#let me seethe in my vitriol and my spite | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

homestuckexamination · 4 years

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Your explanation on the discourse was really interesting because... it catered entirely to the team? I know we all like this webcomic, and don’t want something we spend so much time on to have anything bad, but if we love something, it’s okay to admit there’s something bad or many bad things going on. There’s a least one member who’s name I won’t say that is without a doubt at fault and has said and done many horrible things, including saying they wrote their part just to anger fans

Let me put my view out there anon, even though I’ve talked about this at large before. First of all, as I’ve said ad-nauseum before, I will say that in the context of The Epilogues and Homestuck^2, I am someone who likes what is going on. I genuinely enjoy the direction of the story, with no external prompting, and the Discourse always catches me off-guard because I never realize what people are going to be arguing about next, because when I am going through the story, I really DO enjoy what I am experiencing. Of course it is not perfect, by any god damn means, however, I am parting from the basis that my opinion inherently differs from the vocally negative voice of the Fandom right now.

I am a Content Creator. I am a writer, and I have started dabbling in art recently. I have plans, and ideas, to write a book, I want to create an original setting, that I’ve designed through an amalgam of my experiences, my points of view, and the things I like, as well as my hopes and dreams. Do you know why I side with the Team and ‘cater’ to them when I talk about Discourse? Because. The Fandom. Fucking sucks right now.

I have voiced my opinion on the Epilogues, and had death threats and suicide bait sent at me because I DARED to defend them! I have seen the Team- The same Team that made Pesterquest, one of the most Fandom-positive pieces of media I have ever had the pleasure of playing through, being sent those same threats and suicide bait at a scale I cannot even begin to comprehend. I have seen Queer Authors express their identity and experiences in the text, and people twisting them in some delusional way to accuse them of being Queerphobic in turn.

Do you know why I seem to ‘side with the Team’? Because I like the content they are producing, and the ‘fans’ are a ball of vitriol that tells me that if I like the Epilogues, I am either delusional, a bootlicker, or evil. Because I see the ‘fans’ pop into a post the official Twitter is doing, about supporting BLM, and what I see is people ignoring the contents entirely to send the team insults and ask ‘WHEN IS HIVESWAP ACT 2′ like a broken record. Because I see the ‘fans’ latching onto someone on the Team like the ONE SOURCE OF ALL EVIL, and proceed to doxx her, call the police on her, and threaten her and everyone close to her until she has to step down and drop off the team, during a global fucking Pandemic.

Am I biased for the Team? YEAH of fucking course I am, because I like the things they are exploring, because I related to things they are writing, because I truly do believe they’re doing something fun and entertaining, and what I see in turn in the Fandom, is hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate HATE.

You say that it’s okay to admit there’s something wrong or bad in content you like, but at this point it’s that the worst of the Fandom doesn’t even like the content. They actively do nothing more than dislike it, and consume it ONLY to be angry, threaten and throw insults around. And if you even so much as dare to claim that, hey, maybe these aren’t healthy habits of Media Consumption, and you should, you know, not keep following something that makes you actively seethe and that you go in with the inherent idea that everything being written is being made to hurt you, you get called ableist for daring to tell people that they should take care of their mental health and not stay in a constant state of anger.

It IS okay to admit there’s something you dislike, or many things you dislike in content you follow, so long as you actually enjoy the content overall. It is more than okay to be critical of things you like. However, there is a difference between being critical, and being hypercritical to the point of rage and bandwagonning. Take Roxy for example. Roxy. Roxy is one of my favorite parts of the Epilogues, and I have seen them beyond recognition by the Fandom. But because the trans girl Roxy Headcanon was so popular, there’s so much vitriol around it. And it is okay to prefer to read Roxy as a trans woman. I do actually! It is one of my favorite headcanons! My own name is Roxy! In fact, with the ‘dubious canon’ divide and the Team’s explicit encouragement of the Fandom to have their own takes and read, they have done MORE in the way of elevating headcanons that diverge from their content than basically any other content creator I’ve seen before.

But then, then people start down a negative spiral. Well, transmasc NB Roxy sure wasn’t something they expected, right? It is not bad representation in the slightest, between the Epilogues and the deeper exploration of Roxy’s feelings in the Pesterquest Route, they are a really solid and interesting case in my mind! But there’s not even the sliver of positivity to be found. Why, surely, the ONLY reason why Roxy would be a trans guy instead of a trans woman, is because the Team is aware of the headcanon and is trying to spite the fans! Ergo, transmasc Roxy is an ATTACK on Trans Women, and as such a transphobic addition to the story!!!

And in the process of doing so, you’re erasing the identity, experiences and relation a queer team has with a character they have messed with, and turning a positive piece of representation around to CALL the team TRANSPHOBIC for it. You’re ignoring the possibility that ANYONE could read Roxy that way, and that the ONLY possible reason for it is SPITE and SPITE alone. Imposing your view on the read of the character, twisting the context of the content around to make it to be negative, and keeping that furnace of hate and distrust going.

And this is. With. Literally. Everything. Again, I have been on the side of the Fandom that likes the content since the Epilogues came out. I have seen the Fandom ignore, and twist, the actual positive beats of the Epilogues like they never existed in the first place, and exacerbate the negatives. I have seen people call them literally evil, and throw extremely puritanical views of what kind of Media should exist, and what things should be scrubbed off of Media entirely, forever. I have seen the most minor of shit spark discourse, because the Fans are prompted to disregard every single positive thing and positive reading, and instead twisting authorial intent from something that could be fun, from a projection of their own experiences, into a personal assault that surely no one could ever enjoy.

If you ask me to see the bad in the content I like, and the creators that I follow, I ask you, too, to see the bad in the ball of vitriol this Fandom has become over the past year. My opinion is informed by the reaction the Fandom has had to the content I like, and what it has told to me, by the reaction I’ve seen them have, as well as by the words of the Authors on the topic, and the content they have pumped out. I have seen and read ‘receipts’, I’ve seen every last piece of discourse happen, no matter how minor it may have been, because I am lucky to be a mildly loud voice in the Fandom because of this blog.

So when I seem to side with the Team instead of the Fandom, know that I am not making an impulsive choice to cover up the flaws of content I like. I have seen enough going around to inform this choice, and I know who I’m defending. And if you think “catering” to the Team rather than the Fandom considering what the Fandom just did is strange, I honestly don’t know what to tell you. We just have inherently different points of view.

#Homestuck #HS^2 #Homestuck^2 #Epilogues #WP #Discourse #Long Post #Longpost

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consumedkings-archive · 4 years

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ancient names, pt. viii

A John Seed/Original Female Character Fanfic

Ancient Names, pt viii: the space between us

Masterlink Post

Word Count: ~6.9k (????)

Rating: M for now, rating will change in later chapters as things develop.

Warnings: Language, some “light” religious blasphemy (it’s Far Cry 5). Strong canon deviance from here on out. Some more PTSD symptoms/descriptions, though mild.

Notes: This chapter is like, nearly 2k longer than most others and folks, we got it all: identity crisis, PTSD symptoms, the irritability of being surrounded by Seed brothers, the irritability of perhaps not having eaten or had any real water for like two days, Jacob being a shithead, the "sees love interest in x state of undress" trope, YOU NAME IT. When does the fun stop?? We'll never know. tl;dr Elliot pops off like 6 times and honestly, who’s surprised anymore.

I hope you guys enjoy, it feels a bit like this chapter got away from me and not a lot of exciting stuff happens but it did feel important to have this lull of a chapter between all the action and drama. Thank you, as always, to my angel @starcrier the best proof-reader a girl could ask for an also a remarkably thoughtful and sweet friend who for some reasons decides to bless me with her presence to this day.

Thank you so much to everyone who comments, reads, reblogs, likes--all of it is always cherished by me, and it really does inspire me to keep going. <3

tagging my lover my life my shawty my wife @empirics bc she still wanna go here even when i babble at her nonstop

John had hoped that Elliot would go to sleep, but he knew the chances of that happening were slim to none and he wasn’t surprised when, out of what he could only assume was pure spite and anger, she stayed awake the entire drive to the compound. She stayed awake through John recounting what they had experienced of the cult already, what they knew about Faith; Elliot stayed oddly silent, in the way that swelled with the knowledge that she probably knew more than what she was letting on, but John didn’t push.

Jacob stuck to the side roads, the back roads, keeping them as far from the most populated areas as possible: and John could see that it drove Elliot batty, knowing they could just stop at Fall’s End. The radio’s gospel songs echoed eerily in the cab of the truck. After about five minutes of it playing—and, coincidentally, about two minutes after Elliot had smoked down the entirety of her first cigarette—she blurted out, “Can you turn that shit off?”

“Why?” Jacob asked evenly, and John passed a hand over his face tiredly as he heard Elliot take in a huge breath, as though she needed to make sure she properly had enough oxygen to spit her venom out.

As John began tiredly, “Deputy, mind yourself and close your mouth,” Elliot bulldozed him to say, “Because I’ve got a head wound that seems to get exacerbated by idiotic cultists,” their voices once again overlapping until their words strangled each other, Elliot glaring at John. He really wished she would stop looking so betrayed when he took the side of one of his brothers; it wasn’t as though she and him had ever really felt like a team , anyway.

Except for the ranch, dispatching of those Swedes in tandem. And except for when they’d been driving, and Elliot had actually looked happy for a second, even with their hands cuffed together. And except for—

Knock that shit off, John thought to himself, just in time for Joseph to say, “It seems as though your time together has made an improvement on your temperament, Deputy Honeysett.”

“What gave you that impression?” Elliot prompted, despite John’s not-so-subtle pleading look.

“Well,” Joseph continued, “we always do try to have faith , you know, especially in our brother. But considering the animalistic state you were delivered to him in, I would have expected much more poor behavior out of you.” A gentle smile tugged at his lips, an expression John could see reflected in the rearview mirror. “I like to see the impact he’s had on you.”

John couldn’t quite sort out how he felt about his brother’s words. He wanted to be proud; he wanted to think, yes, see? I’ve tamed her, the hellcat, look at her keeping her hands to herself. He wanted to, but there was a complicated feeling wound up in it, because he saw the way Joseph’s words struck Elliot, the way they collapsed the iron-clad battlements of her expression, the way they folded her up and crushed them in his proverbial fist. It was exactly what Joseph did; disarmed, unwound, pulled each tangling thread until they were so knotted all you could do was cut it out.

So yes, John felt an immediate burst of pride in his chest at Joseph’s words, and that pride was almost instantly wiped away at the look on Elliot’s face. It was as though she couldn’t stand the idea that he had made an impression on her, in any way. Disgust, he thought, fending off the insult of her abhorrence of his influence, hatred. She has always been spiteful and venomous, underneath it all.

“Just wait until you outgrow your usefulness, Seed,” Elliot managed out, her voice crackling with something violent. “You’re the only one I want to see dead before I hand you over to the government.”

Joseph rolled his window down. “I see that your manners still need some polishing, though.”

Elliot looked at John. Her gaze was hard, but he returned it nonetheless, expectantly. She asked, “Proud of yourself, are you?”

“Elliot,” John began, moderating his voice so that he didn’t sound as pleased as he felt (and of course he didn’t know why he was doing that; there was no reason he should work so hard to preserve Elliot’s feelings, and yet… ) so that she wouldn’t be right about him, “it doesn’t…”

“Shut up,” the blonde snapped. Her voice rattled, with anger and with the sick inside of her. She pressed herself back into the corner of the bench seat in the back; she looked like she wanted to melt into the truck’s frame. “I’m fucking tired of your voice.”

“Watch your mouth,” Jacob said from the front seat.

“You shouldn’t be smoking,” John interjected tartly, feeling himself scramble for something—anything—that felt like normal between them again; the normal that had happened with being forced into each other’s company. “Not until you get better. You still sound sick.”

“ You got those cigarettes for me,” Elliot quipped, vitriolic, “and what the fuck isn’t clear about shut up?”

As soon as the words left her mouth Jacob pushed on the brakes, hard, the movement slamming the back of her head against the window in the back of the truck. The blonde let out a volley of swears, her hand flying to the back of her head instantly.

Jacob said, his voice prickling with hostility, “I told you to watch your mouth.”

“Jacob—” John began, having braced himself against the driver’s seat, but he could already feel Elliot seething.

“You fuckhead ,” Elliot bit out, spiteful as ever, her fingers coming away sticky and crimson. “You absolute piece of—”

“Jacob,” Joseph murmured, “let’s not waste time on the road.”

“Elliot, stop squirming,” John insisted, his voice more urgent now. “You’re going to get blood everywhere.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, is it inconvenient for you that your brother reopened my fucking head wound ?”

“That isn’t what I meant,” John growled. “Stop squirming.”

His voice came out more authoritative than he had intended, wound up-tight and hard by the antagonizing nature of Elliot and Jacob’s exchange. The blonde’s jaw clenched, but she stilled; his hands went to her face, tilting her head so that he could take a look at the wound. Reopened, yes, but only just.

“Don’t move,” John said firmly. He could feel Joseph’s eyes on him, and he thought he knew what he was thinking—that once again, he had reaffirmed Joseph’s words, that he had made some kind of an impression on her, that had he told Elliot two days ago to stand still so he could look at a wound that she probably would have sunk her teeth into his arm like a wild animal.

“Didn’t grab any bandages when we were at the ranch, huh?” John asked, trying at something closer to civil.

“I wasn’t thinking particularly beyond bare necessities,” Elliot replied dryly, her voice muffled by her chin tucked against her chest. John made a noise of agreement—he hadn’t thought to grab any, either, having anticipated they’d get the fuck out and be at the compound by now—and sighed a little.

“Well, let’s rip your shirt.”

“Why aren’t we ripping your shirt?” Elliot prompted, and John blinked at her incredulously.

“Do you have any idea how much this shirt costs?”

“Oh, you pretentious little manchild —”

“Fine!”

John didn’t rip his shirt. Instead, he peeled the shirt off, shrugging out of it and folding it to press the gathering of fabric to the wound. Elliot straightened back up into a sitting position, reaching up; her fingers fluttered over John’s, almost shyly, replacing the pressure of his hand with her own so that he could pull away and let her hold it herself.

“You should have just ripped it,” Elliot said, her eyes flickering over him before she caught herself and looked away. Were John not convinced she was running a fever, he might have thought he saw her blushing. All the same, he felt the corners of his mouth tick in something close to a smile.

“It’s easier to scrub blood out than it is to stitch it back together.”

“That’s our John,” Joseph acquiesced from the front sagely. “Ever-giving.” He paused, tilting his head to peer at Elliot and John in the back, “All we ask for is a little civility, deputy. After all, it is our sister that’s been kidnapped.”

Elliot replied, “You seem very concerned about that.” And then, “By the way, they have Joey too, which wouldn’t have happened if you didn’t pass her off to this idiot,” and she jerked her thumb at John.

“If they wanted to kill Faith, they would have already,” Jacob replied, hitting the bridge to the island and flipping the cruise control on as he blithely ignored her comment about Hudson. “Since she was alive when the two of you saw her. Isn’t that right?”

Elliot muttered something of an agreement, as though Jacob were not saying the things she had already said, as though she so desperately did not want to agree with him about something that she would rather choke on her own words than say it out loud.

“We have some search parties sent out,” Jacob continued, his steely gaze sweeping across the road as he flicked the turn signal on—certainly, pure habit at this point. “To pin them down. Once we have them located, we can work on getting Faith back and wiping them out.”

The blonde beside him was quiet, now. As Jacob pulled the truck into the compound—which looked nothing short of a ghost town, now—John glanced over at her again, nursing the wound with his shirt. She looked only tired, as though she’d spent all of her energy in just this car ride alone.

Jacob put the truck into park and turned it off; as they filed out of the car, John swept his gaze over the compound; everything seemed peaceful, as if nothing were happening, a low breeze drifting over the houses and church while the early afternoon sun drenched it in a harsh, unforgiving light. Though it was quiet, the stillness of the compound unsettled him, and the knowledge that many of their followers had been tucked away in the bunkers for safekeeping made his skin crawl.

“John.” Joseph’s voice shook him out of his thoughts. “Why don’t you take our dear deputy to one of the guesthouses to get settled in? There’s no reason why she can’t rest while we’re getting the radios set up to contact her...” His voice trailed off as he seemed to search for a word, and then eventually mustered up, “Friends.

“I’m not your dear anything,” Elliot said slamming the truck door behind her. Joseph’s lips quirked in a small, muted smile, his eyes beneath the yellow lenses of his glasses nearly unreadable.

“Not yet,” Joseph relented.

John's hand reached Elliot’s shoulder. “Come on,” he said, shaking the way Joseph’s pinning gaze unsettled him, just a little, like there was nothing that was happening that his brother wasn’t cataloging for later.

“Don’t touch me,” she muttered, shrugging his hand off of her but following him nonetheless. John could hear his brothers exchanging words in low voices on their way into the church, and that little sting in his chest lingered, more firmly: the idea that Joseph was pawning off responsibility to him to make him feel like he was doing something important remained.

Elliot pushed the door to a guest house open. “You really just took your whole shirt off instead of ripping a little piece, huh?” she said. It might have been her attempt at casual conversation, but John couldn’t say for sure. It was always so hard to tell what was going to trip that hairpin trigger into enemy territory again.

“It’s Versace, Elliot.”

“Oh, boo .” She pulled it away from her head. “I think you just wanted a reason to be shirtless in front of me.”

John blinked. He didn’t know what to say to that, the most friendly, nearly flirty thing Elliot Honeysett had said to him in many years—which was saying a lot, considering the last time they had spoken in a friendly manner, she’d hardly said more than a stammer of a sentence to him before Joey Hudson swept her away.

“Wouldn’t you like that?” he managed out after a moment, taking the shirt back from her as he got his mental footing back. “I saw you looking. No need to be shy about it, though—we’ve already established you find me handsome.”

Elliot scoffed, but he saw her face flood with red just before she turned away, pacing to the bathroom at the back of the house. “Found, once, years ago,” she said over her shoulder. “Don’t let it inflate your ego, Seed.”

He called after her, “Too late,” and she slammed the bathroom door; the very definitive sound of the shower running echoed in the empty house, and John exhaled a small breath in relief.

As he inspected the bloodstain that had gathered on the front of the shirt, he felt a pleasant little thrill in his chest; a stain was a small price to pay for having made Elliot squirm her way out of that conversation, he supposed, and he remembered the way Joseph had said, I like to see the impact he’s had on you.

Not so wild now, John thought, are you, hellcat?

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The benefits of a hot shower were never to be underestimated.

Though Elliot had gone into her shower feeling bedraggled, worn down, furious, and more than unseated—both by Joseph’s assertion that there was a yet to be had with the friendliness of their relations, but also by John’s casual confidence in her attraction to him.

She wasn’t attracted to him. John had held her under like he was going to drown her, really drown her. He’d wanted to tattoo wrath right on her chest.

Elliot’s fingers fluttered over the spot where John’s had dragged, just a day or so ago now, as he said, I think it’ll fit nicely right here, don’t you think? Maybe just over her heart. The same place dream-John had touched, the same place her skin had been burning when flower-eyed John, spilling petals from his mouth, had gripped her face in his hands.

They were getting mixed up in her head now, all of these Johns: the John she had spooned for warmth with in the forest, the John that hadn’t complained when she anchored her fingers into his arm for steadiness, the John that held each side of her face while her body and mind split, somewhere in the middle, bringing her back down before she slipped away permanently; they all wove and intermingled themselves with the others that she knew, the Johns that kidnapped her friends or kidnapped her or held her under or leered at her in a bar when she was young.

It was almost— almost —romantic, the kind of ferocious dichotomy she would have read in a book somewhere, sometime, in a place where she still had the leisure to do something like that: read a book, take a nap, browse television channels.

Almost, but not quite, because there was and could never be something romantic about John Seed.

Elliot startled out of her thoughts when someone knocked on the bathroom door, the sound echoing in the small bathroom much louder than she thought the knocks would have actually been.

“You’re not climbing through the window right now, are you?” John’s voice came through the door. Elliot quickly wiped the amusement she felt creeping into her face and ducked her head under the water, the heat of it stinging her wound in a sort of catharsis.

“If I was,” Elliot called back, “what would you do?”

“Very funny, Elliot.” And then: “I’d probably kick this door down.”

“How very caveman.”

“Well, you know—desperate times. Plus, I hear women like that kind of thing.”

She rubbed her face with both hands to stop the smile tugging at her mouth. She had to keep focused: she had to remember the way John had practically glowed, radioactive with pride at Joseph’s praise that he’d made an impact on her, that he was changing her. For the better, they thought. For them. Elliot had hardly seen John around his brothers, but the short amount of time that she had (and wasn’t drugged out of her mind) it had become very clear to her that the relationship between them wasn’t as easy to swallow as she would have thought.

But it was easy, when she was given the luxury of a hot shower that molded all of her muscles into relaxation, to feel like they were on a team. It was easy—especially when John had handled her so carefully, like his hands hadn’t inflicted pain on numerous other people, like he hadn’t carved sin after sin into flesh as a macabre brand. Easy, Elliot thought, willing herself to turn off the hot water, because she couldn’t stay in a shower forever. Easy to forget. I can’t forget what’s happened.

“Any chance you’ve got some jeans out there?” Elliot said, stepping out of the shower and finding a clean (clean?) towel hanging; she didn’t have much time to be picky, so she wrapped it around herself and squeezed some of the water out of her hair. Outside, she could hear John stomping around, fumbling through things, and once she’d gotten mostly dried off she opened the door.

“Oh,” John said, like he hadn’t been expecting her, standing just a foot away from the door and holding a collection of clothes in his arms. Jeans, it looked like, and a few shirts. His own shirt was back on, the dark bloodstain turning the navy blue nearly black on the front.

“Oh?” Elliot prompted. She held her hand out for the clothes while the other kept the towel in place.

“It’s just that you look...” He paused, and then handed her the clothes, regarding her almost warily. “You look—”

And he stopped again, and Elliot thought, well go on, spit it out, then, her eyebrows arching upward expectantly.

“Nice,” he said after a moment. As though catching himself, he amended, “Normal, I mean.”

Elliot’s expression deadpanned. “I am normal, John. You’re the one that’s part of a cult, remember?”

He squinted his eyes at her. The spell was broken; the clock had struck midnight; he was no longer enchanted with her, numerous days of grime scrubbed off of her body.

Rather than argue the logistics of his family’s venture being a cult or not, John said, “Change quick, it shouldn’t take long for them to get the radio ready.”

“Yes, boss,” Elliot replied demurely, mimicking the words he’d used when she’d told him to shut up and be a good blanket. John’s eyes flashed to her face and then away, but she didn’t spend too long trying to parse out what his expression was; she closed the door and busied herself with shimmying into the clothes, leftovers from Eden’s Gate members, it seemed. Relatively clean, too, considering she usually saw peggies in various states of disarray and neglect.

After she’d pulled the rest of her clothes on, the white shirt—clearly meant for a man—nearly swallowing her up, she kicked the old, dirty clothes out of the way and opened the door.

“Would you have really kicked the door down if I was climbing through the window?” Elliot asked, scrunching her hair. The back of her head throbbed, but in a pleasant way; the wound had been thoroughly rinsed, and though it still ached from Jacob’s foot slamming the brakes, she didn’t think it was concussive. Yet.

John leaned against the door, regarded her with a dry expression. “Why?” he asked. She opened the door from the “guest house”—it was really more a bunkhouse than anything—and shrugged.

“I hear women like that kind of thing.”

A swift, easy breeze drifted through the doorway as Elliot stepped outside, taking one moment—just one moment—to close her eyes, and breathe, and think, I’m so close, Joey, to rescuing you. I’m so close, I swear I’m on my way to you. Please, just hold out for a little longer.

“—than woman.” John’s voice rattled around in her head, and she opened her eyes looking at him over her shoulder.

“What was that?” she asked.

He sidled up behind her, his hands in his pockets, and bent just a little at the waist so he could say into her ear, “I said, it’s a good thing you’re more devil than woman,” and against the wishes of her mind, the skin of her neck prickled with goosebumps.

She scrunched her shoulder up to her ear to fend him off. “That’s right, John,” she replied evenly, “I am a devil, and don’t you forget it.”

Elliot saw movement out of the corner of her eye, her body stiffening a little before she turned her gaze and saw that it was Joseph, standing at the steps of the church.

“Children,” he called, his voice welling with some kind of emotion that Elliot couldn’t quite pin down—perhaps amusement, or something else. “Are you done? The radio is ready for you, deputy.”

“Born done with this one,” Elliot replied, feeling the small smile that had been fighting its way onto her face slip from her features. There was just something about Joseph that put her on edge; every second she spent in her presence reminded her of the way he’d looked at her, that night in the church, when he’d said, God will not let you take me.

Like she was the only person in the room. Like she was the only person that had mattered.

Elliot liked to think that she was not the kind of person that would be so easily won over by a cult—but she also knew that they looked for people like her, people with a history of trauma, people who had fewer parents than a child ought to have, people whose one functioning parent was only barely functioning and only crested the standard when they had a few drinks in them. She was exactly the kind of person that Joseph nurtured, cradled, forgave, and she thought that for a second in that church, that night, she had thought about how nice it would be to feel that. Once.

But she had a family, and people who cared about her and relied on her and would miss her. Like Joey.

With long strides, she crossed the small courtyard to the church and stopped in front of Joseph, waiting for him to move aside so that she could go in.

“Feeling better?” Joseph asked her mildly, and when he didn’t move aside she shouldered past him. “You look like one of us.”

“Peachy,” Elliot replied flatly; she purposefully ignored his last words, rinsing them away by focusing on the task at hand. The inside of the church was dim, with only the Eden’s Gate window at the back. Her stomach dropped unpleasantly; a surge of panic washed through her, and she was suddenly reminded of the feeling of Eden’s Gate members shoving past her, watching her through fringes of dark, dirty hair, and Joseph, hands outstretched, waiting.

And John, prowling in the background, ever a predator waiting for his prey.

Joseph brushed past her, walking down between the rows of seating to where Jacob had set up a table, the radio crackling as he adjusted some settings on it. Elliot pushed her way down as well, hating that her steps faltered, that Jacob’s piercing eyes caught every step that didn’t quite hit the way that she wanted it to. Behind her, she heard the easy, confident cadence of John’s steps, the door to the outside shutting.

For the first time since getting in the truck, Elliot felt like she was in the belly of the beast. If only, a voice inside of her said, if only you had known this then, instead of now.

“Well,” Jacob said, “are you going to call them or not?”

She snatched the radio out of his outstretched hand, her heart hammering in her chest. So close; she was so close. If she wanted to, she could tell Jerome and the others where she was, flush the Seeds out well and good once and for all.

But she couldn’t, because she still needed them. At least, she needed one of them, to get Joey back.

Elliot adjusted the settings on the radio to the proper channels, swallowing thickly, and hit the button on the side. Joseph lingered under the window, a few feet away, his back to her; behind her, she heard John’s steps pacing closer to her.

The radio clicked, static buzzing patiently on the end. Her mouth felt dry. “Jerome?” she asked, tentatively into the static. “Jerome, do you—read? It’s me.” And then, quickly and feeling like an idiot, “Elliot, I mean. It’s me, Elliot.”

Silence stretched on the other side for just a moment. Then, the static crackled, and a familiar voice broke over the radio, “Elliot? It’s so good to hear your voice again. Thank God, we were—” Jerome’s voice broke up a little, and then picked up, “—about you. Where are you? Did you get away from John?”

Relief immediately flooded her system, the sensation almost painful; her heart thudded painfully against her chest, and she gripped the table with her free hand to keep herself steady.

“I—” Elliot paused. Her gaze flickered to John, who now lingered to the right of her; Jacob loomed to the left, and Joseph, ever the pinnacle, ever the point of the pyramid, just in front of her. The closest to heaven.

John’s gaze weighed down on her, pinning her, so that instinctively she wanted to squirm right out of it.

“—I’m okay, don't worry about me," she said after a moment. "I'm on my way to get Joey. Jerome, I need you to listen to me."

“Tell me where you are,” Jerome insisted, his voice crackling through the radio with urgency. “We’ll help you get Hudson back. It’s been quiet, here.”

John rolled his eyes, barely veiling his contempt. Elliot shot him a look and cleared her throat, trying to ignore the way that the pastor’s words clutched and pulled at her heart. Jerome’s voice was like a balm to her nerves; she realized, quite suddenly, how much she actually missed being around people who weren’t the Seeds, or members of Eden’s Gate—someone who actually cared about her.

“Please listen to me,” she tried again. “There’s someone else here. A different group, a new—cult. They’re here and I think they’re going to wipe everyone out. I don’t have a lot of time to explain, but you need to take everyone out of Fall’s End and get them out of here, okay? Everyone, and just evacuate as fast as you can.”

“What? Elliot, what are you talking about? ” Jerome’s voice faltered for a moment, and then he said, “Please don’t try and Atlas this thing, deputy.”

Elliot pressed her hand to her forehead. When she lifted her head, Jacob’s eyes were fixed on her, and he said, “Two minutes, deputy.”

Of course, she thought, both exhausted and infuriated. This fucking Darwinian psycho wouldn’t want to give them a fighting chance. "There wasn't a fucking time limit on this radio call before."

"You're calling the people that want us dead," Jacob deadpanned. "One minute."

Elliot wanted to say that not even a full minute had passed, but she knew better. She bit down on her cheek until she tasted cooper, trying to refocus her attention.

“There’s no time, Jerome,” she insisted, talking faster now as the proverbial clock ticked down. “Take everyone from Fall’s End and leave, okay? I’m getting Joey and we’ll meet up with you a town over, or further way—just don’t stop driving. I can’t explain anymore. I have to go. Jerome?”

There was no answer on the other end for a minute; she could picture Jerome and Mary May arguing back and forth about what they needed to do for this, for her, and her heart ached a little in her chest. Finally, his voice crackled through: “I hear you, but Elliot—let one of us come and help. We’ll get you and Joey out of here.”

“Give Mary May a hug for me, okay? And get Dutch, and everyone, and get the fuck out of here.”

“Elliot.” Jerome’s voice had changed. Her hand had gone to turn the radio off, but it stilled. “Tell me you’re alright and mean it.”

It wasn’t his Resistance Business voice, anymore, and nor was it his pastor voice. It was his dad voice, firm and unrelenting, but not unkind. It welled with gentle affection.

Elliot felt her vision wobble a little. It was embarrassing, that Jerome could disarm her this far away, without seeing her or knowing what the last two days had been. She swallowed thickly and ducked her head against her chest a little when her breath shuddered in her chest.

“We’re worried about you, kid. All of us.”

“Deputy,” Jacob said, impatient, and Jerome continued, “You can tell me if it’s not okay.”

“I’m alright,” she managed out into the radio, willing the tears back away, back from where they had come from. “I’m alright, Jerome, I promise. Please get everyone out of here.”

She put the radio back down on the table and switched it off; she exhaled sharply, once, through her nose. Her chest felt tight, and her body ached, every muscle and tendon and joint in her body feeling deeply bruised. She thought, for one awful, terrible moment, that she might actually start crying right here in front of all of the men she least wanted to do that in front of.

“I guess we’ll see if they make it out,” Jacob said, his voice painstakingly casual and clipped all at once. Elliot felt something hot and sticky flare in her chest, like all of the oxygen had been sucked right out of the air around her. "And if they don't, well—probably means they weren't ever meant to."

She didn’t want to think about the Resistance not making it out; she didn’t want to think about the slow, oozing creep of the cult sidling up on them, of Ase’s fingers on their faces, lovingly planting their gutted corpses with fresh, vibrant blooms.

“Shut the fuck up,” she managed out, her voice wobbling. Jacob’s mouth curved at the corner into something like a wicked smile; he might have been infuriated by her petulance, she thought, if her voice wasn’t thick and wet with unshed tears. She straightened up, digging her nails into her palms, thinking, I could kill him right now, wrap my hands right around that big neanderthal neck and strangle the life right out of him.

But she couldn’t, even if at that moment she really wanted to, because talking to Jerome for even that short time had reminded her about what it felt like to have people around her that cared about her; it had reminded her about being around people that she trusted, that trusted her, that shared the same beliefs. That wanted to take care of her.

She had almost forgotten that, being handcuffed to John Seed for almost two days straight.

“We’ll pray for their safe departure, of course,” Joseph said. His words echoed, tinny and hollow, in her head. She blinked furiously. Elliot was only vaguely aware of John pacing back across the room and saying something to her, but she couldn’t hear what it was; not really.

I am so tired, she thought, over the sound of John talking to her. I am so tired, and I want to go home.

“When will your peggies be back?” she asked, interrupting the sound of Jacob and John blustering back and forth. Joseph paused, and then cocked his head at Jacob expectantly. She waited for one more beat and then said, louder and with more fervent impatience, “I said, when will your little cockroaches be back from finding Joey and Faith?”

Jacob replied, bitingly, “Within the next few hours. They’re going to pin down a location and get back to us.”

“Great.” Elliot turned on her heel, marching herself down the same hallway that just a little over a week ago, she had been walking down with Burke and Whitehorse. “Fuck off until then, you piece of shit.”

It felt like her lungs might burst, or her heart might beat right out of her chest, before she made it out of the stifling darkness of the church. She pushed the door open and hurried outside to take a lungful of fresh air, air unpopulated and unshared with Seed boys.

I’m just one girl. The thought was a desperate one, one that turned over and over again in her mind. That these things were just happening to her, that she had no agency in her life, that it might always be like this. Forever. I’m just one girl.

Elliot walked to the bunkhouse, pushing each step into the dirt in the hopes of feeling more grounded, each breath of air slowly bringing her back to the earth. When she made it inside, she closed the door quickly behind her and paced, rubbing her face. The bunkhouse no longer felt surprisingly clean. It only served as a reminder of where she was, where she wasn’t, where she might never go again.

She pushed her hands against her face until spiderwebs crawled behind her eyelids. They blistered, red fractals of light swimming in her non-vision. She was only a girl, and she was alone—no family and no friends nearby to help, and that was supposed to be good; if Jerome listened to her, they'd be out of Hope County within a few hours.

There was no more room for error. Fall's End evacuating meant there was no rescue party coming, in spite of her words. It meant that she was really only going to get one shot at getting in and getting out, for good. Get Joey, get Boomer, get out. Period.

The door clicked open. Footsteps echoed against the hollow wooden flooring. It was John; she could tell by the way he walked. “Elliot.”

It wasn’t a question; it was a statement, not a how are you, but something else, something that Elliot didn’t know what he meant and or what he was saying or what he thought to gain from it. Did he ever do anything that didn't have any personal gain for him?

“John,” Elliot said, her hands pressed into her face, “can you just leave? I am so tired of hearing your voice.”

“Elliot,” John said again, “take a breath.”

“I am breathing, you fuckhead,” she snapped viciously, turning to face him—John, in his stupid fucking designer shirt, his head cocked to the side as he watched her, the venom in her voice landing but not hitting the way it should have. “Do you have any idea what it’s like to be alone? Really, truly alone? Like, for fucking good, unless by some godforsaken miracle your insane brothers don’t kill me as soon as I’ve served the purpose of fetching Faith back.”

“I do," John replied angrily, "and they don’t want to—”

“Oh fuck off, John.” She raked her fingers through her hair. There was a nasty, wicked monster, crawling up from through her, fingers sliding between the slats of her ribs to get a good grip. “You should see yourself whenever Joseph says anything. You practically fall over to kiss the ground he fucking walks on, and for what? For him to give you a little pat on the head? You’d do absolutely anything he asked you to. You’re fucking pathetic.”

That hit the way she wanted to. She saw the hurt slide across John’s face, and then the anger, a power-point presentation on How To Make One Man Hate You.

“You have a lot of nerve, deputy,” John bit out (and she didn’t miss the way he no longer was using her name, like he wanted to distance himself from her), “to talk to me like that, given that you would probably be lying dead in a field with flowers coming out of your eyes without me. Not to mention that you need us to get your little friend Hudson back—”

“It’s your fucking fault!”

She felt the rasp in her throat, the claws of sickness shredding her delicate insides as her voice flexed painfully in volume. John was staring at her, and she thought, I have to stop yelling, I have to stop, this is just what they want, for me to lose control, but she couldn’t, the words welling up inside of her, wrecked and vicious, and she felt like all of the blood had fled from her hands and feet; she was ice, now, frigid and unyielding.

John’s mouth twisted, like he was shaping the words he wanted to say before he said them. He started, less heated this time, “Elliot—”

“It’s your fault,” she interrupted, clenching her fists at her sides until her hands itched and burned with the intense need for circulation. “It’s your fault—I should—I should be leaving with Fall’s End and leaving this absolute fucking nightmare behind, or—or maybe that shouldn’t be happening at all because this is my fucking home and you and your stupid family took that from me, and I fucking hate you, John Seed, John Duncan, whatever the fuck your name is, whoever the fuck you are, I don’t care and I hate you!”

He stepped forward, his hands lifted, like he was going to touch her; perhaps rest his hands on her shoulders, take her face the way he’d grown so accustomed to doing when her breathing shallowed and her eyes unfocused. But she pushed his arms out of her immediate vision, and while infuriatingly he didn’t get out of her space she still bit out, crushing the words on their way past her teeth, “Don’t fucking touch me, John,” and his hands dropped back to his sides.

She tried to ignore the strange, fleeting disappointment: as though she had been anticipating his grounding touch, as though she had wanted it, her body betraying her words and her head.

No more, she thought through the haze in her mind, no more of that.

He shifted on his feet. “You’re tired,” he said after a moment, which sounded not like the thing that he wanted to say but instead the thing that he decided was safe. “You should rest. The search parties will be back soon, and you’ll need to be at full capacity.”

Elliot stared at the bloodstain on his shirt. It felt like all of her insides had been scooped out, emptying her; her stomach twisted, both with anxiety and hunger.

“Yeah,” she replied numbly. “Alright, John.”

He turned on his heel, walking through the door to the bunkhouse and letting it swing shut behind him. The room felt colder without another human body in there; emptier, lonelier. Elliot sat herself down on the wooden floor and pushed her face into her knees.

This wasn’t supposed to be me. Her ears rang, her heart thudding painfully in her chest, a black stone falling over and over until her ribs bruised and cracked. This wasn’t supposed to be my life.

She closed her eyes tight, arms looped around her knees, pressed against the wall of the bunkhouse, and willed herself to sleep.

#far cry 5 #john seed/deputy #john seed/ofc #far cry fic #ch: john seed #fic: ancient names #otp: death keep off; i am your enemy #ch: elliot honeysett

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sirsharp-a · 4 years

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My Conscience is Clean. ❜

Summary: Edgar can be an idiot but God was a bigger one this time around. Warnings: Brief mentions of abuse/sexual assault, though nothing in detail Parts: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 ( here! ) |

His grief was insurmountable.

“I trust you have made your peace with the end,” Raku said as tentatively as he could, small form gradually sinking until he could sit next to Edgar at the edge of No Man’s Bluff. The ground was cold. The moon, round and full, gave off a ghostly glow. Their silhouettes looked borderline comedic beside one another, one tall and distinctive while the other was a short stubby mass.

The lye was silent for a while, black eyes affixed on the abyss in front of him. To him, it was like staring into a mirror. In a voice filled with vitriol: “... rest assured, there will be no peace.”

I will linger in the void as a ghost. My spite will blacken your name, enter your blood as venom.

“Edgar…” The deity sighed, eyes closing tiredly. “This is the best way forward. You know that I do not want to do this.”

“I don’t want to hear it,” he spat. In the moment, his words were more poisonous than he was. “Just get this over with. There is nothing I can do. Screaming and crying about it will only make me look weaker. I am not weak.”

The last thing he wanted to do was sit there and accept it, but he knew deep down that there was truly no way to avoid this outcome. The God had already made up his mind, and he was powerless to stop the chain of events that would ultimately result in his demise. He had spent millennia outfoxing the smartest of people: white collar criminals who had the money to buy their freedom whenever they screwed up; threatening organised gang units who didn’t fear the law; other lyes that were, at least on surface level, ‘more’ than he was. This, though… this was a fight that he could not win. There was no element of chess, no wit to be challenged - there was fate, and there was a cold chasm, and that was that.

Grace…

Every time her name resurfaced in his brain, his heart began to ache all over again. It hadn’t stopped since their last night together, her touch both soothing and scalding as he revelled in its undeniable purity, but thinking of her made it hurt more. Though he tried ever so hard not to, he couldn’t help but yearn for her.

How could I let myself fall in love again? How could I let my feelings be returned? How could I even think about leaving her behind?

There has to be SOMETHING I can do-- -- there’s nothing I can do.

An ear twitched as his maker’s voice drew him back to the present. He found Raku floating in front of him, held aloft by unbridled power, short black legs slightly bent as he relaxed above the open pit as if suspended by string cast down from the Heavens. “... pardon?”

“Kneel,” he repeated, gesturing to the ground with his head.

After a moment of hesitation, Edgar realised that he was on his feet. He didn’t remember getting up, nor did he recall having the strength to do so. This entire thing has taken a toll on me. I’m not weak but I feel it. I feel so wrought with depression and anguish that I don’t want to move. Every time I need to get up, there’s a great ache in my bones that won’t dissipate.

Edgar shook his head. “No.”

He felt it then: a steady pressure making a home on his shoulders. It was light at first, though the longer he remained standing, the more harsh it became. Eventually, he was trembling with the effort it took to remain upright, legs wobbling like jelly before a final barrage of metaphysical energy saw them giving out beneath him, knees hitting the cold rock formation beneath him with a dull thud. A flush of shame coated the back of his neck, teeth bared in a furious snarl as he glared up at the deity.

“I said kneel.”

“Fuck what you said,” Edgar growled, bile transforming into a tiny ball of molten venom. Without thinking, the lye spat it at the saviour, eyes flashing a menacing white as he did. It shot a clean hole through the deity’s robe, material fizzling with raw energy, and the shocked sound that he made sent a bolt of pleasure through Edgar’s core. “I won’t ask for forgiveness, even though my end is nigh. I don’t require it. My conscience is clean.”

I’m not your bitch. I’ll never be your bitch. You may take my life but you will never take my rage.

He zoned out again. Even when the God glowed a bright white light that hurt his eyes, he remained unresponsive, refusing to give him even an ounce more of his acknowledgement. How dare you try to take what you didn’t help me to get? You don’t deserve my tears, or my pleas, or my apologies. I’ll never--

“Stop!”

-- stop, I’ll never stop, I’ll--

… stop?

As Edgar’s head slowly inclined, he realised that Raku was no longer looking at him but off to the side, large blade seemingly crafted out of pure light held stationary above his head. Gradually, Edgar’s line of sight followed suit, landing on none other than Grace. Could you feel my longing? Is that what led you to me?

Simultaneously:

“Who are you?” “Grace…”

When she was close enough to the scene, her form shifted, golden hair and striking blue eyes replacing her animalistic visage as she skidded to a stop beside her lover. Even on his knees, he was more than half of her height.

“What’re you doing?” the Alpha asked through clenched teeth, feeling a searing pain blooming in his chest. Not only was it shameful to be seen in such a defeated position, he couldn’t bear to make her watch him die. You seeing me take my final breath… it will change you.

“I read your stupid letter--” she seethed, looking at him with such scorn that it burned. Though he opened his mouth to speak, she cut him off: “How could you address that to me?! You idiot--”

“Grace--”

“YOU IDIOT--” She had a funny way of making him feel grateful for having his intelligence demeaned, but in this case it only wounded him. It wasn’t even the insult to his pride that stung-- it was the tears welling up in her eyes, the strong woman that he knew crumbling at the seams. He couldn’t enjoy her misery in the same way that he could other peoples’. Grace Adler in tears was a heart-breaking sight to behold, one that chewed at what little was left of his heart. Please stop. Please, please don’t cry.

Grace sank to her knees in front of him, ignoring Raku completely, trembling hands reaching up to cup the sides of Edgar’s face. “You can’t go. You can’t.” She fought against the gentle coil of his fingers around her wrists, refusing to allow him to guide her away from him. “Y-You can’t confess your feelings to me and then just vanish… y-you can’t do that, Eddie… please don’t do that to me…”

“I don’t have a choice--”

“You have a choice!” Beneath it all, she knew that what he was saying was true. She just didn’t want to accept it. He’s wonderful, powerful, smart as can be… but that’s nothing to a God. Bitterly, fingers lightly digging into his skin: “I won’t forgive you if you do this to me. I won’t.”

The change in his face shattered her in two. She witnessed the last little spark of hope in his eyes die, brows arching as he stared at her wordlessly, helplessly. His dim gaze averted sullenly from hers, focused on the dead rock beneath him. In a tight voice: “... I suppose that is what I deserve.”

“Edgar…”

Her ears swivelled the opposite way when she heard shifting behind her.

“Grace…” Despite his self-righteousness, Raku’s voice was soft. “Please step aside. Don’t make this any more difficult than it needs to be.”

“I refuse to leave him alone,” she hissed, glaring daggers at him as soon as she’d turned her head. Though she could feel Edgar’s hand pressing gently against her side, as if urging her away from him, she remained adamantly in place. Teeth were bared in a defensive snarl, venom pooling at the corners of her mouth. “I WON’T let you take him from me!”

That seemed to startle the deity somewhat. Slowly, his weapon was lowered to his side, glowing blade matching the pallid white of his robe. The hole that Edgar had made was now gone, no evidence of his defiance left behind.

“I understand that you’re angry... but you don’t see the big picture, Grace,” Raku began solemnly, stance now more open and patient. “His continued existence is dangerous. He is living on borrowed time. He--”

“I DON’T CARE.” The woman stood up with a stomp of her feet, fiery indignation threatening to burn her alive. Even in her fury, she knew that she was behaving rashly. This was her creator… her maker; the one she would answer to when all was said and done. Nevertheless, her life was as good as over if she lost Edgar now. It had been so long since she had been granted happiness; whether his behaviour was birthed out of lust and a desire to meddle with her feelings or not, it didn’t matter. The end result was something real; something that, now that she’d felt it, she couldn’t live without. “A-All of your excuses… every single one of them, they’re not good enough for me. CHOKE ON THEM!”

As much as she resented it, she could feel herself getting emotional. Her eyes burned; her throat felt tight; her heart ached so fiercely that she felt it would burst. Arms wrapped around herself, squeezing her frame tight as she tried to resist the urge to scream-- to jump off of the edge of the bluff-- to hurl herself at her lord and saviour and send them both spiralling into the dark below.

“It feels like you don’t see the big picture,” she uttered ruefully, voice wobbling, nails digging into her arms as she shook. Though Raku was barely over a foot tall, his effortless hover made her feel small in his wake, like an ant staring up at an incoming boot. “If you did, you’d know that killing Edgar is just as dangerous. It tells me that you don’t UNDERSTAND all that he’s done for so many people! It shows me that you just want somebody to be the villain, and of course it would be a lye.” She wasn’t stupid; she knew that Edgar wasn’t perfect. On the contrary, she knew all too well that he was a sadistic creature that longed only for his own entertainment… but he had always been good to her. To his creed. To his friends. And, as far as she was concerned, they were the ones who mattered. “Business… all the people that needed help and he was there to offer them it--”

“Through abusing his abilities--”

“It doesn’t matter!” Grace exclaimed fiercely, teeth grit tight. “He was there, and he was honest. Those people needed help and he gave them it. He didn’t need to use his powers for that but he did. He helped the weak. The defenceless. Those that were trapped in horrible situations and couldn’t do anything about it themselves. Abuse victims. Homeless people. Young children. Poor people. All people who were suffering the weight of this place. The place that you made.” She didn’t wait to see if Raku had opened his mouth to rebuke her, nor did she look behind her to discern whether Edgar approved of her running her mouth or not. “They’ll all be out a hero. And his creed… they’ll be out a leader. You made lyes, right? You know what happens when they’re gone.”

“...”

“Aléjandro Murphy. He told me all about the time that you revealed yourself to him and a handful of others. He’s a huro you look up to very much because of the family that he belongs to; he’ll be out a dear friend. Deeana Braav, a woman who treated you with extreme kindness while you were busy hiding from war; she will lose the man who killed her abusive ex, the man who freed her. Ivan Mox, the one I call my brother, will lose a steady beacon of support. Huron will be out one of the first inter-species establishments that has existed. And I…” She felt a sob slip past her lips, even in spite of how vehemently she was trying to hold it back. “I’ll lose all that makes me happy. Y-You’re God… you know the life I’ve lived--”

“I don’t know,” Raku interjected.

“Then let me educate you.” I refuse to let you take control of this conversation. When all is said and done, you have the last call anyway. This is the last and only chance, and I intend to take it. “I was taken advantage of. I was beaten and battered by my first Alpha; raped and bred by my second. It’s funny to me that the Alpha you want to kill off is the one that gave me everything. Even when I was rude to him. Even when I bared my teeth and insulted him. Even after I acted like a little brat, because I didn’t know h-how to-- h-how--” She paused to sniffle, furiously wiping at her eyes. Don’t start crying now. Don’t you dare lose it now. “... h-how to deal with my-- deal with all that I’d been forced to live through… a-and endure… and he was STILL THERE.” She’d long since learned that tears burned much like shame did. As they trailed down her cheeks, she found that she could do nothing to stop them. How is this justice? How does killing him resolve anything? It’s your fault he’s even here again in the first place. You unleashed this ‘evil’ yourself. The weight of the situation was steadily crushing her, an uprising surge of panic and grief threatening to submerge her. After snivelling meekly, she doubled down, feet planted firmly on the ground, hands curled into defiant little balls. “I won’t leave him behind. If you want to get to him, you’ll have to go through me. ”

Could you do that, Lord? Could you damn an innocent soul just for acting earnestly?

“Grace…” The God’s blade vanished, the small creature floating closer to her. “You have to understand, this is for the best.”

“For WHO?!” she shrieked. “For YOU, that’s who. Not for me. Not for him. Not for the hundreds of people he’s helped.” Everything hurt. Her chest ached every time she took a breath. Her vision blurred a little more every time she blinked. The tremors wracking her body left her feeling frazzled and exhausted. In a more resigned tone: “If he goes, so do I.”

“Grace…!” She turned back to see Edgar staring at her, wide-eyed and urgent. “Please step back. Don’t say th--”

“I’m tired, Eddie,” the scout interrupted, voice worn and weary as she looked down at him. Her hands reached out, gently touching the sides of his face again. “... I’m so tired of living so precariously. I want to be happy. I want to feel stable. I get those things when I’m with you.” She smiled a weak smile, sinking to her knees before him once more. Though she couldn’t stop crying, she nestled her face into his chest, relishing in the warmth, in the familiar scent. “I always respected you for giving me choices. I’d like to be allowed to make this final one. If Raku takes you away, I’ll be close behind.”

“... how…?”

“We’re on the edge of a cliff, Edgar.”

His arms wound tightly around her then, like an anaconda threatening to squeeze the life out of its prey. She didn’t resist; only nuzzled closer, his warmth soothing the terror inside. You can’t fix me. You never could. But you can make things better.

The God stared wordlessly at the couple, their wholesome embrace sending a chill down the length of his spine. The whole time he’d thought to pursue this line of action, he hadn’t considered the possibility that Edgar was in a genuine, loving relationship. The deity knew very well of Edgar’s sweet nothings; of his momentary fascinations with ‘perfect’ women, only for it to sour when they displeased him in some way. A hopeless romantic-- but a twisted one, too. One obsessed with fairytale-esque connections - and one who grew angry when the picture-perfect moment was soiled. One argument was all it took. One little blunder that most didn’t even consider a mistake… but there was no faking the hurt on his face. The way he clung to her was nothing short of desperate-- as if she was all he had. Perhaps that was true.

Was I… wrong? Did this little crusade of mine go too far? Was there some element of truth to this murderer’s outrage? Was the idea to raise damned souls from the dirt a twisted one after all? Why do I feel like I’m the bad guy...?

It had never failed him before. Edgar was the first and only example of a hybrid lye far out-lasting its given time. But just because his methods had succeeded in the past, itdidn’t mean that they were necessarily ethical. A bad man Edgar Romero had been… but a tortured one too.

Would you have travelled that same path had you not lost everything? Could I have done something?

Briefly, he thought about all the positive things that he had accomplished during his first life. He’d done all he could for his family, bent over backwards to work and provide for them; he’d been a fair, honest businessman who hadn’t resorted to trickery or fraud; he’d incited positive political change, both as a protestor and as a public figure. Saying ‘no’ to those above him when he felt that they were wrong… he’d always done that - even before he’d lost his family.

Are you saying ‘no’ to me in that same fashion too?

“Perhaps…” The God hesitated, before sinking to the ground. Small black feet were soundless as they touched the rock below. I honestly don’t know if I have the bottle for this regardless. Killing somebody willingly... it’s a horrifying concept, even if it’s for the greater good. I was never too good at the ‘punishment’ part, was I, Al? Though neither of the lyes turned or looked up to regard him, both sets of ears had swivelled in his direction. They were listening, even if they were doing so begrudgingly. “... perhaps there is another way.”

#🞮 — i am the lie that you adore. ❜ ( edgar. )#🞮 — you're nothing if you're just another. ❜ ( grace. )#🞮 — i sent you omens and all kinds of signs. ❜ ( raku. )#🞮 — welcome to my world﹐take a look around. ❜ ( main. )#🞮 — ask me to stay﹐i would be charmed to. ❜ ( ic. )#drabble *#/ HOOOOOOOOOOOH MY FUUUUUCK #grace defies god???? that's pretty much the series ;v;

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otp-armada · 4 years

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I am not looking forward to these flashbacks.

To date, we’ve had four onscreen kisses shared between Bellamy and Echo with additional, smaller moments of other forms of intimacy. I’d rather the show refrain from adding more tally marks to the count.

If humans were gifted with the capacity for purging unwanted memories, then all this discomfort would be a moot point. I suppose there’s always alcohol as a fallback option, but not even the prospect of temporary amnesia is worth destroying my liver. Turning to alcohol to drown my B/E-related sorrows would probably qualify more as self-harm than self-help.

I’d much prefer to cut directly to an imminent breakup scene without the pomp and circumstance of an agonized Echo’s trip down memory lane.

If anything, supplying us with visual evidence on how happy they were together is an even sadder remark on the state of B/E’s fragility, knowing it took 0.001 seconds for the mere mention of Clarke’s name to bring it all to ruin. No collection of past happy moments shared on the Ring erases the fractures in their relationship that occur between them afterward, originating with the revelation of a still-living Clarke. I'd be an absolute fool to believe otherwise.

But if Jason deems a tour of their greatest hits as necessary to the story, I trust his judgment. Showing us B/E's origins as their romantic relationship begins to fall apart in real-time brings it full circle, and it lends gravitas to the story he's telling with Echo. With this particular arc, the bigger picture is still Echo's evolution. It's not about B/E.

Once season 7 started, there was a visible shift in how Jason utilized B/E. Whereas seasons 5 and 6 primarily used B/E as the third leg in a love triangle designed to keep a pining Bellarke apart, season 7 uses their master-spy dynamic to bolster Echo's development almost exclusively. Post-season 6, Bellarke is so primed to get together, one honest admission of mutual feelings without Echo as an obstacle and BOOM. Canon couple.

Echo has a more extensive role than girl-to-be-dumped, and I'm not upset over it. She gets to stand up as a character after the majority of her life has been marked by slavery for her crown, and I'm not upset over it. As indemnification for the loss of her relationship, this orphan-turned-soldier is finding her place in a supportive, loving family while developing a sense of identity and independence, and I'm not upset over it.

I would’ve preferred Jason found a way to take her on this path without B/E remaining intact this far into the final season and theoretically for the foreseeable episodes. I would always choose to end them sooner rather than later, given a choice. But I understand why Jason didn't.

Echo can’t very well outgrow a master-spy complex if there is no master to her spy. And as much as I hate it, the romantic aspect of B/E is a believable, convenient tool to keep this complex in place until her story comes to fruition. Would Echo act so extremely in service to a recent ex-boyfriend who left her for another woman? Probably not. As far as I can tell, the pinnacle of her arc is the moment she realizes she has to break free from Bellamy. So narrative structure demands B/E stay together, however technically, long enough for her to break those chains.

I was initially excited about the flashbacks, if only because I took them as a sign of an impending breakup. But the timing doesn't pan out. Aside from the logistics of Echo and Bellamy presumably on separate worlds, and with her thinking him dead, we've only just reached the point where Echo might start to ask herself those hard questions she's been avoiding. She must have noticed a change in her relationship. Between Psychosis!Emori, B/E's 6x04 fight, and Anomaly!Roan, she's had enough cause for doubt. But I think she's suppressed any urge to reflect upon it for a number of reasons. Love. Continued hope they'll last. War. A mission to save him. It took a lot of meticulous maneuvering to corner Echo to this point. Now that we're here, I don't think Jason would pull a reverse Uno card in a 40-minute episode. It seems more likely that he will let her continue to stew in her emotions. Either she'll keep sinking until she hits rock bottom, or she'll start learning how to swim.

Jason could always prove me wrong. And if I am, I'd never be happier for him to do so. If I'm not? It's at times like this when I am reminded of the resolution I made at the end of season 6- rest easy in the comfort of knowing B/E will meet its inevitable end but do not try to speculate when that might be. Attempting to discern the specifics of "when" brings one only misery.

Jason’s signature sometimes-too-fast, other-times-too-slow pacing, is often liable to tempt one into ripping their own hair out. That being said, I’ve seen enough of this show to trust in his ability to tell a damn good story. Faith in his competency for the craft just requires on our part, the patience of a saint.

If nothing else, it isn’t my story to tell, so I’ll just have to suck it up and find a way to deal with any disappointments I may feel. Or I can try to find the value within the story told. It's a better alternative than to be left bitter. No promises, though.

Maybe Echo’s actions against the Disciples aren’t reprehensible, considering the people she’s killing are those complicit in kidnapping and torturing her people. But Orlando was a good, honorable man whose naïveté convinced him to play for the wrong team, yet helped our heroes when he didn’t have to. Not unlike Shaw, whom Echo sold to Diyoza to fulfill her mission. But I assume “We are not his people” is residual mistrust leftover from Ryker’s betrayal of her. She miscalculated the feelings of one possible defector before, she won’t make the same mistake twice.

If she was able to save Bellamy in the end, I’m sure she’d be able to justify the spilled blood it took to get there. But Orlando suffered at her hands for nothing, and she may not be overly concerned with morality, but she cares for the people she grows close to. Unless the episode proves otherwise, I’d like to think Orlando’s fate will weigh heavily on her.

They may not have been close. But five years in close quarters with only a few people akin to friends for comfort, it'd be hard not to feel the slightest bit attached.

Those of us who believe in Bellarke know Echo is the third-party obstacle in a love triangle. But what is far more interesting is the role she played in the seasons-long Blake siblings struggle.

Echo was persona non grata to both siblings following her and Octavia's mountaintop fight. Six years later, she highlights the difference in the siblings' maturities. Whereas Bellamy has learned to embrace empathy and forgiveness with open arms, Octavia is cold and unyielding. On a more personal note, B/E represents Octavia's persistent unwillingness to respect Bellamy as his own person, with needs and wants independent of her.

After her soul searching on Skyring, I thought she had buried the hatchet, as per her lack of vitriol in her 6x12 conversation with Bellamy, and enthusiastically joining forces with Echo in 6x13. Maybe she did. But Octavia has also proven herself an unreliable narrator, and Hope feels indignation on her aunt's behalf. Whatever the case, there's a reason why the dialogue keeps referencing Echo and Octavia's hostile history. And I think it's building to a head in 7x07.

I think mutual love for Bellamy is healing the divide between them when Echo is at her most fractured. She's isolated from Bellamy and the rest of Spacekru. Left in pain and seeking retribution as Octavia did, which, as we know, is where it all went wrong for the latter. Octavia, more than most, is in the best position to empathize with what Echo is currently feeling and how pain can destroy her if she lets it consume her.

If Octavia can remind Echo she's not alone, if a former enemy can convince her she belongs and welcome her with open arms- as her brother did before her- it might do well in healing some broken piece inside of her. And it would be a roundabout display of Octavia's newfound maturity. This is good for both of them. This spiral she is in will require her to look inward. Since her fixation with Bellamy is partly what landed her in this mess, absolution cannot come from him. She can only find it in herself if she wants it. But I'd be glad if Octavia can help see her through it. This is what I mean about seeking value in the story told. We're so concerned about Octavia calling Echo family, about the possibility of it legitimizing B/E, it doesn't occur to us that it's about the characters themselves. And B/E is only a vehicle used to bring us there. It's easier to see when not consumed by automatic seething rage, as typical of our fellow Bellarke compatriots, for anything remotely associated with Echo.

If my heart and mind weren’t chanting “BELLARKEBELLARKEBELLARKE,” there’s a good chance I’d be able to better appreciate the complexities B/E gives to the development of the four characters it directly impacts.

Our side of fandom has made lots of accusations about B/E since 5x01. It’s a forgettable, physical relationship worth little to Bellamy. B/E is unhealthy for reasons x, y, and z. We generate a different example in every episode. Click slideshow for more details. But the fact of the matter is, much of this isn't true. Until Echo went postal, B/E wasn’t unhealthy. Bellamy just had a greater love for Clarke. Up until their ending scene in 6x04, there was nothing they couldn’t come back from together, if both committed themselves fully, no more walls. It's not a particularly popular train of thought among us, but Jason absolutely could've written B/E as an endgame pairing. And all it would take to deliver a final killing blow is the inclusion of a single damning scene.

We can gripe over the length of time they've stayed together. But, in spite of what most people think about every new B/E development and Bellarke separation, Jason has never actually dropped an ax on Bellarke. Hope persists.

Jason is responsible for the development of dozens of characters, major plots, and dozens of smaller subplots. But our fandom reduced the story chiefly to Bellarke's romance. Our villains are those who stand in their way. Namely Echo, the only outside love interest to be an official obstacle. We fashioned Echo as our enemy. In lieu of removing her from the narrative (which is not in our power to do), we've done everything within our purview to diminish her. If Jason won't treat B/E and Echo as the jokes we know they are, we'll do it ourselves. Minimizing her role in the story makes it a hell of a lot easier to erase a character we'd rather didn't exist for our preferred ship to advance.

Lord knows how many times we've claimed she has no story. That absent relevance or substantial bearing, she's there simply because Jason is partial to her for some elusive reason. But the reality is, we never looked for her story because we wanted to be able to claim its inexistence. We wanted to be able to say she's frivolous to the story, and by extension, to Bellamy. We want to be able to dismantle B/E when it appears Jason doesn't. Except he is and has been doing so since day one.

Months ago, on a whim, when I was feeling benevolent towards Echo, I wrote a long post HERE giving her the benefit of the doubt, and I said:

In the grand scheme of the story, I think this is the purpose Echo serves, to represent the part that says, “We’re all human. No matter what tribe we belong to, we fight for the same reasons. We love the same way. When you leave allegiances aside, when you see someone for who they are at their core, an enemy today can become a friend tomorrow.”

True peace, a series-long running theme for our heroes, begins with embracing former outsiders like Echo and Emori. Easy to lose sight of this when focused on ship wars.

It is perfectly acceptable not to love all the components of a story. It is understandable to focus your attention on those select segments you find appealing. But a tunnel-visioned mindset lands you in trouble when you become resentful at the reminders that a story is a composite of more moving pieces than just the parts you like. And when you forget that screentime allotted to developing those pieces ahead of what you favor is permissible. Everything on a show has its time, all in due course.

On the other hand, B/E shippers overinflate their ship's significance. They take canon and twist it to say, "Look at how strong B/E is, Bellarke could never. B/E is endgame, and Blorkes are delusional." Their conclusion of an epic love is another bias-based fandom interpretation that doesn’t hold water, either.

I think the reality of B/E lies somewhere in a muddled middle of these two extremes.

One last point, and I'll get off my soapbox. Despite what the melodramatic diatribe in my opening paragraph suggests, B/E is never as atrocious as fandom makes them out to be. Greater fandom treats anything remotely associated with B/E as the next great catastrophe. And as it turns out, it never really is.

Tagging @sometimesrosy, because I think, after years of combating opinions you don’t agree with, it might be a refreshing change of pace to know some of us do have more balanced views regarding B/E. If I do say so myself.

#hmmm how i tag this in a way that will land me in the least amount of hot water?#the 100 meta #with a side order of #fandom wank #long post #the 100 #bellarke #b/e #c/b/e #the 100 season 7 #my post

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