ease the weight. It is one thing for a Spider to die on a mission ( personal or otherwise ). It is another to feel he is responsible, no matter what Shalnark had said. Despite his own cold logic that indicates he never could have known that because no one plans for death to turn traitor to itself. Yet the human heart is not so easily dissuaded from its feelings. It was the dangerous side of emotions.

   “  I still have Indoor Fish.  “  Chrollo answers, his gaze focused ahead with a deadly seriousness.  “  It carries several advantages, but there are drawbacks. “  Hisoka didn’t know the details of Indoor Fish most importantly. Hisoka didn’t know the details of most of Chrollo’s arsenal. Nor did most of the troupe for that matter. Together they would have a good idea, but much like his hideouts, they were scattered facts that always has a level of protection to them. To spill all his tricks would be foolish.  “  It only needs an enclosed space, which is not too difficult to accomplish in current circumstances. They enjoy human meat, it would destroy his body entirely. “  The information eases itself from his chest. Still, he’s never utilized it against someone like Hisoka. It was a thought to consider.  “  We shouldn’t need to rely on blinky. I have a few other techniques that might be utilizable for it, potentially faster, but with the caveat of a higher chance there might be a reaction than Indoor Fish.  “

   Hisoka’s revival is something that he had pondered over. How it was achieved.  “  It will only get worse.  “  He lets the sentence fall like a gavel in the courtroom as he stands, though he makes no move to walk or leave their room for the night.  “  As far as we know, Hisoka has not lost anything for his revival. Which means it was likely through either a condition, or he utilized the intense will and emotion Nen can harbor.  “  It is Chrollo who turns to look towards Shalnark for a brief moment before ahead again.  “  A condition would only make sense if he lived. Something like Kurapika’s. It would also need to be something specific. Thus, he must have utilized the intense emotions that can remain attached to Nen. If he used his texture skill on his body like he did the tattoo, it would explain how it remained centralized to his corpse specifically.  “  His eyes close for a moment.  “  In which case, it was his intense desire towards me in some form.  “  Either for more fighting, or to see him suffer. Potentially both. Hisoka was that sort of devil.

   There is no guarantee to this of course. It is based merely on logic and assumptions, but Chrollo often had a knack for deciphering details others hadn’t yet been able to catch or analyze in such depth.  “  It has not faded but only grown. If this is the case, his potential for returning should his corpse survive is high. Even if we tore him apart limb from limb, someone might try to reassemble him if they came across his parts, unless we ensured essential aspects WERE destroyed. Brain, heart, lungs.  “  He waves a hand slightly, indicating a shared understanding they knew the implication.  “  Although even just a hollow shell, if his Nen and will is strong enough, might utilize it as a vehicle of that desire to kill.  “  Chrollo had never heard of it, a body puppeted by the will of Nen after death, but it wouldn’t shock him anymore. Especially not with Hisoka.  “  Complete annihilation is the only acceptable conclusion, be it through one of my Nen abilities or more common means.  “  

[critrolestuff]

Too tired to make this eloquent, but imo the way the town elder (Abedinna? Not sure how it’s spelled) and her ideology is presented in the latest episode feels kind of…off? Like, they have a good point re: their religious freedom and the oppression coming out of Vasselheim, sure, and you want them to have their freedom and have justice for that, but then the solution they’re gunning for is just…a complete reversal of fortunes? To do to the followers of the Prime Deities what was done to them, but more extreme? I’m not saying they *can’t* be presented that way or that no one would ever feel like that in their position, but it still kinda reminds me of like…discussions on irl colonialism and how a prevailing line of thought among an oppressing class is often that if the oppressed are given back their rights/land/etc, they’ll take the first chance they get to oppress in turn. It’s a very eye-for-an eye idea of what “justice” looks like that is often not actually shared by the oppressed group, but it’s the only thing the oppressing group can really imagine when considering a change to the status quo

Don’t get me wrong, I’m very curious to see where the story goes from here and I like the sticky nature of the dilemma it presented to Team Issylra in terms of balancing their goals/allegiances/etc. But one thing that’s been bugging me throughout the campaign is that even amongst the people fighting against Ludinus and his machinations to seize control, the actual topic of that control never really even comes up at all as an argument against him? Everyone’s like “we don’t want him filling the space the gods leave behind if they’re cast down” or “we don’t want him destroying the world in the process of destroying the gods” but I don’t think we’ve EVER heard anyone bring up the point that like…that’s not a choice you make for other people. Even the “good guys” don’t seem to actually take issue with destroying the gods for any reason other than “the material cost/body count would be too high/we’d get something worse in their place”

And that just seems particularly highlighted to me in this recent episode. Ostensibly you’ve got a community of people who don’t worship the prime deities and want to be left alone to follow their own way of life in peace, but then they (Elder Abedinna in particular) immediately turn around and go “hey, maybe utterly destroying the source of millions of people’s faith without giving them a choice in the matter so we can do our thing isn’t a bad idea!” And just…the hypocrisy of that kind of goes unchallenged

Idk it’s just been a thing that’s kinda felt unsatisfying to me so far in c3. We’ve gotten an abundance of characters who are all varying degrees of “fuck the gods” albeit in their own interesting ways (and granted, it’s definitely interesting to me to see the motivations & actions of characters who don’t necessarily have any love for the gods, but still fight against Ludinus anyway), but…it also feels like a lot of the same thing after a while. This could be such a rich conflict of in-world theology and philosophy and I really feel like there’s a lot of potential stuff to chew on regarding the themes of choice versus force, autonomy vs subservience, etc, but it feels like those things are going unaddressed in a lot of ways (or addressed in a very one-note way, like I was feeling with the latest episode).

Coincidentally, one of my hopes for the combat in the next episode is that we will in fact get to see one or more Judicators joining the fray, but not just as bludgeoning tools for the Flame Guide to wield against the party. According to the lore given, they’re supposed to be - more or less - vessels to carry out the will and power of their gods, so if there actually *is* disconnect between the will of the gods and the actions of the mortal institutions that purport to serve them (as Orym mentioned in conversation with the Elder), it would be very interesting to see that set-up followed through on. I’d love to see the Judicators do…*something* unexpected in this fight, whatever that may be, that complicates the battle lines our cast of characters have drawn up. Idk if we’ll get that, though. They might just end up being used as especially big hammers to hit the PCs with. But I kind of hope not, or at least, that that’s not all that happens with them. If it is, that would definitely have interesting implications for the Judicators’ nature, ie: are they *really* vessels of divine will, or are they just vessels for the will of whatever mortals are at the top of the power structure?

Anyway. This is messy and I’m tired. Send post