#is really almost impossible. they view your explanation as excuses. they cut down every reason you give and their replies

[rubiesintherough]

.

[yeojaa]

feed me, fight me.

pairing.  boxer!jjk x f!reader.  rating.  explicit.  tags.  relationship issues, baby angst, comfort, unprotected sex (please be responsible!).  wc. 3.5k.  beta reader.  @hobi-gif​, always.  💖  author note.  i’m really into comfort fics rn so... 

What do you get when you mix a pissed off girlfriend with a neglectful boyfriend?  (Aside from trouble, that is.)

The answer is you - throwing punches far harder than you should be, completely disregarding the fact that you’re meant to be playing the part of perfect partner, meeting pads in the sequence he’s laid out.  It’s you throwing a hook when you should be swinging an uppercut.  It’s you, snapping your leg out with a satisfying thunk! of your shin when you should only be thip kicking.  It’s you, not giving a single damn as you take out all your frustrations on someone who’s growing increasingly more irritated by your childishness.  It’s you, blatantly disrespecting him in his ring - sending a reminder that there’s more to life than the four corners of this space. 

How can he blame you though, when he’s the reason?  When you’ve voiced your annoyance more than once - more than twice, more times than you care to count - and each time it’s met with a half-hearted apology (if you could even call it that)?  How can he hold it against you when you’ve asked, demanded, pleaded for more? 

“Cut it out,”  he seethes, quiet, under his breath, irritation igniting his expression, something hot and angry burning in the dark of his stare.  A withering wildfire in an empty field, smoldering coals flickering bright.  It presents itself in how his mouth curls, the hard line of his jaw as bone threatens to snap in half from the tension. 

“Cut what out?”  Your retort is punctuated by the smack of leather on leather, the worn edge of your boxing glove meeting the pad that Jungkook raises just in time to avoid a black eye. 

“What’s your problem?”  How he manages to snipe back - somehow sounding disgruntled by your behaviour - you’re not sure.  All you know is it boils your blood, searing heat within your veins when he effortlessly blocks your next jab.  He knows you well and knows the sport better, predicting each movement as if you’re telegraphing it all with a giant neon sign on your forehead. 

(You probably are.  You’ve never been good at hiding your emotions, pinning your heart on your sleeve, your sadness heavy in your mouth.  They wear you, rather than you it.  A weakness of yours.)

“You’re my problem.” 

“Shut up.”  It’s not the usual exasperated annoyance he levels you with, meaner and paired with a swat of your gloved hand.  He’s not supposed to be countering you, instead only blocking the punches you throw his way. 

(But then again - when did he ever listen to you?  When did he ever do what he was supposed to?)

(It’s not a fair assertion.  You’re just mad.  Livid beyond belief, standing atop this hill that you’ll happily die on.)

“Fuck you,”  you snap, offering the petulant comeback in the same instance you surge forward.  He blocks your jab - sees it coming from a mile away - and goes to block your hook. 

Except it never comes, your knee straightening out instead, hard edge of your shin slamming right into the side of his leg. 

He crumples more out of surprise than anything, eyes wide, all the anger swept away by something closer to astonishment.  It shines impossibly bright in his eyes, turning his entire expression upside down when his knee hits the ground.  By how he falls, you’re sure you’ve hit just the right spot, left his nerve endings buzzing uncomfortably as the feeling leaves the limb. 

“Are you serious?”  You know he’s genuinely baffled then, voice slipping, cracking in a way you’d normally find adorable.  (It goes to show how upset you are, the awkward split of his words doing nothing to soothe your temper.)  “What’s your issue?”  He’s still seated on the floor, rocking back on his heels, brow knit in consternation.  It’d take him seconds to jump up - to put you on your ass - but he chooses to remain where he is, staring up at you with that look on his face.

(That look you love.  That you hate.  That makes your insides turn to goo on his best days and misery on your worst.  That you’ve seen every single day for the last three years, as the first thing upon waking up and the last thing before passing out.  That makes you hesitate now, peering down into it.)

(Were you being unnecessary?  Unbearable?  Was this on you?)

“I’m going home.”  It’d be nice to tear your gloves off, throw them in his face and storm off in a huff.  It’d cause the scene you’re hoping for, push him to where you need.  (Because that’s the thing about Jungkook - he doesn’t react otherwise and you’re sick of it.)  Instead, you turn on your heel and slink away, silent as a mouse.  

You’re tired.  Too tired.  Why had you started something you couldn’t finish?

It shouldn’t surprise you that you’re home alone for hours that night, curled up in bed and half-asleep when light from the hallway spills into your bedroom.  It comes with hardly any noise, a tell-tale sign he’s trying not to wake you (or disturb you or get caught).  You almost let it slide when his figure appears in the doorway, broad frame swallowed up by the oversized sweater he wears.

He’s moving near silently, having already deposited his gym bag in the laundry room.  He doesn’t even switch the light on, moving around in the muted glow of the hallway, fumbling as he strips his clothes off and tosses them into the hamper against the wall. 

You expect him to head directly into the en suite, wash away whatever grime he’s accumulated throughout the day.  He’s always been this way, far too concerned with dragging in odour and dirt into your bed to do otherwise.

Except tonight, he doesn’t follow his usual routine.  Tonight, he makes a detour.

The bed dips before you realise what’s happening, grip on the pillow under your head tightening.  Words fit between your teeth, ready to spill out, lash out, tear out like a bullet deadset on landing a bullseye. 

“I’m sorry.”  Two words you’ve been waiting to hear, that startle you enough to throw your anger out the window, tossing them out with the wash.  “I don’t know why you’re upset but I’m sorry for whatever it is.”  He’s speaking into the quiet of your bedroom.  You can feel his hand settled on the bed, wrist somewhere over the line of your spine.  

Oh - he thinks you’re asleep.

“Things have been crazy.  I’ve been stressed.”  Here, under cover of night, he’s vulnerable, explanation tumbling forth uncertainly.  You can hear it in the way the words form, syllables slipping into each other - a sure sign of his exhaustion.  “I know that’s not an excuse, so I’ll be better.”  Though he readjusts, weight distributing differently over the bed, he isn’t touching you.  You can only imagine how he looks, the posture he’s taken on, arms leant over knees, hands twisting together in that way of his that begs a silent help me.  A version of him you’ve seen only a handful of times.  

(Jeon Jungkook does not let things get to him.  Never has, likely never will.  He’s immaculately put together, strung tight by years of growing up too fast, wanting too much and fearing it’ll slip away.  He goes and goes until he can’t any more and only then does he still, crashing headlong over a cliff of his own creation.)

It’s then that you realise while you’ve grown irritated with his preoccupation, coming second to the man you’ve only ever put first, he’s been suffering right alongside you.  Differently, certainly, but suffering nonetheless.  Holding his cards close as he’s always done, shouldering all the things on his own and hoping for the best.

Irritation flares first.  Anger at the fact that he hadn’t confided in you.  It burns bright, erodes everything else in its path.

And then it dims almost immediately, overshadowed by a tenderness that blooms in the small of your chest.  Rosebuds that fill the cavity and swath affection in broad strokes, colouring everything purple - a pretty mosaic made up of equal parts love and sadness.

“You should’ve said something.”  

Bambi-eyed baby is your nickname for your boyfriend - one he reluctantly wears, scowls at when you use it in public - and yet you’re still blown away by the glossiness of his stare, how wide it goes when you roll to face him, simultaneously flicking your bedside light on.  There’s embarrassment crowding his expression, lighting up every handsome facet of his features in technicolour.  He works to hide it almost immediately, moves back on the bed as if he might find himself a home in the shadows.

“I thought you were sleeping,”  he mumbles, not quite looking at you, stare focused on your pillow case, the white linen that you’d bought when you’d moved in together.  “Did I wake you up?”

Though his concern is real, you know it’s a distraction too.  His way of deflecting, shifting the focus back to you.  

(Jeon Jungkook doesn’t live in the spotlight.  Hates it, in fact.  It’s a curious combination - wanting to be praised, to show off, and yet fearing failure so strongly.  A worrying mix when he’s down and an endearing one when he’s up.)

You’re still cocooned, still held far enough away that he hasn’t run for the hills, locking himself in the bathroom to put a further physical barrier between you.  Should you move too fast, you know he’ll spook.  Push too hard, he’ll leave.  

“Couldn’t sleep without you.”  It’s true enough.  Dreams had evaded you for the better part of the evening, held somewhere by hands inked like his, blemished by scars and calluses like his. They’d been kept in his coat pocket, tucked behind his ear.  (So maybe it’d been anger, too, that’d kept you up.  That doesn’t matter now.)

The disbelief is evident, both in his words and the quirk of his mouth, bathed in dim light.  “Really?”

(You sometimes wonder how different the two of you see things.  What a day looks like from his point of view - whether he reads all of your interactions in the same way.  You’ve always been terribly incompatible in that way, opposites in so many respects that it’d frankly baffled your friends when you’d started dating.

You were intent - sometimes too intent - on resolving problems, never letting up.  Forcing conversations you felt you needed to have, demanding answers even before there was one.  He, on the other hand, was uncomfortable with conflict, choosing to ignore the things that bothered him until they went away.  It’d driven you absolutely insane at first, made you worry that it was you that was the issue, simply being too much.  

But over time - three long years, to be exact - you’d found a common ground.  Or so you’d thought.)

“Why are you so surprised?”  

“You were pissed earlier.”  There’s a lightness to his tone, careful consideration poured into each word he offers, as if he’s navigating a minefield.  You’ve had these kinds of disagreements too many times for him to believe otherwise, as if his caution is a part of him, stitched lovingly - forcefully - by your hand.  “Thought you wouldn’t wait up for me.”  

“I shouldn’t have,”  you retort before you can help it, still just a little childish, a little hurt.  “But you know I hate going to bed angry.”  Of course he knows.  He’s lost hours of sleep due to your insistence that everything be talked out. 

He hums a noncommittal sound - more of a grunt - and you know your window is closing.  Now that you’re not out for blood, he’s retreating as he always does.  Readying himself to rise from the bed, close this half-read chapter and move onto the next. 

You beat him before he can, curling your fingers around his wrist, over the dangling silver chain.  (His birthday gift this year, heavy metal that’s cold under your touch.)  

“Don’t.”

One blink.  Another.  Slow and confused - deliberately so.  Then he’s looking away, staring down at the ground as if you haven’t just read his next move.  The ring might be his domain but home is yours;  it’s the one place you hold the upper hand.  “What?”  

“Don’t leave.”  It’s easy to read the meaning in between your words, the unspoken request that might as well be brilliant red ink.  It’s far kinder than your usual demands, more pleading than begrudging, more need than want.  

“I need to shower.”  

It’s not a no - which you suppose is a win. 

“Just wait.”  Your request comes with an adjustment, whole tired frame rising from the bed only to sink back down - this time against your partner, your other half, your infuriating love.  He accepts you readily, dropping his ink-strewn hand over your covered thigh.  The weight is comforting over the warmth of the duvet, grounding you in the quiet of your home.

“I’m gross,”  he complains, though he doesn’t make to move away.  Stays right by your side when you drop your head against his bare shoulder.  “Now you’re gross.”

“We can be gross together.”  Because you’re not ready for him to leave you, to close the door as he so often does.  (And, for once, you’re not quite as angry, not seeking an argument that’ll give you the resolution you hope for.  You want communication, open and honest.  You want him, vulnerable and soft.)

A little sigh comes, a puff of breath that expands his doughy cheeks and sends wayward strands fluttering.  It’s less resigned and more endeared - you know how much it means when his acquiesces like this.  

Maybe he wants those same things, you think.  

“Do you wanna shower?”  You ask in perfect tandem, words folding together.  You nod in the same way.

Encased in the small space - it’s different.  He’s preoccupied, back turned to you, shielding you from the slow-heating stream.  It’s as if his mind is a thousand lightyears away, trapped somewhere with the stars as the water rains down around the two of you, fogging the glass and wetting his hair. 

“Babe?”  

There’s a delay before he reacts, peering over his shoulder at you, a faraway look in his eyes.  You wonder what he’d been thinking of, whether he’s still on the same page as you or if he’s skipped ahead as he tends to do.  When he speaks, you have your answer, his words flicking through paper to bring you two where you need to be.  

“Can you wash my hair?”  An indulgent treat he rarely requests, one he seldom allows.  He’s far too on the go, jumping from this to that to spend much time like this with you. 

It’s a sign if there ever was one. 

You reach for your shampoo bottle wordlessly, popping the cap and depositing sweet peach-scented liquid into your hands.  They fold into his strands carefully, tips of your fingers pressing into his scalp, delightful bubbles accumulating between your digits.  He doesn’t make a sound but you feel the way he relaxes, practically melting into your touch as you work the cleanser through his roots, careful to keep the suds from descending into his eyes. 

When was the last time you’d done this?  Weeks ago?  Months, maybe?  You honestly can’t recall.  (Not that it matters now.  You’ve found yourselves back here, terribly tender and intimate in the dead of night.  Almost as if no time has passed at all.)

Silence stretches between the two of you.  You don’t even need to instruct him to rinse, running seamlessly through the routine without hesitation. 

Conditioner replaces shampoo, deft fingers combing through the few knots in his feather soft strands.  Though there are hardly any, you know he loves when you take extra care, treating him in ways he’d never ask for otherwise.  He savours these quiet moments of almost-solitude, spoiled rotten by your familiar touch and comforting affection.  

You’d give it every single day if you could.  Had, in fact. 

That’s what’d brought you here, after all. 

“‘m sorry,”  he says - mumbles really - surprising you as you’re working your fingers into the nape of his neck, concentrating on the tension that’s carved out a home beneath muscle and sinew, turned bone iron-clad. 

“For what?” 

Any other time, it might’ve come across demanding, needing an answer that would soothe whatever inadequacy he’d somehow strung your heart up with.  Now, it’s genuine, asked more for him than you.  

You want to be let in.  Need it. 

“Being out of it, I guess.”  It’s a lot for him - admitting this.  “I’ve just been busy and I guess I kind of just—“  The imposing line of his shoulders rise and fall, a mountain range disturbed by the uncertainty in his voice.  

“Forgot about me?”  You don’t mean it meanly.  It’s a simple statement of fact, one the both of you have to face. 

“Yeah.  Something like that.”

You deliberate accepting the apology and moving on, sweeping it under the rug because he’s already come so much further than you’d thought he would.  But that’s not the kind of person you are, so you press just a little more, stand just a little taller. 

“I don’t think I ask for the world, Kook.”  Maybe more than some people.  Maybe less than others.  “If I’m being too much, I’d rather you let me know than shut me out.”

A sigh comes, so heavy you wonder whether he might be Atlas, carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders.  

“No, I know.”  

“Do you?”

(At some point you’d stopped massaging the conditioner in, opting to crowd your hands over his back, working into the knots that run beneath his skin.  He hadn’t been lying - he’s stiff as a board, entire broad form twitching any time you press the pads of your thumbs into a particularly sensitive spot.)

“I thought I’d figure it out myself,”  he reasons, in that oh-so impossible Jeon Jungkook way of his.  “Didn't realise it was taking a toll on you.” 

“On us,”  you correct, not at all tactful.  

“On us,”  he agrees with another sigh, smaller this time, tinged blue with something that feels like guilt and fills up the glass space. 

“We’re a team, you know.” 

(You know he knows.  You just have to remind him sometimes, anchor him with the knowledge that it’s not him against the world.  That you’re in his corner - always.)

“I know.” 

When he turns to look at you - doesn’t even flinch when the sudden movement has you wobbling on your feet, catches you when you stumble - you don’t doubt that.  He loves you just as much as you love him, sees the whole world in the small of your stare.  

“I’m sorry,”  he says again, two hands coming to cradle your face, palms warm over each cheek.  “Just give me some time.”  For what, you’re not sure.  You don’t mind waiting to find out though - willing to weather the storm just to see him happy.  

Jungkook holds you close, threads his fingers through yours and peppers love into the silk of your hair.  Dresses your skin in the heat of his affection and sears his signature into the velvet of your skin, teeth dragging, tongue gliding.  

“Is this better?”  He means how he holds you, how he treats you like porcelain as he fucks you slow and tender, keeps one leg hooked back over his own. 

It’s not that this is the kind of lovemaking you prefer but rather the one you need, with him consuming you wholly, sweetly, filling you with each fluid roll of his hips and nothing else.  No elaborate dirty talk, no overzealous bouncing, just the two of you together, curled against each other like you might not survive otherwise.  

He’s not pushing you to your finish with deft fingers over your clit, not taking his fill with greedy hands.  He’s simply there, with you, feeling every curve of your body as he sinks into your aching cunt and sighs as if he’s in heaven.  (And maybe he is - because where he is could only ever be where you are and you feel like you’re floating, weightless and lovestruck, anchored only to your bed by the hand that squeezes yours and the mouth that purrs your name.) 

“Yes,”  you breathe, exhale in a breath that seems to take all of your effort.  It’s hard to focus when he splits you open so well, fills your pussy and your heart and makes your chest erupt with a kaleidoscope of butterflies. 

“I love you, sweetheart.”

When he says it like that - folds it like a promise and tucks it into the spot behind your ear - you know it’s true.  Even if you don’t always feel it, even if he doesn’t always show it, there’s not a doubt in your mind. 

In all the ways he can, he loves you.  And whether that means enough from one day to the next, you don’t mind sticking around to find out.  Not if it means more of this. 

(Of him, of you, of your life together.)

tag list.  @neverthefirstchoice @youwannabelostandnotbefound @snackhobi @codeinebelle

[wesimpforxiao]

Inception: Chapter 7

Regardless of your persistence to avoid Childe, you noticed that he intentionally walked along the same paths to 'run' into you just as you intentionally chose different paths to work every day to avoid seeing him.  To be honest, it was a bit stalker-ish.  But one fierce glare from you, and his confidence deflates like a balloon as he gives up on the idea to talk to you.  He was just as stubborn as you though, and would continue this pattern every day despite your continuous rejection.  You still hadn't said a word to him since that day in Mondstat.  

At one point you discovered a new tactic to keep him at a distance; walk around areas of Liyue where Fatui are most prominent.   Childe would almost immediately be called over or consulted over various matters from his underlings, and you were able to lose him for the day.

It was late one night when you finally left the funeral parlor; you didn't need to stay so long, but working on filings diverted your mind from the present occurrences.  Your footsteps were quiet along the dimly lit streets of Liyue as you made your way past Liuli Pavilion. Despite it being the middle of the week, there were several Fatui agents drinking and making a ruckus at the outside seating area--laughing, cursing, and a bunch of slurred gibberish you couldn't quite catch.

That was when your stomach growled and begged for food that it hasn't gotten all day.  By the time you'd get back to your apartment you wouldn't have the energy to cook, so you decided it'd be best to get a meal-to-go from the Pavilion despite the annoying customers blocking the door.  You reluctantly made your way up the steps when one of the drunkards called out you.

"Hey! Waitress! Where's our damn order?"  The man impatiently slammed his pint onto the table out of the corner of your vision.  He had to be the least sober of the group.

"That's not the waitress, dumbass.  She's clearly a customer."

"No," interjected the third.  "That's Master Childe's woman."  Apparently Childe's coworkers had picked up on your relationship with the harbinger much sooner than you figured out his true identity.

You finally reached the door handle and twisted it open, but a hand slammed above your head to keep it shut.  "Childe's girl, huh?"  

"Kliment, you know better than to screw with Childe's shit," the third man warned.  "You continue with this, he's gonna kill you."

"I'm not his girl," you spat, meeting the devilish crazed eyes of the man pinning you against the door.  "Back off, I'm starving."

"Not his girl," Kliment scoffed with a lopsided smirk as he glared down at you.  "You hear that, Charlie?  This is the chick everyone's been talking about. The one that's got him slacking off on our missing agents and that stupid vigilante that's still running around."

"You've got the wrong chick, asshole."  This seemed to agitate Kliment, and he leaned in way too close for comfort.  

"I don't give a damn whether you belong to Childe or not.  Since there's no getting through his thick skull, maybe this will get him to do his job."

"Kliment, what are you saying?"  Charlie, the second agent, shifted uneasily in his seat.  "Leave the girl alone. You're drunk."

"All I'm sayin' is a little rough-up would get Childe to take his responsibilities seriously.  An eye-opener, if you will."  Kliment raised your head to look at him by putting a thumb beneath your chin.  "Though if you have any valuable relics on you, which I doubt, you may sway me from hurting this little face of yours.  I really do just care about money; this matter doesn't interest me."

Your stomach sank when you remembered your empty pockets.  Your vision sat at home in your kitchen drawer tonight, so there was no way you could fight the three of these guys with your pyro energy and you'd lack the fire resistance it provided.  You never relied on it anyway; with your combat skills, you might be able to take them out somehow.  There's silverware on the table...plates, knives, forks, even the empty pints that lay strewn about.  And there'll be witnesses that might jump in to help.  

But most of all, you were angry.  This is how undisciplined Aja--Childe's men are.  You were right all along; there are no 'good' Fatui; that'd be an oxymoron, impossible, senseless.  So when Kliment threatened you with his foul alcoholic breath burning your nostrils, an almost devilish smile stretched across your face.

You leaned in and whispered in a low voice so that he'd be the only one to hear you.  "Valuables?  You mean like that precious Fatui mask of yours?"

The gears turned in his head for a few seconds, then his expression of confusion switched to disbelief, and finally to seething anger.  "You--!  You're the bitch that stole my mask--!"  His hand flew to your throat and squeezed.

"Kliment! What're you doing?!"  Charlie bolted upright before charging to get him off of you.  "You're gonna get us in trouble! Cut it out!"  Before he could reach the two of you, you landed a strike to Kliment's throat that loosened his grip and sent him gagging.  "Klime--"

Your attack apparently prompted the third agent to get up from his seat and he proceeded to launch himself not at you or Kliment, but at Charlie.  The two collided and crashed over another table where a romantic dinner was taking place.  The nameless agent was yelling incoherently about Kliment being right while they threw punches.

I guess those two will take each other out?  Your attention refocused on Kliment, who was now able to inhale a decent amount of air to lunge at you full force into the pavilion door.  Your head slammed into the wood with an unsettling crack, but the adrenaline made it impossible to tell if it was the wood or your skull making that awful noise.  You blocked a punch directed at your jaw.  He drove his knee to your stomach, but you swayed just enough so it slid past your side and into the door.  Your elbow jut into his ribcage, then his kidney, then you pulled his head down hard onto your knee.  He crumpled to the floor.

The shouting of the patrons, waiters, and other staff were quiet compared to the heartbeat drumming in your ears.  They stood and gawked at the damage the entire group was making, but they did not dare to intervene.  You scanned the surroundings for those other two Fatui. The one named Charlie was knocked out cold.  "Where--Ngh!"

A fist held your hair tight at the top of your head and drove you face-first into a table to your left.  "You're definitely Childe's woman if you can hold your own against an agent.  You have my respect for that...But this needs to be done to get his head out of the gutter!"  Another slam against the table, and white clouded your vision.  Somewhere in your peripherals Charlie had snapped out of his daze and scrambled to his feet to leave you and the rest of the pavilion behind.

Looks like that agent learned a lesson from going against the flow of the Fatui and abandoned the idea of helping you.

Your fingernails clawed into the agent's gloved fist to no avail.  You couldn't even kick at him with how he pinned you to the table, but luckily he decided to pull you upright and throw you to the ground.  There's a chance to strike him now.  

Or at least, there was.  Just as you flipped over to kick him away from you, his boot crashed down on your face hard.  The sickening crack of your nose against the force made your vision darken completely.

Childe was just about finished with his work for the day and nodded farewell to the secretary behind the front desk of the Northland Bank.  He barely reached the exit when the double doors burst open and an injured agent began blabbering about something while out of breath.

"...Ha...haah...fight...Agent Kliment...your...girlfriend..."  Charlie managed to wheeze out the most important details first and didn't miss the cold expression that enveloped Childe's face.

"Excuse me?"

"--The Pavilion! Hurry!"  The words barely got past his lips as Childe bolted out the door.  Charlie chased after him despite his lungs begging for air.  He could barely keep his superior in view.

The chaos that greeted the pair sent a chilling thrill down Childe's spine.  A few additional agents had joined the scene and were trying to keep the others at bay while others aided so that a Liyue citizen was the sole target.  Childe had no problem reminding his agents of their place in the food chain and that they were more expendable than the innocent, but the glimpse of your face getting kicked in made something snap inside him.  He was still several feet away from the scene and many witnesses were yelling for the fight to stop.  It wouldn't be long before the Millileth would arrive.

Childe held an unreadable air about him as a single hydro blade manifested in his hand.  He spared none of his strength when he threw it at the man that towered over you.  The man let out a strangled cry as it impaled his shoulder into the wooden door.  "Now now," a cruel empty tone left Childe's lips as he approached with a deadpanned expression.  Everyone stopped throwing their punches when they recognized the voice.  "I don't suppose there's a reasonable explanation behind this, is there?"

"M-Master Childe!"  The Fatui agents bowed over and saluted the harbinger while the bystanders parted for him.  "This is--"

Childe ignored their stutters and made a beeline for the half-conscious girl on the floor.  He knelt and lifted your chin slightly.  Sorry girlie, but there's no way I'm just going to let you walk home from this no matter how much you hate me right now.  Your lips were busted and swollen, your nose red and bloody, not to mention broken...The tears that obscured your vision made it difficult to see him, no doubt.

A cold, chilling anger like Snezhnaya's weather washed over the harbinger while he estimated your condition.  Then he stood up and announced with a voice almost too quiet to hear at first.  "Every agent here is to report to my office immediately."

"But Master Childe, she was--"

"--She started--"

"I tried to stop them from hurting her--"

Childe faced them with a death glare.  "My office.  Now."  Everyone gulped in fear.  "And if any of you decide to run off and hide, I will hunt you down.  Go."  The bystanders were whispering things amongst themselves as they watched the agents sprint for the bank.  Then, the harbinger faced the man that was still writhing against the wall.  "What's your name?"

"Hongqi--GAH!"  Childe violently ripped his blade out as he looked the agent in the eye.  

"Well, Hongqi, you've made quite the first impression on me.  Unfortunately for you," Childe swiped his fingers across the blood that coated the blade, "it was the bad kind."  Hongqi nodded and shuffled to the direction of Northland Bank.  Childe watched him before giving one last glance to the bystanders that were directing the Millelith in this direction from across the street.  

A small wheeze from his feet grabbed Childe's attention and he knelt beside you once more.  "...leave me...alone."

"You know I'm not the kind of man to leave a beaten girl alone on the streets."  The touch of his fingers grazing your cheek made you wince.

It was only when you caught the sight of the authorities drawing closer that you raised your voice.  If he wouldn't leave you, this called for a more drastic approach.  "H...Help!  Help!"  Despite your injuries your arms flailed about in an effort to push Childe away from you.  This earned a confused yet hurt expression from Childe, but you couldn't care less.  Why should you?  

This was his fault.  These men are under his supervision.  He failed you.  Again.

Despite your weak attempt to get away from him, Childe scooped you up in his arms and disappeared from the scene as quickly as he had appeared before the Millelith could catch up.  Somewhere along the way you lost consciousness, and Childe was able to get into your apartment thanks to the keys that were in your jean pocket.  He lay you down on your bed as carefully as possible before finding and wetting a towel to clean your wounds.

"I'm gonna need you to lie still while I do this," he warned before pressing the damp cloth to your bloodied lips.

"...can do this myself.  Get out."

"I never said you weren't capable of handling the aftermath yourself, girlie.  But that doesn't mean I'm going to let you do it yourself."  He brushed the hair out of your face and continued to wipe away at the blood and dirt on your skin.  The ticking of your wall clock was almost aggressive in filling the silent room.

"This is all your fault."

His movements slowed if only for a moment.  Was that really what you thought? Was it really his fault?  His men were always disciplined, or at least they were to the best of his knowledge.  But tonight proved otherwise, and it proved yet again that he's still hurting you.   The missing men, the rowdy behavior of the agents, even the bank heist...something doesn't add up.  They're connected somehow, but where was the connection?  

"Rest assured they will be thoroughly punished."  This earned an eyeroll from you that he pretended not to notice.  "Your nose needs to be reset, but I'm assuming you'd rather do it yourself."

"You're finally catching on."  

"I need to return to my office now.  Don't hesitate to get ahold of me if you need anything."  It was unnecessary to say so since he doubted you'd need him anymore, but he said it just in case.

"Good riddance."  Your gaze followed his movements past the kitchen and to the door.  Childe's hand hovered above the doorknob for a second.  You weren't able to hear whatever he mumbled next and were too stubborn to ask him to repeat himself.  Then, you were met with only the sound of your wall clock ticking the night away.

...........

"Master Childe!"  The secretary to the Northland Bank greeted the harbinger at the door.  "What happened?  A few men came rushing in with injuries--Should I get medical aid?"

"Don't bother with them."  The cool anger was so obvious upon his demeanor that she clammed up and nodded.  "Their injuries are not severe enough to require medical attention.  They're a waste of resources."

"Y-yes, sir.  Is there anything I can get you?"  She closed the doors once he entered.

"A room alone with them would be excellent."  The lady scampered away.  When Master Childe is angry, it's best to leave him to his own devices and keep quiet.  No one wants to be in the way or make him any angrier since he already has a problem with his temper...

"Master Childe," the troublesome Fatui agents bowed their heads and knelt before him.

"I want a full description of what incited your unsightly actions."  Childe scanned their faces one by one until he landed on Charlie.  "You.  Speak."

"Everyone was drunk beyond belief, sir."  He was still bleeding from behind his ear as he spoke and ignored the tickling of the blood that trickled down to his neck.  "Kliment thought that woman was a waitress, but then Hongqi said she was your girlfriend."

"That bitch admitted to being the person that's been inconveniencing us the past few months and stealing our property!"  Kliment jumped to his feet and faced the harbinger directly.  "If she's really your girl, it'd explain why you haven't done anything to catch her!  You're a disgrace to the harbingers, to the Tsaritsa, to--"

BAM.  A fist collided with Kliment's jaw and he stumbled backwards onto his butt.  Blue eyes as pale as ice stared him down.  "I don't remember asking for your input.  Seeing as though you still haven't sobered up, I have reason to doubt whatever comes out of your mouth.  Hongqi," Childe's glare flicked to the agent that knelt to Kliment's left, "why were you beating a defenseless woman when she was already down?"

Hongqi was putting pressure on the arm that had been impaled by Childe's hydro blade.  "I don't care about whether she's involved with those acts of vandalism, but I do share Kliment's view about you.  You've been slacking off, sir.  I thought this would send a clear message--"

"Let me get one thing through your thick skulls," the harbinger interrupted with an edge in his voice.  "That girl and I are not involved with each other.  And I don't condone senseless violence against the innocent."  His gaze was sharp like that of a predator scouting his prey.  The sound of his footsteps pacing across the tile floor filled the silence between sentences.  "Thanks to your carelessness I'll have to clean up the mess you all made.  What do you think the Millelith will do when they hear details of this incident?  What do you think the Qixing will make of it?  We're already scorned as it is."

"No thanks to you and Osial," muttered Kliment.  A pointed look shut him up quick.

"It's become clear to me tonight that the Tsaritsa doesn't need you to complete her mission.  Hongqi, Kliment, you're dismissed.  Don't show your faces to me again."

"W-What?! Sir, we--"

"You're not my harbinger anyway.  I'll just go tell the Fair Lady about your pathetic actions," Kliment growled through a clenched jaw.  

"By all means, go ahead.  Of course if you have this much of an issue with your punishment, you could always take me on in a fight.  Well?  What'll it be, gentlemen?"  Their silence and averted eyes gave him the answer.  "That's too bad.  I've been itching for a proper workout.  Get out of my sight."

"Sir, what shall I do?"  Charlie's voice was hesitant and barely audible after he watched his former comrades vacate the bank in an uproar.  Careful, now.  Wouldn't want to say anything that could anger the man further...

"Relax," Childe briefly flicked his gaze to the agent with a sly smile.  "I have no need to punish you.  In fact, you seem to be the only one here that has their head on straight.  You have my gratitude for bringing the matter to my attention and standing up for that woman."

"Your...gratitude?"

"Of course.  Don't let it get to your head, though.  An inflated ego will only work against you on the battlefield."

......................

"Hey.  Kliment."

"Can you believe that, Hongqi?  He just threw us out like we're the bad guys! I swear to the Tsaritsa I'll show that loser a piece of my min--"

"Yeah about that.  Shall we get away from the prying ears of Liyue?"  Hongqi nodded to an alleyway that was to the left of the stairs that led up to the Northland Bank.

Kliment scoffed and pinched the bridge of his nose.  "What, now you're self-conscious of sharing your opinion on Childe?"  Yet he followed the man's lead anyway until they were both obscured in the shadows.

The silver eyes of Hongqi almost appeared to glow in the dark as he faced Kliment in a serious manner.  "There's a certain group of Fatui that have grown weary against the Tsaritsa.  This group is planning something big, and their goal is to uproot the Fatui's reputation first in Liyue, then they'll move on to Mondstat.  I happen to have a few connections."

"A group of unfaithful Fatui?  What are you talking about?"  But then it clicked.  "Wait, you don't mean..."

"Those who've gone missing in our ranks have simply created a new organization tasked with creating chaos to ruin the Fatui's reputation until it disintegrates into dust."  Hongqi sent a quick glance to the lighted street outside of the alley before returning his attention.  "Seeing as though Childe has disrespected us both, there's a chance we could get back at him for his tyranny.  The leader of the group is quite rich and compensates his members like there's no tomorrow."

"Huh. I didn't know you that well even in the ranks, but I think we could be great friends, Hongqi."

[persuadedproject-blog]

Chapter 14

     When Anne had re-entered the Elliot household, there was one thing that would have made her more relieved than seeing Sam’s renewed interest in her sister: finding her father far away from the charms of Liz’s friend, Penny. After a few hours in the house, she felt uneasy about it. There was nothing specific Anne could put her finger on, just a sampling of looks that lasted a moment too long, and the churning that started in her mind whenever she watched them together. The senator was not the sort of person any more to fall in love, but he was an easy target for infatuation, if his ego could benefit. The morning after Anne arrived, before stepping out into the open for breakfast, she hesitated in the shelter of her small hallway.

 She thought she had caught her name in Penny’s voice. Something about her being concerned about staying in a big bedroom while Anne was in the small room downstairs only meant for weekend guests, and how she did not want to overstay her welcome.  Liz said in a stage whisper,

    “There is no reason for you to go. I promise I don’t think there’s any  reason at all. You should never feel uncomfortable, just because Anne’s here now. She’s nothing to me, compared with you.”

    “You can’t go yet, Penny!” the senator added. “You haven’t really seen the area, or met anyone who’s anyone yet.” At this point Anne stepped into the open, met vaguely by a short nod from the speaker. “You’ve only been here to work, and you’ve gotten almost no leisure time. You can’t just run away from us now. We’re just discovering the beauties of this place, even though it isn’t exactly in the center of things. And I know you, with your mind, appreciate the aesthetically pleasing things.” His spoke with such unusual earnestness that Anne was not surprised Penny stole quick, almost watchful glances at Liz and herself. Liz saw nothing out of the ordinary, and Anne tried to keep her thoughts away from her face. The senator’s arguments were too strong for Penny to resist, so it was settled that she would stay through the summer.

      That same morning, while Anne settled at the granite island for work, the senator floated through, looking for caffeine of some sort. He stood still, then almost toppled Anne off her barstool by complimenting her.

    “You’ve been looking really nice since you came back from Uppercross, Anne. Less pale, a clearer complexion...just -” he flapped his hands at her general person, “Better. Did you switch moisturizers or something?”

    “No, I just use a makeup remover sometimes,” Anne said slowly.

    “Not Gowland’s coconut oil? Liz gave her sample to Penny, and it’s completely helped with all those dry spots and freckles. It’s made her even better-looking.”

    ‘Back to normal.’ Anne thought. She felt that when it came to Penny, she had to let things run their course; her father was still his own person, and Penny was an adult. She knew her father would not be the first politician to marry for the sake of acquiring a trophy, and Penny would not be the last smart girl to marry an older man for status and security. Even though Penny was aware of their financial situation, a potentially bankrupt politician is still more stable than a freshly graduated girl with a heavy load of student debt. Anne’s chief worry (and there was a whole tribe of them) was that Penny’s lifestyle would spark a chain reaction that would cause her father to backslide with his problems. If the overt flirtation did lead anywhere serious, Anne and Liz would have to move out, leaving him to fend for himself and be accountable to her.

    Mrs. Russell’s composed mind and almost unnerving politeness was put to the test on this point, whenever she visited the cottage on Camden Hill. Seeing Penny in such a favored place and Anne in an overlooked corner irritated her constantly while she was there, and bothered her while she was away - as much as a person who lives on the Cape, walks every day, boats many afternoons, and has a large circle of friends has time to be bothered. As she got to know Sam Beckett better, her thoughts on the others softened, or at least became more indifferent. His mannerisms and easy smiles were an immediate recommendation, and talking to him made her think the solid supported the superficial. Talking to Anne after their first encounter at the clam dig, Mrs. Russell said,

    “I almost couldn’t believe he was the same person! He was so surly when he was around the first time, so I just thought he was Liz’s bad boy phase. Now he’s this clean-cut lawyer! I heard he’s aiming to be the state’s attorney general in the next ten years.” Mrs. Russell could not picture a more admirable male specimen. All the things that are good and right were somehow a part of him: a decent mind, correct opinions (or at least the same opinions that she held), a broad knowledge of the world, and a warm heart. As Virginians are wont to have, he had a strong sense of his family dynasty but without too much pride, or dependence on that history to make him somebody. He lived with the liberality of someone who is well-off, but without being too showy. He thought for himself without defying public opinion on anything of great importance. Even his shirt was never wrinkled, and his nose was never sunburnt. He was steady, observant, mild, and candid. Feelings of any sort never seemed to run away with him. He also seemed to value the contentedness a home can have, which shady characters with too much unfocused, spastic energy cannot have. Mrs. Russell was convinced he had not been happy in his first marriage, despite all his wife’s frozen waffle dollars. However, this unhappiness did not sour him on marriage in general. She could tell from watching him, and Steven Wallis had told her so. To Mrs. Russell, the satisfaction in Sam outweighed all the plague of Penny.

     It had been years since Anne had first discovered she and her mentor could think differently, so it was not surprising to her that Mrs. Russell did not find any unsettling inconsistencies, or require any further explanations about his sudden reconciliation. Mrs. Russell thought there was no further ulterior motive than him maturing through his silly phase, and wisely trying to get back to a good thing. Her thought was that years of struggling on your own can make you want all the connections and goodwill you can get.

    “That pressed suit, and you think he’s struggling?” Anne smiled. “I doubt he has ever eaten Ramen noodles. But I think he’s been hovering around for Liz.”

    “Liz?” Now Mrs. Russell was a little surprised. Then she said cautiously, “Well, time will tell.” It was a reference to a possible future that Anne did not feel she could sway, not yet. In the Elliott household, Liz always came first, in beauty and preference and consideration. The idea that someone could know them both and give Anne the preeminence seemed impossible. It also had to be noted that Sam’s wife had died only a year before - a little delay on his part would be more than excusable. Anne could not see the black band he still wore on his suit-coat sleeve without thinking that maybe she was the inexcusable one for imagining some interest on his side. Even if his marriage hadn’t been totally happy, there had been enough to keep him there for many years - Anne could not wrap her brain around the idea of someone recovering from their spouse’s death so quickly.

     However that situation would end, Sam was hands down their best acquaintance in New England; Anne could not find his equal there. They talked about their meeting on the coast, maybe to revisit their initial reaction when they saw each other for the first time. He made sure to tell her how she had caught his eye, even in the early morning light, and she believed it. She remembered the look in his eye, and also the expression on another person’s face. Sam and Anne did not always agree, as she found out over the days of talking and socializing. He placed a higher value on rank, connections, and authority without supporting merits than she did. For instance, he joined Liz and the senator in being excited about a subject Anne would have thought was beneath him. On the fateful morning after Anne arrived, their phones informed them that the Dalrymple entourage had taken up residency in a sumptuous estate on the edge of the golf course (in the heart of Martha’s Vineyard, of course). The inhabitants on Camden Hill - including Mrs. Russell and Sam, who were there for brunch - were thrown into a tizzy trying to figure out the best way to get into their circle of society. The Dalrymples were (unfortunately, in Anne’s opinion) distant friends from Washington. Mrs. Dalrymple had hired them to position their son’s quitting school in a positive way, and occasionally had them for Christmas parties. Years ago, her husband had leveraged a career in television to be elected to one term in the Senate, on name recognition rather than talent or merit. As Hollywood royalty, he barrelled through logic with more zeal than understanding, and yet he somehow managed to gather influence and power. His party decided that a seat in the House was a little too much real-world power, and so when the presidential cycle came around they put him in the Vice President’s seat. It kept him rather busy, but with minimal impact. Still, there was ‘president’ in the title, and movie and TV credits to his name, so he somehow commanded importance. The Christmas and New Year’s Eve cocktail invitations had dried up within the last year, and so the question was how to find out which fence had been broken, and more importantly how to mend it. Mrs. Russell and Sam had a more rational, pragmatic view of the situation:

    “Connections with old friends - and clients - are always worth preserving,” Mrs Russell noted, spreading strawberry jam on her toast. Sam nodded in agreement.  “And they will make for good company. I’ve heard they rented that house through September, and will be living in style. Even when the VP has to be in Washington, he’ll commute for the weekends, and Lady  will be here all the time. I’ve heard she’s a lovely woman herself.” Mrs. Dalrymple nicknamed herself Lady in an attempt to sound more regal than she actually was, and to harken back to Lady Bird Johnson. Depending on the company, the name could be used with an aggressive genuineness, or sarchasm. “If you can patch things up without looking desperate, I think you should,” Mrs. Russell concluded.

    “We’re just lucky they decided to vacation here, not on Long Island, like last year,” the Senator remarked. He typed up an email then and there at the breakfast table, apologizing for any misunderstanding, and welcoming Lady to the neighborhood. Although Mrs. Russell and Sam could not give it their full endorsement, the email did the trick: that very afternoon they all were having bloody marys mixed by Lady herself. The tough labors were over, and now the sweet rewards had begun. New profile photos were had (selfies, with the Dalrymple’s glittering white smiles in the middle), and whenever they got the chance, they talked about their ‘dear friends, the Dalrymples’. Anne was embarrassed by the whole situation. Even if the Vice President and his family were actually pleasant, intelligent people, she still would have been ashamed of her family flaunting their high-up connections. Mrs. Dalrymple had gotten her reputation as a lovely person by always wearing a vacant smile, and having empty but polite (ish) things to say to everyone. And their daughter? When talking about her passions (mainly swimming, a little golf) she could barely be bothered to string two sentences together. Everything else brought on monotone, one-word answers. If she hadn’t been a Dalrymple, her presence would never have been tolerated, much less sought-after. Mrs. Russell admitted that she had been expecting more, but maintained that it was a connection worth keeping up.

   That evening, Anne floated her opinion of the illustrious Dalrymple clan past Sam. Everyone else was still outside finishing desert in the large adirondack chairs, and she was washing the dishes while Sam dried.

    “I mean, I agree that they’re nothing great in and of themselves,” he said, turning around to see her better and leaning against the counter. “But as old friends, and good company, and as people who will collect other people worth knowing around them, I think they have some value.” Anne smiled, but her eyebrows drew together.

    “My definition of good company is different from yours,” she said, handing him a pair of tongs. “I think good people to be around are smart, well-informed individuals who can participate in an intelligent conversation. Not that it requires a degree - just people who are always learning, and want to exchange ideas.”

    “You’re all mixed up,” he said quietly. “That’s not good company - it is the best. Good company only requires knowing the right people, having money, and some education. Money and connections are the real essentials; a little quality learning can be dangerous in these parts. If you know too much, you might be tempted to think for yourself, or even express your opinions. Seriously, though, I wouldn’t expose the fact your lofty education gave you big ideas. Oh, and now the serious Anne shakes her head. She is not satisfied. She is fastidious.” She was wondering when he would stop referring to her in the third person. While she was handing him a platter for drying, he placed his hand over hers, just for a few seconds. “Anne,” he appealed, “You have more reason than anyone I know to be fastidious. But is it worth it? Will it make you happy in the long run? Why not just grin and bear the patio parties, and then enjoy the advantages as much as you can? You can depend on them having influencers all around them this summer, and as position is position, being known as their friends will have benefits we could all hope for.” Anne drained the suds from the sink and turned around, leaning against the cabinet.

    “We will certainly be seen as their friends. I don’t think we can avoid it, really. All of the East Coast will probably know by the end of the night,” she said, nodding to the three faces outside, illuminated by the blue light of small, slender screens. “I just think we’ve all been tripping over ourselves too much to renew this relationship. I guess,” with a wry smile, “I have a little more pride than any of you. I’ll admit it bothers me, chasing so hard after having a relationship acknowledged that is apparently so important for us, and they have no need for.”

    “I think you underestimate your family’s place here. In New York or L.A. you might need the relationship, but as long as you are in and around the Vineyard, I think the Elliots will always be sought after.” He had somehow gotten closer without her noticing; her cardiganed shoulder brushed his, and she stepped out to put melting ice cream in the freezer.

    “Well,” she said, “I certainly have too much pride to be able to enjoy a welcome that depends so much on place and position. I think maybe some people call it self-respect.”

    “Look who’s getting fiery!” Sam smiled, seeming to enjoy the pushback. “I love your indignation. And, with all of the lectures we’ve received about American can-doerism, building yourself with nothing but your bare hands and God-given gifts, it is completely natural. But you have actually believed the lectures, when I don’t think the business moguls or politicians who delivered them really did. And you talk about being proud - I know that people around here would call me the same thing, and I don’t have a problem with that. So even if the way it expresses itself is different, I think we share the same general spirit.” After checking over his shoulder to make sure the kitchen was still empty, “And I’m sure we think similarly on at least one point: at least all of these higher-ups will distract the senator from those...less worthy of his attention.” He looked pointedly outside, where Penny was sitting draped over the back of the senator’s chair. Although Anne could not agree that they shared the same kind of pride, she was pleased with him for seeing through Penny’s plot, and not applying his opportunism to her situation. The family came trooping in at this point, to recap the afternoon and plan a small dinner party to which they could invite the Dalrymples.

Sometimes fact is stranger than fiction, is it not? Happy 4th of July to all my fellow Americans. 

[pomegranate-salad]

Seeds of thought : Wicdiv #25

So, did you know midterms season is upon us ? I’m sure this has nothing to do with my subject of choice this month. I’m not projecting, you’re projecting. Anyway, thoughts and opinion on the new issue, spoilers below the cut.

ONLY GOD CAN JUDGE ME, TAG, YOU’RE IT

 You’ve got to admire the wicdiv team’s relentlessness when it comes to stuff we’d all rather forget : if last issue only gave us a glimpse at the weight on everyone’s shoulders, this one tackles it head on (or off, depending on your point of view). Whereas last month we dealt with drives, this issue seems to revolve around responsibility, or perhaps more specifically accountability.

In a typical wicdiv fashion, this theme is pictured multiple times throughout the issue in various framings to paint a more global questioning of the concept and how it could apply to our characters. Accusations and excuses fly left and right : can Woden be held accountable for helping Ananke ? Baal for believing in her lies ? Amaterasu for leaving Mini ? Persephone for killing people whenever she pleases ? And as a coronation, an early contender for this year’s biggest “wait… is this our fault ?” shows up at the window.

 What surfaces from all these particular situations is a debate on the very nature of responsibility : what makes us accountable for our bad deeds ? Who we are or what we are ? Inverting the question, can someone’s bad actions be justified by their specific personality, meaning we shouldn’t expect the same from everyone ? Or should the same behaviour and standards be enforced on every person, which begs the question : what about someone who isn’t a person ? What can the laws of men mean to them ?

 Obviously all the characters have their own idea on the subject. For Cass, who still considers them all as human, the rules of society are still absolute. You don’t kill people on a whim, “you just don’t”. And not just because she refuses to cover it up, but because you cannot be human and think this is a good idea. Baal, on the other hand, takes into account one’s personality before judging them : the right thing to do for Ammy would have been to save Mini, but she’s not the kind of person who had the strength to do what was right. He also applies this logic to himself and clearly feels guilty for believing Ananke, as he should have known better. But note how he refuses to share this burden with Persephone : he is to blame for acting pretty much the same as the others, but it doesn’t mean the others are as well. It’s about who you are and what should be expected of you in that regard.

 But of course the biggest antagonism in the issue comes from Persephone facing Woden.

Confronted with his bad deeds, Woden makes excuses resting exclusively on who he is : he’s weak, a coward, and in a bad place. His understanding of the world is such an egocentric one that what he could do in his situation becomes the norm ; that someone else might have acted better is irrelevant since he could not have acted that way. It’s interesting to note that in this context, his self-hatred is not a redeeming element but a defence mechanism who prevents him from having to change his ways to be a better person : he may be a little fuck, but it’s okay since he feels bad about it.

Persephone on the other hand has a deterministic approach to accountability : she considers herself exempted from the laws of men and even from morality. She is no person. Not only that, she’s doomed to a tragic fate. If it’s not going to be okay, why would she “do the right thing” ? In the most enlightening bit of their exchange, to Woden saying he was “in a bad place” Persephone replies “I’m in Hell. Join me.” Woden’s bad place is a personal one, defined by his relationship to others, while Persephone’s bad place is her own realm, one she necessarily exists in by the sole virtue of being who she is. And in this queendom, there is no system of justice or morality unless she wills it. Both Cass and Persephone see right and wrong as depending on your status, but while Cass places herself within the human paradigm of morality, Persephone sees the world from her position as a god. And within this frame of understanding, she’s not acting right or wrong because no human understanding of this dichotomy can fully seize the actions of a god.

 And despite this attitude being clearly framed as her “going off the rails”, there is a case for it. The reason why the “let’s cover up Ananke’s murder or we’ll go to jail” plot device is so ineffective as a motor force (yes, this is a hill I will die on) is because the subject of the conflict between gods and human justice has already been dealt with in the Faust Act. We know what happens when gods are faced with a human understanding of their actions.

An interesting parallel can be made between Luci and Persephone in regard to the murders they committed and its consequences. The first arc spent so much time focusing on the murder Luci didn’t commit that it almost felt incidental that she indeed killed two people in cold blood ; no one, not even Cassandra, seemed particularly shocked or was made uncomfortable by that fact. Meanwhile, Persephone murdering Ananke is still clearly on everyone’s mind. That may be because Luci’s actions could still be linked to human standards of right and wrong. Whereas self-defence is but a cover-up story in Persephone’s case, Luci killing the shooters actually comes devilishly close to actually being self-defence. If I can go all law monkey here for a second, two things are required for your action to be justified as self-defence : an actual or imminent unjust threat to your or someone else’s safety, and for your response to be reasonable in regard to the threat. However, if the first element is verifiable given there were humans in the room, the second is impossible to demonstrably satisfy or deny : how could one prove that Luci acted reasonably in regard to the threat, given no one truly knows the extent of the gods’ power ? Could she have stopped the threat some other way ? Who is to say a murder isn’t a reasonable response given how important the gods are to the fate of the world ? A miracle, after all, is beyond explanation.

Luci’s mistake was to place herself within a human paradigm of justice while acting in a way that couldn’t be accounted for within that paradigm. Her trial and imprisonment demonstrates the failure of trying to apply human justice to an act of god. Persephone has no intention of playing by human rules. To gods, godly rules only must apply. But given how small and unstructured the pantheon is, this means that Persephone is living in a vacuum of societal rules, morality, and since Ananke’s death, necessity. Nothing is just, right, fair, or even necessary. The god society has lost its only objective criteria in the form of both its authority figure and the purpose of their actions. There is no scale on which to judge Persephone. When she writes she’s “no person”, are we to assume she meant “I am a god” or, in light of the 1831 special, “I am a monster” ? Who’s to say when there’s no judge, no jury and no executioner ?

 … Until the issue’s last page, that is. The apparition of The Great Dark, with its lack of head, going after the very god that was to be sacrificed to cast it away, has every chance of being the direct result of Persephone’s actions. It is purpose, wrong to a right, wrong waiting to be righted. The structure the god society had been missing, something to base yourself on, something to be judged by. It is responsibility barging in Persephone’s Hell and demanding its due.

Unless it isn’t. Unless its apparition was unavoidable, and nothing Persephone or anyone else could have done would have prevented it. Unless it was never going to be okay. The only one who might have known the truth is dead. Worse, nothing the gods can uncover can ever be fully trusted. Some will believe they’ve to take responsibility for what they’ve done, and others will refuse the bear the blame because it was destiny. Either way, the proof they would be required to achieve is an impossible one. In law studies, we have a name for this. Probatio diabolica. The devil’s proof.

WHAT I THOUGHT OF THE ISSUE :

 So New Year is a time for good resolutions, right ? How about I take up fairness this year ?

So how about that Cass/Woden dialogue ? Cass is still the greatest right ? Oh, and the evening family scene, so sweet. Loved the Anna Karenina reference, in fact all the title cards were great. Persephone’s hair deserves a mention on its own. And that underground scene ? Right up there with the best wicdiv scenes ever, right ? The art, which I ALWAYS forget to give credit to because I’m such a non-artistic person myself, was just breathtaking.

 Am I in the clear ?

*deep sigh*

Alright, let’s talk about that damn cliffhanger.

 If you’ve read… well, anything I’ve ever written, you know I mostly look for two things in a piece of media : characterization and narrative structuration. Concerning the former, Wicdiv has never let me down : I genuinely believe it is a masterpiece of modern character development, for comics and beyond. But everytime I’ve felt only so-so about an issue, which really wasn’t that often, I could pinpoint the latter as the origin. In most cases I could confidently affirm that these were objective problems that had nothing to do with my personal tastes. However, when I’m faced with something like this cliffhanger, I’m left wondering whether I’m fairly analysing it when I say it was a terrible idea or if it’s a solid development I’m unfairly judging by my own preferences.

I’m sure I’ll find some to say there is no such thing as an objective analysis and that our personal preferences always come into play, but I’ll have to respectfully disagree with these people. There is such a thing as making a mistake when telling a story. I sometimes say when commenting an issue that it is “the best version of itself”. What I mean isn’t that I agree with everything the story does, but that it found the way to make the least possible mistakes to achieve what the story achieved, and that changing a single thing would completely stray from which story the author has chosen to tell and how they chose to tell it. But to analyse things in that perspective, you have to acknowledge that the story that is told and how it is told isn’t necessarily what you would have liked. And I think this time, I may be stuck at that step, both for what the story is and how it’s told.

 Let’s talk about form first. I wasn’t reading comics growing up ; I might have been 20 the first time I picked one up. As a kid, I only ever read books, and mostly XIXth-XXth century French classics. My understanding of narration is still deeply rooted in the codes of this particular era and medium. And if there’s a staple classic books just don’t have, it’s cliffhangers. Why would they ? The answer would be right on the next page. Imagine every chapter of a book ending on a cliffhanger. Comics, on the other hand, derive more from strips and serials than they do from books, and so come from supports in which cliffhangers are the normal way to end an issue.

Cliffhangers are something I just don’t like, because my appreciation of narration comes exclusively from books. To me, it will never stop feeling like a cheap way to provoke thrill that isn’t actually there, a little artificial bump in the story that undercuts a broader rhythm to it. In this particular case, that’s two issues in a row that end on a one-page new brutal development, which ends up feeling repetitive instead of show-stopping. Not only that, it takes the thrill out of reading the next issue, since every cliffhanger has to be quickly solved or redirected in the subsequent chapter.

 But then again. If I try to be objective, I can’t think of a different way to introduce this new development. I may not like it, but where are you going to bring up a giant ball of darkness and doom capturing a child but in a ridiculously over-the-top cliffhanger ?

 So even if I’m not a fan of cliffhangers, I think my problem comes much more from where the story is going with this. I’m probably harsher now that I’ll be after a few days, but I just hated everything about this scene. It casted a shadow over the entire issue, possibly the entire arc, both of which I was loving so far. Just to list a few things, poor Mini is apparently forbidden to get even the slightest characterization before she has to go back to being damsel in distress #1. Baal’s one-liner is nonsensical, except if the Great Dark has been coming by his window to say hello every Friday after eight, in which case you’d think he would have mentioned. Mini standing saying “what’s wrong ?” while the windows shatter behind her is my new contender for Most Cliché Thing wicdiv has ever done. And like I said, the very nature of a cliffhanger means we just know the supposed “battle” isn’t going to be the crux of next issue, meaning this setting is just pointless.

But I’m even more pissed on a deeper level : bare what I said earlier about responsibility, what exactly is a Big Bad Scary Dark Thing going to bring to the story and our protagonists ? What are our characters supposed to get from facing a faceless swarm of black ? That Ananke was right ? We’ve had four arcs with a complex, tortuous villain and we’re ditching it for goth Sharknado. I hate this for the same reason I hate every movie in which the villain is a dinosaur : it’s big, mean, ugly and that’s it. It takes space and tells us nothing. I would much rather have had every single god wanking around for 5 arcs until total self-destruction than this.

 BUT.

THEN.

AGAIN.

 Mini getting kidnapped again is a very telling clue that this figure is linked to the ritual, and Baal actually having seen the Great Dark can still find an explanation somewhere. Gillen has said upfront in the latest notes that this arc will be about self-indulgence, so I can’t fault him for going with the clichés. As for the deeper stuff, it’s still way too early to tell exactly how the great dark will feature as an opposing force, or if it will at all. Maybe it’s just going to disappear with Mini in tow and the gods will be left wondering what to do. Part of why I am so angry at this development is definitely me : I like human villains and dark mirrors. Non-sentient or one-dimensional antagonists is something I have zero interest in. I was probably also taken aback by how Persephone gets exactly what she wants in this issue, a force she can battle with even less remorse than Ananke, when I’d identified this arc as the one Persephone would finally have to deal with herself. So, points for unexpected direction. Or hell, maybe I was still right, and the real danger will come for the gods’ incompetence in handling this. Oh, and maybe this new player will reveal itself to be an old one, or even a current one in disguise. Theories are already floating around.

 So yeah, I’ve got nothing. I hate this, I really do. It’s not the story I want. But it may still be the best version of itself. We’ll see. As a good resolution this year, I am trusting artists with their work.