#but i didn't trust him and i wasn't spoiled either so no outside perspective just vibes

[brionnne]

Liar's Den WIP [Working Title, Unfinished]

Almost a solid year (Mar 23rd, 2022) since I started writing and editing this thing, and I planned / plan (?) to do more with it, but I'm honestly not quite sure where to go, and in a way, I honestly think it works alright as a standalone, so I'm just going to throw it out there to show that I do, in fact, write. I had fun writing it, at least, and I hope to make something more of it someday, but...?

Wariness is her natural state. Calculating. Observant. Perceptive. Even then, it isn’t very hard to notice that, out of all the seven deadly sins, she had only ever seen six. No mention of Sloth, of Belphegor, was made—seemingly a taboo topic among the brothers. No wonder why, Morgana thinks now. 

“Why are you trying to trick me? I have eyes, you know.” Her expression turns into a bemused smile. “A brain? I may be a mere human,” she makes mystical motions with her fingers, eyes wide and dramatic, before she drops the act with a scoff, “but I know exactly who you are.” Her eyes flicker towards his fingers, blue-tipped nails, which tighten on the door. Another giveaway, Ana observes. She knows by now that Asmo paints all of their nails, but his are chipping; faded. How long has he been here? As long as I have? Longer? She doesn’t ask him. “I’ve seen your portrait, you know? Even if I hadn’t, your fingernails are painted. That might be fine by itself, but your eyes?” She tilts her head, “Strange color for a human. What is that? Purple, right?” Related to Beel? Internally, she rolls her eyes. Obviously.

His hands slacken. He shrugs, trying to appear lax— a nice imitation, or it would be, except the tightness has moved up. The stiffness of his shoulders makes the action slightly less loose than it should be. Interesting, her eyes narrow. He doesn’t like being called out on this. Why, though?

“You caught me,” he raises his hands in a gesture reminiscent of Asmo. It’s sort of … cute, on him. Intentional? Questions she can’t answer yet run rampant. There’s not enough information to infer much of anything, as frustrating as that is—very. As for his lies, she thinks there could be a logical reason behind them, and while his state of captivity makes him look like a victim in some form, his deception speaks against that. Regardless of logic, the hasty fabrication, the stiffness of his fingers and shoulders, makes her have doubts. He’s certainly capricious—just listen to how even toned he sounds now, compared to his earlier panic—but to what extent? Perhaps further sarcasm would be … unwise.

Morgana looks back up, “So what is it that you want, then, if you were desperate enough to lie for it?” She frowns, gesturing to the door that holds him. “Freedom, I assume?”

For the first time, she sees something like a spark in him. Energy that wasn’t there before. 

“I thought I might get your help,” he says, “if I pretended to be human.” She can’t tell whether this is duplicitous or not. Even a close inspection shows no obvious signs. Perhaps he’s just that good of a liar. Perhaps he isn’t lying at all. It could be both. Insertions of truth, twisted to fit one's liking, have always made lying easier. Harder to detect by a casual, or even careful, viewer. She’s only seen a single tell, and even then, being stiff doesn’t always indicate a lie — it can be normal tensity; discomfort. Plenty of things that make her slow to place any defining bets. He’s shown her basically nothing. 

She had never really given further thought to the implications of Sloth on behavior. Acedia, she remembers, is apathetic. Listless. Lack of care. Her eyes track to his hair — messy; bedhead — to his clothes. They’re barely resting on his frame, and not in the sense of weight, but rather, the jacket he wears is nearly falling off. His shirt — plain, white — is a bit more kempt, but only just. It lifts at his midriff, revealing an un-tied pair of sweatpants that dip low on his hips. He wears no shoes at all, but when she peers in, she can see a pair of long boots sitting in the corner. Effortless. Slip-on. Morgana’s eyes find her own slippers, and she shrugs. Understandable, she thinks. Nice, too. The room itself reflects his state of dress. Untidy. Lacking organization. Her gaze falls onto Belphegor again. He seems, as expected, unbothered. It isn’t like she can criticize that; in fact, it appears they share these traits in common. That being said … 

This … probably shouldn’t bother me as much as it does. Her brow furrows. Regardless, the feeling doesn’t leave. It isn’t very often that she can’t get a good read on someone. Being out of her element like that makes her feel uncomfortable. Most people—even the other demon brothers—are easy enough to read at the best of times. Belphegor …isn’t. 

(Asmo tells her that she isn’t, either. Is that what dealing with me feels like to him? Eugh.)

“I can’t break the seal on this …door,” he admits, scowling. Surprisingly expressive, his hands flutter before it. That, at least, is truthful. There’s no hesitation in his words, no tightness of his frame. His emotions are visible, but not overdone.

“Frankly,” she says, unable to tamp down her bitterness, “I don’t know what you expect me to do about that. I have no magic.” This may not endear him to her, but it’s true. She’s been painfully aware of her status since being deposited here. Even with potential, the understanding of theory, all that becomes useless when she can’t even apply it.

“That may be true, but you have pacts.”

Morgana raises her eyebrows. “And you know about this …how?” 

“Don’t get so worked up,” he huffs, rolling his eyes. “Lucifer told me.”

She snorts. He is cute. Sort of. Shakes her head. “Humor me, then. If I were to free you,” Ana posits, “what is it that I would have to do?”

“If you made a pact with all of my brothers, that would be enough to break the seal.”

She hums. “What do I get out of this deal— I mean, why should I?” It sounds cruel. He could be innocent, she reminds herself. But it’s a genuine enough question, really. Why risk herself? Mammon’s pact was pure luck, and Levi's was borne of some uncanny trickery. Fooled into believing she had won when she hadn’t. He’d been too worked up to realize, and she was, of course, in no hurry to correct him. She was weak here; having something concrete would be protection. “I don’t even know you.”

“Are you—?” His eyes flash. She has to cradle her face to hide the smile this brings. Thumb and forefinger resting on her cheeks. Her hand; a curtain. Neither his apparent anger nor her amusement lasts for very long. “You’re a human,” he says, incredulous. “Don’t you want power—or something?”

Morgana sniffs, fingers coming down to rub at her eternally stuffy nose, “I don’t particularly care.”

He blinks. “Are you not driven by … generosity?” His words are metered, strained, and pushed through clenched teeth; she suspects the word he wishes to have said was not half as nice as the one he had chosen. He’s being careful. It’s notable that he does seem genuinely curious, however. It’s just a guess, really, but this probably wasn’t how he had expected their meeting to go. And it must be weird to meet a human not simply drawn in by that promise of power, especially a power received so idly. A thing that Belphegor is known for accomplishing at a price; a particularly devious demon—manipulative, her textbooks had warned. She’s not sure she wants to deal with the cost of that, really; power and influence are overrated things, anyway—she wouldn’t deny a level of self-motivation in seeking out pacts like Pokemon cards, but. Power is the least of her concerns. Control is a trivial matter. She simply wants to live unburdened, and to do that, she needs to actually be alive. It’s a simple desire; all things considered. Base. Yet she’s curious—for answers no one else would give, she knows. Who would be so forthcoming? Lucifer? Certainly not. There’s clearly something going on here—this attic room, these spiral stairs, up which Lucifer had told her nothing was or would be—and damn it if she doesn’t want to know why this would be worth lying about; if everyone else was lying to her, too. Did Beel know? It didn’t seem that way, certainly, but she doesn’t really know him, either…

“I can be generous,” she reveals after a moment, “but I’m not going to go out of my way if I don’t need to. Plus,” Ana turns her gaze on him. “You’ve given me no reason to trust you.”

. . .

Trust. She falls onto her bed, sighing. How fucking complicated. It’s true that his lies had made her wary, but a part of her — an annoying, shoved-aside part of her — wants to help him. That feeling is as annoying as it always is. She’d been working on this part of herself, slowly but surely. It’s uncountable how many times now that her generosity has hurt her rather than helping, but attempting to be so selfish hurts all those good parts inside her, too. Tears them up and crushes them underfoot.

Tonight, it bothers her so much that it even stalls her sleep. Lying. Rolling. Restless. Why do you want to help him anyway? She doesn’t know, and more than not knowing him, her ignorance of herself is infuriating. She should know this. She should understand herself like the back of her hand. She thinks restlessly. She thinks endlessly. She thinks and comes up blank every time. He’s a stranger, Ana tells herself. He might even deserve it.

“Deserve being locked away?” She murmurs, an uneasy frown twisting her face. “With nothing?” Closes her eyes. It was glaringly obvious how little he actually had, after all. No D.D.D., which she’d already noticed early on. Absence from chats. Communication. Healthy things that were necessary. Isolation. Loneliness. One of Lucifer’s ham-fisted ‘punishments’? It doesn't feel right.

Even without trust, even if he did deserve some form of punishment, could she say that it would be this? Could she condemn him? Because that’s what it would be. Damning. Not helping Belphegor would only mean that he would be stuck there—living in those conditions, alone, for as long as Lucifer saw fit to hold him. Her wariness didn't mean she had to be okay with that by default—didn’t allow her to simply turn a blind eye. It’s true, she knows this, but that doesn’t mean she likes facing it.

#belphegor x mc #obey me belphegor #i wanted to make them kind of contentious and have a moral struggle idk #i've seen so many people talk about the scene and the betrayal of it #but i didn't trust him and i wasn't spoiled either so no outside perspective just vibes #and i thought it'd be fun to approach it like that #and i also feel like ... i would have noticed a picture or something beforehand you know ? like he just fits into my type so gd well #i cannot be led to believe that i would traverse those halls every goddamn day and not spot the emo boy #i am simply built different #and yeah i'm criticizing lucifer in this because belphegor's whole issue was the belief that lilith had actually died #and i just fundamentally disagree with treating someone who hasn't committed any crimes like a criminal #lucifer backed a beast into a corner of course he's going to fucking lash out like what do u expect psychologically it makes fucking sense #persecution of an as of yet innocent person is likely to make them desperate #they've no other options and the worst has already been assumed of them anyway so fuck it right nothing to lose #lesson 16 spoilers #obey me

[aishissaart]

Quarantine made me read this book- GONE WITH THE WIND BY Margaret Mitchell.

And here's my review

(which clearly nobody asked for but eh)~

It takes guts to make your main character spoiled, selfish, and stupid, someone without any redeeming qualities, and write an epic novel about her. But it works for two reasons. First of all you wait for justice to fall its merciless blow with one of the most recognized lines in cinema ("frankly my dear, I don't give a damn"), but you end with a broken and somewhat repentant character and you can't be pitiless. Secondly, if you were going to parallel the beautiful, affluent, lazy, spirited South being conquered by the intellectual, industrious North, what better way to do that than with characters who embody those characteristics? You come to feel a level of sadness that the South and Scarlett lost their war and hope that they will rebuild.

I enjoyed the picture of pre-war South outside of what you learn in history class approved by the nation that won the war. If the South had won, we would have an entirely different picture painted. A story of lush lands and prosperity abounding with chivalry and gentility by a (too) passionate people. If you visit the South today, you can see that all these generations later the wounds of the war and the regret at losing the way of life are still fresh. But if it had not been the civil war, it would have been by other means that the lazy sprawled out way of life would have been conquered by our efficient, compact, modern lives.

I enjoyed the picture of plantations that did not abuse slaves to the extent that you read about in many memoirs. There was still a disrespect in that they viewed "darkies" as ignorant and childish and worthy of being owned, but there were those who cared for those in their trust. And the North who came down riling up the lowest of the slaves to flip the oppression did not want any contact with a race they feared. Prejudice takes many faces. Slavery is such an important part of American history, but I don't know that I agree with the format in which it is taught (at least the way it was taught to me). We take young, tolerant children and feed them stories of racism and abuse and then tell them the world is naturally prejudice (that they are prejudice) so don't be. White children start feeling awkward and aware and black children start feeling mistreated and aware. We manage to teach children about Indian and Holocaust history without the same enthusiasm to end racism by breeding racism. There has to be a better way. But I digress.

I also enjoyed Mitchell showing the volatile formula in which the KKK was aroused, that it wasn't just a disdain for free darkies but a need to protect their women and children from the rash anger now imposed on them through this new regime. Not that there are any redeeming qualities in the KKK, or even the Southern rash justice by pistol shot to curb wounded pride, but it was interesting to learn the wider circumstances in which it arose. The entire picture of the Southern perspective from the hierarchy of slaves to the disdain of the reconstruction was enlightening. The post-war difficulties, that sometimes it's harder to survive than die, were some of my favorite epiphanies of the story. What everyone in the South went through, both white and black, after everything was deconstructed and they didn't know how to rebuild. It wasn't just about freeing slaves but about rebuilding an entire way of life and sometimes change, even good change, can be this scary and destructive.

My one complaint about the book was at times the description was lengthy. I'd get a grasp for the emotions of Scarlett that are supposed to describe the emotions of all Southerners or the description of the land at Tara as a representation of the rich red soil all Southerners love and then Mitchell would go on for paragraphs or pages rehashing that feeling to pull the most emotion out of you. It worked, but sometimes I think she could have done so in fewer words.

I view Scarlett as a representation of the South in which she loved. She did not care from whence the wealth came or believed that it would ever end. Because she was rich and important, she would conquer. As the Yankees attempted to rebuild the South, fresh in their embitterment at a war they did not want to fight, you can both see their reasoning and feel for the Southerners who were licked and then stomped on in their attempts to gain back of their life. You see that in Scarlett. On one hand you don't pity her and think she needs a lesson in poverty and on the other hand you want her to survive. Either she can lie down and cling to her old ways or she can debase herself and rebuild. Survival, not morality, is her strongest drive.

Oh Scarlett. We all know people like her. People who unscrupulously use their womanly charms to get ahead and carry a deep disdain for those bound by concepts of kindness, morals, or intelligence and most especially for those who see them for what they are instead of being manipulated. People who care for nobody but themselves and who find enjoyment in life not in what they have, but in conquering the unattainable that is only desirable because it is out of reach. I loved how Mitchell showed Scarlett's decline from a religious albeit not believing girl who allowed her rationalization and avoidance to carry her from one sin to the next of intensifying degree. An excellent portrait of the degradation of character.

Initially I thought she was the only character who wasn't growing, actually digressing. But by the end she does grow up. In no regard is this greater than in her eventual desire to be a mother. Turning from her ravenous post-war desire to survive to her acceptance of life and the people around her as the way they are, eventually Scarlett grows into the person she was meant to be. As did the South. Prideful and resentful, eventually they had to accept that they lost the war and take what was given them and try to make it work.

Scarlett realizes that Melanie is not the weak, cowardly girl she always assumed but the most courageous character in the book and one who gets her means by influence and persuasion instead of Scarlett's uncivil ways. It is Melly, not Scarlett, who could get anything she desires and her heart is not her weakness but her greatest strength. Finally Scarlett values the importance of love and sees that it does not make one weak but deep to possess it. OK, I won't go that far. She's not intelligent enough to analyze love, but she grows up enough to fall for it anyway, to realize she needs people.

She sees Ashley not as the strong, honorable character she had always esteemed but the weakest and least honorable character in the book. Anyone who would tease another woman with confessions of love just so he could keep her heart and devotion at arm's length is not truly honoring his marriage vows. The greatest gift he could give his wife was the knowledge that he loved her. And we all know that like any pretty toy, once Scarlett had taken him, she would have discarded him. The debasing knowledge that he is not fit for a rougher way of life doesn't endear him. For all his intelligence, he could have picked himself up by the bootstraps and made something of himself if he wanted to survive. He is a representation of the Old South that had to die but many couldn't let go of, even today. That's the sadness of the loss of the Southern way, still longing for the past instead of moving forward.

Then we come to Rhett, the only character with the ability to conquer Scarlett, who was quite the devil. Just like the ladies in old Atlanta I found myself at times entranced by his charms, but often I did not like or trust him. I was often torn about the way he constantly encouraged Scarlett to fall another wrung on her morality ladder and mocked her emotions, mocked all of Southern civility. What annoyed me most about him was that he showed love by coddling his wife and child until they were spoiled, dependent, but not grateful, and this was his idea of being a good father and husband. And yet I sympathized with him and was often amused by him. More than anything I enjoyed his intelligence as a way for Mitchell to introduce the Yankee viewpoint, using his sarcasm as satire. I loved the whole discussion of his not being a gentleman and her no lady.

More than anything I saw his slow conquering of Scarlett's heart as a parallel to the slow enveloping of the South by the North until they realized they were dependent on their conquerors but could still maintain their fierce spirit, a marriage of North and South. The fact that she could never fully understand him shows the divide between to two philosophies. But does the South lose in this blending? Can't they adopt the intellectual ways of the North and still maintain their civility? Just like Ashley, they would rather have dreamt and remembered than changed.

The characters in the book are so vivid that like or dislike you cannot get them out of your head. There are no more vibrant characters in the history of literature that Scarlett O'Hara and Rhett Butler. There is a reason this book is a classic. Everyone should read it at least once in their life to appreciate the civil war and understand the sadness and loss that enveloped the country.

#books #booklr #book review #review #gone with the wind #margaret mitchell #quarantine