#when they are quite literally blinded by grief

[precambrianhottopic]

thinking about. roanan funeral practices

[mandalhoerian]

the shape of grief.

as far as rafayel is concerned, pygmalion's is a horror story, not a myth. guy decides all women are beneath him, quite literally designs and builds one for himself, and somehow his narcissistic prayers for her to live are granted. what humans define as love and the stories they tell about it are always so revealing of their selfish nature. he only ever gets the appeal of it when he looks at his faceless galatea unable to take shape in his clay-sodden hands, and thinks, what wouldn't i give for you to open your eyes so that i could remember their exact color.

♯ ⸻ pure angst, sfw, 3.7k, read on ao3

note: directly inspired by this post about rafayel trying to sculpt mc/reader but not remembering her face. a bit late to this but i was hit with the procrastination fairies LMAO . i wrote this in a feverish delirium without caring for any canon at all, i apologize if rafayel is ooc !! this work assumes he has his memories of his life as the god of tides, you can think it as an AU if you believe he has no memories of it in the main timeline (yet.) This also takes place before the Addictive Pain anectode (if you like nitpicking and think why he doesn't have a photo of her and that this could have been avoided HAHA)

but without further ado, i hope you enjoy, please let me know what you thought!

The gallery Thomas had to basically bribe him to attend was cold with intention. Whitewashed walls were almost blinding beneath the overhead lights, each fixture angled to make the sculptures glow faintly at the edges like relics, a violin track playing at a volume calibrated for reverent hush with the crowd adjusting its voice accordingly. Somehow, the worst of it was that they'd scented the room with something floral and expensive, and it was clinging so offensively to the back of Rafayel’s throat and wouldn't go away no matter how much he swallowed or sipped on the drink glued to his hand.  

The exhibit was titled Breathed to Life: The Divine Muse in Modern Form. He’d read the placard twice, though once would’ve been enough. Wherever he looked, Rafayel couldn't escape from the oozed hauteur for the attempts at capturing a miracle, sculptures of taxidermied epiphanies resting under glass that was tempered with more care in Rafayel's opinion, preserved with just enough light to make the delusion shine. Words like transcendence, revelation, and worship had been worked into the catalog copy, and even the bubbles of champagne he was swirling in the flute glass was more interesting as he idly moved through the space.

He passed a piece labeled Galatea No. IV — a full-bodied woman in bronze, lips parted in awakening, arms half-lifted as if to greet the man who had imagined her, the texture of her skin smoothed to impossible precision, idealized down to the the pores with not a single wrinkle or mole.

One of the critics standing nearby called it sublime. Another said, "She looks so real I almost expect her to blink."

Rafayel said nothing. He kept walking.

A curator caught him between rooms. She was in something backless, dark green, dripping with confidence. “You must feel at home here,” she said, beaming. “Mr. Rafayel, you're the Pygmalion of our time."

He looked past her to one of his own works, mounted near the final archway. A man slouched on a low stone, arms folded, spine curved with a kind of refusal, turned away from something but looking up at it at the same time in criticism, his face gaunt with a pinch of displeasure, half-shielded by a fall of hair. No awe or supplication.

His was the only Pygmalion in the entire exhibit, and no one seemed to realize it. Rafayel had heard some talk about how progressive it was to genderbend Galatea for gay representation, or that this could be the moment Galatea came to life and rejected her maker in a plot twist. 

Rafayel had left it up to interpretation if his Pygmalion was looking at Galatea at all. He was staring past her — past all of them, really. Every woman he ever imagined beneath him, too dull or too much or too sharp to matter. A man convinced that the thing he made was a compromise, that he’d been forced to shape it because nothing real had measured up. Neither a lover, nor a muse. A reflection bent to fit him. And maybe resenting how much of himself had ended up in the marble anyway. Nothing of the yearning saint the myth preferred. 

The gallery had tried to soften this image of human ugliness within the divine benevolence of Galateas all around, projecting wind through bare branches beside the figure, trying to frame the posture as meditative. They titled the piece Invocation. Rafayel wasn't even asked before they changed the name and he was definitely having a talk about it with Thomas after.

He offered the curator a a dismissive hand. “A flattering comparison. Though I hear his success rate depended entirely on divine intervention.”

She laughed, unsure whether it was flirtation or rebuke. “Still, what an honor. So many of us see ourselves in the myth, don’t we? The ones who love so deeply we bring our muses to life.”

He excused himself with a nod that meant nothing. Her perfume followed him down the corridor.

The flowing hallway was a blur of marble, alabaster, glass, bronze, the women luminous and soft, the men always absent — except in the titles. The Sculptor’s Prayer. In the Hands of the Maker. Love Before Breath. One artist had suspended a torso in resin, veins threaded with copper, the heart cavity open and waiting with the accompanying quote that read: “She lives because I saw her clearly enough.”

Rafayel stopped in front of it. The figure inside was beautiful and fragile, designed to be admired.

He traced the edge of the plinth with one fingertip and thought: She lives because you needed her to. Not because she wanted to.

He left the gallery floor and stepped into the auxiliary corridor lined with donor plaques and black-and-white photographs. One showed a young couple posed beside a sculpture mid-process. The woman’s face was amicable, and the man looked directly into the camera, his hand on the small of her back. The caption read: The original Galatea — forever immortalized by love.

He looked at it until the focus dissolved, and the polished surface of the frame stopped reflecting anything but his own cold expression.

Pygmalion was granted his wish. That alone was enough to make Rafayel despise him. 

A man shapes greed with his hands, pulls at the skirts of heavens like a petulant child, and the gods — watching from a distance they rarely breach — clap their hands in glee and say yes.

The myth pretended that mercy could be earned by longing, that a body sculpted by a beholder who sees himself so above others is owed because he called it love. There was no weight in that kind of miracle, only cruelty dressed as grace, a prayer granted just to mock the millions that weren't. 

Pygmalion was the epitome of human selfishness, the final limit where want transformed into greed for more than the world could grant. Only his statue, made by his own greedy hands and given life through someone else's breath, was beautiful, because only she embodied perfection to him, not because she was worth desiring but because he desired her. Pygmalion's love didn't reach past his self, it served only to feed himself and satiate him with the sight of his narcissism, like any other creation brought to life by humans for their own benefit; machines built to kill, guns painted gold so they look like art when killing — all just tools made to feed men's hunger for more.

But he would have never cared about Pygmalion if it wasn't for the gods.

Because Rafayel envied those gods, all too human in their vanity, for the power and might they wielded to give so easily like that. Their ability to move mountains without ever being touched by grief, to pull strings that bind worlds without fearing losing something of theirs; it was unfathomable to someone so bound in mortal tethers such as he.

It must feel so freeing, living like that, he thought. Must feel so good, pulling at other lives like they are your playthings. So easy to get lost in those dreams.

The same way he did back then.

The disdain covering Rafayel in a second skin as if he was an oil-soaked seagull was fuel enough to get back to work after that travesty of a gallery.

He’d been developing a concept for a painting — a large-scale composition of a coral-devoured, bleeding cathedral submerged in the sea, its steeples fractured and stretching toward the surface in a gesture that evoked both surrender and yearning, an image meant to convey the contradictions of loss and reverence, a symbolic convergence of decay and devotion. At least that’s what the so-called critics were about to yammer on about. It in fact was the fate of a certain buyer Rafayel was targeting, and the message was meant for his people and his people only.

The draft lived on the sketchbook propped against his raised knees, his legs crossed on the high stool, charcoal gripped tightly in one hand and smudging downwards the length of a pillar as he added textures and shadows to create depth. It was a hasty thing, but effective at illustrating what he envisioned, complete with notes scribbled around the edges, jotted reminders for little details here and there he needed to add to truly flesh out the piece later on. Rafayel was so distracted by a couple more things to add to the sketch that the canvas already prepared beneath the dome skylight felt neglected despite the brushes sitting ready and dipped in paint atop a palette of bruised violet scraped from stormclouds, diluted ultramarine, blue fog, a soft grime green of oxidized copper, rotten ivory, a sliver of warm rust, a cold pink scraped from the underbelly of spent roses, and more.

And yet, when he finally got up to start for good, his gaze drifted elsewhere.

Toward the bust armature.

Rafayel stood beside it, hands in the pockets of his black suit pants, head tilted sideways with one hand playing with it in thought. He loosened the buttons of the white dress shirt he wore after flinging off that horrid tie, sleeves pushed to mid forearms as he dragged a stool and took a seat before the armature, right elbow propped atop the round table to the side holding supplies, chin resting on knuckles, now gazing up at the base of the clay cast while chewing the inside of his cheek.

He had always told himself he would return to it when he was ready, when time had softened the raw, exposed nerve endings of loss, when he could render your likeness with a steady hand instead of a shaking one.

But then months stretched into a year, days faded into seasons which blended together into a period of numbness broken occasionally by an intrusive thought here and there while he focused on Lemuria and Lemuria only, and then — nothing. Until it was easier not to think about it at all. He became absorbed in his mission, dedicated to getting revenge, and avoided thoughts of you, for all intents and purposes, until moments like these where he simply sat in silence looking up at a form without feature to remind him why exactly he did what he did.

Galatea, huh?

He crossed the room with the same distracted focus he used to summon bruyous, hands rummaging through the storage shelves until he found the sealed bag of clay, not expecting it to be heavier than he remembered, dense with neglect. Dumping it unceremoniously beside the armature, he sliced it open, letting the block fall onto the slab table with a dull, resistant thud, finding it cold to the touch, too stiff to yield immediately, so he pressed it between his palms, wetting them, working the material slowly until the top layer lost its brittleness.

He didn't sit right away, hovering over the lump with furrowed brows, kneading it down into something usable, folding in water from the bowl on the side, rotating it as he moved, pushing and turning until the tension bled out. Once softened, he dunked the mass onto the metal plate mounted over the dented and sluggish, old man of a banding wheel. Only then did he sit, lowering himself onto a battered wooden stool, one bare foot braced against the leg of the wheel’s base while the other nudged gently to angle it.

All done. He reached for the wire loop tool without thinking or looking over, fingers already coated in the dull slip of moisture and clay.

The first lines came quick and confident. Indents for the eyes. The line of a nose. Just scaffolding, clearing a space where you might return to him, the only sound in the room the soft grind of his tools and his breathing. 

He narrowed the chin, adjusted the brow. Then sat back, frowning.

Too young. This was closer to the child at the beach who had hooked pinkies with him. 

He scraped the forehead flat again, thumb dragging clay down like peeling skin. The smoothed face stared up at him in blank reprieve, a temporary erasure before he tried again, less baby fat on the cheeks, sharper cheekbones this time, a more adult curve to the jaw, something more defined around the eyes, though he wasn’t sure what. A firmer mouth, perhaps. A stronger line. He reworked the nose — it ended up being too straight the first time and he chided himself for the mistake, then he decided it was too narrow, crooked it just slightly at the bridge, something he'd sworn felt right.

It wasn't long before the moment slipped from his fingers, and all the revisions felt more like mistakes than anything, tilting the whole balance of the face into something uncanny. He could pretend it was nearly familiar, but only in the way dreams pretended to be memory.

With an annoyed click of his tongue, Rafayel tilted the wheel. Leaning in with an emotion-tense strain in his spine, he angled the bust toward the overhead light until the shadows shifted and spilled away from the features he’d laid out like a confession.

He stood up for a burning stretch to contemplate, stepped back, squinted with his head tilted, and stepped forward again.

Was it just him? The angle? The lighting? The fatigue of the gallery distorting everything?

After he sat back down with more determination to get over whatever this slump was that made him get you wrong over and over again, one adjustment in the temple led to a collapse in the jawline, and the later correction to the mouth made the chin too long.

The realization that the eyes looked distant now and he couldn’t tell if it was him failing the depth or the absence of something deeper was particularly worrying. Rafayel had always trusted the process, but this didn’t feel like a detour into arriving at the same destination, the clay was actually resisting him in a non-art block way and it was starting to actually bother him. 

He scraped again, set the brow differently, ignoring the thing niggling at him at the back of his head and brushing against some the internal nerve. Was it ever really that shape? Or had he once wanted it to be, and kept telling you about how doing your brows that way would compliment your features better when Algie had sat you down before the vanity in your room to try out some dresses for the ceremony and work on make-up to go along with each one of them?

The clay warped gently beneath his fingers as he tried to trust the sensation, but every stroke seemed to subtract rather than add. The frustration Rafayel hadn't sensed had made its way into his hands like fire following the path of a wick, making the cheekbone dip under the tool, and he had to sit back straighter with a huff from his nose. 

His eyes flew all over the features of the bust, the whole incomplete face. Rafayel couldn't even call it yours. One mistake or two could be expected, even pictures could be unflattering. But it was worse than that — he couldn’t figure out where it had gone wrong. The structure was exactly the same, proportions were what he remembered. The surface was close to reality enough to breathe, but the person who would come to life if they did wasn’t you, and he didn't know where he had gone wrong. 

Rafayel stared longer. A pressure grew behind his ribs, and it was beginning to feel like trying to hum a melody he hadn’t heard in years. The more he reached for it, the more the silence beneath it yawned open.

He reached up and pressed his palm against the clay, not to shape, just to feel if it might suddenly remember for him.

It didn’t.

This was someone else. Too much of him.

He looked down at his hands, coated in slip and streaked with fine dust, and flexed the fingers slowly as though wondering how long they’d been disobeying him.

He pressed the backs of the base knuckles of his thumbs into the inner corners of his eyes. Into the tear ducts.

Where was the scar you used to trace absently while thinking? He tried to recall the way your mouth moved when you were amused but trying not to smile. Was it one side that curled first? Or both? He had drawn it once, years ago, sketched it from memory with absolute certainty. But when he reached for it now, he found only doubt.

The chair scraped backwards and nearly toppled as he sprang to his feet, crossing to the small cabinet beside the canvas where he kept what little he dared to revisit. He almost flung the drawer halfway through the room when he yanked it open, pulled the first sketchpad he could reach, pages flipping too and frenzied to register until he paused and kept going through them slower to make sense of it. 

Eyes, alone. Dozens of them. Glancing sideways, gazing directly, lowered in thought, every single one of them slightly different in expression, none of them quite right. A nose rendered in three-quarter view with a soft crease that might have been tension. The arch of a brow, mid-expression — concern, maybe? Hair texture studies in every style you wore it that he remembers. A mouth caught in a smile with no cause. Hands more frequently than anything else — folded gently, held in motion, reaching out. The gesture of a wrist mid-turn, the curve of a knuckle mid-thought. A sketch of a nape that vanished into the shadows of the page’s lower edge.

None of them carried your name. But they were you. Bits of you. Shards. And every one of them had been committed to the page when he hadn’t even meant to — absentminded, between tasks, in the margins of other projects. A fragmented archive of heartbreak he’d been too cowardly to complete. As if assembling you would demand an answer to where you had gone, as if seeing it finished would require confronting what it meant for him to have stayed, inviting something too vast and unhealed to fit back inside him without breaking something else a lie in full.

Rafayel had underestimated the sheer amount of notebooks he'd gone through for years now, like paper towels one would wipe away their tears with. The grudges he'd immortalized left to collect dust and avoided religiously.

He could only look through a draft of your eyes and hold on to the sketchbook for dear life when his vision blurred and something trickled down his cheek. One by one, the tears solidified into pearls, striking the floor and rolling away into obscurity among the chaos of his studio.

Dropped right into the throes of a realization far bigger than he could accept.

Like a dream that slipped away upon waking, your face had receded to the place where Lemuria had sunk — unable to be grasped fully or played back clearly unless he called them forth, the rest reduced to snippets and gestures instead, images that flickered through his mind like slides projected on a screen, ephemeral and fading faster the harder he fought to keep hold of them. What remained was abstraction — softness that used to be hair, the dimple of an incisor tooth, a tilt of the mouth that belonged to laughter. Those fragments still possessed color. What they lacked were definitions that would allow him to shape the clay in your image.

He went through more sketchbooks until the last of it joined the pile around him and he was left standing motionless in the wreckage of graphite and paper spilling open across the floor like overturned reliquaries, pages fluttering mockingly gentle under the breeze nudging through the half-cracked windows, reflecting back a half-you, or an almost-you. He stared at them for a long time without moving, eyes dragging from shape to shape, as if willing one to speak with your voice.

What answered was a notification pinging in his pocket, a sound so mundane amid the shambles of his misery. He pulled his phone out in a detached daze, swiping at it with no thought.

Thomas: Pygmalion and Galatea gallery photos are up on their page! Your attendance was well publicized and people are talking about your piece, so I expect requests for interviews soon. Just letting you know 😃

 His knees gave out before the grief did, he caught the armrest at the very last possible second, and slid down the length of the sofa's side.

She lives because I saw her clearly enough. Those words barricaded his mind like blood rushing to fill a bruise.

Rafayel was a creature built from ripples, shaped by a lineage of memory so ancient it existed without written record, a primordial awareness of past pains and future sufferings alike, generations upon generations worth of invisible scar tissues patching him up like a rag doll. Cities had fallen and crumbled behind him, yet he could name their street corners and the songs sung during their funerals.

So why — how — had you slipped from him this way?

The thought unspooled inside him slowly, a wet thread tugged from a wound so raw that Rafayel didn’t dare touch it. He had thought, in some arrogant, buried part of him, that if he ever tried, truly allowed himself to miss you more than he mourned his people, and stopped tormenting himself by creating puzzle pieces of you out of scraps in his refusal to obtain a photo of you living your new life, he would be able to rebuild you perfectly. Even the gods who breathed life into Galatea would turn green with envy.

His gaze crawled back to the Frankenstein's monster of a bust, all unrelated bits and pieces that had looked like you when isolated but made no sense when he put them together, taking the shape of grief itself.

She lives because I saw her clearly enough.

He tossed the phone aside without giving Thomas an answer, threw his head back to lean on the lip of the couch, and covered his face with a forearm.

And at last, bitterly, he realized he was no different than Pygmalion: longing for the memory of a woman to etch itself into life.

[theocddiaries]

Knuckles: I'm surprised you decided to move in with Sonic, considering how much his brother hates you. Shadow: He's just being a kid. I doubt he actually hates me. Rouge [comes back from the bathroom and sits with them] Knuckles: Rouge, do you think Tails hates Shadow? Rouge: With a passion. I don't know what you did to him, but when that kid hits adolescence, he's gonna make your life a living nightmare. Shadow: I don’t think it’s that serious. It’s just friction because I’m dating his brother. I read it’s normal. Rouge: Not to that extent. Think about how he treats you. Shadow: Hm… FLASHBACKS. 1. Shadow: I’d like to know if there’s anything I can do to improve Vanilla's tea shop. Tails: Quit and let someone nice have your job. 2. Tails: Aren’t you ashamed of being with the guy who almost died because you didn’t want to deal with your grief like a normal person? 3. Tails: I don't know what your deal is, dating my brother, but you're gonna regret ever being born. 4. Tails: I’ll just start mentally preparing for Squidward coming back home. Sonic: Tails! 5. Shadow: Kid, are you gonna throw up or cry? Tails: Dunno, I’m having a love-disgust reaction, like the one I get with you. 6. Tails: Dislike doesn't begin to cover the nausea he gives me. 7. Tails: If I've learnt anything from my brother dating Shadow, it's that when there’s love, there’s blindness. 8. Knuckles: They were giving out tickets if you came as a monster for the horror session. Tails: Well, Shadow had to pay. 9. Tails: Sonic, people still think you're cool, it's not too late to dump him. 10. Sonic: I’ve been thinking— Tails: About finally dumping you. Sonic: No! 11. Tails [walks up to Sonic]: Sonic, break up with Shadow. 12. Tails [over the phone]: Sonic? Hey. Yeah, I'm fine. Listen, dump Shadow. He’s dumb. Aha. No, that was all. Bye, love you. [hangs up] 13. Tails: He can't just trip and smash his face, can't he… PRESENT. Shadow: Seen like that, it does look like he hates me with a burning rage. I should do something; I'm moving into his house, after all. Rouge: What? Shadow: Ah, right. I hadn’t told you yet. Knuckles: And then you won't understand why your literal child brother-in-law hates you…

Next

[honeyliruh]

When I think of Sabr, I think of Yaqub عليه السلام and the qissah of Surah Yusuf. And I think its because I've always resonated with the way Allah سبحانه و تعالى shows us through his prophet that the method of observing patience, may not necessarily look the same for everyone. Yaqub عليه السلام went blind from his tears of grief, Subhan'Allah, and yet he still carried the purest form of Hope in his heart. He trusted His Lord's Plan knowing his complaints were only heard by Him alone, and even still his grief caused him to lose his own sight. As someone who has always worn their heart on their sleeve I remember feeling so heard and understood when I came across these profound verses. For the first time I felt content with the fact that, feeling things deep within my core and ultimately responding to my body's way of releasing grief, sorrow, loss, pain did not in any way translate to anything other than Sabr. I realised the truth in how our Lord's profound words have not just been preserved to be a book with stories of the past, but rather it is the sole cure to our hearts when this world feels like too much of a burden. It is and has always been our only way of navigating through this world and all it's trials and that is quite literally why our Lord Himself reminds us, "verily in the remembrance of Allah do hearts find rest". So for those of you who are struggling with something that no one can truly comprehend the depths of, know that you are entitled to your own way of coping that too without the pressure of someone else's definition of Sabr. And know that your Lord is All Aware of all the turmoils your heart has endured, He knows the sincere weight of each tear that falls from your eyes and ultimately it is He, who shall compensate for them just as He returned the coolness of Yaqub عليه السلام eyes.

Most of all, let this be a reminder that your tears have never fallen in vain 🌷

-honeyliruh

وَتَوَلَّىٰ عَنْهُمْ وَقَالَ يَـٰٓأَسَفَىٰ عَلَىٰ يُوسُفَ وَٱبْيَضَّتْ عَيْنَاهُ مِنَ ٱلْحُزْنِ فَهُوَ كَظِيمٌ

He turned away from them, lamenting, “Alas, poor Joseph!” And his eyes turned white out of the grief he suppressed. [Surah Yusuf - Verse 84]

قَالَ إِنَّمَآ أَشْكُوا۟ بَثِّى وَحُزْنِىٓ إِلَى ٱللَّهِ وَأَعْلَمُ مِنَ ٱللَّهِ مَا لَا تَعْلَمُونَ

He replied, “I complain of my anguish and sorrow only to Allah, and I know from Allah what you do not know [Surah Yusuf - Verse 86]

فَلَمَّآ أَن جَآءَ ٱلْبَشِيرُ أَلْقَىٰهُ عَلَىٰ وَجْهِهِۦ فَٱرْتَدَّ بَصِيرًا ۖ قَالَ أَلَمْ أَقُل لَّكُمْ إِنِّىٓ أَعْلَمُ مِنَ ٱللَّهِ مَا لَا تَعْلَمُونَ

But when the bearer of the good news arrived, he cast the shirt over Jacob’s face, so he regained his sight. Jacob then said ˹to his children˺, “Did I not tell you that I truly know from Allah what you do not know?” [Surah Yusuf - Verse 96]

[sirenscradle]

♰𖣐♰ Devil’s catch | ii.

[ chapter ii. death, come swift and kind.]

pairings: exorcist!hongjoong x psychic! reader (some ot8 x reader but heavily focused on hongjoong) ot8 x reader

genres: religious horror, supernatural-fantasy, suggestive, SMUT*. (18+) stupid-yet-gifted friend group trope lol

summary: “the order” is a secret organization of exorcists blessed with special abilities dedicated to expelling higher class demons—located in a ancient crypt hidden beneath the vatican. when an exceptionally gifted child is followed by prophetic omens and falls into possession of an unclassified s-class demon—kim hongjoong, considered one of the greatest exorcists of the 21st century, is dispatched under the mysterious order of convincing an enigmatic psychic hiding away in a metropolis to accompany he and his team in what might be their most daunting exorcism yet.

series warnings: strong language, religious allegories, lots of talk about religious trauma (may be sacrilegious in nature, so if you aren’t comfortable with that please keep that in mind before reading!) exorcisms, possession, sacrificial rituals, alluded mentions of ableism (specifically regarding blindness, as one of the main characters discusses his experiences as a blind man/his background and talks about the process of losing his sight in detail), light mentions of alcohol, suggestive content, horror, angst, child possession, intense imagery, hallucinations, light amount of self-inflicted wounds, violence, blood, and gore. additional warnings will be provided for each chapter. (story is marked as 18+ due to the descriptive elements of horror and suggestive scenes.) Smut warnings will be chapter specific. wc: 13.8k

series spotify playlist, pinterest board, and character/setting sheet links are located on my masterlist here. (Character sheets have a lot of information that we'll eventually dive into throughout the series but will help readers understand the dynamics more and have a little more backstory until then.) taglist: @cypherluv (comment or let me know if you'd like to be added!)

comment, like, and reblog! i like getting feedback or just knowing the someone’s reading this :) lol

chapter warnings: emotions (lol), lots of information dumps, blood, detailed death and gore, overwhelming and confusing imageries, conversations regarding grief , suggestive... stuff that have a lot of religious undertones, and imagery. ;)

currently unedited 05/05/2025

previous masterlist next

[chapter ii. death, come swift and kind.]

♰𖣐♰

Mingi unties the sash binding his cassock and throws it onto the floor in frustration, rushing to pull the soiled robe off and reveals a simple white button up. You could hear him mumbling something to himself but the throbbing in your head tells you that it’s nothing you need to know. What you need is sleep, and you don’t even have a door to inscribe another sigil onto if—God forbid (haha he doesn’t care!) another decrepit demon was to skitter through your door.

Yunho took upon the task of sweeping the floor as Hongjoong heaved the remains of your broken door to another corner of your room until tomorrow morning, and you’re thankful that you don’t have to worry about doing either of those things after the night you’ve had. Yeosang speaks up bravely, despite the dark eyes that naturally pin themselves onto him—it wasn’t personal, but it’s been a rough night, and they were a hair trigger away from armageddon. Quite literally actually. “So, what do we do now? As much as I’d want to sit and simmer because tonight has positively fucked me up, there’s a child we have to kidnap after finding a way to exorcise a nasty demon from him.” Yeosang massages the back of his neck and tilts his head, left to right, groaning.

Jongho dryly answers “Well, we know we plan on dying.”  San snorted before quickly slapping a palm over his lips when he felt Yeosang’s energy shift into something a little more irrate. “Oh, that’s a nice one, jackass—“he says bitingly before reaching out to try and grab Jongho as the young man falls backwards laughing. A few lips quirk up at the sounds of a refreshingly normal interaction, but a few remain immobile. Wooyoung is perched near a floor to ceiling window, staring outwards until he turns to ask you for a cigarette. You toss him the box because he probably needed it more than you and watch in amazement as he lights one with the tip of his index finger, a small flame flickering up before disappearing like smoke. Vanishing as quickly as it came and he sucks in a breath, holding it for a couple of seconds before releasing it.

“So that’s what you can do.” He scoffs a bit before replying “Yeah—just wish it were more helpful. Can’t use my ability half the time because it’s more likely to kill someone than save em’.” Hongjoong softly tilted his head towards Wooyoung’s direction, not quite looking at him as he stared forward at the wall, clearly pondering on his own. “Give it time, Woo. You’ve had the least amount of it in comparison to the rest of us.” 

The bitterness doesn’t leave Wooyoung’s eyes. “It’s been twelve years, Joong. How much more fucking time do we think we’ve got? There’s a death march we’ve gotta get to and it���s more likely that I’d kill one of you trying to help than not.”

Hongjoong finally moves his eyes to gaze at Wooyoung from his peripheral. “Give. it. time.” The man in question stiffened for a moment, wanting to send off another sassy rebuttal his way but the air seemed to shift this time when Hongjoong spoke. He left no room for argument.

Seonghwa jolts from his seat and storms out of the apartment, pushing out the words “I need some air.” and the makeshift cover (an extra curtain you’d packed away into a closet you pinned against the doorframe) sways as he lifts the cloth to duck under it.

God, you’re so fucking tired. Hongjoong notes your haggard appearance and rises from his seat. “Gentlemen, should we get going?” 

Wooyoung’s ancestor pipes up again “Tell them to stay the night here.” You whip your head towards her, mildly exclaiming, ‘No! Absolutely not.’

The burgundy haired man peered at you curiously, the multiple piercings on his ears clink together, making that strangely enamoring sound again. “No?” Raising a pronounced brow at what sounded a lot like you didn’t want to be left alone.

“No—not no. No wait, that’s not what I’m—“ You’re bubbling over your words, on the verge of crashing out because today has been the most revealing series of human interaction you’ve ever had, and you’re sure it’s physically aged you. Sighing, you take a breath and continue “I was told to tell you to stay.” Begrudgingly delivering the request, but if there’s one thing you’ve learned from your ability—it’s that you shouldn’t ignore helpful advice.

Mingi pipes up “Oh, you mentioned earlier that you talk to spirits regularly, right? What do they even look like?” He scratches at the stubble pricking his face, grimacing at the texture. 

Pondering for a moment, your words leave slowly. “It..depends. If a soul remains on Earth, it’s typically because they have a lot of lingering attachments–the thing is, a soul isn’t made to be eternal. It inherently yearns to return to the source beyond our realm where it came from, and if a spirit doesn’t have a strong grip on the attachments it’s remained for, they can begin to forget everything. Once they forget what they’d looked like and who they were, they take the form of an apparition. If not, they look however they remember themselves to be.” Some spirits turn to look at the apparitions present in the room, a small gloom filling the air in sympathy.

Mingi perks his lips curiously “Do they just follow you around all of the time?” A small laugh leaves you and he notices you look a little more your age when you do. “They come and go. Such is the way of a spirit. However, I’m one of the few living they can speak to, and they come often.”

Hongjoong slinks off, the curtain swaying behind him as it did earlier and you assume he’s off to find Seonghwa. Yunho’s smile is seraphic on his face and asks “Is there a reason we have to stay? As hospitable as you may be, Strega, I’m unsure if you have enough blankets and patience for a galley of rambunctious boys. Or enough food.” He punctuates.  You tilt your head up to gaze at the woman who requested for them to stay, questioningly.

There’s a glimmer in her eyes, a light that carries the energy of a warm summer day. You see San shift from the corner of your eyes as he unconsciously smiles at the radiating light he sensed from where she stood. “I just want to see my boy for a little bit longer.” She hesitates for a moment and ducks her head to gaze at Wooyoung. “Strega, am I allowed to talk to him?”

You feel conflicted. While on one hand, you have no issue translating messages for the woman and her exorcist, and on the other–you were unsure if he’d be ready for that conversation in the emotionally volatile position he was in right now. Your eyebrows concave towards each other “I don’t know if he’s ready right now–” accidentally flitting your eyes to Wooyoung’s figure while you reply.

He stiffens, an unreadable emotion decorating his body before asking “Who’s not ready?” Shifting uncomfortably, you drop your head, and bite lightly at your index finger's nail. 

“You.”

Wooyoung instantly strides to you with erratic steps before kneeling in front of you, grasping at your hands and pulling them towards his chest in a desperate act of pleading. His eyes are wide as he urgently whispers out “Strega, who’s here in this room? Please.” Almost in panic, desperately grasping at straws. 

Wooyoungs mother softly places a hand on your shoulder, cupping the side of her mouth as she leaned to whisper in the shell of your ear. “Mama’s here, Woo.” It was as kind as wind chimes, twinkling away from her mouth– so full of love that you imagine only a mother might give.

You shift to softly lean forward, the energy of his mother encouraging you to hold him close in her place. Your eyes steadily meet his, not blinking for a moment. “Mama’s here, Woo.” with your best efforts at mimicking the cadence of her voice. His eyes shatter at a moment's notice, scrambling closer to you. The noise that leaves his throat as he calls out “Mama?” is a broken crescendo of notes, the man in front of you suddenly carrying the voice of a lonely and scared boy. His weeping tears from his throat like a heart wrenching, shaking vibrato– trying to squeeze out the grief from the air he’s breathing. His breath begins to stutter as his chest heaves in bereaved wonder. 

His mother still maintains her tranquil expression. She simply smiles at his figure and inches a hand forward, attempting to brush a strand of his hair away from his eyes. It was a clear act of wishful muscle memory, and you see a tendril of emotion leak from her graceful gaze.

You reach forward to move the strand as an act of sympathy and Wooyoung seems to spill every question he could think of out of one breath “Mom, what are you doing here? I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have left you alone that day–” and he breaks again, her presence eroding him. 

A small swish echoes through the room and you momentarily break out of the adrenaline to see Hongjoong and Seonghwa stepping into the room, taking in the alarming scene before them. Confusion decorates Seonghwa’s face as his eyes drift around the room, asking a silent question. Hongjoong merely watches you with that unnerving look– the one that looks as if he were attempting to dissect each layer and action of yours. It was unnerving in ways you’ve never felt so exposed in someone’s presence before. An enigmatic string seemed to pull at you and in your discomfort, you have an aching desire to continue and gaze at him in an act of defiance, as if saying “Whatever you’re thinking, Exorcist– you’re wrong.” Wooyoung pulls your attention back to him with his tugging at your hands.

“Please, please ask her Strega. Where has she been–is she okay? Why is she still here? Where’s Grandpa? Pops? Aunt Lola and Grandma? What about my little sister?”

His mother only shakes her head and smiles gently. Your words fall in step with hers, as you pause in increments for breaks to listen for more. “She says she’s always been here–” 

“–No! Strega, tell her it’s my fault, everything’s my fault.” but you interrupt him to deliver the rest of her words.

“Wooyoung, it had to happen.” The tips of his fingers grow hotter, and you hiss slightly as Wooyoung doesn’t release his grip, not registering that his gift was at risk of going rampant. 

“No, it didn’t–”

With a haunting, nearly reverent expression she says “It had to happen, Woo. There are greater things at work, my boy. I can say nothing else nor provide any more details to you– you’re not meant to know now.” Letting the words melt out of your mouth, you drop them onto his lap. You could see the unshaking resolve in her eyes and a part of you wonders if that’s what Wooyoung’s very own eyes look like when not clouded by rage. For whatever reason, she believes in her words completely. 

She continues “Just know that they are safe, even if I cannot let you know where they are, and that I am always here with you.”

His sacreligious rage corrupts his devastated expression “Why did it need to happen?! Why did I have to lose everything—what, was it so I'd become an exorcist? Or because I was destined to burn everything and hurt everyone every time, I tried to do something good– to help? Mama, what’s so great about this fucking world? I don’t have anything left to save.”

“You know that’s not true, stubborn boy, and if you don’t know just yet– you will come to see that families aren’t only bound by blood. The men around you are people you already want to protect in your heart, Woo.”*

You continue to endure his hold, despite the burning. Hongjoong rises to rip away Wooyoung’s grip  “That’s enough, Wooyoung.”

Waking up from his frantic daze, he stares at the heat bubble beginning to form on your hands with intense self-loathing, whispering out coldly “See? This is all I know how to do.” 

Yeosang grabs at Wooyoung’s wrist “Young, breathe. Everything’s okay.”

 A tangible moment of silence permeated the air so thick you felt you could almost hold it. Seconds pass with Yeosang piercing Wooyoung with his searching gaze. When he makes a silent conclusion, he reaches out to grab him with a leveling– grounding strength, as if trying to tether his brother bound to him by oath and not blood. Yeosang feels the body he’s cradling begin to shake as sobs racked through Wooyoung, and wraps his arms around the upper part of his best friend’s back near his shoulder blades, pounding his fist gently at them twice. “Everything’s okay, Young. I promise.” Continuing to maintain his hold on him. *

At the sight, a small tugging teethes at your heart and you catch a discernible loneliness  within you. Years of solitude painted your existence given that you were deliberately isolated since youth. Would you have been able to have something like that too? Someone to hold you while you were aching and pulsing with an inconceivable amount of pain? They couldn’t have let one person know you existed?  You tug your sleeves back down as you gazed at the loneliness of the scarring on your skin. Like anyone else, you also wanted a family–at least at one point you did, but thought it useless to ruminate on it, and tried your best to not look at that particular desire in the eye. 

Wooyoung pulls away from Yeosang’s grip after he’d calm down a considerable amount, taking a deep breath. “Strega, I’m sorry for that.” Shaking your head passively, you reply “It’s nothing, really. I can barely register something like that anymore, see?” You attempt to lighten his burden by lifting a grotesque and scarred palm up to show him, but grimace when you realized it would have the opposite effect. Jongho snorts from behind you and you furrow your eyebrows at him.

Sigh.

You’re not used to human interaction and prefer talking to dead people. You doubt that’ll ever change.

Wooyoungs face falls a little and you almost laugh at his stupidly innocent and guilty expression. The guy just spoke to his dead mom who died and was sacrificed so that her son could literally house a demon. Walking away with a small burn meant it was your lucky day.

“Is she still here?” He softly asks

“She’s not here but she’s around.” You shake your head lightly, wisps of hair falling onto your cheeks that you push away with the side of your hand. 

“Okay.” and he says nothing else for a moment

“Thank you. Truly.” He eyed you with a new sense of gratitude and  his gaze leveled into one of respect. “I’m indebted to you, Y/N.”

You startle a bit, eyes widening at the sound of your name falling from his lips, and it almost feels like the first time you’ve heard it from someone else’s mouth. It might’ve been. All you’d known were the various pseudonyms thrown around by the clergy. When was the last time you’ve heard your name– have you, yourself, forgotten it? “You know my name?” your voice feels small.

“I assumed it was yours but didn’t know for sure. I had no clue when I came here that it was you, but I heard it in passing by accident when I walked into a council meeting before they realized I was there. I simply recall hearing your name and the words “divine host”, but I wasn’t able to hear anything else, since they’d taken notice of me. It stuck with me years ago for some reason–probably because the term divine host wasn’t something I was familiar with. Kind of just put two and two together” He rubs the back of his neck with his right hand.

You’re unsure of what to say. The sound of your own name felt foreign to you and only reply “Oh, okay” equal parts limp and dumb. Hongjoong sides eyes you, amusedly uttering your name and laughing lightly at seeing you bristle at the sound. He’ll probably make a habit of doing that. 

Groaning, you plop onto a wooden chair that did little to relax your body– the cold and probably ancient wood prods into your ass hard enough for you to close your eyes in a small expression of pain. ‘Ow” as the sound shakily leaves you, you catch a few eyes on you, realizing you weren’t as cool as you’d hope to be.

‘Fuck my life man.’ you helplessly think to yourself. Why was this the plot you were born into?

Yunho claps his hands “Aaaaaand I think that’s a wrap. If we do anymore today, I’m going to try and die by tomorrow.” He says contrastingly jolly. Still maintaining a bright smile, he turns to you before saying “You think you’ll survive the night, Strega?” eying the entrance of your apartment where the curtain you pinned desolately swayed, and you could’ve sworn you heard a comical breeze wafting in right at that moment. 

“...I’ll make do.” You reply dryly.

You see Mingi pick up his cassock cautiously with two fingers and morose disgust, eying it sadly. “Anybody got a jacket I can borrow?” The priests all stare dumbly at each other, still donning their own Cassocks and nothing else. By anybody, he meant you. Rubbing at the sides of your temples, you nod your head towards the direction of your bedroom before laboriously saying “Follow me.”

A distant “Holy shit!” echoes back to the living room from down the hallway of the vast apartment, where Mingi reemerged shrugging on a distressed and smooth collared leather jacket. He turns mid conversation with you and tells the boys with wide eyes “It’s like Howl’s Moving Castle in there!” you see a couple of the boys perk up, moving to go and see for themselves. Seonghwa’s face scrunched up in disgust, hating everything about whimsical maximalism. 

Before they could make it out of the living room, you hold a palm up “HALT. I’m so fucking tired, please leave.” At that, Hongjoong lets out a loud laugh, boyishly curling his arms around his waist in a way that almost made him appear fairy–like. “How about this, come–” He pulls a wrinkled receipt paper out of a pocket in his robe, eyes darting around the room in search of a pen. A small ‘aha!’ leaves him as he finds one lying diagonally on a desk to his far right, and scribbles something onto the plasticy parchment. “--to this address tomorrow at two. It’s our dormitory.We’ll talk more about… planning how to move foreward. There’s a chance we can pay a visit to the boy all together.” Handing it over to you as your eyes flick around to read the address. 

Seonghwa groans “God, please don’t call it a dormitory–” squeezing his eyes shut in frustration and you could tell it isn’t the first time he’s said this.

“But that’s what it is.” Jongho pipes back

“I’m twenty nine for Christ’s sake, I refuse to call where I live a dormitory.” Sneering, he flips his head towards Jongho, arms crossing over his chest as a few long locks of hair lick at his face, kissing his lashes before he blows them away. 

“You can call it anything. A shelter, a boujee shack, a pretentious abode, an illusion of living amongst splender and the bourgeois– for all I care! At the end of the day, you still live with all dudes and sleep on a bunk bed. At your bright and oh, so grown age of twenty nine. It’s the same thing.” You proceed to see someone attempt to choke Jongho for the second time today.

Turning back to Hongjoong, ignoring the rest of their squabbling you ask “So I just show up and  walk in?” His eyes momentarily brighten in realization before he reaches back to unclasp an ornate rosary from his neck. As he maneuvers the accessory around,  you catch a glimpse of the same choker from earlier before it disappears under his cassock once again.  The necklace he’d taken off was a bit different from other rosaries you’ve seen worn around the clergy– with a medium-thick metal chain accompanied by small metallic balls and heavy pearls. It looked worn and therefore, important. Hongjoong steps towards you as it hangs from both of his hands, and gazes into your eyes, asking silently for permission to touch you.

You give an inperceptible nod of agreement and are greeted by the cold tips of his fingers grazing the thin skin of your neck, as he brushes the strands of your hair draping onto his path. Hongjoong keeps his dark gaze on you as he clasps the rosary around your neck and slowly drops his arms from their previous place to hover just above your chest. Delicately reaching a single finger to lift it from where it hung on your skin while maintaining eye contact with you, he grabs it’s crucifix with his right hand and leans down to meet it halfway– pressing a chaste kiss onto it’s bodice. “Tomorrow, when you arrive at the dormitory–show them this and they’ll know to let you in.” A peculiar smile dresses itself on his skin and small goosebumps scatter the area he briefly touched. Sensitive. 

You tilt your head curiously “What did the kiss do?” Wondering if it had something to do with his ability that still remained unknown to you. Kissing, seducing, mysterious brooding, and being sexily calculating– these attributes and concepts seem to fit what you’ve observed in Hongjoong and you fleetingly think that you might be onto something, in regards to deciphering his gifts. A small excitement blooms inside of you, loving whenever you find things out on your own.

Hongjoong’s lips quirk a miniscule amount, a covert expression dancing in his eyes as his bangs obscure the lining of his lashes, and turns to leave. The boys trail behind him, yawning. 

“I simply gave my blessing to you, Strega.” He says melodically, sauntering away. Pulling the fabric up to duck under its sheerness without so much as giving a glance back. 

You blink owlishly before shaking your head, not knowing if you’re going to enjoy working with a complicated man who enjoyed pretending to be simple. 

♰𖣐♰

You stand before an outrageously grand building. Grandiose arched windows decorated an extensive and classical structure made of brick and embraced by moss overgrowth. Vines trickled throughout the entirety of the building, the stained glass carried the paintings of idyllic figures—some cherubic and others weeping. The early autumn air kissed at your nose and you tucked your trench coat over your chest tightly to trap the warmth in. Leaves of various shades: gold, carmene, and chocolate milk, twist, rise and fall against a vast field of drying foliage, some patches of green remain– waiting for the completion of the change in the season. 

The heel of your boots click against the red pathway that led up to a large double doored entrance. The doors themselves were ornate and curved at the very top and its door handles curled into the heavy dark brown mahogany. Knocking twice and receiving no answer, you slowly pull at one of the doors with two hands, the squeak of your glove being the only sound accompanying you. Many spirits did not follow you to where you were going– it was too close to The Order for comfort, and with everything going on– it spelt nasty business. Some curious stragglers hid behind trees a good distance away, on the look out for any signs of trouble. For themselves more than anything. You roll your eyes at this, more than sure that they were the neighborhood watch in the days of their living.

A tiny man sat at what looked to be a help desk, borishly thumbing through a book, and barely raising his head to greet you.

“Yes?” His voice was frighteningly deep for such a miniature frame. Stopping yourself from jumping in surprise so as not to be rude, you clear your throat. Proceeding to pull out Hongjoong’s necklace and holding it out towards him like it were an amulet trying to expel a demon at moments notice. His eyes still for a moment as he eyed you peculiarly. Confused

“Ah, yes. Of course, come right this way.” As you follow his trail, you hear him whisper to himself under his breath “Didn’t know he liked women.”  before humming a “huh, interesting.” in finality. 

An intercepting thought arrives and you scramble to cover his presence, not wanting to kill the tiny man by accident, and Raziel greets you

‘Not a bad building.’ He quips

“Why are you even awake?” You whisper through your teeth.

‘ Ever thought about why I’m always asleep? You don’t leave the apartment and all you do is read the palms of women who only date ugly men. Of course I’d rather sleep. I might even prefer to die.’

“Oh, spare me your dramatics.” The man leading you turns towards you with a “Oh did you say something?” and you only smile stiffly, much too big to look sincere. “Oh–nothing at all.” Trailing a laugh. He merely nods before turning and leading you up seemingly endless flights of stairs.

“Genuinely Raziel– why are you awake? Is there something strange here?” You continue to prod at him, a bit concerned.

‘No, I’ve just never seen this place. It’s interesting and quite pretty– I prefer it over that peeling undecorated apartment of yours.’ He says in a light tone, slightly decorated with wonder. A part of you was surprised at his covert joy of seeing a dormitory for the first time, but then you were reminded of how Raziel also shared your perspective of loneliness during his time within you. A part of you fleetingly wonders if he regrets choosing you as his host to interact with the world unknown to him. The concept of a home or shared living space seemed to have peeked his interest.

Raziel marvels at the idea of living amongst people and speaking to them 

“Nothing spells out ‘I’m in hiding!’ more than living in a mansion alone, Raziel.” Voice dripping with sarcasm as you stare at a wall with a bland expression. 

‘All I’ve seen of the world thus far with you are the walls of that apartment and the wretched chambers of The Order. I want to see much more–It’s in my nature as the Angel of Mysteries.’

You feel apologetic at his honesty that was relayed without his usual biting tone. It’s not that Raziel didn’t understand– but it was in his nature to search for knowledge and new experiences  if he didn’t know something, not evade it because of the discomfort it causes. 

“Just.. try not to do too much and kill someone with your presence, please.” Raziel gave no reply and you bite your bottom lip in slight concern knowing what that meant. ‘No promises~’

Great Scott, why was this your plot?

Huffing and realizing how out of shape you are, the tiny man stills and gestures down the hallway with his right arm, keeping his left tucked elegantly against his midriff. “Father Hongjoong’s residence is the last room to the left.”

Nodding and swiftly thanking him, you make your way down the hall and meet Yunho’s eyes just as you turn left. He stands outside in the hall just outside Hongjoong’s room, alongside San, and quickly shakes his head at you in alarm. San also joins, having sensed your energy earlier but was unable to say anything in his position. 

“—Father Hongjoong, I trust that all is going well with integrating the boy?”  Your eyes widen in recognition. It was one of the few you were allowed to hear for most of your life— the distinct  voice of a High Priest accentuating and prolonging his words with a faint trace of superiority and grace. 

You stiffen immediately, not sure what to do or where to go, only concluding that no one can find out that you’re here and in contact with the Exorcists. Those were too big no no’s sandwiched together. 

A massive no no sandwich 

and you shouldn’t bite off more than you can chew.

“All is well, Father, I’m sure he’ll be excited to return with us. We’re monitoring his behavior around the clock and it seems that whatever is within him only rises at the midnight hour.” Hongjoong smoothly replies, tones light and liquid.

“Hm, do keep me updated. Come visit us at The Order soon and we can discuss more about moving forward.” The older man says, clearing his throat.

Hongjoong waits a moment before opening his mouth, preparing to reply.

It’s almost comical how Yunho smiles past the door and begins coughing to excuse himself for water, forming a large ‘x’ with his arms repetitively to make it appear as if it were blinking in alarm, while making his way towards you. With a large hand, he swivels your body and pushed you to start walking towards the other side of the hallway when he hears San squeak lightly.

Hongjoong’s attempt at speaking goes unnoticed by the High Priest as he turns out to slowly stride out the door.

“Well, I’ve got to get going—“ yours, San’s, and Yunho’s heads whip towards each other in fear.  There was no way you could run away without him noticing you or the sounds of your footsteps.

 Before you even realize it, you feel Raziel’s presence emerge slightly

Eyes widening in panic, you breath out a quiet shout into the air. “Raziel, no no no no no—don’t you dare!” Fumbling and reach a hand out towards the other side of the hall in alarm.

He merely raises himself a minuscule amount almost teasingly, and you feel the mischievous high pulsing through his body as he pushes against your protective shield just slightly— dealing the necessary damage. Immediately the High Priest ‘plinks!’ stiff on the floor, passing out from shock, and the boys all fall, collectively groaning.

“Oh for Christ’s sake, not again.” Yunho yells out exasperatingly.

Your back is pressed against the wall in absolute mortification, breathing heavily as you hear Raziel say ‘It had to be done’ and you could practically feel him smile and shrug.

Five minutes later, you’re helping Hongjoong drag the High Priest’s body down to the other side of the hallway, farthest from the rooms they all occupy. You lift the man’s head as Hongjoong tries to balance the weight of his legs, huffing slightly yet again, and Hongjoong takes note of it.

“Don’t get to do much outside of the house often, huh?” He chides, clearly talking about your lackluster stamina  and you almost drop the Priest in favor of smacking him. Gasping, you both heave and drop him onto the bed before swiftly leaving the room. Hongjoong limps a little on his way out before heavily breathing out “Poor old man. He’s too old for this line of work. Did’ya see how fast he was out? Like a god damn light, I’ll tell ya. ”

“You told me to come at two, so why the hell is he here?” You bellow and Hongjoong winces a bit.

“Surprise visit, I suppose? Had to make sure their thinly veiled heinous plans were still in place.” He says jokingly, despite the entirety of the statement being true.

“I assume you all have to continue to play henchmen, minions, or whatever you’d like to call it–as we plan this?” You ask the reciprocal question, raising your brow.

“Yes, most of us will have to play whatever we’d like to call it, Strega” He says stretching his words  simultaneously soft and dry, and makes his way down the hall before grabbing at your wrist lightly to pull you into his room. Yunho leans his tall frame against a simple and worn wooden desk, as San sits at a small reading nook tucked against Hongjoong’s window waiting. The Aegean blue of his eyes dart at the sound and feeling of your familiar energies, causing him to smile softly. 

Yunho speaks first, folding his hands together “The rest are coming back from the dining hall soon.” On queue, a trail of boys groggily walk into the room, absolutely gaunt. You could tell that most of them had barely woken up. Mingi looks around cautiously at seeing your figure before asking “Where is High Priest Victor?” 

Hongjoong pinches his nose bridge as he tiredly explains what just happened. Jongho immediately blubbers with laughter, joining Yeosang’s electric cackle “I thought I felt something but thankfully it was brief and eight floors away from us.” San, to your surprise grumbles “Lucky you.”

Seonghwa simply sighs and steps out of the room, lowly stating “I’ll take care of it.” Before striding away to the other side of the hall while Hongjoong sent him a small smile of gratitude.

As everyone gets situated at various areas of the room and you register Wooyoung planting next to San before whispering something cheekily, though you couldn’t hear what. San barks a laugh and slaps a palm to stifle it once again. You note that it’s a habit of his to do so. Wooyoung also seems to be in better shape, almost passive in his gait, but the dark circles beneath his eyes tell you that last night and this morning were still unforgiving to the man. Everyone else seems a bit worse for wear, but seemingly shrugs it off to try and be proactive  about it, instead of brewing in the cesspool of their unending sorrows. 

Hongjoong turns, addressing the entirety of the room as they shift their focus to their leader. “There are a few details I have to relay to you, Strega, now that I have the chance to. Starting today, I will consider you as an extension of the team and though I don’t expect it to be immediate–you must learn to trust us and our abilities.” He sits on the worn table and curls one leg under the other that swung mindlessly. 

“I am proud to be the leader of our order. As you probably already know, we are Exorcists that are placed under a specific faction of the clergy referred to as “The Order of the Gifted.” I’ll leave it to the rest of them to explain the nature of their gifts at their own discretion.” He takes a breath,  before continuing “The Order had tasked us to ‘take care’ of a child who began to exhibit strange behaviors, yet still remained relatively conscious and normal on most days. As we observed him, we were able to conclude that a mysterious entity would inhabit his body on the day of the Moon and the hour of Venus.** The point of concern is that no one has been able to classify it or the extent of what it could do. It doesn’t seem like its motivations are to hurt the child, but one of Yunho’s abilities is to see a majority of the classes, names, and at times attributes of each demon responsible for a possession– however, even as the greatest identifier of  The Order, he’s coming up with nothing. Absolute radio silence.” You see Yunho’s eyebrows furrow with apprehension– a disturbance on the typically deceptively soft expression he wore on his face. He didn’t like the fact he couldn’t detect it and felt  noticeably weaker than the being residing in the boy.

**See reference notes and explanations located at the bottom of the chapter. This essentially means that the spirit inhabits his body at three AM, every monday.

“This could only mean that whatever is inhabiting his body may be stronger than most of those in The Order. The child’s name is Dorian. He’s soft spoken and an orphan like the rest of us, and currently residing at a nearby Catholic church as an altar boy in training in exchange for his care there. The difference, however, is that Dorian emits a powerful amount of spiritual energy and is constanly plagued by various spirits. He gets regularly tore up quite a bit.” Hongjoong winces

“He seems to have an affinity for anything with a pulse. Animals, children, the Earth itself seems to gravitate towards him–and most interestingly, he has the ability to manipulate a holy light. The only script we have in the Vatican of documentations on a similar skill is based on either Archangel Uriel, barer of the holy sword or… Lucifer Morningstar, the fallen and light-bringer. Who we also know belovedly as Satan.” He ends dryly, somehow already prepared for the end of the world. 

Though there’s little to no disturbance on your face, the impending doom hit you at full force. The exhaustion from the day before numbed you to the realization and it now wildly waved its murderous hands to greet you. Raziel peeks in interest, prodding at your mind with a single finger

‘This is going to be fun, Strega.’ He whispers excitedly

“No Raziel, I’m probably going to die.”  You deadpan. Mingi turns to gaze at you owlishly

‘It’s much worse to live a lukewarm life. Where’s your sense of adventure? Ever thought of trying your best to find a way to survive all of this? Human’s have all this access to mystery and spend all of their lives hiding from it–I don’t understand. You only have so much time anyway. Isn’t it an honor to die a certain death so full of tale?’ Raziel huffs in astonishment

He’s right. It’s much worse to go down willingly, and strangely– there were people in this world who would take your place without needing much thought. Despite this, the path chose you and the eight other men in the room. It may have also chosen Dorian.

Hongjoong interrupts your trail of thoughts “The Order is under the impression that we assume we’re fostering his attachment to us so that he’d feel safe with the clergy, thinking it to be a normal thing to train as an Exorcist – as we all did when we were his age. They also, most importantly, don’t know that we’re now aware of the true process of how one becomes an Exorcist of our faction–that we know the reality of how our gifts were forged.”

“Strega, be clear with me. How far are you willing to go? What we all need to understand is that it’s no longer just about the wrongs we’d faced unknowingly– but there’s a corruption uprooting our world and this child is the definitive turning point on whether mankind can survive for even the next century. Should we make the wrong decisions or even ignore what’s happening– mankind will be completely erradicated.” The room is deathly silent. Most eyes are pinned to the floor and the weight of the world is squeezing itself into the room so it can fall onto your shoulders. 

“ –The Order is no longer to be trusted, not it’s leaders at the very least. Heaven has abandoned us and the infernal seeks to gut at our very existence. We are all that we have, as of right now. We are alone.” His resolve resonates throughout the room, not censoring the truth with the understanding and trust that his brothers can handle the weight of the world. Hongjoong is unshaken at the words falling from his mouth and he says it with so much conviction that you’re convinced that no one else can do this. No one else could lead the way he does. You’re unsure why you’ve arrived at this understanding with such shocking belief.

Even as a stranger, his strength pushed you to rise. Remembering something, you ask “Well, what of the priest who sent you to find me in secret?”

“We don’t know his true motives in sending us to you and it’s too risky to try and investigate that with everything going on right now. Our goal is to take the child away from the order to buy us some time to plan what to do in the long run, and we’ve chosen to take the path of protecting Dorian at all costs. Although, he’ll be the catalyst of the coming times– he is contradictingly our only hope. Mankinds only hope. It’s best that we rely on one another and wait to see if he will reveal himself.” He hops off the desk to kneel in front of you, his gaze unshaking before grabbing to hold your hand in his. “So tell me, Strega. How far are you willing to go?” He moves to study everyone in the room.

“For a moment, I will not speak as your leader, but as your brother. As someone who has faced similar perils and losses– I know it isn’t fair that we are the only ones who can take up this task. I will not stop any of you from walking away from all of this, the Order, the unending fight that might be greeting us before we had time to prepare, or simply the end. It doesn’t have to be your responsibility. You, Yeosang–” Hongjoong spins to towards the man who sat on the floor with a hand turning in his mouth slightly as he chewed on his nails. “If you wanted to, Brother– you could live out whatever time we have left as a normal man, roasting coffee beans, and maybe even finally taking a girl out on a date. Mingi, you too. You could walk away from here as a free man– a man who could fall in love unapologetically without worrying about the selfishness of that act because you no longer have to worry about not coming home someday due to the violence of your life, and how it may carry over into whatever home you build. I know you dreamed of being a father someday. “ At that acknowledgment, Mingi rips his gaze away from Hongjoong, peering towards the door with anguished want. “ The rest of you– all of us, we’ve done more than enough. We’ve lost everything and continued to sacrifice even when we were in the negatives. Brothers, Strega– I know how unfair this cause is. Nonetheless, will you do it? Knowing that we’ll never be fathers, coffee roasters, traveling magicians, or musicians– if not even for a single day? This is what we must pay in full before making the decision to do this, but we are sadly the only ones capable of doing it, even if we don’t have to.” Mingi rises for a moment and the air stills as he clasps at the door knob, aching to turn it and taste freedom, even if only for a day. 

And for a moment, he does. 

Mingi turns the weight of his wrist to the right before he freezes at the sound of childrens laughter leaking from the gap in Hongjoong’s window, a gaggle of them squealing innocently as the played outside, and ran through cobblestone alleyways with their cute pageboy hats, and leather strapped suspenders. He imagines their rash red cheeks and the turning of their eyes as they smile– momentarily falling back into his dream of a small hand clutching at his finger, and Mingi quickly closes the door before leaning to knock his temple against the wood. 

He couldn’t do it.

If he did, there would be even less than a chance for a world to exist for the child he so desperately wanted someday– and all of the children in the world would die unfairly, unknowingly losing the one chance they had to grow up and do all of the things humans should do while they were still alive. It would all come down to the world ending because power always ended up in the wrong hands. 

He would be no exception to that if he were to leave this place. Hongjoong’s eyes carry the same ominous knowing you’ve seen paint him every so often, since you’ve met him.

“So what will it be? Do we risk losing our lives for this, even if it’s the only thing that’s left that’s ours?” 

Seonghwa pushes at the door before outrightly speaking, his volume surprising you all given that the last thirty minutes of the life changing conversation were spoken with dim cadence. Mingi stumbles a bit before plopping lightly onto a nearby seat to look up at Seonghwa with slight surprise, as the man speaks

“Our lives haven’t been ours for a long time–” He disagrees flippantly before closing the door with the weight of his back, leaning against the wall and crossing his arms with a sense of disarming calm.

“–Nonetheless, I will see this through. Even if I march in alone but I have a feeling you already know your choice, Hongjoong?” He tilts his head towards the red haired man casually. “What use will a weapon be without a war to fight? My death’ll be the only loss I’ll allow myself to face. Until then, I’ll crawl my way up so I could die the closest to heaven someone damned like me can be–and spit at all of heaven, hell, and earth. All of it. 

I am a weapon. I’ve always been and this– I’ll always be. “ 

San softly adds “I will go wherever I am needed.” 

Yeosang follows San’s words after a mindful pause and powers through the ache with a smile “Knowing how you idiots charge in, I wouldn’t be able to sleep with good conscious if I left anyway.” 

“This is a duty only the strongest can bear.” Yunho says, quirking a brow before continuing

 “ –like I’d ever truly lose anyway.”

Raziel is overstimulated, vibrating within your skin, pumping with excitement

‘This is what I came on Earth to see, Strega.  It’s like seeing an Homeric hymm come to life or  Dante Alighieri in the flesh.’

You close your eyes and tried to recall the dream you had the night before. It was restless and you can hardly grasp the visions in their entirety, but cling onto the images that spun passed your eyes, threading fate through your skull. You knew dreams were often messages from the beyond.

Everything bled gold. Flashes of every face you’d seen in passing or have known in the Order spilled through your vision–as if flipping through a kineograph (a series of images that move as you flip through pages) somehow simultaneously watercolored and like you’re experiencing the memory through a flurry of winds. Flinging you to and from, in and then out. Images stutter in their movements and even as you recollect some–you couldn’t decipher their meanings, too obscure to connect one to the other.

But you know what visited you last night. 

It was an omen. The first you’d received in a very long time.

The first image was of bleeding palms arched up to figures of weeping angels, followed by a burning of an old cathedral you’d never seen before. Jongho’s face rapidly began aging and the scene whirled you away to plant you into another. This time, you witnessed from a body you’re unsure is yours– a palpable emotion of distress, fear, and grief piercing through you as Yeosang’s firm face yells something indecipherable to you– a translucent sheer shade of green forming into a shield surrounding the room as throngs of muddled black figures began flowing in, and as you reach your hand out–another grabs you and you’re flung to another vision. 

San’s eyes take on an ominous shade of grey– his typical Aegean replaced by an ominous doom and a slow trickle of a singular and bloody tear trails down his sharp face. He kneels in a lonely room before an altar, as a haunting blue light cascades down his form. This particular vision fizzled out on it’s own, disintegrating and hallowing into another. The rest that followed were spliced– quick vignettes that were even more transient than the others. Seonghwa begging in desperation, Wooyoung standing at the epicenter of a mass fire, the skin of Yunho’s hand splitting open to reveal a radiating electric blue crackle, Mingi’s body laying disturbingly still on the churchs pews– the bleached strands of his calico colored hair taking on the rusted shade of blood, slightly damp and achingly beautiful as he completely encased a small body between his arms, as if trying to shield whatever he held with every inch of himself.

You feel someone shaking you, voices muddled and concerned but refusing to budge through the elastic film of your senses. ‘Strega! Strega–can you hear me?’ The sounds are drowned out by a thick liquid in your mind. Dead crows lay cold on stale grey sidewalks, other flickering images of various smiles calling out your name– your real name but you see no other notable features. They’re calling to out you with warmth and familiarity– in tones you’ve never heard your name uttered in before. One after another, they continue to flow into you and you feel your body breaking unsure of how to carry the many things inside that you have yet to understand– have yet to meet. 

You can feel the sudden presence of fate standing there before you. Watching you with her keen, unwavering, faultless eyes– as you writhe under the weight of things that have yet to come. 

An image of hair spilling over a satin pillow case and a hand trailing against a bare body as goosebumps raise at it’s light touch. Hongjoongs mouth lowering slowly from his stance above you, widening to pass a bloodied and small crucifix ripped away from it’s chain into your mouth with his tongue. You kneel before him in almost an act of devotion, as he cusps your cheek with that unreadable look in his eyes. 

Another memory that’s also not yet a memory 

or maybe it’s merely a dream. 

You’re overwhelmed and sobbing at the pulsing flow of images that continue to throw you to and from, none of them cohesive or sensible, and you can do nothing as another wave comes, and douses you. It’s maddening in your inability to distinguish premonition from possible  unconscious desire. You’re queasy at the indiscernable and muddled messages this omen is granting you, as too many of them feel too dreamlike to accept their forewarning even conceptually. Are they figurative or literal? You can’t think straight and you brace yourself for the onslaught.

Hongjoong’s suddenly laughing under you, strikingly fairy-like in his joy, and you fill with such a strange emotion inside that you forget to breathe in its suddenness. He’s scrunching his nose, as he laughs through tears, sliding his hands up your thighs to rest at your hips. You greet his laughter with a scorching kiss, a small moan leaving your open mouth as he rocks into you from under you. You feel the tight grip he holds you with and ached for it to bruise you.  Something hot fills your mouths and you both begin to drown in it–but you don’t release his kiss and neither does he release you. 

An image of you standing before your bathroom mirror as the liquid from your mouth trails sickeningly thick, bearing the color of a red so dark, it was nearly black. You return to the bed where a grinning Hongjoong awaits you with blooded teeth, as he softly pulled your hands to join him and draped your body onto the sheets. The dark liquid strings from his tongue as he drags his open mouth down your body, gazing at you sharply with a grin that felt familiar to you. 

Emotions are being poured into you at an alarming rate– they feel like yours, but it’s a phantom grip.

No, it’s not yours yet.

You could feel hot liquid leaking from your face but can’t find it in you to snap out of it. You cling onto the final image of a broad back with skin the shade of a deep ebony, still doused in that damning gold and amber haze. The boy was adorned by the flickering of a multitude of tapered candles– you recognize this chapel. You were raised in it. 

Just as the figure begins to turn, you register one last detail before you’re awoken by the clamorous sounds of voices. “Strega! What’s wrong?” Wooyoungs hands are cradling your head, his eyes wide in panic. The priests surround you, fluttering around the room and arguing with one another in confusion. You hear Yeosang snap at Yunho “Don’t just fucking stand there, do you sense anything else within her or if there’s anything trying to get inside?” to which the man replies with a sharp and restless bite “I already told you, there’s nothing.  I don’t know what’s going on either, Yeo–”

San seems to tremble despite the calm he keeps on his face, addressing the men behind him without turning in their direction “Nothing else is inside of her that we don’t already know.” As you come back to your body, you feel San’s hands gripping tightly at your hands as Seonghwa rushes in with a small bowl of water and towel. Running forward, he squeezes himself next to Wooyoung as he hastily dabs at your face. When his hand pulls back, you see the rusted red staining the white and course fabric. You tug a hand towards your own face and touch a crusting liquid– blood. Everywhere.

Digging the pads of your fingers lightly against your tear ducts, they stain with a streak of red. You’ve bled from your eyes, nose, and mouth. Thankfully, your ears weren’t dragged into the equation just yet.  “Strega, did you receive an omen?” San quietly asks, waiting for agreement. It seems like he already knew what was going on and given that he has the ability of The Eye, you’re not surprised at all. Yunho sighs, stressfully palming at his face, and sniffling as he squeezes and wipes at his nose with a pinch. He says nothing but turns to face away from you for a moment, having his own demons to deal with. 

“This was the first one in a long while, but yes. I’m genuinely sorry for scaring all of you– these happen suddenly and whenever they do, it tends to be… a bit violent, as you can see. I couldn’t break out of it.” You exhale shakily. Seonghwa remains silent at your side, but you could see his eyebrows pinched together in deep thought– not as stern as you’d seen him to be for the last forty eight hours you’ve known him. He hesitantly states after a few moments “You were calling our names.” 

“I– this was the most confusing Omen I’d ever experienced. It was like I was forced to download all sorts of information that I couldn’t discern to be fact or fiction– just images and memories that weren’t memories or just dream-like visions that seemed more figurative. It was just a mass collaging of you all and everything was doused in this gold color. I felt everything too– things I’d never felt before in my waking life. Seonghwa, I was shown so much. I think I dreamt of this last night but triggered the onslaught of messages by thinking about it after unintentionally forgetting them.” 

You continue to try and explain “The nature of the omens I receive are a bit different than others. They’re spliced or intensely fragmented, showing me direct images or memories that have yet to come or form. Other times, they’re more figurative or metaphorical. They usually visit me in my dreams, and I’ve only received an omen while awake once before.* I always end up bleeding or bruised whatever way it comes, but receiving this much and to this extent? Never happened. “

Yeosang peers in soft concern “What were you shown?” He quietly asks, not wanting to push but knowing it was the question they’ve all been waiting to ask.

You barely registered the number of men in the room until now and noted that there were only five left. Before you started, you wanted to make sure everyone was there to listen to the forewarning. “Where’s everyone else?”

The air grows a little grim as Yunho sighs slowly “...There’s trouble at the Order right now. Before you started having a violent reaction, we thought you’d just passed out from stress given the nature of the conversation, but San noticed that your energy was spiking strangely. Hongjoong instructed us to stay and keep watch.” At the mention of Hongjoong, you redden a bit and pinch your face together, positively disturbed. If anyone noticed, they didn’t comment on it. 

When Wooyoung finally speaks up, you finally acknowledge his hands cradling your head onto his lower torso– the position looking as if you’ve slipped embarrassingly down his body. Limp.  “We didn’t want to push you for a number of reasons, but didn’t know how long Raziel’s energy could be retained with you being in that state. Strega, I wanted to give you time, but sadly Hongjoong left us here not only to look after you, but because we also have to make our decision.”  You gaze up at him questioningly before he quiets his voice a bit.

“The moment you started to hit the peak of your omen, we received a call from the Order. “He finally lets out 

“Dorian began having a seizure of some sort, but then the Head Priest of his church noticed a sudden branding appearing on his body…and on his palms.” You pale at the information, clenching your hands to rub at the keloid scarring on your own. 

“Strega, we were tasked to try and find you by the entire council of High Priests the moment they received this information today.  You are the only one who’s been branded with a stigmata in the Order’s recorded history. They still don’t know that we’ve ever met you or are in contact with you–and this confirmed that the suspected informant didn’t share the task he secretly sent us on to find you for our own discoveries. Strega, if you go with us, you have to know what that’ll mean. You’ll most likely be asked to assist the Order and if you say no this time, they’ll keep watch of you. Given that you and the boy bear similarities and are the strongest among us energetically, you’ll prove to be a threat by running free while they try to contain him. Both of your existences mean that there’s now a severe imbalance brewing in the realms and something greater than we can fathom is at the horizon.

Now that he’s branded with a stigmata– it changes everything. What we originally thought was a higher-level demon may be much more powerful than that. Killing Dorian wouldn’t solve anything; it’s highly unlikely they’d be able to succeed with it in the first place. He may be a divine host, just like you, only the second in recorded history or even partially infernal if he’s hosting what we fear he is. 

–Now, surely, his presence isn’t just an omen of the end or even simply about a universal imbalance. Truly, if he were to be trapped in the wrong hands, horrible things would follow even if mankind continued to survive, since we’d have immense manpower in the Order’s point of view. Even if that means humans technically win. The insider spoke to Hongjoong over the phone–” Wooyoung breaks off to take a breath, trying to stay calm and relay everything they knew, because your place in this, even more so now, holds the most importance. He was scared. Wooyoung was scared and they all had to make a split haired decision. There was no time. 

“He heard the Order… – there was a turning in the High Council’s conversation at the meeting today. In his distress, he directly contacted us. The Order sees Dorian as a powerful weapon. One that could deal a fathomless amount of damage. If Dorian is a host to Lucifer, Satan, Morningstar–whatever you’d like to call him, they’d want to wage complete war against the Infernal. They have arguably the greatest generation of Infernal hosts up to date, alongside possibly the strongest infernal resting within Dorian’s soul. If Dorian were to hone his gifts, it would be catastrophically deadly. That’s without even addressing the biggest elephant in the room, given that we don’t know why Morningstar chose Dorian, as he came willingly. He could very well be the hand destined to eradicate us either way. Either path leads to his position as the sole spark to cataclysmic events. If the Order felt confident in trying to even out the planes, and we don’t know how or why. Just because Dorian might host Morningstar doesn’t mean that he’d have something of that level in his control– he’d become a puppet to the Order or the infernal. Our only references regarding the reasons of the previous cherubs fall state that it was due to his hatred for mankind and disobeying God. 

Given that God doesn’t really like us himself… it’s a huge confusing mess. A new age of corruption is already here, Strega. The Order’s ambition is leading them into new territories and it’s not about maintaining the gate and protecting whatever comes in. We’re being tasked to go out and fight, so that we can eradicate the infernal's completely. I don’t know what they Order’s planning or why they’re so confident… and I’m worried. I think the only way we can buy some time is being making sure to take the boy and raise him on neutral terrain. If all else fails, we’d have to find a way to stop this somehow. The Order’s ambition is corrupt and endangers mankind with the intention of trying to wipe out the entirety of the source. Strega, the only way through is in. If you come with us you won’t be able to hide from them any longer. They let you go once, but they’re not likely to let you go again. 

I don’t know your story but I’m indebted to you, and I don’t take any of my dues lightly. I understand if you leave since this is the last chance you have to hide. The only way we can have a chance at taking Dorian is if we play our parts well.”

You feel the foreboding of the spirits premonition more than ever now. 

You will be fated to die a horrible death should you cross paths with the young boy for the weight of his gifts are too disruptive to the balance of this realm. 

Closing your eyes in admission, you recall the final detail of the omen you were able to catch before being ripped away into reality– a young teen with skin the color of a deep ebony and dense hair the texture of cashmere. There were no other discernable features, too obscured by the candlelights flickering, and the only thing visible to you was the glimmering of a small gold earring on his right ear, catching the eye like the dancing of an evening star. 

The shadow that fell over his body moves as he shifts and the sudden illumination of his form reveal two distinct vertical tears along the bones of his shoulder blades, as if something were ripped away from them. The wound isn’t fresh, but it crusts at it’s edges– a long while before it’ll seal itself. You weren’t allowed to see his face. 

You find the resolve to open your eyes before shakily hoisting yourself up with Wooyoung and Seonghwa’s assistance. There’s nothing to say. At least, nothing you have the strength to say out loud.

Death, come swift and kind. Please. 

You think to yourself. Sending the small and unforgiving prayer that wafted away from your burdened heart like a tendril of smoke before pulling the sleeves of your trench coat onto your body, as you made your way to the Order for the first time in five years.  

♰𖣐♰

The five of you urgently march up the steps leading up to Sistine chapel. An ongoing storm patters at the structure, as you collectively lift your jackets to try and cover yourselves from the rain. The priests donn simple clothing– black, thin turtle necks accompanied with overworn leather jackets. Some of them opted to layer a flannel under it for extra warmth, or wrap thick scarves around their necks. The gloom is almost foreboding as thunder strikes and echoes throughout the city. The rain begins its downpour.

Only the muted moonlight provides some guidance and the chapel, in all of its majesties, is unsettling in the dark. Idyllic figures are scattered throughout the building and you eventually make your way up the seemingly endless spiral staircase that intentionally mimicked the composition of a fibonacci sequence.

The entirety of the chapel was made to be exactly that. Perfect, holy– divinely formed. 

Throbs of lightning flicker the ambiance of the vast building and highlight the features of weeping angels, as if to wake them. Your chest quickens it’s rise and fall at the familiarity greeting you. 

Your body remembers what it’s done here–how worn and jagged it’d been upon leaving. When you alas arrive at the top floor, you finally note the absence of any others and sound. Turning to Yeosang, who was at your immediate right in concern. “Is it usually this empty nowadays?” your stomach drops at the slow shake of his head.

His voice is a bit scratched when he replies “No.. a few clergy members make rounds and are usually scattered around. The Order is mindful of security, especially with how covert they inherently function. It shouldn’t be this empty.” Wooyoung steps to the side to shake his wet hair, slicking the thick black mass back. Two strands fall onto his forehead and his hollow features are sharpened by shadows and lightning. Nodding in agreement. “Something’s definitely not right.” he mumbles low.

San had been concerningly quiet this entire time and you speak softly to him so you don’t alarm him. “Are you detecting any strange energetic waves?” His head follows the only energies he could detect within the main meeting room– Hongjoong, Jongho, and Mingi’s, but there was something… strange. Soft waves bearing a formless appearance disrupt his connection, mildly–and are hardly noticeable to most.

He knows what this is, however. Mingi’s ability was similar in how he could mimic something entirely, temporarily borrowing ones appearance, abilities, and energy. Simultaneously, due to this he had the ability to nullify anothers completely while he used it for himself. 

This felt similar and whatever is doing this was good at it. Except, the specs of its energy signature was strong–too strong to hide itself entirely from Exorcists of their caliber. “Somethings wrong, and whatever’s in there is frighteningly strong.” His eyes dart right and left rapidly, turning towards the towering double doors leading into the room.  At his words, Seonghwa and Yunho immediately dart towards the door in haste, you and the others quickly follow after. Yunho burts through the doors, pushing at them with two arms and the scene that greets you all is nauseating.

The first thing you register is the three remaining priests and a small figure far into the room within a good distance between them. Their body languages are careful in their interaction with the boy across the room, as if trying to appease or maintain a calm. The trio lurches forward with arms reaching out and are crouching with the tips of their hands curled downwards. You hear Hongjoong’s strikingly calm voice.

“Dorian, are you still there? Can you hear me?” His voice echoes through the marbled and hallow area before you take in the horror of your surroundings. 

The bodies of at least fifteen priests are thrown around the sizeable room, some heads are blown completely and splatter themselves onto the white surfaces of the wall behind their slumped bodies, as if they’d been popped open. There were no traces of direct trauma and you knew this meant it was a psychic attack. This was a remnant of a violent ability. 

Puddles of blood run into one another in heaps, still pouring from the dead bodies to meet at the center of the room. Bodies with broken backs appear as if they were bent disturbingly against the woods of the pews, hanging limp at the expense of completely severed spines–halved, despite being in one piece. The usually pristine and marbled room was doused in death and blood. 

The silence was deafening and you nauseatingly process the sound of blood dripping onto the floor in asynchronous beats from a hand hanging over a pew. They’d clearly tried to get away before they died. 

There were no faces left to recognize amidst the gore and you wonder if these were bodies of anyone you knew. You swallow a thick anxiety before shaking it away to focus on the matters at hand. These were men that your faction had definitely known and probably trained alongside with since childhood and until their joining of their secluded order, and if they could hold themselves upright–so can you. 

Dorian’s back faces the lot of you, his small figure standing completely still. You register his features apprehensively with slow recognition. He was younger than what you’d seen earlier, but there was no doubt.

Skin, a deep ebony and hair the texture of cashmere– tight curls that tucked themselves just above his ears. He was thin with a willowy build and taller than the average five year old boy, standing barely over four feet. You see Mingi twitch in anxiety, eyes blown and attempting to keep the sound of his heavy breathing at a minimum. Jongho’s anguished eyes bend his facial expression and your stomach tightens at the sight of his grief.

Dorian remains still for another moment when Hongjoong prods again. “Dorian?’ He let out a small movement, stiff as he turns around to look at Hongjoong before saying in his boyish voice

“They died because they were weak. That’s the only reason why you all remain standing before me.” 

That wasn’t Dorian, and you feel Raziel fight to push up and passed you, but you steel yourself and don’t let up.

‘Not here, Raziel. Not yet.’ You think, intentionally sending the telepathic thought passed your barrier and into his. He doesn’t continue to push but remains dangerously close to your mental barrier, waiting. 

“Dorian’s” gaze flits to the rest of you but his eyes begin to dialate at the sudden sound of the bell tower ringing– signaling the arrival of 1 AM. The sound of its bells are gaunt and haunting as Dorian falls forward, clutching at his head. Once it quiets again, Dorian lifts his head hesitantly– eyes confused as he takes in the cold floor beneath him. His expression contorts into complete horror as he shakily looks around the massacre before him, and he fumbles to stand, falling over his knees as he tries to grab at the stiff body of a headless priest– hands shaking. 

Hongjoong stands calmly beside Dorian, watching as he panics. Dorian’s small voice shakes as he shouts “I can bring him back!” Fumbling around as he presses two fingers against the absence of a pulse on the priests neck. Dorian begins crying hysterically as his eyes meet a familiar necklace coated in blood laying flat on the headless priest’s chest, recognizing him. A mass of crows began swarming behind the substantial windows of the room, pecking at the glass in attempts at getting in. Light begins to fall from Dorian’s hands, but alas–nothing. Their spirits had long departed. 

You recall Hongjoong’s words “He seems have an affinity for anything with a pulse. Animals, children, the Earth itself seems to gravitate towards him–and most interestingly, he has the ability to manipulate a holy light.”

“Dorian, he’s gone. Let go.” 

Dorian flings his head up in alarm at Hongjoong’s firm voice and meets Hongjoong’s dark eyes. 

“I did this Joong, didn’t I?” The words strangle from inside of his throat and the sound of a thick grief and distress far too old for a child his age shake you. 

Hongjoong doesn’t hesitate to say “You did.” with a deadly calm. Dorian stills, trying to gather himself and shakily rising while holding his knobby knees to keep him up right. You heart wrenches at the sight of him wiping his eyes with the backs of his hands, when Hongjoong speaks once again.

“You did it, but it wasn’t your fault. The blood is on your hands, but you had no control over your decisions, Dorian. Learn from this– you can’t afford to ignore the truth of your strength anymore. This is what happens when you do because then you’re too weak to stay conscious when he comes ” 

Dorian’s shoulders shake but doesn’t allow himself to cry or look up to see the rest of the bodies. He already know that these were men who’d been visiting and taking care of him at his church for the past few months. 

He feels alone and thinks that something like him should feel that way. 

However– strangely when Dorian lifts his gaze up from the floor and looks at all of you by the entrance of the hall, finally registering the presence of other live people, his eyes widen with overwhelming emotion once they rest on you. 

He stumbles as he runs towards you to throw his small body against you to wrap his arms around your legs. “Mama!” He cries and curls into you for comfort, and despite your shock, you reach down to cradle him to your chest. An unnatural shade of molten gold meets your eyes and you’re floored at finally seeing the features that’d been evading you for the last few hours: in omens, visions, dreams. 

Confusion fills you completely as you shake your head at Seonghwa’s bulging eyes as he says “You’re a mom?!”

Ignoring him, you slightly loosen your hold on Dorian “Dorian… I’m sorry but I think you have me confused with someone else.”  you say almost apologetically.

He immediately rejects your statement. “No, you’re my mama. It’s definitely you.”

You open your mouth to try and reply honestly “I’ve never met you and I’ve also never been pregnant before–” and he readily interrupts you.

“You didn’t have to give birth to me to be my mom. You’ve never met me, but I’ve been waiting to meet you for most of my life–but today, you saw me didn’t you?” Your eyebrows furrow as you stare at Dorian, stunted. He continues

“Today, you and I were able to connect for the first time– that’s why I lost control a lot more easily..” He pauses in regret,  a harrowing sorrow rising again “ –it’s my fault that I got distracted and didn’t pay attention to ‘him’ inside of me. Is Raziel here?” He brightens

You immediately feel a prodding breaking into your mind and Raziel immediately spreads his defenses as you push at Dorian to stop. Dorian appears unpertrubed and unaffected by Raziel’s presence.

“Don’t worry, I won’t go too deep. I just squished in enough to hear him when he talks to you now. “ He speaks almost cutely and it warms your stomach, despite how baffled you also feel “You taught me how to do that, by the way.”

You’re frazzled, tired, and confused.  “Dorian, I don’t know what you’re talking about–”

“The future you did.” he says simply.

“Future me?” you whisper

“Yeah, it’s like what happened to you earlier when we connected. You were able to see and experience the future because time isn’t linear. At least that’s the word the priests told me to use. Anyways, by connecting with me– you can see it too.  It doesn’t always make sense and it’s usually just a bunch of weird thoughts and images, but sometimes it’s like a long memory. You get these too, time to time, don’t you?” Dorian’s gaze is unwavering, bright-eyed, and curious.

“That’s why I chose this path. I chose it so I could have this future, cause I wanted it. If I tried to be good, I’d get to have you all as my family. Every other option ended in fire though, so it’s not like I could really choose anything else but I really liked you guys anyway. I didn’t say anything to them–” He gestures to the male priests “—because they wouldn’t really get it and they weren’t supposed to know, but you do. I’m happy you’re kidnapping me.” 

Even Hongjoong’s face falls in shock, astounded. Wooyoung’s eyebrows lift in quiet amazement as he laughs lightly “At least we don’t have to explain everything again.”

Despite the clear exhaustion on his face, Jongho snorts and wiggles his eyebrows at you “Mama, huh. Hey mama.” to which you respond “Ew.”

Mingi once again unties the robe of his cassock to fling it out into the hallway in frustration.

“How many fucking times do I have to go to the dry cleaners?!” He points at you and Dorian

“You–” he seethes  “You guys owe me laundry money.”

You dryly reply “So around $2.25?” and pretend to reach for the coin pouch in your bag, the small jingling of coins causes the man to turn around and screech in annoyance, grabbing at tufts of his own hair. 

“No, don’t actually fucking give me money but of the two of you– one is probably somehow Satan’s host and the other’s hosting some Archangel that doesn’t even try in the slightest to not kill us whenever he comes out– ” He takes a deep breath and breathes out a long trail of words, positively losing it.

“Please stop putting me in situations that require me to get a new cassock every other day. They’re expensive. The Order doesn’t pay us well since priests are supposed to live ‘humbly’ but here they are starting A FUCKING WARRR. They just don’t want us to have enough money to want to leave.” He’s whining and shouting, prolonging his words but you let him get whatever this is off of his chest. 

A small giggle moves at your neck and you realize it’s Dorian tucking his little head in. He makes you feel warm and you realize that you might finally understand why people wanted to be parents sometimes. Just a little.

San moves forward a bit to tap on Dorian’s head with his palm “It’s going to be okay, Ri.” as if sensing a hidden shift in the childs emotions and Dorian reaches his hand to meet San’s before squeezing it twice. He stands up from your light hold on him

“Can you carry me?” San softly smiles as Dorian moves towards him to guide San’s hands under his armpits so he could heave him up. The blue of San’s eyes seemingly brighten at Dorian’s presence, despite all of the bloodshed surrounding you all.

As tragic as it was, being an Exorcist was commonly a violent job. 

Yeosang quietly interjects “Guys, we have to get going. All of us being here like this without reporting anything wouldn’t help our positions in the slightest. We have to go down to the Crypt.” He gazes at the bodies on the floor before squeezing his eyes in momentary grief, shifting to look away and tug at the collar of his flannel that tucked itself under his jacket. 

You dread going back down there but you’re too deep in the confusion from the last two days that you thought you’d might as well do it for the plot, if you might die either way.

For the first time in the last few hours you hear Raziel. ‘See– you’re getting the hang of it, Strega.’

Sighing, you’re the last to leave the room before shutting the door behind you solemnly, making your way down to the dreaded place you’d sworn to never return to.

♰𖣐♰

[more photos of strega’s apartment.] see masterlist for additional scene moodboards!]

[the order of the gifted, boy's dormitory.]

[Hongjoong's bedroom]

[vatican city: above the headquarters of the order] i'm using a combination of the sistine chapel, st.paul's cathedral, and the vatican museum as reference! main architecture notes will be posted separately from time to time.

Additional Notes!

**Stigmata are defined as a mark of disgrace, associated with a specific circumstance, quality, or person. 

completely nerding out below but thought it'd be cool to share the witchiness of devil's catch!

[Siren’s witchy corner and fun fact of the chapter that provides more details that accompany Devil’s catch] There is a planetary system that utilizes the Chaldean order of the planets– and each day of the week follows the sequence as such: Saturn, Jupiter, Mars, Sun, Venus, Mercury, and Moon. It was something I’d seen in a lot of widely renown grimoires in association with their ritualistic practices, as I researched texts that helped provide me a more realistic understanding over the more “traditionally” accessible followings of ritualistic order and practice. For example, some rituals call for the caster to perform it at a specific hour of a specific day. Below I’ll attach a table I’ve pasted via the Renaissance Astrology website to share with you guys a better visualization of what I mean. Throughout the story, the characters will occasionally refer to days in the week by their planetary hours and the lords of that day. It’s a minor detail, but I chose Monday (The Planetary lord of Monday is the Moon) as the day in which Dorian gets regularly possessed by the unknown entity at three AM. (Which is considered the hour of Venus) In tarot, The Moon is a part of the Major Arcana and is commonly associated with the unknown, illusions, fears, and uncertainties. It also largely speaks of the emotional realms of our lives. The meaning of this card carries semblances to another Major Arcana, the High Priestess– but that’s a fun fact for another day. 

As for why I chose the hour of Venus is largely due to the fact that the planet is the third brightest object that stands relatively close to the sun, seen as an “evening or morning star” which is also a pseudonym for Lucifer… as he’s referred to as the fallen, lightbringer, and carried the visage of a morning star upon his fall from heaven, linking Isaiah 14:12 with Luke 10 ("I saw Satan fall like lightning from heaven") and the general usage of the name Morningstar came from a king of Babylon. I hope some of you enjoyed my interpretation of these texts and provided a more in depth and intimate understanding of the universe of Devil’s catch! For anyone reading, I hope that you enjoy this story as much as I enjoy writing it. See you in a few days or a week, as I’m already writing the third chapter… and character sheets since I thought it’d be more fun to release them sporadically than all at once. 

see you next week (maybe, probably.) i hope you guys liked this chapter and that it made sense. let me know your thoughts :) more about dorian will be revealed in chapter iii. and most unanswered questions will get some clarity! i promise i’ll avoid having plot holes since this is basically the protype of a separate manuscript lol next chapter will also be way more lighthearted and kind of spicy…

[cowboyidiot]

ok my thoughts on this aren't fully formed but to me it’s like yeah markhelly infidelity lol i love to joke but i think boiling it down to that doesn't really do the situation justice to me. mark didn’t want to sit with his own sadness so he quite literally created an entirely separate person who was born so he could both live a life without this crushing emotion and memory of his wife and turn himself off for 8 hours a day. 

and the thing is, it worked. yes, mark s experiences secondhand grief from his outie, but he doesn't remember gemma. that's not his wife. he already didn't want anything to happen to ms. casey, and he wants his outie to be happy, so he wants to help both of them once he finds out the truth, but he also feels something for helly that is entirely his own, not lumon's, and not his outie's. he was born to serve the agenda of both a company holding him hostage for labor, and an outie who is using him as means to an emotional end and he finally finds someone of his own. yes, of course there are similarities between him and outie mark but mark s doesn't have any memory of gemma and was quite literally created so mark could have a chance of escaping and moving on. he does. 

here's the thing though. outie mark reintegrated solely to see his wife. what a surprise it’s going to be for mark to have to live on with all the grief for gemma he was trying to hide from and suddenly be also drowning in grief from another life, another love, another betrayal. 

he has no idea mark s is reeling from helena's betrayal, not recognizing helly was missing, irving's death due to his blinding first love, and the anger helly is sure to direct at him for a situation he also feels horribly about. milchick even told him his innie found love! mark still viewed reintegration as his decision to make on a whim, not considering his innie's life and experience as something to seriously consider in his decision even though he was fully ready to leave mark s with "who is alive" burned on his eyelids and let him figure out how to get the answer to the outside with no help. the innies lives and emotions are inherently considered inferior. 

what happens, then, when suddenly the love that was a direct repercussion of his severance feels just as real as the grief he still hasn't managed to escape? i wouldn't categorize his relationship with helly/helena as infedelity, not only because reintegration seems to be a slow process mark s is only just starting to experience when he and helena have sex, but because mark s is not and was never married to gemma. his experience doesn't deserve to be relegated as purely an affair because his outie's emotional and personal life is validated and his is not. that isn't his wife. mark got exactly what he wanted from severing, he forgot gemma, and now he has to live with the consequence of emotional contradiction. 

this also paralells irving and helena's experience with their own innies, both of whom went into lumon with a specific agenda that blew up in their face (again, because they did not and do not consider their innies as fundamentally autonomous). the things outies believe are intrinsic to their personhood and lived experience, in mark's case his overwhelming devotion and love for his wife, are all turned on their head because this show is inherently about exploring the contradictions within personal identity and how those might manifest physically if these contradictions were housed in a single person's body.

you can't both create and destroy different choices, different versions of yourself, because you wish things were different and experience no consequences. the consequences are in direct response to his wish to forget gemma. in the end, it really is a double edged sword to reintegrate because mark is about to understand that every single thing he wanted out of severing he got, and he can’t turn his brain off again to avoid it. he wanted to forget gemma, and he did. he wanted to be happy and move on, even if it was as a different version of himself, and he did. he wants to see his wife? well now he has two of them. 

[nonglukest]

Dramas that consumed me in 2024

Out of the many dramas I consumed this year, here are the ones that consumed me the most. They still haunt me in some sort of way. I think about them often. My brain literally still rots. Spoilers may be included under each gif.

I also wanted to work on gif skills so I made some new gifs and added ones I've made in the past.

The Spirealm - 2024

None of these are in any particular order but if I had one series that I thought about the most and felt the most grief over, it was The Spirealm. I will never be over the huge twist with Ruan Lan Zhu and the giant time skip they threw at us. If I let myself think about it, I cry. I still haven't finished the novel but I plan to eventually.

The On1y One - 2024

The loneliness from both of these boys was heartbreaking. They started off at odds, to brothers, to friends, to each others home. I still think about the stolen glances, little touches, their growth and healing. The unresolved feelings in the end hurts me and I pray we get a season two.

Peaceful Property - 2024

Of course Peaceful Property is still relatively fresh but I still think about this found family often.. The added stories of the ghosts were a special touch, I still think and cry about the mysteries that were going on at some of the properties. I thought I was coming into a silly little show but these goobers had me crying almost every episode. Home's english slang will live as react gifs to send to my husband for years to come.

Love in the Big City - 2024

I wish I could have watched LITBC weekly as half of the viewers here did just to have it last longer on my screen but I simply have no self control. It was a bittersweet ending and I find myself thinking about Yeong's relationships quite often. I am still completely heart broken that he pushed Gyu Ho out of his life because he didn't want to hold him back. I do hope that some day they see each other again and resume their life together.

Let Free the Curse of Taekwondo - 2024

This was a heartbreaking drama but with a happy ending. It gave me young boys with traumatic stories who find solace in each other, it gave me a small little snippet of what could be happiness, and it took it away for 12 years. I knew the time skip was coming but it was still devastating.

Jack and Joker - 2024

Jack and Joker is still fresh as well but I ate it up every week. I couldn't hate most of these, what I thought were, complex characters. Everyone did bad things to protect their loved ones. Joke did it for Jack, Tattoo did it for his mom, Save did it for Hope and vice versa. Obviously that doesn't mean I liked their choices. The weeks went by so slow waiting for the next episode.

Mr. Plankton - 2024

I don't like stories like this but I watched it for Woo Do Hwan. It didn't disappoint but i cried for days after finishing it. I cried when I made the gif! This damn beautiful smile! 😭 Hae Jo and Jae Mi had a second chance at love together. I often wonder how they would have lived together if Hae Jo didn't pass on. I wonder about the ways they could have started a family with fertility help or adoption. It hit me hard as well because I struggled with infertility.

Love Sea - 2024

Love Sea was the hottest thing I have ever watched on my tv screen ok. Not only that, I was infatuated with Mahasamut. If nothing else I think about Mahasamut quite often. I think about him protecting Meena. I think about him taking off his collar, so to speak, to knock out Jak.

My Stand In - 2024

Toxic Ming and Cinnamon Roll Joe. I was blind to the color red while watching this to be honest but I won't say I felt bad for Ming until maybe the last few episodes. Joe never got back to his body, and I didn't think he would, but I held onto a little hope that he may. I loved both of these characters, flaws and all. I cannot wait to see Up & Poom in their future project together.

2023 & Beyond

Bloodhounds - 2023

Bloodhounds is where I fell in love with Woo Do Hwan. Episode one where Gun Woo kicked all those bodyguards asses to save his mom is all it took for me to be hooked. This one kept me highly entertained as each episode kept me on the edge of my seat. The bromance was and is probably still my favorite. After I finished this series I started several dramas that couldn't hook me and I had to take a small drama watching break. I CANNOT WAIT for season two.

The Devil Judge - 2021

I need a detailed list of any and all similar series. I'll be honest, it took me a couple episodes to get into this but when I did... well I was done for. In the end, Yo Han leaves and Ga On is left alone. He literally has no one significant in his life now. No parents, No Su Hyeon, No Jeong Ho, No Yo Han, No Elijah. AND I WILL NEVER BE OVER THAT!

Beyond Evil - 2021

This drama has the most satisfying conclusion. Yes, the Dong Sik and Joo Won go onto their separate paths and yes I was sad, but I felt like it had to happen so everyone could move on. The things these two said to or about each other still drive me insane.

A Tale of Thousand Stars - 2021

1000 Stars took me on a journey that broke my heart and by the end healed me. I really need to rewatch this soon so I may be a little fuzzy on it. I didn't feel like the romance was a central part of the plot so I wasn't upset they had only kissed once at end. It was more about Tian and and his journey of self discovery. I remember being floored by the plot twist and I remember sobbing like a bitch.

Guardian - 2018

I put Guardian off for a long time even after I decided to watch it but I ended up loving this drama so much I read the novel series shortly after finishing. For a censored bl, I think the actors did fantastic portraying their feelings for each other. The way they looked at each other, spoke to each other, touched each other. I yearned for more. The drama made it a bromance but it is quite obvious they care for each other.

Currently watching that is consuming me: The Heart Killers, Our Youth, Spare Me Your Mercy. Would these make the list after they were finished airing? I don't know. I also finished Flower of Evil last night and I almost added it to this list but since it hasn't had time to marinate I decided against it.

[babyangelsky]

I need to talk about how much I love everything that Tape Worrachai is doing with his face

But not just that. I only intended this post to be me singing his praises for the acting choices he's making as Sun but as I started drafting it in my head, it also turned into a character analysis and also praise for the writing choices that were made with him.

When we first meet him, the impression we're supposed to get is of a jaded, cocky criminal with a hair trigger temper that almost gets him in two fights on his way out of prison.

We don't yet realize that he has a completely justifiable reason to have such contempt for these two guards in particular, or that the way he behaves isn't just a case of "oh well he's just like that".

Because he wasn't always like that. This show has utilized this flashback so well, it's really taken it's time to develop its characters, to set up future conflicts, to show us why things are happening the way they are.

We get to see this rage build up in Sun very gradually, we see it start to fester, we see it start to inform every choice he makes, and we can see how it will inform every choice he will make when we come back to the present.

Now let's talk about that rage and just how good Tape is at embodying it.

There's this physicality he brings to it that's so impressive and that makes it seem at times like his body is actually struggling to contain how enraged he feels.

We first see it when he and Jack identify their father's body. Sun is trembling as he's clinging to him and he lets out this sound that genuinely sounds like a dying animal. It's the kind of sound that comes from something deep down inside, something that's in unimaginable pain.

It was the same kind sound Sun made when the boy who loved him died in his arms and it was just as brutal then because screaming is all he can do to release some of that grief and pain and anger that he's feeling. There's no one to fight, there's no one to take it out on.

And that rage just keeps building and building. The relationship with his brother is fracturing. He and his siblings can't even mourn their father in peace because Aim's wannabe Joker ass comes and interrupts the funeral and quite literally crushes Sun under his heel. He ends up taking the blame for Kong's death and goes to prison for it, where he's sexually assaulted and beaten while the guards turn a blind eye.

There is so much being heaped on him at every single turn, it is burying him, and Tape does such a good fucking job of showing us that with just his eyes.

Look at this shot.

The majority of Tape's face is obscured, all we can see clearly is one eye and what we see reflected in that one eye is all the rage and grief and pain we've seen build up over the past two episodes. Sun has just resolved to make it out of prison alive so he can avenge his father's death and he's watching the men who assaulted him make nice with the guards who allowed it to happen with such cold fucking hatred and he is not going to give any of them a moment of peace in service of his goal.

DO YOU KNOW HOW HARD IT IS TO COMMUNICATE THAT WITH A SINGLE GODDAMN EYE?

We do get to see his whole face in this scene but somehow that is less effective than the shot of his eye. We see some of that physicality again in the way his face twitches and he snarls but because he's mostly in profile, his gaze doesn't deliver that same punch.

There's so much more I can write--and WILL write--because the expressions and the dynamics in this show are all so fucking good but I had to give my boy his flowers. He's doing incredible things with Sun and I'm obsessed.

[theriverbeyond]

Do you think if John hadn't purged the knowledge of My Immortal from the universe that the sixth would've known immediately that cyth was impersonating dulcie? I just feel like dulcie is the most likely candidate to describe herself in that style.

SEE i think the tragedy is despite both Cam and Pal having spent over 10 years corresponding with her, neither of them were able to pick up on Cytherea's lie, even (as we find out later, in HtN) when she really isn't trying very hard. Like, why didn't they know immediately? It's not like they didn't have enough clues as is.

because.... Dulcie had definitely described Protesilauris to them, quite extensively!! and it doesn't take a genius to know the vivacious man who loved his children and roses and Dulcie isn't the shambling zombie that showed up at Canaan house. Not to mention the girl who wanted to run away and smoke cigarettes instead of lying in bed to convalesce from familial blood cancer wouldn't have spent her days at Canaan house lying on the terrace, reading books and knitting, doing exactly the same thing she would have been doing had she stayed at home to die. The clues were so obvious they were barely even clues!! Dulcie fed Cytherea "a lot of hot bullshit" about her life, which means Cytherea was literally working with less than no information when it comes to a convincing impersonation and... Cam and Pal still missed it.

i know this was probably supposed to be a silly ask but I just can't not think about the tragedy of it all. Was it Palamedes' well of grief -- maybe even anger? annoyance? frustration? resignation? -- at her rejection the reason that both he, and Cam, missed that she was gone? Did Cam's fire of devotion towards Palamedes blind her to all the obvious signs, her rush to protect and close ranks around him being enough to eclipse all rational thought with regards to the image of the person who rejected him? Were they both so utterly wounded, frustrated, jealous, that they truly did forget the friend they knew?

[amemberoftheosc]

Thoughts on TPOT 17

Am I late? Yep, I am Was busy but was able to watch it today! Let's get started then shall we ^^ [Spoilers Ahead!]

I'll try to go chronologically with the things I enjoyed or noticed Bottle being the host was something I didn't expect And I have to admit, her antics did frustrate me a little bit I guess I'm not one to put up with inefficiency but hey, she's doing her thing so I can't be mad about it After all, she did do a pretty job of hosting! A neat challenge idea of splitting up the teams and having one member try to get the most amount of points in their separate competitions! I quite liked it ^^ She reminds me more like a person who's trying to host their first object show camp: giddy to host but stumbles along the way whilst hosting

The elimination ceremony was a surprise For starters, I'm surprised we were able to vote together and get both Pencil and Golf Ball, not just out of the bottom two, but all the way to top two! Good job team ^^ Seriously, I was genuinely expecting it to be very close And again, Pencil's trauma shows itself again I think we can classify it as PTSD at this point Nobody told her it was a vote to save, and she panicked when hearing she was the most to voted (how did nobody tell her it was a vote to save :<) Then being told she's safe, she goes back to being guarded, unemotional It's as if she's trapped in a fog, being unable to see nobody but herself And when the fog clears up, there's just a blinding light that makes her lose sight of everything And then there's Pencil's scene with Book! In one of my earlier posts, I stated how Book served as a foil to Pencil (in fact, when I was listening to Pen's talk with Pencil, I instantly got reminded of Book) I was intrigued by their interaction I was unsure on how they would interact but I thought Book would recognize herself in her and try to help in someway I somehow forgot that the reason behind Book's abandonment issues (and even trust issues) is Pencil Naturally, Book wouldn't want to interact with Pencil yet (or heck, ever! No one can force Book to reconcile with Pencil. We just have to see if she does or chooses to split ties) I can feel with Book here, truly Of course, her view on things is a bit skewed (after all, Pencil didn't just want to go further in the game during BFDIA! She had a fun time with Freesmart even when almost all of them were eliminated. I mean heck, she even mentioned Needle as someone they miss) but that doesn't mean that Book's pain isn't real Despite all these years, the wound remains fresh in Book And Pencil can't take knowing that it's herself that caused Book to drift, so, ironically, she pushes herself away from Book even more And pushes herself away from the idea of Freesmart even when, it was one of the happiest times of her life Then there's Pencil's scene with Pen Still, it was a bit odd for me to see Pen try to help Pencil I was banking on either Book or Liy but this works as well They did go through similar troubles and Pen was the one to realize the struggle that Pencil is going through, so it makes sense for him to be the one to try and break through Pencil's barrier I also like that the TCOA was not bright at all, just dark Most times we see it, it was so bright and colorful, meaning that Pencil turned it off herself She both literally and metaphorically shuts off what was bright and cheerful from the past, leaving herself alone in the dark I'm honestly not quite sure what to make of Pencil She's traumatized from the isolation and dullness from E.X.IT, yet at the same time pushes away potential connections because she's clinging onto old ones Deep inside, she's sad about losing what once was, but she pushes it all down because she'll become as lethargic as Two if she allowed herself to grieve And if she's listless, she's more susceptible to being eliminated So, she prefers to suppress her grief and focus on her anger because that can push her forward in the game I know that one of the best things to do when going through something hard is to continue working, to keep yourself busy And I do agree, but you can only start doing that when you confront your feelings first When you've let all your emotions wash over you, then you can start you regain some stability by working Pencil has skipped that step To lighten up the mood, I did enjoy that Winner did get some closure over Loser They realize that Loser never forgot them and that he recognized their contributions It's a bit touching for me because I feel like I have a situation similar to this (which is no wonder why I also love Book and focus on her a ton) Also, I feel like there was a whole bunch of fourth wall breaks in this episode, especially with Bottle? Maybe that crack in reality is still affecting the world around them

[ireadyabooks]

It’s You Every Time: Read an Excerpt

A story about self-discovery, grief, and destiny that begs the question: How do you keep going when your world has stopped spinning?

When Sydney Michaels stops for breakfast in order to put off scholastic ruin a little longer, she never expected to—quite literally—bump into cute-boy stranger, Marcus Burke.

When Marcus invites her to have breakfast with him instead of going to class, she can’t ignore the urge to get to know him better—or the fact that this charming new acquaintance seems just as interested in her.

After a magical day together in their hometown of New York City, Sydney is finally willing to believe that maybe—just maybe—after years of loss and heartache, she’s finally reached the good part.

But when it comes time to say goodbye, as they linger in a crosswalk, something happens. An accident? Sydney isn’t sure—all she knows is that, after screeching tires, blinding headlights, and a moment of searing pain, she opens her eyes and is back in her bed. On September 24–the morning of her big exam—again.

READ AN EXCERPT

It's You Every Time Excerpt by I Read YA on Scribd

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[magiefish]

Okay so I’ve watched all of Severance up until the most recent episode (harrowing btw) and I would like to say one thing about where I think the Gemma/Mark situation is going. (Spoilers under the cut)

So, when I first found out that Gemma was Ms Casey’s outie, I thought it would be revealed that Gemma was still really dead, and all the time that Ms Casey is ‘switched off’ she’s really just lying in a morgue somewhere waiting to be switched back on. She, of course, would never know this because she wouldn’t remember being there, and Lumon could literally just make up anything they liked about what her outie ‘does while she’s away’ and she would just have to believe them (I kind of thought this would also be the situation with the goat people - they’re not dead when they’re switched off, but I don’t think their outies leave either, but they would never know that and would just have to go off Lumon’s word that their outies stargaze or whatever. I think this could still happen, but it’s less likely than it was before).

Anyway, this episode took that theory and put it in the paper shredder, and I wasn’t even really mad about it other than I felt like it fucked with the shows whole arc of grief. As everyone has been saying, Orpheus and Eurydice, you can never bring back the dead, ya da ya da ya. I just didn’t feel like I’d find it satisfying for Mark and Gemma to be together again, but I also didn’t think I’d find it satisfying if one of them just died, because then it’s like. Well why didn’t you just commit to killing one of them in the first place. We’re back to square one here.

However, I then remembered that Mark’s reintegration is a thing, and I’m having some thoughts about it. Because, see, innies and outies, though quite similar in many regards, are still ultimately kind of different people. They have different memories and different experiences and therefore *slightly* different personalities and perceptions. Thinking back to Peter Kilmer / Petey, it kind of struck me how he didn’t seem exactly like either Kilmer or Petey but a weird mix of the two. Like he said, the relative chronologies are all fucked, so reintegration fucks with your personality and your experiences. In reintegrating, he ceased to be either Kilmer or Petey but became a kind of Petey-Kilmer. The closest comparison I can think of is (lord forgive me for being a horror fan and therefore making a rather unflattering one) is like. Brundlefly from The Fly 1986? Like a fly and a guy get into a gene splicer and then they both become each other while both the originals cease. Or something. Idk.

What I’m trying to say is, with Mark reintegrating (and without Mark S’s consent, which is a death-of-personality horror story all by itself), I think he’s so blinded by his grief and devotion for Gemma that he doesn’t entirely realise that in synching up these two sets of memories he is, effectively, killing himself. But I think he’ll just keep going. And by the time he maybe does get Gemma out and they’re together again, they’ll only look at each other to realise that the person who wanted her back and the man she was waiting for is dead.

And baby. I’d fucking love it.

[zeb-z]

no ok because forevers solo mission into the nether and all the vague ‘if I don’t return’ and ‘I’m sorry’ messages he’s left behind is made all the more heart wrenching because he wasn’t meant to be the martyr.

bad has been setting himself up for tragedy. it’s in the self destructive choices he makes, his hyper paranoia, his self isolation, the way he’s literally turning blue and can’t seem to notice it himself. and from a meta perspective, it’s obvious - he talks about lasting consequences, he makes very clear framing and music decisions, the story arc has been setting up for something big. he’s got a book that says it’s for forever’s eyes only and hinted at him needing his help. he’s said to tina that he’s 100% sure of one person ending up dead at the end of all this. he’s made it clear he’d do anything he thinks would get the kids back - self sacrifice included.

it’s been an anxious build up as bad gets worse and worse. as his friends pick up clues and notice. bagi says she knows that bad lies and can cause havoc, but she’s not going to leave his side because he is too sad to be left alone. foolish takes note of his color blindness before anyone else. forever demands his time and reassures bad daily that he is there for him. gives him a flower every day. makes an entire party just showing how much bad is cared for and loved. keeps talking and visiting even when he’s ripping out his hair with annoyance because bad just won’t quit being a nuisance, or argumentative, or a probable kidnapper.

it feels like love and doomed endings. it feels like a build up to something tragic. it feels like trying to save a drowning man who won’t let anyone pull him up. because bad is ready to work for the feds, torture people, burn down anything in his way, sacrifice himself in his desperation and grief.

but now its forever who’s gone and decided any danger to himself is worth it for his son. who’s left behind vague goodbyes and see you soons, unsure if he’ll survive but set on the kids surviving at the very least. he’s already decided his death is worth it.

and while it’s not a surprise, it’s enough of a script flip to punch us all in the gut. because we expected tragedy, we expected uneasy goodbyes and self destructive choices and that effect felt across the island - but we didn’t expect it to be forever.

and neither did bad - who relied on that flower every day

[randomfandoms234]

My mind has been on a Demon slayer x transformers Au for couple days, there's no humans in it the bots will take place of all the characters

Autobots- demon slayers

Decepticons - demons

But for official roles:

Tanjiro- Orion pax/Optimus, and hot rod he goes to sell some energon in a smaller city of cybertron only to find his entire family dead, only two surrvived, in grief he changes his name to Optimus however he doesn't become a prime until much later in the show

I say two because at this time Hot rod snuck out to go see a race in town but was caught by Orion in the village annoyed by this Orion takes his kid back home but finds it covered in blood…only one other of his kids survived

Nezuko- Bumblebee: reasoning behind this is because I made Megatron muzan and wanted to keep the Bumblebee curse going, found by either Orion or Hotrod after the attack of Metatron Bumblebee is technically a decepticon but works with the Autobots

Orion ran a small orphanage in the mountains and treats each sparkling and youngling as if they were his own while Optimus is close with Hotrod and Bumblebee after the events of Megatrons attack on their home he adopted them officially in his heart after the events of the main plot happen these two would get officially adopted

Muzan- Megatron , leader of the decepticons who else would take the place? Metatron attacked the home of the three but unknown by him not all died there,

His backstory is different from Muzan in demon slayer, as he follows with Megatrons backstory.…lera just say Unicron had something to do with this.

Inosuke- Grimlock- tell me you see it? Grimlocke was abandoned near a cyberteonien mountain where he was raised by cybertronien life no one knows where is dinosaur alt mode came from.

Zenitsu- Smokescreen, there's no romance plot though ew he just gets attached and wants a new brother

Genya-cliffjumper, he and bumblebee look alike so there's many jokes that their long lost brothers, Cliffjumper just wants to make his brother Ironhide proud though.

Kanou- Elita- the only other adult in this gaggle of idiots she originally was very quiet and stern but becomes more open layer

Giyu- Ultra magnus, this feels like it makes sense as their personalitys are quite similar

Samani- Ironhide, no particular reasoning o just think it'd be interesting

Shinobu- Ratchet, I think their personalitys will mesh together great and There both somewhat docters

Tengan- jazz, sound hashira with character literally named after music I rest my case, jk I just want him to survive,

Rengoku- sunstreaker, this is due to the fact that Sideswipe is used more often than Sunstreaker and I want to give the other twin some short spotlight also, Sun- fire

Muchiro- Arcee, arcee has amnesia like Muchiro but is tough, she's tough and I just wanted her as a character in the Au and this is the one that fit her

Gyomei- Perceptor, Perceptor was a scientist who believed in the decepticoms and wanted to make a cure, be was attacked blinding him, and attacked once again when trying to help a sparkling but got attacked by the city folk for looking scary as he refuses to get his optics repaired

That's all I have so far but any suggestions of which Transformer should replace a demon slayer character is appreciated!

[feroluce]

Lucid Dreamer (2/2)

part 1

Gepard stalls almost a week before he finally goes out to the safehouse, and it takes him a couple days to find it because Sampo didn't have the time left to be wasn't super specific about the location. But he does find it.

It's pretty bare bones, really. Gepard knows that was probably to be expected, but… It feels crushing, when he realizes there are so few personal things here. It's nothing specific to Sampo. Just some food, some medical supplies. A cot and a heater and a lot of mismatched blankets. Nothing to remember someone by.

But he does find the letters, in a metal box stashed away under the bed.

There are two for him. Three for Natasha, and two for Seele. One for Hook, one for Serval, one for Pela, one for Bronya.

Bronya's is mostly business. They knew each other from the whole Stellaron incident, but not much beyond that, and the incoming catastrophe is a more pressing matter. Seele's is actually two copies of the same letter, and Gepard realizes why when Seele is so angry she rips the first one up without reading it. He gives her the copy a couple days later, and she slinks off without a word.

Pela seems completely normal after hers is delivered, but Gepard knows better than to trust that. The next day, he finds her asleep in bed with Serval, bottles abandoned on the floor, both their eye makeup smeared and running and Pela's glasses horribly smudged and crooked on her face. Serval doesn't read hers in front of him, but she's clingy with Gepard, Pela, and Lynx for quite a while after. She throws herself into her work a lot. She insists the heater from the safehouse is busted and she needs to keep it. It's too dangerous for use by someone who's not an engineer. Might burn their house down or something. Gepard doesn't argue.

Hook's letter is short, with easy to read words. The rest of it is actually a treasure map, and she and the moles spend the next several days running through the Underground, finding hidden candy and toys. Hook asks them when Sampo is coming back, because one of the marbles she found from his map looks green, just like his eyes, and she wants to give it to him. Natasha shoos Gepard out of the clinic before he can even begin to think of an answer.

Natasha refuses to let him see what's in her letters, which ok, fine, he'll respect that. He hears from Bronya who heard from Seele who heard from Natasha herself though that one of the letters was a map and the other a catalogue, with all of Sampo's hidden "warehouses." Gepard promptly marches himself back out to the frontlines, where he can turn a blind eye. If a ton of stolen goods suddenly enters the black market, and if the orphanage and the clinic suddenly have new supplies, well, technically that's none of his business.

Gepard goes to bed, curls up under mismatched blankets and closes his eyes.

He doesn't dream.

One of Gepard's letters was also business, like Bronya's and Natasha's. He and Bronya follow everything meticulously, down to the letter, because there has to be some good to get out of all this, there has to be. Gepard can't let it all be for nothing, it would bury him.

And so the catastrophe passes. Not without casualties, and not without a lot of damage and destruction. But Belobog survives.

And after that, time just kind of…goes on. Gepard has been a part of the Silvermanes since he was old enough to enlist. The Fragmentum had gotten so much worse in the years before Welt sealed the Stellaron. He knows the statistics, it is literally his and Pela's jobs to keep track. He knows when he sees a face everyday in the camps and then it's suddenly gone. He's not unfamiliar with things like grief and loss.

He still catches himself checking the trashcans and the supply crates and soldiers' footprints sometimes, though.

But there comes a night where Gepard goes to bed, holding the mismatched blankets to his face, and he dreams. And it's strange, it's off, it sticks with him. Sampo doesn't look the same. He's thinner. His muscles have atrophied. He looks like how Gepard has seen soldiers after months in the hospital.

The most unsettling difference is there's a scar across the left side of his head, Gepard can see it over his ear, peeking out past his hairline, carving towards his cheek. Sampo is always careful about his face. Gepard once saw him dodge a Fragmentum monster and literally let it cut across his neck just to keep his face clear. He wouldn't let that happen for nothing.

Their actions in the dream itself aren't new. Sampo seems tired, run down and worn out, but he announces his presence with aplomb by lobbing a bunch of smoke bombs off the rooftops and sending his soldiers scrambling. Same shit, different day.

The new part is what he says when Gepard chases him out to the edges of the camp, tackles him into the snow. Gepard pins him to the frozen ground to detain him and Sampo doesn't even fight it, just looks up at him like he's seeing sunrise for the first time in months.

"I'll be home in one week."

[heartinportuairk]

When something you enjoy comes to an end, it can leave a hole. It's a kind of grief, and a very valid kind.

Yes, I've experienced real, actual grief in my life. In fact, this Macbeth production came along at a time when I wasn't doing all that well, due to grief and other things. The preceding couple of years had been tough, and I was tired. Emotionally exhausted.

Don't get me wrong, I have happiness in my life too. But we cling to things that remove us from reality.

When I first saw Macbeth at the Donmar in December 2023 and witnessed those opening moments for the first time, I knew I was hooked. Anyone who has seen it knows what I'm talking about. As the play progressed, you could quite literally feel it altering your brain chemistry. So, so many people who saw it went back for more, because once you've seen it, you can't just let it go. You couldn't believe it could be that good, so you had to double-check, triple-check. You couldn't possibly take it all in the first time. Or you just needed to experience again that overwhelming feeling of joy it handed to you so readily. It's a weird thing for a dark play like Macbeth to bring joy, but it really did.

It was a drug and it consumed me. I didn't just love it, I needed it. I needed to be there. I needed to look forward to the next time I could be there.

I'm not yet sad that it's ended. That I'll never again get to see it performed live on stage in front of my very own eyeballs. Maybe it's because my next fix is in sight. The cinema screenings are still to come, along with the blind hope to later be able to stream or buy it (dear god, yes please).

For now I'm still buzzing, but the come down, if and when it happens, is going to hit me hard I think.

Would they had stayed.